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“L uke!” Crispin called the boy over as he ran by.

“Looks like you’ve been having fun.” Birdy smiled at the lad and resisted the urge to embarrass him with a hug. “We will formally introduce ourselves to everyone later tonight. I need to remind you that just as in English society, there are rules. Elders eat first, no matter how hungry you are. You must never shout at or raise your voice to an elder. Do not jump in front of them even if they’re walking slowly. If an elder bids you to sit and listen, you will sit and listen. No complaining.”

“Are you an elder? Or do you mean really old people?” Luke asked innocently.

“They usually have gray hair,” she explained. “To be safe, you should imagine that anyone older than your father is an elder.”

“Stone Turtle said I could go fishing with him tomorrow morning. Can I?”

“Bring Stone Turtle around later so we can meet him properly. Then we’ll decide.” Crispin did not take his promise to Johnstone lightly. He would keep Luke safe as long as he could.

The village was soon filled with the scent of roasting venison. Many cooking pots rested beside the fire, and stone griddles were being heated for fry bread. That they’d whipped up a celebration feast on such short notice was impressive.

Staring Eagle had returned from the lake and wanted a private audience with her and Crispin. While her grandfather knew she spoke both English and the Ojibwe language perfectly, he’d also requested an interpreter so he might converse with Crispin. It was a small sign she wasn’t trusted to repeat the words accurately without bias. She should feel more slighted by this, but, she’d decided, it would do little harm.

The meeting was to take place in the chief’s large wickiup, so at least there was little room for an audience. Staring Eagle wanted their meeting to be private, a fact that she didn’t know how to interpret as either good or bad. When the time came, she stepped through the opening and took a seat on the blanket with Crispin standing beside her.

With the interpreter’s help, Staring Eagle entered and made his way over to where extra blankets had been folded for his comfort. His body might move slowly, but she knew his mind was sharp.

He remained standing. “What are you called?” he asked Crispin in heavily-accented English.

“Crispin Alexander Morgan,” Crispin replied. “Lord Morgan, heir to the Earl of Angleswood.”

“I am called Staring Eagle,” the chief replied. “Do you know what an eagle is?”

“Yes,” Crispin answered. “We’ve seen many on our journey.”

“What is a ‘Crispin’? I have not heard this word before.” After he asked, Staring Eagle motioned for his interpreter to help him sit. When he finally settled, he patted the blanket next to Birdy, indicating Crispin should sit as well.

“My given name is derived from Saint Crispin, the patron saint of cobblers.”

“Cobbler,” Staring Eagle repeated, waving off the interpreter to show he understood. “Do you know why my people are called Ojibwe?”

“I must admit, I do not.” Crispin wiped away a drop of sweat from his forehead. It was hot in the enclosed space.

“Cobblers,” Staring Eagle said with a wry chuckle. “Because of the way we stitch our moccasins. Many stitches,” he explained, pointing to the puckered toe of his moccasin. “We have much in common.”

“Yes. That’s quite the coincidence.”

“And, also,” Staring Eagle continued, “Our affection for my granddaughter, Nenokaasi.”

“Especially that. She is my wife, and I have vowed to love and honor her.”

“How?” the old man asked. “How do you honor her? You will take her from her people. Away from all that is known to her. Is your kingdom so great?”

“It is not,” Crispin replied after much thought. “Nenokaasi and I belong together. I knew the moment I laid eyes on her. She will be the mother of my children. I could not live without her.”

“Pretty words,” the chief nodded. “What say you, granddaughter?”

“I will do as my mother did and choose the man of my heart.”

“Ah,” Staring Eagle said, placing his hand on his chest. “Almost Rain broke my heart. But she was right in her thinking,” he continued. “Her decision brought us peace and plenty. Your father has been true to our people. Will your husband be?”

“I have also chosen well,” Crispin said, before she could answer. And then, to Birdy’s surprise, he reached back and pulled their pistol from his waistband. He quickly flipped it around and offered it to her grandfather grip first. “I’ve brought you a gift. It’s the newest model of percussion pistol from London.”

