Scar (4 page)

“SCAR!”

He screams so loudly that I stumble backward, covered in goose bumps and sweat. My stomach rolls. “No,” I whisper, but it's useless to try and stop it. I quickly drag myself away from him. My chest heaves, and it's like I'm being gored by a hundred hot bayonets, and I vomit … and vomit.

I haven't eaten anything since yesterday morning, and even then, it was only some dried beans and a little bread, so my body wrenches over and over, calling forth nothing.

I cry out to my mother.

If only I were a child again. I would be home vomiting
into my mother's porcelain bowl, the one she received as a wedding present from my grandmother. My mother always said that it wasn't useful for anything else. She'd rub my back and whisper into my ear as I was sick. I try to think what it was she whispered. But I can't remember. I can't remember anything right now. I'm on my hands and knees, my body shaking, my elbows threatening to unlock and drop me right into the dead leaves. And all I know is the terrible heaving.

After what feels like ten Sunday sermons in a row, the nausea passes. I wait, panting, still on my hands and knees, the fear of it returning swirling around my head like a cloud of gnats. A breeze washes over my burning face, cooling it. It's like a gift straight from God and it gives me the strength to move.

I wipe myself with the dirty dressing and make a note in my head to dig out another one from Dr. Tusten's sack. I like the idea of searching for a clean dressing because it forces me back into the knapsack, putting to rest the idea that I will never open it again. This makes me laugh. How foolish I am—believing that somehow I can change my fate if I can find a real reason to open that knapsack. I laugh harder. I've been through so much in the last few days, and it feels good to allow the heaviness to lift.

But I've forgotten about poor Scar.

I shuffle back to his side and am shocked when his eyes meet mine. He is back. The madness is over.

“How do you fare?” I ask.

His lips tighten. He won't speak.

That's fine. I understand.

“My name is Noah.” I pick up his hand in mine and gently shake it. He nods with his eyes. It's enough for me. The fear is gone, with the contents of my stomach. I lie down next to him and wait for the burning in my belly to cool.

Within a few moments, Scar begins to moan again. His moaning has a different tone than before, but I'm still wary. I can't bear another episode. I tell myself to sing. When Mary or I were injured or very ill, my mother or father would sing to us. They both had beautiful voices. My mother has a scratchy voice with a twang that makes you forget the day's toils. And my father had a melodic one that filled you with energy and begged you to join in with him. But every time I did, Mary would laugh. “Some people weren't meant to sing,” she'd say.

Scar's moans grow louder.
Think
, I tell myself …
tell him a story
. My father always said that a good story was nature's painkiller, better even than peppermint for a toothache. But I don't have a good story. I don't even have a bad one. My father was an excellent storyteller. I know a few of his stories word for word. But they were
his
stories and I can't tell them like he could—with excited spit flying from his lips and his eyes lit up like the first flames leaping from a smoking pile of tinder.

My mind runs through some of the latest gossip in our village. But there isn't anything interesting to repeat—old Mrs. Wheaten had lately entertained using candles that gave off smoke, or there was Mr. Adams, who took “to sip” one
evening and ended up sleeping with his chickens.

Scar begins to panic, thrashing about in the pine needles.

I call out to him. “Scar!”

Poorly made candles and farmers disguised by drink aren't going to help this boy forget his injuries. Not too much happens on a hardscrabble farm on a small settlement. But then I remember the day that
she
happened.

“I met her a few months ago,” I begin.

Scar does not pay me a speck of attention, but I proceed with my storytelling.

“She came down from Cushetunk, that's probably not that far from here, maybe ten miles north, right upriver. And now that I think about it, she is pretty much all your fault.”

He quiets.

“The Tories were stirring up trouble and her father heard that our settlement had soldiers staying with us, and thought his family should spend the rest of the war somewhere safe. I guess that's ironic, because it turned out not to be so safe after all.” I stop for a moment, wondering if he's even listening. But no matter if he is, it feels good to be speaking—and not thinking about blood and pain.

