The sun set, the sky purpled, and the moon rose. It rose white and
beautiful, and it shone on a peaceful settlement. I went to my room
and found a Huron squatting on my threshold. He gave me a handful of
maize.
"Our chief, whom you call the Baron, sends this to you," he said. "He
bids you eat the corn, and swallow with it the suspicion that you feel.
You have sat all day with other chiefs, but your brother the Baron has
not seen you. His lodge cries out with emptiness. He bids you come to
him now."
I thought a moment. "Go in front of me," I told the Huron.
I whistled as I went. A sheep that goes to the shambles of its own
accord deserves to be butchered, and I was walking into ambush. But
still I whistled. I whistled the same tune again and again, and I did
it with great lung power. My progress was noisy.
And so we went through the Huron camp. The lodges of the Baron's
followers were massed to one side, and as I whistled and swaggered my
way past their great bark parallelograms, I saw preparations for war.
The braves carried quivers, and were elaborately painted. Fires were
burning, though the night was warm, and women nearly naked, and
swinging kettles of red-hot coals, danced heavily around the blaze.
Pages:
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343