The Orenda

by Joseph Boyden

  I lift my face, too, to the first drops. We all do. The sky opens itself to us and I thank the okis, Aataentsic the Sky Woman, even the crows’ great voice, for saving us. Even though the rain is beginning to fall hard, the women go out to the fields after the short rejoicing to tend to the shrivelled three sisters, to beg their forgiveness for abandoning them this last while, to ask if they’ll grow strong now that rain has come back. I follow the women from a distance and take in all that I see and hear just as the ground takes in rain.

  —

  WITH THE RAIN PLENTIFUL, the tempers of the young men cool. I’ve taken to following the crows around the village as they try hard to get the people to come to them. Dawning of Day and the young one called He Finds Villages follow them again. I know the names that Christophe Crow gave to them. He calls Dawning of Day a name I find hard to say. Delilah. I like the way pronouncing it makes my tongue click. Delilah. I don’t think, though, that I have learned how to say it right. He Finds Villages’ crow name is Aaron, and that isn’t so hard. It sounds solid and weighted like a Wendat word. I’ve caught this one staring at me when I allow them to see me. His eyes make me uncomfortable, like I must glance away. Something inside him is strong. Too strong, like he’s burning from the inside. Despite the same scars of sickness as mine, he’s not bad to look at, though.

  —

  FOR THE PAST WEEK, the sun shines in the morning and the rain comes every afternoon. I work with the others in the fields, weeding and watching the three sisters grow bigger. The harvest will be a good one if the sky stays like this. But no one will speak this desire out loud for fear of ruining it. I keep my raccoon tucked in the folds of my dress that I tie about my waist in the heat of the sun. He likes to sleep there, tired from his excursions. He’s a creature of the night, like me. My breasts burn in the sun. I’m sore there, and when I feel each nipple, it’s like a small pebble grows under the skin.

  Afternoons leave me free to wander. Sometimes I follow Carries an Axe and his two friends, careful they don’t see me. My new name for him, Raccoon Shit, suits him much better. I will not call him by his real name ever now that he has made it clear what he thinks of me.

  It’s obvious he and his friends are horribly bored, and the crows have become the focus of their torment. I watch the boys shoot arrows into the crossed pieces of wood that stand above the door of the crows’ house, and each evening I watch Christophe Crow come home and lift his robe like a woman and climb up onto his roof where he struggles to remove them. I plan and plot and dream at night about how to find my revenge. I will show that boy what it means to hurt your child, Father and Mother. I will find my revenge, dear parents, in a way that would please you. I hate this boy with the pretty body and the stupid friends.

  Tired of watching them, I go to visit Sleeps Long and show her how my raccoon has grown. As soon as I enter the longhouse this day, I can tell something’s amiss. It’s the odour in the air, the hushed tone of the adults, the absence of children and dogs playing loudly. I creep in and head to Sleeps Long’s family fire only to find her on her sleeping mat, shivering under a beaver blanket despite the heat of the day. I kneel by her. Her eyes are closed, but when I speak her name she opens them. Her skin’s grey, and her beautiful face looks so much older than it is.

  “Sleeps Long,” I say, “what’s wrong?” My raccoon chatters as if he, too, worries for her.

  She smiles at his small face sticking out from the nest of my hair.

  “There are those who wish you harm,” she says from nowhere, her face no longer smiling. “I’ve been dreaming much lately.”

  “You’re suffering from a fever,” I answer, stating the obvious, but puzzled by what she’s said.

  “There are those who wish you harm because they sense you have power and they’re jealous of it. People you don’t even know, and some you do.”

  “Don’t speak in riddles, Sleeps Long,” I say. “Has someone been looking after you?”

  “You know my husband Tall Trees has gone off trading with Bird. My mother does what she can for me.”

  “You need a healer,” I say.

  “None have offered to come,” she tells me. “And I don’t have much to give even if one came.”

