Algonquin Spring

by Rick Revelle

  I told the first six men to approach the line. “Once these men start, the next six men must take their place when they enter the field to ready themselves.”

  Then, turning to the drummers, I shouted, “Begin!”

  The sky was a solid blue and the sun relentlessly beat down on the field. There was no wind, and the warriors were drenched in sweat from the heat and the stress of the contest. Young boys and girls were busy filling up bark containers of drinking water for the men. When a drummer tired, another was there to take his place. It was not long before the stench of the contestants burned my nostrils. My head started to throb from the endless roar of the bystanders and the drumming. I turned to look at Winpe. He was standing with his arms crossed, smiling. His thoughts, I knew, were on the outcome of these three days and on the turmoil we should be able to create with the elite force selected from this challenge.

  The participants ran through the course with precision, each man fully focused. The watching players cheered on their rivals at the top of their lungs. There were no injuries other than a few sprained ankles, and one young boy who was swinging a log took a flying wood splinter from an arrow deflecting off his forehead. There was lots of blood but no damage. No amount of coaxing could entice him to leave his post. He did not want to show weakness. An elder stopped the bleeding and he continued.

  The day’s competition ended comfortably before dusk. All then made their way back to the village, where the women had prepared what the hunters had brought in that day.

  Winpe and I gathered with the elders who were overseeing the game. They gave us their selections and we made our way to the cooking fires.

  “Seventeen men were perfect today,” I exclaimed.

  There was a roar from the crowd.

  Winpe repeated the names given to us by the elders. The seventeen warriors stood to loud cheering and drumming.

  “You seventeen have made the roll. You will not have to continue these next two days. You have earned an extra task for this raid, and because of your marksmanship you will also hunt for the group. The next two days are yours to do as you like.”

  Once everyone’s bellies were full, they retired for the evening. The next morning the village awoke to the elders calling everyone to morning meal. While eating we told the contenders that they would need three spears each that day. The day’s games would start earlier than yesterday. The remaining competitors needed the extra rest for the gruelling third round.

  We gave them a short time to make or borrow the three weapons for the field before the call went out. The first group to start was to consist of only five men to compensate for the seventeen who had made the final unit.

  “Today it will be three staggered targets behind each other. One post, one cornhusk man in the open and another partially hidden in bushes, plus you have to throw before you reach a blackened post that is stuck in the ground. However, today you will only get thirty drum beats.”

  The day was clear again, but hotter, with a slight breeze. The men should find this portion of the challenge different from the previous day. Less time, but accuracy and endurance would still be needed. Throwing accuracy with a spear took talent. I doubted that there would be as many who would qualify today as the first day.

  We knew that with short notice the men would have to improvise to make or find three spears. For some, these were not their weapons of choice; for others there would be a feeling of comfort. Still, though, the ones who were familiar with the use of spears would probably only have one or two in their immediate possession. Each man favoured a certain type of wood or shaft size. If he had to borrow or make one hurriedly, there might be a sense of doubt with the weapon in hand. This, Winpe and I knew, ought to bring the best to the top.

  As expected, that morning and early afternoon there were many disappointed men. Speed, accuracy, and stamina ruled this day. When it was over, there were eleven more warriors for our raid. The first day gave us our hunters; now we had our scouts, flankers, and rear guards. These eleven were men who were able to make decisions quickly and react immediately.

  Tomorrow would be the ultimate test. Stamina and tenacity would prevail, and this was where we would select the ten women.

  Before Winpe and I entered our lodge for the night, one of the elders approached us.

  “Ò:nenhste Erhar,” said the elder, “two of the warriors that you selected on the second day have slain an anèn:taks (porcupine) and left it in the forest.”

  “Bring them to me!” I replied.

  Within a few moments the two warriors were brought to Winpe and I, accompanied by a group of elders.

  “The elder Kwa’yenha has told me that you killed an anèn:taks and left it in the forest?”

  “Yes, the animal ruined our best hunting dog with a mouth full of quills. We had to put our dog out of its misery!”

  “You know it is bad luck to slay an anèn:taks and not eat it. The creator put this animal here to save lost souls. People in the woods who have lost their way can slay these animals, eat them, and survive. You have broken that promise to him by not eating the animal!”

  The taller of the two replied, “We ate our dog and had no hunger for the quilled one, so we left him.”

  I looked each of them in the eyes and said, “Return to your villages. Your actions will bring our raiding party bad luck if you stay with us. I have no recourse except to banish you from the one hundred. You have angered Hahgwehdiyu; he will not take your transgression lightly. Be gone from us!”

  Without a word of reply, the two left.

  The hunters were again successful this day, and the women prepared an immense feast. That night, just as Winpe and I entered my family longhouse, it started to rain. We sat by the fire as the rain increased in force, dampening the flames. Looking at each other, we smiled. This would definitely make tomorrow’s last test interesting. We knew that the seventy-four men and ten women who could defeat this final challenge would be the best of the best.

