The Orenda Joseph Boyden (12 page)

I listen to the rain hiss on water, the grunts of breath, the slosh of paddles dipping into the water in unison, the creaking of this canoe made, like my plate, of bark and resin and sinew, the scent of their bodies sharp, as musky and repellent as their food. I cannot comprehend how they live like this, an existence that to me is like hell. And yet, as the lightning flashes and I look to the
canoe beside me full of frightening men, they are lit with such a dangerous beauty that I immediately know Satan must control this land. What am I doing here?

In the canoe ahead, now just a stone’s throw from ours, the young girl rides with Bird. Two other canoes are far enough in front that I can’t see them, acting as lookouts and guides. I know I am the fourth of ten canoes. As the rain turns to a steady and cold drizzle, I’m left here sitting in my soaked wool to contemplate. They have put me in a place where I’m considered precious cargo, squeezed in among the tightly bundled beaver and marten and rabbit furs. The canoes are so weighted with them that the gunwales dip dangerously close to each wave. These Huron have certainly mastered their universe in a way that keeps them alive. I want the rain to stop.

—

TODAY WE REACH
what appears to be the mouth of a river pouring into this inland sea. The canoes, one by one, slow like great birds coming in to land. There’s no discussion, or any other visible communication. It’s as if these people act more like animals than humans. They seem to speak as if by some unseen communication.

Once the canoes have all beached, I ask the young man who spoke to me last night, the one named Tall Trees whom I’ve decided to call David, how it is they all know what the other is going to do before he does it. “How did everyone know to stop at this place?” I ask him.

He looks puzzled. “Did you not see the signs?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“Pay more attention, then,” he says, lifting a heavy bundle from the canoe that he swings onto his back. He pulls a leather strap attached to the pack over his forehead to help support the weight. He turns and walks into the forest that crowds the banks of this river.

I bend over and attempt to lift a pack from the canoe but can barely get it over the gunwale. I drop it back in and search out a lighter one.

The sauvage beside me pushes me aside and throws the pack onto his back and the leather cord over his forehead. “Damage my canoe,” he says, “and I’ll kill you.” I watch as he, too, slips into the forest.

Not knowing what else to do, I take out my rosary and pray while the men, like a line of worker ants, take pack after pack from the canoes and disappear into the darkness of the trees dripping with rain. Wandering over to Bird’s canoe in hopes the girl might be somewhere close by, I realize that if I stand here much longer, I’ll be left alone. The thought of huddling against the wind and staring out at this grey sea, the fear I still hold of an Iroquois war party emerging from around the bend in their own canoes or, worse, from the trees is a fear I cannot bear, and so I find a hide pack I recognize as Bird’s that’s quite manageable. Cradling it, I walk into the forest.

At first the path isn’t hard to follow, but not very far in, the trees swallow the light until it’s like dusk and I’m seized by panic, pushing through the thick forest without knowing if I should turn back or keep going. Stopping for a moment to look around, I realize that it will be impossible to retrace my steps. Thinking I hear voices just up ahead, I push deeper into the woods. Maybe the sauvages are teasing me, hiding and watching from behind the trees.

Now certain I can hear voices, I move as quickly as I can. Holding my arms and the hide pack up to protect my face from the branches that claw at me, I step out and into air, my feet scrambling to find some purchase. But it’s too late, and I tumble and tumble, rolling down what must be a cliff until, my head spinning and my ribs bruised, I end up on the bank of a creek.

Sitting up, I look around and see the embankment is so steep I won’t be able to climb back into the forest above. It wasn’t their voices I was hearing but this burbling creek.

The rain’s picked up since the beach, coming down hard enough that I have to squint my eyes. My cassock is slick with mud, and when I try to stand, its weight is too much for me. Racked by the stupidity of what I’ve done, I collapse into a heap and hold my head in my hands.
I know I’m crying because the water on my face is warmer than the rain. Curling up in a ball, weeping and shivering, I’ve finally reached my breaking point, and the voyage is only a few days old. Weeks more of this will follow, and that’s if I ever manage to find them. What if they don’t notice I’m missing and just paddle away? Or worse, what if they try to find me and can’t? Who could find me here? Even if I scream as loud as I possibly can, in this wind and rain and down in this depression, no one will hear.

