Broken Trail (17 page)

At her first glimpse of Broken Trail, Catches the Rainbow's eyes held shock. Then her expression changed with lightning speed. A glow spread across her face as if suddenly, as her name implied, she had caught a rainbow.

At the fourth fire, a slim youth wearing a bear-claw necklace jumped up. When his eyes met Broken Trail's, he raised his arm in salute. Skirting seated family groups and treading carefully to avoid tripping over bowls, pots and babies, he made his way to Broken Trail.

“Young Bear greets his friend,” he said firmly. As they clasped hands, Broken Trail's spirits rose. He did not care how many people scowled, so long as Young Bear welcomed him home.

Catches the Rainbow filled Broken Trail's bowl with meat and broth and gave him a piece of cornbread for dipping. Now this was real food!

As people finished eating, they drifted to the space around Catches the Rainbow's cooking fire. By the time the women had cleared away the pots and dishes, every member of the clan's twelve families had gathered to hear Broken Trail's story.

While he was speaking, most people listened quietly, but from time to time frowns and grunts signalled disapproval. Warriors shook their heads at his decision to act as a messenger for the British. His rescue of Elijah drew a mixed reaction,
as he expected it would. To save a brother was praiseworthy; but why, three years after the Oneidas had adopted him, did he still regard that white soldier as his brother?

After listening to his story, families returned to their own places in the longhouse. Children were the first to climb onto the sleeping platforms to settle for the night. The women followed, leaving the men still talking by the sinking fires. From overheard snatches of conversation, Broken Trail knew the talk was all about him.

Finally, he and his uncle were the only ones still talking by a fire.

“In council, there will be much discussion,” Carries a Quiver said. “Warriors of all three clans will deliberate what to do about you.”

“You mean, am I fit to be a warrior?”

“That is the question.”

“Why should there be any doubt? My
oki
appeared. I received a vision that foretold my future. And I've just explained why I was away so long.”

Carries a Quiver raised his hand in a gesture to end the discussion. “Leave all to me. As your teacher, I am the one who will speak for you in council. Tomorrow, you and I shall talk more about this. Tonight, you need to sleep. From the dark circles around your eyes, I think you have had little rest for many days.”

Broken Trail glanced at the sleeping platform where Catches the Rainbow was already deep in slumber.

“Yes, tomorrow will be soon enough.”

As he lay down on his thick bearskin, he listened to the wind rattling the elm-bark roof slabs overhead. It was good to be inside, where the air smelled comfortably of smoke, food, and the sweat of many people crowded together. After so many cold lonely nights and long hungry days on the trail, he fell deeply asleep.

THE NEXT MORNING
Broken Trail sat facing his uncle on the ground outside the Bear Clan longhouse. Carries a Quiver was a man of fifty winters, Catches the Rainbow's older brother. His eyes were deep set, with creases at the corners. His face was worn, dark and broad. In one hand he held a bone chipping tool, and in the other a half-formed arrowhead. He appeared to be studying the arrowhead, but Broken Trail knew that his uncle's mind was really on him.

“When you disappeared, some people thought you had returned to your white family,” Carries a Quiver said. “They believed that your heart had remained with them all along.”

Broken Trail looked down, feeling guilty to have deceived
his uncle, for he knew how much truth there was in this.

Carries a Quiver continued: “Others said that you ran away in shame because the Great Spirit denied you a vision, knowing you unfit to be a warrior.” He hesitated. “That was not the worst thing people said.”

“What could be worse?”

“They feared that you had turned into a wendigo.”

“No!” Broken Trail looked up, horrified. He had been prepared for some to reject him on his return. But for anyone to think he had turned into a wendigo was beyond his worst imagining. Wendigos were fierce and evil. Part man and part devil, they lurked in the forest to seize and eat little children. The only way to kill a wendigo was to burn its heart. If people thought he had turned into a wendigo, they had every reason to be afraid. And so did he.

“Uncle, what did you think?”

“I thought you were dead.”

Lowering his eyes to the arrowhead, Carries a Quiver pressed the chipping tool to the hard flint. A flake flew off, landing on Broken Trail's knee. He did not move to brush it off.

Carries a Quiver continued. “Because I was the one who had prepared you for your spirit quest, I was sure you were ready. But perhaps there was still more to be done.”

“That must be so. When my
oki
appeared the second time, it said, ‘You have proved yourself worthy. Your long journey has made you a man.' Then it allowed me to see the vision of my life.”

“From what you told us last night, I see that a good life lies before you. But no life is without trouble. You may face more than most men because of who you are. From the start, there were warriors who said you would someday betray us.”

“That's the sort of thing Walks Crooked would say.”

“His has always been the strongest voice among your enemies.”

“I don't know why he hates me so much.”

“As your skills increase, his enmity grows. He can't bear to see a white boy surpass his son. You hunt better than Spotted Dog, swim better, and follow a trail better. But Walks Crooked has resented you right from the beginning. When you came to us as a child, he advised us to kill you. He says we should never adopt white prisoners. ‘Kill them all,' he says.”

“My Cherokee friend Red Sun Rising hates settlers, but he is still my friend.”

“Walks Crooked's hatred is deeper than that of any man I have ever known. It goes back to his first battle, when he was your age.” Carries a Quiver set down the chipping tool and arrowhead. “At that time, he had a different name. It was in the days when the Six Nations of the Haudenosaunee stood united in the Great Peace. We were allies of the English in their war against the French.”

“I know,” Broken Trail said. “Our enemies, the Hurons, helped the French.”

