1763
A forest in the Ohio River Valley…
"You are not my son," Alfred's mother says in a language he has nearly forgotten. She shakes her head slowly. The feathers and beads braided into her hair swing like the pendulums of clocks in his father's house. The dark-skinned face he knew in early childhood has suddenly grown old; cracks and lines divide it where there were none before. "Just stay away from me," she continues. "Go back to that white devil father of yours before I send the whole Huron tribe to scalp you in your sleep!" She sighs, sagging a little from the effort of speaking. Alfred can see the edges of ragged scars under her loose buckskin dress.
He thinks the dress is a relic from the Midwest, that strange territory she never took him to visit. Now, of course, it's too late to ask to come along. Ah, the things a boy thinks while his mother disowns him!
"I'm sorry!" Alfred bursts out, not sounding sorry in the least. "I didn't hurt you. It's not like I have any power over what my people do." She looks at him, sadly and without comprehension. Alfred realizes that he has spoken English without thinking. He switches to an Iroquois dialect, the only Indian language still stored in his memory. "It's all Father's fault! He was just acting rude because of some stupid thing in Europe."
"Rude? Is that what you call it?" She motions to her scars. Standing straighter, she no longer leans against the bark of a tree.
Suddenly, Alfred is afraid. Perhaps it's the colonists' terror of Indians, or maybe his own. It doesn't matter that the spirit of Native America is his mother. It doesn't matter that, for decades, she loved him despite the white color of his skin. He takes one last look at her, then turns and runs through the forest toward his father's house. He's not exactly thrilled with Britain after the recent Proclamation, but anything is better than being alone with Mother right now.
December 1773
In a large house in Boston…
"Alfred, drink your tea," says the stern-faced British gentleman sitting across from the teenage boy. The boy, Alfred, looks to be around fourteen years old. In truth, he has seen more than a century come and go. The man at the table, his father, is more than ten times as old.
Alfred fidgets and runs his fingers over the teacup's rim. He likes tea, he really does, but on this day it tastes bitterer than it should. The tea's taste is only compounded by the knowledge that his people paid heavy taxes to import it from his father's land. "It's bitter," he says, only hinting at the second reason for his displeasure.
"The taxes don't change the taste, you know," says the personification of the British Isles. Alfred can hear the amusement in his tone, and it angers him.
"Why do you never take me seriously?" he nearly shouts, voice rising at every word.
The smile flies off his father's face and is replaced by a rigid expression. "I've let you run wild for too long. It's time someone taught the colonies some discipline!" He stands, fire in his eyes, and Alfred is reminded of what happened with his mother eleven years before.
He edges his chair away from the table, thoughts and emotions warring in his head. He doesn't want to make his father angrier, doesn't want to risk a bout of bad feelings that might last for years. But the British taxes are irrational, and Alfred's father is probably personally involved in levying them. He has a position in his own Parliament (all the better to influence his people with…), and it just seems like something he would do.
Alfred says so, but immediately wishes he hadn't.
"That, Alfred, is none of your business. We should discuss something else, like those rags you've been wearing lately…"
The boy seethes silently.
"But first," says Britain, "Drink. Your. Tea."
Alfred gets up, looks him in the eye, and says;
"No."
Before he can blink, Britain's hand is out to slap him across the cheek. It's a hard smack, too, more than just a gesture. Alfred jumps back, stunned and hurt in more ways than one. His left ear is ringing, and he blinks to hide a tear welling up in one eye. His father has never touched him like that, never laid a hand on him in anger. Until tonight.
"Well now I'm definitely not drinking it," he mumbles sarcastically, a bitter lump in his throat. His own hand reaches out and knocks the teacup off the table. It hits the floor and shatters into a million pieces. The shards lie in a puddle of brownish liquid that slowly soaks into the wooden planks.
Somewhere nearby, crates of the stuff are being thrown into a harbor.