she shall share all my treasures and give me a hut full of sons! First, though, I'll have to make her fat.'
'And what of the white fish? Where is he?'
'Not far. There were two other fish—old ones—but they have gone.'
'Gone? To where?'
'Everywhere, ' Nawpawpay said, spreading his arms wide again. 'The wind, the earth, the trees, the sky. You know.'
Matthew feared that he did know. 'But you say the white fish is still here?'
'Yes, still here.' Nawpawpay scratched his chin. 'You have a nature full of questions, don't you?'
'It's just that... I might know him.'
'Only uncivilized beasts and dung buzzards know him. He is unclean.'
'Yes, I agree, but... why do you say he's a murderer and thief?'
'Because he is what he is!' Like a child, Nawpawpay put his hands behind himself and began to bounce up and down on his toes. 'He murdered one of my people and stole a courage sun. Another of my people saw it happen. We took him. Took them all. They were all guilty. All except my princess. She is innocent. Do you know how I know that? Because she was the only one who came willingly.'
'A courage sun?' Matthew realized he must mean the gold coin. 'What is that?'
'That which the water spirit gives.' His bouncing ceased. 'Go visit the white fish, if you like. See if you know him, and ask him to tell you what crimes he's committed.'
'Where can I find him?'
'This direction.' Nawpawpay pointed to Matthew's left. 'The hut that stands nearest the woodpile. You will know it.'
'What's he pointing to, Matthew?' Rachel asked. 'Does he want us to go somewhere?' She started to stand.
'Ah, no no!' Nawpawpay said quickly. 'A woman doesn't stand before me in this place.'
'Rachel, please stay where you are.' Matthew rested his hand on her shoulder. 'Evidently it's the chief's rule.' Then, to Nawpawpay, 'Might she go with me to see the white fish?'
'No. That hut is not a woman's territory. You go and come back.'
'I'm going to go somewhere for a short time, ' he told her. 'You'll need to stay here. All right?'
'Where are you going?' She grasped his hand.
'There's another white captive here, and I want to see him. It won't take long.'
He squeezed her hand and gave her a tight but reassuring smile. Rachel nodded and reluctantly let go.
'Oh... one other thing, ' Matthew said to Nawpawpay. 'Might I have some clothing?'
'Why? Are you cold on such a hot day as this?'
'Not cold. But there is a little too much air here for my comfort.' He gestured toward his exposed penis and testicles.
'Ah, I see! Very well, I shall give you a gift.' Nawpawpay stepped out of his own loincloth and offered it.
Matthew got the thing on with a delicate balancing act, since he was able only to use one arm. 'I'll return presently, ' he told Rachel. Then he retreated from the hut, out into the bright sun.
The hut and the woodpile were not fifty paces from the chief's abode. A small band of chattering, giggling children clung to his shadow as he walked, and two of them ran round and round him as if to mock his slow, pained progress. When he neared the hut, however, they saw his destination, fell back, and ran away.
Nawpawpay had been correct, in saying that Matthew would know the place.
Blood had been painted on the outside walls, in strange patterns that a Christian would say was evidence of the Indians'
Matthew stood outside for a moment, steeling himself. This looked very bad indeed. With a trembling hand, he pulled aside the bearskin. Bitter blue smoke drifted into his face. There was only a weak red illumination within, perhaps the red embers of a past fire still glowing.
'Shawcombe?' Matthew called. There was no answer. 'Shaw-combe, can you hear me?' Nothing.
Matthew could make out only vague shapes through the smoke. 'Shawcombe?' he tried again, but in the silence that followed he knew he was going to have to cross the dreadful threshold.
He took a breath of the sulphuric air and entered. The bearskin closed behind him. He stood where he was for a moment, waiting for his eyes to grow used to such darkness again. The awful, suffocating heat coaxed beads of sweat from his pores. To his right he could make out a large clay pot full of seething coals from which the light and smoke emitted.
Something moved—a slow, slow shifting—there on his left.
'Shawcombe?' Matthew said, his eyes burning. He moved toward the left, as currents of smoke undulated before him.
Presently, with some straining of the vision, he could make out an object. It looked like a raw and bloody side of beef that had been strung up to dry, and in fact was hanging from cords that were supported further up in the rafters.
Matthew neared it, his heart slamming.
Whatever hung there, it was just a slab of flayed meat with neither arms nor legs. Matthew stopped, tendrils of smoke drifting past his face. He couldn't bear to go any further, because he knew.
Perhaps he made a sound. A moan, a gasp... something. But—as slowly as the tortures of the inner circle of Hell—the scalped and blood-caked head on that slab of meat moved. It lolled to one side, and then the chin lifted.
His eyes were there, bulging from their sockets in that hideously swollen, black-bruised, and black-bloodied face. He had no eyelids. His nose had been cleaved off, as had been his lips and ears. A thousand tiny cuts had been administered to the battered torso, the genitals had been burned away and the wound cauterized to leave a glistening ebony crust. Likewise sealed with terrible fire were the hacked-off stumps of arms and legs. The cords had been tied and knotted around those grue-somely axed ruins.
If there was a description for the utter horror that wracked Matthew, it was known only by the most profane demon and the most sacred angel.
The motion of that lifted chin was enough to cause the torso to swing slightly on its cords. Matthew heard the ropes squeak up in the rafters, like the rats that had plagued Shawcombe's tavern.
Back and forth, and back and forth.
The lipless mouth stretched open. They had spared his tongue, so that he might cry for mercy with every knife slash, hatchet blow, and kiss of flame.
He spoke, in a dry rattling whisper that was almost beyond all endurance to hear. 'Papa?' The word was as mangled as his mouth. 'Wasn't me killed the kitten, was Jamey done it.' His chest shuddered and a wrenching sob came out. The bulging eyes stared at nothing. His was the small, crushed whine of a terrified child: 'Papa please... don't hurt me no more...'
The brutalized bully began to weep.
Matthew turned—his eyes seared by smoke and sight—and fled lest his own mind be broken like Lucretia Vaughan's pie dish.
He got outside, was further blinded and disoriented by the glare. He staggered, was aware of more naked children ringing him, jumping and chattering, their grins joyful even as they danced in the shadow of the torture hut. Matthew nearly fell in his attempts to get away, and his herky-jerky flailing to retain his balance made the children scream with laughter, as if they thought he was joining in their dance. Cold sweat clung to his face, his insides heaved, and he had to bend over and throw up on the ground, which made the children laugh and leap with new energy.
He staggered on, the pack of little revelers now joined by a brown dog with one ear. A fog had descended over him, and he knew not if he was going in the right direction amid the huts. His progress attracted some older residents who put aside their seed-gathering and basket-weaving to accompany the merry throng, as if he were some potentate or nobleman whose fame rivalled the very sun. The laughter and hollering swelled as did the numbers of his followers, which only served to heighten Matthew's terror. Dogs barked at his heels and children darted underfoot. His ribs were killing him, but what was pain? In his dazed stupor he realized he had never known pain, not an ounce of it, compared to what Shawcombe had suffered. Beyond the grinning brown faces he saw
