Red Fox

Seneca Territory (Modern-Day New York)

Some things in life were constant, things one could always be certain of. The changing of the seasons, the coming and leaving of the sun and the moon. These constants provided a sense of relief for most people, their predictability reassuring in a world of constant change. For a young Red Fox named Tgwëhdä:’ë:’nö’kwat, that constant was the feeling that he didn’t belong.

Of course, it was not a feeling that was unique to him. He imagined all the other boys and girls that had been taken to these lands and assimilated must feel a similar way. After all, they did not belong here by virtue of their birth—they were all members of different tribes once, forced to abandon their memories and identity and adopt new ones. But that was an impossible task, especially the older you were when you got captured. As much as he had tried to forget himself (and he had tried to), he couldn’t help but be haunted by his old village, his old family, and his old name.

More than that, though, Red Fox had always felt this way, even back in his own village. He was an outcast among the other boys, for reasons that still eluded him. He looked mostly the same—average build, not too tall or short, too skinny or fat. In fact he looked remarkably plain, so much so that he often tried to wear his hair or clothes in unorthodox ways just to stand out. Perhaps that was why he was ostracized—all the other kids in his old village had always called him strange.

But he didn’t feel strange, not really. He knew strange, enough to know that he was not it. Strange was the adoption ritual, beating and harming strangers after hauling them for miles, only to make them members of your family. Strange were the white men who came and traded, who always spoke rudely and acted callously. Strange were the False Faces, healers even more powerful than the old Bears, bearing false faces with twisted features of warped wood. They came and went in secret, and worked with dreams and magic. Red Fox, in comparison, was normal, simple, even. But no one else seemed to agree. Here, the adoption ritual was an everyday custom, the White Men were welcome visitors, and the False Faces were revered and respected. And if you thought any differently, it was you who was strange.

In time, Red Fox had come to understand that when most people said strange, what they really meant was quiet. And Red Fox was quiet, moreso than most. He was not especially timid or anxious, per se—he just found that most of the time, he didn’t have much to say. He preferred to watch, to listen, and to mediate. When he was younger, whenever two kids had an argument, he would mediate between them to try and resolve their dispute. He did this so often they called him Deganawidah, a playful moniker likening him to the Great Peacemaker who brought the Five Nations together.

Despite his silent nature and inclination towards peace, he did not shy away from violence when necessary. When he did get into a fight, he was quick and brutal. The first time a boy had quarreled with him, he broke the boy’s arm, which earned him a proper scolding from his old father. Red Fox had never understood why he was scolded. It was the other boy who had started the fight, after all, and in his mind, when you start a fight with someone, you accept any outcome of it, even if you die. Thus, whenever he did fight, even in small scuffles that young boys often got into, he fought to maim, and to kill.

His new father had warned him against this inclination. After all, the Haudenosaunee did not just want to mindlessly slaughter their enemies—their real goal was to bring them back, replenish the numbers they had lost to the pox or other battles. Red Fox’s perspective, then, was not helpful for their goal. But Red Fox had not yet been given the opportunity to fight. He had only recently turned fifteen, the age when boys could start going on raiding parties, but he had come down with some illness, and missed the last one. He lay in his bed in agony until the party returned, anxiously awaiting his next chance. For though he considered his new family strange, he was still a part of it, and was eager to make his new father and community proud of him.

Today, Red Fox took extra time getting ready, for today was an important day. It was the day of the war council, the grand meeting that all the other villages had traveled here for. He dressed himself in his deerskin leggings, moccasins, and cape. He fastened a silver bracelet his brothers had gotten him to celebrate turning fifteen, and fastened his gusto'weh on top of his head. Gusto'wehs were like little crowns of wood that Longhouse men wore, and you could tell which Nation a man was a part of by the arrangement of the number of feathers in their gusto'weh, as well as their position. Their tribe had the simplest arrangement, which suited Red Fox well—the Onödowá’ga wore only a single feather in their headdress, which always pointed straight up.

Red Fox started with his face paint next, unscrewing the small wooden container he kept his in. Face paint came in a variety of colors, and obviously were patterned in whatever manner the particular man wanted. This endeared Red Fox to it, and quickly became his favorite part of dressing himself, being one of the few ways he could express himself freely. His favorite paint was that of a deep blue, a shade which was harder to come by, making it rather precious. Normal blueberries made a lighter color, especially the ones that were grown in the gardens instead of the wild. But there was a specific kind of wild blueberry that could be made into something darker. They were not found anywhere near the village, but far to the southeast, which made getting them highly impractical. But the color was his favorite, so he made it work—he made long trips by himself (or with Running-Into-Darkness before the accident) to the southeast. The trip was not foreign to him, for he knew that area—after all, that was where he was brought from when he was captured. He would gather enough berries to last him a while, then return, and make the paint all by himself. As a result, his paint was a unique blue that no one else in the village wore, something he was very proud of.

