Matthew understood, and he took some of the mud on his fingers and streaked it across his chin, cheeks, forehead and across the bridge of his nose like warpaint in his battle against the bugs.
“More than that,” she urged, and he obeyed her.
“Thank you,” he said, when the job was done and the insects began to whirl away from their interrupted feast.
She stood before him, staring at him with dark blue eyes that seemed luminous in the light, and sparkling like the star-strewn sky. “Pleased,” she answered at last, in her quiet, smoky voice.
Of course she was a citizen of Rotbottom, Matthew thought. But she was not what he might have expected to find out here in this country, this last gasp of so-called civilization before the true wilderness began. For one thing, she was very lovely. Matthew might even have considered her beautiful, and far more so than Pandora Prisskitt for she was natural and unadorned in her loveliness. She was perhaps seventeen or eighteen, small-boned and slim, wearing a dress sewn from some kind of coarse gray cloth but adorned at the neck with a ruffle of indigo-dyed lace. Her hair was black and lustrous, not pinned up or prepared in any way popular in Charles Town, but allowed to fall casually about her shoulders in thick waves and in bangs on her forehead. She had beestung lips and a thin-bridged nose that turned up slightly at the tip, like the slightest disdain for her own state of ragamuffinry. She had a firm jaw and high cheekbones and in no way appeared weak or impoverishered in spirit; in fact, she faced the two journeyers with what Matthew thought was a stately air of what might have been great confidence, as if to say this was her world and these two men were strangers upon it.
“My name is Quinn Tate,” the young woman said. “What is yours?”
“Matthew Corbett. This is—”
“Magnus Muldoon,” came the rumble. “Think I can’t speak for myself?”
“Matthew Corbett,” she repeated, still staring intensely at him. “I’ve seen the boats goin’ upriver. What’s happenin’?”
“A hunt for three runaway slaves from the Green Sea Plantation. But…it’s more than that.”
“I heard gunshots. Others were out here, callin’ to the boats, but the men wouldn’t answer.”
“They’re in a hurry. We only stopped because…well…”
“You wanted to wash your face,” said Quinn, with a faint smile that seemed to say she knew more than she was telling.
“We need to be on our way, miss,” Magnus told her. “Thanks for helpin’ my friend.” He pushed the oars into the mud in preparation to back the boat off.
Quinn Tate let the boat start drifting backward before she spoke again. “You need more help, I’m thinkin’.”
“We’ll manage,” said Magnus.
“No,” she answered, “you won’t. Neither will most of those men ahead of you. Those goin’ first…without knowin’ what they’re goin’ into…they likely won’t come back.”
“Uh-huh,” said Magnus, pushing them out toward the middle of the river.
“Just a minute.” Matthew wished Magnus to slow their retreat, because of something in the girl’s voice…some note of surety, or knowledge, or warning. “What exactly are they going into? The ones up ahead,” he clarified.
“First thing they’re gonna run up on soon,” said Quinn, standing in the mud with her lantern upraised, “is the village of the Dead in Life.” She was speaking quietly, but her voice carried through the sultry air and across the water.
Magnus ceased his rowing. “What?”
“The Indians call it somethin’ different. A name I can’t get my tongue around. It’s like…their little piece of Hell on earth. Not far up the river, maybe a mile or more.”
“All right, it’s an Indian village,” said Magnus, though he rowed in closer to Quinn by a few strokes. “What makes it so different from any other?”
“The warriors only come out at night,” she replied, matter-of-factly. “To hunt. They don’t care what they catch. They have a game they play. This is what I hear, from some who’ve seen and gotten away. I wouldn’t want to be caught by any of ’em, because that village is where all the tribes for miles around put their bad men and women and their…what would you call ’em?…ones who aren’t right in the head.”
“It’s a village of exiles?” Matthew asked. Or an Indian insane asylum? he wondered.
“Whatever it is, it’s up there, and those torches are gonna draw ’em to the river like flies to…” She shrugged. “Dead meat.”
Magnus sat with the oars across his knees. He rubbed a hand across his mouth, and Matthew saw him beginning to wonder if Abram, Mars and Tobey were worth going any further upriver, especially since—if the girl was right—they might have been already taken by the Indians. But the moment and the hesitation passed, and Magnus took up the oars and squared his shoulders again.
“We’ll go on,” he announced. A few more boats were coming up the river behind them, still distant yet close enough to be heard the drunken shouting and laughter of their passengers, who obviously had not seen any body parts floating in the water and were too inflamed by liquor to be rightly frightened of the alligators.
“Are you the one?” Quinn suddenly asked. She was speaking to Matthew.
“Pardon?” he asked, not understanding. The moon floated between them, cut into pieces by ripples.
“Are you the one?” she repeated. She held his gaze. “Yes, I think you are. I think…you wouldn’t have come to me, where I was standin’, if you weren’t. I wouldn’t have been there, waitin’ for you, if you weren’t. Yes.” She nodded, and she reached out as if to draw him closer. “I know who you are. Who you really are, I mean.”
“You know me? How?”
“You had another name, and now you call yourself Matthew Corbett…but that’s not your real name.”
“She’s out of her mind,” Magnus muttered, low enough only for Matthew to hear. “Swamp fever’s got her.”
Matthew thought Magnus was right, and yet…he had to ask the questions: “What do you think my real name is? And where do you know me from?”
“Oh,” she answered with a small, sad smile, “I can’t bear to speak it yet. And I know you from here.” She put her free hand over her heart. “This is where you live. You may not remember me…not just yet…but I have not let you go.”
“Swamp fever,” Magnus repeated. He began to work the oars and the boat glided forward.
The young woman followed them along the muddy shore. She was wearing leather sandals, which sank into the muck with every step. “I can help you,” she repeated. “Up the river. I can go with you.”
“Pity,” said Magnus. “She’s a beautiful girl, to be so addled.”
“Don’t go!” Quinn called, as the boat pulled away from her. “Don’t leave me again! Do you hear?” A note of panic surfaced. “Please don’t leave me!”
“Don’t listen.” Magnus put his back to the rowing and the boat gained speed. “No use in it.”
“Matthew!” Quinn swung her lantern back and forth with the strength of desperation. “You said you’d come back to me! Please!”
Though Matthew tried not to listen, he couldn’t help but hear. He didn’t look back at her, though it took an effort. The mud was drying on his face, but he felt the rising beads of sweat on his forehead and at the nape of his neck. He had never in his life met that young woman before, as far as he knew. How could he have? He’d never been on this river before, had never even heard of Rotbottom. Matthew! he heard her call once more, and then she stopped calling.