The Orenda by Joseph Boyden
I laugh. I think I might learn to be excited about becoming a grandfather. “I will,” I say. “I promise you.”
—
AUTUMN PASSES UNEVENTFULLY, the leaves turning, then more and more of them dropping with each windstorm off the Sweet Water Sea. The harvest wasn’t a big one, but as Fox bitterly pointed out last spring, there are far fewer mouths to feed. Still, I worry, my love. My life has become one long worry.
I’d wanted to trade corn for furs with the Anishnaabe and Montagnais and any others who might have wanted to in the hope of building up a stockpile and sending a smaller, quicker force next summer to the French while the more experienced warriors stay and protect the village. If the Haudenosaunee give us even a year’s reprieve from attack, I know we can gather our wits and our strength. It’ll be a gamble to send any men out to the French come summer, but it has to be done, and I may have to go as the envoy. After all, they’ll listen to me. I’m sure of it. I’ll bring the Crow to translate and explain the importance of the Crow’s Iron People harassing the Haudenosaunee to keep them off balance. My daughter will be protected by Tall Trees and Carries an Axe. I’ll let Fox decide if he wants to come with me or not. If I know him at all, he’ll be more than eager.
—
NOW THAT THE SNOW has come, Fox and I sit by the fire and plot new ways to trade with the fur peoples.
“We can promise them an overabundance of corn the next time if they agree to give us furs now,” Fox says. “I remember my father telling me he was forced to do it during a very bad season, and the traders were willing.”
“You know, though, they’ve come to rely on our food as a staple in winter,” I tell him. “Not too many will be happy to wait a full year on the promise of twice as much.”
“We could always invite them along on the summer’s voyage,” Fox says.
This is interesting. While he and I both know it’s dangerous to show our trade routes to our allies, never mind planting the idea in their heads that we might simply be middlemen and unnecessary in the next years, Fox and I have to do something to protect our people’s position.
“Now that’s an idea worth discussion,” I say. “Why not take it one step further?”
Fox waits for me to go on as he plies the fire with a stick.
“Do you think it a good idea,” I say, “to ask any who are willing to fight alongside us if it comes to that next summer?”
Fox smiles. He knows the Anishnaabe are great fighters, as are the Montagnais. Stories from our past when we once fought instead of traded with them are still often told around winter fires. “We need friends for what comes,” Fox says. “But what’s in it for them?”
“They want our crops to keep growing so their winters aren’t so difficult,” I say. “They want to feel secure against our common enemy. And they are never ones to back down from a good fight. What else could they desire?”
We laugh for the first time in days. This is all worth consideration. It might just be what saves us if the Haudenosaunee come in force again.
—
THE SNOWS FALL steady for a whole moon’s cycle now, and the winter will be a heavy one. When we should all be sleeping deeply and dreaming of the spring, the nights, I know, will be restless as we wait to see if our enemy will live up to last summer’s word. Some nights, Fox and I are sure they will. Other nights, as we debate with one another the ability and sheer planning of one more venture that size, we calculate there’s no possible way for them to do this a second year in a row.
“Just think of what would be owed if so many warriors were to leave their homes so soon again,” Fox says. “So many villages having to agree on the same course, the fear of leaving their families unguarded, the loss of work time. This last must have been the one year it was possible. Two years in a row?” he argues, surprisingly. “That rage burns bright for only so long.” I’m impressed by this and want to say as much, but I fear that it will only rip open a barely stanched wound. “They’d have to be driven by something bigger than that to attempt such an undertaking twice,” Fox says.
He does have a good point. But he’s used to me counter-arguing. “Maybe it isn’t rage so much as hunger for wealth and control that drives them,” I say. “Can you imagine the prizes they paddled home with last summer? The prisoners, the three sisters, the furs and wampum?”
