Peacemaker

by Joseph Bruchac

  She paused, placed her hand on Okwaho’s knee and squeezed it gently.

  “You know those ceremonies, for we still have them. There is one each season, the Midwinter Festival, the Thanks to the Maple Festival, the Planting Festival, the Green Corn Festival, and all the others. Our people were also given the Clan system. Turtle, Bear, Wolf, for all of our Five Nations, as well as Snipe, Deer, Eel, Heron, Beaver, and Hawk for our Onondaga people. Each clan would be headed by a clan mother and the people were reminded that the women are the ones from whom all life and all power comes. Each child belongs to the clan of her or his mother. And the clan mothers would be the ones who choose the leaders, who decide if the nation can go to war, who must be consulted in all important matters. Also, the clans linked our Five Nations together. If an Onondaga person is of the Bear Clan, then those in the other four nations who are also Bear Clan are to be seen as your sisters and brothers.”

  Wolf Woman paused, looking at Okwaho.

  “And then the people forgot again?” he said.

  His mother nodded. “And that is how it is now. The minds of our leaders have become twisted. They no longer think first of giving thanks, first of peace. They no longer turn to the clan mothers for guidance. Instead, they think only of power, of making war and striking back at those who strike us. And the Entangled One, Atatarho, is the worst of all. That is why we left our place among the hills and came here to form the village of Kanata.”

  Wolf Woman sighed and sat there silently.

  Finally, Okwaho broke the silence. Unlike the story he’d remembered when he first woke, this one had been like a ray of hope, pushing back the darkness of his anger. Things had been bad before and then good had come to the people. Perhaps, just perhaps, it was time for that to happen again.

  “I think,” he said in a firm voice, “The One Who Grasps the Sky with Both Hands needs to send another messenger.”

  “My son,” his mother said, “I think you are right.”

  chapter six

  GAUNTLET

  Ten sunrises had passed since the Standing Stone raiding party. Although no attack had been made yet on Kanata and their scouts had seen no sign of any enemies, everyone knew how much danger they were in. Before they had been worried that Atatarho would change his mind and send warriors to force them back to Onondaga. But now they had other enemies to worry about. Doubt had set in about what they should do now. So they had called a council meeting.

  As it had always been among the Longhouse people—or at least as it had always been before Atatarho took his place as the only voice that counted—every adult had been allowed their say. Every woman and man had been listened to carefully. Questions were asked.

  What will we do when another raiding party comes?

  Do we have enough men to defend our small village?

  Would it be better to be back at Onondaga?

  Should we try to move our village again?

  Should we return to Onondaga?

  Finally a decision was made that everyone agreed upon. A delegation should be sent to try to speak with Atatarho. If he agreed to listen to them, they could find out if it was possible for them to return. If he said that no return was possible, then at least they would not be wasting their time trying to decide whether to stay or return. If their nest no longer exists, birds cannot go back to it.

  Burnt Hair and Holds the Door Open were ready. They had been chosen to carry just that one question.

  If we wished to return, could we do so?

  It was just before dawn. As the two men left the village, they did not notice they were not alone.

  Okwaho had learned the lessons taught him by his uncle and his father well.

  To follow someone, he’d been told, you do not need to keep them in sight. You do not even need to hear them. Follow the signs of their passing. Or, even better, if you know where they are going, set out for that place circling around them.

  After half a day’s walk, Burnt Hair and Holds the Door Open reached the beginning of the main trail that led to the big village. Okwaho was close enough now to see them far below him, having circled ahead as his uncle had taught. He was just beyond where the sentries of the big village were usually posted. His hiding place, in a small tree near the base of the highest hill around Onondaga, was close enough for him to see and hear whatever might happen. His heart was beating fast. How would they be greeted—as friends or as traitors who had deserted the big village?

  He watched as his father and Burnt Hair took their first steps onto that well-traveled path to the big village. Before they had taken a handful of steps, seven armed warriors stepped out from behind the tall pine trees along the path. Even from his hiding place, Okwaho’s eyes were keen enough to recognize them. Those warriors were people that Burnt Hair and Holds the Door Open knew well. Some of them had been their friends. But the arrows pointed at them were not a sign of welcoming. A tall man with a scar that ran from his chin to his right ear stepped forward from behind the men with bows. He lifted up a heavy war club threateningly. Okwaho knew him, even though his face was painted black. It was Over the Creek, a member of the Turtle Clan. He had often gone hunting with Okwaho’s father.

  Holds the Door Open and Burnt Hair held out their empty hands.

  “We have no weapons,” Burnt Hair said.

  “Then you are fools,” Over the Creek replied in a harsh voice.

  “We wish to speak to Atatarho,” Holds the Door Open said.

  “You wish to see our Great Chief? That is a foolish wish,” Over the Creek said. His voice sounded amused now.

  Another man holding a long spear stepped forward. His face was also painted black, but he was just as easy to recognize. Shorter and broader than Over the Creek, he was named On the Watch. A member of Atatarho’s own Bear Clan, he was one of the great chief’s counselors.

