The warriors lowered their bows but kept their arrows notched as a tall, handsome savage came toward, moving anyone in his path aside with one look. His long grey hair was twisted in braids that were intertwined with feathers. Beads rattled from the fringe of his boots as he walked.
Bug ran to the man and wrapped his arms around his waist, saying “Noshi.”
Squawk stood up and took his place at Jem’s side, thrusting out his chest and swallowing so hard that Jem actually heard it. Jem looked from Squawk to the man, then to Bug and said, “Let me guess, Daddy’s here.”
The man stopped in front of Jem and began to speak, but as he looked at Jem’s face his words stopped and his eyes widened. Squawk seized the chance to step in front of Jem and start in, chattering non-stop while the man continued staring.
Squawk started to act out the attack of the werja and smacked Jem across the chest, pumping his fist for emphasis. The man folded his arms and waited for Squawk to finish speaking. Squawk finally ran out of breath and the man waved him out of the way with the back of his hand. He lifted Jem’s chin and inspected both sides of Jem’s face. He looked down the length of his nose at Jem and smiled gently before letting go and turning to seek out one of the fallen werja.
He rolled the animal’s carcass over and grabbed the handle of Jem’s knife that was sticking out of its neck. He grabbed the handle with both hands and put his foot against the beast’s head to draw the blade from its hide. He peeled back its thick black lip and stuck the knife into its gums, prying the longest razor-sharp fang until it popped out in his hand.
He held the fang up to the several dangling from his own neck and nodded with approval. He wiped it on his loincloth before dropping the tooth into a pouch on his belt. “I am Chief of this tribe. My name is Thasuka Witko. We camp nearby and you will come with us.”
Jem looked at the Chief and said, “Uh… I… am Jem Clayton.”
Thasuka Witko turned to walk toward the others and said, “I already know who you are.”
12. The Medicine
They called the elder “Mahpiya,” and he remained seated at Ichabod’s side within a tent, fanning the boy with a smoldering plant that smoked white and fragrant. He draped talismans on the boy’s chest and painted symbols on his body while singing and chanting. Jem looked through the tent flaps and watched, but Mahpiya did not acknowledge him.
Squawk tugged on Jem’s sleeve and pulled him away from the tent toward a clearing where the rest of the group was gathered. The men were seated in a circle surrounding a roaring fire. They stopped talking and sat up straight and became tight-lipped at Jem’s approach. Only Thasuka Witko leaned back and relaxed, playing with a long, unlit wooden pipe as Jem joined the circle and sat down.
Two Beothuk warriors moved aside from Jem and both he and Squawk sat down. Those two watched Jem from the corners of their eyes while others only nodded curtly. Thasuka Witko raised his voice to say, “Welcome to the circle of warriors, Jem Clayton. You take your place amongst the true people of Seneca and have earned the right to sit among us. Only one white man has ever earned the right to do so in my lifetime, and it was also through an act of bravery and humanity toward the people. He lives in our stories as El-Aquila.”
The name brought murmurs from the men and many of them looked at Jem with renewed curiosity. Thasuka Witko waited for everyone to be silent before continuing, “When El-Aquila sat in our circle, he asked Chief Hoka-Psice how the Beothuk came to this place and why we make war on the outsiders. Our stories had never been shared with a white man before.”
The Chief looked at the faces of the men seated around him and said, “It was my father’s belief that by telling the white man about our people, he would take our stories back and enlighten the rest as to the ways of the Great Spirit. I argued that no white man’s ears could hear our truths and it was a waste of time to try. Hoka-Psice was a wise Chief, and ignored me, as I will ignore those who sit here and would try to stop you from hearing the same story.”
Jem looked around at the brown faces in the circle, seeing that none of them looked very pleased. “If your young ones are an example of your people’s character, there is much more I’d like to know.”
