Darkness. A creak of wood as the ship lurched with a wave, rising, rising, the whole room they were in taken up and then suddenly dropped, slapping down into a trough. And then again the rising, then the dropping, over and over. Distant rumbles of conversations, banter in a language unknown. And the darkness. So dark at night, not even the stars in the sky, just the boards, the underside of the deck above. The total absence of light, no horizon, no rising moon to turn away from while sinking into the warmth of a deer skin throw and drifting off to sleep. Different drifting. Darkness. And yet. No light, but all of Black Soil’s senses awake and aware, feeling everything, hearing everything. And something else. He knew who was awake around him even if they said nothing. He felt the gash over his eye sewing itself back together in a jagged pattern. A line of tight skin on his arm where water had pooled and then evaporated, leaving salt. He had gone out with two dozen. He was responsible for two dozen, but only fifteen were here with him now. Where were they? He could feel what the others felt too, the fear, the uncertainty. Even if they said nothing, made no movement, made no sound. Turtle Egg was awake now. Black Soil felt his presence, his consciousness as though they were sitting across from each other over a fire back at shore.
“What do they want? I tried to go up earlier, when we first got here, but there’s a closed door and there is no way for me to open it.” Black Soil could tell from Turtle Egg’s murmuring voice that he was lying down, curled up on his side, clutching his knees to his chest. Turtle Egg was speaking to himself, repeating his words like the repetition of the ship. “What do they want? What do they want?”
“We’ll have our chance, and we’ll act like warriors in battle: as one,” Black Soil answered, rising up to a sitting position. For a moment, the room spun, and the floor dropped out from underneath him, a high ringing in his ear muffled everything around him. Then he was lifted up with the ship, and his head righted itself. A thin draft of salt air brushed across his face. “Come, let’s gather and talk.” He sensed the other bodies stirring, responding as he moved effortlessly to the center, sitting down on the rough planks, his back straight. He was silent as the others stumbled forward, grunting and muttering, reaching out to touch each other and find their way, taking their place in a rough half circle before him. What had happened? Black Soil thought they were dashing out to help the clumsy Englishmen with their lines. The lines, there was something wrong with the lines, but not what he thought. And then darkness. What did they want? It didn’t matter right now: he was responsible for these men; they looked to him to tell them what to do.
“We were sent out by our sachem Yellow Feather, to represent all the peoples at the festival, to be strong and to protect them,” Black Soil’s voice was steady and strong. “To return safe to our land. We were sent out by our sachem Yellow Feather because we are quick and strong. This is your initiation to become Men of Great Honor. What is a Man of Great Honor?”
Silence. The darkness pressed in around him.
“What is a Man of Great Honor?” He repeated, his voice hard.
“The protector of the people?” an uncertain voice from his left.
“Not just that, Horned Owl. The protector of the people, and the spirit of the people. What is a Man of Great Honor?” He asked again, his voice prodding them. The walls creaked around them.
“The will of the people,” said Setting Sun.
“The will of the people,” Black Soil repeated with approval. He took his hand off his lap and put it flat on the floor to feel the wood underneath him.
“Because a Man of Great Honor cannot be killed in battle, he is the keeper of the past,” Weeping Willow rasped, his throat raw from swallowing the salt water.
“Men of Great Honor cannot be killed in battle, Men of Great Honor are challenged by the Great Spirit and meet that challenge,” Black Soil said, his voice a challenge. “What is a Man of Great Honor?”
“The future – because a Man of Great Honor knows every trail, every stream, every rock on the land of his people, so he is the road to the future of his people,” Turtle Egg said, and Black Soil could tell that he was sitting up now, and that his back was straight.
“When his people are under threat, the Man of Great Honor will call upon the rage of the Great Spirit to protect them,” Black Soil said. “We were sent out by our sachem Yellow Feather because we are quick and strong. This is your initiation to become Men of Great Honor. What is a Man of Great Honor, Horned Owl?”
