The Shadows of God

by J. Gregory Keyes

  But no one had tried to kill him yet.

  “Is it true?” the chief asked. “The dreams we've had? Did you send them?”

  “I sent them, and they are true. With my own eyes I've seen the army. With my own hands I've fought against them.”

  “He is a brother to the owls,” Bloody Child snarled. “Any dream he sends is a lie.”

  “We've heard other things,” Tishu Minko said. “The Shawano trader who stayed with the Yellow Canes told of strange things beyond the Water Road. And what would it profit Red Shoes to make such a lie?”

  “To lead us away from our villages, perhaps,” Bloody Child said. “To leave our women and old men defenseless against his English friends.”

  The chief cleared his throat. “Red Shoes, why does he come, this Sun Boy? Why is he our enemy and not our friend? Many have joined him.”

  “Yes. Those who join him become his warriors. Those who do not, die.”

  “Why not join them, then,” Paint Red asked, “if they are so strong? We've fought for the French, when it was in our interest, and with the English as well. If he offers us glory and scalps, why spurn him, this child of the Sun?”

  “He shines, but he is no child of the Sun,” Red Shoes said. “He is the black man, who lives in the West, the chief of the night-goers, the god of ruin. He is the serpent with wings of blood.”

  “Perhaps you are the serpent with wings of blood,” Paint Red said. “Perhaps you are not who you say you are.”

  “It is the danger of being a hopaye,” one of the Onkala priests said quite suddenly. “Sometimes they walk out into the woods human and return as—something else.” He turned to Minko Chito. “We cannot hold this council here, great chief. We must go where the truth lives, to the navel of the world.”

  The chief nodded. “To Nanih Waiyah. Yes. We will go there now.”

  An involuntary chill crept up Red Shoes’ back, the snake in him moving. For an instant, the winter rage came on him, and he knew he could kill them all, that perhaps he should. His sister's warning came back to him.

  But if he killed them, he failed. And the Bone Men might surprise him. They remembered things no one else did. They might destroy him.

  Besides, the rage wasn't his. The anger wasn't his. It was in him, but he did not have to accept it. Each time he used the snake's venom it became easier to swallow, and it tasted better.

  He remembered the Wichita village, where he had killed everyone, from the smallest child to the oldest man. That could not happen here, even if it meant his own life.

  “To Nanih Waiyah,” he said. “Let us go, then.”

  It was several seconds after the crackle and thunder of weapons faded that Franklin understood that he was alive and well and that the volley had merely been a welcome, a sort of friendly handshake.

  “Silly,” he muttered. “And wasteful. Why not drums and fifes, or bugles or shofars or what have you, if a noisy greeting is needed? That volley could have been spent more wisely. I, for one, will be quite cross if this war is lost by one volley.”

  “Will that be the opening speech of your parley?” Robert asked.

  The French captain on shore shouted something. For all the ringing in his ears, Franklin could scarcely hear it.

  “He says we are welcome, and to follow him in to dock,” Penigault translated.

  “Said the spider to the fly,” Robert muttered.

  Franklin got his wish, albeit belatedly, as they marched up the muddy street to the sound of trumpets and drums. Negro page boys in filthy stockings scattered flower petals before them, but that did nothing to keep the earth from sucking their shoes half off. Throwing down a good layer of gravel or sand, Franklin reflected, would have been an infinitely more practical use of time and labor.

  Once inside the gate, the same page boys scrupulously cleaned the Carolinians’ shoes. Embarrassed, Franklin shooed his away, taking the rag to do the cleaning himself. A bit later, they were offered some sour but drinkable wine. Franklin took it in moderation, worried about poison but very much in need of something to drink, as sweet water had become scarce near the salty Mobile Bay. They were at the mercy of the French now, and if he was to die, poison was probably as pleasant a way as any.

  The grand hall was dimly lit by alchemical lanthorns in motley shapes. Indeed, the lack of theme—here an angel, there a sort of pumpkin, there a naked woman—suggested that the lamps had been salvaged from various places rather than made to suit the particular architecture of the place. The inconstant glow of some of them suggested the same—most had probably been made more than twelve years ago, before the comet fell, and were nearing the end of their usefulness.

