Book of the Little Axe

by Lauren Francis-Sharma

  Victor hadn’t noticed that day’s sky until then. The sun was pink with scalloped edges, as if it had decided upon tenderness. Ma and Victor had many times moved beneath that sky, beyond the reach of the Bighorns. In search of food, or higher water, or safety, the chiefs, abiding by their visions, would not hesitate to lead them elsewhere. There had been months, sometimes years before they camped again at a familiar woods, a welcoming ridge—long stretches of time that threatened to make them forget trees that had once sheltered their children and grasses their sick had slept upon, but no matter the passing years, no place was ever forgotten. And as Ma and Victor continued west into what he believed was Siksikaitsitapi territory, Victor was certain he had never before been to this place beneath that tender sky.

  “Did you hear me?” Ma looked at Victor oddly now.

  “What did you say?”

  “That we should try to find sleep now.” Ma threw rocks into the flame, reminding Victor of the pebbles that had met his feet as he ran alongside Little Bighorn River, calling out for the girl.

  “I wanted her to be my sweetheart,” Victor whispered.

  “Yes, I know you felt this way.” Ma did not look at him. “But that is not what she felt. And you thought so little of yourself that you blinded your own eyes to this truth?”

  Victor knew his love had been unrequited, but he had never thought of himself as wanton. “But why did she run? I wouldn’t have hurt her.”

  “What is love to a girl who knows only fear? She knew the kind of fear that likes to dress itself in love’s clothing. That girl wasn’t right for a world that still hopes for joy. She wasn’t right for a boy with a full, loving heart.”

  Ma leaned forward, rubbing together her work-worn hands over the low flames. She had once told Victor that she had hands like her father’s. He looked at them now and thought they were only his mother’s hands.

  “When I was a child, they brought Africans into town, paraded them around, chained them to one another. Every inch of them was sorrow. Until then, I didn’t know sadness could travel on the wind.” Ma threw another handful of rocks. “I thought, as I watched them from behind a tree, that maybe it was possible they’d had a good life before. When I told Papá what I saw, he too looked frightened. I didn’t know anything could frighten Papá, and I had to wonder if that feeling would ever go away, and how I would keep from passing fright on.”

  Ma offered Victor a strip of dried buffalo as if she didn’t think him satisfied enough. It was tasteless, but he ate more of it for no reason other than that Ma wished him to.

  “I came all this way and chose to raise you here, praying no one would make you feel the way that girl made you feel. I wanted to explain this to the council,” she said. “I didn’t want them to think you were dishonorable. They trained you to be a warrior, but they didn’t know that girl was trying to unmake you, that she wanted you to see yourself through her frightened eyes.”

  Victor remembered, years earlier, when Ma was big in the belly with the twins, her ankles like water pouches. It was a cool summer day, when Father arrived after a long expedition, bringing with him a new wife. He and Ma had discussed it once or twice before, Father explaining to Ma that another wife would ease her burdens once she had the new baby. This second wife was kind to Ma, but Ma seemed to find her prettiness painful. And late in the nights, when Father left Ma and slept in his new wife’s lodge, Victor would hear Ma weeping. Even as a boy, Victor knew Ma questioned herself and he remembered feeling sorry for Ma then, remembered feeling angry that she had passed on to him everything that had made her question herself.

  “This ‘unmaking’ you speak of had already happened,” Victor said. “Before the girl.”

  Ma drank from the water bag. Big gulps pretending to be necessary while she seemed to be thinking of what to say next. “The elders told me to take you on this journey long before now.”

  “Why?”

  “They thought it would answer questions you have about yourself,” she said. “I should’ve listened sooner. Now you carry the burden of the girl’s death.”

  Victor knew this to be true. He would never again be free of that burden.

  “I think she was sent to show me that we are supposed to be here now.”

  “She didn’t die for you,” Victor said. “It’s arrogant of you to believe this.”

  “No, I did not mean—”

  “I want to return home.”

  Ma poured a palmful of water over the remaining flames. “Let’s rest. We have still many days, maybe even weeks.”

  “Did you hear me? I am going home.”

  Victor could not see Ma’s eyes in the dark. He thought he heard her catch her breath, but then she said, “Well, go. I can’t keep you. You’re a man.”