“People assumed she and I would become friends when they found out that we were the same age. But those people didn't know me … and they certainly didn't know Eliza Little.”

       
CHAPTER SIX

     
THE STORY OF ELIZA LITTLE

       
SPRING 1779

“The church service had begun that morning as usual. I remember I'd stood for the hymn but refused to sing. I didn't have the spirit. Not only was the entire sermon still before me, but the whole war had just headed south and left me behind. All the men General Washington sent to the frontier for our protection after last October's raid were now gone. Count Pulaski's dragoons were the first to leave, pulling out in December because they could not keep their horses fed through our long winter. And less than two months after this, his infantry was called away. Finally, in April, even General Hand's infantry was ordered elsewhere. I had planned on joining Hand's infantry, but …”

I hesitate. Trying to explain my foot or my mother to Scar would be impossible.

“… there I was instead, stuck between my mother and my sister in a church pew. Everything was irking me that morning. My neighbor Mrs. Decker's endless chatter to my mother about late frosts and what a nuisance it was to have to
cover the corn saplings. My sister Mary's constant humming. The Reverend taking ten eternities to embark on his sermon. Every single person in the congregation with their sniffling and coughing and throat-clearing. I was miserable.

“That's when I heard the church door open. A latecomer. Yet another annoyance. Now the Reverend would have to wait until this dawdler got settled. I turned to see who it was so I could direct my anger accordingly. But the transgressor was someone I'd never seen before in my life.

“Her hair was long and black and tied up by a blue ribbon. She wore a brown gown and a blue petticoat. And she held the hands of two little girls, one on either side of her. It wasn't so often that new people came into our settlement. In fact, besides the troops, it almost never happened at all. I watched her take a seat in an empty pew directly across from us.

“I didn't listen to one word the Reverend said after that. This girl took up all the room in my head. I could tell she was my age, although I would soon learn just how close in age we were. And she was alone with the children.

“When the sermon finally came to an end, I planned to follow her out so that I might hear who she was. But at the opportune moment, my mother remembered a recipe for stewing eel that she needed to impart to Mrs. Decker before she could think to take another step. And although I believe no one needs another recipe for stewed eel, Mrs. Decker decided that she did. Since it would be improper to leave my mother in the pew, I was trapped.

“I watched the girl walk down the aisle and depart the church. Which … was fine. It wasn't like I wouldn't hear the gossip on these three girls from Mrs. Decker or Mrs. Van Etten soon enough. But then Mary asked me who they were and I could tell how badly she wanted to know. So for my sister's sake, I attempted to rush us out.

“Until that morning, I hadn't realized how many old people we had in our congregation, and at the moment, they were all in front of us. I tried grabbing onto Mrs. Park's elbow to hurry her along. She generously thanked me for my help while rambling on about growing old and feeble and how I shouldn't let it happen to me. She kept smiling, too, making me feel wicked for wanting to drop her elbow and run. Meanwhile, Mary pushed past me at the doors.

“Finally released from the church, I spotted the girl standing on a small hill in the churchyard with Mr. and Mrs. Van Etten. When I looked over at her … she was looking right back at me.”

Recalling the moment unsettles me. Even here—in this wild and lonely place—she is able to creep inside me and steal my peace. My hand moves to wipe my brow and I find my forehead hotter than a kettle hanging low on the lug pole. It's like the memory of her eyes have brought on a fever. Swallowing, I press on.

“The girl's stare compelled me to seek occupation. I turned to my mother, but she wasn't behind me anymore. She, Mary,
and Mrs. Decker were already making their way up the hill toward the girl and the Van Ettens.

“That's when I spotted Mr. Decker and headed toward him. Martinus Decker is an important man in our settlement and was a good friend of my father's. He and the Reverend were deep in conversation. I knew what they would be talking about before I got there—the war. It's all Mr. Decker ever speaks of. And when I arrived at their side, I found I was correct. The Reverend was grumbling over the loss of troops on our frontier. Mr. Decker was, of course, agreeing. When they noticed me, Mr. Decker clapped me on the back in a friendly way, and the Reverend asked after my family.