The two of us sleep little at night as we banter by the fire, swaying one way and then the other, never believing much of anything for long. I watch the creases of Fox’s face deepen as each passing day grows shorter. I know how much my friend suffers, how the pain of his loss still feels so heavy he can’t breathe. I want to tell him it does grow lighter, if only a little bit, but I know he knows this pain will never go away. This pain, I’m beginning to realize, is what all of us must share.
—
TALL TREES AND Sleeps Long have promised to come to my longhouse soon, now that the shortest days of the year are here. It’s about time. Snow Falls, my thin little daughter, has been showing what she and Carries an Axe have managed to create for the last while now.
“Tall Trees and his woman will come to you when they come,” Fox says, showing a little of his old drive. “You should be focused on teaching your girl what she needs to know.”
I’m shocked by the words. This would be your job, love, not mine. Tell me what to tell her, yes?
Tonight, at last, Tall Trees sits by the fire on one side of me, Sleeps Long on the other. He holds a beautiful beaver robe, the soft dark hair of it shining in the fire’s light. Sleeps Long holds a wampum belt that glitters like tiny wet shells on a summer beach.
“We apologize that it’s taken so long to come to you on our son’s behalf,” Tall Trees says. “I had to go to great lengths to procure a robe worthy of your daughter. And Sleeps Long, she sewed this belt by hand.”
Both are magnificent. I light a pipe and we talk about little things. “I believe that your son will be good for my daughter,” I finally say, tamping out my pipe and taking the beaver robe in my hands, admiring its thickness. Then I reach for the wampum belt and am surprised by its weight. “Your skills are the finest I’ve seen,” I tell Sleeps Long.
She looks away, pleased. “I learned from my mother’s sisters,” she says.
“And so I suppose a feast is in order,” I say. It’s as simple as that. They are two adults now and will soon bring new life to us all. We haven’t had a feast in this village in a very long time.
Tall Trees allows himself to smile. I hand-picked this one years ago for a reason, and if the son is to become anything like the father, my daughter will do well.
—
I WELCOME ALL who can fit into my longhouse and have asked many women to cook for us. The kettles are full with everything I have. Tomorrow I will have nothing, and this makes me feel light and happy. Carries an Axe and Snow Falls sit beside one another with gifts scattered about them, clay pots, furs, shell beads and deerskin pouches, amulets and utensils, tobacco and pipes, knives, arrows, a new bow for each of them. There’s a glow in this longhouse, my love, that hasn’t really been here since you last walked in it. My two in front of me smile and laugh. We all needed this as much as they do.
I try to keep my speech short because I want people to eat as the cold wind blows outside, shaking the walls. I tell the story of how I brought Snow Falls here to our village so long ago, when she was a wild animal and was afraid of nothing, how she scared the other children and many of the adults. People laugh and others nod. And then I become serious, speaking of how, one night, on a river far from here, she took a stone and a clamshell and cut my finger off. I hold my hand up so that my guests may see. And then I tell them how she mistakenly cut her own off, too, and this was the deal that was struck that can never be broken. I speak of how her bravery to do such a thing to a man who’d killed her family astounded me. I tell the crowd who listens so carefully that it took me a while but finally, when I understood her rage, I tried to help her control it.
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And then it’s time for me to speak of Carries an Axe, how I knew he was something special not just because his father is such a splendid war-bearer but because he once asked to come with me on the long voyage to the Iron People when he didn’t yet even have the wavy hair. Women cover their mouths and giggle, and men laugh out loud, shouting Ah-ho! And then I tell the story of how Carries an Axe single-handedly killed his four Haudenosaunee captors, and with the help of Snow Falls killed a fifth but was in too much of a rush to take their scalps. Again people laugh, and I finish by saying that despite this, I knew then he was good for my daughter. I then ask for people to eat until they can’t eat any longer, and then eat some more.
As is the custom, I refuse the food but instead make sure everyone has everything they desire. It’s a good night for me to watch the people eat and sing and dance and make more speeches for the couple. As I watch Carries an Axe stand and dance for his new bride, I pray to Aataentsic and Iouskeha that they watch over my two and allow them a long life together.