“Ga:jih, Tgwëhdä:’ë:’nö’kwat,” Red Fox heard behind him. It was the sound of his new mother’s voice, so he pretended he didn’t hear it, and continued with his face paint. He, like his brother, had been avoiding her as much as she could ever since she arrived, although he suspected he had a very different reason for it than Running-Into-Darkness.

“Come here, little Fox,” his mother repeated. “Come and talk to your mother.”

Red Fox knew better than to ignore a direct order from a mother, and so he complied, putting his paint down and walking over to her bed.

“Yes, Aknó’ëh?” He asked.

“Come sit next to me.”

He did. His mother peered into his eyes, and he tried to avoid her gaze, like she would know all his secrets if he looked back at her.

“Since the second you saw me, you have been avoiding me,” she said. “Your brother thinks it’s because you’re allergic to women. Are you?”

“No, Aknó’ëh. I don’t think so.”

“Then?”

Red Fox shuffled uncomfortably. He looked around the longhouse, but it was mostly empty—most of the others were outside eating breakfast, something he always skipped on important days, because he often became nauseous if he attended a big event on a full stomach.

“You’re Shenandoah,” he whispered to her. “Aren’t you? I remember you.”

The woman stiffened. It was her old name, the one she carried before she was Ösa:dë:s. It was a name from their own people, their own village by the muddy river to the southeast. They were from the same tribe, the same village even, and they had suffered much, even before their recent captures by the Haudenosaunee.

“Shhhhh, boy,” Shenandoah replied. “You will get us both in trouble.”

Red Fox couldn’t help but smile.

“You were the chief’s wife,” he said. “Do you remember when the white men came? They tricked your husband and the four other chiefs to a peace meeting, then killed them. The whole new village we had built was set ablaze, and my mother was killed. I tried to find my father, but he was somewhere fighting them. I was so young, and so afraid. You found me, and together we ran and hid in the forest. I was crying, but you sang to me, and calmed me down. Do you remember me now?”

To his surprise, his new mother pulled him close to her, and kissed the boy’s tuft of hair softly.

“Yes, little one,” she whispered. “I remember. You can’t imagine how happy I was to see you again here, to know that you were alive and well. Even before I was named your mother, I loved you like a son.”

Shenandoah started to cry, and Red Fox realized that he was crying, too. They held each other there. It was a miracle, to be sure—that two people from a village who had suffered as much as theirs, who had been forced to travel south, only to be attacked and scattered, had found each other again. They relished in that miracle, thanking whatever spirits granted them this comforting respite in an otherwise confusing and cruel life.

“But that is the last we will speak on such things,” Shenandoah said, wiping the tears from her eyes. The two ended their embrace, leaving the world of nostalgia and memory and returning to the grim reality of today.

“I am Ösa:dë:s now,” she told him. “And you are Red Fox, and not the fletcher’s son from the muddy river. Perhaps one day, we will be free to reminisce, but today is too important for that. Are you ready? Your father told me this will be your first war council.”

“Yes,” Red Fox said. “At least I think so. I guess I’m a little nervous.”

“You’ll be fine. Remember to never speak until spoken to, and to try and listen to every word. The good news is you are young, and you are a man, so your presence is ultimately not essential. If you lose someone’s words or forget something, it won’t be the end of the world, but still try your best.”

Outside, the two heard the war drums begin to beat.

“It’s starting. Hurry and finish your paint. I love you.”

For some reason, those three words rang louder than the drums outside in Red Fox’s chest, and his heart ached from her saying it.

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“I love you, too,” he said, beaming. He went back to his paint, wiping the tears from his eyes and face, lest they ruin the paint. He applied the rest of his signature look as quickly as he could—two thick lines from the bottom of his eyes to his jaw.

The war council entered the longhouse, The Smoke Rises leading the rest in. Shenandoah nodded at her new husband as he entered, and stood, taking her leave from the house as the others piled in. If it was the old mother, she would have stayed, as daughter of the Bear clan mother and an influential woman in the village. But Shenandoah, although she had been granted the same name as her predecessor, was still not fully accepted as one of their own, and therefore not trusted with important meetings such as this one.

One by one, all the important leaders of the village took their place around the council fire. The clan mothers of this village, as well as the principal chiefs of the surrounding villages. Normally, the larger villages would have multiple chiefs, leaders of their respective clans, but for the purpose of councils involving multiple villages, a principal chief was elected from among them to represent the entire village. And while the clan mothers were the most powerful people in the village, they tended to not travel for councils like these. Being the centers of society that they were, they typically stayed in their own villages to anchor them in place and prevent them from falling into disarray. The clan mothers were the ones to appoint the principal chiefs in the first place, respecting their judgment enough to act as a mouthpiece for the mothers’ wishes in their stead.

