by Linda Grant
“I didn’t really ask you out here to pick strawberries,” she said, “but to warn you about Kiontawakon.”
She paused expectantly and looked at him.
According to Little Running Horse’s memories, Kiontawakon was the tribe’s shaman, the guy with the owl tattoo who wanted to talk to him.
“What’s he up to?”
“I think he’s jealous that we’ve lain together. He’s spreading a rumor that you’re a witch. Only a few believe that, but now that you’ve recovered miraculously, some might believe you are.”
“Do you believe it?”
Teya tossed her head, her black braids flying. “Of course, not. I know you, and I care for you, but you must be careful.”
“You got any suggestions?”
“You might say you had a dream about Kiontawakon.”
“How’s that going to help me?”
“If you told people your totem spirit came to you in a dream and said that Kiontawakon was the witch …”
“Oh, I see.”
These people took their dreams—especially sick people’s dreams—very seriously. If he said he’d dreamed that Kiontawakon was a witch, the Senecas might kill the shaman. Murder wasn’t what he wanted on his conscience! But what if the guy really was trying to kill him?
“I don’t know, Teya.”
“Think about it, but not too long. In the meantime, let’s gather some strawberries.”
As he bent down to pick a cluster of berries, he reflected that things were beginning to seem like a bad dream. He had a hunch it was going to get worse.
CHAPTER 19
Kiontawakon Seneca village, July 10, 1675
* * *
Kiontawakon was disturbed by what he had learned from the Stone Person, who spoke through a particular stone, but only to someone, like himself, who could hear. The entity had revealed the history of the world to Seneca shamans before him, how there had been three worlds before this one. The first World of Love had been ended by the jealousy of the yellow race, the second World of Ice by the carelessness and forgetfulness of the brown race, and the third World of Water, by the greed of the white race.
Shifting uneasily on the packed earth of the sweat lodge, he sprinkled tobacco over the dying coals of the fire. As he watched the brown shreds curl into ash, he was reminded of the times he had sat here with his teacher.
If only he could ask the advice now of that wise one who had gone to the gods many moons ago, leaving his student to carry out the rituals and ceremonies for their people.
Even now, in the seasons it had taken him to grow to manhood, the newcomers had worked their destruction among the Wampanoags and other peoples who had taught the English how to plant corn and to live off the land. It would have been far better if these palefaces had never come to the shores of this land.
If they were not stopped, things would grow worse, much worse. But it would take more than war parties of fierce braves, for like the tides of the Great Sea, those spawn of demons would only keep coming.
Kiontawakon ignored the whispers of the Stone Person telling him not to take the Crooked Trail leading to fear and destruction, a trail that would make him lose his connection to the Earth Mother, who taught that all humankind were part of a wholeness.
He had tried to walk the Path of Beauty as he had been instructed, tried to identify with all of humankind, not just with his own race. But he was afraid that doing nothing might lead to the destruction of his own people, the Seneca, Keepers of the Western Door. They were the farthest west of the tribes belonging to the Iroquois League, and the tribe that guarded the western frontier.
If he could not persuade the League to help the Wampanoag chief, Metacom, who was warring against the English, those whites would crush Metacom’s forces and destroy the rest of the Indian tribes. He could not accept that, for it was possible that the whites could end this present world—the fourth World of Separation. He would do everything he could, even enlist the help of the dark spirits, to make sure that this would not happen. He would ask for guidance, too, from his totem and guardian spirit, the owl, a messenger of darkness and magic, whose help he now sorely needed.
The sweat rolling off his lean, muscular body, Kiontawakon began slowly rocking back and forth, allowing the rhythm of his body to calm his mind. Chanting softly, he took up his small drum and began thumping out the powerful beats that would send him into a trance, thereby allowing his spirit to slip into the Underworld. There he might enlist the help of the dark forces, who would help him oppose those whose very existence meant slavery and death for his people.
