Ghosts of James Bay (13 page)

Jack nodded understandingly. “I know what it is like to be lonely. My father, too, lived for one idea. Now you tell me the idea was wrong. At least his name is remembered. I was always closer to my father than my brothers. Very early I realized that I could not compete with his obsession. If I wanted to be with him, I would have to make it my obsession, as well. Thus I persuaded him to take me on his voyages. At least that way we were together. And that way I met you, my friend Al, and heard your strange tale. You have given me much to think on as I wait for what must come. But what of Juet, Greene, and the other mutineers? Did they perish in the Furious Overfall?”

“No,” I replied, searching my memory. “Greene, I think was killed by Inuit, and Juet died of starvation, but some of the
others made it back to England. Bylot did become quite famous as an explorer himself. We know what little we do from the journal kept by Abacuck Prickett.”

“So Prickett's writings survived. I am glad. He was a good man and not one like Greene or Juet. You must go, Al, but I have one final question that your strange foreknowledge may be able to answer. What of my mother? Does the future speak of her?”

“A little,” I said, recalling a small footnote I had read somewhere. “She struggled to get the government to search for your father, with little success, I'm afraid. Then she went to India where she became rich in, I think, the cloth trade. She returned to England and died a wealthy woman.”

Jack smiled. “That at least is good. Thank you, Al. I do not understand this or you, but I am comforted by your tales. I shall not find my father again, but I hope that you find yours. “Now you must go,” he continued more urgently, glancing back over at the fire. “The salvages are still busy with their dances and you must be gone before they think of us again.”

Jack held out his hand and I took it. For a moment we sat looking into each other's face, friends across time. Then he released me. “Go!” he said. “And God bless you.”

Tearfully I stood, turned, and began the climb. The ground level was lower by about a metre in Hudson's day, so the climb was longer, but the first couple of holds were easy, even in the poor light from the fire. The problem was the smooth overhang near the top. I felt almost naked in the flickering light and dreaded hearing a wild scream and the zing of arrows approaching.

I concentrated on the rock. What was it my dad always said?
The rock won't change. You have to adapt to it.

The shadow beneath the overhang was pitch-black. This was where I always failed. The reach over the overhang was
too long and my fingers couldn't get enough purchase to haul my body over. Maybe things would be different this time. Tentatively I reached up and over—smooth rock, polished by thousands of metres of ice grinding over it. I moved my hand from side to side. No handhold magically presented itself.

I began to sweat, even in the cool night air. I couldn't do it and the longer I stood here, the more chance there was that one of the dancers would look over and see me. That would be the end.

I strained to reach farther. It felt as if I were trying to stretch my body. Still nothing. The toe of my right shoe was on a tiny protuberance, and the fingers of my left hand were wedged into a small crack. Both my foot and hand were aching. I had to do something, or I would peel off the rock and crash to the ground below.

The rock won't change. You have to adapt to it.

That was it. I was thinking too linearly. At the camp with Dad the rock was an intellectual challenge. I deliberately took the straight route up because it was the most difficult. I wanted to defeat the worst the rock could throw at me. Now my goal was different. I wanted to survive.

Gingerly I retreated a step and scanned the face. To the right the overhang looked less daunting. Slowly I felt my way across the face. The footholds were more secure here where the moving ice had plucked out pieces of rock as it ground past. I reached up with my right hand.

Yes! There was a hold. I tested it. It appeared secure. Pushing up from my toehold, I took my weight on my arm and began hauling. My aching muscles and joints protested, but I got my left hand over and onto a grip. The overhang pushed uncomfortably into my belly and my arms felt as if they were on fire, but I was moving. I swung my leg up, got purchase, and pushed. Suddenly I was lying on top of the
rock, gasping.

Rolling over, I looked back down. The camp was laid out before me, illuminated by the fire. Several rough huts and lean-tos were scattered within the enclosure. About twenty figures cavorted and danced close to the fire, still engrossed in their ritual. I looked down, but the overhang obscured a last view of Jack.

Slithering over the flat top of the rock, I scrambled down the much easier outward face and ran for the trees. It was a lot darker away from the fire and that, and my fearful desire to distance myself from the stockade, meant I didn't see the figure who threw out a hand that clamped firmly over my mouth while its companion locked itself around my body.

The warrior strained to make out the dark figure crossing the clearing from the
Iri-akhoiw
camp. The
okimah
and the war party had joined him and were crouched by his side.

“At least one to kill,” the
okimah
hissed into his ear. But something was wrong. This figure was not one of the
Iri-akhoiw.
This was one of the captive boys.

“No,” the warrior breathed back. “This is not
Iri-akhoiw.
This is one of the strangers. If he can escape, the spirits may yet have given us a way in to slay our enemies.”

“We will capture him then,” the
okimah
said.

The strange boy knew nothing of bushcraft, so the capture was easy. The warrior sat on him, hand over his mouth to silence him. The boy squinted up at him, his eyes wide with fear. The warrior placed his own finger to his lips in the sign for silence. Gradually the boy began to relax. The warrior slowly removed his hand, and the boy stayed silent.

“How did you escape?” the warrior asked.

The boy shook his head and said something the warrior could not understand. Rising, he pulled the boy to his feet. As the boy straightened, he became aware of the others in the war party and glanced around in fear at the dark shapes.

