A Place Called Freedom - Ken Follett [170]
He got to his feet.
“That was a short rest,” Lizzie said as she stood up.
“I’ll be happier when we’re out of sight of this river,” Mack said. “Jay might guess our route thus far—but this is where we shake him off.”
Reflexively they both looked back the way they had come. There was no one in sight. But Jay was on that road somewhere, Mack felt sure.
Then he realized they were being watched.
He had seen a movement out of the corner of his eye and now he saw it again. Tensing, he slowly turned his head.
Two Indians were standing just a few yards away.
This was the northern edge of Cherokee country, and they had been seeing the natives at a distance for three days, but none had approached them.
These two were boys about seventeen years old. They had the straight black hair and reddish tan skin characteristic of the original Americans, and wore the deerskin tunic and trousers the new immigrants had copied.
The taller of the two held out a large fish like a salmon. “I want a knife,” he said.
Mack guessed the two of them had been fishing in this river. “You want to trade?” Mack said.
The boy smiled. “I want a knife.”
Lizzie said: “We don’t need a fish, but we could use a guide. I’ll bet he knows where the pass is.”
That was a good idea. It would be a tremendous relief to know where they were going. Mack said eagerly: “Will you guide us?”
The boy smiled, but it was obvious he did not understand. His companion remained silent and still.
Mack tried again. “Will you be our guide?”
He began to look troubled. “No trade today,” he said doubtfully.
Mack sighed in frustration. He said to Lizzie: “He’s an enterprising kid who’s learned a few English phrases but can’t really speak the language.” It would be maddening to get lost here just because they could not communicate with the local people.
Lizzie said: “Let me try.”
She went to one of the pack horses, opened a leather satchel, and took out a long-bladed knife. It had been made at the forge on the plantation, and the letter “J,” for Jamisson, was burned into the wood of the handle. It was crude by comparison with what you could buy in London, but no doubt it was superior to anything the Cherokee could make themselves. She showed it to the boy.
He smiled broadly. “I’ll buy that,” he said, and reached for it.
Lizzie withdrew it.
The boy offered the fish and she pushed it away. He looked troubled again.
“Look,” Lizzie said. She bent over a large stone with a flat surface. Using the point of the knife she began to scratch a picture. First she drew a jagged line. She pointed at the distant mountains, then at the line. “This is the ridge,” she said.
Mack could not tell whether the boy understood or not.
Below the ridge she drew two stick figures, then pointed at herself and Mack. “This is us,” she said. “Now—watch carefully.” She drew a second ridge, then a deep V-shape joining the two. “This is the pass,” she said. Finally she put a stick figure in the V. “We need to find the pass,” she said, and she looked expectantly at the boy.
Mack held his breath.
“I’ll buy that,” the boy said, and he offered Lizzie the fish.
Mack groaned.
“Don’t lose hope,” Lizzie snapped at him. She addressed the Indian again. “This is the ridge. This is us. Here’s the pass. We need to find the pass.” Then she pointed at him. “You take us to the pass—and you get the knife.”
He looked at the mountains, then at the drawing, then at Lizzie. “Pass,” he said.
Lizzie pointed at the mountains.
He drew a V-shape in the air, then pointed through it. “Pass,” he said again.
“I’ll buy that,” Lizzie said.
The boy grinned broadly and nodded vigorously.
Mack said: “Do you think he got the message?”
“I don’t know.” She hesitated, then took her horse’s bridle and began to walk on. “Shall we go?” she said to the boy with a gesture of invitation.
He started to walk beside her.
“Hallelujah!” said Mack.
The other Indian came too.