Lost in the Barrens (3 page)

Rather grudgingly Denikazi arranged for a messenger to travel down to Thanout Lake carrying a letter from Awasin to his mother. The letter was vague because the boys could not predict how the hunt would develop. Denikazi would only say that they might be gone for “half the life of the new moon,” or roughly two weeks.

Actually Denikazi himself could not know how long he would be gone. His plan was to go north at top speed to a place which lay just outside the forests. Here he hoped to meet the deer moving southward. But if the deer had not yet arrived, Denikazi would have to push further north into the open plains. The caribou make a midsummer migration from the far north down almost to timber line each year; then they go north again for a month or so until the snow finally drives them south to spend the winter inside the forests. Denikazi had to intercept this midsummer migration if his people were to have enough food to last till winter. To him, the time he would be gone was not important. He would be gone until he had loaded his canoes with meat.

Because they wanted to, the boys convinced themselves that the hunt would last two weeks at the most.

 

CHAPTER 4

North to the Barrenlands

T
HERE WAS VERY LITTLE CEREMONY
about the departure of Denikazi and his hunters for the mysterious lands to the north. Their flotilla consisted of four canoes, each about sixteen feet long, made of slabs of birch bark sewed with sinew thread and waterproofed with spruce gum. Two hunters manned each
canoe and they carried only a few deerskin robes and their hunting equipment. They would have to live off the land. The boys, of course, traveled in their own canoe and with their own equipment.

They left the camp at dawn and paddled only a few miles on Kasmere Lake before entering a little stream that came swirling down out of the northwest. Here there was a halt and Denikazi spoke to the two boys.

“Ahead of us lie many portages up the White-Partridge River,” he began. “Beyond the river lies Kazba-tua, White-Partridge Lake, and there the forests die. From this time on you are but two of my men and you will do as I choose.”

The party's progress up White-Partridge River consisted of much walking, and very little paddling. The portages were over shattered rock or across soggy muskegs and even the Chipeweyan men, with their light loads, found it hard. For the boys it was a nightmare endurance test. By dusk they were staggering with fatigue and had fallen several miles behind the Chipeweyans. They camped alone by the shores of a little lake.

After eating they sat beside a tiny fire—for already the forests were dwindling and dry wood was hard to find. The loneliness and immensity of the new wilderness seemed to close down upon them. As cheerfully as they could they unrolled their bedrolls under the upturned canoe, and when they slept it was a sleep of pure exhaustion.

In the morning when they awoke, stiff and chilled, they
discovered that their fire was burning brightly and Denikazi was squatting beside it. On a forked stick slanting over the coals a fat whitefish sizzled—one of a number of fish the Chipeweyans had caught that night in a net.

As the boys scrambled to their feet, shamefaced at having overslept, Denikazi spoke. “We wait at the next portage,” he said, and walked away.

Jamie shook his head in surprise. “I don't understand,” he said wonderingly. “He should have been mad at us for holding up the trip—and instead he brings us a fresh fish for breakfast.”

“Denikazi is all right,” Awasin replied as he pulled the hot fish off the stick and divided it. “He is worried and that's why he seems so hard.”

“Then let's not be a drag on him,” Jamie said. “Let's show him we know how to travel too!”

Less than half an hour later they arrived at the portage and the Chipeweyan chief showed clearly he was pleased at the speed they had made.

The hard work of the previous day began once more. Small, shallow lakes succeeded each other, and in between were unmarked portages. But now the forests had almost disappeared and the land was opening up as if a curtain were being raised. The hilltops were bare, and the isolated patches of forest in the valleys were composed only of stunted little spruces. The ground was rocky, with nothing but lichens and mosses to cover its harsh face.

A day passed and then another. Then a vast hill loomed high on the horizon like a huge, bald dome. Denikazi
recognized it with a grunt of pleasure. “Kazba-seth!” he cried. White-Partridge Mountain. “Beyond lies Kazba-tua and there we will find deep waters for our paddles.”

 

When the canoes took to the water the next morning, the summer was half over. The caribou herds should already be headed south out of the vast plains. Hunters and hunted were moving steadily toward each other, but not even Denikazi could tell where, or when, they would meet.

Near the head of Kazba-tua was the Place of the New Fawns, where—in times past—the Chipeweyan hunters had met the southbound herds and speared untold numbers of caribou as the beasts swam the current. This place was Denikazi's immediate objective and now he led the way toward it at a swift pace.

On the evening of the second day the canoes ran up a long, narrow bay that funneled into a canyon with sheer walls. The throaty roar of swift water told the hunters that here was the beginning of a mighty river. Only Denikazi knew its name. Kazon-dee-zee, the Long River, he called it. At the mouth of Kazon-dee-zee lay the Place of the New Fawns. The Indians approached it with a tense expectation, scanning the rolling plains for signs of caribou. The plains were somber, lifeless, and empty of the deer. The Indians' disappointment must have been terrible, but they showed no trace of their true feelings.

