Fire Along the Sky
Page 5
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Each of the twins had a hand on the shoulders of the boy.
The walking woman had never seen the boy before, and still she recognized the shape of his head and the set of his eyes, the way he held himself. Her father's son, her half brother, called Gabriel. From the few letters that found her in the west, always months out of date and rough with handling, she knew some of his story.
She was not surprised when he let out a high yipping cry, a trill from the back of his throat, and leapt forward so that the dogs twitching in their rabbit-dreams rose up in a fury of startled barks. They ran at his heels and with that the others began moving too. As if the boy had opened an invisible gate.
By the time she let her pack slide to the ground he was there, flinging his arms around her like a tether, a hangman's rope, a lifeline.
Her hands fluttered and then settled, one on his shoulder and the other on the curve of his skull, on dark, curly hair hot with the sun. She touched him as gently as spun sugar; as if the heat of her wanting might cause him to disappear. He was talking to her but the words swarmed around her head like blackfly, an irritation of no real importance. Beneath her hands she felt the strumming of his blood, the startling life force of this boy born within days of her own son.
“Finally,” he was saying. “Finally you're here.”
“Little brother.” The English words tasted sour and coppery on her tongue, flecks of dried blood to be spat out. “How good it is to see you.”
Prologue: Elizabeth
Luke Scott Bonner, Esq.
Forbes & Sons
rue Bonsecours
Montreal
Dear Luke,
Your sister Hannah is come home to Lake in the Clouds. She is alone, as your letter warned us she must be. While she is in good health, she has not spoken to us of the things that weigh heaviest on her heart and mind, except to confirm the worst: her son is dead.
The story of what happened to Strikes-the-Sky is less clear and very troubling. In the spring of last year he left their village on the Wabash on a scouting mission. Traveling with him was Manny Freeman. Neither of them was ever seen again, nor has there been any reliable report of them or their fate. Hannah does not speak of Strikes-the-Sky as alive or dead, or in any way at all. Her silence robs us of our own words.
Of your grandfather Hawkeye there is a little more news. Your sister saw him last in Indiana territory three years ago. He set off on foot in a southwesterly direction, taking nothing with him but his weapons and as many provisions as he could carry.
Your father sends his very warmest good wishes and this word: if your trade connections in the west have any news of your grandfather, we would be most thankful for any information they might provide.
Gabriel asks when you will come to visit. We have explained to him many times that it is neither easy nor safe to cross the border in times of war but this is something our youngest does not care to hear. Daniel would like to see you as well. I know that he hopes you will convince us, his most unreasonable parents, that he and Blue-Jay had best go join the fighting. They speak of little else, to our considerable disquiet.
Please give our best regards to your grandmother Iona. We think of you every day with love and gratitude for the kind services you have provided us in our worry for your sister. As Hannah continues to improve from her long journey—I dare not write of her healing—we hope to send you more and better news of her.
Your loving stepmother
Elizabeth Middleton Bonner
Chapter 1
Early September 1812
Paradise, New-York State
Hot sun and abundant rain: Lily Bonner said a word of thanks for a good summer and the harvest it had given them, and in the same breath she wished her hoe to the devil and herself away.
But there was no chance of escape. Even Lily's mother, whose usual and acknowledged place was at her writing desk or in a classroom, had come to help; everyone must, this close to harvest. The women must, Lily corrected herself: the men were in the cool of the forests.
She glanced up and caught sight of her mother, all furious concentration as she moved along her row. She swung her hoe with the same easy rhythm as Many-Doves. They were an army of two marching through the tasseled rows, corn brushing shoulders and cheeks as if to thank the women for their care.
For all their lives the Mohawk women had spent the best part of every summer day in the fields tending the three sisters: corn, beans, squash. But Lily's mother had been raised in a great English manor house with servants, and she had not held a hoe in her hands—white skin, ink-stained fingers—until she was thirty. Elizabeth Middleton had come to New-York as a spinster, a teacher, a crusader; in just six months' time she had become someone very different.
Lily understood a simple truth: the day came for every woman when she must choose one kind of life or another or let someone else make the choice for her. For some the crucial moment came suddenly, without warning and when least expected; others saw it approaching, pushing up out of the ground like a weed.
It was an image that would not leave her mind, and so she had finally spoken about it to her mother, holding the idea out in open palms like the egg of an unfamiliar and exotic bird.
And how it had pleased her mother, this simple gift. She sat contemplating her folded hands for a moment, Quaker-gray eyes fixed on the horizon and a tilt to her head that meant her mind was far away, reliving some moment, recalling a phrase read last week or ten years ago. When she spoke, finally, it was not with the quotation Lily expected.
She said, “There are so many choices available to you, such riches for the taking. The very best advice I can give you is very simple. You have heard me say it in different ways, but I'll put it as simply as I can. When it comes time to choose, try to favor the rational over the subjective.”
