The Spirit Keeper Read online

  Still, the intense favoritism of my guardians did little to dispel my sister’s jealousy and suspicions, and because I myself did not understand their interest, I suffered a great unease as the short savage worked to win me over. On the first night after our remove, for example, when Mother snatcht my wool blanket, the short man shyly offered me his thick bearskin. I was, quite naturally, terrified of what he might expect in exchange for this kindness, but his gentle smile and my violent shivering eventually persuaded me. I wrapt myself in the thick fur, grimly awaiting ravishment, but the short savage only smiled as he lay nearby under a thin hide. Oddly, I found I slept more soundly, knowing my peculiar protector was attending me thus. When I awoke in the morning, his smile was the first thing I saw, and after the first few mornings I could not help but greet him with a smile of my own.

  I should note I was not the only captive being pampered. Three children were with us, two of whom were Liza’s sons, and none were bound. Instead, certain savages claimed them, and tho’ at first the youngsters naturally clung to us, as the days passed they, like me, became more comfortable in the company of their new masters. William, who understood some of the language, said the savages debated which of us they would adopt and which they would take to a French outpost for exchange.

  In the two years since moving to the frontier, we had all heard tales of what happened to Christians held by the cruel and barbarous heathens—tales of torture and torments that ended in being roasted alive. As relieved as I was to hear I was not fated for the firepit, I was naturally alarmed by this unexpected alteration in my fortunes. I had ne’er enjoyed living in the wild, and had, in fact, been planning to escape it as soon as practicable, yet here I was being dragged e’er farther into the demon darkness, faced with the very real possibility of ne’er seeing the light of civilization again. But, as Gran always sighed, mere mortals must bow before God’s Will.

  After several days of hiking, I began to fear the special treatment I was receiving might bode particularly ill for me. One evening the short savage, smiling as always, sat down beside me so that we might eat our meal together, and Liza eyed the tender fish he gave me whilst she and the rest had naught but tough strips of dried sinew. “Y’best be careful about enticing your new beau, Katie,” she said, one eyebrow raised. “He’ll make ye pay for that fish!”

  I stopt in mid-chew. Tho’, as my mother delighted in assuring me, no one could e’er consider me pretty, I was not unacquainted with the amorous advances of young men. Throughout my youth I made friends with whate’er boys lived near us, and more than one had declared his love for me, regardless of my ruddy complexion and crooked teeth. So tho’ I knew Liza’s spiteful jibe was prompted mostly by the considerations I was receiving, I also knew that what she said had more than a grain of truth to it.

  I was, of course, doing nothing to “entice” the short savage, yet clearly he was enticed by one particular part of me—my hair. Like my mother and several siblings, I had what they called “good Irish hair”—thick, curly, and red as a flame. The more I thought about it, the more I realized the short savage had been talking to his companion about my hair e’en when we were in the loft. Every morning he watched in open fascination as I retied my hair in a bun, and once whilst I braided my hair for sleeping, he reached out to take one of my curls in his hand, holding it as if it were a tiny bird he’d found fallen from a tree. When I pulled away in alarm, he withdrew his hand, smiling sheepishly.

  I found this most unsettling. After all, the savages are known to be peculiar when it comes to hair, plucking their own heads clean or torturing their locks into bizarre coifs, ornamented with feathers and bones. It goes without saying the heathens are notorious for collecting human scalps, and I couldn’t help but wonder if my short friend’s broad smile was prompted by picturing my bright red locks as the prized centerpiece of his personal scalp collection.

  But e’en as the thought occurred to me, I knew it could not be true. Whilst I fully believed his taller companion was capable of murder, I knew in my heart this short fellow was far too gentle to be plotting evil against me.

  As for his interest in me—well, e’en tho’ my mother snorted at Liza’s warning about the fish and said she’d drown me before she’d let me entice a savage, I knew I was in no position to reject this fellow’s timorous advances should they grow bolder. Not only did my life depend on his good graces, but I could not help but be moved by his many kindnesses. No one had e’er been so solicitous of me, making certain I was as comfortable as possible under such extreme circumstances. How could I not be touched, e’en flattered by his obvious admiration?

