A Dark and Promised Land (17 page)

Oh, God, is this a sign that you have sent me? Shall I pull up from this harsh, miserly, beautiful place and start a new life in Rupert's Land, where the soil is not thin and rocky, but deep and loamy, where a man can work his hands and grow something to be proud of, something that will last forever?

There was no further sign, and even if there had been one, he would have dismissed it as coincidence. The clouds swallowed the sun again, and the ships reefed their sails and pulled into Stromness harbour.

Iskoyaskweyau pushes aside the bearskin that serves as a door to the sweat lodge. He dribbles some water from a skin flask onto the fire, and steam rolls toward the roof of the habitation, looking in that dim light like thunderclouds. He kneels a moment in silence beside the fire, as if praying. After a time, he approaches Lachlan, who, alarmed, tries to sit up on his elbows, but the bolt of pain that screeches up his side knocks him onto his back. He lays staring at the roof, panting, lightning bolts flickering across his blurred vision. He doesn't notice Iskoyaskweyau remove his bandage or pull out his long knife.

There is a tugging and an even sharper pain at his wound. “Oh, dear Christ …” he gasps, tears filling his eyes. The swimming shape of the Indian looms over him, and something soft and wet presses into his mouth. He begins chewing, the taste of his own flesh revolting him. He tries to spit it out, but Iskoyaskweyau shakes his head, and thrusts it back between Lachlan's lips. Gagging, Lachlan swallows. The Indian lifts his head and gives him a sip of water.

Laying the Orkneyman back down, Iskoyaskweyau reaches into his bag and pulls out some short willow twigs. Using his knife, he shaves one, and, with his teeth, peels off the thin white inner bark. He chews this a moment, and then leans over and spits into Lachlan's wound. He does this several times, and the Orkneyman can feel the cooling saliva running down his side.

Chew, spit, chew spit. It seems to Lachlan the most absurd farce imaginable, and he yearns for the strength to strike the big, dumb brute. Soon most of the twigs are chewed, and Iskoyaskweyau wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Soon you feel better,” he says to Lachlan, ordering him to chew a bit of the bark himself, but to swallow, not spit. As Lachlan does so, he is surprised to feel the pain in his side diminish slightly. He contemplates the significance of this when he feels a pattering across his breast. Looking down he sees that Iskoyaskweyau has tossed some tiny bones on top of him, bones from some kind of bird. With that, the Indian picks up his drum.

He begins to chant a deep and melodic entreaty to his God to save this poor fool of a White man who is so far from his home and is in need of help and guidance and healing. The drum beats are slow and thoughtful, laying a deep, deep foundation to the man's sad song. Lachlan suspects the song to be a dirge.

The chanting carries on long into the night, Iskoyaskweyau's eyes distant and unseeing, his body covered in sweat, glowing in the light of the coals.

The rain stops some time before dawn, although every branch, every leaf tip, still drips. As the morning light broadens, they look out into a narrow cut in the forest thick with fog; the light grows to a dull grey, but stubbornly refuses to brighten any further. The snapping of the campfire sounds loud and disturbing in that silent, thick air. Every footstep, every muffled cough seems to draw attention to itself. All is silent except for the murmur of the river.

Alexander stands on the shore, moccasined foot resting on the gunwale of the boat, his carbine across his knee, smoking his pipe, and staring at the water. He is wondering whether they should attempt the next set of rapids that morning, or portage. They are nearing Jack River House and he is anxious to press on, but there is a real danger of missing the landing in the fog.

The length of the Echimamish River between the Nelson River and Robinson Lake is a twisting labyrinth of shallow reaches and swift waters, trapped-out beaver ponds and dams and spooky, burned swamps. Through this torturous region, they drag the boat more than paddle, running an endless succession of shoals.

All are obliged to walk, carrying as much gear as they are capable of. The boats are dragged through the portage, a rocking motion of heave, lurch forward, heave again, and with each effort advancing perhaps a yard or so, the wooden keel pushing aside the mud or rolling over hewn lengths of logs, the men sliding in the greasy holes left by the boots of the man in front. Now and then someone will slip and fall, and their progress lurches to a halt.

Behind the cursing and mud-splattered crew, the colonists stumble, their backs bent beneath their burdens and harried beyond belief by a fog of mosquitoes, horseflies, deerflies, and blackflies.

In the middle of one such portage, Alexander calls for a rest, and, with relief, the crew stops pulling; like the flowers of desert plants after a passing rainstorm, a host of pipes emerge and after a fire is struck the crew leans against the boat, puffing clouds of smoke.

Their leathers caked in black mud and sweat running in their eyes and dripping from their matted beards, they look like a troupe of circus bears as they spit and grunt and stare with their tiny blue eyes at the sky.

The portage runs through a great burn, and blackened stumps and jumbled lifeless poles surround them. The tangle is unbelievably thick, with visibility so limited they can scarce see a hundred yards in either direction. Beneath them is a soggy carpet of mud and ash, with just the beginnings of new green showing through. A year later, the land still reeks of smoke and charred wood.

