by Don Hayward
condemning. I retreated in fear, back to the place of the Keepers. The village pulsed and roared with anger and hatred directed at me. All was lost.
I was not attacked immediately. They tolerated me with hostile silence and isolation. I had lost the loyalty of my fellow Keepers and, the most hurtful of all, the last vestiges of respect and love from my beloved Elsbeth. Through the first part of the summer I spent my days foraging for food off in the forest and lakes. It was a lonely time that I filled with rereading the words of Maurice Pasterczak. It was in this time that I began this record, hoping someone might read it and heed my warning. I would not go near the mine, the flow or the now contaminated stream. Yet the villagers tended those dangerous crops, and in what seemed an act of defiance, they removed the fences that I had put up. A few young men, when they saw me watching, deliberately swam in the pond and drank of the outflow. Derisive laughter was directed my way with mouthfuls of the water being spit towards me. I would not get close to these foolish bucks. Once the disastrous rains had ceased, drought hit hard and buckets of contaminated pond water were used on all the crops, spreading the contamination throughout Village McNeil.
The deaths began about six weeks after my futile attempt to raise the danger. The first to go was one of the young defiant men who drank the water. His hair fell out, and then his skin seemed to hang loose, sloughing off, leaving open raw flesh. After a few days of vomiting blood, he died in screaming agony. Not even the chanting of the Healer Grandmother or her woodland potions saved him or eased his going. All through the season of berries, until the rutting of the deer, more became ill. Pain and suffering were widespread. It became even worse when the villagers began to eat the root crops from the poisoned gardens. There was no doubt that they would blame me and seek revenge.
In my fearful understanding of what was to come, I prepared a pack of safe food, my warm winter garments, two of the writings of Pasterczak and this story. Around my neck, I secured a small hollow clay amulet containing a strong potion made from concentrated nightshade root. It did not take much imagination to believe that Village McNeil could plan a horrible death for me. Their suffering was already becoming unbearable, and they believed I was the cause. If I had to die, taking the belladonna was more favourable to stoning or fire.
I was raised as a warrior and hunter. The dictum of the warrior was “move under the moon, attack from the sun”. By the time I was ready to flee I was already under watch. It was obviously the assignment of the sickly children who always played near my lodging. In the evening and night these were replaced by eyes hidden in the sparse willow thicket that surrounded the Keeper compound and the mine entrance. I did not want to leave. These were, after all, my friends and family. Oh my family. I ached for my children, grown to the cusp of adulthood, and my beloved if unloving Elsbeth. It seemed that I had become a stranger to them, an outcast and a danger. I needed one last time to touch them and convince them of my love.
“Why did you come?” I remember Elsbeth’s words. “We don’t want you. You have brought death and suffering. Go away!” She would not let me hold her.
I love you.” I gasped. “I have done nothing wrong.”
“Love is nothing without life.” Elsbeth rubbed her belly to mock my inability to give her more children. “Go from my sight.”
It took the better part of the day to find my children. My daughter’s hug was genuine, but I could see fear in her eyes, as if by touching me she might die. She was already sickly. My heart wept, but we parted with words of love.
My son spat on the ground at my feet and simply walked away. He too seemed weak and had a distinct limp as if fighting some pain. Heartbroken, I returned to my hut.
To thwart the eyes lurking in the brush, I snuck out of my cabin in the dark before the moon rose. It was a few days past the fullness of the moon, and I planned to use the situation. Darkness allowed me to leave the village unseen, scrambling up the cliff trail familiar from my youth and finding an old secret spot. Once the moon rose I could travel easily through the forest. I was a child of the bush and knew the land well to a distance of about twenty lakes. My idea was to head downstream and try to warn whatever villages I might find there. I knew there was a big one about fifty lakes down where the two large rivers met. Between there and McNeil were a few small hamlets. The fires decades before had destroyed many, but we knew that some people had returned when the berries and aspen could sustain bear, deer and beaver.
