Nanowrimo - 11

Tall clipper ships crowded Baltimore harbor, their masts like a strange, leafless forest. Their bellies bobbed with the tide. I couldn’t fill my lungs with enough open air and my feet were most grateful to at last stand upon unmoving soil. I had no idea what to do or where to begin. How could I make my way toward the vast interior? Into this bright haze and mental intoxication of my early arrival walked Gabriel. He smiled, cocked his hat and something in my head said “follow him”. I was but fifty years old by the calendar, still so young in my thinking and hopeful in expectation.

In his voice was a singularly unusual drawl what sounded as if words were in no hurry to leave his lips. His dress, fur cap and homespun clothing was utterly unsophisticated and unlike any thing I had seen in Europe save a weary peasant. But, his walk was confident and his expression adventurous. His eyes danced with the color of a pond in the sunlight and he seemed at the ready to pluck the whole world from the bough of a tree and take a big bite.

At first, I couldn’t make out what he was asking me.

“Wus yaw name, ma-dam?”

I’ve never been in the position to do my own introduction. As I was married, I transitioned from being someone’s daughter to someone’s wife with out much acknowledgement of my own personhood. I was whosever I was. And the others, Zoltan, Agnoletti, none had ever needed a title to understand.

“My name? Why, My name is ‘Eleanor’.”

“Why tha-at is jus’ a lovely ole name. Named after someone were yew?”

“Indeed I was, after Eleanor of Aquitane, the queen of England who rode bare-breasted into battle during the crusades.” At least that was the historical marker I had chosen. Much more interesting that my croupy grandmother.

“Well, Well! I mus’ say! Nahw yew got a nother name Miss Eleanor?”

I had prepared for such a moment long ago to avoid being found by my husband. Upon passing the interred bishops in a Parisian church I chose a surname. “Durat.”

“Why that is just lovely there. Sounds French. Yew French nahw?”

No, I am not. “Why yes, indeed.”

“Well that’s niiice, I never met a French person up close before. Though I sho’ shot some when they took to wanderin’ into my trappin’ territory.” He laughs at his own humor. “Now what are you going to do with yourself here in Baltimore? You got family here to find? Yer husband already over here?”

“No, no I haven’t anybody over here. I have no husband.” The old boy is probably dead by now, I figure.

“Ah see. You indentured then, working some fo you can pay to be free?”

“No, no I’m not here in anyone’s employ.”

His face turns baffled and skeptical. “Well whacha come all the way over for?”

“I grew tired of running from Napoleon’s wars. I lived on a battlefield. Everything I had was destroyed or dead. Everything. I had nothing left to stay for, so –.”

“So you come to Baltimore.”

“I came wherever a ship would take me for the passage I could pay.”

“You come awn over heyah all by yew lonesome?”

“Indeed.”

“Huh. Well here you is.”

“Not for long. I’ve seen enough of cities and their crowded squalor. I’m should like to travel west. I want to see the open land.”

“How yew fix to do that, now?” The smile he wears is one of those knowing grins, like he knows the outcome and finds me amusing. “This here country is big, full of wild Indians! Can’t just go out for a stroll and see it in a day yew know.”

“I know. That’s why I’m coming with you.”

“Nahw what in the name of heaven makes you think ah want tah be travelin’ around with some woman? That just ain’t right! Why you fresh off the boat an’ all yew cain’t survive a day out in the wild. I can’t be doing my trappin an’ takin’ care ah yew!” My jaw is quite set so he persists. “What in the name o’ God can yew do tah survive out in the wild? You cain’t hunt. You cain’t trap none. I figure you cain’t hardly shoot a gun or make a fire. How yew think yews goin’ ta survahve?”

“I survived the marchings of an army across my country like a swarm of locusts stealing every last bit of life from the land. Your wild territory doesn’t really frighten me.”

“Darndest woman I ever saw. Well it just ain’t right! I can be taking a woman! Mebbe yew din’ have the same kinda morals ovah in France be heyah we don’t just take up with folks!”

“Unless you want to.” I look up into his broad and open face and watch it slowly curl into a smile.

With one horse loaded with trapping equipment we head westward, walking along the Cumberland trail. The land is open and the air is wildly fragrant. As we proceed the plumes of smoke from various settlements grow more and more sparse while the terrain becomes hilly, then rock, then quite steep. This, at last, is how a human is supposed to live, to really live, wild and free. I can only marvel at what each bend in the road offers.

