Norseman Chief (23 page)

Etleloo and I stood, eager to get moving.  As I stretched away the stiffness that had settled into my joints, Etleloo asked, “What will you do about Kesegowaase’s men coming into your land?”

He thought on the subject just a heartbeat.  “I suppose we’ll come up behind them and see them killed.”

Traitor.  This word pounded in my skull.  If I heard it over and again, my friend Etleloo would have heard it like the shriek of a bird of prey, piercing his ear before its long, curved talons snatched away his flesh.  We were traitors, selfish traitors, breaking our honor among our people for daughters.  Daughters were as common as a frog in the swamp.  Any weak man could spill his weak seed into a sickly, thin woman and make one.  Before the One God came to us, my Norse brothers would frequently smash the head of a newborn girl upon the rocks to eliminate another mouth to feed.  They were nothing special and here I was abandoning my life-pursuit of obedience for an ordinary girl.  But mine was no ordinary girl.  She was Alsoomse.  She was Skjoldmo.  She was my daughter and I would kill my stepson Kesegowaase if I had to in order to retrieve her.  I was a traitor, but my heart was hard and I would not waver.

Not caring if the Mi’kmaq chief overheard I said to Etleloo, “Friend, this path we take to war is one that means the sacrifice of your name among your people.  If you wish to turn back now, it is not too late.  You could get to our band of warriors and warn them of what evil awaits.”

The burden was heavy on his heart, but without hesitation, he grabbed my shoulder.  “I’ll not have you going off alone, brother.”  He cast a sideways glance at Luntook.  “You are not the only man who has lost “property” to these Fish.”

We ducked to leave the mamateek when the old chief called to us, “There is one more item we must discuss.”  He was a decent negotiator, this Luntook.  “One of the finest warriors of my people was killed not ten strides away from my home.”  He held up his hand to stop my protest.  “I understand that it was he who attacked you after I gave him the order to bring you to me for council, but how can I let a murderer, a foreign murderer, pass by unpunished?”

There was nothing to say.  The man had his mind made up of whatever he wanted from us.  To argue would only bring about more pain.  Etleloo and I would take whatever Luntook gave us, adapt to whatever befell us.

“So you agree that I must do something?  That is good.  Since I and my people are fair-minded, I leave it up to you both to decide which one of you will remain behind among my people for a time.”  We gave him no satisfaction, no response.  “I can see that you should talk about this topic.  I will excuse myself and tend to the work of my village.  Take your time.  No need to tell me your decision, the one who stays must only turn himself over to these men here.”

The chief walked around the ashes and coals toward the door.  Etleloo stepped into his path so the man nearly tumbled into my friend.  “We do not need to use words to make this choice.  We have decided that I will stay behind to answer for your warrior.  Let it never be said that Etleloo was afraid of what the Mi’kmaq people may do to him.  You have granted us safe passage; the Enkoodabooaoo will take that right for us both.”

“Etleloo, you are younger and have a much better chance at retrieving what was lost on your own than I do on mine.”

“No.  I drilled out that man’s breath and blood and I will pay for it.  You have your steel and patience and mind.  I possess none of those things.  You will save my daughter too.”

CHAPTER 10

I killed Etleloo that day.

I sit here writing this account while snapping quill after quill in my whitening grip, my arm barely long enough for me to see my own scribbles in focus.  Years later, I am angry.  It was the right thing to do, to kill him, but I lament the series of decisions that led me to end his life.  Where did the chain of decisions begin?  Was it agreeing to stay married to Hurit?  Or was it earlier, when I befriended Ahanu?  Or was it earlier still when I agreed to come on a damned adventure with Leif?  Or was it even earlier when I saved Leif from Bjarni’s tired swing of his sword?

Bitterness.  That is what I feel when I think about that day.  Anger and bitterness.  What else does an old man have left, but the two?

He was my friend and I killed Etleloo that day.

