The Orenda Joseph Boyden

by Joseph Boyden

  “This is tremendous news!” I say. “When will they come?”

  “Before the first snows fall,” Bird says. “We made a deal with the Kichesipirini to guide them here, and if they’re wise, they’ll be leaving soon so as to arrive in time to prepare for the winter.”

  “We’ll have to make room for them,” Gabriel says. “I’m certain our small residence won’t do.”

  “You don’t understand,” Bird says. “Enough of your people will be coming to form a small village. You’ll have your own village.”

  I’m stunned. It’s as if I’ve been living under a death sentence and now Bird has announced I’m to go free. I hug Gabriel. Bird stares at us flatly.

  “This is incredible” is all I can mutter.

  “Come to my house,” Bird says. “Your people have sent packages for you.”

  —

  ISAAC CAN’T CONTAIN HIMSELF when we tell him. Bundles lie upon the table and on the floor. Soon we’ll open all our gifts.

  “Do you see what happens when we place ourselves in the hands of the Lord?” I ask. “Throwing that feast and emptying our pantry was the right thing to do.”

  “Our own mission,” Isaac says, his eyes glistening. “This means we’ll be free of having to live like the Huron, doesn’t it?”

  “We’ll build a mission that reflects our beliefs and our values,” Gabriel says. “We’ll lead through example, and the Huron will come to our ways. It’s inevitable.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I say. “Let’s open the packages and see what’s been promised before we make too many plans.”

  Our gifts, in part, consist of new robes and underclothes. This is a very welcome gift. Our old ones, full of mending stitches, are so threadbare, the coming winter was a daunting thought. Years ago I’d requested a new Bible, as mine has been soaked so often it’s now twice its original size, and this, too, has arrived, along with a tin chalice, sheaves of writing paper, and pots of ink, all of it miraculously unscathed in the journey.

  I’ve placed the letter I assume is from the governor of New France on the table and save it for last. Gabriel and Isaac look at it so often I finally give in to their silent wishes. It’s indeed from him. I read it aloud:

  “‘I write in the hope that your health is good and that your mission of saving souls goes well. There’s been much upheaval on the continent that I imagine you’ve heard little about, but I will spare the details. Suffice to say that God has smiled upon the great woman that is France as well as all of her dominions, and the powers that be have finally come to the understanding of the importance of our mission in the new world, especially the mission that you brave and loyal Jesuits have agreed to accept.’”

  I read on to Gabriel and Isaac. The governor speaks of how Europe has become hungry for all things in this new world: the furs, the fish, the adventure and stories. I slow down when he explains that our journals that have made it back are being shared beyond the Church with the public, and these journals have captured the fancy of the aristocracy and even the common man, that our reflections on life amongst the sauvages have driven the public imagination. It’s hard to absorb. I must stop reading for a few moments and take a deep breath. My eyes burn with pride and with joy.

  “Our cry from the wilderness has not just been heard,” I tell Gabriel and Isaac, “it has been answered.”

  The governor explains that benefactors in France have opened their purse strings now that we and England are at least at a temporary peace, and the furs and timber and fish continue to stream home from the new world. He proclaims us Jesuits the leaders in a new, important era and verifies what Bird told us this morning. A large group of men, all of them sworn as donnés who will abide by our laws and our beliefs, men who will live like priests but who have yet to be ordained, are travelling toward us as we read this. We are to build a small mission that will serve as a fortress of the faith in this dark wilderness, and we are to grow our flock from the surrounding Huron, for this will help guarantee the French continue to be masters of this land.

  “Your courage and your fortitude,” the governor finishes, “do not go unnoticed. We commend you for your undying duty. May the light of the Lord soon shine brighter upon New France.”

  SEASON OF WITCHES

  I’ve already heard the stories of this passing summer, of how the Crow performed rites that brought rain and saved the crops and then he threw a big feast that ended with a frightening display of magic. His medicine’s only been growing.