  “I know someone,” I say. “She’s very powerful. I’ll find her for you.” I stand. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  I run through the village, weaving through all the children and adults and dogs coming in from the fields. The rain’s started again. At Gosling’s small home, round in the Anishnaabe fashion, I call for her. No answer comes back. I circle it, speaking her name. Nothing. Without thinking, I go inside.

  The fire is cold, and by the lack of scent it hasn’t burned for days. I go closer and see rain puddles in the pit below the smoke hole. She didn’t bother sealing it and so maybe didn’t plan on being away for long. I think back to when I last saw her and realize it hasn’t been in many days, since not long after she brought my raven to life. I sit on her sleeping mat to think. Herbs and roots hang drying from scaffolding above my head. A pile of kindling rests near the fire circle. A beautiful pair of moccasins, stitched in a way different from ours, puckered instead of smooth at the toes, lies by my hand. I pick them up and trace my fingers over the beautiful beadwork. I’ve never seen anything like it, with flowers across the top and a snake wrapping itself around the sides from one edge to the other, the work as delicate and time-consuming as a wampum belt. I know they were made by Gosling, and an overwhelming desire to take them floods over me. Instead, I force myself to gently place them back exactly where I found them.

  Standing again, I wonder how I might find her. Sometimes she disappears back into the forest for so many days people begin to doubt if she’ll ever return. If she’s gone for a long time, she’ll not have left many of her possessions behind. I use this as my excuse to look around her home. Gosling’s a woman who doesn’t live with much. A few bowls and smoking pipes are lined up against one wall, along with some empty leather pouches. Across from where I stand, a large birchbark box sits by the wall. I hesitate before opening it. It has hide straps so it can be carried as a pack. Slowly, I lift the lid of this box that comes up to my waist and is as wide as my arms stretch. The scent of cedar and of tobacco and sage and sweetgrass wafts out, something stronger below it. The scent of smoked moose hide.

  I glance at the door. The smells draw me back. I can’t resist and reach my hands in. The box has been carefully constructed with thick birchbark on the outside and lined with thinly cut cedar to keep out the moths and insects. This, I can tell, is where she keeps her winter clothes. I pull out a moose-hide robe that’s soft as skin and heavy with the scent of woodsmoke. It’s tightly stitched and has flowers beaded onto the front. Though the day is warm, I pull it on. Below it are mittens and leggings and tall moccasins, all of which I can’t help but try on, too. Before I know it, I’m dressed for the coldest winter day, sweating and inhaling the smoke and hide in my nostrils.

  Children run nearby, laughing, and I jump. The rain outside has stopped and I don’t know how long I’ve been in here wearing Gosling’s clothes. I pull them off and am about to put them back when I see a porcupine-quill box peeking out at me from the bottom of the container, partially covered by a rush mat. As I pull back the mat, I see that more boxes are nestled there, lining the bottom. They’re beautiful, decorated with dyed quill flowers, or with patterns of stars or deer or birds.

  I run my fingers over the quills of one that would fit in my palm. Feeling the power pulsing out of these boxes, I’m sure they contain Gosling’s special medicines. I’m sure of it. One day I’ll have my own quill boxes. I will ask her to teach me how to sew and bead moccasins her way and how to make these beautiful boxes out of porcupine quills. I’ll ask her to show me what magic to place in each of them and how to use this magic. I must show her I’m worthy of her knowledge. But first I must find her so she can make Sleeps Long better.

  I sneak out of her lodge. I don’t know where else to
look, so I go back to Sleeps Long’s longhouse. I find her still collapsed on her sleeping mat. I’m worried I’m too late, but as I kneel down she opens her eyes.

  “I looked for the healer,” I tell her, “but she wasn’t there. She’s not been home for a long while.” For the first time I want to say out loud that I wish Bird were here. He’d know what to do. He’d know how to find Gosling. “What can I do?” I ask.

  Sleeps Long smiles weakly at me. “Maybe if you think hard of her, maybe if you dream of her tonight, she’ll receive your dream. Whisper what you need to tell her to your raven and ask him to fly to her.” With that, she closes her eyes.