The Mi’kmaq chief saw him tossed into custody while I remained standing in shock in the mamateek, forgotten, left alone.  The warriors took out the anger of their youth on him.  After I ducked out of the short door into the sunlight I watched helplessly as they kicked Etleloo on.  His weapons were already taken, by whom I know not.  They poked him with spears or used the blunt butt ends to drive him.  His nose seemed dislocated with a bright red stream of blood snaking into his mouth.  When he bared his teeth at them I saw that the red had mixed with his saliva and turned a deep pink that outlined his teeth.

Soon he was tied tightly between two trees, his left wrist and ankle to one, his right wrist and ankle to the other.  What should I do, I wondered?  What could I do?

I knew the answer was nothing as they began his torture.  There were no fancy or crafty or fox-like plans I would fall upon hidden in the depths of my mind.  He would die an awful death.  I knew that too.

A tall Pohomoosh warrior strode to the cord that bound Etleloo’s right wrist.  The man held a simple stick, whittled smooth.  It was about one and one half ells in length and the diameter of two fingers placed side-by-side.  It would be a wicked beating.

But it was not a beating.  It was much more subtle in its pain delivery for the stick never touched my friend’s body.  About half-way between Etleloo’s hand and the tree, the warrior worked the stick between the two tightly wound cords that acted as Etleloo’s prison.  Then I knew what was coming.  Slowly, deliberately the warrior began turning the stick to wrap the cords more and more tightly around one another.  At first the stick turned easily and Etleloo hid the discomfort behind a cold face made of ice.  But very soon the stick began finding increasing resistance.

All the while a woman, likely the fierce one’s wife, stood weeping loudly heaping insult after insult onto Etleloo.  She called him every foul creature in the woods.  She said despicable things about him, his family, and his people.  Some other women came to offer their support and the lot of them threw rocks at him.  The rock throwing soon stopped as some of their aims were not accurate and so they struck the torturer.

The cords slowly shortened.  Etleloo’s muscles began showing strain as they rippled to hold his joints together.  His torso began to move closer to the right tree, hair by tortuous hair.  The warrior began to show the extent of his work long before Etleloo allowed his face to show weakness.  The torturer’s own muscles flexed as he heaved then held, heaved then held the stick around its cord axis.

After a time he was pulled so far that Etleloo’s left foot was lifted from the ground.  He sang one of his tribe’s war songs to take his mind from the pain and to not give the Mi’kmaq satisfaction.  In an undulating chant, he sang:

Glooskap, Glooskap, Glooskap

You bring, you bring, you bring

Glooskap, Glooskap, Glooskap

You sing, you sing, you sing

Glooskap, Glooskap, Glooskap

Battle, battle, battle

Glooskap, Glooskap, Glooskap

Victory, victory, victory

He repeated the song several times until I heard a terrible pop.  It was his arm, of course, coming out of its socket at the shoulder, but the sharpness and lingering ringing of the sound in my ear nearly brought the contents of my stomach up and out.  When my senses recovered I saw that his face of stone had crumbled.  He made not a sound, but his mouth opened and closed like a fish that is set upon the shore.  I think he wanted to shout and bring curses on them, but he fought with his own mind and will to keep silent.  His eyes were clenched, sending wrinkles all the way back through his temples until they disappeared into his hair.

Then, as quickly as the torture began, it ceased.  The warrior stepped to one side and let the taut cord unwrap the stick in a blinding, whirring flurry until the stick fell harmlessly, unceremoniously to the ground with a dead thud.  He retrieved his device and then marched off with his comrades to prepare for a likely battle with Kesegowaase and his people.  The widow walked up to Etleloo and drew the edge of a sharp rock across his cheek.  My friend was back into his place of strength and did not even turn away while a streak of blood was drawn.  She spit in his eye and then walked off with the other women.  Two boys with spears were posted to watch over him.

Perhaps I should have gone to him.  I could have spoken words of encouragement.  I could have sliced those two pathetic boys open and carried Etleloo to freedom.  But I did neither.  My mission, our mission was to save two daughters of two great warriors.  Rescuing Etleloo would only bring the full might of the Pohomoosh Mi’kmaq war party upon us.  In the end we would die and our daughters would remain in the captivity of the Fish.

