by Gary Collins
He walked into a small camp of Beothuk, carrying a seal upon his shoulder. He had killed it with a single arrow as it lay in the sun upon the rocks just two coves over. After their initial surprise at the tall young man—who was obviously one of their kind—and seeing he had brought food, they accepted him into their camp. Some of them knew who he was and had seen him before. A tall man who appeared to be their elder approached Kop.
“You are the one who spends much time alone and who was missing from the warm lodge of your ewinon for all of that season of cold. Your ewinon looked for you long after the others had stayed in their mamateeks. It was the coldest of winters, and he was sad when they gave up the search. They looked for you for two more seasons.”
“Where are they?” asked Kop, looking all around. The seal on his back dripped blood on his shoulders when he moved.
“They are all winum. We found them just upstream from the mouth of the great river near the weir.”
Kop hung his head. “How did they die?”
“From the fire sticks which shoot unseen arrows, carried by the Unwanted Ones,” he was told. “Their meotick was burned to the ground. Their fish racks stripped. No furs were found. The pointed fur kaniskwe’te from your mother’s head was stolen.”
“Even the mu’ksans on her feet were taken,” said a short woman who had come up behind her husband. “With my own eyes I saw her sew them while she offered soft se’kos to the spirits for your safe return. She stained them with the red ochre and her tears.”
“We buried them well above the tide waters. We put all of their possessions in the graves. There wasn’t much,” said her husband. The others gathered around, listening.
“There was a fight,” Kop said. It was more a statement, not a question. His father would not die without fighting. This he knew.
“There was much blood on the sand at the river’s edge, near the marks left by the heavy boats of the Unwanted Ones. They were bleeding when they left,” the tall man answered. “And there was evidence of fighting on shore. Why do they attack and kill us without reason?”
The seal was growing heavy on his shoulders, and Kop lowered it to the ground. He noticed the others looking longingly at the fresh meat. They all looked hungry.
“In the heads of the Unwanted Ones, I believe there was a reason,” said Kop. He straightened his body. He carried the limp carcass of the heavy seal far. He was looking around the campsite as he spoke. He saw a piece of sail spread on the ground, strands of rope hanging from a tree, and in the fire, rusty pieces of iron were being heated.
“I believe they came for their belongings,” Kop said, pointing at the items.
“They are not their belongings! They are ours! We are not thieves. The Unwanted Ones went away before the time of cold. They left many things behind on our land. If they wanted them, why did they leave them without guarding them? No one leaves tools behind.”
“They do not think as True People, who keep their belongings with them always,” said Kop. “For us, items left unattended are considered discarded ones, and to take them is not a crime. We must keep hidden the strange things we find at the white men’s camp.” He stepped closer to the fire and turned his back to its warmth. He was soaked with blood from the seal and sweat from his shoulders. Steam drifted from his body.
He changed the subject. “There were others who shared camp with my father. Where are they?”
“We have not seen them. Though we believe they might have escaped.”
Kop stood silently by the cooking fire. With his two hands cupped, he offered the Beothuk the gutted seal. It was gratefully accepted. They waited, expecting him to tell them where he had been, but he didn’t speak. He would never tell them he had been careless and that when his guard was down he had heard too late the steps behind him. He had been kidnapped and held captive all winter.
When spring rain and fog came, he escaped from his captors. It had been easy. After his escape and finding his village deserted, he became bitter. Instead of heading toward the sea, where he knew they had gone, he went deeper into the forest. After a long time alone in the secret valleys, he was awakened in the dark one night with a sudden urge to be among others of his kind. With the rising sun full on his face, he had left his camp to look for them. Now he had found them. He offered no explanation for his long absence, and none was asked. Kop was given a hearty welcome into their camp. He was a hunter who had brought meat.
The young girl who was ordered by her father to prepare the seal meat for cooking was called Tehonee. She approached him shyly. Her dark eyes looked up at him. He had never seen anything so lovely in his life. When he handed her the first cut of meat, their hands met, and he was in love.
When Tehonee’s clan went inland to their winter house on the shores of the Great Red Pond, Kop went with them, and before the snows came, Tehonee and he had pledged their troth. They moved into their own shelter, and when the spring came, Kop led his mate away from the others and the lake of his birth. So much was Tehonee in love with Kop, she went with him willingly. Though he had taken a mate, Kop was still a loner.
They moved west and south, hunting, fishing, and gathering as they went. They crossed many tributaries which ran into the mother of rivers. On they travelled all that spring and summer until they reached the coast. They were alone and saw no others. The days of gathering food and nights of loving went quickly. The nights cooled, the geese began their flight south, and following the spawning salmon run, Tehonee and Kop headed inland again, and in the glorious autumn, Kop found what he was looking for. He had spent time here in this same valley before, all alone, and now he would share it with the woman he loved. It was a secluded valley through which a swiftly flowing river ran. The river was joined by many tumbling streams and wended its way for many miles, until it entered the ocean at the head of a long, narrow bay with many coves, beaches, and small islets covered with grass where birds nested. This valley of plenty was where Kopituk and Tehonee decided to start their new life together. Far inland, at the head of the valley, they built their first mamateek together by the side of a large pond where a river entered.
