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Chapter Thirteen.
Doings in Waruskeek
While Cheenbuk was thus entrancing the souls of his friends near the big hut, his mother and sister were exercising hospitality to the Indian girl in their private residence. It was rather a dark and smoky residence, with only one hole in the roof, about eight inches square, to let in light. If truth must be told, it was also somewhat dirty, for, besides having only one large room in which living, cooking, receiving company, and sleeping were carried on, the dogs of the family were permitted to repose there—when they were good! Anything approaching to badness ensured their summary and violent ejection.
Branching from this family room was a little recess, screened off by skin curtains, which formed Nootka’s private apartment or boudoir. It was singularly unlike the boudoirs of other lands! Black smoke, instead of whitewash, coloured the walls and ceiling. No glass hung on the wall to reflect the visage of the Arctic beauty, but there were several pegs, from one of which hung Nootka’s seal-skin bad-weather jacket, the tadpole-tail of which reached to the ground, while from another depended a pair of her long waterproof boots. One half of the floor being raised about eight inches, constituted the Eskimo maiden’s couch—also her chair and sofa. There was no table, but the skull of a walrus did service as a stool.
To this apartment Nootka introduced her young Indian friend, leaving her mother in the outer hall, and the two maidens at once began, as might have been expected, an earnest and confidential conversation. In their eagerness they had not reflected that each knew not one word of the other’s language, but of course the first sentences opened their eyes to the melancholy fact.
They had, indeed, been opened already to some extent, but not so impressively as now when they longed for a good talk.
“Come here,” said Nootka—of course in Eskimo—as she dragged rather than led her new friend into the boudoir; “I want you to tell me all about your saving my brother’s life.”
“I don’t understand a word you say,” replied Adolay—of course in Dogrib Indian—with a look of great perplexity in her wide-open eyes.
“Oh! I’m stupid and sorry. I forgot. You don’t speak our language.”
“What funny sounds! It seems like nonsense,” remarked Adolay—more to herself than to her friend.
“So curious!” soliloquised Nootka; “what one might expect from a seal if it tried to speak. Say that over again. I like to hear it.”
The perplexity on the face of the Indian maid deepened, and she shook her head, while the look of fun in that of the Eskimo maiden increased, and she smiled knowingly.
Here at last they had hit on common ground—tapped a universal spring of human communication. Adolay at once beamed an answering smile, and displayed all her brilliant teeth in doing so. This drew a soft laugh of pleasure from Nootka and an intelligent nod.
Nods and smiles, however, pleasant in their way though they be, form a very imperfect means of intercourse between souls which wish to unite, and the perplexed expression was beginning again to steal over both their youthful countenances, when something in the nature of a happy thought seemed to strike the Indian girl, for a gleam as of sunlight flashed from her eyes and teeth, as she suddenly beat with her little fist three times on her own bosom, exclaiming, “Adolay! Adolay! Adolay!” with much emphasis. Then, poking her finger against her friend’s breast, she added—“You? you?”
Here again was “a touch of nature” which made these two damsels “kin.” Although the “You? you?” was not intelligible to the Eskimo, the gaze of inquiry was a familiar tongue. With a smile of delight she nodded, struck her own bosom with her fist, and said, “Nootka! Nootka!” Then, tapping her friend, she said—“Addi-lay?” The Indian, nodding assent, tapped her in return and exclaimed, “No–oot-ko?”
After this little sparring match they both burst into a fit of hearty laughter, which roused the curiosity of Mrs Mangivik in the outer hall.
“What is the joke?” shouted the old lady, who was hospitably preparing a feast of steaks and ribs for her guest.
“Oh, mother, she is so funny!—Come, Addi-lay, let her hear your fun,” said the girl, taking her guest’s hand and leading her back to the hall. “Her name is Addi-lay. I know, for she told me herself. We quite understand each other already.
“Speak to mother, Addi-lay. Tell her something.”
“I don’t know what you want me to do, No–oot-ko,” returned the Indian girl, with a bright look, “but I know that whatever you are saying must be kind, for you’ve got such a nice face.”
By way of emphasising her opinion she took the face between her hands and laid her own against it.
We have never been quite sure as to what Adolay did on this occasion—whether she rubbed noses or chins or touched lips. All that we are sure of is that the operation was equivalent to a kiss, and that it was reciprocated heartily.
“Didn’t I tell you, mother, that she was funny? I’ll explain to you what she said when we are alone; but Addi-lay is hungry now, and so am I. Let us feed, mother.”