  “Will you return with me?”

  “No. I have things I must do.” He heard Ma turn from him and set herself to rest.

  2

  That night Victor was to keep watch over the mares. Bats fluttered overhead, the wisp of their wings sliced the air, their prey scrambled through the musky leaves that had become his mother’s sleeping mat, and Victor dreamt of loose red feathers at the base of a tree—a tree with leaves as thin as moth wings. When Ma stirred him, he was certain he’d been sleeping only for a few moments.

  “Ha!” she said to the suggestion.

  He tendered a smile and looked up at the sun gathering its strength. Ma gave him more of the bitter drink, told him that on his way back to camp he should sleep at dusk and watch over his horse from the trees when the night drew nigh. All things he knew. Victor swallowed a gulp and returned the pouch to Ma. He picked up his bow and intended to offer his mare a bite of the leftover dried buffalo, except his mare, BlackTail, was not there.

  “Where is she?”

  Ma hurried alongside Victor, then together, they mounted Martinique to widen their search.

  “Did you tether her properly?” Ma asked.

  Victor had never not taken proper care of any horse. Ma had taught him that they were to be like his children, and thus he had become a father of horses.

  “Of course,” he said. “Wasn’t Martinique roped?”

  Ma clucked her mouth, widened her eyes. “I can’t quite remember.”

  They rode for two hours through the hollows of burnt woodlands, searching, as oily, fat squirrels scurried before them.

  “I saw my Mamá last night in a dream but she did not smile,” Ma said.

  They stopped at a stream for Martinique to drink. Victor remembered the red feathers of his own dream and wondered if both their dreams had not been omens.

  “BlackTail is gone,” Ma said.

  “How will we go home?”

  “I am not going home. You’ll have to come with me.”

  “Both of us together on Martinique?”

  Victor wished for nothing more but to be back at Little Bighorn River. He thought that he might see what others had not, thought he might find the girl.

  “What’s true, Ma? What will we do away from camp? Where are we going?”

  Ma sighed as though tired of repeating herself and Victor was annoyed at her theatrics, for he didn’t feel as if Ma had given him answers to any questions.

  “The akbaalia told Father that you’ve been on the wrong path. That we must right it.”

  “But why would they let me journey to sweat so many times if they knew this?”

  “You chose to sweat.”

  “But what does this have to do with you? A man should find his own way. This is what they teach us.”

  “I am your mother. There is no way unless I put you on it.”

  Victor did not know if this was true, though he imagined it was comforting to a woman like Ma to believe she held such power. “Did Father say my vision would come if I do this?”

  “Father?” Ma splashed water onto Martinique’s legs, before saying, “What I know is that if you do the thing you’ve always done, the same thing will have been done.”

  “But no
other warrior has been sent from home. Maybe they feel I’ve brought them shame.”

  “Like-Wind was called away and he left you without explanation. This journey is your question and if we continue, you may find the answer,” Ma said. “My friend Creadon Rampley will host us while we search.”

  CREADON RAMPLEY

  Rupert’s Land

  Memberings from 1804 to 1807

  Sometimes now I feel like an old man. Weak memory. Slow to wake in the mornin. Thinkin more than workin. Been some years since I opened this diary. Figured I was gonna fix up these lil notes and fill out my story so if you ever find this thing you was gonna know everything that I did from Rupert’s Land through to Oregon Country, from New Spain down into Trinidad. And what I aint tellin is prolly cause it aint important enough to member.

  My mother was Indian from a Plains tribe I think but dont hardly know. She left or died dependin on who you ask, long fore my memory was fixed on her. My Pa was Reardon Rampley, born to an Englishman. Aint know his mother. Aint much care for his father. Set out on his own fore he reached thirteen. I was thirteen myself in 1804, when Pa died. First heartbreak. Not the last. Not the worst.

  Pa was a hard man but he loved me. I suspect most sons think this about their pas, but being that I was a half-breed, I knowed he aint have to. Pa was a guide for Hudson’s Bay Company. One of their best. Knowed Rupert’s Land better than most, and Hudson’s Bay paid him good to lead a brigade along the Northern Divide. A brigade that turnt two, sometimes three times more profit than others. A brigade I aint knowed hated Pa til he was gone.

