‘When I met thee in the wood yesterday, thee was about to fight alongside these very warriors.’
‘Ay, and because we were there, no excesses were committed. But the danger was there – all the time. And you . . . if they hadn't come back with word that you were standing there in the wood, and if the message hadn't been passed along to me . . . You've a fine scalp, brother – good, thick, brown hair: white man's hair. I tell you – alliance with the Indians – it's playing with fire. Anything might have happened. If Hanks hadn't surrendered . . . if Roberts hadn't held the tribes in check . . . It was very well done, you know. How well done, I think you have no idea of.’ He drank down his coffee, and reached for the jug. ‘What are you thinking now, brother Mark?’
‘I was thinking about Loic, and his baby, and how Pakané and Waase'aaban cooked whitefish for us, and how Waase'aaban said I should have moccasins, and found a bed for me to sleep in. Are not these people thy friends?’
‘Of course they're my friends! You misconstrue me, Mark. You've all to learn, in fact, but it's hardly surprising. I keep forgetting you've only just arrived.’
‘Nay, I've been with thee nigh on a fortnight, friend. When will we set out for South Manitou?’
He grinned. ‘By God, but you're persistent! Brazen too! Do you realise where South Manitou is?’
‘Ay. Thee lent me thy map, remember?’
‘So I did. It makes no difference to you that our route takes us more than a hundred miles into United States territory?’
‘No. I would like to avoid any battles, if I can. Otherwise it's immaterial. We must go wherever Rachel might be.’
Alan said he had to talk to Captain Roberts, now the Commander of Fort Mackinac, before we could arrange anything. I felt it time to take matters into my own hands. I asked Anne, and she said her own brother could paddle me across to Bois Blanc for a dollar. They went there every spring, she told me, for the maple syrup. It turned out she knew the Kerners family well, and was some sort of cousin of Loic's. Her brother Stéphan was a taciturn fellow, or perhaps he had little English. Once we'd set off I couldn't see his face anyway. He was surprised when I said I could take the other paddle, and indeed it was a different feeling in a little Indian canoe, without the bowsman's stroke to follow. I enjoyed it: I could see all the emptiness of the wide waters, but not for long, as Bois Blanc is only a couple of miles from Mackinac village.
Stéphan and I carried the canoe on to the beach, and walked up to Martin Kerners’ house. The yard was full of split whitefish laid to dry on rush mats in the sun. Pakané and Waase'aaban were outside, cooking something over a fire in the yard. Biinoojii was in his cradleboard, hanging from a tree; I was reminded of a lullaby my mother used to sing – ‘twas the only rhyme she had, I think, certainly the only one she ever sung to us: Hushaby baby on the tree top . . . As soon as the women saw us coming they ran to meet us, calling out ‘Stéphan, Mark, Boozhoo, boozhoo! Biindigen!‘
Waase'aaban was more beautiful even than I remembered. She soon left us, but only to fetch the men, it turned out. She was so lithe and quick, her long black braids swinging across her shoulders as she moved. While she was gone we sat in the sun and waited. The mosquitoes here were far worse than on Mackinac. Pakané noticed my discomfort and gave me some grease to smear on my exposed skin. It smelt infinitely worse than the bears’ grease the voyageurs had used, but luckily the mosquitoes seemed agreed on that too.
When Loic appeared he was covered with sweat and sawdust, and wore only a breechclout and leggings, and a handkerchief round his forehead. ‘Stéphan! Boozhoo! Que ça fait longtemps qu'on ne c'est pas vu! M'sieu Mark! I'm glad to see you. Is anything amiss?’
‘No, friend. I have somewhat to ask thee, that's all.’
