The Key to the Indian

by Lynne Reid Banks

  “What’s a pine-tree chief?” Omri asked.

  “True chief is one clan mothers choose. People and other chiefs choose Pine-Tree Chief. Little Bull is not a true chief.”

  “Who is your true chief?”

  He shook his head. “We have no elder chief here now. No one worthy – so many old ones die of sickness. They take wisdom with them. Pine-Tree Chief is proud honour. But I have not the old wisdom. My father was last condoled chief.”

  “Did your father die of the white man’s sickness?”

  “No. White savage shoot him. One shot take from this world all his wisdom, all he know and learn and dream and remember. Perhaps we will never again have elder chief. None live long enough.”

  He sounded achingly sad, as if he saw some deathly end to it all, a chasm down which they were all destined to fall.

  Omri’s dad went to him and, reaching up, touched his knee. “Little Bull, don’t lose hope. There is a future for your people. My books say so.”

  Little Bull looked at him for a while. Then he said, “Future. This means time to come.”

  “Yes.”

  “Because you see future, I asked that you come here.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “For the white man,” Little Bull said slowly, “time that is gone, time that is now, time to come, all make one line.” He drew a long straight line with his finger in the air. “For Indian, all time is the same time. Those from time that is gone, are still here in us. The – future – is with us too, it happens as we happen. Now. When I travel to your time it is still my time.”

  Omri’s father frowned. “You’re saying that time is a kind of spiral.” He drew a corkscrew shape in the air. “All happening at once. That’s why you weren’t surprised when Omri – when the magic – brought you to us.”

  “Little Bull surprised by many things you have. Not the travel.”

  “Your ideas are very interesting, Little Bull,” Omri’s father said humbly.

  The Indian straightened suddenly. “But our talk walks away! Tell me my need. Which way must we take to our future?”

  Omri’s dad looked to see where the sun was going down, and pointed ninety degrees to the right of it.

  “The way of the cold wind,” he said. “North. Like in Old Clan Mother’s dream. Could you collect your people and persuade them to travel north?”

  “What is there?”

  “More of your people. Mohawk lands. Most land that the white men will give to the Indian will be poor land, but there the land is good. But it’s a long way, and there are dangers, till you come to the great river.”

  “What river?”

  “We call it the St Lawrence.”

  “We know of this place. How long is the journey?”

  “Many days, I should think, with women and children and old people.”

  Little Bull sniffed the air. “Soon snow will come.”

  “Yes. Winter’s coming. It’ll be hard going. The sooner you leave, the better.”

  Little Bull tensed. “You read a good future for Mohawk by this great river?”

  Omri’s dad drew a deep breath. “Not all the time. White people will still cheat you and steal your land. Your people will change. But there will still be a longhouse and Tall Bear’s children’s children’s children will know they’re Mohawks and will speak your language and hold to your beliefs – at least, some of them will.”

  “That is as our field burnt by white men. When fire dies, two hands of corn plants stand alive and give us their seeds.” He held up ten fingers.

  “Yes. But so long as a few survive… If they’re strong enough, they can rebuild the tribe and the longhouse. Little Bull, surely it’s better than nothing?”

  Little Bull thought for only a short time. Then he rose smoothly to his feet and gazed away to the north, where the forested hills, blazing with leaf colour in the late sunshine, met the horizon. He stooped, picked them up, and, holding Omri’s father level with his face, said, “If they will listen, we will go.”

  “And your warriors who are away?”

  “We will leave word. Send messages. They will follow if they wish. But I think they will stay and fight, and many will die.” His voice dropped low. “Little Bull has one strong wish, that we are of one mind – all the Iroquois. But your word is true. We must put water on our fires and go – north, into the mouth of cold wind.”

  “You’ll build the longhouse again, Little Bull,” said Omri’s father softly.

