The Old American (24 page)

“What are you thinking, Nathan? Your mind seems suddenly occupied.”

“I can smell a barnyard in the distance, I see horses, a cow. The grass shows patches of brown from drought. Need rain.”

“Wistful is wasteful—that's a Massachusetts expression?”

“I think not. I think it is a Caucus-Meteor expression.”

Caucus-Meteor makes the purge sign.

“Aye.” Nathan's expression goes blank. Soon his concentration returns.

In part of the field, badly made wooden stalls have been erected. Local men act as brokers, buying furs from the northern tribes, which they in turn will sell on the docks in Quebec. Caucus-Meteor studies the crowd—traders, merchants, gamblers, and spectators from Wendake. Near the stalls are the pole gambling arbors. First, the runners are announced, and they parade in front of the crowd so people can size them up. Then there's a period of frantic buzzing and bartering as people wager on the runners. Every bet and every bettor is a little different. They're all looking for victims, while pretending to be victims. Caucus-Meteor enjoys the atmosphere; he thinks that gambling etiquette is a most refined form of insincerity, more sublime even than diplomacy. The contestants run in place, do stretching exercises, and pretend that nothing else matters but the minutes at hand.

Most of the runners are local fellows. Caucus-Meteor estimates that only two are Pure Men. One, from the look of him, is mixed-blood, African and Cherokee, an escaped slave from the southern colonies who likely was adopted by one of the smaller réfugié tribes. The fellow is a little too big in the upper body to be a threat in a race requiring more than three great breaths, and this course is almost half an English mile, many breaths. The other Pure Man is a slender full-blood, presently wearing a triangle-peaked birch-bark cap; he's probably a Micmac. Caucus-Meteor guesses these two fellows will have godfathers in the crowd. For the time being he should avoid the gamblers who follow the trade fairs, bet against the local runners only and with local gamblers until he's more confident in his own runner, for he's still not sure how Nathan will do under the pressure of serious competition. Having thought out the right thing to do, Caucus-Meteor does the wrong thing. He bets every penny he's raised on his man. If Nathan Provider-of-Services loses, Caucus-Meteor will be broken forever as king of Conissadawaga. He will be free from the burden of the responsibilities of kingship. He secretly hopes for failure.

In discussions earlier, Caucus-Meteor and Nathan determine that Nathan doesn't have enough experience racing in Canada to size up the competition, so he'll race against the course. He walks the grounds with the other competitors. “The distance is a little long for your talents,” says Caucus-Meteor. “You'll have to pace yourself.”

“That may be, but I can't let anyone get too far ahead. The first couple hundred yards suit me just fine, packed down grass in front of the crowd.”

The athletes will circle a pole stuck in the ground where some hogs have been rooting and the earth is wet, soft, and mushy, a place where one could easily fall. Caucus-Meteor and Nathan form a design for the race based on this obstacle. Nathan will attempt to be the first runner to reach the disturbed earth. By the time the fifth or sixth runner has passed the pole, the ground will be treacherous; the first few runners will have the best footing. After circling the pole, Nathan will coast a ways, perhaps letting a few runners take the lead, and then he will put on a burst of speed at the end.

In the crowd, Caucus-Meteor bumps into an old ally and adversary. They stare at each other for a long moment. Caucus-Meteor notices that the man looks more bent, flesh softer, skin more sallow with new blemishes. He's about to remark on the change, but Bleached Bones speaks first.

“You look like bear scat, Caucus-Meteor.”

Caucus-Meteor points to the sky at some turkey vultures. “Soon they'll be feeding on us both.”

“I pity the poor bird that seeks nourishment from my meat,” Bleached Bones tweaks the bone in his nose, and maybe smiles. It's hard to tell by looking at his eyes or even, if it was possible, searching his mind what's inside the man. He's one who keeps the same facial expression and control no matter how he feels. “I thought I recognized that English racer you brought in, the gauntlet walker in Montreal. Looks like you made an American out of him.”

“I'm not so sure about that. I will tell you, though, that he can run,” says Caucus-Meteor.

“I find it amusing that a man who made a reputation walking the gauntlet should now attempt to distinguish himself as a runner.”

