Timewatch (19 page)

What really shocked him was the fact that his body felt different, shorter and more compact, the muscles weaker now from … from the sickness that had made him take to his bed over a week ago.

What sickness? How?

The questions raged in his mind, the turmoil threatening to pull him under in a whirlpool more dangerous than the one in Lake-of-Many-Waters.

A crazy montage of images raced through his mind: canoes holding paint-daubed warriors slipping through the calm waters of a river; cornfields where women were hoeing; masked men whirling around in a frenzied dance. They tore at the small point of sanity, the essence that was Little Running Horse.

No! No! Jason Kramer!

Panicking, he clawed at his eyelids, tumbling off the weights, small pink stones, and looked into the face of the demon looming over him.

Stifling the shriek that came bubbling up into his throat, he saw that the demonic figure was really a man wearing a black wooden mask, which had a crooked nose, a wide, lopsided mouth, and what looked like corn husks for hair.

Who … what was going on?

Reassuring answers came from his host's mind, calming his racing heart and his sudden attack of panicked breathlessness. The mask represented a spirit that could heal disease. The guy wearing it belonged to the False Face Society, an Iroquois healing group.

The Indian continued chanting and shaking a turtle shell rattle, winding up with a loud whoop that sent an involuntary shudder through J.J. Nothing to worry about, just a guy trying to drive away the evil spirits that were making Little Running Horse sick.

Then the Indian laid surprisingly gentle hands upon J.J.'s chest. Something like an electric shock surged through him, running down his spine and spreading instantly to his arms and legs. He fell into a kind of stupor in which he was only half-aware of being rubbed with something gritty and smelling like ashes.

The blackness came again, and then he awoke. Instead of a demon, this time he saw a girl about his own age. Her smile reminded him of Crystal. It felt weird to “remember” his past as Little Running Horse along with his 20th-century memories. Those memories of his host body told him that he was now in a Seneca village with this girl, Teya.

“Are you hungry? Would you like some soup?” she asked, giving him a friendly look.

The thought of food made him react like one of Pavlov's dogs. “Uh, sure.”

Hey! How could he understand what she said? Without even thinking about it, he'd talked back to her in her own language. Good thing. It was bad enough being yanked back into the past, but it would have been impossible to do anything useful if he couldn't speak the language.

Teya went over to one of the fires burning on the dirt floor of the building, which was built like a rectangle. It had to be at least 70 feet in length, maybe longer. Enormous bunk beds, each one of which looked big enough for an entire family to sleep on, stood against the walls. He was lying on one of these lower bunks.

Jumbled together on the top bunks lay an odd assortment of things: hatchets, deerskin clothing, muskets, beaded belts—wampum was the name that came into his mind—knives, and a mask like the one that had frightened him earlier. Braided corn, kettles, and pelts of animals hung from the beams.

“Here, try this.”

Teya thrust a wooden bowl, steaming with some kind of cornmeal mush, into his hands.

He was absolutely starved. His stomach felt tight as though nothing had been in it for days. The mush was hot and good. While he dug ravenously into it, the girl stood silently watching him.

“You feeling better?”

“Much.”

The dizziness and weakness were passing off now.

“The strawberries are ready for picking,” said Teya, her eyes full of warmth that J.J. found a little unsettling. “Soon we will be celebrating the Strawberry Festival. Are you well enough to go pick a few berries now?”

He felt a familiar affection for her. Had she been his girl? Images of him and Teya swimming, picking fruit, going to festivals together swarmed though his mind.

“Sounds like fun.” It beat lying in bed waiting for more visits from a guy wearing a mask.

Teya reached up to the top bunk and brought down two baskets made of woven splints. “We should go now,” she said in a low, urgent voice.

“Where are you going?” A muscular young guy, with a tattoo of an owl on his arm, deerskin breeches, and an impressive necklace of animal teeth, barred their way.

“To the river to pick strawberries,” said Teya.

