Les Ailes du Papillon
Walter H. Hunt
1
Walks-In-Deep-Woods looked up through a haze of tobacco smoke to see Strong-Arm standing at the tent flap. Normally Strong-Arm went where he wished; he entered any tent he chose, never asking permission or hesitating—but he hesitated here, at the entrance to Walks-In-Deep-Woods’ tent.
Walks-In-Deep-Woods did not speak. He placed his hands before him, as if warming them at the fire; then he touched them to his temples, his cheeks, and his breast. Strong-Arm watched each hand motion, perhaps attributing meaning to the gestures...but Walks-In-Deep-Woods smiled inwardly to himself, knowing that they were for show, like most of what a shaman did.
Just for show, he thought to himself, but did not permit a hint of it to appear on his face. Solemnly (very solemnly, he reminded himself) he looked up at Strong-Arm, awaiting the chief’s first words.
“You are working some medicine,” Strong-Arm said. “I will come back later.”
“You are welcome in my tent, mighty chief,” Walks-In-Deep-Woods said. “How may I help you?”
He gestured to a seat opposite, upon a blanket that a daughter of a chief had made for him when he was much younger. Strong-Arm seemed to hesitate again, as if unwilling to enter a shaman’s tent, but after a moment he entered, bowing his head to come through the tent-flap, and took the offered seat.
“You are working some medicine,” Strong-Arm repeated.
“Only the beginning,” Walks-In-Deep-Woods answered. He touched his temples and his cheeks again; Strong-Arm followed his gestures, perhaps again attributing some meaning to them. “I am trying to make clear that which is clouded.”
“By looking in the fire?”
“In part,” Walks-In-Deep-Woods said. “I have seen...the trail of our enemy.”
Strong-Arm was suddenly alert. “Enemy? You mean—”
“The great servant of the Onontio. Yes.”
“He is old now.”
“But still cunning, great chief. And still dangerous. For him to be defeated requires great medicine.”
“Our medicine has never worked against Champlain,” Strong-Arm said, and he picked up a bit of earth from the ground beneath his blanket, tossing it behind him to ward off any curse that might come from speaking the white man’s name. “Not in my father’s time, not in mine. Can you do what no one has done? Can you do what you have never done?”
“I can,” Walks-In-Deep-Woods answered, letting his face settle into a thin-lipped smile. “I can.”
Outside, in the dark, a night-bird hooted. Walks-In-Deep-Woods thanked the Great Spirit for His timing.
Strong-Arm rubbed his hands together and then spread them before the fire.
“What do you intend to do, shaman?”
“It is Champlain that opposes us, great chief. It is Champlain who makes common cause with the Hurons and goes to war against us.”
“Yes, yes,” Strong-Arm said. He was clearly uncomfortable that Walks-In-Deep-Woods was repeating the name.
“Then it is clear that he must die.”
“You...can cause his death?”
“Only at the proper time,” Walks-In-Deep-Woods answered.
Strong-Arm looked a bit disappointed.
“But this is the proper time,” Walks-In-Deep-Woods added. “With the harvest moon in the sky, and the first trace of chill in the air. I will cause the cold to creep into his old white bones and drive him to his bed.” He slapped his hands on his thighs, making Strong-Arm jump slightly. “And once he lies down he will not rise again.”
“When will you make this medicine?”
“When?” Walks-In-Deep-Woods let himself smile again, but this time he bared his teeth. “When, the great chief asks. It is already done. The cold is in his bones already.”
Now it was Strong-Arm’s turn to smile.
2
Champlain felt his age when he awoke in the morning, when he knelt to pray, when he bent over a map that had once been so easy to see, and when he laid his tired bones for sleep—and a hundred other times during the day.
Whenever he returned to France, his friends and the courtiers in Paris would ask: why go back, Samuel? Why return to Nouvelle France, where the winters are cold and the nights are long?
You are not accorded the dignity of being named Governor. While the king and the cardinal—and there was only one cardinal, whenever the title was spoken—grant great seigneuries to everyone around them, you are left humble and modest, with no honors heaped upon you.
Why go back?
