He can see by my eyes I don’t understand.
“Each of those three represent, for me, a family member I have lost,” Bird says. “Aataentsic the Sky Woman enabled me to capture them and she allowed that their lives would be given to me as payment for what I’ve lost.”
“Will your heart hurt less once you kill them?”
Bird thinks about this, and hands me back the raccoon. “A little, I think,” he says.
—
THE FEAST IS THE biggest I’ve ever seen. The longhouse, despite its size, isn’t nearly big enough for everyone who wants in. Because I’m Bird’s daughter, I have a place close to the prisoners. They’ve been unbound and I glance at their hands, fascinated with fingers swollen twice their size lifting food to their mouths. I wonder what’s happened to cause this but then remember someone mentioning their fingernails had been pulled out as soon as they were captured. It makes it far harder to try to do much of anything with your hands, never mind attempting to untie the leather knots holding you.
“Eat well,” Fox’s wife says to them, she and Fox on the other side of the prisoners, “for you will need your strength tonight.”
They nod to her, and the oldest man smiles. “The food’s very good,” he says. One of his eyes is swollen shut. “It is much appreciated.” The others nod in agreement, and the boy looks at me. His cheek bleeds from a deep gash, and Fox’s woman reaches over to pat it with some moss. I can see that, despite his efforts, the boy’s hands shake. Glancing to his plate, I see he’s eaten very little. All I can do is look away. I’m not hungry, either.
Different people stand to speak, and they all praise these Haudenosaunee for their bravery thus far and for their excellent singing. Some, like Bird, speak of their loss at the hands of the enemy, and in particular at the hands of the oldest one, who holds his back straight and his head high, listening intently to every word. The warrior is called exceptional, and people take turns praising his great skills. Some speak of what they’ll do to him tonight. I know that my own people, you, my real father, you yourself had done this to Wendat prisoners while you lived. But I was too young to witness it. Tonight, it seems Bird wants me to witness everything. I’m his adopted daughter, and to watch him do this to the people who were once my own is the final act of my truly becoming Wendat.
The whole time I feel the eyes of the boy constantly glancing at me. It makes me feel sick to my stomach that there’s nothing to do for him. I don’t want to watch him die. I don’t want to watch any of them die. I don’t like this at all and I think that when it begins I’ll go away, far enough away I don’t hear any of it.
People have stopped giving speeches, and the kettles are near empty. Looking at a smoke hole above, I see night’s finally fallen.
Men begin to stand around the different hearths, clearing their voices, stretching up to the sky, waking themselves from their full bellies. A few start into a song I recognize, a good song about summer corn and Aataentsic trying to outsmart her good son Iouskeha but how in the end he wins and the harvest for the Wendat is good. They begin to dance around the fires once their voices find their pitch, their feet rhythmic, the women watching intently with faces that give no emotion. Others have picked up the drum and beat out the rhythm.
It isn’t long before the three captives are asked to join in the dance. The crowd pays special attention now as different men pass by, offering their hands, urging the prisoners with hoots to stand up with them and partake.
The three rise as one and begin to pound their feet around the central hearth in time with the others, looking down at the ground and raising their arms like wings as they swoop and spin, joining in the song like it’s their own. The boy loses his awkwardness and his fear, it seems, now that he dances. He moves gracefully, like a hawk drifting in slow spirals above me. Every time he dances by me, I do everything in my power not to reach out and touch his skin. The song builds in intensity, and all the men dance or sing or drum, the women keeping witness. I don’t want this to end. The feeling in this place is that we are all of the same woman, Aataentsic, the flawed one, and that we have all tried to do as well as we could, but some have failed, and some have been unlucky, and some now control their destiny, at least for a short while, and some no longer do.
I watch the boy swoop and spin and sing, and as I sit mesmerized, an idea begins to form in my head, an idea so simple I begin to believe it might very well be pure enough to save him.
