The Orenda

by Joseph Boyden

  Right after me, Gabriel calls, “Tell them you’re one of them, that they’re your people.”

  The two warriors turn to her. She has crawled to her feet. “You’re not my people,” she spits at them. “No Haudenosaunee would dare rape a woman.”

  One of them hits me so hard on the top of my head that my eyes go dim, but not before I see them walking back to her.

  I will myself to stay conscious. “Gabriel,” I say, “we must stop this.” But he knows as well as I do that there’s nothing to be done.

  “Let us sing a hymn, Brother,” Gabriel says. His dark eyes sparkle. “Our own death chant.”

  “Yes, Brother,” I say, “let us sing, then.”

  He lifts his voice into the first lines of “Jesu, Dulcis Memoria.” He sings it in French rather than Latin, and I listen to him sing a few lines. “Jesus, the very thought of Thee, with sweetness fills the breast. Yet sweeter far Thy face to see, and in Thy presence rest.”

  I join in on the chorus and our voices rise as the sky breaks purple over the horizon. “No voice can sing, no heart can frame, nor can the memory find, a sweeter sound than Jesus’ name, the Saviour of mankind.”

  The two warriors turn away from Snow Falls and walk back up the trail toward us, apparently humoured by our singing.

  “Listen to that death chant,” one says, pointing to us.

  “I’ve never heard such a sour sound in my life,” the other tells him.

  “They’re like cow moose in rut!”

  They both laugh at this, and as they do, I see a shadow flash across the trail behind them toward Snow Falls on the ground. At first I fear it’s another Iroquois warrior I had somehow missed, but this man bends over her and whispers in her ear. I raise my voice higher in song so the two standing by Gabriel and me don’t turn away. As the light grows stronger, I realize this is the young man who’s tormented me for so long back at the village.

  He slips off the trail just as the two warriors turn their attention back to Snow Falls, one again lifting his breechclout and pushing her back so he can mount her while the other laughs and urges him on. Rather than fighting, though, she wraps her arms and legs around him as if in desperate want. Gabriel and I continue to sing, and as the one on top begins to try to enter the poor girl, the young Huron steps out onto the trail, brandishing his war club.

  “Sing louder, Gabriel,” I urge. “Sing as loud as you can.” He looks at me, confused, but there’s no time to explain. I pray our voices cover up the sound of imminent battle that might alert the three warriors who torture poor Aaron to the enemy among them.

  “O hope of every contrite heart! O joy of all the meek,” we sing as the warrior watching senses someone behind him, an alarmed look crossing his face. “To those who fall, how kind Thou art! How good to those who seek!” He picks up his own club as the young Huron swings his down hard with both hands onto the man’s head, sending him face first into the dirt. As loud as we can now, we wail, “Jesus our only hope be Thou, as Thou our prize shalt be!” The warrior on top of Snow Falls now realizes something’s wrong and struggles to pull away, but she’s wrapped about him too tightly. Taking his knife from his sheath, the young Huron straddles the warrior on top of Snow Falls and pulls his head back so that his neck’s exposed. “In Thee be all our glory now, and through eternity.” The young Huron runs his knife across the neck of the Iroquois, the blood in the pink light of dawn spurting onto Snow Falls.

  The young Huron helps her to her feet. We’ve stopped singing, and I wonder what’s happening to Aaron. The sun’s high enough that I can make out the look on Snow Falls’ face as she bends to the dead man who’d been on top of her and whispers something to him. She then picks up a club, the young Huron picking his up, too. They run up to us and the young Huron cuts our ties, making the sign to be quiet. Then he and Snow Falls creep toward the fire, slipping into the shadows, the thorn clubs in their hands.

  “What should we do?” Gabriel asks. “Should we sing again? Should we run?”

  “We shall place our lives in the hands of the Lord,” I say just as shouting erupts in the trees.

  —

  WE POUR WATER over Aaron’s wounds with our palms. Gabriel strips pieces from his cassock to bandage them. Aaron is missing two fingers from his left hand, the blood pulsing from them with each heartbeat. His stomach has been prodded with fire sticks, and the wounds are black from the cauterization. He gazes impassively up into the sky as we tend to him as best we can. I ask if he still has faith in the Great Voice. He won’t answer.

