Joachim's Magic, page 9
Each evening Reis walked to the perimeter of their temporary camp and left food for his friend. But he never saw him nor spoke to him, and wondered if he were still alive and following them. The only sign was the empty plate the next morn, though it could have been scavengers eating the scraps, he had no way of knowing. When he could, he would venture all around the brush and trees seeking Jeremie, whispering his name and waiting for an answer, any sound. There was none.
Every time he thought about telling Dougham, no, it was Joachim now, his master waved him away with an impatient hand. Joachim still ate alone and wrote his notes in English, Latin or Hebrew depending, as he had said, upon his mood. Most often now they were in Hebrew, out of defiance or anger, Reis didn’t know. He watched his master one day as he wrote, trying not to appear as if he were watching but seeing the strange letters formed from right to left.
It was all backwards, this Hebrew writing. And Reis could make no sense of what Master Gans wrote. There were no letters he recognized, not an “A,” nor “R” for Reis’s own name. Though he could write but little, nor form his letters well, Reis could read. His Uncle Allyn had seen fit to teach him though his aunt clicked her teeth angrily whenever her husband sat him down.
“Wasting his time when he could be cleaning out the pigs or fetching wood,” was all she ever said. Uncle Allyn shrugged,
“Every boy should know how to read,” and just continued. Reis learned his skill from a tattered Bible and though his own father had never read nor ever shown him the Holy Book, Uncle Allyn was always spouting proverbs and such pulled from its worn pages.
“‘Tis God’s word,” Allyn said and that became the only exposure to religion Reis had. He enjoyed sitting next to his uncle, out of the cold and muck from the pig pen. He learned fast and once, when his aunt and uncle were helping a neighbor with a birthing cow, Reis took the Book and picked out the passages he liked best, committing them to memory.
He wasn’t sure he liked this new Joachim Gans, though he had greatly admired Dougham Gaunse and hung upon his every word. Joachim no longer troubled to tuck his long side hair under his hat. Every night he took his silver star and rubbed and polished it deliberately in front of the others. Thomas Hariot watched with a bemused look on his face; Ralph Lane was busy plotting his strategy should the Savages appear; John White was drawing his maps and pictures; only Greutter and Altschmer stared stonily from their place across the fire. Reis wished Joachim was not so arrogant in his ways that he angered these men. But Joachim Gans, mineral man, didn’t seem to care.
When the warriors of Menatonon appeared, Reis had been away from the camp searching again for Jeremie.
“Hist,” he called over and over. “Jeremie, where be you hiding? ‘Tis cold and I’ve some food for you.”
A thin hand reached out and grabbed at his ankle. Reis almost dropped the plate and the bundle of clothing he was carrying. He looked down and saw Jeremie crouched low under a prickly bramble.
“Where have ye been?” Reis asked, noting the thinness in the boy’s face and his pinched and nervous look.
“There were Savages about so I kept moving. Every time you came I was hidden deep in the woods. ‘Tis fearsome scary and lonely. I hear the witches.”
Reis shivered. Which was worse, Savages or witches? In truth, he didn’t know.
“You must come back to camp with me now,” Reis insisted. “Far too dangerous it is for you to be out here all alone.”
“I will tonight, I promise. For you’re right, I’m frightened and the Savages seem to be moving closer.”
He glanced around the woods and Reis did the same, almost expecting a painted warrior to step from the shadows. But there was nothing.
“Why don’t you come now?”
Jeremie shook his head.
“Master Lane is angry, I know. I heard him yelling this morn. For sure he would send me back if he saw me.”
“Not now. We’ve come too far for him to make you return. No, he’ll yell and rant, but with us you’ll stay.”
Jeremie nodded and began to scramble out from the bush. Just then Reis heard a strange sound and looked up to see a group of Savages stepping from the forest into the small clearing. Jeremie must have seen them also, for he scrabbled back under the bush faster than Reis could blink an eye. The Savages hadn’t seen him for they were looking over Reis’s shoulder at the men and the campfire.
