CHAPTER 11

ORINHA OR RADISSON?

KATARI HAD BEEN ILL TEMPERED FOR DAYS, sulking with the men and blaming them for bringing back too many weapons from the Dutch. She would have preferred more cloth, more tools, and more food. What’s more, too many men from the clan went to war instead of going off to hunt, meaning the women had less food to store away for the winter. Orinha at least did his part, bringing her home a huge copper cooking pot and a poker. He also gave her some of his cloth. But the gifts were not enough. Katari saw that Orinha had become just like all the other men, a proud and arrogant warrior. She was disappointed in him. She had hoped the Frenchman would turn out more like the Jesuit who had stayed in their village and spoke so often of peace. She had thought her adopted son would become an ally to Chief Teharongara, her friend, who was forced out of the village while Orinha was away. His departure infuriated her.

The unfortunate event happened when the Onondaga delegation came to the village to convince the Mohawks to join peace talks with the French. They were not well received. Katari was involved in the discussions, like other clan mothers, and learned that four of the five Iroquois nations wanted to make peace with the French. Only the Mohawks wouldn’t budge, refusing to give up the fight.

None of the arguments made by the Onondaga, Chief Teharongara, or the clan mothers cooled the war chiefs’ determination to exterminate the French, even at the risk of rupturing the Confederacy of the Five Nations. The clan mothers lamented they could no longer accept so many of their sons dying in battle, especially if the other nations made peace and the Mohawks alone would be left to pay the price. But the arrogant chiefs were set in their ways and drove the clan mothers away from the discussions, paying no heed to tradition. The Onondaga ambassadors did not see fit to stay any longer and left only two days after they arrived. Fearing reprisals, Teharongara the peace chief went with them, such was the venom of those in favour of war.

Katari was so angry that she told the war chiefs in no uncertain terms that a chief like her husband Garagonké would never have been so stupid as to turn the Onondaga ambassadors away. Her outspokenness did not go over well, and they reminded her that she was nothing but an adopted Huron prisoner: their affairs were of no concern of hers. Katari still had not gotten over the whole episode. She had spent her whole life with the Mohawks and sacrificed two of her sons to their passion for war. So, when Otoniata and the other men from her clan brought back such great quantities of muskets and powder, instead of the tools and goods the women had told them they needed first and foremost, Katari flew into a rage against the warriors.

It was clear to Orinha that Garagonké’s prolonged absence and the bad news constantly trickling through to them about him had really demoralized Katari. She feared that her husband had finally been lost in battle and that she would again have to pay dearly. She did not speak about it, but Orinha knew that she was beside herself with worry. Orinha, too, was very worried about his father. Again that afternoon, members of a war party from the neighbouring village of Sacandaga had returned from battling the French. They hadn’t seen Garagonké in weeks.

EVER SINCE his union with Oreanoué had been confirmed, Ganaha had been spending his time with his fiancée in the Wolf clan longhouse. Orinha had lost his dearest companion. Of the other members of Orinha’s war party, Kondaron and Otasseté had not yet returned from the land of the Susquehannocks. Deconissora and Thadodaho had kept their distance since the trading expedition to Rensselaerwyck, and Tahira would spend the winter with the Oneida, after delivering the Erie prisoner to Atotara’s family. Only Shononses, who lived beside the fire closest to the space reserved for Orinha’s family, in the Bear clan longhouse, spent any time with him at all. Shononses had to take things easy. His arm hadn’t healed properly and was still causing him great pain.

“I will never again be able to fire an arrow like I used to,” he lamented. “My arm is no longer strong enough. But if you teach me to fire a musket as well as you, I can again be a good hunter.”

“I will teach you,” Orinha assured him. “You can count on me. I am sure you will again become one of the best hunters we have.”

Orinha was reluctant to confide in Shononses, but whom else could he talk to? Who else could he tell about what had intrigued him so since he had returned from Rensselaerwyck? At last, his need to talk to someone got the better of his reluctance to open up.

“I have a question for you,” said Orinha, in a serious voice.

“I’m listening.”

Orinha could not understand why his eagle-head knife had such an effect on him. He had come to the conclusion that the knife helped him meet his guardian spirit: the eagle. But he was not sure. Since it was not something the Iroquois talked about, Orinha broached the subject in a roundabout way. He took out the knife from under his clothes and showed it to Shononses.

“Take a look at this. I bought it from the Dutch. Have you ever seen a knife like it?”

Shononses was surprised. He picked it up carefully, holding the blade in his right hand and the handle in his left, as though the knife were especially fragile, or dangerous. He took a close look at it.

