The Archivist

by Tom D Wright

  Unlike his childhood friend Henry, when Lucas married his Native American wife, he adopted her tribe’s traditional ways, along with a new last name.

  The moment Lucas sees me, he tosses his ax aside and greets me with a crushing bear hug. From previous experience, I am prepared for it.

  “Snow Raven! I wasn’t sure you would return,” Lucas says as he greets me with my village name. “But I’m glad you did. It took most of the summer, and I got one hell of a burn on my leg, but look! Damn if I’m not making glass.”

  The craftsman brings me inside his shop, where an assortment of panes and molded bowls lines his shelves. The glass consistency varies considerably, and he is still limited to just a few colors—pretty good for someone who has to learn almost everything the old-fashioned way: discover it for himself.

  He is clearly developing his skill, although he has not progressed to blowing glass yet. Having high-quality steel would help immensely in that effort. Which gives me an idea.

  “Your ax looks a bit worn, my friend,” I say.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. Unfortunately, the nearest steel mill is thirty years in the past.”

  I put an arm around Lucas’s shoulder and guide him away from his forge. He may be used to the heat in there, but I am not. We take a seat on a bench in front of his workshop.

  Usually I bargain for something when trading away knowledge and technology, but Lucas has become somewhat of a friend. I have a feeling that someday he may return the favor when I most need it, so I will consider this a long-term investment.

  “Tell you what. The next time I visit, I’ll bring a way to make steel as good as that ax. It won’t be easy or fast, but if you do it right it’ll be strong.” When I pledged to the general that I would give him the steel-making technique, I never said I would not divulge it to anyone else.

  The man’s eyes open wide, and he is actually speechless. Then he clasps my hands, and I grimace from his enthusiastic grip.

  “You have no idea what that would mean to us,” Lucas says.

  Actually, I have a better idea than he does. I promise to visit again before the next summer, and I will keep my promise, because I have to fulfill my promise to Tucker. Then I head back to my quarters.

  Danae is up now, and sitting by the fire pit with Little Crow, his mother and Running Deer. As I approach, Alice looks up from stirring the contents of a cast iron pot hanging over a fire.

  “Good morning, Snow Raven. I apologize for my husband’s behaviour last night,” she says, then comes over to give me a hug. “He forgets that you saved our granddaughter’s life, and by all rights you are as welcome in this village as he is. As for the False Brothers, they are an evil that threatens us, and we can’t ignore them.”

  “Why do you call them False Brothers?” Danae asks. “You both respect nature, so I would think you have much in common with them.”

  “They’re false because they pretend to be like us, but are no different than the other shama. Their words are as real as the smoke rising from this fire.”

  “What are shama?” Danae asks.

  “Shama means outsiders of all kinds but especially those who are not Native American,” Little Crow responds. “No offense meant, you are not outsiders now.”

  “I understand,” Danae says. “To be honest, I’ve always felt like an outsider myself, among the shama.”

  Alice continues, “Those you call Disciples may believe similar things, but they don’t understand what it means to be in harmony with the Earth. They don’t know the old ways.”

  “Speaking of old ways, where is Henry?” I ask as I sit on the log next to Danae, a couple of hand widths away. Danae gives me a smile—a real one like she gave me the evening I walked into her tavern. I am glad I did not ruin our friendship last night.

  “The old man is meeting with the rest of the council.” Little Crow gestures toward a large lodge in the center of the village. He practically spits the words.

  Alice fills some bowls and passes them out along with spoons. I dig into a scramble of eggs and assorted vegetables I do not recognize, with a token amount of what I guess is venison sausage, based on the sharp flavor. For the next few minutes we are focused on our spoons and bowls. I have just finished my second serving when a group of men spills out from the central lodge.

  Henry walks straight toward us, but says nothing—and in fact, ignores us. Instead, he stomps straight into his hut, and emerges a minute later with his bow and arrows. A moment of panic floods through me as I make an instinctive move to cover Danae, but the man does not even glance in our direction.

