The Orenda by Joseph Boyden
We wonder why these houses are separated from the rest of the village until we find Snow Falls sitting with the young one called He Finds Villages and Dawning of Day in front of a well-built longhouse. They explain that only Wendat who have accepted the great voice can live in the better houses.
“Why don’t you come back with us, He Finds Villages?” I ask. He had such promise before he went to the Crow.
“I’m useless now,” he says, holding up his left hand to show us where the fingers were severed. “Since I took the name Aaron, the world has been a more troubled place.” He laughs at his own words, words that none of us find funny. He picks up a birch cup and even from here I can recognize the smell from that night long ago in the hairy ones’ fortress.
“You like the taste of that?” I ask.
“It numbs the pain,” he says, holding the cup up to us.
Both Fox and I shake our heads. “I still remember the headache it gave me the night I tried it,” he says. “And that was a long time ago.”
He Finds Villages holds the cup out to Snow Falls. She looks at it, then at him, and finally, as if rousing herself from a dream, she shakes her head as well.
“He’s been drinking that stinking water and talking nonsense about himself for days now,” Dawning of Day says. “The hairy ones make it from apples and stir all kinds of strange poisons into it.” She looks at He Finds Villages. “They find it amusing to watch this one beg for it whenever he runs out.”
“In part, I like it because the crows hate when anyone drinks it,” he says, as if he hasn’t heard any of our conversation.
I shake my head at this foolishness. “Snow Falls,” I say, “it’s too late in the day to head home, but we’ll leave at dawn tomorrow.”
She nods. “Do you wish to come home with us?” she asks Dawning of Day.
Dawning of Day looks at her. “Will my family accept me back?” she asks.
I knew it was going to come to this. “I need to tell you that your family travels with Aataentsic now,” I say. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“All of them?” she asks. Her voice shakes. “That can’t be right.”
“If it’s any peace,” Fox says, “my family walks with yours now, too.”
Dawning of Day looks at me, and then at Fox, and finally, at Snow Falls. We watch the understanding cloud her face, her brow taking the weight of the news. “Were they buried properly?” she asks.
I nod.
“I should stay here for now,” she says.
—
THE SUN UP, Fox leads us silently down the path, strung behind him at wide intervals so we can disappear into the forest at the first sign of trouble. I had an even harder time than usual waking Snow Falls this morning. When I entered the great voice longhouse and shook her, she cried out and pushed me away. She’s never been easy to wake, but getting her up today was exceptional. Aaron slept nearby, snoring. A flutter in my stomach told me something was wrong, but we had to get going.
Now, as we move up a ridge that will give us a view of the valley we’ll soon cross, Snow Falls stops and throws up. Holding her, I urge her to do it as quietly as she can for fear of alerting any enemy who might be around. My first thought is that she’s pregnant. I ask her as much.
“No, Father,” she says, again trying to push me away.
I can smell that stinking water on her now that we’re so close, and suddenly, I understand. She partook of it with He Finds Villages. The pain she feels serves her right, and maybe the long walk today in her condition will teach her something. I stand from her and move down the trail, slow enough that she’ll catch up. I look back and see her crouching there. She wants to tell me something, but I know her well enough that if I return to her side, her mouth will tighten up like a mussel. Despite not wanting to, I push ahead.
BLOSSOMING
My brain beats against my skull with each step. I’ve been poisoned. When Father asks me if I’m pregnant, I try to push him away with disgust, glimpses of last night and waking up with Aaron on top of me and of pushing him off and of feeling a burning. I’m so scared that my stomach won’t stay steady, and I can’t stop the foul water and heat that rush up from my belly and out my mouth. I’m so embarrassed to be weak.
The rest of the day I do everything I can just to keep up, no longer even caring if the enemy is nearby, for they will kill the pain in my head. I swear to myself that I’ll never touch that stinking water again. Just the thought of its smell makes me gag. Beneath the pain throbbing in my head, something even scarier scratches away. Worried about what Aaron did to me last night, when I know no one is looking I reach down and touch myself there. I’m sore and bruised. I remember sneaking out with him and tasting the poison, then tasting it again. I remember trying to be quiet sneaking back into the longhouse, and when I lay down the earth kept moving. I remember forcing myself to keep my eyes closed, even when I felt his damaged hand begin to explore my body. I try to remember more, but there is nothing. I’m so scared as I walk along the path that despite the heat and my sweating, I shiver. What did he do to me? What will happen now? What will I tell Carries an Axe?
I can tell how upset Father is, walking ahead of me so fast he often disappears in the bushes and trees. At the open spaces we all sit on the edges and watch for enemies and game. After the last rest when they push ahead again, I can’t go on anymore, so I kneel down and pray to Aataentsic and even to the great voice, hoping one of them can hear me. I’m not sure how long I sit here, so tired my head begins to nod and I’m no longer fearful of being left behind. I cradle my head in my arms, and when I open my eyes again I’m staring into the large brown eyes of a deer that’s standing so close I can reach out and touch it. We’re so close I see its eyelashes, its nose quivering with my scent. Then it bounds away, its white tail twitching, when Father appears and motions for me to hurry up.
