Timewatch (20 page)

Kiontawakon didn't pause for any of this. He kept right on going in his ground-swallowing strides that made it hard for J.J. to keep up with him.

At the entrance to a building looking like a big longhouse, Kiontawakon stopped so suddenly that J.J. almost bumped into him.

“Do what I tell you,” he said.

In that moment, Kiontawakon sounded a lot like Jeremy.

Walking behind Kiontawakon into the council house, J.J. saw that it was crowded with at least 100 men. This had to be the Tribal Council, made up of all the chiefs of the village councils, who met to debate big issues of war and peace. They all belonged to different tribes: Mohawks, Oneidas, Onondagas, Cayugas, and Senecas. They called themselves the Iroquois League.

The chiefs stopped talking and stared at the newcomers. Then an older man got up and welcomed them. “We would ask the shaman of the Senecas, Kiontawakon, to speak to us now.”

With great dignity, the shaman rose and faced the others. “My heart is heavy, my brothers,” he began. “There are many things that the Stone Person has told me, things that are troubling me. You know that Metacom is fighting the English settlers, who have dealt severely with him and the tribes following him, even though Metacom's father, Chief Massasoit, in former times saved them from starvation by giving the settlers food and teaching them to plant corn. The great chief Massasoit also protected them from those who sought to destroy them. After he died, Alexander, his son, succeeded him as chief and was poisoned—or so his brother Metacom believes—by the English. Later, the English humiliated Metacom by requiring him to give up his guns and sign a new peace treaty, even though his father had already signed one.

“In many other ways the English treat the Wampanoags with contempt and do not respect their customs. They see this great land as something to be divided up among them, not as a sacred trust to be used by all.

“Even though the Wampanoags do not belong to our League, the whites will also bring destruction to us. I have seen into a future where the white men will plant their corn and longhouses where ours used to be. They will herd us into areas where they will command us to stay. Instead of merriment among our people, we will know sorrow and great pain.

“For these reasons, we must ally ourselves with Metacom's forces and drive the English from this land.”

Kiontawakon sat down. During the heavy silence, J.J. wanted to fidget but didn't dare. It looked like he had landed right in the middle of King Philip's War. He remembered his history teacher telling the class that King Philip was really an Indian chief called Metacom, who led his Wampanoag tribe and other Indians into a war against the Puritan colonists of New England in 1675.

The English called him “king” because they thought Metacom was as arrogant as the Catholic King Philip of Spain, who had tried to conquer England in 1588. Later, James I had actually sent a crown to Chief Powhatan, father of Pocahontas, for the chief's coronation. So it wasn't uncommon for other chiefs to have coronations and be called kings.

Then an older man began to speak. “The clan matrons who chose us are against war with the English. Even if we should put a thousand of our warriors into battle and kill all the settlers, King Charles of England would send more men—an inexhaustible number like the sands of the sea—to punish us. Then where would our people be?”

“Are we to hide like the badger in his hole from these English?” cried Kiontawakon. “They do not regard us as men like them, but as inferior beings.”

“They treat us well, give us weapons and other things of goodly manufacture,” objected another.

“Like the firewater that turns sensible men into demons,” said Kiontawakon bitterly.

The other men cast significant looks at each other. Then an old man with a face like a relief map of the Rockies spoke in measured tones. “I remember the tale that my father's father told me about the fierce chief of the Stone Giants, who wanted to wipe out our people. From the North Country came these giants, singing their war song as they marched into a deep ravine. The Great Spirit heard them and asked the Spirit of the Wind to stop them because he did not wish his people, the Senecas, to be destroyed. The wind blew so hard that it toppled great boulders upon these giants so that all of them were killed.

“Even so, my brothers, will our race be preserved, even in the face of great evils like the fevers and other diseases which the English have brought with them.

“It is not cowardly, but prudent, to side with these whites who have powerful weapons. Some among them have dealt fairly with our people and respect our customs.

