Chapter Five

"What now?" Rebecca Boone scowled as a knock sounded at her cabin door. She removed her apron and straightened her hair, and then pointed a finger at her small white-haired son who was attempting to wrestle a ball of her best yarn away from the slender deer he had adopted and named Rosebud. "Israel," she ordered, "you take that deer outside, and Jemima – "

"Yes, Ma?" Her daughter answered from under the kitchen table – Jemima had taken refuge there, hiding from her brother's fat white goose who was doing a dance on the tabletop, enjoying one of his noisier tantrums.

"Catch Hannibal and get him out of my sight before he ends up plucked and served on a platter!"

Jemima's brown bangs and eyes showed above the table's scuffed surface. "Catch him? How?"

Becky blew out a breath, lifting a lock of flour-dusted copper hair out of her eyes. "How should I know? Use your father's net!"
"Yes, Ma'am!"

Before opening the door, Becky paused to collect herself. For all she knew the governor general of Virginia could be standing outside – it had happened before. It was early evening. The sun had only just set. The wind had picked up again and Cincinnatus' bursitis had told them all that there was more snow on the way. She had only left the settlement a few hours before, using the remainder of her trip there to pick up a few supplies and pay a visit to the parson's wife. Before she left the tavern the older man had warned her to batten down and caulk the chinks in the cabin walls because he thought it was going to be a 'whopper'.

"Dan, where are you?" Becky sighed before she opened the door.

Outside, cast in silhouette against the frigid blue-white world, was a petite figure she recognized as Jeanne DuCharme. The woman was cloaked and hooded but still attired in her thin gown. A bit of the blue petticoat peeked out against the snow. Becky glanced beyond Jeanne to see who had escorted her to the cabin, but could find no one.

As she hesitated Jeanne lowered her hood, revealing her upswept black-brown hair and pale perfect face, and asked, "May I come in, Madame Boone?"

"Oh! Certainly. Forgive me, Jeanne. And please, call my Becky. I was just surprised to see you – and alone."

The Frenchwoman opened her mouth to reply, but hesitated as Israel barreled toward the two of them with Rosebud in tow – having fashioned a makeshift halter for the deer out of her best yarn. "Comin' through!" he shouted. Israel paused at his mother's disapproving look and tipped his miniature coonskin cap. "Mighty fine to meet you, Ma'am. Now if you'll pardon me – " With that, he and the deer disappeared out the door.

Jemima was standing close by, the recalcitrant Hannibal still squawking and squirming mightily in her arms. "Can't we just eat him, Ma?" she asked exasperated.

Becky laughed. "Toss Hannibal in the yard and go find your brother. Then come and greet our guest."

Her daughter's eyes went wide as Jeanne removed her cloak to reveal the elegant sapphire saque gown. "Sure thing, Ma!" she said with a smile as she headed out into the yard.

"You'll have to excuse us. The snow has driven most everything in," Becky apologized, "and all sanity out!".

Jeanne turned in a circle, surveying their home. "There is no need to apologize… Beck-ee. It is all so…well…rustically charmer."

The Frenchwoman's tone and upturned nose indicated she thought it was really something quite different.

Jeanne tossed her burgundy cloak over one of the chairs pushed up against the kitchen table and then moved to the hearth. Once there she settled like a visiting queen in the high-backed settee.

As Becky crossed to where she sat, she bit her tongue. 'Have a seat, why don't you?' she thought. Then she inquired politely, "May I ask what brought you here?"

"I wanted to thank you for your kindness," Jeanne began. "You went très out of your way for a perfect stranger."

'Perfect' was right, Becky thought, studying her. Jeanne was almost unreal. Her skin too white, her eyes too blue – her hair the deep brown of midnight shadows. "It's what we do," she said simply. "No one would survive for long on the frontier without others doing their part. And it's our Christian duty."

Jeanne's pert mouth pursed. "Oui. So I have heard."

At that moment the front door opened and Israel and Jemima returned. Israel was stomping so hard he left a mountain of snow at every step. "Ma! Mima made me leave Hannibal and Rosebud outside!"

Becky turned to look at him. "Well, what did you expect when I told you to take them out?"

