Everyone knew the legend. But it was not a popular legend, nor a comfortable one. Because, even if accidentally and indirectly, those who followed the tale to its logical conclusion had to admit that Ababinili had created the white man. And—again accidentally and indirectly—the white man’s genesis via the serpent could be said to have preceded creation of the red man. Indeed, many subtleties in the legend had troubled soothsayers for generations: Could the Great Spirit err? Could he make mistakes? Was He-Who-Dwells-In-the-Clear-Sky sufficiently powerful to correct evil in the world he had created? And finally, if Ababinili had created him, must there not be some good in the white man, since, being all-good, how could the Great Spirit create total evil?
So when Torch asked Red Dagger, around the council fire, if Ababinili had also created the white man, he stunned the old man. Such a question lifted the discussion from a level of tactics and strategy, where Red Dagger had intended it to be, to another level, which was philosophical, and rare, and where the traps of ambiguity waited to be sprung.
Red Dagger had never been a man to sit beneath trees or around campfires and listen to the idle yammering of dreamy women and fools: They were the ones who wasted their days on ambiguous prattle.
No, Red Dagger had lived his long, illustrious life in the company of two basic questions: One, Shall I bring my battle-axe down upon my enemy’s skull now? And two, If I do not bring down my battle-axe now, when shall I do so?
After all, Ababinili had also created battle-axes, was that not true?
“I am respectful of the depth of your great question,” he told Torch now. “But it has been my experience that such great questions lead to others that are even greater, deeper, and we may still be discussing them when Harris marches into the villages of our two tribes.”
Much acknowledgment of this wisdom came from the assembled braves.
Torch, however, smiled. “Talk may be ended quickly, and questions satisfied as well, by the correct answers. Such answers may not require great expanses of time, if the disputants be wise.”
Red Dagger sat there looking very fierce and thoughtful, but in his soul he was quivering. He had no idea what this strange young chief had meant, nor could he not ask without revealing discomfiture.
“You speak a truth,” he said instead. “I grant that. Now,” he added hastily, attempting to turn the discussion bade to specifics. “I have a question of my own. If Ababinili sends a sign that he has bowed your enemy’s head to you, would you not strike?”
“With good reason, and if the sign were clear, striking one’s enemy would not constitute improper leadership—not in the least. But how is our enemy’s head bowed?”
“The rains of the last moon.”
Torch’s glance was inquisitive.
“The settlement of Harrisville lies stunned beneath the flood caused by those rains, and even now many are homeless, much land is yet underwater. The time to strike has never been better. Many—perhaps all—the jackals are vulnerable now. Those we do not kill can be driven away, and the land made ours again.”
“Do you want that land? The trees have been removed, cut down, the soil denuded and sparse now, so much of it having been washed away in the flood.”
“It is the principle of the thing!” Red Dagger thundered, to a chorus of yips and cheers. “And it is our land, do not forget.”
Torch sighed to himself. Always it came back to the same undeniable, inescapable conclusion, which so few could see. “But even if we raze what is left of Harrisville to the ground, and destroy there every living thing, the army of Chula Harjo, which causes us no harm today, which has been happily quiescent, will form again and come into our hills, and that will be the end of us. You, Red Dagger, are a great chief, and my elder, and I hold for you every respect. Our peoples have quarreled with each other, but let us forget that now. What matters is the future, and—”
The old chief sensed that Torch was preparing to confuse him again with words.
“And they call you Firebrand!” he said, not bothering to hide his contempt. “I fear you have been misnamed. A more fitting appelation ought to be found.”
His voice indicated that he could readily invent several names, none of them allusive to strength in battle. Some of the braves choked on their laughter, and mocking mutters were heard.
But Torch was not distressed. He held his ground. “I do not care for the name,” he said. “Harris gave me the name, and it is loathsome to me.”
“And is Harris loathsome, too?”
“He is,” Torch nodded.
“Then let us destroy him!” thundered the old warrior-chieftain.
A vast quiet hung beneath the curved ceiling of the wigwam. Torch evaluated the silence. He himself was brave in battle. That was known. And he was wise with words. That was known, too. But he had not been in battle for a long time; and now, in spite of his best efforts, old Red Dagger had maneuvered him into a corner.
“There will be no doubt of our victory, we Choctaw united with the Chickasaw,” Red Dagger added. “With the white men so weak and distracted, how can we fail?”
During the past few years, Torch had calmed his young braves, calmed even the old contingent of Hawk’s hotheads, by telling them, “Do not worry. Do not be too much of haste for blood. The lesson of history is that blood will come to you.” But here in the wigwam, with a famous chief asking, begging Torch to join a battle that could not be lost, his own braves could heed him only with difficulty. Once, not long ago, he had heard a stripling of but fifteen circlings of the sun speaking to his fellows. “Look at this,” the youth had said, showing his bare arm. “I have not yet one kill-cut. My father told me that by the time he was. my age, he already had eleven.”
That was untrue. Torch, of course, knew the boys father, and he suspected that many of the kill-cuts now on his arms had been symbolic of little more than imagination. But Torch also knew that sentiment among his people ran against him now.