“Don't be long. When you return, I must speak to Little Running Horse.”

Nodding, Teya gave J.J. a little push and walked quickly to the bark door. Once outside, the air was fresh and sweet. The girl slowed down, accommodating herself to J.J.'s slower pace.

They were in a regular little town, he saw, with longhouses spaced evenly along dirt streets. Enclosing the village was an enormous palisade of upright logs, tall as telephone poles.

No one stopped them when they slipped out of the village.

“Look how ripe they are! Try some,” said Teya as she bent down to pick the berries.

J.J. didn't have to be persuaded. He loved fruit.

Teya laughed as the juice ran down his chin, her eyes crinkling with amusement.

“I didn't really ask you out here to pick strawberries,” she said, “but to warn you about Kiontawakon.”

She paused expectantly and looked at him.

According to Little Running Horse's memories, Kiontawakon was the tribe's shaman, the guy with the owl tattoo who wanted to talk to him.

“What's he up to?”

“I think he's jealous that we've lain together. He's spreading a rumor that you're a witch. Only a few believe that, but now that you've recovered miraculously, some might believe you are.”

“Do you believe it?”

Teya tossed her head, her black braids flying. “Of course, not. I know you, and I care for you, but you must be careful.”

“You got any suggestions?”

“You might say you had a dream about Kiontawakon.”

“How's that going to help me?”

“If you told people your totem spirit came to you in a dream and said that
Kiontawakon
was the witch …”

“Oh, I see.”

These people took their dreams—especially sick people's dreams—very seriously. If he said he'd dreamed that Kiontawakon was a witch, the Senecas might kill the shaman. Murder wasn't what he wanted on his conscience! But what if the guy really was trying to kill him?

“I don't know, Teya.”

“Think about it, but not too long. In the meantime, let's gather some strawberries.”

As he bent down to pick a cluster of berries, he reflected that things were beginning to seem like a bad dream. He had a hunch it was going to get worse.

CHAPTER 19

Kiontawakon was disturbed by what he had learned from the Stone Person, who spoke through a particular stone, but only to someone, like himself, who could hear. The entity had revealed the history of the world to Seneca shamans before him, how there had been three worlds before this one. The first World of Love had been ended by the jealousy of the yellow race, the second World of Ice by the carelessness and forgetfulness of the brown race, and the third World of Water, by the greed of the white race.

Shifting uneasily on the packed earth of the sweat lodge, he sprinkled tobacco over the dying coals of the fire. As he watched the brown shreds curl into ash, he was reminded of the times he had sat here with his teacher.

If only he could ask the advice now of that wise one who had gone to the gods many moons ago, leaving his student to carry out the rituals and ceremonies for their people.

Even now, in the seasons it had taken him to grow to manhood, the newcomers had worked their destruction among the Wampanoags and other peoples who had taught the English how to plant corn and to live off the land. It would have been far better if these palefaces had never come to the shores of this land.

If they were not stopped, things would grow worse, much worse. But it would take more than war parties of fierce braves, for like the tides of the Great Sea, those spawn of demons would only keep coming.

Kiontawakon ignored the whispers of the Stone Person telling him not to take the Crooked Trail leading to fear and destruction, a trail that would make him lose his connection to the Earth Mother, who taught that all humankind were part of a wholeness.

He had tried to walk the Path of Beauty as he had been instructed, tried to identify with all of humankind, not just with his own race. But he was afraid that doing nothing might lead to the destruction of his own people, the Seneca, Keepers of the Western Door. They were the farthest west of the tribes belonging to the Iroquois League, and the tribe that guarded the western frontier.

If he could not persuade the League to help the Wampanoag chief, Metacom, who was warring against the English, those whites would crush Metacom's forces and destroy the rest of the Indian tribes. He could not accept that, for it was possible that the whites could end this present world—the fourth World of Separation. He would do everything he could, even enlist the help of the dark spirits, to make sure that this would not happen. He would ask for guidance, too, from his totem and guardian spirit, the owl, a messenger of darkness and magic, whose help he now sorely needed.