“Metacom is a rash young man who acts before he thinks. He cannot win.” He looked around and said with finality, “We must not help him or we will endanger the League.”

“If you knew,” said Kiontawakon slowly, “what will happen to the League, would you change your minds?”

J.J. felt a twinge of unease as Kiontawakon continued. “Great sorrows will come to our people. Listen to Little Running Horse.”

“What can
he
tell us?” asked a younger man, skepticism written all over his hard, bony face.

“As is our custom for boys, he has fasted and meditated in the woods, where a spirit told him of many terrible things that will happen, not only to our people but to many others.”

There was a buzzing among the Indians as they digested this information. Then the old one asked, “It may be that this boy is possessed of a spirit that has caused him to go mad.”

Kiontawakon shook his head vigorously as he said emphatically, “No! He is not mad. This Jason spirit has also spoken to me.”

Now they were all looking expectantly at him.

“Tell them what will happen in the future,” said Kiontawakon softly, giving J.J. a meaningful look.

It felt hot and close in the longhouse. He didn't want to talk to these men, who had to be just about the fiercest Indians going. They gave no quarter and expected none, but could he just ignore the fact that over 3,000 Indians were going to die in this war? And that included Metacom, whose wife and kid would be sold as slaves and shipped to Bermuda.

J.J. cleared his throat. What was he going to say? His mom used to tell him that when in doubt, tell the truth.

The Indians waited impassively.

“I can't tell you about the future because I don't know exactly what will happen.”

That was true enough.

Now Kiontawakon was frowning. He whispered savagely, “You will speak now about the future as you know it.”

“No.”

Kiontawakon glared at him. The old guy who had argued with Kiontawakon stood up and was closing the meeting by saying, “Dekanawida, the Great Peacemaker, and Hiawatha brought us the Great Law of Peace so that all the nations of the League might dwell in peace and tranquility. Let us not destroy that peace by going to war.”

The younger man who had spoken before added, “Wampanoags, Nipmucks, Abenakis, Tarratines, and Narragansetts are not worth fighting for. Besides, we have no quarrel with the English. If they provoke us in the future, our warriors will fall upon them with fire and steel and teach them to respect us. For the present, let us continue to trade with them.”

“And let Metacom perish?” asked Kiontawakon bitterly.

“If the Great Spirit wills it,” said the old Indian firmly. “After all, Metacom and his people do not belong to our League.”

“After the English destroy Metacom, they will come after us!” shouted Kiontawakon.

Now they were all getting up and walking out, and Kiontawakon was prodding him to follow him. He didn't look happy.

They walked out into the same peaceful scene they'd left a short time ago. The group of men gambling in the shade of a tree were still at it, and the women carried on with their chores.

Kiontawakon hesitated as though he was unsure what to do, then jerked his head at J.J. and headed off into the woods. It was pretty easy to walk there. The undergrowth had been cleared so that it was like strolling in a big park, except that this place was no park. A wild turkey waddling by took off when it saw them.

They came to a creek, where a beaver was fixing up his lodge.

Kiontawakon suddenly halted and asked fiercely, “In your time, will the water run clear like this? Will the beaver build his dams, or will the people press so close upon the earth that there will be much hunger and sorrow and death?”

“It's not like that.”

But it was close enough. Gruesome things were always going on in the world. His history teacher, Mr. McCraik, would get all worked up about pollution, overpopulation, and what had happened to the Indians.

Now he was beginning to wonder if his teacher and this Indian guy were at least partially right.

Then Kiontawakon gripped his shoulder and said, “Jason spirit, my people believe that the English will treat them fairly as men of dignity. You and I know that this will not be so. In the future many Indian tribes will be scattered to the four directions. They will forget the old ways.”

The Indian's eyes were burning with a scary light, but he was right: the Indians were going to be herded onto reservations by the U.S. government, which would savagely put down any resistance.