Waase'aaban went back to feeding the fire. They were boiling up strips of basswood bark, Loic explained. He sent Waase'aaban to fetch some twine, so he could show me how the bark fibres from the basswood were woven together. The way she jumped up and ran to do it was entirely childlike, for all that her body was most clearly a woman's. When she came back, Stéphan took the twine from her and demonstrated how even a mart as strong as he couldn't break it. Stéphan had clearly left his servant status behind when we left Mackinac. Here, he was a close relative of the family – ‘the grandson of Pakané's grandfather's brother’, Loic told me – whereas I was a mere acquaintance. Though I was welcomed just as kindly, the conversation was carried on, after the first greetings, entirely in Ojibwa. I'd liked to have known what they said, but I contented myself with watching their faces, especially Waase'aaban's, for hers was by far the most expressive.
Presently Loic said, ‘You wish to be private? Come!’
It was dim and stuffy indoors. The fire was banked-up, smouldering at the edges. Loic swept away a pile of dirty wooden platters, and wiped the table with his handkerchief. ‘Sit, m'sieu! Here is water. Will you drink? Now, ask! I listen.’
‘Loic, I have been at Mackinac two weeks. Today is the nineteenth day of Seventh . . . of July.’
’Aabita-niibino-giizis. Yes?’
‘Time passes. I need to go to South Manitou Island and see where Rachel was lost. I have to search the shores of Lake Michigan and speak again to the Indians who live there, while they're still in their summer villages. I've barely three months of this season left. I've already been a whole year in Upper Canada. Alan is entirely occupied at Mackinac. I'm willing to pay for a canoe, and a man to take me, if I must go alone. Will thee come with me? Thee knows the place. Thee was there. Thee knew her. I couldn't wish for more.’
To my surprise he was smiling. ‘You have not talked to Alan about this?’
‘No. I've just waited, till I can wait no more.’
‘Alan has not talked to you?’
‘About what?’
‘M'sieu!’ Loic laid his hand on my arm, and he was laughing. ‘I am already bespoke! This is why you find me here at home, waiting. There is no trade this year. A man has hired me already to bring my canoe and go to South Manitou! And then to travel the Michigan shore for the rest of the season. For two weeks now I am already hired!’
‘Thee means – Alan?’
‘But yes, m'sieu! He did not say to you? He told me, very soon there will be war. I am to say nothing; what is it to me? The soldiers will not come to Bois Blanc. No one comes to Bois Blanc. But I listen to Alan, and it is clear that soon there will be war at Mackinac. I care not. So long as there is trade – and at Bois Blanc there will always be a little trade, of some kind – I care not what flag they fly. Alan is very busy. But soon, he says, the business at Mackinac will be done, and then we go. I know this business. Now there is a new flag over the fort. I care not. But I think it means that Alan's business is finished, so we shall go. He, you and I. So I have put all new bark on the canoe, and made packs of food, and already I am waiting for you.’
If Alan had been there I would have been sorely tempted to floor him again, only harder. Luckily he was not. Why had he said nothing? Was it only to tease, or did he not trust me even so far? I was fairly sure it was the former. Never in my life had I had to wrestle with such fury as Alan induced in me – or perhaps that was not the exact truth. I knew of old this heat of rage inside me; I had only hitherto associated it with Rachel, and that not of late years.
‘M'sieu, it is of no use to be angry. Il est comme ilest. Did he not say to you that he agreed to make this journey?’
‘At St Joseph he asked me what I wanted us to do, and I told him. He said – just as thee said – there was no trade this year, so “we might as well go as not.” Since then’ – I could not keep the chagrin entirely out of my tone – ‘he puts me off, and puts me off, and tells me nothing.’
‘Perhaps not all his secrets are his own to tell?’
The impropriety of complaining about Alan to Loic had already struck me. ‘No matter. I should not have spoken so, friend. Thee has good news for me – the best of news – and I should thank thee.’
‘You need
not thank. Alan pays me. Also, I wish to go. I told you before, I think, as her brother, you do right. This I told Alan. When you tell him we have talked, I think he will agree to come away very soon. The fort is in British hands now, so he has not that to think about any more. So now that you are here, you will eat with us?’
Instead of fish we had dried bear meat, boiled, which I'd never tasted before. It was a dark, close-grained meat, somewhat tough in the chewing. The men sat at the table while the women waited on us. I never, in all my visits, saw Pakané or Waase'aaban eat. But after the meal was over, I was aware of sundry gigglings from the hearth, and the men were grinning. All the talk had been in Ojibwa, but Loic suddenly said to me in English, ‘My wife has a small gift for you, m'sieu.’
