The Nor'Wester

by David Starr

  “Business like staying alive, I’d wager,” La Malice hisses as we pack up our things. “They must know something we don’t. I don’t like the thought of travelling through country even a chief is scared of.”

  For once, La Malice is right. It is very odd that Xlo’sem would leave us, especially after promising to accompany us to the coast with the slave as our guide. It is difficult to read these people’s intentions, and Fraser just shakes his head when he hears what has happened.

  Because Fraser’s leg still bothers him, we traverse slowly along a rough track, carved through wild country high above the river. Always in sight but impossible to approach, the river flows deep and furious within the iron walls of the deep canyon, impassable as ever. Although he speaks little of it, I know that Fraser’s disappointment is growing, as is the dissent among the men. They walk, sullenly, in little knots of twos and threes, muttering to each other, casting dark glances at Fraser, and at us.

  We walk all day, pausing only to refill our waterskins at the few small creeks that tumble down from the mountains. As the sun sets behind rapidly thickening clouds we stop to set up camp. “Our new companions have been very gracious,” says Fraser, “but we’ll find out just how friendly they really are when we reach their village tomorrow.”

  I wake to the steady patter of rain on my blanket. I shake off the morning cold, shivering in the damp air. Fog shrouds the mountains and canyon walls. It’s the coldest it has been since leaving Fort George. By late afternoon, however, the weather clears. Streams of pale sunlight cut through the clouds, revealing a settlement sitting high on a bluff above the junction of two rivers.

  The river we’ve been following runs fast, brown and heavy with silt. The new one, however, sparkles silver and green in the waning sun.

  We arrive at the village and are quickly surrounded by hundreds of smiling men, women and children. Delicious smelling food roasts on the many campfires, and once we are settled down, I am soon able to dip into the huge wooden bowls with my hands until I’m stuffed. “This is fantastic,” I exclaim, my mouth full of a fish that Duyunun calls sturgeon.

  Fraser is cautious in his response. “I must admit it’s nice to be treated like this, lad, but I’ll reserve judgment on these people until later. Those who wear the brightest smiles sometimes carry the sharpest knives.” Despite Fraser’s initial suspicions, it’s apparent we are guests of honour. We soon relax, feeling safe in the company of our hosts.

  The evening sun hangs low above the western mountains as the large moon climbs into the sky. Fires blaze brightly, and the people of the village assemble in anticipation of the celebration to come. When everyone is seated, the Grand Chief stands and raises his hand.

  The crowd falls silent. He’s a tall noble-looking man, dressed in fine leathers and a large feather headdress. When he speaks, his resonant voice echoes across the plain.

  “I am Tcexe’x, chief of the Nlaka’pamux people,” he proclaims. “Since the world began we have lived here at this place called Kumsheen. You are welcome guests.” Fraser stands and acknowledges the greeting to the cheers of the villagers.

  “I’ve been told you travel to the sea, ten days to the south,” Tcexe’x continues. “We will help you on your journey. The river and the people who live on its southern shores are dangerous. They have had tribes from the north coming by sea to take their people as slaves, and they do not welcome strangers. Still, if it is your destiny to go to the great salt water then go you will, but you will soon realize that you are better off here amongst the Nlaka’pamux!”

  The crowd cheers once more, drums play and a song rises up. But not everyone celebrates. Excusing themselves from the festivities, John Stuart and Simon Fraser step away from the glow of the bonfire. The sun has set and stars twinkle brightly above, allowing Stuart to take a reading of our position, something I know he’s been trying to do for the last forty-eight hours, without much cooperation from the weather.

  I watch Stuart examine his sextant as if it were broken and then he reads the stars again. He turns to Fraser who takes the instrument and makes a measurement himself before shaking his head and returning it to Stuart.

  The two sit in the moonlight, heads together, talking animatedly to each other. Though I can’t hear his whispered words, the worried look on Simon Fraser’s face tells me that something isn’t right — not right at all.

