A
nd some familiar tones in the man's voice.
“Are you British?” Skye asked.
“My father was a captain in the Royal Marines; my mother a Frenchwoman. I grew up in Paris and know France better than my home country. I live in London.
And you, Mister Skye, are a Londoner, I've heard.”
“Long ago,” Skye said. He wondered for a moment whether to reveal more to this son of a naval officer. And decided to put it all before them: “I was a pressed seaman and jumped ship at Fort Vancouver in 1826.”
Mercer laughed heartily. “I would have too. Having volunteered for His Majesty's service by press gang, you decided to volunteer your resignation!”
Skye smiled. Maybe the bloke wasn't going to be a pain in the butt after all.
“I've heard a little about you; in fact, Mister Skye, I've been making inquiries. Now, take that Mister that prefixes your name. The story I have is that you require it. Is that the case?”
“It is, sir.”
“And why is that?”
“In England, a man without a Mister before his name is a man beneath notice. I ask to be addressed as Mister here in North America, where a man can advance on his merits.”
“A capital answer, Mister Skye. I should introduce you to my assistants, Mister Corporal, and Mister Winding. Floyd Corporal and Silas Winding. They're teamsters and hunters from Missouri and both have guided wagon trains out to Oregon, and know the ropes.”
Skye shook hands with both. Winding, in particular, interested him. Beneath that gray slouch hat was a pair of wary hazel eyes set in a face weathered to the color of a roasted chestnut. The man looked entirely capable of dealing with wilderness, and indeed, this pair had somehow gotten a wagon and its gold-colored horses through streams, across gulches, over boulders, up precipices, around brush and cactus and forest, to this remote Eden.
“Never been called a Mister before,” Winding said.
“Well, Mister Skye here has set a good precedent,” Mercer replied. “I'll follow suit! From now on, you're Mister Winding, if you can stand it.”
Winding spat, pulled some tobacco from his pocket, and placed a pinch under his tongue. Then he smiled. “It don't rightly fit but I'll weather it,” he said.
Around them, the Crows and Shoshones were swiftly erecting their encampment while children gathered into flocks and raced like starlings hither and yon. The Big Robber and Washakie had settled on some thick robes to enjoy a diplomatic smoke, each of them flanked by headmen and shamans.
Skye itched to learn the nature of Mercer's business but constrained his impulses. If the Briton wanted to talk of it, he would.
But Mercer had a disconcerting way of plunging into the middle of things. “You're wondering why I'm here, Mister Skye. Now, I'm quite happy to tell you. I'm an adventurer. I make my living at it. All of Europe starves for knowledge of the far corners of this great world. A man who can feed them stories about Madagascar or Timbuktu or Pitcairn Island or Antarctica is able to make a pretty penny, nay a pretty pound, by scribbling away.”
“You're a writer, then?”
“Oh, you might call me that. I fancy myself a good and exact chronicler, recording the world with a steady scientific eye. But I'm really a rambler. I go where no one else has gone and write about it. I examine strange people, exotic tribes, bizarre practices, and write of them. I keep a detailed journal, a daily log, in duplicate and in weatherproof containers, in which I record everything. I explore not just the terrain, describing what has never been witnessed by white men, but also the natives. That's why I'm here. These two tribes are unknown in Europe, and here I am to tell the readers of the
London Times
or the
Guardian
what I witness. And the darker and more fantastic, the better. But I also organize my journals into book form. What I see is not for all eyes, of course, and these volumes have an eager readership; people can't get enough of them. I do have a bit of trouble with censors but that only increases the sales. If I didn't have a spot of trouble, the books would hardly fly out of the stalls the way they do.”
“A journalist, then,” Skye said.
“Ah, you might say it. But it's the least of my vocations.”
“What are your larger ones?”
“Explorer, cartographer, ethnologist, geographer, biologist, zoologist, artist, linguistâI have several European tongues, French, Flemish, Dutch, German, Spanish, Portuguese, and a
reading knowledge of several others, and by the time I'm done here, I'll have a few thousand words of Shoshone and Absaroka in my notes, and I'll be able to speak to any of these people. Now what I don't have, Mister Skye, is their finger language, sign-talk, and I shall be approaching you for lessons, and especially the nuances.”
