“If you mean in which longhouse, yes. If you mean in whose bed, no. I could guess, though.”
“Mmphm.” He stretched and shook his hair back. “Come on, Sassenach, I’ll see ye back to the village.”
* * *
Ian’s ceilidh got underway soon after dark; the invited guests included the most prominent members of the Council, who came one at a time to Tewaktenyonh’s longhouse, paying their respects to the sachem, Two Spears, who sat at the main hearth with Jamie and Ian flanking him. A slight, pretty girl, who I assumed must be Ian’s Emily, sat quietly behind him, on the keg of whisky.
With the exception of Emily, women were not involved in the whisky-tasting. I had come along, though, to watch, and sat at one of the smaller hearths, keeping an eye on the proceedings while helping two of the women to braid onions, exchanging occasional politenesses in a halting mixture of Tuscarora, English, and French.
The woman at whose hearth I sat offered me a gourd of spruce beer and some kind of cornmeal mush as refreshment. I did my best to accept with cordiality, but my stomach was knotted too tightly to make more than a token attempt at eating.
Too much depended on this impromptu party. Roger was here; somewhere in the village, I knew it. He was alive; I could only hope he was well—well enough to travel, at least. I glanced at the far end of the longhouse, at the largest hearth. I could see no more of Tewaktenyonh than the curve of a white-streaked head; a queer jolt went through me at the sight, and I touched the small lump of Nayawenne’s amulet, where it hung beneath my shirt.
Once the guests were assembled, a rough circle was formed around the hearth, and the opened keg of whisky brought into the center of it. To my surprise, the girl also came into the circle, and took a place beside the keg, a dipping gourd in her hand.
After some words from Two Spears, the festivities commenced, with the girl measuring out portions of the whisky. She did this not by pouring the whisky into the cups, but by taking mouthfuls from the gourd, carefully spitting three mouthfuls into each cup before passing it to one of the men in the circle. I glanced at Jamie, who looked momentarily taken aback, but who politely accepted his cup and drank without hesitation.
I rather wondered just how much whisky the girl was absorbing through the lining of her mouth. Not nearly as much as the men, though I thought it might take quite a bit to lubricate Two Spears, who was a taciturn old bastard with a face like a dyspeptic prune. Before the party had got well underway, though, I was distracted by the arrival of a young boy, the offspring of one of my companions. He came in silently and sat down by his mother, leaning heavily against her. She looked sharply at him, then set down her onions and rose with an exclamation of concern.
The firelight fell on the boy, and I could see at once the peculiar hunched way he sat. I rose hastily to my knees, pushing aside the basket of onions. I knelt forward and took him by the other arm, turning him toward me. His left shoulder had been slightly dislocated; he was sweating, his lips pressed tightly together in pain.
I gestured to his mother, who hesitated, frowning at me. The boy made a small, whimpering noise, and she pulled him away, holding him tight. With sudden inspiration, I pulled Nayawenne’s amulet from my shirt; she wouldn’t know whose it was but might recognize what it was. She did; her eyes widened at the sight of the tiny leather bag.
The boy made no more noise, but I could see the sweat run down his hairless chest, clear in the firelight. I fumbled at the thong that held the pouch shut, digging inside for the rough blue stone. Pierre sans peur, Gabrielle had called it. The fearless stone. I took the boy’s good hand and pressed the stone firmly into his palm, folding his fingers around it.
“Je suis une sorciere,” I said softly. “C’est medecine, la.” Trust me, I thought. Don’t be afraid. I smiled at him.
The boy stared round-eyed at me; the two women at the hearth exchanged a look, then as one, looked toward the distant hearth where the old woman sat.
There was talk from the ceilidh; someone was telling an old story—I recognized the rise and fall of the formal rhythms. I had heard Highlanders tell their stories and legends in Gaelic, in just that way; it sounded much the same.
The mother nodded; her sister went quickly down the length of the house. I didn’t turn, but felt the stir of interest behind me as she passed the other hearths; heads were turning, looking toward us. I kept my eyes on the boy’s face, smiling, holding his hand tightly in my own.
The sister’s footsteps came softly behind me. The boy’s mother reluctantly released her hold on him, leaving him to me. Permission had been received.
It was a simple matter to put back the joint; he was a small boy and the injury was minor. His bones were light under my hand. I smiled at him as I felt the joint, assessing damage. Then a quick bending of the arm, rotation of the elbow, whipping the arm upward—and it was done.
The boy looked intensely surprised. It was a most satisfactory operation, in that pain was relieved almost instantly. He felt his shoulder, then smiled shyly back at me. Very slowly, he opened his hand and held out the stone to me.
The minor sensation created by this occupied my attention for some time, with the women crowding close, touching the boy and peering at him, summoning their friends to stare at the murky sapphire. By the time I had attention to spare for the whisky party at the far hearth, the festivities were well advanced. Ian was singing in Gaelic, very off-key, accompanied in a haphazard way by one or two of the other men, who chimed in with the weird, high-pitched Haihai! that I had heard now and then among Nayawenne’s people.
As though my thought had conjured her, I felt eyes on my back, and turned, to see Tewaktenyonh watching me steadily from her own hearth at the end of the longhouse. I met her eyes and nodded to her. She leaned across to say something to one of the young women at her hearth, who rose and came toward me, stepping carefully around a couple of toddlers playing under their family bed-cubicle.
“My grandmother asks if you will come to her.” The young woman squatted beside me, speaking quietly in English. I was surprised, though not astonished, to hear it. Onakara had been right, some of the Mohawk had some English. They would not use it, though, except from necessity, preferring their own language.
I rose and accompanied her to Tewaktenyonh’s hearth, wondering what necessity impelled the Pretty Woman. I had my own necessities; the thought of Roger, and of Brianna.
The old woman nodded to me, inviting me to sit down, and spoke to the girl, not taking her eyes off me.
“My grandmother asks if she may see your medicine.”
“Of course.” I could see the old lady’s eyes on my amulet, watching curiously as I took out the sapphire. I had added to Nayawenne’s woodpecker feather two of my own; a raven’s stiff black wing quills.
“You are the wife of Bear Killer?”
“Yes. The Tuscarora call me White Raven,” I said, and the girl jerked, startled. She translated quickly for her grandmother. The old lady’s eyes flew wide and she glanced at me in consternation. Evidently this was not the most auspicious name she’d ever heard. I smiled at her, keeping my mouth closed; the Indians usually bared their teeth only when laughing.
The old lady handed me back the stone, very gingerly. She studied me narrowly, then spoke to her granddaughter, not taking her eyes off me.