  “Hunting,” he grunts to his wife, and strides toward the forest. Moments later, he fades into the trees silently and I shiver, glad I am not his prey—at least, I hope I’m not.

  Footsteps crunch behind me and I turn around to see Amos Smithers walking up to stand before us, arms crossed. He maintains a neutral face as he acknowledges Little Crow and his mother with nods, then turns to face me.

  “Archivist K’Marr Snow Raven.” The old man formally addresses me with both names, in his role as leader of both village factions. “As a full brother of the tribe, the council wants you to know that you and your companion are welcome to stay as long as you wish. Of course, if you intend to remain more than a few days, you’ll need to find a way to contribute, like any other member of the community.”

  Having delivered his message, Amos relaxes and smiles while he gives me a slight bow. Behind him, I see Lucas emerge from what must be the town hall. Sometimes good deeds do pay off, sooner rather than later.

  Amos turns to Alice. “Raven Eye vetoed your husband’s motion before it even came up for discussion. You almost lost a kinsman, and if he doesn’t keep his distance from Henry for a while, you might yet.” The mayor walks off.

  “What was that about?” I ask Alice. I have heard the name before, but do not think I met Raven Eye last winter.

  “Raven Eye is the village shaman, and my brother. The shaman represents the tribal people and the old ways in the council meetings. Raven Eye can’t make any laws or vote on any decisions, but he speaks for the tribe and he can veto any decision they make.”

  “Then he could stop them from doing anything!” Danae exclaims.

  “He can make it difficult, but not impossible. The council is made up of the original survivalist population, and they can still overrule his veto with a unanimous vote. But as long as Raven Eye could get the support of even one council member, his veto would stand.”

  After we clean up from breakfast, I show Danae around the village. A small river cuts through the center of the small valley, and the village spreads out from the large central lodge, which serves as a sort of community center and council chamber.

  The lodge sits back on one side of the river, and the spread of homes expands in concentric circles of small log houses in the inner circles, and then rough-framed houses and more primitive huts in the outer circles.

  The original survivalists live in the inner houses, and later arriving members and second-generation families spread out from there. While there is an obvious class structure, no one lives in what I would consider poverty, at least relative to everyone else.

  On the lodge side of the river, most of the cleared land is used for small family gardens and some public open space, while the other side of the river has some dwellings, but mostly appears to be devoted to community farming and livestock. Several wooden bridges span the river, two of them only suitable for pedestrian use, but the larger central bridge is wide, and sturdy enough to support a heavy wagon.

  In one of the open spaces, we come across a group of youths engaged in archery practice. Both boys and girls shoot, ranging from maybe four or five years of age up to teenagers, and even the youngest are surprisingly good. Unlike a lot of rebuilding societies I have seen around the world, where gender roles have slammed back into place with a vengeance, this village values survival skills in a very pragmatic way.

  We watch Running D
eer shoot half a dozen arrows into the target fifty feet away. Danae squats down next to her and says, “That is some pretty good shooting.”

  “Thank you,” the girl responds brightly. “My father taught me that a good bow and well-made arrows make a big difference. I made these myself! Would you like to try?”

  “No,” Danae laughs. “I’m more likely to hit someone else than the target. But I do have something else I can use for target practice.”

  Danae snatches up several small stones the size of large marbles, then stands up, unties her sling-belt and whips it off her waist. With a few deft movements, one end is wrapped around her wrist. Then she pulls the sling through her hand, sets a stone in the pouch and lets it hang at her side.

  As all the archers watch, Danae turns sideways to face the target like a baseball pitcher, the sling dangling behind her. Then, in one fluid but explosive motion, she whips it over her head and releases the projectile at the target. It smacks in the middle of the clustered arrows and arouses a chorus of oohs and ahhs. Deftly slipping another stone in the sling, Danae flings it and strikes within a finger width of the first spot. Three more shots, and she turns to face a now silent audience.

