Despite the clear sky, thunder rumbled.
“Tecumseh.”
The boy who had spoken wedged himself between Wind Man and Tecumseh. Wind Man blinked, shaken back to the present moment.
The sky remained clear. Along the river, Tenskwatawa was speaking, but today it was only speaking—reminders to live according to the Master of Life’s instructions and a renewal of the promise of deliverance from difficult times.
Wind Man and Tecumseh both looked down at the boy between them.
“There is a man,” the boy said, gesturing toward the village. “A white man. One of Harrison’s. He wishes to speak with Tecumseh and The Prophet.”
9
“It is kind of Harrison to send another messenger to us. He has gifted us with so many already.”
Tecumseh’s black eyes glittered as he spoke. In other times, Wind Man might have smiled, but he heard none of Tecumseh’s usual dry humor in his voice, and he certainly felt none in himself.
Metal birds, the messages from the south had reported. Bullets that rained from the sky.
Dozens of Cherokee warriors, all dead within a matter of seconds, if what had been said was true. No warning. No chance to fire back.
It had to be a mistake. Or, even more likely, an exaggerated story fed to the gullible and the gossips by white men hoping to bring the tribes to their treaty tables.
Wind Man swallowed the cold remnants of fear and anger churning in his stomach and turned to the waiting white messenger. He interpreted Tecumseh’s Shawnee speech into the language he’d been born to but that he now used only when dealing with white men.
“Circumstances have changed.” The messenger, whose name was Conner, glanced from Wind Man to Tecumseh. Probably he intended to allow all that those words meant to sink in. “Governor Harrison believes you are wiser, more sensible men than your brothers to the south. He hopes you will accept the invitation he extends to you.”
The three of them sat on the ground outside the village’s council house. Raised on a framework of posts and covered in bark in the same manner as the other houses of the town, the council house was larger than all others and stood at the town’s very heart. But full summer gripped Tecumseh’s Town along Wapahani Sipi, and while the heat was less than typical for this month, it remained too hot for sitting inside even the council house. Traditionally, they would have lit a small fire and passed a pipe, the smoke’s sweetness lingering in the air and promising that the white visitor would not come to harm.
Tecumseh had not lit a fire or brought out a pipe. White as he was, the tense lines of Conner’s shoulders said that he knew enough to recognize the implications. Perhaps that was why he did not speak Harrison’s implied threat in more straightforward terms.
Tenskwatawa sat nearby, not close enough to be a part of the conversation but close enough that he nearly was, stiff and silent in his garish regalia. He remained perfectly still, his good eye a half-closed slit, as though the other three men were of little matter to him. As though he listened to more important voices than theirs.
Perhaps he did. But Wind Man thought, judging by the stiffness of Tenskwatawa’s spine and the clenching of his jaw, that Tecumseh must have commanded him to say nothing during the meeting with Harrison’s messenger. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d protected Tenskwatawa from sabotaging good intentions with bad words.
Tecumseh flashed a display of even white teeth at Conner. Wind Man didn’t think Conner would mistake it for a smile. “It would be kind of you to remind Harrison that the people gathered in my town have shown no hostility. There is no reason for any white man to be threatened by us. But I did not and never will put my mark on his treaties. I will not leave this land the Master of Life has put me on. And I will not turn away any man who comes to follow me or my brother.”
Tecumseh did not raise his voice, but ferocity prowled like an agitated panther around the edges of his words.
Conner listened attentively to Wind Man’s translation and then nodded solemnly.
“Governor Harrison would like the assurance of the good chief Tecumseh that he will make no acts of aggression.” Conner’s voice, like his manner, was even and careful. “There remains the example of the Cherokee and Creeks and Chickasaw to the south who have openly taken up arms against the United States.”
“A handful of Indians, not even full tribes.” Tecumseh’s reply was swift and fierce. “If so many as that. They acted with no respect for the wishes of their chiefs. They most surely do not answer to any Shawnee directions.”
They do not answer to any directions anymore, Wind Man thought. You have killed them, white man.
