by Born, Jason
My lungs screamed out in terror. I opened my eyes to complete, total blackness. I could not even see the man who went completely limp in my arms, dead, drowned, frozen, or in shock. You may ask why I thought my jumping in after the young Kesegowaase would do anything to save him. Today, I ask myself the same question. But the truth is that I did not think that I would save him. I did not think. My muscles were still in the battle, saving a young friend was their thought, their idea. In the years since then I have modified the telling of the story to say that I thought of my beautiful and true wife, Hurit, and would do anything to save her from losing another of the men in her life. That may have been the result, but it was not my intention that night.
At last we burst out from under the river ice into the place where the salt and fresh water mixed. Their currents struck each other, working us above and below the water time and again. The man I held slammed headfirst into a large, mangled piece of driftwood. He left a trail of dark blood as he ran along its length, bouncing off knots and stumps of broken limbs. I saw that the wood was lodged in a large chunk of ice half the size of a longboat. I let go of the man and used all my strength to foist myself out of the water, onto the bobbing, frozen monster.
Providence shone on me that day. Fighting for his life on the floating mass with the Mi’kmaq he tackled was a crazed Kesegowaase. Both men shivered violently on their knees while trading wild slashes with stone-tipped knives, their long black hair now turned white from ice. None of their strikes had any force. They rather glanced off their frozen clothing harmlessly.
Neither Kesegowaase nor I would survive much longer so I snapped off one of the driftwood branches, limped up behind the enemy, and crushed his skull. Chattering through a clenched smile, Kesegowaase asked, “How many dead?”
“All of them, none of us – unless you and I drift out to sea.”
I helped the man to his feet on the pitching ice. Cold water splashed us, adding to the bitter, stabbing pain piercing my bones and mind. We needed to get to shore and to a fire. Torches from the village began to come toward us from the village. They would be at the shore in moments.
We had to swim. Neither of us could call, our voices robbed and then swallowed by the noise of the sea that night. Even if they could see us out there on the ice, by the time they retrieved a canoe and paddled to us we would be dead. We had to swim.
Kesegowaase knew what I thought and said, “You should get rid of your armor. It will kill you.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “I’ve lost two suits of armor in my life, both under the sea. I’d rather this suit bring my death than lose another. I don’t see any smithies in the area to replace it.” I took the dead man’s knife and hacked rather pathetically at the driftwood until a bigger branch broke free. I thrust it at my friend along with the one I had used as a club. “These will keep you afloat. Now get in. I’ll be right behind you.”
“What’ll you use?”
“Him.” Kesegowaase nodded and jumped into the churning sea. I heard him moan as the water tore at his strength.
The Mi’kmaq’s own knife made fast work of his clothing which I discarded. I wanted him as naked and therefore, buoyant as possible. I hugged him like I had his compatriot and we plunged into the water. I kicked. Spray from the waves poked my face like thousands of sewing needles. Kesegowaase struggled in front of me, but fought on. Torch lights covered the banks as villagers looked for us, giving us a goal to direct our path.
We were less than ten ells from shore and still they could not see us. I tried to call but not a sound came from my lips. Kesegowaase’s paddling slowed to a stop so that I caught up to him. His eyes were closed. He could have been dead. I did not know. My blue, frozen hand gripped his hair and pulled. The logs he used for a raft were attached to him, so I hauled the entire assembly as if it were one single object. Finally, we made it to where the current naturally took us to shore and in a few short heartbeats, we toppled onto the beach. I dragged Kesegowaase out while crawling on my knees before I crumpled in exhaustion. That last thing I recall before losing consciousness is someone prying my hand from his hair.
CHAPTER 7
One week after our battle with the Mi’kmaq raiders from the Pohomoosh village, Ahanu died. His cough steadily worsened in the days following our victory. His belly and ankles became swollen, distorting his aged tattoos. The normally vigorous man became lethargic and weak. For the three days leading up to his death he became so debilitated that he had to call for help to collect the relentless stream of urine he produced. For the final day he was constantly short of breath, struggling to even speak a few words.
