Blood Ties (49 page)

He stopped, turned, knife in one hand, ironwood club in the other. ‘See me, dogs that skulk under the hill,’ he sang. ‘See me and fear. For I am Otetian, the Red Shirt of the Bear clan. Come, feel the touch of my claw.’

Tagay kept going, increasing his speed till he was running full out. He could not pace himself here. The men who followed him were not trying to beat him, but kill him.

Behind him he heard the grate of cutting bone on bone, the thump of a club striking home. There was a shout of pain, a loud cry of ‘Bear’, the triumph clear in it, then nothing. All noise ceased and he was running, alone and fast through a forest, down a path that led to a river. Ahead, the sun was low, its beams coursing though the foliage, lighting the avenue of spruce and cedar down which he ran. Soon he was glimpsing water between the trees and the earth under his feet was harder, studded with pebbles. In another hundred strides he burst onto the beach where they had left the canoes. They were as they had been, drawn up and inverted on the shoreline, twenty paces before him. And in the midst of them stood a man with tattoos over his body.

Tagay could not stop running now. Not even when the man snatched up his bow, released his arrow. A stone made Tagay stumble and that stone saved him because the arrow passed over his shoulder while the stumble continued. Tagay hit the man at nearly his fullest speed, a sprawling run, head hard into the centre of the man’s chest. Both bodies tumbled backwards, Tagay’s weight on top, shoving the man down into the shallows of the river. There was a jarring thud and the man went instantly limp under him. Looking beneath the man’s head, he saw a sharp rock, thrust up like a pyramid. He used it to push himself up and when he brought his hand away, it was covered in blood.

The body floated in the shallows, bumping into other rocks. Tagay turned to the canoes, grabbed one and placed it on the water, throwing two cedar paddles into it. Then he heard the cries of warriors approaching on the path. They would be there in moments, and he would be offshore, alone, trying to paddle a craft he didn’t understand; he had proved inept enough at it the night before, coming to this island.

He pushed the boat ahead of him into the water. It caught in an eddy, then suddenly shot out into the stream. As he threw himself under one of the upturned canoes, he caught a glimpse of the other one entering the main river, disappearing downstream round the fold of land that made the bay. In another moment, feet crunched onto the pebbles of the beach.

‘He has killed Hosahaho. And a canoe is missing. Count them and you will see. We came with eight.’

The voice was unmistakable. The man whose moccasined feet Tagay could see in the gap between the upturned canoe and beach was Black Snake. Though he had spent years amongst the Deer people, he had retained the harsher accent of the people of his birth.

Other feet, a dozen pairs, were in view, some bare, some swathed in deer skin. But the man who spoke next had square-heeled boots. Eight weeks before Tagay had heard those boots slapping on cobble stones, for the wearer had stalked him through the alleys of Paris. And the language the man spoke was the one spoken in that city.

‘He who escapes is the one you promised would fall to my knife alone. Had you not better pursue him if you are to keep the bargain?’ said Gianni Rombaud.

The words were translated by a third voice. Tagay heard Black Snake spit, then say, ‘He is impatient, this Young Dog, and likes to command. Tell him what I tell the others, to make him happy.’

Black Snake then ordered four of his warriors to take two of the canoes and catch the fugitive. Tagay shrunk into himself as he waited for his cover to be ripped away. But he heard the sounds of other craft being launched on either side of him.

‘Tell him that I saw this Tagay paddle and he does so like a woman and will not get far. They will catch him and bring him to your knife’s edge at our village.’

The words, more or less, were rendered into French. At the same time, the canoe just next to Tagay’s was inverted and its bow placed in the water.

‘And where does Black Snake go?’ The French came again. ‘To bring me the woman as you promised? Remember, she must be brought before she buries her Oki at the full moon. Otherwise he cannot have all the gifts I promised him.’ Black Snake, of all the Tattoed savages, had displayed the keenest interest in learning of the new weaponery. He had sat, silent and fascinated while Gianni brought a Falcon, one of the ship’s small cannon, ashore and began to rig it in the front of a rowboat.

