Urgent voices from behind the closed door woke Black Soil. The small window was open, bringing the barest morning light and a stir of sea air. He lay on a pallet raised up off the floor, observing his surroundings while the voices moved off down the hall. It was a square stone room, with just enough room for him and Path of Fire to lie stretched out. Path of Fire was still asleep on a similar contraption. He was on his side, turned away from Black Soil, with an arm dangling over the edge of the pallet. The deep cuts from the ropes had left lines of scabs across his arm, while the whips had left thinner bloody wounds on his back.
He felt his own stripes from the whip. It was just a pressure if he didn’t move, no longer oozing blood in a puddle underneath where he lay. Nothing had made sense since they had freed themselves from the dark room on the ship. He thought they would jump overboard and swim their way back to shore, but instead, they had come to a new place the likes of which he never could have imagined. These men had somehow ordered the rocks into buildings as tall as trees. There were more people here than all the tribes gathered together at festival time. There were other ships in the harbor, animals walking down the streets, a bewildering cacophony of sounds and smells flooding their senses. The sailors, easily a head shorter than the shortest of his warriors, gangly in their uncoordinated movements, had rounded them up and tied them together with ropes while the Men of Great Honor were stupefied by the spectacle on shore and the piercing bright sunlight. They were marched down a plank off the ship, stumbling into each other, some falling and being pulled back up by the warriors tied on either side until they were hustled into a small storage room. The door slammed shut, and they were forced to stand, the walls at their shoulders, the ceiling brushing the tops of their heads. Once again no light, but this time the darkness was a welcome relief.
When the doors opened again, a softer morning light met them. They were shoved along to a wide open market square, the buildings rising up on all sides, surrounding them. Black Soil remembered the feeling of the sailors hands on his back, pushing him along. There was anger in their hands, shoving harder than necessary, clipping some of the warriors’ ears for no reason. They were marched into the middle of the square, into an enclosure with wooden rails on all sides. Two of the sailors untied Autumn Star and began to press him into one of the rails, but he was a Man of Great Honor, and he was faster and stronger than they were, even on an empty stomach, even after standing upright all night long. Autumn Star easily knocked the first man down, and had turned on the second sailor when there was a rush of steps behind them, and three more sailors burst into the pen, grabbing Autumn Star. Two of them held his arms outstretched, while the third unfurled a whip and began striking him across the back. Black Soil and the others could not free themselves to help, or even move with the ropes tying one to the other at the knees. They watched in shock as the sailor whipped deep red lashes across Autumn Star’s back. The sailors holding his arms let him fall, but still the sailor did not stop whipping, only bent slightly to accommodate Autumn Star’s new position. The sailor felled by Autumn Star rose up slowly, brushing the dirt off his pants, and limped over to the other sailors. The one whipping Autumn Star paused and offered the whip to this sailor, who took it and began to whip with fury, growling out each time the whip hit Autumn Star’s increasingly bloodied back.
They continued like that, jeering and shouting down at Autumn Star as Black Soil tried to coordinate the men’s movements and get them act as one. Autumn Star made no sound, at first from his deep training as a Man of Great Honor, and then because he was no longer conscious. It didn’t matter to the sailors. Black Soil had gotten his men to fan out a bit until every rope was taut and strained against their skin, and he had just worked out how they could surround the sailors when the one with the whip looked up and saw them moving. He shouted, his arm cocked back over his shoulder, and loosed the whip at the front line of warriors. Those in the front fell, pulling the rest of them off balance, and it was some time before they could regain their footing. By the time they did, one of the sailors was lifting Autumn Star up like a deer carcass, flinging him over a shoulder, walking him to the nearest rail, and tying him in place. His head lolled to the side, his legs limp, with only the ropes keeping him upright.