Skye found himself studying this wunderkind, curious about the rest: Did he live alone? Alienated from his roots? What of his family? Was he a perpetual boy, living each day for its excitement? Was there a woman anywhere in this life or did he live entirely in this male world he created? How were these exotic articles and books received on the continent? But Skye chose not to be nosy and simply welcomed this remarkable man.
“Actually, Mister Skye, I've been hearing of you for weeks. We came out the Oregon Road, of course, but turned off and headed north, roughly paralleling the Big Horn Mountains. A grand continent, sir. A vast, mysterious land, utterly beyond the grasp of Europeans, who live in little pockets across the Atlantic.”
Skye was aware of the sheer energy radiating from this man; it was as if Mercer were a live volcano, brimming with unfathomable powers and exuding energies that would shape not only his own destiny, but those of everyone he touched. It almost made Skye weary just to be in the presence of such force.
The meadow was now lined with colorful lodges, buffalo-hide cones with smoke-blackened tops. Some of their owners had rolled up the lower skirts, letting the playful zephyrs flow freely through their homes, rather like a housewife opening a casement window to air a room.
“See how they make a village out of a meadow, Mister Skye. And in the space of an hour too.”
“I've always marveled at it, sir.”
“That's why I'm here! I will catch every detail! And after this, we'll head for the geysers bubbling up on that plateau in the mountains I've been hearing about. The headwaters of the Missouri, I believe.”
“Not exactly, sir. The Indians call it the roof of the world. Some of its waters flow to the Pacific; some of the waters drain into the Yellowstone River and then the Missouri. Some of the waters drain into the Madison River, which forms one of the three branches that form the Missouri. But the true headwaters, the farthest reaches of that river, are up the Jefferson, far to the west.”
“Ah! You have set me straight. We shall go there. Maybe after we explore the Crows and Shoshones and the geysers, we'll tilt west to the Jefferson, named by the Yankees Lewis and Clark, I remember. Yes, go right on up to the last valley, the final creek, that dumps its waters into the tributaries that carry it to the Missouri, the Mississippi, and at last to New Orleans.”
“You have a good grasp of the continent, Mister Mercer.”
“How could I write if I didn't, eh? Well, I'll put it on my list.”
“List?”
“Things to do. I've a list. It must run to fifty items now. And I'm pleased to have made your acquaintance, Mister Skye. I was hoping to meet you. I need your assistance on a variety of matters, and thought we might work out some sort of accommodation.”
Skye was never averse to earning a little cash, so he nodded.
“Ethnography is what absorbs me just now. The Absarokas, the Shoshones, most interesting tribes. Religion and all
that. I am thinking that you might enlighten me about the Absaroka. I believe you're married into the tribe and know its ways?”
“I am.”
“Well, I want to blot it all up, see it, experience it. The shamans, they interest me. I would like to sit in, if I might.”
“It isn't something to sit in on, Mister Mercer. The seers have opened themselves to their spirit guides and listen in their own way, and offer thanksgivings. They may or may not share these insights with anyone else. Sometimes a gift is required.”
“Yes, yes, of course. But surely there are things about these people to explore. Things you might be willing to share; anecdotes, things you've seen, all that.”
Skye sensed that Mercer was driving toward some goal but so far, it wasn't very plain. “I imagine you'll find plenty of material, sir, just by observation.”
Mercer leaned forward. “What especially interests me, Mister Skye, is the secret rituals, the nighttime cults, the things that would affront European sensibilities. It's time for Europe to see how the rest of the world lives and thinks. Why, some of the things I witnessed on previous trips to Africa I was forced to describe in Latin in order to pass muster with the royal censors. You get the idea, eh?”
Skye nodded, wondering about the man.
“Actually, I would like to invite you over for some gin and bitters when the sun is over the yardarm. I always carry plenty on my expeditions to ward off the malaria. I've a few canvas camp chairs, and then, over a tonic or two, we can see how this rustic world works.
“I do my research, Mister Skye. In St. Louis I talked to several men of the mountains, inquiring what to look for. To a
man, they told me that the Crows are the most lascivious of all the tribes. So I came here! Where better to get a great story?”
Skye listened, startled.
“Why, fidelity is unheard of,” Mercer continued. “And a maiden can scarcely get firewood in the forest without being waylaid by half a dozen swains. And even grandmothers tell stories that would make a sailor blush. It's true, isn't it? I want to see it firsthand, record it, lock it in my journal for future use. That's what I'm after. And that's where you come in. You know these people. You can introduce me. You can take me to their rituals, help me befriend them. Tell me where these bacchanals take place. That's where you can earn a pretty penny, eh?”
