Shadowbrook (21 page)

The exquisitely carved Suckáuhock winked in the candlelight. Cormac gathered up the beads and returned them to the deerskin pouch.

“You still hungry?” Quent asked.

“I wouldn’t refuse some food.”

“C’mon, let’s go down to the kitchen and see what we can find.”

Most of the big-house slaves slept on corncob mattresses, tucked in below the roof rafters. They called it the long room, though it wasn’t really a room at all, just half an attic, a space between the house and the sky. Kitchen Hannah’s corncob mattress was downstairs, on the floor in an alcove behind the cooking fireplace, close enough to her domain so she heard the sounds of her larder being rifled. By two peoples, from the sound of it, she thought, men peoples. Not Master John. He wanted something to eat in the middle of the night, he’d wake her up and make her get it for him. Had to be Master Quentin, and Cormac most likely. She’d heard those two down there plenty of times before. Kitchen Hannah knew there wouldn’t be a johnnycake left in her stores come morning, and could be a good part of the honey would be gone as well. She smiled her toothless smile and rolled over and went to sleep.

Normally Cormac had no difficulty sleeping. “Whatever troubles you will await a solution in the sun-coming time,” Bishkek, the wise old one who was manhood father to both he and Quent, had told him. “The time of dark is for rest, to invite the spirits who speak in our dreams. Difficulties are to be fixed when the Great Spirit sends the sun.” It was a notion Cormac held close and tried to honor. It was one of the things that kept the Potawatomi half of him alive here in Shadowbrook where the white half had come to rule. But tonight Bishkek’s wisdom could not soothe him.

He’d been sleeping in this same bed since he first came to this place. It suited him that it was just wide enough for one person, and that his bedroom was a small space under the eaves, a cubby hole next to the attic long room. That first winter, after he’d been at Shadowbrook maybe a month, Miss Lorene had tried to move him to a bigger bedroom across from Quent’s on the second floor. Cormac had refused to go. “You are not a servant in this house,” she had told him. “You do not have to sleep in the attic.” Back then he hadn’t understood why she spoke with so much urgency or looked at him as if she were sorry for many things he had no idea about.

“I want to stay where I am.”

“Prefer,” Miss Lorene had corrected automatically. “It is more gracious to say I prefer to stay where I am.’ And don’t forget to say ’ma’am.’ ”

“Yes, ma’am. Like I said, that’s what I want. To stay where I am.” It was the white way to speak to a squaw as if she were an equal, even sometimes a superior. He had learned that, along with many other things, since coming to Shadow-brook a few short weeks before. But he wasn’t ready to give in to every white notion of how things should be done. Sometimes, during the night, he snuck out of the house and slept in touch with the earth, the way he had every night of his first eight years. He only did it when he was sick with longing for Singing Snow, but if he were across from Quent he’d be found out.

Now, twenty-two years later, Cormac lay in the familiar bed in the attic and held on to Memetosia’s remarkable gift, tormented by questions he could not answer.
When the time is right, use them.
How? For what? How would he know the right time? Why was a Miami Midewiwin priest in league with a Huron enemy? And why had Genevieve Lydius, who had been a friend all his life, betrayed him? Finally he slept. And the
Anishinabeg
part of himself dreamed.

A field of snow, utterly white with no mark upon it anywhere, and soaring above the snow a hawk, silent and beautiful. Very high. Then blood appeared on the snow, a river of crimson cutting a jagged path across the pure white. The hawk followed the river of blood until it led to a vast group of birds that remained on the ground, in a patch of snow untouched by the crimson stain, sheltering their heads beneath their wings. A bear as white as the snow appeared on the
horizon and loped toward the birds. The hawk plummeted downward like a streak of lightning, talons extended. The birds rose into the sky in a great fluttering of wings and cries as the hawk attacked the bear, tearing at it with its beak and claws. The other birds hovered above the bear’s head and waited. Then a white wolf emerged from the trees and approached them.

One moment Quent was asleep, the next he was awake. He did not move and the sound of his breathing did not change. He merely came to immediate consciousness with the knowledge that he was not alone. Slowly, with great care, he opened his eyes.

The light had changed. He had not drawn the heavy curtains across the open window and the blackness of night was paling to a gray false dawn. Quent moved one hand slowly beneath the sheet that was his only covering and found the dirk beneath his pillow. He heard nothing, but he knew the intruder was coming closer. Fine, he was ready.

“Quent, it’s me. I know you’re awake.”

“Well, I wasn’t, but I am now.” He saw Corm’s tall, spare frame move past the window and approach the foot of the bed. “What’s the matter?”

“I have to leave.”

“But you just got here. Where are you going?”

“North. To Singing Snow. I have to go right away.”

“You had a dream.” Nothing else could have happened in the few hours since they’d parted. Cormac admitted that was so, and told him the events of the dream. “And you’re the
wabnum,
the white wolf,” Quent said. He had spent too long with the Potawatomi not to understand.

“I think so, since it’s my totem.”

“Your dream, too. But my totem’s
wabnum,
as well. You want me to go with you? If something’s wrong at Singing Snow I—”

“No, not now. Your place is here for as much time as your father has left. If I need you, I’ll send word. But there is something …”

“What?”

“I want you to take care of Nicole.”

“Of course.” His belly knotted; by giving her into his care Corm had made it impossible for him to compete for her affection.

“Not just look after her,” Corm insisted. “I need you to take on my promise.”

