Ring of Fire III

  “When will you make this medicine?”

  “When?” Walks-In-Deep-Woods let himself smile again, but this time he bared his teeth. “When, the great chief asks. It is already done. The cold is in his bones already.”

  Now it was Strong-Arm’s turn to smile.

  2

  Champlain felt his age when he awoke in the morning, when he knelt to pray, when he bent over a map that had once been so easy to see, and when he laid his tired bones for sleep—and a hundred other times during the day.

  Whenever he returned to France, his friends and the courtiers in Paris would ask: why go back, Samuel? Why return to Nouvelle France, where the winters are cold and the nights are long?

  You are not accorded the dignity of being named Governor. While the king and the cardinal—and there was only one cardinal, whenever the title was spoken—grant great seigneuries to everyone around them, you are left humble and modest, with no honors heaped upon you.

  Why go back?

  Why indeed, he often thought to himself. But the answer was always the same—when he first set foot upon land it reminded him: the pure, clean air, the incredible variety of colors...Nouvelle France was in his blood. It was here that he first realized what he was meant to do.

  And it was here, not in some comfortable salon in Paris, in the heart of the world, where he would die. He knew it, just as the cardinal had known it two years earlier at an interview when he had learned of the great extent over which New France was to spread. All of America north of the Spanish possessions belongs to the crown of France, Richelieu had told him, and then granted him the title of lieutenant-general.

  In the spring, seven months ago, a confidant in Paris had sent him a scrap of parchment—a sort of engraving, a perfect reproduction of an up-time book, somehow procured from the Americans. It was a page from a great encyclopedia; and it was about him.

  According to the book of the future, there was a calamity awaiting him—an imminent one. He was to suffer something that the English text termed a “stroke”—his correspondent had translated it as congestion cérébrale, an affliction of the head. It was written that the disease lingered for some time, giving him the opportunity to settle his affairs and contemplate, during the time left to him, how he would approach the Lord of Hosts when his spirit passed from the world.

  The book had been vague about the exact date of the event, placing it sometime in October though it did state that he was to die on Christmas Day. By his own reckoning, the fate that God had ordained for him should logically take place eighty days earlier: forty days from Ash Wednesday to Eastertide, he thought, and forty days from Easter to Pentecost—eighty days placed the event on October the fifth.

  All during the summer, Champlain had made his preparations. Confiding the contents of the scrap of paper to no one, not even his confessor, the Jesuit Father Charles Lalemant, he made a number of revisions to his will, providing a number of additional bequests of cash and property and making provisions for the servants of his habitation, his Montagnais godson Fortuné, and even the old greffier of Québec, Jacques de Laville. Lalemant took all of these changes in stride, asking Champlain about his sudden decisions...and, to his shame, Champlain dissembled (even under the seal of the confessional; he told his beads many times for those minor sins).

  He would face his death with dignity, with his affairs in order, with his mind clear and his debts and responsibilities discharged. God had vouchsafed him an opportunity to do it before the congestion cérébrale struck him down.

  By the Feast of Saint Michael all was in readiness. There was by then nothing to do but wait.

  3

  From his own Oneida longhouse to the Tree of Great Peace at Onondaga, the Council Fire of the Five Nations, was six days’ travel on foot. Strong-Arm expected Walks-In-Deep-Woods to go with him to speak with the other chiefs about war with the servants of the Onontio, but Walks-In-Deep-Woods declined. It was too far a journey for his old bones, with winter’s icy breath following just behind.

  “I need your sage advice, shaman,” he said to him, but the older man shook his head.

  “It is no place for shamans.”

  “What?” Strong-Arm threw his hands in the air. “Onondaga is full of shamans. They are constantly asking questions—”

  “And never giving answers, wise chief. I do not wish to be asked so many questions by so many shamans. You...you must go to the Great Fire of Peace and speak bravely, and argue your case so that all of the Haudenosaunee, the People of the Longhouse, will go to war alongside you.”

  “I would have you beside me.”

