From his perch he could see far beyond the city, the fortifications, and the ships of war. The rolling shadow of the wild country extended to the far horizon. The European hold on the vast continent sometimes seemed so tenuous, but he knew the power of the Europeans. Gunpowder, Greek fire, and the mighty steel ax were weapons for which the natural world had no defenses. He had begun to sense something else, an awareness deep inside that had not been there before. Conawago would say it was because he had been woven into a Haudenosaunee belt. For all his effort to help the tribesmen be treated as equals by the Europeans, he was beginning to understand Johnson’s claim that the humans of towns and settled lands were fundamentally different from those of the forest. The soil of the woodlands was mixed in the blood of the tribes. They were inextricable from the land, part of the wildness, part of something ancient and vital that the world badly needed. Looking out over the dim lights toward the vastness beyond, he felt the pain deep in the hearts of the elders, the essence of their anguish over the disturbances on the other side. The bond to the natural world that defined the tribes was weakening. The settlements, the armies, the endless flow of farmers were like rot in the root of their world.
He moved to the other side of the tower to gaze on familiar stars, leaning out to see the belt of Orion the hunter emerging over the horizon. The constellation had been a favorite of his grandfather’s and they had often. . Duncan froze. One of the gargoyles below was indeed alive.
“I keep thinking of what they say about the hell dog,” Sagatchie suddenly said, as if they had been carrying on a conversation, “about how a great warrior is in its body.” The Mohawk ranger was seated on the narrow ledge beside a stone gargoyle, one hand resting casually on its head.
“The creature has a more noble air than many men I know,” Duncan replied, fighting the impulse to reach out to pull his friend to safety. There was nothing but air between Sagatchie and the cobblestones over a hundred feet below.
“I knew of that warrior married to Hetty. There were legends told of him when I was a boy. He knew how to die. He understood that a man must die at the right age, which may not mean an old age.”
“Sagatchie,” Duncan asked, “would it be possible to sit more like a man and less like a sparrow?”
The Mohawk’s teeth gleamed as he grinned. He rose and vaulted upward to sit on the wall beside Duncan. “I try to understand the cut world, but it never gives me quiet,” he said after a moment.
“The cut world?”
The Mohawk gestured toward the buildings below. “Living in cut stone and cut trees. The only time I feel alone is when I am surrounded by so many Europeans and their buildings.
“That night at the Council,” he continued after a few breaths, “the elders spoke of our nation growing old. It was painful to hear but I know they spoke the truth. Worlds change. It is the way of all things. I have always known in my heart that there would be nothing better than to die for my grandfathers and for my gods. But when I grow old what will be left? What will there be to die for? Will anyone remember the names of our gods a hundred years from now? My greatest fear is that I die an old man in the cut world. I had a vision of that on the last full moon, and it kept me awake all night. I have never been frightened in battle, but that night I felt like a small boy surrounded by hungry beasts. I saw those beggars on the streets today. I cannot stop thinking of them. I fight for the British king, but when he wins the British will take our land. The land is our birthright, the essence of our people. When we have land, we have everything. When we have no land, we can only live by working for others, which means we all become slaves and beggars.”
A great weight settled over Duncan’s shoulders. He wanted to argue. “The wilderness is like a living thing,” he offered, gesturing toward the surrounding countryside. “It will endure, like its children.”
“Wilderness?” Sagatchie said. “I see British ships on the horizon. I see camps of soldiers in every direction and a river that has become a European highway.”
“But beyond that the deer runs free and the eagle flies high,” Duncan said. “To the West no man even knows how many hundreds of miles the wildness extends.”
Sagatchie seemed lost in his own thoughts. “A warrior’s life is nothing unless it ends with honor,” he said, and he would speak no more.
As Duncan descended, the words echoed in his mind. A sacred belt said he was supposed to die for the tribal spirits, which at least would be a death with honor. But it was more likely he would die crushed in the European war machine.
When he stole into the darkened library vault, he thought a grey-haired monk had come to study the books. He was about to retreat, wary that the man bent by the candle might sound an alarm, but the monk straightened, yawning and stretching his arms. Duncan grinned and stepped into the light.
“It was the life they tried to push you to,” he said to Conawago, who had donned one of the monks’ robes against the chill. “In a robe, in a cathedral.”
“If they had just left me alone with the books, I probably never would have left,” his friend said. “Look at these!” Conawago exclaimed. “The treatise of Linnaeus on plant classification! The poetry of Thomas Grey! I was just reading the one on the death of his favorite cat. Drowned in a tub of fish!” When Duncan did not react he shrugged, then closed the book before him. “They had other plans for me, Duncan.”
Duncan paced along the rows of books, and an unexpected thrill ran down his spine as he touched them. There were many religious tracts, but also Rabelais, Cervantes, Swift, Defoe, and Voltaire, books that would not be allowed in a formal church library. “It was you,” he said, turning with sudden realization, “you who jibed with the king of France.”
As the old Nipmuc folded his hands over the book, a faraway smile lit his features. “I liked that king,” Conawago said, gazing at the candle flame, “though not his courtesans. He was shorter than I expected. He asked about the skills of the forest, so I took him to his royal garden and showed him how to lay a snare. His sister wanted me beheaded when we caught one of her lap dogs, but he was laughing about it for days. He wanted me to stay with him, grow up with him at Versailles.” Conawago’s smile grew melancholy. “I told him I had to return to America, because my mother was waiting for me.”
Duncan pulled a stool close and leaned toward his friend. “I want to hear it all. I want to know what a young Nipmuc thought of the grand palace, what you ate, and the color of the king’s robes.”
Conawago’s face lit with delight. He spoke with an energy Duncan had seldom heard in his voice, of the huge square-rigged ships in the convoy to France, of being terrified at seeing the endless ocean that first time as the convoy cleared the islands, of riding to Paris in a carriage with golden adornments. It was, Duncan realized, the salve they both needed, a carefree, intimate sharing like they knew at their mountain campfires. For brief moments the years seem to disappear, and Duncan could see the young adventurer in the old man’s face. Duncan found a bottle of the monk’s port, and they shared a cup as Conawago described the ridiculous fashions of the French women. At last, spent yet somehow refreshed, they drank another cup.
“Why are we here?” Duncan finally asked.
Conawago rose and dropped another log on the fire before answering. “They say if a Jesuit had been at the crucifixion he would have negotiated secret exile to some Roman isle for the son of God.” He turned and poked the fire with the iron rod by the chimney. “They’ve been out of favor with the Pope’s court for years, but that suits them best. Lingering in the shadows is more their way, manipulating events to their interests, quietly informing those in power.”