With that, the old man finally sits and raises his arms to the women across from him, who stand with ladles in their hands as we guests are urged to partake of the kettles.
Our hosts have spared no expense with this feast and fill our birch-bark plates with steaming mounds of trout and sturgeon and pike stew, with deer and bear and moose meat, with corn flavoured with berries and the syrup from maple and birch. When one plate is finished, our hosts urge us to stand for more, for we must all eat until the kettles have been scraped empty. My belly that was groaning for food now moans from fullness as the quiet talking of neighbours and the sighs of the sated and the pop of dry wood being consumed by the fire blanket the great longhouse. Indeed, our cousins have been good to us, and tomorrow on the field we will fight hard again as if we’re hated enemies, for the old man is right in saying that this game will teach our young men to think clearly in battle, toughening their bodies and their minds for what they’ll soon face.
My head has dipped down to my chest, my plate resting on my thighs, when a hand on my shoulder wakes me. Fox, his one eye swelled shut, he’s smiling the smile he saves for news I don’t want to hear. “Get up, Bird,” he whispers coarsely. “Awake. Their great chief asks you to speak now.”
I wipe away the drool that’s slipped onto my chin with the back of my hand, hoping no one has seen it.
“Get up!” Fox says again, pushing on my arm. “Say something. Say something good.”
I lurch to my feet, my exhaustion falling away just enough that I stand with some semblance of authority once I see how many wait for me to speak.
“Arendahronnon, yes, you, people of this great rock upon which you decided to eke out your existence,” I begin, trying to be funny but now worried it sounds more like an insult. “Arendahronnon, you People of the Rock,” I begin again, “you’ve found an idyllic world in which to spend your days, close to our friends and great hunters and medicine people, the Anishnaabek to the north, and you are surrounded and protected on the three other sides by water. Yet your fields are as large and plentiful as any in the country of the Wendat. But do not assume this will prevent your Bear brothers, we Attignawantan, from crushing you tomorrow and the day after, as we crushed you today, in the Creator’s Game.”
The crowd, listening intently, laughs just enough to free my tongue.
“My cousins, you Arendahronnon, no, my brothers, we all indeed become closer by participating in this little brother of war with each other.”
People nod and exclaim, “Ah-ho!”
“As your elder so rightly says, we must band together as one if we are to continue dominating the Haudenosaunee.” I wonder what else to say, something that will impress them, and before I can think better of it, I open my mouth. “I offer you this, my brothers. Travel with us to the land of the hairy ones this summer. We will go as a single force, an unbeatable force. We will go as one in order to show the Haudenosaunee that we can’t be defeated.”
I can feel Fox’s eyes on me, even as our hosts respond with enthusiasm. He knows that a group this size travelling through Haudenosaunee land will be taken as more than a great insult. It will be a declaration of war. Not only that, the Iron People will certainly drive down prices when they see the large volumes of furs that arrive with such a large contingent. I look at Fox, who shakes his head at me. But I’ve certainly won our hosts over as they stand and call out my name. They’ve wanted this offer from us for a long time and I’ve just given it away.
When they quiet, I realize there’s one more thing to say, one more issue I must address. “It’s no secret that there’s a stranger in our presence, one who can’t hide among us for a number of reasons, not least because he’s the colour of a fish belly.” The people laugh good-heartedly. I look at the Crow, who smiles tight-lipped. “He is a strange creature indeed,” I continue. “You cannot miss who I speak of, for he is the one whose hair slips from his head and comes to rest on his face.” The people laugh more. “He’s a big man, though, and I’ve watched him slowly get stronger these last years. He’s found followers in my village, and they say he can shoulder a great weight.” The longhouse now studies him, talking among themselves, weighing him as if he were something to be traded or not.
“But beware of this charcoal, my brothers,” I warn them. “Despite his strange appearance, he is very bright and has become attuned to our ways. He especially likes to prey on those who are infirm in body or mind.” The crowd leans toward me. “He waits until one is on his deathbed before whispering his incantations. He promises great riches in the afterlife if you accept his oki as your own. But he doesn’t explain that the cost is your forever being separated from the loved ones who’ve gone before you.”
“Why do you keep him around?” someone asks. “Wouldn’t it be better to caress him with the coals?”
I thoughtfully reach my hand to my chin. I’d planned on having to defend my actions, as indeed I’ve been doing in my own village for some time. “Because he is only the first of many who have started coming to our land,” I say. “And despite the very real threat he poses—for is it coincidence that the diseases afflict us when he arrives?—despite the great threat of him and his kind, he must be studied so that he can be understood. We Attignawantan have taken this upon ourselves, despite the dire consequences, so that we may all learn how to protect the Wendat nation from their advances.” The people nod in contemplation, some even in appreciation. “And I promise that we will share with you, my brothers, what we discover.”
I sit then, and lean back. The longhouse buzzes with discussion and debate. I feel I’ve spoken well, despite foolishly inviting them with us. As if to emphasize this, Fox leans to me and whispers, “You certainly ruined my trade year. I hope you offer your war-bearers a cut of your profits to make up for what you just allowed to come out of your mouth.”
