Only Garagonké could bring an end to the uncertainty. But he was not there. Where was he? When would he return?
ORINHA WAS OVERJOYED to see his father again. He found him in the woods after a long search. Garagonké was lying in a clearing, beneath the magnificent trees. He looked as though he was asleep, but his eyes were wide open and he smiled at his adopted son. As he drew closer, Orinha noticed a thin trickle of blood running from Garagonké’s half-open mouth. But he was not in pain. Garagonké smiled at him and motioned for him to come closer. Orinha came closer. Gently he raised the old warrior’s head and cradled it in his arms. Both were silent for a long time. Songbirds flitted between the spreading boughs, the river water babbled in the dazzling sunlight. Orinha realized his father was dead; in his arms he held his spirit. Garagonké looked so peaceful, his body giving off a blinding light from another world. The father looked intensely at his son. His warm, strong breath overcame Orinha: Garagonké was about to speak. He saw his lips move. Suddenly, his voice boomed out over all the other sounds of creation, echoing like thunder. “My son, listen to the message I must entrust to you before I join my ancestors.”
Orinha leaned forward to listen to Garagonké’s words.
“I was a great warrior,” he told him. “Many moons from our village, women would hide and children would cry at the sound of my name. Warriors feared my strength, my courage, and my cunning. But this is not the path for you, my son. I have seen you fight and I know that you do not love war as I loved it. The spirits will lead you down another route. Listen to the voice of the eagle. It will carry you far from the Iroquois.
“Deganawida beseeched us to bring together all the peoples of the earth under the great tree of peace. But I misunderstood him. The troubled times we live in muddled my heart. War intoxicated me. But you are not from our nation; you must not avenge our ancestors. I implore you to first look for peace before you fan the flames of war. Peace takes more time and courage than war, but you must conquer it. I am asking you to bring us peace. That is how you will honour my memory.”
Garagonké fell silent. His eyes were transformed into two lightning bolts; his body became light as air. Orinha felt nothing more than a breath brush against his face and stir his mind. Garagonké had vanished.
Orinha stayed there, alone. The clearing was flooded with blinding light. Then he was lifted high up into the air, swept away, gliding over an immense lake.
Suddenly he was back on his bed of fresh pine. Orinha tried to protect his dazzled eyes, shielding them with his arms. It was a rude awakening. Yet all was calm in the dark longhouse, where his brothers and sisters slept on in silence. Slowly, he recovered his breath and realized that Garagonké had appeared to him in a dream. He remembered his words and again saw his spirit soaring toward the land of his ancestors.
It was the middle of the night, but Orinha could no longer sleep. He got up noiselessly, so as not to wake anyone, and crept outside. The night was fresh and cool. The purest of skies was bursting with shimmering stars. He breathed in the cool air that told of the coming of winter. But he was not cold. Or afraid. He knew now that Garagonké was dead. He would wait for him no more. He would never see him again. He would only regret not being able to tell him of his exploits, not being able to feel the happiness that came with hearing him say: “I am proud of you, my son!” But Garagonké was asking him to take another path, the path of peace, as Katari had hoped, as Conharassan had seen in the beauty of his eagle head knife.
All things considered, no one could protect him now from the vengeance smouldering in the hearts of Kiwagé and his Iroquois friends. Orinha realized he could no longer live in the village in safety. All he could do was make his escape.
ORINHA SLEPT SOUNDLY until the early hours of the morning. When he awakened, he looked up from his bed to see Katari blowing on the embers and stirring them with the poker he gave her, bringing the family fire back to life. The longhouse was quiet, still dark. No hurry, no worries. It seemed very much like happiness. Little by little, the other mothers lit their family fires in turn, and soon all the fires ran in a straight line through the spacious bark dwelling. Orinha loved this time of the morning when all was quiet. He admired his mother, always the first out of bed, despite her age and her worries, always alert and generous, ready to bring warmth and light to everyone as soon as they got up. Maniska was now by her side, discreet and efficient. Orinha was glad he had saved her life. She had proved a big help to Katari, who was good to her, even though she was a slave.
Beside them, Shononses had gotten up. He moved closer to the neighbouring fire to warm himself, calm despite the injury that had handicapped him. Every time Orinha saw him, he remembered their extraordinary journey together. At that very moment, he was happy to be an Iroquois. He would have liked to stay with them, if his community had been calmer and less violent. But vengeance smouldered there like the embers of a fire, and it would take very little to rekindle it. The burning flames of hatred would consume all in their path. Orinha knew that he must leave.
He patiently did his best to untie the knot that formed in his stomach at the very thought of running away. He took the time to tame the fear that clouded his mind and made him loose his self-assurance. He focused on the idea that was starting to form, anchoring it firmly in his mind and body, so that he would be able to carry it through, just as surely as an arrow flies through the air. Orinha did not want to take any risks. He would not mention a word of his dream to Katari. She would understand it right away. She would be convinced that her husband was dead, more certainly than if his lifeless body had been laid at her feet. Because Garagonké’s spirit spoke forcefully, without hesitation, and its message was clear: Garagonké had departed his family for the next world.
