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                                  The first chapter of Cartier's Ring appears below.

 

Cartier’s Ring

A novel by Pearson Moore

About 118,000 Words

 

Chapter One

 

Myeerah

 

            The women will laugh at me.  Only men have dreams such as this, not girls.  Not the daughter of a slave.

            I paddle the canoe upwind toward the berry patch, tacking as Tsiko taught me.  He says our birch bark canoes are lighter than the elmwood craft of the Hodenosaunee, but with the wind howling in my face and the waves pushing me back, I feel I’m paddling a heavy log upstream.  The water splashes onto my skirt and my belly—cold but delicious.  I look down to see a drop hit my chest, and I laugh. 

            I grab the bow and quiver and jump out into the shallow salt water at the shore.  Water penetrates my moccasins and leggings, a pleasant shock.  Grasping the bow in my right hand, I pull the canoe onto shore, toss the quiver over my shoulder, and run into the meadow.

            Panting, I sprint over to the great sugar maple and touch the two horizontal lines I carved yesterday in the bark, three hand spans apart.  Today I will stay here until I hit it.  The women won’t understand.  I don’t understand.  But dreams are always true.

            I take five long strides toward the meadow, another five, five more, and I turn around, my long black hair batting my face in the wind.  The tree is three counts of five paces away, and the two lines on the trunk seem impossibly close together.  But today I will hit it.

            The arrow is light in my hand as I level the nock and draw back, feeling the string taut in my fingers.  I concentrate on the broad trunk of the maple, thinking of what Tsiko said:  ‘Aim high and you’ll hit the deer.’  I raise the bow three finger widths toward the sky and—

            “Sister!”

            Lightning fear courses through my arms, the arrow shoots out of the bow and past the tree.

            I pivot and see him:  Domagaya, standing not four paces away.

            I know he will laugh.  The women’s laughter is as nothing.  But Domagaya’s laughter will slice deeper than seashell. 

            “You missed.”  Domagaya’s voice is deep but playful.

            I look up and see the mirth in his eyes.  But he's not laughing, just smiling.

“Only because you scared me.”  I stare at him, my eyes taking in his broad chest and thick arms, the deep scars of proof on his forearms and thighs and chest.  He is the Grand Sachem’s second son.  He is our best hunter, and the warrior who saved us last summer.  But most of all, he is tall and beautiful, and I adore him.

            He pulls his eyes away from me and squints at the maple tree.  “Why is a girl of not yet twelve winters using my little brother’s bow?  You’ll hurt your arms, and you won’t harvest corn when we return to our kanata.”

            “It’s—”  I stare into his beautiful eyes, but the feeling is too strong, and I look down.

            "You used to run out into the forest in Stadacona--out to the big maple tree near the river.  You were shooting arrows there, too?  In Stadacona?"

            I nod, keeping my head down.

            "Why?"

            I raise my eyes.  “It's my dream.”

            "A dream of black snakes," he says, smiling.  "An Iroku dream--from the girl of Hodenosaunee blood."

            "I'm not Hodenosaunee."  He makes me angry with his words.  "I'm Myeerah, child of Aataensic.  Mine is the dream of a Wendat girl."

            He smiles no more, but his eyes are hypnotic. “Dreams are always true—truer than life.  But dreams of bow and arrow don’t come to little girls, only to men.” 

            “I'm not a little girl.”  I stare into his face, and his eyes wander over my body.  I feel a sudden and strange thrill radiate through me.

            “No, you’re not.”  He gazes into my eyes, smiling.  But it is not the smile of his face—it is the smile of his heart.  A cool wind penetrates my leggings, but I feel warm all over.          

            “Tell me your dream.” 

The smile has left his face, but his eyes are intense, as if the wind and the tree and my arrow no longer have significance to him.  He needs to hear my dream.  I shudder for a moment, then begin.

            “A red snake comes to the kanata as the sun sets and wraps around a woman’s leg.  As she struggles, the snake's scales fall off, and underneath it's black.  Her husband runs to her, bow in hand, but a white wolf comes from behind, sinks his jaws into the man's leg, and pulls him toward the forest.  The man throws his bow to the woman, and she shoots an arrow, wounding the white wolf.”