Why indeed, he often thought to himself. But the answer was always the same—when he first set foot upon land it reminded him: the pure, clean air, the incredible variety of colors...Nouvelle France was in his blood. It was here that he first realized what he was meant to do.
And it was here, not in some comfortable salon in Paris, in the heart of the world, where he would die. He knew it, just as the cardinal had known it two years earlier at an interview when he had learned of the great extent over which New France was to spread. All of America north of the Spanish possessions belongs to the crown of France, Richelieu had told him, and then granted him the title of lieutenant-general.
In the spring, seven months ago, a confidant in Paris had sent him a scrap of parchment—a sort of engraving, a perfect reproduction of an up-time book, somehow procured from the Americans. It was a page from a great encyclopedia; and it was about him.
According to the book of the future, there was a calamity awaiting him—an imminent one. He was to suffer something that the English text termed a “stroke”—his correspondent had translated it as congestion cérébrale, an affliction of the head. It was written that the disease lingered for some time, giving him the opportunity to settle his affairs and contemplate, during the time left to him, how he would approach the Lord of Hosts when his spirit passed from the world.
The book had been vague about the exact date of the event, placing it sometime in October though it did state that he was to die on Christmas Day. By his own reckoning, the fate that God had ordained for him should logically take place eighty days earlier: forty days from Ash Wednesday to Eastertide, he thought, and forty days from Easter to Pentecost—eighty days placed the event on October the fifth.
All during the summer, Champlain had made his preparations. Confiding the contents of the scrap of paper to no one, not even his confessor, the Jesuit Father Charles Lalemant, he made a number of revisions to his will, providing a number of additional bequests of cash and property and making provisions for the servants of his habitation, his Montagnais godson Fortuné, and even the old greffier of Québec, Jacques de Laville. Lalemant took all of these changes in stride, asking Champlain about his sudden decisions...and, to his shame, Champlain dissembled (even under the seal of the confessional; he told his beads many times for those minor sins).
He would face his death with dignity, with his affairs in order, with his mind clear and his debts and responsibilities discharged. God had vouchsafed him an opportunity to do it before the congestion cérébrale struck him down.
By the Feast of Saint Michael all was in readiness. There was by then nothing to do but wait.
3
From his own Oneida longhouse to the Tree of Great Peace at Onondaga, the Council Fire of the Five Nations, was six days’ travel on foot. Strong-Arm expected Walks-In-Deep-Woods to go with him to speak with the other chiefs about war with the servants of the Onontio, but Walks-In-Deep-Woods declined. It was too far a journey for his old bones, with winter’s icy breath following just behind.
“I need your sage advice, shaman,” he said to him, but the older man shook his head.
“It is no place for shamans.”
“What?” Strong-Arm threw his hands in the air. “Onondaga is full of shamans. They are constantly asking questions—”
“And never giving answers, wise chief. I do not wish to be asked so many questions by so many shamans. You...you must go to the Great Fire of Peace and speak bravely, and argue your case so that all of the Haudenosaunee, the People of the Longhouse, will go to war alongside you.”
“I would have you beside me.”
“From the brave keepers of the Western Door, the Senecas, to the fierce Mohawks at the Longhouse’s sunrise entrance—all will harken to your words, mighty chief. You do not need me to make you or your speech strong.
“All you need, great Strong-Arm, is the truth.”
So Strong-Arm went alone, following the paths across the lands of the Oneidas until he came to Onondaga, where the great sacred fire of the Five Nations was kept. He carried with him the wampum of the Oneida, so that he might speak on behalf of himself and the other Oneida chiefs. As he traveled he knew that other chiefs, carrying other wampum, were on their way to Onondaga to hear him speak.
* * *
At the Council Fire at the heart of the lands of the Haudenosaunee, nothing happened quickly. Every meeting of the Great Council, ten hands of chiefs from all of the Nations—Seneca, Cayuga, Onondaga, Oneida and Mohawk, represented according to their might and numbers—began with tale-telling: of Sky-Mother and Earth-Father, of the Peacemaker Deganawidah, of the great Onondaga chief Hiawatha and the sorcerer Tadadaho whom Hiawatha cured with sacred beads and secret words. Almost an entire day from sunrise to sunset was consumed with the recounting of these great stories.
