Original Death amoca-3

by Eliot Pattison

  “To you?” the Huron scoffed. “An old man and a boy?”

  The reply came from old Custaloga, who appeared at the rail holding a boarding pike at his side like a staff. “To the Grand Council of the Haudenosaunee.”

  “Then you obey the Revelator’s summons?”

  “Revelator?” the old Oneida chieftain asked, keeping his voice loud enough for those in all the canoes to hear. “I know not of such a man. We obey the summons of the spirits.” The hell dog appeared at his side, baring its teeth toward Scar.

  The Huron hesitated a moment, looking at the dog. “To join the Revelator’s cause,” he asserted.

  Duncan watched uneasily, glancing at the cabin door where the crew waited with weapons at the ready. One misplay and the deck would be running with blood. Custaloga lifted his pike and shook it as if to make sure the onlookers saw the strips of white fur hanging from it over streaks of fresh red paint that looked like dripping blood.

  “To patch the hole in the world,” Custaloga declared matter-of-factly. He was revered as a great orator, and he spoke with slow eloquence, gesturing now to the warriors hovering in the canoes. “We are pleased you have come to join us on this quest. You can be at our side when we all cross over. The navigator sent by the spirits says we have only a few hours remaining. Time enough for you to prepare your death songs.”

  The Huron leader opened and shut his mouth several times, but he had no reply. He had seen the faces of his men. Many seemed to sag. Those with weapons in their hands lowered them. Some began backpaddling. The Revelator’s warriors had lost their lust for blood.

  “Please!” Custaloga continued, “stay with us. You are wise to surround us this way. We need you as our noble vanguard, the first to cross over! The Speaker of the Dead shall tell you which of you shall have the honor to cross over first! She has walked that path many times! Your people will speak of your sacrifice for many seasons to come!” He aimed his pike toward the bow. Tushcona, sitting out of sight below the bowsprit, took her cue to uncover a brazier of smoldering tobacco. Hetty pushed herself up from the bowspirt on which she had been lying, rising up out of the smoke.

  When Conawago had told the old Iroquois that Hetty had to look more the role of a spirit chaser, Tushcona had quickly taken charge, demanding the red jacket of one of the brig’s marines and ordering Kass to gather up the dead gulls before sending Ishmael for the big cartouche bag she had brought with her.

  Even Duncan, aware of the ruse, was unsettled. There was nothing artificial about the creature who hovered over the bow now. Hetty was indeed a spirit chaser. The red coat had been sliced so that not one but two pairs of long gull wings extended from her shoulders and back. Feathers had been sewn with quick stitches along the sleeves. From the red band that covered much of her head dangled long red shreds of cloth looking like bloodstained hair. Along the front, on either temple, had been sewn the head of a seagull. Her hands, inside the feathered sleeves, clutched the legs of a gull, so that instead of fingers appearing at the end of the sleeves, the scaled and clawed feet of the great bird extended.

  “Beaver! Bear! Turtle!” she screeched, pointing with one of the horrid appendages to one canoe, then another, and another. She recognized the markings among the Huron and Mingoes and was calling out the names of their clans toward the sky. “The black snake wind has shown us the way,” she called out. “The honor to be first to leave this world will be yours!” She pointed to another group of canoes. “Wolverine!”

  Duncan did not miss the gasp from above and saw Sagatchie instantly raise his rifle. He halted before aiming, controlling his instinct. Custaloga had heard too, and he reflexively pointed his pike at the same group of canoes. The reviled destroyers of the Council hearth so many years before, the clan who had massacred the inhabitants of Onondaga Castle, were within striking distance.

  The Huron leader tried to try to speak again, but then the canoe beside him turned and began furiously paddling away. He lowered his spear in confusion, then barked a rebuke to his own paddlers as they began to turn his canoe.