“If you think you’re upset,” I say. “Imagine when the Haudenosaunee hear how many of us plan to travel through their country this coming summer.”
Fox smiles. “It certainly will be seen as us sharpening the axe. Perhaps it’s time that we strike first.”
“Don’t fool yourself,” I answer. “We’ve been at war since long before I took the girl. If the illnesses hadn’t befallen us all, we’d already be near the end of it.”
Fox looks at me. His eyes glow in the firelight. “For once, I think you’re right,” he jokes.
Their old one stands again and the longhouse settles to quiet. “I’ve heard this charcoal has mastered the Wendat tongue,” he says. “I, for one, would enjoy hearing him speak.” The people shout their approval. The old one holds out his hand to the Crow, who after a moment stands and clears his throat.
I stare at him as hard as I can, trying to get him to look at me. He’d better speak very carefully.
He makes the movement with his right hand that I’ve grown accustomed to watching him do, touching his forehead, then his chest, and then his left and right shoulders. People used to speculate that he was casting a curse, but as far as I can tell, despite his claim that this action protects him, I think it’s more of a nervous tic.
“I’ve come from very far away,” he begins, “to bring you a message from the most powerful oki, the Great Voice, the creator of the world. If you accept him into your heart, you will live forever.”
“Then why do so many who listen to you die?” a young warrior asks.
“The life I offer you begins after death,” the Crow continues, barely having to consider the question.
I’m constantly amazed by his willingness to make absurd statements that so often anger or offend without any concern for his own safety.
“The gift I offer you lasts forever.”
“And what do you want in return?” the same warrior asks. I start to like him.
“The Great Voice tells you that the medicine in your body, the oki in your body, when it leaves your body behind does not dwell in one place. The medicine in your body, the same medicine that each of us has in our
body, once our body stops breathing, that medicine needs to go somewhere. Now,” he says, holding his hands together, “the medicine in your body has the chance to go up into the sky.” He lifts both hands in the air, pointing them at the chimney hole. “I offer you the chance to become Sky People.” There’s much mumbling when he speaks this, but he ignores it. “I offer you a chance for riches after your physical body stops and your medicine leaves it, a chance for you to have all you desire, worth more than all the beautiful cloth and fur and wampum you can imagine.” The Crow pauses in order for us to absorb his words.
“If you listen carefully, you can hear the Great Voice say it. ‘Never will the day arrive when I abandon you. Always you will see my face. Always, I will love you. Always, as well, you will love me. You will never weary when I prepare a palisade for you. All the pain you felt while you still lived on earth you will no longer feel. In winter you were cold. Every summer you sweated. You will never go hungry or thirsty, for I will send that all away.’
“This is what he says,” the Crow almost whispers so that we must lean closer to hear him. “He says that you will never need to ask for anything else if you accept Him, if you allow your oki to go up to the sky to Him, for all the things you can possibly desire are furnished where He lives.”
The Crow stops, breathes in deeply, and looks around at the faces studying him. I’m uncomfortable with his talk, with the way so many listen.
As if taking up my challenge, the same young warrior speaks out again. “Really. It is that easy to gain everything we can possibly desire? Where do I offer my services so that I may be given everything I desire when my body stops breathing?” His friends chuckle. “In fact, it sounds so good that I request you stop my body from breathing right now. I want to get on with the pleasure.” Many others laugh at his words, breaking the Crow’s spell.
“The only ones,” the Crow speaks over the noise, “who will make it to the country in the sky are those who restrained themselves from being bad while they still lived.”
“And how do you judge if I am bad?” the young warrior asks.
I lean to Fox. “Make sure that we learn who this young one is,” I whisper. “He will go far.”
“You must ask yourself,” the Crow answers, “Did I take pity on the poor? Did I not steal, kill, commit adultery, or get angry? Did I?”
“What you ask is impossible,” the young one says. “Every one of us, including you, I’m sure, has done one of these things. In fact, many here have, just today, done all of these things multiple times!” Again, people laugh.
The Crow looks unfazed. “The Great Voice offers us much more than what I’ve already spoken about. Listen to Him, what He offers. ‘You were afraid,’ He says, ‘while you walked on the earth. You feared those you killed.’”
I can feel the young men all around me bristle at the words. I breathe easier and remind myself to just let the Crow keep talking next time I’m concerned he might win some of us over.
“The Great Voice says, ‘Never again touch your scalp in fear, for those who wish to harm you can never find you here. In this place in the sky there are no quarrels. There is no envy. There is no anger. If you do good here on earth and become a sky-dweller, you will continue to be beautiful in body, and other great things will happen to you. You will have a beautiful house, beautiful possessions, good-tasting food.’”
Indeed, the Crow’s words are full of promise. But as I look around me at the people, I can tell most are not feeling tempted by him. Voices rise up while he still stands there, his arms raised to us, clearly having more to say. Now, though, the people talk, weighing what he’s said, debating the possibilities, the ease of his promises, the question of what we must do to become sky-dwellers.
