Orenda: Eternal Vendetta

CHAPTER 9

Standing amidst the whorl of vines which dangled, some as thick as his wrist, from the trees lining the banks of the Tuscawarus River, Pierre Twofeathers watched the three whites stroll among the artifacts and replications displayed upon the site of the homeland of his people. He felt as if they were in some way desecrating the memory of the long dead Tuscazoarans.

The miniature Tuscazoaran campsite had been set up by the state for the benefit of tourists. It included colorful signs depicting the sites of action where John Sullivan and his troops exacted George Washington's bloody revenge on the peaceful tribe that had refused to take part in the war between the colonists and the British. The destruction had been total; the entire lifestyle, lore, and culture of an ancient people had been annihilated here.

The last frail remnant of it stood unmoving, silent, hidden from the view of the intruders. He observed them talking light heartedly about the catastrophe which had occurred here. It saddened Pierre, but did not anger him. He was used to the callousness of the conquerors.

Although the winter sun was weak, at midday it still gave enough heat to make the afternoon pleasant. In fact, Pierre had been sweating profusely. He had worked since the sun came up, and finally, the cage was complete. He was looping the final set of vines around the trap's door when he heard the sedan arrive.

He did not want the intrusive whites to see it, and had camouflaged the cage well under a thick covering of brambles and leaves. He resented their even being in the park, tramping around the campsite as if it were just any piece of land; and not a sacred place. He wished there was some way he could force them to leave.

They were not leaving, however. In fact, the tiny girl-child was heading directly for him. She was an oddity, he thought. Usually children who played and cavorted with the gusto she did made plenty of noise. She did not. Her mouth would hang open, periodically, as if laughing, but no sound emanated from it. He watched her play in silence.

The closer she came to him, the more Pierre thought that this is what his Lilly must have been like as a child. Jenny's long blond hair, blue eyes, and carefree manner took him back half a century; and he saw Lilly as clearly as the day he had been forced to leave Toronto.

Jenny skipped lightly through the leaves littering the museum-park. Her imaginary steed faltered once in a while when he hit a pile of them which was really covering a hole of something else soft. His forelegs would sink almost to the knees, and nickering, he would back away from the pile and circumnavigate it. Silently, she urged him to greater speed.

Oh, how she liked Paul and Patty! Especially Paul, though. He reminded her of Granpa, although much younger. He was soft spoken, kind, and equipped with strong arms to hold her securely against the perils of the world. Patty was nice, too. Nicer than Mom! She wondered if Paul and Patty were going to get married. She giggled inside her head at the thought. She wished Granpa had come to the picnic, but as usual, he had to watch the restaurant. Little nippy for a picnic, but if it didn't bother her horse, why should it bother her? After all, he didn't even have a sweater like she did! She glanced over at Paul and Patty. They were spreading a cloth over the cement picnic table. She watched as they talked and smiled at each other. `If only I could talk!' She thought, and spurred the horse towards the wigwam replica set in the middle of the park.

The wigwam was made of white leather stretched over a framework of wood. Each panel of it had an Indian symbol painted on it, and Jenny relaxed her grip on the reins of the imaginary horse as he cantered around the tee-pee, giving her a chance to see all the pictures. Suddenly, he had the bit in his teeth! She pulled frantically at the reins. `Ut. . .ohhhh!' She thought, `can't stop him now!' She looked down, around the flowing mane whipping from the horses neck, and saw her skinny legs pumping furiously.

"Whoa, boy!" She called in her mind, and looked slyly out the corner of her eyes towards Paul. He was busy talking with Patty, however, and had not noticed the run-away stallion.

"No use! If only I could talk! Paul would hear me calling for help, and come dashing to save me from the run-away horse." She thought of his strong arms pulling her to safety, then cradling her from the dangerous, head-long dash the horse was making for the tree line.

Seeing that Paul had not noticed her dire straits, she hopped off the horse's back, and rolled in the multi-colored leaves. Laughing inwardly, she mocked the great stallion as he plunged blindly into the vine choked tree line. Her eyes followed his imaginary progress until they touched on the silent, nearly invisible figure lurking among the dark entanglement of brush.

