A Land Apart

by Ian Roberts

  Resting only long enough to take turns cutting the trail and carrying the canoes, they continue for hours until the light begins to fade. The dense forest gives way onto a flat outcrop of rock. Exhausted, Brulé finally hoists the canoe from his shoulders, sets it on the ground, and feels his legs buckle beneath him. Every muscle and joint aches and burns. On his hands and knees he slowly lifts his head to survey the valley that stretches out below them.

  The forest drops down steeply to a river that cuts a steep canyon through a wall of rock. The wall rises up out of the forest, creating a long impassable barrier that snakes back up through the valley beyond their outcrop. The only way past that barrier lies on the river through the canyon. This is the Smoke River.

  “You can hear the rapids,” says Brulé, pointing to the mist rising up from the rock canyon far below. The others, collapsed on the ground, are too tired to even look.

  “That sounds like falls, not rapids,” groans Savignon.

  Brulé ignores the comment. “We will rest here tonight and we can be at the river in the morning.”

  “And dead by midday,” is Savignon’s bleak response.

  “Savignon, if we get there, and save Champlain…and the new Jesuit, they will give us guns. They will.” He’s been letting this line of thinking inspire him all day. “We should have a fire. It will warm us, inside and out.”

  As they build the fire, the dark closes in. They sit watching the flames, each deep in his own thoughts. Both Brulé and Atsan lace and tie long thin spruce roots to the gunwales of the canoes, creating a lattice grid over the bow.

  Savignon breaks the silence, “Do you think if we save Champlain, he might send me to France?”

  “To visit?” asks Brulé. Savignon nods. “Not to live?” he inquires further.

  “No, not to live,” answers Savignon. “Just to see it again. I was so young. So innocent, naive. I need to see it again, now. See for myself what you and Champlain have told me. The rot, the decay. How many people suffer and die to allow that court to live as they do. I never saw that. I just saw a place of magic. If I did go, and could see it for what it is, it would break the spell. I want to be here, Etienne. I know that. I just need to bury a longing that still remains with me.”

  “And Anne-Marie?”

  “That is foolish, I know. She married. She has children. I need to bury that longing too. I am Wendat. And I live as a Wendat. For the Wendat. That is clear.”

  “Well, yes, I think you are right. You should see it. See the court now. See the hoards of poor, taxed wretches that feed the court with their blood. Some day those masses of poor will say, ‘enough’.”

  When they wake at first light, Tonda is sitting in the clearing. He hasn’t slept. “If I went back to the village alone, what could I say? To my people. I know my spirit-bear would be ashamed of me. If I abandon you, he would leave me. But I have sat here since the moon was there,” pointing up at the sky, “and listened to the water below and I need to warn you what this panther will do.”

  “Tonda,” Savignon says harshly in a flash of anger, “You have been called here. By spirit, by shame. It does not matter. We are here now for one thing.” He had always been terrified of Tonda and he’s surprised by his own outburst. And Tonda, always dismissive of Savignon, of what he perceived as his lack of courage and skill, flushes with anger and shame.

  Atsan had glimpsed this fear when he asked Tonda about the trip to the Iroquois. But he had never seen the war chief like this. His fearlessness and ferocious cunning fighting Iroquois were legend. So his fear now, both repels him, and cracks his own tenuous resolve. He wonders if Tonda isn’t right. Atsan begins to succumb to his own fear, unnerved. But Brulé remains undaunted. “Tonda, like you I cannot go back to the village. We are the hope of the Wendat. Here. Come. We will face this now, together.”

  Brulé swings a canoe onto his shoulders, and Savignon, tomahawks in hand, begins cutting a path down to the river far below.

  Standing by the water’s edge, De Valery gazes out across the lake. The sunlight has begun cutting through the dense clouds casting shifting and dramatic patterns of light and shadow over the hills. Tight up against the shore a thin line of sunlight turns the water a rich, deep ultramarine after days of sullen grey. He feels happy here, just standing with the warmth of the sun on his face. He cannot remember the last time such a simple thing affected him so deeply.

