The Orenda by Joseph Boyden
“To the village of the crows,” I say.
Even Gosling looks surprised. “Every dream doesn’t have to be followed,” she says.
“This one was powerful,” I say. “Everyone looked strong in my dream.”
“Some dreams,” Gosling says, “demand that you listen to them. Others are simply images of what’s to come, not of what needs to be done.”
I think about this as I sip my broth. “I don’t understand,” I finally say.
Both Gosling and Snow Falls laugh. “You’re right, Gosling,” Snow Falls says. “What you say about men.”
I look at Carries an Axe, who also seems confused.
“Gosling means,” Snow Falls says, “that your dream might have simply been the fulfillment of what you desire, and not what should be done.”
I look at Snow Falls, then at Gosling. “My daughter is now the teacher?” I ask, and Carries an Axe covers his smile with his hand.
“It’s your dream,” Gosling says. “And she’s your daughter. The decision is between the two of you.”
I think of Fox’s dead family, of all the dark longhouses in our village, of how long it will take once the snow melts to bury our dead.
“I wish for my dream to be fulfilled,” I say. “Carries an Axe, I ask you to accompany Snow Falls to the place of the crows.”
The two glance at each other once again before Snow Falls turns to Gosling, who simply smiles.
“Maybe I will join you on that journey,” Gosling says, looking at me.
“But I didn’t see you there in my dream,” I say.
“Maybe it’s because I didn’t want you to see me,” she says.
It’s decided, then.
—
NOW THAT THE GROUND has thawed, every family in our village takes care of their dead. I help Fox to bend his family’s legs and arms into the position of children in the womb and we lovingly wrap them tight in their beaver robes so they’ll stay warm. I help Fox to carry each member of his family to the ossuary that the community has dug. We will bury our loved ones together today so they’ll have company, and we place our most prized possessions in the ossuary with them so they’ll have what they need in the next world.
Fox climbs down and makes sure that each family member is beside the other, each of them touching, each of them surrounded by the objects in life they cherished. The sewing awls that his wife was so particular about and the bone scraping knife given to her by her mother, her corn pestle and the stone bowl in which she ground it, the kettle traded from the Iron People for a hundred beaver pelts in which she cooked for her family, and for me, over so many seasons. Fox’s son has his bow and quiver placed across him along with Fox’s most treasured knife. His daughters have shiny beads and cornhusk dolls and eagle feathers and their hide pouches that Fox had made for them. He places his most reliable fishing net with them, too, and then takes off his tobacco pouch and places it on his son’s chest.
Families all around us go through the same ritual. We remain silent for now except for the small sobs that escape a few mouths. We have tightly wrapped our dead and given them what we hope they will need and all of us whisper to our loved ones that we’ll see them in not too long and so please, we beg, keep an ear out for us when we cross over too.
Our once great village is now like a lost child wandering in search of its parents. We all circle the ossuary as one body, looking down at all of our dead. The women begin to call out first, crying and shaking and singing, and the rest of us soon join in, pounding our bodies in grief and singing out for our loved ones, for their okis to go now from their bodies and to the spirit world. We pray for the one soul that will stay near us and the village, and for the other soul that will travel far away, the men beating their chests and their stomachs and their thighs and singing as loud as we can, some banging drums and others shaking rattles. The women cry out and weep great rivers of tears and we empty ourselves of the pain that’s filled us since the sickness descended and we beg for the orenda of our loved ones to rise up out of the ossuary, for their souls to travel together to the better place. We weep hoping we have given enough to them that they’ll manage in the next place and some of us cry because we want to be on this journey with them. When I look over at Fox, I know this is his truth. And now he knows the pain I have suffered for so long, my love, and he knows from watching me for so long that this pain never really goes away, just wanes and rises like the moon, and now when we look each other in the eye we are true brothers in our loss and in our desire to once again be with the ones we love and have lost.
—
FAR FEWER WOMEN now to begin preparing the fields for planting. Far fewer men now to clear the fields. Far fewer mouths, at least, to feed, Fox jokes bitterly. He and I do what we have done every spring since we were children, this sitting up late by the fire, planning our summer. Of course it’s different now. For long stretches we gaze into the flames, saying nothing. Last summer was the greatest of our adventures, but we shall not see that again in our lifetimes. Our men were just as hard hit by the illness as our women and children. Half of the young warriors who came with us last summer are dead. And even if we had the desire and the energy to make a trip to the place of the Iron People, there is no way anyone who has a family left would be willing to leave them right now.
“The thought of that paddle,” I say, “the thought of those endless rapids and the hunger and the threat of those who wish to kill us around every bend of river, I don’t have the energy to consider it.”
“You know you love it,” Fox says. “You know that even if two or three young ones dared approach and asked to go along, you would say yes immediately.”
Of course he’s right. Still, we must stay home and lick our wounds this summer.
“You know,” Fox says, “we’ll lose out on our trade agreements that we’ve worked so hard to breathe life into.”
“The hairy ones will wait a few seasons for us,” I say.
