Norseman Chief

by Born, Jason

  I laughed mightily at that response. It was a good one. But the fearsome one had his blood up from the beatings he had just administered so his sense of humor was diminished. The swift warrior was like a cat. By the time he spun to face us, his axe was out and swinging down at Etleloo. I did not fear for my friend’s life, because his opponent was already winded and used his anger to guide him. With little effort and not much drama, Etleloo had his knife buried between the man’s ribs. I heard the stone blade grinding against the bone as my friend twisted at the handle. One of the ribs cracked, allowing Etleloo to ream out the man’s lungs, blood poured out the widening hole.

  The fierce leader’s surprised face paled as his failed blow went wide, his forearm glancing harmlessly off Etleloo’s shoulder. His companions looked on in horror, neither moving. I didn’t move a muscle. Etleloo caught the falling man’s weight in his arms like he hugged him and then uncharacteristically set him down with an almost misplaced gentleness. Before rising back to his full height, he withdrew the knife, wiped it on the dead man’s coat, and slipped it into its sheath.

  It was a miracle of the One God that the other guards reacted with their heads rather than their hearts. With eyes wide, they looked us over to ascertain our intent, shook their heads at the fallen man down in the mud, and then said, “Come, before you are killed by a crowd.”

  After stepping over the dead man, it was a short and fast walk to the chief’s mamateek. We all moved inside in a single file line with the first Pohomoosh Mi’kmaq ducking and hastening over to whisper in the chief’s ear. He perked up as if from a slumber, then quickly regained his control and showed us little in the way of emotion.

  We stood awaiting instructions near the entrance, with a small bed of coals between us and the chief. It was the same man who was chief during the last war. He was old, perhaps my age. His eyebrows were bushy things, which jutted in every possible direction like dry brittle grass at the end of summer. These made up for the thin hair atop his head. It was mostly white as you would expect, but the manner in which he pulled what was left back tightly against his head, accentuated its thin nature, making him appear even older.

  “Sit,” he said at last. A series of loud wailing calls from outside said that some women had found their dead brave. The chief dispatched two of his young men to see to the situation.

  “Etleloo and Enkoodabooaoo thank you for paying my village such a visit. I have been informed you brought me a gift of one of my own deer. Thank you for saving us the labor of the hunt.” He said this without sincerity, but such are the ways of men, saying words that the other thinks they’d like to hear rather than what you have to say.

  “We thank you for all the hospitality your people have given to us since our arrival. The gift, we thought, was fitting to a chief named Luntook,” I said.

  “Enkoodabooaoo, I should like to meet more of your people one day, I think. Perhaps some may decide to fight for the Mi’kmaq of Pohomoosh, the winners of the last war.” Etleloo’s nostrils flared and his blood ran high reminding me why I usually did the talking in place of my fiery brother.

  “It may be that someday more of my people come to these shores and the merki beyond, but that will be some time off. My native people would very much like to meet with your people as well.”

  Having covered nothing in the conversation to this point, we sat looking at one another for a time. The bed of coals was still warm, burning off the slight chill that was left in the shadows that day. I extended my hands to feel it, to let it soak into my old bones.

  “Why do you invade my lands, skulk past my sentries, and plunge into the heart of my village? Do you wish, again, to lose at war?” To the heart of the matter, now.

  I sighed and looked into Etleloo’s face. He firmed his jaw and nodded. “We seek many things from you, Chief Luntook, though war is not one of them, with nothing to offer in return.” Even saying it was difficult. It is universally known among men of all stripes that to be in another man’s debt is to be owned by him. It is as if we were coming and offering ourselves as thralls to this man, the leader of our enemy.

  “My ears await,” he said, tossing his hands in the air.

  “The Fish, your Mi’kmaq cousins from the Kespe’keweq, have passed through your lands at least twice in recent weeks – one trip out and one trip back. They have taken that which belongs to us and we seek to retrieve it.”

