The Old American Read Online Free PDF Page B

everything.”
    â€œThe vultures from Old France are stealing Canada blind,” St. Blein’s normal blasé demeanor falls away. He’s full of passion and belief. “They steal from the peasants, they steal from the soldiers, they steal from the king, and they steal from the savages.”
    â€œWe should be flattered they treat us as equal to the king.”
    St. Blein smiles a crooked grin, as if remembering that it is more productive to pretend indifference. “It’s getting late, Caucus-Meteor. I’m going to bed. You should go to bed, too, old king.” St. Blein rises to leave.
    â€œNot me. I’m going to sit here all night, and eat this fire.”
    Caucus-Meteor watches the Frenchman vanish into the darkness, then he huddles very close to his fire, lets the smoke sting his eyes, the heat burnish his skin. With the help of his fire and the nagging hurt of his self-inflicted burn, Caucus-Meteor finds powers to pluck out of memory a vivid picture of his late wife. She was in her sixties when she died, a woman with big shoulders, big bust, very dark skin. He says something in Algonkian to the fire. The fire responds in Iroquois. Suddenly, Keeps-the-Flame, young and beautiful and naked, appears in the flames. Caucus-Meteor, with a full head of hair in braids, drapes her body with wampum belts, bits of white and lavender seashells held together with thread—the old currency.
    The old American dreams but he does not sleep; he sits with a blanket over his shoulders by a small fire, and rests by concentrating his attention on the fire, watching the flames and smoke, listening to the crackles and hisses, inviting dreams. Sometimes he closes his eyes, and is able move on to other places, other times, but he’s never unaware of the world in which he resides, so when the captive awakens in the middle of the night, cramped, cold, aching from the thongs cutting into his wrists, Caucus-Meteor hears his labored breath, his moans, and finally his cry of startled anguish as he comes out of a nightmare.
    Caucus-Meteor puts three sticks on his dying fire, picks up the musket, then walks a few feet in the darkness to the prisoner.
    â€œGood evening, Nathan Blake,” he says. It’s a test. If Nathan complains about his obvious discomfort, Caucus-Meteor will walk away and let him suffer from cramps, but Nathan only returns the greeting. The captive has passed a test. Caucus-Meteor frees Nathan from his bonds so he can stretch his limbs.
    When a man dreams, he is righting himself, believes Caucus-Meteor, and a righting man is dangerous. Nathan Blake will pray to his god, and he will plan for escape. At this point, Caucus-Meteor is uncertain how violent and capable this farmer can be. He’s feeling his burn when the dangerous idea he had earlier returns: if my captive kills me my worries will be greatly reduced.
    Next morning on the trail, while pretending to be more exhausted than he really is (though he is exhausted enough), Caucus-Meteor watches his prisoner very carefully, and determines that his analysis was correct. The prisoner is planning an escape. The technique is simple enough: twisting his tied wrists until he can slip out in the slime of his own blood. Old tricks, born of desperation, are always a little sad as well as annoying.
    The troop begins a long ascent through the mountains, following an ancient trail that winds with a river that tumbles over rocks, runs fast through pebbles, and never seems to meander. The rocks are different here from the ones in Nathan’s land. They’re lighter in color, more brittle, the slates more layered. The water in the stream is different, too, not tea-colored, but clear with just a taint of green. Further up, the hardwoods give way to fir with groves of white birch and yellow birch.
    As Nathan Blake walks he continually turns his wrists against the ropes. Surely, thinks his captor, he believes that toil, blood, and belief will free