All the ship's bells were clanging in Skye's head.
A
lmost before Skye could respond to Mercer's probing, the man was off in a new direction.
“Mister Skye, they told me that the Yellowstone tumbles over two great waterfalls up there; magnificent falls, scarcely seen by white men. Show me a falls like that, let me measure it and sketch it and I'll have a story. Take me where white men have not been. Take me into that forbidding land of shadows and forests and monster bears where no European has ever set foot, and I'll turn it into something. I'm told there's a geyser up there that blows a hundred feet into the air, and goes off once an hour, and a man could set a clock by it. That and the falls and grizzlies ten feet tall and hot springs where a man can take the best bath he's ever had.”
“That can all be done on horseback. It's not wagon country.”
“Of course not! I'm sure I could scarcely get a pack mule in there. This wagon, sir, is simply a home base, a portable station where we might resupply. It's been keenly outfitted. I took
counsel from a dozen men in St. Louis, friends of yours such as Davey Mitchell, Broken-Hand Fitzpatrick, the Chouteau family, eh? Preparation, that's the key to everything. They all advised me.”
“You were in good hands, then.”
“Ah, Mister Skye. My list! You should see my list. There's a medicine wheel in the mountains north of here. Very mysterious. I must see it. I hear it's the work of ancient ones and has something to do with astronomy. Maybe like Stonehenge, fitted out to reveal the equinoxes or the solstices. The newspapers love items like that. I can sell it to the
Times
for a pretty penny. And I'm told there's a shy tribe called Sheepeaters up there, now you see them, now you don't. Like the African pygmies or bushmen. They're watching you even if you're not watching them. There's a few stories I'm after. Interview a Sheepeater and I'll sell to half the papers in Europe.”
“I've never met one and I'm not sure they exist, Mister Mercer.”
“Ah, hoodoo! Vanishing tribes! That's all the better. Well, we'll just look into it. Especially the hoodoo. Find me a tribe with some hoodoo, and I can make a book out of it. Did you know there's some tribes off to the south that make a religion out of the visions they get from eating a certain bean called peyote? Takes a bean-eater right into a different world. The very thought of it would give bishops and archbishops dyspepsia. Yes, sir, I've researched it. Too far south for this trip, but on my list. I should like to sample this bean and see for myself whether I see God, or a reasonable facsimile.”
Skye nodded. He was growing dizzy from this man's waltz of mind. He glanced around him, seeing only the peaceful progress the Shoshones and Crows were making toward a festive summer encampment on a cool meadow.
“Yes, Navajos,” Skye said. “Some others too.”
“Mister Skye, I could sell a dozen stories about polygamy. It's rife here on this continent. The Mormons are on my list. We might just slip down there when the season is colder, and I'll record my impressions, talk to the wives. I'm told that each wife has a separate house, so the husband has separate families. That's how they do it. But in your tribe and other tribes, the chiefs and headmen have several wives and they all live in one lodge. Now that's a cozy affair I want to explore. Suppose one night the chief chooses one wife for his nuptial pleasures. What then? Does he send the others out in the cold, and summon them when he's done? I'm going to find the answer to it. It might ruffle a few peacock feathers along the Thames, but I'll weather it. Answers, sir. I'll get answers to everything. Maybe someday I'll do a paper for the Royal Society.”
“Yes, well, you have a world to explore,” Skye said, hoping to escape. The idea of escorting this man was growing less and less attractive.
“And that reminds me, Mister Skye, that exploring is at the heart of it. It's all science. All fact. All recording what I find and publishing it for the benefit of the civilized world. You know, Mister Skye, that I am going to be nominated for fellowship in the Royal Society? The greatest honor of all, its fellows selected so carefully that each of them is at the forefront of the frontiers of knowledge. They are the princes of science.”
“An honor when it comes, sir.”
“Ah, I'll elucidate for you. The Royal Society of London for the Promotion of Natural Knowledge is the most prestigious of its kind on earth. Think of it, Mister Skye. Francis Bacon! Christopher Wren! Edmond Halley! Isaac Newton! Being published in the
Proceedings
, or better still,
Philosophical
Transactions.
The papers I write pay the freight, but the goal in this bosom, sir, is to put the whole world, as observed by me, between the covers of those journals.”