  Luntook chuckled, not because he thought what I said was necessarily humorous, but because of what he assumed I asked. “And you think that somehow you will win an ally in your fight against them? You are known to be wise, Enkoodabooaoo. I see that some reputations are wrongly bestowed. Have you not learned that you also fought against several men from the Fish in the last war? They were our allies when it suited us.”

  I did know that even though I had plunged my saex into many of them. “Alliance is not what we ask of you chief. We simply ask for an honoring of the truce. We seek safe, unfettered passage through your lands as we move away from our own. We will replace any provisions we take. We ask for safe passage as we pass back to our lands as well. We do not even ask for a return of the girl given to you by the Fish, she is one of little consequence.” I added the latter, hoping that he would not find out she was the daughter of our chief, a fact, if known, would cause much trouble for her as a bartering tool.

  The man considered my words, betraying no surprise that I knew he possessed one of the hostages. I hoped his next words would tell me where the other two girls now tread. “And this mission to retrieve your property, your Chief Kesegowaase sends you two old men rather than his young band of braves?”

  I shook my head, “He does not. We travel without his blessing.”

  The Mi’kmaq chief of the Pohomoosh considered this for a time, likely surprised by my honesty. “So the party of Kesegowaase’s people that flooded into my land last night is not part of your mission?” He now saw my surprise and added, “Enkoodabooaoo and Etleloo are not the only hunters with eyes in the forest. Kesegowaase’s warriors come for you?”

  I turned this information in my mind. I did not think it likely that our chief changed his mind and sent men to aid our effort to retrieve a few girls. At last, Etleloo and I nodded that we agreed with his guess.

  A wicked smile curled on the man’s lips. He even gave a wicked laughed, deep and rolling. “By helping you, I will send an arrow into your chief’s heart, reminding him that the Pohomoosh, the most powerful Mi’kmaq clan can control his people more than he can.”

  It pained me to admit that he was correct, but I held my chin as high as I could despite the fact that I felt traitorous. “Your silence Enkoodabooaoo and your silence Etleloo tells me I am correct. You’ll have safe passage. Our cousins the Fish left us the girl as a tribute for crossing our land. In addition to whatever “property” you seek, they had two more girls with them. They were bound at the wrists with leather straps and dragged like dogs.”

  I wanted to take one of my silver armrings and beat his face until it was swollen beyond recognition the way he spoke of my daughter being tied so. But I did not for I had a mission.

  Etleloo and I stood, eager to get moving. As I stretched away the stiffness that had settled into my joints, Etleloo asked, “What will you do about Kesegowaase’s men coming into your land?”

  He thought on the subject just a heartbeat. “I suppose we’ll come up behind them and see them killed.”

  Traitor. This word pounded in my skull. If I heard it over and again, my friend Etleloo would have heard it like the shriek of a bird of prey, piercing his ear before its long, curved talons snatched away his flesh. We were traitors, selfish traitors, breaking our honor among our people for daughters. Daughters were as common as a frog in the swamp. Any weak man could spill his weak seed into a sickly, thin woman and make one. Before the One God came to us, my Norse brothers would frequently smash the head of a newborn girl upon the rocks to eliminate another mouth to feed. They were nothing special and here I was
abandoning my life-pursuit of obedience for an ordinary girl. But mine was no ordinary girl. She was Alsoomse. She was Skjoldmo. She was my daughter and I would kill my stepson Kesegowaase if I had to in order to retrieve her. I was a traitor, but my heart was hard and I would not waver.

  Not caring if the Mi’kmaq chief overheard I said to Etleloo, “Friend, this path we take to war is one that means the sacrifice of your name among your people. If you wish to turn back now, it is not too late. You could get to our band of warriors and warn them of what evil awaits.”

  The burden was heavy on his heart, but without hesitation, he grabbed my shoulder. “I’ll not have you going off alone, brother.” He cast a sideways glance at Luntook. “You are not the only man who has lost “property” to these Fish.”

  We ducked to leave the mamateek when the old chief called to us, “There is one more item we must discuss.” He was a decent negotiator, this Luntook. “One of the finest warriors of my people was killed not ten strides away from my home.” He held up his hand to stop my protest. “I understand that it was he who attacked you after I gave him the order to bring you to me for council, but how can I let a murderer, a foreign murderer, pass by unpunished?”

