Red Prophet: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume II Read online

  “Besides,” said Frederic, “you’re not in command. I’m in command.”

  “The Marquis has the supreme military authority here,” said Bonaparte.

  Frederic understood completely: La Fayette also had the authority to put Bonaparte in command over Frederic, if he desired. He cast an anxious look toward La Fayette, who was complacently spreading goose-liver paste on his bread. La Fayette smiled benignly. “General Bonaparte is under your command, Frederic. That will not change. Ever. I hope that’s clear, my dear Napoleon.”

  “Of course,” said Napoleon. “I would not dream of changing that. You should know that the King is sending more than generals to Canada. Another thousand soldiers will be here in the spring.”

  “Yes, well, I’m impressed to learn that he’s promised to send more troops again—haven’t we heard a dozen such promises before, Frederic? I’m always reassured to hear another promise from the King.” La Fayette took the last sip from his wineglass. “But the fact is, my dear Napoleon, we already have soldiers, too, who do nothing but sit in garrison at Fort Detroit and Fort Chicago, paying for scalps with bourbon. Such a waste of bourbon. The Reds drink it like water and it kills them.”

  “If we don’t need generals and we don’t need soldiers,” asked Bonaparte condescendingly, “what do you think we need to win this war?”

  Frederic couldn’t decide if he hated Bonaparte for speaking so rudely to an aristocrat, or loved him for speaking so rudely to the detestable Marquis de La Fayette.

  “To win? Ten thousand French settlers,” said La Fayette. “Match the Americans man for man, wife for wife, child for child. Make it impossible to do business in that part of the country without speaking French. Overwhelm them with numbers.”

  “No one would come to live in such wild country,” said Frederic, as he had said so many times before.

  “Offer them free land and they’d come,” said La Fayette.

  “Riff-raff,” said Frederic. “We hardly need more riff-raff.”

  Bonaparte studied La Fayette’s face a moment in silence. “The commercial value of these lands is the fur trade,” said Bonaparte quietly. “The King was very clear on that point. He wants no European settlement at all outside the forts.”

  “Then the King will lose this war,” said La Fayette cheerfully, “no matter how many generals he sends. And with that, gentlemen, I think we have done with supper.”

  La Fayette arose and left the table immediately.

  Bonaparte turned to face Frederic, who was already standing up to leave. He reached out his hand and touched Frederic’s wrist. “Stay, please,” he said. Or no, actually he merely said, “Stay,” but it felt to Frederic that he was saying please, that he really wanted Frederic to remain with him, that he loved and honored Frederic—

  But he couldn’t, no, he couldn’t, he was a commoner, and Frederic had nothing to say to him—

  “My lord de Maurepas,” murmured the Corsican corporal. Or did he say merely “Maurepas,” while Frederic simply imagined the rest? Whatever his words, his voice was rich with respect, with trust, with hope—

  So Frederic stayed.

  Bonaparte said almost nothing. Just normal pleasantries. We should work well together. We can serve the King properly. I will help you all I can.

  But to Frederic, there was so much more than words. A promise of future honor, of returning to Paris covered with glory. Victory over the Americans, and above all putting La Fayette in his place, triumphing over the democratic traitorous marquis. He and this Bonaparte could do it, together. Patience for a few years, building up an army of Reds so large that it provokes the Americans to raise an army, too; then we can defeat that American army and go home. That’s all it will take. It was almost a fever of hope and trust that filled Frederic’s heart, until—

  Until Bonaparte took his hand away from Frederic’s wrist.

  It was as if Bonaparte’s hand had been his connection to a great source of life and warmth; with the touch removed, he grew cold, weary. But still there was Bonaparte’s smile, and Frederic looked at him and remembered the feeling of promise he had had a moment before. How could he have ever thought working with Bonaparte would be anything but rewarding? The man knew his place, that was certain. Frederic would merely use Bonaparte’s undeniable military talents, and together they would triumph and return to France in glory—

  Bonaparte’s smile faded, and again Frederic felt a vague sense of loss.

  “Good evening,” said Bonaparte. “I will see you in the morning, sir.”

  The Corsican left the room.

