Savage Journey Read online

  “What is it?” Katari grasped her shoulders and stilled her, for the girl had doubled over, panting in an effort to catch her hitching breath. She Who Sings was not well known for endurance, but more for her penchant for sneaking off to daydream and warble her love ballads in the forest.

  “He’s back!” she finally managed to gasp out.

  “Who?” Katari shook her now, impatient, and full of sudden, blooming hope.

  “That Jesuit man, Katari,” giggled her friend. “The handsome one that you ogle so!”

  Katari’s eyes widened and she looked down with dismay at her soiled skirts and brown-rimmed toenails. Strands of dark hair had escaped their braids and stuck to her cheeks and neck, announcing that her face and chest were a pattern of grimy streaks of sweat.

  She hated the time of year where she was needed so much in the fields. She missed her pottery making, as well as the quiet time spent mixing herbs with her mother. And fishing. And hunting, when she and her mother could quietly sneak away from disapproving male eyes.

  So, Father Allouez had returned. This would be his second trip into the Minsi village since the early spring. He must have news. “Who is he with now?” she questioned sharply.

  “Your mother. In the Medicine Lodge.”

  Katari chewed her lip, and then made off at a steady trot toward her family’s lodge, rather than her tribe’s formal place of healing. It would be worth the time spent to clean up a bit before showing herself to Father Allouez.

  Although she was petite for her seventeen winters, Katari’s legs were lithe and strong. She was known for her boundless energy, and the ability to win footraces against boys her age both tall and strong. She left her disgruntled and winded friend behind in her haste.

  Hardly out of breath, Katari pushed her way under the doorflap and into the dimness of the lodge interior. Her mother possessed a beautiful round looking glass that Katari coveted greatly. Running Wolf, her father, chief and head of all warriors, had traded many pelts for the glass as a bride-gift for his wife.

  Katari lifted the doorflap to allow more light into the lodge, and peered anxiously into the mirror. She groaned at the mess she saw. Hurriedly, she wiped down her face and chest with a damp rag and unbraided her long, black locks, and brushed them free with her fingers.

  Most Minsi maids chose to braid or bind their locks in several varying methods, due to the intensity of their daily workloads. Katari usually did, but both she and her mother enjoyed the freedom of sleekly unbound hair from time to time. She located a delicate comb fashioned from bone and drew it through the tangles with impatiently painful tugs.

  By then, She Who Sings had arrived at the lodge, still breathing heavily. “You know the Jesuits don’t take wives,” the girl blurted sullenly, observing Katari’s careful ministrations. Although they were close friends, Katari’s beauty often overshadowed their relationship and caused a bit of tension.

  Katari sniffed. “And you know that I do not take husbands,” she returned smugly, as her friend rolled her eyes. It was true, though. She had spurned any and all youthful advances to date, much to her father’s delight. Not a single youth among the Minsi had caught her fancy. She craved adventure, and news of the growing world outside the deep forest realm. She cared naught for boys playing at archery and musketry.

  Perhaps it was her White blood that made her so restless. Her mother, a Swedish-born immigrant to the coast of the new world, had even sailed across the entire vast ocean that Father Allouez had showed her on his shockingly expansive maps. Jenna Ulfsson had faced death, betrayal, capture and captivity, and had survived it all, finding love and a home with her father. But Jenna had grown content with the mundane life within the little village, after the birth of her twin children. Her mother no longer craved adventure.

  “Alawa, little pea, I had more adventure by twenty winters than any woman should require in an entire lifetime,” Jenna had told her eager daughter, who was ever-hungry for more stories. “Trust me Katari, life her among your people here is better than what lies beyond. It is truly so.”

