O my reader, rest a while at our Council Fire before you set your
feet upon the long trail which leads into the dim regions of Ta-de,
which is--or was--Yesterday.
See, we will sprinkle tobacco leaves upon the flames and on the
spirals of the smoke ascending upward our words shall be carried to
the ears of Ha-wen-ne-yu, the Great Spirit.
Behold, O my reader, we give you a White Belt in token that our words
are straight.
That which has been is no more. We of the Ho-de-no-san-nee, the
People of the Long House, are scattered so that only Ga-oh, the Old
Man of the Winds, can tell where the remnants dwell. The Long House,
where our women sowed and reaped and our warriors hunted, is the
spoil of the white man. His roads have wiped out the trails stamped
by our war parties in the days of our power. His towns have replaced
our villages. He has chased the wild things into the recesses of the
Adirondack hills.
The Great League itself, which Da-ga-no-we-da and Ha-yo-wont-ha, the
Founders, intended should live for all time, is no more than a memory
locked in our breasts. The Council Fire which they kindled no longer
burns at Onondaga. Gone is the Ho-yar-na-go-war, the Council of the
Roy-an-ehs, whose word was supreme from the shores of the Great Lakes
to the lands of the Wa-sa-seh-o-no, whom the white men call the
Sioux, and the O-ya-da-ga-o-no, whom the white men name the
Cherokees. The Seneca Wolves have abandoned their watch at the
Western Door of the Long House which opens upon the Thunder Waters of
Jagara; the Mohawk Wolves no longer guard the Eastern Door by the
shores of the Ska-neh-ta-de, which the white men have renamed the
Hudson.
It is meet that we should mourn. But hear us, O my reader, hear us
further.
Once we were a nation. Once we were strong. Once even the white man
feared us. Once it was for us to say who should rule the land
outside the Long House, Frenchman or Englishman. The white men were
weak then. They clamored for our aid. We chose the side of the
Englishman. He triumphed.
Remember, O my reader, but for us you might not have been here to sit
by our Council Fire to-night. Black Robe and de Veulle, Murray and
Joncaire, would have won the struggle; the French King would have
become master. All that has come to pass would never have been. The
unfolding years would have told another story. But the People of the
Long House cast their fortunes with Governor Burnet, who in our
tongue was called Ga-en-gwa-ra-go, and Ormerod, whom the Keepers of
the Faith renamed O-te-ti-ani. It was Ta-wan-ne-ars and the warriors
of the Eight Clans who helped O-te-ti-ani and Corlaer, the Dutchman
with the fat belly, to break down the barriers of "The Doom Trail"
and overcome the "Keepers of the Trail."
Remember that, O my reader. This tale which follows is true talk.
It was as it is written.
Na-ho!