  If Frederic could have seen his face, he might have recognized his own expression: it was identical to the look of love and devotion that all Bonaparte’s junior officers had worn. But he could not see his face. That night he went to bed feeling more at peace, more confident, more hopeful and excited than he had felt in all his years in Canada. He even felt—what, what is this feeling, he wondered—ah yes. Intelligent. He even felt intelligent.

  It was deep night, but the canalmen were hard at work, using their noisy steam engine to pump water into the lock. It was an engineering marvel, the steepest system of locks on any canal in the world. The rest of the world did not know it. Europe still thought of America as a land of savages. But the enterprising United States of America, inspired by the example of that old wizard Ben Franklin, was encouraging invention and industry. Rumor had it that a man named Fulton had a working steam-powered boat plying up and down the Hudson—a steamboat that King Charles had been offered, and refused to fund! Coal mines were plunging into the earth in Suskwahenny and Appalachee. And here in the state of Irrakwa, the Reds were outdoing the Whites at their own game, building canals, steam-powered cars to run on railed roads, steam-powered spinning wheels that spat out the cotton of the Crown Colonies and turned it into fine yarns that rivaled anything in Europe—at half the cost. It was just beginning, just starting out, but already more than half the boats that came up the St. Lawrence River were bound for Irrakwa, and not for Canada at all.

  La Fayette stood at the rail until the lock was filled and the fires of the steam engine were allowed to die. Then the clop, clop, clop of the canal horses and the boat slid forward again through the water. La Fayette left the rail and walked quietly up the stairs to his room. By dawn, they would be at Port Buffalo. De Maurepas and Bonaparte would go west to Detroit. La Fayette would return to the Governor’s mansion in Niagara. There he would sit, issuing orders and watching Parisian policies kill any future for the French in Canada. There was nothing La Fayette could do to keep the Americans, Red and White together, from surpassing Canada and leaving it behind. But he could do a few things to help change France into the kind of nation that could reach out to the future as boldly as America was doing.

  In his own quarters, La Fayette lay on his bed, smiling. He could imagine what Bonaparte had done tonight, alone in the room with poor empty-headed Freddie. The young Comte de Maurepas was doubtless completely charmed. The same thing might well have happened to La Fayette, but he had been warned about what Bonaparte could do, about his knack for making people trust their lives to him. It was a good knack for a general to have, as long as he only used it on his soldiers, so they’d be willing to die for him. But Bonaparte used it on everybody, if he thought he could get away with it. So La Fayette’s good friend Robespierre had sent him a certain jeweled amulet. The antidote to Bonaparte’s charm. And a vial of powder, too—the final antidote to Bonaparte, if he could be controlled no other way.

  Don’t worry, Robespierre, my dear fellow, thought La Fayette. Bonaparte will live. He thinks he is manipulating Canada to serve his ends, but I will manipulate him to serve the ends of democracy. Bonaparte does not suspect it now, but when he returns to France he will be ready to take command of a revolutionary army, and use his knack to end the tyranny of the ruling class instead of using it to add meaningless crowns to King Charles’s most unworthy head.

  For La Fayette’s knack was not to read
other men’s thoughts, as de Maurepas suspected, but it was nearly that. La Fayette knew upon meeting them what other men and women wanted most. And knowing that, everything else could be guessed at. La Fayette already knew Napoleon better than Napoleon knew himself. He knew that Napoleon Bonaparte wanted to rule the world. And maybe he’d achieve it. But for now, here in Canada, La Fayette would rule Napoleon Bonaparte. He fell asleep clutching the amulet that kept him safe.

  4

  Lolla-Wossiky

  When Lolla-Wossiky left Ta-Kumsaw standing by the gate of Fort Carthage, he knew what his brother thought. Ta-Kumsaw thought he was going off with his keg to drink and drink and drink.

  But Ta-Kumsaw didn’t know. White Murderer Harrison didn’t know. Nobody knew about Lolla-Wossiky. This keg would last him two months maybe. A little bit now, a little bit then. Careful, careful, never spill a drop, drink just this much, close it tight, make it last. Maybe even three months.

  Always before he had to stay close to White Murderer Harrison’s fort, to get the cups of dribbling likker from the dark brown jug. Now, though, he had plenty to make his journey, his great north journey to meet his dream beast.

