by Sadie Conall
“Forgive me Esa-mogo'ne’. Take no notice of these tears for I’m just a foolish old woman. But sometimes I still dream of Huu’aidi and last night it was so vivid, when I woke this morning I thought he was still alive, that he was still here with us. And even though I accepted his death a long time ago, I still think of him every day,” she wiped her eyes, taking a deep breath. “But I no longer wake screaming in the night wondering what has happened to Deinde'-paggwe, for the only way I learned to cope with her loss was to believe her dead, that she was safe with Huu’aidi. Had I thought of her being taken away and badly used, I may have gone quite mad, knowing my beautiful ten-year-old daughter was out there alone somewhere in the world, with little experience in the ways of men,” she turned to look at me.
“I know Ese-ggwe’na’a still grieves for Huu’aidi, although these days he speaks less of him, which breaks my heart anew. As for Atsa-wannge’e, he faces his own battles. You have seen his arm. And I know as only a parent can know, that my younger son’s destiny does not lie with the Bannock. Another life beckons for him far from here, with people not of his own kind, but that is what Atsa-wannge’e desires above all else,” she smiled then, yet it was a sad vulnerable thing.
“Before we returned to the Snake River Plain this winter, Ese-ggwe’na’a and I thought ourselves a couple destined to live out the rest of our lives alone, our children either dead to us, or eager to follow another path. Yet here we are, not only with Deinde'-paggwe returned to us, but with a granddaughter. We care not that the child was born to an enemy of the Bannock, for Ese-ggwe’na’a and I both see the love which Deinde'-paggwe has for the girl. And some of the blood which flows through her veins is also our blood, so I think of the girl as Bannock. And she will be raised as Bannock,” she paused and put her hands to her face.
“Yet how do we begin to thank you for this Esa-mogo'ne’, for we know the story well enough now. It has been told many times. Yet perhaps that was your destiny. To bring her home to us. Which is perhaps the reason why Ese-ggwe’na’a found you half dead on the riverbank all those years ago and brought you home, so that one day you would help us,” she shook her head.
“Forgive me, I am an old woman rambling. But sometimes the grief of losing Huu’aidi and my sister Dabaiqo’soo, along with Deinde'-paggwe is too much, even though it was so long ago. Yet I shall be strong now and face the future, for I am so grateful to have you back with us Esa-mogo'ne’, along with Mi'wasa and Te’tukhe and your own dear boy. I thought of you many times since you left here, wondering if you were happy, wondering if you and Mi'wasa had a child, wondering if I would ever see you again,” she reached over to clasp my hands in her own.
“Ese-ggwe’na’a told me there will be a naming ceremony for your son in the spring, along with Wannge’e’ and Te’tukhe’s babe. And I think your son should keep the name given to him by Poongatse and Wannge’e for he is a fighter, like the little bear whose name he owns, for even when some of the older boys taunt him because of the blue of his eyes, he always fights back. His spirit is strong and he has no fear. You have taught him well Esa-mogo'ne’, for he understands the ways of the wild.”
I smiled to hear that, for what mother doesn’t want to hear others speak well of her child. “Haa, he’s a tough little character with a mind of his own. And he’s surprised me by how much he’s loved it all, the travelling and the adventure, because he was so young when we started. He has grumbled only when he’s tired or hungry and then rarely. Perhaps you’re right, perhaps he is my little bear.”
We spoke for a little while then of our sons, of Huu’aidi and Atsa-wannge’e when they were boys, the difference between them and girls and I suddenly longed for a daughter and had a brief glimpse in that moment of Charlotte Petherington’s desire for a girl after three boys. Then I looked at the woman beside me, aware of her watching me with those lovely dark eyes. I took her hands in my own and kissed them.
“I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed these times Paddake’e, for I know I can open my soul to you and you will understand. But there’s been times over the past five years when I’ve wanted so badly to ask your advice, or hear your words of wisdom, for there were days when I felt isolated and bewildered by my new life, especially when I birthed Harry.”