  But for those uneven lights, the hall might have been a troglodyte's cave, so little could he see of it.

  They were ushered into an anteroom, this one better lit and decorated with fleurs-de-lys wallpaper. There they waited for half an hour, if the sun-faced pendulum clock on one wall kept proper time. At last a thin fellow with a ridiculous periwig and vivid green frock coat came out and had a look at them, though he didn't say anything and ignored Voltaire's overtures. He vanished, and a few moments later, the pages reappeared with fresh clothing for all of them.

  “It seems they have their standards here,” Franklin remarked, “and we are not up to them.”

  “It's a good sign,” Voltaire said, “in a way. It means that they will see you even if you aren't up to snuff.”

  “Hmm.”

  The outfit he was given was all of bright red watered silk, reminding him of his one-time master, Sir Isaac Newton, who had favored rich, scarlet garb. It fit him loosely and had an unpleasant odor. Franklin wondered, unhappily, if its last wearer had died in it.

  Then more waiting, and finally the thin man appeared again.

  “The king will see Mr. Benjamin Franklin now.”

  “And my companions?”

  “He will see Don Pedro of the Apalachee at another time. All others are invited to dine this evening.”

  Franklin looked to his friends apologetically. “I suppose this means I'll see you later, fellows.”

  He followed the thin man through a warren of corridors and chambers, which he supposed were meant to be grand. Actually, they seemed somewhat askew, with corners not quite square and tilting floors. Each step felt like a league separating him from his companions.

  “How do you find the royal palace?” the thin fellow asked.

  “Large,” Franklin said truthfully.

  The man smiled indulgently. “Yes. Large.”

  “Your pardon, Monsieur—”

  The fellow stopped. “My deep apologies. I am d'Artagui-ette, the minister of New France.” He paused in the darkened hall. “I wonder what you must think of us.”

  “Monsieur d'Artaguiette, I have little basis on which to think anything.”

  “You will find this court rather— despondent. I would not hope for much.”

  “Well, we all must hope. I think I have things of great importance to say to His Majesty.”

  “His Majesty is not often disposed to hear important things. I wish you luck.”

  Franklin thought the minister could have sounded more sincere.

  They continued on, eventually reaching two large doors that admitted him into not a throne room, salon, or council chamber, but a bedroom with a huge, canopied bed. The walls were light and papered, and the room cheerfully lit by a rather large, misted window beyond the bed. Seven men in florid clothing watched him enter with varying degrees of disapproval. The room reeked of perfume. In the bed lay the man Franklin supposed to be the king.

  At first he thought the king might be dead, for he seemed motionless, glassy-eyed, dressed in a high wig and silk gown, covers drawn to his waist. He sat propped against pillows in such a way that did not require life to maintain the position.

  But then the royal head nodded, almost imperceptibly.

  “Monsieur Benjamin Franklin,” the thin man announced, “I present you to the most glorious
king of France and her colonies, Philippe VII.”

  “Your Majesty,” Franklin said, bowing in the complex fashion that he had learned at court in Prague.

  Everyone in the room took in a sharp breath, followed by titters of laughter.

  “I was not told Mr. Franklin was a grandee of the Spanish court,” the king remarked, a little smile on his plump, red face.

  There was louder giggling at the king's remark. It occurred to Franklin that he should have had Voltaire instruct him in the French style of bowing, but it had been a long time since court etiquette had concerned him, and the steaming forests of America had not encouraged thoughts of such.

  “Your pardon, Majesty, but as I understand it, you are also Philippe VI of Spain, are you not, and thus due the Spanish genuflection?”

  “A good point,” the king replied, a certain weariness entering his tone, “and one not to be giggled at.”

  The courtiers fell immediately silent.

  “Well, Mr. Franklin. You have come here for some purpose other than entertaining my courtiers, I suppose? It has been long since we heard from the English colonies. We thought our friendship with you quite abandoned.”

