Language of the Bear Read online

“You do believe in honor, don’t you?”

  “I believe in honor, but I don’t always believe in the men who claim to act with it.”

  Pyke studied the strange man, searching for the joke in his words. “Honor is enough for me. Then here it is. We are after a man called Azariah. He has taken up with the … Indians and some say he has rallied frontiersmen to his cause. The man suffers from a ludicrous dream that we—your peoples and mine—should worship together and raise families together and live together.”

  “Ludicrous.”

  Pyke could not tell if the man was being sarcastic. “Most importantly, he has openly defied Colonel Bennett and thus the Crown, and to boot also causes problems with the French.”

  “And when we find him?”

  Pyke would say no more. The savage knew all he needed to for the time being. “When we come to that moment, we’ll choose our path. You are not reveal this to anyone we may encounter on our journey.”

  Wolf Tongue leaned back in the grass and put his hands behind his head. “Storm-of-Villages came to our village some months ago, promising peace and food and asked that we provide him with a handful of men in exchange. We chased him away. I thought him a silly man.”

  Pyke didn’t care for conversation with Wolf Tongue, but if the savage had useful information then … “Why is he called Storm-of-Villages?”

  “It is whispered among some of the villages that he is a …” Wolf Tongue screwed his face up while searching for the right word. “… both man and a spirit.”

  “A demigod.”

  Wolf Tongue shrugged. “With his power, he can control the weather, and he can commune with the beasts, and he can read a man’s soul.”

  Pyke rolled his eyes. The man was bouncing.

  Then with his devilish smile, Wolf Tongue said, “More likely, it’s just a name the man made up himself.”

  Pyke let out a sigh. They had wasted time on their journey already by venturing to Miller’s Town first. Now the savage seemed content to while away the minutes with rambling gossip.

  To the point, Pyke said, “What else?”

  “The rumors abound. That he slaughtered beyond the Roaring Waters, that he has six wives each from a different tribe, that he is a mute who can communicate solely with his eyes.”

  Pyke stoppered the canteen and stood. Enough chatter. His limbs were stiff and aching from the journey. He’d enjoyed his bed too much in the last few months and had gotten a little soft. This journey would work wonders on his constitution.

  A blast of cold wind shot through the clearing. Instinctively, he rubbed his hands together and stamped his feet to help with the circulation. He couldn’t lose any more fingers.

  “Your Colonel, he is a hard man?” Wolf Tongue asked.

  Indeed it was the truth, but Pyke didn’t care to hear it fall from the Indian’s mouth. “Colonel Bennett is a gentleman. Now, let’s hurry. The sooner this man is apprehended, the better.”

  Wolf Tongue got to his feet. “We must be careful with the Lenape. They have had quarrels with the English. And the Susquehannock for that matter.”

  “They are under the Crown’s protection.”

  “Your king has a funny way of protecting.”

  “Do not speak ill of my king. If I am not mistaken, your people are under our protection as well. They too were weak and needed British help from their enemies, did they not?”

  Finally, Pyke had wiped the smile off the man’s face. Wolf Tongue’s face hardened. For a moment, the two men stood there with eyes locked, the only noise in the clearing the cold moan of the wind.

  Wolf Tongue’s face softened and he chuckled. “Yes, we were forced to ask for your help. After you brought your English pox.”

  Pyke folded his arms. He was in no mood for a petty debate with this man. “Let’s get a move on.”

  ***

  Wolf Tongue looked over his shoulder at Pyke. “They are below.”

  Pyke tied his horse to a tree and came up beside the savage. He squinted his eyes till the blurry images far below in the green valley became recognizable shapes. “That is the Lenape?” He could not see well enough from this vantage point. They must have been several hundred yards away, and the day was getting long.

  “One village.”

  “I’d like a closer look. What should I know of these people?”

  “They’re farmers of the Three Sisters, and they trade furs. They’re our grandfathers, an old people, and expect our respect. And like I said, they have no love for the English or the Susquehannock.”