Completely disregarded by them now, I walked into an empty mamateek nearby.  I replenished my supplies, stuffing dried foods and nuts into my rucksack.  I had no intention of paying them back.  I doubted they’d care.  Two or three bundles of Pohomoosh arrows hung from a twisted post.  One of them found its way into my grasp.

I walked out of the village of our old enemies at the opposite end from which we had entered.  Two young, naked boys fought like wildcats in the mud and dust.  They struggled over the bark shield that had once been carried by my Skjoldmo.  My broad hands grasped the gnarled hair on each of their heads and I picked them both up.  They writhed and fought me, scratching at my arms with nails black with filth.  I wanted to rap them both together and retrieve Skjoldmo’s shield so I had a gift when I rescued her, but I stopped short.

Getting to be an old man was awful.  It was like I had become a eunuch I was so tender.  One of the boys caught my glance with his eyes, only briefly, but it was enough.  He had dark eyes, surrounded by the whitest whites I had ever seen.  A lone tear crawled out and fell down his face.  I swore.  I am not sure to whom I swore, but I know I did.  I threw the dirty creatures back to the ground where they rapidly jumped to their feet.

I strode off into the forest.  I looked back on the scene several times.  The two boys had watched me go, frozen to their places, not uttering a peep, not running to their mother.  By the time I looked back the last time, they had returned to their frantic wrestling as if I had never touched them.

I didn’t go far, however.  Two of the stolen Pohomoosh arrows shot from my bow helped me get a feel for their weight and flights.  I retrieved them from the earth at the end of a clearing before circling back to the village.

Men of fighting age were assembling in several bands to prepare to meet Kesegowaase and his people, my people, the Beiuthook, the Algonkin.  These warriors pressed a forehead to their oldest male child who would act as leader of their household while the father was away making war.  They whispered in low-pitched voices to their sons.  Words of encouragement, words of warning, words of strength were exchanged.  Women began a rhythmic chant calling down protection from the Great Spirit for their men.

Etleloo hung limp from the trees.  He slept, I think.  My friend would hang there for days receiving hideous torture after hideous torture until he succumbed.  The women would likely lead the punishments, though they may choose to wait until their warriors returned.  In either case, Etleloo would suffer greatly.  Dusk fell.

I stood directly in front of Etleloo at about one hundred broad paces.  Only one small sapling stood in my way, but otherwise my view was unobstructed.  His captors, those young guards, had not laid eyes upon me yet.

Giving no heady thoughts to what actions I next took, I nocked one of the Pohomoosh arrows, drawing a deep breath while simultaneously drawing the cord back to my cheek.  In the fading light I aimed and loosed.

Missed.  There was no thud or crack or shriek.  My eyes may have deceived me, but I believe the arrow found a thin layer in the bark covering of a mamateek behind Etleloo and slipped through.

But I was close enough for Etleloo to feel the breeze from the missile.  He weakly lifted his head, scanning the forest around him.  It was too dark to see his eyes or mouth, but I saw the mighty warrior stand a little taller, as proudly as he could.  I saw his head nod.  He accepted his fate.  He accepted my judgment that to be killed by a friend was filled with honor despite the mercy it brought.  The guards chatted idly.

I cannot say why, but no sentimental tear came to me then.  I nodded to myself, set another arrow in place, and swept the bow in place while pulling on the cord.  Away.

Crack!  Shit.  I couldn’t believe it.  The arrow struck the small sapling and buried itself nearly the depth of a man’s hand.  My mercy killing was proving to be an embarrassment to me and prolonged unnecessarily for Etleloo.  The land was darkening by the second.

The crack caused the guards to abandon their conversation and look around attentively.  This would be my last chance.  Another arrow, another tug, aimed, loosed.

Thud.  Scream.  Creak.  In the last of the light, as I lowered my bow and prepared to flee, I saw my friend dangling.  His knees were bent.  His badly dislocated arm was stretched to an extreme, disgusting length.  His head sagged forward.  From his chest protruded the back half of one of the Pohomoosh arrows.

The guards sounded the alarm.  Shouts erupted from elsewhere in the village.

Noiselessly, I sprang back into the forest to save Alsoomse and the daughter of the great Etleloo.