  Beside us, Snow Falls dresses the young Huron’s wounds that he must have received while attacking Aaron’s tormentors. I hear her call him Carries an Axe, a name I now remember. He took cuts to his chest and a blow to the head but still managed to kill all three warriors, I assume. His hands are shaking.

  Snow Falls helps him to his feet and whispers to us that we must get going now, for certainly other warriors will be on this trail. Gabriel and I help Aaron stand, and he clenches his teeth but still doesn’t make a sound. We start up the same rise upon which we were ambushed in the night, and we stumble past the dead Iroquois, their fire now just a smoking ruin.

  For the morning we travel slowly, stopping frequently to catch our breath and tend to our wounded companions. My head throbs with the pain of it being bashed, and I can’t breathe through my broken nose. I imagine we look ragged and bloody as we haul one another along the narrow trail through the hardwood forest, light filtering down through it in soft patterns.

  By mid-afternoon, Carries an Axe cautions us to walk as quietly as we can. He’s sure someone follows. My Lord, I don’t know how much more of this I’m able to take. If the Iroquois catch us again, there’s no chance of defending ourselves against them. All we can do is help one another down the trail and toward the safety of the mission.

  When Carries an Axe stops, I follow his gaze and finally make out what he sees. Two warriors are outlined ahead of us, their backs to the sun so they’re bathed in a halo of light. We’ve just come into a clearing and they stand, stone still, across it. Instead of dropping down or retreating back into the forest, Carries an Axe lifts his arms in the air and warbles out like a bird. The two return it and run to us. I brace myself for the last battle, and it isn’t until they’re upon us that I recognize Bird and Fox. I’ve never been so relieved.

  Bird reaches for Snow Falls and holds her at arm’s distance, studying her for injury. She looks back at him, but something in her has changed. I fear the Iroquois warrior did rape her in the short time he had, though I pray to You, Lord, that he didn’t.

  Bird speaks to her in a hushed tone. She shakes her head. Angrily, he tells Fox that two of their attackers tried to rape her.

  Fox looks surprised. “They must have been rotten ones. That isn’t Haudenosaunee behaviour.”

  “Not to worry,” Carries an Axe interrupts. “They’re all dead now. Your daughter is a better warrior than I am. She killed her first Haudenosaunee this morning.”

  I’m shocked. It can’t be true that this young woman, only a girl not so long ago, has taken another life. I cannot judge her, though, when I’m so close to all of this. Without her actions we would each of us be dead. Lord, help me come to terms with this. I want to believe they acted to save us, not out of sheer revenge.

  “Carries an Axe killed four of them,” Snow Falls says in a flat tone.

  Bird and Fox look at him, impressed. “I hope you kept the scalps,” Fox says.

  “There was no time,” Carries an Axe tells him.

  “There’s always time for that,” Fox answers.

  “What there’s no time for is useless talk,” Bird says. “Haudenosaunee are creeping everywhere today.”

  We pick each other up once more and limp across the field toward safety.

  CONFESSION IS ABSOLUTELY APPROPRIATE

  Gabriel wants to know if I believe the claims of the boy named Joseph. “I fear,” he says, “that his charge might have truth to it.”r />
  I ask why he thinks so. We’ve already told Isaac of the horrific few days we’ve just endured, leaving out some of the worst torture. He’s been patiently helping us nurse Aaron, who’d suffered horribly but will thankfully recover.

  “I think Joseph’s actions speak volumes,” Gabriel continues. “He didn’t need to cast doubt among us if he only wanted to return to his people.” Gabriel looks at Isaac, then at me. “Joseph’s no actor. He’s quite possibly a little mad. But did you see his expression when he explained what happened to him? Although I don’t have any evidence yet, I believe him.” Gabriel pauses again, as if for effect. “A sickness has slipped into our mission.”

  Isaac shakes his head. “It can’t be,” he says. “These donnés have sworn to live lives of abstinence and purity. To abuse a boy? I can’t see it.”

