Norseman Chief (34 page)

And the story continued on and on.  That day in the depth of winter, villagers came to see their chief, awakened and safe.  They came in singles, pairs, or even entire families.  Some brought gifts of my favorite foods, but since that wound from the arrow became a part of me, I have never been able to enjoy syrup from the maples or any animal fat without shitting myself senseless.  I did not know this at the time and merrily ate of the delicious morsels.  My new people came to sit around the fire in the largest mamateek ever built, my mamateek, the mamateek of their leader.  They came to hear the tale of our victory over a despised people and a hated ruler.  From here I tell that tale as if I was an observer, for I initially wasted two full, scarce, and precious pages of parchment attempting to incorporate Torleik or Rowtag or Alsoomse with their quotations and thoughts nested within the others’ words, but eventually even I lost track of who said what and to whom.

I lay there on the beach in my vomit and approaching death.  Rowtag emerged from the forest with the rest of our men and upon seeing me splayed out in such a way, shouted the same basic warning to the priest, though without the threat to Torleik’s walnut sack.  There was then much argument about what to do next.  Some men wanted to accompany the chief’s injured body back to the village to ensure its safety.  Others wanted to gather canoes and hunt the men Torleik drove away who were now bounding across the sea.  Another group argued to strike out against the band of Pohomoosh that Rowtag’s son, Taregan, and his men – if they yet lived – still tracked somewhere to the south.

My daughter began to argue that they must address the issue before them – one of our own men, hidden somewhere, sent an arrow into my belly, but in truth, she was ignored.  Of course, I knew why the men paid her no heed.  Who would listen to a woman in the details of war?  I will answer that myself.  Only a fool would do such a thing.  But I, in my semi-coherent state, commanded that she be taken seriously.  Later Rowtag told me without sarcasm or malice that it was an order that saved our people and his son.

So I, the great Chief Enkoodabooaoo, was the fool who commanded my men to obey a woman.  My eyes shot wide while my fist reached then clutched Rowtag’s leg, “Alsoomse the Skjoldmo, will lead until I return.”  Without waiting, my eyes rolled back and my head collapsed toward the earth.

Apparently my direction did nothing to restore any order, for my daughter was just as confused as the rest.  Shouting men thought that raising the volume of their voice would mean they would be heard above the din.  No one heard anyone.  They bickered like confined nuns tired of the same loaf of bread served for breakfast time and again.  But Rowtag, son of Rowtag, fell silent allowing the events of the morning to intertwine with my bizarre command.

“The chief’s daughter has won me over,” Rowtag said quietly, using the age-old tactic of calm in the midst of a shouting match to draw attention his way.  He had to repeat it many times before the group was ready to listen.  Even Alsoomse now watched him, stunned.  “The woman clearly killed all the men who litter the beach and channel.  She’s brought down more Mi’kmaq filth than many of you have killed in a lifetime.”

“She was merely an instrument of the One God!” Torleik corrected.  The warriors absent-mindedly nodded at the priest’s assertion.

“And our chief commands that we follow her.  It must be as he says for who among us has given more for the safety of our people?  Who among us claims more authority than the chief?”  There was no answer, for there should not have been.  The resolve of Rowtag had either won them over, or at least silenced them enough to begin to form action.

“The arrow in the chief’s belly was indeed one of our own,” said Rowtag.  It was.  The missile had been manufactured in the generic style of the Beiuthook, but without the tell-tale markings like those used by my Alsoomse or several of the other warriors.  The men who had stood next to me on the beach pointed in the direction from which the arrow had come.  It was a place concealed by brush that is typically found at the edge of a forest.  It stood opposite of the tree in which Alsoomse had perched to rain down her terror onto the Mi’kmaq in the channel.  Our scouts, all accounted for in the recent battle, confirmed that no Pohomoosh had been seen in the area.  So it must have been a traitor – one of our own who I wanted little Skjoldmo to hunt and kill.

