These Indians seemed at first part of the Forest, as if the trees had grown more branches, or new flocks of birds had arrived. But as they stepped from the shadows it could be seen they were dressed in the hides of animals, not the tan of tree-bark, and the feathers they wore were decorations. One of them looked around at the bedraggled refugees as though she were searching for someone, someone she knew would be there. At length she appeared to settle on one that suited her. She tapped Clumphy on the shoulder, and he looked up. It was a woman – a squaw they were called – with brown eyes and dark hair. Moved by what impulse he didn’t know, perhaps thinking he was continuing the conversation of the night before, he said, “Why do we tell lies to one another? The way to God’s kingdom is the path of truth.”
Half Moon, in his hopelessness and despair, had dispatched these to find the witches, as he paced restlessly round his teepee giving the orders to go, to search all the Forest round about, they must be close, he thought. “Find them and bring them to me.” Now Breezy Woodchuck smiled back at Father Clumphy. “Surely the holy power has led us to you,” she said. She rose and Clumphy followed. He was never able to explain to himself why. He felt like a piece in a game being subtly maneuvered to where he would be most useful.
Half Moon now sat alone in his teepee and his eyes were closed. He sought to remember the faces of Issoria and Vanessa, but found he could not fix an image of them in his mind. It worried him that they could leave and he could forget what they looked like so quickly. Would he recognize them when they returned? Surely he would. But he felt uncertain. As if tracking an animal, but one whose footprints subtly changed, from bear to marmoset, to raccoon, and then to bear again, he knew not what he sought. But Breezy Woodchuck was bringing to him the lost one she had found. In the desperate hope that he could guide Half Moon back from the land of the lost, she was leading Father Clumphy to the high chief’s wigwam. The trail she followed led through many winding culverts and along the sides of shady streams. Many birds were singing and sometimes Clumphy thought he caught the sound of distant music carried on the wind, like the singing of bells, if bells could sing. They came to a clearing where there was a large teepee and several braves standing around as if on guard. Breezy Woodchuck made signs to the braves, who bowed and allowed her admittance into the teepee.
Inside was dark and warm. A hole high up admitted a slender shaft of light, but the interior of the teepee was cast in gloom. Coming from the brightly lit outdoors immediately into the shadowed interior was like walking into a darkened closet. It took Clumphy some time to make out the man seated inside. He was wrapped in a blanket, his head hanging down as though he were asleep. Breezy Woodchuck approached this man gently and whispered some words into his ear. He looked up slowly and eyed Clumphy, who all at once remembered the dreams of his lost youth, of converting the hollowed, unhappy chief of the Indians, and he knew suddenly this was why he had come here. His steps could have taken him in no other direction. His whole life had been prelude to this moment. And he wondered why God, in His craftily negligent way, had brought him here at the very moment when his faith had left him and he felt most weak.
Thinking it was moments such as this that later were preserved in song and memorialized in art, he gave some thought to what he must look like. His cassock was dusty and covered with ash. His face, customarily clean shaven, had a slight stubble and was ruddy from the exertions of the past day and night. His hair was unkempt and disordered. He smiled, but under the circumstances was uncertain of the effect.
Half Moon did not smile back. Father Clumphy thought he’d never seen eyes so lost, as though all they looked on was ruin. Half Moon was a shell of the man he had been. The soul that had grown fat on good luck and sated itself the night of the potlatch had been snatched from him, stolen by those two enchantresses. They had taken it from him and now they had left him. Their antelope skins no longer hung from the rack outside his teepee. In this time of the year, when the days were at their longest, in his world all was darkness. “Who are you?” he said.
“That is of no importance,” answered Father Clumphy.
The two looked at one another. It seemed to each that their lives had reached a crux, that the wandering, the loss and the despair were now to come to an end. Each looked to the other for some sign of it, but neither spoke. At last Half Moon said, “You wonder why I do not search for them myself . . .? Because I do not know where they are. So I wait. Perhaps someone will bring them to me. Perhaps they will decide on their own to return. If I am not here, how will they find me? But they would find me anywhere. I am not lost. It is them – they are lost.”
Father Clumphy said, “I think not. I think it is us. We are lost . . . Often I feel I am lost, as though all effort is a waste. As though nothing is better than any other thing . . . But we are living men. We must have a purpose. Who will give us the purpose we must find?”
“No one will give it to us. It is ours to find.”
“God will give it to us . . . He will . . . That is why He exists.”
“You think the Great Spirit, which you call God, needs a reason to exist? I do not think so. The Great Spirit is the one thing that exists for no reason. Everything else has a reason to exist. But if the Great Spirit exists, there is no reason for it.”
“He does exist.” Father Clumphy knew many proofs of the existence of God, both a priori and a posteriori, both common sensical and nonsensical, many very convoluted, rife with the striking paradoxes that delighted the intellectuals. But on this occasion he chose the one he’d always found simplest and most satisfying. “Why is there something, and not nothing?” he asked. “Do you know?”
“Because nothing does not exist.”
