The Old American (23 page)

After Nathan has accepted the congratulations from the villagers, Caucus-Meteor steps into the circle to make a speech. Everyone quiets down. It isn't the time for speech-making, which makes the king's action that much more effective.

“Listen, my people, while I tell you my dream,” he says in grave oratorical tones. And with a few embellishments he relates in a long, drawn-out way his dream back on the war trail last year. “I worried about the running figure, what he meant. I thought he might be the ghost of my fears. I thought he might be a demon who took offense to a man my age going to war. For the money, you understand. It is honorable to go to war to avenge a wrong, but I did it for money to pay the damn intendant his damn tribute. I thought about the running figure when I was blinded, my face paralyzed. I realized the running figure was”—Caucus-Meteor abruptly stops talking, makes a shape like a wave with his hand—“was pure. Pure. Now, following the events today, I understand the meaning of the dream. It was a message from my father's ghost. He was trying to tell me that the runner was a Pure Man, sent to save this village by earning us lots of money. That Pure Man is Nathan Blake.”

By now Nathan understands Algonkian, so it's not the diction that confuses him. It's his ignorance of the phrase
pure man.
That night in the wigwam after supper, and after Caucus-Meteor has shooed away Nathan's female admirers, he tells Nathan what a Pure Man is.

“Many years ago, before the coming of the Europeans, as now, trade fairs were held all over North America. With trade came gaming and contests of physical prowess. Specially trained men participated in these events. I'll tell you right now that I would never consider you for these competitions if these were the old days, because you wouldn't stand a chance. But these are not the old days. The best of the young men go to war, men like Wolf Eyes, who fight not for their people or for vengeance or even for glory, but for money or to satisfy a hidden anger. The ones who do compete are poorly trained. In the old days the runners were known as Pure Men. They ate a special diet of deer meat, vegetables, no oily fish or corn mush, no stimulants, no long hours without sleep, no women, and much exercise.”

Before Caucus-Meteor can go on, Nathan interrupts, his voice ringing in alarm, “No women?”

The old American is suddenly possessed by a disturbing possibility: it's unlikely that a man can be truly free and truly pure at the same time.

After his illness Caucus-Meteor was able to sleep for short periods, but now that his health is restored, he no longer sleeps. It's as if when he's awake, he's in a dream, and when he's dreaming he's awake. With the arrival of warm weather, there's no need for a stove, and in a state of partial rest, partial excitement, partial wakefulness, partial sleep, he can sit eating an open fire and doze. He's recovered much of his strength, and calculates he has enough life-force left for one more campaign. He's going to race Nathan against the best runners in Canada. His aim is to acquire French scrip by betting on Nathan in order to pay the intendant's tribute in the fall. He'll give whatever is left to Black Dirt. After that, Caucus-Meteor plans to be reunited with his loved ones—the children lost through disease, the wife who made a man and leader of him, the father who was a king, but mainly his mother, who was taken from him and enslaved. He prays to no god in particular that in the afterworld he will be allowed for a short time to be a child again so that he can feel his mother's arms as only a child can.

Even the hard drinkers—Nubanusit, Holyoke, and Pisgah—refrain from imbibing while Nathan is being sworn into the tribe. The children are quiet, and the crows seem to know enough to stop squawking—a good omen, Azicochoa will remark later. The old king notes that everyone is on hand for the ceremony except for Black Dirt. She's now well past her official mourning period, but the black ribbon is still in her hair, and she remains in partial seclusion. Black Dirt, the other women come to you for advice in raising crops, but as a leader you have lost powers.

Caucus-Meteor is much moved by the ceremony. Nathan is stripped naked, and his body and face are painted red, yellow, and black. Wytopitlock and Parmachnenee cut his beard and shave his face with a French razor, braid his hair and fit him with a headband to keep the hair looking neat. Wytopitlock gives him a comb as a present. He thanks her, his voice quivering with emotion. Nathan's clothes, the clothes of the slave, are burned. These days most men from the tribes wear more French cloth than animal skin, but Nathan is given the garb of an American of the last century—deerskin loin cloth and breeches, beads and bones around the neck, bracelets of animal claws for his wrists, and feathers in his headband. Seems like everybody in the tribe donates something to his wardrobe. The only apparel he wears that's not native is a white trade shirt. When he's finally dressed, he looks more American than the Americans, except for Haggis. Only Nathan's feet are bare. The shoes are presently under construction, and will have to wait.