As he turned over in his bed, Orinha felt the eagle-head knife. It was sending him the same message as his father. Shononses had been adamant: the hand of an Iroquois had not made the knife and the material for its extraordinary handle didn’t come from this part of the world. Garagonké was right. Through the knife, the cry of the eagle was calling him to flee far away. Orinha first wanted to reach the Dutch, where the governor had promised him deliverance; then he would follow his destiny.
Everyone was going about their business. The four women of the family had left Orinha to laze in bed. He got up quietly and rummaged through the things his father had left behind. He found his tobacco supply, took a pinch and slipped it into his knife sheath, alongside Conharassan’s bracelet and hair. Then he picked a few crumbs of cornmeal from Katari’s mortar and put them in the sheath too. It was not much, but it would always remind Orinha of the people who saved his life.
The time had come for Orinha to put his plan into action. The bright sunshine gave him courage. He found Shononses sitting outside in the sun, playing his favourite game of chance with other men from the Bear clan.
“I’m going hunting, but not far,” Orinha told him. “Tomorrow, if you like, I’ll teach you how to become a better shot.”
“Great idea!” said Shononses with a smile. “I’ll work on my luck today and my shooting skills tomorrow. With your advice, I’ll be the best marksman in the village! Better watch out, Orinha!”
“Come off it! If you think you’re going to get the better of me that easily. I have a reputation to defend. Start by winning your game today and we’ll see if you can beat me tomorrow!”
“Sure. Now let me concentrate. We’ll see who comes out on top tomorrow.”
“See you later.”
Orinha then went to see Katari, Maniska, Conharassan, and Assasné. They were gathered around the big cooking pot he had brought back from the Dutch, preparing a huge batch of sagamité.
“I’ll be out hunting all day, mother. Don’t expect me back before this evening.”
“Eat something first,” Katari replied, without looking up, in the sad voice that had become her wont. “Otoniata died this morning,” she added after a moment. “I hope you didn’t spend so long in bed yesterda
y because you’re not feeling well…”
“No, mother. I’m fine.”
Orinha didn’t know what to say about Otoniata. Maniska served him a helping of sagamité in a bark bowl, showing none of the affection she still felt for the man who had saved her. Orinha ate in silence as his two sisters bustled around the fire. Busily, they chopped the meat, threw it into the kettle, poked the fire, and stirred the sagamité. Orinha could see that Conharassan felt uncomfortable. She didn’t quite know how to act around him when her sister was present. So he hurried to finish his meal.
“Mother, I promise you we will want for nothing this winter. I will do everything in my power to hunt as much as I can and satisfy all our needs.”
“Thank you,” she said, this time looking him straight in the eye. “But that is not what is worrying me, son.”
Orinha knew exactly what was eating away at his mother. He could see in her eyes the disappointment of losing loved ones, made worse by the fact she could not protect them against illness, vengeance, and war that showed no signs of abating. She suspected that Garagonké was dead. Orinha could feel it. And he was sad to see her so downcast, knowing that his leaving would soon add to her sorrow. He felt as though he ought to encourage her once last time.
“Don’t worry, mother. Garagonké will be home soon. Don’t lose heart!”
“May the spirits hear you my son. May they sustain my husband and us all, just like they once did.”
Orinha could not endure any more.
“I’ll be back at the end of the day, mother. Don’t worry.”
He got to his feet. And left.
“Good luck!” Conharassan shouted after him, with her brightest smile.
Their eyes met for an instant, but their love was not to be. Orinha turned around and walked quickly away. He could not wait to get out of the village. But he couldn’t leave without seeing Ganaha one last time. He made a stop at the Wolf clan longhouse. Just seeing it set him trembling with fear. But there was nothing for it: he had to overcome his fear. He entered the house at the right end and spotted his brother.
“Welcome!” exclaimed Ganaha when he saw him coming. “Come smoke with me. It’s been so long since we spent time together.”
Ganaha was pleased to show him the chores he had almost completed: the bed frames and storage space he had replaced, the leaky bark roof that he was busy repairing.
“If we’re going to be comfortable this winter, I have to finish patching the roof before the first snow,” Ganaha explained. “Sit with me, brother.”
Orinha saw how wrong he was to be angry with his brother. He hadn’t let him down, after all. All he wanted to do was make Oreanoué’s family happy before he married her. He was a good man, always bursting with energy. Orinha could see in Ganaha’s eyes, and in the eyes of Oreanoué who was hovering behind him, that they were happy together.
Orinha was happy to see him, but stayed on his guard, despite the warm welcome. He sat facing the far end of the house, in case Kiwagé or another adversary suddenly appeared to turn him in and capture him. He was ready to make tracks at any moment. Now that he was ready to escape, why take any chances? He barely listened to Ganaha. His good sense was telling him to flee the village now, forever. He had believed he was at home here, but now he felt under threat, even in the company of his beloved brother. He tried his best to enjoy Ganaha’s company one last time, but the thought that his enemies were perhaps conspiring to bring him down at this very moment weighed on him so heavily that he could not take it any longer.
“I have to go now if I want to get in a good day’s hunting,” he interrupted. “Can you give me an arrow to bring me luck?”