  Nobody knew that Lolla-Wossiky had a dream beast. White man didn’t know cause White man had no dream beast, White man slept all the time and never woke up. Red man didn’t know cause Red man saw Lolla-Wossiky and thought he was a likker Red, going to die, had no dream beast, never wake up.

  Lolla-Wossiky knew though. Lolla-Wossiky knew that light up north, he saw it come five years back. He knew it was his dream beast calling, but he never could go. He started five, six, twelve times north, but then the likker would seep out of his blood and then the noise would come back, terrible black noise that hurt him so bad all the time. When the black noise came it was like a hundred tiny knives in his head, twisting, twisting, so he couldn’t feel the land no more, couldn’t even see his dream beast light, had to go back, find the likker, still the noise so he could think.

  This last was the very worst time. No likker came for a long, long time, and for two months at the end even White Murderer Harrison didn’t have much for him, maybe one cup in a week, never enough to last more than a few hours, maybe a day. Two long months of black noise all the time.

  Black noise made it so Lolla-Wossiky couldn’t walk right. Everything wiggles, ground bumps up and down, how can you walk when the land looks like water? So everybody thought Lolla-Wossiky was drunk, stagger like a whisky-Red, fall down all the time. Where does he get the likker? they all ask. Nobody has likker but Lolla-Wossiky still gets drunk, how does he do it? Not one person has eyes to see that Lolla-Wossiky isn’t drunk at all. Don’t they hear how he talks, clear talking, not drunk-talk? Don’t they smell he got no likker-stink? Nobody guesses, nobody reckons, nobody calcalates, nobody figures. They know Lolla-Wossiky always needs likker. Never nobody thinks maybe Lolla-Wossiky has pain so bad he hopes to die.

  And when he closes his eye to stop the world from rippling like the river, they all think he’s asleep and they say things. Oh, they say things they don’t want no Red to hear. Lolla-Wossiky figured that out very quick and so when the black noise got so bad he wanted to go lie down on the bottom of the river to shut out the noise forever, instead he staggered to White Murderer Harrison’s office and fell down on the floor by his door and listened. Black noise was very loud, but it wasn’t ear noise, so he could still hear voices even with the roaring of the black noise in his head. He thought very hard to hear every word under the door. He knew all that White Murderer Harrison said to everybody.

  Lolla-Wossiky never told anybody what he heard.

  Lolla-Wossiky never told anybody anything true. They never believed him anyway. You’re drunk, Lolla-Wossiky. Shame on you, Lolla-Wossiky. Even when he wasn’t drunk, even when he hurt so bad he wanted to kill everything alive to make it go away, even then they said, Too bad to see even a Red get so awful drunk. And Ta-Kumsaw, standing there never saying anything or when he did, being so strong and right, when Lolla-Wossiky was so weak and wrong.

  North north north went Lolla-Wossiky, chanting to himself. North a thousand steps before I take a little drink. North with the black noise so loud I don’t know where north is, but still north because I don’t dare to stop.

  Very dark night. Black noise so bad the land says nothing to Lolla-Wossiky. Even the white light of the dream beast is far off and seems to come from everywhere at the same time. One eye sees night, other eye sees black noise. Have to stop. Have to stop.

  Very carefully Lolla-Wossiky found a tree, put down the keg, sat down and leaned against the tree, keg between his legs. Very slowly because he couldn’t see, he felt the keg all over to make sure of the bung. Tap tap tap with the tommy-hawk, tap, tap, tap till the bung was loose. Slowly he wiggled it out with his fingers. Then he leaned over and put his mouth over the bunghole, tight as a kiss, tight as a baby on the nipple, that’s how tight; then up with the keg, very slow, very slow, not very high, there’s the taste, there’s the likker, one swallow, two swallows, three swallows, four.

  Four is all. Four is the end. Four is the true number, the whole number, the square number. Four swallows.

  He put the bung back into the keg and tapped it into place, tight. Already the likker is getting to his head. Already the black noise is fading, fading.

  Into silence. Into beautiful green silence.