I paused, feeling the calluses on her work worn hands, these same hands that had saved my life all those years ago. I looked up at her.
“I want to give Mi'wasa another child, I want to have a babe born in this village with you to attend me, although Mi'wasa knows nothing of this, for until I’m sure, there’s no need for him to know.”
Paddake’e looked at me in surprise. “Do you still take herbs to prevent a child?”
I shook my head. “Not since Wannge’e birthed her son,” I said.
Paddake’e nodded. “Give your body time to rest and it will happen Esa-mogo'ne’. You’ve been through a lot over the past few years. Your body needs to heal, to feel the love, not stress,” she frowned as she thought of the men. “I will not speak of it to Ese-ggwe’na’a, for this is women’s business. He doesn’t need to know such things. And until you know, this is our secret.”
*
Another lifelong bond rooted and grew that winter, blooming into something extraordinary. Although in fact it had begun more than six years earlier.
In the winter of 1799, the Shoshone and Bannock had shared this winter ground. Te’tukhe had arrived as a guest of Kokon, a Shoshone trader, but through Ryder, had come to know Ese-ggwe’na’a.
Now all these years later, those three men were inseparable. There was nothing Ryder and Te’tukhe and Ese-ggwe’na’a didn’t share. And sometimes late at night, unable to sleep, Te’tukhe and Ese-ggwe’na’a would appear at our lodge, eager to talk and smoke a pipe but I never once stopped them coming, not even when they woke Harry sometimes. For the men took comfort in each other as they talked of their lives. Sometimes I joined them, smoking my own pipe, but most of the time I went to my furs, giving them privacy, falling asleep to the soft baritone of their voices as they spoke in the guttural dialect of the Bannock. For despite the difference in ages, it seemed Ese-ggwe’na’a was their brother, in all but name.
I knew Ryder was pleased with the bond between Ese-ggwe’na’a and Te’tukhe. For in the unlikely event that Te’tukhe decided to stay with the Bannock after Ryder and I left for England with Harry, Ryder felt a deep contentment knowing Te’tukhe and Ese-ggwe’na’a were together, far away from the settlements that would inevitably find their way north from St Louis. And far from the diseases that those settlements would bring.
*
As winter rolled away into early spring, as Te’tukhe and Wannge’e’s babe grew and thrived, the rumours about the Bannock Chiefs giving Harry and Te’tukhe’s son a naming ceremony became a reality and on a cold, clear spring morning, everyone gathered down by the river. We had asked if Harry could keep the name which Poongatse and Wannge’e have given him almost two years earlier and it was agreed. He would now formally be known as Deide’wesa, little bear.
Te’tukhe’s son took the name Ainqa-haih, red crow for he was feisty little boy, with a pair of strong lungs and a healthy appetite.
Te’tukhe and Ryder talked about giving their sons Ugákhpa or Wazhazhe names in honour of their mother, but finally agreed those names should be given when they returned to the Wazhazhe people.
Te’tukhe was pleased with his son’s Bannock name although he had already gifted him a French name in recognition of his French-Canadian father, Hubert Lemoine. Augustin. It had been Hubert’s middle name and translated into Aousten, which came from the old French word venerable. I thought it a fitting name for the little boy, for it was a miracle he had been born at all. Had Te’tukhe not left all his hard-earned furs behind with Allard Lemoine almost eighteen months earlier in October 1804 to come looking for me, he would never had met Wannge’e.
I stood by Ryder at the river’s edge as Harry was given the Bannock blessing and his name was recognised as h
is own. And as Ese-ggwe’na’a stood by the child, his hand on Harry’s shoulder as the boy was formally named Deide’wesa, Harry glanced up at the tall Bannock and meet those coal black eyes with his own blue Benedict ones with such love and admiration that it took my breath away. And in that moment, I remembered the vision I had seen of the young man riding with Ese-ggwe’na’a across a field of wild flowers, a young man who had been Ryder’s image and I recognised him now as Harry. And I knew then, that Harry would return to these lands as a young man and he and Ese-ggwe’na’a would share a love that would endure their whole lives, a love my child already knew with Te’tukhe. It was an inexplicable bond that sometimes happened between people. I thought of it as magical.
