We have to come in through the sharp rocks carefully as it only takes a nick to puncture the bark keeping us afloat. I have a young warrior hold the canoe steady and off the rocks while I take my other men and the prisoners up to see the drawings. The rest of our party’s kept going, but for now I don’t worry about catching up with them.
“This is where I found my secret name,” I tell them on a thin outcrop that leads us above the water. For a few moments I worry this isn’t the location as we continue up the cliff. I fear looking weak and foolish. But then ahead we see the first drawings, just a few etched into the rock in blood-coloured ochre, one a scene of a canoe full of paddling men, another of a moose, and another of a strange human with a deer’s head. I lift my finger and trace the outlines. When I place my palm flat upon the rock, it feels as if my hand sinks into the stone, as if I enter another world through its hard shell. My hand glows hot with the touching, and as I close my eyes I see the old ones paddling and singing, followed by a water snake, one longer than their canoe, the paddlers unaware of it. The world my body’s entered is as real as this one, bathed in light.
When I finally take my hand from the rock, I urge the others to do the same to see if they, too, experience what I do, if they, too, enter into another world when they touch the cliff. My young warriors awkwardly explore the paintings with their fingers, covering up their embarrassed laughs with coughs when I ask if they feel light or heat or cold on their hands or in their bodies. But Tall Trees, he’s different. It’s clear he understands what I experienced, that he experiences it too when it’s his turn. I watch his face go slack as he drifts into the other place. I’m happy for this, happy to know I have someone who might one day be close to a son, someone I’ll be able to entrust with my life. I’ll tell Fox about this when we have some time to ourselves. I nearly remove one of my prisoner’s bindings but then think better of it. As much as I’d like to see if they feel what we do, I realize it’s best not to.
Instead, I lead the group farther along up the rocky bank to bigger life-sized drawings of more men in more canoes, and there, below them, the water creature that has haunted me all these years. It’s slightly different than I remembered it, still a snake, but horned, and not a water snake at all for he has the head and teeth of a lynx. We stop and gaze at this drawing above us. No one speaks. These figures are older than we can imagine and yet remain so sharp and clear. I look to the prisoners and they all look as well.
Breaking the silence, I tell everyone we must paddle hard to catch up to the others. I let all of them start back down but pause for a moment to look once more at these pictures. Knowing for certain I’ll not ever see them again, I burn the images into myself.
—
BEFORE WE CAN SEE THEM, we know they’re there. We can hear the chattering of excitement through the trees.
“Be strong,” the older ones say to the boy. “It’ll get difficult now.”
I’ve been asked to lead our trading party to the palisades and can feel the desire of the men following me to be home. This is the largest group I’ve ever known to make the journey. We gifted our neigh-bours, the Arendahronnon, who travelled so far with us, five of the Haudenosaunee prisoners, and I imagine they’re at their village by now and in the midst of their ceremony. With these three who walk just behind me, we’ll soon partake of our own important ceremony, love, one that will dry our tears and remind us of where we all must journey.
As I break out of the trees, I can see the men we left behind have made good progress in clearing more fields, and the women have planted them well, the corn so high it blocks my view. I weave through the three sisters in their mounds as the din of those awaiting our arrival grows stronger and stronger.
Nervous my three captives might try to make a desperate last escape, I’ve tethered each of them to a trusted war-bearer. The voices grow louder as we weave through the field, me following the sound of them, my people, for guidance. To show those behind me that I’m not overcome by emotion, I stop by a stalk of corn and pull one to me. I peel back the green husk and inspect it for insects and then sniff it. Finally I take a nibble from its tip before gently slipping the husk back in place.
And then the palisades of my home scratching the sky just ahead of me appear through the fields. My people know we’re here and they’ve obviously been teased by dear Fox that we bring many gifts for them, and the voices are so close through the three sisters that I speed my walk just a little, breaking through the last of the crops before the sight of all my relations. All of my people stretch out before me, their voices roaring like big rapids pulling me to them.
I try to keep a face of stone as I walk toward my people, who begin crying out now that they see what I have with me. They’ve already formed their rows, and I walk through them, the captives being held back until I reach the gates of the village.
Turning to my war-bearers, I raise my arms and wait for the din to quiet. “We’ve travelled very far this summer and it’s been a good one. The Iron People from over the great water have renewed their ties to us and have promised this friendship is now permanent. Soon, you’ll all see with your own eyes the riches we’ve brought back. This is a good friendship, and both parties have made many promises to keep it strong.”
I look around me at my people. I smile. “But trade is not the only activity we partook of,” I say. The people around me begin to murmur, some laughing, others growing restless and pushing to get closer to the front. “A group of Haudenosaunee foolishly believed our advance canoes were its own party.” I pause. “Let me assure you of their surprise.”
People laugh. I can feel them ready themselves for the release that I know has built up for so long. They’ll have the opportunity shortly to rid themselves of the frustration of fear that’s gripped them. And many will have the chance now to avenge the loved ones they’ve lost at the enemy’s hands.