Pakané was standing by my chair. I could see Waase'aaban standing rigid by the hearth, her hands pressed to her mouth. Pakané held out the gift, laid across her outstretched hands. It was a pair of moccasins, made as long in the foot as my own boots, beautifully stitched in rawhide, and ornamented with quill decorations over the seams. There were looped patterns in rawhide stitching around the ankle cuffs, dark leather against light.
‘Those will work better than your boots in the canoe,’ said Loic.
I knew not what to say. Never in my life had I worn any ornamented garment – I counted not the tassel on my voyageur cap, for once it was on my head I never saw it to think of it – and never had I so much as touched such work as this. Plain Quaker dress was a stand made against the sad luxuries of the so-called great, the corrupt courts and decadent societies of old Europe. It flashed through my mind that, for all their ornamentation, naught could be plainer than these moccasins. Not a penny was spent in the making of them, but every stitch was made in friendship, a simple act of charity if ever there was one.1 Loic was right: moccasins would be much more practical in the canoe. Marc used to wince every time I stepped into my place, in what he called tes sales bottes énormes.
I addressed myself to Pakané. ‘I thank thee, friend. ‘Tis exceeding kind in thee. I will use them well.’ I turned to Loic. ‘Will thee translate?’
‘Pakané understands English, only she will not speak. But you can say to her yourself: G'miigwechiwìgìn, nwiijikiwenh.‘
I repeated as best I could, ‘G'miigwechiwìgìn., nwiijikiwenh.‘
‘With moccasins, you have to patch and sew them often,’ remarked Loic. ‘They do not last for ever.’
Martin Kerners added his mite in a language I could understand. ‘For this you need a woman. Vous avez besoin d'une femme qui prend bien soin de vos mocassins. This you need.’
Exhorted to do so by all the company, I took off my boots and put on my moccasins – they felt strangely light, almost like being barefoot – while Loic, bending close as I unlaced my boots, whispered in my ear. ‘It was not my wife, en effet, who did this work.’
I looked up, startled. Waase'aaban was no longer standing by the hearth. She must have slipped away.
After we'd eaten I walked along the shore with Loic and Stéphan. The bay below the Kerners home was shallow for a long way out – we'd nearly grounded on our way in – so the water over the sand was pale green under the sun. We could see Mackinac Island plainly, and the coast of the mainland beyond. It was an excellent place to keep an eye on things. When I said this to Loic he shrugged and smiled. We took a path through the dunes, walking a carpet of silverweed among the juniper bushes. Suddenly the path dived under the trees. The earth was soft with ancient leaves under the maples and giant basswoods that gave the island its name. A mid-day torpor hung in the air. Clouds of mosquitoes hung above the swampy ground on either side. Soon I caught the smell of a human settlement and a tang of smoke. A moment later we were out of the trees, blinking in the sun.
Over a dozen wigwams filled the clearing in front of us. There was a fireplace in the middle with a shelter over it, where women sat in the shade. Small children were running about; their shrill cries sounded just like the children playing about the green in Mungrisdale; I suppose that children sound the same the world over.
Loic took me to meet the chief, who sat on a log outside his wigwam among a group of men. No one seemed to have any work to do, but admittedly the afternoon was very hot. Loic took a twist of tobacco from his pocket and gave it to the chief, who produced a long pipe. He took his time filling it and lighting it, and after he'd smoked for a while, he passed the pipe back to Loic, who smoked a little, and passed it on to me. I'd learned in Mesquacosy's wigwam at Yonge Street how to breathe the acrid tobacco smoke into my mouth, and expel it a moment or two later as if I'd inhaled, and by the time the sun touched the tips of the trees to the west of us, I had ample cause to be thankful for my skill. Each time it came round, I passed the pipe on as soon as I decently could. I couldn't follow the talk, but I was content to be where I was, watching the men's faces, and the children's play, and the women going to and fro. I realised at one point that Stéphan was telling a story, with graphic descriptions that involved a pantomime of gestures and several different voices. I said softly to Loic, ‘Is he telling what's happened on Mackinac?’
