“The news of Pontiac’s death spread like wildfire and a large number of tribes rallied around the Ottawa, intent on wiping out the Illinois. During the ensuing battles, most of the Illinois were killed. All that remained of the tribe was a small number of warriors, women and children, who took refuge at the peak of the rock. They were safe there, for the rock’s smooth walls dropped vertically into the river and it could be climbed on only one side, and by just one enemy at a time.

“Instead of storming the rock, the Ottawa and their allies laid siege to it. They positioned themselves around the huge block of stone and waited patiently until thirst and hunger forced the Illinois to leave their refuge. The Illinois stayed at the summit of the rock for three long weeks. When their supplies ran out, they ate the dogs that were up there with them. After that, they ate grass, roots and bark. One day there was nothing left to eat and nothing to drink. They tried to draw water from the river, using a bucket hung from a long rope, but the Ottawa, who were posted at the base of the rock, cut the cord and made off with the bucket.

“Nonetheless, the Illinois refused to surrender to their enemies. Some tried to escape under cover of darkness; the assailants captured and killed them. Others took their own lives by diving off the rock into the river. The rest stayed where they were and died of starvation and thirst. Of all the members of the tribe known as ‘the Illinois of the Rock,’ there was not a single survivor.

“Later, the place where these tragic events had occurred was called ‘Starved Rock’ or ‘le Rocher de la Famine.’ For many years, all Indians passing through the Illinois River Valley would make a detour to avoid the rock, because it was a place inhabited by death and by the spirits of the tribe that had been exterminated.

“And that’s it,” said the girl in a tired voice. “That was the story of a vanished tribe, the Illinois of the Rock.”

She struggled to her feet, called her cat and climbed back down the stone stairway, holding Jack’s hand. The sun had set some time before and the Illinois River looked mauve.

XII

The Old Man
Beside the Mississippi

On route 80 not far from Davenport, they were suddenly aware of a strange smell. La Grande Sauterelle, who was in the back writing a letter to her mother, came and sat in front. Jack sniffed the air and looked on either side of the road.

It was a damp, oppressive odour, dense and sludgy, like the smell in a swampy woods, a mixture of water, earth and plants, an aroma of muddy water and old moss.

As they drove up to a bridge, they saw a very broad waterway, its water heavy and yellow; both realized without having to say a word that it was the Mississippi, Father of Waters, the river that divided America in two and joined North and South, the great river of Louis Jolliet and Père Marquette, the sacred river of the Indians, the river of the black slaves and of cotton, of Mark Twain and Faulkner, the river of jazz and the bayous, the mythic, legendary river that people said merged with the soul of America.