“I will never again be able to fire an arrow like I used to,” he lamented. “My arm is no longer strong enough. But if you teach me to fire a musket as well as you, I can again be a good hunter.”
“I will teach you,” Orinha assured him. “You can count on me. I am sure you will again become one of the best hunters we have.”
Orinha was reluctant to confide in Shononses, but whom else could he talk to? Who else could he tell about what had intrigued him so since he had returned from Rensselaerwyck? At last, his need to talk to someone got the better of his reluctance to open up.
“I have a question for you,” said Orinha, in a serious voice.
“I’m listening.”
Orinha could not understand why his eagle-head knife had such an effect on him. He had come to the conclusion that the knife helped him meet his guardian spirit: the eagle. But he was not sure. Since it was not something the Iroquois talked about, Orinha broached the subject in a roundabout way. He took out the knife from under his clothes and showed it to Shononses.
“Take a look at this. I bought it from the Dutch. Have you ever seen a knife like it?”
Shononses was surprised. He picked it up carefully, holding the blade in his right hand and the handle in his left, as though the knife were especially fragile, or dangerous. He took a close look at it.
“What a beautiful knife!” he exclaimed after a moment. “No. I have never seen anything like it.”
Shononses turned the knife every which way to admire the sculpted handle. In the middle, right where his hand closed over it, the eagle’s feathers were broad and sleek, making it easy to take a firm hold. At the end, the eagle’s head and beak were finely drawn, jutting out a little to prevent the hand from slipping. The point where the handle met the broad, solid blade was also beautifully detailed. It was made up of a carved tuft of fine, bristling feathers, forming a small hilt that protected the hand. Shononses could not look away from the eagle’s piercing eyes. They seemed so alive. Once he’d managed to break the spell, he asked Orinha:
“Where did you say you got it?”
“From a family in Rensselaerwyck. The women were using it as a kitchen knife. I got it along with the big copper pot that I gave to Katari.”
“It’s a really nice knife,” Shononses said again, admiringly. “It really is. Take good care of it.”
“Do you know what the handle’s made of?” asked Orinha.
Shononses took an even closer look. He scratched it with his fingernails and touched it with the tip of his tongue. He hefted the handle and the blade in his hand, balancing the knife on his index finger.
“Animal horn,” he replied confidently, “but I don’t know what kind. I’ve never seen anything like it. If you ask me, this knife wasn’t made by an Iroquois, not by anyone from our nation, at any rate. Not by a Dutchman either. Take really good care of it. It’s worth a lot.”
Orinha was surprised to learn that the handle came from a foreign land and was probably sculpted by foreign hands. He picked it up again.
“As soon as I saw it, I just knew I had to have it. I couldn’t resist. It was as though…”
But he stopped himself just in time, keeping his secret safe, along with the powers of the spirit that in all likelihood lay within the knife. He put his knife away, thanked Shononses, and went for a walk in the forest to mull over the conundrum: it looked as though he had met his guardian spirit through an object that was foreign to the Mohawk nation.
That same evening, around the family fire, Orinha found himself alone with Conharassan and showed her his precious knife. His sister reacted even more enthusiastically than Shononses.
“What a gorgeous knife!” she exclaimed. “Where did you find it?”
“In Rensselaerwyck, on the trading expedition. Listen, Conharassan, I’d like you to make me a nice leather sheath so I can carry it with me everywhere. If you accept, I’ll give you the nice red cloth I brought back from the Dutch. It would make me so happy.”
“Of course I accept. You know I’d do anything for you. Where do you want to wear it? Around your waist, on your back, across your chest?”
“I want to wear it here, across my chest, hidden beneath my clothes.”
The next day, Conharassan went to work. It took her the whole day. Orinha waited beside her the whole time, keeping an eye on his knife and admiring his beloved sister at work. He loved watching her hands move. Meticulously, with no small amount of skill and patience, she cut the pieces of leather and stitched them tight together. She took her measurements directly against Orinha’s body to make sure that the sheath would fit perfectly.