The sailor with the whip strode back and forth in front of them, launching into a long speech that hit their ears as meaningless grunts and self-important snarls. Black Soil could see Autumn Star over the sailor’s shoulder, but he never moved the whole time the sailor talked. Eventually, the sailor stopped his nonsensical tirade, and three of the sailors surrounded one of the Men of Great Honor, untied him, and shoved him over to the rail next to the bloodied Autumn Star. Working this way, the Men of Great Honor found themselves tied individually to the rails, hands and feet bound, leaving them immobile. They stood like that as the sun made its way across the sky over their heads, beating down a heat and glare they had never before experienced. Black Soil could feel his tongue drying out in his mouth, the moisture gone from his lips, even as beads of sweat rolled down his back and his arms glistened.
The sun was just past its peak when the sailors returned, this time carrying buckets. They heaved water at the warriors, splashing it over them in great swings of the buckets, then they left amidst more of their strange grunting language. Black Soil strained to quench his thirst by licking as much of the water was he could off his arms, the other warriors following suit. The water dried before he could satisfy his thirst. They stood there, each man in his own shocked silence, made speechless by the surroundings.
Finally, a different line of sailors came, leading other men dressed in tunics with bright colored fabrics at their legs. The sailors pointed at the Men of Great Honor, gesturing as they talked to these other men.
“What do they want?” rasped Gray Wolf, tied to the rail next to him.
“I don’t know,” Black Soil answered, his eyes on the strange men.
A man with a green tunic strode boldly up to Gray Wolf, squeezing his arm. Gray Wolf pulled back in anger, but the sailor with the whip appeared behind the man in the tunic, brandishing the whip at Gray Wolf, his mouth a snarl. The man in the tunic continued his appraisal, paying no attention to Gray Wolf’s face or straightening back. He poked curiously at Gray Wolf’s gut, gesturing to the sailor and nodding. Then he reached into a pouch tied to his waist and laid a handful of round metal disks into the sailor’s hand. The sailor nodded and then gestured to the other sailors. They came over and untied Gray Wolf.
“I don’t understand,” Gray Wolf said to Black Soil, panic rising in his voice, “what’s going on?”
“I don’t know – ”
The sailors grabbed Gray Wolf and began to haul him across the square, the man in the green tunic looking on approvingly.
“I’m a Man of Great Honor,” Gray Wolf shouted as they dragged him away, “I’m the keeper, I’m…” The whip lashed across his back before he could finish the man in the green tunic chasing after the sailors, shaking his head and yelling at them.
More warriors were hustled off in this fashion throughout the day. The sailors lessened their use of the whip to control the warriors, but did not hesitate to kick and punch. When the men dressed in the different colored tunics were not looking, the sailors would use the handle of the whip to strike the warriors on the back. Gradually, the square emptied, and only Black Soil, Path of Fire, and Autumn Star remained. Autumn Star had not moved once during any of the exchanges between sailors and warriors. The blood that pooled underneath him had dried, and the gashes across his arms and back had also dried. A few flies had landed on his arm. His skin burned under the hot sun. Black Soil looked over at him, frustrated that he could do nothing from where he was tied. He shifted his weight slowly from foot to foot and kept his back straight. There was a growing tautness in the skin of his back as it too burned in the sun. Path of Fire had crouched slightly, as much as the rope would allow, and hung is head, his eyes closed.
The sailors returned, escorting a different man in a blue tunic. He walked up to Autumn Star, shaking his head and gesturing at the sailors. They laughed and pointed to Path of Fire and Black Soil. Next, he walked up to Path of Fire and kicked his legs out from underneath him. Path of Fire snapped his head up, rage playing across his face as he dangled in the ropes. The man laughed, taking his own whip from his belt and pointing the handle of it at Path of Fire while he talked to the sailors. After several moments, he was tucking the whip back into his belt and unclipping a pouch from it when they were interrupted by a shout.