            “And the wolf releases the man?”

            “Yes.”

            Domagaya picks up the bow and strides toward the maple; I follow.  He knows exactly where to find the arrow, and draws it from the brush.  He walks behind me, placing his warm hand on my naked back as he pulls the quiver over my shoulder.  I wish for him to continue touching me, but he takes his hand away.  I cannot have him, anyway; I am not yet a woman.  We walk back out to the meadow.

            “You didn’t draw properly.”

            I frown.  “That’s not why I missed.  You startled me.”

            “No.”  Domagaya nocks the arrow and draws out the sinew.  “You need to pull out straight.  Watch.”  He draws the string back almost to his cheek, his eyes dead on the target, and releases.  The arrow flies like lightning and hits the tree with the sound of an axe splitting wood.  The point is embedded deep in the tree, right between the horizontal lines.

            I run to the maple.  With great effort, I pull out the arrow and turn toward Domagaya.  Far behind him, past the meadow, on the shores of the Great Salt Water, five canoes approach from the north, farther than the arrow flies, but closing fast.  They are not birch bark, but a dark wood of some kind, except for the last canoe—it is pure white.  Their paddles are strange.

            Domagaya says, “You didn’t tell me what happened to the woman in your dream.”

            I see the men in the boat, their markings.  My heart skips a beat, and I cannot get my mouth to work.  I know who they are, and what they will do.  I fall into a crouch.

            Domagaya turns to the shore, sees the canoes, and ducks into the grass.  “Iroku!  Black snakes.  Get down!”

            I dive into the grass.  My heart beats wildly in my ears, louder than the wind, louder than the waves on shore.  I hear them now, though I dare not rise up to look.  As fast as I can manage, I crawl over to Domagaya.

            “They’ve come to take me back,” I whisper.  The blood is pounding in my ears, my hands shaking.

            “No, you were born here,” Domagaya whispers.  “You’re one of us now.  You’re Myeerah, daughter of Aataentsic.”

            I feel heat on my cheeks and warmth in my heart.  He cares about me.  He will protect me.  He will protect all of us.  I huddle close to him, rubbing his arm in affection.

            “Through the berry patch.” Domagaya points to the bushes behind the sugar maple.  “Take the path to camp.  Hurry!”

            On my knees, I scurry over to the tree.  I look back, and stop breathing.  Domagaya, bow in hand, rises to his feet, opens his lips and squints, looking out toward the shore.

#

Tsiko

 

            Tsiko hefts the stone hatchet, wondering how his brother, Domagaya, swung the heavy tool with such ease.  Six winters older than him, Domagaya is already a man.  But today, Tsiko has the chance to show his strength.  He will gather more wood than any of the other boys for the fire tonight.

            A few of the boys and two girls sit outside a wigwam playing paguesé with seven painted beans.  Satouta is the best player.  His little sister, Alawa, has the bowl now.  She rarely wins, even though she plays black, like her brother.  Alawa gets fives sometimes, so she doesn’t have to forfeit her bet, but she hardly ever gets a six.  Satouta, on the other hand, seems to know just how to bang the bowl on the ground to make the black sides turn up.  He sometimes forfeits, but he usually gets a six, taking all bets against him.  Every few days he gets a seven; Tsiko knows this, even if he isn’t nearby:  the shouts of amazement from the children are enough to tell him what has happened.

            Satouta looks up from his game.  “Tsiko, where is your brother?”  His round face is that of a child, though he humours himself with warrior scars on his chest and legs.  He has not yet tracked a deer, even though he has seen fifteen winters—he is two years older than Tsiko.

            “Taignoagny is a sachem; he doesn’t play with children.”

            “I mean your other brother, Domagaya.  Seven winters past, he taught me paguesé —now I’ll beat him.”

            Tsiko wishes to tell the boy how foolish he is, but he says only, “Domagaya is surveying the pagadowé field for the games next moon.”

            “The Mi’kmaq will come, then?”

            “My father says they will, yes.”

            Satouta’s face becomes serious.  “Thus says Great Donnacona, Upright and Strong, Grand Sachem of the Wendat of Stadacona.  Let us be attentive.  Let us consider.”

