Black Bird
Massachusetts Bay Colony
He was in love! By Manitou, it was love! That foreign, fantastic thing! Black Bird relished in the feeling and all that came with it. To be a neophyte in this strange and exhilarating game, to know what it finally was, that which conquered the hearts and minds of men and women alike, muse of the world’s greatest stories and most beautiful songs. How long had he wondered, and now that love had found him, he found that even his dreams had not done it justice. His expectations, admittedly, were low. Love, to him, had always been something for everyone else. Some distant relative, uncle of a cross-cousin, whose name he could never remember, who smiled at everyone in the wigwam but him, who was gone more often than anything. But she was here, and she was here to stay!
It was love that consumed him in the days following his proposal. All the sadness of his past, all the worries of what awaited him in Ipswich and beyond—everything else seemed to melt away, insignificant in the face of bliss. Even White Sky became an afterthought to him, and though guilt still lingered in his mind, it grew quieter with each passing day. There were only so many nightmares he could bear–and what did they bring him but shame and madness? The one thing he had learned about life was how little power he had over it. All he could do was hope and pray that White Sky was alive, that he was safe. The rest, to his dismay and relief, was not up to him.
And they were to be married! There were so many things to worry about besides the aching pit where his partner was. Plan the ceremony, build a wigwam, invite what he had left of his family. How would he send for them? Would they even come? There were too many questions to focus on just one, or any of them, really. All his thoughts melted into a picture of her, washed away by everything she was. And she, to him, was everything, for he had lost everything else.
The two had barely said a word to another until they reached Ipswich, as if they were embarrassed by the other. They could have just as well been overwhelmed by what just happened, or concerned for what was to come. Or, perhaps, they were just in love, and this, Black Bird was learning, is what that felt like. He hoped she felt it all, too–all the wonder, terrifying as it was. She seemed to, when he gazed at her face, and he found his eyes wandering there more than ever.
Besides the paltry village on the frontier, Ipswich was the first proper English town Black Bird had ever been to, and he found it much more exciting than the former. The frontier town was smaller than his or White Sky’s villages, dotted with at most a dozen small homes and meager farms. Ipswich was different. As he and Anne-Marie walked down the main road, he took in the scenery around him. One home by the river was enormous—it had to be three stories tall! How did they stack the levels on top of one another? In the true center of the town lay what Black Bird could only describe as a longhouse, but this one was built of stone. Its size and build put even the grand midewigaan to shame. Black Bird found himself gawking at the tall spire that pierced into the sky from the building’s roof. He wondered what it was for.
As they walked, Black Bird flagged down a few passersby to ask about Robert Dalton. He found himself fumbling through the English tongue—gifted though he was with all languages, he had rarely used this one until now. Understanding was easier than speaking, though he couldn’t tell if the strangers slowed their speech in pity of him. The more he spoke, the more he walked through town, a strange and new feeling rose in him. Not quite embarrassment, not quite insecurity. It was, he realized, the feeling of being the Other. He was not welcome here. Some cast furtive looks at him as they passed, or whispered to each other. Whether they whispered about him he could not be sure, but he couldn’t help but suspect it. It was something novel to him—even his past ostracization could not compare to it. His orphan nature, the way his aunt treated him—like a foreign invader, sure, but still family. Here, he was something else. Something exotic and savage to these people, something more alien and animal than man. In the trade town, as many whites as there were, there were just as many First Men like him. Here, even with his betrothed at his side, he felt alone, made keenly and uncomfortably aware of the look of his clothes, his hair, the color of his skin.
Piecing together the strangers’ directions (as best he could understand them), Black Bird began to make his way to the home of Robert Dalton. It was important to him, however, that he had this meeting alone. He had still not shown or told Anne-Marie about Härkönen and the mysteries surrounding him, and there was no telling what kind of man this Dalton was. Anne-Marie waited by the longhouse, as it was a landmark too large and central to forget.
Dalton’s home stood out compared to the others nearby. It was stone, too, just like the longhouse, though of a different construction. The longhouse’s foundation was made of different stones, meshing together in a collage of colors and shapes, but the rest of the facade had been molded into a uniform look. Here, the stones stayed separate, kept together by some mortar Black Bird had never seen, all the stones different sizes, a soothing array of grays and browns. Black Bird ran his hand over the stones on the wall, feeling them, wondering at how they came to be like this. He caught himself—imagine if Dalton had seen him feeling the sides of his wall. Taking a deep breath, he gathered the best composure he could muster, and knocked lightly on the man’s door.
No response. Black Bird waited a moment, then tried again, slightly louder.
