Red Prophet ttoam-2 Read online

  Miller stood up from the bloody field and raised his hands high over his head, thick blood running from his scarlet hands. A cry was wrung from his throat, forced out by anguish, by despair. “What have I done! What have I done!” The cry was echoed by a dozen, a hundred, three hundred voices.

  And there was General Harrison on his prancing horse, out in front of everybody. Even his own soldiers had thrown down their guns by now.

  “It's a lie!” cried Harrison. “I never saw this boy! Someone has played a terrible trick on me!”

  “It ain't no trick!” shouted Measure. “Here's his kerchief– they stuffed it in my mouth yesterday, to gag me while they broke my bones!”

  Miller could see the kerchief clearly in his son's hand. It had the WHH embroidered in large, clear letters in the corner. Every man in that army had seen his handkerchiefs.

  And now some of Harrison's own soldiers spoke up. “It's true! We brought this boy to Harrison two days ago.”

  “We didn't know he was one of the boys they all said the Reds had killed!”

  A high, howling cry floated over the meadow. They all looked down to where the one-eyed Prophet stood on the solid, scarlet water of the Tippy-Canoe.

  “Come to me, my people!” he said.

  The surviving Reds walked, slowly, steadily toward the water. They walked across it, then gathered on the other side. “All my people, come!”

  The corpses rustled, moved. The White men standing among them cried out in terror. But the dead were not riging up to walk– only the wounded who still breathed, they were the ones who rose up, staggered. Some of them tried to carry children, babies– they had no strength for it:

  Miller saw and felt the blood on his own hands. He had to do something, didn't he? So he reached out to a struggling woman, whose husband leaned against her for support, meaning to take the baby from her arms and carry it for her. But when he came near, she looked into his face, and he saw his own reflection in her eyes– his face haggard, White, spattered with blood, his hands dripping with blood. Tiny as it was, he saw that reflection as clear as if it had been on a mirror held in front of his own face. He couldn't touch her baby, not with hands like his.

  Some of the other White men on the hill also tried to help, but they must have seen something like what Miller saw, and they recoiled as if they had been burned.

  Maybe a thousand wounded got up and tried to reach the creek. Many of them collapsed and died before they got there. Those that reached the water walked, staggered, crawled across; they were helped by the Reds on the other side.

  Miller noticed something peculiar. All those wounded Reds, all the uninjured ones, they had walked on this meadow, they had walked across the blood-red river, and yet there wasn't a spot of blood on their hands or feet.

  “All my people, all who died– Come home, says the land!”

  All around them, the meadow was strewn with bodies– by far the majority of those who had stood there as living families only an hour before. Now, at the Prophet's words, these bodies seemed to shudder, to crumble; they collapsed and sank into the grass of the meadow. It took perhaps a minute, and they were gone, the grass springing up lush and green. The last of the blood skittered down the slope like beads of water on a hot griddle and became part of the bright red creek.

  “Come to me, my friend Measure.” The Prophet spoke quietly, and held out his hand.

  Measure turned his back on his father and walked down the grassy slope to the water's edge.

  “Walk to me,” said the Prophet.

  “I can't walk on the blood of your people,” he said.

  “They gave their blood to lift you up,” said the Prophet. “Come to me, or take the curse that will fall on every White man in that meadow.”

  “I reckon I'll stay here, then,” said Measure. “If I'd've been in their place, I don't figure I'd've done a thing different than what they did. If they're guilty, so am I.”

  The Prophet, nodded.

  Every White man there felt something warm and wet and sticky on his hands. Some of them cried out when they saw. From elbow to hands, they dripped with blood. Some tried to wipe it off on their shirts. Some searched for wounds that might be bleeding, but there were no wounds. Just bloody hands.

  “Do you want your hands to be clean of the blood of my people?” asked the Prophet. He wasn't shouting anymore, but they all heard him, every word. And yes, yes, they wanted their hands to be clean.