Conner paused, and his eyes never left Tecumseh’s face. When he continued, his words crept like a mouse sneaking past a fox. “We know this is true, of course. But still, many Indians come to Tecumseh’s Town, some from those same faraway tribes which have caused trouble. Governor Harrison would like to know that your people gather for peaceable reasons. He would like to know that you have no intentions toward making war.”
Wind Man did not need to interpret Conner’s words for Tecumseh; Tecumseh’s understanding of the white men’s words was adequate even if his speech was not fluent. And this was a request both Wind Man and Tecumseh had heard before. It was the way of the white man to try to pin the Indians into place with words. And if the Indians’ response to the words was not what the white man wanted, he would speak them again and again until it was.
Tecumseh, however, did not immediately reply to Conner with words. Tecumseh was a man who, when he laughed, the earth herself laughed with him. When Tecumseh did not smile, as he did not smile now, the earth quieted and paid attention. Tecumseh stared, unspeaking, at the white man and spoke at great length by all that he did not say.
Conner did credit to himself by not squirming under that gaze. Wind Man was not sure he could have done as well.
“I say again as I have said before,” Tecumseh finally said. “My people gather here in peace.”
For now, Wind Man thought but did not say as he reiterated the words in English for Conner.
Conner nodded and cleared his throat. “Governor Harrison has heard that many of the Indians gathering in your name carry guns and knives of British make. If the British have made promises to your people in exchange for weapons—”
“The red coats are as white as your Harrison,” Tecumseh interjected. His English was halting but perfectly clear and every bit as impassioned as his Shawnee. “We will treat with them no sooner than we will with Americans.”
“That is reassuring.”
“We do not wish you to be reassured.”
Still Tecumseh did not shout or even raise his voice, but Wind Man heard the passion burning in it. From the way Conner’s pale skin paled even further, Wind Man thought Conner heard it, too.
“Governor Harrison will be pleased to hear your intentions are peaceable.” Despite his pallor, Conner’s words came calmly enough. “But were he here, he would ask you to reconsider your opinion of complying with the treaties of the United States. He would be honored to meet with you.”
“Harrison is not here.” Tecumseh lapsed into Shawnee once more, pausing to allow Wind Man to interpret. “And you have the only words I can give him. Tell him to take his false treaties away from these lands. I am no dead-hearted Shawnee like Black Hoof or Blue Jacket, willing to trade away what Waashaa Monetoo, the Master of Life, gave to my people. They do not speak for me or mine.”
Tecumseh stood suddenly, with a grace too great to seem abrupt. Wind Man knew Tecumseh well enough that he was not startled, and so he merely stood, too. Conner, though, scrambled to gain his feet.
Tenskwatawa remained seated, his one eye closed.
“We are done.” Tecumseh signaled to one of the young warriors standing nearby.
“Governor Harrison’s invitation stands,” Conner said. “He would see you at Vincennes within the month. I think you would be wise to change your mind.”
T
he threat Conner had not quite spoken hung a moment in the air, like a leaf deciding whether to fall or blow away.
“We are done,” Tecumseh repeated. He jerked his head at the warrior who’d joined them and continued in the Shawnee tongue. “Get this man’s horse and escort him from our town.”
The escort hurried away. As the rest of them stood together in the still heat, Conner’s gaze turned to Wind Man and lingered.
“Why do you live with these people?” Conner spoke softly, as if sharing a secret. Or perhaps fearing to anger an enemy, for he shot a furtive glance toward Tecumseh. “You’re no Shawnee.”
Wind Man did not hesitate in his answer. “You are wrong. I am Shawnee with my every breath.” Wind Man made sure Conner’s eyes were still fixed on him. Then he leaned in and added, “Whatever response my brothers make against you white men, that will be mine, as well. You may count upon it.”
And then there was nothing left but to wait for Conner’s horse.
