Warbird (7 page)

“That's not right,” Tsiko said, shaking his head. “God's baby was born in lodge of broken bark.” He put his hands out in a gesture of puzzlement.

“Do you know the whole of it?” the doctor asked Etienne, putting down his pestle.

Etienne nodded. “Now there were in the same country shepherds living out in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. And behold, an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them.”

“That's not right,” Tsiko insisted. “
Hawendio
sent brave hunters to visit the baby. They brought him pelts of fox and beaver.”

“It sounds like the same story,” Etienne said. He had never heard a different version of the First Christmas but
guessed that the details probably didn't matter. He would not dare say that out loud after he saw Father Mesquin slam the Huron children's fingers with a Bible for not showing suitable reverence. Some he made kneel in the corner repeating prayers for hours on end.

“It's not the same,” Tsiko argued, crossing his arms.

“Think about it,” Etienne said. “My God is your
Oki
.”

“Now you have
Oki?
” Tsiko asked, his voice rising in surprise. “You're not Huron,” he said, stomping. He tapped himself on the chest with pride. “My grandfather brought his canoe when it was time,” he said. “We paddled across the biggest lake of all.” He lowered his voice and sat down on the floor. “Grandfather built a platform with cedar bows on the top. He told me to stay on the platform, sleep and not to open my eyes, no matter what happened.”

While Tsiko spoke, the sun moved to the horizon, making the sky pink. In his mind's eye, Etienne could see Tsiko mounting the scaffold.

“I saw the flames of my grandfather's fire across the water before I fell asleep. The scratching of great claws on the platform woke me, but I remembered not to open my eyes.”

Tsiko wiggled his fingers at his ankles. “I felt something feathery at my feet. It moved up my legs to my body. It stopped.” He widened his eyes and said, “I felt hot breath with the smell of skunk.”

Etienne caught his breath. “What happened?”

“I saw huge owl with yellow eyes and tufts of feathers like ears,” Tsiko continued. “I knew it was going to snap off my head like a squirrel.” His eyes roamed the room as
if the owl were about to fly by. “I rolled out from under his great clawed toes and fell to the ground. I hid in the bushes until morning.”

“You said you weren't supposed to open your eyes,” Etienne said.

Tsiko mimicked paddling a canoe. “Grandfather came. I told him I saw a great owl.”

“What did your grandfather say?” the doctor asked.

Tsiko spoke in a small voice. “Grandfather said I was not supposed to look.”

“But you did,” Etienne insisted. “Wasn't that cheating?”

Tsiko just shrugged. “My grandfather said the horned owl is a very great, powerful
Oki
.” He brushed imaginary dirt from his shoulders. “I will get some of his power, but not all.”

He dropped back down to the floor and crossed his legs. “Now,” he said, patting the wooden planks for Etienne to sit. “You tell me your story of how you found your
Oki
.”

“I can't,” Etienne stuttered. “I've never seen God.”

“See,” Tsiko said. “You said my
Oki
and your God is the same.” He gave a loud sniff and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Good thing your mother
yaronhiaye
,” he said. “My mother can teach her the right story.”

Etienne had to turn to one side. The thought of his mother in heaven disturbed him. But in order to get any news of her, he would have to confess his deceit.

“One day Father Superior will make me chief hunter for Sainte-Marie,” Tsiko said, gazing at the long-barrelled musket standing in the corner by the chimney. Etienne
knew the inside was just as shiny as the outside. The doctor oiled and rubbed it regularly. “You want to hunt?”

“Yes,” said Etienne, “I want to go hunting.”

Tsiko walked over to the powder horn hanging on the wall beside it. “Bring your gun.”

Etienne looked at him with furrowed brows. “I don't have a gun.”

“You're not baptized?” Tsiko turned and asked in astonishment.

“Of course I am baptized,” Etienne stammered, looking at the doctor. “Why?”

“You can get a gun, quick,” Tsiko replied. “Everyone knows Black Robes only give guns to people with water on their heads.”

Etienne realized a rifle would be much more useful than the drum hidden below his bed. He would speak to one of the soldiers about making a trade. But the doctor must have guessed his thoughts.