  “Then go home and tell this story to your wives and children, to your neighbors, to your friends. Tell the whole story. Leave nothing out. Don't say that someone fooled you– you all knew when you fired on people who had no weapons that what you did was murder. No matter whether you thought some of us might have committed some crime. When you shot at babies in their mothers' anus, little children, old men and women, you were murdering us because we were Red. So tell the story as it happened, and if you tell it true, your hands will be clean.”

  There wasn't a man, on that meadow who wasn't weeping or trembling or faint with shame. To tell of this day's work to their wives and children, their parents, their brothers and sisters, that seemed unbearable. But if they didn't, these bloody hands would ten the story for them. It was more than they could bear to think of.

  But the Prophet wasn't through. “If some stranger comes along, and you don't tell him the whole story before you sleep, then the blood will come back on your hands, and stay there until you do tell him. That's how it will be for the rest of your lives– every man and woman that you meet will have to hear the true story from your lips, or your hands will be filthy again. And if you ever, for any reason, kill another human being, then your hands and face will drip with blood forever, even in the grave.”

  They nodded, they agreed. It was justice, simple justice. They couldn't give back the lives of those they killed, but they could make sure no lie was ever told about the way that they were killed. No one could ever claim that Tippy-Canoe was a victory, or even a battle. It was a massacre, and White men committed it, and not one Red raised a hand in violence or defense. No excuse, no softening; it would be known.

  Only one thing remained– the guilt of the man on the prancing stallion.

  “White Murderer Harrison!” called the Prophet. “Come to me!”

  Harrison shook his head, tried to turn his horse; the reins slipped from his bloody hands, and the horse walked briskly down the hill. All the White men watched him silently, hating him for how he lied to them, stirred them up, found the murder in their hearts and called it forth. The horse brought him to the water's edge. He looked downward at the one-eyed Red who had once sat under his table and begged for drops of whiskey from his cup.

  “Your curse is the same,” said the Prophet, “except that your story is much longer and uglier to tell. And you won't wait for strangers to come along before you speak– every day of your life you'll have to find someone who has never heard the story from your lips before, and tell it to him– every day! –or your hands will drip with blood. And if you decide to hide, and live with blood-soaked hands rather than find new people to tell, you'll feel the pain of my people's wounds, one new wound each day, until you tell the story again, once for every day you missed. Don't try to kill yourself, either– you can't do it. You'll wander from one end of this White man's land to the other. People will see you coming and hide, dreading the sound of your voice; you'll beg them to stop and listen to you. They'll even forget your old name, and call you by the name you earned today. Tippy-Canoe. That's your new name, White Murderer Harrison. Your true name, till you die a natural death as an old, old man.”

  Harrison bent onto the mane of the horse and wept into his bloody hands. But his were tears of fury, not grief or shame. Tears of rage that all his plans had gone awry. He would kill the Prophet even now, if he could. He would search far and wide for some witch or wizard who could break this curse. He couldn't bear to let this miserable one-eyed Red defeat him.

  Measure spoke to the Prophet
from the shore. “Where will you go now, Tenskwa-Tawa?”

  “West,” said Tenskwa-Tawa. “My people, all who still believe in me, we'll go west of the Mizzipy. When you tell your story, tell White men this– that west of the Mizzipy is Red man's land. Don't come there. The land can't bear the touch of a White man's foot. You breathe out death; your touch is poison; your words are lies; the living land won't have you.”

  He turned his back, walked to the Reds waiting for him on the other shore, and helped an injured child walk up the far slope into the trees. Behind him, the water of the Tippy-Canoe began to flow again.

  Miller walked down the slope to where his son stood on the bank of the creek. “Measure,” he said, “Measure, Measure.”

  Measure turned and reached out his hands to embrace his father. “Alvin's alive, Father, far to the east of us. He's with Ta-Kumsaw, and he–”

  But Miller hushed him, held his son's hands out. They dripped blood, just like Miller's own. Miller shook his head. “It's my fault,” he said. “All my fault.”