  The next morning, the remainder of the men and close to a hundred women gathered for the final test. A gruelling run through the forests of our lands, plus a double crossing of the Te-non-an-at-che, was the course that the elders, Winpe, and I had set up. The trail was marked out with blazes, with tribal members spaced at intervals to keep the flood of participants from going off course.

  The rain had stopped overnight; the air was muggy and the sun bright. Each participant carried a bag of corn and a vial of water. The men had stripped down to only a breechcloth and some were barefoot. Most of the women were clothed similarly, except some wore a small top.

  We needed warriors and women who could run all day in all conditions and keep up. Stealth and quickness were the skills needed for this raid to be successful, and a key to everyone’s survival. Our desire was to strike quickly, decisively, and destroy all in our path. Fitness was essential for all!

  When the first male runner appeared in the clearing to the village at the end of the race, the drums would begin to signify the end was near. When the drumming ended, it would signal that the seventy-fourth runner had crossed the finish and that we had our hundred.

  When the first woman was in sight of the village, the women would start singing until the tenth one had crossed.

  As I walked through the throng of people to get to the starting position, I neared the Algonquin woman. I told her that she did not have to do this; she was to be part of the raiding party all along. Looking at me with the fire she always had in her eyes, she replied, “I run with my daughter!”

  Now I knew why the daughter had run around the village all that winter, but how had they known that there was to be a race? They could not know that. What was this woman up to?

  “So be it,” I replied.

  Reaching the head of the murmuring group of enthused men and women and raising my head and arms to the heavens, I let out a war cry that mimicked the sound of turkey cocks, then, dropping my arms, I signalled the beginning of the gruelling race to select my eli
te.

  Winpe, considered the fastest warrior among all the men of the villages, strongly stated his intentions to run this race to uphold his perceived ability.

  The competitors ran between two lines of the villagers as they exited the compound. Once they cleared the front entrance, the people ran after them, yelling their encouragement. It was not long before the runners and spectators became covered with water and mud from splashing through puddles from the previous night’s rain. Most of the people then made for a rise that would allow them a clear vantage point to follow the runners’ progress on the route to the river and then into the forest. It also gave them a line of sight for when the competitors returned.

  A couple of warriors and I climbed a tall spruce tree that contained a sentry lookout post used to protect the village. Here we were able to watch the struggle unfold.

  The first hurdle that they had to overcome was the initial crossing of the river Te-non-an-at-che. The entrance to the river ford became a clumped mass of people pushing for position as they entered and then swam to the other side. There were people stationed on the river in canoes and the opposite bank to help anyone in peril. Once the faster swimmers reached the opposite bank, the cluster of bodies began to thin out. The stronger ones were beginning to pull away and set a punishing pace that would be the tone of the day. In the distance, we were able to observe a few women keeping up with several of the faster men.

  The warriors that I needed for the coming raid had to be sound of body and able to travel great distances by foot and on water. The women that travelled with us needed the same endurance. They had to be as fit as the men that they travelled with, and they would carry as much importance as my best warriors.

  15

  WÀBANANANG’S JOURNEY

  Wàbananang

  When Corn Dog gave the signal for the race to begin, Little Wolf and I started out with the leaders. My captor had told me I did not have to run this race since he was taking me anyway. I’d known this all along, but if I went without my daughter Pangì Mahingan, she would be adopted into a Mohawk family and it could be the last that I would ever see of her. All winter I had run with her to strengthen her legs and taught her the tricks of running in a group. During that time I had not realized there was going to be a race; I was preparing her for our future escape. Tall for her age, smart, and the daughter of a great warrior, she caught on quickly with the training. She would be the youngest runner by far, and that should work in her favour. The older women would not even consider her a threat.

  Our plan was to let the faster ones and the ones who thought they were fast to lead the way. We would maintain a pace that would not burn our energy reserves, saving our strength for the portion of the race when the course turned for camp. My daughter and I would run an Omàmiwinini race. I cut two small switches, one for each of us. A few brisk slaps with these small, whippy maple branches soon caught the attention of the person ahead of you and distracted them long enough to whoosh by. Pangì Mahingan became adept in this Omàmiwinini art, with my instruction.

  The raid that Corn Dog and Winpe were planning was twofold: one of revenge and one of mourning. The revenge part was to slay my husband Mahingan, who had been the cause of the loss of Haudenosaunee warriors in the battle six summers ago. The mourning part was to capture women and children to bring back as captives to become slaves or adoptees into families that had lost members of their families those six summers ago.

  I knew I was the bait to snare my husband. Nevertheless, I had plans of my own, which included saving my daughter and my family left behind.

  If my daughter earned a spot among the ten, they would have to let her come on the raid. Corn Dog would lose face if he did not allow her, even if she was a child and an Omàmiwinini. He had set the rules. All who earned their spot had the right to go. There were exceptions, like the two foolish warriors who broke a tribal law by killing a kàg and leaving it to rot in the woods.

