Children of the Frost

by Children Of The Frost (Pg) [Lit]

  never slept, but went on unceasing, in good times and bad, in flood and famine, through

  trouble and terror and death, and which would go on unceasing, it seemed to him, to the

  end of time. A man rapped sharply on a table, and the conversation droned away into

  silence. Imber looked at the man. He seemed one in authority, yet Imber divined the

  square-browed man who sat by a desk farther back to be the one chief over them all and

  over the man who had rapped. Another man by the same table uprose and began to read

  aloud from many fine sheets of paper. At the top of each sheet he cleared his throat, at the

  bottom moistened his fingers. Imber did not understand his speech, but the others did,

  and he knew that it made them angry. Sometimes it made them very angry, and once a

  man cursed him, in single syllables, stinging and tense, till a man at the table rapped him

  to silence.

  For an interminable period the man read. His monotonous, sing-song utterance lured

  Imber to dreaming, and he was dreaming deeply when the man ceased. A voice spoke to

  him in his own Whitefish tongue, and he roused up, without surprise, to look upon the

  face of his sister's son, a young man who had wandered away years agone to make his

  dwelling with the whites.

  "Thou dost not remember me," he said by way of greeting.

  "Nay," Imber answered. "Thou art Howkan who went away. Thy mother be dead."

  "She was an old woman," said Howkan.

  But Imber did not hear, and Howkan, with hand upon his shoulder, roused him again.

  "I shall speak to thee what the man has spoken, which is the tale of the troubles thou hast

  done and which thou hast told, O fool, to the Captain Alexander. And thou shalt

  understand and say if it be true talk or talk not true. It is so commanded."

  Howkan had fallen among the mission folk and been taught by them to read and write. In

  his hands he held the many fine sheets from which the man had read aloud, and which

  had been taken down by a clerk when Imber first made confession, through the mouth of

  Jimmy, to Captain Alexander. Howkan began to read. Imber listened for a space, when a

  wonderment rose up in his face and he broke in abruptly.

  "That be my talk, Howkan. Yet from thy lips it comes when thy ears have not heard."

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  Howkan smirked with self-appreciation. His hair was parted in the middle. "Nay, from

  the paper it comes, O Imber. Never have my ears heard. From the paper it comes, through

  my eyes, into my head, and out of my mouth to thee. Thus it comes."

  "Thus it comes? It be there in the paper?" Imber's voice sank in whisperful awe as he

  crackled the sheets 'twixt thumb and finger and stared at the charactery scrawled thereon.

  "It be a great medicine, Howkan, and thou art a worker of wonders."

  "It be nothing, it be nothing," the young man responded carelessly and pridefully. He

  read at hazard from the document: "In that year, before the break of the ice, came an old

  man, and a boy who was lame of one foot. These also did I kill, and the old man made

  much noise -- "

  "It be true," Imber interrupted breathlessly. "He made much noise and would not die for a

  long time. But how dost thou know, Howkan? The chief man of the white men told thee,

  mayhap? No one beheld me, and him alone have I told." Howkan shook his head with

  impatience. "Have I not told thee it be there in the paper, O fool?"

  Imber stared hard at the ink-scrawled surface. "As the hunter looks upon the snow and

  says, Here but yesterday there passed a rabbit; and here by the willow scrub it stood and

  listened, and heard, and was afraid; and here it turned upon its trail; and here it went with

  great swiftness, leaping wide; and here, with greater swiftness and wider leapings, came a

  lynx; and here, where the claws cut deep into the snow, the lynx made a very great leap;

  and here it struck, with the rabbit under and rolling belly up; and here leads off the trail of

  the lynx alone, and there is no more rabbit, -- as the hunter looks upon the markings of

  the snow and says thus and so and here, dost thou, too, look upon the paper and say thus

  and so and here be the things old Imber hath done?"

  "Even so," said Howkan. "And now do thou listen, and keep thy woman's tongue between

  thy teeth till thou art called upon for speech."

  Thereafter, and for a long time, Howkan read to him the confession, and Imber remained

  musing and silent. At the end, he said:

  "It be my talk, and true talk, but I am grown old, Howkan, and forgotten things come

  back to me which were well for the head man there to know. First, there was the man

  who came over the Ice Mountains, with cunning traps made of iron, who sought the

  beaver of the Whitefish. Him I slew. And there were three men seeking gold on the

  Whitefish long ago. Them also I slew, and left them to the wolverines. And at the Five

  Fingers there was a man with a raft and much meat."

  At the moments when Imber paused to remember, Howkan translated and a clerk reduced

  to writing. The courtroom listened stolidly to each unadorned little tragedy, till Imber told

  of a red-haired man whose eyes were crossed and whom he had killed with a remarkably

  long shot.

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  "Hell," said a man in the forefront of the onlookers. He said it soulfully and sorrowfully.