Without more ado the trio sat down beside the cooking-lamp and began to do justice to the savoury viands, the odour of which was so enticing that it was too much for the dogs of the family. These had to be expelled by means of old bones. Mrs Mangivik being an expert shot with such artillery, the hall was soon cleared.
After the meal, conversation was resumed, and conducted with considerably greater ease, owing to the chief subject of it being the Indian girl’s costume, which was somewhat elaborate, for, being a chief’s daughter, her dress was in many respects beautiful—especially those portions of it, such as the leggings and the head-dress, which were profusely ornamented with coloured beads and porcupine-quill work. The examination of the various parts occupied a considerable time. The mode of ascertaining names had been already discovered, and looks of admiration require no translation, so that the three women were deeply engaged in a most interesting talk when Cheenbuk and his father entered the hut after the conference.
“Ribs, ribs and slices! Quick, woman,” cried Mangivik cheerily as he sat down. “Cheenbuk has been talking and I have been listening till we are both quite hungry.—That is a pretty girl you have brought home with you, my son,” said the old man, with a stare of approval. “Almost as pretty as some of our own girls.”
“Much prettier, I think,” returned the youth, as he quietly selected a rib of walrus that seemed suitable to his capacity.
“Tell your mother how you got hold of her,” said Mangivik, whose teeth were next moment fastened in a steak.
Cheenbuk made no reply. Eskimo manners did not require an answer in the circumstances. But when he had taken the edge off his appetite—and it took a good deal of dental grinding to do that—he looked across at Adolay with a genial expression and began to give his mother and sister a second, and much more graphic, edition of the speech which he had just delivered to the men.
Of course the narration served to strengthen the bonds of friendship which had already been formed between the Mangivik family and the Indian girl, who had been thus unexpectedly added to their circle.
That evening Nootka begged her brother to give her a lesson in the Dogrib language. On the same evening, during a moonlight ramble, Adolay asked him to give her a little instruction in the Eskimo tongue, and, just before he retired for the night, his mother asked him if he intended to take the Indian girl as one of his wives.
“You know, mother,” was Cheenbuk’s reply, “I have always differed from my friends about wives. I think that one wife is enough for one man; sometimes too much for him! I also think that if it is fair for a man to choose a woman, it is also fair for the woman to choose the man. I would gladly take Adolay for a wife, for she is good as well as pretty, but I do not know that she would take me for a husband.”
“Have you not asked her, then?” persisted Mrs Mangivik.
“No. I have been till now her protector. I can wait. If she wants to return to her people I have promised to take her to them.”
“But surely my son is not bound to keep a promise given to one of our fire-spouting enemies?”
“That may seem right to you, mother, but it seems wrong to me. I do not understand why I disagree with you, and with most of my people, but there is something inside of me which, I think, is not me. It tells me not to do many things that I want to do, and sometimes bids me go forward when I wish to draw back. What it is I cannot tell, but I must not disobey it, I will not disobey it.”
With this answer the old lady had to be content, for she could extract nothing more from her son after that but a smile.
As for old Mangivik, he asked and said nothing, but he thought much.
A few days after Cheenbuk’s arrival, it was arranged by the heads of the village that there should be a general scattering of the tribe for a great hunt after seals and wild-fowl, as provisions were not so plentiful as might have been desired. An expedition of this kind was always hailed with great glee by Anteek, whose youth and very excitable disposition were not easily satisfied with the prosaic details of village life.
Previous to setting out, however, an event occurred which was well-nigh attended with disastrous consequences.
It had been arranged that Cheenbuk and his friends Oolalik and Anteek should keep together in their kayaks, accompanied by an oomiak to carry the game. This woman’s boat was to be manned, so to speak, by young Uleeta, Cowlik, and two other girls. Adolay had been offered a place in it, but she preferred going in her own bark canoe, with the management of which she was familiar. Perhaps a touch of national pride had something to do with this preference of the Indian craft. Nootka, who had made several trials of the canoe, was judged sufficiently expert to wield the bow paddle.
While preparations were being made, Adolay and Nootka went to the bay where the canoe was lying—a short distance from the village, on the other side of a high cliff that sheltered the bay from any breeze that might blow in from the sea. The light craft was turned bottom up on the beach, and the two girls carried it down to the water’s edge. Launching it, Nootka got in first, and Adolay was preparing to follow when a boyish shout arrested her, and she saw Anteek come skimming round the point in his kayak, wielding his double-bladed paddle with great dexterity and power. In a few seconds the kayak was alongside the canoe and the boy stepped out upon the shore.
“Let me try to steer your canoe,” he said, pointing eagerly to the place where the Indian girl was about to seat herself.