            Tsiko frowns, puzzled by the boy’s affectation of formal council-speak.  He doesn’t even know how to use the language properly; why is he trying to speak in this way?  He truly is a foolish boy.  “Get up, Satouta.  We need to gather wood for the fire tonight.”

            “There’s a dance?”

            How could the boy not know this?  His sisters tend Hurit’s fire—he would have to know.  “Yes.  Come.  Bring your hatchet.”

            Satouta collects his winnings and rises to his feet.

            Tsiko glances out to the forest and turns to look at his mother and the other women near the edge of the meadow where they have made their camp.  Several girls watch as Kanti shows them how to gut the fish, while the older women prepare the day’s catch for smoking.  The other boys are already heading into the forest, and Tsiko picks up the hatchet to follow them.

A woman cries out with piercing voice. 

The alarm.

Tsiko’s heart leaps.  The boys and the two girls jump to their feet.

It is Hurit, the Matriarch.  She stands outside the council longhouse, crying out in full voice.

Tsiko tastes fear in his throat.

His mother, Taron, mouth open, runs at full bore toward him.

“The forest!” Taron yells.  “All children to the forest!  Follow me.”

Where is my bow?  Tsiko looks toward the longhouse and wraps his hand tight around the hatchet.  Men run from the wigwams and from the forest and gather near the long forest trail to the shore.

Satouta charges toward the far forest with the other children, but stops and turns around.  Hatchet in hand, he sprints back to Tsiko.  A man runs toward them—Taignoagny.

Satouta points to the men.  “Let’s go.”

“No!” Taron’s voice is strained, her lips quivering.

Taignoagny, longbow in hand, motions to Tsiko to come.

“Not my child,” Taron shouts.

“Mother,” Taignoagny says, “we need him for lookout.  The Hodenosaunee come.”

Iroku. 

Tsiko feels a shudder run through his body.

Taron’s mouth is open.  “Go,” she says, her voice cracking.

Tsiko and Satouta run with Taignoagny to the large group of men at the trailhead.  Tsiko feels pain in his stomach, like he might be sick.  He glances at the older boy, wondering why he tags along; no one invited him.

Kemtwe, the lead defense sachem, stands at the front and gives short commands.  “Where is Domagaya?”

“At the pagadowé field,” one of the men says.

Satouta calls out, “Taignoagny is here with—”

Taignoagny swivels, his fierce eyes drilling into the boy.  Satouta stops talking. 

Tsiko struggles to keep his eyes on Kemtwe.  Doesn’t the foolish boy know to be quiet?  This is no council meeting.

“Alright,” Kemtwe says, “Mingan, you’ll lead the main group in place of Domagaya.  You must run like the cougar, east, to the berry patch.  Attack on my signal.  The rest, follow me.”

Taignoagny turns to Tsiko.  “We follow Mingan.  You,” he says, pointing to Satouta, “will stay here.”

Satouta says, “But—”

“Battle is no place for children.”  Taignoagny’s expression is firm, but not angry.  “You'll get us killed.”

Taignoagny and Tsiko run with the men back across the open meadow to the east trail, taking the path to the berry patch.

The men run at full tilt, and Tsiko breathes hard through his open mouth, trying not to make noise.  He runs cocked-foot, so quiet he does not even bring up sand.  He feels a cramp in his stomach.  It hurts every time his foot lands, but he dare not show pain.  Two of the oldest men, deep scars on their chests, run behind Tsiko.  So quiet they are, Tsiko cannot even hear their breathing.

They approach the meadow, only twenty paces to the east.  It was in this field, not half a moon past, that Tsiko played his first game of pagadowé with the men.  He took kicks to the legs and ribs, and he bears the bruises from that day.  He left the game injured even before his team scored a goal.  He remembers with sadness Onatah’s laughter at his wounds and his pain.  He laughed, too, to show his strength.  But the greatest pain was seeing Onatah and Domagaya walk together into the forest after the match.  I know what they do in there.  Last year, Tsiko and Onatah bathed together in the great river, as children.  Now she couples with men.  Tsiko feels an almost overwhelming sadness.

Mingan makes the silent signal, and the men stop.

