Chapter 22
Odawa
The trip upriver should have been a solemn one, but Sarah couldn’t bear the silence any longer. She chattered in French like a flock of sparrows in a tree, telling Chogan everything from how she missed her father to how Matt’s guardian had betrayed his father. She was careful to keep it as logical as possible for this time period, but Chogan probably only heard half of what she said. He grunted and nodded here and there. He seemed focused entirely on his mission, or he probably would have given in to his grief. He only looked up once, when she mentioned Nadine and Matt’s father.
“Did she kill him?” he asked.
Sarah started. “No, not exactly. But he is lost.”
“I know the feeling,” said Chogan.
Unable to find words to comfort him, Sarah fell silent until the roar of more rapids made her squeak in alarm. Chogan reassured her with a smile. “The Asticou,” he said, as if that made any sense to her.
She shrugged her shoulders.
“Boiling Kettle,” he said in French. “Big rapids.”
“Can we go through them?” she asked.
Chogan laughed for the first time since they’d left his home. “Not possible. We stop here.” He pointed to a break in the trees on the south shore of the Ottawa River. Beyond, a waterfall plunged from a fifteen-metre cliff along the bank, sending up rolling clouds of mist.
“Rideau Falls,” she said.
“The Frenchman calls it that.”
“Which Frenchman?”
“Étienne Brûlé. Champlain’s man. He passed through and named things. What is ‘rideau’?”
“A curtain,” said Sarah. “You hang it in windows—” She paused. “Openings in wigwams, so people can’t see inside.”
Chogan cocked his head. “Strange,” he said. The din of the waterfall grew louder, like drum sticks playing a cymbal swell. “Algonquin use it for fun,” he explained. “We take our canoes underneath and see if we can stay dry. No fun today,” he said somberly.
They beached the canoe among the pebbles and the thickets on the south shore. The cold light of the moon was giving way to the first trickling rays of dawn. After he’d pulled the canoe high on the bank, Chogan plucked Sarah’s backpack from the hull. He eyed it with a tilted brow, then slid his arms through the straps with a nod of satisfaction. Sarah began to protest that she could carry it herself, but he simply shook his head, grabbed her hand, and headed up the steep hill.
When they reached the crest, Sarah had to stop and gawk. Spread out before them, as far as the eye could see, was an untamed garden of indigenous trees, flowers, and shrubs. In modern-day Ottawa, they’d be walking on Sussex Drive—probably right by the Prime Minister’s massive stone mansion. It was hard to relate this flourishing jungle to the city it would become.
The earth-tinged sapphire waters of the Rideau River snaked between the trees, its banks uncluttered by apartment buildings and neon-lit convenience stores. No paved streets existed, flooded with honking, exhaust-belching vehicles, nor bridges masking the clear blue skyline. Instead, the landscape was simply a mosaic of trees in various shades of green—jade, emerald, lime. Flocks of birds rose into the air and dipped towards the water. They fluttered over rippling waves and dodged in and out of the mist that hovered on the river’s edge near the waterfall.
“Where’s your uncle?” asked Sarah.
“Highest hill,” said Chogan, pointing beyond the Rideau River.
“Parliament Hill,” said Sarah.
Chogan arched an eyebrow. “Algonquin Hill,” he said. “Best place to ward off attacks.”
“Then they should be safe.”
Chogan shook his head. “Big Mohawk war party. No one is safe.”
Sarah sighed and slipped closer to Chogan. This horrible nightmare was far from over. “How do we get across? We should have portaged with the canoe.”
“No,” he said. “We swim. Easy current. Much faster.”
Sarah’s heart set off at a gallop. She swung her head in the direction of the thundering falls. “I don’t care how easy it is, that’s a big drop.”
Chogan squeezed her hand. “You swam Matt out of the bottom of the river. You can swim this one easily before you drop off the cliff.”
Sarah was unconvinced. Yes, she’d performed a tremendous feat of swimming in the Gatineau River, but that had been to save Matt’s life. The thought of him triggered fresh tears. What a wasted effort it had been. She’d lost him, anyway. How could she explain adrenaline—that geyser of energy that only erupts in extreme circumstances—to Chogan? How could she ever perform that way again?
“Come,” Chogan said, tugging her to the water like an obstinate mule. “We must reach my uncle, tout de suite.” He dove into the rippling waves and urged her to join him.