“It's such surprises that keep old men like you and me interested.”

“True,” says Bleached Bones, “for we've seen too much repetition. I've already bet on your man against the local fellows. I like the footwear and the long upper thighs. Do you think he'll beat the Micmac?”

“Is the Micmac your runner?”

“Bleached Bones is godfather to no Pure Man. Bleached Bones is godfather only to his own suspicions—and a well-placed bribe. I say the Micmac beats your man by two body lengths.”

Caucus-Meteor figures that Bleached Bones has seen the Micmac before. He must be a superior runner. This test will be a good one for Nathan, but Caucus-Meteor reminds himself that the race should not be a test of his own exuberance. If he's to help his people he must refrain from exuberance, such as betting against gamblers like Bleached Bones.

“I bested you once before, but only because the gods of luck were generous that day,” says Caucus-Meteor. “I have too much respect for you to test them again. Besides I have no more money; I've bet it all with the local gamblers.”

“I respect you, too, Caucus-Meteor, and that is why I will accept your slave in place of French coins.”

The king considers this proposition for a long moment before he speaks. “He is not mine to wager with. He is a citizen of my village; he is my slave no more, but an honorable servant.”

“The old servant ploy—I know it well. You can fool your captive slave and your dull-witted subjects, but you can't fool me. For a king, all men are either pretenders to his throne or slaves to his will. And as a king's will earns him authority, I will accept a modest account from a modest sovereign—your turban.”

“You have always coveted my turban.”

“It has little worth. I will bet these”—he spills coins from his bag—“Spanish silver, worth more than French scrip.”

It's not so mad a wager, Caucus-Meteor knows. Bleached Bones wants to fleece him of his dignity.

Caucus-Meteor considers Bleached Bones's challenge. If Nathan fails to defeat the Micmac, Caucus-Meteor will have to leave the tribe not only broken, but in disgrace with his bald head revealed for all to see. A wave of emotion rolls through him, and with it a clearer understanding of why he frequently goes against his fine judgment. No thrills exist in fine judgment. The feeling he is experiencing now, anticipation of total failure and humiliation, is too good to resist. Finally, he says to Bleached Bones. “I accept the wager. You mesmerize me, old sorcerer.”

“You mesmerize yourself. It's because you have a heart, while I am all liver.” He takes Caucus-Meteor's hand and places it on his side to feel the swollen organ. It pulsates under the old American's touch, and Bleached Bones moans in pain. “Good,” he says. “Good.”

Minutes before the race, Caucus-Meteor takes Nathan into the trees where they cannot be seen.

Nathan kneels, and the old king stands over him like a cleric and speaks in a soft voice. “Remember my teachings.”

Nathan nods, glances away, hides a half grin.

Caucus-Meteor thinks: he half believes me. The other half, the secret half he holds dear, mocks me, despises me. He is becoming very much like me. I love him like a son. Surely, he will betray me. “Pray to your god, godson,” Caucus-Meteor says.

Nathan prays aloud in English. With the “amen,” Caucus-Meteor says, “Good prayer. Now empty mind of trivialities.”

Nathan shuts his eyes.

“Now empty mind of desires.”

It's working, thinks Caucus-Meteor. For the purposes of the race, Nathan has set aside the issue of his divided loyalties and resides in a hollow that is neither American earth nor Christian heaven.

“Now gather your powers for the task that awaits you.”

“Thank you, godfather,” Nathan says, and stands. He appears ready to run—strong, clear-headed, pure.

Just before race time, Caucus-Meteor learns from an acquaintance that the Micmac is undefeated on the race circuit.

A mixed-blood Huron man with a sparse goatee and a beret comes forward with a musket in hand.

“That is Mr. Poisson,” says Caucus-Meteor, pronouncing the name in French. “He is a Wendake chief. Mr. Poisson will fire the musket, and at the sound you will run.”

“Good for Mr. Poison,” Nathan says in English, summoning the arrogance that a man needs to defeat another in an athletic contest. “I am glad to be off at a shot instead of the drop of a damn feather.” And Nathan takes his position in the middle of the pack of about twenty runners, most of them mere boys. Caucus-Meteor can see that Nathan has already made a mistake. The best line to the turn-around pole is the inside very close to the crowd. The runner who has taken that position is the Micmac. Presently, he removes his birch-bark hat and hands it to a young woman.