The sailor who had been knocked down by Autumn Star returned to the square with two figures wrapped in brown robes. They strode up to the group of men in front of Path of Fire and the sailor began speaking to them in his grunting, growling language. The man in the blue tunic began shaking his head, gesturing at Path of Fire, his voice rising. The sailor too raised his voice, and they both spoke forcefully to each other at the same time. Finally, the taller of the robed figures, his face hidden by the hood, spoke, and the others were silenced. His voice was deep and quiet. He gestured to the other robed figure, who produced a pouch similar to the man in the blue tunic’s pouch, but he did not reach into it to take out the metal disks. Instead, he handed the whole pouch to the sailor, then dropped his arms by his side. They all stood in silence for a moment. The man in the blue tunic threw up his arms as he walked angrily out of the square, muttering to himself.
The taller robed figure spoke to the sailors again, pointing to Black Soil and nodding. Black Soil watched the sailor holding the pouch. The sailor grasped it tighter, a fleeting look of fear sliding over his face before he smiled and nodded. The two robed figures left the way the had come, not looking at Black Soil, Path of Fire or any of the sailors again.
The sailors fell to their knees, dumping the contents of the pouch out on the ground in front of them. The sun glinted off the metal of the disks, making Black Soil squint as he watched them. They were quiet at first, speaking softly to each other as they stole glances over their shoulders at the direction the figures had gone. The one who had brought the robed pair grabbed a pile of the disks, and then the others began to raise their voices. Eventually, they were all shouting, shaking their heads and grabbing at the metal. Another sailor joined them. He was dressed like them, but wore a hat with a wide brim. He pointed at them, shaking his head while he yelled. They all stopped and looked up at him. He gestured for the metal, and they scrambled to put it back in the pouch and give it to him. Next, he pointed at Autumn Star and yelled at them. One of them started to reply, and he cut the sailor off in a low voice. He pointed at the sailors and gestured toward Black Soil and Path of Fire, grabbed the pouch and left.
The sailors began their growling again, gesturing with their hands, pointing at Autumn Star, Path of Fire and Black Soil. Their voices rose, and they began shoving each other. Finally, one of them broke off, walked over to Autumn Star, drew a knife from his belt, and cut the warrior down. Autumn Star fell in a heap, not moving. Next, the sailor came to Path of Fire and cut him from the rail. Path of Fire did not fall in a heap, but sprang on the sailor as though he had been resting in the shade of an oak in the woods back home. He flipped the sailor onto his stomach, knelt on his back as he grabbed the sailor’s head and pulled it back, exposing his neck. He moved so quickly that the sailor didn’t have time to shout to the others or even defend himself. By the time he realized what was happening, his own knife had cut open his throat and he had no voice.
The others sailors saw what happened, and descended on Path of Fire with great shouts of anger. Black Soil could see nothing but the crowd of sailors, their whips rising and falling as they shouted down to where Path of Fire had fallen. The sound of their fists and feet, and the sharp cracks of the whips deafened him to the sound of running feet. The sailor with the wide hat returned, and he threw the pouch of metal at one of the sailors with a whip. It hit him in the head, and they all stopped what they were doing and looked at the man in the hat.
He stooped over and grabbed the pouch, holding it up for them all to see as he yelled. Then he pointed at Path of Fire, bloodied now and prone on the ground, and at Black Soil. He continued yelling until all the sailors were standing, their whips coiled and put back in their belts. The man pointed in the direction the robed figures had gone in, growled one more time at the sailors, and left.
Two of them grabbed Path of Fire roughly, pulled him up onto his feet and shoved him. His back was a criss cross of bloody lines, his left eye swollen shut. Three sailors came over to Black Soil. One approached with a knife to cut the ropes, the other two uncoiled their whips and stood back, ready. The sailor with the knife cut the ropes and shoved him hard. Black Soil’s feet were tingling and his head spun from having stood in the sun for so long, and he toppled over. The two sailors both cracked their whips, striking Black Soil where he lay.
Black Soil rolled over and rose to his full height in one motion. The sailors stepped back, the hands not holding the whips balled into fists. The others had hustled Path of Fire a few steps in the direction the robed figures had gone, and now they pushed Black Soil along behind him.