Jenny froze in place, staring at the dark, heavily lined countenance. The imaginary horse had fled from her mind. She studied the black hair, high cheekbones, and squinting eyes framed in a web of wrinkles. Seeing that it was not the face, she visibly relaxed.

Pierre, recognizing her fear, and realizing that she had spotted him, smiled to show her that he meant no harm. He studied the tiny waif intently, and the image of Lilly grew stronger in his mind. He considered slipping away, before the adults saw him, but he worried that the precocious child might follow, and he did not want her to see the cage. Decisively, he took a step towards her.

Jenny glanced over her shoulder toward the picnic table. Patty and Paul were still engrossed in each other. She measured the distance with her eyes. If need be, she thought, she could turn herself into a rabbit and the man in the trees could never catch her! Hesitantly, she returned Pierre's smile.

Patty, who had been keeping a casual eye on Jenny, now stopped speaking in mid-word. "Who's that?" She asked, pointing at the stooped, flannel shirt and blue jean clad figure stepping out of the thicket and moving toward Jenny.

"I don't know. Maybe the caretaker?" Paul answered. He peered at the old man, who appeared harmless enough, as he approached and squatted down next to Jenny. The aging Indian brushed the leaves and particles of soil she had accumulated while `dismounting' from her imaginary horse. He was smiling, and Paul could see his mouth moving as he talked quietly with the child.

Patty completed setting the table, and sat down on the cement bench beside Paul while waiting for Jenny to finish visiting with the stranger and come to eat. She watched as Jenny placed her tiny hand in the gnarled old fingers of the Indian, and began leading him toward the picnic table.

"Looks like we have an unexpected guest for lunch." She said.

Paul nodded in agreement. The bright sunshine of the day had lifted the cloud of gloom which had surrounded him the night before. He was feeling very good, and the sight of the vibrant young Jenny leading the stooped old man towards lunch reminded him of the open-hearted generosity of his own family, back in Buffalo.

Jenny led Pierre to the food-laden table, and stood smiling expectantly. Her thin arm was up-stretched, nearly straight over her head, the tiny fingers curled around one of the Indian's rough thumbs. She looked from Paul to Patty, to the old man; as if to ask permission. Paul nodded his head, and Patty went into the basket for another place setting, which she sat next to Jenny's.

"I'm Paul, this is Patty, and this is Jenny," He said, pointing to each in turn. "And you?" He asked when the old man did not immediately respond.

"I am Pierre Twofeathers." He said, haltingly.

"Join us for lunch, Mr. Twofeathers?" Patty asked, indicating the place on the bench next to Jenny. The aroma of fried chicken made Pierre's stomach growl loudly, and reminded him that he had eaten nothing except a handful of dried berries and part of a chocolate bar since the morning before. He nodded his head, and slipped his legs over the bench, helping Jenny onto her seat. He felt immediately the cold, rough texture of the cement through his threadbare blue jeans.

Patty heaped his plate high with chicken, potatoe salad, and vegetables she had purchased in the small grocery store between Schoenbrunn and Zoar. Pierre dug in with an appetite which sharply contrasted with his frail and spindly appearance.

"What are you doing way out here by yourself?" Patty inquired. The old man had not spoken since being introduced, and she was curious as to whether he really was the caretaker as Paul had suggested.

Pierre cast about in his mind for the right words. "I've been fishing, and camping out." He said, recalling that to white people, the way that Indians lived was termed `camping out'.

"Bet it gets lonely out here all by yourself. Little cold, too. . .kind of out of the camping season, isn't it?" Paul remarked.

"Sometimes lonely. . .but it is not cold yet." Pierre answered around a mouthful of chicken.

"Seems pretty nippy to me!" Patty said, as a gust of wind swirled the fallen leaves near the table.

Pierre thought of the howling arctic blasts which would be sweeping across Lake Huron at this time of year, and the boughs of the spruce which would be bent downward by the weight of ice crystals already building up on them. He blinked, and looked upwards at the bright sun, not having the words to explain what he had meant.

They finished eating in silence. Paul was surprised at the amount of food the old man put away. Patty, too, had regained her appetite, and the glow which seemed to surround her made him happy.

