The Orenda Joseph Boyden (31 page)

Isaac stops here and I expect him to cry but instead he smiles. “I feared more for the girl’s safety than my own,” he says. “I swear. But as we were bundled off to the enemy camp, I watched one of their warriors barter with the others to allow him to adopt her, for, as it turns out, he’d lost his own daughter to one of you.” They nod at this, transfixed.

“When we entered their camp, men were lined up on either side, and as I walked between them they rained down blows with fists and clubs until I thought it was time for me to die. But this was just the beginning of it.”

Isaac takes a breath, the room silent but for the crackling fire. “Two of them each took one of my hands, and while the others held me down, they brought my fingers to their mouths and chewed until they spit them out. This took over an hour.” His stumps shake now. “But they were not yet done.”

Isaac lowers his stumps and struggles to lift his robe from his body. “Your words will suffice,” I whisper to him. I can hear those nearby tsk-tsk me.

“All that night they took sharpened sticks of fire and poked and prodded and penetrated me until I passed out. And then they revived me with cold water and began again. When it seemed I would bleed to death from the wounds on my hands, they cauterized them with red-hot axe heads.”

I want Isaac to stop now, but still he continues. I peer over to Gabriel, who stands stoically.

“After two days of torture they let me rest for a whole day, feeding me by hand and pouring cold water into my mouth and binding my wounds with salves as tenderly as if I were their child. I expected the worst was still to come, but this is when they told me I would live if I desired, if I made them a promise.”

The crowd leans toward him.

“They made me promise that if I were to leave this country forever and return to my home, if I were to carry the message back that my kind were not welcome here, then I could go free.”

With this, the air seems to deflate from Isaac, and he sits back down. The audience remains silent. Confused, I look at Gabriel, wondering if we, too, should sit down. Judging from his reaction, he has no idea either.

“It is either very brave or very foolish,” an old lady then says, “to break your promise to a Haudenosaunee.”

“Which are you?” someone else asks. People laugh at this, and after the intensity of his confession, I’m shocked. I look down at Isaac. Again I’m surprised by the smile on his face. Like that, the tension is broken.

“It is time for you, tall charcoal, to entertain us,” someone then shouts, pointing at me. Others join in the harangue, laughing and calling on me to do something.

Gabriel leans to me and whispers, “Why not give them a little of their own trickery?”

I lean closer to him. “What do you have in mind?”

“I’ve been thinking about this since that witch caused such a stir,” Gabriel says. “A donné back in New France used to win favours among the Montagnais with a simple trick that always amazed them.”

“Tell me more.”

“We will need a quill and some parchment.” He then whispers instructions in my ear.

“Brilliant,” I say in French. “Retrieve them.” I turn to the guests and clap my hands. “The one you call Gosling is not the only trickster in the room.” Everyone goes silent. I was hoping to make them laugh. “The Great Voice has given us Black Gowns special gifts as well.” I look out over the guests covering the floor, watching me. I need to build this up and truly impress them.

“When the Great Voice beckoned us to speak His words for Him, we had no choice but to obey. And we obey with all our hearts. Doing what is requested of us, though, is no easy task. To become a Black Gown, we must swear off all temptations, temptations of the heart and of the soul and of the flesh.”

“He means he won’t be with a woman,” someone shouts. “Or a man, for that matter.” People laugh.

“But to give up these temptations means that we are given other gifts.” I see from the corner of my eye that Gabriel’s returned. “One of these powers,” I say, “is the ability to share what is in our heads without speaking to one another.”

I can tell from their reaction that I’ve piqued their interest.

“What am I thinking?” a young woman asks.

“I could tell you,” I reply. “But you’d be ashamed of yourself.” People do find this funny, so I grow bolder. “I need someone to come forward who wishes to have their thoughts exposed.”

No one makes a move. This is not the time for them to act coy. “I promise it won’t hurt,” I say. “All I ask is for one person to come forward and tell Gabriel something about themselves, a secret, for example, or any bit of information I couldn’t already know.”

Finally, an old woman stands. She approaches Gabriel, hesitant.

“Tell me something,” I hear him ask her. She glances at me, looking embarrassed, then leans and whispers in his ear.

