“The first mother of the Council is its proof,” came a steady voice. Adanahoe was walking along the rail, pulling on a ceremonial robe. Both Conawago and Custaloga stepped quickly forward to pull her back, but she stopped them with a raised hand then bent to lift the hinged section of rail that opened to the ladder that ran down the hull.
“The Revelator will be pleased to have the first mother at his fire,” Scar declared with a victorious sneer.
“Do not do this,” Conawago begged the old woman. “We have seen what the half-king does to his captives.”
Adanahoe tightened her robe about her with a determined glint. “They will not be turned back by mere words,” the matriarch replied in a low voice. “Look at them, like hungry animals. Their blood is on the boil,” she said to her companions. “I do not know about this god or that god, I just know you must live and go for the children.”
“And for you,” Tushcona added in an anguished voice.
Adanahoe squeezed her friend’s hand. “My fate has not yet been woven,” she said to the belt weaver, then she defiantly turned and climbed down into the canoe that sped forward to receive her. Duncan watched her canoe glide toward the shore, humbled by her bravery. The half-king’s camp was in a fever pitch, had eviscerated the last outsiders who had come to interfere with their plans. The gentle old matriarch would gladly let herself be hollowed out if it meant saving the children.
“It’s not what I expected the hole between the worlds to look like,” the captain declared as he carried the last of their party’s baggage ashore.
Duncan looked up uneasily at the ruined buildings on the heights of the island, then took the officer’s proffered hand without reply. The captain had kept a nervous watch as they had threaded their way up the maze of islands in the river, as if expecting the flotilla of canoes to reappear at any moment.
“I suspect no enemy warrior will dare venture near your ship again,” Duncan offered.
“You may be right, sir, but I will not breathe easy until I have twenty miles of open water between me and this damned river. This archipelago is like a series of traps for any vessel bigger than a dinghy.” The captain offered a hollow smile then ordered his men into the ship’s launch. He had readily accepted Duncan’s terms, agreeing to leave his passengers at the island chosen by Custaloga provided he leave them with the larger skiff and food supplies. Tushcona had also requested axes, as if she meant to do battle.
When Custaloga had pointed to the cliff that jutted like a ship’s bow in the middle of the river, a seaman had called out to ask if the old Iroquois had found his hole between worlds. The elder had offered a patient smile. “To the river this ship is a hole between worlds, neither sky nor water. The water resists holes, and in the end water always prevails.”
The words had not only wiped away the grin on the sailor’s face, they had shaken him so badly he had backed away, tripping over a bucket. Not a sailor had spoken another word.
At first Duncan had thought Custaloga had simply chosen the island with the best vantage over the unfolding river, for the height would surely give a view for miles in every direction. But as they reached the switchback trail that led up the steep walls, Ishmael cried out and ran to Conawago, who put a steadying hand on his shoulder and pulled him up the trail away from the water’s edge. Duncan lingered, watching as the Iroquois elders paused at the same spot, touching the amulets of their protective spirits and murmuring soft words toward the weathered white stones of the shore before beginning the climb.
Only when Duncan and Woolford, last in line, shouldered their packs and stepped to the trailhead did they see that among the sun-bleached stones, obscured by their shape and color, were dozens of human skulls.
The ruins they had seen from below were the burned-out shells of a large barn and two sheds. Hidden behind them was an abandoned three-story structure of stone, perched over an overgrown field that stretched to the low but steep ridge that bisected the island. Despite being overtaken by vines, the stone building was sturdy and well crafted. Once there had been crops in the field, and here and there stalks of maize poked up among the weeds. Behind the ruined barn a small vineyard had been planted many years before, and to Ishmael’s delight the rangy, weed-choked vines still yielded bunches of fat red grapes.
Duncan scouted the site with Woolford and Sagatchie, discovering scraps of polished leather and long rows of stones that appeared to have been recently stacked into defensive walls. In the shadow at one end of the house were trestles recently nailed together from wood salvaged from the barn.
Sagatchie bent to pick up a small brass disc. “Français,” he said, holding it up to show Duncan the little fleur-de-lis embossed on the button.
Woolford checked the priming of his rifle and studied the landscape with new worry as the hell dog began sniffing the ground like a predator sensing a trail. “The French army was here, no more than a month ago.”
“I know this place,” came a low, worried voice behind them. Kass had a blanket draped over her shoulders, as if she had grown cold. “It is called the Island of the Ghosts. War parties have stopped here for many generations, and trading parties. One of the old skins on the Council House wall tells the story of how a small group of Iroquois stole into a war camp of Huron on the island with the ruined stone castle. They rescued captives and gave them all their canoes to flee in, then they stayed to attack. Ten of our warriors against forty of theirs. We still sing of their deaths at our campfires.”
A shiver ran down Duncan’s spine. Tushcona’s belt predicted that he and Conawago would become dead heroes. “Why are we here?” he asked. “Why did Custaloga bring us to a place of dead heroes?”
“I wish I knew,” Woolford said as he reached for his pocket telescope. “I don’t like it. The French know Johnson and the general will be bringing troops up the river toward Montreal,” he added as he scanned the horizon. “If I were them I’d set an artillery battery here. We’ve seen the signs of a scouting party. I wager they will be coming, very soon and in force. If we linger we are lost.”
But lingering was exactly what the Iroquois elders intended. When Duncan and his companions returned to the house, a large cooking fire had been lit. Tushcona was directing the others with the air of a matriarch arranging a family meal. A cask of cornmeal had been found among the supplies left by the navy, and she was directing Conawago as he shaped little loaves and set them under upturned clay pots beside the fire. Grapes harvested by Ishmael lay spread along the makeshift table of planks and trestles. Bacon and beans left by the captain were cooking over the open flames.
Duncan and Woolford retreated into the house, passing through a large kitchen with a walk-in hearth then into rooms stripped of furnishings. Shards of plaster with hints of bright paint clung to the plank walls. They could make no sense of the stately, incongruous structure until they reached the largest of the chambers, where the walls remained largely intact. Their plaster was covered with scenes of the Bible, painted with amateur but devout hands.
“A church,” Woolford said.
“No,” Duncan replied, pointing to faded names that had been ornately painted along the back wall, over a long table that had been partially dismantled for firewood. Frère Jean, Frère Samuel, Frère Pierre, Frère Stephen. “Not exactly.”