Broken Trail
Page 16
“Today Swift Fox, Walks Crooked and Smoke Eater returned. They found one of the canoes that you had set loose to float down the river. According to them, the Mississaugas took no prisoners. Apart from you and these five, all the rest of the war party are dead. A terrible price to pay for a few baskets of rice.”
“One more survived,” Broken Trail said. “Spotted Dog is alive… or was when I left him.”
“You left him?”
“His leg was broken, and he’s too big for me to drag or carry. I set his leg, then left him hiding not far from the Mississauga village. I came as fast as I could to bring help.”
“Did he have any food?”
“Pemmican. It may be gone by now.”
Carries a Quiver turned to a boy who stood near by. “Go to the other longhouses. Get Walks Crooked, Swift Fox and Black Elk. Tell them that Broken Trail has returned and that Spotted Dog lies hurt in the forest. Broken Trail will lead a rescue party to him. There is no time to lose. It must leave tonight.” He turned to Broken Trail. “You should eat something while the others prepare for the journey.”
Broken Trail took his place at Catches the Rainbow’s fire. She brought him baked squash and stewed rabbit. As she watched him eat, her dark eyes shone with joy.
After gulping down the food, he climbed onto his family’s storage platform, a wide shelf over the sleeping platform, where he quickly found a pair of his own leggings, a buckskin shirt and tall winter moccasins. By the time he had dressed, the canoes were ready.
Broken Trail paddled in the bow of Swift Fox’s canoe. Walks Crooked and Black Elk were in the other. All night they fought the current and a west wind. As the sky changed from black to grey, they passed the mouth of the river that had borne Broken Trail south in Seth and Abel’s canoe. Just after sunrise, they reached the outlet of the next river. There they stopped and pulled up their canoes onto the sandy shore.
“Where are we?” Broken Trail asked.
“Just downstream from the Mississauga village,” Black Elk answered. He stretched to ease his muscles. “After we have eaten, we’ll paddle upriver as close to the village as we dare and hide the canoes downstream from the willow tree.”
Swift Fox lifted a food basket from his canoe. He took out the pemmican bag and cut off a chunk of pemmican for each person. All except Walks Crooked sat down to eat, relaxing against the canoes. Walks Crooked took no food. He paced back and forth, his twisted foot leaving prints at an odd angle to those of his other foot. He did not look as if he wanted to speak with anyone.
While Broken Trail ate, he watched a raft of merganser ducks. They floated with their bodies so closely packed together that it appeared a person could walk across their backs and not fall through. When the ducks moved off in their compact formation, it looked as though they were being towed away.
Once or twice Walks Crooked threw a glance in Broken Trail’s direction. His face was a frozen mask. Only his restless pacing betrayed the turmoil of his feelings. He looked afraid that his son would not be found alive.
Chapter 29
BROKEN TRAIL HAD HIS mouth full of pemmican when Walks Crooked stopped pacing. He stood in front of Broken Trail and stared at him. Feeling anxious under the scrutiny, he chewed harder, hoping that somehow this might ward off whatever questions Walks Crooked was thinking of asking.
Walks Crooked spoke abruptly. “Was my son in good spirits when you left him?”
Broken Trail kept chewing while he thought how to answer. He could not mention Spotted Dog’s unmanly tears and certainly not his shameful confession. When he could put off answering no longer, he swallowed the thoroughly chewed-up pemmican.
“Spotted Dog was ready to meet death.”
Walks Crooked looked satisfied. “A warrior must always be prepared for death. But my son’s oki will protect him. A golden eagle is noble and strong.”
Broken Trail said no more.
Now Swift Fox called the others together. He took a stick and drew a line in the sand. “This line is the river.” He drew a half circle beside it to represent the palisade and the dwellings it enclosed. “This is the Mississauga town.” Then he jabbed at a point downstream from the town. “Here is where we’ll hide the canoes. Black Elk will wait there to guard them.
“As you know, I have searched out all the trails in the region of the Mississauga town.” He hesitated. In the moment of silence, Broken Trail knew that Swift Fox was remembering the two who had searched those trails with him—both killed in the battle at the willow tree. Swift Fox continued. “When we have made our detour around the town, Broken Trail will lead us to Spotted Dog. When we find him, we shall carry him to the canoes and be on our way.”
They pushed the canoes into the water and took up their paddles. There was little traffic on the river this late in the fall. Most traders had already transported their cargos of furs to Montreal. Only once did they meet a freight canoe travelling south. Sitting in comfort in the centre, a white man smoked his pipe while eight warriors paddled. The paddlers in the freight canoe scowled ferociously at the Oneidas, whose bristling scalp locks identified them as foes.
“Mississaugas,” Swift Fox said. “It is fortunate for us that they are working for the trader. We four would have little chance against eight of them.”
The sun was directly overhead when they went ashore. After dragging the canoes into a willow thicket on the riverbank, they left them for Black Elk to cover with brush.
Swift Fox led them west and then north on a narrow path. They moved as silently as smoke through the trees. Chickadees, hopping among the branches, called cheerily to each other and paid no attention. If there had been a Mississauga sentry nearby, he would not have heard a rustle from the rescuers as they passed.