CHAPTER 20
Little Running Horse–Jason Kramer Seneca village, July 10, 1675
* * *
Kiontawakon had taken him to a secluded place where he had chanted some gibberish and then said, “Oh, Spirit, I command you to speak.”
When he’d kept quiet, Kiontawakon, with that air of authority about him that let you know he expected to be obeyed, commanded, “Tell me your name, your real name.”
Did that mean that Kiontawakon knew there was something wrong, that there was someone else in the body of Little Running Horse?
“Little Running Horse,” J.J. answered.
As the shaman leaned forward, the talons of the Great Horned Owl tattooed on his arm seemed to flex. J.J. felt himself drawn into that place where magic could be worked, the place where Kiontawakon’s consciousness went on his shamanic journeys. It was there that the shaman would call on the owl, his power animal, for guidance and help.
The sound of Kiontawakon’s voice drew J.J. out of that other place. “Tell me your name, the name of the spirit who talks to you. I will not harm you.”
Except tell people he was a witch, and then he really didn’t want to think about what might happen to him.
“We must talk, for the good of the tribe, for the good of all the peoples of this land.” Kiontawakon’s voice deepened as he continued. “The Stone Person has spoken to me through this stone.”
That was some stone, big as a man’s fist, and made of what looked like the kind of quartz crystals that his mom collected. She had told him that some crystals were “teacher stones” that held the knowledge of the earth and its history and that some people could communicate with them.
“He has told me of your coming.”
There was no point in playing dumb anymore. “My name is Jason Kramer.”
Kiontawakon nodded with satisfaction. “Before the coming of the white man, we freely roamed these territories, hunting the deer, the beaver, and the bear. The Three Sisters—corn, bean, and squash—yielded up their bounty so that none went hungry. There was much merriment in our longhouses.
“In my vision I saw how the white men will trick us into signing over our ancestral lands to them, keeping the best for themselves. We will die, not the glorious death of great warriors, but as little children struck down by sickness for which our medicine has no cure, diseases brought by those who trouble our land. This is already happening.”
He was really laying on a guilt trip. With a great effort, J.J. pulled his gaze away and wriggled uncomfortably on the pile of deerskin rugs in the domed bark enclosure they were sitting in. A thin spiral of smoke was drifting from a small fire burning in front of them. He could smell sweetgrass, familiar to him from the time when he’d gone with Davis to a display of his tribe’s native crafts.
J.J. felt sorry for what was going to happen to the Indians—they’d gotten a raw deal, all right—but nothing he said to Kiontawakon was going to make any difference.
“I have had visions,” Kiontawakon continued, “of a future time when men run about like ants on the earth, going this way and that, in machines that climb into the heavens. They have fouled the very waters.
“The breath of our mother, the earth, has been filled with noxious smells. It does not have to be so. There must be a way to let my people live in dignity.”
Kiontawakon’s hand dug into J.J.’s shoulder as he ordered, �
�You must tell the Tribal Council about your world. Because I have been training you as a shaman, they will listen to you.”
Or else be branded a witch. He got the picture now.
Kiontawakon stood up. Beckoning to J.J. to follow him, he went outside. Men wearing moccasins and deerskin loincloths decorated with dyed porcupine quills were talking quietly among themselves.
The women, who wore fringed deerskin dresses as well as moccasins, were all busy. One young woman was vigorously pounding corn into flour with her mortar and pestle, while a tiny, wrinkled old woman was making a beautiful bowl out of wood. Giggling young girls threw teasing comments at him as they ran past him. Little kids played happily by themselves.
Kiontawakon didn’t pause for any of this. He kept right on going in his ground-swallowing strides that made it hard for J.J. to keep up with him.
At the entrance to a building looking like a big longhouse, Kiontawakon stopped so suddenly that J.J. almost bumped into him.
“Do what I tell you,” he said.
In that moment, Kiontawakon sounded a lot like Jeremy.