“What a beautiful knife!” he exclaimed after a moment. “No. I have never seen anything like it.”

Shononses turned the knife every which way to admire the sculpted handle. In the middle, right where his hand closed over it, the eagle’s feathers were broad and sleek, making it easy to take a firm hold. At the end, the eagle’s head and beak were finely drawn, jutting out a little to prevent the hand from slipping. The point where the handle met the broad, solid blade was also beautifully detailed. It was made up of a carved tuft of fine, bristling feathers, forming a small hilt that protected the hand. Shononses could not look away from the eagle’s piercing eyes. They seemed so alive. Once he’d managed to break the spell, he asked Orinha:

“Where did you say you got it?”

“From a family in Rensselaerwyck. The women were using it as a kitchen knife. I got it along with the big copper pot that I gave to Katari.”

“It’s a really nice knife,” Shononses said again, admiringly. “It really is. Take good care of it.”

“Do you know what the handle’s made of?” asked Orinha.

Shononses took an even closer look. He scratched it with his fingernails and touched it with the tip of his tongue. He hefted the handle and the blade in his hand, balancing the knife on his index finger.

“Animal horn,” he replied confidently, “but I don’t know what kind. I’ve never seen anything like it. If you ask me, this knife wasn’t made by an Iroquois, not by anyone from our nation, at any rate. Not by a Dutchman either. Take really good care of it. It’s worth a lot.”

Orinha was surprised to learn that the handle came from a foreign land and was probably sculpted by foreign hands. He picked it up again.

“As soon as I saw it, I just knew I had to have it. I couldn’t resist. It was as though…”

But he stopped himself just in time, keeping his secret safe, along with the powers of the spirit that in all likelihood lay within the knife. He put his knife away, thanked Shononses, and went for a walk in the forest to mull over the conundrum: it looked as though he had met his guardian spirit through an object that was foreign to the Mohawk nation.

That same evening, around the family fire, Orinha found himself alone with Conharassan and showed her his precious knife. His sister reacted even more enthusiastically than Shononses.

“What a gorgeous knife!” she exclaimed. “Where did you find it?”

“In Rensselaerwyck, on the trading expedition. Listen, Conharassan, I’d like you to make me a nice leather sheath so I can carry it with me everywhere. If you accept, I’ll give you the nice red cloth I brought back from the Dutch. It would make me so happy.”

“Of course I accept. You know I’d do anything for you. Where do you want to wear it? Around your waist, on your back, across your chest?”

“I want to wear it here, across my chest, hidden beneath my clothes.”

The next day, Conharassan went to work. It took her the whole day. Orinha waited beside her the whole time, keeping an eye on his knife and admiring his beloved sister at work. He loved watching her hands move. Meticulously, with no small amount of skill and patience, she cut the pieces of leather and stitched them tight together. She took her measurements directly against Orinha’s body to make sure that the sheath would fit perfectly.

By evening, her work was almost done. Orinha was both happy and relieved. He appreciated Conharassan’s affection and dedication. Never did he tire of gazing at her radiant face, of the mischievous grin when she softened the leather with her teeth, or her attentiveness as she carefully strengthened the sheath with a second round of stitches. By the flickering light of the fire, he could see her eyes, lit up by her love for him. Orinha would have married her the next day if he had been allowed to marry someone from the same clan. He was sure Conharassan would make a good wife and he would be a good husband. But the laws of the Iroquois forbade it. Orinha was obliged to look elsewhere for the woman of his life, and Conharassan would have to find herself another lover. He had noticed that, for some time, she had been attempting to distance herself from him, encouraged by her older sister, who had no doubt made it clear to her that they had no future together.

Orinha took his knife back before nightfall, but Conharassan refused to hand over the sheath. “I haven’t finished yet,” she told him. The next day, she added a little pocket. Into it she slipped a delicate shell bracelet from her wrist, along with a lock of her hair.

“To bring you luck,” she explained, at last handing the finished product to Orinha. “Your knife is too beautiful to kill. It will help you find your way in life, perhaps to defend yourself. But it’s not a knife for war. Don’t forget that. And don’t forget your favourite little sister either, who made this sheath with love.” Conharassan kissed him. Orinha then slid his powerful eagle-head knife into its precious sheath. He put it on, adjusted it, and then, satisfied, went to find the red cloth to give to his sister, holding her tight in his arms.