"But its colder than the belly of a duck in a ice pond out there. They'll freeze!"

"Rosebud has plenty of hay to bed down in, young man, and that goose loves the cold. This cabin is not a barn!" Her stern words hid her smile. Israel's pout could have melted all of the snow in Kentucky. "Now, where are your manners, young man?"

Israel gulped and removed his hat. "Good evenin', Ma'am," he said.

"Ma'am," Jemima repeated with a little curtsy.

"Jeanne. Please," the stranger said with a frown. " Ma'am makes me feel très old."

"Are you from France?" Jemima blurted out and then covered her mouth with her hand, realizing she had spoken out of turn.

Jeanne shook her head at Becky's scolding look. "No offense taken, Mademoiselle Boone. Oui. Paris, of late."

"Paris. Gosh…. I'd love to see Paris."

"It is infinitely exciting and extravagantly beautiful. As are you," Jeanne added, her voice pitched low. "I hope you may see it one day. The young men there… They would think you magnifique!"

Becky's chastising look turned to a frown. Her daughter was obviously enchanted with their visitor – just as it seemed every male in Boonesborough was. "Jemima?"

It took her a second. "Yes, Ma?"

"Take your brother to the loft and put him to bed."

As Israel protested Jemima nodded, but she also asked, "Can I come back down?"

Becky thought about it a moment and then gave her permission. "For a little while."

"Thanks, Ma!" Jemima whirled and pointed a finger at her brother in unconscious imitation of her mother. "Now you! Stop your belly-aching and come on."

After the children had disappeared up the ladder, Jeanne rose from her seat and moved to look out one of the cabin windows. The moon was high now. It turned the white waves to blue.

"Your husband has not returned?" she asked.

Becky went to join her. "No."

"You are worried about him?"

She nodded. "And Mingo. And that kind stranger who went with Dan to help find him."

"Stranger?" Jeanne's interest was keen. "What stranger? Did he give his name?"

Becky hesitated. "Why? Are you looking for someone?"

Jeanne met her wary gaze. For a second the intensity of her look made Becky dizzy. Then that feeling was gone – but it left her slightly light-headed. Jeanne seemed to consider whether or not to speak, but then she admitted it was so with a soft-spoken, "Oui."

Becky crossed to the table and poured a mug of water. She sipped it and then, bracing herself with a hand on the table's surface, turned back. "A man?" she asked.

"Oui," again.

"His name wouldn't happen to be Nicholas, would it? Nicholas Knightsford?"

Jeanne's reaction was as intense as her gaze. She seemed to shudder from head to toe – overwhelmed by relief and infused with anger at one and the same time. 'The idiot! I told him it was a fool's errand, but would he listen? Does he ever listen to me?" At Becky's startled look, she stopped and modified her tone. "Nichola's passion for 'scholarly investigation' will be the end of him one day."

"Investigation?"

Jeanne nodded. "This Cherokee – your husband's friend – is he also part Anglais?"

"Mingo's father is English, yes. Why? Is that important?"

"Nichola had some absurd notion that this Cherokee could help him with his impossible quest. And now, on top of dragging me to the very end of civilization, the man whom he is seeking is most likely a pile of frozen flesh and bones!"

"Ma?"

Becky pivoted to find Jemima had returned from the loft. "Is there something wrong with Mingo? Is that why Pa went out in the snow?"

Becky scowled at the stranger as she crossed to put her arm about her daughter's shoulders. Jeanne was certainly self-centered. She hadn't told the children for fear of worrying them.

"We don't know yet, Jemima. We just have to wait – and pray."

Jeanne placed her gloved hand over her mouth which had formed a small round 'o'. "M'excuser. I did not mean to speak out of turn. I am certain your friend is all right." Turning, Jeanne caught her cloak up off the chair and headed for the door. "When I see him, I will send him home – along with your husband."

Becky followed her to the door. "You can't mean to go out in this frightful weather! Listen to the wind…."

Jeanne had opened the door. It was howling like the angry dead.

"I do not fear the wind, nor the wild night," the Frenchwoman said as tendrils of her deep brown hair whipped about her face like living things and her cloak snapped in the wind. "Only Nichola losing his way. Bonne nuit, Beck-ee. We shall meet again!"