Nootau called upon many of their ancestors and spirits to heal him. He used dried herbs, broths, and painted himself while chanting for hours at a time, but none of it helped. Nootau groaned, screamed, chanted more, and slapped his own legs for an entire day. None of this slowed Ahanu’s death. Kesegowaase then asked that I offer prayers to the One God. I did. I made heartfelt pleas to him that he not take my good friend. I asked that the Mighty God leave him among the living to laugh and to lead, to teach and talk to his people who counted on him for wisdom. I made my requests in Norse, Latin, Irish, and in Ahanu’s tongue. My pleas went unanswered, or as the word of the One God says, perhaps they were answered with a no.
All the while it was clear that Ahanu was seriously ill, the women of the village – all of them, young and old – covered their faces in charcoal. They marched around, performing their daily tasks covered in that black mask which was quickly streaked as they perspired under their heavy winter clothing. This feminine incantation did nothing to bring health back into Ahanu’s dying bones.
And so it was that despite the improbable, lopsided victory over the Mi’kmaq, the mood of the people was utterly somber. Ahanu’s popularity among the Beiuthook was evident as the chatter of the village sank to a low level as if settling like the heavy silt of a river.
When Kesegowaase and Nootau emerged from the chief’s large mamateek to announce that Ahanu would forevermore hunt with Glooskap, the women wept openly. Hurit was among them, but I found that she preferred the company of other women when I moved to comfort her. She and her new daughter-in-law walked humming a tune I did not know. Its pitch rose and fell in a haunting melody that made me feel that I walked through a valley and over a hill, only to discover more of the same in the distance.
The men were strong, almost stoic, showing a cold, stone face to mask their emotions. Kesegowaase, Ahanu’s only living heir, stood firm, despite his youth. I remembered all the weeping I had done as a youth and young man when death seemed to constantly knock on the longhouse door. By this time, however, I had seen so much death that one more could not move me – even someone I loved as much as Ahanu. To die meant life and to live meant death. It was so, and I would never change such ways of this world. We think we can change things when we are young. We think that if only we live in peace, then life will go on forever. It does not. We believe that if only we kill our enemies, then we can set up a good, honest kingdom. This works until the good king dies, then his evil son takes the throne and the killing starts again. So again I say to have life means there will be death. To have death means there must have been life.
I awoke and returned to life from the frozen depths of Hel in the midst of Ahanu’s worsening illness. My eyes shot open with a start only a fraction of a heartbeat after I became conscious. I was supine and naked with an equally naked Hurit atop me rubbing my entire body with her hands. We were both in my mamateek underneath a heaping pile of pelts, so many it looked like neighbors had brought more from their stores to us. The normally small, smoky fire was raging enough that I worried I may die from burns rather than the frost that prickled my fingers. Right Ear was staring at me, his head between his front paws, blinking his eyes in an uneven manner so one would close and open a split second ahead of the other. The sight of him made me chuckle.
Hurit then realized I was awake and pulled her head so that it was directly
above mine. She was weeping and smiling at the same time. I have said that women confuse me. They do. “Why do you cry?” I asked as I began to remember all that happened, the battle, the ice, the swimming, Kesegowaase. “Kesegowaase. Does he live?”
The woman cried all the more, and I knew that he was dead. Her head turned back and forth and she snorted like a boar of the forest to clear her nose. “Yes. He lives. He lives because of you, fool.”
My head was cloudy. “He lives? Then we’ve won and we all live. I think that is three times I’ve saved that little bastard’s life. Why do you cry?”
“You should shut your mouth husband,” was all she said before kissing my forehead, eyes, and mouth. This went on for some time until it settled into a constant squeeze with Hurit’s head on my shoulder. We lay for a long time not saying anything to one another. I stared at the roof, she at the fire. Then we slept.
