Ring of Fire III

by Eric Flint

  “I fail to understand. It describes Samuel de Champlain, born in Brouage 1567...‘French explorer, acknowledged founder of the city of Québec 1608, and consolidator of the French colonies in the New World. He discovered the lake that bears his name in 1609...’ Unless I am mistaken, Father Lalemant, that man sits before you.”

  “Monsieur,” Lalemant said, “in some Eastern philosophies, they say that when a man steps into a river, both the man and the river are forever changed. Four years ago, the Grantvillieurs came back in time to the Germanies, and from that moment onward, the world was changed. In large ways...and small.”

  “There are no Américains here. I do not think that there are any Germans or any Swedes or...but how could they change anything here?

  “I have never met an up-timer. No—no, wait. In Paris I was once introduced, in passing I confess, to a man named Lefferts. He seemed to know my name. But I fail to understand—are you saying that meeting him changed my future?”

  “No, no,” Lalemant said, shaking his head. “It has nothing to do with this one up-timer you met. In fact, it probably does not matter if you met him or not.

  “As soon as the Américains came into our present time, things began to change. Things completely unrelated to actions and reactions. The up-timers even have a term for it: les ailes du papillon. The wings of the butterfly—also known as the ‘butterfly effect.’ ”

  “And thus...”

  “And thus, monsieur, renowned explorer, founder of the city of Québec, et cetera, it may be that in this world, at this time, God the Father does not ordain that you should die.”

  Champlain sat back in his chair, contemplating.

  “Who else knows of this...photocopier?”

  “I have shown it to no one else. But there is someone else who knows of its contents, though I am not sure how. I presume that he saw the book of the Américains.”

  “Who is that?”

  “The Dutch trader. Bogaert.”

  “Oh,” Lalemant said. “That one. A strange fellow. There is something—something about him that bothers me.”

  “I admit I don’t much like him either. He spoke to me privately and asked me if I was feeling well.”

  Lalemant began to respond, then stopped and looked thoughtful. “Bogaert trades with the Iroquois, monsieur.”

  “He seemed surprised that I was hale and active,” Champlain said. “I dismissed it at the time, but...do you think he has traded this with the Iroquois, Father?”

  “I am inclined to use William of Ockham’s principle of economy when examining events,” the Jesuit answered. “The Iroquois Nations have remained peaceful even through the time when the English occupied Québec—indeed, they have caused little trouble to New France during your entire time here. Why? They fear and respect you, monsieur.”

  “They fear and respect the musket and the arquebus, Father.”

  “The gun is only as good as the hands that hold it. It is you whom they fear. If they believed you were dead...”

  “They might go to war.”

  “Indeed they might. Perhaps you should have words with Monsieur Bogaert.”

  Champlain slapped the arm of his chair, and uttered a word one does not normally speak in front of Jesuits. “I believe he has gone upriver, perhaps to trade with the Hurons. He is no longer in Québec, in any case.”

  “Then, monsieur...if you believe that he has indeed spread word of your illness to the Indians, and is no longer here to confirm or deny the truth of it, I suggest that you use that information to your advantage.”

  5

  Of all of the Nations, the Mohawks felt themselves most aggrieved by the Onontio and his servants. Therefore, though it was Strong-Arm of the Oneida who had brought the idea of war to the Great Council, it was the Mohawks who led the way.

  Despite the calumnies against Walks-In-Deep-Woods that had been spoken by the sachems, word from the Montaignais and others who traded at the great fort of Québec brought word that, over the last moon, the great chief Champlain had taken to his bed; he was afflicted with some illness, or the weight of great age, or both. No one had seen him in the streets or in the fortress, nor traveling upon the river.

  Strong-Arm began to believe that Walks-In-Deep-Woods’ death-medicine was truly effective, and other chiefs believed it too. For all of the time he had been chief in New France, Champlain had been respected for that quality that the Hurons called orenda: the vital spirit, the thing that made a man do good or evil. The orenda in Champlain was very strong.