Our first encounter with a native comes as we cross the mountains and he is the most singularly unusual sight. In dress he resembles the people of Baltimore. But his hair is long and dark like a raven’s, refracting hundreds of shades of black as it plays in the sunlight. His skin is deep, almost fragrant in color. While the native exchanges a friendly greeting with Gabriel, introducing himself as “John”, he eyes me warily. But, he is a “friendly”, a Cherokee, and civilized and we are welcomed to his home for a supper and a warm bed for the night.

Indeed John does live in a home not terribly unlike those cabins that we have passed. As we arrive, his family greets us warmly at the door. Then, all at once, I hear a tiny voice shouting from the interior of the cabin. The same few syllables are repeated but I cannot make them out.

“Oh that is my grandmother.” John explains.

At once in the doorway an old woman appears with the same deep skin and a head full of long, white hair. Holding herself up on the frame she looks around, sets eyes on me, and shouts her incomprehensible utterance again.

“My grandmother keeps to the old ways. She still practices the old faith.” He’s explaining with a bit of an embarrassed tone.

“What is she saying?”

John hesitates, then ventures in a low voice “she calls you ‘skinwalker’. It’s, well a human that is an animal, one living by power of what you call witchcraft.”

On the wrong day, her hunch would be accurate. But I have not the slightest inkling of the urge in me. “Say whatever you must that she may know her home is safe from all witchcraft.” I make eye contact with the old woman while John translates my words. We regard each other for a long second and then she nods and with a grunt waives me into the house.

After our meal the old woman motions me toward her by the hearth. For a minute she simply breathes deeply, looking into my eyes. Her every gesture is introduced by a grunt and a nod. She throws some fragrant branches and leaves into the fire, which in turn set loose a sweet smoke. In her hand she holds two crossed feathers from a colorful bird. Circling them over my head she chants for several minutes until the scented smoke has dwindled. And then, with a grunt and a pat on the head, this little ceremony is quite finished.

As I sleep I seem to travel this vast land, but from above. I soar and circle wide, colorful valleys past mountains and forests. I call out in wonder but only a screech comes from my throat. Suddenly, I spot something below and I’m uncontrollably drawn toward it. I have no conscious understanding or recognition for what draws me. Diving lower and lower I speed along the surface of a mountain lake until all at once I reach down and snatch a fish from the water. When I come to settle on a rock I immediately subdue my quivering captive with sharp claws. I tear at the slippery flesh, consuming the lot.

We depart early in the morning and John sends us off with a courtesy any English gentleman would envy. As we stride away I spy the tiny, white haired frame of a woman watching us.

In the days and weeks after leaving John’s home we head into Shawnee territory. These natives are not friendly at all in Gabriel’s estimation and he is visibly apprehensive. He orders me to stay close. For the most part it seems we are out here, in this wilderness, by ourselves. We track beaver, watching trees for gnawing and setting traps. The meat is decidedly greasy but their fur is thick.

As the days become hotter I begin to sense the presence of eyes around us, deep in the trees. The woods have an intelligence within them, which regards us two travelers warily. I can feel it. I can feel the mind of these observers grow malevolent as we proceed further and further. I feel the eyes drawing near.

And then it comes. It starts as a flutter in my stomach and transforms into a burn. The woods pulse with loud intensity. I can hear every foot fall of every insect and the wing flapping of every bird. One minute we quietly regard the land for a place to set traps and in the next my world is going black save for the urge to feed. I feel my teeth drawing out.

“I’m going to check up by that creek.” I shout over my shoulder to Gabriel.

“Don’t wander far off now! I cain’t have you yellin’ up a storm cause yew get lost.”

With that admonition I tramp off into the forest. The thick trunks of trees make a veil between us. My blood boils I my veins. The food is near, it’s –

With the sound of a wild screech I turn to see a man, masked and dressed like I’ve seen no human attired, leaping down onto me from the trees and holding a weapon aloft. With a growl I snatch him from the air and bite into his deep flesh. The flavor is rich, sweet, stronger than any I’ve had.

The ecstasy is unbelievable. All colors of the forest invade my eyes with their brightness. For a minute I can understand what the birds are communicating. I hear their many little voices each saying “I’m here! I’m over here! I’m here! I’m here!” An old tree holds me up. It talks to me slowly and softly, telling me my secret is safe in its branches. I regard the native’s drained body, his painted flesh and feather adorned person. He, too, is part animal. In different circumstances, we could have been friends. But out here if one is to live, another must die.

“Nothing over that way.” I tell Gabriel, upon my return.

“What was all that noise I heard?”

“Oh, I surprised a turkey hen and she made quite the noise. Darn near scared me out of my skin.”

He just nods and returns to his silent wait for an animal to land in his trap. The woods relent; the eyes recede. We are safe.