On the second day, a new sachem from the Seneca was welcomed “at the woods’ edge” to replace an old one who had died. Strong-Arm stood among the “clear-minded,” reciting the sacred words and helping to present the sacred beads to the “bereaved.” It was an aid to Strong-Arm’s patience that there were no debts of blood with the clan who had lost the sachem: there were no graves to cover, no feuds for the Council to resolve before the new sachem could pass through the “requickening” and take his seat. Nonetheless, the chiefs—and the shamans—were not interested in talking seriously until that ceremony was behind them, and thus a second day passed before the Tree of Great Peace.
At last, in the middle of the third day, when the elderly and distinguished chiefs had all had their chance to speak, Strong-Arm rose before the assembly and spread his arms wide. The members of the Grand Council, perhaps sensing that something important was about to be spoken, became hushed and quiet.
“I am Strong-Arm,” he began, “son of Red-Feather, son of Quick-Deer. Sachem I am, chief among the Oneida, neither the least nor the greatest of the Haudenosaunee, yet one of all, who stands before you by right and with privilege to speak.” He drew his belt of wampum and hung it on the pole that stretched the length of the great longhouse.
He waited long enough to see if any chose to challenge him; none did, nor had he expected it—but such was the custom of the Council. After a moment he continued.
“The Haudenosaunee know well that for many years—in my time and the time of my father Red-Feather, we walked in paths of war against the servants of the Onontio, from the white land of over sea that is called France. They have made war upon us, with their mighty weapons and white man’s charms—and for many years have been victorious in all their doings.
“But all of that will come to an end. The war-chief of the Onontio will come to an end.”
The members of the Council began to murmur.
“He is fearless,” said an old sachem. “He has always been fearless. He speaks to the land. He listens to the land.”
“He is mortal,” Strong-Arm said. “He can no more outrun the sun or overcome the pull of the Earth-Father than any of us.”
“But as long as he walks the earth—”
“No more,” Strong-Arm said, and there was more murmuring. It was impolite to interrupt another member of the Council when speaking. Some of the younger chiefs shifted in their seats, as if they wanted to interrupt him.
Rise and challenge me, Strong-Arm thought, crossing his arms in front of him. Come. I will wipe the tears from your eyes.
There was an extended silence. The clear-minded observed quietly, while the bereaved sought to determine whether they were prepared to intervene.
“Death-medicine has been laid upon the war-chief of the Onontio,” Strong-Arm said at last. “We will walk in the paths of war, and he will not be there to lead the white soldiers against the Haudenosaunee. My shaman has pronounced it, and so it shall be.”
The old sachem stood slowly, his hand grasping a polished maple staff. He made his away between the other members of the Council until he stood before Strong-Arm.
“I am Swift-As-Deer, son of Fishes-In-Deep-Waters, son of Climbs-High-Mountain, of the Mohawk Nation at the dawn door of the Longhouse. Though I must say to you, young chief, that most deer I see these days are far swifter than I am.
“You speak with bold words, Strong-Arm son of Red-Feather. Thus did your father speak when he was a member of the Council. When I was younger I walked in the paths of war against the war-chief of the Onontio, the one called Champlain. He is cunning and wise—and not easily killed, not by axe or fire-stick or death-medicine. Who is this powerful shaman that claims to have done it?”
“Walks-In-Deep-Woods.”
Swift-As-Deer looked at Strong-Arm from head to toes and back again, and then let out a loud whoop of laughter. The longhouse shook with it as it spread to the rest of the members of the Council.
Strong-Arm’s hands formed into fists.
“You are mocking me, Swift-As-Deer.”
“You?” Swift-As-Deer lifted his arms, turning his staff in his hand as he held it in the air. “No, Strong-Arm son of Red-Feather. I would not mock you. But as for Walks-In-Deep-Woods—oh, I would mock him from sunrise to sunset.
“He is a fake, brave Strong-Arm. He is a cheat, a speaker of false words. He has no death medicine, not now and not ever. Whatever he told you was a lie. He wants nothing but to eat your food and make love to your women.”
