The Orenda Joseph Boyden (7 page)

I lift the fur and let the wind take it away. I realize something important. Something you want me to see. It’s a big decision, isn’t it? I can hear your voice asking it, Father. Do I grow up to become a deer? Or do I grow up to become a wolf?

—

THIS MORNING WHEN
Bird awoke early again, sneaking from the long-house to do what he does so early like this every few days, I crawled out from underneath my beaver robe and into his, taking in his scent. I had to piss, and so I climbed back out, crouched over his thick fur blanket, and released a long stream.

I lie awake now, waiting for him to return and discover what I’ve done. I consider how he’ll choose to punish me. He’ll probably not say anything at all until the longhouse gathers for our meal, and then he will announce this insult to everyone.

I wait and wait but he doesn’t return. It must be noon when my legs
begin to bounce with boredom, so I crawl down from my sleeping place and see that no one’s inside. That’s strange. I can’t remember a time when there weren’t at least a few people in the longhouse, tending to the fires or preparing meals or talking and laughing. I can tell that outside the sun is bright by the way it pierces the shadows in what are usually the dark corners of this place.

Pulling my coat over my head, I walk out and am amazed to find the ground brown and muddy all around me, as if winter’s disappeared overnight. Is it possible I slept for days? Weeks? I’m suddenly confused and feel the fear come padding back around me on its large paws. No one’s outside, either. It’s as if I’m the only one left in the world. I walk through the deserted village, little mounds of snow in the shadows of longhouses the only evidence of winter.

When panic is about to consume me, I look up and see smoke coiling from the longhouses into the blue sky. People must be around, then, must be close. It’s too warm for my coat, so I take it off and walk to the gap at the palisades. When I squeeze through, I finally hear the noise of humans, people speaking and walking and digging through soil with their tools. All across the fields that stretch out over the rolling hills, the people of the village stand or walk on the black earth, the ground muddy and rich, heavy with the smell of spring, of past crops, of worms and seeds and the sweat of those who’ve worked it. For a long time I watch all the people who live here, thousands of them. Most don’t do much, just hold their faces to the sun or to one another, enjoying this first day of true spring. The air’s filled with their happiness, their relief that they’ve made it through another winter and the good spring is upon them. Not wanting to, I lift my face to the sun as well and let its warmth fill me, the smell of loam so strong in my nose that I crouch down, lift handfuls of it to my face and breathe in deeply. My people are a farming people, just like these Wendat. We are a part of this earth. We speak similar tongues and grow the same food and hunt the same game. Yet we’re enemies, bent on destroying one another. I don’t understand it. But then I think of you lying dead,
my family, the snow soaked with your blood, the same snow melting with your blood into the black earth at this very moment, and the anger rises in my throat and I do understand. Standing, I turn and throw the handfuls of mud at the palisades, watch as it speckles across a few of the sharp poles. I turn my back on these people. I will not let them change me. I won’t let him become my father. The sun on my scalp is warm like blood trickling down onto my neck, making me shiver in the bright light.

—

AGAIN I AWOKE EARLY
this morning. Yesterday, that first day of the new season, feels like a long time ago. When everyone had returned from the fields for their evening meal, I sat among them and waited for Bird to announce what I’d done to his sleeping robe. I waited for the reactions, the staring adults, the children laughing at me and pointing. But Bird never uttered anything, even though I knew he’d discovered what I’d done when he went up to his sleeping place earlier to retrieve his pipe and came down wiping his damp hands on his legs.

I waited until the meal was finished and the Crow stood and began to speak in his child words about his god being the one who brought the sun to the people today, most of the longhouse ignoring him, standing and going off to their night games and stories, the few who remained laughing at the idea of a maggot-pale god bringing sunshine to the Wendat world. Bird stood with the rest and left the longhouse without so much as looking at me. It wasn’t until our bedtime, though, that I realized why he hadn’t punished me in front of the others. Climbing into my robe, long after I believed Bird had already fallen asleep, I felt the wetness before I smelled the sour stink of my own piss. He’d switched our sleeping robes.

And so this morning I lie in my own dampness, needing to piss again, Bird already up and out of the longhouse. I crawl out from his robe, squat over my own, and do it again.

