Norseman Chief (28 page)

I held my palm out, indicating that we should wait.  We outnumbered them, these Fish, and we knew we could win an engagement.  But we needed to give the young Rowtag just a moment longer.  Otherwise, while we fought the Fish at our front, we could find the Pohomoosh at our backs, cutting our throats and taking our scalps.

Kesegowaase looked over his shoulder across the ford in the river where we expected Rowtag the Younger to appear.  He was not there, still.  My chief looked at me, his eyes showing resolve again and gripped his axe tighter so that I heard its smooth wood twist in his hand.

And then the earth froze as if it were another winter day in Greenland.  The wind stilled; the trees stood like stalagmites in a cave, unmoving.  The only movement came from the three groups of men, descending on this very spot, that meant to give one another chilling fear then loud, terrifying death.

Just when I swore I smelled the stink of the Fish men, Rowtag the Younger and his skirmishers barreled down the slope behind us.  They cut the same loud path that the other scouts had done moments earlier.  A familiar hoot confirmed it was our men and before I could rise to my full height we were screaming battle cries and . . . retreating.

Rowtag the Younger and his three men jumped into the river shallows, splashing their way across.  We called, hollered, and yelped as we splashed toward them too.  Confusion took hold of the Fish, who I discovered were only several paces away from us.  They, too, began to shout their war cries and began to run down the hill to where we had been crouching.

The Pohomoosh on the other bank thought the battle was raging and burst out of the trees having chased the young Rowtag.  We splashed in the cold water and fought.  Slowly then, one-by-one our warriors began to slip down onto their backs and let the current take them away, careful to hold some of us back among the carnage so that our retreat was not obvious.

Arrows began to fly from the Pohomoosh.  Arrows flew from the Fish.  Some of them hit our men.  In the darkness I could only guess that others made their way into the opposite Mi’kmaq cousins.  Soon both sides of Mi’kmaq were with us in the middle.  But there was only a handful of “us” left.  Both sets of Mi’kmaq had taken our bait, locked on, and now fought and tore at one another.

In truth I could not see who I fought.  I know I killed two or three men as my sword cut a mean track in the sky, quickly separating me from the group.  A clang on my helmet told me a heavy stone axe had found me.  My head ached as blood immediately trickled down my sweating brow.  It felt as if the helmet grew tighter as the dent rubbed against the new lump.  I whirred and ducked as I stabbed my blade into a screaming warrior.  He wrestled for life while my strong legs drove him up and back toward one of the banks.  The two of us slipped so that I landed on top of him in the cold river.

I gasped as I came back to the surface, my beard dripping.  It was a scene of chaos as I looked on the dark arms and heads clash together there in the frigid waters, likely still fed from melting snows on some distant mountain.  I had been there too long, I thought.  By now all of our men would have floated away, leaving the vile Mi’kmaq to butcher one another in a fit of misplaced rage.

So I ducked down, letting the current move me toward my comrades.  I would be the last to join them, I told myself.  There would be honor in that.

. . .

I was not the last to meet the men at the next ford many curving ells downstream, though I was nearly the last.

When my feet brushed the rocks so that I could tell the meeting place came, I hoarsely called, “We have won,” to no one, for I could see no one.

The trees which overhung the banks, their roots exposed by the swelling and retreating waters, answered back, however.  “We’ve won!”  A few of the Algonkin came into the river and offered me a hand up out of the water.  Soon I was on the bank looking at the happiest set of shivering, dripping tattooed faces I had ever seen.  Visible steam rose from each of them creating a cloud in which we stood.

Rowtag the Elder had a hand on his son’s shoulder, poorly hidden pride on his face.  “There are only two more yet to come.”

. . .

We waited another several moments in that copse of trees overhanging the river as its waters sluiced their way to the sea.  The other two men did not come and so with no real organization other than that which was always in our mind from hard-won experience, we trotted our way back up the river to the site of the battle.

I led our men, running abreast of Rowtag and Pajack, who rained curses down about our enemy under his breath.  In no time we could once again hear the pitch of battle, but now it was isolated, sporadic.  When the leading elements of our group first pulled back the branches at the edge of the stream we saw that perhaps the Pohomoosh would prevail from sheer numbers.  The battle had spilled up over the banks so that a band clashed on either side of the flowing waters.  In the center where the men first slammed together, eight men still fought.  Kesegowaase was among them.  He had Halfdanr leaning clumsily on his shoulder, a darkness that could only be blood spilling from a wound on the man’s head.  Kesegowaase flailed his war axe with his other arm, chopping to keep the Pohomoosh or Fish at bay as the chief inched his way toward deeper water so that they could float away.

