Ring of Fire III (36 page)

He waited long enough to see if any chose to challenge him; none did, nor had he expected it—but such was the custom of the Council. After a moment he continued.

“The
Haudenosaunee
know well that for many years—in my time and the time of my father Red-Feather, we walked in paths of war against the servants of the Onontio, from the white land of over sea that is called France. They have made war upon us, with their mighty weapons and white man’s charms—and for many years have been victorious in all their doings.

“But all of that will come to an end. The war-chief of the Onontio will come to an end.”

The members of the Council began to murmur.

“He is fearless,” said an old sachem. “He has always been fearless. He speaks to the land. He
listens
to the land.”

“He is mortal,” Strong-Arm said. “He can no more outrun the sun or overcome the pull of the Earth-Father than any of us.”

“But as long as he walks the earth—”

“No more,” Strong-Arm said, and there was more murmuring. It was impolite to interrupt another member of the Council when speaking. Some of the younger chiefs shifted in their seats, as if they wanted to interrupt
him
.

Rise and challenge me
, Strong-Arm thought, crossing his arms in front of him.
Come. I will wipe the tears from your eyes
.

There was an extended silence. The clear-minded observed quietly, while the bereaved sought to determine whether they were prepared to intervene.

“Death-medicine has been laid upon the war-chief of the Onontio,” Strong-Arm said at last. “We will walk in the paths of war, and he will not be there to lead the white soldiers against the
Haudenosaunee
. My shaman has pronounced it, and so it shall be.”

The old sachem stood slowly, his hand grasping a polished maple staff. He made his away between the other members of the Council until he stood before Strong-Arm.

“I am Swift-As-Deer, son of Fishes-In-Deep-Waters, son of Climbs-High-Mountain, of the Mohawk Nation at the dawn door of the Longhouse. Though I must say to you, young chief, that most deer I see these days are far swifter than I am.

“You speak with bold words, Strong-Arm son of Red-Feather. Thus did your father speak when he was a member of the Council. When I was younger I walked in the paths of war against the war-chief of the Onontio, the one called Champlain. He is cunning and wise—and not easily killed, not by axe or fire-stick or death-medicine. Who is this powerful shaman that claims to have done it?”

“Walks-In-Deep-Woods.”

Swift-As-Deer looked at Strong-Arm from head to toes and back again, and then let out a loud whoop of laughter. The longhouse shook with it as it spread to the rest of the members of the Council.

Strong-Arm’s hands formed into fists.

“You are mocking me, Swift-As-Deer.”

“You?” Swift-As-Deer lifted his arms, turning his staff in his hand as he held it in the air. “No, Strong-Arm son of Red-Feather. I would not mock you. But as for Walks-In-Deep-Woods—oh, I would mock him from sunrise to sunset.

“He is a fake, brave Strong-Arm. He is a cheat, a speaker of false words. He has no death medicine, not now and not ever. Whatever he told you was a lie. He wants nothing but to eat your food and make love to your women.”

Swift-As-Deer turned away from Strong-Arm, making the younger man tense in anger—but Swift-As-Deer was an elder sachem, not a youth he could challenge for the slightest public offense.

Such scores were settled elsewhere, at other times.

“Speak, wise Brothers,” Swift-As-Deer said. “Who knows of this dog Walks-In-Deep-Woods? Bring light to my Brother Strong-Arm, the brave and wise chief of the Oneida people. Tell him that there is no sense in risking the lives of the people of the Longhouse in a war based on the advice—and the false death-medicine—of this
fraud
.”

As Strong-Arm watched, several of the members of the Council shifted in their seats, as if preparing to speak. Before any actually rose, however, the newest sachem of all stood and walked to the center of the assembly. Without speaking he drew a long belt of wampum from over his shoulder and laid it next to Strong-Arm’s own.

Then he walked to stand before Strong-Arm and stared at him for several moments, still not speaking.

“What—” Strong-Arm said, but the other man held up his right hand and Strong-Arm fell silent. No one in the Great Council spoke, or shifted position, or made any other noise.

“I want to look in your eyes,” the other chief said at last. “I want to look into your soul.”

Strong-Arm did not understand what he meant, but answered, “what do you see?”

“Bravery.”

Strong-Arm did not know how to respond to that either.

“I am Born-Under-Moon, son of Red-Spear, come to you from the land of the Seneca, new among you. I have heard great speeches and wisdom. And now—when a brave chief calls for the People of the Longhouse to walk the paths of war...I must sit in quiet and have an old man tell me of his
fear
?

“Is that what the
Haudenosaunee
have come to? Is that the blood that courses through our veins? Is that what we have become—playthings of the white men? Is that all we are? I do not believe what I hear.”

Born-Under-Moon turned and stared fiercely at Swift-As-Deer. The Council remained silent.

