The bleak sun was full in the smoke hole at the top of the wegiwa and flooding past the flap turned up from the entry. And it was cold. During the night, Penegashega had been too weak to rise to tend the fire, but when he’d been unable to stand the smell of his own vomit, he’d crawled to the tent flap and raised it to let air in.
Penegashega had been without real sleep for two days and nights, tending the sick of his village of Tawa. At ninety he was too old to work so hard, but this was not mere weariness. He had contracted another of the white man’s diseases. Its victims all threw up and couldn’t keep water down, but at least they didn’t shit their lives away as with cholera. So far none had died but they would.
The old woman stooped into the entry and immediately held her nose. She departed without a word and was back in two minutes with a basket and a shovel. She came to Penegashega’s side and without comment shoveled the pool of vomit in the dirt by his bedside into the basket, which she then carried outside the wegiwa. When she came back, she had a bundle of twigs and larger limbs in her arms. She rekindled the fire first, then picked up the water bucket and left again. This time returning with fresh water and a cloth. Only after she had wiped Penegashega’s face and neck clean and held the frail old man in a sitting position to get water into him did he speak.
“Woman, go get two strong warriors who have not been stricken and send them to me.”
In less than five minutes they appeared, first their bodies blocking the sunlight from the entry flap and then squatting down by his mat.
Penegashega did not raise his head but did turn so his face was toward the two. “Tawa needs the help of a healer. I may live but I can no longer do my work. You must go immediately to the Indian village on the Tippecanoe and bring Tensk. I’ve trained him; he must come to us.”
Penegashega closed his eyes and exhaled. His face no longer turned to them. No more need be said. As the shadow of the last to leave fell over him, Penegashega thought, If he’s not drunk, he will come. He’s not very good, but he is our best hope.
* * * *
Tensk was very worried. He and Tecumseh had arrived at Tawa the afternoon Penegashega died. Much of the remainder of the village had become sick with the same disease.
“Brother, I have no knowledge that will help here. I will look the fool and my reputation will be ruined if I try.”
They were the only two in the miskahmiqui that afternoon. Others who may have been traveling this way had heard and circled around Tawa rather than risk being there even one night. The two sat closely huddled against the cold around the small fire in the middle of the floor.
Tecumseh’s face became joyous. “Listen to me, Tensk. This is the opportunity for which we have waited.”
“How is there opportunity here?”
“Because you will save this village and become the most powerful healer of the Shawnee nation.”
Tensk understood his brother well enough to know he meant what he said. Tensk already believed but did not understand how it would become so. But his belief was strong so he asked and listened. His next question displayed his complete faith in his older brother.
“How will I do this?”
“You will spend this afternoon going to every cabin and wegiwa in Tawa. You will not ask, you will demand, that everyone in the village—even the sick, no, especially the sick—come listen to your announcement this evening.
“And what you will tell them tonight is this. You will say the illness is the work of three witches doing the bidding of Matchemenetoo, the devil. You will say that your power is stronger than hers and that you will turn her illness back on those three. That within five days her three minions will be dead and all others in the village will be recovered or well on their way to recovery. And the last thing you will say is that after five days, on the night of the full moon, all will come back together and know that what you have said would happen will have happened.”
After going to each dwelling with his summons, Tensk demanded that a large fire be laid in the center of the village. He had it lit after dinner, and in the cold of the night, all in the village came to the warmth.
None were happy to be there. A few had to be supported each step of the way, and one old woman had to be carried in a blanket to the assembly. When the last of them staggered to the fire, Tensk started.
“Brothers, I summon you to tell you that all this will pass.” His voice was loud and clear. Tensk knew that small, ugly, and one eyed as he was, the look of him did not inspire confidence. But his commanding voice did. “I will make it so!” Tensk boomed.
All were suddenly attentive and silent before him.
Tensk noticed that before he continued, and he worked to suppress a small smile of self-satisfaction. “That is, it will pass for all but three. They will die. They will die because I will make them die.”
There was a sharp and collective inhale of breath.
