LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

White Man so innocuously calls “Reservations” where out of sight has meant out of mind and where a once proud and vital people have been cast aside to languish as their heritage winds down into forgetfulness—soon perhaps into irretrievable loss. Many are the ways that their conquerors have absolved, justified and excused themselves: They’ve never really wanted to integrate themselves into our society; they won’t help themselves so we can’t help them anyway; they’ve turned their reservations into third world ghettos; we already let them have casinos and sell untaxed cigarettes; what else do they want...and besides they drink...

      Randle Marsh did not see them pass his cabin in the early morning light. Later the Boudlne sisters would see them, though the travelers did not see them. And even if they did notice the faint paths they sometimes crossed on their way up the mountain, they were intent on business of their own and did not tarry. The sisters might well have followed but for the fact that they sensed the men had interests on the mountain that were private, concerning things sacred and very old. Perhaps not as old as the sisters’ concerns, yet still a part of the mountains’s endless unfolding history as the two men understood it. Tara and Ariel exchanged glances and smiled; for a few minutes they felt less alone and they reached out and clasped hands as the travelers passed the thicket of tangled cedar behind which the sisters crouched. One of the men stopped abruptly and the other bumped into him from behind in a comical slapstick way. The leader had felt a strange chill pass down his neck and into his arms and back. It was a chill like he had never felt before and both men looked around and then glanced at each other. A freshening breeze rustled through the tops of the trees and tousled their hair. The leader accepted this reluctantly and doubtfully as the source of his chill. A chickadee lisped from somewhere above, startling them further. The two men gave each other sheepish glances and moved on.

      They eventually came to the high falls along Black Brook. The deep pool at the foot of the falls reflected the late September foliage. Already the swamp maples and the sumac were fiery red among the more numerous sugar maples of orange and gold. The oaks were still unchanged, letting the deer and the wild turkeys wait a while longer to gather their bounty of acorns. Around the deep pool bloomed the purple and blue Asters, among the loveliest of all New England wild flowers that keep the memory of Summer alive when all else speaks of Autumn. By now the hikers were feeling hot as the afternoon sun poured into the clearing. They would have gratefully stripped and dived into the pool had they been sure they could dally and still be off the mountain by dark.

      Reluctantly, they passed up the inviting water and pressed on toward the summit, keeping their goal firmly in mind. That goal was to bring back a piece of the Spirit Stone, so sacred to the Mohicans and Hoosacs who had roamed these lands for centuries. The tribes had known these stones as Manitou Asenith. Later the Dutch and French would refer to them as Stone Arabia. The Indians carved this glittering and alluring quartz into symbols of the Wakon-bird, believed to have had the ability to appease dangerous spirits. These same rocks were also much used in tribal burial ceremonies.

      Seen from a distance, the rounded top of Bakers Mountain can belie how steep it is below, especially on the west side of the mountain where the men had decided to climb. They knew that by late afternoon, when they should be approaching the top, the sun dropping into the west would throw this side of the mountain into bright light, and reveal to them the location of the shining Spirit Stones. Near the top, the leaves had already begun to fall from some of the stressed trees that cling precariously to the rocky soil. The Indians used these small gnarled oak and mountain ash trees as handholds to prevent them from slipping on the dry fallen leaves. As they approached the top, great outcroppings of rock loomed out at torturous angles and it was here the two tired climbers finally found the shining Spirit Stones they had sought. A moment’s work with a small geologic hammer broke off a piece for each of them and they held them up to let the sun sparkle on them. It was a celebration of sorts, connecting them forever with the lives and lore of their ancestors.

      They continued on to the top of the mountain and spent the next two hours seeking out the spectacular views from different points on the summit. Among the great charms of the Taconics are the unparalleled vistas that can be seen of the surrounding ranges. To the west and southwest can be seen the cat-like peaks of the Catskill Mountains as well as the long line of the Helderberg escarpment. North and northeast lie the Adirondacks and Greens while to the east and southeast, more of the Taconics and the Berkshires roll away into the horizon like the waves of a great ocean frozen in time. As the two men took this all in and finally prepared to leave, a red-tailed hawk soared above them, at times passing low over their heads, his tail shining bright red when caught by the rays of the setting sun. The men smiled and clasped hands as they watched. Surely this was a good omen; perhaps the reason they had been directed to this mountain by the old Indian they had visited when planning this trip. Everyone called him Grandfather whether they were related to him or not. He had let the men stay with him for two days in his run-down trailer on the reservation in western New York while he quietly spoke of tales and legends of long ago. They had actually smoked a peace pipe with him for which they left him five pounds of tobacco as a parting gift. As they left, the old man had switched on his old black and white television as though fast-forwarding himself back into the Twenty-first Century and away from the memories of much older and happier times.

      Now, just before they left the mountain summit, the two friends faced west toward the sun that prepared to set in the distant horizon. For it is far to the west where most of the proud Mohicans now dwell. In the middle of the Eighteenth Century, with their lands—indeed their entire world—slipping away, many had moved to a mission community in Stockbridge, Massachusetts. There they mingled with other Algonquins and became known as the Stockbridge Indians. Later they dwelt for a time among the Iroquois Indians in central New York until finally, along with the remnants of another tribe, the Munsee-Delaware, they travelled to their final destination in the state of Wisconsin. They remain there to this day where they are known officially as the Stockbridge-Munsee Tribe of Mohican Indians.

      The two climbers remained facing west for many minutes, their heads bowed and their Spirit Stones held high, as though any of their Mohican brothers and sisters, far to the west, who might be gazing back toward their ancestral lands, could catch a glimpse of the shining stones that now reflected the rays of the setting sun like fiery diamonds.

      The hawk continued to circle as they started back down the mountain. It might be that the fabled Wakon-bird of old was gone to wherever old legends die, but here surely the two friends had felt a small piece of the same magic to carry with them always.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      THE INTERVIEW

      James Richard Nelson felt very good today. And because he felt so very good, and had some time to spare, he did not take the shortest route to his destination. Instead he strolled around to the row of fountains that ran between the Science and Humanities buildings. From here he could see the window of his own office on the third floor of the Humanities building where the new ivy of Spring crept along the outer walls in a tangled mass. Not that long ago he used to look out his office window at the young lovers who frequented the high-backed benches that surrounded the fountains. That was back before his wife had left him, and he would feel a tingle of envy toward those entwined students, some perhaps in the heady throes of first love. And as he watched, Nelson would try to remember that long ago feeling. Not that he hadn’t loved Marge of course but...well now it was a new ball game. He had his own lover now, and Marge gone but six months. Nelson shook his head slightly to banish this line of thought. Those were problems and complications for another day. Today was his day, a day he had been anticipating for a long time. The other stuff would sort itself out; he would not let it spoil this fine day.

      He walked on past the cafeteria where the stale smells of another poor-to-mediocre lunch found their way into the fresh Spring air outside. The smells made Nelson wonder again why George had not suggested they meet somewhere over dinner or at least for drinks. After all, they were old high school friends, separated during their college years, and then improbably reunited when they were both appointed to positions here at Millbank College in southern Vermont. Two years ago, George had somehow wangled his way into Administration. This was fortunate for George because he could not teach worth beans and each year ranked at the bottom of the brutal underground

Скачать книгу