The flames flickered in the Chief’s dark eyes and he looked up at the sky and pointed his finger at the stars, “In the first days, the Beothuk were slaves in a far away land, made to work for cruel masters. It was The Enlightened One who led our people to freedom and told them to take a fire wagon by force and escape. They found this place where no one would bother to look for them. Many of our ancestors complained that this place was not fit for them. They saw no forests or oceans. They said the land was too hard and the sun was too hot, but the Enlightened One scolded them, for this was a place he felt they could live in peace. If this planet had no riches for the White Man to plunder, the White Man would never come.
“The Beothuk populated the planet and learned its ways. They harvested the harsh ground and plucked fruit from the agave plant. They fed on the fast, long legged awiyusti and the slow, fat agana. They fought the mighty werja and fashioned their skins into blankets to protect themselves during the cold desert nights.
“Our people made trinkets out of the strange glittering stones that sometimes appeared at the mouths of caves, or rattled around the bottom of our water jugs when we filled them in the streams. The Enlightened One could not have dreamed that someday Outsiders would come with enormous machines that bored holes in the ground to drill for these stones.
“My grandfather was a young boy when the first mining company signed the original treaty. They promised that if the Beothuk allowed them to drill at the far end of the planet undisturbed they would trade food and blankets with us, and never venture any further from that location.
“The first treaty was broken within a month, when more machines landed and deeper veins of these so-called precious stones were found. Our leaders approached the Outsiders again, demanding the mining company return to their area. They were promised it would be the last time, and offered crates of alcohol and chewing weed in return for their agreement.
“Even as the Outsiders broke their word to us again and again, we did not rise up. Until one fateful night when a small group of young men were sent out to scout a new settlement made by the white man deep in the heart of our territory. They were so eager to go, they left with no weapons or food. We call these the Ayawisgi, and to this day, we celebrate their bravery by sending our own young men into the wilderness,” Thasuka said, eyes shifting to Squawk.
“The Ayawisgi were captured by the white men, who tortured them for sport. Our people went to find their sons, and there was a great battle when we first showed our valor to your people. We have been at war ever since.” Thasuka fell silent and he stared into the fire for a long time, before saying, “I grew up hating the white man and killed as many of them as I could. My thirst for revenge drove me to raise my first son, Goyathlay, to ride with me into battle as soon as he was old enough to hold a weapon.
“The boy was careless, but I was too proud to see it. On the night I led my warriors into Seneca 6, I lost track of him. Our mission was to raid the supply houses, but he ran off into the homesteads and attacked a young deputy. He must have been mad with bloodlust.” Thasuka’s eyes rose to Jem’s and locked on him.
Jem froze in place, feeling the older man searching him for a reaction. Jem did his best to remain impassive and said, “So what happened to your son?”
“The deputy shot him through the chest as Goyathlay was trying to take his scalp. It does not matter. He died because of me. I failed to raise him to be anything other than a murderer.” Tears filled Thasuka Witko’s eyes as he spoke, but then he looked at Squawk and smiled. “Now, one of my other sons sits with the son of El-Aquila within the sacred circle. The Great Spirit is at work.”
The rest of the tribe nodded and murmured, their voices like a low rumble. Jem leaned forward and said, “Wait a second. The son of El-Aquila?”
&nbs
p; The Chief made shapes with his hands to show a man riding on a wagon, coming across the wasteland. He continued to make shapes and act out the story when he said, “El-Aquila came to us with a carriage full of our dead and the tribe thought it was a trap. Hoka-Psice ordered everyone to hide, thinking that the white man had filled his wagon with patient fire. El-Aquila left the wagon and came into our camp on foot, unarmed, to show his bravery.
“Hoka-Psice asked him why a white man would come such a long way to return our people. He said that he had a son named ‘Jem’ and could not bear the idea of keeping any other man’s son from coming home.”
Jem opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. The smoke from the fire must have stung his eyes too keenly, because when he touched his cheek, his fingers came away wet.
