12th Arrow - Chapter 1
This is the first chapter of a historical fiction novel: The 12th Arrow
This is the 1st Chapter of The 12th Arrow. To read the intro and from the beginning, click here.
note: Substack does not allow for proper novel formatting. I apologize if the paragraphs seemed cramped together. It is what it is.
Part 1
Into The Deep
“The moral of the story is to pay attention.”
May 1754 - July 1755
Life and Death
This story is about how I lost my life but found something real. In fact, you could say I died twice; but we’ll get to that.
I do believe that my story should be told. It holds keys to our world and lessons for our children and the generations to come. It can help, if not you, now; then someone— somewhen.
It’s true what they say, I was there, at the deciding battle. And despite what the storytellers and kings of the future will say; the war for the continent was decided by Indian warriors and young frontiersmen on the edge of the known world in wilderness that would end European aristocrats. I don’t think they will ever understand how little influence they truly had.
The war for the New World rested in our hands.
My wife has long since passed into the afterlife. She encouraged me to tell my story but I never could. I am old now and don’t know how much longer I have. I’ll write to you my story, everything I can remember. Hopefully you’ll find in it the answers you’re looking for. All I ask is that you see to it that my story lives on, that the souls in the future understand what happened here, what happened in Quebec, and who walked the land under their feet before them. We are connected.
I believed in two worlds; good and evil, heaven and hell, light and dark. Then, years later, I didn’t. It became more like the inside one and the outside one; connected by things unseen by man. A worldview— no, a knowledge— a knowledge about the world and our place in it. A knowledge of how to live; and how to die. A knowledge of the universe and the spirits within; a knowledge I must tell you about now. And there is much to tell.
I was taken, a slave to the Algonquin far-Indians of the Great River in Upper Canada. They were Anishinabeg— Original People with their tongue; relational to the Ojibway’s. Excellent warriors and travellers of the land. Savages to the white man. They say that the white man treated the Indians worse in those days, but that’s not my memory. It’s worse today. Back then, the French respected the native’s prowess in reconnaissance, warfare, and hunting. And traded and fought alongside them as equals. I cannot say the same for the English or for the Americans whom they spawned.
I was taken by an Algonquin band who had a spiritual connection with the northern lands and the animals within. The Kitci-sipi-rini— The People of the Great River, or simply, The Sipi, as I will refer to my band henceforth. The Sipi would take me to another world, to the Great River and beyond.
Their skin was dark red-brown, tight, rough on the edges, cracked from the sun, and thin enough to see their muscle fibres. Teeth were often missing but the ones that remained held their condition well. They stood average height or shorter and carried dark eyes surrounded by a yellowish-white. Long and oily black hair was ubiquitous, most used animal fats to keep it in a shiny condition, men and women alike wore it long; often in braids or knots. Men, braves, shaved the sides of their head and often portions of the top, their long braids extended from the crown of the head, facial hair didn’t grow and if it did it was always cleaned up. Most men had an equal number of tattoos and war wounds.
Deer or moose hides were stitched together with threads if available, sinew if not. Moccasins, mittens, caps, jackets, and dresses for the women were done in this fashion; and beaver or rabbit furs were used in the linings. Breechcloth, leggings, wool sash-belts, and other wool items were traded for often. Embroidery and beadwork were common. Small shells, beads, feathers, and hand-crafted dyes were used for the decorative work. Men used red dye for war-paint.
Their language was spoken fast, but they spoke less; the tones and sounds seemed to have been drawn from the animals and land they worshipped. They carried a collection of items, a balance between ceremonial and the practical. When I was taken almost all Indian bands used European goods and clothing. I did not witness a band who resisted their influence, we all used their modern tools and weapons, even in those northern reaches where the white man begins to speak English again.
I was handed over to two Algonquin men from the Sipi on the 28th of May 1754. And they took me. They took me to a new world, the so called savage world. I was seventeen years old.
Kitchi and Nootau were the two men who took me.
Kitchi: Kitchi-Manidoo-naabe, The Great Spirit Walker, or Great Spirit Traveller, would be approximations in English. Kitchi— the great, is a short hand used for him. Similar to paying respects to our respected elders, but not simply because of their age; Kitchi— the great one, noble father, the old wise one. It was also the name used when referring to their ‘God’, The Great Spirit— Kitchi Manidoo. In native culture names are given at specific times for specific purposes. The names are more than placeholders or references to long lost saints. For them, there’s a link between the name and what it represents and who it is bestowed upon and why. For Kitchi, it couldn’t have been more apt. And for what a name like that represents, every member of a band would respect it, even if they didn’t respect the man. In the case of Kitchi, it was both.
Kitchi was tall and barrel chested. His overall size and width was much bigger than the average Indian or white man. I often imagined him in the centre of a Roman legion with a golden chest plate and legionnaire shield, swinging a mace or long lance at ravaged lions or the barbarian hordes. A scene that seemed better fitting to his size and stature. He had a tall head, a big forehead, and a rare thick chin; his face blank and expressionless. His hair long and neat, a mix of black and grey, he never braided it. Kitchi’s hands were double the size of a normal man’s.