  His quiet reverie is suddenly broken by an outburst of coarse laughter. He looks over to see De Clemont standing with three soldiers. As he speaks the soldiers lean in close to hear. De Valery finds the idea of de Clemont sharing anything with these tough, hardened characters odd. De Clemont still pieces together his court attire, the once ravishing, matching colors, their sheen and sparkle reduced now to a torn, lifeless grey. He still wears his long wig but the rich curls hang like dead fur against the peeling skin of his sunburnt face. De Valery himself had abandoned his European shoes early on; their impractically was obvious. Then piece by piece he’d also abandoned the elaborately shaped pantaloons, the velvet jacket and his wig, after witnessing their deteriorated state on de Clemont. The entire dress code had proved ludicrous in this wilderness; he certainly was willing to admit that now. But de Clemont clung stubbornly to the inanity of it all.

  A loon suddenly breaks the calm surface of the lake, piercing the air with its wild, mournful call. Immediately one of the soldiers picks up his musket, aims and fires; the musket ball slaps the water and the loon dives. De Clemont claps the man on the back and jeers with the other two soldiers at his missed shot. De Valery finds his interaction with these soldiers very peculiar. So out of keeping.

  The loon resurfaces again not far away. The other two soldiers quickly shoulder their muskets and fire, shrouding themselves in a cloud of smoke. One ball hits the water. The other hits the loon. It flaps for a few seconds, its wings thrashing the water frantically and then is still, its body lifeless. The soldiers cheer as de Clemont pulls out a coin from his purse and flips it to the soldier who has successfully killed the bird.

  De Valery’s mood of contentment quickly dissipates, as he stares at the loon’s dead body floating on the water. He hates the mindless sport and the boisterous clowning of de Clemont and the three soldiers. His eyes meet Petashwa’s who stands not far away. He recognizes a mutual incomprehension and sadness reflected in the Algonquin’s eyes.

  Brulé hacks at several branches. As they fall away, he steps out onto the smooth rock by the river’s edge. They had followed a long, vertical ridge down from their campsite, hoping to find a way over the barrier and thus avoid the rapids. But the wall proved impassable and in the end has led them to the river’s edge. Their only way forward now is down the river that moves swiftly in front of them before disappearing into a deep, sheer-walled canyon. The roar of the water, which they have heard all morning, rages, pounding and shaking the ground. Heavy mist from the falls and rapids settles on them like a gentle rain.

  Confronted now with a hint of the power that lies just beyond their sight, Brulé feels his resolve falter. He looks at the others; they too look out, cowering at what awaits them downriver. For Brulé, this feels like certain death, but for the Wendat it is even more. The panther terrifies them more than the sheer power and menace of the river, even more that death itself.

  Atsan yells something but Brulé can’t hear him over the roar of the river. Thoughts race through his mind. They could still return back up the way they came. They could return to their village. Or go and see what the Iroquois have done to Champlain. He could travel deeper into the woods, live with one of the trader tribes he has met, far from the Iroquois and their guns. He could penetrate deeper into the country he loves. He could still escape.

  Out of nowhere, however, his father’s words of warning come back to him: “Follow whatever sliver of hope you find…to the end”. A new resolve grips him. He knows only he will get in a canoe and start down this river. With his tomahawk he cuts spruce boughs and weaves them into
the root lattice he had tied over the bow of the canoe the night before. When finished it creates a thatched cover over the front of the canoe to repel water that will inevitably gush over the bow once in the rapids. He then carries the canoe to the edge of the river and slips it into the quiet eddy of water by the shore. Just three feet away the current flows dark and fast down into the canyon. He grabs his pack and lashes it into the canoe. He steps into the stern, settles on his knees, paddle in hand. Finally, he dares to look up at Savignon.

  Until that moment Savignon had no intention of getting in a canoe. He had thought that, surely, now they were here, the raging thunder of the river literally shaking the ground they stood on, that this would be evidence enough of the clear insanity of their plan. Even while watching Brulé place the canoe in the water and even when he got in, nothing had registered. It was the look in Brulé’s eyes that broke the spell. It was the look that shocked him.

