Norseman Chief

by Born, Jason

  By evening we heard the first human voices we had heard in days. The Mi’kmaq men, knowing they were so close to the boundary, at first spoke to one another in hushed tones in their campsite. They did not strike a fire that night. Instead, they gnawed on dried pieces of meat for their evening meal. There were four, all of them young, coming from the village of our enemies as shown by their dress. From their voices I guessed them to have lived perhaps fifteen years. The small light offered from above showed they had only a tattoo or two with much empty skin. They would have been too young to participate in any of last battles against Kesegowaase’s people.

  The men had certainly been constructing animal traps that day for their handiwork was lying in an untidy heap nearby. When one of them told a joke and their voices rose for a time, from our hiding place I whispered, “Brother, these are not thieves for whom we search. They’ll be placing those traps all day tomorrow. We should make time tonight and leave them behind. We’ll be to their own Pohomoosh village before they will.”

  Etleloo thought for a time, waiting for another chance to answer. Another joke and a fart from one of the young men brought uproarious laughter. I thought their earlier vigilance was wasted now that they carried on in such a way. Etleloo took his chance, “I do not like the idea of leaving an enemy at my back.”

  “You are right, but it is a time of truce. We are not at war. If we hope to make it through their land and beyond all the way to the Fish, we must not start our killing here.”

  Etleloo chewed on his cheek while nodding. I think he counted the four Mi’kmaq that night as scalps that would have to wait for another time before they graced his lodge.

  With great pains, we backed away from their camp. It took much of the night to circle around them and regain our heading toward the interior of their lands. We put two great hills between us and the Mi’kmaq trappers before we found a place to rest. With sworn enemies surrounding us, we would take turns sleeping from now until we set foot back into the land of the Beiuthook. Etleloo was first to close his eyes that night.

  While he slept, I sat a short distance away recovering my strength from the days’ travels. It was on that rock, placed there by the One God for my rest, I think, that I wept.

  What kind of man cries in the woods, sword in hand, with the night around him? A coward I suppose. A man who is fearful? What did I fear? And how could I fear anything? I had lived through the most gruesome battles man has seen, what could I fear? If a Mi’kmaq axe fell upon me that very night, I would have lived longer than most of my countrymen – Norse and Algonkin alike. I didn’t fear death, you see. No, I wept like a child with blinking eyes and tears dampening my cheeks for my Alsoomse, my Skjoldmo.

  It was sentimental, I know – something beneath me, to be sure. I told myself at first that I went on the path of war, to bring back honor to my new people, to prove that no one, certainly not the Mi’kmaq heifers, could take what was not theirs and not expect swift justice. They would never lay their hands on the child of our chief, even if it was a mere girl, and avoid death. They would never touch the daughter of our fiercest, most loyal warrior, Etleloo, and survive.

  But sitting on the seat the One God prepared for me that night, I knew that those were what Hurit would call my pride markings. All men had them she said. We wore them like tattoos. Some women carried these markings, but men, we were more susceptible to pride than anything. I told myself these honorable stories about my motivations for going after the Fish because I was a foolish, prideful man. I was like the man, Samson, from the One God’s book. Oh, he had pride in his strength and in his ability to disregard his oaths to God. He thought he could control whatever came his way from his enemies. He could not. I could not. In the end, I left Hurit sitting back in the village because I missed my child, my baby girl.

  So I watched and listened and sniffed the forest that night with childish tears. Rather than awaken Etleloo or alert a human predator with a pronounced sniffle, I let the wet snot slip into my beard and wiped it away occasionally with my bare hand. My girl, my Skjoldmo would come back to her people. I may be killed or she may not survive, but my girl, my Skjoldmo would not live among the Fish.

  . . .

  I had only been to the Pohomoosh village of our nearby enemies once while the sun shone brightly. That was when we struck the truce many years earlier. Of course I had been there in battle, but those were fast and fearsome contests struck at dawn or dusk when their women shrieked and their men bled.

