The Old American (29 page)

Haggis steps into the circle. “Black Dirt speaks with great sincerity, though she gives you no vision for a future for this tribe. Nathan, I am sorry I accused you of taking Caucus-Meteor's money. This is twice I have wronged you with wicked thoughts. The source of my poor judgment is a result of my anger over a private grief, which I will presently share with my fellow villagers. I had thought that Wolf Eyes, my oldest and dear son, would take my place as leader of my clan. But he has been lost to the French. He fights their wars, earns their money, and gives none to his people. I will lose no more of my children. If we—as a people—stay in this place we will not survive—as a people. We will be whittled down to nothing by the French or the English or the Dutch or the Spanish, whoever eventually wins out in these wars in which we are only devices. Next summer when we leave for the trade missions, I propose to take any who will follow me to the land of the Cree, my cousins to the North. I will leave this land that Black Dirt loves so much. I will take my beloved wives and children and any who wish to accompany us. If no one chooses to accompany me, I will go alone. I propose now a vote: stay in Conissadawaga with Black Dirt, or leave with Haggis.”

Each person will take his or her place in the circle, then the group will vote. Some announce their predisposition with a simple grunt. Others make speeches. Nathan Provider-of-Services chooses to speak.

“My brothers and sisters,” he says with outstretched and open hands. “I have prayed to my father in heaven for guidance. Even so, I am still not sure of the right thing to do. I was forcibly removed from my homeland and there are times when I want to return to it. And there are times when I wish to remain with the people of Conissadawaga and do my best for the village, to honor my master and godfather, and to promote the welfare of the people who have accepted me as a citizen. And there are times when

I find myself called to a mysterious place west of here and west of everywhere in my knowledge. West is the only direction I want in my heart to go. My two concubines have made me as happy as a man can be in exercising his manhood. In my heart, I wish both to stay and to leave, for at the moment I am a man without nation, without home, without family, uncertain where God wants him. Part of me concludes that the only way out of my dilemma is to follow Haggis to the north where perhaps I'll find word of the great river leading west to the paradise lots. I live in great confusion. My captivity was ordained by God; whether I stay in this village, return to New England, or go north with Haggis is up to God, but I do not know the course he wants me to follow. I think, though, that my fate, as it has been for these last two years, remains in the hands of the people of Conissadawaga; I think God wishes it so. By the grace of God and the guidance of my prayers, I submit myself to your judgment.”

The villagers are thinking: not a bad speech for a non-native speaker. Of the men and women of Conissadawaga about thirty choose to leave with Haggis next spring, an equal number to stay with Black Dirt, and twenty announce they are undecided. Then Norman Feathers steps into the circle. Everyone is surprised. Norman Feathers is no orator, and he's never showed an interest in civic matters before. Now he stands straight and tall and addresses the crowd. “We have voted to split our little tribe of réfugiés. I have my reservations, but so be it. But we have not voted on who shall lead us.”

“It must be Haggis,” shouts Kineo.

“Haggis cannot be the chief of Conissadawaga, because he has elected to leave,” says Norman.

Haggis is thinking that he's been tricked—and by Norman Feathers! Can this be possible? It was only Caucus-Meteor who could confound a meeting so. But he is dead. Haggis is swept with weakness, as if by an illness. Illness too was the power of the dead king. The blows he inflicted upon you were never felt like the blows of war, but like the weakness of disease.

“I will accept this argument,” Haggis says with as much magnanimity as he can muster. “When I leave, those who follow me will do so with the understanding that I am chief, but as long I remain in Conissadawaga I will submit to the will of the people. But I ask you: Who will lead you now?”

It's a cunning question, for everyone knows that the leader is dead.

Crowd rumbles and mumbles follow, until Norman says, “Let Black Dirt be our chief. Like her father and mother, she is tied to this land. She is tied to this village, and she is tied to its people. You are the only family she has left. She will lead you as best she can, but she cannot do this task alone. It was not only her father who created a tribe out of a réfugié camp. It was her father and her mother. She cannot be both mother and father. Like Nathan Provider-of-Services, Black Dirt, will you submit to the judgment of the people?”

“I will,” Black Dirt says.

The villagers are amazed that Norman is speaking at all, and that his words, his diction, his elocution are disturbingly familiar. It's as if their dead king were speaking through the lips of their most common citizen. Norman feels divinely inspired and divinely humbled, for he knows the words he speaks are not his own. I am, he thinks, thrice blessed: an instrument of God, of the people of Conissadawaga, and of my king. Norman, swelled by the crowd's appreciation, goes on.

“I have tried to live in two worlds, in Quebec as a Frenchman, in Conissadawaga as an American. I don't see that one side is better than the other. The French, they have two rulers, the governor-general who commands the army and the intendant who oversees all other affairs. When Caucus-Meteor was at the height of his powers as a king, he had Keeps-the-Flame to help him. When Haggis leaves for the north, he will have his wives to assist him. As a bachelor, I understand how hard it is to do the right thing alone. Black Dirt should not be the only chief of this village.” Norman's voice dies without supporting his argument. He's forgotten the rest of the speech that Caucus-Meteor gave him. He steps out of the circle. Everybody laughs a little. They're not laughing at Norman, just at his sudden abandonment of his idea. But it stays with the group, and is discussed and debated by various speakers. Seekonk nominates Passaconway to be chief with Black Dirt, and the ancient runner steps into the circle.

“We are in the position of having to make this decision, because an aged king went off to die,” he says. “This village does not need another old man to lead it. I have been a member of the committee of three who has commanded this village since Caucus-Meteor was ill, and I have never been comfortable with the position. I decline the nomination.”