My daughter spoke with bold confidence, ordering those men as if Glooskap had set the axe of leadership in her lap by his own hand.  She again ordered that my limp form be carried back to the village.  She sent four men along with Torleik to carry me.  After naming the men, it was as if Alsoomse forgot they existed.  They moved about their business while she made more decisions and issued orders, not waiting for even a heartbeat to see if Rowtag or the other bloodied warriors agreed.  They were offended at first, but soon saw the solid working of her mind.

“Our best tracker!” she commanded.  “I want him to lead Rowtag and me after our traitor.  The rest will move directly east over the bluffs and into the central valley of my father’s land.  Keep scouts out and move against any enemy you find.  If you do not hear from us in two days, strike south toward the big lake.”

“But the village!” a man protested.

“The village will be dust if we let our own people trample us!  If we don’t find this traitor and the other Mi’kmaq invaders, we may as well become followers of the Great Spirit.”  The mere mention of such a thing struck my warriors with anger, with purpose.

Rowtag called up Nandawaatoo and his sharp eyes in order to find the traitor.  My near-lifeless body was carried away then.  Rowtag shamefully admits that he thought it was perhaps only one turn of the sun before he would need to set me in the cave on the hill with the other great chiefs.

Nandawaatoo led Alsoomse and Rowtag to the area pointed out by the witnesses as the most likely place where the arrow was launched.  As they approached he held his broad, flat hands back to slow the others down while his eyes scanned first low, then high.  They ducked into the forest through a patch of tall, spindle-like goldenrod already past its prime.  Nandawaatoo immediately grunted, pointing to the toothwort which littered the floor at their feet.  One of the plants had its leaves cleanly sliced off one side.  The small disturbed earth beneath the missing leaves most likely meant that someone had shoved an arrow into the ground in this spot while they waited.  The arrow was gone, perhaps in my belly, but the signs of the man remained.  Soon Nandawaatoo was moving in broad strides after his quarry.  I have never seen the man fail in laying his hands upon his prey.

The pursuers moved quite a lot faster than the larger group of my men even though their guide frequently bent to look at the ground.  Alsoomse encouraged him to move more quickly, saying that every moment of delay meant that the prey was closer to telling the enemy that the chief may be dead and that our warriors survived.  She learned the importance of battlefield intelligence and war craft from years of my stories and meetings with men in the village.  In whispers she pressed Nandawaatoo and Rowtag to move so that soon they were at a jog, pulling ahead and south of our main force.

The Ravine of the Shadow took them southeast through the bluffs so that by mid-day they were in the marshlands.  Since the traitor was likely only ahead of them by the time it takes to eat a simple meal, none were surprised to see his back plunge into pines at the other end of a barren swamp.  Because of the dry summer the marsh itself was mostly a crusty, cracked patch of pale earth and the three made excellent time running across it in his footsteps.  I do not think our prey knew he was pursued so closely, but he ran with purpose to our unseen enemy.

The little traitor ran in more or less a straight south, southeast path so there was no chance to cut him off or surprise him.  Rowtag told Alsoomse that he probably led them into a trap, but she scoffed.

“We won’t need to pursue him much farther,” was all my daughter had to say.

As soon as the three burst through the trees into another dried swamp, Alsoomse strung an arrow while running.  In a whisper Rowtag said that her arms and that bow would never make the distance, let alone the aim.  He was proven wrong.  My daughter was as graceful as any deer I have ever seen.  Her makizined feet lightly padded to a halt while she simultaneously brought the bow up, drawing back the cord.  The bow’s belly was made fat from the bowels of some tree so that even though the arms were short, arrows leapt into the air from its tight sinews with great force.  Alsoomse brought the cord to the corner of her mouth, actually smiled to the wind with joy and let the arrow fly free.  In just under three heartbeats a yelp and tumble told her companions that the woman’s aim was true.