CARESSING
The two eldest take turns walking the length of the longhouse. They’ve been stripped naked and their hands are bound in front of them. The oldest one urges those who reach out to stab his legs with burning sticks to do a good job, to make sure they amuse themselves as they take their time killing him. The other continues to sing his death song and stares up into the darkness of the top of the longhouse. I’ve let the boy sit, bound tightly, at my daughter’s request while I consider what she’s asked.
I’ve made it clear to all that the prisoners must live until morning light so the sun bears witness to their death, as is the custom. First we will torture their legs only, before the caresses become more exquisite. These ones are tough, though, and we must make them cry out for mercy during the night or else we’ll certainly face misfortune in any future battles with the Haudenosaunee. The eldest passes by me, and he requests I pay special attention to him tonight. He smiles. His eyes are blank. He’s putting himself in a trance. I push him into the hearth so that he’s forced to walk right through the fire. I can hear the skin of his legs sizzling. As the second man passes, I take my pointed, burning stick, and thinking about how you, my love, were tortured and scalped, I jam the stick deep into his thigh so his song stumbles from his throat.
When they’ve made enough passes that they’re having real trouble walking, I ask them to lie down on hot ashes that have been spread at either end of the longhouse. Those who’ve come to participate and to bear witness act in a calm and orderly fashion. There’ll be no drama or inappropriate behaviour. We’ll continue to practise restraint all night, and word’s gone out throughout the village that no one shall partake of sexual intercourse as a sign of respect for all involved.
Fox and I walk over to the younger of the two who continues to sing his death chant, the skin of his back stinking from the heat of the ashes upon which he lies. His chant has allowed him, too, to enter his trance, and it becomes my mission now to break him from it so that he begs. After untying the prisoner’s hands, Fox takes one in his while I take the other, and we proceed to break each of his fingers and then, using a rock, the bones of his hands. When still he makes no sign of crying out, I take a burning stick again and insert it in his ear. I stand and ask a few women close by to take their turn. They wrap each of his wrists with leather cords that they rapidly pull back and forth until the skin beneath them ruptures. His song’s barely audible now, but still he won’t cry out. When the women are done they revive him with some cold water.
Fox and I head over to the other side of the longhouse and perform the same ritual on the older prisoner. Rather than sing, though, he remains silent, and we are particularly cruel in our breaking of his hands. When he doesn’t react to the burning stick I’ve poked in his ear, I request a clamshell and cut off two of his fingers. So he doesn’t bleed out, I coat the bloody nubs with burning pitch. Still he remains quiet. He’s very good. They both are.
Once they’ve rested sufficiently, I tell the people to take their turns caressing the prisoners. People line up to cut the men’s arms, their legs, their chests and stomachs. One extremely focused woman burns the genitals of the quiet man with a red-hot brand. But still, neither one will shout out.
While they still have the strength left in them, I have the captives stand again and do another pass through the middle of the longhouse. Their fortitude is extraordinary as people reach out to burn or stab them with thorns or bone knives or burning sticks. I can tell, though, with much of the night still to pass, they’ll soon quickly wea
r out. Again they sit and this time are fed a little and given more cold water to drink.
Many of us use this time to go outside into the cool night air to rest and prepare ourselves for the next stage. The Crow and his dark-eyed helper approach me then, asking that they now be allowed to come inside. I’d refused their entry earlier as they had no valid reason and might interrupt or cause a scene. This Crow’s been with us a long time but this doesn’t make him one of us. I shake my head.
“Allow me this just once,” he says. “Remember the words of the great leader Champlain when he asked that you treat us as if we were your own.”
“Why do you wish to witness this?” I ask.
“I cannot lie to you, Bird,” he says. “I wish for the opportunity to ask your captives if they’d prefer to come to the Great Voice.”
I think about the strength of the captives, and how we still haven’t been able to make them beg. “If you can convince them to come to your power,” I say, “then it might very well change what I think of you.”
