The Orenda

by Joseph Boyden

  Gosling gets up and walks past me and out the door. I expect her to come back, but when so much time passes that I feel sleepy, I stand and stretch and head out to find her. Outside of her home, I call her name. She tells me to come in.

  Her fire burns hot and she sweats by it, peeling bark from tamarack branches and dropping it in her boiling kettle. “There are three types of illness,” she says, not looking up. “There is the illness that comes from natural causes. There is the illness that is born of someone with power wishing harm upon you. And there is the illness that comes when strong desires go unfulfilled.”

  “Which one does Sleeps Long suffer from?” I ask.

  “Which do you think?” Gosling responds.

  I consider this for a while. “I fear she suffers the curse of someone powerful who wishes her harm,” I finally say.

  “Why do you assume this?”

  “Because Sleeps Long told me that she dreamed of those who wish harm.”

  “Who wish harm to you,” Gosling corrects. “Sleeps Long is beautiful, and there are many men who desire her, but all she desires is for the safe return of her husband, and she knows in her heart that he will return soon. So what does that leave us with?”

  “That she’s sick from natural causes,” I say.

  Gosling scoops tamarack bark from the kettle with her ladle and places it on a flat stone to cool. She looks up at me. “Go out into the community and announce I will hold a curing ceremony this evening. Make sure the Crow and his followers are invited.”

  Gosling turns back to her work. I too turn, and then walk out into the afternoon, the news ready to pour from me.

  —

  SLEEPS LONG’S HOUSE is crowded with onlookers trying to secure a good vantage. She lies in her same spot beside her fire, smiling weakly at those who surround her and whisper their wishes for her to get better. “You have Gosling looking after you now,” one says. “Take heart! She will cure you, indeed!”

  Everyone hushes when Christophe Crow and his followers come in, holding their heads high and making their touching sign to those around them. A couple of people laugh. Others move away or just watch. The two Wendat with the charcoal names Aaron and Delilah don’t look so proud, though. They keep their heads down and refuse eye contact. I don’t believe they wish to be here where people are torn as to what to think of them. Since the rains have come back, Christophe Crow’s house has been full of Wendat interested in his magic, but still Aaron and Delilah are the only two who kneel with him every day.

  Christophe Crow walks up to Sleeps Long and crouches by her. As he raises his hand, she turns her head away. “If you accept the Great Voice now, you will live forever in happiness,” he says. The crowd falls silent.

  “I would rather live in the fires you speak of,” she whispers, “if this means my husband will be beside me.”

  He then speaks words in the language no one but his helpers can understand. They join in with him, and when they’re done they once again touch head and chest and shoulders. I look around me to see the whole room watching closely.

  When Christophe Crow stands, a voice speaks out. “Are you done yet?” Gosling asks. Laughter breaks out. Gosling steps from the shadows right beside the Crow and makes him jump. People laugh even harder. “Did you not realize I was right next to you?” she asks.

  He again touches his head and chest and shoulders. “You are of the devil,” he says.

  Gosling smiles. “I’m not sure I’m acquainted with the friend you speak of.”

  “He is no friend,” Christophe says.

  Waving her hand as if to shoo him away, Gosling kneels by Sleeps Long and takes a turtle-shell rattle from the hide bag strapped over her shoulder. She shakes it all along Sleeps Long’s body and begins singing a song in her language. When she stops, she looks straight at me, her eyes beckoning me forward.

  “Feed your friend this sacred drink,” she says. “Help your friend to get stronger.” Without wanting to, I walk to Gosling and reach into her hide bag, take out a skin filled with warm liquid. I can feel Christophe Crow’s eyes on me. They burn into me. I refuse to look up. Kneeling, I untie the top of the skin and lift it to my friend’s lips. The liquid that pours out smells strongly of the forest, of wet grass and moss and dark loam. She takes in what she can, and I wait as she swallows, then give her more.

  Gosling begins shaking her rattle again and singing in her strange, high voice. The room is so quiet it’s as if no one is here with us. Gosling, still singing, places her ear to Sleeps Long’s chest, now shaking the rattle slower.