  “We will have proof the Council is not against us!” the Huron shouted furiously. He still had a dozen canoes with him, and their warriors stared hungrily toward their traditional enemies. A man in one of the closest stood and waved his war ax. He wore an old bowl-shaped iron helmet on his head, a pot helm that was a vestige of another century. The iron head, Osotku had said of the Huron who had captured him and begun his torture by slicing away his ears. A sound like a growl escaped Sagatchie’s throat. It was the Wolverine clan and their chief Paxto who had stayed. Kass lifted her bow. The man in the helmet shouted in the Huron tongue, and those around him answered with furious war cries. He was not about to let Hetty deprive him of the chance to spill Iroquois blood.

  “The first mother of the Council is its proof,” came a steady voice. Adanahoe was walking along the rail, pulling on a ceremonial robe. Both Conawago and Custaloga stepped quickly forward to pull her back, but she stopped them with a raised hand then bent to lift the hinged section of rail that opened to the ladder that ran down the hull.

  “The Revelator will be pleased to have the first mother at his fire,” Scar declared with a victorious sneer.

  “Do not do this,” Conawago begged the old woman. “We have seen what the half-king does to his captives.”

  Adanahoe tightened her robe about her with a determined glint. “They will not be turned back by mere words,” the matriarch replied in a low voice. “Look at them, like hungry animals. Their blood is on the boil,” she said to her companions. “I do not know about this god or that god, I just know you must live and go for the children.”

  “And for you,” Tushcona added in an anguished voice.

  Adanahoe squeezed her friend’s hand. “My fate has not yet been woven,” she said to the belt weaver, then she defiantly turned and climbed down into the canoe that sped forward to receive her. Duncan watched her canoe glide toward the shore, humbled by her bravery. The half-king’s camp was in a fever pitch, had eviscerated the last outsiders who had come to interfere with their plans. The gentle old matriarch would gladly let herself be hollowed out if it meant saving the children.

  “It’s not what I expected the hole between the worlds to look like,” the captain declared as he carried the last of their party’s baggage ashore.

  Duncan looked up uneasily at the ruined buildings on the heights of the island, then took the officer’s proffered hand without reply. The captain had kept a nervous watch as they had threaded their way up the maze of islands in the river, as if expecting the flotilla of canoes to reappear at any moment.

  “I suspect no enemy warrior will dare venture near your ship again,” Duncan offered.

  “You may be right, sir, but I will not breathe easy until I have twenty miles of open water between me and this damned river. This archipelago is like a series of traps for any vessel bigger than a dinghy.” The captain offered a hollow smile then ordered his men into the ship’s launch. He had readily accepted Duncan’s terms, agreeing to leave his passengers at the island chosen by Custaloga provided he leave them with the larger skiff and food supplies. Tushcona had also requested axes, as if she meant to do battle.

  When Custaloga had pointed to the cliff that jutted like a ship’s bow in the middle of the river, a seaman had called out to ask if the old Iroquois had found his hole between worlds. The elder had offered a patient smile. “To the river this ship is a hole between worlds, neither sky nor water. The water resists holes, and in the end water always prevails.”

  The words had not only wiped away the grin on the sailor’s face, they had shaken him so badly he had backed away, tripping over a bucket. Not a sailor had spoken another word.

  At first Duncan had thought Custaloga had simply chosen the island with the best vantage over the unfolding river, for the height would surely give a view for miles in every direction. But as they reached the switchback trail that led up the steep walls, Ishmael cried out and ran to Con
awago, who put a steadying hand on his shoulder and pulled him up the trail away from the water’s edge. Duncan lingered, watching as the Iroquois elders paused at the same spot, touching the amulets of their protective spirits and murmuring soft words toward the weathered white stones of the shore before beginning the climb.

  Only when Duncan and Woolford, last in line, shouldered their packs and stepped to the trailhead did they see that among the sun-bleached stones, obscured by their shape and color, were dozens of human skulls.

  The ruins they had seen from below were the burned-out shells of a large barn and two sheds. Hidden behind them was an abandoned three-story structure of stone, perched over an overgrown field that stretched to the low but steep ridge that bisected the island. Despite being overtaken by vines, the stone building was sturdy and well crafted. Once there had been crops in the field, and here and there stalks of maize poked up among the weeds. Behind the ruined barn a small vineyard had been planted many years before, and to Ishmael’s delight the rangy, weed-choked vines still yielded bunches of fat red grapes.

