The Last Beothuk

by Gary Collins

  It was still raining. The fog limited his sight through the trees. Water still dripped from his hair, and steam rose from his neck. The distant caw of a raven came, muffled and lonely. It was its flying sound. The hounds of the sky had found the deer. He was glad. Ravens always found food first and shared with the flock. Its calls always alerted other creatures to the kill site, though. The Beothuk wondered why the bird didn’t keep its find secret.

  His lean belly sated but not full, he prepared to leave the campsite again.

  From the edge of the stream he flicked water with his hand until the small fire showed no sign of life. The rich organ meat had refreshed him with new energy. Bending down, he shouldered the pack. He stood once more with the load, his arms cradling the legs of the deer, holding the weight securely across his shoulders. Turning around, he studied the campsite, paying particular attention to the firepit. Assured all was well in this temporary resting place, he stepped across the bubbling stream. His step was more determined now, for there were other, smaller bellies depending on his precious load, which had resumed dripping slow, thick drops of blood upon his back.

  On he trudged through the wet day until, far from the place of his last resting, he stopped, his labouring lungs demanding more oxygen, his leg muscles burning. Finding a waist-high blow-down, its dead branches just right to hold the deer carcass, he leaned back until the animal slipped from his shoulders. Sliding to the mossy floor, his back against a tree, he rested. He was breathing heavily and needed more meat.

  Moving on, his way became easier. The trace he followed left the dense softwood forest and headed downhill through a stand of mature white birch. Here the going was good. The knee-high soft yellow ferns closed around the scant trail behind him, disguising his way.

  The rain had stopped, but he hadn’t noticed. When he heard the sound of waves washing against a rocky shore, he knew his journey had just about ended. The smell of burning birch came to his nostrils, and despite the aches in his body, a smile creased his face. Stepping around a clump of deep-green, shoulder-high alders that flourished between the massive birches, his eyes found his goal.

  Nestled around the base of a few high white birches and several yards back from the high bank of a large woodum—its white surface flecked with waves showing through the lower limbs of the trees—a neat, pale white birchbark mamateek stood, belonging to the scene, so natural did the manmade structure blend with the evening forest. Outside of the camp and to one side of the narrow opening of the dwelling burned a small fire, bright and without sparks. Loosening his load, he let it slide to the fern-covered ground and stared around the peaceful scene, waiting, a mist of steam rising from his sweating shoulders. Soon, from among the dense green branches of one of the spruce trees, interspersed among the dominant birches, a slim figure cautiously emerged, followed by a small girl who was only knee high to the mother.

  The woman had a soft, slightly rounded face. Her skin was the same burnished colour as that of the hunter, very smooth and clear. Her hair was as dark as his and glistened from the recent rain. It framed her face before falling below her neckline. Her eyes were as brown as a cured beaver pelt, her smile showing straight, white teeth. She was very beautiful. The child who hid behind her was small, even for her five years, and was slight of frame, but her eyes were large, striking, and as dark as her father’s. The dark eyes made the child look older than she was.

  “The day has been long, Kopituk, my hunter, and your step must be weary, for I heard you coming,” said the woman as she approached.

  “My step is not as light when I carry the full weight of the kosweet, woman,” replied the tall man. “But it was the sound of its hide breaking a few small branches that your delicate ears heard,” he added, his eyes lighting up at the presence of his family.

  With a small cry of pleasure, the woman ran toward the deer carcass, which she hadn’t noticed before. The girl stopped at her father’s side and was pulled to his shoulders and squeezed to his chest with a hug that made the child squeal with delight.

  “Ewinon, I have missed you,” she said. And then in the same breath: “Where is the sweet frankum you promised?”

  He placed her back on the ground.

  “Patience, Small One. I have walked all the way to the barrens and back, carrying much weight while you have spent the day lazing by the fire,” her father said in a voice that was gentle and joking.

  “I have not been lazing at all!” came the quick reply. “I walked all the way to the brook at the end of the woodum, where the muskrats are, and I would have killed one with a rock but a branch got in the way, and the rat hid from me under the water—and he is still there!”

  “Oh, you must be silent as abideshook the great cat, who walks on padded feet, and your arm must be strong and true to get the water rat while he swims. I will show you again, but come here now and see what I have for my Small One.”

  Bending before her father, the girl waited patiently with her small hands resting on her deerskin-clad thighs and peered into the dark folds of his pack. It smelled of animal blood, leather, woodsmoke, and green leaves. Pulling the caribou organs from the bag, her father dug deeper and brought out a thin pouch that was fashioned from the cured bladder of a she-fox, now bulging with lumpy contents.

  “I knew you’d find some, I knew you would,” the girl exclaimed, reaching for the small bag in her father’s grasp.

  Holding the treat out of her reach for a moment, he cautioned his daughter, “Wait, Small One, for the bag contains more than the sweet gum that I promised. See, here is the hard rough frankum that produces the sweet smell when held over the fire. Ah! Here is what you want, the soft, chewy, white frankum. Be sure and hold it in your mouth until it warms before you try to chew it or it will stick to your teeth.” With this he gave the girl several pieces of the soft resin from the black spruce. Squealing with childish delight, she ran to the mamateek and disappeared inside the dark interior.