  “From the brave keepers of the Western Door, the Senecas, to the fierce Mohawks at the Longhouse’s sunrise entrance—all will harken to your words, mighty chief. You do not need me to make you or your speech strong.

  “All you need, great Strong-Arm, is the truth.”

  So Strong-Arm went alone, following the paths across the lands of the Oneidas until he came to Onondaga, where the great sacred fire of the Five Nations was kept. He carried with him the wampum of the Oneida, so that he might speak on behalf of himself and the other Oneida chiefs. As he traveled he knew that other chiefs, carrying other wampum, were on their way to Onondaga to hear him speak.

  * * *

  At the Council Fire at the heart of the lands of the Haudenosaunee, nothing happened quickly. Every meeting of the Great Council, ten hands of chiefs from all of the Nations—Seneca, Cayuga, Onondaga, Oneida and Mohawk, represented according to their might and numbers—began with tale-telling: of Sky-Mother and Earth-Father, of the Peacemaker Deganawidah, of the great Onondaga chief Hiawatha and the sorcerer Tadadaho whom Hiawatha cured with sacred beads and secret words. Almost an entire day from sunrise to sunset was consumed with the recounting of these great stories.

  On the second day, a new sachem from the Seneca was welcomed “at the woods’ edge” to replace an old one who had died. Strong-Arm stood among the “clear-minded,” reciting the sacred words and helping to present the sacred beads to the “bereaved.” It was an aid to Strong-Arm’s patience that there were no debts of blood with the clan who had lost the sachem: there were no graves to cover, no feuds for the Council to resolve before the new sachem could pass through the “requickening” and take his seat. Nonetheless, the chiefs—and the shamans—were not interested in talking seriously until that ceremony was behind them, and thus a second day passed before the Tree of Great Peace.

  At last, in the middle of the third day, when the elderly and distinguished chiefs had all had their chance to speak, Strong-Arm rose before the assembly and spread his arms wide. The members of the Grand Council, perhaps sensing that something important was about to be spoken, became hushed and quiet.

  “I am Strong-Arm,” he began, “son of Red-Feather, son of Quick-Deer. Sachem I am, chief among the Oneida, neither the least nor the greatest of the Haudenosaunee, yet one of all, who stands before you by right and with privilege to speak.” He drew his belt of wampum and hung it on the pole that stretched the length of the great longhouse.

  He waited long enough to see if any chose to challenge him; none did, nor had he expected it—but such was the custom of the Council. After a moment he continued.

  “The Haudenosaunee know well that for many years—in my time and the time of my father Red-Feather, we walked in paths of war against the servants of the Onontio, from the white land of over sea that is called France. They have made war upon us, with their mighty weapons and white man’s charms—and for many years have been victorious in all their doings.

  “But all of that will come to an end. The war-chief of the Onontio will come to an end.”

  The members of the Council began to murmur.

  “He is fearless,” said an old sachem. “He has always been fearless. He speaks to the land. He listens to the land.”

  “He is mortal,” Strong-Arm said. “He can no more outrun the sun or overcome the pull of the Earth-Father than any of us.”

  ??
?But as long as he walks the earth—”

  “No more,” Strong-Arm said, and there was more murmuring. It was impolite to interrupt another member of the Council when speaking. Some of the younger chiefs shifted in their seats, as if they wanted to interrupt him.

  Rise and challenge me, Strong-Arm thought, crossing his arms in front of him. Come. I will wipe the tears from your eyes.

  There was an extended silence. The clear-minded observed quietly, while the bereaved sought to determine whether they were prepared to intervene.

  “Death-medicine has been laid upon the war-chief of the Onontio,” Strong-Arm said at last. “We will walk in the paths of war, and he will not be there to lead the white soldiers against the Haudenosaunee. My shaman has pronounced it, and so it shall be.”

  The old sachem stood slowly, his hand grasping a polished maple staff. He made his away between the other members of the Council until he stood before Strong-Arm.

  “I am Swift-As-Deer, son of Fishes-In-Deep-Waters, son of Climbs-High-Mountain, of the Mohawk Nation at the dawn door of the Longhouse. Though I must say to you, young chief, that most deer I see these days are far swifter than I am.

