The Way Lies North

by Jean Rae Baxter

  “I’ll find you a feather and cut you a sheet of birchbark. But dyes are women’s work. I’ll tell Chi-gwi-lat what you need.”

  Moses cut the birchbark neatly to the shape and size of a sheet of writing paper and flattened it by passing a flame over the inner side. Borrowing his knife, Charlotte trimmed a wild goose feather into a serviceable pen. Chi-gwi-lat’s contribution was not berry juice, but dark brown dye made by boiling hemlock root.

  The only flat, smooth surface for writing a letter was the floor of the hut. Since she did not have a free hand to hold the birchbark in place, Charlotte placed a stone as a paperweight on each of its four corners. Crouching on the earth floor, she dipped her quill into the tiny clay pot of dye. The birchbark was not as smooth as real paper, nor was her quill as well trimmed as the one that Sergeant Major Clark had lent her for her letter to Nick. “This will have to be a very short letter,” she muttered. “The fewer the words, the fewer the blots.”

  Moses returned with Black Elk and Swift Fox. When Charlotte handed over the letter to Black Elk, both elders eyed it mistrustfully. Perhaps they had been betrayed before by the marks that white men made on paper. Black Elk thrust the letter into Moses’ hands, uttering what sounded like a command.

  “What did he say?” Charlotte asked.

  “He wants me to tell him what the marks mean.”

  “You can read it, can’t you?”

  “It starts out, ‘Dear Axe Carrier.’ He flushed. “That’s as far as I can go.”

  She took the letter back. “This is what it says.”

  Dear Axe Carrier,

  Please come at once. I am a captive of the Oneidas. They want to bury the tomahawk with the Mohawk people. They will free me if you will help them to make peace with the English. I know how much you want the Six Nations to be united again.

  “That’s all. I signed it, Your friend, Charlotte Hooper.”

  “I’ll tell them that it’s a good letter. They’re asking if you know where to find Axe Carrier.”

  “Their messenger should try Lachine. That’s where he spends the winters. If he isn’t there, someone will know where he has gone.”

  As Black Elk and Swift Fox got up to leave, Charlotte said to Moses, “Please don’t go yet. I have something to ask you.”

  He waited.

  “Moses, what happened the day you ran away?”

  “Why should I tell you?”

  “Because I was your friend.”

  “I will if you stop calling me Moses. That was my name in a different life. Call me Broken Trail.”

  “I’ll try. But it’s hard to remember.”

  He sat down on the log beside her. “I didn’t mean to run away. I just wanted to scare Ma and Elijah so that Ma would tell Polly Platto to leave me alone and Elijah would take me hunting. But I got tired and it started to rain. I made a leaf pile and crawled in. The warriors found me asleep, with my head sticking out of the leaves. After they pulled me out, they stood laughing at me and talking to each other. One warrior gave me a chunk of maple sugar. He pointed along the trail and tugged my arm to show me that I had to go with them. I wasn’t afraid. I’d rather be captured by Indians than tormented by Polly Platto.”

  “So they took you to their fishing village?”

  “Yes. And the next day everybody packed up, loaded the canoes, and we left for the band’s main village, where people lived in longhouses. I had to run the gauntlet.”

  “They made a child run the gauntlet?”

  “It was nothing — just two rows of women and children swatting me with corn stalks while I raced between them. After that, a warrior who spoke English told me that a man and woman whose son had died wanted to adopt me. The woman’s brother would teach me how to hunt. I told them I’d like that. So they gave me a little cut to let out my white blood. They washed me and gave me new moccasins and named me Broken Trail. They said my old life was dead and I’d been born again.”

  “And now you don’t want to leave?”

  “I’ll never leave. I told my parents — my new parents — that if I was sent away, I would escape and come back to them.”

  “But you have a mother and a little sister at Carleton Island. You have a father and two brothers fighting for the King.”

  He hesitated. When he spoke again, his voice was husky. “Are they well? It is my duty to forget them, but I would like to know that they are well.”

  “Your mother and sister are well. I don’t know about the others. But Moses, how can you—–?”

  He slammed his clenched fist on the log. “My name is Broken Trail.”