  But the green also goes away, fading with the black. Every time it goes this way. The land sense, the green vision that every Red has, nobody ever saw it clearer than Lolla-Wossiky. But now when it comes, right behind it comes the black noise every time. And when the black noise goes, when the likker chases it off, right behind it goes away the green living silence every time.

  Lolla-Wossiky is left like a White man then. Cut off from the land. Ground crunching underfoot. Branches snagging. Roots tripping. Animals running away.

  Lolla-Wossiky hoped, hoped for years to find just the right amount of likker to drink, to still the black noise and still leave the green vision. Four swallows, that was as close as he ever came. It left the black noise just out of reach, just behind the nearest tree. But it also left the green where he could just touch it. Just reach it. So he could pretend to be a true Red instead of a whisky-Red, which was really a White.

  Tonight, though, he had been without likker so long, two months except for a cup now and then, that four swallows was too strong for him. The green was gone with the black. But he didn’t care, not today. Didn’t care, had to sleep.

  When he woke up in the morning, the black noise was just coming back. He wasn’t sure whether the sun or the noise woke him, and he didn’t care. Tap on the bung, four swallows, tap it closed. This time the land sensed stayed close by, he could feel it a little. Enough to find the rabbit in the hole.

  Thick old stick. Cut it here, slice it, slice it, so splintery burrs of wood stuck out in every direction.

  Lolla-Wossiky knelt down in front of the rabbit hole.

  “I am very hungry,” he whispered. “And I am not very strong. Will you give me meat?”

  He strained to hear the answer, strained to know if it was right. But it was too far off, and rabbits were very quiet in their land-voice. Once, he remembered, he could hear all the voices, and from miles and miles away. Maybe if the black noise ever went away, he could hear again. But for now, he had no way of knowing if the rabbits gave consent or not.

  So he didn’t know if he had the right or not. Didn’t know if he was taking like a Red man, just what the land offered, or stealing like a White man, murdering whatever it pleased him to kill. He had no choice. He thrust the stick into the burrow, twisting it. He felt it quiver, heard the squeal, and pulled it out, still twisting. Little rabbit, not a big one, just a little rabbit squirming to get away from the splinters, but Lolla-Wossiky was quick, just at the moment the rabbit was at the burrow mouth, ready to get free and run, Loila-Wossiky had his hand there, held the rabbit by the head, lifted it quickly into the air and gave it a s
nap and a shake. It came down dead, little rabbit, and Lolla-Wossiky carried it away from the burrow, back to the keg, because it is very bad, it makes an empty place in the land, if you skin a baby animal where its kin can see or hear you.

  He did not make a fire. Too dangerous, and there was no time to smoke the meat, not this close to White Murderer Harrison’s fort, There wasn’t much meat anyway; he ate it all, raw so it took chewing but the flavor was very strong and good. If you can’t smoke meat, Red man knows, carry all you can in your belly. He tucked the hide into the waist of his loincloth, hoisted the keg over his shoulder, and started north. The white light was on ahead of him, dream beast calling, dream beast urging him on. I will wake you up, said the dream beast. I will end your dream.

  White man heard about dream beasts. White man thought the Red man went out into the forest and had dreams. Stupid White man, never understood. All of life at first is a long sleep, a long dream. You fall asleep at the moment you are born, and never wake up, never wake up until finally one day the dream beast calls you. You go then, into the forest, sometimes only a few steps, sometimes to the edge of the world. You go until you meet the beast who calls you. The beast is not in a dream. The beast wakes you up from the dream. The beast shows you who you are, teaches you your place in the land. Then you go home awake, awake at last, and tell the shaman and your mother and your sisters who the dream beast was. A bear? A badger? A bird? A fish? A hawk or an eagle? A bee or a wasp? The shaman will tell you stories and help you choose your woke-up name. Your mother and sisters will name all your children, whether they have been born yet or not.

  All of Lolla-Wossiky V brothers met their dream beasts long ago. Now his mother was dead, his two sisters were gone to live with another tribe. Who would name his children?

  I know, said Lolla-Wossiky. I know. Lolla-Wossiky will never have children, this old one-eyed whisky-Red. But Lolla-Wossiky will find his dream beast. Lolla-Wossiky will wake up. Lolla-Wossiky will have his woke-up name.