Two Rivers
Authors: Zoe Saadia
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Historical, #United States, #Native American, #Historical Fiction
Two Rivers
The Peacemaker Series, book 1
By
Zoe Saadia
Copyrights 2013 by Zoe Saadia
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PUBLISHED By
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Table of contents
The Great League of the Iroquois existed for centuries before
both Americas were discovered by other continents. Composed of five nations
known to us under the names of Mohawks, Oneida, Onondaga, Cayuga, and Seneca,
the Iroquois Confederacy occupied most of today’s upstate New York, from Delaware
River north to the St. Lawrence all the way to Niagara Peninsula and Lake Erie
with its surrounding areas.
What made this confederacy special was their amazingly
detailed, well-defined constitution. Recorded by a pictographic system in the
form of wampum belts, the league’s laws held on for centuries, maintaining
perfect balance between five powerful, warlike nations. Many modern scholars
believe that USA constitution was inspired by the Iroquois constitution. To
what degree, this is another question, but Benjamin Franklin, John Adams, and
some other Founding Fathers were, undoubtedly, very well-versed in the laws of
the Great League, with Franklin advocating a federal system akin to that of the
Iroquois and Adams leading a faction that favored more centralized government
but still citing many of the Iroquois laws in the process.
So what was this remarkable constitution, and how did it come
to life? This work of historical fiction attempts to recreate the remarkable
events that happened more than eight hundred years ago.
“Two Rivers” is historical fiction and some of the characters
and adventures in this book are imaginary, while some are historical and well
documented in the accounts concerning this time period and place.
The history of that region is presented as accurately and as
reliably as possible, to the best of the author’s ability, and although no work
of this scope can be free of error, an earnest effort was made to reflect the
history and the traditional way of life of the peoples residing in those areas.
I would also like to apologize before the descendants of the
mentioned nations for giving various traits and behaviors to the well known
historical characters (such as the Great Peacemaker, whose name I changed out
of respect even though it was translated into English), sometimes putting them
into fictional situations for the sake of the story. The main events of this
book and the followings sequels are well documented and could be verified by a
simplest research.
Southeastern Canada, near Lake Ontario
1141 AD
The ball sprang into the air, glowing dully, making its way
toward the edge of the field, determined, resisting the wind coming from the
lakeside.
A good throw, reflected Tekeni, leaping forward along with the
rest of the players, his shaft grasped tightly in his sweaty palm, ready to
pounce. Squinting against the glow of the afternoon sun, he followed the path
of the ball, calculating fast. It was coming down, nearing the other side of
the field,
the opponents’ side
.
Pushing another player out of his way, Tekeni leaped ahead,
seeing the momentarily clear path. His shaft shot forward, as his eyes
estimated the distance. Oh, yes, he was going to trap this ball, to catch it
safely in his net, to make a run for the opposite team’s gates, and maybe, with
a little luck, to score.
Racing on, oblivious of the cheering crowds, he turned sharply
without slowing his step, catching his balance, ready to face the descending
ball. It was coming down fast. For a fraction of a moment, he could see it
clearly, a coarse, round thing made out of a stuffed deerskin, heavy enough to
inflict damage if one wasn’t careful.
Blocking the sunlight, it made its way toward his outstretched
arm, making it unnecessary to get into a better position, not even to tilt his
body. It was going straight for his shaft. He caught his breath and felt the
silence as the watching crowds went still, holding their breath, too.
Then, as the ball was about to land in his net, his arm shot
sideways, driven away by a force he could not comprehend for a moment, the pain
in it paralyzing, making him gasp. As the heavy body of another player slammed
into him, he felt the grass slipping under his feet, jumping into his face,
revoltingly damp, permeating his breath. From the corner of his eye, he could
see the ball crashing into the earth just outside the field, cumbersome,
powerless upon the ground.
People were yelling, their words gushing above his head, as he
pushed himself up, his arm numb and not reacting properly. The taste of the
earth was nauseating, and he spat violently, glad to find something to do
before trying to make sense of what happened. All eyes would be upon him now,
that much he knew –
Seketa’s eyes, too
- yet the fresh earth clogging
his nostrils was his most immediate concern.
Someone picked up the ball and was carrying it away. To put it
in its place upon the middle of the field, he knew, to await the announcement
of yet another round, because when the ball fell out of the field, the whole
move was canceled.
“You will be out of the game before you know it!” shouted
someone angrily. Recognizing the voice of Ogtaeh, a player from his team,
Tekeni wiped the mud from his face, blinking to make his vision focus.
“It was an accident,” answered Yeentso smugly, a thin half
smile twisting his lips. He was a tall, broadly built man of twenty or more
summers, the best player of the opposite team.
“It was no accident!” fumed Ogtaeh. “I saw it all!” He turned
to the surrounding players. “You all saw it, didn’t you?”
