Red Fox
Boston, Massachusetts Bay Colony
The journey east had no wasted time, for none who underwent it could afford any. They slept for a mere four hours each night, using the rest of the time to secure food or get a head-start on the next day’s travel. However important it was to make it to New England and send word of the French attack, it was equally important to return in good time. Despite Bear Mother’s brave words, there was no avoiding the ugly truth. While the men cried for aid from the English or journeyed westwards into Anishinaabeg and Illinois country to find replacements, the fate of all the women and children was left up to chance. So often did these non-participants suffer the worst in war, lacking the means to defend themselves. Only this time, their protectors had knowingly abandoned them. And while it was all part of the larger plan, it was not something any of them could stomach for long.
During their few moments of rest, whenever Red Fox was not helping setting up or breaking down camp, he would listen to his father. The Smoke Rises would tell him in great detail of the larger world and its schemes, and especially for this trip, their relationship with the English. A single underlying ideal permeated each of his lessons: Deyödënëshö:t. Literally, it meant, “they link their arms together”. What it represented, however, was vast and far-reaching, and carried many connotations.
“In the beginning,” the Smoke Rises explained. “We dealt with the Dutch instead, before the English pushed them out. They were a similar people—you will see that the English have little understanding of manners or etiquette. The Dutch were even worse. We called them children because they acted like it. Still, they were good to us, and determined not to lose us to the French, as many of our foes had already allied themselves with them. It was the Flint among us who spoke the first words of friendship with them, and through the years, we came to know them as well.
“In time, we honored this agreement formally, cementing our alliance with them forever. We created a special gaswëhda’—the Two-Row Belt of Wampum. Two rows, parallel to one another—like two canoes on a lake, following the same path, side by side. On and on they will row forever, never once crashing into the other. So too would we work side by side, always respecting the direction of the other’s path.”
“But the Dutch are gone now,” Red Fox said.
“Yes, they are. The English replaced them, and so we carried that understanding to them, in the hopes that we would share it once more. It wasn’t easy at first. They are, after all, a different tribe, with different values. It wasn’t until we met the man Andros that we made any real progress.”
“Andros?”
The Smoke Rises nodded.
“You will meet him,” he said. “He is a mighty man. Very smart. And most important: he understands the truth.”
“What truth is that?”
The Smoke Rises looked his son in the eye. Red Fox had never seen the look he gave him—it was so serious, so intense.
“The truth of it all,” he said. “Of everything. If you understand nothing that I have said, understand this. Why did we make friends with the Dutch, and why do we now with the English?”
“You said we have things in common,” Red Fox replied. “Not completely—their language, their faith, their customs are different. But there is enough between us to form a bond, to create an understanding that will strengthen both our peoples.”
“That is true, but that is not why.”
Red Fox thought for a second.
“The Dutch came looking for furs,” he said. “Even now, we trade them with the English. And they’ve brought us so many things in return—gifts of metallurgy, muskets to destroy our enemies.”
“Also true. And yet, it is not why.”
“What’s the answer, then?”
“Let me ask you another question: imagine you came upon a lone wolf in the forest. It bares its teeth, lunges at you. You have your rifle in your hand. What would you do?”
“I would shoot the wolf and kill it.”
“Yes. Then what?”
“I… I would make sure its death wasn’t wasteful. I would make an offering of sage to it, to apologize for taking its life, to thank it for the bounty it will give me. I would skin its pelt for clothes, take its meat to eat, and its bones to make tools and jewelry.”
“Good. I have taught you well. Now, if I were to ask you why you killed the wolf, would you tell me it was for its pelt, or its meat, or its bones?”
“No.”
“Yet all of them you have taken and benefitted from. And still, they were not the reason. What was?”
“I did it to defend myself.”
“There it is. That is the truth. You will learn it yourself, though I hope in a kinder way than I did. Whatever we have in common with the Dutch or the English is not relevant, and you will know this soon: it is not much. They are a different people—different skin, different faith, different tongue. They do not see the world as we do. And still we fight as brothers. Still we have linked our arms together. This is because of that truth. Andros knows it—we know it too. We are the mighty Hodinöšyö:nih—the greatest people who have graced Turtle Island, chosen by the heavens to be its stewards. And despite our great purpose, despite our mandate from the spirits, despite the strength and bravery of our warriors—we cannot do it alone. We make war with one tribe alone at a time, if we can, for we know that if we took on the whole world at once, we would fall and perish. Even our wars are fought to survive—we bring our families back, replace them, all to keep from dying out.”
Red Fox nodded, trying to take his father's words to heart.
