Eliot Pattison - Bone Rattler

“And of those who know such things, old friend,” Woolford asked, “how many of you are left?”

Conawago gazed into the flames. “Every time the wind takes a leaf from a tree, the world is forever changed.”

They were silent a long time. When he spoke again there was a hard edge in Conawago’s voice. “You don’t know Ravencatcher. He will not let Ramsey forget his visit to his father’s temple.”

Woolford and Duncan exchanged an uneasy glance as Conawago stepped toward the path to the far side, where the Indians, with Sarah, still prepared their dead.

“Ramsey will not forget,” Woolford said. “He lost his vicar.”

“No,” Duncan said, “what he will remember is that he lost his ten thousand square miles, lost his private kingdom.” The patron, like everyone else, had been numbed by emotion after the explosion, though in his case the true remorse had not struck until he had found Arnold’s coat sleeve empty.

“I know what you did with the charter, McCallum,” Woolford announced. “I consider it-” as the ranger searched for words, several phrases ran through Duncan’s mind. An act of treason. A blasphemy against the king. A theft of vast dimensions. “I consider it to rank with your other miracles, McCallum.” The ranger offered his hand. After a moment Duncan took it, and the two men solemnly shook.

“There will still be a trial in Edentown,” Duncan pointed out.

“I am overdue at Quebec. And you are on my register of rangers. Come with me. I can protect you, give you a different name on the payrolls.”

“I will not abandon Mr. Lister.”

“They will take you back in chains.”

“Which is why I need help. Someone who can watch out for Sarah, at least until she is with Crispin. Someone to take a message to the mission. Someone with soldiers who can be trusted. And you must not interfere with what Ramsey is going to do to me. Let him work his fury on me.” Woolford gazed into the fire, then looked up with a conspiratorial gleam as Duncan began to explain what he needed.

At dusk the remainder of Tashgua’s warriors filed down from the ridge. They did not pause to eat or drink, but immediately surrounded Lord Ramsey, who sat alone at one of the cooking fires as Cameron and the remaining Company men readied the canoes at the river landing under the watchful eyes of several rangers. The warriors were freshly painted, as if for war. The patron was so alarmed, he was not able to find his tongue as the Iroquois led him away, did not protest until, his face turning chalk white, they began tying him to the post.

“Woolford!” The call came out as an anguished groan. Ramsey called again and again, the words coming out as a scream, fading to a moan as he saw the ranger at the side of the camp. Woolford, having settled onto a log, extracted his pipe and was lighting his tobacco as he calmly watched the Iroquois. Ramsey’s gaze fell upon Hawkins, awake at last, still bound, watching with amusement in his hollow eyes. In the last light of dusk, more of the Iroquois emerged from the shaman’s lodge. As they arranged bundles of dry grass in a ring around the pole, a figure in a white doeskin dress appeared in the doorway of bones.

“Sarah! God on earth, daughter!” The cries were frantic now. “Stop them, dear Sarah! You must stop-” The words choked in the patron’s throat as his eyes met those of his daughter, who now approached at a slow, ceremonial pace. Sarah Ramsey returned his terrified gaze with a look of cool pity.

Ramsey fell back against the post as if struck, making small whimpering sounds as Sarah helped the Iroquois arrange the tinder.

“Not this way!” Duncan cried. His hand went to his tomahawk. As he took a step forward, the shaft of a war ax pressed against his belly. He looked up. Conawago did not speak, only soberly shook his head from side to side.

The Indians, now including most of their adopted Highlanders, began moving in slow rotation around the post, beginning a low, steady chant. Torches appeared, stuck in the ground outside the circle of warriors. Ramsey started shouting in a trembling voice, something about money, something about the King of England, but his words were drowned out by the chant, now louder and louder. Suddenly the voices reached a crescendo and abruptly halted. Duncan stopped breathing for a moment. A spirit had materialized inside the circle.

The spirit’s crimson face was wrinkled, and its white eyes, round and hollow. Its mouth was strangely puckered. On either side of the wooden mask hung what appeared to be lengths of horsehair. The spirit’s arms and legs, though human, were painted white. In one hand it held the bone rattle of Tashgua.

The spirit dancer shook the rattle at Ramsey as the circle began to move again, with a new, more animated chant. The masked dancer circuited the post as well, with gruesome, writhing motions. Each time he completed a circuit, he shook the rattle at either side of Ramsey’s head.

Duncan glanced at his rifle. Conawago, who never seemed to miss a motion, touched him with the shaft of his club again, gesturing for him to sit beside Woolford, who, puffing his pipe, watched in fascination.

From the shadows beside Duncan, the Indians and Scots who had been watching suddenly burst into activity. Cameron and his Company men had emerged from the river trail and were trying to reach the English lord. There was a brief flurry of silent motion, and when it settled, all the men except Cameron were pinned against trees, some with blades pressed against their throats to prevent further movement.

The circle was moving faster now. A spark of defiance kindled within Ramsey, and he began berating the men as vulgar savages, swine of the forest, reminding them that he shared blood with the king. But the spark quickly died as one of the warriors, who had sliced open his own palm, passed his hand over Ramsey’s head, leaving blood dripping down the Englishman’s cheek. The patron’s eyes were frozen in terror. Ramsey’s jaw opened and shut without making sound. As snakeskins were draped over his shoulders, his bladder emptied.

The chant of the shaman warriors grew almost unbearably loud. A torch appeared in the hand of the spirit dancer, and Ramsey found enough voice to scream as the masked man lit the grass.

Only Duncan and Ramsey reacted to the fire, Ramsey screaming louder, Duncan leaping to his feet. A calm, expectant glance from Sarah stopped him. Then he saw the tobacco leaves being laid on the fire by the dancers. The ring of burning grass, already ebbing, was no closer than two feet from Ramsey. It was a purification fire, a fire to cleanse the man at the post. The Indians knew they could not exercise their full fury on an English lord. But they were not going to leave the source of their misery untouched.

The chant renewed itself as the tobacco fumes spiraled upward, the masked dancer again using the bone rattle, the circle moving faster. Duncan, mesmerized by the chants, the smoke, the rhythmic music, lost track of time. Suddenly he was aware that the masked dancer was gone.

The other dancers gradually widened their circle, until they eventually disappeared into the shadows. To Duncan’s surprise, it was Conawago who cut the patron’s bonds. The old Nipmuc was speaking in a low voice to the stunned Englishman, with words that were strangely familiar. Conawago, he realized after a moment, was giving Ramsey the prayer he had once taught Duncan, the prayer used by children lost in the forest. Suddenly another figure was there, pushing Conawago aside. Cameron wrapped a blanket around Ramsey’s trembling shoulders and led him toward the lodge where the Ramsey prisoners were being taken for the night.

As Duncan watched Ramsey disappear into the shadows, something landed at his feet. His haversack.