Reis back slowly away from the bramble bush, hoping Jeremie had the good sense to stay hidden. He kept backing as the Indians came forward until he was at the camp’s edge. Only then did he take in a deep breath and realized he’d been holding it all the while. Masters Hariot and Amadas saw the Savages behind him and came forward. Master Thomas held his hand up in a greeting. He spoke in a strange language which Reis had never heard before.
“The great Menatonon, King of Choanoke,” is what he said and Reis could understand only “Menatonon.”
The Savage, who walked with a bad limp, spoke to Thomas Hariot at some length, none of which Reis could fathom. He watched as Ralph Lane came forward and Master Lane spoke rapidly to Hariot, who translated for Manatonon. He had four warriors with him, strong men with brown skin and feathers in their hair. They had thick cloaks of animal skin wrapped around them against the cold. Heat from their breath formed clouds in front of their faces.
The talk was loud and vigorous. From what Reis learned afterward, Menatonon warned Master Lane of plans by Wingina to attack them. Wingina, now calling himself Pemisapan, was busy gathering his warriors together to persuade them and neighboring tribes to attack the English.
“Wingina has turned hostile to us,” Sir Thomas explained, clearly upset.At the end of their discussion, Ralph Lane ordered Valentine Beale to take Menatonon and his son, Skiko, prisoner using, as his excuse, that earlier at Aquascogoc the Savages had stolen a silver cup belonging to Sir Grenville. Menatonon’s and Skiko’s hands were tied behind them and the three remaining warriors chased back into the woodlands. Reis thought it was not a good thing to capture this crippled chief. Surely it would only antagonize the Savages. But he kept his thoughts to himself as Lane and Menatonon engaged in heated discussion for two days following, while Hariot translated all.
By the end of the second night, Menatonon had revealed that the Mangoaks had great quantities of copper, “beautifying their houses with great plenty of the same,” Hariot translated. Menatonon called the mineral “Wassador” and told Ralph Lane it was plentiful in Chaunis Temoaton to the west. Or if he preferred, there was a great deep-water harbor to the north and a chief of those tribes who had pearls in great quantity. Because of this good news, Master Lane authorized Beale to put aside his musket and untie the chief, who limped away into the woods there to be surrounded by his three followers who had waited patiently for him. But Lane kept Skiko prisoner.
Unfamiliar with the politics of it all, Reis kept away from where they were discussing, busying himself with helping Joachim and Altschmer with the furnace. He brought more food to Jeremie and told him to wait to return to camp.
“At least until Master Lane is finished with the Savage.”
By now Jeremie had developed a deep cough which he tried to muffle in his jacket as best he could. Reis was sorely worried that the boy would get sicker if he didn’t get closer to the fire. He decided to ask Joachim that evening.
Joachim said not a word when Reis told him about Jeremie but his eyebrows furrowed deeper when Reis mentioned Jeremie’s cough.
“Bring him here,” said Joachim Gans and Reis nodded. He knew that if Jeremie got even more sick and died, that it would be his fault for hiding him and not telling anyone. When he saw that Jeremie couldn’t walk he ran back and got his master.
“He can’t get up,” Reis cried out and followed Joachim to where Jeremie lay, still hidden deep in the brambles. Joachim grunted as the thorns tore at his clothing but he managed to drag Jeremie out and lifted him in his arms to take him back to camp.
No one saw them go to Joachim’s shelter, for Lane, Amadas, Hariot and the others were conferring about Menatonon’s news. Joachim laid Jeremie on his blanket and began rubbing his hands and feet.
“He is half-frozen, boy,” said Joachim with a voice as cold as the frosted air.
“Be you addled in the head to let him follow us for weeks like this, without warmth and proper food?”
Jeremie coughed and moaned. Reis was stricken with guilt, for even in the half-light of the tent he could see how pale was Jeremie’s skin and how frail he looked. He knelt down by Jeremie’s side.
“How be you feeling now?”
Jeremie whispered,
“My chest hurts when I breathe.”
Joachim rose and gave Reis a push.
“Bid Master Altschmer to heat some water to boiling. Tell Master Hariot I must speak with him.”
