Eliot Pattison - Original Death

Sagatchie touched the small amulet pouch hanging from his neck, which Duncan knew contained a token of his protector animal spirit, then lifted his face to the sky. “Hear me, oh great ones! I am Sagatchie of the Wolf clan, born of the Mohawk! I give you Towantha of the Nipmuc people! He knew how to release the spirits that live inside wood. He brought joy to the young of the tribes. As a boy he ran in forests that had been untouched by ax and saw.” The Mohawk ran his fingers along the tattoos, gazing at them as if reading from a book. “He journeyed to the big water. He carried wampum belts to the Huron to seek peace between our peoples.” A twig snapped, and they looked up to see several deer. The animals were not frightened, but seemed to be listening. Sagatchie raised a hand in their direction as if in respectful greeting then continued, studying another tattoo of wavy parallel lines and small horned animals. His brow furrowed for a moment then lit with surprise. “He journeyed long ago to the great Mississippi and saw bison that covered the land like blades of grass.”

As he gazed upon the dead Nipmuc, Duncan regretted more than ever that he and Conawago had not met the man. Surely if Hickory John had kept up his search, the two men would have connected. But he had given up and settled in the little community of Indians who followed a god not his own, making implements for people not his own, so he could give young Ishmael a steady life.

As Sagatchie rose, Duncan silently followed his gestures and lifted Hickory John to the high platform. He knew some of the death chant from sitting at Conawago’s side at all too many burials, and he joined in Sagatchie’s singsong prayer as they set natural adornments around the body. A twig of crimson maple leaves. A turtle shell. A clump of star moss. The skull of a small mammal.

Duncan folded Hickory John’s shirt and laid it under the dead man’s head, then he reached into a pouch at his belt and extracted a handful of precious salt. He poured the salt into a small pile on the linen near one of the dead man’s ears, then sifted a handful of loose soil into a pile by the other ear.

“It is one of the old ways of my tribe,” Duncan explained, answering the query in the warrior’s eyes. “Earth for the corruptible body, salt for the everlasting spirit.”

Sagatchie slowly nodded. “I cannot read all the stories. Someone should be here to speak the full tale of his life,” he said in a forlorn tone. “The women of his tribe should sing songs of lamentation all night. There should be a condolence of at least a week for one such as he.”

“Conawago will have songs when he comes,” Duncan offered.

The Mohawk cast a hesitant glance at Duncan. He seemed about to say something, but he turned to survey the forest floor and pointed to a fallen log. Duncan helped lift the log, and with a grunt of satisfaction Sagatchie swept up a small ring-necked snake. He held the snake close, whispering to it, then gently laid it on the dead man’s breast. With an approving nod he watched the snake slither around his neck and disappear into the makeshift pillow.

The whicker of the horse broke the spell. It was late. They would have to hurry if they were to reach the settlement before nightfall. Sagatchie turned from the scaffold then hesitated and pulled a piece of paper from his belt and began to place it on the folded shirt. Duncan suddenly recognized it and put a restraining hand on the Mohawk’s arm.

“That is Conawago’s, a treasured letter sent by Hickory John.”

“He said I was to leave it with the body. He said those on the other side had to see it.”

Sagatchie did not resist when Duncan pulled the tattered paper from his hand. He, like Conawago, knew the elegant script and words by heart. The pain of the murder stabbed him anew as he read it one last time. When he finished his eyes were moist. “Surely this is something Conawago himself should do,” Duncan said. “He can bring it here tomorrow.”

“You do not understand, McCallum. Your friend is not coming.”

“But he is in the village resting, you said. He will want to come here, to sing the Nipmuc songs.”

“I said I took him to a house to rest. But he left after sleeping two hours. He had a wound on his shoulder that had bled through the bandage, so Madame Pritchard changed it. He was eating some stew brought by those farmers, and talking with them, walking around the room as if to get strength back in his legs. I was keeping watch outside so they would not be disturbed. He found something, then spoke urgently with them. Suddenly he picked up his pack and rifle and climbed out a window. He nodded his thanks to me as he climbed out, then ran across the pasture to the northwest. His face was like a storm.”

Sagatchie took the letter, and Duncan watched in silence as the Mohawk reversed the fold so that the original address was on the outside. Duncan glimpsed words he had not seen before, scrawled along the back. He took the paper once more and held it in the sunlight. Stay silent between the worlds , the first sentence read, in Hickory John’s hand though not as elegant as the words inscribed inside. They seemed to have been written hastily, as an urgent postscript, as if Hickory John had made a discovery just as he posted the letter. Hasten , it said at the end, this is how we first die .

“This is how we first die,” Duncan did not realize he had repeated the words until he looked up and saw the Mohawk. Sagatchie had gone very still. “What does it mean?” Duncan asked.

Sagatchie stared at the dead man. The warrior reached out and held the scaffold as if he had suddenly grown weak. He looked mournful again, but also worried. “It means this old wheel builder was one of the few who could save us.”

Suddenly the surly corporal shouted, complaining that they were losing daylight. Duncan stared at the Mohawk. The Mohawk stared at the dead Nipmuc. When the corporal threw a rock to get their attention, Sagatchie spun about as if he were going to attack the man. Duncan silently looped the prisoner strap over his head and handed the end to the Mohawk ranger, who reached up to touch the dead man one more time. The prisoner led his captor out of the grove of the dead.

The corporal, riding the horse now, led them back to the settlement at a fast pace through the lengthening shadows. Sagatchie remained in his melancholy mood. He remained silent even when the corporal paused as the buildings came into view and demanded the prisoner strap so he could force Duncan to follow at a half trot for their arrival in the village.

The dead in the churchyard had been buried. The band of rangers sat at the front of the barn by a campfire, finishing their evening meal. They stared at Duncan with venom in their eyes as he was tethered to one of the iron rings used to restrain livestock. None offered him any of the stew in their pot. Sagatchie silently accepted a steaming wooden bowl and disappeared. The corporal scraped all that was left into his own bowl, then greedily gobbled it up. As his men drifted toward the houses, Sergeant Hawley bound Duncan against one of the posts along the center aisle of the barn, hands behind him, then shoved him down against the packed earth and tied his feet together, warning him that a sentry would be patrolling the settlement while the others slept.

“I need to speak with that woman,” Duncan said to Hawley as the sergeant turned to leave. “The one who identified the dead today. Just a word. I beg you.”

Hawley seemed to relish the request. “Did ye not see her today?” he asked with a cruel grin. “Pointing and gesturing after painting those markers? She’s a mute, you damned fool!”

The visions came again in the night, but this time Duncan’s father stood atop a heap of bodies when he beckoned Duncan to death. Shades of the dead hovered near, urging Duncan forward. As he neared the pile of bodies, it was no longer his father but Conawago who summoned him, and the bodies were all the dead of Bethel Church, who rose and began pointing to him as well. Then one of the ghosts touched his foot.