*
When the first days of spring arrived in all its scented glory although the days and nights were still bitterly cold, Ryder and I began to make plans to leave for the cave. We discussed it with everyone we loved and one night as we sat around the fire in our teepee, we once again shared our plans, as Harry lay sleeping.
“If we leave the day after next we can be back within two weeks, in time to pack up and leave for the Salmon River,” Ryder said. “We’ve told Harry we’re going hunting, but he’s more than happy to stay with Poongatse.”
Ese-ggwe’na’a nodded and glanced at Te’tukhe. “And what are your plans brother? Do you leave now for the Comanche?”
Te’tukhe glanced at Wannge’e who smiled and bowed her head, for she already knew the answer to this question. As did I, for she had shared it with me.
“Perhaps next year when my son is old enough to travel, then we’ll head south. But for now, my life is with the Bannock and I would very much like to accompany you north to the Salmon River.”
We all smiled, for we had heard Te’tukhe speak of this often but until now, he hadn’t confirmed it. Ryder reached over to grip his brother’s forearm in a formal handshake. Now all that remained was our journey to the cave.
*
The day before we left, Harry and I rode up into the woods behind the village to check my snares. We rode through my favourite part of the forest where there were giant pine, conifers and beech for here we could ride on a thick carpet of pine needles.
Ryder had gone off hunting with Te’tukhe and Ese-ggwe’na’a, while Paddake’e and the girls had gone off with family and friends to fish, leaving me and Harry alone for a few precious hours.
But Harry was confident in the woods, for Ryder and I, along with everyone else who loved him, had been teaching him how to survive in the wild, how to listen for the slightest sound, to be aware of predators. I showed him how deadly a knife can be, not only to hunt, but how to use one as a weapon to fight. Ryder taught him how to load a pistol and musket and how to clean them. I showed him vegetable roots which he could eat, flowers and herbs which added flavour to food and others which helped with pain and fever and still others which aided the healing of wounds. And often when he was with me and the girls in the woods, he recognized herbs before we did.
He was also learning about bows and arrows, taking part in lessons with other boys his age, learning from old men who made him a small sheath of arrows and a tiny bow, both of which he carried on his back. They showed him how to make a bow using the best oak, maple or hickory and how to look for the best flint to make an arrowhead.
Some might have argued that he was too young to know such things for he wasn’t even five, but both Ryder and I knew how brutally hard this country could be and if our son could defend himself with a knife, or load a musket or pistol to keep himself alive or fire an arrow if under attack, then that might save his life.
But Harry also knew basic things about life in the wild because of those months he had travelled alone with me and the girls. And when the men joined us, when they left to hunt, Harry stayed with us and because of it, he now knew the best wood to use as kindling, how to strike a flint to make a fire. He knew how to set snares and gut a fish, how to skin a hare or pluck a wild bird free of feathers. He knew how to spear game or fish we caught on an ironwood frame, to roast above an open fire. And he also knew how to build a bivouac.
I turned as he rode alongside me and I took pleasure in the joy on his face. He was delighted to be astride his own pony, for his great love had always been horses, since those long-ago days when we went riding together at Millbryne Park when he had been a toddler, attached to me by a strip of muslin. For being on a horse or around a horse had always soothed him, had always centred him.
He laughed, yet as I watched him, I realized his legs and arms and body were losing that baby plumpness. And he insisted on tying his long dark hair back in a rawhide tie like his father, refusing to let me hack it with my knife. And since we arrived at the Bannock, now and again he refused to sit on my lap or cuddle me and although I mourned the babe that he had been, I was also grateful that he was becoming more independent, for he needed to be, not only here in this country, but back in England. I could not have borne it had he been a clingy, complaining child, for neither Ryder nor I were like that.