“We were generous with our cousins, the Arendahronnon, who accompanied us,” I continue. “Many Haudenosaunee were captured alive, and we took our revenge as we saw fit. We also made sure to give our brothers a prisoner for each finger of the hand as a sign that our bond with them is strong. But we have kept these three,” I say, motioning to the two men and the boy who stand silent and listening, their heads held high, “so an old but very deep wound might begin to heal. We’ve been engaged in this mourning warfare with our enemy for a long time. And this warfare says we can only begin to dry our eyes through their sacrifice.
“The oldest one of these three,” I say, pointing to him, “has already admitted to being in the party that took the lives of my wife and daughters, as well as the lives of a number of your own.” The people gaze upon him. “And so we will pay special attention to this one. We’ll caress him as gently and for as long as he can stand.”
The captive begins singing his song, his voice steady and beautiful. He raises his head to the sky and sings in a perfect quaver so that we all listen. I lift my arm to Tall Trees, who holds this one’s tether. Tall Trees unties it, shoves the man toward the waiting throng. He walks toward us, his arms bound tightly behind his back, singing.
The first ones on either side are women, many of them old, some with sewing awls, others with flint or bone scraping knives. They close in and stick him in his legs and stomach and chest, slash at his back. He continues to walk with his head held up, singing evenly. Already I’m impressed.
Young boys dart through the women’s legs with burning sticks they jab into the prisoner’s thighs and buttocks. One of the braver boys lifts the man’s breechcloth and tries to stab him there but he keeps walking as if the boy isn’t even present, eyes focused as he fixates on something on the skyline.
The next group he walks through are young men, a few of whom wanted to join me on the trading party but I’d deemed them too young and inexperienced. As if to make up for that slight, they’re especially cruel, so much so that as I watch them rain down blows on his head and shoulders with sharp stones and clubs I fear I might hav
e to intervene quickly to keep them from killing him. But still he keeps his voice high and steady despite his legs buckling a number of times as he almost falls but somehow holds on to his step. He emerges from them with the blood pouring from him and filling his eyes so that he’s blinded. Now he can only keep his direction from the jostling and the noise.
“This is for my brother who died at your hands!” a beautiful young woman shouts, emerging from the crowd and slicing deeply into his chest with a sharpened clamshell. I can see how the skin opens like a smiling mouth and the blood spurts out. The captive can barely keep his gait and his voice is no longer audible in the shouting, but still he finds his way to keep going, singing his death chant despite those who swing their fists.
Finally, as he stumbles close to me, I make the decision not to caress him yet. I will allow him to catch his breath and his fortitude before his next day or two unfold. As others approach and beat him, I see the Crow through the throng, watching all of this happen, fingering the glinting necklace of the splayed and tortured man he always wears on his neck, the very same necklace I remember coveting so long ago when I first led him to my home. The Crow’s face remains thin but it’s darker and he is taller than the others around him, his shoulders strong.
His expression isn’t one of fear or pity or disgust but something almost like distraction, as if he’d witnessed this many times before and it holds no interest for him. He must sense I’m looking, for his eyes meet mine through the roaring people. We stare at each other for what feels like a long time. I’m impressed he looks so well, even though the hair of his head’s mostly gone and the charcoal hair of his face begins to show the colour of snow. His eyes remain attentive. Sharp. Just before he turns away, he makes the strange sign that’s his custom, and I realize I feel as if I’m looking into the eyes of an old friend.
MOURNING WARFARE
I watch Bird emerge from the corn as if born from it, his face painted and his head shorn on one side, the hair long on the other and shining in the sun. He walks with a slow, sure stride, wearing only his breech-clout. He’s as dark as I’ve ever seen him from his summer voyage under the blazing sun, and the weeks of hard paddling and portaging have left him with the physique of a Roman god. He’s an entity I’ve struggled to describe when I write back to France. He’s as much a wild animal as he is a man. His eyes miss nothing and he speaks with the finesse and gravity of a philosopher. There’s no wonder he seems to have gained such prominence in this place. At first I was left confused by the politics of these people, but Bird’s growing importance has clar-ified for me that there are two types of leader here, civil and martial. As three Iroquois warriors appear behind him, each tethered to a captor, it’s clear which sort of leader Bird has become.
The throng jostles and roars as the returning travellers come into view. The first two prisoners are men, similarly dressed in just their breechclouts but with unadorned faces. Their hair bristles in a high strip down the centre of their heads as is their fashion, and they walk proudly despite their arms being tied tightly behind their backs. I’m fascinated to see how they act as if their predicament is nothing new. But the third captive is little more than a boy, and despite his obvious attempts to appear brave, his eyes are wide with fear and even from here I can see him shaking.
While the others hold back, Bird walks slowly through the throngs of villagers, who part neatly for him. I am near the gates to the pali-sades and he stops and raises his arms not far from where I stand. Hundreds and hundreds of Huron crowd the gates on either side. The din hushes. Bird speaks.