“I reported we were well and then stood quietly by, allowing them to return to their conversation. I was happy to be a part of their group while free to have my own thoughts. Every so often I glanced across the crowded churchyard at the girl. There were many of us milling about that Sunday due to the warm spring sunshine.”

I look around our clearing. Dark. Quiet. Still. This place doesn't feel as though it shares the same earth as that bright, busy churchyard. I turn to Scar and am surprised when I meet his opened eyes. I suspect I've been silent too long, because he gives me a look that says, Go on.

He's listening.

“When I next checked on the girl, she wasn't there. That's when I caught sight of Mrs. Decker leading the group of
them down the hill toward us like a goose leads her goslings to the water's edge. And for some reason, I didn't want to be there when they arrived. But Mr. Decker was engrossed in a new debate with the Reverend, and when I tried to excuse myself, neither paid me any attention. And to walk away without excusing myself would be rude. Although, truth be told, I had no excuse to give, anyway.

“So the girl got closer and closer. And with each approaching step she took, another meaningful thought took flight from my head. By the time she reached us, I swear I could hear the wind whistling through my empty skull.

“Mrs. Decker introduced her to Mr. Decker. It was the first time I heard her name … Eliza Little.

“Mrs. Decker explained that Eliza Little had come down from Cushetunk two days before with her father and three sisters. She informed her husband that the Littles were fierce Patriots, and that the Tories were stirring up trouble in the north, so Eliza's father thought it best to surround himself with friends until the war was over. Mr. Decker shook Eliza's hand and expressed his pleasure in meeting her. He then began to enquire after possible shared acquaintances in the north. I was less than a cubit from her but I seemed able to see her only in small pieces—her eyes, her mouth, her hair. Suddenly I heard Mrs. Decker saying my name: ‘… Noah Daniels, Mary's older brother. He is sixteen as well.'”

Scar is coughing.

I break off my story and wait.

He settles.

“Mrs. Decker went on some about how close we lived to each other, and how she was sure we'd all be great friends in no time, but I wasn't listening—mostly because Mrs. Decker always used too many words, but also because Eliza Little reached out to shake my hand. She had to lean forward and pluck my hand from where it hung at my side, because like a fool, I hadn't moved. I shook her hand, and kept shaking it. I meant to …”

He's coughing again.

His coughs turn into gasps.

I drag myself to my knees, ignoring the musket ball screaming in my gut. He can't breathe. He's choking.

I rip off the frock and try to sit him up. But the coughing and sputtering are joined by loud, grunting screams when I bend him at the waist. I lay him back down and grab the canteen. “Here,” I tell him, trying to force him to drink. The water is the only thing I can think to do. He refuses it and, instead, hacks and chokes. I grab him and, holding his head in one arm, I press the jug to his lips. He fights me. I try again, and succeed in dumping a little water down his throat. But he coughs it right back up, along with a trickle of dark saliva, which runs down his chin.

This is bad.

I crawl to the knapsack for a fresh dressing, with one hand clutching at the lead ball in my stomach to keep it quiet. Scar sputters and hacks behind me. It's a terrifying sound.

There are no fresh dressings.

I untie my shirt and whip it about to remove the leaves and needles. Finding the cleanest corner I can, I tear it off. The air feels cool on my wound. I don't like it. I crawl back to Scar.

It seems something is stuck in his throat, but how can that be? He hasn't eaten anything since I've been with him. I wet the clean piece of shirt using only a small amount of water—we're getting low—and wipe the sweat from his face. Then I sit helplessly by and watch him choke.

I can't stand it. It's like his eyes are growing bigger and his skin is shrinking away from his face. He looks older than when I first found him late this afternoon. Like a tiny old man. And he will not stop choking. He can't cough properly.

What do I do? What do I do? If I could just make him sit up …