Miracle in the Wilderness (3 page)

The story continued: “And the ox bowed down to worship and gave the Infant of his soft straw for His bed. And the ass bowed down to worship and gave the Infant of her warm milk to drink. And the sheep too bowed down to worship and crowded close with their soft wool to keep the Infant warm.”

Thrice Nyagway bowed as he narrated and his audience swayed in movement with his body.

“. . . and ever since that time the beasts of burden and the creatures of the field and forest kneel down in secret at midnight of Christmas Eve. This night, as they did so long ago, they worship the Christ Child and are given the power of human speech to pray to Him.”

Quanta’s breath was exhaled in a long, hissing sigh. “Ah. The deer!” Then he asked of Nyagway, “Were they then heard to speak? What were their words?”

When the question was put to him Jasper had to listen for a moment within himself for he was not quite certain whether he had heard it or thought it. And then it seemed to him that he heard quite clearly. “They prayed to the Lord God and the Infant Jesus, ‘Oh Almighty Father and gentle Jesus, watch over us and protect us from the wolves, from the tree cats, from hunger and thirst and the hunter. Let Thy grace descend upon us so that we may live together in peace and love one another.’ ”

Quanta nodded. He was himself a family man and the words and imagery pleased him. He asked, “And what became of this child?”

Jasper Adams felt his strength beginning to fail him. Nevertheless he undertook to reply, “His name was Jesus and He grew up to become a great preacher. He preached that God, His Father, was our Father and the Father of all. Those who did not believe in Him or His message caused Him to be tortured and nailed to a cross until He gave up the ghost. He died so that men all over the world would remember the love that He preached. And after the third day He rose from His tomb and joined His Father in Heaven and men believed and worshiped Him.”

Jasper spoke no more. He was close to the end of his resources and would have fallen but for clutching the shoulder of Nyagway who having interpreted the last sentences added, “The tale is at an end. The white man is very ill.” The Indians had fallen quite silent and Quanta’s head was momentarily sunk upon his chest in some kind of faraway contemplation.

There occurred then a diversion that sent the party springing to its arms as two snow-shoe-equipped Algonkin scouts hurried in from a side trail and conferred with Quanta. The gist of their report was that a large force of Iroquois with some English was no more than a few hours behind.

Quanta’s lieutenant gestured towards the captives. “Shall I kill them?”

Quanta debated. A word, a nod, a flashing of axe blades in the moonlight and he would be relieved of this hazard to the security of his command. He would have concluded the raid to the best of his ability. Yet he hesitated.

Quanta was himself a deeply religious man and where a Christian would have crossed himself, now his fingers sought and touched the little medicine bundle that hung about his neck, a collection of small objects, a queerly shaped stone, some feathers, the leg bone of a small animal and some dried plants, objects endowed with magical properties, talismans wrapped in an otter-skin always carried on his person. He feared and worshiped many mysterious and unseen beings of the forest as well as the manifestations of nature, the skies overhead, lightning, thunder, fire and water and he recognized the mysterious cosmic powers abounding everywhere in his world.

And as he clutched his medicine bag for protection and thought, it came to him that while the beliefs of himself and the people from over the seas were so different one should not be disrespectful towards strange Gods and the magic of others and that if this were the night of the Great Manitou of the white man to whom even the wild deer bowed down in prayer, it might not be propitious to harm them.

In the specific religion of the Algonkin tribes of the north country their chief deity was a mighty Great Hare who lived behind the sky. How this little animal slipping furtively through the forest paths, shy and elusive, had grown to be their all-encompassing, omnipotent deity, Quanta did not know. Surely it went back to some ancient tale, the beginnings of which had been forgotten even by the wisest and most long-lived of the elders. But as he looked up into the same bright winter canopy behind which his captive had seen his Manitou and Father he visualized spreading from horizon to horizon the softness of the belly of the symbolic animal to which he would be gathered when death finally came to him and in the warmth of whose bosom he would rest in eternal bliss.