Although Adolay did not understand the words, she had no difficulty with the boy’s expressive pantomime. She nodded assent cheerfully. Anteek took the paddle, stepped into her place, and the girl pushed them off into deep water.
Delighted with the novelty of their position the two paddled away with great vigour, and were soon a considerable distance from the shore. Then it occurred to Adolay that she would have some fun on her own account, and perhaps give her new friends a surprise. With this intent she floated the kayak and pushed it alongside of a flat stone in the water from which she could step into it. But she found that stepping into a small round hole in the centre of a covered craft was not the same as stepping into her own canoe, and even when, with great care, she succeeded, she found that her garments rendered the process of sitting down rather difficult—not a matter of wonder when we consider that the kayak is meant only for men.
However, she succeeded at last, and grasping the paddle pushed off to sea. But the long paddle with its blade at each end perplexed her greatly, and she had not quite overcome the awkwardness and begun to feel somewhat at ease when she chanced to touch on a ledge of rock that cropped up at that place near to the surface. Fortunately the rock was quite smooth, else it would have ripped up the skin with which the vessel was covered, but the shock and the paddle together were too much for the inexperienced girl. She lost her balance, and next moment was in the water with the kayak bottom up, and she incapable of extricating herself from the hole into which she had squeezed.
It happened that Anteek and Nootka had observed what Adolay was about, and were watching her with interest, so that before the kayak had turned fairly over their paddles dipped with a flash in the water and they rushed to the rescue. And not a moment too soon, for the poor girl’s power of endurance was almost exhausted when her friends turned the kayak violently up. This was well, and Adolay drew a long gasping breath; but now the inexperience of the rescuers came into play, for, being ignorant of the cranky nature of a birch-bark canoe, they acted without the necessary caution, the canoe overturned and they all found themselves in the water. This time Adolay managed to wriggle out of her position, but being unable to swim she could only cling helplessly to the kayak. Nootka, equally helpless, clung to the canoe. Fortunately Anteek could swim like a fish, and bravely set to work to push both crafts towards the shore. But they were a long way out; the weight of the two girls made them difficult to push, and, being separate, they had a tendency to diverge in different directions.
After a few vigorous efforts, the boy, perceiving the difficulty and the extreme danger of their position, at once set up a series of yells that awoke sympathetic echoes in the neighbourhood; but he did not for a moment relax his efforts to push his charge towards the shore.
Startled by the sudden outburst of alarming cries, several men ran along shore in the direction whence they came. Foremost among these was the powerful and active Oolalik. On turning the point and seeing what had occurred he plunged into the sea and swam like a dolphin to the rescue. Great was the size of his eyes, and intense the swelling of his heart, when he saw that Nootka was one of the swimmers.
“Take care of Addi-lay and the kayak,” he remarked to Anteek as he drew near, “I will look after Nootka and the canoe.”
What Nootka felt on hearing these words we cannot tell, but any one might have seen that, despite her unpleasant position, there was a pleased expression on her wet face.
A very few minutes more sufficed to bring them all safe to land, and no one was a whit the worse, but as the girls required a complete change of garments, it was finally decided that the hunting expedition should be postponed until the following day.
Chapter Fourteen.
In the Wild-Woods Again
While these events were taking place among the islands of the Arctic sea, the Indian chief Nazinred was slowly pushing his canoe southward in the direction of Great Bear Lake. He was accompanied, as we have said, by three like-minded comrades, one of whom was named Mozwa—or Moose-deer—from some fancied resemblance in him to that uncouth animal.
But Mozwa, although uncouth, was by no means ungenial. On the contrary, he was a hearty good-natured fellow, who always tried to make the best of things, and never gave way to despondency, however gloomy or desperate might be the nature of his circumstances. Moreover, he was a big strong man, full of courage, in the prime of life, and modest withal, so that he was usually rather inclined to take than to give advice—to be led, rather than to lead.
For hours together these men dipped their paddles over the side in concert, without uttering a single word, or giving more than a slight exclamation when anything worthy of notice attracted their attention. The interchange of thought during the labours of the day did not seem to strike them as necessary. The mere being in company of each other was a sufficient bond of sympathy, until an encampment was reached each evening, supper disposed of, and the tobacco-pipes in full blast. Then, at last, their native reserve gave way, and they ventured to indulge a little—sometimes a good deal—in the feast of reason and the flow of soul.
Yet the nature of their voyage was such that white men might have deemed verbal intercourse an occasional necessity, as their route lay through much rugged and wild scenery, where the streams up which they had to force their way were in some places obstructed by rapids and shallows, and a mistake on their part might have brought sudden disaster and ruin. For their canoe was deeply laden with the furs which they had secured during the labours of the past winter, and on the sale of which to the fur-traders depended much of their and their families’ felicity or misery during the winter which was to come. But the steersman and bowman understood their work so well, and were so absolutely in accord, that the slightest action with the paddle on the part of either was understood and sympathetically met by the other.