The translation was greeted with the sound of more spitting. ‘Tell him I go to the village of our enemy, where I will still be greeted as a brother. Tell him what makes him happy – that I will capture his sister and her powerful Oki and bring them to him before the full moon. And I will persuade the people of the Deer that it is safest to stay in their palisades and wait – till all our tribe and allies are gathered and they attack the sunrise after the full moon.’ The canoe was launched and Black Snake added from the water. ‘But do not tell him the truth – that I have seen his sister’s legs and felt her breasts and hunger for the rest that was denied me. So I will take what I hunger for, and when I have done, I will kill her and eat her heart and steal her six-fingered Oki. And so I will have her witch’s power. Do not tell him that, because I want to watch his face when he sees her long black hair, tied to the shaft of my war lance. And when he has seen this, when I have taken the big fire stick he has promised me, I will kill him too.’

Black Snake, the man who began to put some of his words into French, all the warriors, laughed. Tagay ground his face into the shale of the beach, using the pain of sharp stones to distract him from the terrible urge he felt to leap from his hiding place and attack. But he listened still, as the man who promised to bring disaster to all those he loved paddled away, while those who remained discussed what had to be done next. It seemed that two more of the Deer people had escaped the slaughter. They were being hunted and those on the beach would join in that hunt – for it was very important that none escaped to warn of Black Snake’s treachery.

‘Shall we leave someone here to guard these?’ a voice asked as a foot kicked Tagay’s shelter.

It was the translator who answered. ‘It is better that we hunt together. Hosahaho has found out that these deer people still have antlers to gore us with.’ There was a spattering of laughter. ‘Let us break in the bottom of their craft so if they come back here they cannot use them. Then we can hunt them down in our own time.’

There were grunts of assent. Immediately, Tagay heard the sound of tearing bark and the next moment a rock broke through the fragile skin of his shelter, crashing into the stones a hand’s breadth from his face. He tensed, looked up through the head-sized gash to the pale sky above. The thrower was just in the process of turning away, satisfied with his aim. Tagay saw fair skin, dark hair and gleaming eyes, half the face that emerged from a lace collar.

‘Come, to the hunt,’ said Gianni Rombaud. ‘It is time I gave you all another lesson with the fire sticks.’

Eager voices receded, soon swallowed up by the forest. Tagay waited, every second that passed an agony, forcing himself to stay still. When he could stand it no longer, he cautiously emerged from under the wrecked craft. The beach was deserted.

Swiftly checked, each canoe proved a ruin. Cursing, he walked up and down the shoreline, looking out to the mass of land opposite. The quality of the setting sun’s light made the forests there stand out in great detail. He could even see the outline of the taller tree-tops.

‘We rowed downstream and across,’ he muttered as he paced. ‘It took only a few hours. Could I …?’ He looked again, tried to will the opposite shore nearer than it was. He had always been a strong swimmer. When the King had summered in the Loire he had spent days avoiding the Marquise by traversing that great river, back and forth. But the Loire was a stream compared to the water before him, that the French called the St Lawrence.

A pistol shot carried clearly from the forest, muffled shouts of triumph, some laughter, brought to him on the wind. They were hunting down the last of his people. When they were done, they would leave the island, for they did not know he was still here. When the last canoe set out, he would be safe. Safe but trapped – and the man who had vowed to rape and kill his Anne, and then destroy his tribe, would be free to wreak that evil unchallenged.

There was no choice. Pulling the odd-shaped stone from his pouch, he said, ‘Donnaconna. Uncle. Chief. Protect me now.’

He replaced the stone, made sure the drawstring was tight and the pouch firm to his belt. Then, as he walked to the water, he trod on one of the paddles. They were made of lighter wood, so that they would float if dropped over the side. It gave him an idea and, dismantling his bow, he used the string to swiftly tie both paddles across his back. When he entered the chill water, they made it slightly awkward to use his arms in an overstroke. But they supported him as he kicked with his legs.