SHE KNOWS I WATCH

The Crow is nowhere to be found, which worries me, not because of my concern for his safety but because the village elders have decided he will stay, that it’s good for trade relations with his fellow Iron People to allow him to talk to us. And the elders have told me I’m to be his minder, and I’m not to let anything happen to him. It is as it appears, then. This malevolent spirit has already worked his magic on us. When not so long ago I laughed at him, pitied him even, now I have learned that he can’t be trusted and I must watch him closely, and never leave him alone again with the girl. I caught him trying to work his magic on her, and I would have killed him then and there if it hadn’t been for her words.

She has something special. She has a gift. Gosling verified this to me on our last visit. I know you had a gift, too, dear one. Yours was the ability to heal, and those of us who still remember you, we all miss it very much. There’s talk among the wise ones that next year we’ll move the village to new ground. This coming time of planting is the last that the earth around us will support our corn, and our scouts are out looking for suitable places. As you know, my love, we’ll then hold the great feast and the great time of mourning when remembrance will commence, and I’ll hold you in my arms once more for a little while. I look forward to that very much.

Dark will settle in soon and I’ve checked in every longhouse for the Crow. He’s taken to walking outside the palisades. He strolls with his
head lowered, holding the sparkling necklace in his hands, counting the beads on it, mumbling to himself. He’s a strange one. And a stupid one, clearly, walking with his eyes cast down, not paying any attention to his surroundings. Now that the snow has left, the time of raiding parties approaches, and while it’s still very early, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that some of their hungrier warriors have slipped onto our land and taken a scalp or two. It’s a game we play with one another, a chance for the young men to prove themselves and collect a little bounty. I hope they take the Crow. Maybe I’ll do it myself and blame it on them, though allowing him to be harmed will certainly diminish my stature. We’ll see. But for now, I must find him before night falls.

Frustrated, I walk to Gosling’s home. I’ve been spending more time with her lately, and each of us seems to be falling into that place of contentment with the other. I don’t think you’d mind. I know you wanted my happiness as I would want yours.

I whistle low to let her know I’m here, and wait for a response. Nothing. And then I hear a low hum of voices inside and realize she must be deep in conversation with someone, a man, by his pitch. The snake of jealousy crawls into my guts and wraps itself around them, squeezing. I clench my fists. This is what happens when you get too comfortable with someone too quickly. I shouldn’t have let my guard down so fast. Of course Gosling has other lovers. She’s very special. But if I’m one of many, it’s not a position I like. The snake, though, only tightens its coil when I imagine how I’ll not visit her for a long time, how I’ll ignore her, even when she beckons me with her mind.

When I turn away, her whistle, high and quavering, comes in response. I almost keep walking, but the desire to see who she’s invited into her home overcomes me. Inside, I can smell her before I see her, the smell I wanted to believe she’d created just for me that makes me hard before I lie down.

And then I smell him, the sour, unwashed smell of him, and I don’t want to believe that he’s in her lodge. My eyes adjust to the low light,
her fire just coals, the afternoon sun filtering in from the hole above, lighting the wisps of smoke that rise up and out.

“What’s he doing here?” I ask.

“Sit,” Gosling says, motioning to a place beside her and across from the Crow. “This charcoal, he’s very entertaining.”

I do as she says, and realize this is always the case. When I look through the smoke to the Crow, there’s something like lovesickness on his face. Sweat dots his forehead, and he frowns, not happy that I’ve disturbed his reverie.

“What spell did you put on him?” I ask Gosling. I speak quickly, so the Crow won’t be able to understand very much.

“He claims that he and the other charcoal don’t have relations with women,” Gosling says. “I want to see if this is true. If you hadn’t come by just now, I’m pretty sure I’d be proving him a liar.” She looks over to me and smiles, takes my hand and squeezes it. I’m not sure if this is to suggest she jokes. “Look at him,” she says, laughing. “He hasn’t felt like this for a long, long time.” He must understand some of what she says, for he drops his eyes from hers and rests his hands uncomfortably in his lap.

