Norseman Chief

by Born, Jason

  Nootau nodded, contemplating the meaning of what I said. “So this is a saying of your people? It is considered to convey some wisdom?”

  I stood ducking at the back of Ahanu’s old mamateek. I had long ago gotten used to the thick smoke and the fact that it surrounded my head caused me no discomfort. I thought that the wisdom of the old saw of my people was obvious. “Yes, it is meant to convey insight. Thralls are low, expendable trash and yet they have more sense than the fool. Revenge, when your people have been slighted or attacked is paramount. How else do you prevent a repeat of the attack?”

  We discussed what to do in response to the bold attack by the Mi’kmaq. Ahanu had been buried only the day before and Nootau called a council. When those invited had all found their assigned positions – Ahanu’s place was left empty – the discussions began in earnest. Etleloo and Hassun began shouting about launching an attack on the nearest Pohomoosh village, just a two or three day hike away. These men, who missed our recent battle, yearned to let their anger flow. Perhaps they even blamed their age-old enemy for the death of their chief. He would have died even if all was peaceful, but angry men latch on to foolish ideas.

  Another batch of men shouted about the recent victory. They said it was more than enough to show the Mi’kmaq that they made a mistake in coming for prizes or land. We had won. The tortured remains of their warriors were left at the edge of one of their hunting paths. By now the Mi’kmaq would have found them and knew that none of their finest men would return. It would be a bleak winter for them.

  That is when I shouted the saying I had heard many Norsemen say over the years. They said it when the neighbor looked crossways at someone’s wife. They used it when another king sent his own raiding force among our fjords. It was a catchall phrase, but I found it wise. Revenge served its purpose.

  The men returned to their arguing back and forth. It was clear that two main divisions were forming, one to attack, another to stay home. A third group seemed to stream back and forth between the two ends like the ebbing and flowing tides. When someone from those seeking revenge made a good point, this third group agreed with them. When someone arguing for peace made a good point, this third group changed their minds, nodding righteously in complete agreement. I wanted to rap the men in this third group over the head for they reminded me of the Church of Laodicea which was so chastised by the Son of Man for being neither hot nor cold.

  Nootau sat silently while the anger and vitriol coursed and swirled about the mamateek like the choking smoke from the fire or the sweet smoke from the four or five pipes that were lit by men of the council. The elderly medicine man – by the One God he was elderly and only about ten years older than me, soon people would refer to me as elderly – sat with his legs crossed. I do not know if he listened to the arguments hurling back and forth because soon after our exchange he closed his eyes. He seemed at complete peace while those around him became more and more agitated. After a time, Nootau brought his hands from his knees and gently interlocked his fingers at the level of his chest.

  A very long time passed with no one making any prevailing headway in the disagreement. The fire had burned down considerably and still Nootau sat. I wondered if he slept. At a brief pause in the discussion, when both sides seemed exhausted from repeating themselves for the tenth or one-hundredth time, and the undecided third group looked frantically for guidance, Kesegowaase spoke up from his standing position behind the council.

  “Our wise elder Nootau is quiet on this. I believe we should hear what his words are.” This was the first idea on which both of the polarized groups could agree and so all the men nodded, proud of themselves, as if they had thought to ask him.

  The house fell silent. We heard each other breathing and nothing else. Perhaps Nootau did sleep. Eventually, he spoke. “Thank you for asking my opinion, Kesegowaase.” His eyes remained closed. “No one recognized you to speak, but I think that the infraction is something that should be overlooked since you are the only one in the room to show sound judgment. I will make certain I speak kind words about you to the chief.”

  The air was sucked out of the mamateek. Everyone’s, no matter what side of the discussion on which he resided, eyes opened wide as they realized that the old man spoke such truth with so few words. There was no chief.

