For it is far to the west where most of the proud Mohicans now dwell. In the middle of the Eighteenth Century, with their lands—indeed their entire world—slipping away, many had moved to a mission community in Stockbridge, Massachusetts. There they mingled with other Algonquins and became known as the Stockbridge Indians. Later they dwelt for a time among the Iroquois Indians in central New York until finally, along with the remnants of another tribe, the Munsee-Delaware, they travelled to their final destination in the state of Wisconsin. They remain there to this day where they are known officially as the Stockbridge-Munsee Tribe of Mohican Indians.
The two climbers remained facing west for many minutes, their heads bowed and their Spirit Stones held high, as though any of their Mohican brothers and sisters, far to the west, who might be gazing back toward their ancestral lands, could catch a glimpse of the shining stones that now reflected the rays of the setting sun like fiery diamonds.
The hawk continued to circle as they started back down the mountain. It might be that the fabled Wakon-bird of old was gone to wherever old legends die, but here surely the two friends had felt a small piece of the same magic to carry with them always.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE INTERVIEW
James Richard Nelson felt very good today. And because he felt so very good, and had some time to spare, he did not take the shortest route to his destination. Instead he strolled around to the row of fountains that ran between the Science and Humanities buildings. From here he could see the window of his own office on the third floor of the Humanities building where the new ivy of Spring crept along the outer walls in a tangled mass. Not that long ago he used to look out his office window at the young lovers who frequented the high-backed benches that surrounded the fountains. That was back before his wife had left him, and he would feel a tingle of envy toward those entwined students, some perhaps in the heady throes of first love. And as he watched, Nelson would try to remember that long ago feeling. Not that he hadn’t loved Marge of course but...well now it was a new ball game. He had his own lover now, and Marge gone but six months. Nelson shook his head slightly to banish this line of thought. Those were problems and complications for another day. Today was his day, a day he had been anticipating for a long time. The other stuff would sort itself out; he would not let it spoil this fine day.
He walked on past the cafeteria where the stale smells of another poor-to-mediocre lunch found their way into the fresh Spring air outside. The smells made Nelson wonder again why George had not suggested they meet somewhere over dinner or at least for drinks. After all, they were old high school friends, separated during their college years, and then improbably reunited when they were both appointed to positions here at Millbank College in southern Vermont. Two years ago, George had somehow wangled his way into Administration. This was fortunate for George because he could not teach worth beans and each year ranked at the bottom of the brutal underground student publication—with offensive purple turkeys on the cover no less—that ranked the professors’ perceived abilities or lack thereof.
Now George no longer had to worry about gaining tenure but only need concern himself with treading lightly through the maze of egos, politics, and inept procedural nonsense that always creep into even the smallest of bureaucracies. But since George was well aware of his own limitations and had no strong feelings about anything in particular beyond surviving his own unexpected good luck, he offended no one. He felt safe, well-placed and delighted.
When George had gotten his promotion, Nelson remembered, the two men had celebrated together all that day and half the night. Why weren’t they doing something like that for this occasion? After all, George had gotten what he wanted; surely he knew this was his friend’s turn. Well maybe there was a bottle of champagne waiting in George’s desk or they would go out somewhere this evening. And as he was still new in Administration, at least compared to most of the other cranky, sleepy stalwarts who would apparently never retire or die, George had told Nelson he needed to be careful that Nelson’s situation be handled strictly by the book with no whiff of favoritism. Everyone knew they were friends. Their wives had taken to each other as well, and so the two couples had made it a habit to get together each Monday evening to play cards, although the men were always careful to sit at the table in such a way that they were able to keep an eye on the football game.
Of course all that was before Marge had left Nelson. There is nothing quite like marital woes to suddenly make things awkward among married friends. The Monday night card games were over of course, and Nelson found himself hovering awkwardly at the faculty cocktail parties as people came up to him and asked with whispery concerned voices, “How are you?” He always gave them the answer they wanted, the highly creative “I’m fine, thank you, how are you?” A few would assure him that they were always around if he needed to talk and, “We must do lunch sometime and how about all this rain we’re having?” No one ever brought up his new girlfriend of course.
Nelson didn’t mind; he’d be free of all this soon enough. Ten years of solid work were behind him now and he looked forward to his year-long sabbatical and writing his novel in the mountains far away from here. All he had to do was struggle through the rest of the Spring Term and he was delivered. Hallelujah.
The elevator door hissed open on the fourth floor of the Administration building and Nelson stopped into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. He combed his hair and started to button his brown corduroy jacket but then decided to keep it open. Taking a final look, he reached up and tousled his hair, trying to make it look fuller. Of course he sometimes, briefly, in moments of weakness, entertained the suspicion his hair was thinning. But he was still clinging to the various fantasies that kept him in denial most of the time. If he could just get rid of those split ends, for instance, everything would be back to where it was. Or else it was just a matter of finding the right conditioner because the damn water was so hard around here. Or maybe he needed to take more vitamins...and anyway it was probably just the normal shedding and regrowth pattern.
George Schott stood up from behind his mammoth desk and held out his hand when Nelson entered. This gesture struck Nelson as oddly formal considering their long association. Nevertheless, he cheerfully shook hands and then seated himself across the desk from his old friend. George hitched his pants up and sat down heavily. Since he had cut down on his drinking, George had taken to eating copious amounts of candy corn for compensation. The result had been considerable weight gain. But at least his complexion was now much less of a tell-tale rosy shade except where his tight collar rubbed irritatingly against his second chin.
“Well now, Jimmy, how the hell are you? It occurs to me we don’t see each other enough these days and when we do it’s all about business.”
Nelson smiled. Nobody but George called him Jimmy, not even when he was a kid. There had been three other James-Jims-Jimmys-Jimbos in his high school class and so gradually Nelson had become his moniker to almost everyone except his mother who called him James Richard, either when she was cross with him or particularly proud of him. This was definitely okay with Nelson who liked his last name better anyway. Sometimes when the two men were drinking and getting tight together, George would drawl his first name out in a vaguely Irish-sounding brogue, Ji-ih-me-ee, and then perhaps forget what the hell he had been about to say. And they would laugh together like morons and say, “fuck it” and clink their glasses of Scotch together as though something meaningful had just happened. Well, they’d had some fun—or at least what passed for fun in those days—but it was just as well over with now. Nelson had known all along with a gnawing unease that he had lingered in that time-wasting, alcohol-fueled rut mostly so he did not have to confront the fact that he was not writing, and not confronting his deteriorating marriage either. Well, no matter; he’d have plenty of time and inspiration to write again now and he was stoked about it.
“I’m great, George. Been looking forward to today.”
George reached into his glass bowl filled with candy