“I went to war when I was younger than you,” Swift-As-Deer said. “Many brave warriors fell in battle against this captain of the Onontio. But even if he is old—or dead”—he glanced at Strong-Arm for a moment—“the servants of the Onontio are dangerous. I understand the need for a young warrior with blood coursing hot in his veins to seek glory in battle. I...understand it very well. But this is not a decision to be taken lightly.”

“You think this is a whim?” Born-Under-Moon said. His voice was laced with anger. “Is that what you think, old man?”

Swift-As-Deer did not answer. Strong-Arm noticed a curious expression on the old sachem’s face: not anger, but rather weariness—as if he had heard this accusation before and did not want to have to answer it yet again.

“He has walked the paths of war more times than you, Born-Under-Moon,” Strong-Arm said into the quiet. “His is a voice to which we listen carefully. Even if this is the time to strike, we must take heed of the wisdom he speaks.”

“He is afraid of the old war-captain. He is a—”

Strong-Arm held up his hand and the younger chief halted, as if unwilling to finish the sentence.

“Do not let that arrow fly, Born-Under-Moon. If you believe—as I do—that we should go to war with the servants of the Onontio, then making war with the eldest and wisest is not the correct course. It gains you nothing, and it loses you the friendship of many in the Council.

“Including me.”

Born-Under-Moon looked as if he did not understand Strong-Arm’s reasoning: but he had already spoken of the other man’s bravery, and could hardly reverse himself.

“There are many reasons we should take this course,” Strong-Arm said. “If you are ready to listen, friend,” he continued, “I shall tell them to you.”

4

On Monday, the fifth of October, Samuel de Champlain rose and prayed as he had always done. After a brief and spare meal he dressed and went for a walk in the settlement of Québec. He remained in plain sight.

He was waiting for the
congestion cérébrale
.

The day passed without event. Night came, and still nothing. When the sun went down he returned to his
habitation
, partly relieved and partly disappointed. He did not want the stroke, but knowing that it was coming he felt that he had made his peace and was ready for it to come.

On the next day he rose and did the same.

And the next day after that.

On the fourth day, Father Lalemant fell into step beside him as he walked along one of Québec’s muddy streets. Lalemant was a young man, spare, almost gaunt—it had been clear to Champlain from the time he met the Jesuit Father that Lalemant had been very attentive to his spiritual exercises.

He kept up with Champlain’s long, steady strides.

“Father?”

“Monsieur,” the Jesuit said. “You are troubled,” he added a few steps later.

“Do I look troubled, Father?”

“To be honest, monsieur, you do. I think—” they both stepped around a small pile of refuse—“I think there’s something bothering you. As your confessor, I feel it my duty to ask you what it might be.”

“You are an acute observer of mankind, Father.”

“That remark neither confirms nor denies my observation.”

Champlain stopped suddenly; Lalemant took two more steps and had to turn around.

“I have many things that trouble me, not least that my spies tell me that the Iroquois—particularly the Mohawk—have gone on a war footing. But I sense that you mean something else. What is more—” he lowered his voice. “What is more,” he added softly, “this is not the confessional. I do not wish to discuss personal matters in the middle of the street.”

“That is just as well,” Lalemant answered. “You aren’t saying anything in the confessional these days.”

Champlain’s years of training and experience as a leader had given him the ability to stare down native sachems,
grands seignieurs
, and, when necessary, Jesuit priests.

Particularly young ones.

“I beg your pardon,” Lalemant said, but to his credit, stood his ground.

“You have a certain right to pry, Father,” Champlain said after a moment. “But there are limits.”

They began to walk again. Champlain began to make his way back to his own house.

Champlain spoke first. “I am expecting something to happen,” he said at last, without looking at the young Jesuit. “I have received...a message.”

* * *

As they sat in the study of Champlain’s
habitation
, Lalemant turned the thin sheet over in his hands, marveling at it. “This is amazing, monsieur.”

“I was alarmed myself.”

“No,” Lalemant said. “I meant—the quality of the paper.”

“Oh, for the love of God,” Champlain said, snatching it out of the Jesuit father’s hands. He waved it at Lalemant. “I was referring to the
contents
. This is a reproduction. A...what was the word that the cardinal used?
‘Photocopier.’
A machine picture, some magic the up-timers can perform.”

“It’s about
you
.”

“Yes, I know. I can read. It tells me when I am to die—and how.”

“Thank you, monsieur. I, too, can read. This paper says that you are to suffer some sort of attack, sometime this month.” A look of understanding came onto his face. “This explains much,” he said.

“I am waiting for this to happen. Indeed, I expected it to have already happened—and yet I still live. And walk, and speak.”

“Perhaps you miscalculated. And perhaps—”

“Yes?”

“It is possible,” Lalemant said carefully, “that it may not happen at all. This paper, this book, speaks of a malady and the death of a man named Champlain—but it may not be
you
.”

“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.”