  Today the village hummed with controversy. Etleloo and I had waited on a bluff overlooking the Mi’kmaq town until the sun was high and our shadows small. That morning their people went about their business much like Ahanu’s people did. From far away they looked an awful lot like my new people, but to say such things out loud would bring shock and anger to my companion, unnecessarily. Making all sorts of racket we walked straight to them, snapping sticks, talking loudly, our weapons away, our hands free. Despite our obvious attempts to warn them of our presence, we were past the second hut before a call came to bring the village to full alert. And that was the beginning of the day’s controversy.

  At first the women screamed and scattered away, hustling children in front of them or dragging them by an outstretched arm. Some of the young ones cried, others fought the tugging of their mother to catch a glimpse of the Red Man and his tall, strange ally. Soon the men came in force cutting us off from further progress. They held out spears and axes. Some even drew their bows back with arrows lightly strung, ready to skip through the air into our bare chests. I hoped these archers had firm grips because nothing would bring our peaceful entry to a halt like a Mi’kmaq bowman with a set of greasy fingers.

  These men looked at us and we looked at them. It was likely best to let them study us and come to their own conclusions rather than tell them we were alone and then have them disbelieve the truth. A fearsome man with many tattoos in the style of his people shouted to a group of his braves, “Go! Search the forest for signs of their band.” A handful of men ran past us, one of them intentionally brushing against Etleloo with force. The man received a surprise in my grey-haired friend’s strength and stopped almost in his tracks. Etleloo looked at the young warrior and brought a balled fist across the man’s nose.

  He crumpled and then the rocks began pelting us. The older children had filed in behind and among the men and launched stones at the two of us. Most missed the mark badly but two or three of the beasts had fair aim and brought several of them onto my trunk. I did my best not to show fear or aggression. The man Etleloo had felled got back to his feet, embarrassed, holding a badly bloodied nose which sent fat dollops of blood into the earth. He ran after his compatriots.

  Calmly I announced, “This is Etleloo, feared among his people. He keeps his weapons tied at his waist because he comes to the Mi’kmaq of the Pohomoosh village honoring the truce. I am called the Enkoodabooaoo, though I have been called tall stranger as well. My people from the north named me Halldorr, which means rock of god. We are both old warriors with no dark left upon our heads. We honor the truce however, we will change the reason for our visit and heap shame upon your people by slaughtering the lot of you if you continue to allow your young to attack us with these pebbles.”

  The fearsome man scowled but relented, “Women!” he shouted. “Control our children so they do not weaken these frail neighbors.” With more than a little complaining, the young were eventually hauled away by women or smacked back with sticks to their houses by village elders.

  “Thank you, neighbor,” I said. “We are just two men. Your brave men are free to search the forest, but they will find no others. We come to you under the truce.”

  “Of course our people are free to search the land of our own great sachem. We do not need permission from the likes of you,” answered the fearsome one. He wore leggings which were covered in brambles as if he had just been out tracking a kill that morning. Becoming more engaged in the conversation now, he slammed the butt of his s
pear into the ground by his feet. Now to Etleloo, “Your name is known to me. Why do you let the tall stranger speak for you? Are you his pet?”

  I wanted to put a hand on my angry friend’s shoulder to temper his response, but that would only confirm the fearsome one’s suspicions. Etleloo answered, “Etleloo is no man’s pet. He strides with freedom over all the earth. He climbs the highest hills and even walks among the lowest dung as he has today in your village.”

  The fearsome man’s face flushed. Angry shouts came from his men who demanded that we be killed. He waved his free hand, “Quiet. My people will not react to the loose words of one so old and decrepit as this Etleloo. It is a shame to see one who was once so strong reduced to such weakness.”