He got offshore, the calmer water letting him go as he would. But as soon as he passed the spit of land, a current took him, pushing him downstream, away from the direction he wanted. There was no hope of swimming against it so he let it take him. At least it pushed him partially toward the opposite shore also, if away from Stadacona. When the force lessened he kicked out hard, until some other current seized him and he was able only to kick, to float with the paddles. But gradually he realized he was not getting much nearer the shore he desired, could not make headway toward it. He looked the way he had come and it was just as far. Despair grew.

A sound came, above the slapping and sucking of the waters. He sought its source and saw what he first took to be part of a tree; then, as he came closer, he realized there was a head under the interwoven branches. The antlers of a stag were cresting the water just ahead of him.

It had to be the one he’d spared! With the strength born of sudden, desperate hope, he kicked hard. The paddles resisted the water so he discarded them. Still the creature seemed to be moving away, despite his hard pulling against the current. Then a rush of water pushed him suddenly up against the animal. One huge eye, bright with panic, regarded him. He grabbed for the antlers, his hands slipped down the ridged surfaces, then held. The buck tossed its huge head, shrugged him off. He grabbed again, half-hoisting himself onto the animal’s shoulders, attempting to thread his arms through the thicket of horn, to lock and hold. He got his grip, had partially mounted the beast’s back, when it suddenly plunged beneath the surface of the water, taking him down just as he’d exhaled with his efforts. Water filled his mouth, his nostrils, closed over his head. His body felt instantly empty, a void of air. He tried to free his arms, but whichever way he pulled the animal seemed to twist its head to hold him, to keep them joined. As they plunged deeper, Tagay’s arms lost their strength and, in doing so, slipped free. Immediately the stag kicked hard for the surface, leaving him behind.

Light was above him but it seemed such an effort to reach up to it, so he allowed himself just to float toward what he knew he could not reach. Besides, he was beginning to enjoy the way the sun’s beams filled the trail of bubbles above him, transforming them into a ladder of air that his limbs were too tired to climb. At its summit, four hooves beat the water, creating new rungs.

Ungrateful beast
, he thought, then smiled. An animal did not know gratitude, had no need for any such human trait. And Tagay was losing what made him human, he could feel it, shedding like a stag shed its antlers, merging into the elements that surrounded him, the green water, the yellow light of his land.

Above him, so far away, the beast continued its journey. As it went, it drew shadows in its wake, filling the sky.

Go, brother
, Tagay thought, reaching up almost gratefully into the darkness. He had been born again. And all things born must die.

The night was still, broken only by the waves on the shore and the sharp cries of a hunting owl. The darkness was intense, for huge clouds had rolled over the sky, blotting out the waxing moon. To the north, downriver, a storm lashed lightning, thunder crashed. Gaka had told her that it was the sound made by a giant bird in the sky, flapping its wings. So far their village had escaped the rain Anne scented in the closeness of the air.

The dark was pierced only by the shifting flames of her fireplace. She had stolen a tiny ember from the hearth, carried it there in one of the bowls, nursed it with kindling then sticks. Her vigil was lonely enough without its little light. No one else had come to watch for the returning hunters. ‘They will be here when they are here,’ Gaka had said. But no one had her need.

Tagay!
She had to tell him of Black Snake, of the danger she was now in. Gaka had warned her to be cautious. Black Snake was a war chief and highly respected, accusations against him would have to have the weight of much evidence behind them – and the word of a group of enamoured boys, who had not really understood what they saw, would not be enough.

She stared out toward the water, blind beyond her flames, listening. They were meant to be back before nightfall; all the other hunting parties had returned with their different kinds of game. Only the venison that the hunters sought on the island was missing from the full moon feast, three days away.

A dog howled in the village above her. She could just hear a faraway voice telling it to hush. A wave reached the shore, bringing a different type of sound, as if something had grounded on the shale. She called out, ‘Tagay?’ but there was no reply.

A sudden shriek just behind her, had her scrabbling on her knees away from the sound. Looking back in panic, she caught the shadowed outline of spread wings, firelight glimmered on talons, something small wriggling in the heart of the darkness. The owl immediately flew skywards, giving a sharp cry of triumph. She rose, taking deep breaths, trying to follow the bird’s soaring shape. Gradually, her heart calmed.