by John Wilson
As I tried to come to terms with what I now knew had happened, I noticed something odd about the book. There was something stuffed inside the back cover. Carefully I pulled it out. It was a sheet of fine leather that unfolded to about the size of a regular page. On it were lines of tightly written script in a different hand from the journal. The spelling was odd, but it was quite readable:
On the Shorres of the Greate Sea,
Year of Our Lord, 1669
I am now welle into my seventy seconde Year and shalle not be likke to see another Wynter through. I have livved with the Salvages hereabouts since I was taken in by them as a Boy and now cannot be distynguished from them in either Speech or Dress. It has not been the Liffe I woode have chosen, but the Almighty saw otherwise. At the first I wyshed moste heartily. for a Return to the Lande of my Birth, but I have comme to Acceptance of my Lot and even to the Enjoymente of it. Even to the Degree that this passt Year having the Opportunity to return to Englande with the Traders who are here wintering to trade for Beaver pelts I could not wyshe to do so. I even went among them unrecognised. I thought I would feel a Longing for that other Worlde but it was not so although I must admit to wyshing for one last Scent of “sweet smelling Beds of Lilies and roses, which Rosemary Banks and Lavender encloses.”
For the most part, I found the Sailors of the Nonsuch coarse and even the Captain, Zachariah Gillam, to be an acquisitive Man. It was not their Fault, but rather that of their Worlde. I cannot return to that and must bid them Farewelle when they leave onne the Tydde the Morrow.
I will livve out the Days the Lord is pleased to give me in Peace in this Lande. I have seen many Wonderes, made Friends the Worth of any Gentleman, taken a Wyfe who has borne me three fine Sonnes and a Daughter, and have livved my Liffe to the fullest. My only Regret is that I was fated to lose my Dearest Friend Al. I do not know from whence he came or to where he vanished that Nighte so long ago, but I shall always remember him fondly.
I shall wrap this Document in my last Fragments of oiled Sailclothe, with the Journal of my Father that I have preserved all these Years, and bury them by the Rocke where last I saw my Friend. Perhaps...
But God will dispose of Thyngs as He will. I have seen a New Worlde but I fear the Arrival of this tiny Vessel from mye long forgotten Home presages a Sea Change which I thinke I would not wish to see. But whatever the Case, it is a Worlde my Grandchildren wille have to deal with. I wishe them much Fortune.
If you one Day by some Myracle read this Al, remember me fondly and use the Journal to enryche the Memory of my Father. I would rest now.
Farewelle again
Your Friend
Jack Hudson
I was overwhelmed. There was my name, penned in a document written three hundred and thirty-two years ago. Jack had survived. He had lived a long and, as far as I could tell, happy life with the Cree on the shores of James Bay. He had lived to see the Nonsuch arrive to begin the fur trade that would define the development of Canada and alter the First Nations’ world forever.
“Al, soup’s ready,” Dad said, breaking into my thoughts.
Carefully I folded the letter from Jack and put it in my pocket. I felt a bit guilty concealing such a dramatic historical document, but then it was a letter to me and I would have a tough time explaining that. In any case, there was the journal and that would be enough to fuel a small industry among scholars for generations to come. And my dad would be at the centre of it.
I closed the journal and wrapped it back up in the sailcloth. Then I stood and turned toward the camp. On the breeze from the south I caught the faint buzz of our floatplane hurrying to take us back to the modern world and our futures. Oddly I felt no qualms. After what my friend Jack had been through and adapted to, I could do anything.
“Dad,” I called, “I’ve found something. I think you should come and take a look.”
The old warrior sat in the June sunshine, his back resting comfortably against the wide tree trunk. In front of him small groups of his people stood on the beach, looking out over the water. They were watching the large, ugly canoe as it struggled to fill its wings with wind. The warrior’s mind drifted back many years into the past to another time when a winged canoe had visited his people. Then it had been different. The strangers who had come then had all died. All except Dja-khu-tsan, who was now almost as old as he was.
The warrior smiled ruefully as he remembered the enthusiasm he had had then for the strangers and their odd magic. He had been right. The strangers had returned, although it had taken them a long time. This time, largely due to his influence in the council, there had been much trading. The strangers had pulled their canoe completely onto the beach and built a large longhouse surrounded by a stockade of logs. They had fished and hunted in the fall and laid in supplies for the winter.
It had all looked so permanent that the warrior had wondered if they would ever leave. But leaving they were, with a canoe full of beaver pelts. The trading had been brisk all winter and his people had quickly realized that pelts that had been worn were more valuable than ones that were freshly killed. There would be much work this summer to replace the clothing that had been traded for the strangers’ wonders.
Because of the trading the warrior’s band was rich now. Everyone had needles, buttons, iron scrapers, and hatchets, and some even had the long sticks that made noise and killed game, or men, from a distance. Muskets, they were called. It was a far cry from the pitiful trading the warrior had done with Dja-khu-tsan’s people. And there would be more. It would not be as long until the strangers returned this time.
There would be more trading, of that the warrior was sure. And changes, too. He could not foresee what those changes would be, and he would not live long enough to see them, but changes there would certainly be. His people would use what they traded for and as a result want more. To get more they would have to hunt and trap more beaver to supply the needs of the strangers. Eventually they would spend all their time trapping and then they might forget the old ways of hunting and living off what the spirits of the land provided. What would happen then was lost in the mists of the future.
The only thing that was certain was that his people’s way of life was going to change, and probably very quickly. That would be a shame, because it was a good way of life. So good, in fact, that Dja-khu-tsan had chosen to stay with them instead of returning to his home.
The old man smiled. He liked Dja-khu-tsan, who had become a good friend and a good Kenistenoag warrior. It had taken him a long time to learn the ways of the people, but now no one could tell he was not one of them. He had even visited the strangers’ stockade, and they had not realized that Dja-khu-tsan was one of their own.
The warrior sighed. It was all so complicated now, not as it was when he had been a young man. Then life had been simple. He was glad he was not going to live to see the changes that were coming to his people. Reaching into a fold in his hide belt, the warrior pulled out the bright circle. It was the one the old okimah with the useless arm had given him. The warrior looked at the coin as it glinted in the sun. Several times he had thought of showing it to the strangers, but he had held back. There was another he knew. He had seen it in Dja-khu-tsan’s hand that night by the fire long ago, but had not seen it since. These strangers did not appear to have one, and if Dja-khu-tsan wished to make his known, then that was up to him. The warrior would keep his own and pass it on to the next okimah. And that would not be long.
Leaning his head against the friendly trunk of the tree, the warrior closed his eyes. No, it would not be long at all.
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