Beyond the Great River (People of the Longhouse Book 1)

  Beyond the Great River

  People of the Longhouse, Book 1

  by

  Zoe Saadia

  Copyrights 2014 by Zoe Saadia

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, transmitted or distributed in any form or by any means whatsoever, without prior written permission from the copyright owner, unless by reviewers who wish to quote brief passages.

  For more information about this book, the author and her work, please visit

  www.zoesaadia.com

  Table of contents

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Afterword

  Preface

  The Great League of the Iroquois, the People of the Longhouse, was created somewhere around the 12th or maybe 14th century, a remarkable league of five nations that inhabited the upstate New York and southern regions of Canada near Lake Ontario and beyond it. Governed by the most remarkable constitution, a very intricate set of a hundred or more laws that did not change for centuries to come, this confederacy had a great impact on the entire Eastern Woodlands areas, its influence reaching far and wide, sometimes through trade, often through warfare.

  Before the Great League was created, the Iroquois’ immediate vicinity was troubled by ferocious warfare according to all versions of the Great Peacemaker’s story; the prophet and the messenger of the Great Spirits, who had managed to make the brother-nations live in peace with each other. The mutual warfare stopped there, but the young men still needed to wield their weapons, while the borders of the newly created confederacy needed to be guarded.

  And so it might have come to the first encounters between the Iroquois and their eastern neighbors, the River People, or Mohicans as we came to know them later on. Different in their ways and customs, the Mohican People spread around the valleys of the Hudson River, the River Whose Waters Are Never Still as they called it, living in simpler settlements, not as large or fortified as their prominent neighbors to the west.

  It is said that the years, and maybe even centuries, of warfare with the Great League, reshaped the way the Mohican People lived into habits more similar to the Iroquois than their original brothers, the other Algonquin nations of the east. If nothing else, it made the Mohicans build strongly fortified, permanent settlements, and later on, to organize into an alliance of related nations with no mutual government, probably for the purpose of defense mainly.

  However, at the time this novel is set in, all those changes had yet to take place, with the east and west only beginning to be aware of each other.

  Chapter 1

  Crouching in the thickest of the bushes adorning the hillside, concealed in her favorite spot behind the protruding rock, Kentika held her breath. The invaders, at least twenty of them, but maybe more—she was too terrified to count properly—concentrated on the shallow beach, dragging their canoes up, gesturing silently, making obvious efforts to keep quiet.

  Warriors, most clearly! She fought the urge to close her eyes. A few heartbeats earlier, she had tried it, and it didn’t help. The terrible vision did not go away. The foreigners were still there, carrying their canoes into the woods now, working in perfect silence, displaying no intention of stopping, or better yet, of disappearing into thin air.

  Fascinated against her will, she watched their backs and the way their muscles bulged as they struggled with the heavy boats, their skin glistening with sweat. The decorated patches of hair upon the tops of their heads and napes swayed with the breeze, promising no good. Warriors, seasoned warriors. Brutal, evil, unhuman. The worst of their kind. Anyone coming from the lands of the setting sun was as evil as Malsum Spirit, or maybe even worse.

  Afraid to move a limb, she glanced back, into the cool dimness of the swaying forest. To ease her way along the small, twisting path that sloped down the hill seemed like a good possibility, offering safety. It would just be a matter of timing and her ability to run fast, halting for no reason, not even to catch her breath. Not an impossible feat. She was renowned for her speed, and for her stamina. She could outrun quite a few boys of her age, now young men, all of them, not eager to answer her challenges, not anymore. More often than not, they were scowling now, frowning direfully at her when she dared suggest such things. Just like the elderly women of her clan—and the entire village—did. It was good for a girl to be strong and resilient, high-spirited to a certain point, was the verdict of the people, but it was not good when it made her act like a boy, preferring physical actions and contests to activities appropriate for girls, while boasting her successes.

  “She would have made a good warrior, that wild thing,” she had overheard one of the renowned hunters, a prominent man of their village, saying, making his companions laugh. “Pity her brother inherited none of that spirit. The leader of our clan must be sick with disappointment. To think of all this strength and fire wasted on a girl.” The man snorted again, his satisfaction with this state of matters concealed only thinly by the pretended innocence of the remark. “That weakling, the chief’s son, will never inherit his father’s position.”

  The remark that had left her breathless with rage, huddling behind the corner of one of the houses, shivering with cold. It had been the second Awakening Moon back then, but the frost persisted, reluctant to leave. Such a harsh winter! And a lean one. With hunters not overly successful, the food supplies ran low, forcing people to eat less, making them hungry and irritable. Even the clouds of wandering pigeons that were supposed to invade their hills like they did at the end of each Frozen Season seemed to delay, in no hurry, deterred by the unusual cold. And yet that was not what had made Kentika’s blood boil with anger only those few moons earlier, before the benevolent warmth and the harvest time came. Not even when another man had spoken, remarking on her lack of beauty, claiming that her fire might have been an attractive thing had she possessed any of the regular female charm, even a little bit of it. She knew she wasn’t pretty, and she didn’t care. But her brother was no weakling. He was not! True, he might not have been as strong as many of the young men, not as fast and agile as she was herself even, but it was only because he was not attracted to this sort of activity, never interested in any of the favorite children’s games when younger.