  Tonight, I lie in my bed and do as she suggested. I beg the raven over and over to fly away and find Gosling and tell her that she must come now to help Sleeps Long get better. His eyes, catching the light of the fire, look alive. I whisper to him until my eyelids grow heavy and then I jolt awake and ask him again to fly. I even tell him that if he does me this favour, he shouldn’t feel obligated to come back, that if he’ll do this for me, I’m willing to let him go.

  All night I see flashes behind my eyelids. I see all of it from above, as bright as daylight, a waterfall at dusk pouring over sharp rocks, dark forest with herds of deer weaving through the trees, a great stretch of water the colour of a robin’s egg, so clear I can see big fish swimming just under the surface. I am the raven, flying over the land of rock and pine that separates her people from ours, searching for Gosling.

  In the morning I sit by her home, hoping she’s received my message. I should be working in the fields, but Sleeps Long needs me. My raccoon chatters, telling me he’s bored as we stretch out in the sun. He begins to wander off, and I tell him not to go far.

  I open my eyes to laughter nearby. It’s not nice laughter. My raccoon. I jump up and see Carries an Axe holding him by the tail, swinging him at his two friends, who try to swat him with their open palms.

  I run at him, screaming. “Put him down! Give him to me now!” I slap his face as hard as I can. He stumbles, dropping the raccoon, and I watch my pet dart into Gosling’s doorway.

  The boy stands up, his friends now quiet and watching me. He rushes at me and my body tenses for his to slam into mine. I close my eyes.

  Nothing.

  “Open your eyes,” he says. I do. He’s smiling, his face so close to mine I can smell his breath. “Did you think I would hurt you?”

  “You should be ashamed of how you act,” I tell him, “with your mother so sick she might be dying.”

  “I’m sorry if I scared you or hurt the animal,” he says. “I didn’t know he was yours.”

  He wants me to forgive him, to tell him I’m sorry. He smiles like a little boy. “I don’t believe you,” I say.

  “And I’m sorry for the cruel words I spoke to you when your father left that day,” he says. “I was hurt he didn’t choose me to travel with him, and I took it out on you.”

  I look at his friends to see if he’s lying. They turn away from us and talk in whispers to each other. “Don’t speak to me,” I say. “And if you ever touch my animal or me, my father will kill you.”

  I turn away then, and not knowing where else to go, I stride into Gosling’s home. I can hear laughing but not what the three of them say. I hate him, I hate them. I will find my revenge.

  Clicking my tongue for my raccoon in the dim light, I sense another presence in the room, and I’m suddenly afraid that Carries an Axe has somehow sneaked in. But a woman says, “He’s here, safe with me.” I see her now in the light filtering in from the smoke hole, her small frame hunched near the dead fire. “I travelled long and fast to get back,” Gosling says. “I’m tired.”

  Knowing she wants me to, I walk to her. The raccoon sits in her lap, nuzzling her hand. She feeds him something, acorns, maybe.

  “He likes ottet,” I tell her, not sure of what else to say.

  “Ottet is fine for Wendat,” she says. “But wild animals need to eat from the wild.” She looks up and smiles. It doesn’t feel warm. “Soon, he’ll be too much for you to keep, you know. When his sex comes, he’ll turn angry and mean. Prepare for that.”

  “Did a raven come to you last night?” I ask.

  She looks up at me with a puzzled expression on her face. “What do you mean?”

  Suddenly, I feel foolish. “I dreamed I sent a raven to find you. I …” And no other words come.

  “You’re a strange one, aren’t you,” she says. I look down at my feet. “And apparently you like to sneak around where you don’t belong.” I can feel my face grow hot. “It’s all right. There’s nothing in my home I’m afraid to lose.”

  I want to ask her about the quill boxes but I don’t dare. “I came looking for you to help me,” I say. “I’m sorry I came into your home without permission. I was just trying to find you.” She doesn’t look at me, instead looks down at my raccoon, who’s still eating from her fingers. “How did you know it was me who came in here?” I ask.

  “The spiders that live here told me you disturbed their webs. Is this now your new secret place to visit?”