  “Far from it, Your Majesty. I have tried without pause to communicate with you by aetherschreiber. I fear, from your remarks, that some agency intercepted all.”

  “Indeed?” Did his gaze flicker suspiciously about the room? Franklin could not tell for certain.

  “Is Your Majesty aware that our colonies are under attack by foreign powers?”

  “As I understand it, you are in most indecent and unlawful rebellion against my beloved cousin James.”

  “Your Majesty, then, received the embassy of Mr. Sterne and his fellows?”

  “Well, of course. How could I not? And they came well dressed, without need of hand-me-downs. They even gave me a ride in their flying carriage, which much amused me. Did you bring any contrivance as entertaining?”

  “No, Majesty, I fear not. We came in through your back door, a charming but strenuous path.”

  “I should think that the wizard of America should have his own flying machines. Did not your old master, Sir Isaac, invent them?”

  “Indeed, Highness, but together we discovered that the cost of using them is too high, to body but especially to the soul.”

  “Ah, yes.” The king raised his hand, and a Negro servant appeared from behind a curtain to place a glass of wine in it. He took a sip. “Mr. Sterne suggested I arrest you, you know. My ministers like the suggestion very well.”

  “I must say, I hope Your Majesty was not swayed by that opinion.”

  The king rested the glass on his belly and smiled at it. “Mr. Sterne is a most forceful man. So forceful, in fact, that his suggestion sounded much like a command. I did not like the tone.”

  The stale air in the room suddenly felt cleaner to Franklin. “I am most grateful, Sire.”

  “Yes. You may take this matter up with Mr. Sterne at dinner, I think.”

  “He is still here?”

  “Yes, of course, and still eager for my aid in pacifying my cousin's enemies. I suppose you are here to make the opposite case.”

  “Yes, Sire, that is so. And to remind you of the treaty we hold with Louisiana.”

  “Ah, yes. The Sieur de Bienville was signatory to that, and had not the power of the throne behind him. You are aware of that?”

  “Yes, Sire, I am. But Bienville made that agreement in good faith and without knowledge that a king still lived.”

  “May I make a suggestion, Sire?” This was one of the courtiers, an oily-sounding fellow with an undoubtedly false mole on his alabaster-powdered face.

  “I am always happy for advice from my court, Monsieur.”

  “Wouldn't it be amusing if Mr. Franklin and Mr. Sterne were to engage in a contest—perhaps a game of tennis— over the right to further petition you for your aid in this little conflict of theirs?”

  “Oh, très amusant,” another courtier echoed.

  “You have to understand my court, Mr. Franklin,” the king said. “We are short of the best amusements here. Few of our dwarves survived the last winter, and Indian jugglers have lost much of their power to entertain. What do you think? Shall we decide the future of your country with a tennis match?”

  “Sire, I regret that I cannot fully convey to you the gravity of this situation—”

  “Gravity! How droll from a student of Newton!” the oily fellow said. They all laughed.

  “Did Mr. Sterne explain to you how deeply indebted James is to the tsar of Russia?” Franklin pressed, ignoring the jibe.

  “He forecast you would make much of it.”

  “Perhaps a fortune-telling contest,” another of the courtiers quipped, “would be more suited to the talents of our English friends.”

  Franklin felt a warmth flush his face. “Very well, sir,” he said to the man who had spoken. “I forecast that if you continue in these posturing games of wit instead of paying serious attention to matters at hand, you will find this castle of yours has crumbled about your ears, that devils you cannot even imagine will perch on your bones, and that your wit will be of very little use when you find yourselves extinguished, excised, extinct.”

  “Oh, dear,” the oily fellow said. “That isn't entertaining in the least, I find. Have you another soliloquy, perhaps more suited to the occasion?”

  The king sighed loudly. “Out, all of you. All of you except Mr. Franklin, begone.”

  D'Artaguiette bridled. “Sire—”

  “You, too.”