Surprised at his brother’s behaviour, Ganaha took a while to reply.
“Sure. Take whichever one you like. But a good hunter like you doesn’t need one of my arrows to bring him luck. This winter, we’ll go hunting big game together, far away, just as soon as I finish my work here. Ontonrora will come with us.”
At the sound of his name, Oreanoué’s brother came in round the back of the house and sat down with them. Orinha’s heart exploded with surprise and panic. But he kept his composure.
“We’ll bring Shononses too,” he managed to add, between two sharp breaths.
“If you like, Shononses will come too, brother. We’ll be a team, just like before.”
Orinha stood up to choose an arrow at random, then walked to the door, looking nervously from side to side.
“I must go, Ganaha. See you!”
“Come back whenever you want, brother. You are always welcome here.”
“Be happy, the pair of you!”
Orinha hurried to the village gate, turning around more than once to make sure that no one was following him. Everything was fine. The coast was clear. Once outside the village, he paused for a moment to make certain that he had his precious knife, a tomahawk, bow and arrows, and musket. He’d taken nothing to eat, lest people think he was trying to run away should he be captured again. Orinha then snapped Ganaha’s arrow, keeping only the head, which he slipped into his knife sheath, along with the tobacco, the corn, and Conharassan’s hair and bracelet. Before disappearing deep into the woods, he looked back one last time. It was over. Moving rapidly, he headed for Fort Orange.
ORINHA QUICKLY left the trail that led to Rensselaerwyck and cut through the woods. The going would be tougher but safer, since there was less risk of encountering Iroquois off to trade with the Dutch. He moved as fast as he could and soon discarded his bow and arrows. They were catching on the branches and slowing him down. He bounded over fallen trees, hacked his way through brushwood, barged on through bushes, scratching his face and arms, and ripping his clothing as he went, but he did not slow down. The sun was his guide. On he ran for a long time. When he could run no more, he slowed to a walk. But, without fail, images of torture quickly resurfaced and he began to run again, as frenetically as before. His musket was weighing him down and he cast it away. Reaching Rensselaerwyck as fast as he could was all that mattered. He clutched the eagle head knife in one hand to give him strength and wielded his tomahawk with the other to hack his way through the vegetation that blocked his path to freedom. From time to time he paused, panting, exhausted, took his bearings from the setting sun, and then set off again.
His legs were weak, his lungs on fire, his arms bleeding; the approaching night meant nothing. His will to live drove him on. The Iroquois in him kept him moving. Courage and self-denial, strength and endurance— all the qualities he’d learned from his Iroquois brothers were leading him to a new world. But now he was struggling to make any progress at all. The moon, pale and hesitant, had replaced the sun. Orinha tripped over something he had not seen and fell flat on the ground. Unable to get up, he crawled over to a huge, protective tree stump and curled up against it, clinging tightly to the handle of his hope-filled knife. He fell into a deep sleep.
The cold awoke him as the first glimmer of day lit up the immense forest. Orinha was hungry enough to eat a bear. He hurt all over. But suddenly the thought of red-hot irons against his skin had him leaping to his feet. He set out at top speed toward Fort Orange, thinking about his family; no doubt they would be worried about him. Perhaps they’d already started to look for him. No doubt Kiwagé would be calling him a traitor and demanding he be executed. There wasn’t a minute to lose. Quick! Run to Fort Orange. Quicker than that! He would fling himself at the governor’s feet and remind him of his promise. He would beg for his salvation. He leaped! He jumped! He stumbled! Orinha picked himself up and kept on going. Fatigue was a caress compared to torture. Exhaustion was a soothing balm compared to death.
At the end of that second frantic day, in the half-light that had come over the forest as the sun went down, Orinha at last heard the sound of an axe in the distance. He drew closer, and could make out through the sparse fall leaves a Dutchman cutting down a tree. Orinha inched closer, stealthily, unsure, happy, undecided. Could he trust a man he had never seen before? S
hould he continue on to the fort? Was this stranger his saviour or the traitor who would ruin all his efforts? Orinha did not have the strength to go on. At this rate he might never reach the fort, and the Iroquois would perhaps catch up with him that same night or early the next morning. So, shaking with hunger and fatigue, he shouted out to the Dutchman:
“Hullo there!”
The man stopped what he was doing and peered into the woods, where he saw an Iroquois gesturing at him wildly. Although he seemed harmless enough, he had an odd look about him. The Dutchman motioned for him to come closer, gripping his axe, ready to defend himself. But the thought of the furs he might be able to trade flashed through his mind. That was certainly worth a risk or two. So, Orinha approached, distrustful himself, holding no weapon, arms outstretched in a sign of friendship. In no more than a few seconds, looks were exchanged and the two men gained a little confidence in each other. Orinha made it clear with gestures that he was prepared to trade pelts, repeating the word “beaver” in Iroquois and in French. Then he pointed to the Dutchman’s home. The man agreed to bring him in. But Orinha took fright again and first wanted to make sure there were no Iroquois there, gesturing again and again to make himself understood. The Dutchman suspected what he might be asking and shook his head a number of times. Completely worn out, Orinha followed him into his home. Come what may.
Adventures of Radisson Page 19