  Katari would not be so easily convinced. But she had certainly wasted enough time in her primping. After donning a fresh skirt and pretty, beaded moccasins to cover her dirty toes, she strode determinedly toward the Medicine Lodge.

  ~~~~~

  Nicholas Belline sported a black eye, a sore jaw, and most likely a busted knuckle judging from the speed of its bruising. The bleeding man sprawled on the floor of the tent had fared much worse, however. Nick spat and tasted blood. Not that it bothered him much, for he was quite used to its familiar tang.

  The tent flap opened behind him. He tensed for more fighting, but it was only Pétant. “Where the hell were you ten minutes ago?” Nicholas grumbled over his shoulder.

  Pétant laughed as he took in the carnage, and the smell of jack-whiskey filling the musky tent gave Nick the answer. “Where ever you go, you manage to locate yourself some of the same sort of trouble, boy.”

  Nicholas looked at the cowering squaw in the corner, and silently cursed. He knew that both he and Pétant scared the shit out of most Native women. They were both barrel-chested White men, dirty, with thick beards even grizzlier than the beasts of the forests.

  Nicholas ground his teeth. “Këshinalùkw?” he questioned the girl gently as possible. Did he hurt you? Looking closer, he saw the young squaw could be no more than fourteen or so. Of course the brute of a man had hurt her.

  The girl was crying, but she shook her head no. She still cowered in the corner as would a whipped dog, with her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Her skirt was askew and there were bruises on her arms. Fingerprints. She stared with wide eyes at the unconscious man on the floor.

  “Do you think I should leave?” Pétant questioned. The Frenchman was an ugly giant, with a visage that frightened all but the toughest of the trade post women. Yet he was of a gentler nature than Nicholas would ever have imagined fifteen years earlier. The man had been his protector and comrade ever since that first, frigid night along the St. Lawrence River.

  Nicholas gestured to the girl, making firm eye contact, and then pointed at Pétant, as well as himself. “No hurt you. Ku hitehùkw.” The girl nodded, but she pointed to the man on the floor.

  “Don’t tell me that’s that Le Tousse?” barked Pétant. When Nicholas nodded, the man shook his head in dismay. “Jesus Christ man, what’s it gonna take to keep you out of the bastille?”

  “Me leaving,” returned Nicholas grimly. “I’ve stayed my fill here.” They had been at this particular portage, or trading outpost, on the lake known as Seneca for two full years now, making forays into the outlying territories for beaver, mink, and river otter. They trapped, camped, and traded with whatever Natives were willing to talk business peacefully.

  But Nicholas had ended up in more brawls and spent more time in the rough-hewn brigades under the torment of self-appointed lawmen than he would have liked. He didn’t seek out trouble, but it seemed to follow him doggedly. Fur traders were a rough lot, and their penchant for heavy drink never helped matters. The fact that there was no civilized justice system out in the frontier wilds of the New France had cut short many a man’s life for no good reason.

  “Ah, come on boy. I was just settling in with a new missus too,” Pétant moaned.

  “I can only imagine what her superb capabilities are,” Nicholas grumbled. He approached the girl slowly, holding out his hand. She looked as if she might bite him. “No teeth, perhaps?” he tossed back over his shoulder.

  When Pétant guffawed loudly, the Indian girl actually hissed in response. Nicholas sighed, and struggled for some words to use. Finding the right Native language, not to mention the dialect, was nearly impossible. He knelt, then pointed at her, and then back at his chest. “Hnakewsëwakàn.” Help.

  She could be Huron, Lenape, Ojibwe, or even one of the many Iroquois peoples that abounded in the wilderness. Trappers didn’t squabble over clanship or language barriers when they took thei
r country wives. They wanted female bodies to cook, make clothes, and share their beds during their forays into the wilds, and a connection with her Native family members – who were oft extremely skilled trappers. That is, until they chose to return to civilization.

