This was in the past, Custaloga admitted. The seventeenth century had been the pinnacle of Iroquois empire. Then the French had armed the northern tribes, and the League had been battered in battle after battle. He pointed to a skin on which scores of humans lay sprawling on the ground while others were being led away in captive straps.
When Custaloga finally sat back in the circle, another chieftain rose to receive a long birch bark container from one of the female elders. He paced around the circle with the container before stopping before Atotarho and ceremoniously opening the container. The old sachem lifted out a long pipe and held it aloft, calling for the gods to open their hearts and come join the circle of elders.
The pipe was filled with tobacco, lit with a burning cedar stick, then slowly carried around the ring, each chieftain solemnly taking it to his lips. When the sachems were finished, the pipe was extended to Conawago, then to Duncan, who found his hand trembling as he accepted the ancient instrument. He felt like a small boy before ancient sages.
“Have you come to speak of the final fate of the Haudenosaunee?” The words were spoken by Atotarho the moment Duncan handed back the pipe, so abruptly and in such well-formed English that Duncan stared at the Council leader in mute confusion before realizing they were directed toward Conawago and himself.
“I have come,” Conawago replied, “to discuss the fate of our gods.”
The words seemed to offend several of the sachems, who murmured words of alarm until a strong voice rang clear from the shadows. Sagatchie stepped forward, pointing out that no one had properly introduced the great Conawago, eldest of the Nipmuc tribe, who had once been the spiritual caretakers of all the forest people. He reminded them of how Conawago and Duncan had helped the Onondaga chief Skanawati restore honor to his people the year before, and how they both wore the mark of the dawnchasers.
The words brought a sober repose to the circle, and when Conawago spoke again all eyes were on him. He explained that the Revelator had sent them to ask the Council to join the cause of the half-king.
“Ask or demand?” asked Atotarho.
“It is not for me to impose another’s will on the Council.”
“What does the Revelator offer our people?”
“He would stop the rum that poisons many of the tribes. He would unite all the tribes to retake their lands. He would bring back old ways.”
“The Revelator’s path is full of blood,” the old chieftain observed.
“The path without the Revelator is full of blood,” Conawago replied.
The sachem’s nod was solemn. “If the gods are asking, how can we refuse?” He directed the ancient pipe to be rekindled and passed around the circle.
Conawago puffed on the sacred pipe before answering. “But first,” he finally replied, “we must be certain of who is asking. Is this Mingo called the Revelator a war chief or a peace chief?”
The chamber was suddenly very still. Duncan realized his friend had asked the essential question. The anchor of the great federation, the reason it had endured for so long, was the separation of warriors from the wise old sachems. War chiefs were not permitted to sit on the Council or to determine the course of a tribe’s action, only those called peace chiefs were able to do so. Otherwise, the woodlands would have been in a constant state of war. It was only the peace chiefs, and the matriarchs who always advised them, who could send their people to war, and only then did the war chiefs play a role. For the Council to yield to the vengeful renegade leader would be to turn its back on its sacred law.
Atotarho nodded very slowly and raised his hands into the air over his head as if beseeching the heavens. He turned to Adanahoe, sitting behind him, who whispered in his ear, then the first chieftain gestured toward a small figure sitting beside the female elders. In her simple doeskin dress, Hetty Eldridge looked more relaxed than Duncan had ever seen her. Some of the lines in her face had vanished. Her hair had a twist of red wool in it, after the Mohawk fashion. Beside her the hell dog watched attentively. The sachem waited until Hetty stood, stepped toward Duncan and Conawago, and sat behind them. They had their matriarch as well. Atotarho motioned for Duncan to take the pipe again, then waited for Duncan to exhale a long plume of smoke before speaking. “Why have you chosen this journey, McCallum?”
“A wise old Nipmuc was tortured and killed. Children were taken.”
“Are you the protector of Nipmucs, then?” the elder sachem asked.
Duncan glanced at Conawago, who kept his gaze on the head of the council. “I do not sleep well when innocent people are slain.”
Melancholy entered the elder’s eyes. “Then you may never sleep well again.”
“So just as in our tribe, the old one is the peace chief,” Custaloga inserted, motioning toward Conawago, “and the young one is the war chief.” He pointed to Duncan.
“Just as with the Haudenosaunee,” Duncan essayed, “the challenge for both is knowing what is worth fighting for.” He paused, but when he received no response, he continued. “Once my people fought for lords and flags and princes. They were a brave and joyful people who only wanted to be left alone. But they were destroyed by bullets, cannons, and swords. The rest of us were scattered like autumn leaves.”
“So now you fight for innocent men and lost children,” replied Atotarho. “I fear, Duncan McCallum, that old men and children are taken from this world every day. The world shrugs it off.”
“There is more owed to the innocent men and children of Bethel Church.”
The last two words took the breath away from the old chieftains. Duncan realized they had not heard the place of the massacre until that moment. No one spoke. Several of the council members abruptly reached for their amulets. Adanahoe broke into a wail.
Duncan’s mother was crying, frantically reaching for him as he edged over the cliff. His fall toward the rock surf far below was strangely slow, but they both knew he was dropping to his death. No matter how far she extended her arms, they were always just out of grasp. She called out desperate words, but he could not understand them. She had an urgent message for him before he died, and he could not even understand it. Then, impossibly, she was speaking in the Haudenosaunee tongue.
“You are needed, Duncan.” The words came in a different voice now, and someone was shaking his shoulder. He opened his eyes, and a gentle finger on his lips stifled his protest.
Kass pulled away his blanket and pointed to a figure who waited behind her. “The mother of the Grand Council asks for you.” Through the dim light Duncan saw Adanahoe, holding a tallow lamp. “Bringer of first light,” he said to the old woman. “It is what your name means?” Adanahoe silently nodded, and Kass put a hand on his arm. “One of the lost children is her grandson,” she said.
The Council had been slow to explain its connection to the children, but Duncan’s mention of Bethel Church had clearly seized the hearts of the Iroquois leaders. Chieftains and matriarchs alike had leaned forward as he had risen at the bidding of Atotarho to describe what had happened at the Mohawk settlement. When he finished, he had extracted the bits of paper taken from the schoolhouse wall and read the names on each.
When he had recited Jacob Pine’s name, Adanahoe had reacted with an anguished moan. When he read the name of Noah Moss, a tear had rolled down the leathery cheek of old Custaloga. For each name an old chieftain or matriarch had extended a hand for the paper. They studied the papers in tormented silence before returning them with trembling hands. Few of the tribes could read, and most just referred to writing as word pictures and tried to relate the symbols to the pictograms they used in their own records. But the slips of paper Duncan had shown them had seemed precious to them, and before returning them to him, each had pressed the paper to his or her heart.