“The hairy ones will see we supply them with no furs this summer and will go to our enemy for trade on that excuse.”
“We have always been patient with them,” I say. “They’ll be patient with us.”
Fox just looks at me until I’m forced to consider my words. “If it were up to me,” he says, “I’d like nothing better than to descend on those crows and kill each and every one of them. Is there any doubt they’re the ones who brought the sickness to us?” Fox clutches his hands so hard he shakes. “Bird,” he says, “let’s kill them all so that we can go back to life before them. If we kill them all, we’ll save ourselves.”
“I fear it’s too late for that,” I say. “When we first agreed to mix with them, we didn’t know they were worse than weeds. And now that they’re wrapped around us, they’ll never let go.”
“It’s time for me to travel to their new village and pull some weeds, then,” Fox says. “I’m not afraid of the work my woman once did.”
I wish it were so simple, but there’s no point in trying to argue with Fox tonight. He’s in the deep water of his despair and all I can do is watch my friend flail like a child as the waves pull him under.
“We’ll soon need to go to their village and bring Snow Falls back,” I say. “She’s now your daughter just as much as mine.”
“You don’t want me going there,” Fox says. “I won’t be responsible for what I might do.”
“It’s only a day’s journey,” I tell him. I’ll leave soon, when summer is closer. For now, she’s safe there, and there’s so much to do here at home. “I’ll be fine travelling it alone. It’s most sensible, anyway, for you to stay to protect the village. We’ll all spend a quiet summer together.” I want to say more, something that might soothe him, but there are no words for that right now. There will never be words enough for that.
—
ALL DAY, I KNOW I’m being followed as sure as I know rain comes later this afternoon. And now, not far from the place where the crows have built their new home, the footsteps
With my knife in one hand and my club in the other, I stop breathing as the form passes. It’s not Haudenosaunee at all but the familiar figure of my dearest friend. When I whistle our call, Fox stops. Standing, I tell him he’s lucky I wasn’t the enemy. He doesn’t laugh. He looks exhausted.
“I’ve been trying to catch you for hours,” he says.
“I know,” I say.
“There’s no time for being foolish. The Haudenosaunee have attacked us.”
“What?” Summer isn’t even fully here yet.
“They’ve already descended on our Arendahronnon brothers and put fire to them.”
I think of the large village where we played the Creator’s Game. “Do they need our help?” I ask, realizing as I say it how little of it we have to offer.
“They’re already defeated,” Fox says. “Stragglers started crawling in yesterday. They suffered badly. The village is gone, and the Haudenosaunee will celebrate tonight with more of our people than they’ll know what to do with.”
This is unprecedented. A village of hundreds of fires not only attacked but destroyed. They’ve never come so early in the year. It means they must have left their homes very soon after the ice left the lakes and rivers.
“Help me retrieve Snow Falls and Carries an Axe,” I say, “then we must hurry back.” We’re next. There’s no doubt in my mind.
As we move through the forest, all the questions and fears arise. Their raiding party must be very large. They must have heard we’ve been so stricken by illness and knew now was the time to hit us. The bad blood has finally boiled over, and it won’t stop until one of us has crushed the other.
—
A HAIRY-FACED GUARD lounges on the ramparts over the crows’ village, weapon in hand. Fox and I fear he’ll mistake us for the enemy and fire upon us if we approach without warning.
“Do you know any of their language?” Fox asks.
I shake my head. “I’ll just call out and wave so that he’ll see we’re friends.”
But when I do this, his face goes white and he raises his weapon. I call out to him again and he turns his head and shouts something in his language, then a few other men peer at me over the ramparts. They, too, call down to where I can’t see and finally a bearded face I recognize appears, one of the crow helpers, the one called Isaac. He says something rapidly to them and they seem to relax. He waves with his mangled hand for me to come in. Fox follows me out of the forest, and this surprises them even more.
Inside, I tell Isaac of what’s happened. I speak too quickly. He doesn’t understand. I slow down, explain as clearly as I can that our people have come under attack. I say their name, Arendahronnon, explain again that they’ve been wiped out. He smiles when I say their name.
Now he speaks in his tongue, and I don’t understand.
I ask where the Crow Christophe is.
This crow just smiles as he repeats stupidly, “Arendahronnon. Arendahronnon.” He looks excited.
I see an older Wendat woman approaching. “Dawning of Day, my friend,” I say, “come here quickly. I need to find Snow Falls.”
“I know where she is,” Dawning of Day says. “We don’t need to ask the crow.” She smiles.
Why is everyone smiling so foolishly? My stomach tells me something’s terribly wrong. “Tell me where my daughter is,” I say more angrily than I had meant to.
Dawning of Day looks fearful now. “She left with the crows and He Finds Villages for the village of the Arendahronnon a few days ago,” she says, her eyes now concerned.
“What?” There must be some mistake.
“The father, Christophe, took your daughter with him to the Arendahronnon to explain his Great Voice to them. Don’t worry,” she says. “They promised they’d come back soon. And young Carries an Axe followed to make sure they remained safe.”