“Well, it might have been an accident,” murmured someone. “The
slippery ground and all.”
“The slippery ground in your stupid dreams.” Spitting the
remnants of the earth from his mouth, its taste mixed with the salty flavor of
blood, Tekeni came closer, trying to pay no attention to the pain rolling up
and down his arm. “He collided with me on purpose!” He took another step,
glaring at Yeentso, seeing the hated face so very close, every scar, every
speckle, every bead of sweat upon it. “And you hit me with your shaft to make
sure I did not catch this ball, you dirty piece of excrement.”
The high cheekbones of the man took a darker shade.
“You better watch your tongue, wild boy,” said Yeentso, leaning
forward.
It took Tekeni a conscious effort not to take a step back, tiny
waves of alarm running down his stomach, making it twist. Yeentso was a
seasoned warrior, strong and dominant, renowned for the shortness of his
temper. And yet, and yet… The ball game had very strict rules, and while the
players were always ready to sustain injuries on account of the heavy ball and
the frequent collisions with each other, one had no right to hit his rival with
his shaft, so very openly at that.
For another heartbeat, they glared at each other, but a glimpse
of his doubts must have been reflecting in Tekeni’s eyes, as his rival’s lips
twisted into another derisive grin.
“Wipe your face and go away, boy. Learn to talk properly before
you address your elders and betters.” Yeentso straightened up and looked around,
eyes glittering. “You hit me, you dirty excrement,” he mimicked, doing Tekeni’s
accent quite well. “Go away, you dirty foreigner. You will never be one of us.”
The wave of rage was so sudden, so overwhelming, he found it
difficult to breathe. Eyes fixed on his man’s smirking face, he felt the sounds
receding, disappearing, melting in the choking cloud of fury. People murmured,
but their voices reached him barely, coming in waves. Still, he tried to
control his temper, his palms going numb from the force with which they
clutched onto the handle of his playing stick.
“Stop talking nonsense, Yeentso,” said someone calmly. “You did
enough for one afternoon. Let us proceed with the game. They are waiting for us
to resume.”
Indeed, the people crowding both slopes were still silent,
watching with curiosity, but the elders’ stony faces showed disapproval.
“I’m willing to proceed if the wild boy is willing to stop
whining.” Shrugging, Yeentso began turning away.
“You played dirty, you coward!” cried out Tekeni, hardly able
to control his voice. It was trembling badly.
The tall man whirled around, moving with a surprising speed.
One heartbeat, he was turning away, the next, his wide body was pressed against
Tekeni’s, the large, weathered palms grabbing his throat.
“Don’t you ever call me that, you slimy piece of dirt. If you
want to enjoy a little more of your worthless life, keep very quiet, and away
from me.” The hands grabbing his throat fastened. “You are nothing but a dirty
foreigner from across the Great Sparkling Water, and why you were given a
chance to live I’ll never understand. They should never have adopted you, but
killed you along with your stinking, worthless people.”
This time, the wave of rage was too forceful, impossible to
control. Struggling to stabilize himself, Tekeni found it easy to squirm out of
the strangling grip the moment his foot connected with the man’s shin, the
vicious kick making his attacker waver. The shaft, still grasped tightly in his
hands, came up as though acting on its own accord, crushing against the man’s
temple, sending him sprawling into the damp grass, to lie there motionless,
just a heap of limbs.
Wavering, he struggled to get grip of his senses, his heart
pounding, trying to jump out of his chest. The silence was encompassing. No one
moved, no one seemed to breathe, even.
Then the collective gasp went out of many chests, and the
murmuring went up and up, gaining strength, turning into a loud hum. People
were running from all over, and women were screaming. Strong hands grabbed his
arms, tore the heavy stick away from his sweaty palms. He didn’t try to resist,
too numb to think straight just yet.
“He killed Yeentso!”
The voices were all around, surrounding him like raging water,
when one’s canoe would overturn in the rapids of the river. This had happened
to him once, when a young boy of no more than ten summers old. He could swim
well, but the rapids were vicious, raging around, splashing over his head, the
current strong and pulling, impossible to resist. He had panicked immediately
back then, thrashing his limbs and breathing the splashing sprays, until
Father’s strong hands grabbed him, pulling him out of the lethal grip, making
the world right again.
Well, now the feeling was back, the helpless sensation of
fighting for one’s life, mindlessly, if need be. And there would be no Father
to pull him out, because Father had been dead for two summers and three moons,
killed with one single arrow on that day, when the world turned upside down
again.
He tried to break free, but the grip on his wrists tightened,
turned unbearable. Biting his lips, he suppressed a groan as they fought to
slam his hands behind his back. The clamor around was deafening, this same
raging water, climbing higher and higher, threatening to drown him. The panic
was back, the mindless, desperate efforts to break free.