  But Little Bull was staring at the bright forest on the hill and didn’t hear him. Omri, held against the Indian’s chest by his big hand, could hear his heart beating hard and fast, like a drum, and felt him shiver, as if the deep cold of winter and of strange country had him already in its clutches. As if the protection and comforting familiarity of the longhouse he’d built had already been left far behind.

  Omri heard his father whisper, “Oh God. I hope I’ve done right.”

  His father was not a believer. But Omri thought that was the nearest to a prayer he had ever heard him utter.

  19

  Drums and Fire

  On the way back, through the entrance to the stockade and into the longhouse, Little Bull told them they were to witness a ceremony, a ceremony of departure, of farewell to their longhouse, of a great journey to come. That, they thought, would be interest, excitement, experience enough.

  They couldn’t know the nightmare that lay ahead.

  Twin Stars was playing with the baby when they returned to their lodge-room, and looked up expectantly. Little Bull spoke to her. Her face showed surprise, but also a sort of relief, as if what she had been expecting had finally happened. She put Tall Bear aside, jumped up immediately and began folding the furs, but Little Bull stopped her and made some suggestion. She listened carefully, then nodded and pushed through the curtain.

  She had finished the basket she’d been making, and had hung it up on one of the poles with all the things Omri and his father had brought with them, inside it. Now Little Bull put Omri and his father into it too. It was like being in the basket of a hot-air balloon, high above the ground.

  “Safe,” Little Bull said tersely, and went out after his wife.

  Omri didn’t feel particularly safe.

  “What’s going to happen, Dad?”

  “What’s going to happen?” repeated his father slowly. “Well. Little Bull will tell his people that they should leave. Then we’ll spend the night, and tomorrow’s the day Patrick’s due to bring us back. End of adventure.” But he didn’t sound as if he regarded it just as an adventure any more.

  Omri looked over the edge of the basket at the ground far below. He saw something pushing its way under the corn-husk curtain. It was a dog. Tall Bear gave a gurgle of laughter as it wriggled its way towards him, belly to the ground, backside waggling.

  “Why are all the dogs here white?” asked Omri, watching from his safe height as the dog and the baby started to play together.

  “It’s a special breed. The pure white ones are bred for sacrificing.”

  Omri swung his head round. “Sacrificing! You mean, they kill them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dad!”

  “What?”

  “That’s horrible!”

  “Don’t be silly, Omri,” said his father shortly. “Think of all the animals we kill to eat. This is to please the Great Spirit, which is just as important to the Indians as food. And I’ll tell you something else. Every dog they sacrifice has to be somebody’s beloved pet, otherwise it doesn’t count as a sacrifice at all.”

  Omri didn’t speak for a while. Over the rim of the basket he was watching the little scene below. The dog was rolling on its back, grinning as happy dogs do, its tongue lolling. The baby was pulling its ear rather roughly but it didn’t seem to mind.

  Omri thought of the dog who had picked him up. Just a stupid old dog, he’d thought… But some family’s pet. He knew animal sacrifice was part of several religions in his own time. Wh
y should it make a difference that the Mohawk did it with dogs? It didn’t. Omri thought it was horrible whoever did it. Killing to eat was one thing. But for a god? How could you worship a god who wanted something so cruel? He was glad his family wasn’t religious! And yet he could see how vitally important it was to the Indians, how much strength it gave them to believe in a creator who cared for them. He felt, not for the first time, that it would be a relief to be able to pray sometimes, especially in moments of danger.

  He was suddenly shivering. So he put on his sweater and climbed into his sleeping bag. All around him was a lovely scent, sweeter than new hay, drowning out even the smoky smell of their clothes. “What’s that smell, Dad?”

  “Sweetgrass,” said his father. “These dark bits woven into the basket, see? It goes on smelling sweet for ages.”

  Omri breathed in the scent, and dozed. Then he slept. And he, too, had a dream.

  He was in a wood, standing on something high, stretched across a dirt road. He was no longer small. Around him were other men (he knew he was a man, not a boy) with rifles, in camouflage uniforms, but despite that, he knew they were Indians. He looked to see if he was wearing uniform, but he wasn’t, yet he felt he was one of them, on their side.

