And neither of us felt it was right to hold Louis against his will. The French would kill him—the English
would make him a prisoner."
But for the first time she questioned that decision. It was what Louis wanted—to marry Meriel and live
his own life, free of kings and crowns—but was it right to help him do so? Was a year of freedom worth
whatever terrible fate had befallen him afterward? And what of Meriel? Had the villains who seized Louis
returned to kidnap her as well? Where was she?
Sarah shook her head, dismissing such thoughts. "It is done now. Louis married Meriel Highclere, the
daughter of a noble English Catholic family, and went with her into hiding. But it seems that they were
followed to the New World, for Louis vanished three months ago in Baltimore. Meriel wrote to me for
help, but by the time I arrived, she had disappeared as well. I searched for her, but no one seems to
know where either of them has gone—or who has taken them." Sarah tried not to let the hopelessness
she felt show on her face. "I know it is a simple matter for people to just… disappear, but I must do all I
can to find them."
"And where is yuir Duke in all this, Yuir Grace?" MacGillivray asked. "It seems to me that a man of his
consequence—with the ear of King Henry tae boot—could do much to make things run smooth."
"I left a letter for him, for he was away on business when Meriel's message came," Sarah said tactfully. "I
only hope he will follow me here as quickly as he can."
"Why did you come to us?" the Sahoya asked. "And how do you come to speak the tongue of our
younger brothers as one born to it?"
"Because I
was
born to it," Sarah said, rather tartly. "I grew up in this village, though not this world. My
father's house was just over that ridge, and Alisdair Cunningham was always a great friend to the
People." A friend they had needed, for the city had been expanding at a great rate, and there had been
talk in the Town Council for as long as Sarah could remember of forcing the native tribes to move
westward so that more land could be put under cultivation.
She had seen no sign of such expansion here, and in fact she had discovered Baltimore was smaller—if
grander—than the town she remembered from only a few years before. The British, it seemed, did not
share the appetite of their American cousins for farming everything in sight.
But they will A
cold thrill of foreknowledge coursed through her. This world's development might run
behind her own, but sooner or later the British would wish to turn New Albion into one vast network of
agricultural plantations. And then here, as there, the People would be pushed out of lands they had not
chosen to cede to the Europeans.
Could she stop that? Could
anyone
stop that? She thought this might be what the Elderkin had asked of
her, but how could any one person do such a thing?
"Sarah? You look as if ghosts walk upon your burial-ground." The Sahoya looked grave.
"I am afraid of what may come… and afraid for my friends. Can you help me find them?"
"I have sworn that I will not tangle the future of my people with that of the white man. We fought the wars
of the French against the English, and many
Eeyou Istchee
died. And in the end the English prevailed,
and thought of us as their enemy. I will not let that happen again. Not even if the First People bid me to
help you."
It was a hard decision to make, but it was the decision of one who must speak truth and fairness for all.
Sarah nodded, realizing the justice of it.
"I would not ask you to endanger your people, for I consider them mine as well," Sarah said. "I cannot
call upon ties of kinship in this world," Sarah admitted reluctantly, "but I would still beg you to do what
you can to help my friends, for I have nowhere else to turn for help, and this quarrel is not of their
making."
The Sahoya studied Sarah for a long moment, her dark eyes impassive. At last she nodded. "You must
rest now, and sleep. I will think on this matter."
And with that, Sarah had to be content.
Everything must be paid for. Nothing came without a price. That philosophy underlay all that the People
did, whether in this world or the Spirit World, and so Sarah was not surprised to find that her journey
through the forest with Grandfather Bear, though it seemed so short a distance, had left her aching and
exhausted. She was happy to curl up in borrowed blankets in a corner of the Young Woman's House
and let the life of the camp wash around her like a familiar ocean.
It was dusk when she awoke. Now was the time for the People to gather together, to smoke and tell
stories and sing songs. Work ended with the setting of the sun, and now was the time for family.
She sat up, still a little fuzzy-headed, and saw that a young girl knelt before her, head modestly bowed.
"Winter Fawn!" Sarah exclaimed without thinking.
The girl stared at her, eyes wide with wonder. Sarah could guess her thoughts. Here was a mysterious
stranger, a European brought by spirits, who spoke Language like one of their own and knew the names
of everyone in the village. How could she not be a mysterious and powerful being?
"Thank you for coming to waken me. That was most kind," Sarah said gently.
"The Daughter-of-the-Wind has sent you fresh clothing. She bids you join her in the Council House when
you are refreshed."
Sarah thanked the girl again as kindly as she could, but it was painfully obvious that Winter Fawn only
wanted to get away. Once the girl was gone, Sarah looked at the garments she had left.
They were a queenly gift indeed—red flannel leggings trimmed with silver buttons and sturdy, well-made
moccasins decorated with blue glass beads. A skirt of soft doeskin trimmed in red wool and a short
poncho of dark green cloth completed her outfit. Once Sarah was dressed, she felt as if she had shed
another layer of illusion, coming closer to her true self. But that only raised once more the awkward
question of who Sarah Cunningham truly was. American? English? Cree? The America she was born in
did not exist, her Cree family did not know her, and she had never felt less English.
Sarah sighed, and began to rebraid her hair with the aid of the comb the Sahoya had sent. When she was
done, she got to her feet and went to look for her sponsor.
The adults were gathered around the fire, still occupied with the evening meal. The elder children tended
babies, and the younger chased fireflies and puppies. It was a mild night. Dogs attempted to remain
unnoticed as they worked their way closer to the fire and to the food set in beech-wood bowls set beside
it. The good scent of tobacco mingled with the smell of woodsmoke and roasting meat. Through the
trees, Sarah could see the evening sky glowing in shades of peach and jade, with the first stars of evening
sparkling against the light like diamonds on jewelers's velvet.