ORINHA WAS OUT HUNTING ALONE. Ganaha didn’t want to go with him, preferring to stay behind with Oreanoué and his new brothers from the Wolf clan. As he walked through the forest in search of game, Orinha tried to shake off his worries. He wished Garagonké’s absence didn’t bother him so much, but he couldn’t help it. He missed his father dreadfully. After all, he was the reason he became a warrior. He dreamed of telling tales of his victories just to see a father’s pride in his son light up his eyes. At the very least, he hoped to regain the affections of his mother, who had taken a sudden dislike to him.

Orinha thought more and more often about the proud answer he had given the Dutch governor. He was no longer certain that he should have reacted as he did. He needed to talk to someone he trusted, like his father, even though he already knew what Garagonké would say to him. But at least he would feel supported, reassured, strengthened in his decision to become an Iroquois. Whereas, right now, he didn’t really know. He wanted to feel appreciated again, like when he returned to the village in triumph with his booty and his prisoner. How everyone cheered him.

He thought back often to the face of the French soldier he had met in Rensselaerwyck. How happy he had been to learn that Orinha was French like him, how sad to see him go off with the Iroquois. He could also see the woman who kissed him, her eyes full of tears. He could still taste her warm lips, still hear her cracked voice telling him: “God keep you!” Orinha wondered if they had already forgotten him, or if they still thought of him from time to time, like he thought of them. Here, he might have Conharassan or Maniska to warm his heart, but he could not start a family with one because she was from the same clan, or with the other because she was a slave. It turned out that life in the village was complicated. Everything had been simpler when he was at war. All that had mattered had been sticking together, eating, hiding, killing, surviving.

There was always Sorense, the mysterious woman from the Beaver clan. Of all the young women in the village, Orinha found her the most appealing, the most attractive. He had even begun to court her when he returned from Rensselaerwyck. But he didn’t understand her. When he gave her glass pearls and fine cloth, she pushed him away, all the while continuing to throw him the smouldering glances that fired his passion. He remembered word for word what she said to him: “They call you brave, Orinha. But the man I marry must be more than that. Prove to me you are the most courageous, the most daring of all. Go fight the Susquehannocks and bring me back a prisoner. Go alone, fight them alone. If you win, I’ll know you are the bravest and I’ll do all you desire. I will be yours forever…” Orinha wondered how he could satisfy this woman who intrigued him as much as she attracted him. Why was she provoking him? At any rate, he wasn’t so madly in love with her that he intended to risk his life by taking on the Susquehannocks alone. At least, not yet.

PREPARATIONS FOR WINTER were now underway. The able-bodied men hunted, smoked meat, and gathered and chopped firewood. The women brought in the squash crop, storing it at the ends of the longhouses. The corn, hung out in long garlands to dry in the sun, was also stacked high. The cold season was creeping in, and slowing the pace of life.

In the Bear clan longhouse, Otoniata was seriously ill, fighting for his life like a dozen other Iroquois. A shaman from the Tortoise clan had come to drive away the evil spirits that had taken hold of the bodies of the dying. He said, just like Katari, that the Dutch were to blame: they must have cast an evil spell over them. Every trading season brought with it the strange maladies that struck down so many victims, year after year.

Orinha was busy stacking wood at one end of the longhouse when he heard his sisters arguing at the other end. He could hear their raised voices, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. By the sound of things, Assasné was taking Conharassan to task. Her sister replied in tears. Suddenly Conharassan pushed her sister out of the way and ran outside. Orinha dropped what he was doing and peered outside to see which direction she went. He decided to follow her from a distance, not knowing what Assasné could have said to so upset her. He walked quickly between the longhouses and followed his sister out of the village. He was not sure whether to keep following her— after all, their quarrels were no concern of his —but when Conharassan stopped at last at the edge of the woods, he made up his mind to console her. Orinha walked up slowly on his sister so as not to frighten her and asked her gently: “Why are you crying, Conharassan?”

At first, she didn’t want to reply, or even look at him. She just wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. But her brother insisted, and she turned around in anger:

“You’re the reason I’m sad. It’s time you told me the truth!”

“What are you talking about, Conharassan?” Orinha shot back. “Tell me. I want to know.”

She hesitated for a moment. Then, with an air of defiance, she looked Orinha straight in the eye and told him what Assasné had just repeated to her for the twentieth time.

“My sister says everyone in the Wolf clan knows that you killed Kiwagé’s two brothers when you ran away and that you’re lying when you say it was the Algonquin. Are they right?”

“That’s not true!” retorted Orinha. “I have never killed an Iroquois! Negamabat would have killed me along with the other three if I hadn’t gone with him.”

“Do you swear?” Conharassan asked, in desperation, and started to cry again.

“I swear!” replied Orinha. “I swear on the heads of Katari and Garagonké who saved my life! I swear on the head of Ganaha, who knows I have killed no one from the village. Ask him. He’ll tell you.”