I put one foot in front of the other for the rest of the afternoon. Finally, when we reach the outer fields, I’m too tired to even care that so few of them have been sown this year with the three sisters. The village feels lifeless. Normally in the early evening, families would be visiting with one another and sharing meals, but not many longhouses have fires burning and the few people I see look like ghosts.
The loss doesn’t truly strike me until I walk into our longhouse and see that Fox’s place is empty of his wife and children. He and Father stand outside, smoking their pipes and talking. I’ve never been so happy to see my own sleeping mat. Carries an Axe hasn’t come by yet, and I consider going to his family’s home, but the call of my beaver robe is too strong and I crawl under it, soon falling into the darkness night brings.
—
CARRIES AN AXE and I wander down by the river. He has both his bow and his club, worried about Haudenosaunee raiders. We watch the water go by and talk about the summer. I feel like we’ve grown up so much since the last one.
“Did you miss me?” he asks.
I shake my head, then look at him. He looks hurt. “Of course,” I say.
He leans over to kiss me, but rather than the heat he so easily builds in me, I feel scared. I tell him we shouldn’t right now.
“Why not?” he asks.
I lie and tell him I’m too frightened of the enemy sneaking about.
Carries an Axe goes quiet then, like he’s shut off all thoughts of me. I don’t like it. I lean over and kiss him on the mouth. “It feels too open here,” I say. “Let’s find somewhere safer, somewhere we can hide.”
He smiles and stands, reaching down for my hand. I’m nervous about what we’re about to do again. But I know now we’re going to do it. It’s only been a few times, both of us fumbling and giggling and trying too hard. Maybe this time will be a little better. I decide I want to find out, even though thoughts of the stinking water and of Aaron wake me from sleep like lightning every night.
As he leads me up a hill to a cliff hidden by trees, a view of the big water and the waves crashing on the beach below, I want to tell
—
THE SUMMER PASSES with the women in the fields, the men always watching for dangers we can sense but not see in the shadows of the forest. Rain falls and the crops grow, but so many of the fields haven’t been planted. Gosling, I’m surprised to see, has stayed with us all summer, which isn’t typically her way. She usually disappears for long stretches to visit with her people to the north. Most days, she works with us in the fields. She likes to make fun of us, of this work, of herself for doing it. “This isn’t natural,” she says, wiping her brow and looking up into the hot sky. “We Anishnaabe don’t slave like this in the summer when the world is kind to us. What a backward people you Wendat are.”
She’s taken, too, to spending more time with me. It only dawned on me recently that Father must have asked her to. He watches Carries an Axe and me closely, and I know he’d be upset to learn of what we do with each other. She has no mother to teach her what she should be careful about, I can just hear Father saying to Gosling, so will you at least try and explain to her what a young woman needs to know?
But Gosling knows that when I spent last summer in the longhouse of the women, Carries an Axe’s own mother was one of the ones to teach me. I know Father worries. All fathers should worry about their daughters. It’s the way of the world.
Sleeps Long is happy for us, I can see. “You and my son will soon take up what so many who are no longer with us always wanted,” she says to me tonight as we sit by her fire. She and Tall Trees are having another child, and she rests her hands on her belly that’s beginning to show. “The sickness killed many dreams, but your dreams will be realized.” She reaches out to stroke my hair. She’s smiling, but when her hand touches my head, her brow furrows. “Your dreams will be realized, yes?” she asks, the uncertainty in her voice strong.
I nod and want to say something that will calm her. I don’t have the words. “I’ve learned to live each day, is all,” I say, speaking the truth without wanting to.
“In these times, I guess this is all any of us can do,” she says. “You’re a wise young woman, Snow Falls. You’re more than worthy of my son.”
—
WHEN THE RAIN COMES this afternoon, we head in from the fields. I enjoy the feel of the drops on my face, but the other women move quickly, trying to get inside before the storm starts in earnest. I can feel it on the wind. A good one is coming.
Once we’re inside the safety of the palisades, the wind picks up. The rain’s no longer pleasant as it begins to pelt. I start to run for home but see that Gosling kneels by the door of her place, sheltered by her roof. She sees me too and waves. I walk up, soaked, and she makes room for me to enter.
The fire’s hot and warms my skin. I squeeze the rain out of my hair as Gosling comes to sit beside me.
She has something in her hand. She reaches out and opens it. A porcupine-quill box, the top of it a beautiful flower, blossoms from her palm.
“For you,” she says.
I look at the box and then back into her eyes.
She lifts her palm closer to me. “For you,” she says again.
I take the present into my own hands. I turn it around and then remove the lid. It’s empty.
“This is a gift for you and Carries an Axe,” she says. “Your lives will soon change.”
I look to her, my eyes questioning what she means.
“There’s rarely the need for your man to know everything,” Gosling says. “Happiness comes when you share only what you both know you need to share.”
I want to tell her I don’t understand, but she already senses this.
“There are times when you are not to blame for the actions of others,” Gosling continues. “When your trust is broken, or someone who is your friend takes advantage out of desire.”
