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ed knives gently across their own thighs； drawing faint lines of blood； teaching their knives to be thirsty； teaching their own bodies to seek out pain and love it。
〃When the snow is gone from the banks of the Hio；〃 said Ta…Kumsaw。
〃We will be there；〃 said the young men； and the old men nodded their consent。 The same in every village； every tribe。 Oh； sometimes a few spoke of the Prophet and urged peace； they were scorned as 〃old women〃； though as far as Alvin could see； the old women seemed most savage of all in their hate。
Yet Alvin never plained that Ta…Kumsaw was using him to heat up anger against his own race。 After all； the story Alvin had to tell was true； wasn't it？ He couldn't deny to tell it； not to anybody； not for any reason； no more than his family could deny to speak under the Prophet's curse。 Not that blood would appear on Alvin's hands if he refused to tell。 He just felt like the same burden was on him like it was on all the Whites who beheld the massacre at Tippy…Canoe。 The story of Tippy…Canoe was true； and if every Red who heard that tale became filled with hate and wanted vengeance； wanted to kill every White man who didn't sail back to Europe； why； would that be a reason for Alvin to try to keep them from knowing？ Or wasn't that their natural right； to know the truth so as to be able to let the truth lead them to do good or evil； as they chose？
Not that Alvin could talk about natural rights and such out loud。 There wasn't much chance for conversation。 Sure enough； he was always with Ta…Kumsaw； never more than an arm's length off。 But Ta…Kumsaw almost never spoke to Alvin； and when he did it was things like 〃Catch a fish〃 or 〃e with me now。〃 Ta…Kumsaw made it plain that he had no friendship for Alvin now； and in fact he didn't much want a White along with him。 Ta…Kumsaw walked fast； in his Red man's way； and never looked back to see if Alvin was with him or not。 The only time he ever seemed to care that Alvin was there was when he turned to him and said； 〃Tell what happened at Tippy…Canoe。〃
One time； after they left a village so het up against Whites they were looking with interest at Alvin's own scalp； Alvin got to feeling defiant and he said； 〃Why don't you have me tell them about how you and I and Taleswapper all got into Eight…Face Mound？〃 Ta…Kumsaw's only answer was to walk so fast that Alvin had to run all day just keeping up。
Traveling with Ta…Kumsaw was like traveling alone； when it came to pany。 Alvin couldn't remember ever being so lonely in his life。 So why don't I leave； he asked himself。 Why do I keep going with him？ It ain't like it's fun； and I'm helping him start a war against my own folks； and it's getting colder all the time； like as if the sun gave up shining and the world was supposed to be grey bare trees and blinding snow from one end to the other； and he don't even want me here。
Why did Alvin go on？ It was partly Tenskwa…Tawa's prophecy that Ta…Kumsaw never would die if Alvin stuck close by。 Alvin might not like Ta…Kumsaw's pany； but Alvin knew he was a great and good man； and if Alvin could somehow help keep him alive； then it was his duty to give it a try as best he could。
But it was also more than that； more than the duty he felt to the Prophet； to care for his brother； more than the need he felt to act out the terrible punishment of his family by telling the tale of Tippy…Canoe all over the Red man's country。 Alvin couldn't exactly find it in words to tell himself inside his head as he ran along through the woods； lost in a halfway dream； the green of the forest guiding his footsteps and filling his head with the music of the earth。 No； that wasn't a word time。 But it was a time of understanding without words； of having a sense of rightness about what he was doing； a feeling that Alvin was like the oil on the axle of a wagon wheel that was carrying great events forward。 I might just get myself all used up； I might get burned away by the heat of the wheel rubbing on the axle； but the world is changing； and somehow I'm part of what's helping it go forward。 Ta…Kumsaw's building something； bringing together Red men to make something out of them。
It was the first time Alvin understood that something could be built out of people； that when Ta…Kumsaw talked them Reds into feeling with one heart and acting with one mind； they became something bigger than just a few people； and building something like that； it was against the Unmaker； wasn't it？ Just like Alvin always used to make little baskets by weaving grass。 The grass was nothing but grass by itself； but all wove together it was something more than grass。
Ta…Kumsaw's making something new where there wasn't nothing； but the new thing won't e to be without me。
That filled him with fear of helping make something he didn't understand； but it also filled him with eagerness to see the future。 So he pressed on； pushed forward； wore himself down； talked to Reds who started out suspicious and ended up filled with hate； and stared most of every day at the back of Ta…Kumsaw； running ahead of him ever deeper into the forest。 The green of the wood turned gold and red； then black with the rains of autumn on； the bare trees； and finally grey and white and still。 And all his worry； all his discouragement； all his confusion； all his grief for the terrible things he saw ing and the terrible things he'd seen in the past all turned into a weary distaste for winter； an impatience for the season to change； for the snow to melt and spring to e； and then summer。
Summer； when he could look back and think of all this as the past。 Summer； when he'd know pretty much how it all turned out； for good or ill； and not have this sickening snow…white dread in the back of his mind； masking all his other feelings the way snow masked the earth beneath it。
Until one day Alvin noticed that the air was somewhat warm； and the snow had slacked off the grass and dirt and was purely gone from the tree limbs； and there was a flash of red where a certain bird was getting itself ready to find him a wife and nestle in for egg season。 And on that very day； Ta…Kumsaw turned eastward； up over a ridge of hills； and stood perched atop a rock looking down on a valley of White men's farms in the northern part of the White man's state of Appalachee。
It was a sight Alvin had never seen before in his life。 Not like the French city of Detroit； people all packed in together； nor like the sparse settlements of the Wobbish country； with each farm carved out like a gouge in the greenwood forest。 Here the trees were all disciplined； lined up in rows to mark off one farmer's field from another。 Only on the hills skirting the valley were the trees somewhat wild again。 And as the ground softened today； there were farmers out cutting the earth open with their plows； just as gentle and shallow on the face of the earth as those Red warriors' flint knives against their thighs； teaching the blade to thirst； teaching the earth to bear； so that like the blood that seeped upward under the Red men's knives； the wheat or maize or rye or oats would seep upward； make a thin film of life across the skin of the earth； an open wound all summer until