“I did ask him,” said Conharassan, burrowing into Orinha’s arms. “He says that Kiwagé is talking nonsense and that I shouldn’t listen to people who say bad things behind your back. But Assasné won’t let it go. She wants me to stop talking to you. It’s her friend Kehasa’s fault. She’s Kiwagé’s sister.”

Orinha held Conharassan in his arms to reassure her, and to reassure himself. This awful story was going to dog him forever! How could he ever turn the page once and for all? How could he be sure for his safety when one of his own sisters was convinced he killed his Iroquois companions? Hadn’t he already paid enough for the ill he did that day? Orinha had no choice but to keep the secret to himself.

“Believe me, Conharassan. Don’t listen to Assasné or anyone else. They don’t know what really happened. They weren’t there when the Algonquin killed our brothers. Conharassan, I promise you I didn’t kill any of my companions. I am your brother, a brother to you all. I have risked my life for all of you. Ganaha can tell you how bravely I fought alongside my Mohawk brothers…”

“I know, Orinha. I believe you. It’s just Assasné, she won’t let it go! I can’t bear to hear it any more. I think she’s jealous of the two of us.”

“Don’t worry, Conharassan. Let’s forget all about it and go back to the village. One day when Katari is in good spirits, I’ll talk to her about it. She’ll get Assasné to leave you alone. It’ll all work itself out, don’t worry.”

After bringing Conharassan back home, Orinha stacked another few logs to hide his inner turmoil and anxiety, then wandered over to the Wolf clan, as though nothing had happened. He didn’t know exactly who Kiwagé and Kehasa were, although he thought he might have seen Kehasa a few times with Assasné.

After lingering for a long time outside the Wolf clan longhouse without seeing anyone, Orinha barged right in, ready to say he urgently needed to speak to Ganaha, if anyone asked what he was doing there. Ever since he had been captured and brought back to the village a second time, he hadn’t set foot inside this longhouse, where he knew he had no friends. Now, on learning that he probably had enemies there, he wanted to see their faces and gauge how much of a danger they were to him.

Orinha burst into the longhouse and took a few steps through the half-darkness before a young man stepped in front of him and asked him, in a threatening voice:

“What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to speak to Ganaha. It’s urgent.”

“Use the other door. Ganaha lives at the other end of the house. You have no business here. Get out!”

Orinha’s eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness. Now he could make out a handful of people gathered around the dying embers of a family fire. He called over to Kehasa.

“What is it?” asked one of the young women, turning in his direction.

Orinha recognized Assasné’s friend.

“Assasné wants to see you,” added Orinha, who, at the very same moment, shuddered with surprise to see his heart’s desire, Sorense, stand up too.

Sorense had been chatting with Kehasa when she heard Orinha’s voice. Now she stood before him, casting the smouldering looks that bewitched him so. Then, without warning, she turned around and dashed to the other end of the house. Orinha walked around the young man standing in his way to go follow her and ask her what she was doing here when another man grabbed his arm.

“Stop!” he hissed. “You deaf, Orinha? Get out of here now! And don’t make us say it a third time…”

Orinha wasn’t used to being threatened like this. He turned around to stand up to the man who gripped his arm so tightly he wanted to cry out in pain. He vaguely recognized his face, and suddenly panicked. Pain shot across his body, and a wave of horror engulfed him. The first young man caught hold of him again and said:

“Do what Kiwagé says, you dirty French pig. If you want to see Ganaha, go round the other end. Now get out!”

Orinha could no longer speak. Could barely breathe. Sweat was pouring down his back. Without any fuss, he backed out slowly, forcing himself to keep his fear under control. He hurt as though he had just been struck by lightning. Orinha’s only thought was to get back home as fast as he could, limping slightly, as though a stone had just shattered his right foot, as though he had just been battered from head to toe. He walked on, gasping for breath, the feeling that he was being followed preying on his mind. At last, he entered the house of the Bear, where he felt safe. He hobbled over to his bed and lay down. Terrible images exploded in his head; his heart was pounding in his chest; he could see himself in hell. Little by little, he managed to calm down, to capture some of the thoughts that were spinning through his head. The face and voice, he was almost certain now, belonged to the man who had plunged the red-hot sword into him when he was being tortured. He was his most vengeful torturer, almost certainly a brother to one of the young Iroquois from the Wolf clan that Negamabat and he murdered.