  I took up the verbal sparring. “It would be unwise to underestimate this man’s strength even today. But you may if you wish. You mustn’t deny his cunning, though. He walked past your young, attentive sentries at the border of our two lands. Etleloo walked right up and told them a joke as they lounged about a host of traps. He was gone before their confused laughter ceased. Etleloo walks directly into your village as if he were an elder of your people. He strolls where he pleases, I’d not judge him if I were you. Now, we come under truce and seek to speak with your council.”

  The young warriors who had been searching the surrounding trees came rushing back. One of them shouted, “No tracks or sign of anyone else. There is a butchered deer hanging from the old maple. It is still warm. Fresh this morning.”

  The fearsome man looked at us. “A gift to your sachem,” I said.

  “Huh. A gift of his own deer.”

  “Ahh, you are right. This deer is from his lands. Yet it was stalked and killed and butchered by visitors. All this was done for your sachem. Not a rib was taken.”

  The man was frustrated having lost at every turn in dealing with these two old warriors before him. After a low growl he said, “You will wait.” The man turned, leaving us standing in the village path with his warriors looking on. Some of them, disappointed in the lack of blood-letting, had already lowered their weapons. Others stood firm, trying their best to impress some young woman who happened to be looking on. Etleloo gave me a smile.

  When it became clear the fearsome one was going to be gone for a time, I questioned with an outstretched arm if we may rest on a nearby log. Since no one moved to stop us, we ambled to sit. Time passed. Etleloo and I spoke not. A few of the strongest Mi’kmaq warriors tired of standing around and stepped away, careful to explain to the men remaining that the responsibility of guarding the two old men now fell to them. It wasn’t long until another batch of the more senior warriors became bored, deciding they had better pursuits to occupy their time. At last four young men, aged about sixteen years, were all that remained guarding us.

  It was more than a little humiliating that no one thought us a serious threat. A part of me wanted to cut all four of these young men in half with a single stroke from my sword, just to prove that all of Kesegowaase’s people should be considered a potential menace. Etleloo likely turned over the same images in his mind, but to his credit, he put our mission ahead of his pride. “Hmmph!” I said out loud, smiling as I thought that I should tell Hurit about our little victory over a man’s pride. Etleloo and our guards turned to see why I broke the silence. I shook my head, showing I had nothing to say.

  As the fearsome one talked to his leaders deep in the village somewhere, the tribe began to return to their normal activities. It was mostly the women and children who began to re-emerge in force, seemingly from the earth and trees around us. Their strong arms and backs carried buckets of water or lugged firewood into their mamateeks. A group of them, some with infants strapped to their backs, walked by, careful to keep the guards between them and us. I stole a glance at them and thought they were pretty enough women. One of them in particular was blessed with a smooth complexion, ruddy cheeks, and hair blacker than a raven. Our eyes met for a brief instant and she turned her gaze to the ground, frightened.

  “Ugly she-wolves,” Etleloo mumbled. I said nothing for I thought they looked an awful lot like the people of Kesegowaase. But Etleloo was likely correct. He had lived among these and his own people for his entire life and would be able to distinguish the slightest differences that made one tribe beautiful and the next homely. For me, I was uncertain I could tell what was attractive and what was not when it came to women. I fell in love with women with a fair complexion or with a dark complexion, with red hair or with black hair, with sumptuous breasts or with ribs protruding. I fell in love with women.

  Shortly after those women moved from sight, a band of chattering girls, most perhaps six years of age, came walking by heading in the opposite direction. They, too, kept their distance. Each carried a small deer-hide pouch, folded like a sheet of parchment. I knew that between those folds the girls carried their bone needles and multiple types of thread for creating or mending clothing. Perhaps their mothers had sent them to a mamateek to work on a batch of clothing together, I thought.