Now I begin to follow her thinking.
“This quill box,” she says, “is made to hold what’s important to you. You will know what it is when the time comes.”
I thank her for it, and tell her how beautiful, how perfect it is.
“You must begin preparing for what comes,” Gosling says. “It’s time for you and your betrothed to build your nest.”
I want to ask her what she’s talking about, sliding my hand down to my stomach. I look into Gosling’s face. She smiles.
IT WAS NICE OF YOU
Isaac’s been sitting with Aaron, keeping him calm and away from the brandy. The two seem to understand each other best. We’ve been forced to bind his hands and feet, as he’d turned into a wild animal last night, at one point taking a knife and slashing at his arms. I assume it’s drink that demonizes him so, and the men who make it have been rounded up and placed in chains. I warned them once, and despite the grumbling of the other donnés, I will not allow this poisonous disobedience.
Isaac and Gabriel have bandaged Aaron’s wounds, and we wait for him to explain what possessed him. All last night he moaned and howled and clearly it has something to do with his hurting Snow Falls. I told him she was fine and in the company of Carries an Axe and her father, but this only made him grow more agitated.
I walk outside along the periphery of the mission. We’ve been hard at work building residences for the expected arrival of the newcomers. Possibly a hundred men will soon arrive, many of them well-armed soldiers. This should give any Iroquois war party second thoughts. The Huron women have been tending to the fields, and the crops, while not plentiful, are in good shape. Sauvages from the north have been coming in to trade with us, so our storehouse holds plenty of game and a number of furs that these strange people are willing to barter for cheap knives and glass beads. This was Gabriel’s shrewd thinking, to put word out to the various tribes that we have plenty of goods to trade. All in all, we are in fine shape now that the mornings arrive a little cooler each day, hinting of autumn. I will send hand-picked men out with the Huron to hunt for deer and other wild animals when that season comes. I tell myself we’ll be fine. We’ve gotten through on much less before. It’s the threat of the Iroquois I can’t put out of my mind.
I’d sent two donnés along with three sauvages to deliver my letter to the governor of New France, suggesting what Bird had so cleverly conceived. Even a small force of soldiers with their superior weapons can be sent to harass the Iroquois this autumn, perhaps setting fire to their crops and thus making them question the wisdom of a full-scale war come next summer. I say extra prayers each morning and evening for the safe return of my messengers. They’ll have to paddle and portage quickly and silently. The travel alone is brutal enough, never mind the constant fear of capture and torture.
When I return from my walk, I see that Isaac has untied Aaron.
“Is that wise?” I ask in French.
Isaac nods. “He’ll be fine.”
I turn to Aaron, who now sits up in the bed, looking confused and mildly angry. He absently rubs his bandaged arms. “How do you feel?” I ask him.
His answer is a grunt.
“Do you wish to speak about what happened last night?”
Again he grunts.
“Is there anything that would make you feel better?” I ask.
He smiles, but it isn’t a kind one. “Give me more of that stinking water,” he says.
“The men who gave you that have had their limbs bound and will soon face a torture,” I say. “The poison has been poured into the earth and if you don’t believe me, I can show you where it turned the grass brown. There’ll be no more of it.”
“I need it,” Aaron says. He stands, agitated. He’s a strong young man, twice as wide as poor Isaac. His once shorn hair has grown out so that it’s all the same length now. It makes him look younger than he is.
Isaac extends a mauled hand to him, and suddenly I understand their bond. “I know what you feel,” Isaac says. “Many of us have felt this when we get too close to it.
“Just give me a little bit and I’ll be fine,” Aaron says.
I shake my head. “There is no more.”
He steps toward me with what I think is hostility, but his eyes are pleading.
Isaac holds his hand out farther, and Aaron stops. “Let’s go for a walk,” Isaac says. “You promised to show me that tree whose bark helps a body’s pain. This might be a good time to find it.”
Aaron glares at me for another few seconds, then drops his eyes and follows Isaac out the door, his stride uncertain.
—
GABRIEL AND I stroll the fields with our heads bent in discussion and our hands clasped behind our backs. The harvest draws closer. I wish the debacle of the secret distillery was behind us, but this rough period of unhappiness refuses to pass. As we take measure of the corn’s height and health, Gabriel questions the donnés’ character.
“It seems many of them came to this place,” I explain, “as a way to escape prison for different crimes.” There are those, though, both Gabriel and I understand, who are truly good men who have come to help spread God’s word. “Just as we must weed these fields so the crops grow well,” I say, “so must we continue to weed out the troublemakers, those ones who wish to distill spirits.”
Gabriel nods. “With only ten soldiers and four times as many donnés and laymen, it might prove difficult to keep them in line if they decide to rebel.”
“This is the way of the world, though, isn’t it?” I say. “We must find something more positive to keep them focused. Besides, more soldiers have been promised any day now.” But as I speak this, I fear that we’ve been forsaken yet again.
“We’ve not yet punished the distillers,” Gabriel says. “They’ve been in chains for weeks. Something must be done.”