"It's just terrible, what happened here." Patty said, sweeping her arm around the campsite. "All those innocent people killed. For no reason that I can see!"

"It seems to be the nature of our kind. . .from here to Vietnam," Paul commented, shaking his head in disgust at the massacre.

"I don't understand why they found it necessary to murder even the little children!" She said indignantly.

Pierre had stopped gumming his food, and was looking steadily at her. In all of his eighty-two years, he had never heard a white person talk like this. He wondered if she was making fun of him, or if she was serious in her condemnation of her own people.

"There is a reason for everything," He said softly, still keeping his eyes on her face.

"Sure, there was a reason. . .reason to punish the villagers, perhaps, but not to totally annihilate the people!" Paul put in.

"I can't think of any justification for this!" Patty stated.

"There was a reason," Pierre said again. "The chief was weak, and he trusted the whites who came here." His English was halting, but the words were clear.

"It makes me feel so guilty. . .as if I'd had some part in it myself." Patty said. A shiver ran down her back at the thought.

"There is no blame on you. The fault is not that of the white man. It is the fault of the chief who was weak, and the people who let him remain as chief." Pierre said.

"I don't know how you can say that!" Paul broke in.

Pierre leaned back from the table. He looked at Jenny, who was still eating chicken, gnawing heartily on a drumstick, and smiled. "My English is not good, but I shall try to explain. It is not the responsibility, or the fault, of the wolf that he hunts and kills the elk. It is the fault of the elk; for being weak, for putting himself in a position where the wolf can catch him. It is the nature of the wolf to stalk and kill the elk. If the elk is weak, or stupid, or both; then he will die, and the wolf will eat him and grow stronger through the elk's death." Pierre paused, and shifted to a more comfortable position on the cement bench.

"The chief of the Tuscazoaran people was weak, and the people who followed him were stupid. Just as the elk that was eaten by the wolf, they did not learn, until too late, the nature of their enemy the white man. Because of this, they died, and the whites grew stronger by their death."

"Interesting philosophy,” Paul said, sipping at his lemonade.

Jenny looked up at him and grinned. She was far too immature to understand the conversation, but she liked being a part of this friendly group anyway.

"The fault lies with the chief, and with his people, who made him chief." Pierre finished, and propped his elbows on the table.

"Interesting. . .a bit barbaric. . .but interesting." Paul said.

Jenny wiped her hands carefully on the napkin Patty provided. She rose from the bench and clambered into the lap of the aging Indian. Her dazzling smile brightened Pierre's mood considerably, and he reached down with his gnarled hand and smoothed her hair.

"What is your name?" He asked her, and waited for the child to reply. Odd, this child, he thought. So quiet.

"Uh, her name is Jenny. Jenny Bimeler," Paul answered for her.

Jenny was wiping at a fleck of chicken on the old man's cheek when suddenly his back went rigid at the mention of her name. He relaxed almost instantly, but Patty had spotted the movement. She peered at the old Indian for any further strange actions. She had felt a slight tingling sensation at the nape of her neck when she saw the old man's reaction to Jenny's name, and looked at Paul to see if he, too, had noticed it. Paul was not paying any attention to them, however, and it was obvious that he had not.

"You are such a pretty little girl, Jenny." Pierre said, "you remind me of someone I knew many years ago, in Toronto. Her name was Lilly. She could sing pretty songs, and I'll bet that you can, too. Would you sing me a song, Jenny?"

"She's mute." Patty said, softly.

Pierre was not familiar with the word, and looked at her with the question obvious in his eyes.

"She can't talk." Patty repeated.

"Oh, that explains why she plays so quietly. What a pity," Pierre said, stroking the tiny blond head.

Jenny, shamed by Patty's telling her new friend of her disability, climbed down from Pierre's lap, and ran off towards the replicated wigwam. She hated it when it finally got around to telling people that she couldn't talk! And it always seemed to get around to it!

"And you are her mother and father?" Twofeathers asked.

"No, no. We aren't married. We're just friends of hers, and her grandfather." Paul explained. "I'm Paul Neiderhaus," he extended his hand, which the Indian took hesitantly, "And this gorgeous thing is Patty Sullivan."

