The Orenda by Joseph Boyden

  The brambles tug at my robe like needy children as I push through the thick bushes, and I can see this must be the most glorious patch of raspberries on earth. But I am half a season too early. Instead of ripe fruit, I’m presented with thousands of tiny thorns. So be it. Today has become a test, and, while it’s a day I didn’t expect, I hope now to please You.

  Moments of sheer panic slip into moments of exhilaration when I consider that today might be the day that marks my journey from the physical world to the realm of the everlasting. If this creek leads nowhere instead of back to Bird’s party, then it will lead to You. In this way I console myself. Along the creek, I come across what must have recently been the bedding ground for some large animal, a deer or perhaps one of those beasts as big as a horse that they call a moose, the tall grass flattened in a circular fashion that, now with the sun peeking through cloud, seems like the perfect resting place. But no, I must push on.

  I wade through the grass, fingering my rosary and hearing what might be faster water. Running through the last of the grass, I see the soil has become rocky, and the creek indeed runs into a river. I’m certain I smell the smoke of a fire.

  Where the creek tumbles into the much bigger river, I turn to my left and I feel light-headed and so happy I have to hold in a scream when I see smoke rising from a fire and a few men resting by it. I’m about to shout out to them when it hits me like a slap. I realize I have no idea if these ones are Huron or Iroquois. What if I’ve stumbled across an enemy camp? I fall flat on the stones and bite my arm in the hope I haven’t been spotted.

  Peering up, I see that these ones sit by a stack of bundles. They must be my sauvages. I lie here and watch, shivering for the heat of their small fire. Soon, others come out of the forest, some carrying a canoe over their heads, a few with packs slung over their shoulders. That’s when the magnificent one I call David emerges. I stand, legs shaking, and move toward them.

  They stare as I approach, their bodies steaming from exertion. The expression on their faces shows me they’re confused. They must wonder how it is I managed to come from the opposite direction. I wonder the same thing myself.

  “I became lost,” I tell them. “In there.” I point to the forest behind us. They don’t answer. “My belongings,” I say, “are back at the big water. Must get.”

  The men just shrug and sit back on their haunches by the fire. I stand behind them, trying to take in some of the heat as they talk amongst themselves. I don’t know what to do. The idea of heading back into the dark forest alone again is so frightful that I’d rather lose my earthly possessions, my chalice, the Hosts baked from sagamité, my journal and quill, my spare cotton underclothes, the book on the lives of the saints the Superior gave to me before my departure. These all can be replaced, soon enough, God willing, upon my arrival in New France. My most valuable possession, irreplaceable in this harsh world, is the one I have around my neck, and that I carry inside my chest. So I will sit calmly and await the rest of the travellers before we begin paddling upstream. If one of them sees my bag and decides to bring it to me, so be it. If it is left behind, so be it. I won’t go again into that forest alone.

  When another group of men appears from the darkness of the bush, a canoe above their heads, I suddenly remember something horrible and my belly drops. What of Bird’s hide pack I’d been carrying? Where is it? I’ve left it somewhere. Where, though? I look around me, despite knowing with certainty that I hadn’t arrived here with it. It must be Bird’s. I’d taken it from his canoe and recognized it as his possession. Where did I lose it?

  Recalling my steps, I remember it in my possession when I first became lost. I remember having it even in the moment before I fell down the cliff. In fact, the bag shielded my face from the brambles and that is how I so blindly stepped out into thin air. I don’t recall seeing it after that. This must be where I lost it, back where I fell. Another group appears, a canoe on their shoulders as well. They are almost finished with the portage. I had walked for at least an hour along the creek. If I go immediately, I might get there and back in the same amount of time now that I know the route. I fear, though, that they will have already repacked the canoes and paddled off by then.

  It’s best to just sit down with Bird and tell him what happened, that my intentions were honourable, that I was trying to be useful but then became lost. I can see his face turning red with anger when he realizes what I’ve done, that I’m slowing the voyage down. Can the bag’s contents be so very important? Of course they are. These people don’t travel with an ounce of unnecessary weight. Bird will be angry with me, though. I remember him almost killing me that morning. I can’t tell him.