  Nootau continued when it was clear no one else would be foolish enough to make a sound. The man’s eyes cracked open. He gestured with the index finger of his right hand, slowly pointing it at the men in the circle. “There are some of you who want to lash out at the Mi’kmaq. That may be the best action to take. There are some of you who want to stay in the lands of our fathers, happy to notch a fine victory on our war belts. That may be the best action to take. After you make your arguments, to whom will you bring them as the final arbiter?”

  Silence again. The men looked ashamed. “That is why I have called this council. I would have thought this body would have known that we must select a chief before we can take the path of war or peace.”

  I had thoughts of who should be chief, but decided to keep them to myself. These were not my people. Instead, I along with Nootau, waited. I grew anxious much more quickly than Nootau. My weight was soon shifting back and forth from leg to leg as if I were a child who only recently learned to recognize when he had to step away to relieve himself. Nootau sat still. At first he slowly looked around the room at the others. When no one spoke, the man settled back a little, until he found a more comfortable spot on which to sit. He waited.

  It grew so quiet that I could hear the whispers of the women and children who shirked their duties as they stood outside to eavesdrop. When the new chief was announced they would all act rightly surprised and thrilled, even though many would already know from the prying ears not one ell away.

  At long last, Rowtag shifted in his own seat as if to gain strength or courage to give a speech. All eyes fell on him before he even spoke. “Nootau has served our people well today. Kesegowaase’s grandfather would be honored.” The men all showed surprising restraint while he searched for the right words. “Nootau has demonstrated healing power and wisdom for our men and women for more seasons than some of us have lived.” A mumble of approval rose around the circle. “He has a son in Hassun who sits in this very circle of proven men. I believe it may be time to create a new line of great sachems from which our people may call our chiefs. I believe Nootau ought to lead us with his line to follow.”

  Nootau’s earlier reprimand had done much to see calm return to the group so that even those who disagreed acted as if they thoughtfully considered the idea. Many of the older warriors nodded their heads in agreement for there is much comfort in the familiar and Nootau was nothing if not familiar to them. Hassun’s face brightened at the prospect that one day he may be chief of the people, finally out of the shadows of the more renowned Etleloo and Rowtag. Indeed, it was his friend Rowtag who had given him an unexpected hope to seize upon. Nootau betrayed no emotion. There was no more discussion for a time.

  At last another young warrior, the youngest sitting on the council, cleared his throat. He was far too old to carry the fat of a baby, but his age did not seem to stop him from doing so. “Great council, I have no grudge to bring against Nootau or his line, but I believe that in this time of war. . .” then he corrected himself, “in this time with the potential for war, we must consider someone with more experience in leading men into battle against our enemies. Nootau has raised his waagaakwad to fight them, but Etleloo has led men in battle and brought back many captives and scalps to prove victory.” The pudgy young man looked as if he was going to be sick when he was done talking, his nerves turning him various shades of red.

  This suggestion brought more murmuring as the younger men, those who favored war over peace in the present situation, coalesced around Etleloo for the position of chief. Etleloo showed his version of a stone in his face, but turned to look directly at Nootau. The two men stared at one another. There was no malice, anger, happiness, o
r any other bit of emotional recognition that was exchanged as far as I could see. But it was as if each tried to ascertain what the other was thinking and what the other would do next.

  Nootau tilted his head, thinking intently as he began to nod. “Though I am younger than our former chief who now rests in the hills, I believe I am too old to faithfully serve my people. It is the way of our kind, to make way for the younger generation when the time is right. And since Rowtag named me and not my son as leader, I believe that leaves us with Etleloo as our chief to give us wisdom where we have none and strength when we falter.” Hassun audibly sighed at so quickly losing in a battle in which he did not fight. More than one of the others gave sighs of relief.

  Etleloo looked around the room at all of us. He locked eyes with me for a time before biting his cheek as he often did when thinking. “I must have the acceptance of all so that I may lead all. Do I?” The house began humming with grunts of approval or an outright yes here or there. I was beginning to respect Etleloo more and more, but he was not my choice to lead their people. I favored Rowtag – young but wise.