  To further complicate things, I now find myself with a new child, one who probably wishes me dead after what we did to his family last night, this one who’s not a child at all but a young man. When my daughter tugged at my arm, though, her eyes full of tears, and begged that we adopt rather than dispatch him, some small memory I thought was long gone awoke in me and I agreed. Now I’ll have to work at making sure he becomes a family member. It shouldn’t be too hard, as he knows what will happen to him if he doesn’t ingratiate himself.

  —

  “A DECISION WAS REACHED between us and our brothers the Arendahronnon,” I say to the crowd gathered before me, “to allow the charcoal their own village.” The sun is high and bright. Far too many have gathered to fit into a longhouse. “I know we’ve been having this discussion for many seasons.” People listen intently, but it’s hard to tell what they’re thinking. “The village will be small, and removed enough from our own so as not to interfere with our crops and our hunting and fishing grounds and our woodlots.”

  “And who made this decision without our counsel?” an older man asks, one who I recognize as a distant cousin and who once desired more power than he was ever granted.

  “Please remember, cousin,” I say to him, “the sheer size of our trading party this year. I chose it carefully, and virtually every family in the community was represented, and they agreed to this idea. And also, cousin, don’t forget that our brothers the Arendahronnon were with us on this voyage, and they too found it a good decision.”

  I can tell he wants to say more, but he struggles for the words.

  “Will Wendat be allowed to live there?” the young man called He Finds Villages asks.

  “What Wendat would want to live there?” a woman answers, making many laugh.

  “If one wishes to move to the village of the charcoal, I don’t think anyone will try to stop them,” I say. “It seems to me that only the very infirm or the very young or old tend to go to them.”

  “What I’m most afraid of,” one of the elders says, “is they bring more of their diseases with them.” People nod.

  “Never mind their magic bringing drought and famine,” another says.

  “They’ll be far enough away that this won’t be an issue,” Fox says. I’m glad for his quick thinking.

  “And we must remember the reason behind their coming here,” I add. “Their great chief has promised he’ll deal only with us in trade and will take up arms against the Haudenosaunee if they call for a bigger war.” I don’t mention that after our latest skirmish, this is sure to come. “As I see it, this is a good agreement, and the benefits outweigh the risks.”

  Far more heads nod in approval, and some people even call out “Ah-ho!” I’d never wanted or thought, my love, that I’d be standing in front of my people arguing such important decisions, but it seems this is what I’m meant to do.

  —

  INSIDE THE LONGHOUSE, still blinded by the bright light outside, I hear a voice I don’t recognize and one that I do. They speak in the Haudenosaunee language, not terribly different from ours, though I’m surprised my daughter still remembers it. She speaks to my new son. They don’t know I’ve come in, and I feel guilty for listening in on a private conversation, but I need to learn.

  “My father,” she says, “is the bravest of men. He’s a great warrior, and everyone who knows him loves him.”

  I’m taken aback by this and bow my head to listen more.

  “He’s the same one,”
the boy says. “I’m sure of it.”

  “How can you know this?” my daughter asks. She scolds her raccoon for pulling on her hair.

  “Your father was a relation of mine,” the boy says, and suddenly, I’m deeply confused. “The stories of his life and his death are everywhere back home.”

  She talks of her dead family as if they’re still alive. At first, I don’t know what to do, but as they discuss their possible kinship, I grow calm. It’s simple. My child has been a complicated one from the start, and now that we’ve brought this boy into the longhouse, these complications grow like a summer thunderhead. I can’t allow this to go on.

  —

  MAYBE IT’S THE COMMUNAL worry of what we’re about to give the charcoal, maybe it’s the season of witches, but as summer begins its slow turn to autumn and despite the crops’ abundance and the promise of a gentle winter for it, episodes of unhappiness abound. A number of women whose men journeyed with me on the summer’s trade have left them for others, more than a few of us have fallen sick, and now many claim they’re the victims of the crows’ sorcery. The elders watch this unhappiness persist, and I know they worry. The time of harvest is close, and it will clearly be a good one, so this general sense of unhappiness is a bad sign. The happiness of our village must be addressed.

