A Calculus of Angels (6 page)

She let him come closer, closer. Still he hadn’t seen her, or had lost her if he had.

And then Nico screamed, a long wail that only the deaf or the dead could not hear. As the horseman located them, she fired. The recoil rocked her back, and as she recovered she saw her foe still sat his horse, his pistol leveled. It spat flame, but not at her—over her—a wild shot.

Or so she thought. The horse pivoted broadside, rearing, and the man fired a second pistol, also over her head; and this time Adrienne turned to follow the deadly ball.

Crecy had just come over the hill, but even as Adrienne watched, crimson erupted from the center of her waistcoat and she twisted around, the sword at her side leaping out like a silver eel. The horseman drew his own broadsword.

He got a surprise. Crecy darted under his scything attack as if he were a child and then sprang up, her weapon a steel fan. Blood fountained from suddenly uncaptained shoulders.

Then a second invisible fist struck Crecy and she pitched over and did not move.

3.

A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

Winter Talk

Red Shoes raised his face to the familiar, welcome scent of hickory smoke that the wind whipped by him as he and Bienville rode past the house at the edge of the woods, a lean, gray building, a wolf sort of building, ready to grow thin in the bleak winter but not destined to starve. Some Europeans, he had gathered, came from frozen countries, and they brought with them the art of living in ice. Gazing up at the slate sky, at the hills in their white coats of water-cut-to-pieces, he wondered if they had not somehow managed to bring their weather with them.

“
I appreciate your company,”
Bienville said in Mobilian, the trade language. It was like a child’s version of Choctaw with a funny accent and a few strange words. Red Shoes had never much cared for it.

“It’s good to get out upon the land,” he replied in French. “It’s good to hunt again.”

Bienville chuckled. “So you
do
speak French. Your English was so good, I began to wonder if you were really a Choctaw at all.”

Now Red Shoes smiled. “I am Choctaw, Governor. We have met, in fact—or at least been in the same house before.”

“We have? You’ve the advantage over me, young man.”

“At the time, my uncle was the
Tishu Minko,
the speaker for the chief. You stayed one night in our
chukka,
in Chicasaway. It was only a few months after you took the heads of the Natchez chiefs. We thought much of you, then, for the Natchez had been trouble to us for many years.”

“I remember that,” Bienville said. “I remember a boy, too, a boy with a strange look in his eye who never spoke.”

“Me,” Red Shoes acknowledged.

“You’ve learned to speak.”

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“So I have.”

The trees were denser, but it was young growth, the churned ground between them bearing the frozen record of men, horses, swine, and cattle. How far would they have to go to find game? It didn’t really matter. He had spent a month in the town of Philadelphia, waiting for the ships to be provisioned and the winter to pass. He had busied himself studying maps, reading books, improving his English. But English towns were claustrophobic, and he still had months yet to spend there. Merely being outside was worth the bitter cold—and the simple fact was that Bienville had not asked him hunting for the purpose of hunting, either, but to talk.

“And in many languages,” Bienville concluded.

Red Shoes sighed. “Governor Bienville, you wish to ask me of my relations to the English.”

“That is true,” Bienville answered. “You have exposed me. The Choctaw have been French allies for many years, now. And yet, always I have suspected that some lean toward their Chickasaw cousins and the English.”

Red Shoes shrugged. “The old men tell me we turned to the French in the first place to get guns to protect ourselves from the Carolina slavers and their Chickasaw allies. The French have been our friends, and they still are.”

“Then—”

“But the French have also been the friends of the Natchez, and yet you yourself, Governor, have led troops against them.”

“Choctaw troops in part, I seem to remember.”

“Exactly, Governor Bienville. Do you think that we are like children, that we see only what you want? The French are our friends because it suits them to be, because it is to their advantage. The Choctaw, likewise, ally with the French because you help us against our enemies. That is honest. But when you set grass fires, you must watch for a shift in the wind.”

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“Then you cultivate no secret alliance with the English?”

