osc.am2.redprophet-第7章

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　　He　led　the　way；　running　through　the　forest。　Like　all　Red　men　in　the　old　days；　his　harmony　with　the　woodland　was　plete。　He　did　not　have　to　think　about　where　he　placed　his　feet；　he　knew　that　the　twigs　under　his　feet　would　soften　and　bend；　the　leaves　would　moisten　and　not　rustle；　the　branches　he　brushed　aside　would　go　back　quick　to　their　right　place　and　leave　no　sign　he　passed。　Some　White　men　prided　themselves　that　they　could　move　as　quiet　as　a　Red；　and　in　truth　some　of　them　could　　but　they　did　it　by　moving　slow；　careful；　watching　the　ground；　stepping　around　bushes。　They　never　knew　how　little　thought　a　Red　man　took　for　making　no　sound；　for　leaving　no　trace。
　　What　Ta…Kumsaw　thought　of　was　not　his　steps；　not　himself　at　all。　It　was　the　green　life　of　the　woodland　all　around　him；　and　in　the　heart　of　it；　before　his　face；　the　black　whirlpool　sucking　him　downward；　stronger；　faster；　toward　the　place　where　the　living　green　was　torn　open　like　a　wound　to　let　a　murder　through。　Long　before　they　got　there；　even　Methowa…Tasky　could　feel　it。　There　on　the　ground　lies　their　father；　a　bullet　through　his　face。　And　by　him；　silent　and　unseeing；　stands　Lolla…Wossiky；　ten　years　old。
　　Ta…Kumsaw　carried　his　father's　body　home　across　his　shoulders；　like　a　deer。　Methowa…Tasky　led　Lolla…Wossiky　by　the　hand；　for　otherwise　the　boy　would　not　move。　Mother　greeted　them　with　great　wails　of　grief；　for　she　also　felt　the　death；　but　did　not　know　it　was　her　own　husband　until　her　sons　brought　him　back。　Mother　tied　her　husband's　corpse　to　Ta…Kumsaw's　back；　then　Ta…Kumsaw　climbed　the　tallest　tree；　untied　his　father's　corpse　from　his　back；　and　bound　it　to　the　highest　branch　he　could　reach。
　　It　would　have　been　very　bad　if　he　had　climbed　beyond　his　strength；　and　his　father's　body　had　fallen　from　his　grasp。　But　Ta…Kumsaw　did　not　climb　beyond　his　strength。　He　tied　his　father　to　a　branch　so　high　the　sun　touched　his　father's　face　all　day。　The　birds　and　insects　would　eat　of　him；　the　sun　and　air　would　dry　him；　the　rain　would　wash　the　last　of　him　downward　to　the　earth。　This　was　how　Ta…Kumsaw　gave　his　father　back　to　the　land。
　　But　what　could　they　do　with　Lolla…Wossiky？　He　said　nothing；　he　wouldn't　eat　unless　someone　fed　him；　and　if　you　didn't　take　his　hand　and　lead　him；　he　would　stay　in　one　place　forever。　Mother　was　frightened　at　what　had　happened　to　her　son。　Mother　loved　Ta…Kumsaw　very　much；　more　than　any　other　mother　in　the　tribe　loved　any　other　son；　but　even　so；　she　loved　Lolla…Wossiky　more。　Many　times　she　told　them　all　how　baby　Lolla…Wossiky　cried　the　first　time　the　air　grew　bitter　cold　each　winter。　She　could　never　get　him　to　stop；　no　matter　how　she　covered　him　with　bearskins　and　buffalo　robes。　Then　one　winter　he　was　old　enough　to　talk；　and　he　told　her　why　he　cried。　〃All　the　bees　are　dying；〃　he　said。　That　was　Lolla…Wossiky；　the　only　Shaw…Nee　who　ever　felt　the　death　of　bees。
　　That　was　the　boy　standing　beside　his　father　when　Colonel　Bill　Harrison　shot　him　dead。　If　Ta…Kumsaw　felt　that　murder　like　a　knife　wound；　half　a　day's　journey　away；　what　did　Lolla…Wossiky　feel；　standing　so　close；　and　already　so　sensitive？　If　he　cried　for　the　death　of　bees　in　winter；　what　did　he　feel　when　a　White　man　murdered　his　father　before　his　eyes？
　　After　a　few　years；　Lolla…Wossiky　finally　began　to　speak　again；　but　the　fire　was　gone　from　his　eyes；　and　he　was　careless。　He　put　his　own　eye　out　by　accident；　because　he　tripped　and　fell　on　the　short　jagged　stump　of　a　broken　bush。　Tripped　and　fell！　What　Red　man　ever　did　that？　It　was　like　Lolla…Wossiky　lost　all　feeling　for　the　land；　he　was　dull　as　a　White　man。