By evening, her work was almost done. Orinha was both happy and relieved. He appreciated Conharassan’s affection and dedication. Never did he tire of gazing at her radiant face, of the mischievous grin when she softened the leather with her teeth, or her attentiveness as she carefully strengthened the sheath with a second round of stitches. By the flickering light of the fire, he could see her eyes, lit up by her love for him. Orinha would have married her the next day if he had been allowed to marry someone from the same clan. He was sure Conharassan would make a good wife and he would be a good husband. But the laws of the Iroquois forbade it. Orinha was obliged to look elsewhere for the woman of his life, and Conharassan would have to find herself another lover. He had noticed that, for some time, she had been attempting to distance herself from him, encouraged by her older sister, who had no doubt made it clear to her that they had no future together.
Orinha took his knife back before nightfall, but Conharassan refused to hand over the sheath. “I haven’t finished yet,” she told him. The next day, she added a little pocket. Into it she slipped a delicate shell bracelet from her wrist, along with a lock of her hair.
“To bring you luck,” she explained, at last handing the finished product to Orinha. “Your knife is too beautiful to kill. It will help you find your way in life, perhaps to defend yourself. But it’s not a knife for war. Don’t forget that. And don’t forget your favourite little sister either, who made this sheath with love.” Conharassan kissed him. Orinha then slid his powerful eagle-head knife into its precious sheath. He put it on, adjusted it, and then, satisfied, went to find the red cloth to give to his sister, holding her tight in his arms.
ORINHA WAS OUT HUNTING ALONE. Ganaha didn’t want to go with him, preferring to stay behind with Oreanoué and his new brothers from the Wolf clan. As he walked through the forest in search of game, Orinha tried to shake off his worries. He wished Garagonké’s absence didn’t bother him so much, but he couldn’t help it. He missed his father dreadfully. After all, he was the reason he became a warrior. He dreamed of telling tales of his victories just to see a father’s pride in his son light up his eyes. At the very least, he hoped to regain the affections of his mother, who had taken a sudden dislike to him.
Orinha thought more and more often about the proud answer he had given the Dutch governor. He was no longer certain that he should have reacted as he did. He needed to talk to someone he trusted, like his father, even though he already knew what Garagonké would say to him. But at least he would feel supported, reassured, strengthened in his decision to become an Iroquois. Whereas, right now, he didn’t really know. He wanted to feel appreciated again, like when he returned to the village in triumph with his booty and his prisoner. How everyone cheered him.
He thought back often to the face of the French soldier he had met in Rensselaerwyck. How happy he had been to learn that Orinha was French like him, how sad to see him go off with the Iroquois. He could also see the woman who kissed him, her eyes full of tears. He could still taste her warm lips, still hear her cracked voice telling him: “God keep you!” Orinha wondered if they had already forgotten him, or if they still thought of him from time to time, like he thought of them. Here, he might have Conharassan or Maniska to warm his heart, but he could not start a family with one because she was from the same clan, or with the other because she was a slave. It tu
rned out that life in the village was complicated. Everything had been simpler when he was at war. All that had mattered had been sticking together, eating, hiding, killing, surviving.
There was always Sorense, the mysterious woman from the Beaver clan. Of all the young women in the village, Orinha found her the most appealing, the most attractive. He had even begun to court her when he returned from Rensselaerwyck. But he didn’t understand her. When he gave her glass pearls and fine cloth, she pushed him away, all the while continuing to throw him the smouldering glances that fired his passion. He remembered word for word what she said to him: “They call you brave, Orinha. But the man I marry must be more than that. Prove to me you are the most courageous, the most daring of all. Go fight the Susquehannocks and bring me back a prisoner. Go alone, fight them alone. If you win, I’ll know you are the bravest and I’ll do all you desire. I will be yours forever…” Orinha wondered how he could satisfy this woman who intrigued him as much as she attracted him. Why was she provoking him? At any rate, he wasn’t so madly in love with her that he intended to risk his life by taking on the Susquehannocks alone. At least, not yet.