The other man that took me was Nootau— Nootau-Gaabow: He Who Burns and Stands Firm, or— The Fire-Burner, The Burning One; Nootau. He was younger than Kitchi and of average size. He had wiry muscles that twitched on the surface of his skin and a pointy hawkish face, like an eagle or bird of prey. Sunken eyes that could pierce and a long braid of hair extending from the back of his skull; the sides and back of his head shaved to the skin and usually marked with red dye. A scary sight. And he wanted me dead from the moment we met.
Kitchi didn’t speak often but he communicated. He viewed words to be used last. His actions, his presence, and the looks he gave communicated a great deal. It was a remarkable feat I witnessed on many occasions.
Nootau was the opposite. He often spoke first, fast, and loud. Regretting things he said but covering them up by other words or new actions. His movements often reminded me of lightning; a movement initiated and completed before you were fully aware of what had happened. I often felt a lot of his actions, especially those in anger, came and went like lightning for him as well, like he wasn’t in control. I watched him often. Sometimes I could see this energy in his body, even sitting on a stump on a quiet day, I’d see his fingers or sometimes his legs bouncing and vibrating like a woodpecker— whose sharp beak and pointy head feathers weren’t too dissimilar from Nootau’s angled face. An angry bird looking for prey to pick apart for no other reason than it can. If Nootau was the sharp quick crack of lightning, Kitchi was the slow heavy rolling thunder that followed.
I was taken to a lake that we called Jack Pine Lake. It was the spring, summer, and fall camp of the Sipi. The lake is in the watershed of the Great River (Kitchi Sibi), now called the Ottawa. The Algonquin Sipi called the tributary Mada-was-ka Sibi, and it extended westward from the Great River and up into the dense forested highlands.
The entire basin of the Great River and its tributaries is a vast inland area of water, rolling peaks, lumps of bedrock, and valleys. Everything is covered in green-growth and thick trunks hundreds of years old. I did not witness any cutting; that began in your time. The only areas not covered by endless forests are water. And there is much water throughout the land. Interconnected lakes, rivers, streams, ponds, swamps, bogs, and back channels. And the Sipi knew them all.
This is the reason why the natives of New France constructed lightweight canoes and boats made of birch and spruce. An invention that I found special. A requirement for travel in the north woods. The other requirement was deep knowledge of the terrain, forest, waterways, a knack for way-finding, and a knack for war-fighting— or staying alive. Every Algonquin clan has dozens of stories of relatives paddling around a bend in the river never to be seen again. Even if a man had an excellent sense of direction and resourcefulness, there were many ways to die alone in the dark green Algonquin forests.
I once knew a brave who was badly attacked by a cougar and then a full-grown male black bear on the same day. He survived by plunging his fingers into the large cat’s eyes as its teeth cracked into his skull. He had two small holes in the top of his head. And that is to say nothing of the Wendigo and the other spirits— but I’m getting ahead of myself.
Principally, the territory of the Algonquins that lived in the north on the Great River and its tributaries was unforgiving and deadly. And cold—bitter cold. In the spring and summer game and fish are plentiful. Harvesting is relatively simple if you know what you’re doing. And the Algonquin plant squash and and corn when the soil permits to supplement their diet. The fall and winter is for hunting, but the winter is also a test of your will. Every year is a game of starvation and hope. It could generally be considered a good winter by a band if it had lost only one or two members during the winter. This is usually to starvation, but sometimes to cold and sometimes to falling through the ice. And sometimes, men go mad.
The winters start early. Sometimes the snows come a month or more before the days stop shortening. The snows come heavy and don’t let up until the spring, and even then they try and stay around. Once the winter sets in the lakes are frozen solid with an arms width of ice, the snows pile up to half a man’s body or more, and then a sharp and deep freezing sets in until the equinox.
This means conditions for travel are extremely difficult, and basic tasks like hunting, fishing, foraging, or even just staying warm, take fortitude. Some would say a manly fortitude. I met only one European woman during my years with the Sipi in the north, and she was a colonel’s wife in Fort Frontenac, holed up in a stone house with a hearth. But this is a false belief, the women and children of the so-called Far Indians have an inner strength and a quiet solemn attitude while withstanding brutality and hardships. A quality that I do not see in many white men, especially today. But this is a requirement for life above the Great Lakes.
The warm months were much different. The sun was warm and the days were long. We hunted and played games, and we made friends and we made lovers. There were ceremonies and many stories to be told. We learned from the land and we learned from the spirits. We came together like animals, like we always did. If it wasn’t for war and winter life would be a delight. But I suppose that’s not the point. “A path with no hardships leads nowhere.” Kitchi once said to me. And that stuck with me. Most of the things he said did.
In the mornings the yellow sun would rise and bring about the birds and the bugs, the rodents, the beavers, and the bear; and it would shine on the slopes for the deer. The wind would begin to tilt the tree tips; waking with the sun; it would flow to her from the west, breathing air into the forest, into the animals, and into us. We’d eat and we’d laugh. We’d hunt and we would craft. And in the evenings the red sun would set. We’d gather ‘round the fire and settle. We’d give thanks to the day, give thanks to our friends; human and natural; and sometimes we’d dance. We’d dance until the sky turned black and the stars came out to play. They’d tell us more stories; stories of our past, stories of who we are and where we’d come from. And sometimes if you were lucky, maybe they’d tell you a story about your future.