Ghosts of James Bay (12 page)

Then a chilling memory came back to me. Part of the trading network my father was studying involved slaves. Bands from the south sometimes headed north on raids to capture slaves for their villages. The little I could remember was that the slaves were well treated and adopted as family members once they had been accepted. What caused the chills was the recollection that they were often tortured brutally to see if they were brave enough to be accepted. I doubted very much if I was.

My unpleasant thoughts were interrupted by the approach of two of the warriors. Grabbing me roughly under the arms,
they hauled me to my feet where I swayed unsteadily, trying to keep my gaze away from the top half of Staffe's body, which I could now see over the log.

Jack, too, was hauled up, and I was glad to see he was awake and could stand, even if unsteadily. I doubted if our captors would waste much time carrying an unconscious prisoner.

The wounded warrior set off along the beach, his useless arm dangling absurdly by his side. The others clustered around us, herding us forward with kicks and painful prods from their axes. It was difficult going, and I wasn't keen to arrive wherever it was we were being taken.

The warrior crouched in the dense bush, watching the stockade. It was roughly made but strong enough to prevent a surprise attack. This was a large raiding party. The warrior felt no fear, but he did feel unlucky that these barbarous
Iri-akhoiw
had chosen now, just when he had found a way to persuade the
okimah
to trade with the strangers, to invade his lands. The
Iri-akhoiw
did not come up this far often, being tied as they were to the ground where they scraped a pitiful existence. But then this was the great trading circle. It brought useful stone for spear and arrow points to his people, but it also occasionally brought raiding parties, such as the ones who had built this stockade on his shore.

The warrior viewed the
Iri-akhoiw
with scorn. His life was honourable, moving with the cycles of the animals and seasons and taking what he needed from the wealth of the land about him. It was obvious to him that the spirits of the world wanted the people to take what they needed as long as they did it with proper ritual and respect. Did not the spirits provide the abundant caribou, beaver, and geese; the sparkling lakes
rich with fish; the deep, whispering forest crowded with berries? There was no need to steal people from far away. If the corn growers from the long houses to the south needed to do that it simply showed their weakness, and the warrior and his colleagues would make them pay for trying.

The war party had found the
Iri-akhoiw
camp where they had thought it would be, but it was well established on a wide clearing by the shore and difficult to attack. The
Iri-akhoiw
had chosen their campsite well. The stockade was strong and built against a large rock. The entrance faced the open area so that attackers would have to run over much unprotected ground before they came to blows. The warrior could see no way in.

The war party had withdrawn to a safer distance, leaving the warrior to watch and wait. They would return after dark to see what he had discovered. The warrior had been watching for several hours now and the sun was already touching the horizon. Small parties of
Iri-akhoiw
had been out hunting or collecting shellfish, but they had returned. A large fire was being built within the stockade, and through the gaps in the wall of branches, the warrior could make out moving figures.

The warrior's concentration was disturbed by a noise from along the beach. Another hunting party was returning. As they moved into his field of vision, the warrior almost gasped. The party was led by a wounded warrior and had captured two prisoners—the two boys from Hairy Face's camp. Had that been the meaning of the loud noise he had heard in the morning?

As the warrior watched, the
Iri-akhoiw
leader shouted. Others came out of the stockade to welcome him, and his companions prodded the boys viciously to hurry them up. Amid much shouting, the new arrivals were ushered into the stockade and the gate was closed.

The warrior felt sad. He knew the others must be dead, so there was now no chance of contacting them and trading. He also knew the two boys soon would be dead and that the manner of their dying would not be pleasant.

The huge fire cast its glow over everything within the stockade. Almost naked dancers, their bodies glistening with sweat, gyrated around the fire. Shadows flickering wildly over the stockade walls, the huts, and the rock against which Jack and I sat.

It was my rock. This was my father's camp, but much different from when I had last seen it.

The last hour of daylight had been a nightmare of exhausted stumbling down the beach. Jack and I had been forced almost to run to keep up with our captors. If we slowed or fell down, which we did often and painfully since our hands were still tied behind us, we were beaten until we continued. My body was covered with cuts and bruises that ached dreadfully. It had been almost a relief to arrive at this fearful place where at least we could sit down.

When we arrived, we were immediately surrounded by a mob of howling warriors. Jack and I were herded into the stockade and made to sit, still tied, with our backs to the rock,
the very same rock face I had tried to climb so unsuccessfully and so often. As I glanced over at the roaring fire and the dancers, I was looking at the spot where my father's tent would be. Was he there now, worrying about my mysterious disappearance?

A few hours ago I had wished to be here. Now I wished to be almost anywhere else. The thought of what awaited us when the dance ended didn't bear thinking about.

“I fear, Al, that this is the end,” Jack said quietly beside me. “I think these salvages do not wish to trade and our ending will shortly follow the one my father found so bravely this morn. It has been a brief friendship, but I am glad to have met you. I should have liked to have visited your home.”

“And I would have liked to show it to you,” I replied, shifting uncomfortably. “I'd also like to cut my hands loose. I think I've lost all the feeling in my arms.”

“Wait!” Jack's exclamation was so loud I had to tell him to be quiet and not attract unwanted attention, but he spoke over my protests. “The arrowhead.” I looked at his eager face in the firelight. “In my leather pouch. In the hut this morn when the salvages attacked I retrieved the head of the arrow that flew inside. I thought it might be of use. It is sharp. If you can fetch it from my bag, we might be able to cut the bonds.”

In that moment I saw a glimpse of an escape. “Can you climb?” I asked.

“Passably well. I have scrambled over rocks in some strange corners of the world.”