“We call a council today to discuss the impending encroachment of the French on our northern borders,” The Smoke Rises began. “And to what our response, as Onödowá’ga of the Five Nations and Keepers of the Western Door, should be.”

“Are we certain they are amassing troops?” Asked the chief from the southwest village, the one his older brother’s little lover-girl was from. “What evidence do you have?”

“They are not exactly subtle. The smoke that rises from the fort to the north of here tripled in size a few months ago, and around the same time, our scouts have reported that the Wendat have abandoned their huts in that area in a great number. We suspect they were likely abducted out of some paranoia, with the French confusing them for us.”

A chorus of chuckles passed through the crowd. The only thing the French were known for more than their haughtiness was their ignorance.

“There is more,” Red Fox’s father continued. “Per our intel, a new Onontio has been appointed to lead the French, which means our relationship with them has changed. The last one, La Barre, was a coward and a pushover, and we could manipulate him in any way we pleased. If our information is correct, his cowardice obviously did not please the French King across the seas, and so he was stripped of his position and replaced like the unworthy chief he was. Clearly, if that King bears the same wisdom as a clan mother, would want to replace him with a man the direct opposite of La Barre. Thus, we have reason to believe this new Onontio will act in an opposite manner, and launch a full-scale offensive into our territory.”

“That’s a lot of conjecture,” the principal chief of the westernmost village spoke. His name was Hoyë’gwagwas—He Gathers Tobacco. “And we’re supposed to go to war over a supposed new appointment?”

“What would you prefer? That we sit here idly until the French are at our doorsteps, burning and pillaging?”

“Come now, gentlemen,” Shogë’dzo:wa:’ interrupted, named for his enormous forehead (and he certainly lived up to that name). He was the oldest of the principal chiefs, from a village to the east near the Gayogo̱hó꞉nǫʼ hunting grounds. “Why fight amongst ourselves when the real enemy is to the north? Speculation on this new Onontio or not, there is clearly enough evidence to suggest that the French are amassing their forces. The Smoke Rises is overzealous sometimes, but he is right. We should not be without a plan if they decide to invade. We need a plan of action.”

“Where is the fort?”

The Bear clan mother asked her question suddenly and without warning, and all the men turned to her, as hers was the most important voice in the council.

“North of here,” The Smoke Rises answered his mother-in-law. By the eastern edge of the Lake of Shining Waters.”

“And where else could they attack from?”

“All from the north, for the most part,” he said. “I imagine most will come from across the lake, and they will probably send flanking units from the east through our new territory we claimed from the Island Folk.”

“I’d like to see them try,” He Gathers Tobacco scoffed. He had moved his village onto the peninsula almost two decades ago now, after they won their war against the Island-Dwellers.

“That was not an insult to your battle prowess,” The Smoke Rises sighed. “The warriors from your village are strong and brave, but that does not make them great in number. If the French dedicate a big enough force, you will be outflanked and outmanned, regardless of your valor.”

The two men began arguing, as they often did in these kinds of meetings. He Gathers Tobacco was the head of the Hawk clan, after all, fierce and eternal rivals of the Bear. But the Bear mother raised her hand, and the two men were ushered into silence.

“I have arrived at a conclusion,” she said. “Mothers, will you allow me to speak on all our behalf?”

The other mothers nodded in agreement. All of them knew that Bear Mother was the oldest and the wisest, and trusted her to lead all of them, despite individual differences between them.

“Hoyë’gwagwas,” she said, addressing He Gathers Tobacco. “You are to evacuate your village. When the French begin their western assault, they will find no success, as all our villages in that area will be deserted.”

“But what of our stores of food for the winter?” He Gathers Tobacco asked.

“You will gather and store what you can, and burn the rest, so the enemy cannot use them. The other villages will share their own stores if need be, but the villages must be empty. The western flank will be forced to march through the whole of the peninsula just to cross into our territory, by which time their forces will be depleted.”

“But that is not so great a distance. Even in the winter, they will not lose too many soldiers.”

“That is your second responsibility. The westernmost war bands will split into two large groups: the first will stay in the peninsula, and wreak havoc and chaos on the French as they march through it. You will not stay in one place, or build any encampments—you will hide in the deepest forests and caves, where the enemy cannot find you. You will attack in small ambushes, then retreat immediately as soon as they can form a counter-offensive. The goal will not be to defeat them outright, for you do not have the numbers. Instead, you will whittle them down, attacking them incessantly in rotating groups, so that you may rest while the enemy cannot. The French are weak-willed, and their morale is easily broken—by the time the invaders from the north cross the lake, the western group will be too fatigued and broken to join them in full force.”

