by Ian Roberts
They continue for several more miles up a slow-moving river until, finally, their village comes into view. Relief floods through Brulé. No disaster has struck. The village looks unchanged. Smoke from cook fires drifts peacefully from the many longhouses behind the palisade. Children and dogs run and play outside the village. Men and women are busy harvesting the beans in the fields.
They slide into shore, store the bark canoes carefully, shoulder their bales of furs, and head up to the village. Children run excitedly to greet them. Those in the fields wave as they pass. The small Chippawa boy clings to Brulé’s hand. Together they make their way from the river up to the palisade and the entrance to the village.
Inside a longhouse, a Wendat woman in her thirties carefully tends to a young girl lying close to the heat of the cook fire. The girl, gripped by fever, shivers and glistens with sweat. She is weak, angry boils cover most of her arms and face. A young boy bursts into the longhouse and rushes up to the woman, “They are here.”
The woman is Kinta, Brulé’s wife. She smiles, places a cool cloth on the girl’s forehead and wipes her hands on some damp moss by the fire. Her step, though not rushed, reveals her keenness to see her husband after so many weeks apart. Leaving the longhouse she makes her way to the entrance of the village. There is no gate, but rather a twisting passage through the palisade poles so narrow that only one person can pass at a time. Villagers congregate at the entrance.
As the travellers move through the opening, they are greeted warmly by their families. Brulé sees Kinta and embraces her. She immediately notices the boy and then the bandages. She kneels, touching the dressing. “What happened to him? Who is he?”
“He was shot,” Brulé says.
That word, “shot”, quickly spreads through the crowd. Everyone begins talking, wanting details, wanting to understand how this could have happened. “Who did this?” asks Kinta.
Brulé knows his answer is not what they want to hear. “Iroquois.”
The crowd momentarily goes silent, in a shock of fear and confusion, before erupting into a frenzy of further questions. Brulé kneels quickly beside his wife, “Look after him, Kinta, I must meet with Atironta.” He then pushes his way through the crowd and the questions and heads through the village to the chief’s longhouse.
Atironta, the Wendat chief, sits, his bearing as regal as any king. He puffs on his long pipe. “How many guns could the Iroquois have?” he asks after listening patiently but with growing alarm to Brulé’s recounting of the killings.
“I have no idea,” answers Brulé, “but we must find out. We might fight against ten. But not thirty.”
“Your Champlain has not allowed us to have guns.”
“It is the black robes, not Champlain. Champlain will hate this almost as much as we do. Believe me, this is not good news for him. But he will always do what he must for Québec. Atironta, you must understand something. Until now, you know, our war with the Iroquois has not been about killing. Yes, two or three die each year. Prisoners get taken, both Wendat and Iroquois. But men fight for valor. We honor the skill of war, not death. What you must understand is that guns change that.
“With twenty or thirty guns, maybe twenty or thirty Wendat will die. If we have guns in our hands we will seek revenge and twenty or thirty Iroquois will die. And it will not stop there. They will then come and do the same again to us. The need for revenge will grip us and control us. And each year we will use our furs to trade for more guns. And more will die. More Wendat. More Iroquois. This is the warfare of the white man … and I tell you, it will destroy us.”
Atironta pulls long and silently on his pipe. Smoke drifts and curls around him as he ponders Brulé’s words. “White Hawk, what you say may be true. My people have made me chief because they know I will do everything to lead them well, and wisely. I am Wendat. I have no faith in Iroquois. If they have guns, we need guns.”
“If we go down this path, it will consume us. Both Wendat and Iroquois.” Then Brulé ventures to suggest the idea he has been turning over and over in his mind since they found those dead warriors strewn on the beach. “Perhaps the Iroquois could understand that they play into the hands of the English and their schemes. Perhaps they will understand that this is all bound to ruin them as surely as it will ruin us.”
“Who can make an Iroquois understand that?” asks Atironta.
“What of Siskwa,” answered Brulé, “the Iroquois chief. If you could talk —”
Atironta shakes his head. “Talk?”
