Free The Hollow Tree by Janet Lunn

Kaniatarà:ken — in English, the White River, he said — beside which they were camped. He told her the river kept south of the high mountains, and so there was an ancient Abenaki path that followed it. He showed her where to turn south from the river when it turned north, and from there to keep to the lower hills. He indicated the old paths along the smaller waterways and the village of Rutland, where she would come upon the military road. Phoebe remembered the military road from the torn map Gideon had used to write his letter to Polly Grantham on.
    “The military road will take you through settlements. Strangers are not made welcome in frontier communities these days. Furthermore, there are zealous rebels who actively hunt Loyalists to kill or imprison them, so you must not walk on the road. They will not stop to check if your father was indeed a rebel, and, what is more important, that message would betray you as a Loyalist. Stay in the forest, but always keep the road in view. When you come to the villageof Shoreham, you leave the military road. Here, leading south, is an old Abenaki trail. Follow it to Shaw’s Landing at the narrows of Lake Champlain, where you can see Fort Ticonderoga high above the shore on the New York side of the lake. Do not mistake it. After you leave the White River there are only brooks and small streams until you reach the lake. At the narrows the lake looks like a river. You will have to find a boatman to take you across the lake. You must be very careful!”
    Phoebe nodded, concentrating intently on Peter’s instructions. She was afraid to speak. The warning tone in Peter’s voice and the careful outlining of the journey frightened her more than his talk of deserting soldiers had done.
    Peter handed her the map. “If you mean to be as stubborn as I fear …” He paused. When Phoebe said nothing, he continued. “My mother and I have decided you must exchange clothes with Katsi’tsiénhawe. You are much of a size, I believe, so it will not be difficult. You will not be so noticeable in my sister’s clothes; the danger may not be as great. And you may need to roost in trees.” He grinned and Phoebe knew he was remembering her adventure the day before with the young bear. “There will be streams to leap,” he went on. “You may find caves to sleep in, and all the ohkwa:ri you may meet may not be as timid as yesterday’s cub. Your encumbering skirtwill not serve as well as the
ionthsinohrókstha
and
akia:tawi
my sister wears. He turned to Katsi’tsiénhawe, who smiled hopefully back at him. “Katsi’tsiénhawe greatly admires your many-coloured coat. She would be happy to exchange it for her blanket.”
    Phoebe glanced down at her mother’s tartan cloak wrapped around her. It was old, it had moth holes, its fur lining was worn to a smooth finish, but parting with it would be like parting for ever with all she held dear. She took a step back, her mouth opened to refuse to give up the cloak, but then she looked at Peter, at his sister, at his mother. How could she be so ungrateful? Katsi’tsiénhawe’s father had died in the war, as hers had, and soon her brother was going to leave to fight in that war, and maybe die. And maybe someone she had loved had made her embroidered tunic. Swiftly, before she had time to reconsider, she unhooked the silver fastener at her neck, took the cloak from her shoulders, and thrust it into the girl’s hands. Katsi’tsiénhawe smiled shyly at her and handed her the red blanket. Then Peter walked along the river to give the girls privacy and they exchanged the rest of their clothes. The only thing Phoebe did not give away was the pocket she had worn on the string around her waist under her skirt. She tucked it, with its message inside, into one sleeve of the tunic she put on.
    How strange the leggings felt. The soft leather was like having another skin on her legs and she felt not quite dressed. The long tunic did not seem quite so strange,