A SATURDAY IN LATE NOVEMBER
“
T
he Lenape believed in two souls,” Fenimore informed Jennifer. “The true soul and the blood soul. Some Lenape medical practitioners claimed to have seen the true soul leave the body in the form of a spark or a miniature person.”
She looked at him.
“Seriously.”
He was driving her on the smooth, flat road that leads to Camp Lenape, where a Xingwikaon or Big House Ceremony was being held. At the Xingwikaon, the Lenapes celebrate Mother Earth and give thanks to the Creator for a bountiful harvest, he had told her. The celebration lasts twelve days. (They wouldn't be staying the whole course, he had hastened to assure her.) Important events, such as births, deaths, and deeds of valor that occurred during the year are also commemorated. Sweet Grass's death was such an event. The last time this ceremony had been performed was in 1924. Roaring Wings was reviving the tradition. The first part of the ceremony was to be dedicated to Sweet Grass, and Roaring Wings had invited Fenimore and Ted to attend. Fenimore had asked Jennifer to come along. He had
also offered Ted a ride, but he had declined, saying he preferred to drive himself Things had been understandably strained between the two men since Ted's father had been arrested.
“After the true soul leaves the body,” Fenimore continued, “it hangs around for about twelve days.” He was in one of his instructive moods. “Then it takes off, traveling along the Milky Way until it joins up with Kiselemukonk, the Creator, also known as, âThe One Who Thought Us All Into Being'”.
“I like that,” Jennifer said.
“The blood soul, on the other hand, you wouldn't care for. When it leaves the body it forms a black ball and wanders the earth forever, causing trouble. Contact with it can cause paralysis, strokes, or lameness. The Lenapes feared it.”
“No wonder!” After a pause, Jennifer mused, “It seems no two cultures have the same idea of the soul. Members of some African cultures refuse to be photographed. When their picture is taken, they believe a piece of their soul has been stolen, a sort of spiritual rape has been committed.”
“Actually, some Lenapes believe in a third soul.”
“There's safety in numbers.”
“The third soul is their reflection. In fact, the word for soul in the Algonquian language is
ciicankok,
or mirror.”
Jennifer took a compact from her bag and contemplated her own reflection.
“When I was small,” Fenimore said as he maneuvered them around a truck that was poking along at forty, “I imagined my soul looked like a Smith Brothers cough dropâa gold, translucent oval, buried somewhere inside me. And whenever I was bad, I thought a bit of it melted away. If I was bad too often, I was afraid it would melt away completely and I would have no soul to go to heaven when I died.”
“What happened when you did your first autopsy?” asked Jennifer dryly. “Did you become an atheist?”
He smiled. “No. By that time my ideas had changed.”
They drove in silence for a while, enjoying the fields stretching toward the sky. Traffic was light, and Fenimore was able to take Jennifer's hand. Most of the reds and golds were gone from the fields, but the starkness of winter had not yet come. The landscape was muted, as if someone had dropped a lavender veil over everything, providing a breathing space between seasons.
Jennifer snapped her compact shut and returned it to her bag. “I like your cough drop theology. I can just see you worrying yourself to death over that little gold lozenge tucked in some corner of your chest, wondering if there would be enough left over to get you into a heaven full of chocolate sundaes and baseball games.”
“What about you?” Fenimore pressed her hand. “Didn't you ever worry about your soul?”
Jennifer laughed. “The only soles I worried about were on my feet.” She had spent long hours standing at the cash register after school and on weekends, helping in the family bookstore. “Speaking of souls, what about Hardwick? Do you think he has one?” She suddenly returned to more earthly matters.
Fenimore was silent.
“How could a man who spent his life saving lives suddenly turn around and start disposing of them?” asked Jennifer.
“The God syndrome.” Fenimore spoke sharply. “I've seen it before in a few physicians but never to this extreme. If I'm empowered to save lives, they reason, why can't I also dispose of them?”
“Maybe he kept a tally sheet: so many lives saved weighed against so many lives taken.” She shuddered. “How is Ted doing?”
“Back in the family nest. Polly needs him now, and for the present he's trying to atone for his father's sins. I don't hold out much hope for him. Sweet Grass was the force behind his small drive for independenceâand happiness.”
“Polly had nothing to do with all this?”
“Nothing intentional. Unwittingly, she provided the murder weapon. She ordered the oleander plant for her Roman garden.” Fenimore shook his head. “I have to hand Ned one thing. He certainly knew his medicine. It's common knowledge that oleander is poisonous, but Ned must have learned that its properties were similar to those of digoxin from the
Textbook of Pharmacology.
”
“And what about Roaring Wings?”
