For a long time we had scented green birch smoke, and now, on hands and
knees, we were crawling along the edge of a cliff, the roar of the river
in our ears, when Mount suddenly flattened out and I heard him breathing
heavily as I lay down close beside him.
"Look!" he whispered, "the ravine is full of fire!"
A dull-red glare grew from the depths of the ravine; crimson shadows
shook across the wall of earth and rock. Above the roaring of the stream
I heard an immense confused murmur and the smothered thumping rhythm of
distant drumming.
"Go on," I whispered.
Mount crawled forward, Sir George and I after him. The light below
burned redder and redder on the cliff; sounds of voices grew more
distinct; the dark stream sprang into view, crimson under the increasing
furnace glow. Then, as we rounded a heavy jutting crag, a great light
flared up almost in our faces, not out of the kindling ravine, but
breaking forth among the huge pines on the cliffs.
"Their council-fire!" panted Mount. "See them sitting there!"
"Flatten out," I whispered. "Follow me!" And I crawled straight towards
the fire, where, ink-black against the ruddy conflagration, an enormous
pine lay uprooted, smashed by lightning or tempest, I know not which.
Into the dense shadows of the debris I crawled, Mount and Sir George
following, and lay there in the dark, staring at the forbidden circle
where the secret mysteries of the False-Faces had already begun.
Three great fires roared, set at regular intervals in a cleared space,
walled in by the huge black pines. At the foot of a tree sat a white
man, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands. The man was
Walter Butler.
On his right sat Brant, wrapped in a crimson blanket, his face painted
black and scarlet. On his left knelt a ghastly figure wearing a scowling
wooden mask painted yellow and black.
Six separate groups of Indians surrounded the fires. They were sachems
of the Six Nations, each sachem bearing in his hands the symbol of his
nation and of his clan. All were wrapped in black-and-white blankets,
and their faces were painted white above the upper lip as though they
wore skin-tight masks.
Three young girls, naked save for the beaded clout, and painted scarlet
from brow to ankle, beat the witch-drums tump-a-tump! tump-a-tump! while
a fourth stood, erect as a vermilion statue, holding a chain belt woven
in black-and-white wampum.
Behind these central figures the firelight fell on a solid semicircle of
savages, crowns shaved, feathers aslant on the braided lock, and all
oiled and painted for war.
A chief, wrapped in a blue blanket, stepped out into the circle swinging
the carcass of a white dog by the hind-legs. He tied it to a black-birch
sapling and left it dangling and turning round and round.
"This for the Keepers of the Fires," he said, in Tuscarora, and flung
the dog's entrails into the middle fire.
Three young men sprang into the ring; each threw a log onto one of the
fires.
"The name of the Holder of the Heavens may now be spoken and heard
without offence," said an old sachem, rising. "Hark! brothers. Harken, O
you wise men and sachems! The False-Faces are laughing in the ravine
where the water is being painted with firelight. I acquaint you that the
False-Faces are coming up out of the ravine!"
The witch-drums boomed and rattled in the silence that followed his
words. Far off I heard the sound of many voices laughing and talking all
together; nearer, nearer, until, torch in hand, a hideously masked
figure bounded into the circle, shaking out his bristling cloak of green
reeds. Another followed, another, then three, then six, then a dozen,
whirling their blazing torches; all horribly masked and smothered in
coarse bunches of long, black hair, or cloaked with rustling
river reeds.
"Ha! Ah-weh-hot-kwah!
Ha! Ah-weh-hah!
Ha! The crimson flower!
Ha! The flower!"
they chanted, thronging around the central fire; then falling back in a
half-circle, torches lifted, while the masked figures banked solidly
behind, chanted monotonously:
"Red fire burns on the maple!
Red fire burns in the pines.
The red flower to the maple!
The red death to the pines!"
At this two young girls, wearing white feathers and white weasel pelts
dangling from shoulders to knees, entered the ring from opposite ends.