  Standing there on the river’s edge he had wanted to run. Or hide. Somewhere. Anywhere. But that look had cut through everything and spoke to the years, over twenty years, this man had stood by him. How he had helped him reenter his life with the Wendat after his upheaval in France. How he had embraced his people, the Wendat. And how he was embracing his people now. Right here. He was doing this for them, for the Wendat. Savignon takes a step forward, and then another, as he realizes that, yes, he will join him. He will get in the canoe.

  As Savignon settles in the canoe, kneeling in the bow, Tonda approaches Brulé, yelling over the roar of the river. “She will hold you down. You will never escape her grip.” He holds Brulé’s arm, clearly hoping to reason him out of his suicidal decision. “Your spirit will be hers forever. It is no way for a man to die.” The reality of the panther now claws at Tonda’s heart. But Brulé shakes him off. He points first to himself, then down the river. Tonda leans in close to him again, “We should sacrifice the black robe to the panther now. They are both sorcerers. Maybe she will take him.”

  But Brulé turns to LeCharon and motions to him. The priest quickly shuffles over, as Brulé readjusts the pack to make room. As he steps into the canoe, Brulé forces him to crouch low, his head to his knees. “When we start down the river,” he yells over the noise, “no matter what happens, stay there, like that. Keep your head down.” Immediately the priest sits up, raises his arms. “Who beats this heart and raises this hand? Who guides us? It is vast, indifferent, horrible,” he calls out to no one in particular.

  Atsan, seeing his father, then Savignon, and finally the priest step into the canoe, knows he must join them. He knows but not because he decides. He knows because his feet now tell him as he walks back to the woods to cut boughs to thatch the bow of his canoe. He returns with an armful, and quickly, expertly, weaves the bow cover as Brulé had done. Then he carries his canoe to the water’s edge. Tonda holds him by the arm, but he pulls free and slips the canoe into the water alongside the other one. He carries the other pack down, lashes it into the canoe and gets into the bow. Now in the canoe seeing the water racing into the steep-walled gorge, he panics. But he knows he will not back down.

  He turns to Tonda, alone and immobile on the rock. Tonda stares first at them, then down at the river, up the path and finally raising his head he howls at the sky, his arms outstretched, his fists clenched. His anger and frustration spent, he picks up the last paddle and gets in the stern of the canoe behind Atsan.

  Brulé leans forward to LeCharon and yells, “I do not care who or what you pray to Charon. But pray to something and do it now.”

  All but LeCharon take tobacco from their pouches and, chanting to the spirit of the river, throw a handful into the water. They perform the same ritual for the panther. Brulé had early on embraced the Wendat connection to spirit and has ever since never failed to follow the prescriptions carefully. But now, with the resounding rampage thundering below them, the act of throwing tobacco and calling out to the river, feels futile. He again pushes LeCharon’s head down low onto the floor of the canoe.

  He glances over at Atsan beside him in the other canoe, leans forward, taps Savignon with the end of his paddle and then they both dig in. In just two swift strokes the current catches them and the smooth black water sucks them forward in its grip. The canyon rises quickly into a narrow, black gorge. For fifty yards they feel the current pulling them faster and faster.

  Brulé thinks to look back to see if Atsan and Tonda are following but at just that moment the swift, smooth current buckles and drops and he and Savignon face a white torrent of water churning between both sides of the towering gorge. Despite their growing speed, they must steer their path down the river carefully. Rocks, both hidden and visible, leap into view on the left, then on the right, now in the middle. Brulé and Savignon pull and pry the canoe left and right carving and cutting a path away from the rocks. They look to stay in the narrow channel of smooth, fast water, the chute, as much as possible and away from the turbulent chaos in and around the boulders. They scout for and cleave to the chute, yet at the bottom of each chute a standing wave awaits, rising straight up and curling back towards them. The vertical walls on each side enclose the current, press it, rush it, so they find no relief, no quiet eddies to pull into.

