Distant Fires Read online

  D.A. Woodward

  _________________________________________________________________

  Distant Fires

  ©2015 D.A. Woodward

  For my family, and for my brother Colin, whose love and courage is so greatly honoured and missed.

  Chapter 1

  In the planting field outside the timber walls of the Iroquois village where work had ceased for the day, Red Claw, the Sachem: shorn of hair, tattooed, his body glistening with oil and sweat, rocked before the fire with arms outstretched in spiritual supplication to invoke the power of the Three Sisters—Corn, Beans and Squash—for the start of a bountiful growing season, his low, sonorous chant broken only by the snapping of the kindling.

  Earlier in the day the men of their village had set out on a long journey into the territory of the Onondaga - Keepers of the Tribal Fire - for a council meeting with the Five Nation Confederate, leaving their male population reduced to youths and the very old. At the finish of the Sachem’s ceremony, some of the elders held forth with tales of bygone battles and victories at the hands of lesser rivals, while women and younger members broke into smaller groups, sharing stories and observations to lighten the heavy burden of the day. Others, pre-empted by more powerful urges, sought release in sleep, knowing that with the sunrise the cycle would begin again to till, seed, and nurture, the sacred mainstay of their lives into tenuous existence.

  It was unbearably hot for an early June evening and those fortunate enough to have escaped the responsibility and domesticity of village life gradually trailed in to join the others, leaving their children to the care of child minders in the longhouses.

  …………..….

  Ehta...you have finally come!” Tahne sighed, impatient at the long awaited appearance of her sister swaying heavily with child as she trod from the path to a place at fireside.

  The response, when it came, was not from Ehta, but Jahwe, an elder, looking up from her mat at the fatigue and effort which showed on the beautiful young face illumined in the flames. “The little one troubles you,” she sighed sympathetically, as the younger woman elicited a soft moan, endeavouring to position in comfort. “You must have this.”

  Rising with strain, her long granite braids dangling over shoulders—now stooped through years of field work and child rearing—she drew Ehta’s legs forward, easing her lower back against a tightly wound roll of rabbit skin. Once assured of her comfort, she began to probe, with expert fingers, the stomach and abdomen of her patient, assessing her current condition, in an effort to draw her own conclusions. When she spoke, her voice was warm and mellifluous, like water flowing over pebbles. Ehta was reminded of her mother with a sudden ease of tension. Jahwe had always been her favourite aunt.

  “You are nearing your time. Still, it will not come...” Jahwe paused, in deep concentration, eyes shut. “...until the next moon.” She ran a leathery hand along Ehta’s cheek, smiling sadly with the wretchedness of remembrance. “I know that you suffer it does not come soon enough,” she said, “We must pray to Jouskeha, my sweet child. She will provide a quickening to this long wait. You will see,” she added, gently, “all will be right...this time.” Tahne observed the tender scene with the derisive confidence of having met the requirements of duty without having braved its misfortunes. “Ehta,” she began critically, “why must you carry on so? Your suffering is no worse than we have all had to bear.”

  The look on her aunt’s face cautioned her to hold her tongue, and having neither the wish to upset her sister, nor incur the wrath of her elders, Ehta answered softly, “Come now, you have nothing to fear. Your prayers will be answered soon. As Jahwe says, all will be right.”

  The instant she lowered her head to the infant in her own arms, Tahne’s expression transformed into one of beaming pride. Smiling indulgently, she adjusted her deerskin garment to allow the infant to suckle unencumbered.

  Not since the arrival of this, as yet unnamed daughter, was Tahne to know her true ambition and completeness as a woman rooted in the hierarchical link between she, her children, and her mother—Ochre, Headwoman of the clan—who held the most powerful and enviable rank within the tightly knit community.

  Everything, from marital alliance to the ejection or installation of local chiefs, fell within Ochre’s jurisdiction as the deciding opinion in family affairs, and Tahne was aware that when Ochre died the title would pass to her and later to her daughter, and with it the long-sought privileges and respect she would be accorded. No longer would she be a voiceless figure in the background of the family. The glory lay in the knowledge that she had finally surmounted her sister Ehta and secured her ascendancy of the highest rank within the bloodline.

  Such assurance tempered her unspoken resentment, encouraging her to be magnanimous—even tender and sympathetic—towards her sister, when it was in her wont. Yet try as she might, the wounds of bitterness and jealousy ran deep, arising from contempt that was fostered by the circumstances of Ehta’s very birth.

  From childhood marriage to the emergence of her first grey hairs, Ochre’s barrenness was pitied by one and all in the community, but it was a sympathy replaced by disbelief and happiness with the unexpected announcement that after many years, she was indeed pregnant. Sons, Chuhnawa, Tocana, and Bracawa, were born in rapid succession, and much doted-on by the happy couple. But the final, most difficult pregnancy resulted in Tahne, securing the female line.

  Being strongly advised by the medicine woman to forgo another birth was a superfluous matter; given continued relations with her husband failed to produce further children. In consequence, Tahne revelled in the attention of being an only daughter, often displaying a temperament given to surliness and demands.