  Chapter 30

  Kumsheen Buzzes with the news that Little Fellow and Tcexe’x himself will accompany us on the next leg of our voyage. They have heard that Xlo’sem and his slave have turned back, and perhaps they mean to show that they are much braver. No one is sure, but we welcome their offer. The water here is rough but navigable and we expect to borrow canoes and return to the river, so when Fraser orders us to leave on foot and without the horses, I’m confused.

  “Jules, why aren’t we on the water? These people have lots of canoes they could lend us. The river’s fast, but it’s still manageable.”

  “Downstream the river’s worse than ever, apparently,” he says. “The Nlaka’pamux aren’t prepared to risk their canoes, even for us. But it’s not all bad news. Little Fellow promises we’ll be able to get some on the other side of the rapids, and from there the river is manageable all the way to the sea.”

  “Do we at least know what the path ahead is like?” I ask.

  “Simon asked that question as well. All he got were smiles and orders to leave the horses behind. But it can’t be worse than what we’ve already been through, can it?”

  I look at Fraser and Stuart, walking apart from the rest of us, talking quietly. “What’s going on, Jules?” I ask. “I saw the two of them together last night, and it seemed that something was bothering them.”

  Jules Quesnel looks as glum as Fraser. “I can’t talk about it right now, Duncan, but Simon will bring it up when he feels it’s the right time.”

  I press for more information, looking for anything to explain the looks on Fraser and Stuart’s faces, but despite some gentle pressure, my friend refuses to say anything more. When the rain starts falling again I’m forced to put the mystery aside and concentrate on the walk.

  The razor-thin path is as slick as ice. Travelling with the heavy packs is nearly impossible, but it’s our only option. The river, seething and bubbling below, is utterly impassable.

  Rain falls steadily throughout the day until, wet and exhausted, we gratefully arrive at a small Nlaka’pamux settlement. The villagers feed us a meal of cold smoked fish and hazelnuts, and after dinner under clearing skies, Fraser gives a small bolt of calico cloth to our hosts. “They seem quite well off here,” I say. “I’m not so sure they need anything of ours.”

  Quesnel agrees. “Judging by the number of pots and other metal things here, they’ve dealt with Europeans before.”

  “There’s more proof of that than just pots,” says Stuart sombrely. “Smallpox. Look at their bodies.” The faces and arms of many of the residents are horribly disfigured with scars and pockmarks, evidence of the destructive nature of the disease.

  “Europeans introduced the disease. For every one of these people who survived the pox, more than twenty died,” Stuart says. The disease was introduced by European explorers and traders coming in from the Pacific and it has travelled up the canyon with tribes travelling from the south. “I don’t think our presence bodes well for these people.”

  When we make camp, Tcexe’x informs Fraser he will return to Kumsheen in the morning. “Don’t worry,” the chief says, seeing the concerned looks on our faces. “The one you call Little Fellow will keep you safe.”

  The rains continues to fall as Tcexe’x prepares to depart the next morning. Before he does, Fraser steps forward and pins a metal broach onto the chief’s deerskin vest. “You’re a noble man, a great leader, and I would be honoured to give you this silver badge as a token of our gratitude,” he says. “It’s a strawberry flower, the symbol of my clan. I hope you remember me by it.”

  The chief hugs Fras
er in return. “You are welcome to stay with us for as long as you wish when you return. Be wary of the river and even more so of the Musqueam. You may not find them as welcoming as my people.”

  Chapter 31

  We’ve barely walked an hour when the trail disappears altogether. “Little Fellow,” says Fraser anxiously, “where has the path gone?”

  Little Fellow indicates a faint cut up the side of the hill, a passageway so narrow that even the keen eyes of Waccan failed to see it. “Now we go up.”

  Staring up the cliff face I realize why the horses weren’t brought along. No one moves towards the path. Instead we stand, frozen like statues. La Malice spits contemptuously onto the ground, his eyes locked on Fraser.

  Still limping from the incident with the rattlesnake, Fraser steps resolutely towards the cliff. “I don’t like it either, but we won’t get to the sea by stopping here.” Not waiting to see if the men follow, Fraser turns and walks slowly up the narrow trail.