  Fascinated with the storytelling of old men, with prayers and tobacco offerings, with the mystery of healing and herbs, Migisso could go absolutely still, following the paths of his inner thoughts. He did not fit his spectacular name, The Eagle, and he did not fit the expectation of their powerful father, the leader of their village, the elected Warriors’ Chief of the Bear Clan. And yet, a weakling Migisso was not!

  Coming back from her reverie, she concentrated on the opposite bank and the ominous presence of its uninvited guests, as those seemed to be more at ease now, talking in low voices, exchanging curt sentences. She tried to listen. The wind was blowing in her direction, and with a little effort, she thought she might be able to pick up the general gist.

  A smile was dawning, to be suppressed quickly. She could un
derstand their foul-sounding tongue, not very well, but she could. Neewe, the captive who had stayed in their village so many summers ago, had been a nice woman, interesting to hang around and try to communicate with.

  Shutting her eyes, she strained her ears, but the current of the river was stronger, overcoming the other sounds, even those of the forest behind her. It was just one of many streams, a small thing compared to the Great Waters That Are Never Still. And yet the spirits that lived here did not favor her wish to hear.

  Never mind, she thought, watching one of the men straightening up, shielding his eyes while surveying the hill, her hill. Her heart missed a bit. It was as though he was peering at her. Oh, Benevolent Spirits! She fought the urge to jump to her feet and just run, crashing through the bushes, pell-mell, in a headlong flight. Of course, it was not a wise thing to do, but she would have done it if she could, if her limbs would follow the commands of her panicked mind, if they hadn’t froze, together with her heart.

  Like a rabbit facing a snake, she found herself staring instead, her eyesight good enough to decipher his features, to see that he was young and striking, his shoulders broad, his chest well developed, padded with muscles under the coat of now-smeared paint, a tattooed pattern depicting a form of what looked like a wolf, or some other predator, peering menacingly from one side of his well-defined face, sure of itself. His head was shaved in the terrible fashion of the enemy, leaving the skin of his skull exposed beside the lone patch on top of it. This patch flowed down arrogantly, in a long braid decorated with feathers. The depiction of the bloodthirsty enemy.

  Unable to move, she watched him frowning, scanning the river once again. Was he sensing her gaze? She knew he was. Oh, all the great and small spirits!

  She shut her eyes again, not daring to address the deities, to bother them with her personal petty requests, but just thinking about them, about Glooskap, the child of light, the twin spirit who had created everything good that existed in the world. He would understand the urgency of her and her people’s need, and he would help.

  The wind was strengthening. She could feel its chilly touch upon her skin. The spirits were urging her to be strong.

  Okwaho stretched tiredly, exhausted but reluctant to show any of it. Since sunrise, he had been rowing hard, navigating the long, heavy canoe he had been entrusted with among a multitude of underwater rocks and obstacles until his head buzzed and his vision blurred. It was as though the entire world was nothing but the water spitting between the sleek, threatening rocks, sometimes more viciously, sometimes less so. No sky, no forest, nor people. Just gushing current.

  Fighting the urge to collapse onto the invitingly smooth surface of the small beach they had dragged their canoes onto, he straightened up, paying attention to his surroundings and not the quiet chatter of his peers. Father, the War Chief of the Onondaga nation, one of the most prominent leaders in the confederation of the Longhouse People and the greatest man alive, said to never succumb to the urge of resting after journeying into the enemy’s land.

  First you look around, the man always said. You trust your eyes, and you trust your senses. Feel the air, the sky, and the forest. Look them over, and let them talk to you, tell you their story. It is surprising how much one can learn if one allows his senses the opportunity to listen—all of his senses and not only his ears.

  Oh, how wise Father was, how strong and powerful, and respected. The War Chief of the Onondaga People, the man required to attend the meetings of the Great Council when the fifty representatives of the Five Nations met to talk matters of peace and war and disagreements, Father was there to make sure everything proceeded as it should. Such was his duty. The representatives were the ones to talk and deliberate, to solve the problems in a peaceful way or to decide to war on someone, but the war chiefs were the ones entrusted with watching the procedures, with making sure all was done correctly and in the best interest of their nation. That important was Father!

  However, there was more to it. Among five war chiefs who sat in the Great Council, one appointed by each nation, Father yielded more influence than his four other peers. Was it because he represented the Onondagas, whose lands spread in the middle of the confederation, and who held much responsibility by hosting the Great Council’s meetings, represented more heavily than their neighbors? Maybe. Yet Okwaho had his doubts. The other nations were as powerful, as proud and strong. There was no inequality in the Great Union of the Longhouse People, no matter the amount of representatives. Father never tired of repeating that.