Like all good evenings, this one passes too quickly and is over before I know it. The guests leave in twos and threes until finally only our two families are left. Snow Falls is exhausted and Carries an Axe tries to act attentive, but he is tired, too.
“Go now,” I tell them. “Go to your new mother’s house, Snow Falls.” They stand and we hug. As she gets to the door, I remember something and ask her to wait. Climbing to her sleeping platform, I reach up and cut down the great raven she’s kept there.
“You can’t forget this,” I say as I hand it to her. “Is this not the first gift Carries an Axe ever gave you? Tie it above your new bed to keep watch over the three of you. It seems like good protection.”
She smiles and takes the bird in her arms. Then she and her husband turn away, leaving me standing in my longhouse, my arms at my sides.
—
ON SNOWSHOES, Fox and I track a large buck all day. The snow’s deep and the animal knows we’re following. He’s not dropped his antlers yet. We can see from his scratchings on the trees that he’s big. His heavy rack will slow him. The snow already has. We’re catching up.
We come to a creek bed and see that his tracks have dropped down into it. Fox knows this creek. It arcs toward the big water and comes back close to here like a snake before curving away again. He tells me he’ll cut through the bush if I keep following the tracks, and if Fox gets to where he needs to, I’ll flush the animal right to where he’ll be waiting. I slow my pace so as not to send the buck running.
The travel’s difficult in the deep white of the creek bed, but I stay mostly on top of it, my snowshoes only sinking in to my knee. I try to control my breath. I walk with my bow ready and an arrow notched. The day’s bright and cold. At night, the trees have already begun to pop. In not too long we’ll tap some of the maple for their sap that we’ll boil down to a sweet syrup. A grey jay cries out at me, chattering away as if he scolds. I see the prints of hare criss-crossing the creek. This is a good place. Fox and I should set some snares and stay here the night. Now that my supplies are gone, I’ll need all that the forest is willing to give.
Up ahead, the creek curves just as Fox had said it would. I can see from how the snow’s sprinkled so finely around the buck’s deep tracks, all the way up to his chest, that he can’t be much farther ahead. As I round the curve, I see him now, stopped, looking back, just out of range of my arrow. I freeze. I hope Fox is within range, though, and if not, that I don’t scare the deer up into the forest where he’ll certainly gain an advantage and make us chase him through the night.
The buck snorts, a long white cloud of steam pouring from his nostrils. He paws at the deep drifts that surround him. Something is agitating the animal. He must sense Fox is close by. I like this. I try to will him to charge me. If he does, I’ll simply draw my bow, aim for his broad chest, and let the arrow fly.
Instead of charging, the buck pushes up the creek bank, snow flying, and disappears into the bush, flashing the white underside of his tail. The feeling of losing him makes my belly sink. I have little energy to keep pursuing but now I’ll have to.
As I push toward where he disappeared, I hear a commotion, branches snapping and then a warrior’s shriek, the deer now bounding back out onto the creek bed, trying to clear the deeper drifts. Behind him, I’m astonished to see Fox, bounding too in his snowshoes, in pursuit. The deer, fighting the deep drifts, sends huge clouds of steam from his mouth and nostrils, but Fox, light and quick, seems to float over the snow as he gains ground, the deer now in the middle of the creek, Fox nearly to him.
I can see the flash of a knife in his hand in the sunlight as Fox makes a tremendous leap and latches onto the animal’s back. The buck’s massive, his antlers pointed and sharp as he shakes his head and jumps, trying to dislodge Fox, who’s got one arm barely around the animal’s neck. Fox lifts his other arm and drives it down, plunging the knife into the buck’s side as many times as he can, trying to hit the lungs, the animal grunting now. I can see from here the blood dots in the snow as I hurry to help. As I gain on them I watch the flash of knife again, this time aimed at the animal’s neck. Blood spurts up into the sunlight, and the deer’s eyes, brown and wide in anger and fear, look right at me.