“Well,” Fox says, “he certainly makes it all sound like summer evenings.”
“All of it so perfect,” I say. “But to gain so much, imagine what we must give up.” I raise my own arms to those around me, to the fire and the kettles and the women and the children. “There’s something he’s not telling us.” We both laugh.
I look up and the Crow stands there patiently, his arms now at his sides. He knows we’ll eventually quiet and allow him to finish. The talk grows quieter, and soon to near silence, the fires crackling, a few people snoring. It’s getting late, and if he doesn’t finish talking soon we’ll all be too exhausted to play the game tomorrow.
“I know you question me, that you think what I offer comes too easily. I know you think I’m trying to trick you or use sorcery on you. You may even think I’ve made up this story. But why would I travel so far, across the great water, at such peril to myself? Why would I leave my beautiful home and my loved ones and the food I’m used to and clean clothes for my body? Why would I give that up if it were all a made-up story?” The Crow smiles. He says, “Ask me this. Why would I accept the Great Voice’s command that I separate myself from physical relationships with a woman if what I tell you isn’t the truth?”
Someone in the crowd shouts, “Because you like men instead!” and the longhouse breaks into laughter.
The Crow ignores them. “We charcoal have given up everything from our world, all that we know, all of our comforts, so that we may bring you the message that the world after this one is the true world, the world you must live to strive for every day.” He acts as if he’s deciding whether to continue or not, though the throng listens intently. “The charcoal have travelled this far to tell you that what you now do, the way you now live, will prevent you from reaching the good land I speak of, that perfect place in the sky.”
The Crow knows how to offend without trying. At these last words, people erupt into talking, some of the young warriors bristling like porcupines, ready to fill him full of quills. No doubt that if there weren’t elders here, they’d do it.
Fox and I listen until the chatter dies down. We’re content to watch this talk go the course we’re sure it will. The same course it has done in the past in our own village.
“And if we decide not to accept the life you tell us to?” a bent old woman asks as she adds wood to the fire.
The Crow is invigorated by this attention. His listeners in our own village often grow bored with him and their numbers shrink or swell depending on the amount of food he’s able to offer on any particular day.
“There is a fire that burns,” he now says, “deep in the earth. But it is very strong, even more powerful than the fire you know, the fire you sometimes use to caress your prisoners.” He looks to the hearths then, his clean head sweating and his eyes flashing in the light. His face is still thin, but not gaunt like it used to be. The hair on it is the colour of snow at the edges, and in his long dark robe he seems now to be a part of the ground on which he stands and the shadows that surround him. He has been learning the tricks of the sorcerers, I think. He has gained some power from somewhere around us, from someone among us, these last seasons. I was once sure he’d have wilted by now like a drought-stricken cornstalk.
“Your fires burn the skin first, so that it tears from the flesh with ease. Your fires make you pull your hand away, your foot away, when they are too close to it. Your fires cause great pain, and within a day or two, your fires will end the prisoner’s life.” He holds his long white fingers out to the flames dancing in front of him, gazing as if he contemplates each bony one. “But the fire inside the earth is of a different kind. The fire that awaits those who don’t wish to live for the sky has a different heat. And even water cannot put out this fire. The fire tells you, ‘Give up hope. Even snow will burn here. Even lakes will burn.’”
I look around me at the people listening to him. There’s no denying we love our fire, that we understand its subtle and not so subtle strengths.
“But the fire inside the earth,” the Crow says, “will not consume humans.” He pauses. “Think of it as when an axe head is placed in the fire. Leave it in the fire for as long as you want and it will turn red and then white from the heat, but it will not lose its form.
Think of the fire in the earth as doing this to the bodies of those who live badly when they are alive.”
Once more, voices rise up to debate this point before quieting again.
The Crow speaks louder now. “Do you admire the frightening fire that burns inside the earth? Your medicine, the way I watch you use it, is at the point of going there.”
At this, even the older ones voice their disdain. A few young men go so far as to stand before the old man quells them. “Let him speak,” I hear him say to the war-bearers. “He is our guest, after all.”
The Crow continues as if he hasn’t noticed the anger rippling through the longhouse. “Do you think the many damaging things you do will be forgotten?” he asks. “The Great Voice forgets nothing. Who hates himself so much he says, ‘I want forever for the flame to eat my body’? Would you continue to be brave, to not cry out if it burned you? You can be brave when your enemy burns you. I’ve seen it. If you don’t cry out, your name will be honoured forever. Maybe over one or two or three days your body will burn before your tormentors tire of caressing you. But you will have to lose hope inside the earth, for the fire will never stop.”
At this, the Crow stops, and I hope for his own safety he is finished. The heat of our young ones’ anger is hotter than he apparently knows. They’re feeding from a strong source the Crow can’t ever understand, one that allows them to participate in the Creator’s Game so that they learn not to fear but to flourish. All his talk serves only to incite them.