Walking behind Kiontawakon into the council house, J.J. saw that it was crowded with at least 100 men. This had to be the Tribal Council, made up of all the chiefs of the village councils, who met to debate big issues of war and peace. They all belonged to different tribes: Mohawks, Oneidas, Onondagas, Cayugas, and Senecas. They called themselves the Iroquois League.
The chiefs stopped talking and stared at the newcomers. Then an older man got up and welcomed them. “We would ask the shaman of the Senecas, Kiontawakon, to speak to us now.”
With great dignity, the shaman rose and faced the others. “My heart is heavy, my brothers,” he began. “There are many things that the Stone Person has told me, things that are troubling me. You know that Metacom is fighting the English settlers, who have dealt severely with him and the tribes following him, even though Metacom’s father, Chief Massasoit, in former times saved them from starvation by giving the settlers food and teaching them to plant corn. The great chief Massasoit also protected them from those who sought to destroy them. After he died, Alexander, his son, succeeded him as chief and was poisoned—or so his brother Metacom believes—by the English. Later, the English humiliated Metacom by requiring him to give up his guns and sign a new peace treaty, even though his father had already signed one.
“In many other ways the English treat the Wampanoags with contempt and do not respect their customs. They see this great land as something to be divided up among them, not as a sacred trust to be used by all.
“Even though the Wampanoags do not belong to our League, the whites will also bring destruction to us. I have seen into a future where the white men will plant their corn and longhouses where ours used to be. They will herd us into areas where they will command us to stay. Instead of merriment among our people, we will know sorrow and great pain.
“For these reasons, we must ally ourselves with Metacom’s forces and drive the English from this land.”
Kiontawakon sat down. During the heavy silence, J.J. wanted to fidget but didn’t dare. It looked like he had landed right in the middle of King Philip’s War. He remembered his history teacher telling the class that King Philip was really an Indian chief called Metacom, who led his Wampanoag tribe and other Indians into a war against the Puritan colonists of New England in 1675.
The English called him “king” because they thought Metacom was as arrogant as the Catholic King Philip of Spain, who had tried to conquer England in 1588. Later, James I had actually sent a crown to Chief Powhatan, father of Pocahontas, for the chief’s coronation. So it wasn’t uncommon for other chiefs to have coronations and be called kings.
Then an older man began to speak. “The clan matrons who chose us are against war with the English. Even if we should put a thousand of our warriors into battle and kill all the settlers, King Charles of England would send more men—an inexhaustible number like the sands of the sea—to punish us. Then where would our people be?”
“Are we to hide like the badger in his hole from these English?” cried Kiontawakon. “They do not regard us as men like them, but as inferior beings.”
“They treat us well, give us weapons and other things of goodly manufacture,” objected another.
“Like the firewater that turns sensible men into demons,” said Kiontawakon bitterly.
The other men cast significant looks at each other. Then an old man with a face like a relief map of the Rockies spoke in measured tones. “I remember the tale that my father’s father told me about the fierce chief of the Stone Giants, who wanted to wipe out our people. From the North Country came these giants, singing their war song as they marched into a deep ravine. The Great Spirit heard them and asked the Spirit of the Wind to stop them because he did not wish his people, the Senecas, to be destroyed. The wind blew so hard that it toppled great boulders upon these giants so that all of them were killed.
“Even so, my brothers, will our race be preserved, even in the face of great evils like the fevers and other diseases which the English have brought with them.
“It is not cowardly, but prudent, to side with these whites who have powerful weapons. Some among them have dealt fairly with our people and respect our customs.
“Metacom is a rash young man who acts before he thinks. He cannot win.” He looked around and said with finality, “We must not help him or we will endanger the League.”
“If you knew,” said Kiontawakon slowly, “what will happen to the League, would you change your minds?”
J.J. felt a twinge of unease as Kiontawakon continued. “Great sorrows will come to our people. Listen to Little Running Horse.”