  Following a lapse of eleven harvests, Ochre again found herself pregnant, with the impending birth heralded as nothing less than a miracle.

  During the winter of the short harvest, when many infants perished, the child—Ehta—arrived, emerging from the exhausted mother long before her time, and in the day’s long vigil clung to life; her tiny body belying a toughness of will. Once out of danger, the joy of her survival was overshadowed by the accidental death of Ochre’s husband, killed when he plunged into a ravine on a hunting trip following a violent snowstorm.

  Through the years, the bulk of her maternal attention was to rest on this delicate, but strong youngest child, dispensing her devotion where she felt it most needed, unaware of the raging enmity and resentment smouldering within her elder daughter, who observed in mute hostility the power Ehta lent over their mother’s harsh, intransigent facade.

  Tahne felt that with the birth of her daughter, coupled with Ehta’s recent tribulations, she had at last been allowed a measure of victory, and with it, a stalemate in the war against her sister and former nemesis.

  All will be right...this time...

  Like strange murmurings, the words became disengaged until they stung with painful clarity. Turning from her sister, Ehta laid on her side, her discomfort compounded by the torment the single phrase had engendered.

  Twisting a raven tress around her finger in silent agitation, Ehta looked again at her sister, wondering at the differences in fortune that separated them, and, as was her custom during the hours of rest, withdrew to the innermost sanctum of her being to reflect. Tahne was always full of good advice, but then, other than the death of their father many years before, she had never known the pain of loss.

  Though sometimes called upon to meet with the League of Iroquois, as an arbitrator on intertribal problems, or to make decisions on questions of peace and war with outside tribes, her husband, Gawanee—the Sarcen, Chief of their community—had rarely been away for lengthy periods, and always returned from battle. Unlike the monstrous stroke of fate which had befallen her be
loved …

  Salgan.

  How many countless times while preparing food, working the field, or tending her daughter, Shanata, was his name on her lips, with only the needs of the present enabling her to submit to the force of reality?

  Salgan.

  Much as she knew that war must exact a toll, it was impossible to suppose that his precious life had been extinguished in a single stroke, and with it, all hope of happiness without possibility of recourse. She thought certain, had it not been for the necessity of providing for her daughter and unborn child, she would surely have lost her mind.

  No, her older sister could never comprehend the incalculable loss, the heaviness that weighed upon her, day after day, as she pondered the emptiness of life without him, when Tahne’s notion of love did not extend beyond duty.

  Forged by their mothers, in accord with alliances between family groups, marriages were based entirely upon the matrilineal status of the individuals, with neither the father nor the couple themselves involved in consultation. Thus, when a suitable match was found through her mother, Tahne—daughter of Ochre, of the deer clan, Mohawk—entered into union with Gawanee, son of Aborwa. It was a pairing that, given the absence of personal selection, made the promise of stronger emotion far less likely.

  And in a similar pattern, the marriage of Ehta and Salgan began destined to be no different. Once the agreement had been settled, the prospective couple was formally introduced, and by a simple ceremony in which food and presents were exchanged between families, the alliance sealed. During the festivities that followed, nervous smiles and furtive glances betrayed the hesitancy and strain between the chosen parties. The rapid beating in their hearts matched to the steady pounding on the sacred drum, as the dancers whirled around the circle to the chant of the elders. The intoxicating odour of burning sweet grass fuelled the celebrants like an aphrodisiac, while enacting the ritualistic cleansing of the newlyweds, in honour of their marriage.

  Before long, it was time for the timorous couple to withdraw from the spirited revellers to the privacy of the long house. For the groom, it was a breaking with the old in another way, for he was now entering his bride’s household to begin a new life, far from his maternal village. Amongst those he was only lately acquainted, and he was now expected to commence his first official “act” of belonging.

  Unaware of the mechanics of lovemaking, Ehta’s carnal experience of men was limited to what she had heard from her married sister’s pallet in the dead of night, the grunts and strains bearing down on her in the darkness as something to be dreaded. Therefore, on this, her wedding night, the acceptance of this “duty” lay like an onerous task, injecting distaste into what was to represent the joyful culmination of her young womanhood.

  For a long while she lay beside him, willing herself to comply with what he might do. Earlier, at moments throughout the proceedings, she had studied him: he was a handsome boy, of average height for his age, very muscular with dark, flashing eyes and a somewhat tentative, though captivating, smile.

  She was told he was her husband. Now, under cover of darkness, it made no difference; he was as much a mystery to her now as he had been in the light of day. She did not know him. He was a stranger.

  She lay on her stomach. After what seemed an eternity of waiting, she felt him roll towards her side. She held her breath. Placing his hand very gently on the back of her shoulder, he trailed his finger between her blades and along her arm, unsure of when and how to begin. Pleasurable sensations rose within her, dimmed by the sudden expectation of pain. She flinched, and he withdrew at the sound of her gasp, like the touch of fire. She shut her eyes, barely breathing, waiting for his next move. To her surprise, he turned away, shifting to the furthest edge of the pallet. For the first time since their union, she felt the tension drain from her, calming herself in the belief that given a restful sleep she would be better prepared to accept his advances.

