by Aaron Galvin
Sturdy Oak passes me the calumet, and smiles as one lost in his memories.
“You will not remember this, for you were still young that day,” he says. “But I think on it often. Some counseled we should not trust white folk and, when the others decided to kill your family, I said nothing against it.”
My breath catches in my throat at his words.
Sturdy Oak hangs his head. “You are right to be surprised, for it shames me to say I agreed with them. Though my role forbids it, hate lingered in my heart at the death of my son to white traders.”
“But we are still here,” I say. “What stayed their hands?”
“You.” Sturdy Oak chuckles at my confusion and takes back the calumet. “In truth, they stopped at my bidding,” he says. “But it was the sight of you and Black Pilgrim that swayed me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He knew we lingered in the woods, surrounding your camp,” says Sturdy Oak. “I expected him to attack us, or move close to your sister, who I thought he favored.”
“He did not?”
Sturdy Oak shakes his head. “He stood between us and you, blocking your sight from us as if he would spare you the sight of death.” Sturdy Oak clears his throat. “A father will sacrifice all, even his own soul, to protect his child. When I saw this white stranger’s love for you that day, it banished hate in my heart for then and always. I saw in him a man I would proudly name son and asked him become mine in place of the one I lost.”
“Why do you tell me this?” I ask.
“Black Pilgrim looks on you proudly as his daughter.”
The ice around my heart thaws with his mention. I think of Father just so, smiling on me after my first kill, and again when I slew the mountain lion that would have taken his life.
“But he also calls your sister his wife,” Sturdy Oak says. “And it is right he sides with her against you in this matter.”
Anger rises within me at his words. “How can you speak so, Grandfather?” I ask. “He spoke untruths when he left me behind.”
Sturdy Oak shakes his head. “Black Pilgrim said you would make the war path and so you do.”
“But I am here.”
“Along with many others.” He motions toward our village. “Do we that remain sacrifice less? Those who go have knowledge of who returns and who does not. We that stay must wait and wonder.”
I hang my head in shame as he continues.
“Those who die are gone,” he says. “We others must wait to join them on the spirit path. You will find both trails hard to walk, but know old men like me take comfort your bow and knife guards us.”
I look up. “What say you?”
“You think glory is given to those who leave, and you are right,” says Sturdy Oak. “It goes also to those who protect the people. Black Pilgrim honors us by leaving his daughter as a guardian.”
His words bring me some small comfort as I look on the river. The canoes are but specks to my eyes, and still I wish my place among them. Sturdy Oak’s words are not lost on me, but I should rather be with them and experience the war path.
I sit with Sturdy Oak a long while, listening to the rustling leaves and river song.
My mind wanders to Sarah and the ill words I left her with. The thought that I may have split she and Father shames me, though I cannot bring myself to rise and go to her. My anger yet swirls, despite Sturdy Oak’s kindness.
I finger the string of my bow. Listen to it twang upon my release.
“The woods have ever been a place of solace,” says Sturdy Oak. “Let you go and visit them now. A long hunt would do your spirit good.”
I smile at the notion, and rise to leave. Slinging my bow and quiver, robes and corn meal, I sprint for the forest and listen to the wind in my ears. I crash into the wilderness, allowing its power to sink into me. My feet run without knowing where they lead, though my mind knows what I hunt for.
A single thought keeps me.
I will find my manitous and learn what lessons it will teach me.
My search leads me deep into the woods. A full two days and nights I search ‘round the perimeter of my village, hunting for my manitous, finding traces—scratched bark, droppings—but never catching sight of a ringed-tail.
The third morn’s approaching dawn bids me give up my search. Hunting the raccoon in the early hour would do little good, they being nightwalkers. I do not bother drafting a fire, instead retiring to the sleeping robes I carry slung over my shoulder.
The vision granted me in the dream fast returns no sooner than I fall asleep. Again, I see Father’s face, covered in pitch, as he leaves me to the raccoon and the ravens.
I wake near afternoon and begin the walk back, finding my return journey pleasant. I dwell on the words of Sturdy Oak. His mention of spending time in the woods alone bids me wonder if Father’s frequent disappearances into their midst occurred for similar reasons.
I think on the war party as twilight falls. They should have reached the trading post days ago if they stuck to the river. I wonder if they halted and spent the evening with George and the others.
I dismiss the notion.
Father would not wish any in his company given over to firewater. I think rather they should stop on the return from war to celebrate their victory.
My mind warns no victory is certain in war.
Just as the thought puts fear in my heart, a familiar titter calls from the trees.
I kneel to earth. Wrap a bit of dry moss around a stick then strike my flint.
The spark catches.
I stand again, lift my torch high, and cast my gaze skyward.
The reflective glow in the raccoon’s eyes signal me.
It dashes off to the next branch before I unsling my bow. I race after it, listening to its chatter, allowing its taunts to feed my spirit with strength to carry on the hunt.
Several times over, I think it doubles back on its trail, attempting to throw me. Still, I hold true to my course, homing on the sound of rustling leaves and branches, even when I lose sight of my quarry.
