The Old American (28 page)

At the center of the wigwam is a place for a fire, and a single iron pipe that projects through the smoke hole. There are plenty of French blankets to keep a man warm, but no stick frame or mats for sleeping. Like himself, Bleached Bones spends most of his hours by his fire. Caucus-Meteor sees a few pots for cooking, but they hardly seem used. Apparently, Bleached Bones's main food is drink.

Caucus-Meteor goes back outside and runs his hands through the fire. The ashes are cold. Bleached Bones hasn't been here at least for a couple of days. Caucus-Meteor returns to the wigwam until he finds some fire-making tools, flint and tinder. It takes patience and perseverance, but in a half hour he's able to start a fire. It's past midnight on a night when clouds obscure moon and stars that Caucus-Meteor, sitting on his heels by the fire, divines Bleached Bones's fate. The wind shifts as the storm rises up, and with the wind comes a smell. Caucus-Meteor goes into the wigwam to get out of the rain, taking some fire with him.

Late the next morning after the rain has stopped, Caucus-Meteor goes outside. First he eats a good breakfast, and then he walks in the direction where the wind came from last night. He finds Bleached Bones by smell. The old gambler is lying on some rocks near a ditch that he used for a privy. Apparently, he left the camp when he felt a call of nature. He did his business and started back for the camp when he must have been taken by a pain, or perhaps just a weakness. Caucus-Meteor puts his hand on Bleached Bones's belly. It's soft and distended where the liver burst.

Bleached Bones's body is more or less intact, but the face has been pecked by turkey vultures until it's unrecognizable. Birds always start with the eyes, soft and nutritious. Caucus-Meteor says a prayer aloud on Bleached Bones's behalf. “I hope, old gambler, that in the next world you can find a husband to take care of your extravagant needs. I think, too, I know a place where you can be buried and not be so lonely.” Caucus-Meteor strips the clothes off the body of Bleached Bones and off his own body until he's just a naked old man wearing a turban, standing above another naked old body without a face to speak of. He kneels by the body, removes the turban, and places it on Bleached Bones's head. “You always coveted my turban—now you have it,” says Caucus-Meteor.

Weeks later, in the loft of the intendant's barn, Caucus-Meteor, feeble from lack of food and rest, calls out below to Norman Feathers, who has just come in. “Norman, Norman. Bring me some water. Bring me some food.” His voice is so weak that it sounds like the whisper of a ghost, and Norman runs out of the barn in fright. It's another hour before he returns. “It's really me, I'm not a ghost, not yet,” Caucus-Meteor can barely speak. This time Norman drops to his knees and prays.

Prayer apparently gives Norman some courage, because he puts a ladder to the loft and climbs up. Even then, it takes Caucus-Meteor a good half an hour to convince Norman who he is. The old king is weak from hunger, he's lost some weight—indeed, he's aged in the sudden way of old people—he has a bone through his nose, but mainly he just doesn't look like himself without the turban. That bald head, pale as a white man's from lack of exposure to sun and air, takes attention away from the eyes and recognizable features.

After some water and food, Caucus-Meteor's strength returns, at least in his voice.

“Norman, have you ever wondered what your gift of memory is for?”

“For remembering, I imagine.”

“No, your god has given it to you for a purpose, which I will now reveal. I am going to shut my eyes, and put my mind in a conjuring pose. You will answer my questions.”

The interrogation takes several hours. Norman has no sense of what is important and what is not, so he talks on about everything. Afterward, the old American builds a tiny fire outside the barn, stares into it, conjures upon the information supplied by his kinsman.

Some French fishermen spot a canoe caught on a snag in the river. Inside is the body of an old savage. With the Frenchmen is a Montagnais fellow. “Only one man in Canada wears a turban like this, the famous king of Conissadawaga, Caucus-Meteor,” he says. “We must return the body to his village.”

Friends and relatives come from all over for the funeral rite, but the only close relatives the old man had were his daughters, Black Dirt and Caterina. The convent reluctantly lets Caterina loose for this pagan service, but because she's still a novice, she's required to stay in the company of an older nun, and leave right after the ceremony. Black Dirt and Caterina reconcile their differences.

“I wronged you with my anger, sister,” says Black Dirt.

“And I you with my selfishness,” says Caterina.

“Has Jesus been good to you?”