  “Then it will be as you say,” answered Etleloo after there were no dissenting opinions offered. “But I must share a story with you, my council. And I will ask that we fill the vacant position in our circle, where a great man sat recently. We must fill it immediately.” The older men sat prepared to hear more talk. The younger ones fidgeted because they expected Etleloo’s ferocity to lead to talk of a battle immediately, not to discuss filling a vacant seat in the council.

  “We have brought death to our enemies many times in the past and they have done the same to us. I believe you are correct that I am the man to lead us against our foes for I have spent all my years killing for supper and for the honor of my people.” He reached for the pipe of one of the older men nearby who, though he was initially surprised, gave it up willingly. Etleloo puffed on the long pipe, with its intricate carved designs painted with many brilliant colors. When he gave the pipe back to its owner, both men nodded at one another.

  “My people bring me joy. Many of you may be surprised by this because I usually show anger. I am angry at Glooskap for taking my friends much too early.” He looked in my direction. “This man was there the day of the death of my best friend, the father of Kesegowaase. I blamed him for it for a long time. Now I know that he died from an arrow shot from another good friend of mine. The one Halldorr derides as the Segonku. These men were both my friends, though they were different. The first was handsome and strong and true and showed wisdom beyond his years. The second, though he was my friend, showed none of those things in his character – though he tried desperately to pretend he carried them. In doing so he fooled none of us. He did, however, fool himself into believing his own lies. He believed himself to be the Megedagik once his father proclaimed it so. He was not.”

  I wondered where this speech was going. Looking around the smoky room, the others looked as confused, but Nootau was nodding, smiling even, as if knew what was coming. “Once a man reaches a season in his life, it best suits his people for him to know who he is, to stop lying to please others.” He seemed to be struggling with something that caused him much inner strife. “And so I believe I have reached such a season in my life. I have treated some of you poorly in the past because I carried my anger to you. It was misplaced. I’d rather carry my anger to the enemy where it will best serve my people by bringing scalps home to display at the door of this mamateek.” The young men liked where his talk was going and smiled.

  “But I will not go to war unless my chief tells me to do so. I call a man who brings with him the wisdom of his father and grandfather to serve us as our chief. I call Kesegowaase, our brave, swift warrior to lead this council in the place of his grandfather. I place the pipe of the chief in his hands. I place the axe of the chief in his hands.” As if to put an exclamation point on his ending, Etleloo struck the packed earth beneath him with a balled fist.

  MI’KMAQ & BEIUTHOOK LANDS

  Part II – Kesegowaase!

  1,021 – 1,022 A.D.

  CHAPTER 8

  The sun was nowhere to be seen. It had been dreary for three or four days in a row as I sat on a sun-bleached log that had come to live on the beach from some distant shore. It stopped raining that morning, but the sky spit for the rest of the day like a toddler learning to whistle. Thankfully, that now ceased as well.

  Etleloo tossed the gaming pieces a short distance into the air and watched intently as they tumbled over one another into the shallow, smooth bowl that sat between us. “Ha!” he shouted. “Three reds, three trees, and even the odd roll fell in my favor. It gets no better than that!” He bit his bottom lip and bobbed his head to show his enthusiasm. In all the years he and I had played what he called the “moon” game, I don’t believe I ever won. The counting and scoring was so complex that it was beyond my understanding so I usually let him keep score for both of us. Even now, he etched this round’s score into the driftwood log with his stone knife. He wore a triumphant smile. I wrinkled my nose and mouth thinking that I needed the old Scottish thrall, Fife, to help me defeat this man. That boy could work numbers.

  I swept up the pieces with my weathered hands, cupping them together and shaking so that my entire body quaked. I made it into a show, sticking my chin out to taunt my opponent before letting them fall into the basin. A hoot escaped from my mouth as I jumped to my feet. “I win!” I strutted in the sand.