“You grasp the point. God creates things that exist. That is His nature. He cannot create things that don’t exist, because once He creates them, they exist. And what does He say? He says, ‘I am.’ So He created you, and He created me. And we must have a purpose. Though sometimes, in our smallness and our blindness we may not know what that purpose is.”
Half Moon thought this over. “You say a man must have a purpose like you would say a knife must have a blade. But a man is not a knife. Why must a man have a purpose? I see no need for this.”
Once again Father Clumphy was roused by the hot flash of his temper. He asked Half Moon, “What are you? A man? Or a toad? Because a man must have a purpose. The entire universe is filled with purpose. All creation is set in motion for a purpose. Look about yourself, everywhere you see the endless aspiration of life . . .” Half Moon was looking at him with empty, uncomprehending eyes. Father Clumphy realized his words were having no effect. He was trying to use words to make Half Moon understand something that could not be expressed in words: the feeling of God’s boundless love. He felt it, but when he tried to tell others they heard only his words and missed his message. “All men are filled with purpose. Perhaps purpose is not what you call it. Then call it intensity. Call it hunger.” Those words aren’t right, he thought to himself. There, I’ve told three lies. Now, to tell the truth. “Look at His works. Look at the mighty woods. Look at the terror, look at the beauty you sleepwalk through unseeing, look at the restless and constant creation of all the beings who inhabit this vast and splendid gift He has given us! Why are you unhappy? My house has burned down! My city is in ruins! Alleluia! Praise the Lord! I have nothing! And I am happy! Here in the heart of this forest I feel the grace of God that I thought was removed forever!!” He was on his feet now. “Alleluia! God has given me hope! When He has taken away everything I had, He has made me richer!” The Indians were looking askance at this wild man who was almost dancing now. The divine fever had come on him unexpectedly, and he was bellowing his sermon to all who would listen. He grabbed Half Moon and almost pushed him over in his enthusiasm. “All of you, get on your feet and bless the Lord!”
At first Half Moon looked at this crazy man, who was haranguing him, with outrage and alarm, but he could not hold out against Clumphy’s infec
tious exaltation. Soon he also was moving, a glint of intention lighting up his eye. “Yes,” he said, “I have a purpose.”
“Of course you do. I know you do. How can a man not have a purpose?”
“I had forgotten. How could I have forgotten? All the time they were here it was as if only they existed. But I have a purpose. My purpose is to drive the white man from these shores. The black bear has told me this. He has promised me victory, and then a glorious death.”
“Of course he has!” Father Clumphy raised his fists. “Drive the white man into the sea!” He was far gone, raptured out of himself, once again the words coming out of his mouth before he’d thought of them.
“This is my purpose. How could I have forgotten? My brother the gull, I remember where he gave me this feather as sign that I must bring myself to the water’s edge where I will bear witness to the key, the revelation, the sacred word. Yes! I see now all the promises lead to this. I will drive the white man into the sea!” He stood and stretched his arms out and looked all around himself in wonder. And then he laughed. “You are right.” He embraced Father Clumphy, lifting him off the ground. “A man must have a purpose. And his purpose once achieved, a man has no more use for life.” He spun Clumphy around and walked out of the teepee, his arms raised in triumphant salute.
The other Indians in the teepee were also swept into motion. Where before all things had been sunk in torpor, now there was activity and resolve. Breezy Woodchuck kissed Father Clumphy. “You have done it!”
“What have I done?” he asked in sudden wonder.
Chapter Sixteen
COUNSELS OF WAR
The army, or at any rate most of it, had watched from the safety of the fort’s massive stone walls as Port Jay was consumed by a wildfire so destructive and so rapid it was almost as if the city had been a bomb that had set itself off. Where formerly had stood a provincial town of gracious charm, whose wide boulevards ran at the feet of mansions of mellow hickory and weathered oak that shone in the sunlight, there was now little more than a vast glowing mound of ash, overlooked by here and there a handful of tottering survivors of stone. General Hobsbawm, surveying the desolation from the war room in the fort, had little doubt that when Port Jay was rebuilt it would be resurrected as a city of brick.
He had given orders to his men to remain inside the fort through all the terrible events of the night. They sat there while all around them everything was combusting and burning. Panicked fleeing people pounded at the fort’s gates, but at General Hobsbawm’s orders the gates remained firmly shut. Soldiers with family and friends in the town could only watch and worry. They sent appeals to General Hobsbawm, who replied by telling them to put their feet up and enjoy an evening beside the open fire.
The war room, where General Hobsbawm was seated the morning following the fire, was near the summit of the fort’s tower. Its windows had splendid views of the city as well as the Forest to the south. There was a large table on which was unrolled a detailed map of the Coast and surrounding regions. Numerous small bits of wood painted various cheerful colors were strewn across the table, representing diverse units of armed force. Hobsbawm, with Lieutenant Lovejoy at his side, was seated next to Colonel Dunder. They were smoking cigars as they studied the map, attempting various positions for the little bits of wood, but not evincing much satisfaction with the results. Dunder was a short man. He was observing the map keenly with his bright eyes, which were nestled underneath a pair of white eyebrows.