At three o'clock the next morning Denikazi gave the
order to move on. Dawn had already broken, since this far north there was very little darkness.

The boys hurried to get ready, for they had no desire to be left behind. They were shocked when they saw what lay ahead of them. The Kazon River looked like a slalom course down a mountainside. It roared over a jumbled mass of glacial boulders that tore the water into high-flung sheets of foam.

By the time the boys' canoe had reached the mouth of the river, the other canoes had already reached the brink of this maelstrom. Denikazi led the way down an oily funnel of water at the head of the first rapid. His canoe hung poised for an instant, then, as if plucked up and flung by a giant hand, the frail bark vessel shot forward and disappeared into a thundering mass of spray. It reappeared a moment later racing downstream at breakneck speed, and twisting and turning like a frightened fish. Then, while the boys stared in horror, the canoe emerged unharmed in a quiet eddy at the foot of the rapids.

The others followed without hesitation. Jamie felt a hard, tight knot forming in his stomach.

“Think we can make it?” he asked feebly.

Awasin looked grim. “We'd better!” he replied shortly.

They eased their canoe into the channel. Suddenly the rocky banks began to shoot past like twin express trains on either side. The canoe appeared motionless while the world went crazy. A frothing caldron of foam leaped up in front of Jamie and he flailed his paddle desperately in
order to swing the nose of the canoe away. Instantly a row of black rocks raced at him, and with frantic heaves he thrust the canoe back to the right again. He was startled when the canoe suddenly came to a level keel, and the shore stopped flashing past.

It was over. The Chipeweyans waited nearby.

The first rapid on a new river always seems the worst. Once it has been conquered, the rest are easier. By mid-afternoon the boys had run three formidable rapids and a dozen smaller ones. They were cocky and full of high spirits when they camped that night. In the morning they would again be on open water—on Idthen-tua, at whose northern end they were certain they would meet the deer at last.

 

CHAPTER 5

Of Eskimos and Indians

W
HEN MORNING CAME IT BROUGHT
with it heavy cloud and flying rain-scud. Despite the fact that it was still summer, there was a chill in the air.

The boys hastened to a tiny willow fire where the seven hunters were huddled together trying to get dry. Denikazi was not there. Suddenly Awasin pointed, and nudged Jamie.

On a hillock a hundred yards from camp the chief stood against the gray sky like a squat, powerful monument of
rock. His hands were uplifted and his voice cried out over the dark landscape. Denikazi was calling on his gods—ancient gods—for help in finding the deer. Denikazi was worried. Already he had been gone for more than a week and he had found no sign of the deer herds.

It was not that the country ahead was unfamiliar. Denikazi knew the plains well enough to find his way about. There was another thing which worried him—the Eskimos.

But he was a brave man, and he had to go on if his people were to be saved from death. All that morning he prayed to his gods and meditated. At noon his decision was made.

He would go on. He would drive north until he found the deer. He would ignore the danger of the Eskimos.

Denikazi called the two boys before him and explained his plan. He told them in detail of the Eskimo danger. He made it clear that from this moment on he and his men would not have a moment to spare for the boys. He threatened that if they got left behind, they would have to look after themselves.

But if he thought the boys would be frightened and choose to wait at the south end of Idthen-tua, he was mistaken.

“Tell him we're not afraid of any Eskimos,” Jamie said.

Awasin translated Jamie's words while Denikazi listened stolidly. He looked at Jamie and there was a hint of humor in his black eyes.

“A fool you may well be,” he said slowly, “but a brave
fool. You may come to the head of Idthen-tua, but no farther. Follow the east shore of the lake. You will not have me to guide you for I wait for no one now.”

When the boys crawled out from their sleeping robes the next morning they found the camp deserted. Denikazi's canoes had already vanished in the broad sweep of water to the north.

They hurried their morning meal and took to the water, anxious to close the gap between themselves and the only other friendly human beings in the waste of rock and moss.

Hugging the rocky eastern shore, the canoe crawled northward. The boys stared intently at the land about for signs of life, but nothing moved except the birds. Muskeg succeeded muskeg, and Jamie noticed that these expanses of sodden moss appeared to have been cut up into millions of tiny squares and rectangles by dark streaks. It was a mystery, until noon when the boys landed to make tea. Then the mystery explained itself. The muskegs were crisscrossed by countless paths made by the hoofs of the deer. Jamie's imagination was stunned as he tried to visualize the size of the herds that must have passed this way each year for centuries. Both he and Awasin felt now that come what might they
must
see with their own eyes those almost legendary hordes of caribou. They hurried back to the canoe and continued north with new energy and enthusiasm. At this very moment the herds might be sweeping down upon the north end of the lake.

