Eliot Pattison - Blood of the Oak

Early Spring 1765

The forest embraced him as another of its wild creatures, sending its steadying power into each long stride. Duncan McCallum had learned the ways of forest running from his tribal friends but he had never experienced its deep joys until he had begun his own solitary treks among the farms and settlements of the frontier. There were roads, more and more of them stretching out from the Hudson, but he preferred the ancient trails of the tribes. With his pack on his shoulder and his long rifle in one hand, Duncan glided along the old Mohawk path with the carefree joy of a young stag, oblivious to the troubles of the world of men.

It was the rarest of days, when the sun, as if stretching from its winter sleep, burst through the budding leaves to ignite the wildflowers with blazes of red, blue, and yellow. His smile grew as the miles fell away. He would be in Edentown for supper, back with Sarah Ramsey and his particular friend Conawago, elder of the Nipmuc tribe, whom he had not seen for nearly a month. He would speak with Conawago about the new patches of medicinal herbs he had discovered and at sundown would walk hand in hand with Sarah, inspecting the new foals and lambs in their pastures.

He had been visiting Edentown’s northernmost dependency, a farm built around a promising orchard, when he had been summoned by a message from the Iroquois. Adanahoe, mother of all the tribes, lay dying and had asked for him. Duncan had assumed the gentle old woman had sought him for his medicines but as she greeted him from her bed of furs, she had dismissed the healers from her lodge and announced there was something far more important than easing her discomfort.

“The embers burn low, Duncan,” she had confessed to him, meaning the centuries-old Council fire that bound the tribes of the Iroquois confederation, “but as long as the spirits watch over us I will not fear.” The frail old woman, who more than anyone embodied the heart of the Haudensaunee, the Iroquois people, had asked Duncan to carry her into the sacred lodge, the structure at the town’s highest point where the masks of Iroquois ritual were kept. He had cradled her like a child in his arms, pausing at the doorway to let one of the protecting shamans cleanse them with fragrant cedar smoke before stepping inside.

He had been in the lodge once before, so he knew to brace himself for the distorted, grotesque masks that hung on the walls, each above altars that held offerings of feathers, small skulls, crystal stones, and animals fashioned of wood or cornhusk. The spirits that inhabited the masks were beloved and protected by the Iroquois, each responsible for one of the critical elements of tribal life. Insisting on being lowered to her feet, Adanahoe hobbled along the altars, leaning heavily on Duncan’s arm. As they walked, Duncan recognized the maize spirit, the squash spirit, the healing spirit, the fire spirit.

Small pots of burning fat stood on each altar, their flickering flames giving movement to the gods above. Adanahoe halted at a corner where a pot burned below an empty space.

“He was here in the night when my grandson Siyenca and I replenished the lamps,” the matriarch explained in a mournful tone. “At dawn he was gone. And my grandson too.” She scrubbed at a tear. “They brought Siyenca’s body to me at noon that day. He was found floating in the river ten miles south of here, with this in his hand.” She opened her palm to show Duncan a large bear claw sewn into a piece of black-and-white fur. “He wears a necklace of claws and bones.”

Duncan realized she was no longer speaking of her dead grandson. “May I know his name?”

“The old ones have many names, some of which may never be spoken outside the secret societies. But at campfires he is called Blooddancer, or sometimes the Trickster. He lives in a long slab of curved oak painted red as blood and has twisted eyes and a snout of birch wood into which the teeth of a catamount are set. He has eyelashes made of four bear claws and bear claws below his chin like a beard.” She lifted the claw in her hand. “This was one of them. And he has a rattle with four claws attached to it, which has always been kept on his altar-his ceremonial weapon.”

Duncan was guarded in speaking about the lost spirit, for fear of breaking one of the tribes’ complex taboos. “And when you pray to him what do you ask for?”

“It is hard to explain. His is an old warrior’s spirit from days of long ago. In my father’s time he accompanied our warriors on many successful raids. But it wasn’t bravery you asked him for, it was the strength inside the bravery.”

“Fortitude,” Duncan suggested.

The old woman nodded. “Yes, but more. Like the marrow of our people. Like the heartwood of the oak. He is one of the anchors that keeps us safe and lets our tongues be heard by the spirits of the forest. He is old, and irritable, but he provides our link to the ancient ones, the link that makes us who we are.” Her heavy wheezing breaths filled the silence. Outside the lodge a drum beat a slow rhythm.

“They say my grandson Siyenca stole the mask because there are Europeans who would pay silver coins for it. They would not help me with his death rites.” She pointed to a brownish stain on the altar. “When I explained that this was still wet and crimson when I came here that morning, they said the god had wounded Siyenca in his theft.”

The old woman’s pain knew no depths. The Council embers were dying, her god was stolen, her grandson was dead, and now the younger generation of Iroquois were arguing with the venerable matriarch.

“You mean blood had dripped on the altar.”

Adanahoe nodded. “It was taboo for Siyenca to be in here without one of us, but he must have seen the thieves. They hit him when he tried to stop them. He had a cut on his head. Then he followed to take back old Blooddancer and the thieves drowned him for it.”

She turned and clamped her hands on Duncan’s shoulders. Her voice was hoarse but urgent. “I had a dream. You and Conawago appear limping out of a fog, scarred and battered, nearly dead, as if from a great battle, but you bring Blooddancer back to us. Our people will drift apart without the old anchors. Siyenca will never have peace on the other side.” Her eyes were full of moisture. “I will be gone before you return, my son, but I will linger by my body until our god is safely home.”

As Duncan dipped his hand in a stream, his instincts cried out and he spun about, his gut tightening. There was nothing there. It had been like this ever since leaving Onondaga Castle, capital of the Iroquois League, two days earlier. He would find his stride, envelop himself in the harmony of the forest, but then with the abruptness of a rifle shot, an unnatural fear would seize him, and just as quickly fade. Duncan sought to calm himself by playing the game Conawago favored when doing chores, seeing how many birdsongs he could identify, then how many of their Iroquois names he could remember. The throaty melody of a wood thrush, the soft call of a waxwing. He paused. One of the songs had a human voice.

He crept stealthily along the trail, at first just curious, trying to make sense of the strangely familiar, forlorn words. But as he crested a low ridge his foreboding returned. There was danger here. He freed the thong that secured his belt knife and checked the priming in the pan of his rifle.

Near the bottom of the hollow a boy leaned against a log. He was Iroquois, but his words were French. “ Non je n’ irai plus au bois ,” he sang in a tiny, frightened voice. “ Non je n’ irai plus seulette. ”

The words seized Duncan, loosening a flood of painful images. His father the Scottish rebel hanging on a British gibbet. His mother and sisters raped and killed by British soldiers. Even after so many years the haunting scenes still seized him like this, descending like an abrupt storm. Sometimes he would wake up shouting at their campfires and he would sit like a lost child as Conawago kept vigil with him, singing calming songs of the tribes.