Finally, making it to the struggle, I’m breathing hard, but I must pounce, too, grabbing the animal’s antlers with both hands, trying to twist its head down to the ground so that Fox can make the important cut to the neck. The buck’s still full of strength, though, and I only manage to allow Fox to slip off him. He falls on his back into the snow, and now it’s just the crazed deer and me, and I’m holding on to his antlers, knowing that if I let go, he’ll use them to gore me or will crack my head open with his sharp hooves.
Twisting as hard as I can, my eyes looking into the buck’s, my arms shaking with the strain of it, our nostrils flared and snorting white puffs of air, I begin to feel the animal losing his balance until finally he twists onto his side and then his back, me holding on hard as I can. I can sense more than see that Fox is up now, my face full of snow as the buck kicks his legs violently, trying to right himself. The animal lets out a bellow right into my face, his spittle covering me, his eyes wide and tongue sticking out. I can feel the kicks get lighter, then lighter still, until finally the animal is twitching more than kicking. But I know not to let him go just yet.
When I have nothing left, I loosen my grip on his antlers and just lie on my back, trying to catch my breath, the great deer’s head resting upon me. I stare up into the sky, a few chickadees flitting by, flashes against the blue. A raven caws out, and the world feels still again. I can smell the strong tang of fresh blood, the stink, as well, of guts from the animal’s opened cavity.
When I’m able, I crawl out from under him to see Fox already bent to the gutting, blood on his face.
“Wouldn’t it have been easier to just shoot it with a few arrows?” I ask.
He laughs. “Probably. But I pulled so hard on my bow that it snapped.”
“Impressive,” I say.
The animal’s innards steam in the cold air, and I, too, bend to the careful cutting and scraping out. As I begin to quarter it, Fox builds a fire. Soon, we’re cooking a piece of loin over it. The walk back home with such a large animal won’t be easy, but it’ll feed many mouths. We’ll construct toboggans to pull it, and the story of how we got it will be a good one to tell.
—
RATHER THAN BEING greeted with happiness when Fox and I have finally made it back into the safety of the palisades, all we encounter are stricken faces. We deposit our kill at the longhouse and I go out in search of the problem. We’ve only been gone a few days. What could possibly have happened? The
I find Gosling in her small home, sewing by the fire. I sit by her.
“Something’s wrong with the three sisters,” she says before I even have a chance to ask.
“Tell me.”
“The women have discovered a rot. Some are saying that it spread from house to house.”
Gosling reaches beside her and passes me an ear of corn. Even though it was carefully picked and hung before being placed in a basket with the other ears, when I pull back its husk, I see it’s covered with a grey fuzz, and underneath it the kernels have turned an oozing black.
“How much has been affected?” I ask.
“Most of the village,” she says.
If this is true, it means certain starvation before spring. “What of the other two sisters?” I ask.
“It wasn’t a good year for them before this,” she says. “The squash seems to be infected, too, but the beans, from what I’ve heard, are still all right.”
I want to ask her what to do, but the question will sound foolish coming out of my mouth. Instead, I say, “We must put out the word that the bad corn be burned.”
Sitting beside the fire with Gosling, the two of us silent, all I’m left to do is contemplate the calamity of it all.
ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?
The bliss of what’s so new to us doesn’t last long. Not a month after I take Carries an Axe and he takes me, the village is visited by another sickness, this one killing the corn. It’s almost as bad as if another illness had descended on the people themselves during this moon of the popping trees. The days have grown as short as they can and now just begin to grow longer again, but one would never know it by the way the sun teases, only coming out for a little while some days. The people, though, are panicked, and we’ve burned all the sick corn to try and stop the illness from spreading, the few kernels on the cobs that were still good popping from the fire, the children rushing to grab and eat them. It’s a fun game to them as their parents feed the fires and pray.