By repeatedly pointing to the boy, the stockade, and where they now were, the warrior managed to ask how the boy had escaped. It was slow. These strangers were certainly not intelligent, but at last the boy seemed to understand. He made signs to indicate the shape of the stockade with his clenched fist to mark the rock. Then he climbed the rock with the fingers of the other hand. So that was how he had done it—over the rock. Could the war party enter that way? The warrior doubted it. Even if they were undetected, the rock was only large enough to allow one or two over at a time and the
Iri-akhoiw
would be able to pick them off piecemeal. But perhaps one man could get in undetected and open the stockade gate.

With painful slowness the warrior repeatedly explained his plan in signs. It was frustrating because, any second, the
Iri-akhoiw
might notice the boy's disappearance and all surprise would be lost. Eventually, to the warrior's relief, the boy nodded. Good.

Hurriedly whispering instructions to the others, the warrior took the boy by the arm and led him back toward the stockade. It was very strange, the warrior thought, to be going into battle with one of the intruders. This was not what he had planned, but then the spirits often organized the world in unexpected ways. Reaching the foot of the rock, the pair began silently to climb. On the other side the dancing continued unabated.

Even in the darkness away from the fire, I realized almost instantly that the man who captured me wasn't the same as the ones in the stockade. He was wearing more clothes and had long, greasy hair hanging down on either side of his face. More important, he didn't try to kill me but merely held me down and kept me quiet. Then he tried to talk to me. I couldn't understand a word, but we did better with signs. I felt like an extra in a bad western
TV
show, but we made some progress. He wanted me to take him back into the stockade.

That was the last place I wanted to go but, apparently, this warrior and his companions wanted to attack the others, and that might be a way to rescue Jack. I had to go back.

As quietly as possible, I led my new companion over to the rock, which we both climbed easily. Lying on the top, I saw a view that hadn't changed in the few minutes of my freedom. That was a relief. It meant that my escape hadn't been discovered and that Jack was still safe below.

The warrior made a move to climb down into the stockade.
Worried what Jack might do if this stranger suddenly appeared beside him, I placed an arm on his shoulder. He turned to look at me and, by the firelight, I was able to make out his face for the first time. It was much less fearsome than the painted ones below, but it wasn't without ornament. Three black lines, which I guessed were tattoos, radiated from his lower lip to his chin. Three others ran horizontally across each cheek. Almost unbelievably, given our circumstances, he smiled at me. Instinctively I smiled back. Then I worked my way over to the side of the rock and began descending.

It was much easier going down than up, and I soon stood beside a surprised Jack. “What...?” he said before I motioned him to be quiet.

My companion arrived by my side. He stared hard at Jack for a moment, nodded once, and began working his way through the shadows along the stockade wall. I assumed he was going to attempt to open the gate and let his companions in. Silently I wished him luck. In the meantime I sat down beside Jack in case anyone glanced over.

We watched the warrior make his way along the wall, but could only see him because we knew he was there. His ability to use the shadows was uncanny, and he was only exposed for the briefest of moments as he flitted like a ghost from one to the other.

“I know him,” Jack said at last.

“What? How?”

“He came to trade with my father last winter. I recognize the markings on his face. He was the only salvage we had contact with in the winter. He traded some skins for an axe, but he never returned. We tried to approach his village, but they fired the woods and fled. If they had helped us...”

“Then the mutiny might never have happened,” I said, completing the bitter thought in my mind. But why should
First Nations people have helped Hudson and his men? They hadn't asked the intruders to come, and seventeenth-century sailors must have appeared incredibly weird to the Cree. It wasn't fair to blame them for Hudson's fate, and all the First Nations had paid dearly over the centuries whether they had helped the early European explorers or not.

My thoughts were interrupted by the growing awareness that the dancing had stopped. I looked up. Sure enough, there were no wildly dancing figures around the fire. Led by the wounded leader, they were all coming toward us.

Was this the end? Was I stupid to have come back? It was too late now to worry about that.

The wounded man led the way to us and stood over Jack. He carried a vicious-looking club in his good hand. Waving it about his head, he shouted at Jack, who cowered down as far as he could. This was going to be no slow torture; any minute the club would come crashing down and that would be the end of my friend. What could I do?

There was one hope. The warrior still assumed that our hands were bound. And there was the spear! After his last cruel visit, he had discarded it. Where? I looked about frantically. There! I lunged to my right. The warrior hesitated. That was his undoing. Grabbing the spear, I rolled over and threw it with all my might. It wasn't a well-aimed thrust, but it was enough. The spear scored a deep cut across the man's back. Howling in pain and rage, he turned toward me, club raised. From the other side of the fire madly screaming figures poured toward us. Arrows dropped a couple of our captors before they even realized what was going on. The rest turned to meet the threat, and the centre of the stockade dissolved into a chaotic mass of writhing bodies, lit eerily by the flickering firelight.

Jack and I rose and stood mesmerized. Who would win?
Would it make any difference in the long run?

It was fairly easy to tell the two sides apart, even in the uncertain light. Our captors' shaved heads and unclothed bodies were in sharp contrast to our rescuers' long hair, leggings, and shirts. The attackers appeared to have the advantage. As close as I could tell, there were approximately equal numbers on each side, but the shock of the surprise attack had unsettled the defenders and several of them were already lying on the ground. That gave the attackers an advantage in numbers, and they were using it to the full. Everywhere we looked it seemed that at least two of the attackers were swarming over a defender, stabbing, clubbing, and beating him down. They showed no mercy and only ceased when the body on the ground displayed no more sign of life. It was brutal, but I found it hard to feel pity. I had been scared too badly, and the attackers had probably suffered much in the past from these raiders.