  The council summons Fox, and when he returns we sit and talk. He’s been asked to venture to our cousins’ land, the land of the Tahontaenrat, the Deer people.

  “Take Tall Trees and a few other good ones with you,” I suggest. “Haudenosaunee war parties might very well be wandering about and looking for revenge.”

  “If we move quick,” Fox says, “we can get there and back in three days.”

  “Do the elders wish you to take news of the coming charcoal village?”

  Fox shakes his head. “The one called Spirit of Thoughts has become very ill. She wishes the Deer’s medicine and for them to put out word to the atirenda from all the communities to come to our aid. She dreamed that hers is the affliction of unfulfilled desires and this is what causes such unhappiness in the community.”

  That makes sense to me. She must feel the illness can become much more serious for all of us if she wishes the society of the atirenda to visit.

  “I’d come with you,” I say, “but I have to deal with my new son.” I don’t mention that Gosling has been calling to me since my arrival home. I need to pay her a visit.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Fox asks.

  “I fear I made a big mistake. I sense great trouble in him and believe I’ll have to break it to my daughter that he’s not a good fit.”

  “Another sacrifice ceremony, then?” Fox asks.

  “At first I thought we could trade him back to his people,” I say. But Fox knows as well as I do that things are so bad between us all that even attempting to begin a barter with them seems impossible.

  “That would be far too dangerous,” Fox adds. “With our killing that war party on our travels, they’ll be in no mood for trading.”

  He’s right, of course. Although I don’t want to go through with it again so soon, I will have to announce my intentions. Snow Falls isn’t going to like it. I’ll wait until after the curing ceremony to break the news to her.

  —

  TWO DAYS AFTER Fox’s return, I hear drumming and rattling out in the fields. And then the singing starts, many, many voices raised high and strong. People in the village head to the gates of the palisades to answer the song. The atirenda, the practitioners of the medicine dance society, have come in full force, carefully painted and coiffed. Some wear masks of straw or carved wood, and others have created the appearance of physical deformity by stuffing bark or straw under their clothes so that they look like hunchbacks. These medicine people, the atirenda, they don’t just come from the Deer people. They’ve come together from all our villages at the behest of the Deer.

  We all sing, so many of us that it’s a startling sound to hear, the village answering the atirenda’s calls in a roar. If any malevolent beings are nearby, they’ve been fully warned.

  The atirenda soon come in through the palisades, and the welcoming throng leads them to Spirit of Thoughts’ longhouse. Those who are invited step inside, and I’m surprised to see the Crow there. I don’t understand how he was offered such an honour.

  For half the day the atirenda surround her, dancing and singing and shaking their turtle rattles, trying to figure out the source of her illness. They’ve been informed of her dream of an unfulfilled desire, one that she can’t quite make out yet. These atirenda will help her find what it is. This is what they do.

  I can tell from their growing pace that the dancers will soon begin their ritual. A group of them surrounds one of their own as if they’re wolves and he is prey. One of the dancers throws something at him and he catches it, holding up in his hand what appears to be a bear claw. Another throws something else that he deftly catches. When he holds it up, we see it’s the large wolf tooth. Someone else throws dog sinew at him, another a handful of stones, all of which the dancer in the middle catches.

  And then he begins to go into convulsions as if he’s been poisoned. The ones surrounding him step back to allow him to flop and squirm on the ground, grasping his stomach and his neck. Blood trickles from his mouth and nose, and soon begins to pour so that it splatters all around him. I look at the Crow. He’s gone very pale. The rest of the crowd, including Spirit of Thoughts beside him on her reed mat, watches with silent fascination. When the bleeding man on the ground goes still, a few of the atirenda shake their turtle rattles and begin to dance again, slowly picking up the pace. The man on the ground is now silent, his head in a pool of blood. Others bend to the nearest hearth and pick up pieces of red-hot charcoal, holding them out to us. Three or four of them then place the charcoal in their mouths, chewing slowly before swallowing. They pick up more and this time after they’ve chewed they bend to Spirit of Thoughts and blow the powder from their mouths onto her body, another dancer following them and sprinkling water on her while still another fans her with the wing of a turkey.