This unity of action is much more important than the navigators of lakes and oceans may suppose. In those almost currentless waters a steersman in any craft is usually self-sufficient, but among turbulent rapids, where rocks and shoals lie in all directions, and the deep-water track is tortuous, with, it may be, abrupt turnings here and there, a bowman is absolutely essential, and sometimes, indeed, may become the more important steersman of the two.
One evening, long after the period when they left their native encampment, the friends paddled their little vessel into the backwater at the foot of a long rapid which roared in foaming white billows right ahead of them, offering what seemed an effectual barrier to their further progress—at least by water—and as the sides of the gorge through which the river rushed were almost perpendicular, without margin and with impenetrable bush everywhere, advance by land seemed equally blocked.
Looking backward, Mozwa gave his friend an interrogative glance. Nazinred replied with an affirmative nod, and, all four dipping their paddles vigorously at the same moment, they shot out into the stream. Almost before the canoe was caught by the current it swung quickly into another eddy, which carried it up a few yards close under the frowning cliffs. Here again the Indians paused, and gazed earnestly at the foaming torrent ahead, which, to an unpractised eye, might have seemed a raging flood, to enter which would ensure destruction.
And indeed the two guides seemed to entertain some such thoughts, for they continued to gaze for a considerable time in silent inaction. Then the bowman threw back another glance; the steersman replied with another nod, and again the canoe shot out into the stream.
This time the struggle was more severe. A short distance above the point where they entered it, a large rock reared its black head in mid-stream. Below it there was the usual long stretch of backwater. To reach the tail of this stretch was the object of the men, but the intervening rush was so powerful that it swept them down like a cork, so that they almost missed it despite their utmost efforts.
“Almost,” however, is a hopeful phrase. They were not quite beyond the influence of the eddy when they reached the end of the tail. A superhuman effort might yet save them from being swept back to the point far below that from which they had started. Mozwa was just the man to make such an effort. Nazinred and the others were pre-eminently the men to back him up.
“Ho!” cried Mozwa.
“Hoi!” shouted Nazinred, as they bent their backs and cracked their sinews, and made the big veins stand up on their necks and foreheads.
A few seconds more and the canoe was floating under the shelter of the black-headed rock, and the Indians rested while they surveyed the battleground yet before them.
The next reach carried them right across the river to a place where a long bend produced a considerable sweep of eddying water, up which they paddled easily. Above this, one or two short bursts into the tails caused by nearly sunken rocks brought them to a point full half-way up the rapid. But now greater caution was needed, because anything like a miss would send them downward, and might hurl them with destructive force against the rocks and ledges which they had already passed. A birch-bark canoe is an exceedingly tender craft, which is not only certain of destruction if it strikes a rock, but is pretty sure of being swamped if it even grazes one.
With the utmost care, therefore, and consummate skill, they succeeded in pushing up the rapid, inch by inch, without mishap, until they reached the last shoot, when their skill or good fortune, or whatever it was, failed them, for they missed the last eddy, were swept downwards a few yards, and just touched a rock. It was a very slight touch. A boatman would have smiled at it; nevertheless it drew from the Indians “ho’s!” and “hoi’s!” such as they had not given vent to since the voyage began. At the same time they rushed the canoe, with all their strength, for the nearest point of land.
They were scarcely a minute in reaching it, yet in that brief space of time their craft had almost sunk, a large piece of the bark having been torn from its side.
The instant they touched land the two leaders stepped quickly out, and, while they held the craft close to the bank, their comrades threw out the bundles of fur as fast as possible. Then the canoe was turned over to empty it, and carried up the bank.
“That is good luck,” said Mozwa quietly, as they stood looking at the large hole in the canoe.
“I have seen better luck,” remarked Nazinred, with something that might almost have been mistaken for a smile on his grave countenance.
Mozwa did not explain. Nazinred knew that the luck referred to was the fact that before the accident occurred they had surmounted all the difficulties of the rapid, and that the place on which they stood was convenient for camping on, as well as for opening out and drying the furs on the following day. And Mozwa knew that Nazinred knew all that.
While the latter kindled a fire, arranged the camp, and prepared supper under a spreading tree, the former mended the canoe. The process was simple, and soon completed. From a roll of birch-bark, always carried in canoes for such emergencies, Mozwa cut off a piece a little larger than the hole it was designed to patch. With this he covered the injured place, and sewed it to the canoe, using an awl as a needle and the split roots of a tree as thread. Thereafter he plastered the seams over with gum to make them water-tight, and the whole job was finished by the time the other men had got supper ready.
