The Orenda Joseph Boyden (15 page)

I can’t hear my warriors descend on the other canoes, but in the steady drum of rain in the growing dark, I know my men are evis-cerating the enemy. I take a large breath and pull my paddler under the surface and he struggles against me fiercely. I reach for his neck with my right hand and shove my knife into it, and this causes him to struggle harder. I can feel ribbons of his warm blood in the cold water and as I stay under with him, each of his kicks, each of his swings pump more blood from his neck until, in the dark, I imagine the creek is red all around us. His fight slows to spasms, and when I’m sure he’s dead, I burst up and take a deep breath. Fox has already smashed in the head of his enemy, and in a flash of lightning I see that he stands ready to help me if I need it.

Their canoe floats capsized a short distance downstream and we make our way to it. The rain continues to pound and lightning punctuates the gloom of the night. I don’t worry about the others. Our
numbers are overwhelming and my young men hungry for the glory, the bragging rights of battle. I’m glad not to be our enemy tonight.

As we reach the canoe and turn it back over, lifting it from the shallow creek to rid it of the water, Fox points to the Crow still farther down, lit briefly by lightning, fighting to keep his head above water, his mouth, for those brief seconds we can see him, frozen in a scream.

“Your problems are solved,” Fox shouts over the hissing water. The Crow will drown, and I won’t be blamed for his loss in the heat of battle.

This canoe we’ve taken is a fine one. I can see that it was either stolen or bartered from an Anishnaabe. I run my hand along the birch-bark, note how carefully each long strip has been sewn and rosined against leaking. It’s very light and will be very quick. Haudenosaunee don’t have access to birch like this where they come from and travel in much lesser elm-bark canoes that rarely last a whole summer. “This one is yours,” I shout to Fox. “It’s perfect for your size and strength.” He grins. “I’ll stay here on the bank. Check on the others and let me know what you find out.” Fox nods and disappears into the rain.

I sit on the bank and allow my hands to stop shaking from the rush of the fight. It’s cold here, but a good fire isn’t too far away. As lightning flashes again, I look to where I saw the Crow last struggle, but he isn’t there anymore. He must have slipped under.

Curiosity gets the better of me and I stand, telling myself I’m simply moving to get warm. I walk down the bank and search for where the Crow might be. In another flash, I see his dark robe billowing in the water. I walk into the creek, the water chest high here, and turn him over. He appears dead. I lift him from behind and drag him to the bank, laying him out on his back. I consider cutting the leather straps from his bound wrists. I’m not sure why. Instead, I reach down and place my hand under his neck, lifting so that his mouth opens. Both hands on his chest, I kneel above him and push down. Nothing. I push again. Still nothing. I tell myself I do this to make sure this demon is dead. And then I push down on his chest again. With each push,
I begin to tell myself that if he comes back to life, he will prove me right, that he is a sorcerer and I will then slit his throat. With each push, I begin to tell myself that if I am to bring him back to life, maybe I can control his power, that it might become mine.

When I’m about to stop my attempts to revive him, he sputters and water erupts from his throat. I knew it was too good to be true. He takes great gasps and spits up more water. His body quakes. He sucks in air and some heat begins to return to him. The rain has stopped and a partial moon throws faint light that makes him appear blue. He really is a demon.

Something in me, though, as he breathes deeper and stops gagging, feels relieved. What have I done now? What have I done to my people and to myself?

I SAW YOU, LORD

I saw You, Lord, when I drowned that night. I saw You come down to me and felt Your hand take mine. It was then I realized it for certain. I no longer need to be afraid in this land of savagery. You guided me here, after all, and the lightning I saw flashing in the sky was Your light. I am a changed man. And I’m no longer fearful in this troubled world.

We’ve paddled for many days since the battle on the lake, and the men around me are even more watchful now that we’ve entered the Iroquois country. Surely, vengeance will be on the minds of the vanquished. I ministered to at least a dozen enemy warriors and offered them last rites before they died. Since there are four fewer men in our canoes, I’ve taken to paddling, remembering the words of the one I call David that I must be fully dedicated if I am to accept this work. Certainly, the hard work keeps my mind focused and I sleep the last nights without dreams, even the muttering of the wounded men in our party not waking me.