The walking woman had never seen the boy before, and still she recognized the shape of his head and the set of his eyes, the way he held himself. Her father's son, her half brother, called Gabriel. From the few letters that found her in the west, always months out of date and rough with handling, she knew some of his story.
She was not surprised when he let out a high yipping cry, a trill from the back of his throat, and leapt forward so that the dogs twitching in their rabbit-dreams rose up in a fury of startled barks. They ran at his heels and with that the others began moving too. As if the boy had opened an invisible gate.
By the time she let her pack slide to the ground he was there, flinging his arms around her like a tether, a hangman's rope, a lifeline.
Her hands fluttered and then settled, one on his shoulder and the other on the curve of his skull, on dark, curly hair hot with the sun. She touched him as gently as spun sugar; as if the heat of her wanting might cause him to disappear. He was talking to her but the words swarmed around her head like blackfly, an irritation of no real importance. Beneath her hands she felt the strumming of his blood, the startling life force of this boy born within days of her own son.
“Finally,” he was saying. “Finally you're here.”
“Little brother.” The English words tasted sour and coppery on her tongue, flecks of dried blood to be spat out. “How good it is to see you.”
Prologue: Elizabeth
Luke Scott Bonner, Esq.
Forbes & Sons
rue Bonsecours
Montreal
Dear Luke,
Your sister Hannah is come home to Lake in the Clouds. She is alone, as your letter warned us she must be. While she is in good health, she has not spoken to us of the things that weigh heaviest on her heart and mind, except to confirm the worst: her son is dead.
The story of what happened to Strikes-the-Sky is less clear and very troubling. In the spring of last year he left their village on the Wabash on a scouting mission. Traveling with him was Manny Freeman. Neither of them was ever seen again, nor has there been any reliable report of them or their fate. Hannah does not speak of Strikes-the-Sky as alive or dead, or in any way at all. Her silence robs us of our own words.
Of your grandfather Hawkeye there is a little more news. Your sister saw him last in Indiana territory three years ago. He set off on foot in a southwesterly direction, taking nothing with him but his weapons and as many provisions as he could carry.
Your father sends his very warmest good wishes and this word: if your trade connections in the west have any news of your grandfather, we would be most thankful for any information they might provide.
Gabriel asks when you will come to visit. We have explained to him many times that it is neither easy nor safe to cross the border in times of war but this is something our youngest does not care to hear. Daniel would like to see you as well. I know that he hopes you will convince us, his most unreasonable parents, that he and Blue-Jay had best go join the fighting. They speak of little else, to our considerable disquiet.
Please give our best regards to your grandmother Iona. We think of you every day with love and gratitude for the kind services you have provided us in our worry for your sister. As Hannah continues to improve from her long journey—I dare not write of her healing—we hope to send you more and better news of her.
Your loving stepmother
Elizabeth Middleton Bonner
Chapter 1
Early September 1812
Paradise, New-York State
Hot sun and abundant rain: Lily Bonner said a word of thanks for a good summer and the harvest it had given them, and in the same breath she wished her hoe to the devil and herself away.
But there was no chance of escape. Even Lily's mother, whose usual and acknowledged place was at her writing desk or in a classroom, had come to help; everyone must, this close to harvest. The women must, Lily corrected herself: the men were in the cool of the forests.
She glanced up and caught sight of her mother, all furious concentration as she moved along her row. She swung her hoe with the same easy rhythm as Many-Doves. They were an army of two marching through the tasseled rows, corn brushing shoulders and cheeks as if to thank the women for their care.
For all their lives the Mohawk women had spent the best part of every summer day in the fields tending the three sisters: corn, beans, squash. But Lily's mother had been raised in a great English manor house with servants, and she had not held a hoe in her hands—white skin, ink-stained fingers—until she was thirty. Elizabeth Middleton had come to New-York as a spinster, a teacher, a crusader; in just six months' time she had become someone very different.
Lily understood a simple truth: the day came for every woman when she must choose one kind of life or another or let someone else make the choice for her. For some the crucial moment came suddenly, without warning and when least expected; others saw it approaching, pushing up out of the ground like a weed.
It was an image that would not leave her mind, and so she had finally spoken about it to her mother, holding the idea out in open palms like the egg of an unfamiliar and exotic bird.
And how it had pleased her mother, this simple gift. She sat contemplating her folded hands for a moment, Quaker-gray eyes fixed on the horizon and a tilt to her head that meant her mind was far away, reliving some moment, recalling a phrase read last week or ten years ago. When she spoke, finally, it was not with the quotation Lily expected.
She said, “There are so many choices available to you, such riches for the taking. The very best advice I can give you is very simple. You have heard me say it in different ways, but I'll put it as simply as I can. When it comes time to choose, try to favor the rational over the subjective.”