Becky stood staring after Jeanne until the woman's petite form was swallowed by the deep blue shadows of the fallen night. A moment later Jemima came to her side and placed her arm about her waist.

"Who was she, Ma?" Jemima asked.

Becky shook her head. "I don't know – and I very much doubt I want to."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

All around them the world was silver-blue, the cooler hue a welcome change from the frigid blinding white of the day, but no less dangerous – perhaps even more so. At night the shadows cradling the undulating snowy downs proved deceptive, offering footing where there was none, in hopes of drawing a man down into their cold killing embrace. Dan and Nicholas were standing on the top of one such dune, waiting for Mingo to catch up. They had traveled half the night and were nearing Chota – though there was no sign of the Cherokee village yet. Dan was worried about his friend. He wished he knew more about what nearly freezing to death could do to a man.

Mingo was not himself.

As Nicholas Knightsford came alongside him, Dan looked at the blond stranger. Nicholas had given his cloak to Mingo to place over the Redcoat uniform he wore, so he was dressed only in his light blue great-coat. His cheeks were rosy, giving him a healthier look than usual and he moved with ease, as if totally unaffected by the cold. In fact, Nicholas looked as if he had just taken a stroll on a warm spring day. Dan shivered and pulled his heavy winter coat closer about his throat. The wind had picked up and its icy breath cut through even the heavy buckskin and multiple layers of clothing he wore beneath.

"Beautiful night!" Nicholas exclaimed, looking up at the sky and the bright stars dotting it.

"If you're a white cat waitin' to catch his dinner," Dan countered, shaking snowflakes from his cap. "You grow up at the North Pole?"

Nicholas laughed. "No. No. But I find the crisp air invigorating." As his gaze fell on Mingo who was laboring up the hill, he added quietly, "Would that my old friend found it so."

Dan's eyes followed his. The Cherokee had walked alone – either behind or ahead of them – the whole time. "Mingo said you had some medical trainin', that right?"

"A little."

"Can comin' that close to freezin', well, change a man?"

Nicholas was completely sober now. "How?"

"Well, Mingo tends to be quiet. Gettin' him to share somethin' personal is like tryin' to pull a hen's teeth. But most of the time, 'specially when we're out huntin' or trappin', he's right pleasurable to have at your side. Smilin', singin'. Just bein' downright ornery when he feels like it. But I don't think I've ever seen him just plain mean before."

The blond thought about it a moment and then shook his head. "There is no medical science, though some progressive physicians have noted a propensity toward cardiac problems later in life as a result of the strain put on the heart. Nothing behavioral." Nicholas waved to Mingo who had almost gained the white hill. "I hesitated to say anything myself, Daniel. It has been many years since I have known him. But by comparison with what I remember, I would have to concur. Mingo's behavior is irregular."

At that moment the object of their discussion topped the rise and pushed between them, growling as he began the descent down the other side. "Well, are you coming?" Mingo hurled after him.

"That, Nicholas," Dan said as he shifted his cap back and snorted, forming a gray cloud on the blue-white air, "is puttin' it mildly."

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Two hours later, near midnight, they reached Chota. Mingo had not spoken a word on the journey there. They were stopped briefly at the perimeter of the village by several young warriors dressed in leggings and skins, who then smiled and waved them on when they realized the two white men were traveling with their chief's beloved nephew. Mingo led them into the Cherokee encampment and escorted them to the lodge he occupied when he was there, and then vanished – again without a word.

Dan and Nicholas exchanged glances. Nothing more was necessary. It was evident something was terribly wrong with their friend. A short time later Dan bedded down to get some sleep, confident that – in his own village – Mingo would be looked after. As he rolled over, pulling his cap over his eyes to block out the single lantern, he watched Nicholas draw a book from his pack and use the light to peruse its contents.

Sometime later he awoke to find Nicholas gone and Chota's chief standing over him; a slightly paunchy and painted Cherokee at his side.

Dan shifted his cap back and sat up. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he greeted him, "Menewa."

"What has happened, Boone?"

"Happened?" Dan asked.

"To Cara-Mingo."

"Why?" He was instantly alert. "Ain't he here?"