Red Shoes grinned broadly. “I? No. But if the day comes that we must, I will be there to do so.”

“I see. What if the day should come that the French cannot provide you with trade goods as cheaply as the English?”

“Governor, we have seen no goods from France or England in several years now. We should like new muskets, powder, shot—wherever it may come from.

We will negotiate with whoever has it, I think.”

“You are an honest man,” Bienville said.

“I have heard you are, as well,” Red Shoes answered. “You are still respected among my folk, and I do you the honor that my uncle would have.”

“In that case, my friend, I fear I must ask you a favor.”

“I must hear the favor, of course.”

“Of course.” Bienville chewed his lip for a moment, and then drew his musket from its place at his saddle and laid it across his lap. “It may come too late, for I have seen you much with Nairne, who was an English spy during the last war.”

“He visited my folk, if that’s what you mean.”

Bienville nodded absently. “Everything that I’ve said in the meetings is true. I do have ships, and my oaths concerning the voyage are good. But I have not told them the condition of Louisiana.”

“Ah.”

“Red Shoes, have you told them that we are dying? That there are scarcely a thousand Frenchmen and women left in the colony?”

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“I have not mentioned it.”

“I beg you, do not speak of it. They must believe me strong. They must believe I allow them to crew my ships because of my goodwill, not because I cannot do it. Otherwise…”

“You think they will turn on you?”

“I do. Or they will turn the expedition to their own ends. I have agreed that we will visit England first, but I
must
be able to insist on a visit to France, you understand? I must renew trade, or else all my people will die—and your own be without goods, as you say.”

“And if I make you this gift?”

“I know your people are fond of trading gifts,” Bienville said. “I will give you this in return.”

He reached into his holster and pulled out something that looked much like a pistol, save that its shaft was coal-black iron, solid and drawn to a point. He handed it to Red Shoes.

He took the weapon, feeling the ornately carved ivory of the grip. “A
krqftpistole”
he breathed.

“It is yours,” Bienville said.

Red Shoes raised the deadly weapon and pointed it at the ruggedly laced trunk of an elm. “How many charges remain?”

“Twelve.”

Red Shoes held the weapon for a moment longer, and then reluctantly proffered it back to Bienville.

“I had no plans to tell the English how poorly the French fare,” he replied. “It is better for the Choctaw if the English think we have strong allies, not sickly, dying ones. So you need not present me with a gift.”

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Bienville’s hard face softened somewhat, and he nodded. “Then I give it to you in hope that it may begin the two of us on a path to friendship.”

“Well,” Red Shoes said, admiring the
krqftpistole
once more, “on those terms, I will accept it. May we walk a white path together.”

“Thank you,” the Frenchman said. “And now, I think if I am not mistaken, those are the droppings of a deer.”

Red Shoes looked down, saw the spoor. “Indeed,” he replied. “And so shall we hunt now, or is our business not done?”

“Hunt, I think,” Bienville replied, and together, they continued into the forest.

Red Shoes found it difficult to concentrate on eating, with Mather watching him. There was something about the man— quite apart from his words and appearance —that he found troubling. Part of this was the rude use he made of his eyes, but that was a common trait of most white people. It was as if they spoke with glances, the many words they uttered no more than a noise to accompany a battle of wills. Choctaw engaged in such combat, too, but not when discussing the flavor of food or the color of the sky—only when insult was intended or a lie was suspected, or before a fight to the death. For the white people, each exchange of pleasantries seemed a contest that must produce a winner and a loser.

But Red Shoes had grown accustomed to that peculiarity, and this was not what disturbed him about Mather.

“I’ve asked you here to speak on certain matters,” the preacher said after a time.

“I guessed as much.”

“It concerns this ‘science’ you speak of, by which your people might know your fate. Did you speak truly, or was that a tactic to protect your person? If it was the latter, I assure you no such pretense is needed.”

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“It was the truth.”

“Might I inquire how this ‘science’ operates?”

“You might,” Red Shoes answered, “but I cannot answer.”