He laughed and kicked his horse on into a trot even though I asked him to stay back with me at a walk, but he wouldn’t have it. He was too eager to get going, to move on and I saw a hint of the man he would become. But Ryder and I would have to trust him to make the right decisions, for I didn’t think him careless or reckless. He was just full of the joys of life.
He was a natural around horses, although in all truth he had known the best teachers. For Ese-ggwe’na’a, Ryder and Te’tukhe had all taught him how to sit upright, to hold the horse with his legs, to be gentle on the horse’s mouth and let the animal know who was in charge. It had been Ese-ggwe’na’a who suggested this pony for him. Ryder and I had been unsure, thinking him too young, but Te’tukhe had reminded Ryder that they had both been riding horses when they were far younger than Harry.
As he chatted away beside me, I found myself thinking of the route north which Ryder and I would take the following morning to reach the cave. And although we planned to be gone just over a week, I hoped it might be less than that.
I was thinking on all this when I suddenly felt nauseous. Startled by it, I instinctively put a hand to my belly, for this was the second time I had felt like this over the past few days. Although in all truth, I had become aware of a few changes within me and although it was early days yet, not even two months, I was almost certain I carried Ryder’s babe.
I had told Paddake’e yesterday, but my monthly circle had always been erratic because of my unsettled life and she urged me to wait another few days before I mentioned it to Ryder. Perhaps if the opportunity came while we headed north, I might mention it to him. Or wait. Just to make sure.
The nausea quickly passed as it always did, but it left a metallic taste in my mouth and a feeling of being off-centre, of giddiness. I glanced across at Harry but he seemed unaware of my discomfort as he continued to chat away, riding his horse back at a walk, his child’s voice high pitched and bright within those dense woods.
Towards mid-day we dismounted in a clearing near a stream and filled our waterskins before sitting under some birch trees to eat a meal of dried meat and bread which I had baked only that morning. I still felt a little queasy in my belly and lightheaded but the nausea thankfully had gone, leaving me ravenous with hunger.
Harry got up and wandered around the clearing, pointing to trees he could name along with shrubs and wild flowers and even some sage and wild onions we could smell from somewhere back in the woods. I would collect them before we rode on, for they would be a grateful addition to our stores.
It was quiet up here in the woods, other than Harry’s voice, but the noise and activity of the village seemed far away. From the clearing where we sat we could look through a gap in the trees and out across the ranges to the mountains soaring above the Plain. I still looked on them in awe, even after all the years I had lived here, but I knew I would never tire of their towering beauty.
I turned as Harry called to me, p
ointing to a hawk flying in low over a range just opposite us. I stood up, thinking the bird just below us, but it fact it was miles away on the other side of the valley.
I looked at my son in astonishment. I could see the bird quite clearly, yet others would not. I doubted Ryder or Ese-ggwe’na’a or Te’tukhe or anyone else I knew could have seen that hawk. Yet my son had seen it.
Some miles east of where we stood, in the foothills of another range, I could just make out a brown bear ambling down to the Snake River to drink. This wasn’t unusual, for hibernation was over and the bears would soon come in their hundreds, to feast on salmon as the fish swam upstream to spawn, all the way from the Pacific Ocean. Although we saw very few bears in the woods around our village now, for they had been scared away by our hunters.
“Can you see that bear Harry? He’s way over on the other side of the range. Can you see what he’s doing?” I asked.
My son squinted in the bright light of the spring morning, then he nodded. “Oui Mama, but it’s not a male. See, she’s drinking from the river and there are two cubs with her,” he replied and as I turned back I saw the cubs trailing behind her, the tiny creatures tumbling out from between the trees.
I felt breathless with excitement, yet also afraid. I turned, aware of the scratching of a small animal in a nearby log and pointed towards it.
“Can you hear that? Do you know what creature it is Harry?” I asked.
He shrugged, thinking nothing of it, as if everyone could hear such sounds. “A family of mice. Or perhaps a racoon.”
I stared at my son, stunned. Anyone other than me would have seen those bears only through a spyglass. And no-one other than me or esa or any other animal, could have heard those tiny scratching sounds within that log. Except perhaps my son.