Swift-As-Deer turned away from Strong-Arm, making the younger man tense in anger—but Swift-As-Deer was an elder sachem, not a youth he could challenge for the slightest public offense.
Such scores were settled elsewhere, at other times.
“Speak, wise Brothers,” Swift-As-Deer said. “Who knows of this dog Walks-In-Deep-Woods? Bring light to my Brother Strong-Arm, the brave and wise chief of the Oneida people. Tell him that there is no sense in risking the lives of the people of the Longhouse in a war based on the advice—and the false death-medicine—of this fraud.”
As Strong-Arm watched, several of the members of the Council shifted in their seats, as if preparing to speak. Before any actually rose, however, the newest sachem of all stood and walked to the center of the assembly. Without speaking he drew a long belt of wampum from over his shoulder and laid it next to Strong-Arm’s own.
Then he walked to stand before Strong-Arm and stared at him for several moments, still not speaking.
“What—” Strong-Arm said, but the other man held up his right hand and Strong-Arm fell silent. No one in the Great Council spoke, or shifted position, or made any other noise.
“I want to look in your eyes,” the other chief said at last. “I want to look into your soul.”
Strong-Arm did not understand what he meant, but answered, “what do you see?”
“Bravery.”
Strong-Arm did not know how to respond to that either.
“I am Born-Under-Moon, son of Red-Spear, come to you from the land of the Seneca, new among you. I have heard great speeches and wisdom. And now—when a brave chief calls for the People of the Longhouse to walk the paths of war...I must sit in quiet and have an old man tell me of his fear?
“Is that what the Haudenosaunee have come to? Is that the blood that courses through our veins? Is that what we have become—playthings of the white men? Is that all we are? I do not believe what I hear.”
Born-Under-Moon turned and stared fiercely at Swift-As-Deer. The Council remained silent.
“I went to war when I was younger than you,” Swift-As-Deer said. “Many brave warriors fell in battle against this captain of the Onontio. But even if he is old—or dead”—he glanced at Strong-Arm for a moment—“the servants of the Onontio are dangerous. I understand the need for a young warrior with blood coursing hot in his veins to seek glory in battle. I...understand it very well. But this is not a decision to be taken lightly.”
“You think this is a whim?” Born-Under-Moon said. His voice was laced with anger. “Is that what you think, old man?”
Swift-As-Deer did not answer. Strong-Arm noticed a curious expression on the old sachem’s face: not anger, but rather weariness—as if he had heard this accusation before and did not want to have to answer it yet again.
“He has walked the paths of war more times than you, Born-Under-Moon,” Strong-Arm said into the quiet. “His is a voice to which we listen carefully. Even if this is the time to strike, we must take heed of the wisdom he speaks.”
“He is afraid of the old war-captain. He is a—”
Strong-Arm held up his hand and the younger chief halted, as if unwilling to finish the sentence.
“Do not let that arrow fly, Born-Under-Moon. If you believe—as I do—that we should go to war with the servants of the Onontio, then making war with the eldest and wisest is not the correct course. It gains you nothing, and it loses you the friendship of many in the Council.
“Including me.”
Born-Under-Moon looked as if he did not understand Strong-Arm’s reasoning: but he had already spoken of the other man’s bravery, and could hardly reverse himself.
“There are many reasons we should take this course,” Strong-Arm said. “If you are ready to listen, friend,” he continued, “I shall tell them to you.”
4
On Monday, the fifth of October, Samuel de Champlain rose and prayed as he had always done. After a brief and spare meal he dressed and went for a walk in the settlement of Québec. He remained in plain sight.
He was waiting for the congestion cérébrale.
The day passed without event. Night came, and still nothing. When the sun went down he returned to his habitation, partly relieved and partly disappointed. He did not want the stroke, but knowing that it was coming he felt that he had made his peace and was ready for it to come.
On the next day he rose and did the same.
And the next day after that.
On the fourth day, Father Lalemant fell into step beside him as he walked along one of Québec’s muddy streets. Lalemant was a young man, spare, almost gaunt—it had been clear to Champlain from the time he met the Jesuit Father that Lalemant had been very attentive to his spiritual exercises.