  “Don’t be naïve,” Gabriel tells him. “The devil lurks just beyond the light.”

  “Brothers,” I speak up, “this is indeed a grave development, and we shall indeed pursue it, but there are more pressing matters, matters of life and death pertaining to our mission we must immediately attend to.”

  “You don’t find Joseph’s charge a pressing matter?” Gabriel asks.

  “Dear Gabriel,” I say, “I don’t wish to in any way suggest this isn’t a dire accusation. It has great gravity. But the Iroquois have taken to the warpath, and we’re ill equipped to defend ourselves.” I explain to him that we’ll have to focus on our survival as well as bringing justice, if indeed such an abomination has occurred within our walls.

  I can see he doesn’t like my answer but must abide by its logic. I turn from my two brothers and feel overwhelmed by the crushing enormity of it all. I need to remain strong, especially now that the devil presses not just from the outside but also from within.

  —

  WITH BANDS OF IROQUOIS still roaming, caring for crops outside the palisades carries a strong tinge of terror. We can spare only one or two soldiers to accompany the field workers while the others remain vigilant on the ramparts, keeping an eye on the dark forest surrounding us.

  Since the encroachment of the enemy into this territory, all kinds of refugees have appeared at our gates, Nipissing and Huron, Montagnais, even a few members of a mysterious group who call themselves the People of the Cat. There are so many sauvages within our walls that it’s a struggle to feed them. We can’t sustain this for long, even in high season. What, then, when the autumn returns, and after that, the winter? As always, Lord, we are in Your hands.

  To add to my worries, Isaac has been acting more and more strangely. He’s now convinced himself he can win the sauvages over to the Cross by performing silly magic tricks he apparently learned as a child. He’s even gone so far as to sew secret pockets up the arms and along the insides of his cassock. Now that the Captain of the Day has become yesterday’s fancy, he attracts children’s attention by fumbling around with his fingerless hands, pulling out, and often dropping, all kinds of objects from his cassock to the children’s delight, rocks, or letters that he proceeds to read in French while the children giggle, even a shiny French doubloon. Yesterday, Gabriel and I witnessed him pull a small chicken from his robe.

  “Why, that was impressive,” Gabriel commented.

  “Especially considering his limited grasp,” I added, which made us both laugh.

  “But in all seriousness,” he continued, “haven’t we already discussed the dangers of trying to win them over through sleight of hand? Doesn’t this foolery cross into that witch Gosling’s territory?” Isaac was now pretending to swallow a feather and choking.

  “Alas,” I said, “they’re still children. As it seems dear Isaac is as well. And to children belong childish things.” We have enough to worry about, and really, this all seems so innocent. Some levity is actually needed in these troubled times.

  —

  WHEN BIRD LEFT with Fox, Carries an Axe, and Snow Falls shortly after our safe return to the mission in the late spring, he feared for his village. Despite my wanting him to stay for the small protection he offered, I understood his rush to get home, his people, by all accounts, lying shivering in their blankets, waiting for death from the illnesses they suffered or at the hands of the enemy. We’ve heard nothing as summer approaches its apex. We hope this means all’s well, but no one’s willing to make the day’s journey to find out.

  We throw ourselves into strengthening our defences, fifty healthy men and as many sauvages all building up the palisades and digging a canal into the mission from the river that will both power a mill and give us a water supply inside the gates. It’s an ingenious design, complete with a locking gate that can be opened only from the inside. Our guests are mightily impressed. Now when those who are brave enough to leave do so, they do it by water, exiting the village via the canal and onto the river, then paddling hard to the relative safety of their Sweet Water Sea.

  I turn my attention, this summer, to the needs within the walls rather than the fear of what lies outside them. I’ve requested a meeting with each donné and layman, and have made the strong suggestion that confession is absolutely appropriate. When they come to me, one by one, hat in hand in the cool darkness of the rough-hewn chapel, I ask how each in turn is faring in this brutal land. Secretly, I try to weigh whether there’s truly any validity to Joseph’s claim. These conversations stretch over the course of three days, and many of the men are clearly uncomfortable about speaking. All of them appear stronger now from the work than they did in the idle months of winter, the skin of their bearded faces tanned, the stink of labour permeating their clothing.