  A dozen or more steps behind these girls followed a poor, dirty soul. She was about the same age as the others, but teetered under the weight of a pile of hides that someone had set upon her head and shoulders. I say that someone placed them there because the mass would have been too large for her to hoist from the ground on her own. Her path was winding as she continuously reoriented her way to prevent the tipping pile from falling into the mud at her feet – feet that were bare, unlike all the other girls, and filthy. The girl’s lower legs were splattered with fresh wet mud. Her upper legs caked with dried, cracking mud. Her simple dress was newly made – I could tell by the seams – yet proved to be equally as dirty as her feet. Her face was obscured by the load she bore until a rapid succession of steps to bring the mound back into balance brought her straight toward us. It was the daughter of our chief. It was Kimi, Kesegowaase’s daughter!

  Again I wanted to run my sword through the young guards. I wanted to snatch up the girl, chop down her captors and run to where they kept my own little Alsoomse. The Fish tribe must have sold these girls to our enemy, I thought. I breathed out heavily, thinking that our sly plan of coming to our enemies and asking permission to cross their lands to retrieve our daughters was beginning to look foolish indeed. I had only wanted to eliminate one more risk – Pohomoosh at our backs – from our journey.

  I spit onto the ground between my legs. “Shit,” I muttered. This time they all ignored my mutterings.

  But it was too late to worry about what would happen. Our plan was already in motion. The fearsome one was striding toward us with a mighty scowl pasted onto his face, a few of his best men at his heels. The girl staggered away after her giggling captors.

  At the same time a group of four young men came into the village from the same direction Etleloo and I had come. It was the trappers we saw some days earlier returned with several fresh pelts to lay at the feet of their chief. They arrived at our spot on the path before the fearsome one and halted, confused by what they saw in us and their men.

  The ferocious warrior veered his path for several steps and snapped off a thin branch from a nearby tree with his axe. He directed his followers to do the same. After doing so, each of them re-doubled their efforts to stride to us.

  The young trappers opened their mouths to inquire of their leader, but before they could utter even a single word their leaders fell upon them with those green sticks. Small leaves were budding at the ends. Some of them snapped off, others left small welts on the crouching youths. The fresh, clean pelts fell into the muck and when the young men tried to scatter, our guards helped by kicking them back to the ground. Neither Etleloo nor I moved during the beating.

  They were whipped and whipped and whipped until their forearms, ears, cheeks, backs, buttocks, everything was lined with streaks of blood. They looked like a careful scribe had found a new red ink and took up his quill on each man in turn. One of them wept and questioned the reason for the beating. This made the othe
rs turn more of their attention to him. He would be sorry he ever opened his mouth. They began kicking him like he was an air-filled bladder and they played some athletic game. Time and again they brought their heels onto his head or into his chest and belly.

  Then as quickly as it began, the whipping stopped. The ferocious one threw his stick, which was now considerably shorter with a frayed end, onto the heap of men like he discarded something distasteful. As he stood there catching his breath, I thought about our predicament.

  If we survived our meeting with the village elders – I was confident we would be granted a meeting – Etleloo and I could change our plans. But we might not survive. Perhaps the Fish already had the ear of this chief and would see a fine, tortuous death brought to two old men yet this very day. Or perhaps the Fish had moved on to their lands, the Kespe’keweq, but the thought of us barging into this village to retrieve our poor girls would bring dishonor to us. The local Mi’kmaq chief may just order our deaths out of disdain.

  None-too-pleased, the fearsome man panted, “You will come with me.” His forehead was damp with sweat.

  Back to the plan. I slapped Etleloo’s knee as I rose, “See there, mighty Etleloo? I told you there would be no reason for us to kill these fine people. Even they can be reasoned with.”

  Several steps in front of us the leader retorted, “Huh! What could you two feeble old women kill but a still-born skunk?” The fearsome one and his friends laughed at his joke.

  “I suppose while these two old women are gathering nuts for our tribe’s supper, we could harvest the tiny chestnuts from your groins and hammer them into your throat,” answered Etleloo. “But I suppose you’re right, that will not kill you since the tiny little shriveled things would just slide down your throats. You are used to eating such things, correct?”