Old World Thunder, New World Fire

White Sky, Black Bird

The Great Lakes

All great things can be found in pairs: sun and moon, fire and water, life and death. And so it was that the finest trader in all the Great Lakes was actually two traders: Waabigiizhig and Memeskoniinisi–White Sky and Black Bird. Of course, very few in the great lakes had ever heard of these traders, and even fewer would recognize them as the finest. But that did not concern them, for they knew they were the best. To them, once you were the best at something and knew yourself to be so, it was only a matter of time until others knew it, too. They were young, and did not have the connections and reputations of their older competitors, but that would come. For now, all they could do was be the best, and wait for the rest of the world to come to terms with their greatness.

The traders hailed from different tribes, and bore different totems. White Sky was Fire-Keeper, from the clan of the Turtle. Black Bird was Trade-Keeper, and carried the fitting totem of the Black Hawk, though his father originally hailed from some other tribe and clan. White Sky used to ask which tribe and clan he came from, but Black Bird never liked talking about his father, so White Sky eventually stopped asking. At eighteen, White Sky was a little brother of sorts, just as the Keepers of the Hearth-Fire were considered the “youngest brother” of the Council of Three. At twenty, Black Bird proclaimed himself to be the leader of their group as its eldest member, a point which often led to arguments between them.

Despite their frequent bickering, the two young men worked perfectly in tandem, as all their skills and passions were complimentary. They found this out quickly three years ago after each of them had tried trading on their own, and failed miserably. Thankfully, their failures caused their fateful meeting, and together, they were unstoppable. Black Bird plotted their routes, and White Sky secured the cargo. White Sky loaded and packed the gunpowder, and Black Bird fired the rifle. Black Bird spoke the languages of white men, and even those of the Five Big Snakes and smaller tribes in the region. White Sky spoke the languages of science and mathematics, and was responsible for the ingenious modifications that made their canoe the fastest and most powerful in the region.

Today, as they rode down-river in their canoe, they argued about a new topic: who would win in a fight between a brown bear and a pack of four wolves.

“Absolutely no question,” White Sky said. “It’s four against one, and the bear at most can use two of its claws. What is he supposed to do if surrounded?”

“You assume the bear would allow himself to be surrounded,” Black Bird returned. “But the bear is as clever as he is strong, and would not allow himself to be caught in so simple a trap.”

“Of course he would! Wolves can hunt a target for days on end, tracking their prey through the forest. You’re telling me the bear would maintain his guard all day and night for three days?”

“Well… even if he was surrounded, that doesn’t guarantee the wolves a victory. All it takes is one error in their attack, one slight misstep. With a single swipe, the bear could easily crush one of their skulls.”

“And if he did, the other three would seize the moment and attack the bear while he’s defenseless.”

“Oh, come on. Let’s be reasonable in understanding their nature. They are not soldiers sworn to the Frenchman's king, honor-bound to fight each battle to their last breath. They act in war like the Big Snakes do–kill one, and the rest go running with their tails tucked between their legs.”

“So now you’re an expert on the nature of wolves? Next you’ll tell me you were raised by them.”

Black bird grinned, leaning back in the canoe and pretending to faint.

“Your accusations wound me, you know,” he said. “You don’t need to lash out at me just because I’m right. We both know the bear would win against four measly wolves, or any other beast for that matter. The bear carries the largest clan and thus, the most powerful totem. The Bear clan’s size and prosperity reflect their namesake beast’s own mightiness.”

“You can’t be serious,” White Sky protested. “Your arguments grow worse and worse by the day. Soon I’ll need to find another fool to haggle with the white men.”

“Are the names of our clans merely names?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean just that. Do you think our totems are arbitrary labels, or do you think they represent something greater?”

“Of course they represent something. They represent everything.”

“Then you would agree that the bear being the largest and strongest beast is fitting for the largest and strongest clan.”

“Perhaps. But I don't find comfort in that answer, for it doesn’t bode well for me as a Turtle.”

“But a turtle carries his own virtues–he doesn’t have to be the strongest to be worth something. After all, it was the great snapping turtle who heeded Manaboash’s plea, who carries the land we live on atop his back. And we would never argue over who would win between a turtle and a bear, because the argument has no merit. Neither does this one, really. At the end of the day, the fight we have argued for so long about would never take place. The wolves would never choose to hunt the bear over anything else, as they know they will likely lose, and the bear would never want to fight a pack of wolves if he could help it, as he knows them to be more trouble than they’re–”

A sudden gunshot rang out through the woods, the bullet just failing to reach the two traders, sinking into the water right in front of their canoe. The sound of the shot was soon accompanied by whooping and shrieking, sounding in the boys’ ears like the hissing of Big Snakes.

“Speaking of trouble,” Black Bird remarked, tucking himself down into the canoe.

“Already on it,” White Sky said. The two broke into action without another word. White Sky grabbed a lever inside the canoe and pulled hard, hoisting up their canoe’s “shield”, a thick tarp of hide reinforced with metal plates between its layers. Two more bullets came, but the tarp caught them, forming a protective tent over the canoe to halt the bullets’ momentum and drop them into the water.