A woman with kind dimples and soft brown hair opened the door. Her eyes widened to see the type of man at her door, though she caught herself, returning to her prior look to at least feign a courtesy.
“Good afternoon,” she said.
“Good afternoon,” Black Bird returned, parroting the greeting so he would remember it. “I seek the man Robert Dalton.”
“Robert’s my husband,” she said. “I’m Mary Dalton. And you are?”
Black Bird’s face flushed hot. He had forgotten to introduce himself. Already starting off wrong.
“Apologies,” he stammered. “I am Black Bird. I am a friend of… a friend of Robert Dalton. I came to… speak. With him.”
“I see,” Mary said. Her eyes carried some suspicion in them, though not a paranoid amount—he was, after all, a complete stranger, First Man or not.
“I’ll go see if he’s awake,” she said. “He’s not been feeling well. He might not have the wherewithal to speak with you.”
Black Bird stared blankly at her, his mind scrambling to process the word wherewithal.
“I… I see,” he said, repeating her words again. “Apologies that he is… ill. I will wait.”
Mary nodded, and closed the door. The heat of embarrassment rose in the boy’s face as he waited for what felt like an hour. He had never felt so out of place—in this strange town, speaking this strange and horrible tongue. English made less sense to him than anything else—it was an odd, clunky thing. After just enough time to marinate in his own discomfort, the woman opened the door again.
“He’s just woken up from a nap, actually,” she said. “Please, come in.”
The inside of the Dalton home was almost as fascinating as its outside. Black Bird took in all the new sights—the instruments and tools hanging from the wall, the wooden table and chairs.
“I’ll go fetch him,” Mary said. “Just wait here a moment.”
She left up the wooden stairs, which Black Bird admired, too. But only for a moment—he was more interested in the fire pit on the eastern wall. It was made from the same stone as the exterior, connected to a large pillar that seemed to go up and out of the house. That’s how they account for the smoke, Black Bird mused, something he had wondered about these huge houses with solid roofs ever since he first saw them.
“Fond of my fireplace?” Black Bird heard a voice from behind him. He turned to see a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair, neck length, drawn back from a widow’s peak atop a wide and imposing brow.
“Yes,” Black Bird replied. “And your home. We do not have buildings of stone, where I am from.”
“It’s a rarity here, too,” the man mused. “Though I’m sure you’ve seen that. Wooden homes are easier and cheaper. A stone building needs a stonemason, and I’m the only one in Ipswich.”
“Did you build that longhouse, then? In the middle of town?”
“Ah, yes. The meeting house. Yes, I drafted the plans for its construction, though I was not the only one who put the thing together. Would’ve taken too long that way, you see.”
Black Bird smiled. At least he could understand some humor, even in this strange language.
“My name is Black Bird,” he said, holding his hand out to the man, as he was taught to do with New Englanders. “I have traveled a long way to meet with you.”
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
The man took and shook it.
“Robert,” he said. “And what should I owe the honor of this visit? It’s not every day an Indian arrives unannounced at my doorstep.”
Indian. That’s what he was, then, to them. It was a queer term, and Black Bird was unsure if it carried any other meaning. The word sounded strange in his mind as he said it over and over. Indian. Indian.
His eyes drifted over to Mary, who stood waiting at the other end of the room. Robert took his meaning.
“Mary, would you run out and check on the chickens?” He asked. “I believe you’ve forgotten to feed them today.”
Mary nodded, and went out the back door.
“Come, sit,” Robert said with a smile, and the two took a seat at the large wooden table.
“I was sent to you,” Black Bird began, “By… apologies. My English is not the best. When you help someone learn, you are…”
“A teacher,” Robert said. “Or a professor.”
“Yes, he was my teacher. His name was Dr. Härkönen.”
At the mention of the name, a dark glint of understanding showed in Dalton’s eyes.
“He was killed,” Black Bird continued. “He wanted me to find you. He said ‘the rose is dead’. He said you would help me.”
“I see. And how did you come to know the professor?”
“I traded with him. Me and my partner. Then he teached us.”
“Taught us.”
“Taught us. Many things. Science, history. Plato, Aristotle, Socrates.”
“Hmm.”
“Now, he is dead. My partner too, I think. I am all that is left. But I want to learn more. I need to learn more.”
“You should know I am not a teacher. Not like he was.”
“That is alright. I plan to enroll at the Harvard College.”
An eyebrow rose on Dalton’s face, and the man smiled.
“Do you, now? How fascinating. And what will you hope to learn?”
“More history. More science. Medicine. And I hope, too, stonemason.”