Finally, Caucus-Meteor taps Nathan on the shoulder with the flat side of a hatchet and gives him a new name. “From this day forward I will be your godfather. Will you be my godson?”

“Yes, I will.” Nathan bows his head.

“As your godfather, I will bestow upon you a name for our tribe. You will be known to us as Nathan Provider-of-Services.” Each person in the village walks by him as he remains still. Some give him a hug, others a handshake, or just a light tap on the shoulder. After the ceremony drums play, the brandy flows; the people sing and dance in celebration. Nathan Provider-of-Services is officially a citizen of Conissadawaga. He spends the night in the wigwam of the two single women, Wytopitlock and Parmachnenee.

Caucus-Meteor visits the wigwam of his daughter. She's stitching the racing moccasins for Nathan Provider-of-Services.

“I'm worried about you, daughter. You must learn again to celebrate the joys of life,” he says.

“I tell you, father, that I feel my grief less, and reflect upon it more. The anguish of lost loved ones will always be with me, but the numbness and anger are gone. Sorrow has made me stronger.”

“You are now able to feel the emotion that supports the pain. Do you remember what your mother used to say on this matter?”

“‘An empty vessel will be filled with the first rain if only the lid be lifted.'”

Caucus-Meteor points to the shoes she is stitching. “What do you think of Nathan Provider-of-Services? You think he will be a good citizen of our village?”

“I cannot say. I know he has survived the ordeal of captivity through prayer to Jesus. I wonder if Jesus might in some small way alleviate the suffering of an American woman. But in truth I don't think about Nathan Provider-of-Services. I think about my sister, Caterina, in a convent somewhere, and I regret my anger at our parting. I would like to make amends. Perhaps Caterina could teach me to pray in the Christian manner.”

The next day Nathan sits on a log. Standing beside him is Caucus-Meteor. Kneeling at his feet, shoes in hand, is Black Dirt. The old American watches his daughter slip clean French stockings on the bare feet of his godson. She tucks the tops under his leather leggings. The moccasins slide snugly over the stockings. Since some people have different-sized feet, she'd measured each of his feet before cutting the smoked moose hide and shaping the shoes. Nathan's feet are the same length, slightly longer than average, wider at the arch. Caucus-Meteor wonders if she likes touching Nathan's feet as much as Nathan appears to like the touch of her hands. He wonders if she has become one of these women who has shut off feelings for men.

“How do they fit?” asks Caucus-Meteor.

“Perfect,” says Nathan softly.

“Your voice lacks enthusiasm.”

“The shoes are plain, no bead work or dyed porcupine quills to give them distinction.”

Now that Nathan is an American man, he's acting like one, vain about his appearance, thinks Caucus-Meteor. American women often joke about how long it takes their men to get ready in the morning.

“I would have put in some color and design, but father said no,” says Black Dirt.

“I don't want the gamblers on the trade fair circuit to inspect you too closely,” says Caucus-Meteor.

The king plans to take Nathan all through Canada for the summer. Because Caucus-Meteor himself owns nothing, he has to borrow a canoe from Omer Laurent. Omer wants to charge him a fee, but Caucus-Meteor shames him into donating it for tribal services. Holding up under the wear and tear of travel is Caucus-Meteor's main worry. It nags at him, too, that his mission, even if successful, might mean nothing in the end. If he raises ten times the tribute money, his village will still be at risk because of his ignorance of French law and French writing. A man might do all that is expected of him, but the gods will still laugh for their own reasons.

Caucus-Meteor gives Nathan three weeks of training, which includes running every day at various distances, wood chopping for strengthening the arms and chest, and listening to oratory regarding methods of running—gaining a fast start, racing on different surfaces, elbowing fellow runners who try to pass, stepping on the heel of a competitor.