Black Bird did not hesitate either, and began to row as fast as he could. The best way of dealing with Longhouse raiders was to outrun them, their canoes slower and less maneuverable. Despite their recent expansion into the territory, the Longhouse folk were still strangers to these lakes and rivers, and their inferior canoes were evidence of that. Some fortunate ones had stolen the superior birchbark canoes from defeated enemies, but they did not yet know how to craft the vessels themselves, and none of those who sprung from the Creator’s divine breath would relinquish such a secret to the enemy.

This time, though, a complication presented itself. Ahead of them, two canoes manned by Big Snakes broke from their cover of foliage by the riverbed, forming a wide formation to cut the two traders off. At the same time, two more canoes emerged behind them, rowing quickly to ram into them from behind.

“What do we do?” White Sky asked, for it was Black Bird’s job to answer difficult questions.

Black Bird took only a moment to analyze the situation, as a moment more would mean their doom.

“Full speed ahead,” he commanded. “Ram the one on the right–try to splinter it, if possible. We let them think they’ve caught us in their net, and I’ll spring our biggest surprise on the ones tailing us.”

White Sky nodded, and began to shift course. Black Bird began to loosen the ropes that tied their cargo to the canoe. It was White Sky’s idea to carry all their cargo in separate, buoyant packages that floated along with them. It started as a necessity, as they could hardly fit anything in the canoe now with all the modifications they’d made. In practice, they would cut the ropes free whenever they were in enough trouble, causing their canoe to instantly gain in speed from the massive reduction in weight. Better to lose your merchandise than your life. This time, though, the cargo was too important to hand over to them, and besides, keeping themselves slow for now was part of the plan. It was important that the two canoes in pursuit gained on them, that they believed they were winning.

“Need help!” White Sky cried, as the raiders ahead of them began taking shots at the canoe with their rifles. The protective tarp covered both sides and the front, but it was not completely impregnable, especially after sustaining multiple shots.

“On it,” Black Bird said, grabbing their rifle from the canoe’s floorboards. With his free hand, he grabbed one of their smoke bombs, hand-crafted by White Sky. He ignited it with his flint, then tossed it towards his two pursuers. The bomb exploded in a flash of light, filling the area with smoke from the gunpowder. At the speed the Snakes were rowing, they would quickly clear the smoke, but all Black Bird needed was a few seconds.

He stood up, using the crook at the top of the tarp’s wooden frame to stabilize his aim. The two Big Snakes in front of him saw him ready his weapon, and began to fire at him, but they were still too far for their bullets to reach. Black Bird knew this, and waited until after they had fired, when they would be struggling to quickly reload. Close enough to hit now, he took aim, whispered a silent prayer, and pulled the trigger.

The shot rang out, and his bullet landed square in the shoulder of the Snake aboard the right canoe. Black Bird cursed under his breath for not hitting a vital organ. If it had been a lethal strike, the fight could have been over by now. The People of the Longhouse warred for two reasons: to dominate the trade with the white man, and to replace their lost loved ones by adopting captured prisoners of war. The latter goal, which was their primary one, presented a weakness in their strategy: they would not continue to fight a battle once they suffered enough casualties, as losing more members would defeat the purpose of their raid. Still, the shot took the one out of commission for now, and weakened the right side of the Snakes’ “net”, which would have to be good enough.

“Full speed into the right canoe!” Black Bird barked. “I’ve softened it up for you! Break their line and buy me enough time to set up the weapon!”

White Sky didn’t need to be told twice–he plunged his oar into the water, lunging towards the canoe on the right. Black Bird did the same, but only for two strokes, lifting his oar and putting it in the bed. He needed time to prepare their secret weapon. He uncased it: a tiny cannon, small enough to fit inside a canoe. The ones the French used were too large, built for the enormous decks of sailing ships. This one was custom-made for their use, small and compact. This of course reduced its range and power significantly, but that didn’t matter. It had one job, and it did it well.

Black Bird placed it in front of him, straddling it, and began packing the shot into the barrel. One of the pursuers fired at him with a rifle. The bullet grazed his ear, a searing pain blazing in his mind, but he ignored it. He did not even flinch, as a single moment’s hesitation would mean the difference between living and dying.

“Is it ready?” White Sky asked.

“Not yet,” Black Bird returned. He used the wooden plunger to ram the packet of pellets down into the barrel, packing it tightly. He lost his grip on the plunger as their canoe made contact with the right one in front of them, slamming straight into its side. They had outfitted the front of their canoe with a lightweight but durable steel blade like the axe-head of a tomahawk, and it sliced through the enemy’s flimsy Elm planks, splintering the canoe in half.

“Is it ready?!”

“Not yet!”

The Big Snake on the now-destroyed canoe leaped to the one next to it, still clutching his wounded shoulder, and the one on the left boat prepared another shot. White Sky scrambled for his tomahawk, flinging it at the one with the rifle. The man dodged the tomahawk narrowly, but lost his footing in doing so, falling onto his comrade on the canoe and losing his grip on the rifle. Behind them, the two pursuers were almost at their heels, ready to ram and board them.