  Mountain life wasnt nothin more than gruelin work, bad weather, and hard drink. Pa was the boosway, the leader. He made the journeyin easier and an Irishman by the name of Lik Smith made easier the drinkin. Lik had a recipe for a berry shine that could “peel the skin off a mans toes,” Pa used to say. Pa sometimes dry-trembled on molasses during winter and couldnt hardly wait til spring when Lik would find yeast and begin fresh makin. Sometimes itd take up to a month to get it right but after it was, only work gettin done was by the muskeetoes.

  There was a fiddle and a deck of cards and the dim light of a fire sometime during that ninth month of 04. I was sleepy but I knowed that Pa, who was losin his eyes cause of snow glare, was gonna need help findin his sleep sack. There was a fist thrown early. Some cussin. And then Lik told me I needed to get Pa fore things got worse. Pa was like that sometimes. Was tellin them what dumb arses they was and how they couldnt walk in a straight line without him then ten seconds after I throwed the blanket over his head he gets to snorin like an old goat.

  Seventh mornins was always the same. Camp woke and theyd wait for Pa to rouse then when he didnt, theyd set out in groups of twos and threes to collect skins without him. It was a seventh mornin when Lik told me to stay behind and keep watch over Pa. Lik had a beard that coiled up on his grey-scabbed lips that he was pickin at when he stood over me. “You know how the old coot is when he wakes,” he said.

  I knowed. Pa was piss-mad most seventh mornins. Stumblin. Shoutin. Sickly. Only times I member Pa scoldin me was on seventh afternoons. “There aint no better guide than me, and every goddamn time I close my eyes, theys thievin right under my own sons nose!” Usually we would set out to find the other men then Pa would take what he swore was less than his fair share and turn all his anger on me. Them whippins wasnt good for nobody. I wasnt a boy to bite back tears. I yowled and howled and made Pa feel downright rotten for punishin me when he shoulda been punishin that thievin brigade of his.

  So that mornin, as the day had yet to decide what kind it was gonna be, I made what I thought was a wise choice and followed Lik and two other men off that ridge and down to the Missinipi, leavin Pa to sleep off the drink.

  And I seent em too. Hidin half the skins in a nother spot covered by low branches heavy with ice. I hightailed it back to camp. Couldnt wait to see what Pa would do when I told him. Holler or fight. Whatever it was gonna be I was gonna help him. Cept when I got back to camp Pa wasnt there. His pack was rifled. His boots was gone. And there wasnt no sign of him havin eaten. And Pa wouldnt go nowhere without eatin. I straightened up the grounds and waited. Figured he just gone for relief but the minutes crumped into an hour and I got worried. I called out for him and searched all the usual spots then figured I was gonna have to track him.

  I started at camp. Found his boot tracks and followed em as they crept along a cliff he warned me never to walk. “This ledge is every bit as shaky as an old pair a tits.” I was too scared to glance down. But I was sure he went over. I sat there with my legs danglin, knowin I shoulda never left him. Darkness slid over me like a drunk whore.

  In the first year after Pa’s death, things changed. I never had no agreement with Hudson’s Bay. Only Pa did. So nobody owed me nothin. And the men in our company soon learnt I wasnt no proper guide like Pa was and the money dried up fast. Course they put his death on me and I couldnt much blame em since I sorta figured it was my fault too. I tried not to trouble em. I tried to be as helpful as I could so one day maybe they might let me be a free trapper or maybe even a company man. But the loss of Pa was like a heavy swellin that made me stick out, made me unnatural to men who thought sorrow turnt a man to easy prey.

  Bow bender. Ki-yi. Prairie nigger. Them was the names they started usin for me in the second year after Pa died. I was demoted from skin hauler to cook. From cook to water gatherer. From water gatherer to sack minder. They teased me about Pa havin raped my mother. Said she was his slave. Told me she escaped and left me for dead. Said Pa threatened many times to be rid of me but that he was scared them Injun spirits would curse him if he did.

  By the start of the third year some of Pa’s crew moved west. Others left for North West Company or the new American Fur Company. None of em asked me to come with which was just as well since I couldnt think of leavin Hudson’s Bay then no how. I mighta been a lowly servant but I had food enough and aint think I coulda asked for more outta life.