  “We will bring them to our Great Chief,” On the Watch said. “We will enjoy hearing what he has to say to them after they have finished speaking.”

  “I will run ahead,” Over the Creek said.

  On the Watch nodded. He watched as Over the Creek turned and began running as fast as he could. He watched until Over the Creek had vanished from sight around a bend in the trail.

  On the Watch lifted his left hand and swung it around. The remaining men formed a circle around the two messengers. On the Watch prodded Burnt Hair and Holds the Door Open with the butt of his spear.

  “Run,” he said.

  The eight men, the two delegates and the six warriors encircling them, began to run. Not as fast as Over the Creek had been running, but at a quick trot, through the hills and down into the valley.

  Staying back where he could not be seen, Okwaho followed. He knew what he was doing was foolish. If any of those warriors heard him, the first thing they might do would be to shoot their arrows in his direction. They might even kill his father and Burnt Hair, thinking that they had been deceived and that a raiding party was sneaking up on them.

  I should turn back, Okwaho thought. But he did not.

  No further words were spoken, even as the Onondaga warriors and their two prisoners ran past the main gate. They took the small, winding trail that led up and to the left of the palisaded village where more than a thousand people lived in the nine clan longhouses. Wolf, Turtle, Beaver, Snipe, Heron, Deer, Eel, Bear, and Hawk.

  Okwaho knew where the trail they were on was leading. They were heading to Atatarho’s Rock.

  The big stone that thrust itself out of the earth in a large clearing was where Atatarho sat whenever he called a council meeting or had anyone brought before him. At that place he made the decisions that brought life to some and death to others.

  Okwaho began to feel a little hopeful when he realized that that was where his father and Burnt Hair were being taken. It meant their message would be listened to.

  But, he thought,
it might also mean that they will be killed there.

  Sure enough, just as expected, when they reached the clearing Atatarho was there, seated on his great, long stone. But he did not turn to look at them. His gaze was toward the wide waters of Onondaga Lake, which could be seen behind him. Nothing moved on the lake. Not a bird or a wave.

  Atatarho’s face was as expressionless as the rock itself. He gave no sign that he was aware of their arrival as the two men came to a stop before the stone. Then Atatarho turned his head toward them. His dark eyes stared at them with a gaze like that of a monster bear about to leap on its prey and tear it apart. The men who had escorted them there stepped quickly away and moved to stand on either side of the most powerful of all the Longhouse Nation chiefs, who continued to stare down at the two messengers.

  It was quiet there in the clearing. No wind was blowing, no birds were singing. There were no sounds of insects in the grass. All that could be heard was two things. The first was the heavy, slow breathing of the giant of a man who looked down his nose at them. The second thing they heard was the incessant hissing of the black snakes tied into Atatarho’s long, thick hair. He paid no attention to them, even though they were constantly trying to escape, thrusting their heads forward and then coiling back again and again and again.

  The sight of those snakes alone was often enough to make anyone brought before the Great Chief tremble and fall to their knees. Yet Burnt Hair and Holds the Door Open knew Atatarho and stood before him with straight backs. Okwaho felt proud of the way they stood there. They were keeping their gaze on the ground below Atatarho’s feet—for that was always the polite thing to do. But they showed no sign of fear or weakness.

  The silence stretched on for so long that Okwaho began to hear a third sound—that of his own heart beating—so loud, he was afraid it would give away his position where he was crouched down in the tall ferns that covered the hillside leading down to the lake.

  “Speak,” Atatarho roared. His deep, angry voice echoed throughout the clearing so loudly that Okwaho almost jumped.

  “Standing Stone men came and stole one of our boys,” Burnt Hair said. “They have found our little village. We now know that we are no longer safe in our new place.”

  “Hah! You think I do not know this?” Atatarho replied, his voice filled with contempt. “I know all things that happen. The birds and the wind carry messages to me. Every animal in the forest brings me word of the things that come to pass.”

  He looked for a moment toward the place where Okwaho was hiding and the ghost of a smile curled his lips.

  “We do not doubt this,” Holds the Door Open said. “We did not come here to tell you that. We held a meeting and it was decided to send us as messengers to ask you a question.”

  Atatarho said nothing at first. He just sat there on his judgment rock, staring at them so intently that it seemed to Okwaho he was staring inside them. The men who had brought them to the Great Chief waited on either side of the rock, war clubs held across their bodies. If Atatarho gave the signal, Okwaho did not doubt that those men would step forward and beat both the messengers to death. He remembered the story of what had happened to the envoys from the Swampy Land People two moons before he and his family and the others left the big village.

  Four messengers from the Swampy Land People had come to beg the Great Chief of the Onondagas not to raid them any longer.

  We will give you anything you ask of us. Food, baskets, canoes, anything we make. We only ask to be allowed enough to live, the Swampy Land spokesman had pleaded. Take one out of four of our women and our children. Only leave enough of us so that we may survive as a people.

  Hah, Atatarho had laughed. What enjoyment will there be in that for us? Why do you think your offer means anything? We are strong and can take whatever we want from you, you who are as weak as rabbits. We, who are wolves, we will come whenever we decide. If you do not fight us—as we wish you to—we will just kill all of your men and take your women and children to be ours. They will die—just as three of you will die now.