  Chapter twenty-two

  Charlotte and Chi-gwi-lat sat on the log outside the old woman’s hut. Chi-gwi-lat was sewing coloured porcupine quills onto a new, doeskin dress, which had a pattern of triangles, crosses and squares pricked out across the yoke. Charlotte’s job was to flatten each quill by drawing it between her teeth, then hand it to Chi-gwi-lat, who attached it to the dress with a sinew thread.

  Charlotte had a quill between her teeth when Moses approached the hut.

  “Se-go-li,” he said to Chi-gwi-lat. To Charlotte he said, “Hello.”

  “Hello,” Charlotte said, after taking the quill out of her mouth.

  He stood in front of her, shuffling his feet. She studied him: the brown hair, the blue eyes. On his skinny chest he wore a bear-claw necklace. Apart from moccasins, a belt and breechcloth were his only garments.

  “I’ve come to say good-bye.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “It’s better for me to be away when Axe Carrier comes. Today my uncle takes me on a long trail.” He fidgeted as if he had something serious on his mind but could not bring himself to say it. After an awkward pause, he turned to Chi-gwi-lat and, with a laugh, said something in Oneida. Chi-gwi-lat giggled.

  “What did you say to her?” asked Charlotte.

  “I asked who was going to fill her tree with nuts.”

  “You asked her what?”

  “Well, she’s old enough to marry. As soon as she leaves Wolf Woman’s house, she’ll have her ceremony of maidenhood.

  “Wolf Woman? So the old woman isn’t Chi-gwi-lat’s granny?”

  “Of course not. Wolf Woman is her teacher. Every girl has to spend six months serving a wise woman so she can learn medicines and other wisdom. After that, she goes back to her mother and father’s lodge until she chooses a husband.”

  “What does this have to do with nuts?”

  “It was a joke. Chi-gwi-lat means squirrel.”

  “It does? Her name is Squirrel?” Bright eyes, front teeth a bit too large. Lively, always busy. Charlotte laughed. “It suits her.”

  “Names should suit people. Yours suits you.”

  “Charlotte suits me?”

  “I meant your Oneida name.”

  “I didn’t know I had one.”

  “You are Woman-who-dresses-like-a-man.”

  “Oh, I don’t like it.”

  He shrugged. “That doesn’t matter. As long as your story is told around the campfire, Woman-who-dresses-like-a-man will be your name.” He paused, and his expression became serious. “Before I go, I want to thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For rescuing me. Some Elders wanted to send me back to the English, even though I’d been adopted.”

  “To buy peace?”

  He nodded.

  “So I appeared at the right moment to take your place.” Things certainly did work out in strange ways, as if everything were part of a plan.

  “Would it be so bad to go back?” Charlotte searched his face for any sign that he might weaken.

  His mouth twisted into an odd smile. “My new mother never makes me gather wood and nuts like a girl. I fish and trap and paddle my own canoe. My uncle teaches me to hunt. Training to be a warrior is better than going to school, where you have to sit at a desk and learn stupid stuff like spelling.”

  With part of her mind, Charlotte sympathized. She knew of other sto
ries like his. Not all white captives wanted to be freed.

  She sighed. “When I go back, what shall I tell your mother?”

  “My first mother? I have nothing to tell her.”

  “No message at all?”

  He shook his head.

  The boy’s coldness stunned her. Not one word of love or remembrance for the woman who had given him life.

  “Don’t you ever want to see her again?” Charlotte pleaded. “Or Elijah? Or your baby sister?”

  For a moment his eyes wavered. Then his face became rigid as a mask — the face of a warrior. “No. It is finished.”

  Charlotte held out her hand, but he did not take it. “Then I shall never see you again.”

  Next morning the whole camp was busy with preparations. The best hut was cleared and swept. Venison simmered in the cooking pots. Dancers practised their steps. Charlotte guessed what it meant: the Mohawk delegation would soon arrive.

  Chi-gwi-lat’s friends paid another visit. This time they brought with them a collection of different coloured paints: red, white, yellow, blue and green, each in a separate horn container. They set out the paint horns on the log, and then knelt, two on each side facing each other.