  “You may have more range than me, but I’ll never run out of ammo,” Danae says to the youngster, with a smile.

  “Can you teach me to do that?” Running Deer pleads with wide eyes, pressing her hands together while she hops up and down. The kid is adorable.

  “Well, I can teach you the basics, but only practice will make you as good as I am. Let’s start with the stance. Then I’ll show you how to make your own sling, so you can practice. Who else wants to make a sling?” Danae asks the group surrounding her, and she is swarmed by enthusiastically jumping students.

  Danae is now caught in the middle of this group of kids, so I walk back to Little Crow. I have seen how handy her skill with a sling has been, so I would join in myself if I did not already have a commitment to accompany Little Crow on a hunt. But first, we spend most of the afternoon touring around the woods outside the village and some of the surrounding hills, accompanied by Malsum.

  By the end of the day, I appreciate the strategic value of the settlement’s location, because three high lookouts maintain vigil over valleys and passes, with views extending nearly to Entiak. It would be virtually impossible for someone to approach unseen, at least from the coast side.

  Little Crow also shows me the latest additions to the tribe: three cubs recently born to a couple of the lions. The oldest one is a male as big as a pony, and my friend explains that soon the cub will be matched up with a human companion in a selection ceremony. The lion has as much choice in the selection as the human; it was in just such a ceremony that Little Crow ended up with Malsum. I hope we are here to witness that upcoming ritual.

  We return as dusk falls. Henry still has not returned from his hunting expedition. Alice and Little Crow seem neither surprised nor concerned, so we have a quiet evening repast. Late the next afternoon, Henry returns, bearing a deer carcass slung over his shoulders, and he ignores our presence, so I do likewise.

  Every morning, Danae works with her students, first turning lengths of softened hide into supple slings, and then weaving small pockets for the projectiles. I notice that a few adults also join in, after she demonstrates the effectiveness of her weapon by bringing down a rabbit during an early dawn walk just outside the village. They are, after all, pragmatic.

  On the fifth evening, we are sitting around the fire pit while Alice tells us some of the ancient stories of her people. Footsteps approach from behind me, and the woman pauses her tale about how Coyote tricked Bear into giving the sun away in winter, causing Bear to hide in shame so that now all bears hibernate.

  I feel a light tap on my shoulder and turn to look. A young man stands behind me, his head covered with a headpiece made of black fur, with a long snout and enormous ears. My first thought is that he could be a team mascot. The wolf-headed man points silently, first at me and then at Danae, with a spear adorned with feathers, and gestures into the darkness.

  “Raven Eye sent him. The Great Spirit calls you to a dream talk,” Alice says. When I hesitate, she adds, “It’s okay, my brother wishes to give both of you a reading.”

  Danae gives me a ‘What the hell, why not?’ glance as we stand up and follow our guide into the night. But she does maintain a firm grip on my hand. Just short of being full, the waxing moon provides more than enough light for us to keep up with the man.

  He somehow navigates along a narrow trail which circles through trees and up a hill. Breezy gusts blow through the branches. From the way Danae tightens her grip on my hand, I suspect she finds it as eerie as I do.

  I cannot imagine how our guide can traverse the path wearing that headpiece, but he is obviously familiar enough with the trail that he could walk it literally blindfolded.

  Fifteen minutes later, we emerge onto a small promontory on a ridge that looks west, so we face away from the village. The guide leads us to a small, weather-beaten hut and gestures for us to wait. I am far more curious than nervous about this surprise visit to the medicine man.

  The guide enters the hut and returns with a smoking smudge stick that he passes over both of us ceremoniously, back, front and sides. The sickly-sweet rich smell contains the scents of herbs I cannot identify. When he is done, he pulls aside a fur skin hanging across the doorway and gestures for us to duck through a low opening. Our masked escort remains outside.

  The hut is about ten feet across. A small, hot fire burns in a pit in the center. On the other side of the flames sits an elderly man in buckskin, facing the entrance. This must be Alice’s brother, Raven Eye.