  “Not all, Father,” said Measure. “There's fault enough for everyone to share.”

  “But not for you, Son. That's my shame on your hands.”

  "Well, then, maybe you'll feel it less, for having two of us to carry it. " Measure reached out and took his father by the shoulders, held him close. "We've seen the worst that men can do, Pa, and been the worst that men can be. But that don't mean that someday we won't see the best, too. And if we can never be perfect after this, well, we can still be pretty good, can't we?"

  Maybe, thought Miller. But he doubted it. Or maybe he just doubted that he'd ever believe it, even if it were true. He'd never look into his own heart again and like what he found there.

  They waited there on the riverbank for Miller's other sons. They came with bloody hands– David, Calm, Wastenot, Wantnot. David held his hands in front of him and wept. “I wish that I had died with Vigor in the Hatrack River!”

  “No you don't,” said Calm.

  “I'd be dead, but I'd be clean.”

  The twins said nothing, but held each other's cold and slimy hands.

  “We need to go home,” said Measure.

  “No,” said Miller.

  “They'll be worried,” said Measure. “Ma, the girls, Cally.”

  Miller remembered his parting from Faith. “She said that if I– if this–”

  “I know how Ma talks, but I also know your children need their pa, and she won't keep you out.”

  “I'll have to tell her. What we did.”

  “Yes, and the girls and Cally, too. We each have to tell them, and Calm and David have their wives to tell. Best do it now, and clean our hands, and get on with our lives. All of us at once, all of us together. And I have a story to tell you, too, about me and Alvin. When we've done with this tale, I'll tell mine, is that good? Will you stay for that?”

  Armor met them at the Wobbish. The ferry was already on the other side, still unloading, and other men had took all the boats they used for crossing last night. So they stood and waited.

  Measure stripped off his bloody coat and trousers, but Armor wouldn't put them on. Armor didn't make no accusations, but none of the others would look at their brother-in-law. Measure took him aside and told him about the curse while the ferry was slowly drawn back across the river. Armor listened, then walked to Miller, whose back was to him, looking at the far shore.

  “Father,” said Armor-of-God.

  “You were right, Armor,” said Miller, still not looking at him. He held up his hands. “Here it is, the proof that you were right.”

  “Measure tells me that I have to hear the story once from all of you,” said Armor, turning to include them all in his speech. “But then you'll never hear another word of it from me. I'm still your son and brother, if you'll have me; my wife is your daughter and your sister, and you're the only kin I have out here.”

  “To your shame,” whispered David.

  “Don't punish me because my hands are clean,” said Armor.

  Calm held out a bloody hand. Armor took it without hesitation, shook firmly, then let go.

  “Look at that,” said Calm. “You touch us, it comes off on you.”

  In answer, Armor held out that same stained hand to Miller. After a while, Miller took it. The handshake lasted till the ferry came. Then they headed on home.

  Chapter 15 – Two-Soul Man

  Taleswapper woke at dawn, instantly aware that something was wrong. It was Ta-Kumsaw, sitting on the grass, his face toward the west, rocking back and forth and breathing heavily, as if he was enduring a dull and heavy ache. Was he ill?

  No. Alvin had failed. The slaughter had begun. Ta-Kumsaw's pain was not from his own body. It was Ta-Kumsaw's people dying, somewhere afar off, and what he felt was not grief or pity, it was the pain of their deaths. Even for a Red man as gifted as Ta-Kumsaw, to feel death from so far away meant that many, many souls had gone on to their reward.

  As he had so many times before, Taleswapper addressed a few silent words to God, which always came down to this question: Why do you put us to so much trouble, when it all comes to nought in the end? Taleswapper couldn't bear the futility of it. Ta-Kumsaw and Alvin racing across country in their way, Taleswapper making the best time a White man can make, and Alvin going onto Eight-Face Mound, and what does it come to? Does it save a life? So many are dying now that Ta-Kumsaw can feel it from clear away by the Wobbish.