  “Well, we should skip along in a hurry, Nick, no matter what the case may be with la petite fils here. Le Tousse is going to wake soon. You can bet his friends aren’t far behind, and ready for piss and vinegar for sure, seeing that it’s you and all in the mix. You should’ve left well enough alone, tonight of all nights.”

  The outpost had only today seen the arrival of a new spring brigade from the north, bringing alcohol and all manner of provisions in abundance. The ribald drunkenness was rampant.

  “Couldn’t,” he shot back. “She’s just too young to be humiliated that way, and then raped by that stinking cul. I’m willing to bet her family didn’t sanction this one.”

  By the Native traditions, there would be an agreement between the girl's family and the white man who wanted to make her his “country wife.” There was usually an exchange of gifts to celebrate the arrangement. With these customs, the fur trader would become, through marriage, an honorary member of the girl’s family. Thus, he would gain the loyalty of the woman's kin when it came to trading furs and supplying game. It put coin in a man’s pockets, made Native allies, and warmed his bed in the process.

  It worked, sometimes. In other situations, well, it just didn’t, not for the bride anyway. It depended on the quality of the man, and Le Tousse was both a prick and a cheat. He likely stole this girl without her family’s approval. The Natives treated their women well, and would not tolerate such abuses.

  But Le Tousse was good at his game, and had plenty of supporters. For months, the arrogant and foul-mouthed bastard had been making every effort possible to get under Nicholas’s skin. Ripping off the girl’s tunic in the cold night, and fondling her in public before dragging her, crying, to his tent had pushed Nick’s temper a little too far. He had snapped. Again.

  He stood and sighed. But surprisingly, the girl rose too then, and adjusted her torn tunic and skirt, gaining her composure. She located her rawhide bundle of personal items and her coyote pelt cloak. She nodded at Nicholas.

  “I’ll pack my things quick,” sighed Pétant. “Where are we headed then, boy? You got any great ideas?”

  “I think it’s time to journey to the New Netherlands,” Nicholas mused.

  “What the hell? Why?”

  “I’ve been hearing things. Good things. It’s a place of merging cultures, and it’s quite a bit more civilized than this shithole. The Dutch are tradesmen. They’re shipping in tools, clothing, better firearms, household items, liquor, sugar, salt, and other luxuries that we haven’t seen in years, man.” Nicholas laughed. “We’ve got the coin now, why not put it to use?”

  “Oui, but why not venture back to Montreal?” grumbled Pétant. Why the New Netherlands?”

  Nicholas visibly darkened. “I won’t go back to Montreal.” He had paid off his indentured servitude in less than three years, and grew twice his size in the process. There were no good memories for him in that city. At all. And what no one would realize was how much he had come to love the wilds. He was born for it. He was an adventurer.

  “After the New Netherlands, I’ll be heading south,” Nicholas continued. “New land, new peoples, more furs.”

  “Hell, you outta just become a Jesuit.” Pétant shook his head. “It’s practically how you live, anyway.” Nicholas had enjoyed the company of many Jesuits over the years, and learned much in the process. Reading, writing, history… and the lust for continual journey into new land.

  “I just like my solitude,” Nicholas returned. The Native girl tugged on his arm. They were taking too long. He knelt to check the level of unconsciousness of Le Tousse, and then shoved the body underneath the cot in the corner with a booted foot, allowing the blankets to drape over him. With the extreme level of alcohol in his body, Le Tousse could be out cold for hours, buying them plenty of time.

  Exiting into the night, Nick felt that familiar tingle of excitement in his belly. He was a natural coureurs des bois, a “runner of the woods,” an adventurer who hunted and explored, continually moving, always seeking that elusive something that he could never quite find. The night he was caught stealing a pelt in Lachine, and indentured as a voyageur, had actually been a blessing.

  “Alàps,” voiced the girl sternly, at his side. Hurry.

  “Huh,” snorted Pétant, “I’d bet by tomorrow she’ll be yapping off our ears. Typical.”

  They gathered their provisions and their mounts. The darkened night beyond the sprawling rings of tents and raucously attended bonfires slipped away behind them as they melded into the forest.