Kiwagé had not forgiven him and was out for revenge. He wanted Orinha— he wanted Radisson —to die to make up for the death of his brothers. And his sister Kehasa wanted the very same thing. She had even convinced Assasné that her adopted brother was a murderer, and now Assasné was pestering Conharassan to have nothing more to do with him. And to think that Ganaha now lived over there with them! When would he turn against him too? How long would it be before his mother Katari also turned against her adopted son, the son who had dashed her hopes by choosing war over peace? When would they decide to put this Frenchman to death for casting the evil spells the Iroquois so hated? Even in the house of his clan, even no more than two feet from the family fire, Orinha still felt threatened.

But the cruellest pain of all came from Sorense’s sultry glances, burning only with the desire to see him dead. “Go fight the Susquehannocks alone,” she said. “Prove to me you are the most daring of all… If you win, I will be yours forever…” Nothing but a trap. Orinha could now see right through her sinister words: “Love me and I will put an end to your days…” What bitter deceit! He didn’t know what made her act as she did. Out of love for Kiwagé? Out of sheer cruelty, perhaps, or the simple lust for revenge. He felt terribly vulnerable to her and the other village women. How could he defend himself against blind love? Then another thought hit him: What if the whole village wanted him dead and was busy planning his torture? He had to fight to keep his panic in check. Fleeing that very minute wasn’t an option. He was not ready; it would be too dangerous. If he did run away, he would have to prepare his escape. Otherwise, he would be tortured to death.

Only Garagonké could bring an end to the uncertainty. But he was not there. Where was he? When would he return?

ORINHA WAS OVERJOYED to see his father again. He found him in the woods after a long search. Garagonké was lying in a clearing, beneath the magnificent trees. He looked as though he was asleep, but his eyes were wide open and he smiled at his adopted son. As he drew closer, Orinha noticed a thin trickle of blood running from Garagonké’s half-open mouth. But he was not in pain. Garagonké smiled at him and motioned for him to come closer. Orinha came closer. Gently he raised the old warrior’s head and cradled it in his arms. Both were silent for a long time. Songbirds flitted between the spreading boughs, the river water babbled in the dazzling sunlight. Orinha realized his father was dead; in his arms he held his spirit. Garagonké looked so peaceful, his body giving off a blinding light from another world. The father looked intensely at his son. His warm, strong breath overcame Orinha: Garagonké was about to speak. He saw his lips move. Suddenly, his voice boomed out over all the other sounds of creation, echoing like thunder. “My son, listen to the message I must entrust to you before I join my ancestors.”

Orinha leaned forward to listen to Garagonké’s words.

“I was a great warrior,” he told him. “Many moons from our village, women would hide and children would cry at the sound of my name. Warriors feared my strength, my courage, and my cunning. But this is not the path for you, my son. I have seen you fight and I know that you do not love war as I loved it. The spirits will lead you down another route. Listen to the voice of the eagle. It will carry you far from the Iroquois.

“Deganawida beseeched us to bring together all the peoples of the earth under the great tree of peace. But I misunderstood him. The troubled times we live in muddled my heart. War intoxicated me. But you are not from our nation; you must not avenge our ancestors. I implore you to first look for peace before you fan the flames of war. Peace takes more time and courage than war, but you must conquer it. I am asking you to bring us peace. That is how you will honour my memory.”

Garagonké fell silent. His eyes were transformed into two lightning bolts; his body became light as air. Orinha felt nothing more than a breath brush against his face and stir his mind. Garagonké had vanished.

Orinha stayed there, alone. The clearing was flooded with blinding light. Then he was lifted high up into the air, swept away, gliding over an immense lake.

Suddenly he was back on his bed of fresh pine. Orinha tried to protect his dazzled eyes, shielding them with his arms. It was a rude awakening. Yet all was calm in the dark longhouse, where his brothers and sisters slept on in silence. Slowly, he recovered his breath and realized that Garagonké had appeared to him in a dream. He remembered his words and again saw his spirit soaring toward the land of his ancestors.

It was the middle of the night, but Orinha could no longer sleep. He got up noiselessly, so as not to wake anyone, and crept outside. The night was fresh and cool. The purest of skies was bursting with shimmering stars. He breathed in the cool air that told of the coming of winter. But he was not cold. Or afraid. He knew now that Garagonké was dead. He would wait for him no more. He would never see him again. He would only regret not being able to tell him of his exploits, not being able to feel the happiness that came with hearing him say: “I am proud of you, my son!” But Garagonké was asking him to take another path, the path of peace, as Katari had hoped, as Conharassan had seen in the beauty of his eagle head knife.

All things considered, no one could protect him now from the vengeance smouldering in the hearts of Kiwagé and his Iroquois friends. Orinha realized he could no longer live in the village in safety. All he could do was make his escape.