  Three Sisters was a reference to squash, maize, and beans, Pyke knew. He took in his companion to measure the man’s words. Wolf Tongue showed no overt fear of the Lenape.

  “Where are their longhouses?” Pyke asked, squinting his eyes and trying to locate them.

  “The Lenape build wigwams, not longhouses.”

  “Those dome-shaped shacks?”

  Instead of answering, Wolf Tongue grimaced. It was the first time Pyke had seen such a gesture from the man. “There is something wrong. It will go better if you let me meet them alone.”

  The sound of drums and what might have been wailing echoed from the valley floor below. Pillars of smoke rose from the village. A shiver ran down Pyke’s spine, one not entirely caused by the Pennsylvania cold. “I said I’d like a closer look.”

  Wolf Tongue shrugged as if it meant nothing and gestured over his shoulder. “We can take the slope and remain under cover.”

  Pyke patted his horse’s nose and left it tied. They would move more quietly without it.

  He trailed Wolf Tongue, who carefully picked his way over the wintry terrain. They stayed in the woods and drew a circuitous path, drawing nearer the village. They were practicing some heathen ritual, unlike anything he had ever seen. He was fascinated by the strange singing and alien music blasting below. Perhaps his ancestors had performed similar ceremonies at Stonehenge.

  Pyke and Wolf Tongue cleaved to the forest and took position some fifty yards away, keeping out of sight.

  Several columns of smoke lifted to the grey sky, savages beat on drums, and men and women danced in circles around a raging fire.

  “What are they up to?”

  “Sssstt” Wolf Tongue held a finger to his lips and winked at him. “You should show some respect for the dead.”

  The man had an absurd sense of humor. “A funeral rite? Someone important, then, judging by the spectacle?”

  Wolf Tongue finally grew serious. “Something is wrong. They have lost more than one, I think.”

  Pyke kept his eyes on the strange tableaux before him. Perhaps the Indian had been right, and it would be unwise of him, as an Englishman, to intrude on their ceremony. But he didn’t want Wolf Tongue to think him a coward. He weighed the options for a moment, while the Indian kept his gaze on the Lenape village.

  He knew it was pride, not reason, telling him to challenge the Indian and proceed into the village. Wolf Tongue was no Lenape, but he no doubt understood the full import of the scene before them. He should listen to the man. After all, that was one of the reasons the Colonel had given him this savage, for his advice in dealing with other Indians.

  “I will heed your advice and stay here. See what you can find out.”

  “If you’re not here, I will find you with your horse.”

  “Very well.”

  Pyke watched the Indian. The man was smart enough not to come directly out of the woods, but rather, he wended a haphazard path and then emerged.

  Wolf Tongue slowly made his way to the village. Pyke didn’t have the best angle, but he could tell the savage was holding his arms out, his musket aimed skyward and held by the barrel. Two men rushed over to him, but the ceremony continued. Women wailed, men somersaulted, and the drumming kept on.

  Pyke lost sight of Wolf Tongue, then caught him again through the billowing smoke. Two men led him past a wigwam, and then he slipped out of sight once more in the midst of the village.

  Pyke settled in
. This was a soldier’s life: hurry up and wait. When he wasn’t drilling, or leading some foolish patrol, or dealing with the petty trifles of the enlisted men, he was bored to tears. His father had warned him of it but had provided no solution to the problem. It was just one of those things he was supposed to get used to.

  His mind drifted. He thought of Damaris in her London dress, and he tried to picture her in that great city. It was difficult, though—even in the proper attire, she seemed out of place. She was much more at home in Philadelphia in his mind. It was claimed by many that Philadelphia was now the largest city in the Empire. It just went to show that the size of a thing meant little: the City of Brotherly Love was nothing compared to London.

  He envisioned the marriage proposal and Damaris’s gleeful acceptance. He would spend another several years in the British Army, carefully pocketing a portion of his income for the future and sending some home to his family, as needed. After that, he would study for the bar perhaps or become some type of merchant, even though a trader’s life seemed distasteful. He planned to never want for money again.