Black Soil walked out of the square with his eye on Path of Fire. He could take full strides with his legs untied now, but he moved a little slower than he would have normally in order to keep Path of Fire in front of him. He was aware of the position of every sailor with them, where their hands were, how they carried their weight. The shadows from the stone buildings soothed his bleeding back, his head, his feet. He could tell that Path of Fire saw none of the buildings around them, none of the people who had stopped their work to watch the spectacle of sailors and warriors pass them in the street. Path of Fire was moving forward on his own feet by sheer will, and it was taking all his warrior training to keep himself upright. They passed wide streets with animals and carts and people, and they snaked through narrow paths between the stone buildings until they came to flat stones laid into the hill that rose up before them, up and up to a stone building.
His muscles still hurt from climbing all the stones. He rolled gingerly to face the window, mustering the energy and focus to swing his legs over the edge and get up. It was easier than he thought it was going to be. For one thing, the room was still, not the incessant rocking and lurching he had endured on the ship. The stone floor was cold on his bare feet, but somehow that was reassuring. It was solid beneath him, supporting him. Not moving. He eased himself upright and walked to the window. Looking down, he understood that he was still a prisoner, even if his hands were no longer tied.
He had never been up so high. Nothing but roofs underneath him, and not the reed mats of wetu shelters, but stones – some flat material bound together somehow to cover all the stone structures he saw beneath him. No trees, just these buildings. He could see the ocean, but there were too many ships, he wasn’t sure which one they had been trapped on. He tried to find the square they had been tied up in, but he couldn’t make sense of the jumble of buildings and winding streets. Where had the Men of Great Honor been taken? He was a prisoner. Even if he were able to walk out of this building unchallenged, he would have to find the path of stones back down, and find the way to the square himself. What if he did – how would he find the others? How would he them get back home?
He stood there looking out as the sun moved from behind the roof. He stood for so long that a rook landed on the ledge of the window, taking no notice of him. He was beyond tired. The skin of his back pulled with every movement, so he stood still. The roofs and the ships and the sea filled his stomach with despair, so he watched the rook instead. The feathers glistened, its head turning as his had, observing all that lay before them. It cocked its head and flew off before he heard the creak of the door.
A man came in, went over to the pallet with Path of Fire, bent down and touched him lightly on the head. Path of Fire stirred slightly. The man stood up, and Black Soil was surprised to see that they were the same height.
“I’ll bring food and water. Only water for this one,” he said pointing at Path of Fire. He closed the door and left without waiting for a response.
Black Soil stood by the window in shock. He had understood everything the man had said.
A short time passed, and the man returned. Black Soil had not left his place by the window. Path of Fire still lay on his side.
“Make him drink this, but slowly,” the man said. He placed a stone container on the floor. Next to it, he placed a plate of food. “This is for you,” he said as he stood.
“I don’t understand,” Black Soil started, but the man was already turning to leave. “Wait,” Black Soil called out as the man reached the door, “who are you?” The man closed the door behind him without looking at Black Soil.
Black Soil lifted the stone jar and brought it over to Path of Fire. He roused the warrior, lifted him so that Path of Fire could prop himself up on his elbow, and brought the jar to his lips. All the while, he thought of the man. He was tall like Black Soil. He was dressed in a brown robe, with sleeves that ended at his elbow. His skin was the same color as Black Soil’s before he had been burnt by the sun. Path of Fire slumped back down, winced, and rolled on his side.
“Where are we?” He asked.
“I’ve never seen any place like this,” began Black Soil, and described how they came to this room and all that he could see from the window. When he was finished, they both were silent for many breaths.
“How do we find the others?” Path of Fire asked, propping himself up again and gesturing for more water.
“I don’t recognize anything from here,” answered Black Soil, carefully holding the heavy stone jar and tipping it up to Path of Fire’s lips so that he could sip the water. “The man who brought us this water and the food knows a few words of our language, maybe he could tell us how to get to the others.”
“Why don’t we just walk out the door – it doesn’t seem to be fastened like the door on the ship. We could get the others and take the ship.”