“Stonemasonry.”
“Stonemasonry.”
Robert leaned back in his chair, scratching his chin.
“You will not learn masonry at the college,” he said. “But that is something I can teach you. If you have a knack for it. Now, tell me: when Härkönen passed, did he leave anything with you?”
“Yes. I have a book of his… re-search.”
“Then not all hope is lost. May I have a look at it?”
Black Bird shifted in his seat.
“Apologies,” he said. “I did not bring it. I did not know what kind of man you were. You might have taken it from me, and then I would not have… um…”
“Leverage,” Dalton said with a grin. “The word you’re looking for is leverage.”
“Leverage.”
The man chuckled.
“Very smart of you. And you—have you been able to glean anything from his research?”
“No. It is in a language I do not know.”
“Yes, he was a Finn, wasn’t he? And I’ll bet it’s still cryptic even after translation. Damned Roses.”
“Robert?”
“Yes? You may also use the word, sir, with men older than you. It’s considered good manners.”
“Sir. Who are the Roses?”
The man thought for a moment, then leaned forward, his voice lower, almost hushed.
“English is not your mother tongue,” he began. “I will try to explain this in a way that you will understand.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“My order, the Masons, are united in our trade of masonry. To become a Mason takes many years of training in the skill of stonework, and being a Mason, then, always implies a certain level of refinement, though there are varying levels within the Masons themselves, based on experience and seniority.”
“Yes. In my village we have medicine men. It is the same with them. The eldest are the most skilled, and most respected.”
“Good. As it should be. Now, over time, the Masons have developed the lessons of these skills into teachings, which become traditions, which become rituals. They might look to an outsider like religious rites, though they never supersede our worship of Christ.”
“Yes, I understand. It is the same with the Midewiwin.”
“Over time, and I mean generations, this skill, and the membership it comes with, becomes a valuable asset. Like you said, your people do not have stone buildings. Many people don’t. They do not have the knowledge we do, and therefore, our trade becomes a valuable asset, that we dole out selectively as we choose.”
Black Bird nodded, remembering a lesson from Härkönen.
“Knowledge is a sword and a shield.”
“Very true. Now, here is where it becomes complicated. Your late teacher was a member of another order, the Rosicrucians. In the way that the Masons dedicate their lives to the pursuits of building and architecture, Rosicrucians are in constant pursuit of other, more esoteric knowledge, particularly concerning such topics as alchemy, mysticism, the occult, and sacred geometry.”
Black Bird hardly understood any of those words, but he pretended to, nodding again.
“If Härkönen said the rose is dead, it means he was the last Rosicrucian on this continent. There are no more to continue his work, whatever it was, and so I am the next best inheritor of that knowledge.”
“But you are not a Rosicrucian, are you?”
“No. Still, the Masons are on friendly terms with the Rosicrucians. We are both part of a larger network of information. You plan to go to Harvard, which is a collection of different disciplines, all clustered into a single location, a single building. I am a member of a larger college, secret and invisible. We have no meeting house, no church, no university hall. Our members are of different nations, faiths, and creeds, united only by our prestige, and our pursuit.”
“And this is all a secret?” Black Bird asked. “And you are telling me?”
“Yes. I am confiding in you in hopes that it will build some trust between us. I need Härkönen’s research. The Invisible College needs it. The world needs it. And if he saw enough in you to mentor you, to even tell you of the Rose, there is a chance you would merit membership in our organization.”
“But I could not become a Rosicrucian. There are none left on Turtle Island.”
“No. But you could, with my guidance and help, become a Mason. If such a thing interests you.”
“It does interest me, sir. But I would also like to go to the Harvard College, and learn there, too.”
“They are not mutually exclusive. If you are apt enough, you can achieve both. I can even help with your admission into the college.”
“You can?”
“Of course. If we’re to help one another.”
Black Bird took his meaning.
“If you can get me into the Harvard College,” he said. “I will give you Härkönen’s research. But I have one other condition, sir. Apologies.”
“And what would that be?”
“I must help you learn what is inside it. I must know what his research was.”
Dalton grinned, though it was quickly interrupted by a nasty cough. The man hacked phlegm into his hand.
“Your wife says you have been ill,” Black Bird said. “I know of some plants in the forest that can help.”
“Oh? You would share your medicine men’s knowledge with me?”
“Of course. If we are to help one another.”
With that, the man laughed, and stood from his chair.
“I think we’ll get along well, Black Bird,” he said, and clapped the boy on the shoulder. “Now, go fetch me those plants in the forest. I’m tired of feeling like death.”