The Old American (7 page)

A few stray Frenchmen, and some tipsy sailors, join the gauntlet. More and more people line up, until eventually several hundred have formed a twisting human labyrinth—how like the canals of a wolf's ear, thinks the old American. Hundreds of others hang back to observe. Everybody knows that whatever happens here will be remembered and talked about for years to come. By now the contestants must realize that no amount of human strength, speed, nimbleness, and determination can get a man through these lines. The captives have been told that the gauntlet is a test. But it's a test not only of the individuals passing through the hellish corridor, but of itself, thinks Caucus-Meteor. The gauntlet is a register of shifting human moods. Each captive is to be taunted, provoked, driven to behave beyond the cunning of the self that faces the world. The resulting behavior, revealing the inner man, will turn the mood of the gauntlet, which will change its behavior toward the captive, which will change the mood of the runner, who will change his behavior, and so forth to an unpredictable conclusion. There is no correct or incorrect technique for running the gauntlet, because each member of the line is a mystery with his or her own personal chronicles and dispositions.

But general principles of conduct do exist for the gauntlet. It's considered graceless as well as impractical to strike a killing or disabling blow. The purpose of the spectacle is not to maim or even to punish, but to determine the character of the contestant, so that he can be dealt with accordingly. The captive of good character, brave but respectful, can be brought into the tribe as a slave or even as a full-fledged citizen. The captive of bad character, cowardly or defiant or obtuse, can be killed or, in these times, sold to another tribe or to the French. If Caucus-Meteor understands one thing about the gauntlet, it's in an old saying among the Algonkian-speaking nations: you never know. The reason for the success of the gauntlet as an institution is the charm of its uncertainty. The old American, like most on the field, enjoys the suspense and anticipation of the crowd. Many a clever talker can produce convincing oratory about what will happen, but nobody knows for sure the outcome, and there are always surprises.

Caucus-Meteor takes his place in the middle of the twisting corridor of the gauntlet. Others in the line carry all manner of mayhem—sticks, switches, spears, hatchets, whips, chains, knives, stones, handfuls of sand to throw in the eyes, but Caucus-Meteor is unarmed, except for the knife on his neck cord. He doesn't plan to administer any more than a casual and light touch to any of the runners of the gauntlet. Even though he has as good reason as any to inflict harm on Englishmen, there is no malice in Caucus-Meteor, not a trace left of his youthful rage. His wife, Keeps-the-Flame, taught him to put hatred and vengeance behind, for her tribe was an enemy of his father's people. Their union was an act not only of love, but of reconciliation. Caucus-Meteor is not in the line to seek satisfaction for injury, but to seek guidance in the revelations sure to unfold in the ceremony of the gauntlet. His thoughts spin away from logic: he imagines that he finds some secret in the behavior of the gauntlet runners. From this secret, he'll make a speech about the secret heart of humanity. Great speeches do not a French or an English king make, but an American king must stand or fall on his oratory.

The first runner is Samuel Allen. The more frightened he becomes the younger he seems. He can barely balance on his feet while his bonds are cut, and he is stripped of his clothes and shoes until he is naked. Surely, the gauntlet must look to him like the gut of an endless serpent, fangs running through its intestines; he can't even see the end of the tail for the twists and turns, the raised sticks, the grinning jaws. He will understand nothing of what is said, but perhaps he'll hear the echo of a familiar mocking tone in the voices. His father, his uncles, his elders, his brothers and sisters—they all had their fun with Sam, as Caucus-Meteor learned from his interrogation. Lazy boy, clumsy boy, dreamer, tripper (as one who trips over his own feet)—he'd heard a thousand taunts, and he'd laughed loudest with those who mocked him, while inside (in the secret heart that the old

American believes will be revealed in the gauntlet) he wept bitter tears. His own people tormented him because they sensed he hated farm life, the dreary labor, the confinement. They could not know the yearning within him, because, as Caucus-Meteor determined, Sam Allen himself was unsure of its nature. Family, church, and town robbed him of … what? He could not tell his interrogator. Now perhaps what frightens him more than anything is the shadow cast by the mystery of his ignorance. Young Allen, you fear that you will go to your grave without an explanation for your woes, without a chance to reach out for a life you can call your own, or to experience complementary joys with a like-minded soul. Your despair deepens until you wish only for oblivion.