Their arms were full of those spectral blossoms called "Ghost-corn," and
they strewed the flowers around the ring in silence. Then three maidens,
glistening in cloaks of green pine-needles, slipped into the fire
circle, throwing showers of violets and yellow moccasin flowers over the
earth, calling out, amid laughter, "Moccasins for whippoorwills! Violets
for the two heads entangled!" And, their arms empty of blossoms, they
danced away, laughing while the False-Faces clattered their wooden masks
and swung their torches till the flames whistled.
Then six sachems rose, casting off their black-and-white blankets, and
each in turn planted branches of yellow willow, green willow, red osier,
samphire, witch-hazel, spice-bush, and silver birch along the edge of
the silent throng of savages.
"Until the night-sun comes be these your barriers, O Iroquois!" they
chanted. And all answered:
"The Cherry-maid shall lock the gates to the People of the Morning! A-e!
ja-e! Wild cherry and cherry that is red!"
Then came the Cherry-maid, a slender creature, hung from head to foot
with thick bunches of wild cherries which danced and swung when she
walked; and the False-Faces plucked the fruit from her as she passed
around, laughing and tossing her black hair, until she had been
despoiled and only the garment of sewed leaves hung from shoulder
to ankle.
A green blanket was spread for her and she sat down under the branch of
witch-hazel.
"The barrier is closed!" she said. "Kindle your coals from Onondaga, O
you Keepers of the Central Fire!"
An aged sachem arose, and, lifting his withered arm, swept it eastward.
"The hearth is cleansed," he said, feebly. "Brothers, attend!
She-who-runs is coming. Listen!"
A dead silence fell over the throng, broken only by the rustle of the
flames. After a moment, very far away in the forest, something sounded
like the muffled gallop of an animal, paddy-pad! paddy-pad, coming
nearer and ever nearer.
"It's the Toad-woman!" gasped Mount in my ear. "It's the Huron witch!
Ah! My God! look there!"
Hopping, squattering, half scrambling, half bounding into the firelight
came running a dumpy creature all fluttering with scarlet rags. A coarse
mat of gray hair masked her visage; she pushed it aside and raised a
dreadful face in the red fire-glow--a face so marred, so horrible, that
I felt Mount shivering in the darkness beside me.
Through the hollow boom-boom of the witch-drums I heard a murmur
swelling from the motionless crowd, like a rising wind in the pines. The
hag heard it too; her mouth widened, splitting her ghastly visage. A
single yellow fang caught the firelight.
"O you People of the Mountain! O you Onondagas!" she cried. "I am come
to ask my Cayugas and my Senecas why they assemble here on the Kennyetto
when their council-fire and yours should burn at Onondaga! O you
Oneidas, People of the Standing Stone! I am come to ask my Senecas, my
Mountain-snakes, why the Keepers of the Iroquois Fire have let it go
out? O you of the three clans, let your ensigns rise and listen. I speak
to the Wolf, the Turtle, and the Bear! And I call on the seven kindred
clans of the Wolf, and the two kindred clans of the Turtle, and the four
kindred clans of the Bear throughout the Six Nations of the Iroquois
confederacy, throughout the clans of the Lenni-Lenape, throughout the
Huron-Algonquins and their clans!
"And I call on the False-Faces of the Spirit-water and the Water of
Light!"
She shook her scarlet rags and, raising her arm, hurled a hatchet into
a painted post which stood behind the central fire.
"O you Cayugas, People of the Carrying-place! Strike that war-post with
your hatchets or face the ghosts of your fathers in every trail!"
There was a deathly silence. Catrine Montour closed her horrible little
eyes, threw back her head, and, marking time with her flat foot,
began to chant.
She chanted the glory of the Long House; of the nations that drove the
Eries, the Hurons, the Algonquins; of the nation that purged the earth
of the Stonish Giants; of the nation that fought the dreadful battle of
the Flying Heads. She sang the triumph of the confederacy, the bonds
that linked the Elder Brothers and Elder Sons with the Esaurora, whose
tongue was the sign of council unity.