A chickadee flutters to the top of a burnt spire and calls out
tee-dee
-
tee-dee
before arcing away in a flutter of tiny wings. Rose watches the bird for a moment, and then drops her little pack in the mud and straightens her back. Neither she nor Lachlan is expected to carry anything, but she cannot walk beside her people with their burdens without making an effort herself. Her dress clings to her back, and as the fresh air moves against it, goosebumps rise on her arms. She pushes her dripping hair from her face. The shadows of the forest are long, and the insects dancing overhead catch the last rays of the setting sun, turning them into early stars.

Rose's hair reminds Alexander of the autumn leaves he had seen that year he had travelled with his father to Montreal; mountain after mountain blazing a brilliant scarlet as if the frost had turned to fire. In the gloom, her hair shines with a deeper glow, like the embers of a fire. He sees her father approach, and he frowns. Although well-tended and his wound is healing fast, there is still something very much wrong with the man.

After the stabbing, Rose had not come to Alexander for many nights. This did not surprise him, as her father needed nursing and close care. But when he finally heard those footsteps outside his tent, he felt very pleased and welcomed her with feverish long-denied kisses. But later, she simply lay beside him, his arm around her and no more. She did not speak to him. After a few long, quiet hours, she had left his tent without a word or backward glance. The next night she did not return, nor the next.

A howl distant yet sharp and clear, breaks the evening peace. Rose looks sharply at Alexander.

“Wolves,” he says around his pipe. “There are many along the river. I often see their tracks on the river's edge and hear them at night.”

“Surely they are a danger? Must we flee this place at once?” Nearby colonists look concerned, but several of the Baymen grin.

“Ah dinna think we need be afeard o' no wolves, lass,” one of them says. He is a large and hairy man, with round red cheeks and missing his left eye — from falling drunk on a poplar sapling. He wears no patch and the brown, shrivelled lid sags over the dark slit. The other is a bright as the sky, and his rusty beard is stained dark with tobacco about his lips. “Savages an' Nor'westers an' Country Born cut'roats like our Mr. McClure are what thee need to beware of.”

“You are saying, sir, that the wolves are not a threat?”

“Ah dinna say no such thing. Thy wolf is a cunning brute, with blazing red eyes and jaws that will crush a moose's hind leg like a willer twig. Even the Indian be scared to death o' him. They'll come into village at night and carry off the young. Nothing the Savage can do about it either. Arrows just bounce off the thick hides.”

“Then why are you all just sitting here?” says Rose, her voice rising.

“Do not mind them,” Alexander interjects. “These are merely tales told to frighten children.”

Rose turns on the man. “So you think I am a child, sir? That it is right to mock me?”

“Nay lass, nay,” says the man laughing, bending over and whacking his knee. “An' I beg thee pardon. But thee want to be careful who thee listen to. I'll be damned if McClure were not raised by wolves himself, or so they say.”

“And you think that it is tolerable that I should be so misused by this fool?” Rose asks, turning on Alexander.

“Just a bit of fun,” he says. “No harm intended.”

“Indeed, well, I do not intend to remain here and bear the brunt of this man's mischief. You are an uncouth scallywag, sir. Good day.” She stomps off as best she can in the slippery mud.

Alexander stares after her, oblivious to the laughter of his men.

“She got a temper, that lass,” a soft voice says beside him. He turns and looks into Declan's face.

“Excuse me?”

“And not much of a sense of humour. She will peel a lad like an apple if he gets on the wrong side of her, and once peeled, I have no doubt she be finished with him.”

“Yes.”

“Forgive me for interrupting, Mr. McClure,” says Lachlan hobbling up. “But I was wondering if I might have a word with you,”

“Certainly.”

“Why don't you join us, Mr. Cormack?”

“Aye.”

“Lead the way to yon hillock, Mr. McClure.”

“That would be ill-advised, sir. You are not yet healed.”

“Take me. I must see!”

Alexander finds the easiest route to a rocky outcrop that they had seen from the portage. Lachlan is puffing by the time they reach the crest, his face cadaverous and leaning heavily on Declan's arm. They now have a good view of the country for many miles: a solid and featureless pelt of black, burned spires that runs from horizon to horizon, split by the undulating silver ribbon of the river. Thick clouds pass above their heads, so close that it seemed that they could lift a finger and pierce that grey cover, leaving a ragged tear.

“Where are we, Mr. McClure?” Lachlan asks, his voice unsteady.

“You should sit down, sir.”

Lachlan shakes his head. “It is but a passing weakness. You were saying …?”

“We are almost at the confluence with the Nelson River. See there? It's hard to tell with the haze. We have run most of the portages now, and I daresay it will be easier and quicker going.”

“And after that?”

“Well, Jack River House. South along the eastern shores of the Big Water —
Missinipi
— until the Red River and then a day's paddle to the Forks.”

“That does not sound encouraging. We still have much distance yet to travel?”

“We have.”

