PEACE
The brief but sanguinary uprising of the clans was followed by nine
years of peace. Featherfoot spent a great deal of his time with his
own people, and the rest of it in Wise-as-a-she-wolf’s service. He
travelled about the island, visiting the camps and villages, watchful
for any signs of uneasiness among the people. He continued to grow,
both mentally and physically, as he had begun in the magic lodge; and
though he was still without the red feathers, he had the silver robe
which had once belonged to the evil magician, which his master had
given him. He was of a kind and merry disposition, and wonderfully
modest for one so young and yet so powerful. The good magician had
purged him of the selfish vanity of youth, without despoiling him of
anything of the glory, romance, and faith of that brave season. So
his wisdom sat easily upon him, and he made friends at every fire.
He perfected himself in wood-craft and all manly sports, entering
in friendly contest in the same, with the young men, on an equal
footing with them; for he considered his magic a thing to use only on
needful occasions, and not to display boastfully in the eyes of his
friends. His natural strength, and size of limb and bone, were already
equal to those of a hardened and well-grown youth of sixteen years.
He was a great story-teller, a weaver of narratives that held his
listeners entranced; and he had learned a great deal of the master’s
skill in painting, and could mix pigments as bright as sunshine. With
these pigments he drew the portraits of his friends, and pictures of
their deeds in the chase, on the dressed skins of caribou and seal.
His pleasant fame grew throughout the island until it came near to
rivalling that of the good magician, Wise-as-a-she-wolf.
During the nine years that followed the fighting among the clans,
Run-all-day grew steadily in power, thanks to his honesty and
energy, his wife’s sane counsel, and the especial friendship of
Wise-as-a-she-wolf. People gathered to him from the smaller villages,
and strong chiefs and warriors took service with him, until his clan
was the largest and strongest in the island. His people were soon so
numerous that he had to establish a dozen villages, scattered over
a great region; and these villages were strongly situated, and each
commanded by a chief whom he trusted. He made laws, by which thieves
and murderers were to be dealt with, and these were proclaimed in every
village of his clan, after they had received the sanction of the good
magician. The chief of each village was judge of petty offences among
his own people; and if one man stole from another, the chief saw that
he either made good the amount of the theft by double its value, either
in skins, provisions, or service, or left the village in disgrace. In
cases of murder, Run-all-day delivered judgment, after hearing what the
prisoner, and every one else concerned, had to say. There had been laws
before, in the history of the island; but never before the same laws in
force over so large a territory, nor half the conscientiousness shown
in their observance.
There were many who objected to this new order of things, maintaining
that every warrior had a right to settle his private affairs (even if
they included the braining of a fellow-villager or the stealing of
a few robes) without the interference of the chiefs. It was for the
injured parties themselves to retaliate, in the second case, and for
their relatives, in the first, they said. What business the village
chiefs, and Run-all-day, had to thrust their hands in such small
matters they could not see, at least for some time. But after a few of
these exponents of the Rights of Man had suffered death for slaying
people against whom they nursed private grudges, the complaints ceased,
and the laws were respected.
Wise-as-a-she-wolf during this time was much abroad, searching the far
places of the earth for his old enemy. Sometimes he felt that he was
close upon the flying heels of his quarry; for Bright Robe had made a
long journey southward, travelling always under cover of darkness, and
had proclaimed himself among many foreign people. Then he had returned
to his friends the mountaineers, and continued quietly about his
affairs.
The very nearness of Black Eagle’s village to Wise-as-a-she-wolf’s
own country was in its favour as a hiding-place. And now he did less
plundering than of old, in spite of the complaints of the mountaineers,
for he wanted the tales of his depredations to fade from men’s talk.
When he did hunt, it was always far a-field, distant many nights’
flight from Black Eagle’s village. And thus, by taking toll of the
distant tribes, flashing his name here and there in far countries, and
letting the nearer people rest in peace and security, he set false
trails for his enemy to follow. His longest journey had extended even
to the sea islands where it is always summer, and where tribes of
strange little people, with long tails and furred bodies, and the faces
of old men, chatter in the tree-tops. There, also, are men of duskier
complexions than the blubber-eaters, and hair as straight and black as
the mountaineers, who shape canoes out of great tree-trunks and make
voyages of several days’ duration between island and island. To these
people he showed his magic, and told his name and a fine tale of how he
intended to build a great lodge in some southern forest; and then he
returned, under cover of night, to his cave above Black Eagle’s village.
While the silent struggle of cunning went on between the two magicians,
with the whole world for their battleground, and in the ninth summer
of peace among the islanders, young Featherfoot came to the village
of Little Heron, in the secluded valley. When he told his name, he
was welcomed as a great chief, for his fame had travelled before him.
