Eliot Pattison - Eye of the Raven

"No. There was but one noble man in this entire sordid affair," Brindle said, his voice cracking as he spoke, "and we hanged him today."

"The tribes will be furious," Duncan said. "It will be many years before they think of ceding land again. And that was what he intended from the start. No matter what we did he would have found a way to his noose." Skanawati dreamed it, he almost added.

"It makes it no less painful," the Quaker said, then climbed up onto the seat. "I have arranged a second wagon, and a second coffin. Would you see him to his home?"

They watched in silence as the magistrate disappeared down the river trail toward Bethlehem.

"What do we tell them in Shamokin?" Moses asked in a near whisper. "What do we tell his village when we arrive with the body of their greatest chief?"

"We tell them the truth," Duncan said. "Skanawati died so no more land would be taken from the tribes."

The woodland animals seemed comforted by the low, steady throb of the drum, the squirrels and birds watching from the great cottonwood tree with curiosity, not fear, as the sound rose in volume. Duncan and Johantty had started an hour before dawn, beating together on the log drum, then Duncan had played his pipes as the young Onondaga brave continued the drumming. Lost in the music, the drum like the heartbeat of the tribe, the pipes conjuring visions of his youth, Duncan turned with surprise to find new onlookers. He had expected only Conawago and Moses to help him prepare Johantty for the dawnchaser trail, but most of the inhabitants of the new village hidden deep in the mountains had appeared in the gray light before dawn, sitting at the perimeter like monks in silent meditation. A cedar torch had been lit by the chimneylike formation of rocks, above a smoldering pile of the fragrant tobacco favored by the spirits.

Johantty stepped along the circle of villagers, receiving blessings from young and old, then moved to the central fire and stripped to his breechcloth and leggings. His body had been elaborately painted, not for war, but with the sacred signs of his tribe, a large turtle on his chest.

The young Iroquois offered a sober nod as Duncan approached.

"Today is the day we reconnect the gods," came a familiar voice at his side.

Duncan turned to face Stone Blossom. For the first time since they had arrived at their new village with her son's shrouded body, the grief had left her face. She had known they were coming, though had not expected Hadley or the Scottish soldiers, and had led them to a burial site that had been prepared below the ancient shrine discovered by Skanawati the year before. The Onondaga matron had kept a solitary vigil at the grave for two days and two nights. Returning, she had offered the first smile Duncan had ever seen on her wrinkled face when she had discovered Duncan, Conawago, Moses, Hadley, and half a dozen Scots working with the tribe to clear fields and build longhouses. Hadley had brought Becca, Mokie, and Penn with him, explaining that he was going to help Rideaux build a new school for the Indians, far removed from those who would hunt for runaways. McGregor and his men had stretched their orders as an escort for Skanawati to cover the return of his body and had a slip of paper from a friendly ranger captain passing through Shamokin that stated they were now pursuing a raiding party on his orders, a thin excuse but enough to cover them on their return to Ligonier.

With the new longhouses constructed and the crops now planted, a great weight seemed to have been lifted from Stone Blossom. She was radiant with pride for her nephew, but also clearly worried. The old tales of the daylong dawnchaser course said that runners often died.

"There now, madame, the spirits be watching over him." Sergeant McGregor's brawny frame loomed over the woman. "Ye be fortunate. I remember when I was a boy in the Highlands we once had spirits who watched over us."

The words tugged open a chamber long locked in Duncan's heart. Images flooded over his mind's eye, of his mother at the hearth, his brothers roaming high in the heather among the shaggy oxen, his grandfather playing pipes by the moonlit sea, his sisters dancing at clan gatherings. He saw Skanawati, heard again his words that their clans had been linked together, and in that moment the dark weight that for weeks had been pressing on his heart began to fall away.

Conawago was whispering directions in Johantty's ear, still concerned that the youth would lose his way, when he looked up at Duncan. His words trailed off. McGregor muttered a soft exclamation of surprise, and both men stared as Duncan slowly loosened his buttons. Then suddenly the ragged old Scot's eyes lit with joy, and he helped Duncan pull away his shirt.

Duncan worked quickly, tightening his moccasins and leggings, letting Conawago tie his hair tightly at the back as the old Nipmuc whispered prayers in his ear, not objecting when his friend took one of the feathers from his own braids and tied it into Duncan's hair. He became aware of a new sound above the pulsing drum, a sound like the rustle of leaves, realizing finally it was the whispered prayers of all the Iroquois in the circle. McGregor, wiping an eye, joined in with his own Gaelic prayer. The old clans, Iroquois and Highland, may be battered, but they were not lost.

He did not know how long he chanted with his companions, blending the old magic of Gaelic with Iroquois words, but gradually something quickened inside him, a new resonance, and he knew it was now the pulse of the forest itself he felt. Suddenly Conawago lifted a small red feather over his head, and every voice stopped. Johantty and Duncan exchanged exalted smiles then turned their gazes to the feather. Moments later the tip burst into color as the first rays of sun hit it, then side by side, running like deer, the two men slipped down the ancient trail into the shadows of the forest.