—

THIS IS THE COUNTRY
that haunts me still. I’m sure of it. Back when I first came to this land, when the Algonquin tribe promised me safe passage to the Huron and then left me alone on the shore and paddled away like cowards, this is where I huddled and prayed and feared for
my life for almost a week. I even think I recognize the island I hid upon as we now canoe past it, the same island where I contemplated my approaching death. I begged You there, Lord, to do with me as You saw fit, and when I ran out of my meagre supplies and could no longer see with clear vision, I smelled the smoke of a fire one evening. It was the Iroquois war party that had scared off my Algonquin companions. I was sure of it.

And that is when I made my decision. Rather than starve to death even as the mosquitoes feasted on me, I decided that martyrdom was the better option. Taking my chalice in my left hand and my crucifix in the other, I marched straight into the midst of their small camp, saying the Lord’s Prayer in Latin with as steady a voice as I could muster. The men shouted and scurried back when they saw me.

It was then I realized they wore their hair long and braided in the Kichesipirini fashion. I knew that these were allies of the Huron, and I collapsed in relief, my body near spent from starvation and fear. Given my condition, those Kichesipirini must have thought I was a madman, or possibly a magician of some sort. They debated all evening as to what to do with me, I am sure, for their language is nothing like the Huron’s. They talked and pointed and talked some more.

The next morning they made a place for me in one of their canoes and took me to their autumn hunting camp, where I bided my time until they eventually, that winter, brought me by snowshoe to Bird and his small hunting party. Despite this not even happening a year ago, it feels, Lord, as if a lifetime has passed.

—

TODAY, THE CANOES
serving as advance scouts come racing back toward us at full speed. My stomach drops as I wait to see the pursuing Iroquois, gleaming heads and painted faces, the muscles of their bodies straining in chase. Instead, a great cry rises from the men around me as they take their paddles and drum them on the sides of their vessels.
The two scouting canoes then turn and disappear once more around the crook in the wide river. The men in our boats dig paddles into the water and turn ferocious with their strokes. It’s only when we make the bend do I understand. First I see the smoke before I smell what I haven’t in a long time. A scent I can only describe as Christian man, the scent of civilization, comes on the wind. A tannery, the butcher’s shed, the wool and cotton and leather of the tailor, the manure of the stable, all of it comes at once on the breeze and I breathe deeply, my eyes welling with tears now that I’ve returned to a place I thought I might never see again, this island of humanity in the wilderness.

Habitation. New France. My salvation rises up sharply from the banks of this wide river. Champlain chose the place wisely. A clear view of the water and land on all sides, a cliff steep enough to prevent frontal attacks, the palisades thick and well maintained, with stone buildings like anchors behind them. This sprawling bit of the old world in the new is our foothold, the womb that will birth the next great civilization. I scramble from the canoe, nearly tipping it over in my rush to the gates.

Guards in their helmets and shining breastplates stare down at me from the palisades, pikes in their hands glistening in the afternoon sun. One turns his head to call to others. I hear the clatter as more make their way up the steps and heads begin to appear all along the length of the fort. My legs feel weak as I stare up at the men. They stare back down at me, looking confused, some of them even a little frightened.

“Will you let me in, then?” I finally ask, and my voice, gravelly with the journey and unaccustomed to my own language, breaks the spell.

A young soldier, no more than a boy, startles and mutters, “Of course, Father,” before his dirty blond head disappears. I listen to the shout of orders and the feet of men in the dirt as logs are lifted and the gates are opened to me. My Huron have stayed on the river by their canoes, and I realize now that of course the sight of me, a lone and dishevelled Jesuit appearing out of the wilderness, would fascinate these ragtag soldiers.

I’m taken to the priests’ residence, my knees shaking in anticipation. So much to tell! So much to share! I fear I’ll cry when I open my mouth. The young blond soldier covers his face with a filthy rag before knocking on the thick door, then he slips away, muttering something under his breath. I look to see where he’s gone but already he’s disappeared down the dirt path that leads back to the palisades.

