Our pawaaw has tried to heal him, and, failing, sent for Nah noso’s own, Tequamuck, who we deem the strongest of the pawaaws. But for all he has danced and chanted, he has not been able to spear out the sickness.” At that moment the wet tankard slid from my hand and clattered onto the board, slopping its contents.
I got up, in agitation, and helped to mop my spill. I heard father say to Momonequem that he had brought no medicines save some salve and bandages and that he did not think he could be of help in such a grave case.
I could not contain myself. “Do you not think you should see this man, at least?” I said. “I’m sure the Merrys have aught for a poultice, if that be what is needed. If nothing else, you could pray for him . . . and if you can help him, where the sorcerers have failed, it surely would further the mission.”
Father answered, “Perhaps I . . . ,” and then he broke off and looked at me strangely. “Bethia, how is it that you . . . ?” He glanced up at the Merrys, and decided that this was not the time or place to pursue the matter.
He turned back to Momonequem and said he would go with them and do what he could. I acted as if it were natural to assume I was to go also, and asked Sofia Merry to show me what she had in her herb store that she might spare me. Even though the damage was done with father, I thought it best that I not speak Wampanaontoaonk in front of the Merrys, so I asked father to question the youths about the signs of the sonquem’s illness. They said fever, a red rash and convulsing cough. So I took onions and mustard seed, willow bark, and from the garden some broad leaves of comfrey and peppermint.
Momonequem and his friend Sacochanimo each had a mishoon pulled up on the bank of the pond. These canoes were hollowed out from burned tree trunks, broad enough in the fore to carry sacks of corn to the mill. They unloaded this cargo and carried it to the mill house, then indicated that each of us should take our place where the sacks had been. Father stepped uncertainly into Momonequem’s canoe and I into Sacochanimo’s. The youths slipped in behind us and paddled with swift strokes across the wide pond. The water was shallow enough to reveal the bright leaves settled at the bottom. Rich colors of bronze and deep crimson layered upon each other like the intricate pattern of the Turkey carpet that warmed my grandfather’s floor. The youths paddled at speed, without effort, covering the short distance between farm and settlement in no time at all. From my canoe I could see the muscles working in the arms of Momonequem as he paddled ahead with father. His oar pierced the water without a splash, sending ripples arrowing back to shore, where turtles catching afternoon sunlight slid from the banks as we approached. Momonequem turned sharply, into the river that fed the pond, and we followed his lead through the high marsh grasses towards their settlement.
There were many mishoons beached there. We stepped ashore and at once heard the unholy commotion coming from within the ring of wetus. This was the winter settlement of a large band, five or six times the size of the praying hamlet. We made our way toward the source of the noise.
They had the sick man laid out on a mat, his face painted over completely with charcoal or black clay. Set on the earth around him were all kinds of talismans of bones and fur, shell and hide and dried plants. He was a big man, powerfully built, yet his ribs seemed about to erupt from his chest as he labored to breathe in shallow, rattling gasps. The pawaaw who had stood in silent challenge to my father when he had sermonized the praying Indians was a blur of frantic motion. He cried out, leapt, beat on the ground, then shook his gourd rattles at the sky with frenzied gestures. Foam dangled from his lips as if he were a horse hard-ridden, and strands of it flew off his chin as he leapt and twirled and then fell upon the prone figure, making spearing gestures and wild, fierce faces.
It seemed impossible that any man could go on so for an extended time, but he did, seemingly tireless. He stopped only to turn aside and cast up some brownish bile, then he reached for a gourd and downed a liquid of such a sharp odor I could smell it from where I stood, many yards off. He was a very tall man, even by the lofty standards of the Indians, and though painted garishly I could see now that his nephew’s features favored him. The intensity of his prayers was such that had they been to the true God, it would have been a prayer exceeding the most devoted I had ever heard.
Father had been transfixed by the spectacle but suddenly he recovered himself. “Turn your face away, Bethia. Do not gratify Satan by giving his rites your attention.”
The discipline of a lifetime compelled me to do as he bade me. When had I ever, in his presence, refused a direction from his lips? But it was like tearing a nail from a board, to pull my eyes away from the ritual. Father’s hand was at my back, pushing me towards the nearest wetu as he said shortly to Momonequem that we would wait within until the pawaaw was finished, after which they might fetch us to attend the sick man and see what, if anything, might yet be done.
The wetu was a well-made dome of bark with a hide drawn across its entrance to keep out the fall chill. Father lifted the hide a little, asking leave to enter. A young woman’s voice civilly assented. Father signaled me to go before him, so I bent and stepped inside, waiting for my eye to adjust to the low light. It was well I entered first, for the woman within was casually shrugging a deerskin blouse over her bare breasts, in no great urgency to cover her nakedness. She was not much older than I, with long, strong legs and glossy hair tied in a single thick braid, all threaded through with turkey feathers. She gestured to us to sit, and I did so, sinking into a dense pile of fur pelts laid over timber benches. It was warm in the wetu, and the bark gave off a faint sweet smell of resin.
She offered us a mash of parched corn, which we ate with our hand from the common pot. Her cook fire was small and its smoke drew directly upward to a hole in the bark ceiling. Outside, a kind of sail could be moved this way and that to draw the smoke and keep out rain. In the dimness, I could see father staring at me with a hard, un-yielding look as I fingered the mash between my lips. Knowing it was coming in any case, I thought I might as well get to it. I turned to the young woman and thanked her civilly in Wampanaontoaonk, at which she started and exclaimed. I explained to her, with my eye on father, that I had learned her speech during my father’s lessons with Iacoomis. In English, I added: “Please do not be vexed with me, father. All those many winter months by the hearth when I was a babe— I could not shut my ears.”
I do not know what father would have replied. He did not speak his mind to me because at that moment the sonquem of that place entered the wetu, with several of his senior men. When I looked up, the food dropped from my fingers. One of the men looked so like Caleb that I thought for a happy instant it was he, fetched back from his lonely ordeal. But a second’s further scrutiny showed the likeness was inexact. This was the face of a man, not a youth, weathered and coarsened by several extra years. It came to me then that this must be the elder brother Caleb had spoken of: Nanaakomin, the dutiful son and favored heir of their father Nah noso. Since his attention was upon my father, I was free to study his features, so like the ones that had become familiar, even beloved, to me. Nanaakomin’s eyes were watchful and intelligent, like Caleb’s, but darker and more opaque. His lips were thicker and more sensual.
The young woman gestured to me that she and I should go out and leave the men to conference with my father, and so we did. The settlement was quieter now. They had carried the sick man away to shelter. Only the pawaaw remained in the circle. He lay there, in the dust, spent at last, or in some kind of praying trance, I could not be sure. The people of the settlement, in any case, had given him a wide berth, and the woman at my side held her face away so as not to look at him. I sensed her fear. She walked quickly past, disappearing into some other wetu. There was no one left outside. The pawaaw lay all alone, with his sorcerer’s paraphernalia— that no one else dared touch— scattered about him. Walking on silent feet as Caleb had taught me, I approached more nearly to him. His eyes were open, but glassy and unseeing. The gourd from which he had drunk his potion was set upright, just a few inches from his strange, expressionless face.
We reach, now, the place where I cannot account for my own behavior, save to say that Satan