  But he was very old. Strong-Arm’s father Red-Feather had known Champlain and fought with the Mohawk against him at Sorel, twenty-five summers ago—only a few escaped with their lives when the French attacked. Red-Feather spoke of an arrow-shot that had nearly killed Champlain: but instead of sticking in his throat it had creased his ear—the white man escaped death by the width of a butterfly’s wing. Even wounded, the Frenchman had been fearless and deadly. His orenda was strong enough to move many men—that, and the weapons they carried.

  Old men who lay down sick did not rise again.

  * * *

  They moved through the forest, swiftly and quietly, as the days grew colder. The Mohawk warrior-leader, Hawk-Brother, had chosen the first target of their assault: the place that the French called Trois-Rivières, downriver from Québec.

  “That will come in time,” Hawk-Brother said to the assembled chiefs and braves. He was young to be a warrior-leader, but at Sorel so many Mohawks had been killed and captured—including Hawk-Brother’s own father—that it was as if an entire generation was missing. Hawk-Brother had tended the fire of his revenge since he was a young brave.

  Once again, Strong-Arm wished that his shaman had come with the war party to cool the heads of the angriest warriors—but neither Walks-In-Deep-Woods, nor any of the other shamans from the Great Council, had traveled with the war-party. Neither had Swift-As-Deer, or his Seneca warriors. They did not believe in the death-medicine; they did not believe in the rumors.

  * * *

  Trois-Rivières was a fur trading post on the river. It was surrounded by a wooden palisade to defend against attacks from hostile natives. But at this hour of the afternoon, the gates were open to permit traders to enter with their skins to sell or barter.

  While the main force crouched in concealment, Hawk-Brother and Strong-Arm and three braves, along with Born-Under-Moon and two of his Seneca brothers—the only Seneca among them—approached the gate with bundles of beaver pelts slung on their backs. Two men were there, wearing metal cuirasses and pot helmets.

  “They are wary,” Hawk-Brother said quietly. “They do not usually defend the gate so strongly.”

  “Perhaps we should wait,” Strong-Arm said.

  “Wait? No,” Hawk-Brother answered. “If we wait, the wind might change. Warriors might decide that their campfire is more pleasing. I will not show weakness—now that we are so close.”

  “I hope you are not losing your nerve,” Born-Under-Moon said to Strong-Arm.

  If Born-Under-Moon had been an Oneida brave, Strong-Arm might have cuffed him—or taken out his hatchet and struck him down. But he did not wish to explain the matter before the Council Fire, nor cover the grave for the Seneca. So instead he did not answer, and focused his attention on the gate.

  “Halt,” one of the guards said in French, and then added more words that Strong-Arm did not understand.

  Hawk-Brother did the talking in the white man’s language; he spoke it haltingly but seemed to make himself understood. He gestured to the pelts that the five warriors carried, and seemed to bow with great respect. Born-Under-Moon looked disgusted; but Strong-Arm understood: the object was to get inside the settlement, not to keep up appearances.

  It seemed to take forever, but at last the two guards permitted the eight warriors through the gate.

  * * *

  Strong-Arm had fought many times—raids against tribes outside the Five Nations, rather than fights against Europeans, but battl
es nonetheless. Whenever he went to battle, a calm settled upon him: it was as if he was in a forest and everything was quiet—no bird or animal noises, no footfalls, no sighing of wind, just the beating of his own heart.

  The calm had descended now. There were a dozen people in sight, but Strong-Arm could not hear their speech, or the sounds of the animals, or the sound of the wind. Only one noise pierced this soundless state: a high-pitched whistle by Hawk-Brother signaling the beginning of the attack.

  At the same time:

  Strong-Arm dropped his bundle of pelts and drew his tomahawk, running at the trade house;

  Born-Under-Moon and his two brothers turned and attacked the guards at the gate;

  The rest of the warriors outside emerged from cover and began to run at the gate, shouting war-whoops;

  Hawk-Brother and his Mohawks ran toward the armory—

  And a series of shots rang out, shattering Strong-Arm’s silent calm. He watched as Hawk-Brother dropped to the ground, his hatchet skittering out of his hand to land several feet away. Born-Under-Moon crumpled as well; someone concealed on the roof of a building found his mark.