Reis ran to do what he was told. Master Altschmer pumped the bellows against the flames and the fire roared hot. He put a black kettle on to boil and fanned the flames some more. When Sir Thomas heard Reis’s news he left the group and went immediately to Joachim’s tent.
“How bad is he?” Sir Thomas asked.
“Bad enough,” answered Joachim, giving Reis a stern look. Reis hung his head. Why, oh why had he not told Joachim sooner? He berated himself over and over until Master Hariot took pity on him and bade him leave. Reis went back to where Master Altschmer was and took over the heavy bellows until the water boiled merrily. The smelter himself carried the hot kettle over to Joachim’s tent where he placed it on the earth near Jeremie. They brought a cloth and covered Jeremie’s head and the kettle’s vapors, so that the steam could rise and break his congestion. Joachim mixed a paste of leaves and herbs and rubbed the sticky mixture onto Jeremie’s chest. He coughed incessantly.
Reis spent a restless night listening to Jeremie and the low murmurs of Hariot and Lane, who had come to watch. A strange heartache was welling inside his chest and he knew for certain its source, guilt and fear and a foreboding of bad things to come. He tossed and moaned in his sleep, waking frequently to cock his head and listen to the sounds of the night, the hooting of the owls, the distant howling of wolves, the rasping cough of his young friend.
CHAPTER 14
THE PLANS OF PEMISAPAN
THE NEWS OF Pemisapan’s hostility greatly disturbed Ralph Lane and the others. They met the next morn to discuss strategies. It seemed that Ensenore had died. Ensenore, who had been the father of Pemisapan and a member of his council, believed that the English held special powers and had urged caution in dealing with them. Now that he was dead, Pemisapan was planning a massive attack jointly with Tarraquine and Andacon, chiefs of the neighboring tribes. Skiko, who did not appear a reluctant prisoner, had revealed all of this to Philip Amadas.
“My father wishes to keep the peace. He is meeting with his warriors and will return soon.”
Reis walked over to where Jeremie lay. The boy had spent a restless night, coughing harshly and sometimes moaning aloud. Several times the kettle had been re-boiled and Jeremie made to breathe its vapors. Master Gans had added special herbs to the boiling water, their fumes stinging the eyes of Hariot and himself. But they stayed by Jeremie’s side all through the night. At dawn’s light Reis had stumbled out of bed and made his way to his master’s tent, intending to ask about his friend. But he was met by Sir Thomas as he was just leaving.
“Hist boy, let him sleep. ‘Tis the first time he’s slept without coughing. Leave him be.”
“Will he be all right?”
Sir Thomas hesitated.
“He’s still poorly. Joachim tells me that you knew of his following us and said not a word. Why is that?”
Reis was so distraught he could hardly speak.
“He… made me promise… not to tell. He was afraid….”
“Afraid of what?”
“That Sir Ralph would send him back to the main camp. Especially after being told he couldn’t come with us.”
Master Hariot frowned.
“Your oath of silence may have cost his life.”
“Master Hariot, what can I do?”
The great astronomer and mathematician walked past him.
“Say your prayers, boy, and hope that Almighty God is listening. For we’ve much need of prayers now, for the boy and with Pemisapan’s anger on the rise.”
Reis started after him, wishing he could be just like him and knowing he probably never would. Now even Joachim Gans was thinking badly of him for not telling anyone about Jeremie and because of it, the boy was ill and maybe dying. Reis did his tasks with his mind numb and his eyes glazed with worry. He wondered if he should take Master Hariot’s advice and pray to God.
But talking to the Almighty was not an easy thing. Reis wasn’t used to praying and though he tried to remember the psalms that Uncle Allyn had taught him or even the Our Father, he got no further than three lines of each before his mind ran dry. For the fourth time that day he wandered close to the tent of his master and listened to Jeremie’s deeply congested cough.
“Hist now,” said Master Altschmer’s deep voice in his ear. “You can not do gut by vaiting around like this. Come here und help mit this fire.”
Master Altschmer beckoned him to follow and Reis did, the guilt like a stone in his stomach. Though he hadn’t eaten much all day, he felt the bile rise and he retched by a clump of bushes, again and again until his stomach cramped and his eyes ran tears. If Master Altschmer heard he said nothing but waited by the furnace until Reis joined him.