My plan was beset with both good fortune and bad luck. I did, indeed leave unseen; however, it was that night the village was to kill me, and they came for me at the rising of the moon. Once it was discovered that I had already left, a great cry went up. Less than a lake away, I heard the angry roar and my blood froze. A red glow rose over the hill from the direction of the village. They set fire to the Keeper’s compound, destroying it and all trace of the knowledge that the First Maurice had left. I knew then the fear of the animal as the hunter takes up the chase. From the sound, I could tell that they had sent out two main hunting groups. One headed directly south, downstream and the other to the lake to the west, Elsbeth’s and my romantic swimming spot. I worried more about the pairs of quiet hunters who would be sent out looking for my track. At once I hurried deliberately toward that lake, crossing the track the mob made in that direction and following along behind. Then, on a bare outcrop of granite that hid my footprints, I slipped away north. The moon was giving light. When the rock ended I picked a careful path amongst the ferns and other forest floor vegetation. My moccasins left no footprints, and I was mindful of not bending any plants. We had skilled trackers, but few were warrior trained. It is easier to track an animal not thinking of hiding its footfalls than it is to follow a human deliberately avoiding any sign.
I did not stop for a full day, going well north and then swinging west and then south many lakes beyond the swimming lake. On the edge of a smaller lake I found a rockery of rattle snakes. These shy creatures were more a nuisance than a danger, but I thought perhaps they might discourage pursuers. A short swim took me to a small rocky island that had several large pine trees and some thick scrub. Avoiding the snake that claimed the island as home, I slung a rude hammock on the lower branches of a big white pine where I could not be seen from shore and settled in for a night’s rest. Dried goat meat and blueberry flavoured deer fat filled my hunger. The lake water slaked my thirst.
The villagers were weak, but I allowed two days for the hunt to die out. The little island was safe and there was no sign of pursuit. My friend the snake seemed to like my stories, although it too would not heed my warning and would as likely as not bite me if it felt threatened. I named it McNeil. I grieved for my family, and for the village. They were all more certainly dead than me. It was while sheltering on that island that I came to understand the anguish of Maurice Pasterczak a thousand years before.
I left on the third morning, in the cool before the snakes became active. Two days of travelling south brought me to the stream that flowed away from McNeil. I remained cautiously distant from the water, heading downstream, using high water marks as the warning line. Given years of rain, and only if the pond did not overflow again, the stream would become safe. For now I regarded it with fear and caution. The first sign of disaster was a day’s walk downstream. A small cluster of huts sat above the flood plain, perhaps enough for two or three families. There was no sound, no sign of life. As I explored the silent dwellings my horror grew. There were two fresh graves beside one hut, and inside I found two bodies. These had died when there was no one left to bury them. In all there were six adults and four children dead at the place, not counting whoever lay in the graves. I was afraid to touch them, and tearfully retreated to the trees. My shouts cursed the mine, Pasterczak, and that nameless, powerful civilization that had created this horror. My anger and grief were multiplied by memories of my children and my beloved Elsbeth. They would soon be dead. I was tempted to crush the amulet and end it all right there, to die with these innocent ones. M
y work was not done. I carried on downstream. The second dead settlement was horrifying, but there were no bodies left unburied. Five graves lay in a garden and there were signs of flight. Perhaps some had survived. I travelled on. When I struck the Great West Trail, marked on The Maurice’s map as a highway and marked on the ground by stone cairns, I chose to follow it instead of the harder river route. There were signs of infrequent cart traffic along the way. It was overgrown and narrow, but still smooth. This easy way was a miracle, threading through the jumble of swamps and hills that we lived in. The trail would cross the river about forty lakes to the west.
“Who are you?” The voice was cautious but not unfriendly.
“I am Bern, the Maurice of the Keepers of Village McNeil. I carry a warning.”
“We had no warning.” The man’s voice was now hostile and he stepped back a few paces as if facing a dangerous animal. He had fled the second village. “You are one of the killers.”
He shouted out in a dialect similar to that of Village McNeil. “Come quickly. Bring weapons.”
Soon I was surrounded by hostile faces