Far away, on the other side of the field near the bank leading to the shore, a Wendat man stands, gripping his bow.  He is immobile, facing the water.  A woman, small next to the man’s massive form, is close at his left.  What strange tableau is this?

“It’s Domagaya,” one of the men whispers.  Soon Tsiko hears his brother’s name issuing from all around him. 

Tsiko squints hard, trying to make out the figure far across the field.  The woman next to Domagaya turns, and Tsiko sees the shell pattern on her skirt.  He knows her.  It is Onatah, the pretty one, daughter of the Iroku slave, Hausis.  Onatah, the one who calls herself 'Myeerah'.  Tsiko’s heart leaps, and he feels sadness and joy and desire and dejection, all in the same moment.  The dread of seeing her with Domagaya.  The joy of remembering her pretty face and beautiful form.

A faint but steady call issues from the forest behind them.  The man behind Tsiko repeats it:  “Yi-yi-ho.  Yi-yi-ho.  May may.”

Pleasant outcome.  Pleasant outcome.  Come forward.

Tsiko doesn’t understand why this command is given.  He looks forward to Taignoagny, and the frown on his face also indicates confusion.

No one moves, but many whisper to each other, their brows bent in puzzlement.

Mingan’s voice rings out, “Yi-yi-ho.  Yi-yi-ho.  Ganmakh te.  May may te.”

“Did he say 'come forward'?” Tsiko asks the old man behind him.

The old warrior moves toward the meadow, as do Taignoagny and the others ahead of Tsiko.  Everyone holds their bows at ready.

“Pleasant outcome,” the man says. “Proceed with caution.  Come forward on guard.”

They move at brisk pace across the field toward Tsiko’s older brother. 

Tsiko joins Domagaya, standing on his right, as the men fall into place at the edge of the beach. 

Tsiko stares wide-eyed at the sight below.  In front of them, on the beach near the meadow, four dark canoes lie upside down.  A score of Hodenosaunee, unarmed, stand near a strange boat still in the waves at shore.  It is a long canoe, white like stone, not a single line of tar on the sides.

But the strangest sight of all is the line of men standing only six paces from the Hodenosaunee.  The Grand Sachem, Donnacona, and four of the clan sachems, wait at the shore for their important guest.

A short man in the white canoe is covered in a rich beaver coat.  He wears a crown of red feathers, an intricate belt of white and purple shells, and eagle talons and bear claws around his neck.  He is a young man, but two men advance and lift him out of the canoe.

“I know this sachem,” Taignoagny says.  His narrowed eyes show his concern.

Tsiko wonders how his eldest brother recognises an Iroku.  One of the senior warriors looks like he might be Oneida.

“Mohawk?” Domagaya asks.

“No,” Taignoagny says.  “Wendat; he’s one of us.  This sachem paddles the canoe made of white stone.  He’s from the far west, from Wendake.”

“The sachem of legend?”

“Yes.”  Taignoagny nods his head.  “The Great Prophet:  Deganawida.”

#

Myeerah

 

            Kanti gathers the Hawk Clan children in the council longhouse, for Hurit’s clan is split up among many wigwams, and she needs to speak with all of us.  Hurit’s eldest daughter, Chepi, herself advanced in wisdom and age, sits at Kanti's side.  If we were home, in Stadacona, we could meet in our own longhouse—the largest house in the entire village.  But at our summer hunting grounds we have only wigwams and the council house.  I run my fingers over the shells of my skirt.  Would Domagaya be more attracted to me if I sewed a different design?

Hurit waits at the main fire, and we sit around her in two large circles.  I sit next to Kanti, my adoptive mother.  On the other side sits the woman we call Hausis, for she is old.  She is my birth mother, the Oneida woman adopted into our village twelve winters ago, before I was born.

            “The men visiting today are of the Mohawk and Oneida Nations,” Kanti says.  She has changed into her ceremonial garments, and looks beautiful in her painted skirt covered in bright shells.

            “Iroku!” Satouta shouts loud enough for everyone in the village to hear.

“Yes, they are Hodenosaunee,” Kanti says.  “But their leaders are Mohawk and Wendat.”

“How's that possible?” the impatient boy asks.  He has lived fifteen winters.  Why is he with us and not with the warriors?