The next morning when I was well enough to raise myself from beneath the covers and stretch while Ahanu struggled, sweat, and pissed in his home, Hurit gave me a gift. She had awakened in the night, letting me sleep. The woman worked away with a knife on a small piece of firewood, carving a doll of me. The doll’s face was round, devoid of any real detail to establish it as a representation of her husband, but Hurit carved a long tunic etched with a cross on the chest. My arms on the doll were tight at my sides, looking more like stubs left from one-too-many battles. In truth the doll itself more closely resembled a bishop or priest, but since she had never laid eyes on either type of men, it was obvious who the doll was meant to be.
The woman saw the utter confusion on my face as I turned it over in my hands which were still tingling from the wretched cold to which they were subjected. “I saw that carving waiting to be released from the stick when I woke up to rebuild the fire. I couldn’t sleep until I had it finished.”
I said that I was thankful for the present. My woman said, “It is for you, but only for now. I expect you to give it to your son when he is born when the leaves fall and the frost returns.” My brow furrowed in confusion. “Your son, as in, I am pregnant from your seed.”
I laughed and then smiled while gripping the doll in my fingers. I looked on the carving, studying it, thinking about the new life growing inside Hurit. Would the baby live? Would I finally be blessed by Providence to receive such a gift as a son? I dared not think of such wonderful thoughts. But I cared not to burden Hurit with my fears of hers and the baby’s possible death.
“The boy will grow strong. He will be a warrior. He will play with this doll when he is a child then eat it to become a man.”
Hurit frowned at my attempt to show my confidence in the baby’s strength. “I suppose he’ll defecate chips of wood as well?” We both laughed.
It was that day that Hurit covered her face in charcoal. It was a mere four days later when Ahanu died and the men all put charcoal on their faces. I did not know what to do, so I rubbed it across my forehead and cheeks as well. It itched, only a little.
Ahanu’s body was left in his mamateek next to a burning fire for three days before we buried him. Nootau oversaw the women as they prepared the chief. He was cleaned then dressed in his finest hunting clothing – a fresh pair of soft makizins, leggings, and a deer-hide tunic. His head was cleanly shaven except for the tuft of hair at the top that all the warriors wore. Any stray whiskers were plucked with a pair of mollusk tweezers. Every bit of his head and face were meticulously covered in the red ochre paste so that Glooskap could recognize one of his own people when Ahanu came to permanently stay in the spirit world, hunting for eternity.
In my old age, now scratching my stories out on my homemade parchment while remembering the details as if it were but a week ago, I find that I receive much pleasure from mumbling the name of my old friend the chief. You see, once Ahanu died, his people no longer would speak his name. I followed their tradition since I was a guest in their camp, so it has been many, many years since I’ve uttered the name Ahanu. It was meant to be a sign of respect for the dead. I thought it very strange, almost opposite of respect. In my mind, demonstrating respect would involve repeating the name of the dead, reliving his life by telling his tales. Since Kesegowaase was a man not even yet in his prime, full of life, many of the al gumna kyn would refer to Ahanu as “the grandfather of Kesegowaase.” Others remembered some other relationship or lineage and would call him the “brother-in-law to so-and-so” or “uncle of whomever.” Some grimaced, but I called him the Laughing Chief. In his tongue my name for him was a variation of his own given name, but I probably abused my guest rights in this case.
Etleloo’s men and Rowtag’s band of hunters returned on the day of Ahanu’s death. Several runners were sent out to find both roving groups in order to hasten their return. We still did not know the true intention of all the Mi’kmaq men invading the lands of Ahanu so it was deemed best to bring the warriors back. For their part the hunters reported seeing signs of a large ensemble of travelers crossing the snow, but never saw them. They tracked the party back until the trail led deep into Mi’kmaq territory. That is where the runners found the hunters, before bringing them back home.
