Shadowbrook (18 page)

The man was spread-eagled and roped in place, belly to the hub, arms and legs splayed against the spokes, and naked from the waist up. His broad ebony back was welted with the stripes he’d received since Quent had heard the first crack of the whip moments before. His huge bald head was turned away from the Ground’s entrance, but Quent knew the man tied to the wagon wheel was Solomon the Barrel Maker.

The crowd was silent, their attention riveted on the man with the whip.

Quent raised the long gun to his shoulder, his finger tightening on the trigger. “Use that thing again and I’ll blow your head off.”

The crowd swiveled toward him as if it were a single creature. “Master Quent,” someone muttered. “Master Quent be home.”

“How in bloody hell did you get here?” John Hale stepped from the far side of the wagon to the empty space between it and the onlookers. The hand hanging at his side held a pistol. “Whipper, pay him no mind. Do your duty.”

The whipper looked first at the tall redhead wearing buckskins and pointing a deadly long gun directly at him, then at the much shorter dark man dressed in black breeches and a white linen shirt, coatless in deference to the hot sun.

“If he wants to stay alive, he’d better not,” Quent called out. “And whatever you call this business, it’s got nothing to do with duty. There’s not been a public whipping on Shadowbrook since Grandfather’s day. Father forbade it.”

“Father is ill. I’m running things now. The Barrel Maker told me an untruth.” John raised the hand holding the pistol and cocked it. He aimed it straight at his brother. “Put down the long gun or I’ll shoot.”

“Don’t be a jackass,” Quent said. “You can’t shoot faster than I can and you know it. You there, whipper, I said put it down. This is the last time I’m telling you. Next time I’ll shoot your hand off.”

“Don’t—” John began, but the man had already dropped the whip.

“Good,” Quent said. “Now, kick it over toward me. Good.” Quent addressed the crowd without taking his eyes off his brother. “Big Jacob, you there?” He’d seen the old man in the crowd as soon as he approached the Frolic Ground. Big Jacob lived at the sugarhouse and looked after the young horses kept in a paddock on that part of the Patent.

“I be here, Master Quent. And mighty glad to be seeing you.”

“Glad to be here, Jacob. Now, kindly come forward and untie Solomon.”

John whirled around and pointed the pistol in the direction of the slave. “Stay where you are.”

“John, if you discharge that pistol in any direction, I will blow you to kingdom come. You have my word on it. Do as I say, Jacob.”

For a moment no one moved. Quent heard a woman whisper; he was pretty sure the speaker was Clemency the Washerwoman. Clemency carried a lot of weight among the slaves, in every sense. She was as wide as most doorways, though a good deal shorter. He looked into the crowd for her and spotted Six-Finger Sam, who looked after the kitchen garden and did odd jobs around the big house. In apple season Sam ran the press that made their cider, and was in charge of the huge cauldrons in which they cooked apple butter and of drying some part of the crop, so one way or another they’d have a taste of fruit throughout the winter. Six-Finger Sam almost never spoke. On the other hand, Clemency, was the storyteller among the Patent Negroes. “Clemency, she be the one keeps our yesterday,” Kitchen Hannah had told Quent years before. “The Washerwoman, she knows who be who and what be what, and how they came to be the way they be. Clemency, she keep the inside-free alive in us slaved folks.”

Quent knew about the inside-free. “That be the real difference between white peoples and nigra peoples, little master.” Solomon had told him. “We nigra peoples got to rely on the inside-free.”

“Jacob!” Quent called again. “Do as I say. No one will hurt you.”

“Stay where you are!” John’s voice was edged with panic. His extended arm trembled. “I’m the master here!” It was a shrill shriek, almost like a woman’s. “You do what I say.”

“No, that’s not exactly true just yet.” A new voice spoke, one that was infirm and shook with illness, but that still carried authority in a way that John’s never would. Ephraim Hale stood just inside the gate of the Frolic Ground. Quent took his eyes off John long enough for one quick look at his father. Ephraim was bent over a pair of waist-high sticks, leaning heavily on them, but his voice grew firmer and more sure as he spoke: “I am the master here as long as I’m alive. John, Quent, both of you put down your weapons. Jacob, do as Master Quentin instructed. Release Solomon from the wheel.”

