Red Prophet ttoam-2

by Orson Scott Card

  Then suddenly the White men all appeared on the brow of the hill. Did they see me? Will they come to make me go away or lock me up? No, they were just going down the hill to where their horses and their wagons stood. Lolla-Wossiky melted into the woods.

  He drank four swallows from the keg, then climbed into a tree and settled the keg into a place where three thick branches split apart. Nice and tight, nice and safe. Leaves nice and thick; nobody see it from the ground, not even Red man.

  Lolla-Wossiky took the long way round, but pretty soon there he was on the hill where the new walls stood. Lolla-Wossiky looked a long time, but he couldn't understand what this building was going to be. It was the new way of building, those frame walls, like White Murderer Harrison's new mansion, but it was very big. Bigger than anything Lolla-Wossiky ever saw White men build, taller than the stockade.

  First the strange bridges, tight as houses. Now this strange building, tall as trees. Lolla-Wossiky walked out from the shelter of the forest onto the open meadow, rocking back and forth because the ground never stayed level when he had likker in him. When he reached the building, he stepped up onto the wooden floor. White man's floor, White man's walls, but it didn't feel like any White man building Lolla-Wossiky ever saw. Big open space inside. Walls very high. First time ever he saw White man build something that wasn't closed in and dark. In this place a Red man still maybe glad to be here.

  “Who's that? Who are you?”

  Lolla-Wossiky turned around so fast he almost fell. A tall White man stood at the edge of the building. The floor was up so high it met this man at the waist. He wasn't in buckskin like a hunter, or in uniform like a soldier. He was dressed like a farmer maybe, only he was clean. In fact Lolia-Wossiky never saw such a man in Carthage City.

  “Who are you?” demanded the man again.

  “Red man,” said Lolla-Wossiky.

  “It's getting on dusk, but it sure ain't night yet. I'd have to be blind not to know you're Red. But I know the Reds close by and you ain't from around here.”

  Lolly-Wossiky laughed. What White man ever knew one Red from another so well he could say who was from close by and who was from far away?

  “You got a name, Red man?”

  “Lolla-Wossiky.”

  “You're likkered, ain't you. I can smell it, and you don't walk too good.”

  “Very likkered. Whisky-Red.”

  “Who gave you that likker! You tell Me! Where'd you get that likker?”

  Lona-wossiky was confused. White man never asked him where he got his likker before. White man always knew. “From White Murderer Harrison,” he said.

  “Harrison's two hundred miles southeast of here. What did you call him?”

  “Governor Bill Harrison.”

  “You called him White Murderer Harrison.”

  “This Red very drunk.”

  “I can see that. But you sure didn't get drunk at Fort Carthage and then walk all this way without sobering up. Now where'd you get that likker?”

  “You going to lock me up?”

  “Lock you– now where would I lock you up, tell me that? You really are from Fort Carthage, aren't you. Well, I'll tell you, Mr. Lolla-Wossiky, we got no place to lock up drunk Reds around here, cause around here Reds don't get drunk. And if they do, we find the White man who gave him likker and that White man gets a flogging. So you tell me right now where you got that likker.”

  “My whisky,” said Lolla-Wossiky.

  “Maybe you better come with me.”

  “Lock me up.”

  “I told you, we don't– listen, you hungry?”

  “Reckon so,” said Lolla-Wossiky.

  “You got a place to eat?”

  “Eat wherever I am.”

  “Well, tonight you come on down and eat at my house.”

  Lolla-Wossiky didn't know what to say. Was this a White man joke? White man jokes were very hard to understand.

  “Aren't you hungry?”

  “Reckon so,” said Lolla-Wossiky again.

  “Well, come on, then!”

  Another White man came up the hill. “Annor-of-God!” he called. “Your good wife wondered where you were.”

  “Just a minute, Reverend Thrower. I think maybe we got us company for supper.”

  "Who is that? Why, Armor-of-God, I daresay that's a Red.

  “He says his name's Lolla-Wossiky. He's a Shaw-Nee. He's also drunk as a skunk.”

  Lolla-Wossiky was very surprised. This White man knew he was a Shaw-Nee without asking. From his hair, plucked out except the tall strip down the middle? Other Reds did this. The fringe on his loincloth? White man never saw these things.