Gabriel listens intently. His eyes widen. The woman finishes speaking and he hesitates before jotting her words down. “This thin bark I hold will carry her thoughts to Christophe,” he tells our audience, then hands me the parchment.

I read the words quickly before lowering the paper. Looking up to the expectant crowd, I speak. “You’re not able to enjoy intercourse anymore because your sex fell out of your body.” I look at the woman, my face, I’m sure, flushed red from the words. She nods solemnly, and I can hear some of the people gasp. “Is there anything else you wish Gabriel and me to pass between each other?”

She shakes her head but reaches her hand out for the parchment. “There are strange markings on it,” she declares to the crowd after studying it. “They look like the drawing of rapids in a river. That is all. Yes, they must have some kind of magic.”

She goes back and sits down, looking proud for having been so brave.

“Does anyone else,” I ask, “wish to have their thoughts travel sound-lessly between the Black Gowns?”

A young man stands and whispers to Gabriel. When the writing is handed to me, I announce that he hopes to travel on next summer’s trading party to New France. He nods solemnly and sits. A woman shares that her first child died at childbirth. An old man admits he no longer wakes hard in the morning, and people laugh. Before I know it, the Huron are jostling to have their thoughts told. In French, I call out to Gabriel and Isaac, “I think we have found a sure way to make them come to confession!” They laugh, and we continue to perform until I realize we shouldn’t squander this new gift.

“The Black Gowns have grown tired,” I announce. “We must rest now.” Our sauvages groan out loud as one, clearly disappointed. “But you are welcome to visit us any time you like in order to have your thoughts carried on the thin bark between us.”

When the people settle back in their places, some yawning now with the sun long set, the rumble of thunder emanates through the house. Several of them turn to one another, surprised. None of us saw any signs of rain this evening.

Lightning flashes brightly enough to make me blink even though the windows of our cabin are shuttered. People gasp. Everyone’s awake now, sitting up. A few of the young men hurry to the door and pull it open. Outside, it’s as still and hot as any of the other dry summer nights we’ve experienced the last week.

“Look at the stars! There’s not a single cloud in the sky,” one of them reports. The mumbling rises.

“Close the door,” someone says, “but stay by it.” The young man obeys. The room goes quiet.

Again, distant thunder rumbles and lightning flashes through the room. When instructed to, the young man flings open the door, and outside remains the same. When he closes the door again, it’s immediately followed by the sound of rain tapping the roof, the rain growing in intensity to a ferocious pounding. People shove closer to one another as a cold draft enters. Over the roar of it, a man shouts, “Open the door!” He’s barely audible over the pounding, but as soon as the young man swings the door open, the storm stops, the world quiet outside except for the sound of crickets singing. People gasp and chatter.

“Keep the door open!” an old woman commands. “We’re being haunted by sorcerers!” Rather than these words calming them, people become more animated.

“It’s the Black Gowns!” somebody shouts. “The charcoal are terrorizing us!” Faces turn to the three of us.

I shake my head and raise my arms. “We are not sorcerers! The Great Voice frowns upon magicians! This evil is not of our doing!” I scan the panicked faces for Gosling but can’t find her. “If you wish to place blame for this sick magic,” I shout, “point your finger at the sorcerer Gosling!”

More faces turn to me, some questioning, others confused, a few angered by my words.

“Where is she?” I shout. “Why does she disappear at the most opportune moment? This is not the doing of the Black Gowns. We come only to help you.”

“Shall we close the door again?” someone shouts.

“Where’s Gosling?” Gabriel cries.

“I am here,” she whispers into my ear, her breath hot.

Gosling stands arched up to me, her face close enough that I can see the crinkles around her eyes. “I am here.” She smiles wider. “Don’t you forget,” she says, “whose country you are in.”

I can feel her hand stroke the small of my back, and I find myself fighting an erection so immediate I must place my hands in front of me.

“Don’t ever forget where power comes from,” she says, stroking my belly with her other hand. I grow even harder. “It isn’t just from here,” she says as people’s eyes dart around the room and they wait for the next flash of lightning, debating whether it’s safer to leave this haunted place or to stay.