Fox listens intently, understands my tone and allows the two crows to come inside.
Once the Haudenosaunee have steadied, we begin again. The eldest asks to walk the length of the longhouse once more, and amazed, we allow him to. Rather than remaining silent this time, he begins to sing his death song in a high and steady voice. Each of us in turn reaches out and hits or cuts or burns him. His body’s beginning to swell, and he’s losing much blood.
“I see that your canoe is leaking,” Tall Trees says, towering above him. “Let me caulk it for you.” He pours burning pitch onto the captive’s chest wounds to stop the bleeding. Still, the man doesn’t cry out. Instead he thanks Tall Trees through clenched teeth.
Walking on, his feet dragging now, he resumes his song. Near my hearth he doubles over, and I fear that with the last punishment he’ll pass out or die, his head hanging close to the fire. He tries to straighten himself but then doubles over once more, his hands falling into the coals.
Too late, I realize what he’s doing. He scoops up handfuls of coals and flings them toward the walls. The calm that’s enveloped us erupts into panic as one dry wooden wall of the longhouse catches fire quickly. Fox shouts for water. The captive tries to rush out in the madness, but Tall Trees tackles him before he can get outside. He’d have had such little chance in the condition he’s in, never mind his hands are tightly bound and badly burnt, but I continue to be impressed by his strength and now his cunning. People quickly put out the flames.
The other one’s gone silent, and I worry he’s already slipped away. I ask a few young warriors to douse him with cold water, and through the crowd they assure me he still lives.
“Make him sing his death song,” I say, and the young men bend to their prodding with knives and thorns. The night has almost passed, and soon it will be time to bring them out to the sun. The captive’s low wail echoes through the longhouse.
He’s too weak to walk on his own, and so while the older one is allowed to rest, my young warriors carry this one around, pausing to give others the chance to take more vengeance on him. Your mother’s sister, my love, removes a sewing awl from her bag and beckons the men over. They lower him to her, and she begins to stitch a gaping wound across his stomach.
“You are responsible for killing my favoured child,” she says as she pushes the needle through his skin, looping the gut thread and piercing him again. “I don’t want you to bleed to death just yet.”
Everyone watches as the Crow kneels by him and makes the sign that is his custom. The brooding young charcoal with the face covered in hair hovers above. The Crow whispers to the prisoner, and I see that the Crow holds his sparkling necklace in his hand. He raises it to his mouth and kisses it, then lifts it to the Haudenosaunee’s lips. His death chant grows desperate, and it’s as close to his begging for mercy we’ve managed all night. It’s obvious. He’s truly afraid and he’s maybe even remorseful, and in not very long he’ll pass into peace. But still I’m amazed once more by this Crow, by the power he’s learned to grasp.
We revive the older captive and he too is carried around to be caressed once again, his most painful wound also sewn shut by one of your own, my love. Both of them are tiring now, but despite our efforts, neither has begged for mercy. Our resolve is weakening, I can see, so I ask Fox to take a few men outside to prepare the scaffold and build the fires around it. Night will soon leave and the sun must be the witness.
The captives look more like skinned bears than men when I decide it’s time to carry them outside to the fires burning in the fields not far from the crops. Morning won’t be far away, and we have to ensure that fine line between pain and their death. To allow them to die before the sun’s face witnesses it is especially poor behaviour and will only invite bad luck upon our heads.
The scaffold’s as tall as a man and built underneath a tree. The young warriors lift the captives onto it and tie the tortured men’s hands onto the limbs above so both are forced to stand for the final caresses and so the village can witness their final moments. Hundreds if not more have already gathered in the fields. A young warrior shows off by climbing the scaffold with a birch bucket and tells the prisoners they look cold before pouring scalding water over their heads.