  Suddenly there were gun shots. He wanted to duck down, behind the barricade, but he couldn’t move. He wanted a gun to defend himself, but when he looked down at his hand, it was empty except for a tiny stick. He was sweating with fear, and then the voice of Little Bull spoke to him quietly. It said, “We are of one mind. Your weapon is in your hand.” Omri looked again, desperately, and saw the twig was a pencil.

  He woke up suddenly. The dream was so real to him still that he was clenching his right hand on the pencil, and when he pulled his hand out of the sleeping bag, he was baffled to see that his fist was empty. Then he felt the basket move slightly.

  He looked up at the rim. A giant but distinctly female hand was coming in over the fancy edge of the basket. On two of her fingers, like big thimbles, were little caps with feathers all over them. What tiny feathers they must be to her!

  “What are these?” Omri’s father asked.

  “Gustoweh,” came Twin Stars’ gentle voice from below.

  “Ah! For the ceremony. Thanks, Twin Stars, they’re beautiful.”

  Omri sat up, and his father said, “Take off your sweater.” He did, and his dad fitted the cap on his head. Then he put on his own. Omri stared at him. Soft curving feathers sprouted from the top of the cap and fell around his father’s forehead, neck and ears, like Not-o-way in the painting. From the crown, three tall straight feathers stuck up. It should have looked funny, but it didn’t. His dad didn’t look like an Indian, but he didn’t look like an actor any more, either. He looked very solemn. Almost reverent.

  “The gustoweh are their headdresses. Look. She’s even given us three white standing-up feathers. That’s because we’re Mohawks. The other Iroquois tribes don’t have three, because the Mohawks are the elder brothers.”

  “What do you mean, Dad, we’re Mohawks?”

  His father frowned. “Did I say—? Sorry, that was ridiculous. I meant—” But he didn’t go on.

  For the first time, Omri thought it would be a good thing if Patrick didn’t wait the two days they’d arranged, but brought them back sooner. He’d heard the expression going native, and he thought his dad might be doing it.

  When it was dark and the only light came from the fires, they sensed a lot of movement. All around them was the rustling of corn-husk curtains and the murmur of voices, the soft shuffling of moccasins on earth, and the crackling of the fires. They waited. Before long, they felt their basket being lifted off the pole and lowered. Little Bull carried it, and them, out into the main aisle of the longhouse and walked slowly and solemnly into the centre where the main fire had been built up. He wore a cloak of hides that shielded the basket from view, but they could peep out and see what was going on as it was carried along.

  A large gathering, perhaps forty people including a lot of children, were seating themselves on blankets on the ground, the women on one side of the fire, the men, some wearing gustoweh, on the other. Some of the men carried small drums, and rattles. The women wore their best dresses, decorated with beadwork and quillwork, and a lot of shiny silver ornaments.

  When everyone was sitting, Little Bull stood up in the centre. He closed his cloak around the basket, so that Omri and his father were in smoky-smelling darkness, and began to speak. He spoke for a long time. What he said sounded like poetry, or a prayer, and after a while Omri noticed that every verse, or paragraph, ended with the same words. Perhaps it was like ‘amen’, because the people joined in.

  When he had finished, he sat down, and parted his cloak a little so that they could see what was happening. Across the fire, a figure rose up and began to speak. Omri saw who it was – the clan mother.

  He had thought her a crazy old woman. But she didn’t seem crazy now. She talked like someone who is used to making speeches, and to having them listened to with complete attention. Her voice droned on and on, not hesitating, not stumbling. Every eye was fixed on her. Even the youngest children were still and silent, with the firelight gleaming in their wide-open eyes. After she’d finished, she looked round at them all. Her sunken, inflamed eyes were glistening. Was she crying? Her face showed not a trace of emotion. She gave one nod, and sat down again, with some help from the women on either side of her.