Digging his toes into the leaf litter, J.J. said, “Even if I could help you, I don't know if I should. If I do, then maybe something bad will happen to
my
people.” Like if Metacom and his confederacy of other Indians won the war, then maybe the ancestors of men like George Washington wouldn't be born, and there would be no American Revolution. That could be a disaster for America and for the world.

The Indian's fingers were sinking deep into his flesh, as he shook him and cried, “You must help! If you do not …”

Then the light began to dim and objects around them fade until the last thing J.J. saw were the desperate eyes of the shaman.

CHAPTER 21

It was a lovely garden, thought Geraldine, with roses, carnations, and jonquils interspersed with other flowers whose names she didn't know. Jets of water arcing into the air fell into marble basins emptying into pools in whose hidden depths she could see the movement of silver-finned fish.

Everything felt slightly unreal: the fountains, the cypresses swaying in the gentle evening breeze, the sudden laughter of someone in the palace, and the marble bench on which she was seated.

The logic that had told her time travel was not possible had apparently been confounded because here she was, inhabiting the body of Lady Mary Montague, wife of the English ambassador to Turkey, sitting in this Turkish garden halfway around the world and several centuries away from the mission garden where she had ingested the herbs that Jeremy had left for them.

It was like something out of the Arabian Nights.

So were the fancy brocaded harem pants over which hung a kind of gauzy white silk smock and over that a white-and-gold damask waistcoat covered by a caftan of the same material. A wide belt spangled with diamonds cinched her tiny waist. On her head she wore a turban.

“Lady Mary?”

The servant coming toward her was holding her long skirts above the grass. Quelling the panic threatening to engulf her, Geraldine rose to her feet.

With the querulous look of someone who has soured on life, her maid, Emma, who had traveled with them to Turkey said, “Lady Mary, the old woman you were expecting has arrived.”

“I'm coming.” Geraldine's initial attack of anxiety abated as information began seeping into her mind. It was amazing, she thought, how by relaxing and balancing her mind with Mary's—although she was sure that Mary wasn't conscious of what was going on—the words came out with the proper accent and intonation, as well as a certain phrasing.

Emma nodded at her and turned away with a jerky movement, stepping gingerly on the grass as though it were slivers of glass. This place might be a paradise, but not for Emma, living in fear of the Turks whom she thought of as heathens.

She led her into an opulent room of intricately patterned rugs, furniture inlaid with precious woods and gems, and priceless glowing lamps. Standing in the middle of the room and clutching a wooden soldier in one hand was a small boy, Lady Mary's seven-year-old son Edward, who was staring at an elderly woman carrying a bundle.

“Mummy, is she going to hurt me?” asked Edward in a small voice.

“Darling, no!” said Geraldine as Edward threw himself at her and hugged her tightly.

“But Emma said that she would make me sick,” replied her son, his eyes big with fear as he looked at the woman who was going to inoculate him.

Her arms folded over her meager chest, Emma glared at the old woman, who was bowing awkwardly to Lady Mary and asking in halting English, “This the boy I help?”

“Does Lord Montague know of this, my lady?” interrupted Emma, her face screwed up into a frown.

Memories flooded in: the journey in 1717 from England to Turkey, where her husband was supposed to negotiate a peace between the Austrians and the Turks; their renting this palace set on a hill in Constantinople; her visits to ladies in their luxurious harems; and hours spent learning the Turkish language and poetry from a learned effendi.

“You overstep yourself, Emma,” said Geraldine sharply. “Do not presume that because you have worked for me for so many years you may speak your mind on all occasions. Whether my lord approves or not of this undertaking—and he does—is none of your affair.” Then, ignoring her maid, Geraldine turned to the woman who would inoculate Edward and said, “Yes, this is Edward. He is ready now for you to do the ingrafting.”

Ingrafting, Geraldine drew from Lady Mary's memories, was generally done by a group of old women who went around to people's houses during September when the weather had cooled off. This must be the woman that Maitland, their doctor, had found to inoculate Edward. He had also found a suitable subject from which to gather the smallpox pus that was essential to the whole process.