  Thirty feet in front of him, in front of the trade house toward which he was running, he saw three Frenchmen in metal cuirasses and breastplates. They held muskets in their hands—or possibly the more complicated arquebuses. Strong-Arm knew two things almost at once: first, the three guns were pointed at his chest and they could almost not miss; and second, his tomahawk was not going to have any effect on the metal armor the Frenchmen wore.

  Suddenly, he realized a third fact—and it made him stop short rather than hurl himself forward to a brave death.

  Without doubt—because he could see the torn ear that was so well known among the Iroquois—the man standing in the front was none other than Samuel de Champlain. He was not an old man lying in a sick bed: he was armed and armored and aiming an arquebus directly at Strong-Arm’s chest.

  Outside the settlement, Strong-Arm could hear shots being fired, and the howls of his Iroquois brothers as the bullets struck them.

  * * *

  “We have a word for this,” Champlain said to Strong-Arm, who stood before him unarmed, his wrists bound behind him. He spoke excellent Iroquois. “It is called an embuscade. Friends among the Montaignais told us that a war-party was headed for Trois-Rivières—and so we simply waited for you to arrive.”

  Strong-Arm did not answer. He was the only chief from the advance party still alive; Born-Under-Moon and Hawk-Brother and four of the other warriors had been killed at once; most of the warriors outside had fled when the Frenchmen on the palisade opened fire.

  “Tell me,” Champlain continued. “Is there a reason I should not have you put to death?”

  “I do not fear death.”

  “That is your shame,” the Frenchman answered. “You have not accepted the light of the True Faith—so an afterlife of torment awaits you. Yet I would spare you this.”

  “I do not believe in your True Faith,” Strong-Arm said. “What can your God do that mine cannot?”

  “My God has preserved my life more than once,” Champlain said, and exchanged a glance with a black-robed priest who stood next to where he sat. The priest scowled at Strong-Arm; he stared back, unafraid.

  “Why do you break the peace that my king has made with your Council?”

  “We avenge past wrongs,” Strong-Arm said. “We wish to take back what is ours.”

  “This is not yours. It is ours, by sacred treaty. You anger both your peoples and mine to break that treaty. The sachems of the Great Council would not think ill of me if I hung you by a rope until you were dead for violating that trust.

  “But I will not do that,” Champlain said. “Much blood has been shed here. I will set you free, and send you back to your people to tell them the story of what has been done here. They will think me generous for having granted you your life, and will think me strong for having defended the place belonging to the Onontio. They can take that as a warning not to do it again.” He gestured, and a soldier stepped forward and cut the bonds that held Strong-Arm’s wrists.

  Strong-Arm rubbed his hands to give them back their feeling, then took a single step forward. Three soldiers immediately stepped in his way, but Champlain waved them aside.

  Orenda, Strong-Arm thought.

  Warily, the soldiers stepped back. Strong-Arm took another step and reached out his hand to touch Champlain’s severed ear.

  “Your God saved you at Sorel,” Strong-Arm said. “My father told me of this.”

  “Tell your people that my God is strong, and that the Onontio is strong. And soon, with God’s help, he will be yet stronger. The other kings across the Great Water have yielded to him, and soon there will be no others to trouble you.”

  Strong-Arm stood straight and crossed his arms over his chest. “How do I know that you tell the truth?”

  “I have never lied to the people of the Five Nations,” Champlain said. “Unlike some who have come among you...spreading that which is false.”

  “Such as?”

  “Rumors of my death,” Champlain answered. “You went to war because you thought I was dying.”

  Strong-Arm again was silent, but he began to understand. Someone had told Walks-In-Deep-Woods that Champlain was on his deathbed, and the wily old shaman had taken credit for it.

  And Strong-Arm had believed it. Brave warriors lay dead because Strong-Arm had believed it, and had not heeded the words of the wise old chief Swift-As-Deer.