And the circle of savages began to sway in rhythm to her chanting,
answering back, calling their challenge from clan to clan; until,
suddenly, the Senecas sprang to their feet and drove their hatchets into
the war-post, challenging the Lenape with their own battle-cry:
"Yoagh! Yoagh! Ha-ha! Hagh! Yoagh!"
Then the Mohawks raised their war-yelp and struck the post; and the
Cayugas answered with a terrible cry, striking the post, and calling out
for the Next Youngest Son--meaning the Tuscaroras--to draw
their hatchets.
"Have the Seminoles made women of you?" screamed Catrine Montour,
menacing the sachems of the Tuscaroras with clinched fists.
"Let the Lenape tell you of women!" retorted a Tuscarora sachem, calmly.
At this opening of an old wound the Oneidas called on the Lenape to
answer; but the Lenape sat sullen and silent, with flashing eyes fixed
on the Mohawks.
Then Catrine Montour, lashing herself into a fury, screamed for
vengeance on the people who had broken the chain-belt with the Long
House. Raving and frothing, she burst into a torrent of prophecy, which
silenced every tongue and held every Indian fascinated.
"Look!" whispered Mount. "The Oneidas are drawing their hatchets! The
Tuscaroras will follow! The Iroquois will declare for war!"
Suddenly the False-Faces raised a ringing shout:
"Kree! Ha-ha! Kre-e!"
And a hideous creature in yellow advanced, rattling his yellow mask.
Catrine Montour, slavering and gasping, leaned against the painted
war-post. Into the fire-ring came dancing a dozen girls, all strung with
brilliant wampum, their bodies and limbs painted vermilion, sleeveless
robes of wild iris hanging to their knees. With a shout they chanted:
"O False-Faces, prepare to do honor to the truth! She who Dreams has
come from her three sisters--the Woman of the Thunder-cloud, the Woman
of the Sounding Footsteps, the Woman of the Murmuring Skies!"
And, joining hands, they cried, sweetly: "Come, O Little Rosebud
Woman!--Ke-neance-e-qua! O-gin-e-o-qua!--Woman of the Rose!"
And all together the False-Faces cried: "Welcome to Ta-lu-la, the
leaping waters! Here is I-é-nia, the wanderer's rest! Welcome, O Woman
of the Rose!"
Then the grotesque throng of the False-Faces parted right and left; a
lynx, its green eyes glowing, paced out into the firelight; and behind
the tawny tree-cat came slowly a single figure--a young girl, bare of
breast and arm; belted at the hips with silver, from which hung a
straight breadth of doeskin to the instep of her bare feet. Her dark
hair, parted, fell in two heavy braids to her knees; her lips were
tinted with scarlet; her small ear-lobes and finger-tips were stained a
faint rose-color.
In the breathless silence she raised her head. Sir George's crushing
grip clutched my arm, and he fell a-shuddering like a man with ague.
The figure before us was Magdalen Brant.
The lynx lay down at her feet and looked her steadily in the face.
Slowly she raised her rounded arm, opened her empty palm; then from
space she seemed to pluck a rose, and I saw it there between her
forefinger and her thumb.
A startled murmur broke from the throng. "Magic! She plucks blossoms
from the empty air!"
"O you Oneidas," came the sweet, serene voice, "at the tryst of the
False-Faces I have kept my tryst.
"You wise men of the Six Nations, listen now attentively; and you,
ensigns and attestants, attend, honoring the truth which from my twin
lips shall flow, sweetly as new honey and as sap from April maples."
She stooped and picked from the ground a withered leaf, holding it out
in her small, pink palm.
"Like this withered leaf is your understanding. It is for a maid to
quicken you to life, ... as I restore this last year's leaf to life,"
she said, deliberately.
In her open palm the dry, gray leaf quivered, moved, straightened,
slowly turned moist and fresh and green. Through the intense silence the
heavy, gasping breath of hundreds of savages told of the tension they
struggled under.
She dropped the leaf to her feet; gradually it lost its green and curled
up again, a brittle, ashy flake.