“Many years ago, before you were even born, we made this pact with the English men. For their part, they had grown too confident, and learned this important truth too late. They fought against dozens of tribes, and the French too. They were outnumbered and outgunned, and they were being backed into a corner. Then they came to us, pleaded for us to join them in their fight. So too did Metacomet whisper in our ear, vying for our support. Two choices stood in front of us. Metacomet spoke of a union of all our peoples, of a grand confederation to drive the white men from our lands, once and for all. We could have joined him, forsaken our own identity, our own nation, all to be absorbed into the larger family he would create. Or we could make the English our allies. We could turn against Metacomet, drive him from these lands before the French could aid him. In doing so, we would turn our back on our neighbors and cousins. But we would remain independent. We would keep our place as Five Nations, united under one banner. We would keep our power, our identity. We would fight with the English not as one unit, but two separate tribes, each of us respecting the other. Two canoes on the lake, rowing together into infinity. That is the choice we made.”
Red Fox pored over his father’s words. He was still young, and it was hard to understand the gravity of what he was saying, but he tried his best to commit it all to memory. His father did not speak often, and never for this long, so Red Fox made sure to make the most of it.
“Do you ever regret it?” Red Fox asked. “Not that it was the wrong decision, sorry—I didn’t mean that. I just… do you ever think about how things would be different? About what might have changed if we made the other choice?”
His father leaned back, the crackle of the fire flickering in his eyes as he pondered something. But he shook his head.
“I do not think of it,” he said. “And neither should you. The choice has been made. That fire has been snuffed out, and will never again be re-lit.”
When they arrived at the city of Boston, Red Fox was overwhelmed by all the sights and sounds. In so many ways, he was awash with happiness and excitement, bombarded by so many things he had never seen before. They arrived in the early morning, and their meeting with Andros was not until after noon, which gave them some time for some sight-seeing. Most of the other men on the trip took the opportunity to catch up on their sleep, but Red Fox headed straight to the harbor, and spent the next few hours there.
As soon as he saw it from the outskirts of the city, he was drawn to the docks here. He stood in awe as he studied the huge sailing ships, paying no mind to the stares of the white folk who passed by him. The ships were unlike anything he had ever seen. They dwarfed even the largest longhouses, their sheer size staggering and awesome. A tall tree grew out from the center of each of them, bearing huge branches with sails of cloth rather than leaves. The wind would blow, and the sails would catch them, billowing in the sky like the wings of a thunderbird.
Red Fox looked beyond, to some who were on their way across the great ocean. How great a sea it must be, he thought, to need canoes of this size. His father had told him the white man had come from a land beyond that infinite blue, and he could hardly believe it. He marveled at it all, and his mind wandered, temporarily freed from the worries of his life. He thought to that distant land of Europe. Did they have the same trees, the same rocks, the same rivers? Did it hold the same orenda within it? Did the people there even know of it? It thrilled him to even wonder.
Through it all, though, there was a sadness that permeated the young fox’s awe. The docks and streets were alive, teeming with hundreds of people. There was a time not too long ago when his home of Ganondagan would have looked the same. In its prime, there were hundreds of longhouses, home to thousands of people. Ganondagan was a veritable metropolis, same as this place, the largest settlement in his nation. But the pox had taken its toll, and most of the longhouses now lay empty, vacant monuments to some forgotten time. Now, what worried him most was the thought of the future. He and the others had left before the French attacked. Had they reached it? Had his brothers fought back? What did his village look like now? What would it be when he returned?
Worry as he did about his home, and of course, the fate of his brothers, Red Fox tried his best to focus on the sights before him. He passed by the bustling market on the way back to his father, seeing that the sun had reached its noon-time climax in the sky. He was bombarded by a myriad of sights and smells, not all of them pleasant. And by the time he got back, though he was still amazed by the city and its splendor, he felt more homesick than anything else.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
As Red Fox approached the camp of his entourage on the outskirts, he noticed another party with them: one of white men in fine clothes and garish wigs. His face flushed hot. I’m late. How am I late? They said after noon. His pace quickened, though not enough to run. A second or two wouldn’t change things, but drawing attention to himself would. He was the youngest man sent on this trip, so the last thing he could afford to be was foolish. He gave the white men a wide berth, walking around and behind them to regroup with the others from behind. His face flushed hotter when he saw The Smoke Rises had noticed him. He was glaring at him. Red Fox avoided his father’s gaze, pretending he was looking straight ahead. God, oh God. Ta'honh'wenjawa:, Earth-Holder. How could you do this to me?*
Red Fox tried to make out what the men in front were saying as he took his place in the back, but he couldn’t understand a word of English. A man in front translated for the group at large, who must have been from some other village—Red Fox didn’t recognize him at all. He couldn’t hear everything either way, given his position. One word, however, he heard multiple times. Deyödënëshö:t. The linking of arms, the formation of a mighty silver chain. Both sides were reaffirming their commitment to each other. Both sides were still steadfast in their alliance. That, at the very least, was comforting news.