It was Chansomps, Makkito’s son conceived by the raping Fish, who roiled around in the dust under their collective gaze after they crossed another dried marsh.  My angry friend Etleloo, as fiercely loyal as any man could be, had a grandson who became the worst kind of fiend.  In a way, it was best that he did not live to see such treachery from his blood line.  I do not think he would have survived the dishonor.  For his daughter’s part, the woman was deeply saddened when she was first told.  After all, Makkito and her husband had raised the bastard as ably as they would have done for one not conceived during a rape.  But with time Chansomps’ death lifted a wild burden from her shoulders.  Makkito would survive.

And the little tit infection died poorly – poorly in his own blood and snot.

Rowtag seized a hold of his hair tightly so that Chansomps’ head stayed in place.  Alsoomse twisted and turned the arrow that had lodged in his thigh while asking what the Mi’kmaq had in store for us.  The sound of the stone head grinding against the bone in his leg was startling.  Blood spit out whenever she pried the arrow back to a low angle.  Chansomps cried real tears and swatted his thin arms helplessly at her until his mind left and he passed into sleep from pain.

Swearing then, Alsoomse told Nandawaatoo to piss on Chansomps’ face in order to revive him.  So the guide move away his loin cloth and soon found that he had more than enough urine in his belly to splash down on Chansomps.  His aim was sporadic, but when he found a direct line into the traitor’s nostril, the little Fish half-breed awoke choking, spitting light yellow piss onto the ground.

Alsoomse slapped the little bastard’s face a few times, asking how he made contact with the Pohomoosh and about the depth of his treachery.  Chansomps cursed my daughter and she let him go on for a time, not wasting her breath, while he spent his energy.  Rowtag kicked his face with his heel.  That shut Chansomps up for a moment so Alsoomse asked him again what the Mi’kmaq had waiting for us and who else was in league with them.

Something at last sparked a bit more courage in his belly and he spat toward Alsoomse.  He missed, so the spittle landed back on his chest.  He wasn’t discouraged, but kept cursing our people.  “I am the son of a powerful Fish warrior who was killed by our weak, old chief,” he screeched.  Upon hearing that these were his words, I remembered killing all the Fish kidnappers and thought they were the weak ones, certainly not powerful.  Alsoomse tired of the time he took, so she grabbed a small rock that sat idly nearby.  Firmly in her palm, it soon struck his face.  Several complete teeth and bits of other teeth came free in a wet, deep red ball.  Chansomps cried.  The woman warrior asked him one more time to tell her what she wanted to know.  Behind his tears and bluster Alsoomse could see that though he was afraid, he was steeling himself to defy her again.  She had only to lay a soft hand on the arrow in his thigh and he lost all that resolve, blubbering as a child.

“Pajack came to me during the summer.  He wanted to know if I would support him over your father, the stranger.  Halldorr’s no chief of our people!  Pajack should lead.”  Chansomps yelled through snot and anger and sadness.

“And?”  Alsoomse asked.

“And I said yes!  And even though our ambush failed, your father lies dead and the war has not yet even begun!”

“Oh, but your aim is as weak as your draw.  My father lives.  Wounded, yes, but he commands even now.  His guiding arm will see the Mi’kmaq crushed forever.”

“Liar!” Chansomps screamed sounding more like a spoiled child than one who recently underwent the trials of manhood.

“Hmm!  If you believe that to be the case, perhaps you should prove the confidence you place in your new allies and in your aim by telling us what the Mi’kmaq plan.”

Not unlike Byrhtnoth, the English lord I faced many years earlier, the simple-minded fool let his pride get the better of him.  Chansomps told the three of them that the rest of the Mi’kmaq force, mostly Pohomoosh, but also some Fish and another clan called the Skin Dressers, waited at the large lake to the south for the word to launch their canoes, follow the eastern coast of the sea, and enter our village from the rear.  Pajack and old Luntook and other Mi’kmaq braves led the force.  Chansomps said their numbers would overwhelm us even if each of our men and women took up arms.

As I heard this part of the yarn, I interrupted the telling.  “But he bluffed because we weren’t overrun!”

But, the witnesses assured me, the coward did not bluff.  There was many, many more Mi’kmaq warriors than any of our warriors could count.