He kept up with Champlain’s long, steady strides.
“Father?”
“Monsieur,” the Jesuit said. “You are troubled,” he added a few steps later.
“Do I look troubled, Father?”
“To be honest, monsieur, you do. I think—” they both stepped around a small pile of refuse—“I think there’s something bothering you. As your confessor, I feel it my duty to ask you what it might be.”
“You are an acute observer of mankind, Father.”
“That remark neither confirms nor denies my observation.”
Champlain stopped suddenly; Lalemant took two more steps and had to turn around.
“I have many things that trouble me, not least that my spies tell me that the Iroquois—particularly the Mohawk—have gone on a war footing. But I sense that you mean something else. What is more—” he lowered his voice. “What is more,” he added softly, “this is not the confessional. I do not wish to discuss personal matters in the middle of the street.”
“That is just as well,” Lalemant answered. “You aren’t saying anything in the confessional these days.”
Champlain’s years of training and experience as a leader had given him the ability to stare down native sachems, grands seignieurs, and, when necessary, Jesuit priests.
Particularly young ones.
“I beg your pardon,” Lalemant said, but to his credit, stood his ground.
“You have a certain right to pry, Father,” Champlain said after a moment. “But there are limits.”
They began to walk again. Champlain began to make his way back to his own house.
Champlain spoke first. “I am expecting something to happen,” he said at last, without looking at the young Jesuit. “I have received...a message.”
* * *
As they sat in the study of Champlain’s habitation, Lalemant turned the thin sheet over in his hands, marveling at it. “This is amazing, monsieur.”
“I was alarmed myself.”
“No,” Lalemant said. “I meant—the quality of the paper.”
“Oh, for the love of God,” Champlain said, snatching it out of the Jesuit father’s hands. He waved it at Lalemant. “I was referring to the contents. This is a reproduction. A...what was the word that the cardinal used? ‘Photocopier.’ A machine picture, some magic the up-timers can perform.”
“It’s about you.”
“Yes, I know. I can read. It tells me when I am to die—and how.”
“Thank you, monsieur. I, too, can read. This paper says that you are to suffer some sort of attack, sometime this month.” A look of understanding came onto his face. “This explains much,” he said.
“I am waiting for this to happen. Indeed, I expected it to have already happened—and yet I still live. And walk, and speak.”
“Perhaps you miscalculated. And perhaps—”
“Yes?”
“It is possible,” Lalemant said carefully, “that it may not happen at all. This paper, this book, speaks of a malady and the death of a man named Champlain—but it may not be you.”
“I fail to understand. It describes Samuel de Champlain, born in Brouage 1567...‘French explorer, acknowledged founder of the city of Québec 1608, and consolidator of the French colonies in the New World. He discovered the lake that bears his name in 1609...’ Unless I am mistaken, Father Lalemant, that man sits before you.”
“Monsieur,” Lalemant said, “in some Eastern philosophies, they say that when a man steps into a river, both the man and the river are forever changed. Four years ago, the Grantvillieurs came back in time to the Germanies, and from that moment onward, the world was changed. In large ways...and small.”
“There are no Américains here. I do not think that there are any Germans or any Swedes or...but how could they change anything here?
“I have never met an up-timer. No—no, wait. In Paris I was once introduced, in passing I confess, to a man named Lefferts. He seemed to know my name. But I fail to understand—are you saying that meeting him changed my future?”
“No, no,” Lalemant said, shaking his head. “It has nothing to do with this one up-timer you met. In fact, it probably does not matter if you met him or not.
“As soon as the Américains came into our present time, things began to change. Things completely unrelated to actions and reactions. The up-timers even have a term for it: les ailes du papillon. The wings of the butterfly—also known as the ‘butterfly effect.’ ”
“And thus...”
“And thus, monsieur, renowned explorer, founder of the city of Québec, et cetera, it may be that in this world, at this time, God the Father does not ordain that you should die.”
Champlain sat back in his chair, contemplating.
“Who else knows of this...photocopier?”
“I have shown it to no one else. But there is someone else who knows of its contents, though I am not sure how. I presume that he saw the book of the Américains.”