  I make my decision. If Bird or another says that he misses his pack, I will confess and apologize profusely and hope they don’t think I’m consorting with demons, something, I’ve realized as my language skills have grown, that I’m accused of quite often. If no one speaks out, then I won’t say a word and will leave it to You, Lord, to prove that my mistake wasn’t grievous. After all, in my desire to help I very well may have lost my own possessions, so is this not an even trade?

  I watch as more and more of them come out of the darkness of the forest, gently placing the canoes in the water and reloading them, not talking now but set to the work. First one canoe pushes off, then another, the men bending deep at the waist with each stroke. Their progress is slow, and as they paddle in unison, I’m amazed by their strength and fortitude. How can we possibly make it all the way to New France, paddling for weeks against such a strong current? I will have to leave this up to them. The issue of this lost bag niggles, though. My stomach tells me I’m making an improper decision.

  Then Bird appears from the forest, the girl at his heels. She has ignored me since this trip began, I assume on his orders. He carries a large bundle, the strap across his forehead as is their custom. He sweats and crouches when he’s finally able to drop the burden. His age is near impossible for me to guess, but he’s probably older than I imagined, his face thinner now that we’ve been travelling, the creases in it deep. Yet his hair is still mostly black, and he’s as muscled in the shoulders and arms and back as a young man. But at last I glimpse his exhaustion.

  The girl removes her own hide pack from her shoulders, staring as hard at me as I had at Bird. She then undoes the ties on her pack and pulls my black cloth satchel from it. Bird looks up, watching, the lines in his forehead deepening, as she leaves him and walks to me, smiling. She holds my satchel out to me, and when I take it, she asks that I bless her. My right hand rises up, instinctively.

  THE OTHER FINGER IS MINE

  Lying on my back and daring myself to stare into the sun for as long as I can, I drag my hand through the water. It’s my way of slowing the canoe down, of making more work for the men who paddle and grunt around me. I like the smell of their sweat. I like watching the muscles in their arms and backs bulge with each stroke against the river’s current. Lying here on this bundle of beaver furs, I imagine myself dead and lift my hand from the water and cross it over my other on my chest. The sun on my face darkens my skin and hides my scars so that in death I am the most beautiful woman in the world, and I am hard as a shell. My family who are still alive cry for me. The men beat their chests and the women tear the hair from their scalps. I am missed.

  —

  WE PADDLE FOR DAYS, and every moment of each day I think of ways to infuriate this old man, Bird. The easiest, I have found, is simply to spend time with the Crow, to ask him about his god, to have him make that strange gesture with his thumb on my forehead. I can feel Bird’s blood heat up when I dare take the Crow’s hand. I’ve won, but still, I think of ways to make Bird angry. I want to see him ignite. I want, I think, for him to get so mad that he kills the Crow. He has decided he doesn’t want me, and I’m happy to be going back to my people, but I’m confused, Father and Mother, why I’m not wanted anymore. How dare he not want me anymore?

  Each day as we struggle against the current, I w
atch the men turn leaner, more focused, more silent. From first light until night threatens we push up this wide, black river with birch and maple and poplar thick on the banks. So many good places for my father’s brothers to ambush these canoes. I hope they’ve brought a hundred men, two hundred men. Enough to kill Bird and all of his war-bearers. The country here is beautiful. The rocks run right down into the water that’s dark as the darkest night, and when the men stop to rest, I lie upon those rocks and let their heat soak into me. A wind from the east has brought good skies, and this kind wind blows away the flies and mosquitoes. These might be the most beautiful days of sun I’ve ever known after the rain of last week stopped. This is the perfect time, and the prettiest of country, in which to witness my father’s brothers kill these enemies.