They who were born separate and who had pledged their union with the bond of love and heart were now as one. They revelled in love and youth and discovery. The spring in their young muscles carried them through valleys where streams teemed with fish, and up over pine-clad ridges to brushy plains where deer wandered. The trees lost their summer green and overnight were burnished with autumn. And when the first snow came stealing down in the black of night, Tehonee had already missed her first menses. She waited till one more bleeding time had gone before she told Kop she was with child.
The winter was not a severe one, and until her belly was too heavy for safe travel, Tehonee tended the trapline with Kop. They had killed three kosweet, which saw them through with enough meat to stave off hunger, and soft hides to keep them warm. And when the last snow had disappeared from the south-facing hills, on a dark night sultry with spring, Tehonee went alone into their mamateek and tied the flap tight. Kop walked away into the trees. Tehonee was fortunate to be allowed such comfort during her time of birthing. Both hers and Kop’s places of birth had been much different.
When the night had come up over the hills and the camp was drowsy, Tehonee’s mother’s pains began. She uttered no sound. Quietly, she walked away from the low fire where she had huddled for warmth. The night was cold and growing colder. A rising sliver of moon filtered a wan glow down through the trees surrounding the campsite. Some shadows were softened, and some were deepened with the night light. Tehonee’s mother walked into them. There were others crouched by the fire who watched her leave. No one spoke to her. They knew where she was going and why she was going there. The place where she was headed had already been predetermined by her. No one would come near her chosen place of birthing. Not even if she screamed for help. It was a woman’s pain t
o bear alone. If all went well, she would return before dawn carrying her new child.
If she died giving birth, it meant the site she had chosen was not blessed by her birth spirit. When after a night and a day she had not returned, the eldest woman of the tribe and a young girl whose first time of bleeding had not yet come followed her trail. Finding the woman perished and the newborn still living, the young girl carried the child back to camp, where it would be cared for by the women. The dead mother was buried by the elder woman at the place of her death, without ceremony. The woman who buried her would never reveal where; it was a bad omen for a woman to be taken by her death spirit at the time of her life-giving. The child would be given its name by the elders and raised a full member of the tribe. The dead mother’s name would not be spoken again.
When kop thought he had gone far enough into the darkness, he stopped. When the first cry came, he knew he had not walked far enough. He shivered, transfixed by the sounds. The cries of his woman were made all the more heart-rending by the cloak of night. When Tehonee cried out, all the night sounds seemed to cease and pay heed to the ageless harbinger of new life. Kop was unable to move away from the cries or go to them. He waited. And Tehonee, who was learning hard her first painful experience of one of life’s greatest mysterious, bore the pain alone. After a while, when her pains had suddenly quelled, Kop walked back to the shelter. He untied the flap and entered. Tehonee’s face was damp with perspiration. Her long, black hair was plastered to her head. She looked up from her bed of fur, and her eyes shone with a new mother’s wonderment. Kop had never seen her more beautiful. She washed the imamus, the woman-child, and swaddled her in the luxurious auburn fur of a pine marten. Then she drew the child to her breast—the left one, the one nearest to the heart.
Kop slept apart from Tehonee that night, as was fitting. Tehonee rested all that night and late the next day. She emerged from the lodge that evening and brought the child in her arms into its first light of day. Kop was adding wood to the campfire.
“Look in the sky, Kopituk!” Tehonee cried with excitement. She was looking west, where the sun was setting, and then to the east, where a huge full moon was rising. Kop drew near and stood by her side, looking into the heavens.
“It is the best of omens!” he exclaimed. “Even as the kuis dies in the west, the kuise rises in the east. The Great Spirit has blessed our emamooset. She will have light by day and night.”
“We can call her Kuisduit?” asked Tehonee.
“It is a good name, which means the light for day and night. I will call her Kuise, for the light which sheds the night.”
“Yes, my hunter.”
The sun settled low until all but its hues of purple and taints of red were left trapped among the trees. The full moon rose, and when it had cleared the earth, it stopped and shone its brilliance down. Kop was standing and Tehonee was seated by the soft fire light. Kop held his daughter for the first time. She was naked but made no sound. He pointed the child toward the dying sun, then to the rising moon. Then, with great tenderness, he anointed her tiny body with the sacred red clay. The child cried then. He finished ochring the child, then placed her into Tehonee’s waiting arms. She cradled the child, and she grew quiet.
“Kuisduit,” Tehonee said softly, holding the girl against her chest.
“Kuise,” Kop said evenly.
“Yes, my hunter.” Tehonee stood with her child and entered the shelter. The wail of a male loon, boasting its spring arrival, sounded sweet and clear over the pond water. It was followed by the crooning of the mate he had chosen for life. Kop went to join his own mate, whom he had also chosen for life.