“Is! It! Ready!?”

Black Bird fumbled with his flint, his trembling hands barely managing to light the fuse.

“Fuse is lit!” He called out. “Just another moment more!”

They didn’t have another moment–the two Snakes in front began hacking at their tarp with their tomahawks, and the ones behind had reached them now. One slammed into the back, shoving the cannon forward. Black Bird winced in pain from the cannon crushing his feet in front, and bit his lip to make it through the pain, taking a cushion and placing it under his groin to brace for the coming impact.

“We need it NOW!!!” White Sky yelled frantically as one of the Snakes managed to tear a hole in their protective shield. But they had stalled for just enough time, and their counter-attack was finally ready.

Black Bird hoisted the cannon upwards to face the man who had just rammed them from behind, the light of the fuse disappearing into the cannon’s black iron. He gripped the cannon between his legs, and the sides of the canoe with his hands, bracing himself and everything else for the impact.

The boom of the cannon shook the whole river beneath them, echoing out for miles into the wilderness. At once, the dynamic flipped on its head. The boat that had rammed them splintered to nothing, shredded to pieces by a sea of shrapnel. So too was the poor man aboard that vessel, the tidal wave of small metal pellets rendering the flesh from his bones. Due to the cannon’s small size, it could not shoot far, nor could it be cleaned and reloaded in a timely manner. But the two genius traders knew this, and had it built according to its strengths. The lip of the cannon flared outwards like a blunderbuss, loaded with a similar shot of small pellets rather than one large projectile. The result was a weapon with terrible range and accuracy, but one that could completely annihilate anything that came close enough.

The second boon their secret weapon granted was thrust. The force of the cannon blew them forwards in the river, straight through the canoe they had split before and out of reach of any potential retaliation. The already-loosened cargo fell away from the push, accelerating them even further. With all the room between them and their pursuers now, they could reload their rifle, and White Sky began doing so. Black Bird reeled from the pain in his legs and groin–every time they shot it, he needed to anchor the cannon in place by straddling it. He pushed through his aching legs to stand tall and proud in the canoe, baring his chest and whooping a defiant war cry to shatter his enemies’ spirits and morale. It worked–the three Snakes that still lived immediately started rowing away, fleeing as fast as they could. White Sky finished reloading the rifle, handing it to Black Bird, but he did not even lift it to aim. They were well outside the rifle’s range now, and shooting would only waste valuable ammunition. Black Bird took a deep breath and closed his eyes. They had won.

Black Bird sat back down on the canoe, he and his partner taking a moment to process what just happened. They sat in ponderous silence, adrenaline still coursing like liquid lightning through their veins. Black Bird raised his chin to the sky to thank Manaboash for blessing them with victory, and with survival. But they could not linger here forever–there was always a chance the Snakes would return, and with greater numbers. They rowed backwards to the wreckage, tying their cargo back to their canoe and picking through whatever spoils the enemy left behind.

As he finished securing one of the packages, Black Bird caught White Sky glaring at him.

“What?” Black Bird asked.

“Don’t ‘what’ me,” White Sky said grumpily. “Just get it over with.”

“Get what over with?”

White Sky rolled his eyes.

“You were right,” he admitted. “I was wrong. A pack of four canoes for four wolves, properly surrounding us, and we routed them with a single swipe of our enormous bear’s claw.”

Black Bird grinned, as though the thought hadn’t even occurred to him.

“What an awfully apt metaphor,” he exclaimed. “Waabigiizhig, where do you get such an inventive imagination?”

White Sky mimed the act of puking over the side of the canoe, and Black Bird just laughed.

“I hate to admit this,” Black bird said. “But I’m afraid I was wrong in some regards after all.”

“Oh?”

“I said that such a fight would never occur, that both the wolves and the bear would be smart enough to never quarrel with one another, that they would know better. But the Longhouse people make war to replace the family taken from them, even when they know it was war that took them in the first place.”

“Perhaps. But they don’t choose their battles without strategy. They rightfully believed this fight would be an easy victory, and might not have attacked us if they knew our real power.”

“That’s also true. We can only hope that this was a lesson they’ll heed, and to leave us be next time.”

“Bah. The Snakes are too stubborn for that. We both know they never learn a lesson the first time.”

The two boys laughed as they finished re-attaching their cargo, and continued on their way down-river. Despite their laughter, however, worries clung in the backs of their mind like looming shadows. Twenty years ago, it would be unheard of for the Longhouse tribes to be raiding this far west. So much had changed, in their fathers’ lifetimes, in their grandfathers’. Slowly and steadily they encroached, conquering one small tribe after another, growing ever-stronger with each battle won. And though they were easily routed, that did not mean they were easily defeated. When they fought their mourning wars, often their victims were abstract, chosen randomly or through convenience. When their loved ones were taken by a particular enemy, however, the wars turned vengeful and precise. White Sky and Black Bird had won their victory today, but for every Snake they felled, the targets of bloody revenge on their backs grew larger.