  For the life of me, I can’t detect Lucifer’s tail on any of them, and, one by one, they clumsily approach and kneel and mumble a few mis-spoken words. These, Lord, are surely not the best of the race that will be the first to populate this new world. Surely, better men are to come. But for the time being, they’re all we have. My attempt at finding the truth feels like an utter failure.

  This afternoon before supper, now that I have met with all of them, I ask Aaron to join us. The poor young man still physically suffers from his torments, limping and holding his left hand in his right. Daily I watch him mourn. He and Isaac seem to have created a bond, the both of them having gone through similar abuse. Isaac tells me Aaron suffers just as much from lovesickness as he does from his wounds. I tell Isaac that like all infatuations, this one, too, shall pass. We must continue to focus on Aaron’s soul, not his earthly desires. Isaac should know this.

  As supper is being served, a handful of sauvages come by, and I wouldn’t dream of turning them away. We sit crowded around two tables pushed together, twenty of us sharing a watery stew and some week-old bread that must be soaked in it to become edible. After prayers, we all sit with the squeal of chair legs on the wooden floor. The men eat hungrily, noisily, and it takes everything in my power not to chastise them. After all, I’ve invited them here to speak of important things. I take note that most of them seem in a good mood despite the gravity of our situation.

  Once all have quieted from their eating, I raise my hand to speak. “Gentlemen,” I say. “As we all know, the Iroquois have declared war upon the Huron, and us French, as we are allies of the Huron.” I look about the room at each man’s face to make sure he understands the gravity of what I say. “From all evidence, the Arendahronnon village was very well fortified and consisted of fifteen hundred to two thousand souls before the disease of last winter swept down upon them. And now that the Iroquois have struck, the Arendahronnon people are no more.”

  I go on to explain that our village of maybe two hundred, many of us women and children, must focus completely and tirelessly on our fortifications, and especially on our prayers that the promised soldiers and laymen will arrive to bolster us this summer, because otherwise we’ll be in great peril. “The Iroquois respect very little,” I tell them, “but one thing that commands it is the Frenchman’s musket.” I’ve tallied the numbers, and we have twenty at our disposal, with twice a
s many men who are expert at using them.

  I then invite the men to debate the best fortifications and how to realistically create them in as short a time as possible.

  “We need higher ramparts,” one donné says. “And with them higher and thicker palisades.”

  “The Iroquois simply put palisades to fire,” another donné argues. “We need to build up the stone wall bases at least to the height of a man.” Several of his fellows agree.

  “What about a moat?” one asks, but others argue this would take too much time. I’m impressed by their willingness to offer ideas.

  The best one comes from a young donné with a wispy moustache who points out that to build a wall around the village would take a year of hard work, but stone bastions at proper intervals might be built in a couple of months. The men heartily agree.

  They call for more water, and one goes to the kitchen for a large jug. The men pass it around, continuing to debate candidly.

  Aaron drinks deeply from his cup, and I notice he makes a strange face as he wipes his mouth. He doesn’t understand French, so I fear he feels left out. After taking another long gulp, he waves for the jug to be passed to him again. A donné beside him refills his cup.

  “Aaron,” I say. Turning to the Huron tongue, I ask him if there’s anything he wishes to say that I might translate for the others. He shakes his head and drinks more.

  I’d have expected everyone to leave as soon as they could after supper, but they continue to talk, some of them laughing now, others with heads bowed, deep in conversation, a couple even crying. A man goes again to the kitchen to refill the jug, and when he stumbles a little, it dawns on me what’s happening.

  Standing, I ask, “What is it you’re pouring from your jug?” The men who hear me go silent and look down while others carry on, apparently deaf to my tone. “What do you drink in your cups?” I shout, and this time everyone takes notice.

  “It’s simply a cider, Father,” one of the donnés says, “made from the crabapples that grow wild around here.”