15
Standing with kuise, hidden by the trees and looking out on the water, Kop’s mind was overtaken by his memories. They were beside the big lake just below the point where he had been born. Kop was torn inside. His reminiscing had brought the events of his life flooding back. It seemed as if it had all happened just yesterday, so vivid were his memories, most of them sad.
Nothing moved on the water, no stir of life on the point. He had approached the point downwind. The wind blew cool and easy toward him. There were no smells from cooking fires, no tang of woodsmoke in the air. Sitting atop the tallest tree, out the low point, were two ravens, their heads down. They clucked and croaked and preened. Kop scanned the woods and the shoreline again. Deep in the shadows created by the point and just out from the water’s edge, a black duck hen was standing on one leg on a low rock. Swimming around the rock and frequently dipping their heads below the water were six of her fledglings. Their new tail feathers and pale legs bobbed above the water as their heads went below. The wary hen was as contented as the ravens. The birds felt safe. Kop stepped out on the beach, and Kuise followed him. The hen was instantly alarmed. Squawking loudly, she dashed into the water and swam away from the shore. Her young staggered after her and battered awkwardly over the calm surface before finally gaining stuttered flight. The hen shot out of the water and followed them, flying low over the water.
The ravens ceased their croaking and occasionally cawed as Kop and Kuise walked up the beach toward the long point. At the bottom of the cove where the point began, a clear brook divided the beach and ran into the lake. Father and daughter walked through its cool, shallow water and stood upon the grass on the point side of the cove. The grass and brush were well trodden by many feet. A well-worn path wound from the point to the brook where water had been gathered for drinking. Kop stopped and looked around. He had drunk from this stream many times. His people always drank from running streams, preferring the cool water to the warm lake water, which they used for cooking. Following the path he knew so well, Kop led Kuise to the edge of the trees at the base of the point.
He stopped and looked all around. He could detect nothing unusual. A small flock of honking geese in vee formation was winging its way toward the mouth of the river. The ravens on the tree were eyeing them. There were two mamateeks on the point. Their doorways all faced south, as was the Beothuk way. And among the trees inside the point, there was only one where there had been many. The lodges were decrepit and in disrepair. In many places birchbark hung from them and flapped in the breeze, proving there was no one in them. Motioning for Kuise to halt, Kop walked up to one of the shelters. Despite the birds showing no alarm, Kop couldn’t be sure if the Unwanted Ones were inside the lodges, waiting to attack.
He approached the back of the first lodges from the north side. He held a spear in one hand and a bow in the other. Clenched in his teeth was a long arrow. Kop had come here prepared to fight. Within easy reach of the shelter, he crouched low to the ground and listened for any sounds coming from inside. The trees rustled. The waves lapped upon the shore, and the ravens croaked. There came no other sound. Still bent low to the ground, Kop walked to the door opening. The hide flap was missing, and after his eyes adjusted to the dark inside, he entered. There was nothing inside to indicate recent occupancy. There were no sleeping robes. The fir boughs on the sleeping ledges had turned brown and stiff. Mice had moved in.
Kop caught a blur of movement inside. He whirled around and in one fluid motion plucked the arrow from his mouth, placing it against his bowstring. Perched on one of the drying poles which straddled the mamateek, a small owl stared down at him with big eyes. Kop lowered his bow and stepped outside again. He walked out on the point, and the ravens flew away as he approached the next shelter. Not until he had searched all of the mamateeks out on the point did he call to Kuise, who came running to see what her father had discovered. There was nothing to show her but the footprints of the Unwanted Ones. Everything of any use was gone. No doorway flap covering remained. The Beothuk never carried their door flaps with them when they moved. Nor did they carry the heavy sleeping robes away from their winter house. Kop and Kuise walked back over the point along the beach, where he had once played and where he had learned to swim. A straight, shallow depression w
as there. He knew it for what it was: the keel mark of the Unwanted Ones’ boat. It merely confirmed what he suspected. The Beothuk had been driven away from their beloved lake, and everything in their camp had been looted.
Kop and kuise reached the end of the cove and crossed the shallow brook again. Cold was seeping through the trees. Dark shadows stretched far out into the lake. A loon cried. The lodge among the trees would make a good shelter for the night. But with one last look behind, Kop led his daughter away from what used to be. He would never sleep here again.
They journeyed west and then south, down through the valleys with the green of summer gone and over the barrens flush with autumn. At the end of one such line of barrens, they followed caribou leads that became one winding trail, scarred on the bare rocks by a thousand hooves over a thousand years. Between the trees and boulders lining the ancient caribou lead, dead trees and heavy branches had been woven until a crude but effective fence had been built. It stretched all the way down to the high cliff above a river. For generations the Beothuk had used these fences as a means to corral and slaughter caribou.
Kop remembered the place well. He had taken part in the hunt. After the deer herd had entered the mouth of the fence, the Beothuk had sprung into action behind them. Youths, both male and female, yelled and threw stones at the frightened deer, which went racing into the trap. Women stood behind the fences to fortify their weak spots and screamed and waved cloth at the caribou as they galloped into the corral, where the archers and spearmen waited.