  And, as usual, God had nothing much to say to Taleswapper when his questioning was done.

  Taleswapper had no wish to interrupt Ta-Kumsaw. Or rather he guessed that Ta-Kumsaw had no particular wish to get into conversation with a White man at this particular moment. Yet he felt a vision growing within him. Not a vision such as prophets were rumored to see, not a vision of inward eyes. To Taleswapper visions came as words, and he did not know what the vision was until his own words told him. Even then, he knew that he was not a prophet; his visions were never such as would change the world, only the sort of thing that records it, that understands the world. Now, however, he took no thought of whether his visions were worthy or not. It came, and he must record it. Yet because the writing of words had been taken from him in this place, he could not write it down. What was there, then, but, to speak the words aloud?

  So Taleswapper spoke, forming the words into couplets as he said them because that was how visions ought to be expressed, in poetry. It was a confusing tale at first, and Taleswapper could not decide whether it was God or Satan whose terrible light blinded him as the words tumbled forth. He only knew that whichever one it was, whichever one had brought such slaughter to the world, he richly deserved Taleswapper's anger, and so he wasn't bashful about lashing him with language.

  It all came down to these words rushing forth in a stream so intense that Taleswapper hardly breathed, certainly made no sensible break in the rhythms of his speech, his voice growing louder and louder as the lines were wrung from him and dashed out against the harsh wall of air around him, as if he dared God to hear him and resent his resentment:

  When I had my defiance given The sun stood trembling in heaven The moon that glowed remote below Became leprous and white as snow And every soul of men on the earth Felt affliction and sorrow and sickness and dearth God flamed in my path and the Sun was hot With the bows of my mind and the arrows of thought My bowstring fierce with ardor breathes My arrows glow in their golden sheaves My brothers and father march before The heavens drop with human gore–

  “Stop!”

  It was Ta-Kumsaw. Taleswapper waited with his mouth open, more words, more anguish waiting to pour from him. But Ta-Kumsaw was not to be disobeyed.

  “It's finished,” said Ta-Kumsaw.

  “All dead?” whispered Taleswapper.

  “I can't feel life from here,” said Ta-Kumsaw. “I can feel death– the world is torn like an old cloth, it can never be mended.” Despair gave way immediately to cold hate. “But it can be cleaned.”

  “If
I could have prevented it, Ta-Kumsaw–”

  “Yes, you're a good man, Taleswapper. There are others, too, among your kind. Armor-of-God Weaver is such a man. And if all White men came like you, to learn this land, then there'd be no war between us.”

  “There is no war between you and me, Ta-Kumsaw.”

  “Can you change the color of your skin? Can I change mine?”

  “It isn't our skin, but our hearts–”

  “When we stand with all the Red men on one side of the field, and all the White men on the other side of the field, where will you stand?”

  “In the middle, pleading with both sides to–”

  “You will stand with your people, and I will stand with mine.”

  How could Taleswapper argue with him? Perhaps he would have the courage to refuse such a choice. Perhaps not. “Pray God it never comes to such a pass.”

  “It already has, Taleswapper.” Ta-Kumsaw nodded. “From this day's work, I will have no trouble gathering my army of Red men at last.”

  The words leapt from Taleswapper before he could stop them: “Then it's a terrible work you've chosen, if the death of so many good folk helps it along!”

  Ta-Kumsaw answered with a roar, springing on Taleswapper all at once, knocking him back, flat on the grass of the meadow. Ta-Kumsaw's right hand clutched Taleswapper's hair; his left pressed against Taleswapper's throat. “All White men will die, all who don't escape across the sea!”

  Yet it was not murder he intended. Even in his rage, Ta-Kumsaw did not press so hard as to strangle Taleswapper. After a moment the Red man pushed off and rolled away, burying his face in the grass, his arms and legs spread out to touch the earth with as much of his body as he could.

  “I'm sorry,” Taleswapper whispered. “I was wrong to say that.”