“Let the boy go. What do you think he’ll do, kill you all?”
The same even voice of the man who had suggested getting back
to the game earlier was familiar, calming in its tranquility. He remembered him
vaguely, from other ball games and from some heated arguments with the Town and
Clans’ Councils. His name was Two Currents Flowing Together, but everyone
called him Two Rivers. He belonged to the Turtle Clan, residing in the
longhouse next to the one Tekeni had grown to regard as his own. Everyone
talked about this man and his peculiar opinions that he never bothered to keep
to himself.
Kneeling beside the crumbled form of Yeentso, the man put his
ear to the wounded’s chest, then straightened up and inspected the bleeding
head.
“He is breathing,” he informed the stunned crowds,
straightening up and pushing his hair off his sweaty face. “Maybe he’ll live.”
“If he doesn’t, the loathsome brat will pay with his worthless
life!” cried out a tall woman, dropping beside the wounded. “And it won’t be an
easy death, either. The despicable murderer, the filthy foreigner! I’ll make
sure that…” Her voice trailed off, turning into sobs.
“This will not be your decision to make,” said Two Rivers,
unperturbed. “The Clans Councils will deal with this youth, or maybe the Town
Council.” He stood the woman’s glare, his large, almond-shaped eyes unreadable.
“But you can make yourself useful by asking the medicine man to see your
husband, the sooner the better.”
“He is coming,” volunteered another woman. “And the elders of
the town. They were watching, anyway.”
“Good.” Two Rivers got to his feet briskly. “Give him some
space, so he can get a gulp of fresh air. Bring water and clean cloths. And let
the boy go. He won’t make any more trouble. Not this afternoon.”
“Who put you in charge?” demanded one of the men whose hands
were still pinning Tekeni’s arms, their grip painful. “You are not one of the
council’s members to distribute orders. And you are not the leading warrior
either.”
“Well, neither are you, Anue.” Two Rivers shrugged, still
unperturbed. “But while I was thinking about Yeentso and his well being, you’ve
been busy taking your frustration out on a young boy as though he were a
dangerous enemy warrior.”
“The cub is dangerous, all right,” murmured someone.
“And he is an enemy!”
“He is not an enemy. He is one of us. He has been adopted into
the Wolf Clan, and it did not happen a few dawns ago.” Two Rivers’ grin
twisted, challenging. “And he is no more dangerous than any one of those other
young men. But if you are afraid of a boy armed with a wooden shaft, I suppose
you should not go around unprotected.”
This did not go well, neither with the insulted man, nor with
the rest of the crowd. The glares Two Rivers received could rival the ones shot
at Tekeni, who peered at his unexpected defender wide-eyed, forgetting his own
plight for a moment.
Why would someone want to help him, the despised enemy? Yes, he
had been adopted like the man said. It happened more than two summers ago.
Still, no one made the mistake of trusting him, not yet, not ever maybe. He was
an enemy, a boy from across the Great Sparkling Water, captured while raiding
those northern lands, a part of a warriors’ party, too young to belong, but
still a male child who had seen close to fifteen summers, almost a warrior. He
should have been killed with his people, shot like his father, or put through a
customary ceremony with those who were captured. A difficult death, but a
worthy one. Yet, he was not. He was too young, and one family wanted him, to
replace a dead member.
He clenched his teeth against the memories, banishing them with
a practiced skill. He had become well-trained in the art of shutting his mind,
not letting memories take power until he could not control them anymore,
drowning in the black wave of desperation, or succumbing to all sorts of wild
ideas.
“Spare your speeches for the councils, Two Rivers,” Anue’s
sharp voice brought Tekeni back in time to make the threatening wave go away.
“Let us have one afternoon with no politics and no strange ideas of yours.”
For the first time through the afternoon, Two Rivers’ eyes
sparkled dangerously. “You will not tell me what to talk about and where. My
ideas may be strange to you, but they make perfect sense, if only you and your
likes would deign to actually listen instead of closing your mind to simple
good sense.” He shrugged. “And, anyway, I talked no politics. All I did was
simply point out that this boy should be treated fairly, as one of us. He has been
adopted formally, at the request of the Wolf Clan’s Council. According to our
ancient laws and customs, which you are so fond of bringing up every time I
suggest a slightest change, it makes him one of us, his origins
notwithstanding. Had he been a grown-up warrior with rivers of blood of our
people upon his hands, he would still be turned into one of us the moment he
had been adopted. The tradition of hundreds of summers says so. But while you
are fanatically defending every one of our old ways, you let your hatred blind
you to the point of disregarding them when it’s comfortable to you, brushing
aside any consideration of humanity. And any sparkle of common sense, for that
matter.”