“I’ve been watching,” answered Black Soil, “but I don’t know where to go. Even if we got the others and found the ship again, where would we take it? How would we maneuver it? It’s so much bigger than our canoes.”
“We’re warriors, let’s fight our way free. We can take a few of them like they took us, and make them bring the boat back to our land. Autumn Star can – ”
“I don’t know where he is,” interrupted Black Soil, a troubled look on his face. “Your wounds need to heal.” He rose and went to the window again. “We’re prisoners here. There’s no place for us to go until we can leave like warriors – with purpose.” The shadows lengthened on the streets below. He watched an old man leading a goat down the street. The man moved slowly and leaned against a stick every few paces to catch his breath. A group of sailors passed the man, laughing and swaying. “My men are down there somewhere,” Black Soil said, still looking down at the street. When he turned back to the room, Path of Fire’s arm was slumped over the edge of the pallet again, his chest rising and falling evenly in sleep.
Black Soil was at the window with the first glow of dawn. A step in the hallway, and the door opened with the barest whisper of sound.
“Put this on his back,” the man said to Black Soil, indicating the contents of the stone bowl he placed on the floor at the foot of Path of Fire’s pallet. He left another jar of water and a fresh plate of food. “Just water for him until next sunrise.”
“How do you know my language?” Asked Black Soil, stepping away from the window.
“It pleases the Brothers to have me communicate with you. It will bring you sooner to the word of God.”
“I don’t understand you – ” The man closed the door as softly as he had opened it.
Black Soil told Path of Fire about the exchange as he spread the strange liquid over the wounds. It was thick like corn mash, infusing the room with its herbal smell.
“‘Word of god’ – what does that mean?” Asked Path of Fire. “We know about the Great Spirit – what is this ‘god’, and who are his brothers?”
“I want to know how he knows some of our words,” answered Black Soil. “He’s tall like we are, not one of these tiny moon-skinned sailors. What was in that bowl?” He asked, pointing to the bowl he had just emptied, “smells like something a medicine man would make.”
Path of Fire took another sip of water from the stone jar. “We each have a cloth spread over our pallets. Let’s tie them together and build a snare. We can catch him the next time he comes in and make him take us to the others.”
Black Soil was quiet, looking out the window at a hill in the distance.
“I knew what to do back home.” Black Soil said after some breaths, “When we were fighting the People of the Small Point two planting seasons ago, a small group of us Men of Great Honor lost our way. We hid in a great swamp and watched the moon at night. We listened to the wind in the trees during the day, listened for footsteps. We ate ground nuts and watched the animals. We followed a deer path, and saw a wetu in a small clearing. It was not one of our own. Some of the men wanted to set it on fire and force whoever was inside to come out. ‘We are Men of Great Honor,’ they said, ‘we will bring the fighting to us. Let’s kill this Small Point warrior and bring the rest of them here.’ I did not want to do this. We had lost our way, and it was possible that we had crossed into the land of the Freshwater Pond Place. Those people were our allies. ‘Whoever is in there,’ I argued, ‘does not know how many warriors are right outside his wetu. Let’s let the trees cover us, and we’ll spread out until the wetu is surrounded. Then I’ll go and deal with whomever is inside.’ They agreed, and spread out, encircling the wetu. We were lost, none of us recognizing the land from any previous battles or hunting trips, but still the men moved like warriors. They matched their footsteps to the creaking of branches in the trees, crouched in hiding with no more noise than the rustle of leaves underneath a passing squirrel.”
Path of Fire sat up, hugging his knees to his chest. “Did you pull the reed mat from the roof? We did that last harvest to a Small Point wetu – it was empty, so we took their gourd seeds.”