ORINHA SLEPT SOUNDLY until the early hours of the morning. When he awakened, he looked up from his bed to see Katari blowing on the embers and stirring them with the poker he gave her, bringing the family fire back to life. The longhouse was quiet, still dark. No hurry, no worries. It seemed very much like happiness. Little by little, the other mothers lit their family fires in turn, and soon all the fires ran in a straight line through the spacious bark dwelling. Orinha loved this time of the morning when all was quiet. He admired his mother, always the first out of bed, despite her age and her worries, always alert and generous, ready to bring warmth and light to everyone as soon as they got up. Maniska was now by her side, discreet and efficient. Orinha was glad he had saved her life. She had proved a big help to Katari, who was good to her, even though she was a slave.

Beside them, Shononses had gotten up. He moved closer to the neighbouring fire to warm himself, calm despite the injury that had handicapped him. Every time Orinha saw him, he remembered their extraordinary journey together. At that very moment, he was happy to be an Iroquois. He would have liked to stay with them, if his community had been calmer and less violent. But vengeance smouldered there like the embers of a fire, and it would take very little to rekindle it. The burning flames of hatred would consume all in their path. Orinha knew that he must leave.

He patiently did his best to untie the knot that formed in his stomach at the very thought of running away. He took the time to tame the fear that clouded his mind and made him loose his self-assurance. He focused on the idea that was starting to form, anchoring it firmly in his mind and body, so that he would be able to carry it through, just as surely as an arrow flies through the air. Orinha did not want to take any risks. He would not mention a word of his dream to Katari. She would understand it right away. She would be convinced that her husband was dead, more certainly than if his lifeless body had been laid at her feet. Because Garagonké’s spirit spoke forcefully, without hesitation, and its message was clear: Garagonké had departed his family for the next world.

As he turned over in his bed, Orinha felt the eagle-head knife. It was sending him the same message as his father. Shononses had been adamant: the hand of an Iroquois had not made the knife and the material for its extraordinary handle didn’t come from this part of the world. Garagonké was right. Through the knife, the cry of the eagle was calling him to flee far away. Orinha first wanted to reach the Dutch, where the governor had promised him deliverance; then he would follow his destiny.

Everyone was going about their business. The four women of the family had left Orinha to laze in bed. He got up quietly and rummaged through the things his father had left behind. He found his tobacco supply, took a pinch and slipped it into his knife sheath, alongside Conharassan’s bracelet and hair. Then he picked a few crumbs of cornmeal from Katari’s mortar and put them in the sheath too. It was not much, but it would always remind Orinha of the people who saved his life.

The time had come for Orinha to put his plan into action. The bright sunshine gave him courage. He found Shononses sitting outside in the sun, playing his favourite game of chance with other men from the Bear clan.

“I’m going hunting, but not far,” Orinha told him. “Tomorrow, if you like, I’ll teach you how to become a better shot.”

“Great idea!” said Shononses with a smile. “I’ll work on my luck today and my shooting skills tomorrow. With your advice, I’ll be the best marksman in the village! Better watch out, Orinha!”

“Come off it! If you think you’re going to get the better of me that easily. I have a reputation to defend. Start by winning your game today and we’ll see if you can beat me tomorrow!”

“Sure. Now let me concentrate. We’ll see who comes out on top tomorrow.”

“See you later.”

Orinha then went to see Katari, Maniska, Conharassan, and Assasné. They were gathered around the big cooking pot he had brought back from the Dutch, preparing a huge batch of sagamité.

“I’ll be out hunting all day, mother. Don’t expect me back before this evening.”

“Eat something first,” Katari replied, without looking up, in the sad voice that had become her wont. “Otoniata died this morning,” she added after a moment. “I hope you didn’t spend so long in bed yesterday because you’re not feeling well…”

“No, mother. I’m fine.”

Orinha didn’t know what to say about Otoniata. Maniska served him a helping of sagamité in a bark bowl, showing none of the affection she still felt for the man who had saved her. Orinha ate in silence as his two sisters bustled around the fire. Busily, they chopped the meat, threw it into the kettle, poked the fire, and stirred the sagamité. Orinha could see that Conharassan felt uncomfortable. She didn’t quite know how to act around him when her sister was present. So he hurried to finish his meal.

“Mother, I promise you we will want for nothing this winter. I will do everything in my power to hunt as much as I can and satisfy all our needs.”

“Thank you,” she said, this time looking him straight in the eye. “But that is not what is worrying me, son.”