Nathan ignores Caucus-Meteor's caution about frolicking with women, often slinking off with Wytopitlock and Parmachnenee. The old American watches a pattern develop. In the wigwam with himself Nathan is attentive, humble, and he prays. With the women he is licentious, conceited, and he boasts.

One day he sees his godson chatting with his two women, and he sneaks up on them and eavesdrops on the conversation.

“Most of Caucus-Meteor's talk of racing is cow patties,” Nathan tells the women. “I have done enough racing to understand that while the old king might have gambled on races in his day and thus closely observed runners, he was never a pure trainer of pure men.”

“But you are his Pure Man,” says Wytopitlock.

“Like all men, I am a sinner; no man is pure.”

Caucus-Meteor slinks off, humiliation putting him at peace for the moment.

Nathan's not too happy with Caucus-Meteor's special diet for him—deer meat and summer greens. No corn soup, nuts, beans, smoked fish, maple sugared bread—foods Nathan has grown to enjoy. Nathan cheats on the diet. For the entire summer, Caucus-Meteor will talk as if Nathan remains on the Pure Man diet, as if discussion of same provided the necessary nourishment, but Nathan will eat what he likes. One aspect of Caucus-Meteor's training methods that Nathan takes to is what the old king calls concentration of the mind. He teaches Nathan how to prepare himself mentally before each race. “The Pure Man must clean the head as well as the bowels before competition,” he says.

“Concentration of the mind is not too different from trusting in God through silent prayer,” he says.

“Then you have the skill to do it.”

All told, Nathan goes along with Caucus-Meteor's training routines, and the trainer is pleased.

Three weeks pass, another. Caucus-Meteor still doesn't think Nathan is prepared. The able-bodied American men have departed on trade missions. Another young fellow, Sebec, the fatherless boy, the grandson of the great Passaconway, has joined the army. Unlike Wolf Eyes, he promises to return with his salary. The corn is two feet high before Caucus-Meteor announces that Nathan is ready for competition. Before they leave, Caucus-Meteor takes up a wagering collection—every last penny he can squeeze out of his people. Men, women, children, and dogs come down to the waterfront to bid the travelers farewell. Wytopitlock and Parmachnenee weep, not so much because they're going to miss Nathan Provider-of-Services, but because both have had their monthly flow. Neither will bear the child of Nathan Provider-of-Services.

Black Dirt is the last to say goodbye.

One chore Caucus-Meteor won't be burdened with will be gathering information for St. Blein's rebellion. Caucus-Meteor did his part last summer, so he owes his former commander nothing. Caucus-Meteor heard from Norman Feathers that the intendant suspects St. Blein is part of an anti-France group. What's saving the ensign is that he's a good soldier, a pet of Galissoniere, the governor-general, and, more important, that his father is a rich merchant with influence in the French government. Caucus-Meteor suspects the intendant will try to rid himself of St. Blein, but cunningly, so that the ensign's father won't know upon whom to take revenge. When Caucus-Meteor examines his own life, he sees many errors. One of those was his involvement with St. Blein and his dangerous ideas. He knows that St. Blein's rebellion is a story with an ending yet unknown. He hopes that his people are not the ultimate victims of their king's mistake.

On the bluff, watching the old chief and the new American, is the boy Freeway. Something in his pose tells Caucus-Meteor that the boy is thinking about running away to sea, to hunt whales, to set eyes on distant lands, or some such boy-thinking that he himself never quite experienced because of his slave status.

Nathan's first competition is in nearby Wendake, the Catholic Huron town only a few miles west of Quebec City. The Huron were once a proud people farming on lake plains but they were annihilated in wars with the Iroquois confederacy. Many of the réfugiés ended up in Wendake. Caucus-Meteor often mocked the Huron, saying they'd become more French than American; now it pains him to observe that the Huron have their lives in better order than his own people. They're tall, good-looking, healthy, Christianized, even pious in their behavior; they raise livestock, work and fight for the French, wear French clothes, live in two-room houses with permanent foundations very similar to the French peasants who pay to farm lands owned by seigneurial royalty, men such as St. Blein's father.

The race will be held in a pasture. Caucus-Meteor notes that Nathan's concentration breaks; it's important to bring him back to the matter at hand.