  Ahead, the ceremony continued. The drummers thundered on their bulky instruments. A chorus of strange wails rolled throughout the village. Some laughed, some cried, some focused on the rhythms of their dancing.

  He hadn’t seen Wolf Tongue come out of the wigwam, but as a matter of course he scanned the madding crowd for the Indian. As his eyes ran over their round faces, he noted their differences. The joke within the regiment was that all Indians looked the same, but Pyke had never thought so. True, it was more difficult to tell them apart than it was with whites, but he could detect subtle differences. The women were soft around the eyes, and the men were sinewy. They all had dark hair, but there were shades to that darkness. The children played in the dirt, their ribs nearly busting out of their skin. He’d never seen a fat Indian, come to think—

  Something poked him in the ribs, sending a stab of pain up his spine, and he started. Before he could roll over, though, he was trampled upon and felt many rough hands on his person. In the commotion, he had no idea what was happening until the savages forced him to his feet and started dragging him toward their village.

  “Take your bloody hands off me.”

  His words fell on deaf ears. He counted five of them, probably a scouting party. The savages roughed him up as they marched him, their eyes filled with bloodthirsty hatred.

  “I’m an Englishman!”

  “No. You are dead.”

  ***

  He was taken to a wigwam, his hands were tied to a wooden crossbeam inside, and he was guarded by two men who wore menacing scowls. A small fire flickered inside, the smoke rising through the hole in the top.

  His ribs hurt, as did his arms where the men had grabbed him. He calmed himself and caught his breath before speaking. “I am a British officer acting on his Majesty’s orders. You will release me at once.”

  His guards were not interested. One snickered, while the other took out a whetstone and ran his blade over it.

  “You have no idea what you’re doing.”

  Another man stepped into the wigwam. Pyke was expecting a savage, but the man that stood before him was white: tall, tanned, with greying hair and a furry beard. He nodded at the two guards, who left them alone.

  “Who are you?” the man asked in a strange, thick accent that Pyke couldn’t place.

  “Lieutenant Hugh Pyke of the British Army. I march under Colonel Bennett’s orders. You are to release me immediately.”

  The man seemed unimpressed by his rank or tone. “What do you do here?”

  “I will not answer any more questions till you have answered mine. Who are you, sir, and what are you doing here?”

  The man stepped closer and gave him a stern look. “My name is Comenius. I attend the Lenape.”

  Then it made sense. The man was from the Continent, judging by his accent, and he was ministering to the Lenape. He had heard of Bohemians and Prussians working in a town to the north to spread God’s word with some new church. “You’re a Moravian.”

  “Yes.”

  Pyke relaxed a bit. This had to be a simple misunderstanding that could easily be fixed, now that Pyke had the ear of a man of God. He didn’t know if Comenius was clergy or not—the Moravians often sent lay people as missionaries from what he’d heard—but either way, Pyke was in good hands. “Why have your men arrested a British officer?”

  While Pyke relaxed, however, the Moravian seemed to tense up. “There is little time. Quickly, tell me what it is you do here.”

  “My orders are confidential. What I can say is I am acting on behalf of Colonel Bennett, who enjoys a certain authority in this region as you must be aware. I have his seal in my pocket.” Pyke raised an arm and offered his pocket to Comenius.

  Outside, the sounds of the funeral ceremony dwindled. Those awful drums were pounded no more, but still Pyke could hear the din of the frenzied chorus.

  Comenius did not extract the Colonel’s seal from Pyke’s pocket, and the man’s eyes did not leave Pyke’s face. “Lieutenant, you are a religious man?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then quickly now: take an oath before the True Lord you speak the truth to me.”

  “I swear it before all that is holy.”

  Comenius’s eyes narrowed. Sweat beading his brow and in a panic, he said, “You are not here for Azariah Bennett?”

  Pyke was nearly floored. Was it possible that Comenius knew of his mission? Had the Lenape joined the man in his silly cause? With mounting fear, he realized the savages might put him to the death for hunting Azariah.

  His mind reeled. He needed to get out of this wigwam before they came for him. But his bonds were tight. Comenius searched his face with inquisitive eyes, still waiting for an answer.