  Shaking his head to get rid of irrelevant thoughts, he concentrated on the unfamiliar shore and the narrow river, and the towering hill. There was something about it, something wrong. What?

  He strained his eyes, then looked away and concentrated on his inner senses. The thick foliage of the distant forest moved lazily, swaying with the wind. Nothing untoward, and yet he knew it was watching them with hostility and suspicion.

  Well, of course it would. They had not come here to trade or pay a peaceful visit. Not to this distance east. People who inhabited these valleys and forests were bad, wild, hostile, their tongues impossible to understand, their ways corrupt and evil. One could not speak with such people, could not sit and share a pipe. Even Father agreed on that, and Father was always the one to advocate bringing more nations into the Great Union, letting them take a seat under the Great Tree of Peace and share its shade and the wonders of its all-encompassing set of laws.

  The Onondaga War Chief was a man of great influence, and yet, in this, he got nowhere. Longhouse People did not want the outsiders sharing in their affairs. Neither did the foreigners from across the Great Lake, the notorious Crooked Tongues, nor anyone else for that matter. Okwaho might have been young and not as bright as his older sibling, a promising man and a future leader beyond doubt, but he knew as well as anyone else that the other peoples inhabiting the Turtle Island, all four corners of it, were just not good enough. It was as simple as that. They were not worthy of sharing in the exclusivity of the Great Union along with the five original nations, who had greeted the Great Peacemaker and had been privileged to listen to him in person. Like Father did!

  Again, he shivered at the very thought. To think of Father not only following the Messenger of the Great Spirits, helping to spread the word, but actually conversing with this legendary person, working with him, helping to create the Great Confederation, was dazzling, amazing and frightening at the same time. Oh, how lucky he was to have such a man for his father.

  Again, he shook the immaterial musings off. The towering hill, what was wrong with it? His eyes scanned the steep incline. The bushes were swaying again, with the wind getting stronger. Was someone hiding there, watching? The spirits, or a wandering local?

  His stomach squeezed with anticipation. He had never seen these strange people from the east, not even one of them. It had not been long since the People of the Flint, the Keepers of the Eastern Door in the Great Confederacy, among whom he lived now, began venturing so far eastward, reaching that mighty river that was larger and stronger than their own Great River was.

  “What? What do you see there?” The sharp voice of Kayeri, their group’s temporary leader, took his attention away, interfering with his concentration on what his senses were telling him.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “What did you think it was?”

  Okwaho shifted uneasily. “I saw nothing.” He glanced at the hillside again, trying to penetrate the thick foliage with his gaze, to make it reveal its secrets. It was scared of him now, he knew, scared and wary, and full of hatred. He clenched his teeth. Stupid gut feeling. “I think someone may be hiding there, on the other side. Watching us.”

  The leader’s eyes bored into him for another heartbeat, before clouding, sinking in thought. The warriors next to them paused. They had all learned to trust his instincts. The realization that would have pleased him, but for the unsettling churning in his stomach. He aspired to be a scout, a man who could read th
e earth so well everyone would ask for his help and guidance, and yet these recent near-visions were not something easy to come to terms with.

  “Two of our men went scouting the surroundings,” said Ronkwe, one of the older warriors, an owner of scars and tattoos aplenty. Nothing like Father’s pattern of scars, but still impressive. “Should we send someone to scan the other side?”

  The leader frowned, then shook his head. “We won’t be splitting more than necessary. Not in these woods. We are already separated enough as it is.”

  The others nodded, remembering the main part of their forces, more than forty warriors that had paddled off ahead of their reinforcements, eager to investigate another stream, to see what people or settlements inhabited these woods. Pleased with having so many warriors at his disposal this time, Tsitenha, the main leader of their entire force, felt it wise to split, leaving Kayeri in charge of the remaining men, twenty five in all.

  “Hide the boats for now. Conceal them in the grove. When our scouts come back, we will decide if we sail or proceed on foot.” The man scanned the hillside once again. “This hill is not forested densely enough. Not a place to hunt. It will tell us nothing. No need to bother with it. No local would wander there, not at this busy harvest moon.”

  They turned back to their boats, but Okwaho’s heart was still fluttering, beating unevenly, the sensation of those wary eyes making his skin crawl. He felt it watching him, him in particular. What spirits inhabited these mysterious lands of the rising sun?

  “I want to go and scout that hill.” He heard the words coming out of his own mouth, just as surprised at them as they all were. “It might be important. If there is a local watching us, he could give us good information if captured.”

  “I said we are not scanning these woods.” There was a cutting edge to their leader’s voice now, his displeasure open. “Get busy with the boats, warrior.”