“I doubt I shall see the end of that journey.”

Alexander looks at him, searching his face. “No, I do not think you shall.”

“Dinna speak thus,” says Declan.

“No, he is correct, Mr. Cormack. But it is a damned shame, you know. I had such great hopes for this new life, for this empty country. To be part of a great beginning.”

“Beginning of what, Mr. Cromarty?”

“Oh, I don't know. A new nation perhaps? Civilizing the wilderness and all that.”

“I hear this often. But what if the country you call wilderness is in fact the home of many people?”

“I do not understand.”

“My people — and many others — live at the Forks. We live on the river for a time and hunt the buffalo. We hunt and we fish and we trap furs. We plough little, but this rich land you describe provides in many ways, and we do not go hungry.”

Lachlan looks down at the camp below them. “But what does this forebode? Are these lands free or not? I was told the Red River Valley was bereft of all humanity, a rich land begging for the plough.”

“I am sorry, but you have been told a lie.”

At that, Alexander crouches on the rock, leaning against his rifle; Declan takes Lachlan's arm. Alexander stares out into the distance. He shakes his head.

What does it forebode?
he wonders.
A good question, and it is a shame that only now this poor, doomed fellow bothers to ask it. It is indeed a rich land, but one occupied by Indians and the Half-breeds and the Country Born, not to mention the Canadian Nor'westers. People whom Selkirk and his ilk did not consider worthy of consulting; being less than human in the eyes of Scottish and British toffs. To them the land is indeed empty, counting the current inhabitants as they do the buffalo and the coyote.

With this prejudice, they deposited at the Forks a weary and ramshackle band of colonists — interlopers and trespassers who proved themselves as helpless as children in their new promised land, and who would have starved that first year if the inhabitants had not taken pity on them and lead them to safety at Pembina.

We were fools to offer such kindness. Year followed year with the same result, caring for people who would otherwise perish, not wishing them success, but not ready to turn our backs on them and witness so many innocents die. Now Selkirk's arrogant fool Macdonell has set himself up like Caesar with his pemmican proclamation, stealing food from those who had always willingly fed his miserable band of trespassers.

But trespass is one thing, usurping a man's livelihood is quite another. Selkirk did not count on the North West Company, and their jealousy of their ancient trade routes. By attacking them at their very heart, he has guaranteed war, and it is a very long way from the Bay to the Forks.

He had always traded with the Company of Adventurers, as did his father before him, but in his deepest heart was more in tune with the Nor'westers, those who befriended the Indians and did not try to supplant them. Almost all of those living in the valleys of the Red River and Assiniboine were Canadian and Cree mixed-blood, and although his father came from Glasgow, it is his mother and her people with whom he feels the closest affiliation. The Country Born are often in conflict with the Half-breeds, but in this case, they are allied. The time is fast approaching when he will be forced to choose between these heritages.

“Dinna fash thyself, Mr. Cormack,” says Declan in a soothing tone. “I'm sure all will be well.” He takes Alexander by the arm and pulls him away, whispers in his ear. “What mischief is this? You must not upset the old man.”

“He has a right to know,” says Alexander, pulling away. “What does the coming of your people mean?” he says to Lachlan. “It might mean many things. And war not the least likely. With Macdonell acting like a pirate, passing shitty laws and stealing food and supplies needed for the Nor'Westers and Half-breeds alike, many say that Lord Selkirk has much larger designs, and is in fact in league with the Company. A few more people living at the Forks doesn't count for a hangman's fart, but a plot of colonization and trade breaking will mean war.”

“But … this is intolerable!”

Alexander's voice softens. “Aye, but here we all are, trapped in Selkirk's nasty web. This will play itself out as it will, and we pawns must act our little roles to the end. Mark my words, there are greater stakes than our own at play here. Mine is to bring you to the settlement. It is your people's role to arrive there, prepared for what awaits them. It is yours perhaps to die along the way.”

Lachlan collapses on the cold rock, staring out at the land with a blank expression. Alexander is watching a flock of geese pass overhead when he feels the Orkneyman fall against his legs.

Mosquitoes bite, and men and women scratch at the glowing lumps, smearing blood on their faces. Slaps are delivered and curses are muttered around a snapping fire, a waning gibbous moon latticing them with the shadows of fire-blasted cottonwood branches. Occasionally a branch will pop, sending embers tumbling skyward, to be swallowed by the silver moonlight. As the night ages, one by one, shadows leave the small comfort of the fire to retreat to bedrolls and windbreaks. In the darkness, a branch falls from a spruce snag leaning over the river and hits the water with a loud splash, and several heads swivel. The river chuckles and someone spits into the fire, the wad sizzling. A few dead leaves skitter past them, blown by a cool breeze.

It is dark inside Alexander's tent, the nearby fire casting flowing, ballooning shapes against the glowing canvas walls. Several mosquitoes hang upside down in the apex of the tent, graceful legs arching against the bright cloth. The tent flap pushes aside, and they puff into the air with a hardly discernible whine.