Original Death by Eliot Pattison Page A

Hickory John’s letter, only listen to its message. He had not wanted Duncan to see the urgent postscript. Stay silent between the worlds. This is how we first die . Had Hickory John glimpsed the horror that was coming to Bethel Church? Duncan feared for his friend more than ever. Conawago had rushed into the wilderness after witnessing the work of demons at the settlement. He would not have done so in fear. Conawago had retrieved an artifact and had gone to confront the demons.
    He tried to sleep, but every few minutes the nightmares returned. He worked at his bindings, but his twisting only seemed to make the ropes tighter. Finally he settled for staring at the rising moon out the rear door of the barn. The demons Conawago sought were creatures of the war. But Conawago hated the war, had warned Duncan again and again that they must not be drawn into it. It made no sense. Nothing of the day’s events made sense.
    Suddenly he sensed a presence beside him. Sagatchie held a muted lantern, which he set on the floor beside Duncan.
    â€œUntil today I had only met three men who wore the mark of the dawnchasers,” the Mohawk said, referring to the tattoo worn by those whocompleted a treacherous, sometimes fatal, twenty-four-hour circuit that connected old forest shrines on a run from one sunrise to the next. It was a ritual of the old ones that Conawago had taught to Duncan, a ritual lost to most of the tribes. “They were all old men when I was young, long dead now. At first I could not believe my own eyes when I saw the mark on Conawago.” Sagatchie looked into the shadows uncertainly. “There are those who still say the old ways do not have to be lost. But the cord that binds us to them is so frayed it could break at any moment. And when it does, we will never find our way back.”
    â€œConawago says the old spirits are not lost, that we have just become blind to them.”
    â€œWe? Do not mock my people by pretending you are one of us.”
    Duncan twisted, using his elbow to pull his collar tight against his shoulder. “When I was young no one dared to plant the first seed in the spring before one of our old women spent a night in the hills making offerings to the earth spirits. We would never launch a new boat without making an offering to the winds and sea.”
    â€œThose are just the habits of old—” the Mohawk’s words died away as he glimpsed Duncan’s shoulder. The stern warrior had the expression of a bewildered boy as he held the lantern closer. He muttered a low invective as he pulled away the fabric to study the pattern of the rising sun that had been tattooed over Duncan’s shoulder and right chest. He was silent for a long time, his gaze fixed first on the tattoo, then on Duncan’s eyes. “It is a grave sin to steal such markings,” he finally said. “They are not for Europeans.”
    â€œDo you think Conawago would allow me to run the woods at his side if I had stolen such a thing? We opened the old shrines for the Turtle clan of the Onondaga. We brought the ritual back to life.”
    Sagatchie stared at Duncan intensely, fingering his war ax, his face clouded first with anger, then confusion. “There was an Englishman who helped the Turtle clan after his people executed the Skanawati chief.” His hand moved to the sacred totem bag that hung from his neck.
    Duncan returned his level stare. “Do not mock my people by pretending I am English. I am a Scot. The English burned my home and slaughtered my clan when I was a boy. I was imprisoned with Skanawati and was proud to name him a particular friend. The English hanged him for a murderer. He was not guilty but he chose to die for the honor of his people.”
    Sagatchie looked into the shadows again, then moved to the entry of the barn. He stood in pale light, looking up as if consulting the moon, then stepped back and knelt by the post to which Duncan was tied.
    â€œThe