When they had completed their detour of the town, Broken Trail took over the lead. The place where he had left Spotted Dog was only a short way ahead. His throat felt tight as they drew near. What if Spotted Dog was dead? What if his body had been lying under the juniper’s branches for days, exposed to the elements and unprotected from scavengers?
And then they came upon him, not lying under the juniper but sitting with his back against the trunk of the cedar tree, his splinted leg stretched out in front of him. His head hung to one side, and his eyes were shut.
Walks Crooked approached his son, knelt beside him, and gently touched his shoulder.
“Ho! Spotted Dog,” he said softly, “we have come to take you home.”
Spotted Dog opened his eyes.
“What?” His voice was faint.
“Swift Fox and Broken Trail are with me. We have come to take you home.”
Spotted Dog’s face looked tired and ill. His bloodshot eyes seemed to have receded into their sockets, and his skin had an ashy hue. He whimpered, “Many days and nights passed while I waited. I was cold. I thought Broken Trail had left me here to die.”
“Why did you think that? I gave my word,” Broken Trail protested.
Walks Crooked examined Spotted Dog’s left leg, seeing how it was bound with poles and packed with moss.
“Did Broken Trail set your leg? It is well done. Now we’ll make a litter to carry you to the river, where Black Elk waits with our canoes. By tomorrow morning you will be home. With warmth, food and rest, you will soon be well.”
Spotted Dog shook his head. “Too late. At first I was afraid. But no longer. After three days and three nights of hiding under those branches, I wanted to see the sky. My spirit is ready for its journey to the Land without Trouble.”
“Do not speak of dying,” Walks Crooked said. “You will live to become a great warrior.”
Broken Trail stepped aside, his spirit troubled. Had he travelled so hard, brought the others all this way, only to see Spotted Dog die? After so much effort, he could not bear the thought that it would end in failure.
Spotted Dog grunted. “Me a great warrior? You say the thing that is not. It was my foot that broke the branch when we crept up on the sentry. I caused Hunting
Hawk’s death. Because of me, the war party failed. I am unworthy to be Walks Crooked’s son.”
“You are young. Your leg will heal. There will be more war parties. You will take many scalps.”
“Whether I live or die, I’ll never be a warrior.”
Walks Crooked placed his hand on his son’s forehead. “Your skin is hot. When we reach home, Wolf Woman will give you a healing drink, and we’ll put you in the sweat lodge to drive out your fever. As soon as your health is restored, your fighting spirit will return.”
Did Walks Crooked believe his own words? His voice was weary, and he looked old. Soon there would be no more war parties for him. On his face was the sadness of a man whose dreams can never come true.
Spotted Dog looked into his father’s eyes. “There is something that I must tell you,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Not now.” Walks Crooked said gently. He held his son’s hand. “You must rest.”
“I must tell you. I am ready to tell the truth…,” the boy took a great, shuddering breath, “about the golden eagle—”
“No!” Broken Trail shouted. Whether Spotted Dog lived or died, this secret must not be told. “Save your strength! Let me tell them what you told me.”
All eyes turned to Broken Trail, who glared at Spotted Dog, forbidding him to contradict.
“Spotted Dog told me everything about the golden eagle. He told me how it came to him with a noise like a thunderclap—shooting from the sun with a lightning bolt in its talons.” He hesitated. What was next? Yes! He remembered.
“The eagle spoke from above as it circled the spot where Spotted Dog waited. It said to him, ‘Do not fear. I shall never desert you. You will be safe in the shadow of my wings.’”
He sneaked a sideways glance at Spotted Dog, who looked up at him, speechless.
“Then the golden eagle circled upwards, making wider and wider circles in the sky until it disappeared.” As he spoke, Broken Trail’s upraised arm traced the spiralling flight of the fabulous bird. He was sweating as he finished. “This was Spotted Dog’s true dream, as he told it to me.” Broken Trail lowered his arm.
No one spoke. Walks Crooked looked astonished. “My son told you all this? It is more than he revealed to the council of warriors.”
Broken Trail turned again to Spotted Dog, to warn him not to contradict. But Spotted Dog was not looking at him. His eyes glowed. With a terrible effort he pulled free the hand that his father was holding and pointed to the sky, pointed to the sun that was now declining in the west.
“Look! Look! The golden eagle!”
Broken Trail shivered. Suddenly he felt a mystic presence. But when he stared in the direction that Spotted Dog pointed, all he saw was the glare of the sun.
“I am ready!” Spotted Dog called out, his voice strong and clear. On his face was an expression of wonder and joy. “Try me!” he shouted at the sun. “I can be worthy!”
Then his arm dropped across his chest. His eyes closed.
“No!” Walks Crooked cried out.
It was over. The rescue had failed. Spotted Dog had set forth on his journey to the Land without Trouble. Overcome by grief and disappointment, Broken Trail lowered his face.
Suddenly Swift Fox’s voice broke the silence. “Look there! He’s breathing!”
Broken Trail lifted his eyes and saw Spotted Dog’s chest moving up and down. Death had not claimed him: he was in a trance.