Sarah hesitated, painfully aware of the drop-off twenty-five metres away. “I must be crazy,” she said, as she splashed into the cool water. But the lazy current flowed heedlessly around her without sweeping her downstream.
Sarah pushed off and swam, slicing the waves effortlessly, making rapid progress towards the western shore of the Rideau River. He was right. It was quite an easy swim. She had nothing to worry about.
Suddenly a branch poked from a choppy wave and flipped towards her. She shrieked as it plowed into her side, taking her by surprise. Twisting in the waves, the nasty limb twirled and hooked the loose threads of her sweatshirt, firmly attaching itself to her like a leech. It dragged her along with the current and hauled her directly towards the falls. Oh no, not again. She tugged at the material, but it wouldn’t come loose. Panic seized her as she ripped and ripped but couldn’t break free.
Chogan stroked calmly towards her, looking untroubled.
“I’m caught,” she yelled.
“Let me see,” he said, reaching her side. He floated alongside her and tried to tear out the threads, but couldn’t seem to disentangle her from the branch. As the current propelled them closer to the cliff, he growled, grabbed the shirt and pulled it off over her head.
Sarah froze, shocked by his rough treatment, but only for a second. She read the urgency in his expression and began to swim intently for the western bank. Just before the water plunged over the cliff, they managed to grope a handhold on some weeds and crawl up on shore.
Sarah collapsed on the ground. Chogan plunked beside her, shaking his head. “This is a very bad day,” he sputtered.
“Very bad,” she agreed. She burst into giggles. It was either that or cry. If she started to cry, she wouldn’t be able to stop.
Chogan placed his hands on his head and stared, at first too amazed to speak. Then he laughed, too. Tears filled his eyes, but he kept laughing. He rolled over, hugged Sarah and they laughed together. When their giggles subsided into exhausted hiccups, they fell apart. Chogan stood up.
“We must go to my uncle now.”
“Or die trying,” said Sarah, still chuckling. She struggled to her feet, and stood awkwardly in the cold breeze in only a bra and frayed jeans. Chogan didn’t seem to care. Sarah shivered and crossed her arms over her chest. “What will your uncle think of me?”
“That you are a brave warrior,” Chogan replied. He shrugged off her backpack and handed it to her. “You have extra clothes?”
“N-no,” she said, her teeth chattering.
He squirmed out of his dripping shirt and draped it over her shoulders. Sarah clutched it around her, then slung her pack overtop. With a quick nod of reassurance, Chogan grasped her hand and turned towards the hill. They trudged forward, shedding droplets of water as they went.
Iroquet’s camp was located on the promontory of the cliff that Sarah knew as Parliament Hill. Winds buffeted the high ground, but it provided a clear view of the surrounding countryside on both the south and north sides of the river. However, lookouts couldn’t see through the dense forest that covered most of the land to the north. A war party could easily slink undetected through that forest. At some point, though, they’d have
to cross the river to approach the camp.
Chogan released Sarah’s hand as they drew closer to the wigwams. He seemed rejuvenated as he bounded up the hill like a cougar. Sarah lagged behind, totally drained of energy. She’d help Chogan carry out his father’s last request—after all, she was his friend and companion—but everything seemed so hopeless now. They might be able to save his people, but what about Matt? Was he dead? Would Matt’s father still protect her if Matt was gone? And could she ever get back home?
Sarah hugged the deerskin shirt to her chest and shuffled between the wigwams, into the middle of the camp. The stares that followed her would normally have made her skin crawl, but after all she’d been through, she couldn’t care less. Black-braided women looked up from their cooking fires, men from sewing animal skins or curing meat. Children stopped playing and watched her with amazement. They’d seen the black-bearded Frenchmen with milky-white skin, but this female child with her reddish-brown hair and bronze skin—like them, yet different, especially considering her clothing—had to be a shock.
Chogan rushed towards the central fire, where the snarling image of a bear was carved into the sturdy wooden totem pole. He called out to a slim Algonquin man with grey-dusted hair who was laughing and joking with some other men. The man turned when he heard Chogan’s shout. His eyes lost their amused crinkle and narrowed. His smiling mouth curved downward.
He didn’t shout or raise his voice. As he spoke to Chogan, the muscles in his face tightened, and the cords of his neck stood out. Then Iroquet lost his erect posture. He sank to the ground as if struck by a blow. Before Chogan had finished his story, the warrior’s eyes were sparking with anger. This was their sovereign territory and they’d been invaded—again.