“His bitterness runs very deep. This tragedy simply reinforced his poor opinion of the white man. When he learned what Hardwick had done, he uttered one word,
âSaa!'
”
“Meaning?”
“Shame.”
Jennifer sighed. “One step forward, ten steps back. Why do you think he asked you and Ted to this ceremony?”
“I'm still wondering about that.”
“Maybe he's grateful to you for bringing his sister's murderer to justice.”
“And maybe he's finally convinced that Ted did love his sister.”
Jennifer cast him a covert glance, wondering how long it would take to convince him that he too loved ⦠someone.
They drove through the open gates of Camp Lenape.
Â
A far bigger crowd was gathered on the grounds than on the day of the funeral. The fields were filling up with cars, campers, and trailers, and three men were kept busy directing traffic. Jennifer and the doctor got out of the car and followed the crowd toward the barn. Some families were sitting outside their campers in lawn chairs, barbecuing and enjoying the parade. Children played tag among the parked cars until their impatient parents called them away. The fragrant aromas of roasting chicken, pork, and beans mingled with the scent of burning leaves (a practice still permitted in rural areas). In the field beyond, the last of the
sumac and goldenrod vied for attention. It had turned into a brilliant autumn day. As they stepped into the shadows of the barn, a drum began to beat.
“What an enormous barn,” Jennifer exclaimed, looking up at the high roof and soaring rafters.
“Actually,” Fenimore corrected her, “the Lenapes call this the âBig House.'”
When their eyes became accustomed to the dim light, they noticed the costumes of the dancers. The young women wore beaded crowns, the young men beaded headbands. Around their wrists and ankles were bells that tinkled when they walked. They all wore feathers of brilliant hues. Some of the dancers brushed against the visitors as they passed. Fenimore and Jennifer settled down on a bench to wait.
Minutes passed. People wandered in and out of the Big House, some in costume, some not. The drum continued its methodical beat. They could see the drummer now, seated on a dais at the north end of the building. He wore a crest of deer hair, dyed bright red. “He looks like a fighting cock,” Jennifer said.
A group of women in beaded costumes gathered behind the drummer and broke into a high-pitched chant. Two fires in large pits at either end of the building were being fanned to life by bands of young boys. Two holes in the roof drew the smoke upward and out. As people began to enter in a more orderly manner, the men took their places on one side; the women on the other. Fenimore discovered that he was on the wrong side. Before he could move across the space, Roaring Wings spotted him and came over. He wore the same elaborate costume he had worn at the funeral.
He shook Fenimore's hand gravely, then turned inquiringly to Jennifer. Fenimore introduced her, explaining that she was a bookseller and writer. “She's thinking of writing a book about the Lenape,” he said.
“Welcome,” he said graciously. “Not enough is written about
the Lenape. Most books are written about the Indians of the west.” He turned back to Fenimore. “I'm glad you came. I wanted to clear up something with you.”
“Yes?”
“That place where you found my sister?”
“The old burial ground.”
“It is not a burial ground. That is a popular belief among the
wasechus.
It is a
camp
ground. Look at the deed again. As soon as you told me that, I knew a white man was to blame. No Lenape would bury anyone there.” He paused. “The dance honoring my sister will be the first in the ceremony.” He left to attend to his many duties. Fenimore, his mouth hanging open, looked after him.
“Very impressive,” Jennifer whispered. “Those eyes ⦔
“Yes,” Fenimore nodded, pulling himself together. “They're the first thing you notice.”
“What's this about my writing a book?”
He shrugged. “I had to explain your presence somehow.”
“Actually, it's not a bad idea.” She was thoughtful.
Fenimore left her to join the men on the other side of the Big House.
More activity was taking place in the space between the fires, as some of the more elaborately dressed Lenapes were forming a circle. Fenimore looked around for Ted. It would be a pity if he missed the first dance. The chanting was getting louder. The people in the circle began to shift their weight from one foot to the other in unison, causing the bells on their ankles to jingle more loudly.
Slowly they began to move, counterclockwise, gaining momentum as they completed each circuit.
Where was Ted?
The feathersâbright pink, purple, yellow, greenâshifted in the firelight. The chanting was reaching a crescendo. The dancers moved faster, turning from side to side, shaking their
rattles. For a moment Fenimore was reminded of the famous Philadelphia mummers welcoming the New Year. Suddenly one leaped in the air, then another, and another. Their feathers whirled in a multicolored blur.
Jennifer was transfixed, but Fenimore's eyes searched the shadows of the Big House, until they finally came to rest on a familiar figure. Near the entrance, turned toward the fire and the dancers, Ted Hardwick's face was alight, almost happy.