Her plan was beginning to gain traction—after each sentence, the chiefs began to agree, replying with emphatic grunts of acknowledgement.

“The second group will go further,” Bear Mother continued. “West and south, to capture and bring back more warriors for our eventual counter-attack. We will lose many warriors, but we will make sure they lose more. And when the second group returns, we will replenish our losses, and dig our tomahawks into the wounds we have just left them.”

Another wave of grunts, louder now. An energy was building in the room—the Bear Mother was successfully whipping the men into a war frenzy. It was the mark of the most powerful clan mothers—the ability to imbue fire in the hearts of men. Red Fox felt a kindling inside him, his skin tight with goosebumps from the feeling that was building in each and every one of them.

“And what of us, Bear Mother?” The Smoke Rises asked. “Are we to take the fight to the French coming from the lake?”

“No,” Bear Mother replied. “You are to take your war party and travel southeast, beyond our territory.”

“Then, what is to become of the village? You will abandon it and burn your stores like the western group, right?”

“No. We will stay.”

“But… the village will be defenseless, Mother. How will you survive the French assault from the north?”

The Bear Mother said nothing at first. Instead, she reached into a jug of liquor on the floor nearby, then dipped her soaked hand into the fire. Everyone gasped as she held out her hand, burning with hot flame.

“This is war,” she thundered, her voice as deep and powerful as the greatest canyon. “The enemy comes in great numbers, and they fight to kill and destroy. Only a child would think we will avoid losses. No, we will not flee. We will stay here, and play our own role. The French will come from the lake to find the northern villages unguarded, filled only with women and children. We will put on a great performance, fleeing and hiding in the woods as they ransack our towns. They will grow overconfident in their easy victories, as we know they have, and they will push further south and east. They will meet much resistance eastward—we will the ask our Gayogo̱hó꞉nǫʼ neighbors to defend their borders vigilantly. So they will be forced south, further than they can handle in the darkest winter. All the while, we will regroup, and cut them off, surrounding them inside our own lands, where there will be no escape.”

A few whoops echoed through the longhouse as Bear Mother slapped her flaming hand on the earth beneath her, dousing the fire. She then turned to her son-in-law.

“You will go southeast,” she told him. “To the nations of the English, and seek their aid. They will not pass up an opportunity to attack the French, and we will combine our forces once our trap has been sprung, counter-attacking with an army of an impossible size, one they will never see coming.”

Red Fox saw his father smile and nod, grunting fervently with the other men. A pride filled his chest, and Red Fox grunted too.

“And we will destroy their invading force,” Bear Mother continued. She stood from her seat, standing over the fire, the light casting stark shadows that danced across her wizened face and silver hair. The men began whooping and shrieking, beating their chairs like war drums as she spoke.

“And we will not finish there. We will launch our own invasion, march into the heart of their lands, past the Shining Waters, to their capital!”

“Yes!” The men cheered, clapping and stomping in rhythm.

“We will slaughter every soldier, every trader, every woman and child, until there are no French left in this land!”

“YES!” The men shouted, their stomps shaking the foundation of the longhouse.

“And we will crush the head of the Snake of France, and slice open its belly, and devour its entrails! We will push them all into the ocean, back from whence they came, until there are no masters of these lands but of the mighty Five Nations!”

The longhouse erupted in a blazing fire of fury and bloodlust. The men shrieked and screamed great war cries, so loud and fierce that they would strike fear into the hearts of any man who heard them. They beat their chests with their fists, and their drums with their palms. And so the council ended, and a decision was reached.

Everyone filed out of the longhouse, the men all forming a large hunting party to satiate their desire to kill that the Bear Mother had brought out of them. The first snow had begun to fall on the land, but the men did not even notice it, their eyes drunk on the thought of vanquishing the French. They ran out of the village with thunderous speed to hunt, and Red Fox ran with them, his heart filled with fire. Because even though he was not born here, even though he was assimilated, he carried with him all the pride of the Haudenosaunee.

It was what made their adoption rituals so successful, why men from other nations fought and killed their former tribesmen after being converted. The Haudenosaunee were strong, and that strength imbued them with an unassailable pride. They believed themselves to be champions of the earth, to be above all other nations and peoples. If Red Fox was Haudenosaunee, then, he was a champion of the earth, too. And as he sped down the hill, fire coursing through his veins, wind flowing through his hair, he forgot all about the muddy river he used to call home. He was a Keeper of the Western Door, fierce and mighty, and soon the whole world would know it.

End of Autumn