The odd thing was, Skye thought this bundle of energy would probably do just that if he survived. A man like that could walk into trouble faster than any ordinary mortal and scarcely know he was getting into danger.
“Now, Mister Skye, I do have one small favor to ask. Chief Washakie brought me, but I have yet to meet the headmen among the Crows, and I would take it kindly if you would introduce me.”
“I can do that, sir. And how shall I introduce you?”
“What do you mean?”
“How would you like to be known to them? They don't grasp the idea of explorers. This whole world is perfectly familiar to them and so are the customs of their own people and all the others with which they have contact. They can even tell you a great deal about the religions of their neighbors.”
“Well, that's a good question, Mister Skye. What would you advise?”
“I would suggest to them that you are a storyteller, sir. That you want to see everything so that you can tell true stories to your own people. That you keep a journal, just as they keep their histories painted onto a sacred buffalo robe. They call it the winter count, and each year is named and remembered. One year, when there was a great meteor shower that awed us all, they remember as the winter of the falling stars. That's what I propose.”
Mercer smiled, revealing even white teeth in the chiseled, lively face. “Good, sir. Maybe they'll put down this year as the winter of the storyteller.”
Skye smiled. The man was not without a certain conceit.
“Very well, then.” He eyed the teamsters. “By all means, join us,” he said.
Skye hiked across the meadow, feeling the thick grass tug at his steps. Or was it just a sudden weariness or reluctance? He wasn't sure he wanted to introduce this amazing man to anyone.
But the headmen saw Skye coming and waited in their circle to welcome him and the other Europeans. Skye paused. It was necessary that he be summoned or invited before he proceeded. The Big Robber examined Skye's entourage, and addressed Skye: “You have brought strangers to us?”
“I wish to make them known to you so that the People will know who is among us.”
“That is good. Bring them forth.”
Skye brought them to the edge of the circle of the elders and chiefs, and in the Absaroka tongue introduced each man.
“Mister Mercer comes from across the big water, where I come from, and is a storyteller. He makes it his business to see this world, which he has not seen, and meet your people, learn their ways, and then tell these stories to his people. He records what he learns. He is eager to learn of your people.”
“And we will be eager to hear his stories. Welcome them. Let them live among us. Tell them to come and tell us stories this night. We will listen. You will translate.”
Skye turned to Mercer and his teamsters. “They welcome you. They give you the freedom of the village. They ask that you come this evening and tell them stories.”
“I will do that. I will tell them about Africans, or Asians, or crossing the waters in a sailing ship, or a dozen other things. I take it you'll translate?”
“I will.”
“We're in your hands, Mister Skye.”
With the introductions concluded, Skye returned to Mercer's camp and then excused himself. The truth of it was that in the space of an hour, Mercer had worn him out. Skye could think only of a nap, a rest, an escape from that crackling energy that had engulfed him from the moment he approached the explorer.
He wandered across the meadow intent on rest. Jawbone spotted him, cantered up, and started to butt Skye.
“Avast!”
Jawbone snorted. Someday this free-ranging horse would get himself into serious trouble with these people, Skye thought. But the animal simply would not stay in the herd.
Skye plodded to Victoria's lodge and stumbled inside. Jawbone poked his nose in, checked to see what was what, and retreated. Skye tumbled into the robes, utterly drained and not knowing why. It was not yet evening. Nothing had happened other than an encounter with a man who radiated energy, yet seemed to draw energy out of Skye. What was it about Graves Mercer? Skye couldn't say. Mercer was one of those men who walked along the knife edge of life and yet was rarely in trouble. But there was always a first time, and maybe Mercer's plunge into this world would be a first time.
Skye felt almost drugged, and lay gratefully on the robes until Victoria slipped in, squinted at him, knelt beside him, and pressed a hand to his forehead.
“Dammit, are you sick?”
“No, just worn-out.”
“That ain't like you.”
“I just am, that's all.”
“I saw you with those strangers.”
“An Englishman named Graves Mercer. He has two Missouri teamsters for his wagon.”
“And big horses. There's fifty Shoshone looking at them.”
“Draft horses. For hauling and plowing.”
She eyed Skye. “You better tell me what's wrong with you. What's wrong with them. It's them, isn't it. Something wore you out. Who are these men?”
“He's an explorer. He thinks no one's seen this world.”
“Typical white man,” she retorted. “You rest. I'll go tell him a few lies.”
Skye thought that maybe by God she would.