Quent felt a flood of relief. He would not have to kill his brother. At least not yet. But John’s outstretched hand was shaking noticeably now. Nothing was more unreliable than a pistol; this one could go off and do considerable damage. “Both of us at the same time, John,” Quent said easily. “As Father wishes. On the count of three. One, two …”

Then the guns were on the ground and Jacob was untying Solomon the Barrel Maker. And in a flurry of petticoats and purpose, Lorene Devrey Hale arrived to take charge of her household.

Cormac knew that time had passed, but he had no idea how much. He was enveloped not just by steam, but by a strange fragrance, sharp and at the same time sweet, like nothing he’d ever smelled before. It entered through his nose and filled his entire being. It was wonderful. He opened his mouth and swallowed the scent. He hungered for it, wanted as much of it as he could devour. The magic went straight to his crotch. He was enormous, filled with a sweet hot pressure that must be satisfied. He thought of Nicole. At least once he whispered her name aloud.

He wasn’t sure if he was awake or asleep when he felt himself swallowed and sucked dry. He had only a vague impression of thick dark hair and pale, naked flesh, somehow cool despite the heat of the sweat lodge. The steam was too thick to allow him to see anything, but he didn’t care. He shuddered with pleasure, gave himself up to bliss, and then to deeper sleep.

The next thing he knew someone was calling his name. He recognized Takito’s voice. “Roll over, my son. I will finish what the steam has begun.”

There was no resistance in Cormac and no questioning; the steam had melted both away. He turned on his belly and the powerful touch of the curing priest began at the nape of his neck and traveled rapidly to the base of his spine, probing every muscle, every old scar, missing nothing. Takito, he knew, was using his fingertips to read not just his body, but his mind.

After a time the touch changed. It became somehow stronger, more insistent. And it did not soothe as it had. The fingers felt less skilled, more bruising. Takito wasn’t a tall man, but Cormac sensed the priest crouching in the low-ceilinged wigwam. He was aware of the priest moving around to the other side of the pallet, swiftly and smoothly. There was no lurching movement, no indication that he dragged one foot.

Cormac didn’t move, unwilling to show that he was now totally awake and no longer drunk with steam and the powerful herbal magic of the Midewiwin. The man’s fingers attempted to reach under him—it was not Takito anymore, he was sure of that.

“Ayi.”
Cormac rolled toward the imposter, using his full body weight to drive both himself and whoever had replaced the blind priest to the ground. The man uttered a surprised grunt, but in the time it took to draw one breath Cormac knew his adversary was a skilled wrestler. He fought off the attempts to imprison his leg. The only sounds were their struggles for breath as both men grappled for control. The imposter was stronger and every movement brought him closer to dominance. The only thing that saved Cormac from being immediately overwhelmed was what remained of the coating of bear grease. He was still too slick to grab, but it was only a matter of time before the other man’s strength would overpower him.

The assailant gave up trying to capture a leg in the classic hold and rose to a crouch, dragging the half Potawatomi brave with him. In a swift movement he wrapped both arms around the chest of the powerful métis and squeezed.
Ayi!
He had heard this one was a fighter from the land of the clouds, a
kapi
who had come from the world beyond, where the redheaded warriors of his father’s people hunted beside the fearless
Anishinabeg
braves of the old days. Still, after the priest’s special attentions, he had not expected such a struggle.

Cormac felt the life being crushed out of him. His opponent’s arms were iron bands tightening around his chest. He made his mind a blank and saw only the Sacred Fire of the Potawatomi. He saw the glowing red coal of his manhood ceremony; he felt himself grasp it and find it cool as ice in his hand. Strength rose from his belly and filled him. He reached up and clasped his hands around the other man’s neck. It was like a tree trunk, thick and unbending. The arms that imprisoned him hugged him still tighter. Nothing he did freed him from the increasing pressure on his chest. He couldn’t breathe and he wasn’t strong enough to pull his opponent over his head. Soon he would lose his spirit. No, by the Sacred Fire, he would not. He was not meant to free his death song in a dark sweat lodge, crouched over like an animal.

