The Blooding

by James McGee

  Kodjeote stared down at the flames. Tomorrow would be the tenth day, when the fire would be extinguished and the old man’s spirit would begin its journey westwards along the spirit world path and on into the afterlife. There would be another feast, during which the deceased’s possessions would be distributed among his friends and relatives.

  “I will leave you now,” Cageaga said, breaking into Kodjeote’s thoughts. “Keep your eyes about you – I heard noises earlier; a bear, perhaps. Most will have retired to their dens, but if any are around and they smell food …” Cageaga left the sentence hanging.

  Kodjeote surveyed the dark outline of the trees with trepidation. Any bear in the vicinity would be unable to resist the odours arising from the decomposing corpse and from the food offerings hanging alongside it.

  “I will be vigilant,” he said firmly.

  Satisfied, his uncle turned away. Kodjeote watched him go. Cageaga was tall and lithe and walked with a warrior’s bearing, even though he was edging towards his fiftieth year. He was a man of few words, but when he chose to speak, people listened. The younger members of the tribe held him in awe, for he had taken many scalps. Anyone foolish enough to doubt his prowess had only to count the number of tattoos stitched across his thighs, each one a testament to an enemy slain in combat.

  The fire was popping and spitting as bubbles of resin trapped in the bark exploded with the heat. As he gazed down at the flames, glad of their warmth and protection after the cold of the long-house, it occurred to Kodjeote that his uncle may have been toying with him when he mentioned the bear. Cageaga’s sombre demeanour hid an unexpected and very dry sense of humour.

  Kodjeote sat down by the fire. He was drawing the blanket around his shoulders when a long drawn-out howl sounded from deep within the woods. The hairs along Kodjeote’s arms prickled as the call was answered by the rest of the pack. Sound travelled further at night and Kodjeote knew the wolves were some way off, most likely well beyond the northern ridge and over in the next valley, but nevertheless he moved himself closer to the flames.

  He looked up at the platform, at the dark shape resting upon it. The old man used to tell stories of skin walkers – warriors who would take on animal form to wreak havoc. Disguised as wolves, hawks or eagles, they could cover vast distances at speed. Kodjeote wasn’t sure he believed the stories, but he knew there were many who did. Especially older members of the tribe, like Cageaga. The old man must have believed the stories, too. Why else would he have chosen this particular means of burial?

  A log cracked, jolting him from his reverie. For one moment he thought he saw the body twitch. A stray gust of wind, exploring the edge of the bear pelt, he reassured himself. But then a groan came from the scaffold, followed by a low keening. The wind again, trying to find a path through the gaps in the bark, he reasoned.

  That was when he noticed a dark object resembling a bird’s wing outlined at one edge of the platform. The crows had been eyeing the old man’s body ever since it was raised aloft. Were they now feasting on the remains? But crows did not feed at night, so it must be the bear’s hide, loosened by the wind.

  Kodjeote looked for the ladder. If the wind picked up, there was a danger the entire skin might be dislodged. He daren’t allow that to happen. It was his responsibility not only to attend the fire but to protect the remains, for according to the old beliefs a body that was damaged or rendered incomplete would prevent the spirit from entering the afterlife.

  The ladder lay a few feet away. Picking it up, Kodjeote rested it against the scaffold, dropped his blanket to the ground, wincing as the cold bit into his exposed skin, and began to climb. The timbers groaned again as his weight shifted. As he drew closer he could see where the bear skin had come adrift. When he was waist high to the platform he braced himself against it and reached for the edge of the hide.

  A dry rustling sound came from the trees behind him. Kodjeote turned to look. The tops of the branches were swaying from side to side as though an invisible force was trying to fight its way through the leaves. He shivered and turned back. His hand closed around the corner of the hide. Its suppleness had almost disappeared because of the cold. Taking a firm grip, he steadied himself, preparing to pull it taut. His hand paused in mid-air as his attention was caught by the play of moonlight on the dark, emaciated shape beneath the fur covering. In the gap between the hide and the bark strips, Kodjeote could see part of a tomahawk blade and the curved head of the old man’s war club. He hesitated and looked over his shoulder towards the village. All was quiet.