“Good. Could you climb this rock behind us?”

Jack tilted his head back and looked up. In the flickering firelight the face of the rock looked daunting—a patchwork of smooth, bright lumps and black shadows. I didn't think it was necessary to tell Jack I had tried to climb it and failed. It
was the only way out.

“Perhaps,” Jack said uncertainly.

“Good,” I repeated with as much confidence as I could muster. “Then let's get our hands free.”

Jack rolled onto his side with his pouch uppermost. By turning, I could just reach it. It was tied shut and I had trouble undoing the knot with my numbed fingers, but at last I succeeded.

The first thing I felt was the square shape of Henry Hudson's journal. It fitted snugly in the pouch and I had to slide my hand down its sides to search for the arrowhead. On one side was the gold angel; on the other was the arrowhead. The first I knew of it was as it sliced almost effortlessly through the skin of my forefinger. I had the unpleasant feeling of my skin being opened, but the arrow was so sharp there was hardly any pain. Working with less speed and more care, I grasped the broken fragment of shaft and extracted the piece of stone.

“Can you cut your bonds?” Jack asked, rolling back into a sitting position.

“I think so,” I replied, turning the arrowhead in my hand. By grasping the broken fragment of shaft between my thumb and forefinger, I could hold it against the cords and move it, very slightly, up and down. It kept slipping on the blood from my finger, but the sharpness was now an advantage and I soon felt the bonds loosening.

I was so engrossed that I didn't see one of the dancers leave the group and approach us. Jack had to nudge me painfully in the ribs. I looked up to see the figure looming over us. It was the wounded warrior who had led us back here. His wound had been cleaned and his arm was strapped to his side. He was painted like the others and his head was shaved except for a topknot from which three huge eagle
feathers hung. In his right hand he held the spear I had so carefully taken from the hut that morning.

Moving slowly, the man began his own dance in front of us. Mostly it consisted of stamping on the hard earth, but occasionally he would leap in the air. When he did so, he would wave the spear at us, often frighteningly close to our faces. It had to be some kind of test, so I determined to sit as still as possible. This seemed to work and the warrior spent more and more time taunting Jack, who flinched each time the spear was thrust at him.

At length the man tired of the game. I watched in horror as he took one last leap into the air and plunged the spear point into Jack's thigh. Jack's body arced forward in shock and pain. With a loud shriek the dancer withdrew the spear and flung it away before rejoining his companions beside the fire.

“Are you okay?” I asked urgently.

Jack's teeth were clenched and he was slumped forward. Gasping in pain, he leaned back and spoke. His voice was strained and his words were difficult to make out. “It hurts. I think it missed the bone and the bleeding is not too much. I do not think, though, that I will be able to climb your rock.”

A faint smile crossed his face in the dim light. As he had been speaking, I had resumed working with the arrowhead. All at once the bonds fell loose and I could move my hands.

It took several minutes of painful movement to regain feeling in my hands and arms fully, and I had to be careful to keep them behind me in case any of the other dancers were watching. However, they all appeared absorbed in their activities around the fire. Leaning over, I cut Jack free.

“Thank you,” he said, clenching and unclenching his fists. “Now you must be quick. The salvage may return.”

“But what about—” I began. But Jack cut me off with his urgent whisper. “You must go! Climb the rock. When the feelings
return to my hands, I shall try to find a hole on the fence and join you. But you must hurry.”

I looked over at my friend. I saw the sense in what he was saying. Climbing the rock, difficult though it would be, was the best chance of escape. Even if Jack managed to find and crawl through a hole in the stockade, he wouldn't get very far with a spear hole in his thigh. If anyone was going to escape, it had to be me, and the way out was over the rock. I would have to desert Jack just as he had had to leave his father. The fact that there was no choice didn't make it any easier. Tears formed in my eyes.

All along I had known that my friendship with Jack was impossible and doomed, but I liked him. I enjoyed his company and listening to him tell of his life four centuries before my own. What had I told him in return? Suddenly it was very important for me to tell him at least some of the truth of my situation. It couldn't matter now.

“Jack,” I began slowly, “I do come from a place called Ottawa, but it's not the way you think. My Ottawa is many centuries in the future. Somehow in the fog out in the bay I travelled back to your time.”

Jack absorbed this information quietly, all the while staring intently into my face as I continued. “I can't explain it, but it's true. I know that you, your father, and the others weren't rescued. You all disappeared in the summer of 1611. What happened has remained one of the great mysteries of exploration. Your father became famous. The river you travelled up on the third expedition was named after him as was this great bay he discovered on this one.”

Jack stared at me thoughtfully for a minute. “This explains much of your strangeness and the things you seem to know.” He paused, then asked, “And the Strait of Anian to the north is truly blocked by ice?”

“Yes,” I replied. “It won't be travelled for three hundred years and many men will die looking for it. It's not and never can be a commercial route from west to east.”

I hesitated, not wanting to start explaining about air travel or even steamships. Jack surprised me with his next question. It wasn't about the wonders of the world of his future. “Why were you in the fog in your time?”

“Well,” I began, thinking through my reasons as I spoke, “I was here, at this very rock, with my father digging in the remains of an old camp. We had found a coin, maybe the very angel you have in your pouch, and my father was trying to find more. No one believed him when he said that other Europeans were here before your father, so he had to find more evidence. The story your father told about the
Jonathan
proves that my father was right. But no one will believe that, either. The reason I was out in the fog was that I was feeling lonely. My father isn't easy to talk to. He's very wrapped up in his work and focused on proving his theories. I wanted to get away for a while.”