“He was an Englishman?”
“No.” I squatted above the snow and with a twig I drew a rough map of Europe, Asia, and Africa, “England is here, and Sakim came from over here.” I indicated a place in Central Asia not far from Samarkand, yet the map was unbelievably crude. “Long ago many scholars came from there. Now they seem to come from further west.”
“Why?”
I shrugged. “I know only that civilizations seem to be like people. They are born, they grow to maturity, then they age and lose their vitality and they die, only to be born again in later years.”
“And where are we?”
I moved back, indicated the breadth of the Atlantic, and then North America and a place on it. “We are about here. The Natchee lived about there.” I indicated a place on a river above a gulf.
For a long time she studied it. Then the wind began to grow chill, and I shifted my feet, wiggling my toes against the cold in my moccasins.
“It is so, this?”
Keokotah had looked at it and then looked away. I do not believe he was interested. It all seemed remote to him, remote from the lands he knew, remote from these mountains.
“I do not believe this,” she smudged the map suddenly with her toe. “I have heard nothing of this. Even the Ni’kwana has not spoken of it.”
“You asked.”
We walked back to the cave together, neither of us speaking. At the path between our two caves she stopped. “You are from this place, England?”
“My father was.”
“The Warriors of Fire? They come from there?”
“From nearby. They are enemies of England, most of the time. They have many ships, many soldiers. They have conquered lands to the south. They killed many, made slaves of others. They destroyed their gods.”
“They cannot destroy the Sun.”
“No.” I smiled. “They would not wish to. They need its warmth as we do.”
She lingered. “The tracks in the snow? Could you do them for me again?”
“I shall try. Maybe on a bark, or better still a deer hide.”
“I do not believe it but I should like to see what you believe. If such strange tribes had been, the Ni’kwana would have spoken of them.”
“Before my father came to America he had never heard of the Natchee. The Englishmen who live near Plymouth have never heard of the Natchee. Even the Indians who live nearby do not know of the Natchee, yet the Natchee are important people. No man knows all the peoples. No man knows all the lands. So far as we know I am the first of my people to come this far, and perhaps none of my people will ever know that I came here, or that I met you.”
She was silent and then her eyes lifted to mine. “Is it important that you have met me?”
“It is to me,” I surprised myself by saying, “perhaps not to them.”
She turned her eyes away, and then she said, “I am a Sun.”
“And I am not.”
She shook her head. “No, I think you must be a Sun, too. Although from another tribe, another place.”
“I could be a Stinkard,” I said, smiling. “I do not place much faith in names or titles.”
“Do you have Suns in your country?”
“They are called royalty. We have another class as you have, called the nobility, and we also have our Respected Men.”
“And you?”
“In our country we have another class, I believe. They are called ‘yeomen,’ and my father was one of them. It is said that there were some respected men among my ancestors, too, but my father paid little attention to that. He judged each man by himself and not by his ancestors.”
We each returned to our caves, and on that day we restricted our moving about, fearful the men we had seen might come again, and we wanted to leave no more tracks in the snow. Yet already I was making plans. When another heavy snow came we would move into the higher valley, further back in the hills. We would need heavy snow to cover our tracks. Until then we would enjoy our caves.
There were many deerhides among us, some simply cured, some well tanned. One of the finest I secured from a Natchee. I would have traded, but when he discovered I wished to make a present for Itchakomi he presented me with it.
To draw a map from memory is not easy, yet Sakim had taught me well and I did the best I could, using all the space on the deerhide. Itchakomi was a girl of unusual intelligence, as I had recognized from the first, but when one is teaching one always assumes a certain degree of preknowledge or awareness, and her world was one that embraced only areas with some two or three hundred miles around, and only rumors of much of that.
She had seen the Gulf of Mexico, but knew it only as a vast body of water. Some of her people had once been to Cuba and even to Jamaica. Long ago there had been trade with Yucatan, but that was a misty tradition from a time before the Spanishmen came, which was more than one hundred years before. Ni’kwana had been one of those who had made the last voyage to Yucatan. They had found the Spanish there and had fled.
My father’s last crossing of the Atlantic had taken him, if I remembered correctly, sixty-two days. It was difficult for her to imagine such a great body of water. I tried to explain about the many countries, the large cities, the riverboats.
We had food and fuel so there was no need to stir outside the caves. Nor did we wish to attract attention. Always, there was someone on guard. Often I was the one, sometimes Keokotah or one of the Natchee. We saw no movement. A little snow fell, but only a very little. Within the cave, by firelight, I began the drawing of the map.
Long ago, when only a small boy, Sakim had each of us draw this map, and he tried to explain to us the world as he knew it, and the world we should know. Sakim was a Moslem, and Mecca was the center of the Moslem world. To it other Moslems came on pilgrimages from every part of the world bringing with them their knowledge of peoples far away and lands strange to any but themselves.
Only within the past century had Europe become aware of the many lands and beliefs that lay in the farthest corners of the world. It was required of a good Moslem that at least once during his lifetime he make a pilgrimage to Mecca, and they came by the thousands.
Pausing to replenish the dying fire I looked about to discover that everyone slept. Several of the Natchee had begun coming to our cave to sleep, to leave more freedom to Itchakomi and her women.
The night was still, with only an occasional crackle from the fire or a hissing whisper as the flames found dampness.
Why was I doing this? Why was I drawing a map of the world she would never see for an Indian girl who probably had no wish to know of it? Even when the map was finished how could I make her comprehend the vastness of that world out there? Moreover, was it fair to her? She had been the center of her world, but now she would find it pitifully small. Did she want that? Did I want it?
For a moment I thought to cast my map into the flames, but the task itself now engrossed me. I had a desire of my own to complete it. Supposing someday I became the father of a child? Would I not want him or her to know the world in which we lived?
Irritably, I shook my head. Such an idea was foolish. I had no plans for a family, nor plans for a wife. When spring came I was going deeper into the mountains. There was a lot of country out there I wished to see.
Yet I returned to the map, slowly tracing in the Black Sea and the Caspian. Sakim himself had come from a land near the Caspian Sea and had wandered on to Tashkent and Samarkand before going to Bagdad and Aleppo. Finally, I rolled up the map and lay down to sleep.
For a long time I lay awake, my mind alive with ideas. How to make Itchakomi understand my world? How to make her realize her own would never be the same again? If she found a place in the mountains, it would be only a temporary refuge, and one could not hide from change. One must adapt or die.
Already among my own people I had seen it. I had seen them shed the old customs and adapt to the new. I had seen them find ways of doing things never tried before.