PREPARATIONS FOR WINTER were now underway. The able-bodied men hunted, smoked meat, and gathered and chopped firewood. The women brought in the squash crop, storing it at the ends of the longhouses. The corn, hung out in long garlands to dry in the sun, was also stacked high. The cold season was creeping in, and slowing the pace of life.
In the Bear clan longhouse, Otoniata was seriously ill, fighting for his life like a dozen other Iroquois. A shaman from the Tortoise clan had come to drive away the evil spirits that had taken hold of the bodies of the dying. He said, just like Katari, that the Dutch were to blame: they must have cast an evil spell over them. Every trading season brought with it the strange maladies that struck down so many victims, year after year.
Orinha was busy stacking wood at one end of the longhouse when he heard his sisters arguing at the other end. He could hear their raised voices, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. By the sound of things, Assasné was taking Conharassan to task. Her sister replied in tears. Suddenly Conharassan pushed her sister out of the way and ran outside. Orinha dropped what he was doing and peered outside to see which direction she went. He decided to follow her from a distance, not knowing what Assasné could have said to so upset her. He walked quickly between the longhouses and followed his sister out of the village. He was not sure whether to keep following her— after all, their quarrels were no concern of his —but when Conharassan stopped at last at the edge of the woods, he made up his mind to console her. Orinha walked up slowly on his sister so as not to frighten her and asked her gently: “Why are you crying, Conharassan?”
At first, she didn’t want to reply, or even look at him. She just wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. But her brother insisted, and she turned around in anger:
“You’re the reason I’m sad. It’s time you told me the truth!”
“What are you talking about, Conharassan?” Orinha shot back. “Tell me. I want to know.”
She hesitated for a moment. Then, with an air of defiance, she looked Orinha straight in the eye and told him what Assasné had just repeated to her for the twentieth time.
“My sister says everyone in the Wolf clan knows that you killed Kiwagé’s two brothers when you ran away and that you’re lying when you say it was the Algonquin. Are they right?”
“That’s not true!” retorted Orinha. “I have never killed an Iroquois! Negamabat would have killed me along with the other three if I hadn’t gone with him.”
“Do you swear?” Conharassan asked, in desperation, and started to cry again.
“I swear!” replied Orinha. “I swear on the heads of Katari and Garagonké who saved my life! I swear on the head of Ganaha, who knows I have killed no one from the village. Ask him. He’ll tell you.”
“I did ask him,” said Conharassan, burrowing into Orinha’s arms. “He says that Kiwagé is talking nonsense and that I shouldn’t listen to people who say bad things behind your back. But Assasné won’t let it go. She wants me to stop talking to you. It’s her friend Kehasa’s fault. She’s Kiwagé’s sister.”
Orinha held Conharassan in his arms to reassure her, and to reassure himself. This awful story was going to dog him forever! How could he ever turn the page once and for all? How could he be sure for his safety when one of his own sisters was convinced he killed his Iroquois companions? Hadn’t he already paid enough for the ill he did that day? Orinha had no choice but to keep the secret to himself.
“Believe me, Conharassan. Don’t listen to Assasné or anyone else. They don’t know what really happened. They weren’t there when the Algonquin killed our brothers. Conharassan, I promise you I didn’t kill any of my companions. I am your brother, a brother to you all. I have risked my life for all of you. Ganaha can tell you how bravely I fought alongside my Mohawk brothers…”
“I know, Orinha. I believe you. It’s just Assasné, she won’t let it go! I can’t bear to hear it any more. I think she’s jealous of the two of us.”
“Don’t worry, Conharassan. Let’s forget all about it and go back to the village. One day when Katari is in good spirits, I’ll talk to her about it. She’ll get Assasné to leave you alone. It’ll all work itself out, don’t worry.”
After bringing Conharassan back home, Orinha stacked another few logs to hide his inner turmoil and anxiety, then wandered over to the Wolf clan, as though nothing had happened. He didn’t know exactly who Kiwagé and Kehasa were, although he thought he might have seen Kehasa a few times with Assasné.