  “You heard him,” says Waccan. Slowly, reluctantly, the voyageurs follow, pressing their bodies into the rock face, shuffling slowly forward along the precarious track.

  As I climb, the wind and rain whip at my body, threatening to tear me from the cliff and throw me to the water, now far below. As the rain falls I have a sudden flash of memory, back to the Sylph and the storm that killed Francis. I shudder at the thought.

  I’ve never liked heights, and to make matters worse, I’ve somehow found myself right in front of La Malice. “Look down, whelp, and tell me you’re not afraid,” he says, an evil smile on his face.

  Despite my fear I glance down to the river, a shimmering silver ribbon far beneath me, and I feel my legs buckle. I jam myself hard against the wall of the cliff and stand there, frozen in fear until I force myself to continue, inch by frightening inch.

  Just when I think things can’t get any worse, I discover that the path has completely eroded away. In its place, crude bridges of tree boughs have been placed across the gulf, allowing only the very brave — or the very foolish — to continue.

  Little Fellow does his best to reassure us. “Don’t worry,” Duyunun translates. “This trail is heavily used and the bridges are repaired from time to time.”

  “How often is ‘from time to time’?” I ask, not really wanting to know the answer.

  “When someone steps on a branch and it breaks, we replace it. Now shall we continue, or do you want to turn back to Kumsheen?” Without another word, Little Fellow steps nimbly out onto the bridge and crosses over in a matter of seconds. Safe on the other side, he faces the rest of us expectantly.

  “Men,” says Fraser, “the Pacific Ocean is on the other side of that bridge. If I have to cross over this chasm to reach it, then so be it; I’ll not turn back now to spend the rest of my life wishing that I’d had the courage to continue. I’ve never seen the equal to this country. It seems we have to pass where no man should venture, but pass we shall — if not for the British Empire or the Company then for ourselves.”

  Fraser steps out onto the bridge. It sways beneath his weight, and he stumbles slightly, but quickly recovers his balance and continues slowly until he reaches the other side.

  Jules Quesnel crosses without incident, as does Stuart, Waccan, Bourbonnais and Gagnier. Then it’s my turn. Swallowing the fear that rises in my throat, I step onto the bridge. The branches sag and groan, and for a heart-stopping second I’m convinced they will snap.

  I press my body hard into the side of the cliff, dig my fingers into the rocks and stand like a statue, suspended hundreds of feet above the river, nothing but dead branches between me and the raging water far below. “You can do it!” shouts Gagnier.

  La Malice is less encouraging. “Yes, whelp, you can fall and smash yourself into little pieces.” Gathering my courage, and trying to block out La Malice’s words, I take one small step across the void, desperate to feel solid ground beneath my feet.

  I see a flash of movement from the corner of my eye. At first I think it’s a small bird, a swallow perhaps, startled by my presence, flying out of a nest, but with a rush of fright I realize that birds don’t have fingers, fingers attached to La Malice’s outstretched arm, fingers that clutch strongly onto my shirt and tug.

  I lose my balance and my arms fly wildly, desperately trying to find something, anything to hold. Without the weight of my pack, perhaps I would have been able to steady myself, but the heavy bale on my back pulls me, as if in slow motion, to the edge of the ramshackle bridge, and into the empty air beyond.

  Chapter 32

  I manage to grab hold of the bridge as I fall, crying in pain as my body jars to a stop, my arm feeling as if it were being pulled from my body. My pack slips from my shoulders and spirals downward through the air, exploding open on the rocks below, scattering its contents into the churning water. “Help!” I scream, my fingers and joints burning as I desperately hold onto the sagging branch.

  “Don’t move!” shouts Gagnier from the other side of the bridge. “I’m coming.” Gagnier lies down on the path, stretches out his arm and wraps his strong hand around my right wrist. “Bon. Now, at the count of three let go of the branch so I can pull you up. Do you understand?”

  “Let go? Are ye mad?” I cry. “I’ll fall!”

  “No you won’t,” he says. “I have your other arm. I’ll pull you to safety. I swear by Sainte Anne I will.” After a few seconds of hesitation, I nod.