  ~~~~~

  “Alawa, it is a terrible idea. I cannot envision it.”

  Jenna pursed her lips and looked her daughter firmly in the eyes. It was a difficult task to remain stern with her, as it always had been. Katari’s eyes were a lighter shade of brown than her twin’s, with glints of honey gold in them. It was an arresting combination with the darkness of her silky, black hair. Her eyes seemed often to glitter with energy and light.

  As a toddler, Katari’s mischievous enthusiasm had been impossible to contain. Now, as her daughter was reaching adulthood, Jenna’s authority was slipping, even though she still stood as the tribe’s esteemed Medicine Woman. It was not that her daughter was disrespectful. Katari was simply the continued gale-force that Jenna had predicted the very night of her birth.

  “You should remain with me, and continue to practice the art of Medicine. You are truly gifted.” So gifted, in fact, that Katari seemed almost afraid to embrace her talents. As of late, the girl thought of more and more excuses not to attend rituals and the making of remedies that included the invocation of spirit forces. It seemed to make her antsy and ill-at-ease. Jenna was unsure as to why.

  Father Allouez cleared his throat. “Your mother has wise words for you Katari. The path to the New Netherlands is fraught with danger.”

  “Yet, my twin brother is going!” Katari returned staunchly. “I speak both Dutch and French with a good degree of competency. I want to see this place, Father Jesuit. There are many races, and mixed-bloods, who are welcomed, just as you have described in your tales. I can be of great asset to my brother Grey Wolf in his trade-making.”

  The Minsi Clan of the Wolves had been very successful in recent years in the taking of furs from the bountiful lands of the surrounding Dark Forest. There had been little intrusion or interference from other tribes or French trappers in the past decade. A journey north to the great post for barter was in the works.

  Father Allouez was himself, leading the way. As a Jesuit missionary, his travels had brought him in contact with many varying tribes of the Haudenosaunee, the Wyandot, or Huron, as well as the Minsi, the northernmost clan of the Lenni Lenape. In general, the Jesuit had been well received, although he had not managed to convert any of the Katari’s people to his Christian faith.

  Jenna had been involved in many of such vigorous debates about the Great Spirit and spiritual purpose of her people as well as the land they dwelled in. Katari herself suspected that Father Allouez quite enjoyed such arguments with her mother, who was extremely witty and had remained quite beautiful well into her mid-thirties.

  Father Allouez’s visits also brought welcomed news to the tribespeople, who currently enjoyed a truce of sorts between the boundary of the Haudenosaunee, or Iroquois, bands who lived a week’s travel to the north. Times were changing rapidly, and territories were shifting with the intrusion of the white settlers and interior trappers. The value of quality furs was at its highest demand ever for the whites of Canada and even overseas.

  Mingan, or Grey Wolf, her twin brother, had become a trapper of extreme talent and notoriety in the Minsi clan, as well as their neighboring tribes. He wished to make trade and procure coin and gifts so that he could then select the finest o
f bride-wives. And he certainly had plenty to choose from. Katari herself wrinkled her nose at the very thought of matrimony. But she surely wanted to go along for the sheer adventure of it. There was nothing else on earth she desired so much in that very moment than to see the world beyond this tiny village.

  Katari wheeled and grasped her mother’s shoulders in excitement. “Ana, mother, together, we could travel… and consult with White doctors – and learn new remedies for our people. We could trade for mirrors, potions, bracelets, combs… anything, mother! Imagine.”

  Jenna sighed at her daughter’s tenacity. “I will not leave this village again, Katari. No good has ever come of it in the past. But, I will speak to your father, on your behalf.” She looked at her daughter’s vividly tawny eyes once more, not wanting her to go, yet unwilling to dim the spark in them.

  When Katari flitted away from the lodge to locate her father, who was likely with the tribal elders, Jenna looked at Father Allouez firmly, pinning him with her jade green gaze. He met it earnestly.

  “Now Jenna, I can make no assurances other than this. I know the way to this place, and it is truly a grand portage. Mixed blood women are common, as well as Natives making trade with Whites. Peacefully. There is freedom of religious worship. However, safety is never guaranteed. But you can know this one thing, Jenna: I would lay down my life for your daughter.”

  Secretly, Jenna was glad that the Jesuits could not take mates, or harbor lustful thoughts of women. Had she more experience, she would think for certain that this man had developed feelings that were more than simply friendly toward her. However, he had been a kind companion over the years, and ever true to his word and deed.

  When Running Wolf arrived, Father Allouez respectfully left them alone to discuss the matter. Jenna found that she couldn’t speak, and tears filled her eyes with a sudden intensity. Her mate took her in his arms, and she nestled gratefully into their warm, familiar hardness.