“We have done it before. Once or twice, to buy back a captured chief.”
The chief waves the suggestion away. “Yes, an exchange.” They fall silent, each lost in thought, until Brulé once again tries to urge his idea upon Atironta. “I grew up with the endless, merciless killing of the white man’s wars. My own father fought and died in one of those wars. When I left France, I sought to rid myself of the stupidity and misery of it all. I left it behind me and vowed that I would never see such senseless killing here.”
“You may have vowed that in the past,” says Atironta, “but what do we do now? I cannot talk to Siskwa. He knows the French do not trade with us for guns. He will not see the danger you speak of. He will only see that I come with nothing to trade but my fear.”
Brulé lowers his head and stares at the embers of the fire between himself and Atironta. The turmoil he had been feeling since discovering the dozen dead men now returns in full force. The inevitability of the idea that had presented itself to him returned now and made his stomach turn.
He knew all along Atironta would not, could not, talk to Siskwa, or truly see what confronted the Wendat. Only he had seen the kind of bloodshed this could lead to, and what lay ahead for them now if guns replaced arrows and tomahawks as weapons. Only he had seen how many people die in the ugliness of mechanized warfare. And only he had seen how the finances to purchase those guns would consume them. Once one warrior holds a gun in his hand, every warrior will want one. The picture of ruin unfolds like a lurid nightmare before his eyes, as he gazes at the dying embers. Everything he loved about the Wendat and their way of life — the life he now considered his own — would wither and die. He could not let that happen. He tries again.
“Then perhaps I can be the one to speak for the Wendat. I have heard of Siskwa’s wisdom. Perhaps he will understand. I cannot stand by and do nothing. I cannot watch our lives be overtaken with the kind of slaughter I have witnessed in my own country. I cannot do that.”
“You are a warrior. I have fought beside you. I have not seen what you say of the white man’s war. I only know my own people’s war with the Iroquois. I see this as something I may not fully understand. But I remember what happened on your last visit to the Iroquois. I fear the only thing you will gain this time is your own death, bound to an Iroquois torture stake.”
The sounds of chopping wood echo through the camp and out over the lake. Each evening, immediately upon landing, a dozen French soldiers begin the repeated but necessary task of cutting down saplings to construct their fortified palisade. They must choose a campsite either on an island where there is less need of the palisade or on a long arm of land jutting out into the lake or river. The sturdy palisade across the narrow point of land helps diminish the possibility of attack from the forest behind them; they can spot anyone approaching from the water well in advance.
The others in the group, Algonquin and French aides, unload the canoes, gather wood and kindling for the fires and begin to prepare food. Somewhat apart from the bustle of activity, rest two small wooden tables. Champlain sits, working at one. At the other sit the two magnificently dressed French noblemen, attended by a single footman. Champlain stares over at the incongruous image before him: candlelight flickers and dances over the nobles’ table, over the damask table cloth, over the crystal decanters, silver cups and porcelain plates, in what seems a willful defiance of the reality of the wilderness.
De Valery stares out across the river. Evening light
gilds the hilltops on the far side of the water, their pale orange shimmers against the deep purple of the shoreline. Bored, de Clement taps his fingers impatiently on the table and gazes about at the activity. He looks over at Champlain.
De Clemont turns to the footman, “Tell Monsieur Champlain we would like to talk to him.” He adds, “I am sure he can amuse us.”
De Valery, curious what Champlain is doing at his desk, says, “I will get him.” As he approaches, Champlain stops writing and stands, “Monsieur le Count, what an honor.” He wonders how long, in this forested wilderness, such court protocol will last.
“The Marquis de Clemont asked that you join us, but I am interested to know what you are working on. What do you have there?”
Champlain turns the map towards de Valery. It is covered in calculations and measurements. “I made a map twenty years ago when I last visited the Wendat. I am checking and verifying my measurements. We have claimed the territory for France. We should at least know what it is we control.”
