Chapter Thirteen
Janette had deserted them, leaving the cave sometime during the night. It was just as well. Even if her terror of confronting the Raven Mocker again had not driven her away, he could never have trusted her. She had proven all too often where her loyalties lay and, though she would protest that she loved him, it was LaCroix she felt compelled to obey.
Nicholas turned toward the horizon and watched as the sun slipped into the sheath of dark trees, leaving a blood red trail behind it. They had perhaps an hour before it grew completely dark. It was not much time, but it would be more than enough to return to the haunted cavern and summon its resident demon, and to beg or cajole the creature into aiding them. If he could make it understand that by choosing to do what was right it might be redeemed – that it was in its own best interest to help them – then perhaps it would be willing to abandon its vendetta against Henry Pitcairn to do so.
That was, if it wanted to be redeemed.
Nicholas' lengthy sigh drew his companion's attention. The snow was swirling about them, the thick flakes descending like the hordes of the Hun. Even with his keen and unnatural sight he could just make out Mingo's silhouette. His friend, he knew, must be nearly blind.
"Are you ready?" Nicholas asked him, raising his voice to be heard above the howling wind.
For a moment Mingo said nothing. Then only, "They're here."
Nicholas glanced about, but saw no one. "Who?"
"The spirits of Wi-sha-sho."
"You are mistaken my friend," Nicholas said as he approached him. "It is only your imagination working the snow into some semblance of man."
Mingo stood with his arms wrapped tightly about his chest. "Do you not hear them whispering?"
"No. It is only the wind."
His friend remained silent for several heartbeats. Then he turned and looked at him. "There are others as well, Nicholas. Men. Women. Some of them are so young."
Nicholas' frown deepened. He looked again but still saw nothing. "Who? Who else do you see?"
Mingo shuddered and looked away. "Those whom you have killed."
As he spoke the wind rose in ferocity. It buffeted them, driving them forward, toward the cave. In it Nicholas heard words of condemnation. Foul creature, it cried. Murderer.
Beast.
Startled, he pivoted almost faster than the eye could see to look behind. But there was nothing there. Nothing but white.
Mingo waited until he turned back. Then he did a strange thing. He nodded in the direction of the Place of 1000 Spirits, his lips twisting with a wry smile.
"Are you ready, Nicholas?"
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The cave was strangely warm. And curiously empty.
Mingo held still, listening, feeling…. But there was nothing. Henry Pitcairn was not here. Not without...
Or within.
Turning back toward the cave mouth, he sought Nicholas. His friend hesitated outside, as if unwilling to enter; his pale upright figure nearly one with the dancing snow. As they neared the cave they had both fallen silent. There was no way of knowing what the Place of 1000 Spirits held. Hope or despair. Life or death – or perhaps something far worse.
Mingo opened his mouth to call him, but stopped as the snow behind the blond man began to take form. As he watched, the silent spirits that had journeyed with him since the night his old friend had rescued him, began to file into the cave, passing directly through the immortal's form. Nicholas shuddered uncharacteristically, but otherwise seemed not to notice. Wave upon wave of bleeding, bruised natives filed past him, until they lined the chamber he stood within. At the last a young woman appeared, clutching the hand of a small toddling child. She paused at Nicholas' side and eyed him with pity, and then made her way across the cave.
"What do you want?" Mingo asked her as she halted before him. The woman shook her head. She placed a finger to her lips, calling him to silence. Then she reached out and placed a transparent hand on his arm. Her soul brushed his.
And he understood.
The truth she spoke to him was so profound it stunned him. Tears formed in his eyes and, for a moment, he was unable to speak. Into that silence came a sound – like the whisper of a bat's wing on stone.
"So, you have returned," the ancient voice stated. "But you are alone. Where is Henry Pitcairn?"
Mingo held the young woman's gaze. She smiled sadly as she released him. He nodded and then turned toward the creature draped in black. The spirit of the young woman had given him words to speak. Words not for hurting, but for healing. It seemed so simple now – so clear.
How could he have gotten it so wrong?
Mingo drew a deep breath and let it out, releasing pain and fear with it. Then he asked, "What is your name, mother?"
The blackness cackled. "Mother? You are kind."
"You had a name once, did you not?" he replied. "What is it? You were someone's mother, or sister. Someone's daughter."
A shadow fluttered across the stones, brushing Nicholas' lean form where he waited, just inside the cave, listening.
"That creature is dead," the shadow answered.