  He walked toward his woasut, who was bent over and busy skinning the deer carcass. She rose from her work, bloody knife in hand, and threw her arms around him as his daughter had done.

  “When you didn’t come before the last dark time, I was afraid for you, Kopituk,” she said into his chest. “And I heard the sound of thunder far away.”

  Kop’s shoulders bunched, and it was a while before he spoke again. Tehonee, still with her arms around him, could feel his shoulders squirm and his chest shake. She knew something about the sound of thunder had startled him. Kop’s shoulders always writhed when he was upset.

  “What is it, Kopituk? Why did you tremble when I spoke about the thunder sounds?”

  “I am not afraid of thunder, woman! My shoulders trembled with relief from carrying the weight of the deer home from the high hills.” He didn’t want to tell Tehonee what he had witnessed on the coast. He changed the subject.

  “I feared for you, too, Tehonee, my woasut, and I was cold in the night without your warmth against my back. All the way to the high barrens I went before I found the kosweet. They have returned to the shelter of the big trees at last. This is good luck for us. We will have much aschautch to smoke and eat. And we will have new warm hides to wear in the season of cold and long nights that is coming.”

  Still holding the woman close against his side, he bent and brushed his lips tenderly against her hair. She smelled of woodsmoke and soft leather and a woman smell that was hers alone. Kop gently pushed her away, not wanting Tehonee to feel again how much even the thought of the thunder noise had upset him. He smiled at her. Seeing her husband relax again, Tehonee dismissed her fears and said:

  “The tree-felling mamchet has found one of your traps again. Kuise was with me when I found it. It was only a young one. Its teeth were not yet yellow, and it had fat only in its broad tail. Kuise and I have eaten some of the meat, but there is plenty left for my hunter.”

 
Walking by his side toward the dwelling, she suddenly laughed.

  “Kuise roasted the heart from the mamchet on a stick and ate it all without stopping.”

  Kop smiled and said nothing, sharing the special moment as returning hunters through the ages had always done. Kop knew the telling of his daughter Kuise’s eating a beaver heart would make much merriment at the next gathering of his clan.

  Night found the small family cloaked in its dark stillness. High above the quiet scene, tall trees brushed the sky clean, and brilliant stars appeared. The air cooled and the warm, damp earth smells rose and followed the small night breeze through the forest.

  One of the scents from the camp was caught by the sensitive nose of a lone wolf, which had followed the scent of new meat all day. He was sleek and tawny and he was hungry. Turning toward the fresh smell, he loped along the old trail until he came to the small clearing. Here the smells mesmerized and stopped him. He caught the whiff of human and turned to go, but the smell of meat brought him back to the edge once more. He was very hungry. He advanced like a shadow, his bent legs lowering his sleek frame to the ground, his black nostrils sensing what he could not yet see. The smell of smoke rising from the fire halted him. It was the most hated of all the smells the Beothuk always carried with them. Still he waited, the closeness of the meat simmering a few feet over the small fire holding him. Then a long string of bloody fat fell from the meat into the hot coals. The hissing, guttering sound and the sudden flare-up startled the skittish animal into a blur of decision, and in one long, low, silent leap, he sprang back into the shadows from where he had come. Trail wise and ever wary, he did not come back.

  Once during the night, the tall Beothuk appeared, naked, out of the lodge. He walked away, until his back was to the small fire, and stretched and urinated. Back at the campfire, he squatted and pulled a piece of the meat from the smoking rack and placed it in his mouth. Satisfied the meat was heated through, he placed a few more short birch sticks on the coals, and from a small pile already provided, he lowered a layer of green moss over the entire fire. It would now smoke through the night and help cure the venison into a tough, delicious food that would sustain his family until the time of the freezing moon.

  He entered the dwelling again and the worn caribou-hide door fell in place over the opening behind him. The stillness that followed was broken only by several small whimpering sounds from the woman. It merged with distinct hissings of indrawn breath from within the shelter. After a while, all was still, save for the small waves that lapped and chuckled along the night shore.

  3

  The last days of autumn cooled and shortened. The ground became sogged with the frequent rains. And with only short forays around the sheltered campsite to augment their food supply, the need to hunt and gather farther afield was imperative. Some of the caribou meat remained, but most of the choice cuts had been eaten. The few shrivelled blueberries found close by were hardly worth the effort of getting soaked to the skin to find them. More abundant and easier to find were the firm red partridgeberries, but their flesh was still bitter and would need the first hint of frost to sweeten them. Later they would be picked by the man, woman, and the child by the baskets full. Mixed with venison and grease, they provided much energy. Some were allowed to freeze, and were eaten while still frozen. It was one of their fondest treats.

