Mattie Mitchell by Gary Collins

sit long
time in wigwam. Dey tell many yarns. But dis yarn dey tell
only in nighttime ’round campfire. Dey never tell to white man.
White man never believe dis story.” Mattie looked all around asif checking to see if there were any white adults present before
continuing.
    It was a story about a Beothuk hunter and warrior. Bukashaman
was a young Beothuk Indian from the “Red Pond.” The Mi’kmaq
called him Buka.
    Buka had lain with a very pretty woman of his own tribe. She
was called Tehobosheen or Tehonee. The couple had a girl child
they named Kuisduit. Tehonee called their daughter Kuise, but
Buka always called his pretty daughter Small One. She never
lived long enough to be called anything else. Both little Kuise
and her mother, Tehonee, were killed on a beach by the white
man’s guns. Their cruel deaths changed Buka from a peaceful
hunter to a fierce, vengeful warrior.
    Mattie remembered where he had heard the tale first. It was on
the sandy shores deep in the bay the white men called Halls Bay.
The wigwam they lived in had only recently been built above the
beach at the edge of the forest. His father had moved with his
family as far away from the few white settlers as he could get
when the sickness came. It was the white man’s disease, he said.
    It was summertime, the time of gathering riches from the blue
sea. His father planned to move farther inland when the leaves
turned. He did not make it, Mattie said, but died in a bout of
coughing a few days later.
    His father’s cough had been strangely silent during this story’s
telling, Mattie said. The old man who told the tale stood in their
wigwam and with much shadowed gesticulations told the tale
that had been heard and told again and again, passed on beside
countless campfires. He began by describing in great detail what
happened when Buka saw his very first white man.

    FROM THE CORNER OF THE DENSE WOODS , Buka stared at
the strange men. Most of them had ugly hair on their faces and
from here he could smell their terrible odour. Their heads were
covered with a black, shapeless garment that hung over their ears
and partially covered their hair. This tangled mess that grew to
their shoulders and covered some of their faces was of different
colours and not at all like the red men.
    One stranger’s hair was the colour of dead grass, while
another’s was almost the deep red of the ochre that Buka wore on
his skin. He stared at this one the longest, wondering where he
had found the precious dye, and why he would shade his unruly
hair with it. The redheaded man also had blotches of the red mud
on his otherwise white face, as if he had run out of the dye before
he could completely cover his face, which, unlike the other men,
was hairless.
    Their huge tapoteek were drawn close to the rough shore and
were fastened with long, braided strands the likes of which he
had never seen. The boats themselves were not made of bark,
but of wood. This he could determine from his vantage point.
The newcomers were full of mystery and carried themselves
with an arrogant and carefree demeanour. They were living on
the Beothuk land without permission and yet posted no guard,
nor, from what Buka could see, showed any concern for their
surroundings.
    One man stood apart from the others. He was beardless and
carried himself differently. His eyes scanned the woods in a
searching stare and, once, his gaze fell across the low clump of
trees where the red man lay hidden. But the white man didn’t see
anything and soon returned to the noisy group. Buka stared long
and hard at this tall, lean man and decided that he must be their
chief.
    The red hunter crept closer to a better vantage point. Holdingstill and motionless, he watched and waited. Presently, one of
the heavily clothed men emerged from the nearby log structure.
The solid wood opening that he stepped through squealed at his
appearance and complained even louder when he closed the door
behind him.