  As the dancing slows and Spirit of Thoughts closes her eyes, I look once more at the Crow, who makes the sign on his head and chest and shoulders with one hand, grasping his sparkling charm in the other.

  The dancers and singers finally go silent and attend to the man on the ground, reviving him with some powder and forcing water down his throat. Groggy, he opens his eyes and moves his arms. They’ve taken him to that other place and now brought him back. In the morning, Spirit of Thoughts will hopefully see what the desire is that needs to be fulfilled.

  WHAT’S RIGHT FOR YOU

  I sit today in the fields with my new brother. He told me his name is Hot Cinder, but lately I’ve come to suspect he can’t be trusted. I think his head went wrong when he watched his relations being tortured to death. I can’t blame him for this. He says that whenever he closes his eyes, he dreams about his own torture and he can’t stand it. He constantly puts his swollen fingers in his mouth and claims we’re cousins but I know we come from different clans. He is Turtle and I am Wolf. We’re from distant villages. He has nothing to prove we’re related beyond his words. He swears, though, that he’ll find a way to prove it to me. I think he’s simply trying to ingratiate himself and become a part of this family. It’s a survival instinct. I’m sure of it.

  “I’ll protect you,” I tell him. “You need to find a way to sleep without dreaming. You need rest.” I could tell him how I behaved when I first arrived here, contrary to everything and acting like a wild animal and pissing in my father’s bed. He wouldn’t understand, though.

  Sleeps Long, now that she’s recovered and her husband, Tall Trees, is home, spends time with us. Her son, Carries an Axe, has decided to ignore me. Sleeps Long freely admits Bird has asked her to watch over me in order to keep an eye on this new boy. I’m fine with it. I saved his life, but I don’t think I like him. He seems weak in the head, and beyond that, is needier than my rac
coon. In our first conversations a few days ago I wanted to believe he knew who you were, Father. I wanted to believe that you’re still alive in the memories of our people. But the more Hot Cinder talks, the less I trust him.

  “I come from a family of hereditary chiefs,” he says as Sleeps Long busies herself grinding corn, but I can tell she’s listening. He leans to me and whispers, “I fear they’ll want to take revenge.”

  “Of course they will,” I say. “This is the cycle.”

  “But it will be against my new father,” he says. “Your father.”

  Sleeps Long puts down her pestle and turns to us. “This talk only invites unhappiness,” she says, looking at Hot Cinder. “Maybe it’s best if you listen for a while instead of talking.”

  He looks down at his feet. “I’m sorry,” he says, and places some of his fingers back in his mouth.

  —

  SINCE THE ATIRENDA came to visit, the people’s mood has become more peaceful. Even Hot Cinder is calmer and doesn’t talk all the time. He’s become fascinated by the raven hanging above my sleeping place and constantly asks about it. “It’s my charm,” I say. He tells me he wants one as well, and though he’s a few seasons older than me, I have to explain that he’ll need to find his own charm.

  —

  IN THE LONGHOUSE, my raccoon has gotten into Fox’s pouch and pulled out his tobacco while looking for food. I stuff it back in his hide bag as my raccoon climbs down from the rafters and onto my shoulder. Hearing footsteps and fearing that they’re Fox’s, I turn to see my father in the doorway.

  “Come walk with me,” he says. He looks serious, and I worry that he knows I followed him the other night when he awoke very late and stole over to Gosling’s lodge. I wish the two of them would stop sneaking around and act like a normal couple. I don’t understand why they don’t.

  “Daughter,” he says as we stroll through the village, my raccoon playing with my hair, “you know there’s been much unhappiness in the village this last while.”