  One evening, the wind faded away into the east and the huge pond was black with calm. Even the towering aspens were still, their yellowing leaves falling down through the branches, making a faint rustling sound. Every small stream gurgled and merged with the pond in a steady melody. High above, the clouds parted and the deep blue of the fall sky could be seen. From the east end of the pond the sound of geese were heard, coming ever closer. Hidden behind the trees, the Beothuk watched, his spirits soaring. The sound of the large birds was a promise of good hunting and food. He could almost taste the livers and hearts from the noisy geese. The honking grew louder, and now he could see the arrowhead shape of the flock as it veered down for a landing at the shallow end of the pond.

  When they splashed down, they set up a loud honking that was a joy for the small family to hear. Looking around their new surroundings and seeing no threat, the tired birds soon settled down and began their endless search for food among the high grass, with only an occasional single honk from the ever-vigilant dominant male betraying their presence.

  Kop couldn’t see the geese from his vantage point near the campsite. He was separated from them by a long, low point of land that fingered out into the pond in a southerly direction. It was one of the reasons the campsite was chosen. Around the river mouths, game was always plentiful, and a camp too close would only scare it away. Pleased with the arrival of the geese and knowing they wouldn’t be leaving their resting place this late in the day, he waited for the birds to lower their guard. The campfire had burned down to a few coals. Tehonee would not allow one trace of smoke to rise and scare the wary birds. The hunting of the big birds for meat was as important as the caribou. Waterfowl was a major source of food for the Beothuk Indians.

  As the evening shortened, several other flocks of birds flew into the deep cove where the river spewed its contents. One of them was a group of whistling ducks, their small bodies flashing as they canted into their approach. Their noisy flying echoed across the still black pond and went rising up through the trees along the forested ridge.

  Choosing shorter arrows from his quiver, Kop left the camp area in the gathering dusk. He left firm instructions for his family to remain away from the shoreline, where they might risk being seen by the migrating birds. Holding the bow in his left hand, and looping his leather quiver filled with bird arrows across his back, he left the small clearing and without a word disappeared into the forest.

  He crept west for the first part of the way. Back from the shoreline, he followed an old game trail that traced the waterways. Nearing the head of the pond, the trumpet of the vigilant gander grew louder, the sound stirring the soul of the hunter. He slowed his pace to a stealthy trek among the trees, his eyes mindful of his footing, knowing the smallest sound would alarm the geese. He stepped on nothing he could step over. He was close enough now to peer through the smaller brush surrounding the pond to view the entire cove. The scene thrilled his hunting spirit. The end of the pond gave way to the mouth of the river, which twisted its way through the tall goose grass like a huge black eel before burying its head into the depths of the pond. Around the edge of the grass and swimming through the tall reeds were hundreds of ducks and geese. This secluded area of the pond was a favourite of the waterfowl, a place where they always returned annually.

  The point was behind him now. His destination was in sight—the blind, long since carefully built, right at the water’s edge where the river met the pond. He closed in on the blind in a crouching position and out of sight of the birds. This was the most crucial part of his stalk. Now several of the large geese were only a few feet from him. The hunting blind blended well with the dense growth along the bank. Still, he must approach with great stealth. The wary geese were not easily fooled.

  Reaching the cover of the blind, he knelt on the ground and didn’t move for several moments, not even to allow himself to peek through the disguise at the unsuspecting birds so close at hand. Not until he was sure that any minute sound of his travel had melded into the evening shadows did he slowly part the brush and stare out across the cove. Here the current of the river had moulded with the pond. The only sign of its movement were a few red leaves drifting on the calm surface. Sensing the wind would come out of the west, the geese were swimming toward the dying light and coming ever closer to the hidden hunter, the vee of their wake barely showing in the calm water.

  Raising his bow to the vertical to blend with the trees, he nocked one of the short arrows to the bowstring and waited. His line of sight was in perfect alignment with his aim—the whole place had been carefully prepar
ed for this hunt many days before. The first bird that came into his view was the high-necked gander, its head stretched full and proud, swimming several feet ahead of the trusting flock. The silent Beothuk waited, his muscles tense, his eyes never leaving the male bird. The slack bowstring drew taut, etched against the right side of his chin. Never once did he move his concentration to the other birds. The gander led the unsuspecting troop farther along the shoreline, and just for a second it stretched its neck back along its sleek body to preen the coarse black feathers of its tail. And Kop saw his chance.

  He pulled the bowstring all the way back, then loosed the dried birch arrow. The sound of its release was a mere rustle that went unnoticed by the other birds. The deadly bolt was fledged for only a second before it entered the hapless bird, where the neck met the broad chest, and buried itself to the shaft into the startled goose. The long, graceful neck reached toward the fading light, and the beak opened to scream its warning, but it suddenly fell and folded into the black water without making a sound.

  Behind the dead leader, the first of the flock swam on and, showing no sign of alarm, approached the fallen gander. Several of them poked their long necks below the surface, searching for the food the gander had found. While many of their heads were underwater, the deadly arrows were released again. Two more of the big birds met the same fate as the first, and still the feeding geese—many of them with only their webbed feet sticking above the surface—raised their heads above water without any sign of alarm. Kop couldn’t believe his good fortune. He waited for more of the birds to resume their feeding below water, then released two more arrows with the same deadly success.