  Then somethin changed. We had a free trapper join us for a few months that year. A strappin fella who talked kinda funny. Said he come north from Arkansaw Territory. Said he worked on lands where horses roamed free. He wiggled his fingers when he said the word free. “Damn good life it was, cept a man cant bide by laws that has him believe a man who work alongside him aint a man cause his skin is dark. Didnt make no sense to me so I left.” He argued with the others but then told em if they hadnt seent it with their own eyes then it wasnt worth his time talkin about it. I aint think much about his thoughts. I sorta reasoned them negras wasnt livin much different than me. But what stayed with me was his tales of warm sun and feral horses. I kinda got my mind stuck on that and couldnt get it unstuck.

  It was the end of winter that same year when Lik set his mug near mine. I wasnt yet sixteen. My heart been so lonely them three years that sometimes I thought my chest been pried open and robbed of everything that coulda kept my heart company. Nobody talked to me. Nobody laughed with me. Most times they aint even notice me. When Lik sat, I was just shuttin down the cookin flame and was pilin wood for the evenin fire. Lik stretched out his arm and touched my shoulder and I thought I mighta cried. Touch was a long lost memory.

  “Make sure you tie up good.” His breath smelled like white tongue and the thistle-root soup I made. “Storms comin and we might not make it back for a few nights. We come back round soon as we can. Keep the pelts dry. Hear?”

  I nodded but couldnt think of nothin cept that pulse of current I felt when he touched me. I woulda killed a man to feel again like somebody could see me.

  After the men left I nibbled on some leftover “beat meat,” we called it—dried, smoked, and pounded buffalo. I collected bowls and buried scraps and piled pine brush so thered be dry spots for the men to sleep on when they got back. By midday the breeze picked up from the northwest. Branches bounced and the sky looked to be bout to vomit. I tested the wind careful to choose the right spot to tent. I piled extra buffalo pelts to protect t
he cookin supplies and weapons and pallets of castor gras beaver skins. Since them pelts sold for two, sometimes two dollar fifty a pound, I was keen on safeguardin them. I tied the tents low about knee-high to tree trunks. I didnt forget the drip sticks and I didnt forget the extra storm loops either. I aint forget nothin. But when that wind come back round from the northeast and that snow fell like white ink from a jug, it was too late to reset the tents in the other direction. I battened down and buried my head in my arm. Them pans and mugs rattled then slammed up against twistin bodies of trees. The pelts fought against the rope that held them fastened to one a nother. Cold air ripped clean through me. I wouldnt make it through the night. I felt my lungs tighten and burn so bad that I had to belly-crawl to the pallet and yank three pelts from beneath the knot. I stuffed one down my trousers, wrapped myself with the other two. I slept then woke again. Fought to fix the flappin canvas overhead but still the snow rose inside.

  At nightfall the wind died so I built a small fire. Bout an hour later wind started growlin again. It went like that for two days. Took out my flames. Ticked off pelts one by one. Ripped off the canvas over top a me.

  When it was all over, wasnt hardly no snow left on the ground. Pelts was flung cross a hundred yards. Some wadded up like snails. Some in trees. I picked up what I could then figured I better put together camp, knowin they was gonna be back soon.

  “Tell me you aint untie them pelts.” Lik’s mouth was hung open. His tongue was the whitest I ever seent it. White-hot, I heard it said once. “There aint no way them knots woulda come undone. Tell me you wasnt stupid enough.”

  I thought Lik woulda understood.

  “Stupid goddamned squaw!” He walked the camp. Kicked over traps and pommel holsters with flintlock pistols inside. “Come tomorrow mornin I want you gone!”

  I was nearly a man but cowered like a child. I thought to finish cookin supper but was too shamed to move so I tucked myself into a ball and hoped for night to fall quick. Didnt know where I was gonna go at daybreak. The thought of bein alone scared me. I talked myself outta beggin Lik to change his mind. Told myself I was a decent enough guide. Thought I could lead a slow-runnin brigade. Thought I could go south and tame horses. Them childish thoughts was the only things fightin against the sourness that swished cross my throat.