Waku stared in dismay at Hunu’s still form. A scarlet pool was spreading under the body. He had seen men killed before, but never like this, never so coldly, so callously. He wanted to roar in rage. But the self-control for which the People of the Forest prided themselves, and which he had so diligently practiced since he was old enough to embrace the ideal, demanded that he contain himself.
Tihikanima took a halting step toward her father but stopped when one of the white men pointed a rifle at her and growled in his incomprehensible tongue. The three whites were aglow with blood lust. It would not take much to provoke them.
Teni had a hand to her throat. She was transfixed with indecision. Every instinct warned her to flee, to grab Miki and get out of there, but the white men would slay them just as they had slain Hunumanima.
Only Degamawaku showed no apparent concern. Inwardly, he was girding himself for what he must do. All he needed was the right moment.
Reverend Stilljoy was staring at Hunu. “I regret that. I truly do. But what must be, must be.”
It was as if a veil lifted from Waku’s eyes. He saw Stilljoy as the reverend truly was and not as Waku had imagined him to be. “You not our friend. You enemy.”
“Not true,” Reverend Stilljoy said resentfully. “I am beyond those distinctions. I am my brother’s keeper. I do what is best for the good of all.”
Waku pointed at Hunu. “That good? Kill my people good?”
“You haven’t been listening. Yes, much good will derive from it. The other tribes will know not to oppose us. Your land, some of the best in the entire region, will be opened for settlement.”
“You not right in head,” Waku said.
Reverend Stilljoy smiled that maddening smile of his. “Quite the contrary. I will go among the other tribes preaching salvation. I will use the Nansusequa as an example of the fate that befalls those who refuse to embrace the one true faith.”
Waku had it then, and was appalled. Not at the white man in the black coat, but at himself for being so blind and gullible.
“That is another reason I agreed not to oppose this cleansing,” Reverend Stilljoy was saying. “I realized your people would never accept our religion. You are too entrenched in your heathen ways.” He shrugged. “Since you are bound for Hell anyway, it might as well be now as later.”
Suddenly, from the distance, there came the boom and pop of many guns.
“Ah. That would be our militia. They were to surround your village and at a given command, shoot every warrior in sight with their first volley. Then they will deal with the few men who are left.” Stilljoy added offhandedly, “And the women and children, of course.”
An invisible hand had gripped Waku’s chest and slowly squeezed. He had never cried in his life but now tears misted his eyes.
“Enough of this jabber,” Arthur Forge said. “Out of the way, Reverend. I have a son to avenge.”
“Very well.” Stilljoy stood. “But wait until I am out of sight.”
Dega’s moment had come. He was wearing a green buckskin shirt and leggings, the shirt hanging loose below his waist. While Stilljoy talked, Dega had eased his hand up under the shirt and molded his palm to the hilt of his knife. Stilljoy was between him and the one called Forge. He sprung forward and shoved Stilljoy against Forge, then turned and slashed his knife across the jugular of one of the other white men before he could even raise his gun. Dega quickly plunged the blade deep into the ribs of the third gunman, moving so fast his opponent was frozen in fear. Both were killing strokes.
The Nansusequa were a peace-loving people but they were realists. On occasion they were compelled to defend their territory, and to that end they practiced the arts of war under the tutelage of warriors who had proven their merit in battle.
Reverend Stilljoy squawked and clutched at Arthur Forge to keep from falling. “I beg your pardon. The silly youth pushed me.”
Stilljoy had not seen what happened to the other two, but Forge had. “Out of my way, you damned simpleton!” he bellowed, and shoved Stilljoy far harder than Dega had. Forge leveled his rifle at Dega’s chest, but Stilljoy’s flailing arm struck the barrel, swatting it aside just as the rifle went off. The lead that was to end Dega’s life plowed a furrow in the earth instead.
Dega pounced. But as he struck, Arthur Forge shoved Reverend Stilljoy toward him. Dega’s knife sheared into the reverend’s scrawny back high on the left side. Stilljoy stiffened, then collapsed, falling to his hands and knees.