“I will take counsel with our seeress,” he said, “and by messenger send you answer.”
Some of the braves might have accepted this, but Red Dagger, who had earlier felt the sting of Torch’s logic, did not now find it in his old heart to ease the pressure.
“Are you not chief?” he cried. “Is the seeress chief? Shall I speak with her?”
There were a few hoots in the wigwam, quickly silenced when Red Dagger raised his hand. “So,” he said, “you need time to consider? So be it. Consider. I give you two days, no more.”
Great in dignity, he rose from the fire and pulled his robes about him. Red Dagger did not have to appear magnificent. He was magnificent. And his abrupt, magisterial departure rendered Torch’s deliberate nature ineffective, weak. And in the eyes of the Choctaw, even in the eyes of some of his own braves, Torch did indeed appear tentative and weak.
He seemed, to some, a false leader. And such a thing was very bad.
Torch lay that night in his wigwam, pondering the issues confronting the tribe. His bride, Bright Flower, lay beside him, sensing his preoccupation, and wondering how well the love she planned to give him would distract him from seriousness. Almost always her lovemaking succeeded in taking his mind from the problems of his people, and for this Bright Flower was grateful. And always her lovemaking delighted him. For this Bright Flower was ecstatic. She wished to be everything for him, that he might forget the other one, the one who had been banished.
Bright Flower was a sweet and gentle girl, whose intelligence and sensitive nature had not been appreciated by many of the coarser young braves. After Gyva had been forced from the tribe, there had been much speculation about whom Torch might take to wife. Few mentioned Bright Flower. She was a shy girl and did not put herself forward. And in those days members of the tribe gave their attention to the maneuverings of Little Swallow. That maiden was truly a marvel! Following Hawk’s death, she immediately approached Torch, told him that Hawk had forced her into terrible actions, had threatened her with violence if she did not d
o his will. All along she had loved only Torch. When he had not listened to her, she became first angry and then guileful. If contrition did not suffice to win Torch, then perhaps magic would. “Help me,” she beseeched old Teva. “Help me prepare a potion that will bring his eyes to me.” The seeress laughed in derision. “Such potions work only when your heart is filled with love,” she said, “and they are dangerous otherwise.” “Oh, but truly my heart is love-filled,” Swallow had protested, weeping sweetly and watching Teva from behind glistening lashes. “Please, please, tell me the secret of the potion.”
In the end Teva relented. “Go into the woods,” she said. “Take the bark of the ash, and the bark of the maple, grind them into powder along with clover, willow leaf, dandelion, two measures of moss, the stem of the purple mushroom, dew from tall grass in the meadow at dawn, and one petal of the lilac, plucked at night. Add to this water from the river, and drink while hearing the call of an owl on a moonless night. But remember, do not attempt this thing unless your heart is filled with love.”
Swallow hurried away to gather the ingredients for the potion. In no time at all she was busy grinding them into powder. “What are you doing?” people asked her, as they saw her working near her wigwam. “I am winning the love of Torch,” she said. They all laughed. It was no secret that Torch would have nothing to do with her. “You shall see!” Swallow told them. “And then let me hear your laughter!”
She eagerly awaited a cloudy night, that there should be no moon, and finally Ababinili did send her such a night. She took a gourd down to the river and caught water to aid her potion. When it was ready to drink, she walked into the forest, listening for an owl’s cry. That, too, came to her, and she gulped down the potion, which had a most pleasant taste. Now I am ready, she thought happily, and started toward Torch’s wigwam. She would steal naked beneath the pelts covering him, press her breasts against him, fondle and caress his manhood, and then take it unto herself. After that he would be hers, and she would be—as she had always vowed—wife of a chieftain.
But it was very late, and her task had been fraught with anxiety, and Swallow grew very tired as she walked from the forest and back into the village. By the time she reached Torch’s wigwam, dawn was rising, and Swallow could barely walk. Nonetheless, she pushed aside the skins covering the entrance to the young chief’s dwelling, and entered. The sun shone on Torch’s face, and he awakened.
“Who goes there?” he asked, blinking in surprise. “Who are you? Why have you come?”
Did he not recognize her?
Puzzled, and possessed by a terrible fear, Swallow hobbled to the well, and looked down into the still water. The face she saw reflected there was pale and drawn and contorted into a hideous mask. And even as she watched, the disfigurement grew worse, as if a potent poison were coursing through her blood.
So Little Swallow, whose heart had held many things, among which love was not numbered, collapsed. Not long afterward death took her. And in time Torch chose shy, beautiful Bright Flower as his bride, and the tribe rejoiced.
Bright Flower rejoiced, too. Her only sadness over the years was that Torch’s responsibilities as chieftain took so much of his time, weighed so heavily on his mind. She was proud that he took his position seriously, but sad that it was so difficult to tear his mind away from tribal matters. Tonight he was most deeply in thought, and she wondered what to do.
“You’re somewhere eke,” Bright Flower said sadly. “Or someone else is on your mind.”
“No,” Torch responded comfortingly, for she truly pleased him as a wife and had in no way failed him since wedlock. “No, my moodiness arises from matters of the tribe.”
