But she was there still, and she spoke when they were in view of the cabins. “Thank you, Jennet,” she said.

“You've no cause to thank me,” Jennet said, relieved and shaken too, though she could not say just why. “I was happy to be what help I can.”

“No. Thank you for not telling me how I should feel. Have I told you about the village the whites called Prophet's Town?”

The question was so unexpected that Jennet drew up and turned to her cousin. “You know that you haven't,” she said. “But I'd like to hear about it. Did you live there?”

Hannah made a sound in her throat. “From the day it was founded until the day it was burned to the ground,” she said. And then, before Jennet could think of what to ask: “It was a dream, and it did not last.”

They stayed a few minutes in the common room talking with Elizabeth and eating. Usually Jennet loved this quiet time in the evening when the whole family sat together. Elizabeth would read aloud from a book or play or newspaper, and they talked about the strangest combinations of things, King Lear and the squash harvest, political intrigues in Washington and London and how much more wood the men needed to put up for the coming winter.

Tonight Jennet was impatient with the talk and unable to concentrate on anything but the promise of hearing at least some of Hannah's story. She was afraid that the mood would have left her by the time Elizabeth put out the lamp and they all went to their beds.

On the stairs Hannah stopped and looked over her shoulder at her father and stepmother. “The night air is cool,” she said. “Leave your window open.”

It was such a strange request that no one could think of what to say, but as soon as Jennet closed the door of the chamber she shared with Hannah behind her, she understood.

Hannah went to sit by the open window with her back to the room, and Jennet.

“In the old days the village was called Ket-tip-pe-can-nunk,” she began in a clear voice that must travel on the night air. The tone was familiar to Jennet and strange too, filled with anger and sorrow in equal measures.

“It was a beautiful place, on the river the whites call Wabash. Tecumseh and his brother chose it to build a new town where all the Indian tribes would come together.”

“Tecumseh?” Jennet asked, the strange name sounding light on her tongue.

“A Shawnee warrior,” Hannah said patiently. “A great warrior. His name means Panther-in-the-Sky.” When Jennet had no more questions, she went on. “Our son was four years old when my uncle Strong-Words and Strikes-the-Sky both swore allegiance to Tecumseh and we went to join him on the Wabash.”

She was silent for so long that Jennet felt herself sliding toward sleep, only to be startled awake when Hannah took up her story again.

“Tecumseh's brother had a vision of a place where all the People lived in the old way, free of influence of the white man, free of alcohol. It was hard work to convince other tribes but by the winter of eighteen ten there were more than five hundred warriors in training. Many of them brought their families. Sometimes I would hear five languages in five minutes walking from one place to another, and not understand any of them. The village was crowded and food was a problem. It was not always peaceful, but those were good years.”

Hannah made a sound that might have been a laugh; it made the flesh rise all along Jennet's back. Jennet said, “As when the clans came together against the English. They can put aside old grudges and rivalries for only so long.”

“Yes,” Hannah said. “It was like that.”

“You were the only doctor?” Jennet ventured.

“Oh no. There were healers who came to us from many tribes, but never enough, just as we never had enough medicines or even corn husks for bandages. I was busy all day with the sick, and Strikes-the-Sky was busy with the young warriors or with Tecumseh, in the middle of discussions and negotiations.

“But we were content. I was doing what I wanted to do, working among my own people and learning everything I could about medicine from any healer who came to the village. I vaccinated hundreds against the smallpox.

“We stayed because my uncle and my husband had real hope in Tecumseh.”

Hannah's voice had taken on a new rhythm, as if by telling this story she found herself talking to the people she was describing, lost to her now. She recited bits from Tecumseh's speeches and again Jennet could not help but think of Scotland, where men had fought for hundreds of years to loosen the hold of the English, all for naught. Something had always gone wrong, and most usually the flaw was to be found in men of lesser understanding or courage.

Hannah would tell that part of the story too; Jennet could feel her nearing it and she was weary, suddenly, of such stories. She would have turned away from this one if it weren't for the fact that it was Hannah telling it.

“In the fall of eighteen eleven Tecumseh and some of the warriors left to visit villages and I stayed behind with my son. There were many new people in the village who needed to be vaccinated, that was the excuse I gave. It was the first time Strikes-the-Sky and I were ever really apart since we were married.”

She was pointing with her chin out the window. “Right here, at Lake in the Clouds. There, on that spot.”

For a long time there was silence and Jennet thought of her own wedding, something she rarely did. The images came to her as dull as tarnished copper: Ewan's blameless face, twitching with anxiousness; her mother pale in her mourning clothes, summoning a trembling smile whenever Jennet caught her eye. The clansmen like a wall all around her, impenetrable. Even her brother had been subdued.