  —

  TODAY, AT THE END of an especially long portage, all the men gather at the head of a waterfall that splits a cliff in half. Each man in turn reaches for the pouch he wears on his back and takes from it a pinch of tobacco. Each then finds the appropriate crack or hole on the rock face of this great cliff and stuffs his offering in, the younger ones showing off how high they can scale the height, which makes me sick with fear that they’ll fall. Others, in extra offering, lean toward the swirling waters that spin before gushing over the lip of the drop and sprinkle more of their tobacco there. Bird raises his arms and asks the spirit who lives here for a safe voyage. “You are Tsanhohi,” he says, “and I beseech you to listen to my small voice, the small voices of my friends. We will speak as one so that our voice will be loud enough for you to hear as you fly above us on the drafts. Look down to us and protect us on this journey, and allow us to defeat our enemy if he chooses to fight.” The men all answer “Ah-ho!” I can tell from how worn the cliff face is that Bird’s people have come to this place for as long as there have been people to ask the eagle spirit who lives somewhere in the rocks here for help. Fox calls out and points up into the blue sky. I see the flash of Tsanhohi, a golden eagle, circling overhead. The men shout happily and reach for one another because their prayer is being answered. As they stare up into the sky I move to the cliff and begin to pull out tufts of their tobacco they’d just stuck in the rocks, as much as I can, and stuff it into my mouth. Although eating all of this tobacco will make me throw up, I ask Tsanhohi that these men not make it home again.

  —

  TONIGHT THE MEN are so tired they don’t even bother to build a fire or raise their shelters, just cut down pine boughs for bedding and then lie atop them and fall fast asleep. The few lookouts fight to stay awake, their heads bobbing. One stands and paces, slapping his face. Another sits with his arms around his knees and his hands holding a knife below his chin so if it begins to sink he’ll be wakened by the tip’s pierce. Tonight I’ll play a trick on Bird, one that he won’t forget. I will not allow him to forget me.

  The mosquitoes whine in my ears as I lie beside Bird, who breathes in sleep. I stare at his face, lit by an almost full moon. He’s become even darker in the sun, and now that he relaxes I find him handsome without wanting to. Before we left, he had his hair carefully cut by the medicine woman called Gosling. She asked him to bring me along so I could learn how she groomed him and be able to do it myself on the journey. I watched her work on him, the animals tattooed on her arms moving as if by themselves. Afterward she gave me a thick clamshell, bigger than my palm, which narrows to an edge as thin and as sharp as any knife. She told me it came from a place beside the great sea where the French first appeared. She told me to take care of it, to use it with precision.

  I’ve come to like how Bird wears his hair, down to his shoulder on one side and shaved to the skin on the other. This is the hair of the war-bearer, and Bird isn’t afraid to let all know that he is one. He’s kept it greased nicely with the oil of sunflower seeds, and the smell of it makes me hungry for something. He’s a proud man, a strong man, and he’s not shy to show it in his appearance. Who he is he shows to the world. The stubble on the bald side of his head looks sharp. All of the men have turned their attention to the work of travel and away from their grooming. I know that in the next few days when we approach the place where I’m to be given back to my family, they’ll spend a long time grooming one another and making themselves fierce again with ochre. But before then, I’ll groom Bird as he sleeps.

  The guards are exhausted, though they’re not asleep. I must be quiet. I must be focused. I crawl from the robe and look over at Bird. Despite his appearing to sleep deeper than dreams, I’ve learned he senses when I’m not near. Staying on my belly, I move slow, pulling myself along the ground a hand’s width at a time. The urge to stand and bolt comes over me, but I tell myself I only need to get to the riverbank to find what I need. I have the whole night to accomplish this, after all.

  One of the lookouts must have risen from a crouch not far from me. I can hear the bones in his knees crack and the low grunt of relief from his throat. The fire is just embers but the moon is bright enough to give me away if I don’t lie still. The light snores of tired men surround me, so I pretend to be one of them and wait for the guard to move quietly away before I continue crawling toward the sound of the water.

  When it seems safe enough to crouch, I do. I see the high wisps of summer cloud cross over the moon and in the moon’s shadow I move closer to the black water. When it emerges again, I kneel and freeze. In this way I make my way to the bank where I sit with my hands on my knees and fight the desire to stand up and walk back to Bird, to stand up and pretend this dark idea never came to me. The moon continues to shine then disappear and I stare at the water moving by me, bright when the moon emerges, reflecting light in the black of it. In this light I stand and search out the rocks I’ll need.