  I should add that I was not like my mother, who considered savages a scourge of nature, much like rats, fleas, or lice. In truth, I knew little about savages ’til we moved to the frontier when I was fifteen, and then all I knew was stories I heard about their crimes, atrocities, and outrages. The only real thought I’d e’er given Indians was to wonder why my parents were determined to live near beings they so disdained instead of returning to the bosom of civilization where I know I, at least, would have preferred to be. Thus it was that when I suddenly found myself at the mercy of these savage beasts and understood my very survival depended utterly on their peculiarities, you may be sure I was keen to learn all I could of their ways and gratefully accept any favor I was given.

  The short savage attempted to make his name known to me, but all I could discern was that it had a lot of “s,” “sh,” and “w” sounds. It took some effort before I could say e’en one small part of his name to his satisfaction, after which he worked to explain in gestures what his name meant. I laughed at his contrivances, and he laughed along with me but continued trying to make me understand. Finally it dawned on me he was saying something about “dreaming” or “seeing things that aren’t there,” and my smile faded into shock.

  For as long as I could remember, my mother chid me for being a dreamer, an idler, a gatherer of wool. She accused me of wallowing in dreams the way a hog wallows in mud, saying I used day-dreaming to escape the tedium of my work-a-day world. I ne’er denied it, nor did I understand why the accusation was applied with such venom, but I did understand my mother considered idle reverie a sin. And now here was this man unabashedly proclaiming his very name meant “dreamer” as if it were a mark of great distinction.

  Syawa, as I came to call him, saw my shift in attitude and was concerned. When I tried to explain in gestures and grimaces that I, too, was something of a dreamer, he was nigh beside himself with delight. He turned to gabble at his companion with great animation, and I watched uneasily as they discussed my shameful admission.

  For his part, the taller man was quiet and aloof, quite comely in his savage way, observing the scenes ’round him with detached curiosity, as I might watch ants on a sandhill struggling to carry off a crumb of cake. He showed not the slightest interest in me and, in fact, rarely looked my way if he could avoid it. His only concern was the safety and happiness of his companion, to whom he was clearly devoted. The bond between them was so warm and affectionate, I at first assumed they must be brothers, but quickly concluded they were too physically dissimilar to be closely related.

  Syawa told me his friend’s name, but to me it was naught but a briar-patch of unpronounceable syllables—almost none of the sounds have any equivalent in the English language. The best I could do was pick out an “h,” a “kt,” and an “r.” Thus I came to call the tall one “Hector.”

  Once the lines of communication were opened, Syawa ne’er stopt talking. He wanted to know my name, of course, and when I told him it was Katie O’Toole, he laughed and chattered to his friend about this remarkable fact. Hector listened, half-smiling as if he understood what Syawa was saying without necessarily agreeing. Impatient, Syawa turned back to me and asked in gestures what my name meant. I was hard-presst to explain without words that my name meant only that I was my father’s daughter and my family called me Katie.


  Syawa went on to make me understand that the sounds of my name were very similar to the phrase in his language which means “sun setting into the sea,” and because the fiery color of my hair reminded him of a sunset, he made much of this coincidence. I must have seemed as dubious as Hector, for my ear failed to hear a similarity between the sounds of his language and mine, but I did not complain when Syawa began calling me “Kay-oot-li.”

  Unfortunately, the more I understood my new friend, the less tolerant my mother became of his attentions. She flinched every time he approached, snarling that he stank and was ugly and was clearly mentally deficient. In truth, the frantic pace of our forced march, day after day after day, through hardships of weather, terrain, and privation, had taken a toll on my mother, who was very near the end of her endurance. Liza and I held her up between us as best we could, but the leather strap that bound us frequently tangled in brambles, which made the savages grumble. William warned unhappily that he heard talk of dispatching her.