“What El-Aquila could not have known is that the Beothuk believe a spirit is doomed to wander the world until it is laid to rest. We call them the wanagi, and they travel the desert searching for their home.” Thasuka Witko stopped speaking and looked away from Jem, giving him the chance to clean off his face and collect himself. All of the men seated around him did the same, keeping their eyes fixed on the ground until Jem was finished.
Thasuka Witko held out his hand and said, “Osceola, father of Lakhpia-sha, has asked to speak. I will translate for you.”
The same warrior who had shoved Jem out of the way to get to Ichabod stood up at the far end of the circle. His body was lined with taut muscles and scarred with lines that created strange diagrams in his chest. He spoke, and Thasuka Witko said, “Thasuka-Witko has told the white man of the sacred Ayawisgi rite where we send our young warriors into the wilderness.
“One week ago my son was sent off on his own Ayawisgi.” Osceola pointed at Squawk and said, “It was a great honor that he would join our Chief’s eldest, Haienwa’tha. But many of us were surprised when Mahpiya had a vision that told them to also take Haienwa’tha’s younger brother, Thathanka-Ska. I told the old man that Thathanka-Ska was too young, and would burden the older boys. He told me that it was the Great Spirit’s will.
“The Ayawisgi go with no food, no weapons, no means to make shelter. They must endure until the tribe comes to find them. Who among us does not remember their own trial? The suffering is forgotten and all you remember is the embrace of your fellow warriors upon your return.
“I have other suffering that cannot be forgotten. My father and brothers were murdered by the white man, and all of my life I have vowed to kill them wherever I find them. It has been this way since my great-grandfather was a little boy, and the great birds called the El-Aquila were so thick in the skies people thought they were storm clouds. Smoke from the white man’s machines destroyed their nests, and no one has seen an El-Aquila for many years.
“I thought it was Hoka-Psice’s joke to name the legendary white man El-Aquila. A white man who is peaceful and honorable to the Beothuk is like that great bird. Something many wish to exist, but will never see. When I heard the thunder of this white man’s guns and told you our sons were being attacked by the Outsiders and raced toward them, expecting a great battle where many would die. I could not believe my own eyes at what I saw instead.”
Osceola stopped speaking and unraveled a cord with his hands to display the fang of the werja that Jem had killed that dangled from it. He passed the necklace through the crowd to Thasuka-Witko, who inspected it and nodded, then passed it to the man next to him. The necklace was handed around that way until it reached Jem.
Osceola pointed at Jem and said, “On this day I, Osceola, tell you that this white man is my brother and under my protection. They say in the south there is a new bird faster and stronger than El-Aquila, and our medicine men tell us it is a great sign for the Beothuk. Tonight, I believe. They call this bird El-Halcon, and that is the name I give my new brother.”
All of the men sitting next to Jem clapped him on the back and spoke words that he did not understand, but sounded encouraging regardless. Thasuka-Witko lit his pipe and passed it to the man next to him, each of them putting their lips on the stem and sucking in the fragrant smoke that they then lifted their head and blew toward the heavens.
The pipe came to Jem and he put the stem in his mouth, tasting bitter sweetweed juice and he inhaled, filling his lungs with what felt like fiery embers of coal. He held it in as long as he could, then lifted his head and breathed it all out at once, watching the smoke change shapes in the air and conform to the pattern of the stars.
Thasuka Witko lifted his head to see Mahpiya emerge from the medicine tent. The old man wrapped both withered hands around his walking stick and waited. The Chief nodded and waved for Jem to come sit by his side.
“So where did you learn our language?” Jem said.
“Many of the Beothuk can speak like Whites, but it is not something we reveal often. We never want them to know that we can understand what they are saying if we are captured. Very few choose to actually make the words. They consider it to be a great disgrace.”
Mahpiya eyed Jem with lizard-like eyes that bulged under half-lids and did not appear to ever blink. His skin appeared made from saddle leather, so smooth and brown and hairless that Jem had no idea if he were sixty, eighty, or two hundred years old. Thasuka Witko patted Jem on the back and said, “You must go with him. He says there is much at stake, for both our people.”