“Do you suppose it was an accident, or do you think it was deliberately set?” the General asked Lovejoy, knocking the ash from the end of his cigar.
“I haven’t the slightest doubt it was set deliberately,” replied the Lieutenant. “Fires burst out simultaneously in different parts of the city. That could hardly have been an accident.”
“So you suspect a cabal of arsonists, acting in unison, were responsible for this disaster.”
“Just so.”
“And yet we seem to have had not so much as a hint that such a group existed.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. The attacks by mobs of boys, such as the one we endured at that ghastly dance, were surely more than a hint.”
“What do you think, Dunder?”
“Not the army’s concern.” Dunder scratched his ear. “Surely Fragonard can –“
“Fragonard is an incompetent, bumbling wretch. If such a group exists, we’re the ones who have to deal with it.” He turned back to Lovejoy. “How would we go about identifying the culprits?”
Lovejoy grew pensive. “It would be a matter requiring some delicate detective work. It would have to be conducted by someone with a feel for the local populace, someone with contacts in a wide range of social milieus.”
“Someone like you perhaps.”
“I was not making that suggestion.”
“It would be a post of some importance. Surely the one in charge would have to carry at least the rank of major.” He gave his cigar another puff. “But there remains the question of motive. Who would stand to gain from doing such a thing?”
“You mean setting the fire?”
“That is what we’re discussing.”
“I suspect it was not a means to an end, but rather an end in itself.”
The General cleared his throat. “Explain yourself.” He moved a red bit of wood next to a green one the Colonel had just placed.
“That was only if we set out today,” said the Colonel, referring to the move the General had made.
“Are you saying whoever set this fire had no motivation other than taking delight in seeing things burn?”
“Yes, their only desire was to create a huge bonfire so they could dance round it. That’s exactly what I mean,” said Lovejoy.
“And as you know,” Dunder continued his chain of thought, “this depends entirely on the seaworthiness of the Nemesis, which I believe departed for Lost Bastard Island two days ago. Where is Lieutenant Eliot? Eliot!” he called.
“Well that puts things in an interesting perspective. So you’d say these people were just insane, and they weren’t motivated by political goals, assuming there’s a difference.”
“Insane might be too strong a word.”
“Really? To set a fire that would kill hundreds and leave thousands homeless, to meticulously plan and carry out a scheme designed to leave the populace of this city with no way to get the food, the shelter and the clothing they require, to ruin their lives and utterly destroy their pastimes, to say nothing of destroying their own homes along with everyone else’s, and all just so they can see the merry dancing of the fires – oh yes, I’d say insane covers it. You’re saying –“
“And what of a man who could have saved the lives of hundreds who were burning to death and chose not to, who chose to play it safe and not make an effort to put out the fires or allow even a single person into the safety of a stone fort. Would he also be insane?” There was a fraught silence. “I’m sorry, probably I’m the one who’s insane. I withdraw my question.”
“Yes, and perhaps a promotion to major is something we need to reconsider . . . We were talking about the motives of the arsonists. You were saying their motives were aesthetic, they were like artists, inspired by their rotten imaginations, and not to be judged by anything so mundane as morality.”
“I would judge them by the moral code, but they would not. Yes, I think they would see themselves as artists.”
There was a pause as Hobsbawm and Lovejoy appraised the wreckage of the city. Colonel Dunder continued moving bits of wood around the map. “And here’s the fleet,” he said, indicating some red pieces of wood. The other two paid him no attention.
General Hobsbawm puffed on his cigar and continued, “Why do artists create works of art, do you suppose?”
“To communicate their ideas,” interjected Dunder from the table, “express themselves, make money, that sort of rot.”
“Well, making money would seem to be out of the question for our arsonists. And
to express themselves . . . That’s rather vague, isn’t it? What action could not be thought of as self expression?”
“Things one is ordered to do,” said Lovejoy.
“Or maybe all that self expression stuff is a lot of malarkey. Perhaps those aren’t the things that really motivate an artist. What do you think?” the General asked.
“The motives of artists,” said Lovejoy. “There’s a cesspool I never thought I’d be climbing into this morning. If I had to judge on the basis of the few artists I have actually known, I would say they probably thought being an artist was a good way to get women into bed.”
Dunder smiled and started to say something, then said something else. “Where is that man?” He walked to the door and shouted into the hall, “Eliot?!”
“Well I doubt that was the motive of our arsonists. Unless they’re acquainted with women a good deal stranger than I’ve encountered. But you’re talking about being an artist. No doubt many want to be artists because of the gaudy life their imagination paints. But that’s different from actually making art. Let me back up. Perhaps we should ask what is the purpose of a work of art?”
He was interrupted by the arrival of Lieutenant Eliot. Eliot was a tall, spare man. He was going bald and his face was disfigured by a bushy mustache which his wife claimed to adore. Both she and their young son had last been seen in the city the day before. Eliot had spent many sleepless hours writhing in inner torment and cursing the General’s orders. “Lieutenant Eliot reporting for duty.”
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