The Orenda Joseph Boyden (8 page)

I smile for the first time in a long while. I move, then, to leave, but think better of it. “I will be deeply upset if you prove him a liar,” I say, but she’s already turned her face up to the last of the day’s light. If she hears me, she doesn’t let me know.

—

HOW IS IT THAT
I
lose one family, a family that I love so much, only to be ensnared by these two demanding and difficult children, these two beings who drive me mad? I guess this is the way of our world. First it’s the Crow, wandering around the village, talking like a damaged boy to anyone who’ll listen, mostly those who need a good laugh. And now it’s the girl, slipping out of the longhouse at odd times and disappearing through the palisades, where it’s not safe for anyone to find herself alone. I’ve come to realize she’s a wild animal, a wolf pup, perhaps, taken in by a human and too afraid of the darkness to run back into the forest, instead snapping at her feeder’s hand out of anger and self-pity. I’ll win her over. It’s just a matter of time, sweet one. I know you’d balk at my comparing her to an animal, to a pet, but she really is like that. She won’t bathe. She certainly isn’t house-trained. She refuses to eat in front of me, instead taking her meal to a dark corner of the longhouse. She doesn’t speak unless it’s in a growl when I confront her or worse, when she whimpers and speaks out as she sleeps at night. I watch her, and she acts like a dreaming animal even then, her legs twitching as if she’s running, her hands contracting into claws as she cries out. I do not yet understand her. But I’m patient. I will.

I haven’t visited Gosling in a week so that she’ll know I don’t like her games. She can have her Crow. I’m thankful, though, that she’s shown me a good path for what needs to be done. Something must be done. The others here, the elders included, are blinded by the promise of riches, and this makes me sad. This Crow doesn’t bring that, although some claim he promises them everything they could
ever want if only they just kneel down and reach their arms up to him. I won’t be one of them.

—

THE WATCHMEN
have told me that she sneaks out at a break in the palisades. They keep an eye on her for as long as they can but when she wanders into the forest by the river that leads to the big lake, they shrug their shoulders and say there’s not much they can do about it.

Today, I decide to follow her. Leaving before she does, I get comfortable in a thick stand of cedar by the river’s edge near where weirs have been set for the spring fishing. The clouds have finally given in to the sun this afternoon. To keep myself from boredom, I make a list of those I’d like to bring along on the summer paddle to the pale and hairy ones. Only special ones. Fox will certainly come. I’ve not asked him yet but I know. There are many eager young men in the village, and before making my decision I’ll watch how hard they work at the clearing of fields and other duties that young men shy away from. So much is learned by seeing how well or how poorly someone accomplishes a job he dislikes.

When I think that she won’t be escaping the village today, I hear footsteps and a low thrum of speech. I’d been examining the scratchings of turkeys in the dirt near me, vowing to come back here soon to hunt. Now I see who it is, walking slowly and mumbling to himself, wearing a strange wide-brimmed charcoal hat that shades him from the sun, his charcoal robes brushing the ground, his hands held behind his back, as if he’s a prisoner of his own doing. Light glints off the Crow’s necklace, and as he talks to himself I wonder what he’s saying, if he’s mad or really in conversation with someone I can’t see. In this tall, gaunt creature I can see a power I don’t want to acknowledge. He’s absolutely unafraid of his surroundings, and yes, this is stupidity, but it also suggests what Gosling would say is his understanding that what will become of him will become of him, regardless of the little he can
do to try and prevent it. He strides, I see, as if his path is already laid out for him. This one does have a power we don’t yet understand. It’s in his walk and in his mumbles.

The childish urge to jump screaming from the cedar and make him collapse in terror comes over me. But I won’t do that. He walks by close enough that I can reach out and touch his foot from where I sit on the ground, cross-legged. He has no idea I’m even here. I know he’s not long for our world, and Gosling’s suggestion for his demise on the Snake River won’t be difficult to make happen. Some little tug of sympathy for him is snuffed out by the knowledge that what I must do to him I do for my people.