Little Heron led him to his own lodge, set the best of food before
him, and afterward begged him to tell one of his delightful stories. So
the youth told the story of the Crimson Wigwam, as he had heard it in
his own heart, and it sang with the adventures and happy emotions of
a young warrior and a maiden. As he talked, he felt the grave, bright
eyes of Star Flower, the chief’s daughter, upon him, and his glance met
hers, and lo, they both looked downward and the trend of Featherfoot’s
narrative wavered for the space of a heart-beat.
The tale was well received by the chief and his wife and his old
mother. Star Flower alone of the company did not lift her voice in
praise; but her eyes again met those of the young chief, and were
hidden again as swiftly by the dark lashes. After the evening meal, the
entire village gathered about a great fire, and Featherfoot told the
stories of the Wallet of Plenty, and the Magic of the Red Arrow; and
though he was but vaguely conscious of the acclamations of the hunters,
his eyes glanced frequently, yet furtively, toward Star Flower, reading
the shy signs of her approval with inward delight.
Featherfoot spent ten days in the village of Little Heron, and told
stories, and painted wonderful pictures, and dreamed a glorious dream
in his heart. Star Flower told him the magic of the whistle that had
been given her by old Whispering Grass; how Wise-as-a-she-wolf had
given it to the medicine-maker, and how its possessor, if in peril, had
but to sound a note on it and the good magician would hear, though he
were at the world’s end, and would hasten to the rescue.
“I, too, would hear the sound, if you were in danger,” replied the
youth.
He knew this was so, for his heart said it and his heart was never
mistaken; but he believed that it was so because of his love for the
girl, and that it had nothing to do with the magic he had been taught
by Wise-as-a-she-wolf. He told her how old Whispering Grass had saved
his life with her medicines, when he was a very little baby; and how
his father, Run-all-day, had made the journey to the old woman’s lodge
and home again on the red feathers,--all of which he had heard from his
mother. In return, she told him of her childhood; and the old people
were quick to remark all this whispering, and meeting and beaming of
eyes, and nodded their heads wisely at one another. On the tenth day
after his arrival, Featherfoot left the village, to continue the work
that the master had given him to do.
“I shall return, when I have proved myself a strong warrior,” he said
to Little Heron.
But to Star Flower he whispered that he would return before the coming
of another summer, whether men called him a strong warrior or no.
And she blushed, and replied that indeed it would matter little what
men said of him who was already the greatest chief, and warrior, and
magician in the world.
The summer waned, and again the berries ripened on the barrens, the
birds took wing and the caribou moved to sheltered pastures; and
Wise-as-a-she-wolf, in whose heart a restless aching for new sights
and adventures was ever present, left the island again and flew on the
long trails of the plover and snipe and honking geese. He had no fear
for Featherfoot’s safety or for the welfare of the people in general,
for he knew that Run-all-day’s clans would maintain order while he was
away, and he did not think that Bright Robe was within thousands of
miles of his native place. In truth, he was beginning to hope that his
enemy had either given up all thought of revenge, or suffered some new
reverse of fortune. And yet, if such were the case, what had become
of the red feathers? Perhaps he had met and been vanquished by some
foreign magician. If so, the feathers should be easily found, for
the new owner would make use of them openly; and if he were not too
strong--but the good magician would follow the vague suppositions no
further. The world held what he desired to know, and he was keen to
read; and when the secret was disclosed would be the time to act.
Wise-as-a-she-wolf visited the islands of the southern seas, where
frosts and seasons of unfruitlessness are unknown, and there, for
the second time, found the false trail of Bright Robe. He journeyed
westward and southward, into a land of vast and tangled forests. In
those dark and stagnant places, lit only by the blooms of poisoned
vines, and inscrutable as the heart of a god, a fugitive might well
find a secret dwelling. So thought the good magician; and after a day’s
flight above those millions and millions of crowded tree-tops, he felt
that here, if anywhere, was his enemy hidden. He descended through the
roof of vivid, tangled green, and looked about him, somewhat daunted at
the gloom, the netted vegetation on all sides, and the strange noises
overhead. “A thousand thieves might hide securely for a thousand years
in this jungle,” he exclaimed, and felt a pang of hopelessness. He
stood motionless for a little while, staring about him. Then, drawing
his axe of magic workmanship, he began to cut his way through the vines
and creepers and smaller growth that surrounded him. Intent on his
labour, he relaxed that effort of will by which he made and maintained
his invisibility. He struck lustily, to right and left, advancing
steadily after every stroke. Already he felt in better spirits,
reflecting that here would be found some great, new things to learn and
unfamiliar aspects of truth, even if Bright Robe should continue to
slip through his fingers. The fire of the explorer burned within him.
For never before, in all his wanderings, had he descended into these
forests. He would pierce to the heart of this vivid, inscrutable
country, and lay bare all its secrets.