Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [281]
Slowly, though, he became aware that something was different here. Wigwam shelters dotted the clearing; bundles lay piled near the edges of the clearing, and horses and ponies were tethered among the trees. This was no hasty exodus of people plundered and fleeing for their lives—it was an orderly retreat, with most of their worldly goods neatly packed and brought along. What in God’s name had happened in Anna Ooka this day?
Nacognaweto was in a wigwam at the far side of the clearing. Onakara lifted the flap and silently nodded Jamie in.
A sudden spark leapt in the older man’s eyes as he entered, but then died at once as Nacognaweto saw his face, with the shadow of reflected grief on it. The chieftain closed his eyes for a moment, and reopened them, composed.
“You have not met with her who heals, nor with the woman whose longhouse I dwelt in?”
Used to the Indian notion that it was rude to speak a person’s name aloud save for the sake of ceremony, Jamie knew he must refer to Gabrielle and old Nayawenne. He shook his head, knowing that that gesture must destroy the last flicker of hope the other had held. It was no consolation, but he took the flask of brandy from his belt, and offered that in mute apology for his failure to bring good news.
Nacognaweto accepted it, and with a tilt of his head, summoned a woman, who dug about in one of the bundles by the hide wall and produced a gourd cup. The Indian poured a quantity of spirit that would flatten a Scotsman, and drank deeply before handing the gourd to Jamie.
He took a small sip for the sake of politeness, and handed back the gourd. It wasn’t polite to come to the point of a visit at once, but he had no time for palaver and he could see that the other had no heart for it.
“What has happened?” he asked bluntly.
“Sickness,” Nacognaweto answered softly. His eyes shone wetly, watering from the fumes of brandy. “We are cursed.”
Haltingly, the story emerged, between the swallows of brandy. Measles had broken out in the village and swept through it like fire. Within the first week, a quarter of the people lay dead; now, at the end, there were no more than a quarter left alive.
When the sickness had begun, Nayawenne had sung over the victims. When more fell sick, she had gone out into the forest in search of … Jamie’s grasp of Tuscarora was not sufficient to interpret the words. A charm, he thought it was—some plant? Or perhaps she looked for a vision that would tell them what to do, how to make amends for whatever evil had brought the sickness on them, or the name of the enemy who had cursed them. Gabrielle and Berthe had gone with her, because she was old and should not go alone—and none of the three had come back.
Nacognaweto was swaying very slightly as he sat, the gourd cup clasped in his hands. The woman bent over him, trying to take it away, but he shrugged her aside, and she let him be.
They had searched for the women, but there was no sign. Perhaps they had been taken by raiders, perhaps they too had fallen ill, and died in the forest. But the village had no shaman to speak for them, and the gods had not listened.
“We are cursed.”
Nacognaweto’s words were slurred, and the cup tilted dangerously in his hands. The woman knelt behind him and put her hands on his shoulders, to steady him.
“We left the dead in the houses, and set fire to them,” she said to Jamie. Her eyes were black with sadness, too, but some life still lurked within them. “Now we will go north, to Oglanethaka.” Her hands tightened on Nacognaweto’s shoulders, and she nodded to Jamie. “You go now.”
He went, the grief of the place clinging to him like the smoke that permeated clothes and hair. And within his charred heart as he left the camp sprang a small green shoot of selfishness, relief that the grief was—for this time—not his own. His woman