“Tribal matters,” she sniffed, trying to tease him, to lighten his mood. “Better were your mind on another woman. At least I could take your mind off her.”
Torch kissed Bright Flower, then said, “I am serious. I cannot fight the thought that disaster lies in wait for us if, as the young braves wish, we should go to war now. Nor can I very much longer restrain those who want war.”
“Nor,” sighed Bright Flower, reaching for him, “can you much longer restrain those who want love.”
So they had their love that night, and the Chickasaw nation knew another night of peace. But such nights were numbered. Every night that passed meant one night less, and in time the number would run down to zero.
Chapter II
The meeting occurred in the schoolhouse, a month after the flood. The school was new, a one-room, one-storey structure, with twenty double desks for the children, one square desk for a teacher who had not yet been found, and a round iron stove in the center of the floor. The walls were bare. There were two tall windows on either side, and one door at the rear. A stone water jug, set on a stool, stood next to the door. There were no books. Rupert Harris had agreed, reluctantly, to the construction of the school, but had specified that any books, papers, or pencils must be provided by those who sent their children to study.
There were no students as yet, but the school was jam-packed this afternoon. The fate of the community was being discussed. Rupert Harris had resisted the meeting, which had been called by Jason.
“Now what in hell is the point of all this?” Harris demanded, as soon as Jason had called the meeting to order. “We ought to be at work in town cleaning up the debris, plotting out new buildings.”
“You have to ask for the floor, Mr. Harris,” said Jason.
Phil Foley had just returned from the capital.
“What?” bellowed the red-bearded entrepreneur.
“This is a formal meeting,” Phil explained. “We’re following parliamentary procedure, so everything’s fair and everybody gets a chance.”
“Everything’s always been fair in Harrisville,” Harris said, sitting down. “Did you pick up this parliamentary procedure on your trip up to Lexington?”
Phil Foley had just returned from the capital. Most people figured he’d gone there to try and get loans from some of the bankers.
“You’re out of order,” Phil told Harris now.
“All right,” said Harris, subsiding for the moment. His eyes darted about the schoolroom. He did not like the tone of this meeting. If he couldn’t control it…
Reuben Sills had his hand up.
“Floor’s yours, Reuben,” Jason said.
Reuben stood up.
“Hey!” Harris cried, his eyes darkening. “I want to know how—”
“Reuben’s got the floor,” Phil said, keeping his face absolutely expressionless.
“An’ what if I say he doesn’t!” Harris said, standing.
“Then you’ll have to leave, Mr. Harris. Rules of order.”
“Rules of what?”
But Harris took measure of the people, and most of them did not seem on his side. In that case they might just kick him out of the meeting. Lot of these folks was pretty antsy lately, after the flood. And he didn’t want to miss out on whatever was goin’ on amongst ’em.
“Go ahead, Reuben,” Jason said encouragingly.
“Seems like now’d be a good time to straighten some things out around here,” Reuben said, “what with the flood and all. An’ I say”—he hit a wooden desk with the heel of his work-hardened hand—“let’s do it fair this time.”
Rupert Harris stiffened just a bit, but gave no other sign. He did not have to. Now he knew the purpose of the meeting, and it had very little to do with the flood.
“I been cheated!” Reuben declared. “I been cheated an’ you been cheated.” He pointed at Felix Wohl and some others, then swept the room with a swing of his arm. “An’ by God, we all been cheated!”
“You’re out of order, Reuben,” warned Phil. “State your piece, but no accusations. This isn’t a trial.”
Harris figured this was a good place to jump in, so he stood up and got ready to take things over before they got way out of hand.
“Reuben’s got the floor, Mr. Harris,” said Phil.
I’ll wait a little lo
nger, Harris thought. In the packed schoolroom he caught the eyes of Ben Beumer, Jed Alhew, and Jeevis Johnson. He’d done right by them, an’ they’d done right by him, an’ not a few of the poorer plantation owners had been paid a visit by one or more of ’em if they didn’t come across with Rupert’s share of the harvest right on time. He saw in their startled expressions that the direction of this meeting was a surprise to them, too.
To the rest of the townspeople, though, it wasn’t no surprise. Rupert could tell. And that meant…
That meant Jason and Phil and Reuben, and God only knew who else, had gone ahead and set this here business up, an’ it wasn’t goin’ to do Rupert Harris no good, no sir. No good at all. He gave Ben and Jed and Jeevis a glance that said, Be ready, boys.
They would have to be. Reuben was telling a long, involved story about the time he took his sick wife up to Lexington to see the doc, and wandered on over to the courthouse to check on the land papers “that Mr. Harris said he took care of so downright real good for us.”
Oh, shit! Rupert Harris thought. Then he recalled that Phil Foley had read the law out east. Boston, hadn’t it been? Gale had boasted about it often enough.
“An’ he took care of us, for sure,” Reuben was howling, “an’ he also did us in, an’ I think we should go over this farm by farm, plot by plot, plantation by plantation, an’ see just who in the hell owns what!”
The people muttered agreement as Jason pulled a thick sheaf of papers from a drawer in the teacher’s desk. Legal papers.
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