"O you Oneidas!" she cried, in that clear voice which seemed to leave a
floating melody in the air, "I have talked with my Sisters of the
Murmuring Skies, and none but the lynx at my feet heard us."
She bent her lovely head and looked into the creature's blazing orbs;
after a moment the cat rose, took three stealthy steps, and lay down at
her feet, closing its emerald eyes.
The girl raised her head: "Ask me concerning the truth, you sachems of
the Oneida, and speak for the five war-chiefs who stand in their paint
behind you!"
An old sachem rose, peering out at her from dim, aged eyes.
"Is it war, O Woman of the Rose?" he quavered.
"Neah!" she said, sweetly.
An intense silence followed, shattered by a scream from the hag,
Catrine.
"A lie! It is war! You have struck the post, Cayugas! Senecas! Mohawks!
It is a lie! Let this young sorceress speak to the Oneidas; they are
hers; the Tuscaroras are hers, and the Onondagas and the Lenape! Let
them heed her and her dreams and her witchcraft! It concerns not you, O
Mountain-snakes! It concerns only these and False-Faces! She is their
prophetess; let her dream for them. I have dreamed for you, O Elder
Brothers! And I have dreamed of war!!"
"And I of peace!" came the clear, floating voice, soothing the harsh
echoes of the hag's shrieking appeal. "Take heed, you Mohawks, and you
Cayuga war-chiefs and sachems, that you do no violence to this
council-fire!"
"The Oneidas are women!" yelled the hag.
Magdalen Brant made a curiously graceful gesture, as though throwing
something to the ground from her empty hand. And, as all looked,
something did strike the ground--something that coiled and hissed and
rattled--a snake, crouched in the form of a letter S; and the lynx
turned its head, snarling, every hair erect.
"Mohawks and Cayugas!" she cried; "are you to judge the Oneidas?--you
who dare not take this rattlesnake in your hands?"
There was no reply. She smiled and lifted the snake. It coiled up in her
palm, rattling and lifting its terrible head to the level of her eyes.
The lynx growled.
"Quiet!" she said, soothingly. "The snake has gone, O Tahagoos, my
friend. Behold, my hand is empty; Sa-kwe-en-ta, the Fanged One
has gone."
It was true. There was nothing where, an instant before, I myself had
seen the dread thing, crest swaying on a level with her eyes.
"Will you be swept away by this young witch's magic?" shrieked Catrine
Montour.
"Oneidas!" cried Magdalen Brant, "the way is cleared! Hiro [I have
spoken]!"
Then the sachems of the Oneida stood up, wrapping themselves in their
blankets, and moved silently away, filing into the forest, followed by
the war-chiefs and those who had accompanied the Oneida delegation as
attestants.
"Tuscaroras!" said Magdalen Brant, quietly.
The Tuscarora sachems rose and passed out into the darkness, followed by
their suite of war-chiefs and attestants.
"Onondagas!"
All but two of the Onondaga delegation left the council-fire. Amid a
profound silence the Lenape followed, and in their wake stalked three
tall Mohicans.
Walter Butler sprang up from the base of the tree where he had been
sitting and pointed a shaking finger at Magdalen Brant:
"Damn you!" he shouted; "if you call on my Mohawks, I'll cut your
throat, you witch!"
Brant bounded to his feet and caught Butler's rigid, outstretched arm.
"Are you mad, to violate a council-fire?" he said, furiously. Magdalen
Brant looked calmly at Butler, then deliberately faced the sachems.
"Mohawks!" she called, steadily.
There was a silence; Butler's black eyes were almost starting from his
bloodless visage; the hag, Montour, clawed the air in helpless fury.
"Mohawks!" repeated the girl, quietly.
Slowly a single war-chief rose, and, casting aside his blanket, drew his
hatchet and struck the war-post. The girl eyed him contemptuously, then
turned again and called:
"Senecas!"
A Seneca chief, painted like death, strode to the post and struck it
with his hatchet.
"Cayuga!" called the girl, steadily.