Always I look to the sky and stars for my bearings, as Father taught me. The ringed-tail leads me toward my village, and I recognize the landscape for my father’s hunting grounds.
The ringed-tail halts and I pause to catch my breath, panting as I keep my gaze locked on the treetop where last I saw the animal.
The raccoon again makes itself known, perching at the end of a limb.
The eyes behind its black mask send shivers down my spine, reminding me of my vision. I unsling my bow and nock an arrow.
Still the animal does not move.
The muscles in my forearm quiver, begging me release the arrow.
A shadow leaps from the forest, knocking me astray.
My arrow flies wide, and my attention wheels to the snarling beast atop me. Long, stringy hair fills my mouth, and I smell the stench of an unwashed person.
The torchlight provides a glimpse of my attacker—a young woman.
Her face bears scabs and scratches, some fresh with blood, picked at recently. She holds a cruel bone-dagger in hand. Two ribbons—black and red—dangle from its skull hilt.
Witch! A memory of the life before screams the word at me.
She raises her dagger and screeches at me, her breath putrid even from afar.
I draw my long knife and plunge its tip deep through her left armpit, twisting it at the last, as I would a wounded animal.
The witch’s scream dies in her throat as she falls off me.
My hands clammy, I withdraw the dagger and find my feet again. I grab up my torch and see the lit end quiver.
I cast my gaze to the forest searching for anyone else meaning me harm.
I spy nothing.
Hear nothing.
I turn the torch’s light upon the dead witch and note her garment worn and black. The hood she wore has fallen off, spilling a tangled mess of brown hair. Her face bears the look of one not yet a woman, barely a girl. Purpl
ish-black powder stains her nostrils, almost as if she bled it.
Looking on her dead face, I realize she is my first kill. I think on Sarah, the guilt she speaks of holding to this day for Hecate’s death.
I feel nothing for the witch before me. Pride, if anything, that I fought her off.
My eyes fall again on the dagger she meant to slay me with.
“This is how they mark the houses.” I whisper words from the life before.
I look upward and find the raccoon still perched above, watching me.
My mind wonders if the animal lured me here in ambush as even Creek Jumper acknowledged my manitous a tricksome spirit.
I look on the dead witch again, wonder what other lesson might be learned.
The raccoon turns its head north.
I follow its gaze to rising pillars of smoke.
Shouts and screams echo across the night sky.
“No…”
The raccoon leaps to the next branch, bound for the screaming and the smoke.
Bound for my village.
-8-
I sprint through the forest, headed for the orange plumes of light that brighten with each passing moment and make the forest glow.
War cries fill my ears as I near my village. I hunker behind a tree to survey the situation.
Few canoes remain upon the shore and near all aflame.
A pair of braves guard our entrance, their hair styled in Mohawk manner. Faces scarred and scratched. Picked at.
They catch the women and children of my tribe who try to flee, killing any who fight them.
My hand flies to my quiver. I nock an arrow and aim then let it fly.
The arrowhead finds a home in the first brave’s throat. He falls clutching its feathers, gasping as his partner searches for the source.
His mistake is to not look toward the forest.
My second arrow fells him in likewise manner.
I draw both my long dagger and tomahawk. I rush toward the entrance, leaping over the fallen bodies in my path, shutting my eyes to their faces, not wishing to know who lies among the slain.
I veer right once inside, and hide behind the first hut I find.
Panic swirls as my village burns. Everywhere those familiar to me flee. Boys try their hands against seasoned warriors, the bravest of them felled quickly. The others are disarmed, forced to the ground, and bound.
One woman walks tall among the rest, garbed in animal skins. Unlike the hooded witches flanking her every side, she wears a pelt upon her head. The dead animal’s nose and mouth descending into the line of black painted across her eyes.
She halts in the open field, and welcomes two of our men to battle. She takes both head on, striking and screaming as her long knives search for new ways to paint their blades red.
Both braves fall under her, and she finishes them in a screeching bloodlust.
My spirits wishes to engage her.
My mind bids otherwise.
A group of captives sit tied at the gathering circle where we performed the war dance. Some hang their heads in shame. Others cry out for aid but receive none.
My anger pulses at the sight, yet I do not stir.
I search the faces of those in the center, hoping not to find Sarah.
My shoulders sag noticing Sturdy Oak among them. Blood drips down his forehead, yet he keeps his pride. His back straight and tall despite the bonds stringing his hands to his feet, willing him break and bend.
Memories of Father’s teachings urge I should not linger, that the animal holding its position dies sooner than that which keeps moving.
I slink from hut to hut, progressing ever closer to my own.
Several times, I witness neighbors cast from their homes. Others dragged, bound and gagged, as warriors and hooded women put their huts to the torch.
Every fiber of my being begs me help them, yet I know I should join them as a captive if I do.
I forget all pretenses upon seeing Numees. A pair of braves hold her upon the ground, their positions warning they mean her dishonor.
I fall upon them without thinking, screaming the war cry of our people as my tomahawk and long dagger strike in quick succession. When my vision clears, I find both braves dead beneath me.