She reaches the hand on my belly lower, and I try to stop her but moan instead. “Don’t ever again think that our energy only comes from here,” she whispers, slipping her tongue into my ear as she strokes her hand down the length of me and I start shuddering in spasms, my knees buckling. Lightning flashes and people all around me cry out and I cry out, too, falling to the ground.

When my convulsions stop, I see young and old Huron staring down at me. Gosling’s nowhere in sight. The night has gone quiet enough that we can once again hear the crickets. One by one, the faces pull away, the crowd walking out of my house, some quiet, others muttering.

“He’s a sorcerer, a witch.”

“We’ve always known that about them, haven’t we?”

“I’m afraid of them.”

I listen to them all as if I have the hearing of an owl or a deer, the mumblings of these people I’ve travelled so far to save who are now frightened of me.

Gabriel’s and Isaac’s faces appear above and they pick me off the ground. I stand there, shaking, wiping my brow with my right hand, Your hand. I look into their eyes. “I’m sorry,” I tell them. I am truly sorry, my dear Lord.

BE STRONG FOR YOUR OWN

Now that we’re near home, I’ve sent Fox and a couple of others ahead to carry the news of our arrival. My own canoe is too heavy with the summer’s bounty. After so long, my love, I’ve stumbled upon a chance to avenge your death and the deaths of our daughters in a way I never imagined possible.

I pulled out my three prisoners’ fingernails myself, then cut slits in their necks and shoulders so they can’t struggle against the leather thongs that bind them. As our pack of canoes wends along the high, rocky banks of the Sweet Water Sea, the wind in our favour, the sun hot on our chests, I daydream not of the next few days caressing our enemies with fire, my love, but of the fishing and the hunting that I will finally do when the leaves fall, the fishing and hunting that I will finally do without the torture of knowing your life might have passed without being truly avenged.

My prisoners have been taking turns singing their heart songs. Two of them I find very good, full of images of their lives, songs of their families and their women and their accomplishments and their hopes for where they’re now heading. These two men are older, one nearly my age, and their voices are strong despite what they know comes, and they sing up into the sky with cries that are as pretty as any bird’s. We’ve found our drumbeat, our prisoners and us, and any canoes within earshot paddle to the rhythm of their voices.

It’s no surprise that the one whose song is weak is also the youngest.
The other two have been urging him to show resolve. He’s not much older than a boy, though, and so doesn’t have the experience yet to sing from his heart. He doesn’t have the experience that creates his song. For a moment the other day, I caught myself trying to imagine what he now feels, so young, without the living necessary to navigate in his head what his body will soon go through. I had to stop myself from doing this, as there is no place for emotion of this kind in the next days.

Tomorrow will be our last day, and this evening we decide to stop earlier than usual. The sun hangs on the horizon of the big water, and its light, combined with the breeze, causes the poplar leaves along the shore to shimmer and dance. There’s no rush to empty the canoes and set up camp. We’re almost there. We pack and light our pipes and do the same for our prisoners, eight in all, for they deserve this much. All of us squat on our haunches on the shore and puff, no one talking as we watch the sun sink lower.

I will allow the younger warriors to do tonight’s work as they rise one by one to their duties. This is my favourite spot, my sacred place where I came to do my fast and my quest for a name when I was not much younger than the boy prisoner. Do you remember that, my love? Even then we knew we were destined for each other. I remember paddling here alone, that when I left our old village I could feel your eyes on my back. I hugged the shoreline of the Sweet Water Sea, where sandy beaches gave way to rock walls. I didn’t know my destination, only that I was told I’d recognize it once I saw it. Close to here is where I found those ancient drawings on the cliffs that rose up, drawings made with paints I couldn’t grasp for their resilience. The old ones in the village had told me to watch for them, explained they’d been made by an ancient people who lived on this land long before us and knew far more than we did. Some argued they were the Anishnaabe, Gosling’s people, others that they were related to us Wendat. Maybe tomorrow I’ll slow my canoe for a time and find them again, point them out to my prisoners. I can still picture the outlines
the colour of blood of a sea creature hovering below men paddling big canoes, a horned beast frightening me to my core. Yes, tomorrow I’ll stop and show something important to the ones who will soon head to the place of dreams.