  At some point, when Liza and I had to stop yet again to pry our strap from a bush, Syawa came o’er to cut the thong that bound me to my mother. The other savages protested mightily, clearly insisting I would run away, but Syawa flashed that relentless smile of his and pointed out I was helping my mother, for which I needed both arms. Then he turned to me. I lowered my eyes and breathed heavily, keenly aware all the savages were looking at me. Syawa asked me something, but I was too afraid to look up to see his gestures.

  He put his finger on my chin and lifted my face. He smiled as if an exotic butterfly had just landed on his fingertip, and with his free hand he gestured, asking if I was going to run away. I shook my head, my heart pounding as much as it did when he and his tall friend first burst into the loft at home. He turned to the rest of the savages and gestured, assuring them I would stay.

  Mother immediately began whispering that as soon as it was dark, I must untie her so we could flee. For the rest of the day, as I practically carried her through the forest, she pestered me about how it was up to me to save us all. Eventually Liza joined in, and we squabbled in whispers ’til William hissed that if we kept this up, the savages would kill us all long before nightfall.

  We continued in silence. I spent the evening trying to decipher Syawa’s gestures as he told the assemblage of savages an elaborate story, during which my mother and Liza frequently urged me to untie them. When I continued to ignore them, they grew silent, but every time I glanced at my mother thereafter, I found her glaring at me in furious reproach.

  She should have known her hate-stare would have no effect upon me; it was, after all, pretty much the same way she’d looked at me every single day of my life.

  ~3~

  I DISREMEMBER HOW LONG WE hiked after the attack on our Pennsylvania farm, but ’twas surely a week—perhaps ten days. The most trying moments came when we were dragged ’cross rivers of various depths, but I scarce recall those ordeals, for in water I was terrified beyond reason. In any case, we eventually arrived at a savage village where we were received with much jubilation.

  William was tied to a pole near the river, but Mother and Eliza were finally unbound as I. Rather than run off as they had urged me to do, they huddled with me and William as we all awaited the dispensation of our fates. Because we saw no more of our children, Liza fell into a deep despondency from which e’en the threat of pain to her own person was met with absolute indifference.

  From our vantage point, we could see the village consisted of perhaps twenty or thirty squalid bark huts erected haphazardly amongst the trees on a small rise well away from the river. I cannot guess how many people lived there, for there was much coming and going, hollering, laughing, and merrymaking. The bloody scalps of our family were displayed and rejoiced o’er by everyone from grizzled grandmothers to naked toddlers. O’erwrought youngsters occasionally ran down the riverbank to beat William with sticks, at which event we women could only cling to each other, cowering, praying the Lord to preserve him.

  Soon after our arrival, a group of men removed William, whilst a group of women took me, Mother, and Liza to a secluded part of the river. The women explained in garbled English we must remove our clothes and go into the water, but Mother howled, sure they meant to drown us. She had to be dragged into the river fully clothed, squawking and kicking the whole way. In the meantime, Liza and I slowly disrobed and, shivering, edged our way into the icy depths as the amused Indian women took turns plunging our wailing mother under the surface. They e’en managed to remove her clothes at last, at which point we were all scrubbed with sand.

  Tho’ it felt as if the women wanted to scrub the white right off us, I soon realized the cold water was intended to remove only our lice and fleas, which was accomplisht. By the time we were allowed out of the river, our clothes were gone, replaced by new French-style clothing. We quickly covered our nakedness and rejoined William, who had also undergone the indignity of a bath.

  My two captors had set up their own camp alongside us, confirming my suspicion they were strangers to this place as much as we, and curiosity-seekers came to see them as much as or more than they came to see us. Syawa and Hector clearly enjoyed a certain notoriety, with the natives fawning o’er them the way my family and I might have behaved before the Royal Governor. The important men of the village met with them, and eager women regularly loitered nearby with flirtatious smiles. Occasionally one or the other of my guardians wandered off, and several times Syawa invited me to go somewhere with him, but I was too terrified to leave my family and he did not force me.