  Duncan scouted the site with Woolford and Sagatchie, discovering scraps of polished leather and long rows of stones that appeared to have been recently stacked into defensive walls. In the shadow at one end of the house were trestles recently nailed together from wood salvaged from the barn.

  Sagatchie bent to pick up a small brass disc. “Français,” he said, holding it up to show Duncan the little fleur-de-lis embossed on the button.

  Woolford checked the priming of his rifle and studied the landscape with new worry as the hell dog began sniffing the ground like a predator sensing a trail. “The French army was here, no more than a month ago.”

  “I know this place,” came a low, worried voice behind them. Kass had a blanket draped over her shoulders, as if she had grown cold. “It is called the Island of the Ghosts. War parties have stopped here for many generations, and trading parties. One of the old skins on the Council House wall tells the story of how a small group of Iroquois stole into a war camp of Huron on the island with the ruined stone castle. They rescued captives and gave them all their canoes to flee in, then they stayed to attack. Ten of our warriors against forty of theirs. We still sing of their deaths at our campfires.”

  A shiver ran down Duncan’s spine. Tushcona’s belt predicted that he and Conawago would become dead heroes. “Why are we here?” he asked. “Why did Custaloga bring us to a place of dead heroes?”

  “I wish I knew,” Woolford said as he reached for his pocket telescope. “I don’t like it. The French know Johnson and the general will be bringing troops up the river toward Montreal,” he added as he scanned the horizon. “If I were them I’d set an artillery battery here. We’ve seen the signs of a scouting party. I wager they will be coming, very soon and in force. If we linger we are lost.”

  But lingering was exactly what the Iroquois elders intended. When Duncan and his companions returned to the house, a large cooking fire had been lit. Tushcona was directing the others with the air of a matriarch arranging a family meal. A cask of cornmeal had been found among the supplies left by the navy, and she was directing Conawago as he shaped little loaves and set them under upturned clay pots beside the fire. Grapes harvested by Ishmael lay spread along the makeshift table of planks and trestles. Bacon and beans left by the captain were cooking over the open flames.

  Duncan and Woolford retreated into the house, passing through a large kitchen with a walk-in hearth then into rooms stripped of furnishings. Shards of plaster with hints of bright paint clung to the plank walls. They could make no sense of the stately, incongruous structure until they reached the largest of the chambers, where the walls remained largely intact. Their plaster was covered with scenes of the Bible, painted with amateur but devout hands.

  “A church,” Woolford said.

  “No,” Duncan replied, pointing to faded names that had been ornately painted along the back wall, over a long table that had been partially dismantled for firewood. Frère Jean, Frère Samuel, Frère Pierre, Frère Stephen. “Not exactly.”

  “A monastery,” came a voice behind them. “Or at least the beginnings of one.” Conawago stepped into a pool of light cast by one of the windows. “I was brought here by my Jesuit teachers to visit for a few weeks as a boy. I heard the news that Queen Mary had died, making William of Orange a widower, while seated in that very kitchen, drinking hot cider on a stool by the fireplace.”

  “Surely not,” Woolford argued. “That was in the last century.”

  Conawago ran his fingers along the names in the wall with a sad smile. “Sixteen and ninety-three to be exact.” The Nipmuc’s energy and enthusiasm for life often made it easy to forget that he had lived more then four score years. “The abbey of Saint Ignatius,” he continued. “It was a grand scheme funded by the king in Paris for a few years. He sent soldiers to help construct these first buildings. I remember a parchment on the wall of the kitchen showing plans to build several buildings such as this one, in a square with a central courtyard. A monastery and school were to be established at a point between the warring tribes of north and south, to act as a buffer. It was intended that novices be taken in from all the tribes. They would become a tribal army of missionaries. I remember when I was here there were half a dozen native monks. The abbot was very proud of his native children’s choir. They all lined up and sang for us, liturgical chants in Latin. I was deeply moved. He meant to take them all to Paris to perform for the king. After the singing we played lacrosse, the monks against the children.”