  He was red-haired. "Hell," he repeated. "That was my brother Bill." And at regular

  intervals throughout the session, his solemn "Hell" was heard in the courtroom; nor did

  his comrades check him, nor did the man at the table rap him to order.

  Imber's head drooped once more, and his eyes went dull, as though a film rose up and

  covered them from the world. And he dreamed as only age can dream upon the colossal

  futility of youth.

  Later, Howkan roused him again, saying: "Stand up, O Imber. It be commanded that thou

  tellest why you did these troubles, and slew these people, and at the end journeyed here

  seeking the Law."

  Imber rose feebly to his feet and swayed back and forth. He began to speak in a low and

  faintly rumbling voice, but Howkan interrupted him.

  "This old man, he is damn crazy," he said in English to the square-browed man. "His talk

  is foolish and like that of a child."

  "We will hear his talk which is like that of a child," said the square-browed man. "And

  we will hear it, word for word, as he speaks it. Do you understand?"

  Howkan understood, and Imber's eyes flashed, for he had witnessed the play between his

  sister's son and the man in authority. And then began the story, the epic of a bronze

  patriot which might well itself be wrought into bronze for the generations unborn. The

  crowd fell strangely silent, and the square-browed judge leaned head on hand and

  pondered his soul and the soul of his race. Only was heard the deep tones of Imber,

  rhythmically alternating with the shrill voice of the interpreter, and now and again, like

  the bell of the Lord, the wondering and meditative "Hell" of the red-haired man.

  "I am Imber of the Whitefish people." So ran the interpretation of Howkan, whose

  inherent barbarism gripped hold of him, and who lost his mission culture and veneered

  c
ivilization as he caught the savage ring and rhythm of old Imber's tale. "My father was

  Otsbaok, a strong man. The land was warm with sunshine and gladness when I was a

  boy. The people did not hunger after strange things, nor hearken to new voices, and the

  ways of their fathers were their ways. The women found favor in the eyes of the young

  men, and the young men looked upon them with content. Babes hung at the breasts of the

  women, and they were heavy-hipped with increase of the tribe. Men were men in those

  days. In peace and plenty, and in war and famine, they were men.

  "At that time there was more fish in the water than now, and more meat in the forest. Our

  dogs were wolves, warm with thick hides and hard to the frost and storm. And as with

  our dogs so with us, for we were likewise hard to the frost and storm. And when the

  Pellys came into our land we slew them and were slain. For we were men, we Whitefish,

  and our fathers and our fathers' fathers had fought against the Pellys and determined the

  bounds of the land.

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  "As I say, with our dogs, so with us. And one day came the first white man. He dragged

  himself, so, on hand and knee, in the snow. And his skin was stretched tight, and his

  bones were sharp beneath. Never was such a man, we thought, and we wondered of what

  strange tribe he was, and of its land. And he was weak, most weak, like a little child, so

  that we gave him a place by the fire, and warm furs to lie upon, and we gave him food as

  little children are given food.

  "And with him was a dog, large as three of our dogs, and very weak. The hair of this dog

  was short, and not warm, and the tail was frozen so that the end fell off. And this strange

  dog we fed, and bedded by the fire, and fought from it our dogs, which else would have

  killed him. And what of the moose meat and the sun-dried salmon, the man and dog took

  strength to themselves; and what of the strength they became big and unafraid. And the

  man spoke loud words and laughed at the old men and young men, and looked boldly

  upon the maidens. And the dog fought with our dogs, and for all of his short hair and

  softness slew three of them in one day.

  "When we asked the man concerning his people, he said, `I have many brothers,' and

  laughed in a way that was not good. And when he was in his full strength he went away,

  and with him went Noda, daughter to the chief. First, after that, was one of our bitches

  brought to pup. And never was there such a breed of dogs, -- big-headed, thick-jawed,

  and short-haired, and helpless. Well do I remember my father, Otsbaok, a strong man.

  His face was black with anger at such helplessness, and he took a stone, so, and so, and

  there was no more helplessness. And two summers after that came Noda back to us with

  a man-child in the hollow of her arm.

  "And that was the beginning. Came a second white man, with short-haired dogs, which

  he left behind him when he went. And with him went six of our strongest dogs, for

  which, in trade, he had given Koo-So-Tee, my mother's brother, a wonderful pistol that

  fired with great swiftness six times. And Koo-So-Tee was very big, what of the pistol,

  and laughed at our bows and arrows. `Woman's things,' he called them, and went forth

  against the bald-face grizzly, with the pistol in his hand. Now it be known that it is not

  good to hunt the bald-face with a pistol, but how were we to know? and how was Koo-

  So-Tee to know? So he went against the bald-face, very brave, and fired the pistol with

  great swiftness six times; and the bald-face but grunted and broke in his breast like it

  were an egg, and like honey from a bee's nest dripped the brains of Koo-So-Tee upon the

  ground. He was a good hunter, and there was no one to bring meat to his squaw and

  children. And we were bitter, and we said, `That which for the white men is well, is for us

  not well.' And this be true. There be many white men and fat, but their ways have made

  us few and lean.