  There was nothing to say. The man had his mind made up of whatever he wanted from us. To argue would only bring about more pain. Etleloo and I would take whatever Luntook gave us, adapt to whatever befell us.

  “So you agree that I must do something? That is good. Since I and my people are fair-minded, I leave it up to you both to decide which one of you will remain behind among my people for a time.” We gave him no satisfaction, no response. “I can see that you should talk about this topic. I will excuse myself and tend to the work of my village. Take your time. No need to tell me your decision, the one who stays must only turn himself over to these men here.”

  The chief walked around the ashes and coals toward the door. Etleloo stepped into his path so the man nearly tumbled into my friend. “We do not need to use words to make this choice. We have decided that I will stay behind to answer for your warrior. Let it never be said that Etleloo was afraid of what the Mi’kmaq people may do to him. You have granted us safe passage; the Enkoodabooaoo will take that right for us both.”

  “Etleloo, you are younger and have a much better chance at retrieving what was lost on your own than I do on mine.”

  “No. I drilled out that man’s breath and blood and I will pay for it. You have your steel and patience and mind. I possess none of those things. You will save my daughter too.”

  CHAPTER 10

  I killed Etleloo that day.

  I sit here writing this account while snapping quill after quill in my whitening grip, my arm barely long enough for me to see my own scribbles in focus. Years later, I am angry. It was the right thing to do, to kill him, but I lament the series of decisions that led me to end his life. Where did the chain of decisions begin? Was it agreeing to stay married to Hurit? Or was it earlier, when I befriended Ahanu? Or was it earlier still when I agreed to come on a damned adventure with Leif? Or was it even earlier when I saved Leif from Bjarni’s tired swing of his sword?

  Bitterness. That is what I feel when I think about that day. Anger and bitterness. What else does an old man have left, but the two?

  He was my friend and I killed Etleloo that day.

  The Mi’kmaq chief saw him tossed into custody while I remained standing in shock in the mamateek, forgotten, left alone. The warriors took out the anger of their youth on him. After I ducked out of the short door into the sunlight I watched helplessly as they kicked Etleloo on. His weapons were already taken, by whom I know not. They poked him with spears or used the blunt butt ends to drive him. His nose seemed dislocated with a bright red stream of blood snaking into his mouth. When he bared his teeth at them I saw that the red had mixed with his saliva and turned a deep pink that outlined his teeth.

  Soon he was tied tightly between two trees, his left wrist and ankle to one, his right wrist and ankle to the other. What should I do, I wondered? What could I do?

  I knew the answer was nothing as they began his torture. There were no fancy or crafty or fox-like plans I would fall upon hidden in the depths of my mind. He would die an awful death. I knew that too.

  A tall Pohomoosh warrior strode to the cord that bound Etleloo’s right wrist. The man held a simple stick, whittled smooth. It was about one and one half ells in length and the diameter of two fingers placed side-by-side. It would be a wicked beating.

  But it was not a beating. It was much more subtle in its pain delivery for the stick never touched my friend’s body. About half-way between Etleloo’s hand and the tree, the warrior worked the stick between the two tightly wound cords that acted as Etleloo’s prison. Then I knew what was coming. Slowly, deliberately the warrior began turning the stick to wrap the cords more and more tightly around one another. At first the stick turned easily and Etleloo hid the discomfort behind a cold face made of ice. But very soon the stick began finding increasing resistance.

  All the while a woman, likely the fierce one’s wife, stood weeping loudly heaping insult after insult onto Etleloo. She called him every foul creature in the woods. She said despicable things about him, his family, and his people. Some other women came to offer their support and the lot of them threw rocks at him. The rock throwing soon stopped as some of their aims were not accurate and so they struck the torturer.

  The cords slowly shortened. Etleloo’s muscles began showing strain as they rippled to hold his joints together. His torso began to move closer to the right tree, hair by tortuous hair. The warrior began to show the extent of his work long before Etleloo allowed his face to show weakness. The torturer’s own muscles flexed as he heaved then held, heaved then held the stick around its cord axis.

