Later I determined to ask Simon myself, and when an appropriate time offered itself, I did so. He usually made quick gestures as a way of conversing with all of us. Now he looked thoughtful. He raised his hands to his face, spread his long fingers and placed their tips on either side of his nose, then drew the tips slowly across his cheeks until they rested close to his ears. I did not understand, and he saw this at once because he repeated the gesture, but first he bent to the hearth and put his fingers into the cold ashes.

“Simon—war paint? War paint!”

Beneath his ashy war paint, Simon looked grave.

“You are protecting me—surely not from the Indians!”

He nodded.

“But, Simon, I am one of the Indians. I am a Seneca. You know my story.”

He looked at her.

Each day Simon continued to appear in the fields carrying the well-polished gun in his huge, sure grip.

MARY said, “Simon is stubborn.”

Cleopha, who had become as a sister to Mary, said, “I have lived with my brother for a long time. He is more than stubborn.”

“Cleopha, we must get him to talk. We must. He can talk. He is such a careful listener. Have you watched his eyes, his posture, when someone speaks?”

“It is useless to try.” Cleopha turned back to where, with Jane, she was slicing pumpkin pieces into thin, curling lengths and hanging them above the fireplace to dry.

“I will try.”

“Better not. He knows you want him to speak, and he will resist all the more.”

“I can get him to speak.”

A pumpkin spiral dropped to the floor. Cleopha sighed. “Because you have suffered so much hardship, you think you can do anything. One of these days your pride will make you stumble. No one can do everything. Haven’t you learned that yet? Simon himself must choose to speak or not to speak. Leave him alone.” She turned away from Mary, who looked at Jane and found that her daughter was looking right back at her.

Simon, I noticed, spent a good deal of time gazing at a scrap of water-stained almanac that had been left in the cabin. I watched him as he walked about outside staring up at the moon in all of its phases, and I decided he was a student of the night skies as I had once been a student of snow.

“SIMON,” Mary, said, “I heard you speak in your sleep last night.”

His face fell.

“That must mean you can speak.”

He shook his head; he drew back from her; fright spread across his face.

“You spoke.”

Again he shook his head.

“You said there would be a full moon tonight.”

He shook his head. Now he looked angry.

“That’s what you said.”

He clenched his fists.

“That is what you said. I heard it.” She folded her arms. “You woke me up, you were talking so loud. You must be able to talk, after all. You said, ‘This night there will be a perfectly full moon.’ ”