Nothing stirs. No one comes. I lift my hand and knock on the door myself, my fist light on the wood, then heavier when still I hear nothing behind it. Then comes coughing and the slow scuffle of feet. I want to shout that it’s Christophe, and I’ve returned from the wilderness with stories to tell and God’s word in my heart. When the door finally opens, I don’t at first recognize the old man who stands there, a handkerchief in his hand, his skin so papery it’s near translucent in the light. He squints, and as he raises up a hand to ask me in, his body convulses in hacking coughs. It’s only when he looks at me, the handkerchief bloody with his sickness, that I recognize him, a priest not much older, healthy as a donkey when I left this place, now crooked and dying.

“I thought you were one of them,” he says.

I wait for him to say more, but he turns and walks back into the shadows. I follow.

“Others are to arrive any day now to take my place,” he says. “This is God’s will.”

We sit and talk in the pantry by a fire, Xavier shivering in a blanket beside it despite the summer day’s heat.

“Many sick now,” he says.

“You should be outside in the fresh air and sun,” I admonish.

“Too painful on the eyes,” he says, lifting his hand to cover them, as if even the idea of the sun is too much. I know from this it’s the epidemic.

I want to cover my mouth, my face. I want to leave this place now. But where would I go? God, you are telling me to be strong. I will be strong for You.

“How are the others?” I ask. I think of François, of young Joseph, of the others I left behind.

He shakes his head. “The sickness has been bad,” he says. “This last winter especially. A boat with the ones who were to join you arrived just before the freeze.” He wipes his nose with the bloody rag. “They must have brought it with them. No greens all winter on top of it, and half of us are sick now. Or dead.”

I keep my head bowed and listen. “Word is of another ship coming soon?” I finally ask.

He nods. “If it doesn’t arrive before this year’s freeze, then we’re all doomed.”

I want to tell him that we are only into the height of summer now, that months stretch out luxuriously before us. But then I remember how fast the cold comes in this land, that one afternoon I might sweat with just the idea of movement, and the next I shiver and freeze. “Today is a good day,” I say instead. “Today is a blessed day.”

He wants to nod, I think, but instead coughs blood into his handkerchief.

—

SIEUR DE CHAMPLAIN
has sent a courier with the news that he’d like me to join him for dinner tonight. He’s asked that some of my Huron companions join me, especially the one called Bird. He wants to meet the warrior chief whose reputation certainly seems to precede him. I leave the safety of the palisades, the same blue-eyed waif allowing me departure through the heavy gates. I can feel his eyes on my back as I walk down toward the river and the encampment of the Huron, wondering why he’s so fascinated with me. I ask the warrior David where Bird might be. He shrugs and goes back to whittling down a straight branch that I imagine will become an arrow.

I walk through the camp, searching, asking different warriors if they know where Bird is, and I receive the same cold reception from all
of them. Finally, I see Fox. He sits on his haunches, staring out at the wide river in front of us. Despite his diminutive size, he is incredibly strong. I saw with my own eyes the speed and agility of his murderous ways, and my revulsion, my terror of this little man, causes my hands to shake. But all I need to do to calm down is remember the light, the warmth that I know awaits me when I’m called by You.

“Why do your men treat me so coldly?” I ask. These Huron don’t like pointed questions like this, I’ve learned, the questions that force them to give me either the desired answer or none at all. They never, I’ve learned, ask one another questions such as this. They consider it the height of rudeness. I know etiquette dictates that I ask more gently, something along the lines of “Have I done something to hurt or offend you, my cousin?” But asking Fox in so pointed a way helps to conquer my fear of him. These people talk around the issues, but now I refuse.

When he doesn’t answer, I try a different approach. “My Great Chief gives a feast tonight,” I say. “Bird comes. You come.” I can sense the slight change in his countenance with my words. After all, his pride, all of these people’s pride, is everything to them.

“Where is this feast?” he asks.

I point up the hill. “At Great Chief’s longhouse,” I say.

“I will tell Bird,” Fox answers. “We will come.”