A Cayuga chief sprang at the post and struck it twice.
Roars of applause shook the silence; then a masked figure leaped towards
the central fire, shouting: "The False-Faces' feast! Ho! Hoh! Ho-ooh!"
In a moment the circle was a scene of terrific excesses. Masked figures
pelted each other with live coals from the fires; dancing, shrieking,
yelping demons leaped about whirling their blazing torches; witch-drums
boomed; chant after chant was raised as new dancers plunged into the
delirious throng, whirling the carcasses of white dogs, painted with
blue and yellow stripes. The nauseating stench of burned roast meat
filled the air, as the False-Faces brought quarters of venison and
baskets of fish into the circle and dumped them on the coals.
Faster and more furious grew the dance of the False-Faces. The flying
coals flew in every direction, streaming like shooting-stars across the
fringing darkness. A grotesque masker, wearing the head-dress of a bull,
hurled his torch into the air; the flaming brand lodged in the feathery
top of a pine, the foliage caught fire, and with a crackling rush a vast
whirlwind of flame and smoke streamed skyward from the forest giant.
"To-wen-yon-go [It touches the sky]!" howled the crazed dancers, leaping
about, while faster and faster came the volleys of live coals, until a
young girl's hair caught fire.
"Kah-none-ye-tah-we!" they cried, falling back and forming a
chain-around her as she wrung the sparks from her long hair, laughing
and leaping about between the flying coals.
Then the nine sachems of the Mohawks rose, all covering their breasts
with their blankets, save the chief sachem, who is called "The Two
Voices." The serried circle fell back, Senecas, Cayugas, and Mohawks
shouting their battle-cries; scores of hatchets glittered,
knives flashed.
All alone in the circle stood Magdalen Brant, slim, straight, motionless
as a tinted statue, her hands on her hips. Reflections of the fires
played over her, in amber and pearl and rose; violet lights lay under
her eyes and where the hair shadowed her brow. Then, through the
silence, a loud voice cried: "Little Rosebud Woman, the False-Faces
thank you! Koon-wah-yah-tun-was [They are burning the white dog]!"
She raised her head and laid a hand on each cheek.
"Neah-wen-ha [I thank you]," she said, softly.
At the word the lynx rose and looked up into her face, then turned and
paced slowly across the circle, green eyes glowing.
The young girl loosened the braids of her hair; a thick, dark cloud fell
over her bare shoulders and breasts.
"She veils her face!" chanted the False-Faces. "Respect the veil! Adieu,
O Woman of the Rose!"
Her hands fell, and, with bent head, moving slowly, pensively, she
passed out of the infernal circle, the splendid lynx stalking at
her heels.
No sooner was she gone than hell itself broke loose among the
False-Faces; the dance grew madder and madder, the terrible rite of
sacrifice was enacted with frightful symbols. Through the awful din the
three war-cries pealed, the drums advanced, thundering; the iris-maids
lighted the six little fires of black-birch, spice-wood, and sassafras,
and crouched to inhale the aromatic smoke until, stupefied and quivering
in every limb with the inspiration of delirium, they stood erect,
writhing, twisting, tossing their hair, chanting the splendors of
the future!
Then into the crazed orgie leaped the Toad-woman like a gigantic scarlet
spider, screaming prophecy and performing the inconceivable and nameless
rites of Ak-e, Ne-ke, and Ge-zis, until, in her frenzy, she went stark
mad, and the devil worship began with the awful sacrifice of Leshee in
Biskoonah.
Horror-stricken, nauseated, I caught Mount's arm, whispering: "Enough,
in God's name! Come away!"
My ears rang with the distracted yelping of the Toad-woman, who was
strangling a dog. Faint, almost reeling, I saw an iris-girl fall in
convulsions; the stupefying smoke blew into my face, choking me. I
staggered back into the darkness, feeling my way among the unseen trees,
gasping for fresh air. Behind me, Mount and Sir George came creeping,
groping like blind men along the cliffs.
"This way," whispered Mount.