  I shake my head. “I’ve only been here once. Can you really communicate with spiders?”

  Gosling laughs. “You’ll believe anything I say, won’t you? You need to learn to relax when you’re near me. That’s your first lesson.”

  “How, then, did you know I’d come into your home?” I ask.

  “It was simple,” she says. “The way you just walked in, it was more than apparent you’d been here before. You just didn’t know I was home, did you?” Before I can answer, she continues. “My moccasins were disturbed. I can easily tell that.”

  I glance down at where I remember them being yesterday, but they’re not there.

  “And if I needed any more proof,” Gosling says, “I just follow your eyes.” She laughs as my face flushes. “And it’s obvious that you opened my bark trunk. Your footprints are small and very distinctive.”

  “Are you upset with me?” I ask.

  Gosling holds the raccoon out to me. When I take him, she stands. “Help me start a fire,” she says. “The mosquitoes will come soon and I need to get rid of the damp.”

  I step outside to collect dry grasses and when I come back in we arrange the kindling. She removes her flints from her bag and begins striking them. Gosling leans down to blow, speaking between breaths. “You must watch,” she says. Tendrils of smoke rise near her lips. “That is the gift the animals taught us, and it’s the gift that links us to them.” She blows some more. “The animals always watch. Look at your raccoon.”

  I glance over to him. He follows what we do as if fascinated.

  “Why do they watch?” she asks. “Why does the hawk stare from his perch or from the sky? Why does a deer stand absolutely still and focus so hard it doesn’t blink?”

  I think about this for a moment. “In order to catch their prey?” I answer, thinking of the hawk. “Or maybe to avoid it?” I add, thinking of the deer.

  Gosling laughs. “You’re learning,” she says. “If you watch carefully enough, you’ll survive. And if you learn from everything you see, you’ll gain power from it all.”

  I’m confused. She can sense it, for she adds, “There’s a lesson in everything you’ll witness today. In what you witness every day. That bold boy wishes to make amends because he realized what he said when your father left was foolish and won’t get him what he wants.”

  I nod.

  “So watch everything. You need to notice what people usually miss even when it’s right in front of them.” She looks up at me standing above her and cocks her head like a bird. “A person can’t just become a healer. One is born with that gift, just as a good hunter is born with that gift.”

  I guess at what she wants me to say. “I have that gift. You’re here today when I begged you to come.”

  She laughs and waves her hand as if at a fly. “There is much involving chance and luck in this world.”

  “My friend needs help,”
I say. “She’s very sick. She needs to live.”

  Gosling reaches out, and it takes me a few moments to realize she wants the raccoon back. It chatters as she cuddles him in her hands. “That Crow was born with something. I could tell it when I first saw him. He’s good at watching but he doesn’t like to. How he manages among us will all depend on how much watching he manages to do.” She laughs to herself. “He’s become very good at speaking, but how much does he actually see?”

  Gosling stands and places the raccoon on her shoulder as she picks up her hide bag. “We’d better visit Sleeps Long and talk to her.”

  As we walk out she pauses by her birch trunk. “My winter clothing’s quite warm.” She doesn’t turn to me to see me blush once more. She doesn’t need to. “I keep quill boxes that I’ve made over the years,” she says. “They’re not as good as my mother’s. My mother was truly gifted.” Gosling faces me. “She tried to teach me but still I feel I’ll never be nearly as talented as she was.” Gosling smiles. “When I finally believe I’ve made a porcupine-quill box that rivals my mother’s, that will be the day I feel it’ll be worthy of holding something special. For now,” she says, shrugging, “they just sit empty.”

  —

  I WATCH AS GOSLING kneels beside Sleeps Long, who appears unconscious. A couple of old women sit in the shadows on the other side, watching as well. Gosling lifts a hand over Sleeps Long’s belly. Her hand drifts down, over one leg and up the other. Gosling runs her hand back over her stomach and up to her chest, where it wavers for a moment before going on to Sleeps Long’s head. She does this three times.