  Cautiously, Kodjeote drew back the hide, revealing the weapons. He ran his hand across the hatchet blade, tracing the pitted metal with his fingertips. The grip, bound with rawhide, was blackened by age and wear. His eye moved to the war club, its stock worn smooth with use. What must it be like to wield such a weapon in anger? By the time the old man was his age, Kodjeote thought enviously, he was already a seasoned warrior, fighting for the King across the Great Water against a mutual foe – les français. Twenty years later, he had taken up his hatchet and war club for another English king, this time against the Yan-kees.

  But the British had lost that war and their Iroquois allies had been driven out of their traditional strongholds into smaller land tracts, the Nations reduced to little more than a disparate collection of nomads.

  Nearly two decades had passed since the Kanien’kehá:ka last took to the war path. As he listened to his father and uncle, and the other older men sitting around the council fires, trading stories of brave deeds and battles fought and of scalps taken, Kodjeote was filled with envy. But it would not be long before they, too, were called to take the spirit world path. Soon, Kodjeote thought sadly, there will be no more warriors save for those mentioned in stories around the camp fires. By the time my children’s children are born, there will only be half-forgotten memories and graves filled with dry bones and dust.

  He moved his hand from the war club and laid his palm gently upon the blanket above his grandfather’s chest. It was the custom to talk to the dead; to gaze upon them one last time and to tell them they were not forgotten.

  Kodjeote wanted to tell the old man how much he missed him and to ask forgiveness for disturbing his final rest. He took a deep breath and then hesitated. He did not know how to begin. He thought then about Cageaga’s comment and wondered if anyone in the tribe had said a Christian prayer over his grandfather’s remains. Those who followed the long-house teachings believed that no white man could enter the sky world. It made Kodjeote wonder if that meant a chief of the Kanien’kehá:ka was unable to enter the white man’s heaven.

  What if, despite his uncle’s scepticism, the Catholic fathers were right and the true Creator was not the Great Spirit but the white man’s god? That would mean the only afterworld was the one promised by the white man’s deity. If that was so, in order for his grandfather to gain admittance, should not a white man’s prayer be spoken over him?

  In his mind’s eye Kodjeote saw the ancient features that were hidden beneath the blanket: the lined face, the eyes that had remained bright almost until the moment of death and the mane of silver hair that had reached to the old man’s shoulders. Keeping his hand in place above the stilled heart he began to intone softly, “Shoegwaniha karonhyakonh teghsideronh … Our father, who art in heaven …”

  Kodjeote closed his eyes.

  “… neoni toghsa tagwaghsharinet …”

  From the forest there came the skittering sounds of leaves rustling in the wind. Beneath the scaffold, the flames began to gutter and dance.

  “… ne-aewese-aghtshera tsiniyeaheawe neoni tsiniyeaheawe.”

  As he uttered the final words, Kodjeote began to sense that he was not alone. Someone was standing close by, watching him. The sensation was not unpleasant and he did not feel afraid, yet it was intense enough to make him open his eyes with a gasp.

  He looked about him. The trees were still swaying restlessly and the fire was glowing brightly; he could feel its heat
upon his legs. Feeling vaguely foolish, he bowed his head in respect, drew the bear skin back over the remains and secured it to the platform with the rawhide strip that had come loose. He was preparing to descend the ladder when he heard his name spoken.

  “Kodjeote.”

  It had been no more than a whisper. Hardly daring to breathe, he waited for the sound to be repeated but all he could hear was the beating of his own heart.

  It was the wind, he told himself. Nothing more than that; his ears playing tricks. He thought of the skin walkers and the noises that his uncle claimed to have heard. His eyes darted about, trying to locate whoever was watching him. He felt a sudden, desperate need to return to the fire.