When Chogan stopped talking, he withered to the ground beside his uncle and began to cry. Iroquet sat rigidly, without moving, without a word. He offered the boy no sympathy, although the woman who’d stood quietly behind took a step towards him. Iroquet waved her away and pointed at Sarah. He said only one word in French—“Ennemie.”
Sarah couldn’t believe her ears. What? Are you crazy?
This time Iroquet did raise his voice. He thundered at Chogan, then drew himself up and marched towards her. Sarah backed away, but too slowly for the determined Algonquin. He grabbed her by the hair and yanked her into the circle around the fire.
“Who are you?” he demanded in French.
Sarah shuddered, but she stood tall and peeled his hand from her hair. “My name is Sarah,” she said. “I’m not your enemy. I’m a friend.” She held out her hand to Chogan. Chogan brushed aside his tears, stood, and firmly clasped her hand.
Iroquet looked from his nephew to Sarah, his eyes unnervingly narrow. He spat out words at Chogan that Sarah couldn’t possibly understand, but somehow she knew he thought she was a spy.
“Non,” said Chogan. He shook his head vigorously. He seemed to be deliberately speaking in French for Sarah’s benefit. Her heart swelled in gratitude.
“Look at her!” Chogan yelled at his uncle. “She’s only a child. Lost in the woods. She had no part in this raid. She even helped me cover the dead.”
Iroquet wouldn’t listen. He insisted that she be tortured for information. Not every part of Iroquet’s side of their conversation was in French, but the last he uttered clearly in that language so she could understand. She stared at Iroquet in dawning horror. After all she’d gone through, was this the way it would end?
“I’ve done nothing except help Chogan,” she insisted. “If I were you, I wouldn’t stand here debating about what to do with me, but start sending out messengers to warn your other camps, and prepare for war!” Sarah stopped. She’d been shouting.
Iroquet eyeballed her, his facial muscles twitching. Unexpectedly, he nodded. He turned towards the group of men and boys behind him, and in a crisp military voice snapped orders. One boy shot off to the east. Another boy raced out of camp to the west. Five in all set off the chain of warnings up and down the river. Iroquet’s men quickly dispersed to their tents and retrieved bows and arrows, clubs and moosehide shields. When he turned back to Sarah, she nodded in approval. It gave him pause, but he didn’t seem ready to trust her yet. He reached out to grab her arm, but Chogan darted between them. Another argument ensued.
Iroquet ground his teeth, his face flushed darker, but Chogan wouldn’t move. Finally Iroquet thrust the boy aside and seized Sarah’s arm. Sarah tried to wrench away from him, but his grip was like a bear trap. He hauled her towards the wigwam opposite the fire, whipped aside the flap that substituted for a door, and shoved her in. She fell into the black interior, so terrified she could hardly breathe. How could this be happening? Before she could turn around, a knee punched the small of her back. Pain knifed through her spine, as he twisted her arms behind her and wrapped a length of twine around her wrists.
Chogan dashed in beside his uncle as the man released the pressure on her back. Sarah rolled onto her side and sat up, grimacing at the nips and bites of pain throughout her upper body. A crust of mud, leaves, and tears clung to her face. She blinked to clear her vision, and there they stood, framed in the wigwam’s doorway, Chogan and Iroquet, glaring at each other. Iroquet gripped a glittering silver knife. He growled something in Algonquin, then repeated it in French.
“Would you die for her?”
“Oui,” said Chogan. “Without hesitation.”
“You cannot face the truth,” he said.
“The only danger she presents is to your pride,” said Chogan. “For she is different, and she has the courage of the bravest warrior. Strangely enough, she is on our side.”
“She is a spy for the Mohawk,” said Iroquet.
Sarah awkwardly tried to stand. She needed to say something, even if it was the last thing she ever said. She stumbled, wobbled, but regained her feet and stood beside Chogan, facing Iroquet without flinching.
“I do not stand with a people,” she said. “I stand alone.”
“Not completely alone,” Chogan murmured.
She smiled at him, amazed at his steadfast support.
Iroquet scowled, raised his knife to the deadliest position, but a shout from outside interrupted any downward thrust. A ripple of voices persuaded him to turn away from his prisoner. Chogan whipped out his own knife and slashed the ropes around Sarah’s wrists.