　　Or　maybe；　Ta…Kumsaw　thought；　maybe　the　sound　of　that　ancient　gunshot　still　rings　in　his　head　so　loud　he　can't　hear　anything　else　now；　maybe　that　old　pain　is　still　so　sharp　that　he　can't　feel　the　tickling　of　the　living　world。　Pain　all　the　time　till　the　first　taste　of　whisky　showed　Lolla…Wossiky　how　to　take　away　the　sharp　edge　of　it。
　　That　was　why　Ta…Kumsaw　never　beat　Lolla…Wossiky　for　likkering；　though　he　would　beat　any　other　Shaw…Nee；　even　his　brothers；　even　an　old　man；　if　he　found　him　with　the　White　man's　poison　in　his　hand。
　　But　the　White　man　never　guessed　at　what　the　Red　man　saw　and　heard　and　felt。　The　White　man　brought　death　and　emptiness　to　this　place。　The　White　man　cut　down　wise　old　trees　with　much　to　tell；　young　saplings　with　many　lifetimes　of　life　ahead；　and　the　White　man　never　asked；　Will　you　be　glad　to　make　a　lodgehouse　for　me　and　my　tribe？　Hack　and　cut　and　chop　and　burn；　that　was　the　White　man's　way。　Take　from　the　forest；　take　from　the　land；　take　from　the　river；　but　put　nothing　back。　The　White　man　killed　animals　he　didn't　need；　animals　that　did　him　no　harm；　yet　if　a　bear　woke　hungry　in　the　winter　and　took　so　much　as　a　single　young　pig；　the　White　man　hunted　him　down　and　killed　him　in　revenge。　He　never　felt　the　balance　of　the　land　at　all。
　　No　wonder　the　land　hated　the　White　man！　No　wonder　all　the　natural　things　of　the　land　rebelled　against　his　step：　crackling　underfoot；　bending　the　wrong　way；　shouting　out　to　the　Red　man；　Here　was　where　the　enemy　stood！　Here　came　the　intruder；　through　these　bushes；　up　this　hill！　The　White　man　joked　that　Reds　could　even　track　a　man　on　water；　then　laughed　as　if　it　wasn't　true。　But　it　was　true；　for　when　a　White　man　passed　along　a　river　or　a　lake；　it　bubbled　and　foamed　and　rippled　loud　for　hours　after　he　had　passed。
　　Now　Hooch　Palmer；　poison…seller；　sly　killer；　now　he　stands　making　his　silly　fire　on　another　White　man's　saddles；　thinking　no　one　knows。　These　White　men　with　their　weak　little　knacks。　These　White　men　with　their　hexes　and　their　wardings。　Didn't　they　know　their　hexes　only　fended　off　unnatural　things？　If　a　thief　es；　knowing　he　does　wrong；　then　a　good　strong　fending　hex　makes　his　fear　grow　till　he　cries　out　and　runs　away。　But　the　Red　man　never　is　a　thief。　The　Red　man　belongs　wherever　he　is　in　this　land。　To　him　the　hex　is　just　a　cold　place；　a　stirring　in　the　air；　and　nothing　more。　To　him　a　knack　is　like　a　fly；　buzz　buzz　buzz。　Far　above　this　fly；　the　power　of　the　living　land　is　a　hundred　hawks；　watching；　circling。
　　Ta…Kumsaw　watched　Hooch　turn　away；　return　to　the　fort。　Soon　Hooch　sells　his　poison　in　earnest。　Most　of　the　Red　men　gathered　here　will　be　drunk。　Ta…Kumsaw　will　stay；　keeping　watch。　He　does　not　have　to　speak　to　anyone。　They　only　see　him；　and　those　with　any　pride　left　will　turn　away　without　likkering。　Ta…Kurnsaw　is　not　a　chief　yet。　But　Ta…Kumsaw　is　not　to　be　ignored。　Ta…Kumsaw　is　the　pride　of　the　Shaw…Nee。　All　other　Red　men　of　every　tribe　must　measure　themselves　against　him。　Whisky…Reds　are　very　small　inside　when　they　see　this　tall　strong　Red　man。
　　He　walked　to　the　place　where　Hooch　had　stood；　and　let　his　calm　replace　the　twisting　Hooch　put　there。　Soon　the　buzzing；　furious　insects　quieted。　The　smell　of　the　likkery　man　settled。　Again　the　water　lapped　the　shore　with　accidental　song。
　　How　easy　to　heal　the　land　after　the　White　man　passes。　If　all　the　White　men　left　today；　by　tomorrow　the　land　would　be　at　rest；　and　in　a　year　it　would　not　show　any　sign　the　White　man　ever　came。　Even　the　ruins　of　the　White　man's　buildings　would　be　part　of　the　land　again；　making　homes　for　small　animals；　crumbling　in　the　grip　of　the　hungering　vines。　White　man's　metal　would　be　rust；　White　man's　stone　work　would　be　low　hills　and　small　caves；　White　man's　murders　would　be　wistful；　beautiful　notes　in　the　song　of　the　redbird　　for　the　redbird　remembered　everything；　turning　it　into　goodness　when　it　could。