Walks Crooked raised his head and looked directly at Broken Trail. “Spotted Dog told you things about his vision that he never before revealed to anyone. And now he has seen it a second time. It is a wondrous thing for a warrior to receive his vision twice. Surely my son is destined for greatness.” The look on his face was radiant and yet soft, as if he had dreamed some great happiness and awoke to find it true.
All at once Broken Trail was very happy, and he felt an unexpected kinship with Spotted Dog. Those long days alone in the forest, cold and hungry, had been Spotted Dog’s true vigil. They had brought him to the brink. Broken Trail’s words, borrowed from Young Bear, had done the rest.
Only Broken Trail knew that Spotted Dog had never seen his oki before.
The Great Spirit hated a lie. But would he not forgive a falsehood whose only purpose was to spare a loving father pain and to give the son a chance to make a new start? In a way, the Great Spirit himself had transformed the lie into truth, for there was no fakery in what they had witnessed. Only the Great Spirit could have sent such a vision. Everyone present could see its power.
Walks Crooked tucked a blanket around his son and sat by his side. It seemed that the exhausted boy had slipped from his trance into quiet sleep.
Broken Trail and Swift Fox stood on either side, facing each other. Their eyes met.
“We’re in danger here,” said Swift Fox. “It’s fortunate for us that no one from the Mississauga village happened to be near.”
Before he could answer, Broken Trail’s nose suddenly caught the scent of wolverine. Looking about, he saw nothing. Yet there was no mistaking that pungent musk. Swift Fox gave no sign of noticing it. Perhaps it was meant for Broken Trail alone.
“We must hurry,” he agreed. “It is not safe to linger.”
Together they fashioned a litter out of poles and twisted vines. Then they shouldered the litter and carried Spotted Dog through the forest to the canoes. Spotted Dog was still asleep when they lowered him gently into Walks Crooked and Black Elk’s canoe.
Everything has changed, Broken Trail thought as they paddled down the river. A new beginning for Spotted Dog. A new beginning for himself.
Walks Crooked was his enemy no longer. He, Broken Trail, had proved his worthiness to be a warrior. Now it was time to prepare himself for the real work of his life. What lay before him he still did not know. But he had taken the first step, and that was how every journey began.
All the way to the Oneida village, Spotted Dog slept, warm under blankets and rocked by the motion of the canoe. A snow flurry blew from the west. Helped by wind and current, the canoes reached home just before dawn.
Spotted Dog did not wake up until the canoe touched the riverbank. As he was being lifted onto the shore, he turned his face toward Broken Trail.
“You saved my life.”
No one else would ever know exactly and completely what he meant.
After Spotted Dog had been carried to Wolf Woman’s lodge, Broken Trail turned his steps toward the Bear Clan longhouse. At the entrance he stopped, suddenly realizing that he did not want to go in just yet. The sun had not risen. Everyone would still be asleep, but as soon as anyone saw him, the longhouse would come to life. He was not ready to cope with a crush of people, even those dear to him, or to answer the questions they would ask. And so he drew back at the last moment.
He made his way slowly through the fields, between planting mounds stripped of the last fruits of harvest. Scarcely noticing his surroundings, he entered the forest, which was still shadowy in the dawning light.
As he walked, he found his mind turning to the day that had changed the course of his life, the tenth day of his spirit quest, and to the moment that his mystic vision had been snatched from him. He had not been ready for his vision, he thought. It was right for the unseen spirits to have kept him waiting until he learned who he was and what he was.
He supposed that the first glimmering had come at his blackest moment, when his warning to the soldiers at Kings Mountain had gained him only ridicule, and he had feared Elijah had been brutally killed. A sign had come in a beam of light piercing the darkness of the washout cavity under the maple tree. He remembered moving his hand so that the bright spot would fall upon his skin. As he watched the tiny beam of light waver in the darkness, he had for the first time experienced the feeling that the Great Spirit had a special plan for his life.
As he and Elijah travelled north together, Elijah had tried to make him see that he belonged both to the world into which he had been born and to the world that had adopted him.
Elijah would be at his side, finding the path that was right for him. It was neither the path of a Loyalist soldier nor the path of a hunter-warrior. Saved from the battlefield for some greater purpose, somehow, somewhere, Elijah would join him in his work so that the tragedy of the Cherokees need not be repeated over and over again.
He stopped walking, and for a few moments gazed along the path that he had taken with Young Bear the day he killed the elk. He stood absolutely still, listening to the murmur of wind in the trees and smelling the scent of pine. A crow cawed, the forest’s rough voice waking him to where he was. Broken Trail became aware that he was cold. Now he wanted to be with people whom he loved. He wanted their nearness and their warmth. His heart felt light as he started back.
Two days later, Broken Trail joined the council of warriors. When the pipe passed around the circle, he too inhaled the sharp, bitter smoke. While others spoke of his bravery, he did not allow himself a ghost of a smile. But it was sweet to hear Walks Crooked’s words of praise.
After the council meeting, he strolled with his uncle down to the river. Hard grains of blowing snow stung their faces as they walked along the shore.