The Mists of Manittoo by Lois Swann

Author:Lois Swann [SWANN, LOIS]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781524613068
Publisher: AuthorHouse
Published: 2016-06-25T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 37

“I BEGIN TO TELL the stories of the People in the otan, in place of my old father, but the story I carry from Gilbert Worth even I cannot believe,” Awepu said at supper with Wakwa and Elizabeth.

Awepu had been in Sweetwood to arrange a meeting with Mrs. Dowland for Wakwa’s final proposal to legitimatize his marriage. It was the deepness of his attachment to Elizabeth that Wakwa wanted to impress on his People with public sacrament.

“Your hopes, cousin, to reconcile mother and daughter seem black as the ashes from your fire. Mary Dowland winters in Salem with her own folk. In the company of Annanias Hudson did she travel. He makes council with his fellow holy men. A big miawene. Gilbert calls it ‘synod.’”

Wakwa changed his plans and prepared to bring his case to Gilbert Worth. About fifty days after the winter nickommo Wakwa made his solitary way to the Worth farm through a light February rain, his lyre strung over his shoulder as an afterthought.

He was intrigued with the shape of the house, blending into the northern slope, not obstructing the land with height or solidity. Acres of dormant fruit trees clacked their branches audibly in the wet night.

Wakwa’s knock interrupted a flow of music from inside. The matron who answered left him standing where he was on the uncovered stone steps.

Gil, in his shirtsleeves and velvet slippers, and Dr. Stirling, stuffed into a well-loved, well-worn waistcoat, appeared in a wide doorway.

“Great God! Winke has left you in the rain! Come in, come in, Silent Fox!” Gil quickly drew him into the vestibule. “I have never seen you carry a weapon. Are you looking for a fight?” Gil laughed and they embraced, arrows and all.

Stirling recorded their affection.

“Mac, meet my nephew, Silent Fox, from Twisting River. Fox, this is Dr. Stirling, our friend and physician. Doctors get bigheaded when one uses titles overmuch. We call him, simply, Mac.”

Stirling fumbled with his violin, changing it to his left hand, to shake the hand Wakwa offered him. “You’re a sudden man, Gil Worth!”

The white swan feathers knotted into Wakwa’s long black hair, the fur collar turned up to his cheekbones, his moccasins heavy with black shell money, stimulated questions, but the old man said only, “Honored, sir, eh … Fox, I am sure!”

“I regret coming to you unannounced, Uncle, but …” Wakwa turned his eyes to Stirling for a moment, “my lyre needed tuning.”

“Haw! The spokesman for his tribe, with reason, as you witness, Mac!”

“I am more than that now, Uncle. I serve, since the winter nickommo, as one of two sachimmauog. But do not call me sachim. I would retain my head in its present size!”

This time Stirling laughed with Gil. But the uncle turned serious.

“This is news! The best news!” Gil bowed elegantly from the waist.

“I hope, Nissese, this will not change things between us.”

“Only if it makes us better friends.”

The sharp Scot pieced his scanty information into a cohesive story. “I’m beginnin’ to see, I’m beginnin’ to see.

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