“What can he tell us?” asked a younger man, skepticism written all over his hard, bony face.
“As is our custom for boys, he has fasted and meditated in the woods, where a spirit told him of many terrible things that will happen, not only to our people but to many others.”
There was a buzzing among the Indians as they digested this information. Then the old one asked, “It may be that this boy is possessed of a spirit that has caused him to go mad.”
Kiontawakon shook his head vigorously as he said emphatically, “No! He is not mad. This Jason spirit has also spoken to me.”
Now they were all looking expectantly at him.
“Tell them what will happen in the future,” said Kiontawakon softly, giving J.J. a meaningful look.
It felt hot and close in the longhouse. He didn’t want to talk to these men, who had to be just about the fiercest Indians going. They gave no quarter and expected none, but could he just ignore the fact that over 3,000 Indians were going to die in this war? And that included Metacom, whose wife and kid would be sold as slaves and shipped to Bermuda.
J.J. cleared his throat. What was he going to say? His mom used to tell him that when in doubt, tell the truth.
The Indians waited impassively.
“I can’t tell you about the future because I don’t know exactly what will happen.”
That was true enough.
Now Kiontawakon was frowning. He whispered savagely, “You will speak now about the future as you know it.”
“No.”
Kiontawakon glared at him. The old guy who had argued with Kiontawakon stood up and was closing the meeting by saying, “Dekanawida, the Great Peacemaker, and Hiawatha brought us the Great Law of Peace so that all the nations of the League might dwell in peace and tranquility. Let us not destroy that peace by going to war.”
The younger man who had spoken before added, “Wampanoags, Nipmucks, Abenakis, Tarratines, and Narragansetts are not worth fighting for. Besides, we have no quarrel with the English. If they provoke us in the future, our warriors will fall upon them with fire and steel and teach them to respect us. For the present, let us continue to trade with them.”
“And let Metacom perish?” asked Kiontawakon bitterly.
“If the Great Spirit wills it,” said the old In
dian firmly. “After all, Metacom and his people do not belong to our League.”
“After the English destroy Metacom, they will come after us!” shouted Kiontawakon.
Now they were all getting up and walking out, and Kiontawakon was prodding him to follow him. He didn’t look happy.
They walked out into the same peaceful scene they’d left a short time ago. The group of men gambling in the shade of a tree were still at it, and the women carried on with their chores.
Kiontawakon hesitated as though he was unsure what to do, then jerked his head at J.J. and headed off into the woods. It was pretty easy to walk there. The undergrowth had been cleared so that it was like strolling in a big park, except that this place was no park. A wild turkey waddling by took off when it saw them.
They came to a creek, where a beaver was fixing up his lodge.
Kiontawakon suddenly halted and asked fiercely, “In your time, will the water run clear like this? Will the beaver build his dams, or will the people press so close upon the earth that there will be much hunger and sorrow and death?”
“It’s not like that.”
But it was close enough. Gruesome things were always going on in the world. His history teacher, Mr. McCraik, would get all worked up about pollution, overpopulation, and what had happened to the Indians.
Now he was beginning to wonder if his teacher and this Indian guy were at least partially right.
Then Kiontawakon gripped his shoulder and said, “Jason spirit, my people believe that the English will treat them fairly as men of dignity. You and I know that this will not be so. In the future many Indian tribes will be scattered to the four directions. They will forget the old ways.”
The Indian’s eyes were burning with a scary light, but he was right: the Indians were going to be herded onto reservations by the U.S. government, which would savagely put down any resistance.
Digging his toes into the leaf litter, J.J. said, “Even if I could help you, I don’t know if I should. If I do, then maybe something bad will happen to my people.” Like if Metacom and his confederacy of other Indians won the war, then maybe the ancestors of men like George Washington wouldn’t be born, and there would be no American Revolution. That could be a disaster for America and for the world.