"No," Mingo challenged. "She is still within you – the woman you were. Nicholas, tell her."
His friend started. Then he took another step. It was hesitant, as if he was afraid. But then, Nicholas did not know the truth. If Mingo had not known it, he too would have been afraid.
"Mingo is right. Though you have embraced evil, there is still good in you."
"Good? What good? There is no good in me. I killed it – sacrificed it for power and powerful magic. For eternal life." The Raven Mocker paused. "Even as you sacrificed your soul."
Nicholas' voice was ragged. "That was a mistake. If I could take it back, I would do so – "
"I would not!" the creature declared even as it became airborne and hung over their heads like a pendulous cloud.
Mingo glanced at Nicholas before speaking again. His old friend seemed without hope. He wished he could have told him what he knew, but there was no time. "Mother," he said clearly, "I do not believe that. Nor do the ones who haunt this cave. They are here now. They have waited for you."
"They have waited to destroy me!" the Raven Mocker shrieked as it crossed the cave and landed on the cairn of rocks they had raised above Henry Pitcairn's bones.
"No. No, they haven't," he said softly. "You. Me. We have all gotten it wrong."
Nicholas moved to his side. "Mingo, my friend, what is this? What are you saying?"
"I should have known," he answered with a weary shake of his head. "Though they are Shawnee, these spirits are of the People. I should have known, but Pitcairn's madness blinded me, made me see a threat where none was offered. Made me run in fear as though they would destroy me." Mingo's hand came down on Nicholas' shoulder. "As we thought, the spirits of Wi-sha-sho have made their peace with Henry Pitcairn. They did so when Daniel and I came to this place." He turned and looked at the black form perched on the rocks. "It is the Raven Mocker they want."
"To take vengeance on?"
Mingo shook his head. "To grant absolution."
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f he'd been a cursing man Dan would have know what to call the cold, but since he wasn't, he simply pulled his coat tighter, his cap lower, gripped his gun and continued to tramp through the snow that rose now at times to the top of his thighs. The cave couldn't be very far away. More than half a day had passed and the sun was just setting behind the white horizon. The snow had melted from gold to a blood red and now ran to the purple of grapes. Soon night would fall and he really needed to be inside. He could barely feel his fingers or his toes.
As he trudged on his thoughts turned once again to home. He wondered what Becky was doing, and Jemima, and that ornery boy of his. Since they were stuck inside, Israel was probably giving his mother nothing but grief. A crooked smile lifted the corner of Dan's lips. So long as he knew they were safe, he could face whatever was thrown at him.
And yet, with the puzzle Nicholas Knightsford's presence put before him, could he really trust that they were?
He'd never deny it – though truth to tell, he wasn't always the first to admit it – but, of the two of them, Becky was the strongest. Her faith was what did it. Rock steady. Unshakable. She bent her knee to the Almighty every morning and each night, and renewed her belief with every breath. It was harder for him. It was a man's job to care for his own, not to ask someone else to do it. And though he relied on the Almighty for back up, when it came to putting everything in the Lord's hands…well…he had a tendency to hang on to whatever he was asking about and not quite let go.
Dan stopped and turned his face toward the heavens. The storm had taken a breath and above him a million stars ranged, glinting like sunlight on the backs of silver trout swimming a deep, wide, blue sea. In spite of it all – in spite of cruelty and hate, in spite of prejudice, greed and avarice, there was this – the immensity that spoke of something bigger, of something better yet to come.
"You take care of them," Dan said softly, "while I can't."
And that was about as far as he could go.
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"To grant absolution?" Nicholas asked as he turned to stare at the ragged black shape perched atop the pile of stones. "Absolution for what?"
His old friend, Mingo, stood with his hand out, as if reaching for someone. For a moment Nicholas thought it was a sign of his madness returning, but then he began to consider that – perhaps – there was something there. As he watched Mingo nodded as if answering someone, and then turned to look at him. "Come here, Nicholas," he said, raising his other hand. "Take my hand. See what I see."
"What is this, mortal man?" the Raven Mocker snarled. "Some deception to save your soul? It will not work, I tell you!"
Mingo glanced in her direction. Nicholas did the same. The sound of her voice startled him.
She was frightened.
He did not know what Mingo was up to, or if it would work. So many things about his visit to Boonesborough had gone against his vast experience. There was true nobility here in this little settlement – true honor and courage. It gave him hope that LaCroix might somehow be defeated, and that this man who stood before him – and his friends – might yet be saved.