De Valery runs his finger over the map to the vague contours of the territory’s western edge. Champlain sighs, “Completely unknown. At least to me.”
“Come join us for a glass of wine.” Obliged by a sense of protocol, Champlain accepts, despite his reservations.
He picks up his chair and walks over to join the nobles at their lavishly laden table. The footman offers him a glass of wine. De Clemont notices a smudge of dirt on his stocking and brushes at it, annoyed. He mops his forehead with a lace handkerchief. Both nobles have that affected, effeminate court manner that had always annoyed Champlain when in the French Court.
“Each evening you build this wall,” comments de Valery.
“Palisade, Monsieur le Count. You must always fortify your camp.”
“I can only imagine what breathes just beyond that wall in the dark of night,” says de Clemont. “But we never see anyone.”
“That actually worries me,” muses Champlain. “Normally we would encounter Algonquin fishing camps from time to time.”
“Worries you? Why does that worry you?” asks de Clemont, slightly unnerved by the statement.
Champlain waves the question away, not wanting to alarm them with tales of the Iroquois. He takes a sip of wine and casually looks out at the camp in a manner that he hopes will change the topic.
“Tell me, Monsieur Champlain. Why did you come? I have wanted to ask, but never felt it was the correct moment. As for us, the Marquis and I did not exactly choose this,” confesses de Valery.
Champlain gazes over at du Barre busy directing affairs on the other side of the clearing. “He said he would have me sent back to France in irons if I didn’t. I think the good Cardinal wanted it. As punishment likely…for something.”
“Yes, punishment,” muses de Clemont. “Du Barre has a way about him, doesn’t he? Pulls you in with his charm.”
“I asked him,” said de Valery, “about this fellow Brulé.”
“Ah, yes, Brulé drives the Jesuits mad,” answers Champlain, barely disguising the subtle pleasure he derives from the effect Brulé has on the priest.
“But not you?” asks de Valery.
“No, not me,” answers Champlain. “Brulé created the fur trade with us. And the fur trade supports Québec. I am more practical than pious.”
“This fur trade is so…so unexpected now that we are here,” de Valery remarks, as he takes off his large, stylish black hat and looks at it. “We wear these hats at home. We are assured they are real beaver. That nothing less will ever do. If you had asked me I could have told you that the hat is made from the pelt of a beaver. But I never gave any thought to the idea someone had to actually find a beaver out here and kill it. The man just comes to court with the new hat samples and you buy one.”
“And you need at least one new hat each season,” adds de Clemont.
“We send out hundreds of pelts every year. All of them through the Wendat,” Champlain tells them.
“In Québec they told us this Brulé has made a fortune with this monopoly of his on the furs. Is this true?” queries de Clemont.
“The arrangement is simple. He brings the furs to Québec each year and no one else is allowed into the interior. He wants to keep the disease and alcohol out. And the church. That is his goal, his motivation. And I understand why. He saw what all three did to the Algonquin in Québec.” Champlain stares out across the river for a moment. “I think it is my deepest regret, how we have served, or rather not served, the Algonquin. The Jesuits in Québec always push to send missionaries out to the Wendat. We finally sent two last year. That was a heated issue with Brulé I can tell you. He split my desk with his tomahawk.”
“But what does he do with the money?” asks de Valery.
“I have no idea,” answers Champlain, “Obviously, he cannot spend it out here.”
“Perhaps he will retire to France one day?”
Champlain shakes his head. “He hates being in Québec for more than three or four days. I cannot imagine he will ever return to France. He will die here, I imagine. As will I.”
The forest grows thick and abundant around them, as Kinta follows Brulé along the well-trodden path. Oaks, maples and pines stand like giant sentinels, some four feet in width, their canopy a huge shaded arc a hundred feet about the forest floor. At this time of day, bird song fills the air, a jay screeches. Animals bolt in the underbrush. A red squirrel chatters above them.