There was something about the German smelter that Reis liked, even though he was Master Greutter’s friend. He was a big solid man with arms like tree trunks and a neck just as thick. His face was always red from the fire’s heat and beads of sweat ran continuously down his face dripping into his beard, which he wiped away with a large blue kerchief.
“Vork ist the best thing,” he said after a few minutes. Reis was pumping the bellows, opening and closing them so the air was driven onto the flames. With each puff the fire sparked and burned hotter. Reis felt his skin grow flush and he could smell the metallic odor of the roasting ores.
“You pump the bellows gut, boy,” chuckled the smelter. “The fire vants to go to sleep but you vill not let it. Gut, gut! Vielleicht werden Sie ein Schmelzer sein.”
Reis felt the ache in his shoulders but he kept the bellows opening and closing. The heat was almost unbearable, so close was he to the flames. Open and close, open and close, his arms moved almost like the beating of his heart. He must have worked the bellows for a long time without realizing it for when the smelter took them from his iron grip, his arms still pumped in a rhythmic beat.
“Hist, mein little one,” said Master Altschmer in a strange, soft voice. “You must stop und rest.”
Reis shook his head stubbornly and reached for the bellows again. Master Altschmer laid them on the side of the stonework and studied Reis with a careful eye.
“You are ill?”
Reis shook his head again. The German looked as if he were going to say something else, then changed his mind. He tested the liquid ore, scooping some off in an iron ladle and tipping the ladle this way and that to see how the melt ran. Not satisfied, he poured it back into the mixture still above the fire.
“Ah, patience,” he said slowly. “One must haf the patience.” He stared again at Reis. “Your master, Joachim Gans, he ist a patient man. Alvays for him the time moves slowly.”
Reis nodded, content now to sit and watch Altschmer at work. For this man knew what he was doing, that was certain. He never ran the fire to extreme so that all that was left of the burning was blackened slag. He knew when to remove the melt, that precise moment when the ore flowed to its proper consistency. He could skim the regulus off as easily as one might skim fat from boiling water. Reis knew, watching Altschmer at work, that he was seeing a true master of his craft just like Joachim.
When it was late evening, Joachim called to him from the edge of the fire’s light. He glanced back at the smelter, still purging and refining the metal. Master Altschmer nodded slightly.
“Go now und see how the boy ist doing. For ve haf enough troubles vorrying about the Savages.”
Reis wondered if the man could read the future as well as he read the liquid ore. He went reluctantly to his own master and watched for a sign from Joachim’s eyes.
“He sleeps,” said Master Gans, not quite so sternly this time. “And he is not coughing so much. We should know by tomorrow.” He stared at Reis and shook his head.
“‘If one man says to thee, ‘Thou art a donkey,’ pay no heed. If two speak thus, purchase a saddle.’ Know this boy, you have been braying loud and clear.”
Reis knew it was going to be a long night. He said to Joachim, “I’d like to sleep in the tent.”
Joachim thought for a moment, then nodded.
“A good thing, perhaps.”
It was the longest night Reis had ever spent, except for the time after his father’s death. When he had run away into the forest he’d given no thought to food, shelter or the wild creatures which roamed its dark depths. The first night he had spent high in a tree, wide awake and listening to the animal cries. Every creature had its own special sound and some were howls of hunger. Fierce wolves roamed the woodlands and even bear, he’d heard. He lay all night against the hard tree limb, trembling not only from cold but from fear. For six nights he’d hardly slept at all until his uncle came to fetch him. But strange as it was, he felt free in the forest. During the day he walked its leafy glades searching the bushes for any berries the birds had overlooked, cracking a nut with his teeth that had been left lying on the earthy floor. He watched the animals at work, the furry squirrels gathering for the winter, the raccoons washing their food in the stream, even the shuffling black bear with its cubs behind it. At those moments he quickly climbed the nearest tree and, from his safe vantage point, saw the youngsters rough-housing with each other. Deer were plentiful and rabbits, but he couldn’t catch any of the swift hopping creatures.