  If I was going to make my escape, I wanted my daughter with me. There would only be one opportunity, and that would be during their attack or an attack on his group. All other times we would be in either a canoe or walking on the trail in the middle of the war party column. Once in enemy territory, the night camps would have guards posted at all times. When we came close to the Magotogoek Sìbì, I would know where I had to go and would be comfortable with the surroundings.

  My daughter was now almost seven summers old. My heart ached because we had been here that long. I had been two months pregnant when captured. I had not yet revealed to Mahingan I was with child, waiting until I started to show to surprise him. She was born during a thunderstorm in the month of the Wàbine-Miskwà Tibik-Kìzis (Pink Moon, April), doing it alone without the help of a midwife, no sweet grass to burn, or soothing tea to help with the pain. That previous fall I had collected as much milkweed silk as I could and stored it in a dry space. At least my new child would have a soft absorbent cloth to keep her bum dry in its clothes. She came into the world along with a flash of lightning, a much easier birth than I had expected. After I wrapped her, we lay in the small hutch I had made to give birth. The rain came down in torrents but no water reached us. We fell asleep together there on our first night, her feeding off my breast and I dreaming of my husband Mahingan and my past life.

  That day over six summers ago, the day that I hid my son during the Haudenosaunee attack, after making sure he was safe, I made my way back to the village. On my way I heard noises in the woods beside me. Crouching down, I watched as the village came under attack. In the moments of indecision about what to do, an enemy warrior grabbed me from behind. I remember stabbing the man with my knife and then blacking out. When I awoke, the stench of wood and flesh burning numbed my senses, saddening me because I knew that this battle had not ended well for my people. I was bleeding and groggy, but better off than the Haudenosaunee warrior who had tried to end my life. He was lying dead beside me. I started to rise but passed out again. When I came to again it was to the pain of being dragged feet first. A young warrior was pulling me by my legs to the fires. Grabbing a stick, I raised myself up to a sitting position and started beating him in the back of his legs. Dropping me in surprise, he turned toward me, raising his war club to smash me on the head. I jumped to my feet and prepared to defend myself with the stick. Before he reached me, an older warrior with the markings of a leader stepped in between us, and spoke in a tongue I could not understand. The younger warrior slouched and backed away, all the while looking at me with rage.

  Then, speaking in our language, he said, “You have the tattoo of a wolf, unlike the other women of your village who only tattoo lines on their faces. You are a leader’s wife! You are Mahingan’s woman! Come with me.” He sneered.

  During the journey back to their village, the leader healed my wounds. At the Battle of the Falls, he gave me to the young warrior and I never laid eyes on the leader again. Upon reaching their village, I became a slave for the young warrior’s mother. She tried to beat me many times but I always fought back. After three moons, the young warrior traded me to Corn Dog for a deerskin and a quiver of arrows.

  Corn Dog, staring at me after the barter, said, “I know of you and who you are; you will be of use to me in the future.”

  He never physically protected me from harm, but whenever I defended myself that person never bothered me again. After a while they left me alone. I cooked and cared for Corn Dog’s needs, and he never took me to his bed while I was there.

  I often wonder if he knew I had helped the three Susquehannock boys escape. Was it part of his plan to let Mahingan know I was still alive and that there was now a daughter? He was a devious one, this Corn Dog. Always thinking ahead.

  Running with rhythmic strides, our breathing became even and unlaboured. Some of the participants that had started out fast were now tiring, and Pangì Mahingan and I were starting to pass them. By taking my mind off the actual running motion and concentrating on my past, I made the time fly by.

&nbs
p; Crossing the river had slowed many down. As we exited the water and climbed the banks, we still encountered a huge group jostling, pushing, and wheezing through the forest. The sounds around us that broke the silence were the continuous pounding of feet, crunching leaves, and sticks breaking from leather moccasins and the few barefooted runners. The tempo of the surrounding runners’ breath as they tried to take in enough air to keep their bodies fed with the Great Spirit’s nourishment were coming in loud gulps. Overhead, the tendesì (blue jays) and àndeg (crows) voiced displeasure with the intrusion into their areas.

  Some of the runners ahead would push aside branches that then sprung back and slapped the following person in the face or shoulders, causing them to stumble and, if the branch was big enough, to fall, causing others behind to slow or stagger and trip.

  Pangì Mahingan was not tall enough for this ploy to work on her. I always kept a close eye on the person ahead and was able to avoid the dupe by reacting quickly. My right forearm had taken a couple of good swats and was bloody and welted. This helped take my thoughts off the oncoming pain that the rest of my body was starting to experience from the run. Glancing at my daughter, I watched as she ran with a smile, singing songs that I had taught her to help control her breath, to pass the time, and to take her mind off the pain.