Tensk let it pass before he continued. “This new illness is the work of Matchemenetoo.” Again, Tensk paused to let that soak in. “Matchemenetoo has three of her witches here among you. I know them and I will turn the sickness on them.”
The villagers seemed too stunned to speak.
“All the rest of you I will save. This will take five days. In five days the three witches will be dead and all the rest of you will be recovered or be on your way to recovery.
“Five nights from tonight is the full moon. Come back here then and we will talk again. Now go home and be warm and recover.”
* * * *
The moon was full overhead and beamed down so brightly as to compete with the huge fire before which Tensk stood.
“Brothers, has everything I predicted come true?”
The crowd shouted agreement.
“Have all but the three witches recovered?”
Again, they shouted agreement.
“Have I saved all but the WITCHES?”
This time the voices rose to a high crescendo and rang for long moments.
“There is one more thing I require of you. One month from now, when the moon is again full, I will make a very powerful announcement. It will be made at the Indian village on the Tippecanoe. I want you there. And I want you to send the message to all the Shawnee of what I have done here, of the power I displayed in saving you. And I want you to tell all the important men among the Shawnee to be at Tippecanoe the night of the next full moon.”
* * * *
More than one thousand Shawnee stood in the middle of the village at Tippecanoe. A few curious Wyandot, Delaware, Potawatomi, and Kickapoo also arrived to hear the news. Two white traders, who had been in the village with a canoe full of salt that day, also stayed, but the number and excitement of the Indians caused them to linger toward the back of the crowd and appear somewhat fearful.
Tecumseh, Wasegoboah, and Tecumapese stood at one end of a wagon pulled before a fire made of logs that had been stacked as tall as a man. Tensk stood on the tailgate of the wagon, facing the crowd, his normally sloppy mien replaced with an erect posture and commanding countenance. He was scrubbed clean, his hair pulled back and wrapped with the bright headband typical of the Shawnee and with one crow feather set in front and sloping back over his forehead. Even the black eye patch had been brushed clean. The solid red blanket in which he had wrapped himself added to the command his composure suggested. To get here Tensk had been forced to have Tecumseh’s constant watch for the entire day. Despite his efforts he’d not been able to swallow any whiskey all day long.
Over the crowd Tensk heard his sister ask Tecumseh, “Is that really our brother?” He looked over in time to see Tecumseh smile knowingly.
Tensk decided he had as much attention as his mere presence could draw. “Brothers,” he called out in a clear, unstrained voice that could be heard over the heads of all. A voice filled with authority. “You are here because I invited you. I invited you because what I have to say is important to the entire Shawnee nation.”
The one thousand were entirely hushed now, and the only sound his voice had to rise over was the crackle of the large logs.
“You all know of what I have done at Tawa. You know of Matchemenetoo’s witches in that village and how they brought a new sickness that killed our revered Penegashega, our prophet. Not only did I overcome the sickness, I turned it on the witches and used their own weapon to kill them. But it was too late to save Penegashega when I arrived. He is now gone. Our old prophet has left us.
“I am Tensk. I am now your prophet. The Shawnee Prophet.”
He stopped momentarily and panned the entire crowd. “Only I am able to do this. You know I come from a family with a long tradition of sight. You know I was trained by Penegashega. You know that I have more power than any other healer. Only I, Tensk, am qualified to be your prophet.”
The crowd roared approval with sustained shouts. He gave his audience all the time they wanted to cheer. Only when the volume declined did he hold up his hands, calling for silence. And only when he received it did he continue.
“But to be the prophet of a nation requires more than a healer saying he is such. It requires the affirmation of the nation. Penegashega is dead, our leaders are here, my skill has been shown and is known. There is no reason to wait. A prophet is needed now. So, I will ask each leader if he will declare to me that I, Tensk, am now the Shawnee Prophet. If any leader says it is not so, let him speak now.”
And with that he looked around his audience, selected the village chief from Tawa, held his arm extended full length, his index finger pointing directly at the man’s chest, and waited for agreement. He got it with a smile and an approving nod. He then turned slowly until his extended finger was pointed to another village chief. This man said nothing for a moment and then merely nodded affirmation. One at a time, under his firm stare and pointed finger, each leader of the Shawnee agreed.