You may wonder about the timing of my actions as I tell the next part of the story.  Rest assured, the writing or telling takes infinitely longer than the actual events took to unwind.  One of the Pohomoosh recognized Kesegowaase then.  “You are not of the Fish.  You were in our village only days ago!  You are the chief of our enemy and we are to kill you!”  Kesegowaase gave a yell as he lunged at the man who easily averted a blow.  “Pohomoosh!  Pohomoosh!  Stop attacking our brothers, the Fish.  The crafty people of Kesegowaase have set us against one another.  We are one Mi’kmaq and we must kill the Red Men and their leader.”

With that, the clang of battle ceased as men who only a moment earlier wanted to slice each other from their groins to the ribs began to consider themselves allies against a common foe.  The Pohomoosh warrior added, “We have the coward Chief Kesegowaase trapped in the river!”  As one the Pohomoosh and Fish left standing in the water turned with spears and axes on our chief, rushing him.

Kesegowaase dropped the obviously dying Halfdanr into the water with a splash, raised his axe, and shrieked a sound like none other ever heard on the earth.  All my years of killing have never brought such a sound to my ears, and I remember it in my old age as if it still echoed in my head.  Kesegowaase, chief, stepped into their assault, launching a fierce attack.  The Pohomoosh who had shouted, fell head-first into the river with a skull split wide like a new flower blooming.  A spear pierced Kesegowaase’s side then.  Our chief gripped the handle and used his own body like a lever.  He swung the man who wielded it into a Fish warrior.  Both of them tumbled under the water while Kesegowaase struck time and again at whatever parts of their bodies tried to rise above the surface.  A Pohomoosh plunged a stone knife into the top of Kesegowaase’s right shoulder, while simultaneously a Fish smacked a stout war club into the great turtle tattoo on our chief’s left ear.

They killed him again and again at that moment, beating him brutally while they shouted and hooted into the night.  When the group of them stood, their red-splattered chests heaving from exertion, all the Fish and Pohomoosh standing on the banks staring at the sight raised their weapons and gave a great cheer.  A cheer that abruptly ended when one of the Pohomoosh coarsely grabbed the knot of hair atop Kesegowaase’s lolling head to peel away his scalp.  The cheer ended because that was when a survivor of the Fish grabbed the Pohomoosh man’s arm, shouting, “This glory belongs to the Fish!  This is our land!”

The angry Pohomoosh would not hear of it, “We’ll see who ends up with the scalp for he will have the glory!”

It was time to again stoke the jealous anger of the ages that was always there beneath the surface even between the closest of brothers.  I drew my long blade, holding it with both hands high above my head as I skirted the bank and chopped the nearest Fish down with a single blow.  A howl not unlike the call of the wolf burst from my lungs as I dislodged my sword, looking for another man to kill.  My new countrymen, my new people followed closely on my heels screaming war cries of revenge, cutting through the men on our bank before they even understood what happened.

The Fish and Pohomoosh in the river were again at one another’s throats, fighting for the honor of a chief’s scalp, seemingly ignorant of the mayhem that came to them.  Kesegowaase’s body bobbed between them, face down in the cold water.  These men, Pohomoosh and Fish alike were swept under a wave of Algonkin stone and Norseman steel.

By the time my sopping boot slapped the opposite shore, the few enemy there were ready to receive us.  These Fish, these Pohomoosh fought as one, likely knowing that our numbers made it a necessity.  My boot stuck in a narrow cleft between two rocks and I fell with shouts and curses spilling out into the air.

I was dead then.  A pierced and tattooed Mi’kmaq, I forget which clan, eyes wide with the glee of a coming kill drove his spear down into my face.  I watched it come, thinking it fitting to die in battle with my hand holding my sword in the same fight that killed my chief.  Hurit would weep, certainly.  Alsoomse may weep, but she was strong and independent.  That girl would live and live well.

But a spinning flash brought those thoughts to an end.  Above me, Rowtag the Elder swung the heavy blade that had been carried by Halfdanr, severing the crazed Mi’kmaq with such force, his head popped like the water shooting from the spout of a whale.  The bloody mess of the Mi’kmaq body toppled down on top of me, pinning me down.

Another full batch of curses came as I threw the man’s remains into the river and leaned forward to dislodge my foot.  Rowtag had turned to face another warrior while my back was turned from the fight.