“The protector of the spirit,” answered Horned Owl immediately. Black Soil drummed his fingertips on the floor once.
“Setting Sun, what is a Man of Great Honor?”
“The will of the people,” he answered. Black Soil turned his head in the direction of Weeping Willow.
“Weeping Willow, what is a Man of Great Honor?”
“The keeper of the past,” he rasped.
“Turtle Egg, what is a Man of Great Honor?”
“The road to the future,” he answered, his voice firm and even. Again, Black Soil drummed his fingertips on the floor.
“All of you,” Black Soil said in the darkness to all of the men, “A Man of Great Honor is not afraid to call upon the rage of the Great Spirit.” Black Soil inched closer to them across the planks. It seemed suddenly as though they were together in a wigwam deep in the forest, the tall pine branches blocking out the stars. “This is your initiation. Say it again.”
“A Man of Great Honor is the protector of the spirit,” Horned Owl began, “I am the protector of the spirit.”
“I am the protector of the spirit,” echoed the warriors around him. A wave crashed into the ceiling above them. The rush of the seawater dripping on the floor behind them petered out after a moment.
“A Man of Great Honor is the will of the people,” said Setting Sun, “I am the will of the people.”
“I am the will of the people,” all the warriors said.
“A Man of Great Honor is the keeper of the past,” Weeping Willow said, “I am the keeper of the past.” He cleared his throat under his breath.
“I am the keeper of the past,” they said. Thumps of footsteps overhead and a sharp voice shouting what must have been orders.
“A Man of Great Honor is the road to the future,” repeated Turtle Egg, “I am the road to the future”
“I am the road to the future,” the warriors echoed.
“And I am a Man of Great Honor,” Black Soil said, “I am not afraid to call upon the Great Spirit’s rage.” He breathed deeply and let the silence descend for a moment. “Again,” he demanded, thumping the floor now with the palm of his hand.
Horned Owl: “I am the protector”
Setting Sun: “I am the will”
Weeping Willow: “I am the keeper”
Turtle Egg: “I am the road”
Black Soil: “I will call the rage.” He thumped the floor with every word. He leaned forward when he was done speaking, stretching his back, shrugging his shoulders to loosen them up. He could see the barest outline of shapes in front of him now as a sliver of ambient light trickled in through the chinks in the planks up by the ceiling. “Men of Great Honor, what can you tell me about how we got here? The last I remember is passing one of our canoes through a hole we had cut through their fishing lines.”
Many voices spoke at once, their fear and uncertainty gone.
“We were tricked”
“They hit you with their net”
“We were hauled aboard like a catch of fish”
“Not all of us – I could see Broken Branch and several of baggataway players trapped under the first net.”
“I don’t know if they swam away or drowned.”
“The People of the Small Point are in on this.”
The men continued, until Weeping Willow’s rasp stilled them, “they didn’t say anything to us, just threw us down here and closed the door.”
Black Soil sat for a moment in thought. He could hear the men shifting in place, see their vague outlines, restless and angry. “Alright,” his voice soft and steady, “Yellow Feather sent us, but the Great Spirit has chosen this challenge as your initiation. You know what it takes to be a Man of Great Honor, but what is your duty as a Man of Great Honor?” Another wave crashes overhead, the water sloshes back and forth as it trickles through the planks, splashing around them.
“They open the door once a day to throw us a bag of food,” said Horned Owl, “let’s rush them and force our way outside.” A murmur and rustle of men behind him urged him on. “We’re too strong for them. We’ll stick together, force our way out of this room, jump into the harbor and swim away from the boat. By the time they get to the nets, we’ll be beyond their range.”
“Yellow Feather will have gathered men from all the tribes, they’ll be waiting for us,” said Turtle Egg.
“That’s what I”m afraid of,” said Black Soil. “We can’t wait. It’s our duty to return safely to our people and be there to defend them. We can’t be the cause of more of our people falling into this trap. This ship goes up and down the coast, taking treasure from our lands. We need those pelts to survive the winter, we need the food we gathered at the festival to feed our people. How long have we been down here already? Men of Great Honor: we act as one, we serve the Great Spirit, we fight for our people.”