“Who is that?”
“The Dutch trader. Bogaert.”
“Oh,” Lalemant said. “That one. A strange fellow. There is something—something about him that bothers me.”
“I admit I don’t much like him either. He spoke to me privately and asked me if I was feeling well.”
Lalemant began to respond, then stopped and looked thoughtful. “Bogaert trades with the Iroquois, monsieur.”
“He seemed surprised that I was hale and active,” Champlain said. “I dismissed it at the time, but...do you think he has traded this with the Iroquois, Father?”
“I am inclined to use William of Ockham’s principle of economy when examining events,” the Jesuit answered. “The Iroquois Nations have remained peaceful even through the time when the English occupied Québec—indeed, they have caused little trouble to New France during your entire time here. Why? They fear and respect you, monsieur.”
“They fear and respect the musket and the arquebus, Father.”
“The gun is only as good as the hands that hold it. It is you whom they fear. If they believed you were dead...”
“They might go to war.”
“Indeed they might. Perhaps you should have words with Monsieur Bogaert.”
Champlain slapped the arm of his chair, and uttered a word one does not normally speak in front of Jesuits. “I believe he has gone upriver, perhaps to trade with the Hurons. He is no longer in Québec, in any case.”
“Then, monsieur...if you believe that he has indeed spread word of your illness to the Indians, and is no longer here to confirm or deny the truth of it, I suggest that you use that information to your advantage.”
5
Of all of the Nations, the Mohawks felt themselves most aggrieved by the Onontio and his servants. Therefore, though it was Strong-Arm of the Oneida who had brought the idea of war to the Great Council, it was the Mohawks who led the way.
Despite the calumnies against Walks-In-Deep-Woods that had been spoken by the sachems, word from the Montaignais and others who traded at the great fort of Québec brought word that, over the last moon, the great chief Champlain had taken to his bed; he was afflicted with some illness, or the weight of great age, or both. No one had seen him in the streets or in the fortress, nor traveling upon the river.
Strong-Arm began to believe that Walks-In-Deep-Woods’ death-medicine was truly effective, and other chiefs believed it too. For all of the time he had been chief in New France, Champlain had been respected for that quality that the Hurons called orenda: the vital spirit, the thing that made a man do good or evil. The orenda in Champlain was very strong.
But he was very old. Strong-Arm’s father Red-Feather had known Champlain and fought with the Mohawk against him at Sorel, twenty-five summers ago—only a few escaped with their lives when the French attacked. Red-Feather spoke of an arrow-shot that had nearly killed Champlain: but instead of sticking in his throat it had creased his ear—the white man escaped death by the width of a butterfly’s wing. Even wounded, the Frenchman had been fearless and deadly. His orenda was strong enough to move many men—that, and the weapons they carried.
Old men who lay down sick did not rise again.
* * *
They moved through the forest, swiftly and quietly, as the days grew colder. The Mohawk warrior-leader, Hawk-Brother, had chosen the first target of their assault: the place that the French called Trois-Rivières, downriver from Québec.
“That will come in time,” Hawk-Brother said to the assembled chiefs and braves. He was young to be a warrior-leader, but at Sorel so many Mohawks had been killed and captured—including Hawk-Brother’s own father—that it was as if an entire generation was missing. Hawk-Brother had tended the fire of his revenge since he was a young brave.
Once again, Strong-Arm wished that his shaman had come with the war party to cool the heads of the angriest warriors—but neither Walks-In-Deep-Woods, nor any of the other shamans from the Great Council, had traveled with the war-party. Neither had Swift-As-Deer, or his Seneca warriors. They did not believe in the death-medicine; they did not believe in the rumors.
* * *
Trois-Rivières was a fur trading post on the river. It was surrounded by a wooden palisade to defend against attacks from hostile natives. But at this hour of the afternoon, the gates were open to permit traders to enter with their skins to sell or barter.
While the main force crouched in concealment, Hawk-Brother and Strong-Arm and three braves, along with Born-Under-Moon and two of his Seneca brothers—the only Seneca among them—approached the gate with bundles of beaver pelts slung on their backs. Two men were there, wearing metal cuirasses and pot helmets.