Arthur Forge whirled and ran.
Racing around Stilljoy, Dega gave chase. He had only gone a few steps when Forge reached the horses and without slowing or breaking stride swung up onto a brown horse and slapped his legs against its side. In a twinkling the animal had borne him out of the clearing and into the forest, which promptly swallowed them.
Dega came to a stop. He could not catch them on foot. The other horses were still there, but he had never ridden and would not know how to go about it. A loud gasp and a groan drew him back to Stilljoy.
Blood dribbled from the reverend’s slack mouth. He looked up. “What have you done, you wretched heathen?”
“What did he say?” Dega asked his father, but Waku was listening to the distant crackle of rifles and pistols and did not answer.
“A pox on you and your kind!” Reverend Stilljoy wheezed. “I call on the Lord to smite you for your sins!”
Dega debated silencing him but elected not to. His little sister was trembling with shock at the violent deaths.
“I am a light in the wilderness, and you have snuffed out my wick,” Reverend Stilljoy declared. “Countless souls will not be redeemed because of you. May you burn in perdition for all eternity.”
“I wish he would stop talking,” Teni said. She had never liked the sound of the reverend’s voice. It always made her skin itch.
Stilljoy raised his pale face to the heavens. “Hear me, oh Lord! Hear your humble servant! May angels bear me to your bosom that I may bask in your glory and righteousness for all time.”
“He babbles,” Teni said.
“He calls on his God.” Dega hefted his knife but still did not use it. “On That Which Is In All Things.”
“They are not the same,” their mother said. Teni used to think that perhaps they were. Stilljoy, on his visits to their village, had claimed that his God Almighty was the white name for Manitoa. But now she saw that was not true. To believe in Manitoa was to have a reverence for all living things. You could not have one without the other. The whites clearly did not.
Stilljoy’s head drooped and his thin frame swayed. “May all of you rot and fester in torment,” he said weakly. “I cannot forgive your foul offense.” He raised a hand to the sky. “Into Your hands I commend my spirit.” With that, he died.
The crack of rifles and pistols to the west had become more sporadic. Mingled with the shots were screams and shrieks and wails.
Dega did not waste another moment. He turned to his father, saying, “Our people need us.” The stricken look on his father’s face held him until one of the horses whinnied. Dega looked at them. A man on horseback could go a lot faster than a man on foot. Maybe he had been wrong in not trying to go after Arthur Forge. But he could use one now even more. Dare I try? he asked himself.
Sheathing his knife, Dega ran to the animals and gripped the saddle of a dusky horse as he had seen Forge grip his saddle. He swung up and sat waiting for the horse to do something, to bite or rear or buck. But all it did was stand there, unmoving. Dega remembered how Forge had gripped the long strips of leather, the reins, he believed they were called, and he did the same. The horse did not move, so Dega slapped his legs as Forge had done. He nearly went tumbling when the animal lunged into motion. Bending, Dega grabbed its mane and clamped his legs tight.
The horse was heading north. Dega needed to go west. But he did not know how to turn the thing. He tried jerking on the mane but that had no effect. He pulled on the reins, and to his consternation the horse came to a s
top.
Dega experimented. Since the reins were secured to the animal’s head, he reasoned that they must have something to do with determining the direction the horse took. He pulled to the left and the horse turned. He pulled to the right and the horse turned again. When he pulled the reins toward him, the horse stopped.
“This is not so hard,” Dega told himself, and slapped his legs. The horse galloped westward. Pleased with himself, Dega straightened. Too late, he saw the low limb in his path. It caught him across the chest. Pain nearly caused him to cry out as he was knocked off and tumbled head over heels.
Dega lay on his stomach, a ringing in his ears, his ribs a welter of torment. Rising on his elbows, he gingerly pressed a hand to his chest. Nothing appeared to be broken. Even better, the horse had gone only a short way and stopped, and now was looking back at him as if confused.