“Right now?” Jem said. “Where are we going?”
Thasuka Witko shrugged. “He would not tell me.”
* * *
It was so dark at the bottom of the hill that Jem could not see his hands unless he held them in front of his face. The sky was empty, devoid of star or moon. There was a brief flicker of flame as Mahpiya lit a handful of desert sage and held it out like a torch. The sage’s smoke was sweet like incense, as Mahpiya fanned smoke onto Jem, he sang in low, rhythmic tones.
Jem’s guns rattled in their holsters as he walked. Heavy winds rolled across the plains, louder than mining drills, lifting like waves that gathered dirt and debris in their procession and crashed into Jem’s face.
He lifted his hands to hold down the brim of his hat and protect his eyes, and followed the old man’s song. It carried on the wind, but he lost its direction, and he stopped. There was dirt in his nose and mouth. He pulled his black bandit’s scarf from his pocket and tied it around the back of his neck. He called out for Mahpiya, but there was nothing but wind.
Two destriers charged past him, their hooves shaking the ground like locomotives, and Jem leapt aside to avoid the wheels of the wagon they were hauling. The wagon bounced as the animals raced, and a gun went off in the distance. Two masked riders flew after the wagon, their pistols raised and firing until it slid to a halt.
One of the riders leapt from his destrier and walked up to the rear of the wagon and knocked on the door. Screams came from the passengers inside, high-pitched and feminine, high-pitched and adolescent. The bandit said, “Gentleman Jesse Alcott has come for your money, boys and girls.”
Jesse opened the door, put his gun inside of it, and fired until the screaming stopped.
Jem’s own screams were drowned out by the rising winds. He drew his gun and ran forward blindly, never finding the bandits and never finding the wagon. He lowered his head into the storm and kept walking until the wind died down enough that he could look ahead. There was a campfire with a man sitting in front of it, tending the fire, his face hidden beneath the brim of a battered hat. He poked the fire with a stick but no smoke rose out of the pit, and he did not look up when Jem walked up to him and said, “Hey, partner. Did you see any of that? A couple bandits shot up a wagon.”
The man turned a log over with his stick but did not respond. Jem held his hands over the flames, but felt no warmth coming from them. “How about an old man? You seen him?” Jem said.
The man continued stirring the flames, and finally muttered, “I ain’t talking to you, because you ain’t real. So just get along.”
“I’m real enough, friend,” Jem sa
id. “I’m lost in this storm just like you are.”
“This storm? This storm is a joke compared to what’s coming.”
Jem looked around but saw no tent or even a bedroll. There was a wagon on the other side of the fire and Jem said, “You got any other shelter?”
“You ever been out in the wilderness so long that it felt like everything you ever were was an illusion. Like your whole life was just some story you dreamed up. You couldn’t go home if you tried, because nobody there would remember you anyway.” The man bent forward and spat a mouthful of sweetweed juice into the dirt between his knees.
“I think you’ve definitely been out here too long, friend.” Jem wiped the dirt off his pants and said, “That man I’m looking for is a Beothuk. He would have stood out if you saw him come past. Did you see any Beothuk?”
The man lifted a finger toward his wagon and said, “Only the ones in the back of that carriage, and I brought them with me.”
Jem got up to inspect the wagon and saw the words WILLOW FUNERAL HOME written across the side. There were dead bodies of Beothuk warriors laid out in the back, their injuries painted over and their bodies carefully arranged in positions of respect. Jem spun around to face the man, and saw Sam Clayton look up at him from under the brim of his hat.
Sam leaned back from the fire into the shadows and an enormous bird with wings wider than Jem’s arms and curved talons that flashed in the firelight sprang into the air, flapping only once and it was enough to send the bird high into the sky and out of Jem’s sight. Jem stumbled backwards, losing his footing, and falling toward the ground but never hit it. He fell and fell, end over end, through space and time and everything else until finally, he reached nothingness.
Guns of Seneca 6 gos6-1 Page 11