  A day passed, and then two, with nothing untoward occurring. We O’Tooles comforted each other, our main preoccupation being to find food. Syawa still gave me a portion of whate’er he and Hector ate, but because no one gave my family a thing, I felt I must share what I was given with them.

  Hector was unhappy about this arrangement and eventually made his sentiments known. ’Twas clear by then that he was the one who procured my food, for Syawa rarely left my side and Hector was oft gone for extended periods, returning with fish or game. A disagreement arose after I divided my portion of a fish with my family, and I remember wondering why Hector was so unhappy—he had a third of that fish, whilst I had only one-fourth of one-third! Ne’ertheless, he said something to Syawa, who said something back to him, which caused Hector to expound his position at length.

  Syawa listened to this tirade with his e’er-present smile unaffected. When he replied, he did so in a cheerful and pleasant manner, as if Hector had just been congratulating him instead of complaining about my giving away food. Whate’er Syawa said to Hector was enough to cause the taller man to inhale sharply and hold his tongue. He walked off and said no more about our arrangement.

  From what I now know of the Indians, I realize they expected us to trade for food—by sewing, gathering firewood, hauling water, or such like. We, on the other hand, considered ourselves helpless prisoners waiting to be fed. But the longer we went without adequate food, the more my mother suffered from hunger ’til at some point she urged me to press Syawa for more. “Tell him ye’ll do what he wants if he gives ye more food,” she hissed, nodding at the short savage. “’Tis the least ye can do to sustain the mother who has cared for ye all these years without so much as a word o’ thanks.”

  I wanted to remind her that for most of those years I’d cared for her as much as or more than she’d e’er cared for me and that only a few days earlier she declared she’d drown me before she’d let me entice a savage, but I held my tongue and ignored her command, fearing that if I encouraged Syawa’s interest in any way, he might be unwilling to part with me when the time came. I was, after all, still determined to make my way back to Philadelphia and enjoy the fruits of modern civilization. How could I hope to escape the godless wilderness if I entangled myself further with this grinning savage?

  And then there was the fact I was not altogether sure I could entice Syawa i
n the way Mother suggested. True tho’ it was he watched me all the time, he ne’er made a single lewd nor impertinent suggestion—indeed, quite the opposite. When he approacht me, he was respectful, reserved, almost in awe, greeting me with bowed head and demure smiles. But as measured as he was, he was not intimidated in the way I’d seen so many young men cringe before the girls they courted. Syawa came to me with eagerness and confidence, in much the same way I approached the dear puppy I found when I was eight. In fact, his presumption that I must be as glad to see him as he was to see me began to vex me. My past, my plans for the future—these did not exist for him. All that mattered was that we were together here and now. I felt as if he expected me to be his little lap dog—kindly used and cared for, to be sure, but subject to his will, come what may.

  On the other hand, if I had just cause to pull away from Syawa’s presumptions, I also had reason to use his affection as a shield. In addition to providing me and my family with what little food we enjoyed, Syawa’s sponsorship also made me an object of great interest to the villagers. Tho’ my brother was frequently abused and my mother and sister regularly taunted, I was only petted and pampered. Women came to touch my hair, jabbering together in excitement as they looked at my blue eyes. On one occasion, a group of elders came and consulted with Syawa, after which they all stood looking at me, nodding, discussing something at great length. For someone like me who had grown up in a cluster and for whom being singled out was usually a very bad thing, all this attention was most disconcerting.

  The one heathen who continued to be unimpressed by me was Syawa’s companion. Oh, Hector was respectful enough—e’en deferential in his own stoic way—but for the most part he gave me a wide berth and avoided direct contact. As noted, he protested when I gave away the food he provided, but his protestations were addressed to Syawa, not to me. Indeed, tho’ we had been in close proximity for nigh two weeks, Hector made no effort to interact with me. The only time he looked my way was when Syawa talked to me through his convoluted dance of gestures, at which time Hector watched his friend with what I can only describe as amused indulgence. But if, during one of those pantomimed conversations, I happened to catch Hector’s eye, he immediately looked away, his half-smile converted instantly into his usual face of stone.