They walk, listening to the forest sounds, glad to once again be together. A tall, granite cliff appears ahead through the trees, its entire surface is etched in markings — a carved tapestry of petroglyphs: men and animals, suns and moons, boats and fish, and strange indecipherable symbols. Some are ancient, the carved lines as weathered and dark as the rock face itself. Others, more recent, stand out like pale scars. Brulé runs his hand over the surface, tracing his finger into the carved grooves. He loves the sense of power, the deep and tangible connection to the spirit of nature he feels here in the presence of the petroglyphs. He takes tobacco from the pouch hanging from his belt and carefully pushes leaves into a long vertical crack in the rock face, as he recites a Wendat incantation. He hands some tobacco to Kinta who repeats an incantation of her own.
From the rock wall, in a clearing through the trees, Brulé spots Okatwan, the Wendat shaman. The man is naked but for a breechcloth and a headdress of wood and feathers that has been carved into the shape of a long beak. A dense tangle of strands hang from his neck — claws, shells, fur, amulets, and small pouches made of hide. His chest and arms are marked with swirling designs of black and yellow paint.
Okatwan sits, completely still, several feet away from a wolf in the clearing. They face one another, eyes locked. Brulé can feel the current of energy and connection flowing in the space between the two.
Suddenly the spell is broken. Okatwan feels Brulé’s presence, turns to meet his gaze and in that instant, Brulé realizes the wolf is gone. Vanished.
Okatwan motions and Brulé and Kinta follow him silently to his lodging. As their eyes adjust to the dim light of the interior, a dense alchemy of shamanic medicine slowly emerges. Pots and jars filled with dark liquids and pastes line the permeter of the hut. Skulls, bones, herbs and plants hang from the roof. Their murky odour mixes with the fragrance of the wood smoke from the fire. On a nearby perch sits a raven, its black eyes alert, watching them. The three sit in silence for some time before Okatwan shakes his head and speaks. “I can find no medicine that speaks to this disease. Nor will it speak to me. I have travelled far into the spirit world to understand this thing, but it comes from a place I do not know and I cannot enter. I have no understanding or power over it.”
“I have seen with my own eyes how many of the Algonquin died because of this same disease,” Brulé tells him.
“It is only now, after the black robes come to us, that the people become sick,” adds Kinta.
Okatwan nods. “I have seen only one thing, but this one thing spoke to me clearl
y. You must get the sick out of the village, away from the others. Build huts for them. Care for them there. If you do as I say, we can stop this disease. For now. Perhaps for many seasons. Perhaps it will not then come back. But you must do it now. You must not wait.”
Back in the village, Kinta ladles stew from a large iron pot over the fire into a wooden bowl and hands it to Brulé. The small Chippawa boy snuggles close to her, staring into the fire. She strokes his hair tenderly; he attaches himself to her more and more, accepting her affection. They look up suddenly as Atsan, Brulé’s son, walks into the longhouse. Atsan is eighteen, with a strong physique and handsome features. He looks Wendat, but for the clear blue eyes he has inherited from his father. As he sits down next to them at the fire, Kinta hands him a bowl of the steaming stew. But as he reaches for it, Brulé notices three stripes of blood wiped onto his son’s arm.
“So he prepares you all for battle, firing your courage, puffing up your chests,” taunts Brulé.
“Tonda is our war chief. That is what he does.”
“He will get you all killed, Atsan.”
“I am Wendat. I crave to prove myself against the Iroquois. That is our Wendat honor. To fight the enemy”
“What you face now are Iroquois bullets. There is no honor or valor in a bullet. The Iroquois did not even scalp their kill. They were ashamed I think, at what they had done. Tonda does not yet understand it, but he will the first time he encounters what the guns do.”
“What would you have us do then? Hide?”
“If we have guns, who do you think will win? You think maybe the Wendat. Or the Iroquois. But you would be wrong. Neither of us will win. It will be the French who win. And the English.”
“You trade with the French for us. You cannot just say we cannot fight bullets and then do nothing. We cannot do nothing. We must get guns also.”