  "Came the third white man, with great wealth of all manner of wonderful foods and

  things. And twenty of our strongest dogs he took from us in trade. Also, what of presents

  and great promises, ten of our young hunters did he take with him on a journey which

  fared no man knew where. It is said they died in the snow of the Ice Mountains where

  man has never been, or in the Hills of Silence which are beyond the edge of the earth. Be

  that as it may, dogs and young hunters were seen never again by the Whitefish people.

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  "And more white men came with the years, and ever, with pay and presents, they led the

  young men away with them. And sometimes the young men came back with strange tales

  of dangers and toils in the lands beyond the Pellys, and sometimes they did not come

  back. And we said: `If they be unafraid of life, these white men, it is because they have

  many lives; but we be few by the Whitefish, and the young men shall go away no more.'

  But the young men did go away; and the young women went also; and we were very

  wroth.

  "It be true, we ate flour, and salt pork, and drank tea which was a great delight; only,

  when we could not get tea, it was very bad and we became short of speech and quick of

  anger. So we grew to hunger for the things the white men brought in trade. Trade! trade!

  all the time was it trade! One winter we sold our meat for clocks that would not go, and

  watches with broken guts, and files worn smooth, and pistols without cartridges and

  worthless. And then came famine, and we were without meat, and two score died ere the

  break of spring.

  "`Now are we grown weak,' we said; `and the Pellys will fall upon us, and our bounds be

  overthrown.' But as it fared with us, so had it fared with the Pellys, and they were too

  weak to come against us.

  "My father, Otsbaok, a strong man, was now old and very wise. And he spoke to the

  chief, saying: `Behold, our dogs be worthless. No longer are they thick-furred and strong,

  and they die in the frost and harness. Let us go into the village and kill them, saving only

  the wolf ones, and these let us tie out in the night that they may mate with the wild

  wolves of the forest. Thus shall we have dogs warm and strong again.'

  "And his word was harkened to, and we Whitefish became known for our dogs, which

  were the best in the land. But known we were not for ourselves. The best of our young

  men and women had gone away with the white men to wander on trail and river to far

  places. And the young women came back old and broken, as Noda had come, or they

  came not at all. And the young men came back to sit by our fires for a time, full of ill

  speech and rough ways, drinking evil drinks and gambling through long nights and days,

  with a great unrest always in their hearts, till the call of the white men came to them and

  they went away again to the unknown places. And they were without honor and respect,

  jeering the old-time customs and laughing in the faces of chief and shamans.

  "As I say, we were become a weak breed, we Whitefish. We sold our warm skins and

  furs for tobacco and whiskey and thin cotton things that left us shivering in the cold. And

  the coughing s
ickness came upon us, and men and women coughed and sweated through

  the long nights, and the hunters on trail spat blood upon the snow. And now one, and now

  another, bled swiftly from the mouth and died. And the women bore few children, and

  those they bore were weak and given to sickness. And other sicknesses came to us from

  the white men, the like of which we had never known and could not understand.

  Smallpox, likewise measles, have I heard these sicknesses named, and we died of them as

  die the salmon in the still eddies when in the fall their eggs are spawned and there is no

  longer need for them to live.

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  "And yet, and here be the strangeness of it, the white men come as the breath of death; all

  their ways lead to death, their nostrils are filled with it; and yet they do not die. Theirs the

  whiskey, and tobacco, and short-haired dogs; theirs the many sicknesses, the smallpox

  and measles, the coughing and mouth-bleeding; theirs the white skin, and softness to the

  frost and storm; and theirs the pistols that shoot six times very swift and are worthless.

  And yet they grow fat on their many ills, and prosper, and lay a heavy hand over all the

  world and tread mightily upon its peoples. And their women, too, are soft as little babes,

  most breakable and never broken, the mothers of men. And out of all this softness, and

  sickness, and weakness, come strength, and power, and authority. They be gods, or

  devils, as the case may be. I do not know. What do I know, I, old Imber of the Whitefish?

  Only do I know that they are past understanding, these white men, far-wanderers and

  fighters over the earth that they be.

  "As I say, the meat in the forest became less and less. It be true, the white man's gun is

  most excellent and kills a long way off; but of what worth the gun, when there is no meat

  to kill? When I was a boy on the Whitefish there was moose on every hill, and each year

  came the caribou uncountable. But now the hunter may take the trail ten days and not one

  moose gladden his eyes, while the caribou uncountable come no more at all. Small worth

  the gun, I say, killing a long way off, when there be nothing to kill.

  "And I, Imber, pondered upon these things, watching the while the Whitefish, and the

  Pellys, and all the tribes of the land, perishing as perished the meat of the forest. Long I