  Then he had made a fist and waved it at the three Swampy Land men behind the man who had stepped forward to speak. Without hesitation, his bodyguards had raised their clubs and leaped upon the unarmed Swampy Land messengers, killing those three and leaving only the spokesman who had begged for peace.

  Now, Atatarho had said to the shocked survivor, carry my message back to your people.

  The memory of what had been done to those pitiful Swampy Land messengers was the reason that only Holds the Door Open and Burnt Hair had been sent to speak to Atatarho. If his decision was to kill, leaving one alive to carry back his message, then just one man would die.

  Burnt Hair and Holds the Door Open stood there, backs still straight, waiting for the cruel chief to break the silence. The midday heat from Elder Brother Sun beat down upon them. Okwaho could see beads of sweat running down their foreheads.

  Atatarho’s men also waited, looking down at their own feet. Over the Creek, the tall, scarred man who had been close to both of them, was trying to show no emotion, but the way he kept sucking in his lips showed Okwaho that the thought of killing one of his former friends must be troubling him.

  Then Atatarho leaned over and smiled down at them. It was a smile that held no kindness. It was more like the expression on the face of a bear as it shows its teeth before attacking.

  “Ask your question,” he said, his voice as deep and ominous as a roll of thunder.

  Holds the Door Open took a step forward, hands held out before him with his palms up.

  “If we abandon our new village and return to Onondaga, what will happen?”

  Atatarho laughed. His laugh was like the roar of a fierce beast, filling the clearing. It was so loud and threatening that the men holding their clubs to either side of him flinched. But neither Holds the Door Open nor Burnt Hair moved. They stood there, eyes looking down at the earth, still showing respect, but not displaying the fear both of them felt at that moment.

  They know, Okwaho thought, a shiver running down his back like an icy drop of rain, that if they show either weakness or defiance now, it may be the end of them both.

  “Hah!” Atatarho growled. “You want to know what my answer would be if you asked to return?” He paused. Neither Burnt Hair nor Holds the Door Open said anything. What he’d just said was not a question.

  Atatarho leaned forward, his right hand held up, his index finger pointing at the ground. “It will be easy,” he said. “Just come here and run the gauntlet. That way I will know you are worthy to be part of Onondaga again.”

  Running the gauntlet. Okwaho understood what that meant, even though he had never seen it. It was an old way of testing the bravery of men taken captive. People, sometimes everyone in a village, would make two lines facing inward. In their hands they would hold sticks. Those who had to prove themselves would run between those two lines of people holding sticks, being struck on both sides by everyone they passed. Sometimes, the blows struck would be light ones, especially when the person being tested was a young man worthy of adoption. At the end of the line his new family members would be waiting with open arms to welcome him as one of them. Also, if someone showed particular bravery, walking through the gauntlet rather than running, those holding the sticks might just reach out and touch him with their sticks as he passed by them.

  Other times, though, the blows struck in the gauntlet would be brutal ones, hard enough to bruise, to draw blood. Some who ran the gauntlet never made it through. They would fall and be beaten to death.

  Hearing that running the gauntlet would be their only test almost made Burnt Hair and Holds the Door Open smile. The men of their little breakaway village could surely endure that.

  But Atatarho was not finished.

  One of the snakes in his hair had wriggled free and had started to crawl down his massive shoulder. Atatarho reached over and gra
sped the black snake with his left hand. It flicked its tongue out at him as he held it up in front of him.

  “Yes,” Atatarho said, as if having heard the snake speak to him. “Yes.”

  He dropped the snake and watched as it slithered down into a hole beneath the great rock where he sat.

  Atatarho pointed his finger straight at the two men. “All of you who left me will have to do this. Men, women, children, old people. All fifty of you will run the gauntlet. All of you must come as one. If any person from your group of cowards and fools is missing when they return, everyone will be shot with arrows.”

  Burnt Hair was biting his lip to keep himself from speaking. Holds the Door Open was drawing in a deep breath in an effort to remain silent.

  Atatarho sat back and grinned again, folding his hands over his chest and nodding his head. He pointed with his chin to the right and the left to indicate his bodyguards. “Further, the gauntlet will be made up of men such as these. One hundred of them. And they will not be holding little sticks. They will have heavy clubs and they will strike hard!”

  Atatarho laughed, a laugh in which there was no trace of humor. “I will give you some time to consider my generous offer. But if you do not all return here by the end of two moons, then I may just send my warriors to destroy you and your pathetic little village.”

  Atatarho opened his hands and swung them forward as if shooing away flies. “Now go. For now I spare you.” The terrible smile returned to his face as he pointed his chin toward the place where Okwaho still hid. “All three of you.”

  Neither Holds the Door Open nor Burnt Hair said a word as Okwaho joined them at the head of the trail that led from Onondaga. Nor did any of them speak on the journey back to their small village. But they placed him in between them as they walked. And when they were within sight of their home, his father reached out and put his arm around Okwaho’s shoulders.