With the sun imminent, I ask my warriors to take their burning brands and try to make the prisoners beg for mercy. Both have gone silent now and there isn’t much life left to drain from them. The warriors insert the brands into the two men’s orifices and when they still don’t cry out, the warriors pierce the men’s eyes. Still nothing. The sun’s first rays begin to peek over the horizon. I nod, and my warriors use their sharpest knives to scalp the hair from the captives’ heads, then pour burning pitch onto them.
“These two are the bravest men I have ever had the pleasure of meeting,” I declare as the sun rises fully into the sky. “End it now.”
Tall Trees picks up his club, climbs the scaffold, and proceeds to smash the captives’ heads in. I watch young warriors make cuts in their own necks and line up below to allow some of the dead men’s blood to drip into their bodies. In this way, they know the Haudenosaunee will never catch them by surprise. Others cut open the captives’ chests and remove the hearts. They will roast and eat these, thus acquiring their courage. The people watch all of this silently. But tonight, when the sun sets, we’ll all make the most terrible noises we can manage, to drive our enemy’s spirits away from our village.
Fox leans to me. “That’s over now,” he says, trying to judge my mood.
“It is,” I answer. I only wish it had brought me more comfort now that the sun’s risen. “How do you feel?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “Tired. It isn’t something I’ve ever enjoyed much.”
“We weren’t able to make them beg for mercy,” I say. “This worries me deeply.”
“There’s still the boy,” Fox says.
I’d forgotten that. “My daughter asked that we adopt him,” I say.
“Will you?” Fox asks.
“You know I can’t deny her anything,” I tell him.
A NEW MISSION
Gabriel and I approach the scaffold once the mob’s thinned. The sun shines on the two men who’ve been pummelled and cut and burned to the point they’re hardly recognizable as human. I had so wanted one last chance to ask if they’d denounce the devil and accept the crucifix. Children run about with sticks to which strips of the prisoners’ intestines have apparently been tied, brandishing them like flags. Groups of young warriors huddle around two fires, roasting what I assume are the men’s organs. These are a ragged and brutal group, and I’m deeply confused how they at one moment can treat each other so gently and with unconditional love and then the next torture their enemy so horrifically.
I take a deep breath and then climb the scaffold, Gabriel behind me. I can feel the warriors watching, and I don’t know if I’m breaking some unspoken law, but I refuse to let them stop us.
With Gabriel as my witness, I bl
ess the eviscerated corpses and then pray over them. It’s too late for baptism, and so sadly they can never enter Heaven. Given the stories of what they did to Bird’s family, I imagine they’ve already passed through the fiery gates of Hell, a place that will make the last night’s torture seem like nothing. Finishing my prayers, I take my crucifix in my hand and kiss it, reflecting on the tortures of Your only son.
Once we climb down, several young men surround us.
“What were you whispering to them up there?” one asks.
“I was speaking to the Great Voice,” I say. “I asked Him to forgive these men their sins.”
The warriors become upset with these words. “It’s not up to you, charcoal,” another says, “to beg forgiveness for our enemy.”
“If we were in their place,” another says, “they would’ve been just as careful. Probably more so. The Haudenosaunee like to take days with their tortures of us.”
“An eye for an eye,” I say to Gabriel in French. This further infuriates the men around us.
“What did you say?” one asks as they begin to jostle us.
“He must have just cursed us,” another says.
Before I know it, we’re on the ground, the men beating us. But as soon as it has started, it stops. The warriors bend down and pick Gabriel and me up, brush us off, and present us to Bird.
“They fell down,” one of the warriors says to him. “We were just helping them stand.”
“What did they do now?” Bird asks, looking amused. “Don’t even tell me.” He motions for Gabriel and me to walk with him. He leads us into the cornfields.
“I have news for you,” he says. “I think it’s good news. Our people have reached an agreement with your people. We’ve agreed to allow a large contingency of you to come to our lands on the promise you’ll trade solely with the Wendat.”
I see Gabriel smiles broadly. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen him do this. I realize I’m smiling, too.
The Orenda Joseph Boyden Page 27