"He is here," Menewa nodded, touching his head. Then his hand fell to his chest, to the area above his heart. "But not here."

Dan's eyes flicked to the older man with Menewa. He was heavy-set, as if he didn't hunt or do any strenuous work. He looked to be about sixty – ancient for a Cherokee. The man's face was painted blue and covered with mystic symbols. In his hair there were eagle feathers. Taken all together, it was obvious he was a medicine man. But it was not Galunadi, the one Dan had met before.

"You gonna introduce me to your friend?" he asked.

"This, Boone, is Ga-no-tsi a-do-nv-do."

Dan thought about it a moment. "Leather-heart?"

Menewa nodded. "His heart is true. No power can corrupt him." The Cherokee chief's voice dropped so low Dan had a hard time hearing him. "Not even the power of a witch."

"A witch? What are you – "

As Dan spoke, the blanket covering the lodge door was pulled aside and Nicholas Knightsford entered. He wiped his lip with his finger and then smiled. "Am I interrupting something?"

Dan shifted uncomfortably. "Menewa here just brought up the subject of witches." He looked at the chief. "Why don't you and Leather-heart here take a load off and sit down? Seems like we got us some discussin' to do."

Menewa frowned as he looked at Nicholas. "I do not know this white man."

Nicholas was unflapped. He made a bow and then said, his voice low and compelling. "My name is Nicholas. You do not need to know me. I mean your nephew and your people no harm. Tell me what you know."

Dan frowned as he listened to him. There was a tug, and a moment where the world spun – something like what a man felt when he'd had one too many rounds of cheer and tried to stand up. It lasted a few seconds and then was gone. He shook his head and focused on the chief again just in time to hear Mingo's uncle say –

"I do not need to know you. You mean Mingo no harm. I will tell you what I know. Please sit, Nicholas."

The blond smiled. As he took a seat, Dan muttered under his breath, "Neat trick. You gotta teach me that sometime."

Nicholas shrugged as if puzzled, but it wasn't long before his boyish smile turned into an ancient frown.

"Where is Mingo?" Dan asked the two Cherokee.

"In my lodge," Leather-heart answered. "And there he will remain."

"Against his will?"

Menewa shook his head. "His choice, Boone."

Nicholas Knightsford leaned forward eagerly. "What is this about a witch? Pray, explain your reasoning."

"We do not speak of such things lightly," Leather-heart answered. "And not to those not of the People."

Again the voice. Coupled with an intense stare. "You will tell me. You have nothing to fear from either Daniel or myself," he said.

Leather-heart blinked as if stunned.

Menewa answered for him. "Mingo believes he has been touched by a Raven Mocker."

Dan frowned. He'd heard the term before. A Raven Mocker was the most dreaded of Cherokee witches. They were men or women who took the form of a raven and came when a person was dying to rob them of their remaining life. A Cherokee doctor or healer – a powerful one – could drive them away. He didn't know what that meant for the victim who survived such an attack.

"Mingo believes one of these witches attacked him?" he asked.

"Believes it? No. He knows it is so," Leather-heart pronounced with a downward thrust of his hand. "And what is more, the witch was not alone."

Menewa dropped his head. "Now, my nephew is not alone."

"What are you talking about?" Nicholas asked.

"A man who opens the lodge door of death is like a sleeper before waking," the medicine man replied. "He has no weapons – no bow, no shield to protect him."

"So he is vulnerable, you are saying?"

"Yes," Menewa pronounced, looking up and meeting their astonished looks. "Mingo has opened such a door. A spirit has come in."

"You're talking demon possession," Nicholas declared.

Dan was silent a moment, then he said softly, "Menewa, meaning no disrespect, but that ain't possible."

Nicholas turned to him. " 'And Jesus asked him, 'What is thy name?' And he answered, saying, 'My name is Legion: for we are many'."

Leather-heart nodded. "I know your god's book. It speaks many truths."

Becky would be the first to back that up, Dan thought to himself. But it flew in the face of everything he believed – in the good solid earth, in things a man could see and hold. "And just who do you and Mingo think is possessin' him?"

Neither native had to answer.

"Henry Pitcairn," Nicholas Knightsford said.