  She lowers her ear near the sick woman’s stomach and hovers over it for a long time, her voice going softer and softer until all of us lean forward to hear her better. She lifts her head and shakes the rattle beside Sleeps Long’s hipbone so fast that it’s only a blur. When it stops, the only sound in the house is the crackling of the fire. Gosling lowers the turtle shell onto Sleeps Long’s body and moves it in circles. Sleeps Long moans out, not in pain but as if she’s being released from it.

  Gosling drops her head to Sleeps Long, places her mouth onto my friend’s skin. I stare, fascinated, as she begins to suck with all her might, Sleeps Long crying out. Gosling drops her rattle and pins Sleeps Long’s arms down as both continue to shake with the effort. Her legs kick in spasms and then Sleeps Long screams louder and goes slack. Gosling continues to suck, less intensely now, and finally raises her bloodied mouth from Sleeps Long’s hip. I can hear the murmuring of people all around me, and the muttering of the crows.

  After wiping the blood from her lips with the side of her hand, Gosling opens her palm and spits what look like small pebbles into it. She holds them out to the fire, her palm open and covered in spit and blood, the pebbles like wampum beads glowing in the firelight. People lean in to get a glimpse and many cry out “Ah-ho! Ah-ho!” when they see what she holds.

  “These stones were part of what causes her illness,” Gosling tells them. “They were encased in her organs and caused great pain. Her body couldn’t pass them.”

  “Baaah!” someone cries out. I see it’s Christophe Crow.

  Ignoring him, Gosling holds out her hand. “Pass them around,” she says. I look at Sleeps Long who rests, finally looking peaceful. The skin by her hipbone is blotched, turning from the colour of blood to the colour of a bellflower. “Study those stones closely,” Gosling says. “But make sure to throw them into the fire when you’re done. Dispose of the evil properly.”

  “Evil, indeed,” Christophe says loudly, and the crowd turns to him. “You’re nothing but a juggler, a magician. Yes, dispose of the pebbles properly, the same stones you placed in your mouth when no one was looking.”

  I expect Gosling to spin on him in anger, but instead she smiles and lifts her shoulders. “I’ve been caught,” she says. People around us laugh nervously. “At least this one can rest now.” Gosling picks up her turtle-shell rattle and shakes it over Sleeps Long’s body. Sleeps Long moans out. “And does what you offer suggest trickery or something more?”

  “I offer truth,” the Crow says. “I don’t offer trickery or sorcery.”

  “We shall see,” Gosling says. “Sorcery is a word used loosely by you. And you use that word as a weapon when you wish to strike out.”

  Finally I sneak a look at Christophe, whose eyes flash at me. The frightening charcoal named Gabriel seems ready to jump forward and strike Gosling. He’s a dog on a tether. But the other one, Isaac, only blinks and smiles at her, holding his hand out as if he, too, wants to hold the pebbles being passed around.

  “There’s more healing to be done,” Gosling says, standing up. “Oh, my knees ache now that I’m growing old. I will need your help, child.” She holds her hand out to me. The crows stare at me. I’m torn.

  I raise my hand and she takes it. For the first time, I notice that we’re the same height. I look to her.

  “Help me pick this woman up,” she says, bending to turn Sleeps Long on her side. I’m surprised by how light
she is as we lift her, barely awake, to her feet. Gosling slips behind and cradles her in her arms. “Give your friend more drink,” she says, and when I place the skin to Sleeps Long’s lips, her eyes open a little and she smiles when she recognizes me. I smile back and pour some into her mouth.

  Gosling begins to sing again, at first low but rising in intensity with each breath. The longhouse has gone silent and I know the crows look at us, at me. Gosling begins to bounce Sleeps Long as she stands behind her by lifting her up and down as if they’re a mother and child playing a favourite game. In part to escape all the eyes on me, in part out of fear, I step back from them. Gosling’s voice rises as she bounces this beautiful woman as easily as she would a baby, and I wonder where Gosling’s strength comes from. It’s as if she grows bigger as we all watch, the bouncing becoming a shaking, Sleeps Long’s face turning red, her mouth open, her arms flapping like a baby bird’s trying to fly as Gosling’s singing becomes a wail that grows so loud it sounds like many.