The excitement in the room was palpable now as the men shifted, some rising up from the floor, crouching on their haunches.
“Horned Owl, Setting Sun, get on either side of the door. The rest of you: stand behind them. Be ready to back them up, push them up and out onto the deck as soon as the door opens.” They rose up as warriors in the land of the enemy People of the Small Point, in silence, as one.
Many breaths passed. The ship continued to groan and creak, waves crashed overhead and dribbled water down around their feet. Although it did not getting any brighter in the room, Black Soil could still make out the dim shapes of his warriors standing in two lines behind Horned Owl and Setting Sun. He walked along their ranks, making no noise as he let the weight of his hand rest on a few of their shoulders as he passed.
“Setting Sun,” he murmured into the warrior’s ear, “be ready to find which side of the ship faces the shore. We’ll need the most direct path back to safety and away from the nets.”
“Horned Owl,” he murmured, facing his ear now, “give them your loudest war cry and distract them so that Setting Sun can lead the others out and back into the water. I’ll be the last one out; I’ll stay and fight with you until we can both leave together.” He watched as both men bowed their heads in obedience. He returned down the length of men, taking his place in the back between the two lines. He stood motionless, waiting.
Another wave, then the thump of feet overhead. More shouts, then a voice right on the other side of the door, laughing. The squeal of the iron ring as it turned in the wood, the groan of the iron hinges as the door began to open.
Horned Owl shouted, throwing his weight into the moving door, pushing up and out. Along with the shout, the man on the other side yelled in surprise, the bag slammed into the wooden planks at his feet, and another man snarled in anger. The blast of the pistol cracked into the room louder than thunder, the daylight burned into their eyes like an extended flash of lightning and then the door slammed shut. The sudden light burned across their eyes still, making them blinder in the darkness, their ears ringing from the gun. No one moved.
Black Soil was the first to notice a sound beyond the thrum in his ears: a gurgling sound coming on their side of the door. He moved down the length of men, many of them now crouched over, holding their heads. Just as he came to the front of the line, his foot bumped against an obstacle. He crouched too, and reaching out with his hand. He felt an arm, slick and warm. The gurgling sound continued, and he called out softly, “Setting Sun.”
“I’m here,” said Setting Sun, over his left shoulder, “where is Horned Owl? I couldn’t see, but I don’t think he made it outside. We would have heard.”
The gurgling sound continued.
Black Soil’s heart sank into his stomach. “Horned Owl,” he whispered, “can you hear me?” The gurgling continued, but the arm under his hand jerked and lifted up a moment before dropping back to the floor. Black Soil had taken two dozen men out to the ship with him. There were only fifteen in the room now. He was responsible for them. He was responsible for returning them to their homes. He couldn’t see anymore – the flash of light had burned away his ability to make out the shapes in the room. He was responsible for these men. More thumps of feet overhead, and shouting. Some kind of argument. He was supposed to take care of these men.
“Setting Sun,” he growled, “help me lift him over to the other side of the room. You men, make way, we’re coming through.”
They fumble their way across the rough planks, Black Soil walking backwards with his hands under Horned Owl’s shoulders, Setting Sun carrying him by the feet. They set him down and Black Soil lifts his head to quiet the gurgling sound coming from Horned Owl’s throat. He feels rather than hears the others gather round them. There is nothing in the room they can use to prop up Horned Owl’s head, there is nothing they can use to cover him as he starts to shake. Black Soil is silent, holding Horned Owl’s head. The men are sitting around them in a circle, motionless. The gurgling sound continues for many breaths, then there is a faint sucking sound at the end of every gurgle. The afterimage fades from Black Soil’s eyes, gradually replaced by darkness. The gurgling sounds slow, then there is only the low sucking sound, slower and slower. Then there is only silence. And darkness.