  They hesitated, but not for long. More than one gave Franklin a glance that promised their dislike of him was gaining proportion.

  “That's better,” the king said, once the last of them had closed the door. He rose from his bed and went to a cabinet, from which he drew a worn blue justaucorps to throw over his dressing gown. He went to the blurred window and gazed out at the muddy mess of New Paris.

  “I never wanted to be king,” he said. “Never. I was perfectly content as the duke of Orléans. I could do what I wanted to, then. I could do nothing if I chose.” He turned back to Franklin. “You see what I am surrounded by now? Idiots, all of them. They insisted I greet you as I did, impress you with our indifference. Well, you are suitably impressed, I hope? As impressed as you are by my great city, my wonderful palace? You must think me mad.”

  “Sire—”

  “Where have you been, you English?” he exploded. “You left us alone here with Indians. New Orleans is a moldering ruin. The Natchez slaughtered our concessionaires on the great river. Hundreds have starved and died from the pox, and all my court can do is to shrink from it, imagine we still have a kingdom, lose themselves in dreams. Now you come to me and ask for help —against my royal cousin? What care I if he has Russians at his back? What care I, if he might help restore the world I once knew?”

  “Sire, he will not do that.”

  The king was silent for a moment. “I love science, did you know? I was a great admirer of Newton, and have admired your own papers in the last few years. I have a laboratory here, where I perform experiments when I have time. That perfume you smell—I made it myself, would you believe? I was the head of the Academy of Sciences, which— which—” He suddenly broke off, and Franklin understood that the sovereign was weeping. “Which did this thing.” He groaned. “And I did not know, did I? I, who thought myself in command—I never knew what my damned uncle—” He broke off again. “I was nothing. I am nothing. What do you imagine you will find here, Mr. Franklin? My five hundred pitiful soldiers? My four ships? Do you think I really have anything you need?”

  Franklin's heart sank. The French were weaker than he had suspected. No wonder Bienville had signed the protection treaty—the Atlantic colonies outnumbered and outgunned them thirty to one.

  But— He ordered his thoughts. “Yes, Sire, I do,” he said at last, and found that he meant it. “The battle we wage is not just for ourselves but for our very race. And it is n
ot merely a battle of arms over territory but a fight for our very souls. If you have any men at all who will fight—we need them. If you have any ships that can sail, or cannon that will yet fire—we need them. But most of all, we need your heart and your courage and your conviction. I, too, played a role in the tragedy that is upon us, that fist of heaven that smote the Earth and spoiled it. A greater role, Sire, than ever you did, I swear. I may be damned for it. But I will be twice damned if I do nothing to correct what I have done, if I do not find the courage to face the children of my mistake and tell them that they will inherit no more evil from me. That is what I hope to find here, a spirit of that kind.”

  The king turned back toward the window. “Go,” he said. “Go away from me.”

  “Majesty—”

  “Go. I will see you at dinner tonight. Perhaps I will ask you to play tennis after all.”

  Franklin bowed before leaving, but the monarch did not turn to look at him again. He spoke, still facing away.

  “There is someone recently come to my court, Mr. Franklin, who would like a word with you. I will grant it to her, I think. She may say much that shall enlighten you. Then again, perhaps not— She has said much to me, and I remained most unenlightened, though her company is pleasant enough.”

  “Thank you for hearing me out, Sire.”

  “Do not thank me yet. My page shall escort you.”

  As promised, one of the pages was waiting outside.

  “Suivez-moi, je vous en prie, Monsieur,” the boy said.

  Franklin could only follow the boy farther into the maze of the chateau, up stairs and down yet another dark corridor.

  The room he was admitted to was illumined by a new, untarnished lanthorn. It was like opening a door in hell and finding the sun.

  And his breath caught, for in that light, more beautiful than ever, on a small tabouret, sat the first woman he had ever loved.

  “Vasilisa?” he croaked.

  “Hello, Benjamin, my dear,” she said in that low voice he remembered so well, that he still heard in guilty dreams now and then. “My, but how you've grown.”