My breath comes in hitches as I consider my options. Should I climb the bank and somehow find the trail again? Or do I choose a direction and walk along this creek in the hopes of stumbling upon them? Or do I just simply sit and wait for someone to find me? Please, Lord, tell me what to do. I turn my face up to the sky and feel the rain, and I beg of You, dear Jesus, to please show me a sign.

Lightning cracks so close by that the hair on my body stands up and my skin prickles, making me jump as if I’ve been thumped in the chest, and before I know it I’ve slipped into the frigid creek, banging my knee hard against a submerged rock. The current tugs me downstream, and the mud from my clothing turns the clear water all around me brown. I can feel the weight of it slipping from me like clay. Standing, shivering, I splash handfuls of water over myself, rubbing my cassock. If I’m to die in this cruel land, I will not die like some dirty animal. I begin to scrub, violent in my actions, angry now that I’ve foolishly allowed myself to end up in such a dire place, and in the anger there’s a bit of warmth.

I lift my heavy black robe up my body and struggle to pull it over my head. It makes a sucking sound as I finally wrench it free, so soaked and filth-encrusted that it weighs as much as a child. I swing it over my head with all my might and it smacks the water with a satisfying crack. I do it again, then again, releasing the frustration and miserable depression that these people have placed on my shoulders. I beat my cassock clean, so exhausting myself that my arms are too weak to lift it another time.

Holding on to the cassock, I allow myself to drift down the slow-moving creek, my body now warmer from the exertion as I bump into the occasional rock. I consider where I might be floating to and stare down at my pasty body encased in soaked cotton underclothing. I’m more gaunt than I’ve ever been. The length of my legs, of my torso, surprises me. I’ve not looked at myself for a long time. I’m too much a skeleton and make the decision here and now that, if I survive this day’s stupidity, I’ll force myself to eat more. Is that all right with You, Lord? My work of bringing these lost children to You might become a little less burdensome if I have the physical strength to do it.

It strikes me then as my cassock snags on a submerged bit of fallen tree that this creek must run somewhere, possibly to the big river I’m told we are to paddle up. It must. If I follow this creek I will, God willing, find the river they call the Snake, and hopefully find them as well.

I stand up shivering and wade to shore. There I squeeze what water I can from my cassock and pull it back over my head. Wool isn’t the worst material for this land. The sauvages are fascinated by it and ask all the time what animal it comes from. I try to explain what a sheep is, what domestication and livestock are, and the best I can do is try and explain that where I come from we keep animals the likes of which they couldn’t imagine in great numbers for our use. It is God’s plan. They laugh at this, the idea that one might keep herds of friendly deer or elk that walk happily to their slaughter whenever it’s time for the human to eat meat. Some ask openly if there aren’t consequences of a life so easy to live. The question fascinates me.

At least the rain has slowed to a drizzle. My teeth chatter as I hug myself, the black wool heavy as I begin to wend through the bushes that line the shore. I imagine returning to New France, stepping at last through the threshold of a real house and heading straight for the hearth. I can see the cast-iron pot hanging over the flame, smell the scent of mutton stew. I hope, dear God, that this path is the right one. I am at Your mercy, but only say the word and I will accept that
I am to die alone and will do so, with happiness, here in this wild place.

The brambles tug at my robe like needy children as I push through the thick bushes, and I can see this must be the most glorious patch of raspberries on earth. But I am half a season too early. Instead of ripe fruit, I’m presented with thousands of tiny thorns. So be it. Today has become a test, and, while it’s a day I didn’t expect, I hope now to please You.

Moments of sheer panic slip into moments of exhilaration when I consider that today might be the day that marks my journey from the physical world to the realm of the everlasting. If this creek leads nowhere instead of back to Bird’s party, then it will lead to You. In this way I console myself. Along the creek, I come across what must have recently been the bedding ground for some large animal, a deer or perhaps one of those beasts as big as a horse that they call a moose, the tall grass flattened in a circular fashion that, now with the sun peeking through cloud, seems like the perfect resting place. But no, I must push on.