  “A Shaw-Nee,” said the new-come White man. “Aren't they a particularly savage tribe?”

  “Well, now, I don't know, Reverend Thrower,” said Armor-of-God. “What they are is a particularly sober tribe. By which I mean they don't get so likkered as some of these others. Some folks think that the only safe Red is a whisky-Red, so they see all these sober Shaw-Nee and they think that makes them dangerous.”

  “This one seems not to have that problem.”

  “I know. I tried to find out who gave him his whisky, and he won't tell me.”

  Reverend Thrower addressed Lolla-Wossiky. “Don't you know that whisky is the devil's tool and the downfall of the Red man?”

  “I don't think he talks English enough to know what you're talking about, Reverend.”

  “Likker very bad for Red man,” said Lolla-Wossiky.

  “Well, maybe he does understand,” said Armor-of-God, chuckling. “Lolla-Wossiky, if you know how bad likker is, how come you stink of cheap whisky like an Irish barroom?”

  “Likker very bad for Red man,” said Lolla-Wossiky, “but Red man thirsty all the time.”

  “There's a simple scientific explanation for that,” said Reverend Thrower. “Europeans have had alcoholic beverages for so long that they've built up a tolerance. Europeans who desperately hunger for alcohol tend to die younger, have fewer children, provide less wen for those children they do have. The result is that most Europeans have a resistance to alcohol built into them. But you Reds have never built up that tolerance.”

  “Very damn right,” said Lolla-Wossiky. “True-talking White man, how come White Murderer Harrison not kill you yet?”

  “Well, now, will you listen to that,” said Armor-of-God. “That's the second time he called Harrison a murderer.”

  “He also swore, which I do not appreciate.”

  “If he's from Carthage, he learned to talk English from a class of White man that thinks words like 'damn' are punctuation, if you catch my drift, Reverend. But listen, Lolla-Wossiky. This man here, he's Reverend Philadelphia Thrower, and he's a minister of the Lord Jesus Christ, so mind you don't use no bad language around him.”

  Lolla-Wossiky hadn't the faintest idea what a minister was– there was no such thing in Carthage City. The best he could think of was that a minister was like a governor, only nicer.

  “Will you live in this very big house?”

  "Live here?" asked Thrower. "Oh, no. This is the Lord's house.

  “Who?”

  “The Lord Jesus Christ.”

  Lona-Wossiky had heard of Jesus Christ. White man called out that name all the time, mostly when they were angry or lying. “Very angry man,” said Lofla-Wossiky. “He live here?”

  “Jesus Christ is a loving and forgiving Lord,” said Reverend Thrower. “He won't live here the way a White man lives in a house. But when good Christians want to worship– to sing hymns and pray and hear the word of the Lord– we'll come together in this place. It's a church, or it will be.”

  “Jesus Christ talks here?” Lolla-Wossiky thought it might be interesting to meet this very important White man face to face.

  “Oh, no, not in person. I speak for him.”

  From below the hill came a woman's voice. “Armor! Armor Weaver!”

  Armor-of-God came alert. “Supper's ready, and there she is calling out, she
hates when she has to do that. Come on, Lolla-Wossiky. Drunk or not, if you want supper you can come, and get it.”

  “I hope you will,” said Reverend Thrower. “And when supper is done, I hope to be able to teach you the words of the Lord Jesus.”

  “Very most first thing,” said Lolla-Wossiky. “You promise not to lock me up. I don't want lock-up, I got to find dream beast.”

  “We won't lock you up. You can walk out of my house any time.” Armor-of-God turned to Reverend Thrower. “You can see what these Reds learn about White men from William Henry Harrison. Likker and lock-ups.”

  “I am more moved by his pagan beliefs. A dream beast! Is this their idea of gods?”

  “The dream beast isn't God, it's an animal they dream about that teaches them things,” explained Armor. “They always take a long journey till they have the dream and come home. That explains what he's doing two hundred miles from the main Shaw-Nee settlements on the lower My-Ammy.”

  “Dream beast real,” said Lolla-Wossiky.

  “Right,” said Armor-of-God. Lolla-Wossiky knew he was saying that only to avoid offending him.