I’m about to head home when I’m surprised to see Snow Falls walk up behind the Crow and call out to him with her strange voice. She must have somehow damaged it in all the turmoil she’s endured before ending up in this place. It sounds scratchy with age or as if she’d once been strangled and the voice never healed. I don’t like seeing her beckon him, something she’s never once done to me. He stops his reverie and turns to her. I can see the white flash of smile in the shadow his wide hat throws.

She turns her face up to him and I see how she’s pocked with old scars from some foreign sickness that came to our shores with the French and the Dutch and the English. It makes me wonder about her past, about what I erased forever that day in the snow. How different could her family have been from my own? We all share many traits, surely, including the desire for retribution, and for the return of those loved ones lost.

I watch these two stare at each other for a long time, and it takes everything in my power not to jump up and stop this. Did I not warn the Crow never to go near her again? Did I not warn him what will happen to him if he does? The girl holds her hand up and hesitatingly touches a finger to the necklace. The Crow tenses, not sure if he should let her, or maybe fearful that she’ll yank it from his neck. She finally opens her mouth, asks him something in a quiet enough tone
that I can’t hear what she says. He takes a few moments to gather the words, to respond, his face working hard to find them.

When he does speak, I can make out some words. Fawn. Dead. Fish. Live. Eat. Dove. He seems stuck on many of these words, and I’d question his intelligence if I didn’t know better. At least he’s learning some new ones. He then turns to walk away. Smart Crow. Had he carried on any further, those in my longhouse having heard what I’d told him that day, I wouldn’t have to plan the ruse of his demise. The elders know this girl is my daughter, and my longhouse would come to my aid if I were threatened with banishment for killing him. And so why don’t I? Kill him for his behaviour with my daughter? I hear Gosling telling me to be patient, that to leave my fate up to anyone but myself is never wise. I am the hunter, not the prey. The Snake River idea is a good one, though I still don’t know how I’ll explain why I chose such a dangerous route. Gosling must see something in the future. She’s told me it will work itself out.

It’s time to talk to Fox about the summer’s travel, so I’ll sneak away. The girl is still staring at the Crow as he wanders back toward the palisades, his head bent and mouth mumbling once more. I can see in her posture that she’s confused, and I’m surprised she doesn’t realize it’s because he dare not disobey me. When he should be treated like a prisoner, the elders have said he should be treated as a guest. So be it. And clearly he’s a guest who understands his limits. The girl will just have to come to terms with this. Sometimes, it’s not getting what we want that offers us the most important lessons.

As I smile to myself for being so wise, the girl calls out to the Crow again. It’s not a word at all, but the plaintive call of a dove. He slows down but keeps walking. She calls in that tone once more and he stops. She runs the short distance to him. They stand face to face, each taking a turn speaking. She then extends her hand, palm open, to him. He hesitates before taking it. I clench dirt in my fists. He kneels down to her level and lifts his hand. She closes her eyes. With his thumb, he traces some sign on her forehead. When he’s done, she opens them.
They stare at each other for what feels like a long time. He stands then, her hand still in his, and they walk a few steps.

That’s when the girl turns her gaze to where I’m crouching and grins. My face flushes. She knows I’ve been here all along. She knows I watch.

IS ANYTHING IN THE WORLD THAT SIMPLE?

Fox raises his eyebrows when I tell him how many I want to come with us on our summer journey. We sit by his fire near the door of our long-house, dipping strips of smoked fish into our ottet. It’s early spring, after all, and the fish, we pray as we consume them, will continue to be plentiful.

“That’s a war party, friend, not a trading party,” he says. “Do you realize how much that will cost you? You’ll owe others and they won’t owe you this summer.”

I’ve never held anything back from him, but for the first time, I decide that I need to. I’m not quite sure I want to include him in my scheme, especially if it fails. Best not to let him know so if anything goes awry he can honestly tell the elders he’s innocent of wrong-doing. I tell him something about how many furs the Anishnaabe have trapped this winter and traded to us that in turn we will paddle to the French. Fox just nods his head and looks into my eyes. I turn my head away, and in this motion I remember the Crow touching his thumb to the girl’s forehead. In the flush of anger I feel even now in my face, I’ve never been more resolved.