Iroquet swept aside the flap in the doorway of the wigwam. Outside the shelter a white man marched into camp, surrounded by a swarm of other men. All sported red tunics trimmed in gold, and dirt-stained caramel-coloured trousers. The leader had a thick tapered moustache hunched under his nose, and a bristly bronze goatee clinging to his chin. On his head sat an oblong hat with a feather. Funny how closely he resembled a French musketeer. And someone else, too. The statue at Nepean Point. He had to be the explorer Champlain.
Champlain greeted Iroquet with a respectful nod. He surveyed the entire camp and quickly determined trouble was brewing. “Why are your men preparing for war?”
Iroquet stepped out of the wigwam and joined Champlain at the base of the totem pole. He left Sarah and Chogan framed in the doorway, fully exposed to the Frenchman’s scrutiny. Champlain cocked his head to one side as his eyes came to rest on Sarah.
“Qui-est ce enfant?” he exclaimed. Who is this child?
“En espionne,” snapped Iroquet. A spy.
Sarah stamped her foot. It was so unfair! This time more than any other, she should keep quiet, but enough was enough. “No, I’m not!” Too late she realized she’d spoken in English. She clapped a hand over her mouth.
Champlain sucked in his breath. “What are you doing with an English child?”
“Ask my nephew,” said Iroquet. “He plucked her out of the woods.”
Champlain squared his shoulders. This revelation clearly disturbed him.
“And there are Mohawk war parties attacking our villages,” Iroquet continued. “Will you help us drive them out of our land?”
“Of . . . course,�
�� said Champlain, his voice tripping over a slight pause. “We’re allies, are we not?”
He muttered to his men. They saluted and slung their guns from their shoulders. “Now about this English child. How do you think the English found their way this far inland?”
Iroquet shrugged. “Ask her.” His finger singled out Sarah like a pronouncement of doom. She slunk behind Chogan.
Champlain strode up to them and flicked his hand for Chogan to stand aside. Chogan shook his head. Iroquet growled at him. Chogan stood firm.
“He’s protecting her,” said Iroquet. “She seems to have bewitched him.”
“Not surprising,” said Champlain. “The English are a crafty lot. Bouge,” he barked at Chogan, instructing him once again to move. Chogan set his jaw and glared at the man.
“Talk to me, girl,” Champlain snarled at Sarah. “Where did you come from?”
“I . . .” she stumbled. “I got lost.”
“You’re far from the shores of Virginia. Are you spying on us?”
Sarah snorted. She stepped out around Chogan and faced the Frenchman who, despite his enormous statue at Nepean Point, was actually quite short and not very menacing at all. “How could I be a spy? I’m only twelve years old.”
The Frenchman eyed her, both eyebrows peaked. He considered her deerskin shirt, her jeans, and her straggly russet hair. “What a strange child,” he commented.
Sarah tilted her head. “What a strange man.”
“And very bold,” he added with a scowl.
Sarah hid a secret smile. For a minute she’d acted like Matt. “Why thank you. Now I think you should listen to me. This boy,” she continued, touching Chogan’s arm, “is my friend. So you see, we must be allies, even if I do know some English.”
“Remarkable,” said Champlain. “Uncommon valour, for English tripe.”
“Merci,” Sarah whipped back. “For the compliment, not the insult.”
Champlain scratched his head, looking all the more muddled. “I can find no explanation for you, hundreds of miles from English territory. But I suppose you are of little importance.”
“To me,” said Chogan, “she is of great importance.” He put his arm around her.
“No doubt,” said the explorer. “But she will have little effect on our trade negotiations, or the upcoming war, unless she escapes and feeds vital information to our enemies. I would watch her closely.”
“I intend to,” said Iroquet, a wintry note in his voice.
Sarah shuddered and glued herself to Chogan’s side. Champlain hitched his rifle higher on his shoulder, turned away from her and marched back to the central fire with Iroquet to discuss strategies of war.
Chogan watched them go, his face uncomfortably taut. He turned to Sarah and gripped her shoulders. “You must be careful,” he said. “I don’t trust that man.”
“That makes two of us,” she muttered. “Neither do I trust your uncle, who would love to stick me with his knife, or the other warriors who are glaring at me now. I don’t trust the bears or the wolves or even the skunks, for that matter. They’re all out to get me. In fact, even the water seems to be my enemy.”
Chogan grinned. “But you trust me.”
“To the end of time.”
Time Meddlers Page 26