“Ayonwatha is a sachem of the Mohawks,” Kanti says, “and he seeks to unify all of the Hodenosaunee nations.  Royaner Deganawida, Wise and True, wishes to end all wars.”

“Let them meet with the Mohawk first, then,” Satouta says, “and tell them to stop making war on us.”

His words would have seemed normal and even wise yesterday.  But today, this boy’s speech seems coarse and disagreeable.  I find myself wondering if a witch has gained possession of him.

“In time, Son, you will speak eloquently in councils of politics and war,” Kanti says.  “But tonight there is no war, no politics.  We will dance, sing, play games, eat and hear speeches.”

Satouta says, “The best thing is to get our axes and—”

“We are all Hodenosaunee,” Hurit says.

The children stop talking. 

Only the fire crackles.  I hear Kanti breathing.

“We are all Hodenosaunee,” the Matriarch continues, “because we live in the longhouse, like our Mohawk and Oneida brothers.  We are Oneida and Mohawk and Onondaga.  And they are Wendat.  There is no difference.  We are all children of Aataentsic.”

#

            I did not bring my ceremonial clothing, and it is just as well, since I have probably outgrown my skirt and tunic.  The weather is too hot for tunics, anyway.  Hausis gets some red paint from Kanti, and she uses moose hair to apply thin red lines in long, flowing bands to my skirt.  It is more beautiful than ever.

            “You’re an attractive young woman, Daughter,” Hausis tells me.

            As the sun sets, we dance and sing the harvest song.  It is the happiest song we know, and we dance in front of our guests.  Hurit is too old to dance, so Chepi, Hurit’s eldest daughter, leads us in her place.   

The one they call Ayonwatha is the most handsome, and he seems always to have his eyes on me.  His smile is full of joy, and I love gazing into his eyes.  Garakonthie is their most senior warrior.  He wears a strange blue tunic.  Domagaya says it is from the Mi’kmaq, who received it from traders far across the Great Salt Water.  The old man hardly ever looks at me, but his eyes are peaceful and content.  The man sitting next to him scares me.  He is Otetiani, a young war sachem among the Oneida, if Domagaya is correct.  When I look at him, his eyes pierce me, as if he wishes to take me by force into the woods and have me there.  Sometimes his eyes seem to wish harm and hate and death.  I cannot look at him anymore.

Their leader is Deganawida.  He scared me at first.  He seems to stare, just like Otetiani.  But then I realised there is something wrong with his left eye.  And not just his left eye, but the whole left side of his body.  Neither his left eye nor his left arm ever moves.  He favours his right leg, though he is able to walk since he keeps a firm grasp on the polished wooden staff in his right hand.  Domagaya says his left eye peers into the land of the dead, and with his disfigured tongue he speaks with spirits.  He leads no village, and he is not even sachem of a clan.  But he is their most powerful shaman, and most respected sachem. 

After the dance, we eat around the fire.  Kanti has prepared the blueberry corn meal soup, but we also eat soup seasoned with fresh fish.  Everyone has a portion of the deer Mingan killed yesterday.  My favourite is the leindohy we brought with us from Stadacona, and this seems to be Deganawida’s favourite also, as he enjoys several large ears.  Ayonwatha tries a small one, but throws it to the dogs.  Otetiani refuses this delicacy.  “Stinking corn,” he says, and leaves the circle, walking into the forest. 

“We’ve run out of blueberries,” Kanti says.  “Where is Onatah?"

“I'm here, Mother,” I say, rising to my feet.

Kanti's eyes find me.  "Get more blueberries, Daughter.  They're hanging in the longhouse over the council fire."

"Yes, Mother."

Domagaya is speaking with Ayonwatha, but he looks up at me as I step away and smiles into my eyes.  His happy face warms me inside and out, and I laugh as I turn around and walk into the darkness. 

The moon is only half tonight, and the longhouse is a faint gray form twenty paces in front of me.  I hear a rustling in the trees and feel the cool wind on my cheeks.  Far away, the tree frogs make their strange calls in the night. 

“You don’t braid your hair,” a voice says. 

I jump.

A man’s voice.  A sickly, impatient voice.

I turn around and see him.  Standing three paces away:  Otetiani.  Even in the weak moonlight, I see his beady eyes on me, staring into me.