  “Kodjeote.”

  His breath caught once more. Swallowing nervously, he stared down at the dark contours of his grandfather’s corpse.

  “Tota?” he enquired hesitantly. “Is that you?”

  A soft sigh reached his ears. It was hard to tell its origin. Was it the wind … or something else?

  “Tota?” he said again; the word came out as a cracked whisper.

  His ears picked up what sounded like a low murmur, as if someone was talking softly while holding a hand over their mouth. As Kodjeote’s eyes fell upon the bear hide, the muffled sound came again.

  Hesitantly, Kodjeote leaned forward and placed his ear against the contours of his grandfather’s body.

  “Tota? It is Kodjeote,” he called softly. “I am here. I hear you.”

  There was nothing. For several long seconds he did not move. Then, unsure as to whether to be disappointed or relieved at the silence, he raised his head.

  “Tell them.”

  He gasped. The words, though spoken quietly, had sounded so clear and so close. He lowered his head. “Tell who, Tota?”

  Several more seconds passed.

  “Tell them all.”

  “What should I tell them?”

  This time, the silence seemed to stretch for ever. Kodjeote was on the point of repeating the question when the response came. It emerged as a dry-throated rasp, like the skittering of autumn leaves as they were blown across a dry forest floor.

  Spoken in his grandfather’s voice. Three words.

  “He is coming.”

  6

  May 1780

  The boy stared down at the sorry-looking bundle of blood and fur before turning to Tam, who looked very pleased with himself, in the way that dogs do when they think they’ve performed a clever feat and are seeking a reward.

  “I don’t know what you’re looking so happy about, Tam Hooper. You had me chasing you all over the woods for a cottontail? You could at least have found a decent mouthful! Wait till I get you home!”

  Detecting the admonishing tone in his master’s voice, Tam stared ruefully at the carcass and wagged his tail tentatively before sinking down and placing his head on his front paws.

  When he’d seen Tam pad off into the trees during the morning rest stop, the boy hadn’t been that concerned. In the days since they’d left the big house, Tam had often wandered away from the march to follow an interesting scent or explore a mysterious rustle in the bushes.

  A few times, he’d returned bearing gifts; either a plump rabbit or a squirrel held fast in his jaws. The kills had been handed to the cook, who’d accepted them with due reverence because when there was no guarantee where your next meal was coming from you never turned down rations, no matter how meagre. Not that anyone was likely to starve on the march as game was plentiful and the hunting parties invariably returned to camp with food for the pot.

  On this last occasion, however, when the end of the column came into sight and there was no sign of the hound, the boy had decided to go and look for him. In doing so he knew he had to be careful.

  It had reached the stage where no one paid much attention when people left the trail; it was something everyone did when they needed to take a piss or a shit, and the edges of the woods were usually close enough that no one would notice him leave anyway. Even if they were to see him go, they’d likely assume that he’d been given permission to leave the line on his own. After all, it wasn’t as if he was a child who needed someone to take his breeches down and wipe his backside for him.

  But it paid to take precautions.

  As far as he knew, the only person who’d seen him leave had been Libby. The two of them had been riding a few yards behind the reverend and his wife when he’d told the girl that he hadn’t seen Tam for a while and he was going to look for him.

  He’d not exchanged many words with the pastor’s daughter during the march and because of that he suspected she would probably tell on him if he did not take her into his confidence.

  The obvious solution, therefore, had been to involve her in his plan by asking her if she could keep a secret. He knew all small children liked to keep secrets, especially from grown-ups, even if their father was a reverend. Her shy grin and nod of acquiescence had sealed the bargain. Whereupon he’d hung back, letting the column wend its way past while he waited anxiously for the dog to reappear. And when that didn’t happen, he’d left.

  Libby obviously hadn’t told on him, else someone would have called out or tried to stop him. Not that there had been any reason for concern; as soon as he’d caught up with Tam the two of them would simply rejoin the line and no one, other than his partner in crime, would be any the wiser.