With one last, enormous effort the tree trunk bent. The imposter’s chin was almost touching his shoulder. Close, closer, finally close enough so Corm could turn and sink his teeth into flesh. The man screamed.

Cormac tasted the brave’s blood and did not relax his jaws until he had torn away a chunk of flesh. The other man screamed again and Cormac increased the pressure on the powerful neck until finally he heard it snap and felt the sagging weight of death.

For a moment he stayed where he was, gasping for air, then he realized that his jaws were still locked around a piece of the cheek of his enemy. He shuddered. This was the one way in which he was not truly even half a Real Person; he had been infected with the white man’s horror of human meat. He spat out his enemy’s flesh and staggered out of the wigwam. If the priest were still there he would kill him, too. Cormac’s eyes were having difficulty adjusting to the light after so long in the dark, but he was sure the clearing was empty. Both the fires had been put out and it was dusk, the relative cool of evening descending. He must have been five or six hours in the sweat lodge.

He thought of the medicine bag hidden in the dying maple tree.
Ayi!
Great Spirit, let it still be there. It had to be; if they had found the deerskin pouch, why would they have sent someone to search him? And that had to have been what the assailant was trying to do. Otherwise he would have simply slit Cormac’s throat in the first moments of the attack.

He was still pouring sweat and his heart was beating like a war drum. Whatever
had happened to Memetosia’s treasure couldn’t be changed now. The immediate task was to clear his head so he could decide what to do next. Cormac took a couple of unsteady steps toward the stream and plunged in.

The first shock of the icy water on his overheated skin stole his breath, and he sucked in great gulps of air. Then the cool water soothed him, calming his heart and restoring strength to his muscles. When he got out of the stream he was himself again.

He stood for a moment, listening with his body as well as his ears, totally
Anishinabeg
for the few heartbeats that could spell life or death. There was no immediate danger. He was alone.

His buckskins were no longer neatly folded on the flat rock where he had put them. They had been shaken out and examined. After he was dressed he climbed what remained of the dying maple tree. When he reached the branch hanging out over the water he paused for a moment, preparing himself for whatever he must find. He shimmied forward and stretched out his hand; his fingers touched the leather thong of Memetosia’s medicine bag. Cormac reached for the pouch, clutching it tightly as he unwound the thong. Whatever was inside was still there. He could feel it. He breathed a prayer of thanksgiving to the Great Spirit of the Sacred Fire, then, thinking of the many Sunday mornings in the front room of Shadowbrook, one to Miss Lorene’s Jesus God as well.

He spent a few more moments at the sweat lodge, then made his way back to the house. It was dark, but he could see no shimmer of candlelight behind any of the windows. The Lydius house loomed like a black smudge in the night. Cormac tried the back door. It was open. Cautiously he let himself in and went from room to room. The house was empty; even the kitchen fireplace was cold. There was no sign of Genevieve or any of the Lydius family, much less of the Miami chief and his entourage. The only proof that Memetosia and his braves had been there, that Cormac had not somehow dreamed the whole thing, was the medicine bag around his neck and the faint, lingering scent of bear grease in the kitchen.

His tomahawk and his knife were where he’d left them in the front hall. His long gun was gone.

THURSDAY, JULY 16, 1754
SHADOWBROOK, THE HALE PATENT

Nicole had not realized how much she longed for food that was not meat. There were bright orange carrots on the table, short and stubby and slathered in honey and butter; potatoes that were hashed with cream, and turnips that had been cooked in the dripping pan below spit-roasted small birds and bathed with their
juices. The birds were crisped to a fine golden brown and had been brought to the table skewered on spits that stood upright in a special holder, quail, perhaps, or maybe very young pigeons. Nicole wasn’t sure and she didn’t care much. The large pie filled with spiced venison appealed to her much more, but not as much as the produce of the gardens she’d seen out behind the house earlier, or the biscuits made from the wheat flour they said was milled a short distance away.