He tells the village that the summer’s trade was especially good and how happy he is that everyone will benefit, and he speaks of how he has made stronger bonds with the French. For this I am pleased. And then he turns his attention to the prisoners, explaining how they foolishly mistook his advance party for their own force and how these Iroquois were so easily overrun. Bird mentions the celebration afterward in which many Iroquois prisoners were tortured and killed. He then shares the shocking news that one of the captives, the oldest one, if I understand correctly, had a direct hand in killing Bird’s family.
The prisoners are then released, one by one, into the seething crowd that has formed a gauntlet. Everyone is involved in the ferocious beatings that ensue, old women, children, all ages of men. Some simply use their fists and feet while others reach out with sharpened clamshells and burning sticks or knives. Throughout the whole ordeal each of the prisoners sings and chants in voices high and wailing, and to each of their credits, their voices remain strong until they’re overwhelmed with what must be tremendous pain. I want to believe that the boy will be treated a little less violently, but the mob seems particularly focused on him. And yet this is only the beginning.
Once inside the village gates, the people quiet, and a few old women go to the prisoners, now lying on the ground and covered in blood. I expect the women to resume the torture but instead they revive the men with water and attend to their wounds, treating them as gently as they would their own sons. Evening is still hours away, and the ceremony is one of the night. People take turns visiting with the prisoners, and I’m shocked to see a couple of people actually laughing with one of them. I assume that inside Bird’s longhouse, the preparations are being made. I approach the three men and kneel to them. They gaze at me impassively.
“Do you wish to live eternally?” I ask the oldest of them.
He simply shakes his head.
“Do you?” I ask the next one. He, too, shakes his head.
“And you, young one, do you wish for your soul to live forever?”
He turns to the older ones but they refuse to look at him. “Stay strong,” one says.
The boy turns his head back to me, his eyes pleading.
—
WHEN THE MOMENT presents itself, I approach Bird, who stands in front of his longhouse. He’s finally alone.
He looks at me. “I take it your summer was productive?”
I nod. “There are those who listen to me now,” I tell him.
“I guess that’s good,” he says.
“What do you plan to do with your prisoners?” I ask.
Bird just looks at me as if to say he doesn’t believe I’m that naïve.
“There are other options,” I tell him.
“Careful where you tread,” Bird says.
“Let them live,” I say.
“Is that what your people do with your prisoners?” Bird asks. “You used to preach about how you wanted us to eat the body of your saviour, but I notice you don’t speak of that anymore. I don’t think it’s your place to tell us what we should do. We’ve been given the opportunity to dry our eyes after such loss at their hands, and you would take that away from us?”
“What you plan to do is simple and utter brutality,” I say. “And yes, my people practise their own form of it too, but that makes none of it right.”
“You cannot change what will soon happen,” Bird says. “We are at war. And what my people will go through tonight is mourning warfare. It isn’t your place to try and change it.”
With that, Bird turns and walks into his longhouse.
I DIDN’T WANT TO BE
When the crowd around the three captives has thinned, I sneak up as close as I can. They’ve been moved inside our longhouse for now, as Bird wishes them to be left alone. The late-afternoon light is fading, and it won’t be long before the ceremony begins in the largest of the houses. I wonder if they’ll all be tortured together or one by one. I hope it is together, for I don’t want to go through days of this. I secretly believe no one else does, either.
I look at the men carefully to see if any are my relations. I don’t recognize them, and as I am about to leave them, I notice the boy watches me. His eyes are desperate. He knows there’s nothing I can do for him. I only hope he goes quickly but I imagine this won’t be the case. I’m tempted to go closer to him, but then I see Bird looking at me from across the room. I head to him inst
ead.
When I heard he was close to home, I didn’t want to be excited. I simply didn’t. But then I realized how much I had missed him, how much we all missed him during this summer of fear and anger. He’s the calm one, the steady voice, the one with great strength. It’s hard for me to admit I love him as I do you, real father.
He holds his hands out to me and I take them. He smiles down at me. “You’ve grown taller,” he says. “You’re growing up.”
“Did you bring me back any presents?” I ask.
He smiles wider. “Now is that the only reason you seem happy I’m home?”
I nod.
He laughs. “You are a very funny girl.” He looks around him. “Don’t you still have that pet I left with you?”
“I do,” I say. “But more and more he wants to be alone.”
“You’ll soon have to let him go back into the forest,” he says.
“I know. Gosling told me this as well.”
He looks surprised to hear her name.
“We’ve spent time together this summer.” I hesitate before going on. “She’s teaching me.”
He raises his hand to his chin, then nods in approval. “She will be a good teacher for you.” Looking over my shoulder, he says, “Now there’s a strange sight.”
My raccoon has approached the prisoners and, standing on his hind legs, stares at them as if transfixed.
I walk over and pick him up. “Leave them alone,” I scold. I can feel the boy’s eyes on me.
I go back to my father and hand him my pet. He weighs it in his hands. “He’s grown as fast as you. Indeed, he’ll have to go back to the forest,” he says, lifting him up and looking at his sex.
“Why are you treating the prisoners so well?” I ask, looking over to them being given sips of water as their wounds are dressed again.
“They are the incarnation of my beloved dead family,” Bird says, gazing at them.
The Orenda Joseph Boyden Page 26
