Ghosts of James Bay (10 page)

The dying warrior had said the circle was a powerful gift from gods who had visited in a flying ship. He said whoever kept the circle would be visited again by the gods, who had many wonders and who would make themselves known by showing the people another circle the same as the one he threw. The sick man said his people must have offended the gods since they were now all dying of this strange sickness,
but that the
okimah
should keep the circle safe against the gods' return. Now the gods were back.

The warrior did not believe these strangers were gods. Gods would not starve in a land of plenty. They were men like him. Men with strange habits and many wondrous things, but men just the same.

The warrior knew what he must do. This news would change the
okimah's
mind. Now he would have to trade with these people. Tomorrow the warrior would start back for his village to give this startling news. Tonight he would bed down nearby. Silently the warrior turned and worked his way into the deeper darkness. He was so intent on his progress that he did not notice the dark figures threading through the trees.

I awoke just as dawn was beginning to lighten the eastern sky. I had slept surprisingly long and deeply and felt rested and comfortable—at least until I opened my eyes. There was the hut, with the small fire in front of it, and Jack's shadowy form bending over the main fire, which was reduced to glowing embers. I was still out of my own time. Somehow having spent a night here made the whole experience more real—and more serious. It seemed less likely that it was a hallucination and, if it wasn't that, what was it? How long would I be here? How much time was passing in my world? What was Dad doing?

My questions were interrupted by the appearance of Wydhowse from the hut. He didn't look as if a night's sleep had refreshed him at all. With barely a look around, he dragged his hunched form toward the trees and prepared to relieve himself. I supposed that if there was nothing I could do about where and when I was, I should at least get up and help Jack with the fire.

A low hiss and a soft thunk were all I heard. Wydhowse
straightened and took a step backward. The sounds were repeated. This time Wydhowse staggered visibly. Slowly he turned. He had a puzzled expression on his face as he looked down. Obviously he couldn't understand what two long, thin, feathered shafts were doing sticking out of his chest. Ineffectually he pawed at the arrows. Then, with a surprised gasp, he collapsed in a heap.

I was on my feet before Wydhowse's body hit the ground. Jack didn't seem to notice that anything was wrong.

“Jack!” I screamed. “We're being attacked.”

He looked up at me. As he did so, an arrow clanged off the rock at his feet. Another hissed uncomfortable close to my right ear. Leaping over the fire, I grabbed Jack's sleeve and ran toward the hut. Staffe appeared in the doorway.

“Get in!” I yelled at him. He stepped aside just as Jack and I bundled into the dark interior, scattering the remains of the small fire. We were accompanied by an arrow that embedded itself in the flimsy wall, its wickedly pointed stone tip protruding a full twenty centimetres inside.

“What...?” Hudson began.

“We're being attacked,” I said. “Wydhowse is dead.”

An arrow found a gap in the wall, flew in, and fell to the floor beside Jack. Automatically he picked it up. Another buried itself in a branch, making the whole wall shake. Jack and I huddled on the floor, while Hudson looked about in confusion. Fanner crouched in a corner, his lips moving frantically in what sounded like a prayer. Only Staffe's activity was focused. He had his ancient musket across his knees and was concentrating on the complex mechanism above the trigger.

“Why doesn't he fire it?” I asked.

“He must light the match first,” Jack answered.

I didn't understand, but I didn't want an explanation right now. Crawling to one side, I peered between a couple of
branches. It wasn't an encouraging view. I counted six figures advancing from the trees. They were crouched over and moving slowly. Their bodies were almost naked, covered only by rough leggings and breastplates of wooden slats. Their heads were shaved, leaving topknots that were tied behind and from which assorted feathers dangled. Every exposed centimetre of skin was painted, usually black or red. Four of the warriors carried bows with arrows strung in them. The others held wicked-looking, curved clubs. Even moving slowly, they would be here soon. As I watched, one of the warriors drew his bow and loosed an arrow at the hut, where it lodged in a branch.