Quent got out of the bed and reached for the dressing gown Corn Broom Hannah had spread in readiness on the chair. The silk felt cool against his skin, but it did not soothe him. “Just what kind of promise did you make her that you mean me to take on?”

“Not her. Her father’s death wish was that I take her to Québec.”

“As you wish. When I can leave. After my father—”

“Ahaw.”
The Potawatomi word for agreement. “That’s fine. I don’t have the impression it matters much when she gets there. Only that she arrives safe.”

The sky was rapidly turning pink, promising fierce heat. Quent could see Corm clearly now; he was wearing buckskins. Quent had gone to sleep wondering if Corm would come to breakfast in his home clothes and what Nicole would make of him when she saw him like that, more white than red. “You leaving now? Before breakfast?”

“Yes. I must. I just wanted to say goodbye, and ask you to look after Nicole.”

Both men knew there had never been any doubt about Quent’s reply to Corm’s request. “You’re missing something,” Quent said, eyeing the tomahawk and knife at Corm’s waist.

Cormac didn’t answer. Quent went to the cupboard in the corner, picked up the long gun leaning against it, and tossed it in Corm’s direction. Corm caught it with one hand, but he didn’t put it over his shoulder. “I had to leave my weapons in the front hall when I went to see Memetosia. By the time I was in that hall again my gun was gone.”

“But not your tomahawk or your knife.”

“No, not those.”

“Doesn’t make much sense.” For a Miami to steal a weapon that had been left behind to do honor to one of his chiefs was unthinkable.

“No, I know it doesn’t. Not much of what happened there makes any sense. But the dream was clear.” Corm held out the long gun. “Here. Thanks, but I can’t take this.”

“You can’t go off to fight a hawk and a bear without it. Besides, there are no hostiles at Shadowbrook.” Both men thought of John and smiled. “Least, not the same kind you’re after,” Quent added. “Don’t worry, I know where I can get another.”

Corm’s face grew grave. “Do it. Right away. There’s something …”

“What? You dream something else? Something about Shadowbrook?”

Corm shook his head. “No, nothing. But—”

“I told you, don’t worry.”

Corm raised his left hand and Quent put his palm against it. Because he was the older brother, he spoke first.
“Pama kowabtemin mine,”
he said. We will see each other again. “Be safe. The bear is a fierce enemy.”

“
Wabnum
is a mighty foe.
Pama mine,”
Corm repeated. “Tell Nicole I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye.”

Quent didn’t have to ask if Cormac was taking the Miami Suckáuhock with him. He could see the thong of the medicine bag around Corm’ neck.

FRIDAY, JULY 17, 1754
SHADOWBROOK

“HAD TO GET ME
old bones up real early and make these johnnycakes for breakfast,” Kitchen Hannah said. “‘Fore even the sun come up I was stoking up that kitchen fire and getting that griddlestone hot, and mixing up my Indian meal and a tiny bit 0’ ’lasses and some 0’ my special water from the spring up by the still—what poor Deliciousness May has to carry to me all the way from the sugarhouse and now I ain’t got none left—and making these here johnnycakes for breakfast. ’Cause there wouldn’t be none otherwise. Seeing as how a my stores was raided in the black of night, when proper folks ought to be asleep in their beds.”

She put three fresh johnnycakes on the plate in front of Quent while she spoke, then, after a slight hesitation, added a fourth. “Some folks just are never filled up, no matter what you puts inside ’em.”

Nicole had difficulty understanding the speech of the Patent slaves, though she liked the music of their accent. This morning it was easy enough to tell that Kitchen Hannah was scolding Quentin, that she didn’t mean a word of what she said, and was intensely pleased at his return.

“Thing is,” the old woman continued, “I could have sworn there was two peoples eating up my store of johnnycakes. You got any idea who the second people might be, Master Quent?” She glanced up toward the attic above their heads. “You think I be having to save some of these nice fresh johnnycakes for whoever might be presenting hisself to eat ’em?”

“No, Hannah. I don’t think that’s necessary.” He could tell from the surprise with which his mother and the old slave looked at him that Kitchen Hannah had already told her mistress Corm had arrived. “There’s no one here planning a late breakfast as far as I know.”

“But Hannah said—” Lorene broke off and waited for her son to explain.

“Corm did come during the night, but just to give me a message.” Quent was afraid to look at Nicole. Too much of what he was feeling might show in his face. Damn her, she made him forget everything he’d ever learned. “He was sorry not to see either of you,” he nodded toward his mother and Nicole, “but he had to leave right away.”

“And when will he be back?” Nicole seemed to be trying as hard as he was to maintain some dignity. “Did he say when—”

“He didn’t know.”

“But he promised! Monsieur Shea promised me, and he promised Papa—”

“I know. We talked about that. Corm asked me to take you north to Québec and I said I would.”

“But he—”

She stopped speaking and Quent wondered what other promises Corm had made.

“More drink, my dear. It’s good for you.” Lorene refilled Nicole’s tankard from the pitcher of frothy brown ale cut with heated milk. She was sorry not to see Cormac, but he had been like that since he was grown, coming and going according to his own thoughts and fancies and explaining little. Besides, she was glad to have the girl here a bit longer. The blue frock suited her even better than the lavender had. Lorene told herself she’d have to look for the remains of that blue cloth before the mantua maker called again next week. It had been a very dear bolt, come all the way from London, and she had thought to have a cloak made of what she had left. But just now that blue cloth could be thought of as an investment.