  “This poor creature is obviously in dire need of the gospel of Jesus,” said Thrower.

  “Looks to me like he's in more need of supper at the moment. Gospel is learned best on a full belly, wouldn't you say?”

  Thrower chuckled. “I don't think it says that anywhere in the Bible, Armor-of-God, but I dare say you're correct.”

  Armor-of-God put his hands on his hips and asked Lolla-Wossiky again. “You coming or not?”

  “Reckon so,” said Lolla-Wossiky.

  * * *

  Lolla-Wossiky's belly was full, but it was White man's food, soft and smoooth and overcooked, and it grumbled inside him. Thrower went on and on with very strange words. The stones were good, but Thrower kept going on about original sin and redemption. One time when Lolla-Wossiky thought he understood, he said, “What a silly god, he makes everybody born bad to go to bunung hell. Why so mad? All his fault!” But this made Thrower get very upset and talk longer and faster, so after that Lolla-Wossiky did not offer any of his thoughts.

  The black noise came back louder and louder the more Thrower talked. Whisky wearing off? It was very quick for the likker to go out of him. And when Thrower left one time to go empty himself, the black noise got quieter. Very strange– Lolla-Wossiky never before noticed anybody making the black noise louder or softer by coming or going.

  But maybe that was because he was here in the dream beast place. He knew this was the place because the white light was all around him when he looked, and he couldn't see where to go. Don't be surprised at bridges that make black noise soft and White minister who makes black noise loud. Don't be surprised at Annor-of-God with his land-face picture who feeds Red man and doesn't sell likker or even give likker.

  While Thrower was outside, Armor-of-God showed Lolla-Wossiky the map. “This is a picture of the whole land around hem. Up to the northwest, there's the big lake– the Kicky-Poo call it Fat Water. Right there, Fort Chicago– it's a French outpost.”

  “French. One cup of whisky for a White man scalp.”

  “That's the going rate, all right,” said Armor-of-God. “But the Reds around here don't take scalps. They trade fair with me, and I trade fair with them, and we don't go shooting down Reds and they don't go killing White folks for the bounty. You understand me? You start getting thirsty, you think about this: There was a whisky-Red from the Wee-Aw tribe here some four year back, he killed him a little Danish boy out in the woods. Do you think it was White men tracked him down? Reckon not; you know a White man's got no hope to find no Red in these woods, specially not farmers and such like us. No, it was Shaw-Nee and Otty-Wa who found him two hours after the boy turned up missing. And do you think it was White men punished that whisky-Red? Reckon not; they set that Wee-Aw down and said, 'You want to show brave?' and when he said yes, they took six hours killing him.”

  “Very kind,” said Lolla-Wossiky.

  “Kind? I reckon not,” said Armor-of-God.

  “Red man kills White boy for whisky, I never let him show brave, he die– uh! Like that, quick like rattlesnake, no man him.”

  “I got to say you Reds think real strange,” said Armor. “You mean it's a favor when you torture somebody to death?”

  “Not somebody. Enemy. Catch enemy, he shows brave before he die so then his spirit flies back to home. Tell his mother and sisters he died brave, they sing songs and scream for him. He doesn't show brave, then his spirit falls flat on the dirt and you step on him, grind him in, he never goes home, nobody remembers his name.”

  “It's a good thing Thrower's out at the privy right now, or I reckon he'd wet his pants over that doctrine.” Thrower squinted at Lolla-Wossiky. “You mean they honored that Wee-Aw who killed that little boy?”

  “Very bad thing, killing little boy. But maybe Red man knows about whisky-Red, very thirsty, making crazy. Not like killing man to take his house or his woman or his land, like White man all the time.”

  “I got to say, the more I learn about you Reds, the more it kind of starts to make sense. I better read the Bible more every night before I turn Red myself.”

  Lolla-Wossiky laughed and laughed.

  “What's so funny?”

  “Many Red men turn White and then die. But never does a White man turn Red. I have to tell this story, everybody laugh.”