  “As I said, I cannot discuss the specific nature of my orders with you.”

  Comenius eyed him as if he were trying to guess a wild animal’s intentions. “You do not understand—”

  Despite the frenzied beating of his heart, he kept his voice calm. “Mr. Comenius, I will only say this once more. I am here under Colonel Bennett’s orders. You will release me now or suffer the consequences.”

  Comenius shook his head. “You do not understand. If I were to release you, you would suffer the consequences.”

  So they would kill him. He cursed the Colonel for not having better intelligence. This tribe had allied itself with Azariah. He was done for.

  But Comenius’s next words confused him. “Lenape have been killed, so they seek blood. Not all of them have converted to the true faith, and some that have are now reverting to the old ways after everything’s that happened. They will think—”

  Outside, there was a loud commotion. Comenius’s eyes went wide, and he snapped his head around to look over his shoulder. Angry voices challenged each other.

  Pyke was trying to piece all this information together so it made sense. Lenape were dead? Only some had been converted? And how did Azariah fit into all this?

  Comenius snapped his head around to face him again. “If you value your life, tell me.”

  Figuring he’d need to loosen his tongue if he wanted to survive, Pyke was about to divulge the details of his mission, but before he could, Lenape spilled into the wigwam and rushed him.

  Comenius, though he was a large man, was unable to keep them at bay. After a struggle, he was shoved aside and found himself on the ground. Pyke did his best to fend off the Indians, but he was useless without his hands. One savage slammed under his ribs, robbing him of his air. He collapsed to the ground and must have looked like a fish left on the docks trying to breathe.

  “No! Wait! Wait!” Comenius, out of breath, shouted. But the savages paid him no mind.

  Pyke’s bonds were loosened, then he was spurred to his feet. Roughly, they hauled him out of the wigwam.

  Five – An Oath to the Gods

  Wolf Tongue swallowed a chunk of lenapana that the Lenape had made for the funeral
. The bread was made from dried maize and Wolf Tongue swallowed twice for every bite to force it down. His hosts had been kind enough to provide him with food, and he thought it best to eat it gratefully.

  After another dry swallow, he leaned forward to put his elbows on his knees and looked at the scene before him. After cleaning the four corpses, the villagers had dressed the dead men and now painted their faces a singeing red. One old man sat before a fire and fed it with a curled, brown tobacco leaf as he prayed over the smoke.

  Wolf Tongue had been greeted with suspicion when he entered the village, but the Susquehannock were known among the Lenape and they’d accepted him easily enough, though their histories were not without violence. At one time, the Lenape were subject to the Susquehannock, but even then, all tribes revered the Lenape and valued their wisdom. The Lenape were the First People, older in the world than any of the other tribes. Even the young among them were wise.

  Now, Wolf Tongue sat apart from the group of people who prepared the bodies for the ceremonies. When one of the older men turned from his people and walked toward Wolf Tongue, the Susquehannock broke off another lump of lenapana and ate it. The old man had his face tattooed with swirls on both cheeks and across his forehead and the wrinkles of age had broken the lines. He wore a blanket over thin shoulders and traditional Lenape dress, though he’d taken a Christian name—Andrew.

  “Thank you,” said Wolf Tongue in his hosts’ language, hoisting the bit of bread that was left to him. Unami was a strange tongue, unlike that of his people, the Wyandot or any of the Iroquois. Despite the strangeness of it, he’d learned enough in trading closely to manage himself.

  Andrew sighed heavily and bent his bones to sit beside Wolf Tongue on the ground.

  “I am sorry for the dead,” said Wolf Tongue, still in Unami. “What happened?”

  Andrew grimaced and shook his head. “It’s the English. It is always the English.”

  Better that Pyke stayed hidden if that were true. Wolf Tongue ate another bite and waited.

  Andrew continued, “The first man. William Penn. He treated us with respect. But now? They steal our land when we try to trade. But this,” he motioned toward the dead. “This was murder that deserves retribution.”