If only everything could stay just as it is now
, Sarah thought wistfully, but even as her mind formed the
words, she knew that such a thing was not what her heart craved. There was no place in this world for
the Duke of Wessex, and Sarah would not even consider abandoning him. She loved her exasperating,
secretive husband—their marriage was what paid for all the rest in this topsy-turvy world. If only she
could have true home and husband both!
The Sahoya saw her and raised a hand, and Sarah went to kneel beside her upon the fine bearskin robe
that was the place of honor. The Daughter-of-the-Wind served her with her own hands—roast venison
and hominy, and the small tart apples that grew along the riverside. Sarah ate gratefully, for she was still
hungry after her journey through the Spirit Lands.
"Some have thought to ask what help you would ask of the People," The Daughter-of-the-Wind said
formally, when Sarah had finished. "For it is in their minds that you have told us much about yourself, and
little about what brings you to our fires."
It was ever the way of the People to approach a difficult matter slowly and carefully, but now Sarah's
spirit chafed under the restriction. Still, she chose her words carefully.
"I came here hoping that the People might have word of my friend Meriel, for I know that the eyes of the
People see that which others do not, and the ears of the People hear that which others do not."
"And what would you do, if you had this knowledge?" the Sahoya persisted.
"That would depend on where she was," Sarah said drily, and there was quiet laughter from the folk
gathered around the fire.
"Well!" the Sahoya said abruptly. "In so much we can aid you—as for the rest, we shall see."
As Sarah had half-expected, The Daughter-of-the-Wind meant to use magic to find Meriel. Sarah had
brought Mend's diary with her, knowing mat many forms of magic relied on a tangible link to the person
sought.
Three days later, when the moon was full, Sarah stood with the young sachem in a forest clearing far
away from the village. The two of them were there alone, for The Daughter-of-the-Wind feared to
expose her people, to the powers she would call.
Both she and Sarah had fasted since yesterday's dawn, and had spent most of the day ritually cleansing
themselves with powerful draughts of herbs that had left Sarah feverish and disoriented. Well might one
see anything in the grip of such drugs! But she knew that the magic that she would see tonight was no
illusion, but instead as true and real as anything in the world.
The thought frightened her. It was as if the world she knew had suddenly doubled in size, and now
encompassed so many things that she had never imagined. Hie familiar had become strange, and the ease
with which Sarah had once moved through the world was gone. This new world was a stainless mystery
of sunlight and shadow, and in its presence, Sarah felt as if she were a child again.
Together with the Sahoya, Sarah made offerings and sang prayers to the nine points of the compass,
calling upon the guardian of each direction—stag and bear, hare and hawk, turtle and owl, fox and
wolf… As each representative of the First People came to take his place around the circle, Sarah could
feel the power grow, could see each spirit with its stylized mask-face and painted fur, as if each was the
animal whose spirit it embodied, but also more. The preparations took a long time, and Sarah's voice
was hoarse from chanting the prayers by the time the circle was complete.
Then the Sahoya handed her a gourd filled with a thick dark liquid, brewed from holly leaves, tobacco,
and many other herbs. Sarah filled her mouth with it three times, and each time spat the liquid into the fire
in a fine spray. The steam that rose through the flames was bluish and acrid, and her mouth and lips were
numb when she finished.
Next, she followed the Sahoya around the flames as the woman sprinkled the rest of the gourd's contents
upon the ground around them. It seemed to Sarah that the earth smoked where the liquid hit, and the
bitter smell filled her nostrils, making her dizzy. When the gourd was empty, the Sahoya flung it into the
fire, for such implements were never used twice. It smoldered for a moment, then burst into a bright
greenish-white flame.
The numbness was spreading across her face and neck, now, and Sarah could feel her heart thudding
heavily in her chest. The deer-hoof bells on the Sahoya's leggings made a rhythmic clattering as she
danced her slow pattern, and despite Sarah's best efforts, her own steps slowed and stopped, until she
was staring motionlessly into the leaping flames.
When the Sahoya saw that she had stopped, she looked up into Sarah's eyes. The fire struck red sparks
from the back of her pupils, and she smiled triumphantly.
In that moment Sarah felt a pang of terror. Betrayed! She struggled to remain conscious, to stay on her
feet, but felt herself falling to the ground.
Sarah dreamed. In her dream she was a hawk, flying above the forest, soaring through the sky, borne
aloft on the wind. Her keen sight saw for miles, saw everything down to the smallest mouse scurrying
through the fields. But as she flew through the heavens, the land beneath her began to change. First the
trees vanished, and farms covered the rolling hills. Then the farms vanished in their turn, until the hills were
covered with buildings—first small wooden houses, then large brick houses, then gleaming towers of
glass bound together by roads that gleamed like stone and traversed by carriages that moved of
themselves, carriages that resembled gigantic gleaming insects.
The rivers died, and the air became thick and dirty, and Sarah realized that the animals were all gone,
save for a few foxes and raccoons that scavenged the corners of mis new man-made world for food.
Bound in steel and stone, its times and seasons ignored, the earth itself sickened and groaned beneath the
weight of so many people. And still they came, more and more of them each year.
Where are the People? Where is my family
? Vainly, hawk-Sarah sought for them, her flight carrying
her west and north. All she saw was bloodshed and tears. The Algonquin, the Iroquois, the Cree, all
driven from their lands. Driven across the plains, across the mountains and the deserts, hunted into
extinction by those too frightened and selfish to share, until only a few remnants of Earth's Children