  “You speak with bold words, Strong-Arm son of Red-Feather. Thus did your father speak when he was a member of the Council. When I was younger I walked in the paths of war against the war-chief of the Onontio, the one called Champlain. He is cunning and wise—and not easily killed, not by axe or fire-stick or death-medicine. Who is this powerful shaman that claims to have done it?”

  “Walks-In-Deep-Woods.”

  Swift-As-Deer looked at Strong-Arm from head to toes and back again, and then let out a loud whoop of laughter. The longhouse shook with it as it spread to the rest of the members of the Council.

  Strong-Arm’s hands formed into fists.

  “You are mocking me, Swift-As-Deer.”

  “You?” Swift-As-Deer lifted his arms, turning his staff in his hand as he held it in the air. “No, Strong-Arm son of Red-Feather. I would not mock you. But as for Walks-In-Deep-Woods—oh, I would mock him from sunrise to sunset.

  “He is a fake, brave Strong-Arm. He is a cheat, a speaker of false words. He has no death medicine, not now and not ever. Whatever he told you was a lie. He wants nothing but to eat your food and make love to your women.”

  Swift-As-Deer turned away from Strong-Arm, making the younger man tense in anger—but Swift-As-Deer was an elder sachem, not a youth he could challenge for the slightest public offense.

  Such scores were settled elsewhere, at other times.

  “Speak, wise Brothers,” Swift-As-Deer said. “Who knows of this dog Walks-In-Deep-Woods? Bring light to my Brother Strong-Arm, the brave and wise chief of the Oneida people. Tell him that there is no sense in risking the lives of the people of the Longhouse in a war based on the advice—and the false death-medicine—of this fraud.”

  As Strong-Arm watched, several of the members of the Council shifted in their seats, as if preparing to speak. Before any actually rose, however, the newest sachem of all stood and walked to the center of the assembly. Without speaking he drew a long belt of wampum from over his shoulder and laid it next to Strong-Arm’s own.

  Then he walked to stand before Strong-Arm and stared at him for several moments, still not speaking.

  “What—” Strong-Arm said, but the other man held up his right hand and Strong-Arm fell silent. No one in the Great Council spoke, or shifted position, or made any other noise.

  “I want to look in your eyes,” the other chief said at last. “I want to look into your soul.”

  Strong-Arm did not understand what he meant, but answered, “what do you see?”

  “Bravery.”

  Strong-Arm did not know how to respond to that either.

  “I am Born-Under-Moon, son of Red-Spear, come to you from the land of the Seneca, new among you. I have heard great speeches and wisdom. And now—when a brave chief calls for the People of the Longhouse to walk the paths of war...I must sit in quiet and have an old man tell me of his fear?

  “Is that what the Haudenosaunee have come to? Is that the blood that courses through our veins? Is that what we have become—playthings of the white men? Is that all we are? I do not believe what I hear.”

  Born-Under-Moon turned and stared fiercely at Swift-As-Deer. The Council remained silent.

  “I went to war when I was younger than you,” Swift-As-Deer said. “Many brave warriors fell in battle against this captain of the Onontio. But even if he is old—or dead”—he glanced at Strong-Arm for a moment—“the servants of the Onontio are dangerous. I understand the need for a young warrior with blood coursing hot in his veins to seek glory in battle. I...understand it very well. But this is not a decision to be taken lightly.”

  “You think this is a whim?” Born-Under-Moon said. His voice was laced with anger. “Is that what you think, old man?”

  Swift-As-Deer did not answer. Strong-Arm noticed a curious expression on the old sachem’s face: not anger, but rather weariness—as if he had heard this accusation before and did not want to have to answer it yet again.

  “He has walked the paths of war more times than you, Born-Under-Moon,” Strong-Arm said into the quiet. “His is a voice to which we listen carefully. Even if this is the time to strike, we must take heed of the wisdom he speaks.”