Again Patty saw the old man stiffen. He took her proffered hand, and squeezed it. She felt the tingling in her neck even stronger now, and tried to draw her hand back. The Indian had surprising strength for an old man, she thought, fighting a mounting revulsion and panic at her inability to extricate her hand from his grasp.

"Neiderhaus, Bimeler, and Sullivan.." Pierre said softly, the muscles bunching along his forearm as he squeezed Patty's hand, unthinkingly, harder and harder.

"You're hurting me!" Patty yelped, finally, and jerked her hand back hard.

Paul glanced at her, and saw alarm in her eyes.

"What's the matter?" He asked, bewildered, as he had been following Jenny with his eyes and had not seen the old man's reaction to their names, nor Patty's frantic but futile effort to free her hand.

"Nothing, nothing. He, he wouldn't let go of my hand, and it was hurting." Patty said, moving a step backwards from Twofeathers.

"I am sorry. My body is getting old, and I don't have the control I used to," Pierre explained slowly, looking at the ground.

"Where do you know me from?" Patty blurted. "And Jenny. . .all of us. You know our names. . .I saw your reaction."

Paul looked from one to the other. He was totally confused.

Pierre looked up, into Patty's eyes. In his halting manner, said. "I don't know you, but I know your names." He looked at Paul, and then off in the distance at Jenny, who was running in and out of the wigwam.

"How?" Paul asked. "Old man Bimeler?"

Pierre shook his head, uncomprehending. "I know the names only from the legends of my people. My great-grandfather told them to me. . .many times."

"Who are you?" Patty asked, curiosity overcoming her fear.

"I am, as I told you, Pierre Twofeathers, from Ontario, Canada. Here, I would be known as Terokado." His arm swept around the campsite-museum. "My great-grandfather left here as a young man." He paused, his eyes traveling around the campsite. "These were my people."

"You're a Tuscazoaran?" Paul asked, excitement creeping into his voice. "I thought they were all dead."

"The last Tuscazoaran!" Twofeathers replied, softly. "My great-grandfather was not in the camp when General Sullivan came to murder the people, and he went to fight at the side of the Iroquois. After the war, he was sent to live with them in the land of the Algonquian. My mother was Algonquian, and I was raised among them."

"What a find!" Paul said enthusiastically, his academic's mind already toting up the anthropological gains to be made from this lone survivor. "No one will believe it. Your people were supposed to have all been killed off two hundred years ago."

"Why are you here?" Patty asked, sensing the antagonism this survivor of a murdered race must feel in meeting the descendants of those who annihilated them.

Pierre lowered his head again. "I wanted to see my homeland. . .I wanted to be with the spirits of my ancestors."

"Do you know anything about these people?" Paul asked, still incredulous.

Twofeathers turned to him. "Only what my ancestors taught me when we lived among the Algonquian. What they told me will die when I die, however, because I have no sons."

"Do you know any of the Tuscazoaran language?" Paul asked.

"Yes, but I have not spoken it in over fifty years. There is no one to speak it to, except the spirits, and they have no need of words."

"Wait a minute," Paul said, standing and walking quickly towards the parking lot.

"Why do you know our names?" Patty asked.

Twofeathers was silent a few moments, as if he didn't want to answer. He sat back down on the cement bench, and looked long at Patty. "Because those two are of the `three families', and you are of the line of John Sullivan. These are hated names to my people, much as the name `Hitler' is despised by yours. I have heard them pronounced all my life, from my Great-grandfather on down to my own father; and I hear them still, whispered on the wind, at night, when the spirit world is near." Pierre stared directly into her eyes.

Patty did not see hatred in the old man's eyes, yet she felt a chill running up her spine. She had no reply for the Indian's words, and stared at him dumbly. How odd, she thought, to be compared to Hitler.

Paul returned, and propping his briefcase open on the table, rummaged through it, and finally emerged with a folded sheet of yellow tablet paper. He unfolded the paper in front of Pierre, glancing at the wigwam to make sure that Jenny did not see it.

"See these words?" He pointed at the strange lettering Jenny had printed under her drawing. "Can you read these?"