“Before I gave myself to Jesus, I was in a deep pit of hopelessness, dark as a well. Now I am in the light.”

The sisters embrace.

Drummers make mournful music, while Caucus-Meteor's daughters stand by the fire; village women wrap the sisters in blankets, and then the mourners form a line, say a few words to the sisters, embrace them, and move on. Nathan Provider-of-Services is among the mourners. He shakes Caterina's hand, says a few words in Algonkian, then turns to Black Dirt. She doesn't extend her hand, so he refrains from touching her. Just says the obligatory words of consolation and leaves the line.

Afterward Black Dirt sees Nathan standing alone. He looks as pained as she feels. She watches as his lips move. He's praying to his Protestant Jesus.

Hungry Heart and Omer Laurent pass through the line. Hungry Heart has gained strength and weight after her woman's illness earlier in the year. She embraces Black Dirt, then whispers into her ear. “Omer and I must return to our business, but before we go, we must see you in the wigwam when no one else is about.”

The body lies under folds of tightly wrapped birch bark stitched at the ends. In the shroud the body looks like a tree trunk, except that at one end the top of the turban protrudes. All agreed that the king would want to be buried wearing his turban. After the ceremony around the fire, the mourners march in procession, through the cornfield, past the stone ruins, to the cemetery. Black Dirt and Caterina drop Caucus-Meteor's few worldly possessions into the grave. Then each of the mourners takes a handful of earth and throws it in.

Black Dirt says goodbye to her sister in French.

“Our father brought us together with his death,” Caterina whispers. “After I take my final vows in a year, I can have visitors.” Caterina gives Black Dirt rosary beads. “Keep these in a sacred place. Some day you may have use for them.”

“I will, and when you have taken your vows I will come to you, sister.”

“I will pray for you every day, sister.”

The nun accompanying Caterina interrupts, explaining to Black Dirt that Caterina is forbidden to speak any further. Caterina bows her head, clasps her hands in prayer, which she offers to her sister like a kiss.

In the barn, Caucus-Meteor tells Norman Feathers that attending one's own funeral through conjuring is a pleasant if frustrating experience. “I'm happy that Black Dirt and Caterina are sisters in heart again. I knew my death would be good for something besides throwing the intendant off my trail. Now tell me as much as you can about Haggis and Nathan Provider-of-Services.”

Norman tells all he can remember about the behavior of the two men.

“Listen to me carefully, Norman Feathers,” says Caucus-Meteor. “You must tell no one that I am alive, because eventually the news would get back to the intendant, and I would be arrested. If I know one thing it's that there is going to be trouble in Conissadawaga revolving around succession to my throne. I've been planning a way to resolve these problems, but it will require your cooperation.”

“I've been taught by my faith to be loyal to my church and my king, and you Caucus-Meteor are my king,” says Norman Feathers.

“I never thought I'd be thanking Jesus Christ for what he's done to men's minds, but in this case I can only say, ‘Merci.' Norman, do you know the Latin words of the Catholic mass?”

“I know them all. They are my comfort.”

“I've always wondered. What do the words of the mass mean?”

“Mean? What does the meaning of words have to do with faith?”

“Why, nothing, nothing at all. Norman, I have some important work for you. If you will memorize a few words of oratory, I think that you can help me establish strong leadership for our village.”

Days later, after Norman has returned with his tale, Caucus-Meteor conjures it over a fire. Before, starvation and Norman's assistance in providing him raw information helped him travel back in time. Now he can do it on a full stomach. He's already in between worlds, and eventually, with practice and more illness and hardships, Caucus-Meteor believes, he won't need Norman.

But for now he can only visualize and conjure upon what has been described to him.

Without any prior discussion, everyone in Conissadawaga senses that this evening's meeting around the campfire will be a fateful one, though no one is certain just what will transpire. Wytopitlock and Parmachnenee groom Nathan Provider-of-Services carefully—washing, plucking hairs from his face and chest, making certain his beads and pendants look right with his clothes: fresh trade shirt, leather breeches, fancy walking moccasins with frilled tops. (He's retired his plain racing shoes.) It's a pleasant evening, though on the cool side. The cold season is coming. Because he's spent more time than usual dressing, Nathan is a little late leaving the wigwam. Haggis is waiting in the circle for him.