  Savignon sees a submerged boulder and drives his paddle deep down beside the bow of the canoe. He pries hard; the canoe leaps left just as the massive, pale leviathan looms up beside them and then disappears. But the move hurls them across the river toward the sheer wall of the gorge. They pry hard, hewing away and then away again from another huge boulder in their path. They speed past the rock, paddling hard to avoid the ripping mayhem of churning chaos below the rock.

  The canoe heaves up, down and then shoots across black water and again drops down a smooth black chute. They claw their way out to one side of the standing wave at the bottom of the chute, pull hard to avoid rocks looming on their right, swinging immediately down another chute before careening out one side into a taut mass of swift, black water. Huge rocks jut up left and right and they pry and pull and lever a path around them. Brulé and Savignon move and respond together as one, the canoe responding crisply and immediately to their practiced skill. But the river is relentless. The rock walls box them in tight. Touch the wall but once and the bark canoe would shred and disintegrate.

  Down another chute and then they bounce madly through sets of dancing waves coming at them head on and from the left and right off the canyon walls. Despite the thatched cover, water pours over the bow into the canoe. They must get it out. The water weighs the canoe down, making it sluggish to manoeuvre, its nimbleness gone. As the canoe heaves, they struggle to keep upright and not capsize.

  Just then, Brulé sees a break in the rock face ahead on the right. They steer toward it, narrowly missing a huge boulder. As soon as they pass it, they face a boiling mass of white water heading off to the left and down the river. But to the right, a narrow, black pool of still water appears. They drive the canoe, clawing desperately with their paddles for purchase against the massive current and the sodden weight of their own canoe and kiss the edge of the quiet water, carve in and glide across the smooth, dark pool and come to rest against the rock wall.

  Brulé nudges LeCharon, still crouched low, head down, in the middle of the canoe and he slowly sits up. The sheer walls soar fifty feet above them on each side. Two long escarpment walls plunging down one side of the river join here, creating this quiet pool — the thundering chaos of the main current only a few feet away. While the roar of water and heavy mist and spray continue to engulf them, still for the moment they are safe.

  Brulé retrieves a bowl from the pack and starts bailing water out of the canoe. But his attention rests on the top of the chute above them, looking for Atsan and Tonda, either in their canoe or out of it. He bails quickly in case he needs to somehow help them to safety, but he knows if they are swept out past him in the boiling madness, he could do nothing more than watch.

  Just then the second canoe pops into view as it pit
ches down the chute toward them and slices into the quiet eddy coming to rest beside them. Atsan lets out a yell of relief, barely audible in the thundering roar that surrounds them. Their canoe, too, heaves and sloshes with the weight of water they’ve taken in.

  The relentless, exhilarating battle against the massive bullying power of the river strips them of their fear of the panther. The river itself now completely consumes their awareness. It provokes, taunts and mocks them. Its tyrannical power assaults and besieges their skill, their strength, their will. But they have survived. Their spirits soar. They feel elated, exuding confidence and hope once again.

  They bail until the canoes are empty. Then stretch, breath, readjust the packs, readying themselves for what awaits below. They yell to each other, trying to communicate but the roar of the rapids pounds and reverberates up the walls of rock, drowning out their voices. Conversation is impossible. Brulé motions, he’s ready to go. He pushes LeCharon back to the bottom of the canoe and they turn it around in the quiet of the eddy to face the current. The canyon wall extends out past them, hiding the view of what lies ahead. Brulé rests his hand briefly on the shoulder of both Atsan and Tonda as he passes them, then he and Savignon drive their paddles through the smooth water and shoot into the crashing current. As they hit it, they are whipped downstream. Pivoting they immediately hug one side of another chute that funnels down into a massive wave curling backwards towards them. They slice out past it on one side as the waves buck and kick at the canoe.

  With the canoe empty of water they are able to regain their line of attack. But then the river drops away into another huge, steep chute, and the wave at the bottom engulfs the bow of the canoe. Water pours over the thatched cover. They drive their way up and over the wave and down its back, then up the wave beyond it. Each wave torques them left, then right. Brulé and Savignon fight to stay upright as the river bucks and surges. It arcs and dives and leaps like a live animal. Where they head now, the river alone decrees.