“Given how life has been between us and the Haudenosaunee lately,” I say, “there’s no difference between a war party and a trading party anymore.”

“Which route to take, then?” he asks. “Especially if we’re really to travel with a hundred men?”

For the second time in moments, for only the second time in my life, I lie to my friend. “We’ll see,” I say. “When the time’s right, we shall see.”

We eat in silence then, and I once more convince myself that putting Fox in danger, never mind the young men who will come with us, is small payment for ridding our community of the scourge that has arrived and that won’t stop coming. And to think I’m the one who brought him here. The elders asked me to do it when they heard last autumn that the French wanted us to accept him, but still. I should’ve tried harder to let our pursuers capture him on that day we were chased last winter. He somehow escaped them, I don’t know how, even as he carried the girl.

“There’s one more thing,” I finally say. “A favour I need to ask of your wife.”

Fox lifts his chin slightly, urging me to go on.

“Our summer paddles are never safe and”—I pause, searching for the right words—“given how dangerous it can be on our travels to the French, I don’t think it wise to bring my new daughter.” I tell him I know the girl is difficult and more trouble than most would think she’s worth, and what I ask is an immense favour for a woman already burdened by the worry for her husband away on such a long and risky trip. “But will you ask your woman,” I continue, “if the girl can stay back with her this summer? There’s so much she can teach the child.”

Fox smiles. “There’s no denying that Snow Falls is a strange one.” He realizes his words, and looks up to me, a little embarrassed. “I admit that my wife worries sometimes for the girl’s head. And she certainly appears to cause you to sleep poorly.” He shrugs. “I can’t speak for my wife, but I can’t imagine she would say no.” Fox scrapes his ottet bowl with his fingers and licks them. “Of course,” he says after a few moments. “We are all family, no? And now that it’s been decided to move the village this summer, the extra hands will be good for my wife.”

—

LIFE APPEARS NORMAL
to me as spring grows warmer. I’ve asked another household to keep the Crow for a short while, as I secretly fear that I’ll strike out and kill him if I see him touch my daughter again. The household, on the far side of the village, is happy to do it. They’re patient and sit for days on end with him, trying to teach him our language. They hope this will attract more visitors who always come bearing gifts in order to watch and hear the spectacle. At first I remember what Gosling said about his learning our tongue and what it will hasten, but then I realize it’s all fine. Soon enough, he’ll be dead.

I send Snow Falls out planting most days, and she’s good with a digging tool and carefully soaks and then counts out the kernels of corn for each hole in the dirt. I worry for the lack of rain, though. At this time last year there was almost too much, but the earth today is drier than I like it. And the air is noticeably warmer. When midday comes I find myself removing my clothes to the sun, something I don’t normally do until summer. My usual job is to clear trees for more land, but now that we’re moving the village, there’s no need. Instead, I go back to the longhouse to decide what will be taken and what will be left behind.

Both in these fields and the new ones a day’s walk from here, we plant the three sisters. The corn, if rains come, will be waist high when I leave in the summer, the beans showing off their lush leaves, and the squash blossoms blooming the colour of the setting sun. This is what I hope but would never dare speak out loud for fear of offending any of their okis.

—

FOR THREE WEEKS
we catch barely any fish, and this, combined with the lack of spring rain, has all the houses worried. Normally at this time of year both are plentiful. Each house has asked the one who understands the fish the strongest to pray with all of us for it to return. Our man is Fox, and I listen intently each night as spring dwindles away,
as he talks and sings to the fish, begging our brother to come back to us. How have we offended you? Let us know and we will correct our behaviour. Fox, a very good fisherman, has a special relationship to them, and even has a sturgeon on his stomach that his wife took a whole winter tattooing their first year of marriage. Each night he asks us to lie on our backs as he does, fifty of us in the longhouse, adult and child alike, to listen to what he has to say to the oki of the fish. And each night he begs of us never to burn the bones of fish but to bring them back to the water instead. Fox pleads with the fish that we respect it deeply and that we, the people, would never burn its bones.