I wade through the grass, fingering my rosary and hearing what might be faster water. Running through the last of the grass, I see the soil has become rocky, and the creek indeed runs into a river. I’m certain I smell the smoke of a fire.

Where the creek tumbles into the much bigger river, I turn to my left and I feel light-headed and so happy I have to hold in a scream when I see smoke rising from a fire and a few men resting by it. I’m about to shout out to them when it hits me like a slap. I realize I have no idea if these ones are Huron or Iroquois. What if I’ve stumbled across an enemy camp? I fall flat on the stones and bite my arm in the hope I haven’t been spotted.

Peering up, I see that these ones sit by a stack of bundles. They must be my sauvages. I lie here and watch, shivering for the heat of their small fire. Soon, others come out of the forest, some carrying a canoe over their heads, a few with packs slung over their shoulders.
That’s when the magnificent one I call David emerges. I stand, legs shaking, and move toward them.

They stare as I approach, their bodies steaming from exertion. The expression on their faces shows me they’re confused. They must wonder how it is I managed to come from the opposite direction. I wonder the same thing myself.

“I became lost,” I tell them. “In there.” I point to the forest behind us. They don’t answer. “My belongings,” I say, “are back at the big water. Must get.”

The men just shrug and sit back on their haunches by the fire. I stand behind them, trying to take in some of the heat as they talk amongst themselves. I don’t know what to do. The idea of heading back into the dark forest alone again is so frightful that I’d rather lose my earthly possessions, my chalice, the Hosts baked from sagamité, my journal and quill, my spare cotton underclothes, the book on the lives of the saints the Superior gave to me before my departure. These all can be replaced, soon enough, God willing, upon my arrival in New France. My most valuable possession, irreplaceable in this harsh world, is the one I have around my neck, and that I carry inside my chest. So I will sit calmly and await the rest of the travellers before we begin paddling upstream. If one of them sees my bag and decides to bring it to me, so be it. If it is left behind, so be it. I won’t go again into that forest alone.

When another group of men appears from the darkness of the bush, a canoe above their heads, I suddenly remember something horrible and my belly drops. What of Bird’s hide pack I’d been carrying? Where is it? I’ve left it somewhere. Where, though? I look around me, despite knowing with certainty that I hadn’t arrived here with it. It must be Bird’s. I’d taken it from his canoe and recognized it as his possession. Where did I lose it?

Recalling my steps, I remember it in my possession when I first became lost. I remember having it even in the moment before I fell down the cliff. In fact, the bag shielded my face from the brambles and
that is how I so blindly stepped out into thin air. I don’t recall seeing it after that. This must be where I lost it, back where I fell. Another group appears, a canoe on their shoulders as well. They are almost finished with the portage. I had walked for at least an hour along the creek. If I go immediately, I might get there and back in the same amount of time now that I know the route. I fear, though, that they will have already repacked the canoes and paddled off by then.

It’s best to just sit down with Bird and tell him what happened, that my intentions were honourable, that I was trying to be useful but then became lost. I can see his face turning red with anger when he realizes what I’ve done, that I’m slowing the voyage down. Can the bag’s contents be so very important? Of course they are. These people don’t travel with an ounce of unnecessary weight. Bird will be angry with me, though. I remember him almost killing me that morning. I can’t tell him.

I make my decision. If Bird or another says that he misses his pack, I will confess and apologize profusely and hope they don’t think I’m consorting with demons, something, I’ve realized as my language skills have grown, that I’m accused of quite often. If no one speaks out, then I won’t say a word and will leave it to You, Lord, to prove that my mistake wasn’t grievous. After all, in my desire to help I very well may have lost my own possessions, so is this not an even trade?

I watch as more and more of them come out of the darkness of the forest, gently placing the canoes in the water and reloading them, not talking now but set to the work. First one canoe pushes off, then another, the men bending deep at the waist with each stroke. Their progress is slow, and as they paddle in unison, I’m amazed by their strength and fortitude. How can we possibly make it all the way to New France, paddling for weeks against such a strong current? I will have to leave this up to them. The issue of this lost bag niggles, though. My stomach tells me I’m making an improper decision.