He turned momentarily toward his family and watched as Wasegoboah stared in open and abject admiration not at him but at Tecumseh. He watched the three for a moment, seeing Tecumapese’s lips and reading the words they formed as she looked directly up into Tecumseh’s eyes. “You staged every bit of this, didn’t you? Your opposition wouldn’t dare oppose the will of the crowd.” Her eyes twinkled admiration. She extended onto her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek.
Anger rose inside him that his family, as usual, gave all their admiration to his older brother. He whirled back around to the one thousand gathered before him and focused his rage there. He roared, “Then it is agreed among the leaders and the people of the Shawnee. I, Tensk, am the Shawnee Prophet.”
The crowd roared approval. This time Tensk did not call for silence but waited for the shouts of approval to die away before he spoke again.
“There are things I now want you to know. You already know the rules for this village. All Indians are welcome here. But they must follow our three rules—no drinking, no marriage or cohabitation between Indians and whites, and no alliances between Indians and whites.”
He had seen the two traders at the back from the beginning. He used them now. Again, pointing his finger, but this time over the top of the crowd, calling attention to the white men. Upon realizing one thousand pairs of eyes were turning to them, the two men froze.
“You may trade with those men or other whites. But that is all. There will be no mixing with them in any way other than trade. Those have been the rules at this village since it started.
“But now, I, Tensk, your prophet, add one more. There will be no selling of land to any whites. The Treaty of Greenville said no whites could buy Indian land except the US government. Harrison, the governor of the area from here to the Mississippi, has been using that authority to buy land. But he does not bother to buy it from the tribe to whom it truly belongs. Harrison buys from any chief who says the land is his to sell. He bought a piece of Miami and Shawnee land from the Potawatomi chief Winnemac.”
Tensk was silent for a moment.
“Did you hear me, Brothers? He bought Miami and Shawnee land from a Potawatomi.”
The crowd screeched disapproval.
“But that is not all. There is a leader of the handful of surviving Illinois named Paskepaho. None of us have ever heard of him. He lives with a dozen others. That is all that is left. Harrison bought from Paskepaho all of the land from the Illinois River to the Mississippi. It is Potawatomi land. Do you understand? He bought Miami and Shawnee land from a Potawatomi and bought Potawatomi land from an Illini.”
Again, the crowd screeched and hissed disapproval.
“These are not the acts of Indians. These are the acts of men doing the will of Matchemenetoo. They are witches. I declare them such. They are to be killed. Winnemac, the Potawatomi, and Paskepaho, the Illini, are to be executed by any who find them.”
One thousand Indians screamed in a voice that was both rage and approval.
He watched the two whites slip quietly out the back of the crowd and to the Tippecanoe River, where they untied their canoe and paddled in the moonlight down to the Wabash and continued south.
* * * *
The moon was setting and sliding slowly into the Tippecanoe as the first rosy fingers of the dawn appeared across the Wabash. Tensk sat cross-legged with the almost empty jug between his knees, looking from one to the other. His entire night had been spent receiving awed congratulations from what seemed like every one of the one thousand villagers and guests. His family had added their praise as well, Tecumseh congratulating him on his “performance.” His brother had stayed close to him at first. Making certain, no doubt, that some of that praise would bounce off me and reflect on him. Trying to show, prophet or not, I’m still his “little brother,” perhaps even his tool. Or is it fool?
It had taken hours before Tensk could get away from him, but in the darkest hours of the night he’d managed to get away, dig a jug from under the bottom log of the cabin’s rear wall, and work his way to this quiet place where he could enjoy the whiskey and clear his thoughts. The men in our family have ever been powerful. For as many generations as any can remember. My father was war chief, my brother is war chief, my other brother started this village to attract to himself all who are willing to fight for our ways. And I am no different than any of them. I am a man of my own powers. I am not just my brother’s useful tool. And someday they will all see it is so.