Her grandfather took the pistol and studied it intently before speaking again. “Ammunition?”

“Here.” Crispin produced a box of caps and balls from his pocket. It was all the ammunition they had for the gun.

“It will be used well.” Staring Eagle passed the gun to his interpreter. “You honor me with your gift.” He thought for a long while before speaking again. “Nenokaasi, your aunt and uncle grieved for you when you left. You must repay them for their suffering.”

“We will,” Crispin said solemnly.

“My tired eyes are happy to see you, granddaughter. Let us go eat before the bread is burned.”

Birdy waited behind with Crispin as her grandfather was helped out and made his way to the fire.

“That went better than I feared,” Crispin said at last. “At least I think it did. Was I wrong to give him our pistol?”

“It was brilliant. He was much impressed with it.” She dared to hope this meeting would signal to the others that all was well between her husband and her grandfather.

That evening’s campfire was a feast. There were so many foods from her childhood that she wanted to eat them all. She’d missed this. Missed the gathering of people, the sound of laughter, children running, someone starting to sing a song. Later, when the fire had burned low, a storyteller would clear his throat, and they would all listen to a fantastic tale.

“Nenokaasi,” her aunt said, hugging her for what seemed like the hundredth time. “I see my sister in your eyes. Your mother would be so happy you’ve returned to us.”

“I feel her spirit everywhere.” Her child would be born here, and her aunt’s knowledge and comfort would be helpful when the time came. Birdy didn’t know how to explain to her aunt that she would eventually leave again and return to England. Some day.

“Luke.” Crispin grabbed the boy as he ran by. “Don’t forget to bring Stone Turtle by for introductions.”

“Suddenly he’s too busy for us,” Birdy lamented. “He seems to be doing so well here. I was afraid there might be more teasing and practical jokes. You know how boys are.”

“Do you think they’ll hurt him?” Crispin shifted uneasily in his seat.

“No, just kid stuff. He’ll learn.”

“Damn. Now I have to go fishing with Stone Turtle tomorrow just to keep an eye on him.”

“I know what you’re thinking. This is nothing like your friend Timothy.” And yet, Crispin would go keep watch. It was unnecessary but now part of what she loved about him. He was determined to keep their family safe.

Birdy was about to say more when a worrying murmur swept over the crowd. Placing her hand on Crispin’s arm, she looked around the crowd in an effort to discover the cause of the sudden unrest.

And then, Ben Red Feather made his way to the fire.

Food turned to dust in her mouth. She would never forget George’s mother’s wails as her son died in her arms. She was embarrassed to admit she was relieved that George’s parents had moved to the mainland so she wouldn’t have to see them.

“What’s wrong?” Crispin moved closer and put his arm around her. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

“I’m a little tired.” Why had he returned? He could have found a wife with any other tribe. The only reason for him to return to this place was to cause trouble. Like Lord Dunwoody, Ben Red Feather was the sort of man whose ego couldn’t tolerate being challenged or, God forfend, losing.

“It’s your condition. I’ll walk you back to the trading post.”.

“No, please. I don’t want him to think he can scare me away.” Too late, she realized that she shouldn’t have said that.

“Him? Oh, Red Feather’s here, isn’t he? Point him out.”

“Over there. He’s talking to my grandfather right now.” It was best Crispin knew the man’s face.

“That clown? He’s the most harmless looking man I’ve met today. If he’s making you uneasy, I’ll go talk to him right now.”

“Don’t you dare,” Birdy begged as she pulled on Crispin’s arm. “I never loved him. I never felt anything for him at all. I was young and enjoyed the flattery and attention. I never really wanted to marry him.”

“I guess I’m lucky you waited for me,” Crispin teased as he pulled her closer to whisper in her ear. “I don’t care about him either. He can’t have you. You’re my wife. You’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” she repeated, enjoying the warmth and safety of his arms. “We will ignore him.” It wasn’t a great strategy, but it was all she had at the moment.

The first sign of trouble came less than a week after their arrival. Crispin overheard a small group of regulars talking at the trading post. He wasn’t meant to hear it, but the men who traded here weren’t known for their discretion. It was news to him that, as an Englishman, he was not considered a human being. The man who delivered this revelation mused that Birdy had thrown her life away by marrying outside of the tribe.