THREE
We all fight our own wars, wars for which we’ll be judged. Some of them we fight in the forests close to home, others in distant jungles or faraway burning deserts. We all fight our own wars, so maybe it’s best not to judge, considering it’s rare we even know why we fight so savagely.
Watch now, then, how Aataentsic, sitting by the fire beside us, reacts to what she sees. We’ll keep watching, too. We can’t turn our eyes away.
In times of war, and especially in the aftermath, the question she begs is the one each of us needs to ask. How do you keep going when all that you love has been lost?
Or perhaps the question is this: What role did I play in the troubles that surround me?
Or maybe it’s this: Will I see my loved ones again?
For those with grander ambitions, perhaps it’s this: If success is measured in one way, then how should we measure defeat?
Aataentsic with her sparkling eyes watches as all of us around the fire debate this, even as our own eyes are drawn to what unfolds among the humans below.
THIS IS NOT MY FATHER’S DREAM
I’ve arrived at the village of the crows.
My father Bird’s dream, the one that said I leave him for this place, this is the dream that sent me away. The illness of our own village raged when he dreamed it, and the morning I left, the bodies that lay piled high outside the longhouses had begun to thaw. The mean boy, the good-looking boy, Carries an Axe, he accompanied me on the walk to the crow village. And just as Gosling had promised, as soon as we walked out the gates, she was there, waiting for us on the path. I felt torn. I was looking forward to being alone with this boy for the day. But the idea scared me, too.
Maybe she came to watch over us. After all, I’m convinced she can see through me as easily as if she peers through clear water. She knows what I feel for this boy, the heat mingled with ice. And when, halfway to the crows’ village, a blizzard tore up from the Sweet Water Sea, so brutal the winds pushed us to our knees, I was glad she was with us. I think that if she hadn’t come we would have perished in that brutal early-spring storm.
The snow blew sideways and the world disappeared in a white sting. I begged Gosling to let us stop and rest but she ignored me, took over the cutting of the snowshoe trail for the three of us when Carries an Axe could no longer do it. I knew it embarrassed him that a woman showed us the way, but all either of us could do was hold on to Gosling’s robe like children as she pushed ahead. I knew later that if we’d stopped to rest, we would have frozen to death.
When we finally crawled, our faces painted in frost from the wind, into that village of the crows, I saw that my father’s dream wasn’t right. This wasn’t a place of safety or of plenty. Dawning of Day’s longhouse stank with the same sickness that ravaged our home, and the hairy ones from that faraway land glared at me and licked their lips but wouldn’t offer food.
At least Christophe Crow remained the same as we stumbled through the gates, our lips blue. He allowed me to stay in Dawning of Day’s longhouse but sent Gosling and Carries an Axe to another past the palisades.
And here we are now as the snow finally becomes water, trickling into the creeks that in turn pour into the rivers that in turn rush into the Sweet Water Sea. The crows are very particular as to how the day passes, with every part of it arranged for us in advance. They expect us to be in the place called the chapel every morning just as the sun rises and they talk to us and to their great voice until our stomachs groan with hunger. After that, they allow us a small morning meal of ottet. We’re left to wander about for a while, and I try to avoid the ones who have come over to assist the crows because I don’t like how they look at me. I’ve already had the bad experience with one of them in their village so long ago, and I won’t trust these men again.
In the afternoon we’re expected to sit like children in front of a strange thing that they call Captain of the Day. Every long while, Gabriel Crow commands it to speak and it calls out. At fi
Gosling couldn’t stand this place and left not long after she arrived. She promised that she’d return for Carries an Axe and me, though, as soon as it was safe to go back. There is illness here and it has taken some lives, but it’s far worse where we live, and so I’m forced to wait it out in this strange place. The others who are here, a couple handfuls of them, come from different places for different reasons. A few Anishnaabe wait out the winter before they return to their villages, and the Wendat here have mostly lost their families to the illness and have no other way to support themselves. There’s a sadness hard to ignore.
In my boredom, I try to get to know Carries an Axe better. He’s not so cocky without his friends around. I want to ask him if they survived but I fear for the answer. Instead we walk through the strange village, impressed by how some of the buildings are partly made with stone, others with thick wood of trees that have been cut to all look the same. Rather than live in large groups like us, these ones prefer their own much smaller residences. The crows continue to stay alone, and the different odd-looking and odd-smelling men live in small groups of friends in their little homes. To me, they mostly look the same with their hairy faces and sunken eyes, their skin the colour of a withered squash blossom. When they talk, I can see many of them have few teeth, and compared to the body of Carries an Axe, they look weak and pathetic. Their clothes, too, make them look the same, with their thin, dirty shirts and strange hide they wear that covers all of their legs and asses, even now that the snow’s melted. Carries an Axe likes to make fun of their appearance. He’s even claimed that he’s held some of their clothes in his own hands and that their clothes aren’t made from the skins of animals at all but instead are created by old witches with bottoms like spiders who spin out their thread that other witches then weave. I laugh at his silliness, and when he smiles, I can feel it low in my stomach.