Suddenly, the group started to move. Red Fox followed, and he saw his father cut through the small crowd backwards to walk next to him.
“I’m sorry,” Red Fox began. “I really didn’t mean to be late.”
“I forgive you only because they came early,” The Smoke Rises. “Still, I think I should not have let you go. Your mind wanders too much. Makes you miss things.”
“Oh, please don’t say that. I would have died if I didn’t get to see their ships in the harbor. Have you ever seen anything so magnificent?”
His father just grunted. Red Fox counted his blessings. That was probably the best response he could have gotten.
Soon enough, they reached a large building made from stone. Red Fox followed the others inside, up the wooden staircase to a large room. A large table sat in the center of the room, and on it, some enormous piece of paper with drawings in different colors. Around the table were three rows of chairs, though they were not close enough to see the paper. He wondered what it all meant.
To his surprise, his father made his way to the front of the room, and he, not knowing where to go, just followed. Some words were exchanged, and the white men watched as The Smoke Rises stepped forward, looking at the paper like he knew it. Red Fox, having followed to not further upset him, realized that suddenly he too, was standing right in front of the table. He looked around him—everyone else was seated. Panic rose in him, and he tried to keep his cool, even as sweat began to bead on his almost-naked head.
“They would like to know who is standing behind you,” Red Fox heard from the lips of the translator. It was addressed to his father, meaning… Oh. Oh no. I should not be standing here.
Red Fox watched in horror as his father turned around to see him. To his surprise, however, the man showed no anger, or anything else.
“He is my eldest son,” he said. The admission filled Red Fox’s heart with anger to know it was a lie, and with sorrow to lament his brother, who everyone seemed so desperate to ignore. “His name is Red Fox. Ask them if he could stand by me. I am trying to teach him of Deyödënëshö:t, so that he may repair and maintain the Chain of Silver when he is older**.”
There was that word again. The translator relayed his question, then after a moment, nodded in approval at them. Red Fox smiled, and stepped forward, looking down at the table beneath him.
“What is this?” Red Fox almost couldn’t believe he even asked the question, but he had to know. Despite his better instincts, he could never control his curiosity.
“It’s a map,” his father explained. “It is a drawing, basically, of Turtle Island, and all the many nations it carries.”
“All of it?” Red Fox asked, bewildered. “Where are we?”
The Smoke Rises took a moment to pore over the thing, then pointed at a small dot in the northeast corner.
“There is this city of Boston,” he said. “Right next to the Greatest Lake, where the white men came from***. And here is the Lake Ontarí'io, near our home.”
Red Fox could not believe his eyes or his ears. The city they were in was little more than a speck on the canvas before him, the enormity of the Lake Ontarí'io lost in the sheer vastness of the unknown. This is the world? Red Fox felt his knees tremble, his heart clutch in his chest. No, it can’t be. It can't be this huge. It can't...
Beyond him, he heard a chuckle from one of the Englishmen, and he felt embarrassed again. He didn’t know if it was directed at him—well, he couldn’t know. But he stood up straight anyway, trying to remain still and stoic for the rest of the meeting.
His father walked around the perimeter of the table, pointing to a few places on the map. Red Fox watched them—given their proximity to the lake, they must be the villages. Though he had never seen a map before, more or less read one, he knew the distances between the villages from the footpaths in his mind, and their orientation. His father drew lines across the lake and the western peninsula, sweeping from outside to inside their territory. That’s how the French would come. Dear God—they might have come already.
Time passed, though Red Fox could not track it. The white men would ask questions, and his father or someone else would answer. Then they would ask questions, and the white men would answer. Red Fox tried his best to pay attention to it, but he kept being drawn to the map. There were borders drawn, and some of the parts were different colors. There were names written in black ink, words he could not understand. It all fascinated him, even more than the ships.
Then, a silence hung over the room. It broke Red Fox from his study of the map. He looked around—no one spoke a word, and everyone sat in silence. What’s going on? Fear gripped him again. Did… did I do something?
His eyes wandered to the translator, who seemed to be looking at the white men, waiting for some kind of response. Red Fox looked at them, trying to figure out which one was supposed to be their great chief, Andros. Maybe the one in the middle. But then, he didn’t fit the image Red Fox had in his head—too pudgy. None of these men looked right, really, which left Red Fox a little crushed. He hated when the truth was disappointing.
The white men whispered to each other, which Red Fox found odd, because it’s not like he could understand them either way. After some deliberation, they spoke to the translator, who smiled, then turned to the others.
“They have agreed to help us in our revenge,” he said. “They are as angered at the French invasion as we are. They say that France is a country of wicked men…” He paused to listen for another moment. “They say that if they were smart, they would have never attacked you, knowing you had formed the Silver Chain with their country of New England. But knowing they are foolish enough to do so, they are confident that they will fail, and that together, we will destroy them.”