Mingo's grip was sure as he took his hand and belied the weakened state he was in. Looking at him, Nicholas wondered how he was keeping to his feet. He started to say something but fell silent as a slender shape, transparent as a dragonfly's wings, took form before his eyes. It was a young Indian woman. She balanced a small child on her hip. Her arm was extended, and she gripped Mingo's fingers with her other hand.
"Who is she?" Nicholas asked, breathless.
"Her name is Waapa. White. And her son is Dancing Dog." Mingo nodded toward the cave floor beside them. "Her bones lie here in this place."
It never ceased to surprise him – his amazement with things supernatural. But then again, LaCroix denied an afterlife for mortals. His master decried the idea of demons or a devil – though most would say that was what they, as vampires, were. In all the centuries Nicholas had lived, he had seen precious little to prove otherwise. But there had been a few phantoms that were undeniable….
Like this woman.
As he studied her, Waapa looked up and met his gaze. Her brown eyes were expressive; wide and black as the baked heart of the fire. He saw no malice in them. No hatred.
Only peace.
Nicholas glanced at Mingo. "What does she want? Has she said?"
"She wants my death! They all want my death!" the Raven Mocker shrieked. "And I would give it to them – to her – but I cannot!" She fell silent a moment and when she continued, her ancient voice was filled with silent tears. "I cannot. I sold my death to become what I am."
Nicholas shuddered. This was his sin as well.
Waapa released Mingo's hand. She held his for a moment longer before surrendering it; her near black eyes fastened on his face and filled with pity. Nicholas breathed a sigh of relief when she did not vanish. Her absence would have left the place cold. As Waapa crossed the cave, headed for the pile of rocks that masked Henry Pitcairn's bones, he glanced at Mingo. His old friend was swaying on his feet. He looked exhausted. But so far, Mingo seemed to be his own man. Nicholas wondered where in all of this magic the British officer was, and why his roving spirit had not returned to the cave with them. Certainly here he would have the greatest power.
By the time Waapa reached the Raven Mocker's side, the ragged shadow was shaking uncontrollably, racked with sobs. "I did not know," she cried. "I should have known…. But when I did, it could not be taken back."
The spirit of Waapa knelt at her child's side. As she did, Nicholas realized she was no longer alone. For the firs time he saw the others Mingo had spoken of – not his own victims, but the victims of the Raven Mocker and Henry Pitcairn's evil choices. Shawnee braves and their wives. Their children. All butchered, bleeding and broken. All waiting in silence. There were dozens of them surrounding Waapa, and dozens more who ranged out of the cave mouth, their shadowy forms fading into the driven snow. Taking her child's hand, Waapa rose to her feet. She reached out and took hold of the tattered remnants of black cloth that covered the Raven Mocker's head and threw them back, revealing a scarred head nearly bare of hair, and an ancient face burnt almost beyond recognition. The creature was altogether vile, and yet, from deep within its horrid eyes something shown. A light Nicholas recognized well.
A ray of hope.
Waapa lifted her child from the ground and offered it to the ravaged creature. Withered arms, brown as old apples, hesitated and then, trembling, took it. That was all. The old woman took the babe in her arms. A mortal watching would have said nothing happened. But Nicholas knew differently. With her simple gesture of forgiveness, Waapa removed the evil that haunted the Place of 1000 Spirits.
He turned to find Mingo smiling. "What is this all about?" he asked.
Mingo tried to speak, but his voice broke. He cleared it and started again. "How small our perspective is on this side of the grave, Nicholas. Because we, as living men, seek vengeance, we assume it is the same with the dead. The spirits in this cave did not remain behind to torment and destroy Henry Pitcairn – his own guilt did that. Nor did they stay to seek revenge as did the Shawnee who loved them. They remained behind because of this woman – because of the one who betrayed them. But not to condemn her. Like Pitcairn, she has condemned herself for her crime."
"Which was?"
"Henry Pitcairn needed someone on the inside. This woman was filled with hatred. She believed the people of Wi-sha-sho had harmed her. The Raven Mocker is Cherokee. In the endless wars between our people, her husband and many of her children were killed. She led the British soldiers to Wi-sha-sho in order to take revenge, never knowing that – in the end – her choice would damn her to an endless perdition of regret."
Nicholas' gaze returned to Waapa, her child, and the Raven Mocker. Waapa was speaking softly – spirit words too soft for even his supernatural ears. Though still scarred and hideous in its aspect, the Mocker's face had softened with its tears.
She looked almost human.