After lingering for a long time outside the Wolf clan longhouse without seeing anyone, Orinha barged right in, ready to say he urgently needed to speak to Ganaha, if anyone asked what he was doing there. Ever since he had been captured and brought back to the village a second time, he hadn’t set foot inside this longhouse, where he knew he had no friends. Now, on learning that he probably had enemies there, he wanted to see their faces and gauge how much of a danger they were to him.
Orinha burst into the longhouse and took a few steps through the half-darkness before a young man stepped in front of him and asked him, in a threatening voice:
“What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to speak to Ganaha. It’s urgent.”
“Use the other door. Ganaha lives at the other end of the house. You have no business here. Get out!”
Orinha’s eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness. Now he could make out a handful of people gathered around the dying embers of a family fire. He called over to Kehasa.
“What is it?” asked one of the young women, turning in his direction.
Orinha recognized Assasné’s friend.
“Assasné wants to see you,” added Orinha, who, at the very same moment, shuddered with surprise to see his heart’s desire, Sorense, stand up too.
Sorense had been chatting with Kehasa when she heard Orinha’s voice. Now she stood before him, casting the smouldering looks that bewitched him so. Then, without warning, she turned around and dashed to the other end of the house. Orinha walked around the young man standing in his way to go follow her and ask her what she was doing here when another man grabbed his arm.
“Stop!” he hissed. “You deaf, Orinha? Get out of here now! And don’t make us say it a third time…”
Orinha wasn’t used to being threatened like this. He turned around to stand up to the man who gripped his arm so tightly he wanted to cry out in pain. He vaguely recognized his face, and suddenly panicked. Pain shot across his body, and a wave of horror engulfed him. The first young man caught hold of him again and said:
“Do what Kiwagé says, you dirty French pig. If you want to see Ganaha, go round the other end. Now get out!”
Orinha could no longer speak. Could barely breathe. Sweat was pouring down his back. Without any fuss, he backed out slowly, forcing himself to keep his fear under control. He hurt as though he had just been stru
ck by lightning. Orinha’s only thought was to get back home as fast as he could, limping slightly, as though a stone had just shattered his right foot, as though he had just been battered from head to toe. He walked on, gasping for breath, the feeling that he was being followed preying on his mind. At last, he entered the house of the Bear, where he felt safe. He hobbled over to his bed and lay down. Terrible images exploded in his head; his heart was pounding in his chest; he could see himself in hell. Little by little, he managed to calm down, to capture some of the thoughts that were spinning through his head. The face and voice, he was almost certain now, belonged to the man who had plunged the red-hot sword into him when he was being tortured. He was his most vengeful torturer, almost certainly a brother to one of the young Iroquois from the Wolf clan that Negamabat and he murdered.
Kiwagé had not forgiven him and was out for revenge. He wanted Orinha— he wanted Radisson —to die to make up for the death of his brothers. And his sister Kehasa wanted the very same thing. She had even convinced Assasné that her adopted brother was a murderer, and now Assasné was pestering Conharassan to have nothing more to do with him. And to think that Ganaha now lived over there with them! When would he turn against him too? How long would it be before his mother Katari also turned against her adopted son, the son who had dashed her hopes by choosing war over peace? When would they decide to put this Frenchman to death for casting the evil spells the Iroquois so hated? Even in the house of his clan, even no more than two feet from the family fire, Orinha still felt threatened.
But the cruellest pain of all came from Sorense’s sultry glances, burning only with the desire to see him dead. “Go fight the Susquehannocks alone,” she said. “Prove to me you are the most daring of all… If you win, I will be yours forever…” Nothing but a trap. Orinha could now see right through her sinister words: “Love me and I will put an end to your days…” What bitter deceit! He didn’t know what made her act as she did. Out of love for Kiwagé? Out of sheer cruelty, perhaps, or the simple lust for revenge. He felt terribly vulnerable to her and the other village women. How could he defend himself against blind love? Then another thought hit him: What if the whole village wanted him dead and was busy planning his torture? He had to fight to keep his panic in check. Fleeing that very minute wasn’t an option. He was not ready; it would be too dangerous. If he did run away, he would have to prepare his escape. Otherwise, he would be tortured to death.
Adventures of Radisson Page 18