“A musket will cost you much more than your small collection of trinkets,” he said. “You will need a stack of pelts.”

The next morning a small drift of snow half-buried the refectory doorway. The surface of the water in the well was ice. Nicholas broke it with his fist and grimaced. “When it freezes over,” he said, “we will have to go to the river.”

Tsiko waited for Etienne outside the chicken house. He wore two large wooden shapes netted with deer hide on his feet. “For you,” Tsiko said, shoving a pair of the shapes and skin shoes at Etienne. “You'll need them for the beaver hunt.”

Etienne removed his stiff, cracked leather boots. He slid his feet into the rabbit-lined shoes. They felt light and were much easier to wear than the cold, hard leather. He pulled the thick laces of the
raquettes
up around his ankles and tied them tightly. But when he walked, he waddled.

Laughter broke out all around.

“Run lightly,” Father Bressani advised as he closed the door of the chapel.

“Keep your toes pointed up,” a soldier called down from his post. Etienne smiled at the little icicles clinging to his beard. “And drag your heels,” he added.

Etienne struggled to walk. He fell several times before making it to the main gate. There, he tripped and fell head first into an approaching band of warriors.

Etienne faced a pair of dark, furry boots glistening in the snow. They came to a pair of knees, where they were tied with heavily beaded laces. Satouta, huge and rangy with the smell of wolf, loomed over him.

The great warrior wore a cape of grey fur over his deerskin outfit. His square hat and elbow-length mittens matched. Those with him wore coarse red blankets, white with frost, over their skin suits.

They pushed their way past, knocking Etienne further into the snow. All of them carried quivers, but Satouta's wasn't made of bark. It was deerskin, decorated with beads.
That is a very wealthy Huron. I wonder why he bothers coming to the fort?
Etienne wondered.

The winter days died early as the sun appeared briefly high in the sky before making its way across to the west. Overhead, the trees groaned and scraped together. A thunderous, ear-splitting crack, followed by a loud whoosh, made Etienne stop and turn in fear.

“It's just a tree,” Tsiko said with a shrug. “They always break in the cold.”

Etienne lumbered through the snow that clogged the forest. Since the early hours of the morning, it had drifted steadily down. The sharp wind stung their faces and their breath smoked in the air. He was grateful for the fur vest he wore over his coat. Soo-Taie had given it to him in exchange for an iron needle and the lace-edged handkerchief.

Tsiko strode ahead, breaking the trail. In each hand he carried a pole with a chiselled end. His little dog peered out from the sack on his back.

Etienne staggered about on his snowshoes, desperate to keep up. He carried several small poles and a wooden club. It seemed they had walked for hours when Tsiko
finally stopped. He opened his arms to the great vista of bare trees and snow. “Many years ago, beavers were as big as bears,” he told Etienne. “They built this land by lifting mud from the lake with their tail.” Then he turned and made his way across a small meadow. Etienne could hear the sound of running water.

Tsiko pointed to the rise of snow-covered branches spanning the river like a bridge. Stretched out beyond it, a great sheet of silver glittered in the sun.

The Huron boy took off his snowshoes and lowered his sack. His dog scampered over the crust of ice. “The dog can smell if the beaver are home,” Tsiko said.

“It's not completely frozen,” Etienne said, hesitating to step onto the icy surface. He pointed to a small mushy puddle in the middle of the pond.

“Don't worry,” Tsiko said. “The beavers just make holes for air.”

The dog scrambled to the top of one of the mounds in the frozen pond. His short bushy tail stood up like a brush as he gave out a fox-like yelp.

“Beaver's home,” Tsiko called out as he clambered to the top of the mound. Using the chiselled pole, he made three small holes in the ice. When dark water rose, he pushed the wooden poles down into their home, blocking their underwater entranceway. “This will keep them in,” he explained. “Now dig.”

Using the heavy pole, Etienne tried to pierce the roof of the beaver house. He marvelled at how tightly the branches and mud held together. With the other chisel, Tsiko worked at making the hole larger. Etienne could
hear the frightened mewls of the animals inside as the hole grew larger. In the first rays of light, seven pairs of bright black eyes stared up at them.