  When I was recovering in the village last winter I did not meet him, but I did hear of the shaman. He gestures downward wordlessly and we sit cross-legged. The walls are adorned with numerous small masks, several elaborate dream-catchers, and a few feathered artifacts which serve some purpose I could not begin to guess at.

  “Thank you for coming,” the elder greets us solemnly, in a voice that is deep and raspy, weathered, and yet not weary. “Children of Mother Earth who are of the White race do not easily hear the Great Spirit, so my spirit guide asked me to bring you here. The Great Spirit may show the path that lies ahead. If you are willing to walk the spirit path with me, I will lead you there and back.”

  We both nod, and the shaman closes his eyes as he begins to chant. The words are in his native tongue; I do not understand any of it, but it is strangely soothing. Then the old man holds out a long wooden pipe, decorated with small feathers and ending in a stone bowl that contains some herbal substance.

  I glance at Danae in the dim firelight and she nods her assent. Placing the stem to my lips, I lean toward the shaman and he pulls a stick from the fire with a red-hot ember on the tip, to light the contents of the bowl.

  I cough with my first draw on the pipe, and then take a second draw. The smoke is complex; along with tobacco I detect the sweet, cloying taste of marijuana, mixed with some other herb. I do not think it is peyote, but suspect it could be a close relative.

  I hand the pipe to Danae, who first takes a tentative draw, and then another, deeper one. As I watch her puff on the pipe, I recall the night we smoked outside her house in Port Sadelow, then I have to immediately cut off thoughts about what we did afterward.

  The shaman takes a turn, and then the pipe makes another round. By the time it completes a third circuit, I start feeling disembodied.

  Raven Eye sets the pipe aside and takes up a three-foot wide, flat drum made of hide stretched over a wooden frame, and a drumstick with leather tightly wrapped around one end. The drum is only a couple of inches thick, but it produces a surprisingly deep tone when the shaman strikes it with the drumstick.

  Maintaining a slow, steady beat, the old man starts another low, almost mournful chant.

  I do not understand Raven Eye’s words, but they sweep me up in the swirling smoke of the fire, and I drift into a hazy
cloud. Within the cloud, Raven Eye speaks. “The Great Spirit weaves the web of life which binds us all together, both what we see and what we don’t see. This web connects what was, what is and what will be. May the Great Spirit help us see clearly, and with open hearts.”

  The hut fades and we all stand in a circle around the fire, but we are still in the thickening fog. A soft white illumination that might be dim sunlight or bright moonlight filters through the fog from all directions. There is no shadow, almost as though we are swimming in light that is cool and somewhat refreshing, but not damp or wet.

  “Little Crow says you seek something from the False Brothers. Is that true?” the elderly man asks me.

  “They took a very important item from me, which I must recover and take back to the Archives.”

  The shaman pauses as if listening, then responds, “That is a good question, I will ask.” Then he turns to me and says, “Will taking this thing weaken them?”

  “I’m not sure, to be honest. I know they seem to want this thing very badly, but not why. So I can’t say what harm they would suffer.”

  “They may want it for the same reason you do.”

  I cannot help laughing; the image of free-falling Disciples is just too much. Then I respond, “I don’t think so. They seek to destroy that which I seek to save.”

  “In that respect, we view the False Brothers the same way. If our enemy desires a thing, then we don’t want him to have it. They are without honor, and grow powerful and strong. Unchecked, they would bring back the way of the White man to the land. It is much easier to remove a bear’s claws when it is a cub than when it is an adult.”

  The old man faces me with a gaze that penetrates right through me. “Snow Raven, I see a city on a plain, and beyond it a blinding flash as bright as the sun. A terrible cloud like a mushroom rises, and the city burns like leaves in a raging forest fire. In the far distance are two more clouds. Now the dream changes to a metal house, floating in the air like smoke. Men inside this house fight demons, and again a terrible flash destroys everything.”