“All our women braid their hair,” Otetiani says.  His voice is like rocks under a canoe.

I stand without speaking, too scared to remember to open my lips.

“I am not one of your women,” I say, and almost too late I add, “Sachem.”

 “You’re of the Oneida Nation, girl.”

“No, honoured guest,” I say, and I try to smile.  “I’m Wendat, from Stadacona.”

“Hmmpf.”  Otetiani steps closer and grips my arm.  He pushes his body into me.  Something is pressing into my belly.  I know what he wants.  Twice I have touched Domagaya, but he has never pressed himself into me like this.  My heart thumps with fear.

“I have to get back to the circle, Kanti will—”

“I am your honoured guest, girl.  I desire to couple.  You will serve me.”

My face is red hot, my arms tense.  My thoughts whirl about inside me, and I cannot think of what I should do.  Coupling is good, but this man is not good.  I want to run, get away from him.

He presses into me with greater force.  “Maybe you have not yet coupled.  I’m a sachem, girl.  You will have great pleasure coupling with me.”

I jerk my arm, but he pulls me in closer and grabs my other arm.

With all my might I pull, but his strong arms hold me fast.  I cannot cry out, but tears come to my eyes.  Why must I couple with this mean warrior?  Hot tears run down my cheek, and I feel his lips on my neck.  With one arm he reaches down to my skirt—

“Onatah,” a woman says. 

Otetiani freezes and pulls his head away.

“Onatah, come.”  I know her voice.  It is the Matriarch, Hurit.  “You will help me prepare the mouth cakes for tomorrow.”

“Yes, Matriarch,” I say.

Otetiani releases my arms and steps away.

Hurit’s gait is uneven as she approaches us.  When her face comes into the light, I see the deep wrinkles of her forehead and chin and her toothless smile.  It is just a smile, not from her heart—a formal smile, for guests.

“Pardon me, Sachem.  This girl tends my fire,” Hurit says.  “I beg your leave that we may prepare tomorrow’s meal.”

“The honour is too great, Oyaner,” Otetiani says.  “A matriarch’s daughter is the clan’s pride.”

Hurit gives a respectful nod to the man and we walk toward the longhouse for the blueberries.  I am glad to be moving, though my heart beats like a big drum.  Even though I am safe now my hands still shake.

Walking back to the circle with Hurit, blueberries in hand, I look left and right.  No sign of Otetiani.  My legs feel light.  The breeze picks up, and even my burning cheeks begin to feel cool again. 

“I like coupling,” Hurit says as we walk.  “I like it, even when my husband is fast, even when it’s over too quickly.”

I don’t know how to respond, so I just say, “Yes.”

Hurit laughs and stops walking.  She turns and gazes into my eyes for a moment.  “You don’t know yet, child.  But you will.  It will be soon.”

I am silent, for there is nothing to say.  Hurit smiles again, but this time it is the smile from her heart, and seeing her happiness makes me smile, too.

“The best thing is this,” Hurit says.  “I can choose.  If I wish to couple, we couple.  Sometimes three times in a night.  And if I have no desire, we don’t.  It is our way.  All the children of Aataentsic behave so.”

The wise old woman turns toward the fire and shuffles forward.  I stay at her side until we come again to the circle.  Domagaya turns around, as if he knows I’m in back of him.  I sit down beside him and rub his arms and cheeks.  He smiles and eats his corn meal.   

“Was the journey long, Sachem?” Domagaya asks Ayonwatha.

The Mohawk leader nods.  “Nearly two moons, from the Mohawk Lake to the Great River, to Hochelaga and then to Stadacona and here.”  Ayonwatha drinks from his bowl.

“You didn’t come all this way only to see us?”

“Yes.”

“There’s an important matter to discuss, then.”  Domagaya’s words are careful.

“Yes.  Very important.  It concerns affairs of the Oneida Nation.”

I turn my head to Ayonwatha, and in the corner of my eye, I see Otetiani, staring at me with his beady eyes.

Ayonwatha says, “Twelve winters we have waited.  We will resolve the matter here, tomorrow.”

Otetiani stares at me, and his lips curve up in a disgusting and evil smile.