joined me when I asked, out of courtesy, if she’d like to come.
She still hasn’t said more than a few sentences in these last weeks, and I refuse to let her know she’s winning this battle, that she’s wearing me down. I twist the nub again and the call of the female echoes out from the cedar in my hand. I then place the wood beside my bow, an arrow already notched into place.
As I had hoped, the yawp of a male calls out from just inside the tree line across from us. His call is deep and the hunger for a mate is obvious in it. I pick up the cedar and stick and call out once more to tempt him out of cover. Then, as slow as I’m able, I pick up my bow. All I hear for a few moments is the gentle breath of the girl, now quickening some. I draw back and stare down the length of the arrow to where he will come.
A big male emerges, hesitant and alert. Despite what his instinct tells him, I know that his desire will get the most of him. He only needs to come halfway into the clearing and I’ll have my shot. He puffs his chest and calls out again. As good as his meat will be, it’s his feathers I need most. They are the only ones I will use for my fletching, and I plan on making many arrows for the summer journey.
He scratches at the ground and bobs his head, trying to entice the female he thinks is close by. Both confused and curious, he takes afew more steps, then thinks better of it and begins to retreat to where he came from. That’s when an even larger male pops out from the bush, opening his wings wide to intimidate the other. I’ve never seen a turkey so large. He gobbles out coarsely as he approaches the other male, who makes only the slightest of challenges before scurrying off in the other direction, clucking in anger.
The huge bird, with the clearing all to himself, steps out in the middle and yawps once more for the female that he, too, had heard. He puffs out so big that I picture shouldering him back into the long-house to proudly show off to Fox. The fletching this bird will provide! My arm, tiring now, holds steady, and my fingers on the string hum for release. My aim is centred on the bird’s chest, such a large target that I know I can’t miss.
Just as I let go, I feel the girl’s hand push my arm. I watch the arrow shoot hard to the left of the bird and thunk and splinter on a tree across the clearing. Quick as I can, I reach for another arrow and notch it, drawing back just in time to see the bird scuttle into the bush. I slowly release the tension on the bow and let the arrow drop.
When I stand, my knees shake. I fight the urge to slap her. I bend down and pick up my possessions, then start to walk away. Then I stop and turn. The girl stares at me dully. She smiles, but there’s no light in it.
“In a few days, we will begin the move to a new village,” I say, “and we’ll leave this place, my home. It isn’t your home. It can’t ever be.” I pause and search for the words. I want to tell her I’ve decided to trade her for peace. I want to tell her that along with her, I’ll bring my most sacred possession as a gift, that I’ll carry wampum from the Wendat people, crafted and sewn into one of the greatest story belts I’ve ever seen, that this is what I’ve been given to do. But all that comes out of my mouth is, “After the village is moved, I will paddle you to the designated place, and I will return you to your people.”
I expect her to smile, but instead something like sadness flashes in her eyes.
THE KETTLE HAS BEGUN
I watch for days, for weeks, the preparations for what will take these Wendat, my people’s enemy, beyond the summer to accomplish. I’m glad Bird will return me to my family. This village slowly pulls itself apart and is carried on the backs of the women and men and children to its new location a day’s walk from here. It’s difficult work, brutal work, but I won’t have to help these ones much longer. Soon, I’ll be carried in Bird’s canoe to the
She still hasn’t said more than a few sentences in these last weeks, and I refuse to let her know she’s winning this battle, that she’s wearing me down. I twist the nub again and the call of the female echoes out from the cedar in my hand. I then place the wood beside my bow, an arrow already notched into place.
As I had hoped, the yawp of a male calls out from just inside the tree line across from us. His call is deep and the hunger for a mate is obvious in it. I pick up the cedar and stick and call out once more to tempt him out of cover. Then, as slow as I’m able, I pick up my bow. All I hear for a few moments is the gentle breath of the girl, now quickening some. I draw back and stare down the length of the arrow to where he will come.
A big male emerges, hesitant and alert. Despite what his instinct tells him, I know that his desire will get the most of him. He only needs to come halfway into the clearing and I’ll have my shot. He puffs his chest and calls out again. As good as his meat will be, it’s his feathers I need most. They are the only ones I will use for my fletching, and I plan on making many arrows for the summer journey.
He scratches at the ground and bobs his head, trying to entice the female he thinks is close by. Both confused and curious, he takes afew more steps, then thinks better of it and begins to retreat to where he came from. That’s when an even larger male pops out from the bush, opening his wings wide to intimidate the other. I’ve never seen a turkey so large. He gobbles out coarsely as he approaches the other male, who makes only the slightest of challenges before scurrying off in the other direction, clucking in anger.
The huge bird, with the clearing all to himself, steps out in the middle and yawps once more for the female that he, too, had heard. He puffs out so big that I picture shouldering him back into the long-house to proudly show off to Fox. The fletching this bird will provide! My arm, tiring now, holds steady, and my fingers on the string hum for release. My aim is centred on the bird’s chest, such a large target that I know I can’t miss.
Just as I let go, I feel the girl’s hand push my arm. I watch the arrow shoot hard to the left of the bird and thunk and splinter on a tree across the clearing. Quick as I can, I reach for another arrow and notch it, drawing back just in time to see the bird scuttle into the bush. I slowly release the tension on the bow and let the arrow drop.
When I stand, my knees shake. I fight the urge to slap her. I bend down and pick up my possessions, then start to walk away. Then I stop and turn. The girl stares at me dully. She smiles, but there’s no light in it.
“In a few days, we will begin the move to a new village,” I say, “and we’ll leave this place, my home. It isn’t your home. It can’t ever be.” I pause and search for the words. I want to tell her I’ve decided to trade her for peace. I want to tell her that along with her, I’ll bring my most sacred possession as a gift, that I’ll carry wampum from the Wendat people, crafted and sewn into one of the greatest story belts I’ve ever seen, that this is what I’ve been given to do. But all that comes out of my mouth is, “After the village is moved, I will paddle you to the designated place, and I will return you to your people.”
I expect her to smile, but instead something like sadness flashes in her eyes.
THE KETTLE HAS BEGUN
I watch for days, for weeks, the preparations for what will take these Wendat, my people’s enemy, beyond the summer to accomplish. I’m glad Bird will return me to my family. This village slowly pulls itself apart and is carried on the backs of the women and men and children to its new location a day’s walk from here. It’s difficult work, brutal work, but I won’t have to help these ones much longer. Soon, I’ll be carried in Bird’s canoe to the
Similar Books