Nathan bursts into the lead, but only for a fraction of a second, for the big African-Cherokee runner is soon side by side with him. Within fifty steps Nathan pulls ahead; at a hundred steps the Micmac catches up. The two are ten steps ahead of the African-Cherokee and fifteen steps ahead of everybody else. Nathan beats the Micmac to the turn-around pole. He goes against the strategy by lengthening his lead. Though he fades a bit at the end, he's so far ahead that he wins easily.

Caucus-Meteor whoops, hollers, does a little dance as Nathan crosses the finish line. Victory is sweet. He chuckles, walks among the crowd to collect his winnings.

Bleached Bones pays his debt to Caucus-Meteor.

An old Algonkian saying pops into Caucus-Meteor's head, and he practically sings it to his adversary. “This is more fun than dancing barefoot on burning snakes.”

Caucus-Meteor knows that his reaction is too openly gleeful, a violation of gamblers' etiquette. He thinks: my joy crawls into the cracks of Bleached Bones's mind like vermin. But he's been so long without a feeling like this that he can't help himself.

“This is the second time you've defeated me,” Bleached Bones says softly. “Somewhere during this racing season I am going to break your royal balls.”

Wendake is the first of a series of successes for Nathan Provider-of-Services. He will lose two races early on until Caucus-Meteor realizes he can't compete with the best runners in distances over half an English mile. After that Caucus-Meteor enters him only in short races. From that point Nathan is undefeated in trade fairs at St. Francis, Kahnawake, Silery, and many smaller villages along the St. Lawrence. The runner and his godfather march triumphantly through Montreal, where Nathan races on the same field where he once walked the gauntlet. They head west on the Ottawa river all the way to Sault Ste. Marie.

“Your reputation is spreading,” says Caucus-Meteor.

“We have a saying in New England: spreading like wildfire.”

“Nathan Blake's reputation spreads like wildfire, while the summer drought deepens and wildfires spread like reputations,” says Caucus-Meteor.

Everyone is eager to compete against the Pure Man from Conissadawaga. Caucus-Meteor gathers in more French scrip than he thought possible, and his strength is holding up. He's thinking maybe he'll not die soon after all. Maybe he'll last another year or two, or five, or ten. Maybe he'll be around for St. Blein's rebellion, and the Canadians will make him king. He'll rule from Mount Hope in New England. Maybe he will live forever, a punishment imposed by the French Jesus for his insincerity.

As the short Canadian summer wears to an end, something goes on in his runner's mind that excites Caucus-Meteor's curiosity. The mind divides, not just in two but in threes and fours.

A small part of Nathan Provider-of-Services remains the Ox, a slave. When Caucus-Meteor makes decisions and gives him orders, he responds with the loose compliance of a slave: no responsibilities, a dim faith he'll be taken care of, buried resentment, a slightly unsettling feeling that he's missing out on more than the obvious, that there's something out there for the free man that the slave cannot even imagine.

Another part of Nathan is the Englishman, working like a fiend from his Christian hell for reasons uncertain. Surely he has moments when everything he remembers about his past seems like a story, something somebody told him, not his own experiences. The vagueness that came over him during the shock of his capture has returned. “I can think about my wife in words, but I cannot picture her except in that moment you related to me in our ice shanty, as seen through the windowpane. My dead son is more complete in my thoughts than my living daughters, who exist only in the memory of the carved toys I made for them. You see, old man, how you've reduced me.”

“But Nathan you love objects. I've heard your dreams and your waking mutterings. I've heard you speak in your dreams of the smell of freshly cut pine going through a saw mill. You've spoken of the thuck of your mallet striking a birch peg in an oak beam.”

“Aye, but she, my wife, she is neither in my dreams, nor in my thoughts except as an idea. And this place I build in my mind, it is not located on my proprietorship lot, it is … it is …” He cannot go on.

“It is the paradise lot in that far distant place you speak of in your dreams.”

“Aye, it troubles me so.”

“For the anguish?”

“For the gratification. It is almost carnal in its extreme.”