Our Story: Aboriginal Voices on Canada's Past by Tantoo Cardinal

that so.”
    Upriver on the north shore men, women, and children gathered to see what the travellers had brought with them as payment for their continued passage. But when they saw the shaggy-faced White men, the men, women, and children were more taken with these “apparitions” than they were with the caribou pelts.
    â€œThese figures on the sash, a man and woman, remind us of what happened next,” said the
mazhinawae
.
    As the traders from Stadacona and the Odauwau warriors were seated to bargain what toll should be paid, a boy reached out for one of the White men’s faces. Parisé, thinking that the boy was about to pull his beard, slapped the boy’s hand away. The boy yelped, “He hit me! he hit me!”
    The boy’s father was at Parisé’s throat and would have cut the man’s neck had it not been for the quick action of the warriors, who drew the man to one side. There were voices raised. “Serves him right.”
    The father of the boy raised his own voice. “He hit my boy! He’s not going to get away with it.”
    Parisé and Lebrun were paralyzed with fear. They looked wildly about them for some avenue of escape but there was none. They were surrounded by warriors. Silently they prayed.
    â€œCalm down! Calm down!” the Odauwau chief shouted to restore order and to settle frayed nerves that were rubbed rawer by demands “to bury a hatchet in their skulls” and “leave them alone.”
    â€œGet a hatchet! Get a hatchet!”
    â€œA hatchet! A hatchet,” an old woman spat out. “Thats all that you think of. A hatchet will not settle anything. A hatchet will only hatch ghosts … and more ghosts … These strangers came here not as enemies, but as passersby. We ought to receive them as guests.”
    This plea did little to quell the uproar. While the men argued for and against blood, the same old woman raised her voice to draw the chief’s attention. His attention gained, the chief raised his arm and in a loud voice called, “Quiet! Pitchinaessih has something to say!”The crowd settled down.
    â€œI want to adopt this boy,” Pitchinaessih said, pointing to Parisé. “Since my son died some years ago I’ve had no one to look after me. I’ve got no one to care for. I’d like to take this boy into my home. I would like all of you to look on him as my son, as your friend … as one of us.”
    â€œAll agree?” the chief asked.
    â€œHo! Ho! Ho!” the voices piped up in agreement.
    â€œWelcome, brother,” the chief said to Parisé, whose hand he took, and he led him to Pitchinaessih. Parisé went along willingly, not knowing what was going on. A thought that he might be married to the old woman might have flitted through his mind.
    Men, women, and children came over to welcome the newest member of the community and to congratulate Pitchinaessih on getting ason. Even the man whose son’s hand Parisé had slapped away offered a welcome, a lukewarm welcome. But at least it was a welcome. There was nothing that he could do to reverse the Anishinaubae custom of adoptions.
    The chief of the Stadacona advance party protested. “Don’t do this! What will I tell our chief? His chief? They’ll come after you with their thundersticks.”
    â€œTell them,” the Anishinaubae chief answered, “that they ran away … captured by Mohawks … They drowned … They fell in love. Tell them anything, but don’t tell them that they are here or else we’ll never let you further inland ever again.”
    â€œBut,” the chief of the advance party objected, “you didn’t ask the young man if he wanted to stay or to come back with us. His chief trusted us to take them back.”
    â€œDid you want to go further inland for your corn, or do you want to go back to your village now?” the Anishinaubae chief asked. “Your