  Strangely, it was not put to the test, for he made no further attempt to “trouble” her. Thereafter, they were to sleep side by side with little more than incidental contact, in an arrangement that both puzzled and secretly relieved her. But while they were not to know married life through physical union amidst this cool and inauspicious beginning, the usual formality and reticence between married couples was replaced by an easy friendship. There was little indication that the seed of emotion was taking root, in a manner nothing in their upbringing could have foretold.

  The initial few weeks behind him, Salgan came to know his new people and his place within the community, and in his ease, his true personality began to emerge. A skilful storyteller, he often regaled his eager audiences with fables, and in his dealings with women and children, reflected an attitude more capable and respectful than many of his elders and fellow clansmen, involved in purely masculine pursuits.

  For brief intervals throughout the day, he would seek out his young wife, amusing her with riddles, word games, even private reflections, sharing on a level heretofore unknown to her. Though young and hardworking, his were the hands of the craftsman rather than the warrior; his woodworking skills held in such esteem that in a very short time, word of his proficiency spread throughout the trading community. Soon he was extolled as one of a very select group of artisans in designing tools, adornment, and household/hunting items; an ability indispensable to community life.

  One summer day in the quiet early hours, Ehta sat alone on a log bench outside the long house, beading necklaces out of colourful shells she had gathered with her cousins the previous day. Salgan had been different, as of late; distant. Not that he had changed in any overall way, but either by choice or responsibility, the playfulness they shared showed sign of diminishing. She saw less and less of him, and all but communal meals were shared in diligent silence. Moreover, recently, to her dismay, he had chosen to sleep with his fellow braves in the fields, causing her to wonder if it were a question of male camaraderie or a deliberate attempt to exclude her. She missed him and ached to tell him so, but his inaccessibility prevented her from expressing it. Perhaps she was being overly sensitive. Why, she wondered, did the slightest change on his part fill her with such emptiness and self-approbation?

  Her cousins joined her on the bench. Salgan appeared, without signalling his presence, and she watched as he set to work on the repair of a canoe taken on a recent trade with an Algonkian He was unusually quiet, hands moving with the assurance of his craft, giving no indication of listening to the interplay between herself and her cousins.

  She tried to keep her attention fixed on her task, but each time she glanced in his direction, she could not help but admire the long limbs, the veins and flexed muscle along the arms that flowed into his gleaming bronze chest. His eyes strayed to her and she felt herself flush. She forced herself to concentrate on a conversation with her cousin, Ottanwa, but he seemed to be following her words with a serious and unspoken fascination. Yielding to her first reaction, she smiled, and to her bewilderment and disappointment, he frowned, quickly turning away.

  What had she done to elicit such open hostility? Surely she had shown him the value of his friendship in countless little ways. Had she somehow become the focus of his contempt? Careful to hide the extent of her hurt, she resumed chatting, but her mind was distracted, mulling over any action on her part that could give rise to such response.

  Sometime later, he moved into the gathering, less a participant than casual onlooker, his expression remote, as though wrestling with a problem. Preoccupied with the source of his confusion, she lifted the basket, and with a slip of her hands, sent loose shells flying in all directions. Ordinarily the incident would have served to amuse, but his strange behaviour had so unnerved and hurt, she felt merely foolish. Fighting back tears, she bent to retrieve them, but Salgan’s close proximity as he came to her aid resulted in a further cascade of shells, and she fled from the scene in humiliation.

  Salgan raced ahead, barring her from entry to the longhouse doorway. Lowering her head t
o mask her discomfiture, she attempted to walk around him, but he refused to budge.

  “Ehta, why do you worry about such a small accident? Are you so unhappy?” His concern was genuine, his voice soothing, but she didn’t want his interest if it came from pity. She wanted to ask him why he no longer spent time with her alone, why he watched her but rarely spoke, why he had never again sought the warmth of her body in the darkness to make them truly man and wife. And why did he now wish to be near her when his attitude of late had been anything but warm?

  “I suppose it is because we do not play together as we used to.” It was as near to the truth as she could muster.

  She was at a loss to understand his motivation but sensed an action was at hand. True to her instincts, he smiled and tossed the handful of shells, still held, into the air.

  She could not help but grin at the silliness of it all, but the instant the spell was broken, his voice, when it came, was again uncharacteristically tentative, even distant: “The canoe must be tried to see if it has been properly repaired. I had planned to go upriver. Would you like to come along?

  She was startled by his proposal, questioning his purpose when recent actions indicated feelings of a different sort, but her curiosity was equal to the unexpected thrill of sharing him with no one. To her surprise, she felt a warm, tingling excitement sweep through her body from her toes to her fingers in anticipation. Unable to disseminate the intensity of these unfamiliar feelings, she felt it necessary to hide them.

  “When?” She inquired, coolly.

  “Now. Today.” He responded, his tone anxiously conveying the belief that she would not accept.

  She looked to the pale blue skies above his head that gave the promise of another day of blistering heat. “Well,” she replied, fighting to remain unmoved, “I must help mother in the fields but...if we return by tomorrow’s sunrise...I will go with you.”