“Hurry!” I said urgently. Staffe ignored me. He had an ember from the small fire and was blowing on it. A thick taper was attached to the top of his gun, and I assumed this was what had to be lit before the contraption would fire. It would take too long. A bizarre thought crossed my overstressed mind. What if I died here and my father dug up my bones four hundred years in the future? It didn't bear thinking about. Fortunately I was interrupted by Fanner.

“Seek ye the Lord and he shall take ye unto his bosom!” he shouted. I turned to see him standing beside Jack, although he was hunched by the low roof. Jack was looking up at him, still holding the shaft of the arrow in his hand. For some reason he had broken the stone tip off.

“Sit, Fanner,” Hudson commanded, reaching out to grab the man.

Fanner brushed his hand aside and headed for the door. “Save ye the heathen in the wilderness,” he shouted, stepping outside.

“Come back, you fool!” Hudson cried, but Fanner ignored him.

I returned my attention to the hole in the wall. At Fanner's
appearance the warriors stopped. Fanner was now shouting biblical phrases at them. The men looked uncertainly at one another. Slowly they began to retreat. I held my breath. Perhaps they had a taboo against killing someone as obviously crazy as Fanner. They were certainly unsure what to do. As Fanner raved, they moved backward, bows and clubs held low.

“I am the mouthpiece of the Lord God of Hosts,” Fanner shouted, throwing his arms wide. “List unto me and ye shall be saved. Ignore the Word and ye shall be smitten just as Joshua smote the walls of Jericho.”

One of the warriors stopped retreating. He was the tallest and carried a long club with a knot of wood on the end into which a piece of sharp rock was embedded. His face was divided by a horizontal line of paint. It ran across his cheeks, just under his eyes. Below the line was midnight-black; above it was blood-red. He began shouting at his companions, his teeth startlingly white against the paint. The other warriors hesitated but made no move. With a yell the tall warrior leaped forward and faced Fanner. The two men stood, their faces mere centimetres apart, each screaming unintelligibly at the other.

What occurred next happened so fast that it was difficult to distinguish individual elements from the blur of motion. The warrior let out an unearthly shriek and jumped a full half metre into the air. As he did, he raised his club and brought it crashing down on the top of Fanner's head. Instantly the biblical torrent ceased. Fanner's body collapsed onto the ground as if his bones had suddenly turned to water. With a second shout the warrior was on top of Fanner's prone body, kneeling across his shoulders. Dropping his club, he reached around his belt and extracted what looked like a long, sharp piece of black rock. Grabbing the limp Fanner's hair in his left hand, he began working with long, sweeping strokes. In an instant
he was back on his feet, waving a lock of blood-caked hair around his head. He shook his grisly trophy at his companions, yelling and pointing at the hut. Given new courage by their companion's violence, the other five warriors rejoined the attack.

In shock I watched the band approach. The air was filled with bloodcurdling cries and the sound of arrows thudding into the wall of our fragile fortress. I was terrified. A horrible death was only metres away from me, and yet I was too scared even to run away. Not that I could see that doing much good. These men knew these woods. Even in the unlikely event that I got to the trees alive, they would probably only regard it as sport to hunt me down at their leisure. What could I do?

My question was answered by a thunderous roar from beside my left ear. The tall warrior, who was now only about five metres from me, was violently thrown backward and crashed to the ground. His companions stopped and gazed in shock at his motionless body. Then, as the smoke from Staffe's musket wafted across my view, they turned and ran into the trees.

With my ears ringing from the musket's report, I turned back to the scene in the hut. Staffe was already busily beginning the complex process of reloading his weapon. Jack, like me, was standing by the wall where he had been watching the drama unfold, and Hudson was crouched in the centre of the floor. Crude sleeping mats, rough blankets of hide, and a few pitiful personal possessions littered the ground. Against the opposite wall stood a dark wooden chest, and beside it was a wooden spear. Hudson broke the silence. “Why did they attack us? We mean them no harm.”

“What man can say why salvages do anything?” Staffe replied, “But attack us they certainly did and, as poor Fanner proved, the Lord will not help us. It is up to us to help ourselves.”

“You think they will attack again?” Jack's voice was worried.