“They are wary,” Hawk-Brother said quietly. “They do not usually defend the gate so strongly.”
“Perhaps we should wait,” Strong-Arm said.
“Wait? No,” Hawk-Brother answered. “If we wait, the wind might change. Warriors might decide that their campfire is more pleasing. I will not show weakness—now that we are so close.”
“I hope you are not losing your nerve,” Born-Under-Moon said to Strong-Arm.
If Born-Under-Moon had been an Oneida brave, Strong-Arm might have cuffed him—or taken out his hatchet and struck him down. But he did not wish to explain the matter before the Council Fire, nor cover the grave for the Seneca. So instead he did not answer, and focused his attention on the gate.
“Halt,” one of the guards said in French, and then added more words that Strong-Arm did not understand.
Hawk-Brother did the talking in the white man’s language; he spoke it haltingly but seemed to make himself understood. He gestured to the pelts that the five warriors carried, and seemed to bow with great respect. Born-Under-Moon looked disgusted; but Strong-Arm understood: the object was to get inside the settlement, not to keep up appearances.
It seemed to take forever, but at last the two guards permitted the eight warriors through the gate.
* * *
Strong-Arm had fought many times—raids against tribes outside the Five Nations, rather than fights against Europeans, but battles nonetheless. Whenever he went to battle, a calm settled upon him: it was as if he was in a forest and everything was quiet—no bird or animal noises, no footfalls, no sighing of wind, just the beating of his own heart.
The calm had descended now. There were a dozen people in sight, but Strong-Arm could not hear their speech, or the sounds of the animals, or the sound of the wind. Only one noise pierced this soundless state: a high-pitched whistle by Hawk-Brother signaling the beginning of the attack.
At the same time:
Strong-Arm dropped his bundle of pelts and drew his tomahawk, running at the trade house;
Born-Under-Moon and his two brothers turned and attacked the guards at the gate;
The rest of the warriors outside emerged from cover and began to run at the gate, shouting war-whoops;
Hawk-Brother and his Mohawks ran toward the armory—
And a series of shots rang out, shattering Strong-Arm’s silent calm. He watched as Hawk-Brother dropped to the ground, his hatchet skittering out of his hand to land several feet away. Born-Under-Moon crumpled as well; someone concealed on the roof of a building found his mark.
Thirty feet in front of him, in front of the trade house toward which he was running, he saw three Frenchmen in metal cuirasses and breastplates. They held muskets in their hands—or possibly the more complicated arquebuses. Strong-Arm knew two things almost at once: first, the three guns were pointed at his chest and they could almost not miss; and second, his tomahawk was not going to have any effect on the metal armor the Frenchmen wore.
Suddenly, he realized a third fact—and it made him stop short rather than hurl himself forward to a brave death.
Without doubt—because he could see the torn ear that was so well known among the Iroquois—the man standing in the front was none other than Samuel de Champlain. He was not an old man lying in a sick bed: he was armed and armored and aiming an arquebus directly at Strong-Arm’s chest.
Outside the settlement, Strong-Arm could hear shots being fired, and the howls of his Iroquois brothers as the bullets struck them.
* * *
“We have a word for this,” Champlain said to Strong-Arm, who stood before him unarmed, his wrists bound behind him. He spoke excellent Iroquois. “It is called an embuscade. Friends among the Montaignais told us that a war-party was headed for Trois-Rivières—and so we simply waited for you to arrive.”
Strong-Arm did not answer. He was the only chief from the advance party still alive; Born-Under-Moon and Hawk-Brother and four of the other warriors had been killed at once; most of the warriors outside had fled when the Frenchmen on the palisade opened fire.
“Tell me,” Champlain continued. “Is there a reason I should not have you put to death?”
“I do not fear death.”
“That is your shame,” the Frenchman answered. “You have not accepted the light of the True Faith—so an afterlife of torment awaits you. Yet I would spare you this.”
“I do not believe in your True Faith,” Strong-Arm said. “What can your God do that mine cannot?”