‘You learn Ojibwa fast, m'sieu! Certainly he is. He is not the first to come, of course, but all points of view are different, and this is what makes a story interesting, is it not?’
Stéphan's recital sparked off an animated discussion. The elderly chief remained impassive, but I noticed how he observed each man closely while he spoke, and I had the impression that he missed nothing. Sometimes when I glanced at him I found his black eyes resting on me. But if our eyes met he always looked away.2
When we reached the shore again little waves were lapping on the sand. Mackinac was fast disappearing into a dark blue haze. ‘You will stay the night with us, m'sieu?’
‘Ay.’ Alan had left me without a word often enough. Now it was my turn. ‘Loic!’
‘M'sieu?’
‘My name is Mark. I belong to a Society where we accept no outward rank or title. We've a long journey before us. Will thee call me by my name?’
’Oui, Mark, I will do that.’ A moment later he said, ‘I have another name too, from my mother's people. It is E-ntaa-jiimid. They named me this because I paddle a canoe very well. It is easier for you to say “Loic”, I think. But now I have told you, at least.’
After supper I stood outside the Kerners cabin, letting my eyes adjust to the night. The stars blazed above my head. A soft breeze soughed in the pine trees, and I could hear the waves breaking, always in the same place on that tideless shore. Once I could see clearly enough I walked over to the top of the dunes and lay on my back. The Milky Way was a clear broad road across the arch of heaven. I picked out each constellation, and thought of how those same stars shone down on Highside in Mungrisdale. I could smell resin; the air was still as warm as an English noon. There was a small rustling in the juniper. I got up quickly.
Someone gave a small scream. ‘Awenen yaawid aw?‘
‘It's Mark. Waase'aaban?’
‘Oh!’
I could just see a small dark shape, moving away. I spoke before I thought. ‘Don't go! Reviens!‘
The dark shape hovered.
This time I had time to think, and yet ignored it. ‘Stay and talk to me a little. Reste et parle un peu.‘
’Nin bwanawi! Je ne peux pas!‘
’Je t'en prie.‘
She hesitated, then sat down more than an arm's length away. I said nothing, but I was filled with an inexplicable glee that I could barely keep hid. I hugged it to myself. If there were aught watching over me just then that cried out ‘danger’ I heeded it not.3 I had asked Waase'aaban to talk to me, but for a while neither of us spoke. When we did, it was perforce in French. When that failed us, she found words in her tongue, and I in mine, to supplement, and somehow we found ways of understanding one another. When I think of our talk now, I don't remember it being in a foreign language; I write, therefore, in English, as memory dictates, for all that this must be a trick of the mind.
&
nbsp; Presently I asked her if she'd always lived on Bois Blanc.
‘No. We always came in spring, for the maple sugar. My mother is from this village here, but my father is from Pawating – this you call Sainte Marie du Sault, only on the south side of the river. My father knew my mother many years ago, because he came every year to this island you call Bois Blanc for the maple syrup harvest. In summer we usually live in my father's village at Pawating. The fishing is very good there. My family also sell dried fish to the North West Company factory. At Pawating there are many people.’
‘Thee was born there?’
‘No, I was born in the fall, when we had gone to our hunting ground. That is where I received my name, from the time when I was born.’
‘Why, what does it mean?’
‘Waase'aaban? It means – Waase'aaban – it is the first light of the day before the sun rises. It is like saying “light all around”.’
‘I like that. Where is thy hunting ground?’
‘It is near the north shore of Lake Michigan. There is a lake there, with a big spring. Here we spend the winter. Two years ago Pakané married Loic and she has stayed here ever since. Now my brother is also married. I don't care for his wife, so last year I decide to come to live with Pakané. Now I have been here one year.’
‘And thee'll go on living here with Loic and thy sister?’
Voyageurs Page 24