  Only it hadn’t worked out that way. After twenty minutes or so of searching and calling Tam’s name, the dog was nowhere to be seen. That’s when he’d begun to worry that something had happened and that Tam might not be coming back. But instead of returning to the column, he’d continued in his search.

  It had been sheer luck that he’d chanced upon the deer trail. He’d not been following it long when he heard snapping and snuffling from patch of wood ahead of him. Taking it for granted that Tam was involved in the altercation, he’d called out the dog’s name but there had been no answering bark in response. With mounting trepidation he’d crept towards the source of the disturbance, softly repeating the dog’s name over and over, conscious that Tam wasn’t the only sharp-toothed beast at large in the woods.

  And then came the response he’d been hoping for: a single excited bark. This was followed immediately by a series of yaps and a muffled grunting sound that swelled suddenly into a ferocious snarl, causing the short hairs to prickle like stalks along the boy’s forearms. Jonah, who until that point had been content to proceed along the trail, immediately planted all four hooves firmly into the ground and stopped dead, ears flattened, before backing away, snorting with fear.

  As he tried to calm his frightened mount, Tam came into view. He had positioned himself, head thrust low and forward, hackles raised and teeth bared, at the edge of the path about fifty paces further on, his attention focused on whatever was thrashing about in the thicket. Deep growls reverberated at the back of the dog’s throat.

  Swallowing his fear, he called out, “Here, Tam! Here, boy!”

  Tam’s ears pricked up, showing that he’d heard, but he stayed put. Unable to persuade Jonah to move any closer, the boy called again, sharply this time.

  “Tam, you get back here! You get back here RIGHT NOW!”

  This time Tam responded, albeit with reluctance. There was none of his customary tail-wagging and no grin. If there was a message in his brown eyes it was relief that reinforcements had finally arrived.

  All eyes turned back to the undergrowth as the grunting grew louder, then came a humphing sound and a breaking of branches followed by a flash of dark matted fur as something large and ponderous crashed through the far side of the thicket and headed for an even deeper part of the wood.

  The boy and his companions stood transfixed, afraid to move. A strong, musty odour lingered in the air, confirming that the interloper had indeed been a bear, and a large one too. Bears weren’t prone to attack, being more likely to back away in the face of danger – unless they felt cornered. Had that been the case, a boy and dog wo
uld have been no match for it.

  He climbed down from his horse and called the dog to him.

  And that was when Tam padded back to where he’d faced off the bear and retrieved the dead rabbit, which he then deposited with great aplomb at his master’s feet.

  He knew he’d been too quick to scold Tam. He knew that although the hound was bright, he wouldn’t have understood the worry his master had felt at his disappearance. In any case, it was always better to reward a dog for doing something right than to chastise it for doing something wrong. So he ruffled Tam’s fur and hoped the animal had learned a lesson which would make him less likely to run off in future.

  “It’s all right, boy. I didn’t really mean it.”

  His eyes moved to the rabbit’s corpse.

  Seeing it there, he was suddenly reminded of the times he and Will Archer had hunted for game in the woods around the farm. Sometimes, they’d camp out, skinning and cooking what they’d trapped over an open fire: rabbits, squirrels or, if they were lucky, wild turkey. Mix in a little salt, a dash of pepper, some wild onions and herbs and you had a supper fit for a king. Thinking of Will Archer brought the prick of tears to his eyes as he thought back to the events at the farm. Inevitably, that brought on a memory of the day he’d learned that his father would not be coming home.

  It had been three years ago, late on a summer’s evening, when a messenger had arrived at the cabin. The looks on the Archers’ faces as the rider had galloped away had told him immediately that something terrible had happened. Just how terrible he was to discover when they walked with him out into the soft green meadow and under the shade of the oak tree that grew behind the cabin broke the news of his father’s death at a place called Oriskany.