The speaker said that, from his perspective, Birdy would do better to divorce him and become Red Feather’s second wife. Determined to make his presence known, Crispin rushed into the room to confront the man.

“Keep my wife’s name out of your mouth.” As he expected, the man quickly backed down like the gossiping coward he was. Trouble was, if this was the gossip at the trading post, what were they saying in the village?

For safety’s sake, there would be no travel until after Birdy gave birth. Crispin would do what he could to immerse himself in tribal life. What was it Birdy told him Lady Skeffington had said? Oh, yes, they may not accept him, but he would be tolerated. He went back to their room and changed into his buckskins. It was time to go to work.

“Greetings,” he called out to Birdy’s uncle, Crooked Foot. The man spoke enough English to converse with, and Crispin knew he’d be able to get his point across. “I need an occupation,” he announced. “Is there a task that needs doing?”

“There is always work to do.”

“That’s what I was counting on.”

“I am a flint knapper. Can you make an arrowhead?”

“I can learn.”

“Not with my flint. Do you see those racks over there?” he asked, pointing to large square frames set up at the edge of the village. “Take yourself there. The old woman will tell you what to do.”

For weeks, Birdy watched as Crispin was sent out day after day to work with the women. He stripped bark, gutted small game, and dried intestines to make snowshoe lacings. He collected grass for baskets, stirred pitch pots, and hauled firewood. They were making him work his way up from the bottom while he yearned to hunt and fish with the men.

On the day he was finally trusted to help repair a canoe, her heart filled with hope. Crow Shadow, a friend from her childhood, took pity upon Crispin as he tended a pot of pine resin and called him to the shore to mend his battered canoe. Once repaired, Crispin was invited along on a fishing expedition.

Successful fishing, along with Crispin’s broad hinting of his enthusiasm for it, led to an invitation for a small game hunting expedition on the mainland. The hunt was successful, and Crispin earned a reputation as a quick study on the hunting grounds. Birdy’s heart rejoiced on the day he no longer sat weaving baskets with the old women.

“We saw some warriors from another tribe,” Crispin announced when he returned from the latest hunt. “Crow Shadow says they were nadowessi .”

“Snake people,” Birdy translated. “They are our enemy. What happened?”

“We gave each other a wide berth. If I’m to be a hunter, Crow Shadow decided I should learn fighting skills. He and Bone Tooth have offered to give me a few lessons. Expect to see a few random bruises for a week or two.”

For three weeks Crispin dragged himself into bed at night so she could massage his aching muscles. “Do you think you’re learning anything?” she asked as another deep purple bruise had blossomed on the pale skin of his upper chest.

“I was able to take Bone Tooth down today,” he replied with what sounded like pride. “I think Crow Shadow was impressed. It felt good.”

“I’m glad you made friends.” Even if those friends sent him home tired and battered every night. There were some things Crispin could only learn from the other men. “When is the next hunt?”

“They’re sending men out for moose in another week or two. I’m hoping to be chosen. Crow Shadow told me something the other day and it made so much sense. When hunting in the forest, whatever happens, the eagle sees you, the deer hears you, and the bear smells you.”

Birdy smiled as the wisdom was taught to even the youngest children of the tribe. They were teasing him, but it didn’t matter. Without Dunwoody’s constant threat, Crispin was acting more himself. More like the man she glimpsed at a house party so many months ago.

He was the Crispier Crispin. Covering her mouth from laughing out loud at the thought of it, he misinterpreted her mirth for nausea.

“How are you feeling?” he asked as he reached out for her. “If you don’t want me to leave for the hunt, I won’t go.”

“No, darling,” she said, crawling into his arms. “I’m happy that you’re happy.”

“Do you know what would really make me happy?” he asked as he slipped his hands under her dress. “Having you naked beside me.”

While the rest of the village packed and planned for the yearly moose hunt, Birdy waited every day to hear if Crispin would be chosen to take part. A moose hunt was a dangerous thing, and it wasn’t uncommon for injury or even death of one of the hunters. When Crow Shadow came to call at the trading post she was certain Crispin had been chosen.