10
After Conner had mounted his horse and been led to the edge of town, Tecumseh turned his gaze on Tenskwatawa. He stared a long moment, as if measuring his brother. Tenskwatawa maintained his regal pose, his garish quillwork arranged carefully on his seated form, the scarlet bandana on his head pulled lower on the right to cover his missing eye. His eyes remained closed. He continued to ignore them, Tecumseh and Wind Man both.
The single feather tucked into Tecumseh’s blue bandana fluttered fitfully. On the humid breeze, Wind Man caught a hint of river scent from Wapahani Sipi down the hill from the town. Or maybe it was approaching rain he smelled. The sky was clear, but that meant little these days.
The lines around Tecumseh’s mouth tightened. “They make nothing but trouble for us, those foolish renegades stirring up trouble along the Great River.”
“They do nothing that we would not do.” The bare earth felt suddenly itchy beneath Wind Man’s soles, but he refused to shuffle his feet. He remained as still at Tecumseh and Tenskwatawa.
“They act too soon!” Tecumseh’s brow furrowed even more deeply. “They will rouse the United States against us before we are ready. I have told them.”
“They do not listen well?” Wind Man asked.
“They do not listen at all.”
Tecumseh’s words stilled for a long moment. He continued to stare at Tenskwatawa. When Tecumseh spoke again, the words were not ones Wind Man expected.
“I must accept Harrison’s invitation.” Tecumseh lifted a hand before Wind Man could protest. “It will quell his anxiety for a time, perhaps. It will buy time. Then, when I leave Harrison, I will go further south and see what can be done there. The renegades have forced our hands. We must press for alliances with the Chickasaws and the Creeks and the Cherokees—those wise ones among them who have held to their own lands and not stirred up the white men.”
Uneasiness at the thought of Tecumseh’s absence gnawed at Wind Man’s gut, but it was not his place to question Tecumseh’s plans. “And what of this weapon the Long Knives would bring against us?”
“Possibly my visit to Harrison will provide answers. If that is not so, then my time in the south will allow me to find out more about these metal birds.” Still, Tecumseh did not look away from Tenskwatawa as he answered. “If there is more to the story than just a story, I will hear of it better there than here.”
Tenskwatawa’s eyelid did not flutter. But still as he was, he grew more still yet, as though he held his breath. For the space of a heartbeat, Tecumseh grew every bit as still. His next words were carefully measured.
“Tenskwatawa. While I am away, I will place our people under your leadership.”
Another moment of perfect stillness and then, finally, Tenskwatawa’s one good eye opened. He tipped his head back. A look passed between Tenskwatawa and Tecumseh, so unguarded that Wind Man felt like he should turn away. He thought of the stories he’d heard, of how Tenskwatawa had spent the greater part of his childhood haunting his older brother’s footsteps, attempting his awkward best at all things in hopes that he might gain Tecumseh’s approval. One of those attempts, at becoming as true an aim with a bow as Tecumseh, had left the child Tenskwatawa with an eye gouged out by a splintered arrow.
Wind Man knew from experience that Tecumseh did not offer approval lightly. In Tecumseh’s eyes, dishonesty of any kind was a great disservice, however well-intentioned it might be. Only those who were told the truth could become truly strong. It was a right philosophy, but it wasn’t always easy to live with when Tecumseh turned his true opinion on you. The empty eye socket Tenskwatawa tipped in Tecumseh’s direction was a visible reminder of how hard he had tried and how badly he had failed.
Tecumseh dropped to his heels so that his face was level with Tenskwatawa’s. Tenskwatawa lowered his gaze to hold Tecumseh’s, but his shoulders hunched defensively.
“This is a thing I know you can do, my brother.” A whisper of tenderness had wound into Tecumseh’s voice. “You have only to keep a firm rein on any of our people who might think to act too aggressively too soon.”
Tecumseh’s words were obviously intended to reassure. Wind Man expected Tenskwatawa’s shoulders to square and perhaps even for gratitude to smooth away the creases in his forehead. Instead, Tenskwatawa’s lip curled.