“No,” Black Soil continued, shaking his head. “If it were empty, we could have used it as a shelter that night. The clouds had started to gather back when we found the deer path, and it was possible that it would rain before we found our way. The wetu was not empty. I walked across the clearing, and as I approached, the door opened and an old medicine man came out. ‘One of you finally decided to see who’s inside, huh?’ He said, laughing. He gestured for me to come in and join him, and so I signaled the men to stay in position as I went inside. It was not like the wetus we build in planting season, or the ones we put up at harvest or festivals. This one had been here in this one place for a long time. I could tell by how smooth and packed down the earth was inside it, and how faded the wooden poles were on the inside. There was another whole layer of reeds underneath the roof we could see from the outside, but this layer was old, the leaves dried and the branches stiff. There were bunches of herbs hanging down from this reed layer, some of them dry, and others still had green leaves. One of those pungent smelling herbs is in the medicine on your back now.”
“It feels better already,” said Path of Fire, gingerly rotating his shoulders.
“Mmm,” nodded Black Soil, “real medicine. There was all sorts of food there too,” continued Black Soil, “onions tied together and hanging like a rope, old gourd shells overflowing with beans, dried mushrooms strung together like garlands around the circle of the wetu. A pile of corn meal on its own mat. Most astonishing to me was the fire in the center of the wetu. It burned yellow, bright yellow like a flower at the start of planting season, but we had seen no smoke from the outside.”
“How could that be?” Asked Path of Fire. “All fire makes smoke.”
Black Soil shook his head. “He was a medicine man. They know ways of the woods differently from how a warrior learns them. ‘I don’t see many people this time of year,’ said the medicine man, sitting in a low stool by the fire. He pointed to the empty one next to his, and I sat down. I explained how we had been in battle with the People of the Small Point, but had lost our way. ‘Yes,’ said the medicine man, nodding his head as he looked into the fire, ‘The people who come here at this time of year are brought here.’ I shook my head, ‘No, we weren’t looking for you, but if you can help us find our way back to our own lands, we’ll help you in any way we can.’ The old man watched the flames for many breaths. ‘What can you young warriors give an old medicine man? The leaves and roots I need must not be trampled by shuffling feet such as your men have. No, I don’t think you have anything for me. This is the Spirit’s time of year. Maybe you were brought here because I have something for you.’ My men were crouched in the woods, waiting for my return. How long before the rain started? Where would we sleep that night? ‘You can tell us the way back to our land, and I will meet with our sachem and ask that he give you protection.’ The medicine man laughed, reaching for his stick as he rose from the stool. ‘I am protected. You have taken what you need, return to your land.’ I rose with him, shaking my head in confusion, ‘I haven’t taken anything from you, and I don’t know how to lead my men back, please-‘ But he just shuffled to his door, opening it for me to leave. I went outside, but turned back one more time, if only he would shelter us for the night. ‘The rain will come in the morning,’ he said before I could ask, ‘and you’ll be in your land by then. Follow the deer path down to the river, and it will take you home.’ He went back inside without looking back. I wanted to tell him again that I hadn’t taken anything from him, but my men were already standing, anxious to go. I led them the rest of the way down the deer path, and it did come to a river. We followed it upstream and came to familiar ground before the sun set.”
“What do you think he meant by giving you something?” Asked Path of Fire, sitting at the edge of the pallet with his feet on the floor.
“I was thinking that he meant something from his wetu – some food maybe. Or one of the herbs to help a warrior heal after battle.” Black Soil shrugged. “Medicine men move through the land differently than we do. In a way, he did give me something. I had forgotten all about that encounter until I smelled that herb just now. I remember how the men wanted to act like warriors, and rush the wetu. Instead, I talked to the medicine man and learned how to get home without having another battle. Maybe that is what we should do now. You should stay here as my men stayed in the woods outside the wetu, ready. I will go out and look for this man and learn from him how we get back to our land.”
Path of Fire stood for a moment, teetering in place, and then sat back down again.
“That’s a good plan. I’ll stay here, ready to come to your aid.” He lay back on the pallet, winced, and rolled over on his side.
“I’ll be back when I have some answers,” said Black Soil, moving to the door. He paused a moment, his head on the wood, listening. He looked back at Path of Fire, whose eyes were closed, and stepped out into the hallway.