  “One,” the voyageur counts as Fraser and the others watch anxiously. “Two.” I exhale and then hold my breath as Gagnier tightens his grip while Bourbonnais and Waccan brace his legs; it would do no good if he fell to his death trying to save me.

  “Three!” Gagnier tenses his muscles and lifts me up. I shut my eyes and let go of the wood. Gagnier’s hand, made strong from years of paddling, is the only thing keeping me alive. For a few seconds I dangle in the air until Gagnier deposits me safely on the narrow path.

  Never in my life have I felt so relieved. “Thank ye,” I say with a shaking voice, tears of fear and relief streaming down my face. “I’ll never be able to repay ye.”

  “I owe you, remember? You were the first to come to my assistance when that swivel gun exploded. And you!” Gagnier says angrily to La Malice. “I saw your hand on the boy’s shoulder right before he slipped, I swear it!”

  “Of course my hand was there,” says La Malice smoothly. “I saw the boy stumble, I reached out and tried to steady him but it happened too fast. There was nothing I could do.”

  “Is that true, Duncan?” asks Stuart suspiciously. I don’t know what to say. There’s no doubt I saw La Malice’s hand on my shirt, but my mind is a fog. The details are blurry and I don’t know for certain whether to believe La Malice or the sickening feeling in my gut that I’ve almost been murdered.

  “I … think maybe that La Malice was trying to help,” I say.

  A malevolent smile creases La Malice’s face as he crosses the bridge without incident. “You were very lucky not to fall,” he says to me, his tone sounding very much like disappointment.

  There are several more bridges to cross but none quite as frightening. After another hour of travel, the path leads back down to the river at a place Little Fellow calls Spuzzum. “Are you sure about La Malice?” asks Quesnel as we descend. “Helping isn’t in his nature.”

  “A dinnae ken fer sure, Jules. It all happened so fast.”

  “Well, you’re very charitable to give that man the benefit of the doubt,” says Quesnel, “but if I were you I’d never turn your back on him again. To murder a comrade in cold blood seems hard to believe, but keep your eyes on him and your hand on the butt of your pistol. Don’t forget, more than one person has died in La Malice’s company.”

  Chapter 33

  The path leads away from the river, and we walk through forests full of huge fir trees with thick gnarled bark and aromatic cedars that tower skyward, their trunks as wide as five men.

  The undergrowth is moist and dense with sword
ferns, salal, and brambles that thickly carpet the forest floor. The woods are primordial and eerily quiet. With the exception of the footpath, we see no signs of human presence at all, until I smell something terrible. “Och! What’s that?” I ask, my stomach heaving as a terrible stench envelops me.

  Duyunun stares into the forest. “Death.” Several yards off the path something that looks like a large bird’s nest sits high off the ground in the branches of a large fir, but no nest I’ve ever seen has had a decomposing arm hanging out of it.

  Something, a bird perhaps, has pulled the limb out and it hangs limply, flesh drooping in tatters off the bone. Duyunun explains that the people here bury their dead in trees or on top of mortuary poles. The superstitious voyageurs cross themselves and mutter prayers as we walk quickly past the corpse. Sainte Anne is a long way away, but with a bit of luck she can still hear us.

  There are no more bodies, and soon afterwards the path leads out of the woods and back to the river. The rapids are gone and I stare longingly at the slow brown water, wishing we’d been able to bring the canoes. “We’re not alone,” says Fraser, pointing to smoke curling lazily into the sky ahead.

  “They are the Sto:lo,” says Little Fellow. “We aren’t at war with them at present but be on your guard. They are not the Musqueam but they have heard of what the whites have done to their people in the south.”

  We reach the edge of a large village full of huge cedar houses, guarded by intricately carved posts and painted vivid reds and dark blacks.

  A dozen warriors walk quickly towards us, and I stare warily at the impressive number of bows, spears and clubs they carry. “I suspect they’ve used their weapons to kill more than animals,” Quesnel says. “We must heed Little Fellow’s words and be careful.”