The sweat rolling off his lean, muscular body, Kiontawakon began slowly rocking back and forth, allowing the rhythm of his body to calm his mind. Chanting softly, he took up his small drum and began thumping out the powerful beats that would send him into a trance, thereby allowing his spirit to slip into the Underworld. There he might enlist the help of the dark forces, who would help him oppose those whose very existence meant slavery and death for his people.

CHAPTER 20

Kiontawakon had taken him to a secluded place where he had chanted some gibberish and then said, “Oh, Spirit, I command you to speak.”

When he'd kept quiet, Kiontawakon, with that air of authority about him that let you know he expected to be obeyed, commanded, “Tell me your name, your real name.”

Did that mean that Kiontawakon knew there was something wrong, that there was someone else in the body of Little Running Horse?

“Little Running Horse,” J.J. answered.

As the shaman leaned forward, the talons of the Great Horned Owl tattooed on his arm seemed to flex. J.J. felt himself drawn into that place where magic could be worked, the place where Kiontawakon's consciousness went on his shamanic journeys. It was there that the shaman would call on the owl, his power animal, for guidance and help.

The sound of Kiontawakon's voice drew J.J. out of that other place. “Tell me your name, the name of the spirit who talks to you. I will not harm you.”

Except tell people he was a witch, and then he really didn't want to think about what might happen to him.

“We must talk, for the good of the tribe, for the good of all the peoples of this land.” Kiontawakon's voice deepened as he continued. “The Stone Person has spoken to me through this stone.”

That was some stone, big as a man's fist, and made of what looked like the kind of quartz crystals that his mom collected. She had told him that some crystals were “teacher stones” that held the knowledge of the earth and its history and that some people could communicate with them.

“He has told me of your coming.”

There was no point in playing dumb anymore. “My name is Jason Kramer.”

Kiontawakon nodded with satisfaction. “Before the coming of the white man, we freely roamed these territories, hunting the deer, the beaver, and the bear. The Three Sisters—corn, bean, and squash—yielded up their bounty so that none went hungry. There was much merriment in our longhouses.

“In my vision I saw how the white men will trick us into signing over our ancestral lands to them, keeping the best for themselves. We will die, not the glorious death of great warriors, but as little children struck down by sickness for which our medicine has no cure, diseases brought by those who trouble our land. This is already happening.”

He was really laying on a guilt trip. With a great effort, J.J. pulled his gaze away and wriggled uncomfortably on the pile of deerskin rugs in the domed bark enclosure they were sitting in. A thin spiral of smoke was drifting from a small fire burning in front of them. He could smell sweetgrass, familiar to him from the time when he'd gone with Davis to a display of his tribe's native crafts.

J.J. felt sorry for what was going to happen to the Indians—they'd gotten a raw deal, all right—but nothing he said to Kiontawakon was going to make any difference.

“I have had visions,” Kiontawakon continued, “of a future time when men run about like ants on the earth, going this way and that, in machines that climb into the heavens. They have fouled the very waters.

“The breath of our mother, the earth, has been filled with noxious smells. It does not have to be so. There must be a way to let my people live in dignity.”

Kiontawakon's hand dug into J.J.'s shoulder as he ordered, “You must tell the Tribal Council about your world. Because I have been training you as a shaman, they will listen to you.”

Or else be branded a witch. He got the picture now.

Kiontawakon stood up. Beckoning to J.J. to follow him, he went outside. Men wearing moccasins and deerskin loincloths decorated with dyed porcupine quills were talking quietly among themselves.

The women, who wore fringed deerskin dresses as well as moccasins, were all busy. One young woman was vigorously pounding corn into flour with her mortar and pestle, while a tiny, wrinkled old woman was making a beautiful bowl out of wood. Giggling young girls threw teasing comments at him as they ran past him. Little kids played happily by themselves.