I should have shouted to the man.  I should have warned my friend, but I did not.  By the time I righted myself and again faced the Mi’kmaq, Rowtag the Elder laid dead at my feet, the heavy blade laying useless across his chest.  Another righteous burst of energy and rage pumped into my heart and I chopped down the Pohomoosh and Fish, indiscriminately.  I fought next to young Pajack for just a moment.  He seemed to fight with anger and ample joy, a combination that could someday make a fine warrior if it was tempered with wits.  I heard him shout, “How dare you kill our chief!  When I become leader someday, the sun will never set on my hatred of you.”  But the battle was fluid, running up and down the slope two or three times, and soon he disappeared into the brush after a fleeing Fish.  Next I fought next to the young Rowtag.  If he knew of his father’s death, he did not let it slow him as he swept up the earth with his spear.

We had won.  Of course, we had won.  Every single man who came against us bled onto the leaf-littered dirt or into the frosty stream.  The night slowly returned to silence while our men rummaged over the dead bodies which lay strewn over the area.  They gathered scalps and trinkets to decorate their mamateeks, to tell of a great victory whenever a visitor entered their homes.

We had won, beaten both the Pohomoosh and the Fish.  By the time we took count of our men, our dead numbered five, Kesegowaase, Halfdanr, Rowtag, and two more.

Every man left living was tired for every man had been marching for days and awake all night.  As the sun rose on the horrific scene, we wanted to sleep, but we could not.  We had succeeded in a great battle, but we were deep in the territory of the Mi’kmaq.  It would not be long before scouts would come looking for these men.  It would not be long before we had even greater numbers falling upon us.

We hastily assembled a litter to carry our dead chief.  The others were nearly left to decay among the roots of the forest, but Rowtag the Younger pointed out that all the work we accomplished during the night would be lost if our people or Halfdanr were found.  He was already beginning to show the wisdom of his father, which made me smile.  So we made more simple litters to carry the dead men atop our shoulders.

Our path to the sea would be easy to follow for any who thought to pursue us.  But we cared only that the Algonkin could not be easily named as participating in the battle.  The weary party marched down the river to meet with the girls and their two guides and thus begin the long journey home.

CHAPTER 12

We were two weeks more in returning to Kesegowaase’s village.  Some five or ten English miles offshore from the mouth of that river lay a large island that stretched many leagues along the shore.  I had seen it time and again on the outbound leg of my journey.  Though I had never set foot upon it, I knew it was populated by yet another clan of the Mi’kmaq people called the Epekwitk, or those Lying in Water.

Our return could have been filled with much adventure as we passed countless Epekwitk, but it was actually relatively easy.  After paddling make-shift rafts out to the island, young Rowtag led his comrades to a nearby Epekwitk village during the night and stole a host of poorly guarded canoes.  We paddled our way around the north side of the great island, keeping much distance between us and the shore.  When the nights came again we would cautiously move to camp along one of the numerous shallow harbors that filled the shoreline.  No one complained when I forbade striking a fire.

When we finally reached the easternmost point of the Epekwitk Island, we cut a southeast course across the sea.  The weather cooperated generally, but the waves were harsh, rolling again and again at four ells, and the men’s backs and arms worked the paddles mightily to keep our flotilla upright.  At last we came to an uninhabited narrow slab of an island that could be considered in the outskirts of Kesegowaase’s territory.  I mention the island because we often called it the whale as it looked like a giant whale cresting from the sea.  It had no beaches.  Instead the shoreline rose more or less vertically from the waters ranging from the height of three men on the northern point to the height of three stacked longhouses stood on end on the southern tip near the “hump.”  We camped in a dense grove of white spruce on the lee side of the island, feasting on several hare that were roasted over the first fire we had enjoyed in days.

All the dead, except the chief, were buried in the waters surrounding that whale island.  The warming sun during the days was beginning to bring out a pungent odor from the bodies and so I had no trouble convincing the men to take large rocks from the shore and tie them to the dead men’s ankles.  As we dropped the men into the depths, a pair of massive fin whales surfaced a mere six ells away.  They blew five rapid bursts from their blow holes as they lazily fed on a large school of very small fish that darted about just below the surface, completely unaware that the beasts passing through their midst meant to eat them.