  “He is afraid of the old war-captain. He is a—”

  Strong-Arm held up his hand and the younger chief halted, as if unwilling to finish the sentence.

  “Do not let that arrow fly, Born-Under-Moon. If you believe—as I do—that we should go to war with the servants of the Onontio, then making war with the eldest and wisest is not the correct course. It gains you nothing, and it loses you the friendship of many in the Council.

  “Including me.”

  Born-Under-Moon looked as if he did not understand Strong-Arm’s reasoning: but he had already spoken of the other man’s bravery, and could hardly reverse himself.

  “There are many reasons we should take this course,” Strong-Arm said. “If you are ready to listen, friend,” he continued, “I shall tell them to you.”

  4

  On Monday, the fifth of October, Samuel de Champlain rose and prayed as he had always done. After a brief and spare meal he dressed and went for a walk in the settlement of Québec. He remained in plain sight.

  He was waiting for the congestion cérébrale.

  The day passed without event. Night came, and still nothing. When the sun went down he returned to his habitation, partly relieved and partly disappointed. He did not want the stroke, but knowing that it was coming he felt that he had made his peace and was ready for it to come.

  On the next day he rose and did the same.

  And the next day after that.

  On the fourth day, Father Lalemant fell into step beside him as he walked along one of Québec’s muddy streets. Lalemant was a young man, spare, almost gaunt—it had been clear to Champlain from the time he met the Jesuit Father that Lalemant had been very attentive to his spiritual exercises.

  He kept up with Champlain’s long, steady strides.

  “Father?”

  “Monsieur,” the Jesuit said. “You are troubled,” he added a few steps later.

  “Do I look troubled, Father?”

  “To be honest, monsieur, you do. I think—” they both stepped around a small pile of refuse—“I think there’s something bothering you. As your confessor, I feel it my duty to ask you what it might be.”

  “You are an acute observer of mankind, Father.”

  “That remark neither confirms nor denies my observation.”

  Champlain stopped suddenly; Lalemant took two more steps and had to turn around.

  “I have many things that trouble me, not least that my spies tell me that the Iroquois—particularly the Mohawk—have gone on a war footing. But I sense that you mean something else. What is more—” he lowered his voice. “What is more,” he added softly, “this is not the confessional. I do
not wish to discuss personal matters in the middle of the street.”

  “That is just as well,” Lalemant answered. “You aren’t saying anything in the confessional these days.”

  Champlain’s years of training and experience as a leader had given him the ability to stare down native sachems, grands seignieurs, and, when necessary, Jesuit priests.

  Particularly young ones.

  “I beg your pardon,” Lalemant said, but to his credit, stood his ground.

  “You have a certain right to pry, Father,” Champlain said after a moment. “But there are limits.”

  They began to walk again. Champlain began to make his way back to his own house.

  Champlain spoke first. “I am expecting something to happen,” he said at last, without looking at the young Jesuit. “I have received...a message.”

  * * *

  As they sat in the study of Champlain’s habitation, Lalemant turned the thin sheet over in his hands, marveling at it. “This is amazing, monsieur.”

  “I was alarmed myself.”

  “No,” Lalemant said. “I meant—the quality of the paper.”

  “Oh, for the love of God,” Champlain said, snatching it out of the Jesuit father’s hands. He waved it at Lalemant. “I was referring to the contents. This is a reproduction. A...what was the word that the cardinal used? ‘Photocopier.’ A machine picture, some magic the up-timers can perform.”

  “It’s about you.”

  “Yes, I know. I can read. It tells me when I am to die—and how.”

  “Thank you, monsieur. I, too, can read. This paper says that you are to suffer some sort of attack, sometime this month.” A look of understanding came onto his face. “This explains much,” he said.

  “I am waiting for this to happen. Indeed, I expected it to have already happened—and yet I still live. And walk, and speak.”

  “Perhaps you miscalculated. And perhaps—”

  “Yes?”

  “It is possible,” Lalemant said carefully, “that it may not happen at all. This paper, this book, speaks of a malady and the death of a man named Champlain—but it may not be you.”