And then something happens to give him hope, or so Caucus-Meteor reads in his eyes. One of his tormentors takes pity on him, or anyway that's the way it seems to Sam. A fellow about his own age with a painted face says something to him. Sam doesn't understand the words, but the tone tells him he's being reassured. Actually, the fellow had been drinking, and he was being sarcastic, posturing for his friends. But in that small moment of benevolent misunderstanding, Sam's fear and despair leave. Sam, this is not a finish but a start. Hope connects head to heart to feet. He takes a deep breath, and dashes into the yawn of the serpent.

Seconds later an extended foot sends him flying. He jumps up, starts running helter-skelter, and then it's whap (pain), whap (pain), whap (no pain). Soon he's not feeling anything; he's just a function of the rite. He falls, somebody grabs his hand and pulls him to his feet, aims him deeper into the gauntlet gullet, and gives him a boot in the behind. He lurches from one side to the other, taking blows. Whap, whap, whap—down again. Pulled to his feet, pushed back out onto the field. Whap, whap, whap—down. Up. Run. Five times he falls. About two-thirds of the way, a kick knocks him through the line; he falls, rises, cannot keep his feet, collapses without a hand being laid on him. Caucus-Meteor waits for the rain of blows that will take the life of this young man, for he has not completed his journey, a violation of the tenets of the gauntlet. Instead someone grabs his hand and pulls him to a standing position. A moan, laughter from the crowd, and he's allowed to collapse in a clump of new spring grass.

Furrowed Brow and a couple of kinswomen, one about fifty, the other perhaps sixteen or seventeen, come over to Sam. Furrowed Brow, the master, stands with arms folded across his chest while the older woman feels Sam up from stem to stern. As she works, she recites the results of her findings for the enlightenment of the young woman, who appears passionately engaged with the medical facts if not with the patient. No broken bones, no open arteries or veins, no signs of internal bleeding or brain injury. Many cuts and bruises. Vision unimpaired. A knock on the head will leave him with a slightly disfigured ear, but the drum that plays the world's music does not appear to be ruptured. The younger woman gives Sam a wooden noggin. “Water,” she says in her own language. Sam hesitates, drinks. Caucus-Meteor can predict the outcome. Some ethereal substance outside Sam's experience until this moment surges within him until he's filled with the wonder of it. A minute passes before he knows what he's feeling: happy just to be alive and, in a way he doesn't understand yet, appreciated. Caucus-Meteor is glad, blessed by the young man's emotion; the old American knows that if he feels it, so do the other members of the gauntlet.

The next runner, stripped to the buff, is Captain Warren. Caucus-Meteor guesses that the gentle southerly breeze sashaying around his privates is as close to intimate touch as he's ever allowed. The tormentors, admiring the deep chest, thick neck, powerful arms and legs, generous male dangle, are thinking that this fellow might be of some consequence as a man. That body hair, though, thick and matted, is repulsive to them. Only Caucus-Meteor is not sizing up Captain Warren. Caucus-Meteor's eyes are on his own slave, Nathan Blake, who has also been stripped naked. Caucus-Meteor has seen legs like these before, on the Pure Men runners of the northern tribes. The women of his village make moccasins for such runners, who compete in races at summer trade fairs.

Captain Warren starts his run, and Caucus-Meteor remembers something the captain told him during his interrogation. “People admire my body, it is my currency; do not harm it, and I will tell you what you wish.” He holds his head high, runs steadily, does not seem to feel stings inflicted by his tormentors. A woman with a licentious eye touches him on the shoulder, as if giving a blessing. Captain Warren bows. Others in the gauntlet follow the example of the woman. Captain Warren runs slowly down the line, and no one strikes him with any force. Given his character, he feels by now a little more than human, thinks Caucus-Meteor. Cheers from the crowd behind the gauntlet urge him on. Surely, he believes his performance is winning over the heathens.

The gauntlet roughed up the young fellow, but allowed him to bow out before he actually finished, a definite strain on tradition. Now the gauntlet was giving the second runner free proceed. It will not allow a third captive through so easily. Caucus-Meteor calculates that his own slave is in for trouble.

