Broken Trail

AFTER MANY DAYS
on the trail, it was good to return to the village. There was meat to share and there were skins for the women to clean and make soft. Broken Trail had killed a deer, not just rabbits and grouse like the other boys in the hunting party.

His uncle, Carries a Quiver, stood in the centre of the dancing circle, with everyone watching, and made the boast, “It was Broken Trail's arrow that brought down this deer. He is a hunter who brings meat for the people.”

Broken Trail had trouble keeping a straight face when he saw the scowl on Walks Crooked's face. Let him scowl! He was angry because it was not his clumsy son Spotted Dog
who had killed the deer. Walks Crooked's anger made the triumph sweeter still, for his voice was the loudest among those denying Broken Trail's fitness to be a warrior. Now Broken Trail had proved him wrong, for everyone knew that a boy who killed his first deer at eleven years old was destined to become a mighty hunter.

The women were dragging away the deer to butcher when Black Elk approached.

“We have been waiting for your return,” Black Elk said. “We have taken a captive. A white girl. She speaks only English. We want to question her.”

This news dulled the edge of Broken Trail's joy. Although his command of English made him valued as an interpreter, he hated any reminder of where he came from.

“Where is she?”

“You will find her in Wolf Woman's lodge.”

“Wolf Woman is old and weak. How can she guard a captive?”

“The girl needs a healer, not a guard. Our warriors found her lying injured on the side of a steep ravine. She appeared to have fallen over the edge, and a tree stopped her from tumbling all the way. We want you to speak with her before we question her. Win her trust.”

Broken Trail looked down and shuffled his feet. He didn't want to talk to the white girl.

Black Elk continued. “Tell her that we shall not harm her. Say nothing more. The elders will decide what to do with her. I will take you to her now.”

The girl was sitting on a log just outside the entrance of Wolf Woman's lodge. She wore a fringed, beaded doeskin poncho over a short leather skirt. Her dark hair hung in two braids, with a red stripe painted along the centre part. In every respect except the colour of her skin, she looked like an Oneida maiden. Yet Broken Trail recognized her at once. This was Charlotte Hooper, the girl who had befriended him two years ago when he and his first mother and his brother and baby sister had camped by Oneida Lake during their journey north to the safety of a British fort. That was before he ran away.

The girl did not notice their approach. She was staring off into the woods, toward a clump of alder bushes, as if her thoughts were miles away. Black Elk and Broken Trail were standing right in front of her before she turned her head to face them. Her eyes widened as she stared at Broken Trail.

“I remember you.” Her voice was barely audible under her breath. “You are Moses Cobman.”

The name hurt, like an insult or a taunt. “No longer. My name is Broken Trail.”

He kept his face rigid, as a warrior should. After they had stared at each other for a few moments, she stated firmly, “But you're Moses Cobman all the same.”

She had no right to speak to him like that. He turned his back on her and stalked away.

FOR TEN DAYS BROKEN TRAIL
had fasted in the wilderness. Only water had entered his mouth. He had chanted. He had prayed with all his soul to see his totem animal, his
oki,
who would be his protector throughout life. He had opened his heart to the whisperings of the unseen spirits and his eyes to the vision he would behold.

Broken Trail had completed all the rites of purification, bathed in cleansing water into which boiled leaves and ferns had been mixed, swallowed bitter emetics to remove every bit of waste. Body and soul, he was clean. His uncle, Carries a Quiver, had assured him that he would be acceptable to the Great Spirit, even though white by birth. And his uncle was the wisest man he knew.

Then why had no vision come to him? The only whispering he heard was the wind in the tall trees. The closest thing to a vision was a shower of falling stars. But that often happened in late summer, when the stars shook loose in the sky.

His friend Young Bear had fasted nine days before his vision came. His
oki
was an osprey. After the osprey had spoken to him, the spirits revealed a glimpse of Young Bear's former life, when he had been a chief among faraway people who hollowed their boats from logs. His vision had also foretold his heroic death in battle. It was good to know these things. At thirteen, Young Bear had already made up his death song, to be ready in case his first war party should be his last.

What if Broken Trail's vision should fail? He tried not to think about that. Ten days was a long time, yet he knew that some waited even longer before their vision finally came to them. It was rare for no
oki
to appear, but it did happen. The man who dug the village garbage holes had failed to receive a vision, so of course he could not be a warrior.

Broken Trail stood up and stretched. He had spent the entire morning sitting under an ash tree beside a creek, doing nothing but waiting and praying. His body was weak with hunger, but he must not eat until his
oki
appeared to him. Maybe he would not feel quite so famished if he filled his stomach with water. A few steps away, there was a quiet pool at a bend in the creek.