“I remember now what I wanted to say,” says Norman, excited now as he steps back into the circle. “Nathan Blake came to this village as a slave, and now he is our own Nathan Provider-of-Services. Like Passaconway, he distinguished himself as a runner. Surely, we all feel both joy and envy on behalf of his success. You will recall the dream that Caucus-Meteor told us about. I understand the dream now. Nathan Provider-of-Services and Black Dirt have both agreed to submit to our judgment. You've always wondered why Caucus-Meteor, who loved Nathan so, did not adopt him as his son. It was because he thought that Nathan Provider-of-Services should marry Black Dirt, and the two of them should rule this village as chiefs.”

After a moment of hesitation, a cheer rises up out the villagers. The judgment that Nathan and Black Dirt asked from their tribe, they have received.

The wedding takes place the following day. Passaconway and his slightly addled wife, Ossipee, preside over the ceremony, and it's over in fifteen minutes. Black Dirt and Nathan are polite and dutiful. Afterward there's dancing, singing, storytelling, and too much drinking, which is nothing unusual for this band. Caucus-Meteor, in the last vale of his conjuring, thinks that if he could really travel through time, really take on the powers as well as attributes of a god, he would pour all the brandy, rum, and beer into the great river.

At the conclusion of his conjuring, the old king looks away from his fire and smiles faintly. He feels like that snake that swallowed the largest rat in the rat's den, and because of his swollen belly cannot now squeeze through the rat's tunnel doorway. He's happy to be ruling Conissadawaga through Black Dirt and Nathan Provider-of-Services, and he's happy that he's successfully thwarted Haggis from being elected chief of the tribe. At the same time he didn't expect that Haggis would gather his followers for a remove to the north. The tribe will be reduced by a third to a half.

“Norman, how did you like speaking in the circle?” Caucus-Meteor asks.

“As long as I could remember your words, I felt strong. I thought: so this is what it feels like to be a king.”

“The best part of being a king is largess; the second best part is speaking in the circle. All else is intrigue. I'll tell you, Norman, I was planning to die once I married off Black Dirt and Nathan, but I'm not ready yet. I have no profound feelings at the moment, and one needs profound feelings to die. In fact, if a man could prevent himself from ever feeling profound, he would probably live on as a youth until taken by war, accident, or disease, for old age cannot catch the giddy, which is why young girls appear so fresh.”

“Do you want me to memorize those words for the circle?” asks Norman Feathers.

“Norman, I must teach you the difference between oratory and loose talk. What I was just giving you was loose talk. At times it might sound like oratory, but it is more entertaining, probably truer, and of no use to a ruler. The problem now is helping Black Dirt and Nathan Provider-of-Services establish a reign to allow them to hold the village together. If too many people leave to follow Haggis, Conissadawaga will blow away like fall leaves in the wind. But before I tend to village business, I have to create some stability in my personal living situation. The problem is I cannot return to the woods, for I must stay near you, for you, Norman, must be not only my eyes and ears; you must be my voice in the circle.”

T
he Canadian summer is coming to an end. Caucus-Meteor discovers that Quebec, perhaps because it's closer to his thoughts, is easier to conjure over than Conissadawaga. All the important changes begin with names, he thinks—I will need a new name. I will pluck the few remaining hairs on my head. I will paint my face and head. I will change the way I walk. Instead of French coin earrings, I will carve tiny sticks and hang them on my ears with metal hooks. For my garb I will wear the stick costumes that Bleached Bones made. When I am finished, no one will recognize me. He stares into his fire, and sees the seasons ahead.

In late September, François Bigot, the intendant for Canada, takes a few hours from his busy schedule to solve a small but nettlesome palace problem, the hiring of a fire tender for the winter. The position itself requires no special talents but a knowledge of fires and wood. Even so, it is a difficult position to fill. The fire tender must be at the palace twenty-four hours a day, every day in the winter, for the intendant insists that the palace remain heated at an even temperature. Hence, a family man is out of the question.

The intendant interviews several men, and finally settles on an older savage, a distant relative of one of the stable men. The fellow is introduced as a Cohas Abenaki réfugié, who neither frowns, nor smiles, displaying a countenance that fulfills his name—Great Stone Face. The new fire tender speaks a northern Algonkian dialect and a smattering of English, but no French.

The intendant says in French to his assistant, “This savage reminds me of an old Jew, and he is strangely familiar to me.”

The assistant bows, unsure of the proper response.

“No matter.” The intendant dismisses the assistant, then turns to the savage. “Great Stone Face, you are well-named,” says the intendant in Algonkian so mangled that it's all Caucus-Meteor can do not to laugh.

“It will be very rewarding to warm a palace,” says Caucus-Meteor in Algonkian. He's eyeing the intendant's head, upon which is a different wig than the last time they'd met. I admire the intendant very much, he thinks.

“I'm not quite sure what you just said, Old Relic,” the intendant says in French, “but I can tell from your demeanor that you are too ignorant to betray me.”

Caucus-Meteor bows. He can guess what the intendant is thinking. Filling the position for fire tender presents a political problem for the intendant. The fire tender is the only man with access to all the rooms in the palace at any hour, for every room of note has a stove or a fireplace. The important intrigue of Canada is there for his ears. You need a man who is hard-working, diligent, loyal, discrete and without ambition or curiosity. Such men, like completely subservient women, exist only in our desires. Is that not so, your excellency? But we who carry the weight of command must strive, must we not? You especially do not want a Canadian as a fire tender, for then your secrets would be spread far and wide; and a man from Old France is out of the question because no respectable Frenchman concerns himself with such matters as the burning rate of Canadian wood. So to deal with this problem you will decide to hire a savage for the task.