But it wasn’t the moose hunt he’d been chosen for. There’d been a mountain lion attack at the edge of one of the foraging fields on the mainland. A woman had been mauled, and a child broke their arm in their frantic escape. Luke Who Wanders had been with them.

“You know I have to go,” Crispin said, correctly gauging her worry. “If I don’t, they’ll never ask again, and I’ll be weaving baskets with your aunty again.”

“I know. That doesn’t mean I have to like it.” Birdy reached down and rubbed her growing belly to comfort herself. “I know you’re capable. My biggest worry is that they’ll find it funny to leave you stranded somewhere.”

“I’ll use the sun to find my way back to you. I have a good knife and a proper war club now, although I’d rather use my bow and arrows.”

“Mountain lions are tricksters. I will worry about you hunting one with the men.” A lion hunt was a serious thing, and she was stunned they’d asked him along. With Ben Red Feather in the hunting party, it was hard to gauge if Crispin was in more danger from the lion or his hunting companion.

“It attacked children on the mainland. Luke was with them. It needs to be taken care of.”

“Ben Red Feather is in the hunting party. I don’t trust him.”

“I don’t trust him either. He refers to me as gichi-mookomaan to remind everyone that I’m a white man and not a human being. It’s childish and petty.”

“You’ll need to keep one eye on him and one eye on the lion.”

“Then it’s a good thing I have two eyes. Come here, woman,” he teased, placing his hands on her belly. “If I have to crawl back to you broken and bloody, on my hands and knees, I will make it back to you.”

The next morning at daybreak, Birdy watched two canoes slide into the water and head toward the mainland. Today, she would keep herself busy with her aunt to distract herself from worry. The men wouldn’t return until the lion was dead, and she had no way of knowing when she’d see Crispin again.

“Come, milady.” Luke was suddenly beside her. “He asked me to watch over you. I’ll walk you back to the fire.” He held out his hand for her.

“How is your adventure so far?” she asked. “We hardly see you anymore.”

“It’s wonderful. I’m thinking of writing a letter to my father about it all. Do they have a post here?”

“Not really, but we can take mail to the black robes in Sault Saint Marie. They will see that it is put on a ship.” Birdy’s heart broke a little, wondering if Mr. Johnstone was still alive.

“I’ve heard of that place. Stone Turtle says it is easy to get to. Maybe he’ll come with me to post my letter.”

“During the war, it was a dangerous place. If you go, stay away from the fort. Speak only to the other human beings,” she said, forgetting that Luke was an Englishman. “I was surprised to see you with my uncle the other day.”

“He’s teaching me to be a knapper.”

“He is?” Her uncle was known to be stingy with his flint, and the news surprised her.

“Whenever I go out, I look for the rocks he likes. Flint and the other shiny ones. With his bad foot, he can’t get out and look very far. Was he born that way, or was he hurt by a bear or something?”

“He was born that way. That’s why he was named Crooked Foot.”

“I thought people just called him that.”

“Knapping is a useful skill. My uncle honors you by sharing his knowledge.”

“Should I give him a gift?”

“When you make your first perfect arrowhead, the one you are most proud of, give it to him as thanks.”

“I saw the mountain lion,” he said, after they’d walked a bit farther. “I hadn’t never seen one before. It moved so fast.”

“You must keep your knife with you at all times, Luke.” Had her childhood been so perilous? Did she not remember the danger, or did such things not feel dangerous at the time? It felt dangerous now.

Three days passed before she heard shouts from the shore that the hunter’s canoes were returning. Birdy ran as fast as she dared to the water’s edge to join the others in welcoming them back. She squinted her eyes, searched the horizon, and counted heads in the canoe. Five men had left. Four were returning.

She’d waded into the water without realizing it until Aunt Singing Grass grabbed her arm to pull her back to the shore. Everyone could count, they all knew someone was missing. But who?