“Be patient with me, brother,” Dega said.
The animal was well trained. It did not act up as Dega slowly approached and patted its neck.
“Thank you, brother. I am new to riding. Help me to learn, and I will treat you well.” Taking the reins, Dega mounted. This time when he flicked the reins he did not hold on to the mane. He did not need to. His confidence climbing, he brought the horse to a gallop. He found that if he let the animal do as it pleased, it avoided trees and thickets and other obstacles without him having to do much of anything except keep it pointed in the direction he wanted it to go.
The thunder of the guns had faded. Dega was surprised he had not heard the war whoops of Nansusequa warriors as they rallied to defend the village. Surely the whites had not slain them all.
The horse was bearing him so swiftly that Dega would soon find out. He was congratulating himself on his cleverness when it occurred to him that the animal’s pounding hoofs were making a lot of noise, noise the whites were bound to hear. Since stealth was called for, Dega pulled on the reins.
Just then a figure hurtled out of the trees toward him.
Back at the clearing, Wakumassee of the Nansusequa could not tear his gaze from the body of the man who had meant so much to him. Hunumanima had been more than the father of his wife. Hunu had been his best friend. They were much alike, the two of them. Both had been devoted to peace.
Their voices, more than any others, had urged the People of the Forest to live in harmony with the whites. There were dissenters, a few elders and others who said the whites could not be trusted. Always, it was Waku and Hunu who persuaded the dissenters to smother their animosity and reach out to the whites in friendship. To set an example, Waku and Hunu had even gone so far as learning to speak the white tongue.
The two of them had done all that on behalf of the whites, and now Hunu was dead, their people under attack.
“What have I done?” Waku asked aloud.
“Husband?” Tihikanima grasped his arm. “We must hurry to our village. Why do you stand here like this?”
“Hunu,” Waku said simply.
“He was my father and I loved him dearly,” Tihi said. “But now we must think of the rest of our people. Do you not hear the screams?”
Only then did Waku become aware of the new sounds mixed with the shots. “Come.” He made for the trail, settling into a jog. His wife ran on his left, and his daughters trailed them. They ran smoothly, with the practiced ease of long-distance runners.
Tihi cocked her head. “How is it that the whites invaded our land without us being aware?” she wondered.
“They traveled at night,” Waku guessed. His people invariably retired to the Great Lodges after the sun went down. Sentries were always posted, which Reverend Stilljoy had known, making it likely the whites had waited until dawn, when the village was astir, to sneak in close and wait for the command to kill.
“How many do you think there are?”
“I cannot say.” Waku had never bothered to learn the population of New Albion. It had to be in the hundreds, and that just in the settlement. Add the farms and homesteads in the outlying areas and the total white population was likely two to three times that of the Nansusequa.
“Our people must go on the warpath,” Tihi urged. “We must call a meeting of all the tribes and unite to drive the whites from our lands. The Shawnee, the Yuchi, the Chickasaw, the Muskogee—we must send runners to each.”
Waku had never heard his wife talk like this, and said so.
“This is war,” Tihi said simply.
“It is the Nansusequa way to seek peace with all,” Waku said.
“You can still say that after what the whites have done?”
Waku had spoken out of habit. He had been a staunch advocate of living in harmony with all people for so long that to contemplate doing differently did not come easily.
Teni was listening to her parents with only half an ear. A great fear had seized her. Not for herself, or her family, but for her people, the People of the Forest, and the life she loved. Her parents did not seem to see the truth, but she did. Her mother talked of sending messengers to the Yuchis and others and driving the whites out, but her mother was blind to that which Teni had seen with her own eyes. They couldn’t drive the whites off. The whites were too strong, too many.
Plus, the whites had two other advantages over the Nansusequa and the surrounding tribes: horses and guns. Horses enabled them to travel much more swiftly than the People of the Forest or their potential allies. Guns let the whites kill from a greater distance than lances and most bows, and had the added effect of cowing those unaccustomed to the noise and the smoke and the small balls of lead that were invisible until they tore through flesh and organs and left wounds far disproportionate to their size.