  The girls worked in pairs, dipping the flattened ends of their twig brushes into the paint horns to scoop up greasy daubs of colour. Chi-gwi-lat’s partner received a large red spot on each cheek and another on her forehead. Chi-gwi-lat was decorated with green wavy lines across her brow and rings of blue dots on her cheeks and chin. The girls did not hurry. To create the perfect arrangement of lines, dots, circles and spots took half the afternoon.

  When they had finished with each other, the Oneida girls descended upon Charlotte with grins, giggles and a flourish of paintbrushes. They took turns, their eyes sparkling gleefully as they worked on their designs.

  After packing away their paints, they took Charlotte with them to the river that flowed by the camp to see her reflection in the water. There were red circles on her cheeks, a broad blue line down the length of her nose, green parallel stripes across her forehead, and fresh red paint in the parting of her hair. Even to herself, she didn’t look different from the other girls: the same dark braids, the same fringed leather clothing, the same dazzling face paint. “Woman of Two Worlds,” she murmured.

  When she looked up, Charlotte saw a canoe appear from around a bend in the river. A second canoe, a third, and a fourth came into view, and then a fifth, lagging behind the others.

  There were three men in each of the first four canoes: two paddlers and a passenger. But the fifth canoe held only two people: a man and a girl.

  As the canoes came nearer, Charlotte recognized Axe Carrier in the bow of the lead canoe. The rear paddler was a warrior she had not seen before. Their passenger was an elderly man who sat very still, with an air of great dignity. The second, third and fourth canoes were also paddled by warriors of middle years, and in each of them the passenger was an older man.

  But the fifth canoe! Who was that young warrior with trophy feathers trailing from his bristling scalp lock? Okwaho? It couldn’t be! But it was. And who was the girl?

  Why did Okwaho have a girl in his canoe?

  As the canoe touched the creek bank, the girl sprang out with the grace of a wildcat. She steadied the canoe for Okwaho, giving him her hand as he stepped onto the riverbank. The girl was as tall as Charlotte and about the same age. Her hair was braided in a single plait, which was looped up and tied with a lace at the back of her neck, as was the custom for Iroquois married women. From the way Okwaho smiled and held her hand in his, Charlotte knew that the young warrior had found a wife.

  As the warriors from the first four canoes formed up in procession, Charlotte saw Axe Carrier’s eyes scanning the crowd. He looked right past her, and then looked again. His eyes brightened. After a nod that acknowledged her presence, he took his place, second in the line.

  The man who appeared to be the oldest walked ahead, holding upon his outstretched hands a beaded belt that shone in the sun. The beads, purple and white, were woven into a pattern of squares and diamonds. In the centre were the figures of two men clasping hands.

  “Wampum?” Charlotte asked.

  Chi-gwi-lat nodded: “Ga-swe-da.”

  When the Oneida elders and warriors had greeted the Mohawk delegation, the bearer of the wampum belt gave it to Black Elk. Then the men of both nations sat down in a circle. Several made speeches, each holding an eagle feather as he spoke.

  After the speeches, Axe Carrier took a stone pipe and stem from a pouch carried at his side. He fitted the bowl and stem together, filled the bowl with tobacco, and lit it from a burning stick.

  That must be the peace pipe, Charlotte thought. The silence told her that this was the most sacred part of the ceremony. Axe Carrier handed the pipe to the wampum bearer, who took a few puffs and passed it on. The pipe travelled around and around the circle, each man taking a few puffs until it was burned out.

  As soon as the last man had dumped the ashes from the pipe bowl into the fire, everyone stood up. The Mohawk and Oneida warriors walked about, chatting like friends who had not met for a long time. Axe Carrier was deep in conversation with Black Elk and Swift Fox. After a few minutes, he raised his head and looked around. When he saw Charlotte, he pointed to her. Black Elk and Swift Fox nodded, then all three began to walk in her direction.

  As they approached, Charlotte was very conscious of her painted face. To have her face coloured red, blue and green had certainly been unplanned, but when she had seen her reflection in the river, she had liked the look. Dressed like an Oneida woman, she felt herself to be part of the celebration.