“My God has preserved my life more than once,” Champlain said, and exchanged a glance with a black-robed priest who stood next to where he sat. The priest scowled at Strong-Arm; he stared back, unafraid.
“Why do you break the peace that my king has made with your Council?”
“We avenge past wrongs,” Strong-Arm said. “We wish to take back what is ours.”
“This is not yours. It is ours, by sacred treaty. You anger both your peoples and mine to break that treaty. The sachems of the Great Council would not think ill of me if I hung you by a rope until you were dead for violating that trust.
“But I will not do that,” Champlain said. “Much blood has been shed here. I will set you free, and send you back to your people to tell them the story of what has been done here. They will think me generous for having granted you your life, and will think me strong for having defended the place belonging to the Onontio. They can take that as a warning not to do it again.” He gestured, and a soldier stepped forward and cut the bonds that held Strong-Arm’s wrists.
Strong-Arm rubbed his hands to give them back their feeling, then took a single step forward. Three soldiers immediately stepped in his way, but Champlain waved them aside.
Orenda, Strong-Arm thought.
Warily, the soldiers stepped back. Strong-Arm took another step and reached out his hand to touch Champlain’s severed ear.
“Your God saved you at Sorel,” Strong-Arm said. “My father told me of this.”
“Tell your people that my God is strong, and that the Onontio is strong. And soon, with God’s help, he will be yet stronger. The other kings across the Great Water have yielded to him, and soon there will be no others to trouble you.”
Strong-Arm stood straight and crossed his arms over his chest. “How do I know that you tell the truth?”
“I have never lied to the people of the Five Nations,” Champlain said. “Unlike some who have come among you...spreading that which is false.”
“Such as?”
“Rumors of my death,” Champlain answered. “You went to war because you thought I was dying.”
Strong-Arm again was silent, but he began to understand. Someone had told Walks-In-Deep-Woods that Champlain was on his deathbed, and the wily old shaman had taken credit for it.
And Strong-Arm had believed it. Brave warriors lay dead because Strong-Arm had believed it, and had not heeded the words of the wise old chief Swift-As-Deer.
“I will bring your words to my people,” Strong-Arm said at last. “I will say to them what you say to me.”
And I will say more, he thought to himself. I will say much more.
6
Strong-Arm did not hesitate this time before entering the tent of Walks-In-Deep-Woods. The shaman sensed his anger and looked alarmed, but did not attempt to get to his feet.
“How may I be of service, mighty chief?” he asked, touching his thumbs to his forehead.
“Stand and walk,” Strong-Arm said. “Walk out of this camp and do not turn back.”
“I do not understand.”
“Understand this, you snake,” he said. “I shall burn this tent, and everything in it—including you—if you do not heed my words. You will leave the Oneida. Go wherever you wish. But if your shadow is seen in Oneida lands again, I will kill you. Slowly.”
Walks-In-Deep-Woods scrambled to his feet, perhaps realizing for the first time that Strong-Arm’s anger was genuine—and dangerous. In his haste he disturbed the blankets in his sleeping-place, and Strong-Arm saw something peeking out from under it: a bundle of paper, hidden among the other bits and pieces of the shaman’s art.
He pushed past the shaman, nearly knocking him off his feet, and picked up the bundle. “What is this?”
“It is—well, you see—”
“This is white man’s work.” He touched the pages in turn: there were many letters, and a single picture—of a man with the hair and beard of a Frenchman, next to a pattern...something familiar...
A banner. With the flowers of France.
“Can you read this? Is this your—your death medicine, old snake?”
“No. Yes. I—please, mighty chief!” he said as Strong-Arm grasped the necklaces at his throat and twisted them tight.
“You sent us to our death,” he said, and shoved Walks-In-Deep-Woods onto his back. The old man looked genuinely terrified now.
He took the papers and tossed them into the fire, then turned his back on Walks-In-Deep-Woods.
“Run,” he said. “Or burn. I do not care. I must go and tell my people the words of the great chief Champlain.”
“Champlain,” Walks-In-Deep-Woods managed. “He—he lives?”
Strong-Arm did not favor the old shaman with an answer, but left the tent.
After a moment, Walks-In-Deep-Woods could see the light of torches coming closer.