The hunters paddled the canoe with long, powerful strokes, each one bringing them clearer into view. As faces were recognized, their names were called out. One by one, the men were identified. Holding her breath, Birdy blinked away the tears that clouded her vision.

It wasn’t until someone yelled out “gichi-mookomaan” that she let her tears fall. They were now tears of joy and relief rather than pain and sorrow. The one name she hadn’t heard, the one name everyone in the crowd now knew was missing, was Ben Red Feather.

When the bottom of the first canoe scraped against the sand, they were mobbed by the women and children. At the bottom of Crispin’s canoe lay the carcass of a large mountain lion. Crispin’s buckskins were stained in blood, as were his face and neck. He had the nerve to be smiling from ear to ear.

It wasn’t until the other men slapped him on the back and spoke words of congratulations that she realized her husband had been the one to take the lion down. It was his first kill, and they’d given him the honor of eating the animal’s heart to gain some of its spirit. Bringing her hands to her face to wipe away her happy tears, Birdy made her way through the crowd.

Someone started singing the song of a successful hunt, and Birdy joined in the familiar tune. The other hunters hoisted the cat in the air and laughingly laid it across Crispin’s shoulders so he could carry it to the village. Old women patted his strong arms as he walked by, and children danced around him as he made his way along the trail.

He’d done it. He’d be accepted now. Not as a human being, exactly, but as an able hunter. Her father had achieved this with his honesty and business acumen. Now her husband would be seen as a useful person. No more basket weaving for him.

“How much of that blood is yours?” she asked once Crispin had surrendered the animal’s carcass to be gutted and skinned.

“A little,” Crispin replied, looking down at his arm. “I had to wrestle with it a bit before I slipped my knife in.”

“I’ll get the medicine man. He’ll know what to do. Tell me,” she said, “I have not heard what happened to Ben Red Feather. Why is he not being mourned?”

“Because he’s not dead.” Crispin laughed and then winced in pain from the effort. “After spending two days telling everyone how useless I was, he wasn’t happy that I was the one who brought the cat down. From what little I could understand, he walked into the woods to have a vision or something.”

“Oh,” Birdy tried to stifle a laugh. “He’s big mad. He couldn’t stand to see you welcomed as a hero.”

“He was a pain in my ass for the entire hunt. We didn’t leave him a canoe. Maybe he’ll stay on the mainland.”

“Let us hope so. Come, hero,” she said, “You need your arm looked at.” Birdy waved over the medicine man who examined Crispin’s arm and bid them to follow to his exam room. The healer, Little Eyes, was one of the few of the tribe who lived in a clapboard cottage.

Once Crispin’s buckskin shirt had been removed, it was easier to see the extent of his injuries. Many of the scratches on his arms from the animal’s claws were deep, but it was the bite on his shoulder which caused Little Eyes to be concerned.

Bidding Birdy to boil water to clean the wounds, Little Eyes set about gathering the plants and leaves he would need to make an effective salve. As Birdy waited for the water to boil, Little Eyes began to sing. Breathing a sigh of relief that it was a healing song rather than a death song, Birdy turned to smile at her husband.

“Am I supposed to sing too?” Crispin asked.

“Please don’t,” she said, and they both laughed a little. “It’s a healing song,” she explained. “You’re supposed to let the words wash over your wounds and encourage them to heal.”

“Will the mountain lion be eaten?”

“No. Some tribes do, but we do not. But don’t worry, no part of that animal will go to waste. The elders will probably offer the meat to the travelers at the trading post. You have every right to the lion’s claws, but it would be best for you to gift them to my grandfather. He should give you two back, but I’m not certain he will.”

“Because I’m not a human being?”

“Yes.”

The water, boiled and cooled, was used to wash Crispin’s every wound. Little Eyes applied his salve and covered the larger wounds with healing leaves tied on with leather strings. Crispin was instructed to drink a little of the salve mixed with the cooled water and she could tell by his face that the taste was foul.

Crispin didn’t complain about the pain until they were back in their room at the trading post. Chalking it up to exhaustion, Birdy fetched a bottle of her father’s best brandy and offered him a few sips, hoping it would help him sleep. The biggest danger to him now was infection.