“Me talk,” the Crow mutters, “me talk to it.” He points at Gosling. “You come here, in here. Me talk to you now.” I stare at him, almost allowing myself to feel pity for this one, for how hard he struggles to communicate with us. But then I remember what he tries to say, and why he needs to say it, his wanting to change us, and I bristle in anger. “Great Voice, he loves you,” he continues, pointing at me. “Great Voice is son child deer Christ. Christ kill for you to become him. Christ kill me. Die. Death for you. Christ.” He wipes his forehead and looks, imploring, to Gosling.

“Your Christ sounds fascinating,” she says in a quick, clipped tone. “Do tell me more, and explain everything that you can about him and about the place you come from.” She smiles, licks her finger and touches it to her ear, then takes her thick braid and begins to stroke it. “Tell me everything you know.”

The Crow, clearly not understanding her, looks confused. He dabs at his forehead with a cloth, then drops his hands back into his lap, seeming almost frightened. “Wood,” he says. “Long wood. Two woods.” I laugh, wondering if Gosling has damaged him. The Crow makes a chopping motion. “His hands are attached. His feet are attached,” he says. “Hurt. He dies you.” He points to me. “You die.”

I feel rage flush my face. “If he says once more that I will die,” I tell Gosling, “I’ll kill him.”

“Shhh,” she says, and squeezes my hand again. “He struggles with the language. I’ve simply baffled him. He’s told me how this Christ”—she pauses, as if the strange word is distasteful—“this Christ is the son of their most powerful oki. Supposedly, he was murdered by people this crow thinks were much like us.” She stops and smiles at the Crow again, licking her upper lip. “He pleads with me,” she continues, amusement in her words, “he pleads with me to pray to his okis, for it seems I will go to a bad place if I do not.”

The Crow nods enthusiastically, and I wonder how much of what Gosling’s said he understands.

“What do you think of all this?” she asks me.

“I think that I will kill him very soon,” I say.

She pulls her hand from mine. “It seems we find ourselves at a place where the river splits,” she says. “Important decisions to be made, Bird.” I can’t remember her ever saying my name out loud. “Decisions to be made.” The Crow tries to speak again, but she waves her hand and he stops, looks back down at his hands folded in his lap. “He doesn’t have the desired power over me,” Gosling says. “I fear, though, that he will begin to have some over others once he learns the language better.”

I scoff at this. “He’s a sad joke for a man,” I say. “He knows nothing of the land, nothing of us.”

“He isn’t stupid,” she says after a pause. “Don’t confuse his inability to speak well with his plans for us. You yourself challenged others to try to speak his language before laughing at him for trying to speak ours.”

“Baah,” I say. “That was before I understood his intentions. I caught him touching my child, trying to work something on her. I should’ve killed him then.”

“You know you can’t,” Gosling says. “The elders won’t condone it.” She looks at the Crow and again strokes her braid slowly. He fidgets, and a small moan escapes his mouth.

“He’s not a man,” I say.

Gosling dabs a finger into her mouth. “I rather like his build,” she says softly. “The colouring of his eyes intrigues me.”

I get up to leave. “Have him, then.”

As I walk for her door, she speaks. “I tease you. Do you really think I could be attracted to such a stinking and awkward creature? I chose you for a reason. I just want to test this one’s strengths.” She looks at the Crow and he looks away. “Make no mistake,” she says. “His strength’s building, and as much as I don’t want to admit it, he will begin to win some of the weaker ones over.” She turns her head up to the dying light pouring into the hole of her lodge and the sunlight strikes her face in the gloom.

Her eyes are closed, and her palms rest on her lap. “He’ll gain power because someone you don’t want to believe would ever help will assist him in spite of you.”

I stand and watch her glowing face. I will her to tell me more.

“Your solution to all of this is simple. On your summer trading voyage, he’ll want to go with you. Bring him. Bring the girl, too. Take the route along the Snake River.”

I want to tell her this river is Haudenosaunee territory. I open my mouth, but she holds her hand up.

“Bring your strongest with you,” she says. “Allow the Haudenosaunee to attack and let them kill the Crow for you.” She pauses, opens her eyes and smiles at him. He stares at her, his mouth half-open. “Or better yet, allow them to take him prisoner so that he can be caressed by their coals before they take his life. Surely, then, news will get back to this village of his demise. Your problems will be solved.”