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him, for that is the way of his religion. All during this long march, Nathan Blake must be imagining himself killing his enemy, fleeing through the woods—to his family, to his own kind, to his ruined home, or perhaps not; perhaps it is that far place west of here in his secret heart where his hope resides.
    That night in the mountains it is cold, and Caucus-Meteor is so tired and weak that he doubts whether he can go on. After the captive has gathered firewood and boughs for bedding, Caucus-Meteor stakes him down, sits by the fire, and stares into it.
    Next day the pace slows somewhat because the troop is beginning to feel safe from pursuit. Even so, Caucus-Meteor has to push himself hard to keep up. As the pain of his burn wound subsides, the limits of his stamina close in, for pain gives a man energy. He hopes the weather holds. These mountains, like mountains anywhere, play tricks. He entreats the god in the mountains for a continuation of kindly weather. Caucus-Meteor distrusts all gods, but who else but gods can one pray to?
    The old American notes that his captive’s wrists bleed, but he still cannot pull his hands free. Another day or two, and he’ll be so far away from English territory that even if he can escape he’ll have no place to go. He must be excited in his desperation. “I envy you, Nathan Blake,” Caucus-Meteor says, but he speaks in Algonkian, so that the captive understands only the sound of his name.
    The following dawn the troop leaves the stream behind, goes through a notch, and then begins a downward trek, picking up another path along another stream. Caucus-Meteor thanks the mountain god for deliverance.
    Soon they arrive at the big lake the French call Champlain, a blue ribbon in the mountains, appreciated for its beauty by white and red people alike: it’s a thought that cheers Caucus-Meteor. The troop retrieves their birch-bark canoes. The crafts were filled with stones and sunk in the lake for concealment. The men are in a good mood. They believe themselves safe from English muskets. From here to Quebec there will be no more long marches; they’ll move swiftly in their crafts with only a few short portages.
    â€œDo you know where you are?” Caucus-Meteor asks Nathan.
    â€œI’ve heard tell of this lake,” says Nathan. “They say a monster lives in its depths.”
    â€œThe monster does not live in the depths, but across the waters in the long houses of the pagan Iroquois. Perhaps some day, Nathan Blake, you will visit the English and Dutch town of Albany, or perhaps the native town of…” and he speaks the local name in his native tongue. “You will have to learn our language. Speak now the name as I have uttered it.”
    â€œSynecdoche,” Nathan says.
    â€œGood start,” says Caucus-Meteor.
    Caucus-Meteor checks the wind. It’s blowing from the southwest, and that means easy going. He realizes now that he has enough strength to make it back to Conissadawaga, an observation that sends a charge of despondency through him, for once he has returned to his village he will no longer allow himself the luxury of contemplating suicide; he will feel the weight of the responsibilities of his throne, the gnawing hound of want chewing the bone of his ambition.
    For the old American canoeing is not as exhausting as walking; canoeing is just stiff joints, aching back, cramps in thighs, pain in the elbow, bee buzzing in the buttocks, and sloshing bladder. For Nathan, it’s the first time since he’s been captured that his hands and legs are untied for long periods of time. The raiders chant, an activity that helps with the rhythm of the paddling. Nathan is quiet; it’s a while before Caucus-Meteor realizes that his captive is passing the time in silent prayer.
    In the same canoe with Caucus-Meteor and Nathan are two brothers from the town of Odanak on the St. Lawrence River, and this is their canoe. They keep to