  Several other women and some men then spoke. Omri noticed now how few young men there were – there were some teenage boys, but all those who spoke were middle-aged or old. Little Bull spoke in between. Without raising his voice or sounding as if he were arguing, he seemed to be answering them, telling them what had to be done.

  At the end of the talking, there was a long silence. Omri thought: They’ve accepted it. Then an old man with snow-white hair stood up, clapped his hands, and raised them. He said a few words. That seemed to bring the talking part of the gathering to a close.

  People began to murmur excitedly among themselves while some of the men and boys arranged themselves in two lines, facing each other across the fire. They took their drums on to their laps and began to beat them with short sticks. The small drums had a strange, plangent note, as if they had water in them. Other men shook their rattles rhythmically. They began to chant.

  Most of the others stood up and began to dance in a circle around the fire. Omri had seen Little Bull dance, when they’d been together in Omri’s time. But this was different. The sounds of the chanting and drumming, the stamp and shuffle of feet, the flicker of the firelight on their expressionless, resigned faces, was the saddest thing Omri had ever known.

  Of course they were used to moving around, they had several dwelling-places, he knew that. But it’s one thing to move when you want to. Another to be driven away, far away – not knowing where you’ll end up or what will happen to you on the journey; to leave a house you’ve built with your own hands, which is home and place of worship and meeting-house and ancestral command, all in one – and not know if you’ll ever build another.

  Perhaps they would never dance like this again, never sound their drums, never chant these sacred songs. Settlers would come and build their homes on this land and grow different crops on these fields – not the Three Sisters; corn, beans and squashes – and cut down the bright-leaved trees and the straight, strong pines, and take the Indians’ places, and never think about them except to curse them and be glad they’d gone.

  Omri put his face down on the rim of the basket. He didn’t want to watch the dancing any more. It seemed Little Bull felt the same, because Omri felt the basket turn a hundred and eighty degrees away from the fire. He raised his head and glanced sideways at his father. He had tears on his cheeks. They caught the firelight like the children’s eyes.

  And suddenly Omri realised something. Little Bull had turned away from the fire. And still firelight caught Omri’s father’s tears.

  In that spli
t second, everything changed.

  Little Bull stiffened. Omri felt the jerk as his stomach muscles tightened against the back of the basket. Then he let out a great cry that pierced through the drumming and made it, and every other sound, stop. Then they could hear it. A roaring and crackling – and through the open door at the far end of the longhouse, they saw that smoke was coming in, and that beyond, the darkness was no longer dark.

  “The stockade’s on fire!” Omri’s father shouted. “It’s the settlers! They’re attacking the longhouse!”

  20

  Murder

  Little Bull dropped the basket.

  Till now he’d been holding it cupped before him in his two hands, but now he let it go. It fell out of his hands as it fell out of his mind – Omri realised it later. At the time, there was only the horrible feeling of being in a lift whose cable suddenly snaps, that hurtles sickeningly towards the ground – no time to think, only time to feel terror.

  But before the basket reached the ground, it was struck – kicked – sent flying again by running feet. Omri’s father was pinning Omri to the side of the basket with an arm on either side – he was clutching the thick strands of plaited sweetgrass, grimly holding on. The sturdy, springy weave of the basket cushioned some of the foot-blows that landed against it, which perhaps also broke their fall. At one point they were rolling along the floor, flopping, lifting, dropping. Omri didn’t notice when his gustoweh fell off. His gasps and cries went unheard in the melée going on above and all around them as the Indians, emitting yelps and shouts, rushed pell-mell towards the smoke-filled open doorway.

  Omri lay on the earth floor with the breath knocked out of him. His father was half on top of him. The basket lay over them, a dark dome letting through little chinks and flashes of firelight.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can you move everything?”

  Omri tried. His arms and legs worked, but his neck and shoulder hurt badly. “I think I’ve wrenched my neck.”