Carries a Quiver nodded. “The French had a fort at
Niagara. The English asked our help to capture it. Walks Crooked was in that battle. A musket ball struck his leg just above the ankle. He fell to the ground. The French drove back the English. When the English saw that they could not capture the fort, they retreated, taking their wounded with them. Walks Crooked called out to them, but they did not help him. They left him to die. Somehow he escaped. It took him four days to crawl on his belly back to our camp. By then it was too late to set the bone properly to make his leg straight again. That is why one foot points sideways while the other points straight ahead. Ever since, he has hated white people.”

“For that reason he is my enemy.” Broken Trail sighed. “Maybe he will never change his mind. But if the warriors will take me on the next war party, I will show what I can do.”

“That is the best way. Prove your worth. Then none will listen to those who speak against you. It takes patience.” Carries a Quiver held up the arrowhead to inspect the point. Their talk, it appeared, was finished.

“Uncle, I shall keep these words in my heart.” Broken Trail rose to his feet. “If I may, I would like to find Young Bear. This will be a good day for hunting.”

Carries a Quiver smiled. “I wish you luck on the hunt. We are short of food for the winter. If you shoot a deer on your first day back, your welcome will be certain.”

“That was a fine adventure you told us about last night.” Young Bear slung his quiver over his shoulder. “You must be
proud that your
oki
is a wolverine. They're fierce fighters.”

Side by side they left the longhouse. Broken Trail's heart felt light. After his long absence, he was at last doing what he loved most, setting off on a hunt with his friend. This was the best time of year for hunting, the brief season of mild days between the Moon of Falling Leaves and the arrival of the first snow.

“Did you ever lose hope,” Young Bear asked as they walked along, “when you had to wait so long for the rest of your vision?”

“There were times when I feared that my
oki
had forgotten about me or that I had offended the Great Spirit. It was a trial to have to wait so long. But I never lost all hope.”

“Waiting is the hardest part. The nine days that I fasted and prayed were the longest in my life. They dragged on and on. But when my vision came, it was as sudden as a thunderclap. I heard a terrible scream. When I looked up, I saw an osprey fly down from the sun with a lightning bolt in its talons. Its speed was like an arrow's. I trembled with fear.”

Just imagining the sight made Broken Trail shiver. He stopped walking and turned toward Young Bear. “Then what happened?”

“The osprey spoke from above, circling the spot where I stood. ‘Young Bear,' it said, ‘Do not fear. I am your
oki.
Until the day appointed for your death, you will be safe in the shadow of my wings.' When it had finished speaking, it circled upwards, making wider and wider circles until it vanished in the clear sky.”

Broken Trail breathed hard as he pictured the power and beauty of the magnificent bird. “And then?”

“I fell to the ground and remained in a trance while unseen spirits showed me the vision of my future. I saw how I would die in battle, pierced with many arrows. Then I woke.”

“You told me part of this before I set off on my own spirit quest. I knew that you would die in battle. You told me you had your death song ready, in case your first war party should be your last. But you never told me how your
oki
came to you.”

“At first it was too powerful to talk about. And then you were gone. I never even told all the details to the council of warriors. I still haven't told anyone except you. I'm not sure I ever will.”

They walked on. Their way took them through fields where women were harvesting the last of the crops. Pumpkins, squash and gourds of many shapes made bright splashes of colour—orange, green, yellow and gold—against the dun earth of the planting mounds.

“My uncle says that we are short of food for the winter,” Broken Trail said.

“That is so. Our storehouses are half empty. As you know, we reached our new lands too late to clear more than a few fields for planting. A hungry winter lies ahead. If you shoot a deer, your mother will be proud.”

“I would like to deserve her praise. She is a good mother. I fear that I have shamed her. I think the other women pity her to have a son like me.”

“When you bring back a deer, she'll be proud again.”

Leaving the fields behind, they followed a path that curved and wound ahead of them into dense forest. Broken Trail noticed a scrap of antler velvet dangling from an overhanging branch twice his height above the ground. A big elk, he thought, for its antlers to have reached so high when it rubbed them clean.

They walked in single file, Young Bear leading. As the wilderness closed around them, they were careful not to make a sound. A word, a cough, or the snap of a branch cracked underfoot could spoil the hunt.

Suddenly Young Bear halted. He stood for a moment, his right hand uplifted. Then he lowered it, looked over his shoulder and pointed to Broken Trail's bow.

They stood at the edge of a glade where the tall grasses of summer now lay flattened and yellow. Except for one alder that wore a bittersweet vine like a necklace of orange beads over its crooked branches, the surrounding bushes were bare. Behind the alder, something moved. Something much bigger than a deer. It moved again, and now Broken Trail saw the grey-brown of the animal's flanks. Wapiti. An elk. It raised its head with a slow, deliberate motion, displaying the widest rack of antlers that he had ever seen. Turned slightly away from the boys, the elk did not see them.

Broken Trail held his breath. Young Bear motioned him to go ahead.

He's giving the kill to me, Broken Trail thought with a rush of gratitude. And he prayed that his arrow would fly true.

In a gliding crouch, keeping windward of the elk, Broken Trail edged closer. The animal was still out of range. Unsuspecting, it lowered its head to continue grazing. He came nearer. A few more paces and he was close enough. He reached with one hand for an arrow from the quiver on his back, fitted the arrow to the string, raised the bow, and slowly pulled the arrow back. From this angle it would pierce the elk's great, beating heart. One eye shut, he stared along the length of the shaft, then let it fly.

“Good! Good!” Young Bear cried out. Silence did not matter now. With a loud grunt, the elk crashed through the trees, snapping branches as it staggered away. Young Bear caught up to Broken Trail and slapped him on the shoulder. No need to hurry. From the snorting and thrashing in the brush ahead, they knew that the elk was down and dying.