Orinha knew exactly what was eating away at his mother. He could see in her eyes the disappointment of losing loved ones, made worse by the fact she could not protect them against illness, vengeance, and war that showed no signs of abating. She suspected that Garagonké was dead. Orinha could feel it. And he was sad to see her so downcast, knowing that his leaving would soon add to her sorrow. He felt as though he ought to encourage her once last time.

“Don’t worry, mother. Garagonké will be home soon. Don’t lose heart!”

“May the spirits hear you my son. May they sustain my husband and us all, just like they once did.”

Orinha could not endure any more.

“I’ll be back at the end of the day, mother. Don’t worry.”

He got to his feet. And left.

“Good luck!” Conharassan shouted after him, with her brightest smile.

Their eyes met for an instant, but their love was not to be. Orinha turned around and walked quickly away. He could not wait to get out of the village. But he couldn’t leave without seeing Ganaha one last time. He made a stop at the Wolf clan longhouse. Just seeing it set him trembling with fear. But there was nothing for it: he had to overcome his fear. He entered the house at the right end and spotted his brother.

“Welcome!” exclaimed Ganaha when he saw him coming. “Come smoke with me. It’s been so long since we spent time together.”

Ganaha was pleased to show him the chores he had almost completed: the bed frames and storage space he had replaced, the leaky bark roof that he was busy repairing.

“If we’re going to be comfortable this winter, I have to finish patching the roof before the first snow,” Ganaha explained. “Sit with me, brother.”

Orinha saw how wrong he was to be angry with his brother. He hadn’t let him down, after all. All he wanted to do was make Oreanoué’s family happy before he married her. He was a good man, always bursting with energy. Orinha could see in Ganaha’s eyes, and in the eyes of Oreanoué who was hovering behind him, that they were happy together.

Orinha was happy to see him, but stayed on his guard, despite the warm welcome. He sat facing the far end of the house, in case Kiwagé or another adversary suddenly appeared to turn him in and capture him. He was ready to make tracks at any moment. Now that he was ready to escape, why take any chances? He barely listened to Ganaha. His good sense was telling him to flee the village now, forever. He had believed he was at home here, but now he felt under threat, even in the company of his beloved brother. He tried his best to enjoy Ganaha’s company one last time, but the thought that his enemies were perhaps conspiring to bring him down at this very moment weighed on him so heavily that he could not take it any longer.

“I have to go now if I want to get in a good day’s hunting,” he interrupted. “Can you give me an arrow to bring me luck?”

Surprised at his brother’s behaviour, Ganaha took a while to reply.

“Sure. Take whichever one you like. But a good hunter like you doesn’t need one of my arrows to bring him luck. This winter, we’ll go hunting big game together, far away, just as soon as I finish my work here. Ontonrora will come with us.”

At the sound of his name, Oreanoué’s brother came in round the back of the house and sat down with them. Orinha’s heart exploded with surprise and panic. But he kept his composure.

“We’ll bring Shononses too,” he managed to add, between two sharp breaths.

“If you like, Shononses will come too, brother. We’ll be a team, just like before.”

Orinha stood up to choose an arrow at random, then walked to the door, looking nervously from side to side.

“I must go, Ganaha. See you!”

“Come back whenever you want, brother. You are always welcome here.”

“Be happy, the pair of you!”

Orinha hurried to the village gate, turning around more than once to make sure that no one was following him. Everything was fine. The coast was clear. Once outside the village, he paused for a moment to make certain that he had his precious knife, a tomahawk, bow and arrows, and musket. He’d taken nothing to eat, lest people think he was trying to run away should he be captured again. Orinha then snapped Ganaha’s arrow, keeping only the head, which he slipped into his knife sheath, along with the tobacco, the corn, and Conharassan’s hair and bracelet. Before disappearing deep into the woods, he looked back one last time. It was over. Moving rapidly, he headed for Fort Orange.

ORINHA QUICKLY left the trail that led to Rensselaerwyck and cut through the woods. The going would be tougher but safer, since there was less risk of encountering Iroquois off to trade with the Dutch. He moved as fast as he could and soon discarded his bow and arrows. They were catching on the branches and slowing him down. He bounded over fallen trees, hacked his way through brushwood, barged on through bushes, scratching his face and arms, and ripping his clothing as he went, but he did not slow down. The sun was his guide. On he ran for a long time. When he could run no more, he slowed to a walk. But, without fail, images of torture quickly resurfaced and he began to run again, as frenetically as before. His musket was weighing him down and he cast it away. Reaching Rensselaerwyck as fast as he could was all that mattered. He clutched the eagle head knife in one hand to give him strength and wielded his tomahawk with the other to hack his way through the vegetation that blocked his path to freedom. From time to time he paused, panting, exhausted, took his bearings from the setting sun, and then set off again.