  “I will bring your words to my people,” Strong-Arm said at last. “I will say to them what you say to me.”

  And I will say more, he thought to himself. I will say much more.

  6

  Strong-Arm did not hesitate this time before entering the tent of Walks-In-Deep-Woods. The shaman sensed his anger and looked alarmed, but did not attempt to get to his feet.

  “How may I be of service, mighty chief?” he asked, touching his thumbs to his forehead.

  “Stand and walk,” Strong-Arm said. “Walk out of this camp and do not turn back.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Understand this, you snake,” he said. “I shall burn this tent, and everything in it—including you—if you do not heed my words. You will leave the Oneida. Go wherever you wish. But if your shadow is seen in Oneida lands again, I will kill you. Slowly.”

  Walks-In-Deep-Woods scrambled to his feet, perhaps realizing for the first time that Strong-Arm’s anger was genuine—and dangerous. In his haste he disturbed the blankets in his sleeping-place, and Strong-Arm saw something peeking out from under it: a bundle of paper, hidden among the other bits and pieces of the shaman’s art.

  He pushed past the shaman, nearly knocking him off his feet, and picked up the bundle. “What is this?”

  “It is—well, you see—”

  “This is white man’s work.” He touched the pages in turn: there were many letters, and a single picture—of a man with the hair and beard of a Frenchman, next to a pattern...something familiar...

  A banner. With the flowers of France.

  “Can you read this? Is this your—your death medicine, old snake?”

  “No. Yes. I—please, mighty chief!” he said as Strong-Arm grasped the necklaces at his throat and twisted them tight.

  “You sent us to our death,” he said, and shoved Walks-In-Deep-Woods onto his back. The old man looked genuinely terrified now.

  He took the papers and tossed them into the fire, then turned his back on Walks-In-Deep-Woods.

  “Run,” he said. “Or burn. I do not care. I must go and tell my people the words of the great chief Champlain.”

  “Champlain,” Walks-In-Deep-Woods managed. “He—he lives?”

  Strong-Arm did not favor the old shaman with an answer, but left the tent.

  After a moment, Walks-In-Deep-Woods could see the light of torches coming closer.

  And the Devil Will Drag You Under

  Walt Boyes

&n
bsp; Georg Schuler groaned. He screwed his eyes shut, trying to still the pounding and stabbing inside his head.

  “Aaaaah!” he groaned.

  He opened his eyes, closed them again, and slitted them open. All he could see was a gigantic horse turd that his face was pushed into. He raised himself up on his arms, and slowly levered himself into a kneeling position. He had been lying face down in a puddle of slime and a large pile of horse manure, relatively fresh.

  Worse, yet, it was morning. And from the noise from the street at the end of the alley, he was late for work. Georg staggered to his feet, and wound up braced against a wall. He wiped the manure off his face with his hand, and wiped the hand on his already sodden shirt.

  “I smell like shit,” he muttered aloud, “which is just wunderbar, and I feel like it, too.”

  Georg waited until the world stopped spinning, and then walked unsteadily to the mouth of the alley. The bright light from the sun caused him to stop, close his eyes and wait until they adjusted. His head throbbed.

  “Let’s get it over with,” he announced to the uncaring passersby who were giving him wide berth on the street.

  * * *

  “Schuler! Komm hier, schnell!”

  So much for sneaking into work, Georg thought. He turned and walked to the office door from which the bellow had come.

  “Ja, Ich komme,” he said to the tiny office’s occupant. “Yes, boss, what did you want?”

  “The innocent act won’t wash, Schuler,” Gerhard Mann said, looking him up and down. Mann was a huge man, well over six feet, and brawny. He had been a blacksmith until he read about up-timer production techniques and realized that one of the biggest needs in Magdeburg for a long time to come would be nails. Mann just barely fit behind the desk, and as he stood, he knocked some papers to the floor.

  “You’re hungover, you’re still drunk, you’re covered with horseshit, and you are full of it, too. This is the third time in a week you’ve showed up late like this. Here’s your final pay. You’re fired.”