  “What happened?” Woolford asked.

  “Years later a Huron chief came to visit his son, who was a novice here. He became furious when he saw his son’s garment and his gentle demeanor, said the black robes had turned him into a woman. He returned with his warriors to put an end to things. When they came the Jesuits just prayed. The Hurons threw them over the cliff then fired the big barn. They were about to burn the abbey house when a terrific storm blew up and extinguished the fires. A very bad omen. They fled, and half were lost when their canoes were upset by the wind. It is said that no Hurons have ever returned to this end of the island, that it is taboo to do so.”

  “A sanctuary then,” Woolford concluded. “Is that why we are here? We didn’t come all this way to hide.”

  Conawago did not reply, and Duncan and Woolford followed as the old Nipmuc pushed on, up the wide, winding stairs to a corridor of small identical rooms, the cells of the monks. “Samuel, Jean, Pierre, Stephen, Victor, Frederick, Louis,” he read the names painted on the first doors as he walked down the long hall. “I met these black robes. I wasn’t certain about their vengeful God, but there could be no doubt about their courage and reverence. They stood alone in the wilderness, made an oasis here for a few years with naught but their crosses, Bibles, and virtue for protection. They died unmourned, without confession.” He paused to read a Latin inscription on the wall like an old scholar. “Some say they were therefore not permitted into heaven,” he added with a sigh, “that at night they can be seen wandering with the others over the island.”

  Woolford removed his cap. “The island of ghosts.”

  “War is closing in on all sides, and Custaloga brought us to a long-dead monastery?” Duncan asked after a moment’s silence.

  “This island has always been known for something else, long before the abbey. This was the island’s side of light. The monks meant to help ease the misery, to break the dark side.” Conawago made a cryptic gesture toward the low ridge that divided the island.

  The others. How many monks could there have been, Duncan asked himself. A dozen? Certainly no more than twenty. There had been many more skulls on the beach.

  Duncan was about to press for more of an explanation when Tushcona called them for her feast. She would not let anyone eat until they offered a long murmured prayer, spoken too low and too fast for Duncan to understand. He made out a plea for the safety of Adanahoe and saderesera, the grandchildren.


  Their company was hungry but also weary. After their makeshift banquet, the Council’s weaver, assisted by Hetty, took charge, assigning rooms as if she were a tavern keeper, assuring everyone they could sleep soundly without a sentinel since the building was protected by the old black robes. Tushcona paused in a small chapel at the end of the second-floor corridor. Duncan, still bewildered by her behavior, followed and saw emotion flood her countenance as she studied the simple wood-paneled chamber. Centered on the plaster wall above a low shelf was a pale spot where a crucifix had hung. Tushcona smiled as she saw it now lying on the windowsill, broken into several pieces but salvaged. Someone had bound the shards together against a piece of wood with strips of sinew. The old Iroquois woman lifted the broken cross and reverently leaned it upright on the shelf. She turned back to the window, hesitating a moment before running her fingers along the front lip of the sill. She made a tentative pulling motion then uttered a syllable of surprised pleasure as the front board of the sill fell outward on hinges to reveal a narrow compartment. Inside was a rosary and several beeswax candles.

  “How could-” Duncan began to ask, but Conawago was suddenly at his side, squeezing his arm to cut him off. They stepped aside to let the old woman set the candles in the dusty sconces along the corridor of sleeping cells. Ishmael followed, lighting each one with a taper.

  No one needed to stand guard, the old woman reminded them again, and she ushered Duncan and Conawago into the last of the chambers where their blankets and packs awaited, putting a finger to her lips as though it was now time for silent meditation in the cells.

  Duncan slept fitfully, then woke abruptly, his mind boiling with images of Adanahoe as a ghost and warriors hacking at monks with their war axes. The floor planks creaked as he made his way down the corridor, checking on the sleeping figures as he passed each cell. Ishmael had chosen to sleep curled on the floor nestled against the big dog.