His legs were weak, his lungs on fire, his arms bleeding; the approaching night meant nothing. His will to live drove him on. The Iroquois in him kept him moving. Courage and self-denial, strength and endurance— all the qualities he’d learned from his Iroquois brothers were leading him to a new world. But now he was struggling to make any progress at all. The moon, pale and hesitant, had replaced the sun. Orinha tripped over something he had not seen and fell flat on the ground. Unable to get up, he crawled over to a huge, protective tree stump and curled up against it, clinging tightly to the handle of his hope-filled knife. He fell into a deep sleep.

The cold awoke him as the first glimmer of day lit up the immense forest. Orinha was hungry enough to eat a bear. He hurt all over. But suddenly the thought of red-hot irons against his skin had him leaping to his feet. He set out at top speed toward Fort Orange, thinking about his family; no doubt they would be worried about him. Perhaps they’d already started to look for him. No doubt Kiwagé would be calling him a traitor and demanding he be executed. There wasn’t a minute to lose. Quick! Run to Fort Orange. Quicker than that! He would fling himself at the governor’s feet and remind him of his promise. He would beg for his salvation. He leaped! He jumped! He stumbled! Orinha picked himself up and kept on going. Fatigue was a caress compared to torture. Exhaustion was a soothing balm compared to death.

At the end of that second frantic day, in the half-light that had come over the forest as the sun went down, Orinha at last heard the sound of an axe in the distance. He drew closer, and could make out through the sparse fall leaves a Dutchman cutting down a tree. Orinha inched closer, stealthily, unsure, happy, undecided. Could he trust a man he had never seen before? Should he continue on to the fort? Was this stranger his saviour or the traitor who would ruin all his efforts? Orinha did not have the strength to go on. At this rate he might never reach the fort, and the Iroquois would perhaps catch up with him that same night or early the next morning. So, shaking with hunger and fatigue, he shouted out to the Dutchman:

“Hullo there!”

The man stopped what he was doing and peered into the woods, where he saw an Iroquois gesturing at him wildly. Although he seemed harmless enough, he had an odd look about him. The Dutchman motioned for him to come closer, gripping his axe, ready to defend himself. But the thought of the furs he might be able to trade flashed through his mind. That was certainly worth a risk or two. So, Orinha approached, distrustful himself, holding no weapon, arms outstretched in a sign of friendship. In no more than a few seconds, looks were exchanged and the two men gained a little confidence in each other. Orinha made it clear with gestures that he was prepared to trade pelts, repeating the word “beaver” in Iroquois and in French. Then he pointed to the Dutchman’s home. The man agreed to bring him in. But Orinha took fright again and first wanted to make sure there were no Iroquois there, gesturing again and again to make himself understood. The Dutchman suspected what he might be asking and shook his head a number of times. Completely worn out, Orinha followed him into his home. Come what may.

The Dutchman’s wife gave the Iroquois something to eat, even though he had the look of a hunted animal and his scratched face and arms inspired more fear than confidence. He looked exhausted, and devoured everything she put in front of him. Orinha regained a little of his strength and somehow got the couple to understand that he had an urgent message for the governor of Fort Orange. This half-reassured them. Orinha asked for something to write with and the man, who couldn’t quite believe it, brought him a quill, ink, and paper because, as good Protestants, they could read the Bible and write as well. They were fascinated to see the Iroquois scribble a few words: “Sir, I am the Frenchman you wished to free from the Iroquois. I have escaped. I am hiding in the home of the man who brought you this message. Please set me free before my brothers kill me! Radisson.” Then he handed the scrap of paper to the Dutchman and implored him to take it to the governor immediately.

Tempted by what might be in it for him, the man agreed to leave without delay, even though night had fallen. His wife, reassured by the fact that Orinha knew how to write and had a message for the governor himself, was soon trying to soothe him, in the hopes of a better trade. But Orinha heard Iroquois chanting in the distance and was filled with terror. He managed to get the woman to understand that his brothers would kill him if they found him there, because he had chosen to live with the Dutch rather than with them. She helped him hide under the sacks of corn she and her husband had stored away for the winter, at the back of their only room. Orinha hid there, shaking with fear until the man of the house returned with three companions. Jean, the French lieutenant, was one of them. He brought clothes so they could disguise Orinha as a Dutchman. Orinha got dressed in no time, then the four of them hurried off to the fort. They arrived safe and sound, just before dawn.