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tree.
    Fallon shook his head and began another carving.
     
     
    To the villagers of Ritanoe, the heat of early summer signaled the beginning of the harvest. The first sowing of maize had yielded a bountiful crop. The corn was gathered and carried in parfleches to the village where it was roasted over a slow-burning fire, then stored in clay pots buried in the earth.
    Noshi and Gilda joined in the harvest, too, gathering herbs and berries. When their small baskets were full, Fallon sent them ahead to the village while he walked behind in the trail. With every day that passed he became more and more convinced that they could not stay in this place; the difference between civilized Ocanahonan and primitive, heathen Ritanoe was simply too great. His parents had charged him with the care of the children, and as a godparent of sorts he was to watch over their souls. But how could he do so when Noshi yearned to join in the heathen dances and Gilda was fascinated by the ritual chants and charms of the conjurors?
    He did not dare hope that the English would come again. Throughout his entire life he had heard stories of the great man called Walter Raleigh who had sent John White to establish a colony on the island of Roanoke. John White had left for England, promising to return with supplies and additional colonists, and the remaining settlers had migrated to a safer location upon the river Chowan. A lookout had been posted on Croatoan Island, but the months of waiting stretched into two decades with nary a sign of John White or an English return. As the years passed, the English led their Indian neighbors to believe in the one true God, and eventually the City of Raleigh became the village of Ocanahonan.
    Could the English come again? Fallon let Gilda and Noshi scamper ahead while he sat in the shade of an oak to ponder the question. Mayhap if he took the children and traveled to the sea, he could find an answer. He had heard stories of the Spaniards, another people from across the great ocean, and though the people of Ocanahonan seemed to hold the Spanish in fear and contempt, still, mayhap their society would be better for the children than an Indian village—
    A sudden flurry of feathers distracted Fallon’s thinking. A flock of crows that had roosted in the trees above him took flight, and Fallon turned his head and concentrated upon listening. Someone moved in the woods. A great many people, judging by the disturbance of the birds.
    He leaned forward upon his hands and knees and crept behind a fallen log as he peered into the woods. Under the mushrooming canopy of trees a group of warriors advanced. They carried brightly decorated war axes and shields. Even from here, Fallon recognized the bright red designs of Powhatan warriors.
    Fallon turned and sprinted toward the village.
     
     
    Breathless, he raced into Gepanocon’s hut with the news. The werowance listened with the smiling, patient attention adults give children, then gestured abruptly and told his elders to send warriors to hide the four Englishmen.
    “What of the others?” Fallon demanded, ignoring the protocol that directed that he be silent until the chief addressed him. “You must leave your warriors here to protect the women and children.”
    “My men will return when the English are safe,” Gepanocon answered, rising to his feet. Moving with unusual quickness, he grabbed his war axe and pushed past Fallon.
    Fallon watched in disbelief as the chief and his warriors hustled the four Englishmen from their hut and hurried them through a secret door in the palisade walls. “That’s right,” Fallon remarked critically as the chief and his men fled. “Make a palisade too strong for the enemy to come in, and you cannot get out. Run, chief, and may your greed and cowardice preserve you.”
    Gepanocon doubtless intended to hide the men again in the sacred caves, and Fallon knew the warriors did not have time to escort the Englishmen and return. The enemy