  I see the flat one first and pick it up. The other is more difficult to find, and I walk along the bank. This stone I look for must be heavy but not too heavy for me to lift with one hand. Finally, after lifting many, I find the right one. With a rock in each hand, I slip back into camp and nestle next to Bird.

  Staring into his face, I try to guess if he really sleeps. I reach gently as I can for his hand that he holds near his head. I do something I’ve never done before. I take it into mine. With my free hand, I slide the flat rock into place between us. Then I lift our holding hands to it, placing them upon the surface. Slowly, I pull my entwined fingers from his and reach into my dress and pull the clamshell out. If I’m to do this, if I’m to take some small revenge for what he did to you, my father, my mother, I can’t think. I can only do. Rising to my knees, I pick up the bigger rock with my strong arm, and with my other hand I pin his little finger to the stone with the clamshell. I hold his hand in place with my own. He begins to stir, moving his head just a little bit, so I lift the rock high above my head, my whole body shaking now with the fear and effort. I swing the rock down, and I feel the scream coming out of my throat before I hear it. The crush of the rock smashing onto the clam-shell, the clamshell slipping and shattering under my grip, vibrates up my arm. Bird wakes with a roar and has pulled away from me, rolled away from me, clutching his hand to his chest with the other.

  So much blood, black in the moonlight, pools over the flat rock. I see as he stands that I must have done a very good job. Not one but two fingers lie on the stone. Shards of shattered clamshell glint beside them. I grab the largest sliver to defend myself against Bird, and that’s when I notice that my own hand is smeared with blood. Bird reaches for me as men scramble and stand up all around us. I raise my hand to my face, and the understanding sinks in as blood pulses out. The other finger on the stone is mine.

  LOST WAMPUM

  Each stroke, my hand screams with pain. She’s lost something important in her head. This is the only explanation. The others would lose respect for me if I refused to do my part of the work. It isn’t in me to sit like a child or a crow and allow the others to carry my weight. Two days since the loss of my finger and still blood soaks the moss and hide tied tightly over my hand. At least she only re
moved the smallest finger, the most useless one. The stupid thing severed her own little finger in the process, but from the opposite hand. The clamshell must have slipped. I don’t feel bad for her. She lies in front of me in the canoe with her hands and feet bound, as much to prevent harming herself as anyone else. The girl’s pale but she won’t die. The pain, as I can attest to, dear wife, is extraordinary. It allows neither of us to think of anything else. I wanted to ask her why she did this to me but all I need to do is remember what I did to her family. Maybe she hasn’t lost her mind at all. Perhaps she’s gifted. To be able to do this to me despite the fear of my response is impressive. I look to her and see that she looks back. I laugh as I stop paddling, dipping my screaming hand in the cold river.

  Not only have I lost my finger, I’ve lost my kit containing the wampum meant as a peace offering for her family. This would seem like a joke if it weren’t so serious. No one has it, and no one has seen it since the first portage onto this river. Blame has turned to the girl. Clearly, she wishes me more harm than even I imagined. Her people will see a great insult that I not offer them wampum when this is precisely what has been requested and is what custom must allow. So be it. She has caused me enough sorrow and I look forward to reaching the meeting place in the next few days and being rid of her. This is what I tell myself through the pain.

  The Crow attempted to care for her yesterday, and once again I came very close to killing him, to taking out my anger in an irreparable way. Soon enough I will be rid of him, too. I can paddle with my group and spend the summer trading and my world will again feel almost normal.

  —

  TONIGHT WE STOP EARLY to begin preparing for our meeting with them. We are within a short paddle of the designated place where the Snake River is born from the big lake. No doubt the Haudenosaunee warriors have already arrived and do the same. Mine sit in groups of two or three, scraping one another’s heads clean with shells, oiling their hair, applying ochre to faces and chests and arms. I watch how the young ones are nervous beneath their paint and bravado. Fox notes this as well as he shaves the one side of my head. “Their first taste of it soon if things go bad,” he says. “That’ll calm them down.”