The battle and war were not discussed during the three days while we mourned for Ahanu. Men and women went about their business until the morning sun of the third day rose and the snow began to melt under its heat. Ahanu was carefully set upon a sled towed by Kesegowaase and some of the other young men who had recently undergone the trials. The chief’s favorite pipe was tucked in a bag on his shoulder. His right hand clutched a small hatchet. A bow, decorated with many colors, was held in his left hand. A quiver full of newly fletched arrows, tipped with perfectly shaped stone arrowheads was bound to his chest. The women lined the main path and wept as he was dragged past them, out of the village. Only a small group of men including all of those on the council accompanied the sled. I was allowed to follow.
We walked across the river in the path we cleared for our recent, great victory. The hole in the ice had already frozen over solid in the days since the battle so the sled glided easily along. Despite the snowshoes we all wore, the going was slow as the sled sunk in the softening snow, cracking through a thin layer of ice that sat atop the heavy white sludge beneath. All the young men were winded by the time we traveled about an English mile from the village.
We were heading to a hillside where large icicles, some as big around as a man’s arm, dripped erratically. In the spring miniature waterfalls would inhabit these tiny crevices, but in winter they were suspended in time, only now beginning to break free one drop at a time. I thought that it might be fitting that Ahanu died as we drew closer to the equinox when the daylight overtook the darkness, bring growth once again. To have death was to have life.
We snaked our way, criss-crossing, up the hillside until we paused at a great tree. The tree was a monster, gnarled and old, now mostly hollow. I was such a big man then, but I believe that tree was wider than my outstretched arms – a colossal beast that had seen so many summers and winters as to have certainly outlived any man I had ever known – except perhaps me now. The snow still lay heaped all around its base, but the massive twisting roots jutted out, then back into, the white for many ells up and down the hill. Hassun, always faithfully helping, bent under one of these arching tentacles and brushed the icy covering away. He revealed a neatly stacked door of rocks. Scores of stones about the size of two fists enshrouded the entrance to a cave.
When his work was done he crouched down and crawled in. So did Rowtag. All I could see of them were the two arms the stuck out to receive the cord of the sled which Kesegowaase knowingly set in place. Etleloo and I pushed the sled while the cave-dwellers pulled. Soon the sled was enveloped by the darkness. I bent down to look in but I was blinded by the bright sunlight reflecting off the snow and could not see a soul or any outline in the dark.
The men scratched around inside, saying nothing, then one-by-one emerged, leaving the dead man and sled inside. Hassun restacked the stones while most
of the men looked on. Some looked off into the distance, looking at some tree in the valley below or watched a cold hawk circling on the air currents. All of them were silent. All of them still. I respected their traditions and remained so as well. I watched Hassun, his muscled hands working to put the stones in place to keep scavengers at bay. When he was finished he rose with a handful of snow. He rubbed it into his hands to clean the mud and grime from them. The dirty remnants fell to his feet.
I expected Nootau or another one of the elders on the council to give some talk now, but no speeches came. Instead, the quiet men went in reverse order back down the narrow path we had taken to reach that spot on the hill. I looked over my shoulder once to catch a glimpse of the magnificent tree and the final resting place of the man I called friend. Behind me walked Etleloo, the fiercest of their warriors. His red-painted face was streaked with the tears that showed he would miss his chief. I looked up and away quickly so that I would not embarrass him or cause him any shame. There was no shame, of course, but he was a man, not a child and it would do no good to have another man notice he cried.
. . .
“A thrall takes revenge at once, but a fool never takes revenge!” I shouted completely out of turn. Others around the council fire argued and shouted as well. Nootau gave me an angry glare.
“I do not know what this thrall is. Please tell us.” I was not seated in the inner ring of the council and so had to be recognized to speak at all. “At least now you have permission.”
The other men quieted down to hear what I said. “A thrall is a slave. Like the captives you take from your enemies. You force them to work for you against their will. You keep them laborers, prisoners.”