Rowtag the Younger took this as a powerful omen for good, saying as much.  The other men nodded their approval, some grunting as we sat with our backs straight, necks craned, paddles resting across the gunwales and watched the dark grey beauties glide past, ignoring us entirely while they undulated above and below the surface.  Makkito came out of her quiet thoughts enough to give a bright smile behind her dingy face.  Alsoomse called to the beasts the type of nonsense you would expect from a girl aged three years.  When she asked if she could ride one, the men all laughed and we started our paddle strokes home.

In a matter of several more days we came into the mouth of the river that flowed past our village, wearily paddling upstream to the shore.  The children and aged were the first to appear at the shingle to greet us on our return as most of the women and men were continuing with the tasks of daily life.  But in time the wives came running down to the bank, ignoring all normal decorum and latching their arms around their men.  The men took their women with one arm tightly, making sure they had a free hand to grope some of their favorite parts.  Some of the women, however, their eyes darting nervously, standing on their toes to get a better view would find no pleasure that day.  While we had beaten two foes badly, some of our men did not come back and so their women would weep.  The village would mourn with them.

I saw Torleik coming toward me, smiling broadly.  His untamed hair and beard made him look endearing while he crouched to his only pupil, the one who gave him such trouble, and he welcomed her home.  When Alsoomse replied, “Desidero studia mea, sed ut nos satus cras?” a tear came to the old goat’s face.

“He’ll know, young woman!  He’ll know.”  Torleik rose then and we clasped hands in greeting, but were interrupted by Hurit who nearly knocked the old man down as she gathered Alsoomse up, squeezing the girl between us.  Torleik, I think, walked away.

My woman wept and carried on then.  Of course it was out of happiness and I was as pleased as she, but I just watched the two of them talk for a time.  Hurit was amazed as the girl’s tales tumbled out as rapidly as a longboat cuts the waters when its cloth is filled with the wind.  Alsoomse told them as one wise to the world and not as a three year old girl.

“What is that smell?” someone called.

It was the body of the chief and one of the warriors said as much without giving thought to his words.  And our joyous return veered to that of a somber funeral.  Hurit’s tears of joy morphed into pangs and heaves of sadness – another of the men in her life, gone.  I placed a hand on the woman’s back as she knelt over the gunwale to look at the chief’s wrapped body, blood stains showing through our rushed covering.

I will not tell the details of the funeral for Kesegowaase who we would now refer to as the father of Kimi or the cousin of whomever for to utter his name was disrespectful.  His funeral was much like that of Ahanu.  To a person we covered our faces in charcoal.  Nootau came to his senses enough to administer the rituals he had now done for many years, prompted by a younger man, his protégé of sorts, whenever he forgot something.  Hassun stewed that he was overlooked for even that simple task.  I suppose he was not ever going to be able to live past the weak toss of the family’s spear at the start of his manhood trials.

Our chief’s face was painted with the familiar red ochre mix that my new people loved so.  Before that first day of our return ended, Kesegowaase’s bloated, disfigured body was placed with care in the cave where the leaders lie.

I have never been in that cave.  I probably never will go into that cave so I only imagine what it looked like.  I picture the remains of many great men laid out, the dry rot of years taking their toll.  Maybe the war and spirit trinkets are still set atop them.  Maybe these great men rise each night to kindle a fire and talk of the challenges and joys of being a king of sorts.  Maybe they go to Valhalla and celebrate with Odin singing the war songs.  If they did that, however, I often thought, there would be trouble for they would have to get used to fermented drink.  Or maybe they go to the One God and his heaven and celebrate there.  Or maybe they go to the valley on the far away island and hunt with Glooskap.

I didn’t really know what happened after death.  I did know that I had sent many a man there myself.  I further knew that the only written proof I had was from the One God, all else was by word-of-mouth.  So I was assured that it was his will that would prevail.  It always did for me.  His Providence would guide me and protect me.

. . .

Council was called the next morning, early.  We had to decide what to do about what may become another war with the Pohomoosh and perhaps even the Fish, but since most of us were in council after Ahanu’s death, we knew our first priority would be to name a chief to avoid the disgrace rightfully heaped upon our heads by Nootau.

Hassun, bitter from once again missing out on a name-making battle, led the council.  He was senior, perhaps thirty-five years of age and a close relative of the Ahanu line.  It was also likely that he held out hope that his chance to be chief had finally come.  It was not meant to be.