The tribes could never hope to withstand such might. Especially as Reverend Stilljoy had once told them that the whites possessed other, more formidable weapons, among them a great gun that fired lead balls as big as her head and containers of black sand, that, when lit, could destroy a Great Lodge.
Teni’s fear writhed inside her like a living thing. Her people were not merely fighting to defend their village and their territory; they were fighting for their very survival against an enemy who so far had defeated every tribe that dared oppose it.
Teni realized her parents were pulling ahead. She went to run faster but had to stay at the same pace or little Miki would be left behind. They rounded a bend in the trail, and then another. Soon they would be near the village. She was surprised to see that her parents had stopped. Then shapes materialized out of the vegetation.
Degamawaku was leading the horse by the reins. Cradled in his arms was a small crumpled green form.
A gasp escaped Teni. She recognized her cousin Keti, who was two summers younger than Miki.
Keti’s dress was splattered with red and her forehead, leaking blood, had collapsed inward. Her eyes were closed, and she quaked as if she were cold.
“A white man clubbed her,” Dega said, kneeling and gently depositing the girl on the grass. “She told me she was the only one to escape. Then she passed out.”
“That cannot be,” Waku said softly.
Miki turned to Teni and buried her face in Teni’s dress. “I cannot bear to look. I am so sorry.”
The shooting and the screaming had ceased. A profound silence had fallen over the primeval forest.
Tihi knelt and carefully examined Keti. “She has been shot as well as clubbed,” she said, indicating a hole low on the girl’s side.
Keti moaned. Her eyelids fluttered open “Aunt Tihi?” she said so softly they barely heard her. “Is that you?”
“It is, child.” Tihi lightly kissed the girl’s cheek. “Be still. We will tend you.”
“They killed them,” Keti said. She had an oval face with large eyes that lent her the innocence of a fawn.
“Killed whom?”
“My mother. My father. My brothers. The whites killed them. They killed everyone.”
Tihi gently squeezed the child’s shoulder. “My sister is dead? Who else? How many are alive yet?”
Dega let the reins drop. They were too close to the village to use the horse. “I will go look,” he volunteered. “Stay hidden in case the whites are searching for her.” He spun to hasten away.
“I am going with you,” Teni said. She had given care of Miki to her mother.
“It is not safe.”
“I can be as quiet as you,” Teni said. She had to see for herself. “They are my people, too.”
Dega glanced at their parents. Tihi was hugging Miki and holding Keti’s hand. Their father stared blankly into space, overcome by the calamity. “Very well.”
As children, the pair had spent countless days playing in the woods. It got so they moved as if joined at the hip. Now, Teni’s movements duplicated Dega’s. She made no more noise than he did. When he stopped, she stopped. When he eased onto his belly and crawled, she eased onto hers.
Coiling columns of smoke rose above the treetops while an acrid fog clung close to the ground.
Teni’s nose tingled. She quickly pinched it to keep from sneezing. When the urge faded, she lowered her hand. Dega thought he heard something. He glanced to the right and saw trees shrouded in smoke. He glanced to the left and froze.
Stalking in their direction was a stocky white man. He carried a rifle and had a big knife in a leather sheath on his left hip.
From his right hip dangled a fresh scalp.
Five
Dega felt his sister’s fingers clamp on to his arm, felt her nails dig into his skin. He did not blame her. The scalp hanging from the white man’s belt was a Nansusequa scalp. The whites were taking the hair of those they killed.
Dega had heard of the practice. Neither the People of the Forest nor their immediate neighbors took scalps, but he knew other tribes did. So, too, did the whites, he had heard, usually for bounty money. The thought jarred him. Could it be, he asked himself, that the whites would collect a bounty on his people? Did that have something to do with the attack? Was there more to it than simple revenge? It was worth later thought.
Wilderness Double Edition 25 Page 20