“Rebecca.” Numees stands, tugs at my arm. “Come…we must go!”
I shrug her off, and turn to the hut I share with Sarah and Father.
Fear takes hold of me. Warns I should not enter.
I plunge inside.
My sister leans on her crutch, a hatchet in hand. Her grim demeanor fades upon seeing me. “Rebecca…I thought you lost.”
“Come. Quick—”
A kick in my back sends me hurtling toward the fire.
I roll away from the flames, and bring my blades to bear as a shadow falls upon me. I struggle to fight the brave, the pair of us rolling, wrestling to gain the upper hand.
The brave groans at the thud on his back and he falls limp upon me.
Sarah stands over me, her face pale. “I…I…”
My fingers graze the hilt of my sister’s hatchet in the back of the dead brave. I pluck the weapon free and hand it back to Sarah.
She looks on the hatchet hesitantly.
“Take it.” I force the handle into her palm then help her out of our hut.
“Rebecca…” Numees hisses behind our home. She waves us over.
I throw my sister’s arm across my shoulder to steady her. Together, we limp to the back.
“Help me,” I say to Numees. “We must carry her.”
“Rebecca, no,” says Sarah. “Go now. Leave me.”
“No.” I grit my teeth. “I will not.”
“Where will we go?” Numees asks. “The entrance is too far.”
My gaze wanders over the palisade. The wooden walls, so long offering protection, have now become my prison. Like hunters herding their quarry, the witches and braves have fenced us in.
“We follow the wall,” I say. “It may be they found a weak spot to enter in.”
My conscience knows it a false hope, even as I speak the words. Still, I hold fast to the notion the raging fires might well have provided us an escape.
The three of us hobble onward, our heads swiveling in search of any raiders drawing near. Several times, we are forced to endure the sounds of our neighbors dragged away. Angry tears flood my cheeks at each wail.
I try and shut their voices out, attempting instead to focus on my sister and Numees.
Sarah winces at the pace we force upon her. To her credit, she does not falter. Not even when I bid her move faster.
The sounds of struggle wane with each passing moment, while victory cries grow louder. The thought of our last defenses falling encourages me to move faster.
Sarah cannot.
Numees, too, fights exhaustion, and I gather the struggle to maintain her honor weakened her. When she collapses, Sarah and I fall with her.
My sister yelps, her ankle popping.
I clap my hand over Sarah’s mouth, pull her head close to my chest as her face twists in anguish. I look down the palisade wall and sight a burned section, small enough for a child to fit through.
“Sarah, look.” I point to the opening. “We can make it.”
I crawl away from her, peeking around the edge of the hut.
The elation I felt dissipates at the warrior striding through the village, his face paint streaked white and black. Atop his head, Two Ravens wears the fuzzy brow of a bison bull, its black horns curve upward, their tips piercing through decapitated raven heads.
Anger course through me at his betrayal, and I near faint upon witnessing the war club he wields—an eagle’s talons clutching a stone ball.
“Whistling Hare,” I whisper, knowing a warrior such as he would not part with his club willingly. My thoughts turn to Father, Creek Jumper, and the others in their party. I lean to the side, near retching at the thought of them all slain.
“Rebecca,” Sarah says. “What is it?”
My sister’s voice calls me back to action. I shove thoughts of Father aside, rising to pull Sarah and Numees to their feet. We three push hard to reach the opening and leave our village behind.
A pair of hooded witches stands beyond the wall, torches lighting their pockmarked and scratched faces. “Mistress,” one yells. “They’re here!”
I fling my tomahawk to silence her.
The other witch rushes us.
I drop Sarah’s arm from my shoulder to meet the witch in the open.
“Go.” I say to Numees, positioning myself between them and the witch. “Take my sister from here.”
“Rebecca, no,” says Sarah.
“Go!”
I keep the witch’s focus as my sister and friend stumble away.
“Mistress!” the witch shouts. “They’re escaping!”
I maneuver around, circling to reach the dead witch whose skull still holds my tomahawk. I pluck it free, comforted in wielding both weapons.
The witch approaches me. She swings her blade wildly, untrained.
I scream a war cry and rush her, listening to our blades sing together. I catch hers with the edge of mine and shrug it off, then sheathe my long dagger under her chin.
She gasps and chokes as I pull away, thinking to run.
I find my escape barred not only by hooded women but also by native braves.
They fence around me, each of them waving torches to capture my attention as they close in.
I spin around, feinting to keep them at bay.
“Wait,” a male voice calls. “Leave her.”
To my surprise, they stand off and open their circle for Two Ravens.
“Traitor.”
He grins at me. “Did I not say I would gladly make the war dance with you, white girl? Come.” He ushers me come near him with Whistling Hare’s war club. “Let us dance together now.”
I stare in wonder at such a man. Question what defense I can hope to bring against him. Father’s teachings remind me speed must be my ally in such a bout. I raise my dagger and tomahawk, moving them in distraction as Two Ravens approaches.