  And then all of us in the room step back at the same time, women moaning and men holding out their hands as something like sand begins falling out of Sleeps Long’s hair. Gosling’s in a frenzy now, shaking her with a power that I fear will snap her neck. And as I watch, the sand begins to fly from Sleeps Long’s nose and then her mouth and then her ears so I can feel the grains of it pelting my face and arms just as if I were by the big water during a windstorm. People gasp and some call out Ah-ho! once more and others begin to wail, and then I begin to shake just like Sleeps Long. All of us do, I’m sure, until, exhausted, we fall to the ground as one, Gosling on top of my friend, holding her and wiping her eyes and nose and mouth with her hands.

  I sneak a look over to the crows and they’re as pale as I’ve ever seen them. Gosling cradles Sleeps Long in her arms as if she’s her own child, and when I see the colour come back to both of their faces, I know to reach for the skin and offer it to them. My friend opens her eyes when I speak her name and smiles weakly at me and takes the bag from my hand, drinking deeply. Gosling stares into the fire, and me, all I can do is stare at Gosling.

  SOMETHING MUST BE DONE

  Base trickery. That is all it is. Sleight of hand is the magician’s first lesson. But Gabriel and Isaac won’t listen to me.

  “Père Gabriel, Père Isaac, I beseech you,” I tell them today after morning vigil. We sit at our rough-hewn table that both impresses the Huron who visit and makes them laugh. They far prefer to sit on their haunches or on the ground when they eat. “That wretched witch Gosling is nothing but a charlatan. The other night was a good show. I’ll give her that. But that’s all it is. A show.”

  “The bloody pebbles she extracted from the stomach of the girl,” Gabriel says. “Maybe this was sleight of hand. But I’m not even sure of that. Did you see the wound the witch left on her skin, and did you touch what came out of the girl? Those were no stones. That was human refuse.”

  “What of the sand storm that flew out of her?” Isaac adds. “How could one possibly stage such a thing?”

  I’m left unable to explain any of this, I realize, for I myself don’t know the answers. “Let’s look at this as we should, then,” I say. “We’re in a dark land, securely in Satan’s clutch. If indeed that sorcerer has demonic powers, we represent the light. It’s our mission to banish all that which is evil.” I won’t give in to her, Lord. To it. To him, the evil one. “I must re-emphasize that she’s a truly talented magician, and nothing more. But if it makes things easier for you, dear Brothers, to believe she possesses something darker, then gird yourselves for a battle we have no other choice but to win.”

  —

  THE MORNING IS SPENT walking about the village trying to gauge that night’s damage. Just as I begin to make headway, it seems, I’m pushed to my knees again. That sorcerer has taken the upper hand with the community. It’s clear to see by the way people on this morning either ignore me or openly taunt me. Only a few evenings ago, so many of the sauvages still straggled about our home, expecting food and gifts, we were forced to shoo them away so that we could sleep. And now even Aaron and Delilah are embarrassed to be seen with me. Only a month ago, our prayers delivered the rain and saved these ingrates from starvation, and yet today those three boys who have been the bane of my existence this summer openly stalk me, hurling insults and rocks.

  The leader, the one with the fine build, directly approaches me, the same wicked club he used to assault poor Isaac in his hand. I stop and look back at him. I can’t let fear overwhelm me now.

  “Gosling’s power is just as strong as yours,” he says. “In fact, Gosling’s power is far superior.”

  “Then why was she unable to bring the rains?” I ask, and this throws him off balance.

  “How do I know it wasn’t she who did that?” he asks.

  It’s a weak answer, and I tell him as much.

  He scowls, the anger rising up red from his neck and into his cheeks. The hand with the club twitches.

  “Think twice,” I say, “before striking down someone with power such as mine.” I turn then, head bowed, my large hat covering my scalp from the sun, and head toward the fields, trying not to give away the tension in my back as I await the shattering blow.