At the halfway point in the line, a Mohawk warrior stops Captain Warren, gives him a bear hug, and shakes his hand. Everyone laughs, even Captain Warren. He resumes his run at a slow jog, bowing with each light touch as he goes through. He's looking down the end of the line, noting pleased looks on people's faces, thinking perhaps that he will be given a savage woman tonight to bed with, when Caucus-Meteor steps in front of him. Captain Warren recognizes the interrogator who burned him. He catches the old American's eyes now, full of intensity. He's watching the eyes, so that though he discerns the motion, it doesn't register that the interrogator is reaching for the knife he carries from a cord around his neck. He doesn't see Caucus-Meteor turn the blade toward himself. The butt end of the knife catches Captain Warren in the mouth as he runs by.

Caucus-Meteor knows what it's like to be surprisingly struck so: the impact in the skull, an explosion detonated behind the eye sockets, the sound of one's own throat crying out, crystals of maple sugar sparkling in the vision, until one can taste sweetness on the tongue. Captain Warren drops to one knee, brings his hand to his wound, feels the lacerated lip, the slick blood, the jagged mess in his mouth. A tooth falls into his cupped hand. Captain Warren takes a moment to gather his powers. Is he praying, wonders Caucus-Meteor? And then he remembers the captive's behavior under interrogation. Probably the captain is not praying; probably he is meditating on the justification of his anger. Meanwhile, the gauntlet folks, men and women both, watch the big Englishman huffing and puffing on one knee. All sense that this is the decisive moment in his run. Caucus-Meteor thrills inside. This, he thinks, this feeling is the difference between his own kind and the animals and even the gods. It's the reason the gods envy us; it's the feeling inside the apprehension of mortality.

Captain Warren shoves forward and at the same instant grabs the knife from Caucus-Meteor. The cord snaps off the back of the old American's neck, the turban flies away revealing the bald head, and the captive raises the knife into stabbing position. Caucus-Meteor thinks: Well, finally, I'm going to die, which will simplify everything. Captain Warren never completes his follow through. In a few seconds, the weapon is wrenched from his hand, and then blows begin. What's done to him appears to be just a beating, but in fact the mayhem is refined and systematic.

The tormentors crack kneecaps, dislocate hips, shoulders, and wrists, chop off thumbs. After they finish, two women stop the bleeding, tend to the more serious wounds, and examine the work closely to make sure the damage has been done properly. Captain Warren will soon realize with horror he's not going to be martyred. The tormentors have conspired to keep him alive, but permanently deny him use of his magnificent body.

Caucus-Meteor is not seriously injured, but he feels something of the trauma of the captives, queasiness in the stomach, a slightly deranged view of his world, as if hidden fingers were pressing on his eyeballs from the inside. He returns the turban to his head. Someone inquires as to his health. It's a moment before he recognizes St. Blein.

“Where is my prisoner?” Caucus-Meteor asks.

“He is about to begin his run.”

“Counsel him well. I must rest.” Caucus-Meteor watches his commander approach the naked captive.

St. Blein says in heavily accented English. “Now it is your turn, Nathan Blake. I suggest you show a little humility. And may God have mercy on your soul.” Nathan responds in heavily accented French. “Mercy bohcoo.”

Caucus-Meteor is outside the lines getting over the dizzy spell brought on during his encounter with Captain Warren. The gauntlet reassembles, the participants sullen and watchful. Who can guess their mood when they're not sure themselves? The old American is thinking that the tormentors are waiting for the gauntlet spirit to manifest itself when he hears a voice in the crowd calling to him in French.

“A man your age testing a bully in the gauntlet—you should know better.”

Caucus-Meteor is looking at a wizard as bald and almost as old as himself, and gaudily attired with beaded headband, and like himself with split ears, red sash, but unlike himself, reeking of liquor and tobacco, bone through his nose, and heavily armed with two knives, a hatchet, and a hand musket in a shoulder sling. Caucus-Meteor remembers his dream.

“Bleached Bones!” says Caucus-Meteor. “I'm surprised that none of those people you cheated has killed you yet.”

“It's because I say my prayers and think pure thoughts.”

“Between the two of us, pure thoughts gather the attention of the gods for their rarity.”