  “Halldorr you didn’t win,” Etleloo mocked. But I would have none of his goading. My victory had been a long time in coming. I laughed at him. Yet he persisted, “No truthfully, you did not win.” Now my anger flashed.

  I pointed a finger at him, “Wait here. Don’t touch those. I know what I rolled.” In a moment I was back with Rowtag, the most honest man I knew among the people. Now I pointed at the game and all the countless scratching Etleloo had made on the wood. “See? I win, right?”

  Rowtag pulled his hands out of his tunic where he kept them warm against the cool weather. He stepped to where we played and didn’t even look at my most recent roll. Instead his finger danced along the series of rolls we had made, adding and subtracting the numbers in his head. The difficulty to me was that each new roll could carry a new meaning depending upon what came before it. For instance, I could roll the same three reds, three trees, and the odd just as Etleloo had done, but its value might be different for me because of my last roll. It was maddening.

  The judge stood, stuffed his hands back against the warmth of his body, and proclaimed, “Whoever has his pieces in the gaming bowl now is the loser.” He walked away before he could see me hang my head, completely deflated.

  Etleloo gathered his game and stuffed it into a satchel while rising to commend my play. “That is the closest you’ve ever come to winning. Perhaps in a few years . . .” Then he burst out laughing as he slapped my back. I pouted.

  “Oh come on friend, it is not right for a man of your years to act in such a way.” Again, he gave a devilish laugh.

  “By Malsum!” I shouted and wrapped my arms around his head, pulling it so that I squeezed it between my ribs and arm. I turned and twisted, creating more than a little heat and spooling his ears on themselves. He howled in pain, but still managed to laugh.

  “Alright. Alright. It may be sooner than that. You are close to winning.” I dropped to one knee so that he was forced down as well. Etleloo’s hands swatted backward, up at me, but never struck. It would only be a matter of time before he got angry too and grabbed my manhood to escalate the fight so I dropped him into the sand.

  He was up quickly for his age for he was probably at or over forty years old by then. Etleloo chuckled while patting the dust from his clothing. “It is true what you have told me. Never cheat a Norseman in a game of chance unless you want to have no chance of ever hunting game again.” I laughed at his paraphrasing of what I had told him many times, and we walked over to where the food was being prepared for our grand celebration.
>
  The women had come out early that day in the spitting rain to dig long pits in the sand just above the high tide line of the sea. While they dug, their children ran all around the area gathering any stray rocks or stones they could find and carried them to their mothers. The women would smile enthusiastically at the prey the little ones brought and smack their behinds to send them off for more. Soon the pits were dug, fully lined with stones.

  Hurit was among these women. She yet lived which was something that I could scarcely believe given my history with women. I did not see her while she worked that morning because I was helping the men gather clams and mussels for our feast, but I know she would have chatted away with the other women, giggling about some joke made about one of their husbands or children. My own child would have brought her countless tiny stones with which to line the pit and Hurit would have been doting, pinching a cheek before sending the child off holding the hand of Kesegowaase’s daughter, Kimi. My child would have also brought back bits of bark, dead bugs, or a trampled bird’s egg to proudly give to Hurit. My wife would have taken these items and playfully ridiculed the child for bringing the wrong items.

  My child was three years old at the time of that clambake. Two sons born of Hurit and me were long dead. The first, born in the year Kesegowaase became chief of the people, was stillborn like some of the other babies born over the years. I had come to expect this in my life and so accepted it without anger or sadness. Hurit was saddened, but proved resilient, even talking about other subjects on our way back from burying the little body in the forest. My second son, born two or three years later, survived his birth. I thought about naming him Ahanu in honor of my old friend, but decided against it while thinking of what it would mean to the village if the great chief’s namesake died prematurely. It was a wise decision and the boy’s name does not matter because he died at the age of one and one half along with several other children when a fever swept through the village after a group of captives from the northern tribes began to permanently live among us.