The other men in the room nodded in affirmation. Red Fox wondered why they did not whoop or shout as they did in the Bear Mother’s den. His father had said the whites were delicate people, despite their lack of manners. They seem to be a quiet lot, he thought. Maybe the noise would scare them.
One of the white men started speaking once again to the translator, who listened thoughtfully. He’s doing most of the talking. Maybe that’s Andros. He was shorter than expected, and his face was at least unoffensive, if rather plain. He certainly didn’t look like a mighty leader—he hardly looked different than any of the others. Red Fox did his best not to sigh. He couldn’t shake the feeling that all the white men looked ridiculous—their clothes, their shoes. Certainly their hair. He wondered if they all wore their hair like women, curled tight enough to look pubic.
“They say they will begin preparations for their counter-attack at once,” the translator cried, and once again the room was filled with nods and affirmations, quiet enough for the white palate. Even then, some of them looked taken aback by it.
“They tell me these preparations will take time to perfect,” he continued. “That it might be many seasons before they are able to send their warriors to our aid. But they promise they will come, as sure as the strength of our Silver Chain—Deyödënëshö:t. They advise us to rebuild our homes and care for our loved ones for the winter. We are free to pursue whatever vengeance we desire, but he warns to not launch a full-fledged attack until he and his men are ready.”
The translator held out his hand, and the man Red Fox thought was Andros grabbed it and shook it up and down. It was a strange gesture, but his father did the same. Once he did so, he turned to his son and looked at him expectantly. Red Fox swallowed nervously and stepped forward, holding his hand out to the man like he had seen the others do. The man just smiled, and began to speak, but Red Fox didn’t know a word of it. He stood in nervous anticipation, looking expectantly at the translator.
“This man would ask you your name,” the translator said.
Red Fox told him, then waited for his reply.
“He says that your father is a great man, a helpful man, and that he is a good friend to him. He says he is glad he brought you, and he hopes you will learn much about the English and their ways during your time here.”
Red Fox nodded.
“Please thank him for me,” he told the translator. It was so strange, making small talk through a middleman. “I… do you think I could ask him a question?”
“Sure. I will ask him for you.”
“Can you ask him how the great ships in the harbor are made? How do they travel so far? How many passengers do they hold? How long it takes to get to his homeland?”
The translator nodded, though the kind smirk that crept up at the edges of his mouth made Red Fox wonder if that was too many questions. He hoped it wasn’t—he wanted all of them answered.
“He says the largest ones can take a few hundred people,” the translator relayed. “And that the trip usually takes a little less than a season, but bad enough storms can make it last more. He says he does not know how the ships are made or the details of how they operate. A man must study for many years to learn how to build one.”
I see, Red Fox thought. This must not be Andros. Red Fox was somewhat relieved he wasn’t here. The great leader of these people would know more than him. He would know all about his own people and their inventions. Wouldn’t he?
The man spoke again. Red Fox waited for his answer, if only to be free from this uncomfortable conversation.
“He wants you to know he is the great chief Edmund Andros, leader of these people,” the translator said, and Red Fox’s heart crumbled to pieces. This is the man my father spoke so highly of? I wish I could see what he saw. What a let-down…
“He says to not forget his name, and that he will not forget yours, that a day will come when he will speak with you of these important matters the way he speaks with your father today. He says he looks forward to that day.”
Red Fox nodded.
“I will not forget,” he said, though he would not say why that would be. “Please thank him again for me.”
Andros smiled, though it looked like a false one, and took Red Fox’s hand. Red Fox didn’t realize he had held it out all this time. Andros gripped it firmly, shaking it up and down. So strange. When it was done, Red Fox was unsure of what to do next, so he started walking backwards, until the white men had stopped looking at him. He breathed a sigh of relief that it was finally over.
“You carried yourself well,” he heard his father say behind him. He turned, and he felt the man pat him on his shoulder. “Despite your usual… odd habits.”
“Odd?” Red Fox asked. “Odd is them. Have you seen their hair?”
To his surprise, his father chuckled. It was the first time in five years he had heard the man laugh.
“It is hideous, isn’t it? They're wigs, if you didn't know, and they always stink for some reason. Then again, I suppose they must think we look strange, too. But we should go now. We have been away from home for far too long.”
“I agree. But I have to ask… are you happy with the result of this? They’ve agreed to help us, but their promises are… well, they’re pretty vague, aren’t they? We don’t know when their help will come, or how many they will bring, or what they will do.”
“That will come in time. You are young, but you will learn patience. These decisions are too large to be made rashly—both we and the English will need some time to plan.”
With that, The Smoke Rises nodded, which meant the conversation was over. And though his father was sure in his ally’s commitment, in the strength of that Silver Chain, Red Fox wasn’t yet convinced.