“Aye,” Staffe said, standing. “Once they recover from their shock, they will return, and I doubt if my musket will send them running next time.”

“Then you must leave with all haste.” Hudson rose to his feet as he spoke. “While the salvages are yet in confusion, you may find a way unnoticed into the woods. Philip, leave me your musket, which in any case I think will be of little use in the forests, and with that and my knife I shall attempt to delay them while you make good your escape.”

“No!” Jack's shout echoed in my still-ringing ears. “I will not leave you, Father. Either you will come or I will stay, but we shall not be separated.”

Hudson took a step toward Jack. “Your loyalty to me I have never doubted,” he said, putting an arm around his son. “And as you well know, I have never forced upon you a course of action you did not wish. But in this I must be obeyed. I cannot walk the many miles it must be to our young friend's home. You cannot carry me. The only result of my attendance with you would be to slow all down. In that case, either these salvages would overtake us within but a few hours or, if we by some miracle avoided them, we would be doomed to a slow and painful starvation in the wilderness. Here, I can at least give you a chance. We must not all pass away without our story being told. That must be your goal, Jack, and my staying can help you toward it.”

Jack clutched his father, sobs wracking his body.

“Your mother said I should not bring you on this voyage,” Hudson continued. “She had a premonition that I put down to mere vapours. But I see now she was right and I should have attended her words with more care. I shall make amends the only way I can, by giving you a chance to return to her. Am I not right, Philip?”

“You are,” Staffe replied quietly. “There is no other way, Jack. The world must know of your father's greatness, and you must be the one to tell of it. But we must not delay. Each moment the salvages recover some of their courage.”

“Aye, you must go.” Hudson pulled away from his son. “Come, Jack, help me to break a hole in the back wall farthest from our enemies.” With his arm still around Jack, Hudson moved across the littered floor, and the pair began picking at the loose branches of the wall.

“Here, young Al,” Staffe said, handing me a knife. “We cannot take much on our travels, but this will be of use.”

I took the knife and slid it into my belt as Staffe grabbed an axe from the wooden chest. He also took a curved gunpowder horn with a metal lid, a small grey flint for fire-starting, a ball of twine, and some needles. He placed them in a crude leather bag that he swung over his shoulder. Hudson and Jack had by this time made a hole large enough for a man to crawl through. I looked back through the opposite wall. The bodies of Fanner, Wydhowse, and the tall warrior still lay in the open. There was no sign of movement from the trees.

“Each take a single blanket,” Staffe said, still organizing. “Now we must go.”

I grabbed a hide blanket and folded it roughly into a sleeping roll. Staffe did the same. Jack was slower, his face heavily stained with tears.

“Here,” I said, picking up a second blanket. “I'll take yours.”

Jack smiled weakly.

“You must no longer delay,” Hudson said urgently. “Go deep in the woods. If in truth the salvages have vanished, I shall wait until I am sure and endeavour to join you there. Now make haste.”

“Farewell, Henry Hudson,” Staffe said. “It has been an
honour to be under your command, even though matters have not worked out as we would have wished.” With that, Staffe shook Hudson's hand and ducked through the hole in the wall.

Hudson embraced his son, who was crying again. “Go now, Jack, and may God be with you.”

Jack didn't want to let his father go. Putting my arm around his shoulder, I eased him toward the hole. “Come on, Jack, we've got to go now,” I said as gently as I could. As I moved past Hudson, I looked up at him. There were tears in his eyes, but he still managed a thin smile. I nodded in what I hoped was a reassuring and adult way. As a last thought, I grabbed the spear from the wall and ducked out the hole.

Outside it was fearfully bright after the dark interior. The trees were only about fifteen metres away. Our route would be hidden by the hut, unless our attackers had circled around. Crouching low, Staffe led the way in an awkward run. Feeling overloaded with the two blankets under my arm, the spear in my hand, and trying to encourage Jack along, I followed.

The trip was slow, but it wasn't interrupted by an angry shout or the hiss of an arrow. The dark of the trees offered welcoming shelter. Without hesitating, Staffe pressed on deeper into the shadows.