  After a time he was pulled so far that Etleloo’s left foot was lifted from the ground. He sang one of his tribe’s war songs to take his mind from the pain and to not give the Mi’kmaq satisfaction. In an undulating chant, he sang:

  Glooskap, Glooskap, Glooskap

  You bring, you bring, you bring

  Glooskap, Glooskap, Glooskap

  You sing, you sing, you sing

  Glooskap, Glooskap, Glooskap

  Battle, battle, battle

  Glooskap, Glooskap, Glooskap

  Victory, victory, victory

  He repeated the song several times until I heard a terrible pop. It was his arm, of course, coming out of its socket at the shoulder, but the sharpness and lingering ringing of the sound in my ear nearly brought the contents of my stomach up and out. When my senses recovered I saw that his face of stone had crumbled. He made not a sound, but his mouth opened and closed like a fish that is set upon the shore. I think he wanted to shout and bring curses on them, but he fought with his own mind and will to keep silent. His eyes were clenched, sending wrinkles all the way back through his temples until they disappeared into his hair.

  Then, as quickly as the torture began, it ceased. The warrior stepped to one side and let the taut cord unwrap the stick in a blinding, whirring flurry until the stick fell harmlessly, unceremoniously to the ground with a dead thud. He retrieved his device and then marched off with his comrades to prepare for a likely battle with Kesegowaase and his people. The widow walked up to Etleloo and drew the edge of a sharp rock across his cheek. My friend was back into his place of strength and did not even turn away while a streak of blood was drawn. She spit in his eye and then walked off with the other women. Two boys with spears were posted to watch over him.

  Perhaps I should have gone to him. I could have spoken words of encouragement. I could have sliced those two pathetic boys open and carried Etleloo to freedom. But I did neither. My mission, our mission was to save two daughters of two great warriors. Rescuing Etleloo would only bring the full might of the Pohomoosh Mi’kmaq war party upon us. In the end we would die and our daughters would remain in the captivity of the Fish.

  Completely disregarded by them now, I walked into an
empty mamateek nearby. I replenished my supplies, stuffing dried foods and nuts into my rucksack. I had no intention of paying them back. I doubted they’d care. Two or three bundles of Pohomoosh arrows hung from a twisted post. One of them found its way into my grasp.

  I walked out of the village of our old enemies at the opposite end from which we had entered. Two young, naked boys fought like wildcats in the mud and dust. They struggled over the bark shield that had once been carried by my Skjoldmo. My broad hands grasped the gnarled hair on each of their heads and I picked them both up. They writhed and fought me, scratching at my arms with nails black with filth. I wanted to rap them both together and retrieve Skjoldmo’s shield so I had a gift when I rescued her, but I stopped short.

  Getting to be an old man was awful. It was like I had become a eunuch I was so tender. One of the boys caught my glance with his eyes, only briefly, but it was enough. He had dark eyes, surrounded by the whitest whites I had ever seen. A lone tear crawled out and fell down his face. I swore. I am not sure to whom I swore, but I know I did. I threw the dirty creatures back to the ground where they rapidly jumped to their feet.

  I strode off into the forest. I looked back on the scene several times. The two boys had watched me go, frozen to their places, not uttering a peep, not running to their mother. By the time I looked back the last time, they had returned to their frantic wrestling as if I had never touched them.

  I didn’t go far, however. Two of the stolen Pohomoosh arrows shot from my bow helped me get a feel for their weight and flights. I retrieved them from the earth at the end of a clearing before circling back to the village.

  Men of fighting age were assembling in several bands to prepare to meet Kesegowaase and his people, my people, the Beiuthook, the Algonkin. These warriors pressed a forehead to their oldest male child who would act as leader of their household while the father was away making war. They whispered in low-pitched voices to their sons. Words of encouragement, words of warning, words of strength were exchanged. Women began a rhythmic chant calling down protection from the Great Spirit for their men.