　　All　day　Ta…Kumsaw　stood　outside　the　fort；　watching　Red　men　go　in　to　buy　their　poison。　Men　and　women　from　every　tribe　　Wee…Aw　and　Kicky…Poo；　Potty…Wottamee　and　Chippy…Wa；　Winny…Baygo　and　Pee…Orawa　　they　went　in　carrying　pelts　or　baskets　and　came　out　with　no　more　than　cups　or　jugs　of　likker；　and　sometimes　with　nothing　more　than　what　they　already　had　in　their　bellies。　Ta…Kumsaw　said　nothing；　but　he　could　feel　how　the　Reds　who　drank　this　poison　were　cut　off　from　the　land。　They　did　not　twist　the　green　of　life　the　way　the　White　man　did；　rather　it　was　as　if　they　did　not　exist　at　all。　The　Red　man　who　drank　whisky　was　already　dead；　as　far　as　the　land　knew。　No；　not　even　dead；　for　they　give　nothing　back　to　the　land　at　all。　I　stand　here　to　watch　them　be　ghosts；　thought　Ta…Kumsaw；　not　dead　and　not　alive。　He　said　this　only　inside　his　head；　but　the　land　felt　his　grief；　and　the　breeze　answered　him　by　weeping　through　the　leaves。
　　e　dusk；　a　redbird　walks　on　the　dirt　in　front　of　Ta…Kumsaw。
　　Tell　me　a　story；　says　the　redbird　in　its　silent　way；　its　eyes　cocked　upward　at　the　silent　Red　man。
　　You　know　my　story　before　I　tell　it；　says　Ta…Kumsaw　silently。　You　feel　my　tears　before　I　shed　them。　You　taste　my　blood　before　it　is　spilled。
　　Why　do　you　grieve　for　Red　men　who　are　not　of　the　Shaw…Nee？
　　Before　the　White　man　came；　says　Ta…Kumsaw　silently；　we　did　not　see　that　all　Red　men　were　alike；　brothers　of　the　land；　because　we　thought　all　creatures　were　this　way；　so　we　quarreled　with　other　Red　men　the　way　the　bear　quarrels　with　the　cougar；　the　way　the　muskrat　scolds　the　beaver。　Then　the　White　man　came；　and　I　saw　that　all　Red　men　are　like　twins　pared　to　the　White　man。
　　What　is　the　White　man？　What　does　he　do？
　　The　White　man　is　like　a　human　being；　but　he　crushes　all　other　living　things　under　his　feet。
　　Then　why；　O　Ta…Kumsaw；　when　I　look　into　your　heart；　why　is　it　that　you　do　not　wish　to　hurt　the　White　man；　that　you　do　not　wish　to　kill　the　White　man？
　　The　White　man　doesn't　know　the　evil　that　he　does。　The　White　man　doesn't　feel　the　peace　of　the　land；　so　how　can　he　tell　the　little　deaths　he　makes？　I　can't　blame　the　White　man。　But　I　can't　let　him　stay。　So　when　I　make　him　leave　this　land；　I　won't　hate　him。
　　If　you　are　free　of　hate；　O　Ta…Kumsaw；　you　will　surely　drive　the　White　man　out。
　　I'll　cause　him　no　more　pain　than　it　takes　to　make　him　go　away。
　　The　redbird　nods。　Once；　twice；　three　times；　four。　It　flutters　up　to　a　branch　as　high　as　Ta…Kumsaw's　head。　It　sings　a　new　song。　In　this　song　Ta…Kumsaw　hears　no　words；　but　he　hears　his　own　story　being　told。　From　now　on；　his　story　is　in　the　song　of　every　redbird　in　the　land；　for　what　one　redbird　knows；　all　remember。
　　Whoever　watched　Ta…Kumsaw　all　that　time　had　no　idea　of　what　he　said　and　saw　and　heard。　Ta…Kumsaw's　face　showed　nothing。　He　stood　where　he　had　been　standing；　a　redbird　landed　near　him；　stayed　awhile；　sang；　and　went　away。
　　Yet　this　moment　turned　Ta…Kumsaw's　life；　he　knew　it　right　away。　Until　this　day　he　had　been　a　young　man。　His　strength　and　calm　and　courage　were　admired；　but　he　spoke　only　as　any　Shaw…Nee　could　speak；　and　having　spoken；　he　then　kept　still　and　older　men　decided。　Now　he　would　decide　for　himself；　like　a　true　chief；　like　a　war　chief。　Not　a　chief　of　the　Shaw…Nee；　or　even　a　chief　of　the　Red　men　of　this　north　country；　but　rather　the　chief　of　all　Red　tribes　in　the　war　against　the　White　man。　He　knew　for　many　years　that　such　a　war　must　e；　but　until　this　moment　he　had　thought　that　it　would　be　another　man；　a　chief　like　Cornstalk；　Blackfish；　or　even　a　Cree…Ek　or　Chok…Taw　from　the　south。　But　the　redbird　came　to　him；　Ta…Kumsaw；　and　put　him　in　the　song。　Now　wherever　Ta…Kumsaw　went　throughout　the　land　that　knew　the　redbird　song；　his　name　would　be　well　known　to　the　wisest　Red　men。　H