Indians are in the habit of eating supper in what may be styled a business-like manner—they “mean business,” to use a familiar phrase, when they sit down to that meal. Indeed, most savages do; it is only civilised dyspeptics who don’t. When the seriousness of the business began to wear off, the idea of mental effort and lingual communication occurred to the friends. Hitherto their eyes alone had spoken, and these expressive orbs had testified, as plainly as could the tongue, to the intense gratification they derived from the possession of good appetites and plenty of food.
“I think,” said Mozwa, wiping his mouth with that familiar handkerchief—the back of his hand—“that there will be trouble in the camp before long, for when you are away that beast Magadar has too much power. He will try to make our young men go with him to fight the Eskimos!”
It must not be supposed that the Indian applied the word “beast” to Magadar in that objectionable and slangy way in which it is used among ourselves. Indians happily have no slang. They are not civilised enough for that. Mozwa merely meant to express his opinion that Magadar’s nature was more allied to that of the lower than of the higher animals.
“Yes, and Alizay will encourage him,” returned Nazinred, with a frown. “The man is well-named.”
This remark about the name had reference to the word Alizay, which means gunpowder, and which had been given to the Indian in his boyhood because of his fiery and quarrelsome disposition.
“The geese and the ducks are in plenty just now,” continued Nazinred; “I hope that he and Magadar will be more taken up with filling their mouths than fighting till I return—and then I can hinder them.”
“H’m!” responded Mozwa. He might have said more, but was busy lighting his pipe at the moment. Nazinred made no further remark at the time, for he was in the full enjoyment of the first voluminous exhalation of the weed.
After a few minutes the chief resumed—
“Our old chief is full of the right spirit. He is losing power with the young men, but I think he can still guide them. I will hope so, and we will return as soon as we can.”
Poor Nazinred! If he had known that his only and beloved daughter, even while he spoke, was on her way to the mysterious icy sea in company with one of the despised Eskimos—driven away by the violence of the fire-eaters of the camp—he would not have smoked or spoken so calmly. But, fortunately for his own peace of mind, he did not know—he did not dream of the possibility of such a catastrophe; and even if he had known and returned home at full speed, he would have been too late to prevent the evil.
For a long time these Indians lay side by side on their outspread blankets, with their feet to the fire, gazing through the branches at the stars, and puffing away in profound silence, but probably deep thought. At least a sudden exclamation by Mozwa warrants that conclusion.
“You think,” he said, “that our old chief has the right spirit. How do you know what is the right spirit? Alizay and Magadar, and many of our braves—especially the young ones—think that a fiery spirit, that flares up like powder, and is always ready to fight, is the right one. You and our old chief think that gentleness and forbearance and unwillingness to fight till you cannot help it is the right spirit. How do you know which is right? You and the war-lovers cannot both be right!”
There was an expression of great perplexity on the Indian’s face as he uttered the last sentence.
“My son,” replied Nazinred, who, although not much older than his companion, assumed the parental rôle in virtue of his chieftainship, “how do you know that you are alive?”
This was such an unexpected answer that Mozwa gazed fixedly upwards for a few minutes without making any reply.
“I know it,” he said at length, “because I—I—know it. I—I feel it.”
“How do you know,” continued the chief, with perplexing pertinacity, “that the sun is not the moon?”
Again Mozwa became astronomically meditative. “Because I see it and feel it,” he replied. “The sun is brighter and warmer. It cheers me more than the moon, and gives me more light, and warms me. It warms the bushes and flowers too, and makes them grow, and it draws the beasts out of their holes. Even a rabbit knows the difference between the sun and the moon.”
“My son,” returned Nazinred, “I have not lived very long yet, but I have lived long enough to see, and feel, and know that the kind spirit is the right spirit, because it warms the heart, and opens the eyes, and gives light, and it is the only spirit that can make friends of foes. Is it not better to live at peace and in good-will with all men than to live as enemies?”
“Ho!” responded Mozwa, by way of assent.
“Then the peaceful spirit is the right one,” rejoined the chief, with a long-drawn sigh that indicated a tendency to close the discussion.
As Mozwa felt himself to be in a somewhat confused mental condition, he echoed the sigh, laid down his pipe, drew his blanket round him, and, without the formality of “Good-night,” resigned himself to repose.
Nazinred, after taking a look at the weather, pondering, perchance, on the probabilities of the morrow, and throwing a fresh log on the fire, also wrapped his blanket round him and lost himself in slumber.