  “You Reds have a sense of humor like I just don't understand.” Armor patted the map. “Here's us, right here just downriver from where the Tippy-Canoe flows into the Wobbish. All these dots, they're White man's farms. And these circles, they're Red villages. This one's Shaw-Nee, this one's Winny-Baygo, see how it goes?”

  “White Murderer Harrison tells Reds that you make this land-face picture so you can find Red villages. Killing everybody, he says.”

  “Well, that's just the kind of lie I'd expect him to tell. So you heard about me afore you came up here, did you? Well, I hope you don't believe his lies.”

  "Oh, no. Nobody believes White Murderer Harrison. "

  “Good thing.”

  “Nobody believes any White man. All lies.”

  “Well, not me, you understand that? Not me. Harrison wants to be governor so bad that he'll tell any lie he can to get power and keep it.”

  “He says you want to be governor, too.”

  Armor paused at that. Looked at the map. Looked at the door to the kitchen, where his wife was washing up. “Well, I reckon he didn't lie about that. But my idea of what it means to be governor and his are two different things. I want to be governor so Red men and White men can live together in peace here, farming the land side by side, going to the same schools so someday there ain't no difference between Red and White. But Harrison, he wants to get rid of the Red man altogether.”

  If you make the Red man just like the White man, then he won't be Red no more. Harrison's way or Armor's way, you end up with no Red men at the end. Lolla-Wossiky thought of this, but he didn't say it. He knew that even though turning all the Red men White would be very bad, killing them all with likker the way Harrison planned, or killing them and driving them off the land the way Jackson planned, those were even worse. Harrison was a very bad man. Armor wanted to be a good man, he just didn't know how. Lolla-Wossiky understood this, so he didn't argue with Annor-of-God.

  Armor went on showing him the map. “Down here's Fort Carthage, it's got a square, cause it's a town. I put a square for us, too, even though we're not rightly a town yet. We're calling it Vigor Church, on account of that church we're building.”

  “Church for building. Why Vigor?”

  “Oh, the first folks settled here, the ones who cut the road and made the bridges, the Miller family. They live on up behind the church, way along the road there. My wife is their oldest girl, in fact. They named this place Vigor on account of their oldest son was named Vigor. He drowned in the Hatrack River clear back near Suskwahenny, on their way coming here. So they name
d the place after him.”

  “Your wife, very pretty,” said Lolla-Wossiky.

  It took Armor just a few seconds to answer that, he looked so surprised. And in the shop in back, where they ate the meal, his wife Eleanor must have been listening, cause she was suddenly standing there in the doorway.

  “Nobody ever called me pretty,” she said softly.

  Lolla-Wossiky was baffled. Most White women had narrow faces, no cheekbones, sick-looking skin. Eleanor was darker, wide-faced, high cheekbones.

  “I think you're pretty,” said Armor. “I really do.”

  Lolla-Wossiky didn't believe him, and neither did Eleanor, though she smiled and went away from the door. He never had thought she was pretty, that was plain. And after a moment, Lolla-Wossiky understood why. She was pretty like a Red woman. So naturally White men who never saw straight thought her pretty was very ugly.

  This also meant that Armor-of-God was married to a woman he thought was ugly. But he didn't shout at her or hit her, like a Red man with an ugly squaw. This was a good thing, Lolla-Wossiky decided.

  “You very happy,” said Lolla-Wossiky.

  “That's because we're Christians,” said Armor-ofGod. “You'd be happy, too, if you was Christian.”

  "I won't never be happy, " said Lolla-Wossiky.. He meant to say, "Till I hear green silence again, till black noise goes away." But no use saying that to a White man, they didn't know that half the things going on in the world were plain invisible to them.

  “Yes, you will,” said Thrower. He strode into the room with all kinds of energy, ready to tackle this heathen all over again. “You accept Jesus Christ as your savior, and you will have true happiness.”

  Now, that was a promise worth looking into. That was a good reason to talk about this Jesus Christ. Maybe Jesus Christ was Lolla-Wossiky's dream beast. Maybe he would make the black noise go away and make Lolla-Wossiky happy again like he was before White Murderer Harrison blew up the world with black noise from his gun.

  “Jesus Christ makes me wake up?” asked Lolla-Wossiky.

  “Come follow me, he said, and I will make you fishers of men,” answered Thrower.