Hannah's voice dropped to an almost-whisper. “I kept my son with me, and the men rode off at dawn in the rain. That was the last time I saw my husband.”

In her surprise Jennet found it hard to keep her silence. “I thought he died in battle, the one your father told me about—”

“The whites call it the Battle of Tippecanoe. But no, Strikes-the-Sky wasn't there. I wish he had been. If Tecumseh hadn't been away and taken the best minds with him, things might have turned out differently when the whites decided to attack the village.”

“What went wrong?” Jennet asked.

“Tecumseh's brother.” Her voice had soured. A shivering moved Hannah's shoulders, like a woman taken suddenly in a fever.

“He was no warrior, but he believed himself to be equal to the decisions that had to be made, and no one had the courage to challenge him. When it was all over close to four hundred warriors were dead, my uncle and his eldest sons and so many others, young men and old. I knew them, every one.”

Jennet couldn't really imagine what Hannah was telling her, and she didn't really want to. But her cousin went on, as if she could simply not stop the flow of the story.

“Harrison's men burned the village to the ground and all our hopes with it. We ran,” Hannah said. “We ran for our lives and we dragged the wounded and the children behind us. And that is as much of the story as I can tell you, for now at least.”

She got up from the chair and shut the window firmly. Then she went to her bed, where she laid herself down fully dressed and crossed an arm over her face.

Jennet wanted to know so many things: where Strikes-the-Sky had died, and how, if not at the battle of Tippecanoe; what exactly had gone wrong, and what had become of the man people called the Prophet. And the most important question, the one that might never be answered at all: what had happened to Hannah's son, the boy whose name she never said aloud? Had he died in the battle, or its aftermath?

Instead she said, “Cousin, what happened tonight to make you need to tell that story?”

It seemed at first as if Hannah would not answer. Then she said, “When they brought my uncle Strong-Words' body home, he was missing both of his arms. They had been chopped off at the shoulder, very deliberately. The next day we all went to the battlefield: his wife and daughter, my son and me. To find his arms so we could bury him properly. But we failed. Some white man carried my uncle's arms away with him.”

In the dark Jennet found she could hardly swallow, so rough and swollen was her throat.

“Sometimes,” Hannah said, and her voice crackled like spring ice. “Sometimes in my dreams I see my uncle swimming in the lake in the clouds, armless and sleek, like an otter. That was his boy-name, you know. Otter. In my dream he puts his head up out of the water and even sleeping I can smell the battle on him. There is such terrible sadness and disappointment in his face. I carry it like a stone around my neck.”

Hannah turned her face to the wall. Just when Jennet thought that she had gone to sleep, Hannah sat up and began to rock in the bed, her arms around her knees.

“I was happy,” she said. “I want you to know how happy I was. I want you to know about Strikes-the-Sky, what kind of husband he is, what kind of father he was to our son. He is a good man.”

“I know that already,” Jennet said, shocked above all things that Hannah spoke of her husband as if he might still be alive.

Satisfied, Hannah lay down again. “If I can find the words to make him real again,” she said. “Then I will tell you his stories.”

It was not her uncle that came to Hannah in her dreams that night, nor her husband or even her son, though the boy was most likely to show himself when she was unsettled by memories. Instead a white man came to find her. She had never learned his name, though he died under her scalpel while she fought to save his life.

An Ottawa chief called Sabaqua had taken the soldier as a prisoner early in the fighting. Though wounded himself, Sabaqua and another warrior called Shabbona had brought the prisoner in on horseback just past dawn. Sabaqua claimed the soldier for his own; he would bring him to his wife to take the place of the son who had fallen in the battle.

But Hannah took one look and knew that Sabaqua could not have this white soldier for a son. He was a young man in his prime, strong and straight, but there was a wound in his side that pierced his liver and one leg was crushed; there was nothing any healer could do for him.

And still she tried. She packed the wound in his side and dug deep into the flesh of his leg to stop the bleeding, and while she worked the man alternated between screaming and talking. It was so long since she had spoken English it was possible, at first, simply not to understand him. But then the words had begun to order themselves in her mind and she could not ignore them anymore.

He told her about his home in the Indiana territory and his sister and his father, talking to her as if she were an old friend, someone he had grown up with, and not an Indian woman covered with great gouts of his blood. There was an urgency in him as he entrusted her with his memories as they faded out of his mind and heart.

And all the while he talked there were more wounded coming in: men of her own tribe, her own family, her husband's. Men she knew well, whose children she had helped into the world, whose sons had played with her son. Warriors who had a chance of surviving their wounds and perhaps living to fight another day. If she would only turn away from this dying man with skin darkened by the sun to a shade that would be always and forever nothing less than white.