“The men who added the most wisdom to our last naming of leader have gone to Glooskap,” he said, referring to both Kesegowaase and Etleloo’s passing, but perhaps also to his own father’s addled mind.  Nootau was having a bad day, yelling at his woman that Ahanu waited for him to hunt and so he was therefore not summoned for the council.  “Let the spirit of Glooskap, who holds council with our ancestors, enter each of us so that when our mouths open, we find wisdom residing within.”  Good start I thought as I crouched behind the main circle of men in the chief’s big mamateek.  Several times over the years, especially during the last war, I was invited to sit among the elders and give the chief direct council.  Each time, however, I declined saying that I served.  I did not lead their people.

Time dripped like a slowly melting icicle tucked under the shaded branches of a tree, as the men of the council pondered or gamed politically or meditated while a single pipe packed with a dried mixture of herbs was shared.  There had been no tobacco in the village for two or three years as trading always went through periods of bounty and want.  After taking a puff, the men would release the smoke deliberately, allowing it to climb into the room and eventually the sky to take their prayers with it.  Some waved the smoke back over their heads to bring the divine answer back to them.

While the last of the men finished his smoke, the young one called Pajack, that thunderous little thing with bones jutting from seemingly everywhere, spoke, “The line of the last chief is dead.  He has no male heirs to take his place and so it is time to move to a new line.  Hassun has been a leader of our people since the tall strangers first came.”  The two men shared a look that told me they spoke of this beforehand.  “He should be chief.”  A small faction of men nodded their approval.

Too eagerly, Hassun answered, “It is my honor to accept.”

Men are funny creatures.  The very faction who one moment earlier gave their approval of Hassun as chief were turned off by his impatience and set their faces to stone, waiting for a new, better name to come forward.  So once again Hassun’s hopes were dashed, though he did not yet know it.

There were two men older than I who sat in the circle that day.  The first, a happy man of simple thoughts who should never lead anyone except perhaps himself – even that would have been a challenge – was sitting near the door in front of me.  I think no one gave him any consideration as chief.  The second, Achak, was confident, retained some strength from his youth, and proved to be a good hunter over the years.  Though he would never lead a war party again because his joints nearly hobbled him, I favored him because of his age and experience.

I did briefly toy with the idea of naming Rowtag the Younger, but he was too green.  Perhaps he would lead these people in ten years when Achak passed on to Glooskap.

“Achak,” I said.

The old man waited for some nods and positive comments to come from the council members before he said, “If it is the will of the council I will serve, but I think we have others more suited to the task.”

Rowtag the Younger took up the case.  “I will support Achak as chief if it is the will of our council.  He would lead us with honor and wisdom, but I think Glooskap has seen fit to provide us another leader of vast experience, sound judgment, and with the strength of a pack of wolves.  I take a different view from what Pajack said earlier.  The line of chiefs is not broken, only bent in a new direction.  In the morning we face the sea and find the sun.  In the evening we face the land and find the sun.  It is still the sun, but we face a new direction.”  Men listened quietly.  The simple, happy old man held the pipe puffing with his eyes closed.

“When the world works according to normal laws, a man succeeds his father to the house of chief.  But these are times when the world is crooked.  These are times when men can come from the sea in giant canoes.  These are times when we are told of a One God who is more powerful than all other gods.  These are times when the Mi’kmaq fall upon us to steal and kill.  These are times when it took a stranger and a seasoned warrior to tell us that our silly girls have value.  These are times when the world is crooked, bent to a new direction.  These are times when the father should succeed the son to the mamateek of chief.”

His talk made me dizzy.  I wished I understood it, but it was so fine that I also wished that I had remained silent or raised Rowtag the Younger’s name for chief.

Agitated, Pajack complained, “How can we make that so?  He is foreign.”  Hassun nodded approvingly to the young thunder, clearly hoping that someone other than Pajack would support him as chief.

It was Achak’s turn.  “Rowtag has shown that the wisdom of his lost father is in his mind.  To answer your question thundering Pajack, we may make it so for we are the council.”  Men grunted their approval.

“But we must obey the traditions!” shouted Hassun, losing his grasp on patience.  “And Pajack is right; he is foreign.”

Achak carried on, “The traditions shall be followed.  He is no more foreign than I am.  He is no more foreign than you.  His mother was born of this earth and she died of this earth.  Glooskap hunts for her now.  He will do the same for your mother.  The Mi’kmaq blood he has shed for our chief has been red like the setting sun and he does not stop with age.  I am only sad that more of his kind did not come to us.  He is not foreign.”

Exasperated now, Hassun screamed, “But the traditions!  Even my father in his wrong mind will tell you we must adhere to the traditions.”