  “Ho! Woman of Two Worlds,” Axe Carrier greeted her.

  “I didn’t think you would recognize me.”

  “I didn’t, at first.”

  Black Elk and Swift Fox stepped forward. They were looking at her with respect, as if she had performed a brave and noble act. Each said a few words, their faces grave.

  Axe Carrier interpreted. “The band elders wish to thank you for writing the letter, and so do I. They say that you are wise for one so young.”

  She looked at each of them in turn, meeting their level gaze. “Give them my thanks, and tell them that I shall always think of the Oneidas as my friends.”

  When Black Elk and Swift Fox had strolled away to speak with other warriors, Axe Carrier said, “I have brought my daughter to meet you.”

  He beckoned to Okwaho and the Mohawk girl.

  “Drooping Flower?” Charlotte asked as the girl approached.

  The girl nodded.

  “My wife,” said Okwaho.

  Charlotte looked at Drooping Flower. Tall and big-framed, she looked as if she could paddle a canoe all day without breaking a sweat. How did this robust young woman receive the unlikely name, Drooping Flower?

  “I hear about you,” said Drooping Flower. “My father call you his white daughter. Okwaho call you his friend.”

  “Good friend,” said Charlotte.

  She was happy for Okwaho, yet here was a puzzle that she did not understand. According to Axe Carrier, Drooping Flower had chosen a husband nearly two years ago. Yet it could not have been Okwaho — not when Okwaho was courting Charlotte right under Axe Carrier’s nose.

  “Have you been married long?” she asked, hoping for enlightenment.

  “Long?” Okwaho asked.

  Axe Carrier explained in Mohawk.

  “Ho!” Drooping Flower smiled. “We marry short. One moon.”

  “My daughter and Okwaho were about to leave on their wedding journey,” said Axe Carrier, “when the Oneida messenger arrived at Lachine. As soon as I told them about my mission, they wanted to come along. They will travel with us as far as Carleton Island, and then go on by themselves to the Bay of Quinte, where Thayendanegea has asked the English to reserve land for the Mohawk nation.”

  “We go to look,” said Drooping Flower. “Maybe we live there.”

  When Okwaho and Dro
oping Flower had wandered off, Charlotte said, “I didn’t think Okwaho was the man Drooping Flower wanted to marry.”

  “He wasn’t. Her first sweetheart died when smallpox wiped out his village. Drooping Flower mourned for a year; then Okwaho dried her tears.”

  “Did she hang a basket of biscuits outside his lodge?”

  “Ha! You remember.”

  “Well? Did she?”

  “She made twenty-four double ball biscuit loaves, and he ate every one.”

  “She should teach me how to make them.” Charlotte paused. “Except I don’t even know where my sweetheart is.”

  “Before leaving Lachine, I sent a messenger to Carleton Island to tell your father that I myself will bring you back. By now he has received this good news. He waits for you. Perhaps your sweetheart waits too.”

  She felt herself blush under the paint. “Perhaps.”

  “Tonight we feast and dance. Tomorrow we set off. In five days, you will see.”

  First came the feasting. Women raked the hot embers from around the cooking pots and removed the flat stones that served as lids, releasing the delicious smell of venison stew. There were bowls of boiled water lily bulbs, as well as wooden platters of fish, game birds and rabbit baked in clay. At the end of the feast, children passed around baskets filled with berries.

  After the women had removed the remnants of feasting, an open space was cleared around the fire. A few thumps on a drum announced that the dancing was about to begin. Rattles joined in. Singers began their chant: “Hey-ga hey a heh, hey a heh.” Axe Carrier and Okwaho left the girls and joined the other men.

  The first dancers were warriors. They shuffled and stamped in a wide circle as they moved to the beat of the drum. “Hey-ga hey a heh, hey a heh.” The chant went on and on. Around and around the dancers went. When one man left the circle, another took his place. How long was this going to last? It seemed to be never-ending. But from the intent expression on other faces, Charlotte suspected that she was the only person who found it monotonous. After a long, long time the pounding of the drums faltered and died. The warriors sat down to watch the next dancers.