“Well, that’s not a good dream, no,” Ian said, in English. “Ye havena had this dream yourself?”
Emily grimaced and shook her head, and the live thing quivering in Ian’s backbone settled. He didn’t ask whether she believed that Whitewater had in fact dreamed this; that was clear. But if she had been dreaming the same thing, that would be very serious. Not that it wasn’t anyway.
“I have not shared his dream,” she said, so low that he barely heard her. “But when he told me … The next night I, too, had a dream. I dreamed that he killed Tòtis. He broke my son’s neck, like a rabbit.”
The live thing leapt straight up into Ian’s throat, and a good thing, too, as it stopped him speaking.
“This dream has come twice, and this person has prayed,” she said softly, going back to the Kahnyen’kehaka.
“This person prayed,” she repeated, looking up into his face, “and you are here.”
He was mildly surprised that he wasn’t shocked. Swiftest of Lizards had told him that old Tewaktenyonh had told him that he was the son of Ian’s spirit. Clearly she would have told Wakyo’teyehsnonhsa the same thing—or Emily had told the old woman.
“I thought perhaps I would have to send my son to my sister, in Albany,” she said. “But she has no husband now, and three children to feed. And I worry,” she said simply. “Things are very dangerous. Thayendanegea says that the war will soon be over, but his wife’s eyes say he does not believe it.”
“His wife is right.” Both of them were whispering now, though he could hear the murmur of the women talking at the end of the house. “My uncle’s wife is a …” There were words for magic, and foretelling, as he had used with Thayendanegea, but none of them seemed quite right now. “She sees what will happen. That’s why I came; I met Looks at the Moon and Hunting like a Glutton in the place where I live, and they told me of the massacre at Osequa, and your husband’s death. They didn’t know whether you were still with Thayendanegea’s people, nor how you and your children fared. And so I came to see,” he ended simply.
He didn’t realize that she’d been holding her breath, until she let it out in a long, deep sigh that touched his face.
“Thank you,” she said. “Now that you know—you will take Tòtis?”
“I will.” He said it without hesitation, even as he wondered how on earth he’d tell Rachel about this.
Emily’s relief touched him, and so did she, clasping his hand hard against her breast.
“If your wife will not have him at her fire,” she said, a note of anxiety creeping into her voice once more, “I am sure you will find a woman who will care for him?” That was done sometimes; if a man’s wife died and he married someone who didn’t get along with his children, he’d go to and fro and look until he found a woman who would either be his second wife or, if she was married, would care for his children in return for his providing her with meat and skins.
“Perhaps your mother?” Emily said, hope mingling with doubt in her voice.
“Neither my wife nor my mother would see any bairn starve,” he assured her, though his imagination was unequal to envisioning what either one was going to say. He squeezed her hand gently and let go. He already knew that he couldn’t explain Emily to Rachel; now he realized that he could never explain Rachel to Emily, either, and smiled wryly to himself.
“My wife is a Friend, ken? And she paints her face with wisdom.”
“I am a little bit afraid of her,” Emily said honestly. “Will you go and tell her—ask her—now?”
“Come with me,” he said, and stood up. It wasn’t until they had come out into the pale light of snow and fog that something occurred to him, and he turned to her.
“Ye said ye prayed, Emily,” he said, and she blinked at the sound of his name for her. “Who were ye praying to?” He asked it out of curiosity; some Mohawk were Christians, and might pray to Jesus or His mother, but she had never been a Christian, when he knew her.
“Everybody,” she said simply. “I hoped someone would hear.”
IAN SAW RACHEL walking toward the longhouse with Oggy when they pushed back the hide over the door, and Emily went out to her at once, inviting her in.
Rachel stopped for a moment, blinking into the darkness; then her eyes found Ian and she saw what she wanted in his face, for she smiled. The smile lessened, but still lingered, when she turned to Emily. It vanished when Ian told her about Tòtis, but only for an instant. He saw her swallow and imagined her reaching for her inner light.
“Yes, of course,” she said to Emily, and turned to the boy, warmth in her eyes. “He will always be your son, but I’m honored that he will be mine, too. I’ll certainly feed him at my hearth—all he wants, ever.” Ian hadn’t realized that his wame was clenched tight, until it relaxed and he drew a very deep breath. Tòtis had been eyeing Rachel with curiosity, but no fear. He glanced at his mother, who nodded, and he went to Rachel and, taking her hand, kissed her palm.
“Oh,” Rachel said softly, and caressed his head.
“Tòtis,” Emily said, and the boy turned and went to her. She hugged him close and kissed his head, and Ian saw the shine of the tears she wouldn’t shed until her son was truly gone. “Give it to him now,” she whispered in Mohawk, and lifted her chin toward Ian.
He’d been much too intent on their conversation to notice much about the furnishings, beyond the sleeping furs and their memories, but when Tòtis nodded and ran toward a large, lidded basket that stood in the corner of the compartment, half hidden under the ledge, he had a sudden notion what it held.
“Wake up!” Tòtis said, pushing the lid off and leaning into the basket. A soft thumping came from the depths, and the long creaking noise of a yawn. And then Tòtis stood up with a large, gray, furry puppy in his arms and a grin on his face, missing two teeth.
“One of the many grandsons of your wolf, Okwaho, iahtahtehkonah,” Emily said, with a smile to match her son’s. “We thought you should have someone to follow you again. Go ahead,” she encouraged Tòtis. “Give it to him.”
Tòtis looked up at Ian, still grinning. But as he came near, he turned, and holding the puppy up to Oggy said, “He is yours, my brother.” He’d spoken in Mohawk, but Oggy understood the gesture, if not the words, and squealed with joy, bending half out of Rachel’s arms in his urge to touch the dog. Ian grabbed him and sat down on the floor with him, and Tòtis let the wriggling puppy go. It leapt on Oggy and began kneading him with its paws, licking his face and wagging its tail, all at the same time. Oggy didn’t cry, but giggled and kicked his legs and squealed in the light of the fire. Tòtis couldn’t resist and joined in the scuffle, laughing and pushing.
Emily looked blank for a moment, but when Ian said, “Thank ye, lass,” she smiled again.
“So,” she said, “you named my son for me; let me do the same for yours.” She spoke gravely, in English, and looked from Ian’s face to Rachel’s and back again.
Ian felt Rachel stiffen and feared that this might be one too much for the inner light. The blue paint had begun to melt with her sweat in the heat of the longhouse and was spreading little blue tendrils and drops down her cheeks like budding vines. Her mouth opened, but she didn’t seem able to form words. He saw her shoulders straighten, though, and she nodded at Emily, who nodded seriously back, before turning her attention to Oggy.