“Many of those followers are mine. And the commands to which they listen—they and I—belong to the Master of Life.”
The whispers that Tenskwatawa was jealous of Tecumseh’s power and looking to usurp it were not loud but they were many. Wind Man didn’t believe them, for he understood that Tenskwatawa looked only to prove himself worthy to Tecumseh, in the only way Tecumseh could understand. But watching Tenskwatawa now, Wind Man could understand how his motives might be misread.
“If the rumors of the United States and their great new weapons are true—” Tecumseh began.
“You are fearful, my brother.” Tenskwatawa’s lip remained curled. “But the white men have no weapon as powerful as the miracles granted to me.”
Tecumseh frowned and leaned forward. “Miracles or no miracles, this is not a time for starting fights with the white men. Not until we know their true strength—and our own.”
Tenskwatawa’s one visible eyebrow slanted down toward the middle of his face, drawing furrows behind it. “Even you cannot think your will is more important than the Master of Life’s? That you know better than he what his plans are?”
So calculating and sly was Tenskwatawa’s tone that Wind Man’s breath caught. Tecumseh blinked and sat back on his heels.
“I trust the Master of Life, of course.” Again, Tecumseh’s words were carefully measured. “And I trust that he understands as well as you and I that we are not yet strong enough to bear arms openly against the whites. We must wait a while longer, while our allies are secured. Surely the Master of Life does not object to us doing our part to fulfill his plans?”
The two of them gazed intently at one another for another long moment. Wind Man wondered what Tecumseh would do if Tenskwatawa refused to back down. Harrison and the other white men might try to brush off the eclipse and storms Tenskwatawa had brought by claiming he had only made use of predictions to stage a great fraud. But the stories of Tenskwatawa’s miracle-working grew larger and more fabulous as they spread. It was the red man more than the white who needed to believe in Tenskwatawa, and many of them believed.
So far, Tecumseh had used Tenskwatawa’s fame to hold Harrison at bay. But the truth of it was that the Shawnee were less prepared than they let on. As Tecumseh had said, they must keep Harrison shaken a while longer, until they could secure the true strength of the tribes—the unity of their numbers.
And until they could find out if the stories of the deadly bird-guns were true.
All the plans Tecumseh had laid depended on rallying the southern tribes to support the Shawnee and their brother tribes along the Ohio River. If Tenskwatawa would not agree to restrain himself, then the plan would fail before it could finish forming.
Tenskwatawa nodded once, in an assured manner that caught Wind Man as much by surprise as his casual promise to influence the weather. This was not Lalawethika anymore, and the difference was in more than just a name.
Tecumseh nodded, too, but Wind Man noticed that the lines around his mouth did not ease.
11
At a gesture from Tecumseh, Wind Man followed him away from the village, leaving Tenskwatawa seated on the ground beside the council house.
Even though it was August, the grass bent green heads beneath Wind Man’s feet. Too many years, grass and crops had by this time browned beneath the summer sun. This summer, Tenskwatawa brought the rain when it was needed and then sent it away when it was not, so that the land was well-watered. Both Wind Man and Tecumseh went bare-chested, but the heated air was comfortable rather than overbearing.
“I worry about my brother.”
At first, Wind Man thought Tecumseh meant him. It was true that when their father had taken Wind Man for his own son, Wind Man had been a white child with a different name. But Wind Man had never, not once, given Tecumseh or any other Shawnee a reason to think of him as anything other than their true brother. And yet he knew that sometimes, as Conner had today, even his own people looked at Wind Man and saw a face that was not truly Shawnee.
“Tenskwatawa is much changed. That is not a bad thing. But sometimes I wonder if it is an altogether good thing.”
Tenskwatawa. He was the brother Tecumseh worried for. Of course Tecumseh did not doubt Wind Man. Tecumseh had shown nothing but love for him.
And there was, of course, the fact that Tecumseh had said he worried over his brother, not over the son of his father.
Monsters of Our Own Making (Crowmakers: Book 2): A Science Fiction Western Adventure Page 4