Pierre squinted at the lettering. "I cannot read, except in English. The language of the Algonquian, and of the Tuscazoarans has no writing."

"Perhaps if I sound them out," Paul mumbled, and picked up the sheet of paper.

`ANA WARE SAGASU A MICHI A ZICON TOE HADASUTO TUSCAZOAWA' He read haltingly, trying to sound out the odd syllables correctly. When he was finished, he looked at Twofeathers, his left eyebrow cocked in question.

"Where did you get this?" Pierre demanded, his voice quavering.

"From her." Paul answered, indicating Jenny. "Do you understand it?"

"Yes, I understand it." Pierre said, his mouth setting in a hard line. "It is in the Tuscazoaran tongue."

~Well?" Patty said.

"She must have seen him!" Twofeathers said. "How did she survive?"

Paul stared at the old man in fascination. "What the hell does it mean, old man?" He insisted.

Pierre looked steadily into his eyes. "It means: You shall I stalk through the trails of time, the three and the one, until you become as the people of Tuscazoar. . .no more."

Paul did not quite grasp the meaning of the words. It sounded like more Bimelerish hocus-pocus to him. "What is that supposed to mean?" He asked.

"It's the curse!" Patty blurted, then, her voice lowering, continued. "It's the curse Giselle wrote in the old Bible. The three and the one. The three families, and the one means the line of John Sullivan. My God!" she went abruptly silent.

Twofeathers stared at her. He had never heard of the curse before. He had heard rumors, of course, that Orenda was taking revenge for his people, that Orenda rode the Manitou; indeed that's why he had been called here, but he had never heard the whites speak of a curse. this was strong medicine, and Pierre began to understand the power of the spirit he was up against.

Paul, seeing near-panic rising in Patty's soft eyes, rose and called Jenny. Then he began gathering up the picnic supplies, and took Patty by the arm. "It's getting late, we better be getting Jenny home." He said, calmly.

Patty stood as if in a stupor. "Oh, Paul!" Her eyes widened. "Paul, it is the curse! It's real! Just like Giselle wrote it in her Bible!"

Paul leaned over and whispered in her ear. "You don't really believe in all this Indian hocus-pocus bullshit, do you?"

She looked at him as if considering for the first time whether the old man's words were true or not. "I. . .I don't, I mean, I don't. . .know."

"I do,” Paul said, loudly. "I've had about all this silly superstitious crap I can stomach. This silliness is what has that child so fouled up!" He put his around the tot, and aimed her toward the car.

Pierre stood, and bowing his head slightly, thanked them for lunch. He shuffled off towards the briars and the river bank. Jenny ran after him, and grabbed his hand. Twofeathers leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. He whispered to her. "You've seen him, haven't you?"

Jenny did not know who he was referring to, so responded with a smile. "Seen who?" She thought.

Twofeathers took the smile as affirmation, and chucked her under the chin. "I hope I can be as brave as you are, little one." Her smile broadened, and she turned and ran after Paul and Patty.

"You really think he was lying?" Patty's voice was subdued, fearful.

"I don't know. The words could be Tuscarora, and part of Bimeler's silly ghost stories. I have half a mind to get in touch with the child welfare people and have them look into the way Bimeler's raising that child!"

"But if. . ." Patty's voice trailed off as Jenny caught up to them.

"Come on, Patty, you don't buy this crap any more than I do." Paul shook his head, angrily, and jerked the car door open for her. He took her arm, and helped her in. He could feel her trembling.

After they had dropped Jenny off at the cafe, they headed directly back to the motel, but had gone only a mile when Patty suddenly demanded to return to Zoar. "I want to borrow the records. I want to go over all the deaths that occurred in the `three families'." I need to make sure that this 'curse' is not for real!" Her voice held a note of apology in it.

Paul disgustedly swung the car around and headed back towards Zoar.

"If it will make you feel any better, we’ll go over them together, tonight." He almost laughed out loud at the idea of a curse, but he did not want to agitate, or alienate, Patty any more than she already was. It would also, he reasoned, give them an excuse to stay in one room and work together late into the night. Who knows what might happen then? He smiled to himself.