The wrinkles about Mather’s eyes tightened. “I wonder if you can tell me if it involves the invisible world.”

Red Shoes did meet Mather’s gaze then. “You must explain what you mean by that.”

“The invisible world. The miles of dark air, the evil angels which dwell therein, the angels of light, so distant from us.”

Red Shoes could feel the man’s eyes, measuring him. “Go on,” he said.

“My father and I have long ministered to your people—”

“You have been among the Choctaw?”

“I mean among the Indians native to Massachusetts.”

“Ah. Then you do not mean
my
people.”

Mather frowned. “I shall not quibble with you, sir. Hereabouts, many of the natives have been brought to see the clear light, to acknowledge Jesus Christ as their savior, and to forswear their ancient, evil ways. Many of them admit to me that their
powawes
make use of the invisible world against their enemies.

To be plain, they have summoned unclean spirits, evil angels, to do their bidding.”

Red Shoes pursed his lips. “You speak of
Hattak Hohl-kunna.
Of—” He struggled for an English word, “—witches.”

Mather raised an eyebrow. “Yes. Every folk has them. Even in my own country, in Massachusetts, a conspiracy of devils threatened the domain of our Lord. So I do not say that I single your folk out. But you do admit that such evil persons A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

exist.”

“Of course.”

“And what is your opinion of such persons?”

“We kill them when they are discovered.”

“Why?”

“Because they are our enemies. They are accursed, living only to cause harm.

Why should we tolerate such as they?”

“Why indeed?” Mather pressed. “And yet, you admit to not being a Christian.”

“I am not a Christian, it is true.”

“Then I fail to understand your position.”

Red Shoes now stared openly at the man. “They bring disease, cause misfortune, murder people, lead us down black trails. We do not care for this.

What do you not understand?”

Mather returned his stare. The conversation was clearly not going as the white man had expected.

“And yet you yourself claim to have some commerce with this invisible world.”

“Do I? I did not say so.”

“You imply it.”

“Perhaps. Tell me, Reverend, do not you? Is not your god a part of that world?

Is he not a holy ghost?”

Now the preacher’s eyes lit, and a certain satisfaction came to his face.

“Indeed. I have seen proof of witches—I have performed scientific experiments that confirm their existence and their nature—and I find comfort in A CALCULUS OF ANGELS

discovering this evil, for it proves to me also that good exists. But what I must make you understand is that as a heathen, you cannot possibly know the difference between a good spirit and a bad. If good angels claim to serve you, then they are liars. They are devils in disguise, for good spirits will not minister to your sort.”

“My sort?”

“Have you never wondered how your people came to be here, in this America, so far from the rest of humanity?”

“I know how we came to be here.”

“You have legends, I am certain. But how can your history be reliable, when it was taught you by the devil?”

“I no longer follow you,” Red Shoes admitted, trying to keep anger from sharpening his tone.

“Scholars have long pondered your existence on these shores—”

“And we are much gratified by that interest,” Red Shoes assured him.

The preacher glared briefly before going on. “It seems clear that Lucifer showed you the way to these lands that he might have whole continents of damned men and women. Those same
powawes
I have converted admit as much, and admit as well that their dark lord is angered by the presence of Jesus in these colonies. Do you deny that your people have used their familiar spirits to sicken my people, to try and drive them away?”

“Yes, I deny it. Though I suppose some witches might have directed their ire toward you.”

“And yet you yourself speak of being ‘rid’ of us.”

“Yes. With the war club and bow, not by communion with the accursed beings.”

“But I remind you, you seem to admit to having familiars yourself.”

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“Not as witches do.”

The preacher banged his fist upon the table. “If you are served by spirits at all, I tell you that they are devils, though you may not know it.”

“And these witches who infested your Massachusetts. Were they Christians?

Why could they not tell the good spirit from the bad?”

“An excellent question. Some sought the Black One on purpose, for their hearts were evil. Others were fooled, but that only strengthens my contention, you see? Even those who strive to keep the covenant can be fooled. How much more so your own people?”