For a moment the thought flashed through his mind, the Great Hare and the Father and the Son by the woman who was denied the hospitality of the lodge, were they perhaps one and the same? But then it seemed to him it could not be so, that the tale was too strange and that besides the Great Hare there were other Gods and they must not be offended. For his logic was not like the logic of the white man. His captives were not only his prisoners but at the same time his guests and their beliefs were to be respected. Respect for the Gods of strangers! Like all early and primitive people this was one of the strongest traits with which they were imbued for one never knew too much about the powers of these foreign spirits. That night he had witnessed something which could not be explained by any Indian lore he had ever heard. If he were to anger the Great Father of whom the man had spoken He might severely punish him. On the other hand were He to be appeased on this so special night and the night of His Son He might even sometime extend His own protection to Quanta.

And so Quanta-wa-neh reached his decision. To slay the captives after what had taken place would be neither meet nor polite in terms of the Indian concept of hospitality to strangers who had pleased them with a mysterious story nor politic to all Gods. Yes, even the Great Hare might be offended. “Release them,” he ordered. “We will let them go.”

To his command he gave a practical explanation. He said, “You have heard. The pursuers are too many for us and their approach rapid. If they find the captives dead they will continue on to take their revenge upon us. But if they come upon them still alive and in need of aid they will stop in the manner of the white man to look after them and will not follow after us. Obey.”

And so, Quanta-wa-neh, the savage Algonkin chieftain, gave Jasper and Dorcas and the babe, Asher, their liberty as a Christmas present, but it was Nyagway, the fat, wheezy old Seneca renegade, who out of gratitude made them the gift of life.

Obeying Quanta’s instructions the raiding party quickly freed the captives of their bonds, propped them up against the trunk of one of the aged oaks, looked to their weapons, disposed themselves for swift passage and then, like ghosts, vanished northwards once more into the darkness.

But Nyagway waited behind for a moment even though it would cost him much breathlessness and effort to catch up for he knew that he had acquired great merit that night amongst the Algonkin and that the tale that he had told would travel to campfires the length and breadth of the country. No longer would he be known as “The-Foolish-One-Who-Waddles-Like-A-Bear,” but instead as “Teller-Of-The-Great-Tale-At-Midnight.” And he would be importuned to repeat it in lodge or wigwam. He fumbled at his pouch for a moment, then going to Jasper pressed flint and steel into his hand. Then, without a word, he turned and scuttled off.

Once more Jasper Adams found some last reserve of strength for fire meant warmth and warmth in the winter wilderness was life. He dug into the snow to collect twigs and branches, then crawled painfully to gather spruce boughs for a bed for the child. The sparks from the steel caught his tinder and when the blaze was roaring and the baby warmly bedded he at last allowed himself to rest braced against a tree with his wife held in his arms. Then there came upon him the overwhelming fear that Dorcas might not live through the night for she seemed far gone. Her lips moved and when he bent his head he heard her whisper the prayer of the deer, “Oh Almighty Father and gentle Jesus, let Thy grace descend upon us so that we may live together in peace and love one another.”

It was Christmas morning though the dawn had yet to break through the darkness. Jasper looked up into the sky through a giant fir, its branches illuminated as by the candles of the stars that studded the bow of the sky and seemed to lean down and rest upon the needled limbs. And at the very peak of the tree one such star seemed to be affixed there, gleaming blue-white as bright perhaps as that strange one that had appeared over Bethlehem so long ago.

Then for the first and last time in his life Jasper Adams beseeched of his God something for himself.

“Lord God,” he prayed, “forgive me for asking yet more of Thee who hast been so merciful to us on this day but what availeth the life Thou hast restoreth to me if Thou takest from me this woman who is my heart and my soul. Spare her, Lord . . .”

It was not long after this that there came the sound of horses, a jingling of weapons and accouterments and a crashing of many men bursting through the forest aisles and it was thus that the rescue party of Iroquois and British soldiery found them, the man and the woman still alive, the child Asher, on his bed of boughs, awake and laughing at the dancing tongues of fire, orange and red against the snow.

This is how I remember the story as it was told to me by my great-grandmother on the eve of another Christmas by the candlelit tree and the fireside when I was young . . .

P
AUL
G
ALLICO
has written 26 novels, including four
Mrs. ’Arris
books,
The Snow Goose, Thomasina,
and
The Poseidon Adventure,
and four books for children. He lives in London and on the Riviera.