  The women in the fields ignore me. Bent to the weeding and the trimming and the deep care of each of the plants they treat as graciously as their own children, they talk amongst themselves and refuse to look at me. The plants have grown tremendously this last month, are already past waist high, and with one more month’s passing they’ll have grown taller than the tallest Huron. That’s when the harvest will begin and the men will return only for a short while before heading out once again, this time for the autumn fishing and hunt. The Huron man feels complete only when he’s away from the village. Here in this place, the women rule.

  Delilah’s working with a group of her sisters, and I approach with a smile on my face. “Will you join me in speaking to the Great Voice this evening?” I ask.

  She pretends I’m not there.

  “Delilah,” I say, “what has changed?”

  She stands from her crouch, her breasts bare in the hot sun. I avert my eyes. “I felt shame that night,” she says. “I shouldn’t feel shame in front of my family.”

  I’m confused. “Shame?” I ask. “What makes you feel shame?”

  She turns back to her work. The women around her act as if I’m not there at all. For long, uncomfortable minutes I stand useless, not knowing what else to do, but then a desperate idea comes to me. I think of the supplies meant to get us through next winter.

  I straighten my back. “I will hold a great feast,” I announce to Delilah and her sisters. “A feast of many kettles.” These Huron can’t refuse such generosity, which they consider the greatest of traits. “This feast will spare nothing,” I declare. “All of my stores will be used.” With that I walk away, excited at the prospect of putting my life back into Your hands, but a little fearful of the reaction I know will come from Gabriel and Isaac when I share the news.

  —

  “WHAT WERE YOU thinking?” Gabriel asks.

  I’ve already prepared my answer. “You know, dear Brother Gabriel, they will never refuse a chance to gorge themselves. We’ll win back their hearts through their stomachs.”

  We stand in front of the little tabernacle we painstakingly built by hand from small sheets of copper and scraps of wood. The cross atop it is stout and gilded.

  “Well, that’s the most short-sighted thing I’ve ever heard you say,” he spits.

  I’m tempted to remind him that I’m his superior, that his admonition’s unacceptable. Instead, I allow him to go on, to vent his frustration and tire himself.

  “And what are we to do,” he continues, “when winter is upon us and we have no supplies?”

  “We were promised,” I counter, “that Bird and his party will bring more when they return.”

  “Ha! Just as we were the last three years running. It’s as if our brothers,” Ga
briel says, baring his white teeth at the word, “have decided we no longer exist. But there’s no need to revisit that concern, is there?”

  I reach a hand out to him. “Trust in Him, and He will give you all that you need and more. Don’t forget the most fundamental of our lessons, dear Brother.”

  Gabriel shrugs in defeat. “You are the superior here,” he says. “I will find Père Isaac and help him with collecting the firewood.”

  I follow him. “I will help you,” I say.

  He walks quickly as if to lose me, but my stride is far longer. Gabriel, though not tall, is lean and hungry, and his fire is something to behold. In our haste we’ve left our hats behind, and the sun beats down on our heads. The rain has disappeared the last days, and I await the tension another week of its absence will bring.

  Once we are beyond the stockades, the same feeling of vulnerability, the same feeling that someone or something watches from the shadows of the trees, is almost unbearable until I am forced to swallow it down. We head toward our designated wood-gathering lot. The Huron, I’ve noted, though so generous in every other respect, protect their woodlots. Sweating even in the shade of the forest, I understand why. The work of supplying fuel for cooking and for heat throughout the year is of such magnitude that it would make the sturdiest French peasant blanch.

  Isaac doesn’t hear us coming, and he cries out when Gabriel touches his shoulder. “Please, Brother, warn me of your approach,” he says to Gabriel, trying to catch his breath. I’ve considered sending Isaac back to New France, fearing for his mental and physical health. Even now I see that his last hours’ toil, trying to collect dry brush and branches and snapping and gathering them into bundles with his mangled hands, is pathetic. But I know if I were to ask if he’d like to go home he’d refuse. After the Iroquois captured and tortured him, after they told him to never return to this country again, God whispered loudly enough into his ear. You’ve come back to this land of your own volition, sweet Isaac, and it’s here where you’ll fish for souls the rest of your days.