"She was damned because she chose to sell her soul for power?"
Mingo shook his head. "No. That came later. In the aftermath of what she had done to Waapa and Dancing Dog."
Nicholas looked at the child still cradled in the old woman's arms. Its small face was beaming. "Who is Waapa, Mingo? Who is she?"
"The Raven Mocker had no way of knowing. The month before Wi-sha-sho burned, Waapa had journeyed there and joined her hand in marriage to a man in the village. With her, she brought her child. When Henry Pitcairn's men burned their village and slaughtered the Shawnee, Waapa died, as did Dancing Dog. Horribly. Brutally. Who is she?
"Waapa was the Raven Mocker's grandchild."
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Simply physically exhausted, Dan had been forced to halt. The snow had returned and it raged mightily, piling high in drifts that threatened to knock off his coonskin cap. The Place of 1000 Spirits was not far, but it was farther than he had the strength to go. Luckily, he had found another cave close by. Entering it, he had been surprised to find that he was not the first to visit it that day. Kneeling now by the remnants of a fire, Dan picked at the ashes, trying to judge by them how long it had been cold. Beside it there were enough prints painted in the gray stuff to tell him that one of the men had an English cobbler.
Instinct told him it was Nicholas Knightsford.
That man's comings and goings were a mystery. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought Mingo's old school chum really could fly. As he stood and dusted his hands off on his knees, he pursed his lips and shook his head. It was all too much for him. Turning, Dan leaned his back against the wall and then slid down it into a comfortable position. Placing Ticklicker close at hand, he wrapped his arms about his lean body for warmth and then closed his eyes and fell into a restive sleep.
A few minutes later a strong wind brushed his seated figure, shifting the tail of his coonskin cap so it tickled his nose. Reaching up, he shoved it away. Then he ran a finger across his nose and sniffed, and settled back in.
But only for a moment.
Someone was singing.
Dan frowned. He listened for a moment, until he could make out the words. "Musha rig um du rum da, whack fol the daddy-o. Whack fol the daddy-o …there's whiskey in the jar.'
Dan drew a breath and opened his eyes as a shiver ran along his spine. A man stood silhouetted in the cave's mouth; a long lean man wearing a British officer's uniform. As he watched, the man moved into the darkened recess. His head was down and he dragged his feet, as if he was weary to death. Feeling like a fool, Dan took hold of a portion of the skin on his thigh and pinched it hard. He bit his lip to keep quiet.
Yep. He was awake.
And it was Henry Pitcairn.
" 'Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall," the British officer remarked, almost to himself. "Some run from brakes of ice, and answer none. And some condemned for a fault alone.' " He came to a halt just in front of Dan and waited until he met his haunted stare. "Have you ever wondered how the Bard came to be so wise, Mr. Boone? With a few words he sums up a man's life and dismisses it."
"I heard you'd made a reappearance," Dan said, shifting his hand slightly closer to his rifle.
Pitcairn did not miss the move. His sneer was dismissive. "You might say that."
"For a dead man, you look pretty good."
" 'I dreamt my lady came and found me dead. Strange dream that gives a man leave to think'…." Pitcairn replied.
He was gray as a ghost, but Dan could see the Pitcairn's uniform rising and falling with each ragged breath. The man was substantial as the cave itself. The only thing that made any sense was that Mingo and Nicholas had been mistaken. The body hanging in the cave must have belonged to someone else. That, or Henry Pitcairn was playing a sick game.
Dan rose slowly to his feet. He picked up Ticklicker and held her at ease. "You're about as dead as I am, lieutenant."
Pitcairn shook his head slowly. "Be careful what you wish for, Mr. Boone…."
"What do you want? From what I hear, you've been bedeviling Mingo. Now I know you ain't exactly what you'd call a 'friend' of the Indians, but Mingo helped you…."
Pitcairn surprised him by laughing – desperately. "I hold no animosity toward your dark skinned friend, Mr. Boone. Quite the contrary. I only await the time I can come to know him better. We are destined to be very close."
His tone was sinister.
Dan gripped Ticklicker as he issued the challenge. "You'll have to go through me to hurt Mingo," he growled.
Henry Pitcairn's thin lips twisted with a smirk. "That, Mr. Boone, will not be a problem."
And with that, the British officer rushed him.
By the time Ticklicker discharged Pitcairn's chest was only inches away. When the smoke cleared, Dan looked down expecting to find his corpse. Instead he found nothing.
As he promised, Henry Pitcairn had gone right through him and disappeared.
