Thus began the most extraordinary conversation of Duncan’s life. The old Indian would not have him speak of Jacob or Ramsey or any event of the past year, but spent an hour asking about the Highlands, asking the Gaelic words for rainbow and oak tree, trying to understand how Duncan had been raised. He became quite excited to hear that Highland cattle resembled bears and that they roamed freely around the hills like the guardians of the ancient clans.
“What do these creatures do at first snow?” Conawago inquired as he composed a soup of roots and leaf buds in a small copper pot. He seemed skeptical that such animals could truly be called cattle, and asked whether Duncan had ever caught any listening at doors and windows, as American bears were known to do.
“If as a boy you cupped a butterfly in your hand, did you notice the wind change direction? In living by the ocean, did you ever see giant fish circle about and make one of the great whirlpools that draw stars into the ocean?”
“I knew an old woman who said she had seen children change into seals,” Duncan offered. The news brought an appreciative nod from his companion.
It seemed hours before Duncan reached the voyage of the Anna Rose and its prisoners, long after he had consumed Conawago’s fragrant concoction and let the old man help settle him onto the moss bed against the face of the rock, which had absorbed the heat of their fire.
Did the great leviathans follow their ship, the Indian asked, and after a man had been lashed at sea did Duncan see the water around the ship glow the following night, as Conawago had himself witnessed? Thunder rose in the north, and lightning from over the horizon reflected on clouds above.
When Duncan came to the deaths on board, the questions came obliquely, about aspects he had not previously considered, as though Conawago’s process of comprehending how men died was different than Duncan’s. When they spoke of Evering, the Indian passed quickly by the circumstances of his murder and wanted to know if there were specks of color in the professor’s dead eyes, whether he sang songs on his last day, and how he behaved at night on deck when the stars shined. He was intensely interested when Duncan related how Evering had predicted the coming of a comet.
“He died helping a woman named Sarah Ramsey,” Duncan offered, having explained how the ship’s most important passenger had attempted suicide, “and celebrating his love for his dead daughter.” He could not understand why he felt so comfortable speaking of such things with a stranger.
“A fine way to die,” Conawago affirmed with a slow nod.
Duncan paused, realizing he had never considered the point.
“And on that very day, this woman and you were summoned by the same spirits,” Conawago summarized, as if Duncan had been called into the ocean to confer with some deity.
“I just jumped into the ocean to save her,” Duncan countered.
The old Nipmuc gave a patient smile. “Do you remember anything at all about what happened in the water?”
“No,” Duncan admitted
Conawago nodded, still smiling, as if Duncan had proven his point.
Duncan spoke on, of landing in New York, of the trip across the Hudson, of the duck Sarah had released, of the Stag’s Head Inn and life in Edentown. He became aware of rain softly falling, though he could not say when it had started.
After one of the silences that punctuated their conversation, Conawago looked up, cocked his head, and spoke quite somberly. “Tell me, Duncan McCallum, how many are left of your tribe?”
It somehow seemed the wisest and most terrible question the Indian could ask, and it took a moment for Duncan to fight through the ache in his heart to answer. “My tribe, like yours, is almost gone. There is one other with my blood.”
Conawago did not seem surprised, and he spoke on, softly, asking about the color of lightning in Scotland and the books in Lord Ramsey’s library.
Finally words seemed to fail the old Indian, and he stared into the embers of the dying fire.
“Am I permitted some questions myself?” Duncan asked as he reverently lifted the wampum from his arm. Conawago looked up with wary eyes but did not object when Duncan laid the belt on his own arm. He lifted a stick in the dirt and traced the shape of a round creature with round, flat tail and wings. He had not forgotten the signs Adam had left on the mast.
Conawago stared at the drawing, then a slow, reverent sweep of his hand obliterated it. “We do not speak of sacred totems with human words. It is between a man and his totem, his protector spirit.”
“Why would it have wings?”
“A greeting, from one who is about to become entirely a spirit being.” Conawago dropped another leaf of tobacco on the embers and fanned the smoke toward Duncan, as if he needed particular attention from the deities.
“Do you know a man named Hawkins?” Duncan asked suddenly.
Conowago studied Duncan’s wound again, cupping smoke over it, before he replied. “I know many like him in the forest north of here. I wouldn’t necessarily call them men. More like wolves on two legs.”
“Okewa,” Duncan tried. “What is the meaning of the word?”
The old Indian stared into the embers before answering. “A dance,” he said in a voice suddenly gone hoarse. “A ritual. It starts at dusk and goes until morning. Women sing all night long.”
“A ritual for what?”
“The dance of the dead, performed with the family a year after the death. It allows souls to make the final crossing to the other world.” Conawago fixed Duncan with an inquiring glance. “Where did you hear this word?”
“It was written on a secret map in the home of Lord Ramsey.”
Conawago’s face went still as death. The old Indian stared into the fire again, added more tobacco to the flat rock. Duncan watched as his companion silently brewed one more cup of tea for him, then held his hand over Duncan’s injured head and offered a whispered prayer. Duncan fell back, able to comprehend neither the reactions of the old Indian to much of what he had said, nor the unexpected calm that had settled over him when speaking with Conawago.
In the morning he awoke slowly, groggily, a strange dream about swimming with otters flickering at the edge of his consciousness. He tried to rub his eyes but could not feel his hands. He shook his head several times but still had difficulty understanding his surroundings. Conawago’s last mug of medicine had done more than relax him.
He lay in the stream. His legs, nearly covered in water, were pinned by a heavy log that he could not budge no matter how hard he flexed and pushed his legs. His hands were behind him, arms straddling a tree, bound at the wrists behind the trunk. Their campsite, fifty feet away, was abandoned, with no sign of Conawago. Duncan’s pack, neatly tied at the top, sat on a rock two feet away, a piece of white bark pinned to the side with a sliver of wood, bearing words inscribed in a neat, decorous hand.
The storm in the north last night means the stream will rise by noon and lift the log that imprisons you. When it does, push up against the tree. Your ax is embedded at the height of your waist and will cut the strap around your hands. Then run south and thank Ramsey for preserving your life by allowing you to be his servant. If you survive to wisdom, you will see there is no mystery about Jacob, Adam, or myself, only one simple truth. There is no better death, at any age, than standing up to an overwhelming enemy to defend the bones of your fathers and the refuge of your gods. There will be another Okewa, twelve months from now. Stay alive, and sing then for the red men and the plaid men.