“In the past when Caucus-Meteor returned to the village he was very generous,” Haggis says. He looks at Nathan. “I know that Caucus-Meteor collected much French scrip betting on footraces.”

“Not just footraces, but footraces won by Nathan Provider-of-Services.” Nathan thumps his chest with his fist.

“Winning races is honor enough in American land, Nathan Provider-of-Services,” says Haggis sarcastically. “For the gambler, money is the honeycomb at the top of the tree. Caucus-Meteor didn't necessarily bet on Nathan Provider-of-Services. What I want to know is before the old man mysteriously disappeared, did he give you his money, for no money was found on him. And if he did, doesn't the money belong to Caucus-Meteor's people?”

Nathan responds with haughty arrogance. “If Caucus-Meteor gave me his money, I do not owe any to Haggis.”

“Haggis does not want money,” Haggis says. “Haggis wants the truth. In Canada, French scrip and truth become one.”

“I could have taken the old man's money any time. I don't know where it is.” It sounds like a lie, but then again a lot of truths sound like lies; the people are caught between conflicting currents of mind on this matter.

“Maybe he hid it,” says Parmachnenee. “It would be like Caucus-Meteor to hide his money.”

“Maybe so. He must have hidden it,” says Haggis, his voice reeking with sarcasm. Parmachnenee's making excuses for Nathan has wounded Haggis in a way he wants to conceal, for he had been thinking that she might become his fifth wife, and now this from her—stupidity and betrayal.

The issue hangs there for a few minutes while the people decide what to do next. They need a firm idea to grasp onto, which presently Haggis attempts to formulate. “I believe that Nathan Provider-of-Services strangled the old king, put him in the canoe, set him adrift, and then returned to his bed with the money,” Haggis says.

“Where I come from we have a thing called proof,” says Nathan. He doesn't seem to be a villager anymore. His mannerisms, the catch in his Algonkian pronunciation—he's an Englishman again. Suddenly, the entire village is suspicious of their former slave.

Nathan reaches into the edges of the fire and picks up a stick burning at one end. He holds it in front of him. “Go ahead, burn me, like the old king did he when wanted to get his way out of an informant. And I will tell anything the savage wants to hear.” He's trembling, not with fear, but with rage; his word has been questioned. Now he's no longer an Englishman—now he's an American again. The people are thinking he's very powerful indeed. Such a man must be killed or repositioned at a higher level in the community.

Black Dirt comes out of her wigwam, and steps into the circle.

“I heard angry voices,” she says, “and I am sorry, and I confess that it is in part my fault that you are full of suspicion, for I have my father's money. It was brought to me by … let us say it was an angel. I have instructions from my father to pay the intendant his bribe. The angel said my father requested that I not reveal that I had the money until I heard from him, and that is why I have told no one until this moment.”

“Have you heard from his ghost?” asks Katahdin.

“No, all is quiet in my head, in my wigwam. I was awaiting a sign. I think this gathering of our people is that sign.”

“Is there money left over?” Katahdin addresses Black Dirt.

“Quite a bit.”

Nathan Provider-of-Services throws the stick into the fire, and steps outside of its light, as one does when one has no more to offer a discussion.

Haggis is a little frustrated now. His number one wife has replaced him as interrogator. The argument now belongs to the women.

“Did Caucus-Meteor mean for you to have the extra money for yourself, or for us?” asks Katahdin.

“I am not certain what his will was, but were any of us ever certain about him even when he was here among us?” Black Dirt says. “I have been thinking about the money. I will not use the money for myself. Surely, people of Conissadawaga, you know me better than that. I will use it for the village.”

Haggis thinks he had better say something important or else he'll lose this moment. “It sounds like Black Dirt wants to be chief,” he says.

Black Dirt pauses for a moment, and then speaks. “Among my father's people were women chiefs, like the sachem Weetamoo. My own mother, Keeps-the-Flame, who was Iroquois where women often serve as advisers in their later years, was elected by you to rule with Caucus-Meteor. We are not Iroquois, not Algonkian, not French, not English, not Dutch, not any tribe of the various languages my father knew so well, and yet the blood of all these peoples is in our veins, their behavior in our habits and in the construction of our ideas. Conissadawaga is a free nation where any American can be what he or she wants. If you choose me as chief, I will use Caucus-Meteor's money to preserve not only our people, but our place, this … this … holy mother land.” She makes a gesture to the fields.