Tsiko picked up a large male by his tail and dropped it on the ice. One swift blow of his club, and it lay still. Etienne examined its tiny hand-like fore paws and large webbed hind feet.

Tsiko dragged it across the snow to get the water from its fur. “Your turn,” he said.

Etienne reached in and grabbed one of the animals by the tail. “Got you,” he cried out and gave it a swift blow. But the feeling of triumph soon faded. The way the animal had looked at him before it died filled him with guilt. After all, it hadn't done him any harm.

Tsiko clubbed two more. Four black-skinned oval animals now lay dead beside their home. “We won't kill them all,” he said, looking over the rest. “It's important to leave some alive.”

The dog yelped at a ripple of movement in the puddle of mush. A black head appeared then vanished in a circle of bubbles. “A beaver has come to breathe,” Tsiko announced, striding towards it with his club.

A loud crack filled the air, but this time it wasn't a tree. Wide-eyed, Tsiko watched the fissures spread across the ice with lightning speed.

“Step back,” Etienne bellowed.

But before Tsiko could make a move, he plunged downward. His elbows came to rest across the club, preventing him from sinking completely.

Etienne looked on in horror.

“Help!” Tsiko called out.

Etienne unwound Pierre's sash from his waist. He lowered himself to the ice and inched his way forward. He tossed one end of the sash towards the puddle of slush.

Tsiko missed it the first time, and the second time. On the third throw, he raised himself on the club, making the ice crack again, but he caught the fringed edge of the sash.

Etienne dragged him from the hole and across the ice.

Drenched and pierced with cold, Tsiko moaned and closed his eyes. Etienne knew he had to build a fire. Unless he warmed his friend's feet, they would freeze. He scrambled to gather dry kindling. He pawed through the snow to find a patch of tufted grass then made a pile of twigs. He tried to hurry, but his cold fingers were stiff and clumsy. Throwing off his mittens, Etienne drew his knife from its pouch. He struck the blade against a flint again and again until it made a spark. The grass smouldered, and he blew on it.

Numbness crept up his fingertips as he added more twigs. Commanding his frozen fingers to obey, he blew again, but the small smoking pile would not dance into flame. Etienne stopped for a moment to stamp his feet and clap his hands, trying to restore circulation.

The blue sky turned navy as the sun moved behind the trees. Etienne looked to the sky. “Help,” he cried out. He looked at Tsiko. He did not want his friend to die in the dark beside a beaver pond. “
Hawendio
,” he called out. “Help me.”

Etienne forced his fingers to cup and blew again. This
time there was a flame. Against the darkening sky, he fed the small fire with branches. He dragged Tsiko close to the fire. His clothes were stiff, every touch crackling with ice. He smacked and rubbed his friend's legs. All the while a prickling sensation grew up the back of his neck. Someone was near. The dog barked excitedly.

He knew he wouldn't hear the footfalls coming from the forest. He prayed it wasn't Iroquois. He didn't even bother to look up until the shadows across the snow surrounded him. It was the warrior Satouta and his band.

Satouta barked a few words. Two men lifted Tsiko and headed back into the forest.

“He needs to stay by the fire,” Etienne yelled. “He needs to stay warm.”

Satouta reached down and pulled Etienne along. “Come,” he said. Grabbing the snowshoes and the sash, Etienne had no choice but to go along, followed by the little dog.

When they finally stopped, all he could make out was a giant mound of snow. One of the warriors pushed aside a snow-covered bough to reveal a shelter filled with the fragrance of cedar. Etienne followed the men inside

Satouta stripped Tsiko of his frozen boots and deerskin leggings. He wrapped the boy tightly in a fur, and the men massaged the boy's legs then covered him with more furs.

“Lie down,” Satouta told the dog. It settled on top of Tsiko's legs.

With a stir of the ashes, the fire sprang into flames, and the small enclosure grew warm. Etienne pulled up
the furs and closed his eyes. In moments, he, too, was asleep.

Etienne awoke to Tsiko struggling into his deerskin trousers. Seeing Etienne's eyes open, Tsiko spoke. “I was wrong when I said you are not Huron,” he said. “You built a good camp.”