Toward evening the lake began to narrow rapidly until
it was only a few miles across and the land to the west was taking shape. Knowing that they must be near their goal, the boys paddled wearily on until nearly midnight, when a flicker of orange flame against the shadows ahead told them they had reached Denikazi's camp.

Jamie was so tired he stumbled out of the canoe. With Awasin he made his way toward the fire.

The Chipeweyans were grouped morosely about a tiny flame. Denikazi, sitting to one side, had his head in his hands. No one spoke to the two boys.

They did not need to ask if the deer had come. The atmosphere of gloom and depression in the camp spoke louder than words. The boys said nothing, but returned to their canoe and curled up under it to sleep the dreamless sleep of complete exhaustion.

 

This camp had been pitched at a spot known to the ancient Chipeweyan hunters as the Killing Place. But during the two days which followed there were no deer at the river, and none on the plains about. The skies clouded over and a steady rain beat down. Food was running low. The Indians set a net at the mouth of the Kazon, but the total catch for three days was a single sucker.

Denikazi remained silent. Once he walked to the crest of a nearby hill, and through a gap in the low clouds Jamie saw him standing there with his arms upraised to the dark sky. But the deer did not come.

On the third day the skies cleared. Denikazi called the men and the boys about him.

“There have been great changes in the way of things since I was a youth,” he began slowly, “and it seems that the deer too have changed their ways. Perhaps they will come to the Killing Place in time—but we cannot wait for them. By Kasmere Lake my people starve. And to the north, somewhere there is meat. Therefore I shall go north and find that meat. It is better for hunters to die on the trail than to wait like children in the camps.”

Then Denikazi told them of his plan. He and three of his men would go back down Idthen-tua to the western arm, then up it to its end. Old tribal legends told of a chain of lakes that led northward from there to the high blue hills of To-bon-tua—the lake that never thaws. The River of the Frozen Lake began under those hills—one of which could be clearly seen from the present camp.

This hill loomed up almost due north of the Killing Place, perhaps thirty or forty miles away. Beyond it to the west the River of the Frozen Lake lay in a great valley down which—so it was said—all the deer of the entire northern plains came pouring in the fall.

Denikazi was certain that if he could reach the valley he would be able to fill his canoes with meat.

Jamie listened fascinated as Awasin explained Denikazi's plan. Then he asked a question.

“Wouldn't it be quicker and easier to reach the valley simply by going north up the Kazon, then portaging west to the mountain we can see from here?” he asked.

“Beyond this camp the Kazon belongs to the Eskimos,” Denikazi replied. “We stand on the very edge of their
lands and to go farther into it would mean an end to all our hunting.”

Denikazi looked at Jamie and Awasin. “As for you,” he said, “you will stay here. Telie-kwazie and Etzanni will remain with you, and for six days you will wait at the Killing Place for the deer. If they do not come within that time, you will travel south to the mouth of the western arm of Idthen-tua and wait for me there. If, in fifteen days, my canoe does not come to you, then you will go home—alone. And at Kasmere Lake you will tell my people that we hunted a good hunt before we died.

“You will not try to follow me,” Denikazi continued. “And should you see any signs of Eskimos you will abandon this camp as if the devil Wendigo was on your heels, and flee into the south.”

When the chief and his five companions had left the camp, and their canoes were only tiny black spots on the distant water, Jamie spoke his mind to Awasin. “We promised we wouldn't follow him, but that doesn't mean we can't look for the deer on our own. Anyway
I'm
not going to sit here for six days just looking at those two Chipeweyans!”

It was very rarely that Awasin grew angry. This time he did. “Sometimes you chatter like a child!” he exclaimed. “You know nothing about this land, but Denikazi knows it well. You are like the weasel that climbed into the cook-stove to see if it was hot, and got roasted for his trouble!”

Realizing that Awasin was seriously annoyed with him, Jamie changed the subject. But he did not change his
mind. “Let's go for a little hunt,” he suggested the next day, “not far—just to see if we can shoot some ducks.”

Awasin accepted this idea and he explained it to the two Chipeweyans who had been left behind. They were young men, hardly in their twenties, disgusted at being left out of the deer hunt. They sat sullenly beside the fire and sulked.

But when the boys returned, the two Chipeweyans greeted them with enthusiasm. Jamie had shot two ptarmigan—arctic partridge—and Awasin a third. The Idthen men were hungry for fresh meat and the boys gave each a whole bird.

After the meal the four sat about the fire feeling well fed for the first time in many days. Telie-kwazie was rather a talkative man—for a Chipeweyan—and Awasin prodded him into telling a story.

Between sentences Awasin translated for Jamie, who was particularly interested in the legends about the country. Telie-kwazie told of a hunter who discovered the spirit Wendigo's trail in the snow. Jamie asked where this had taken place.

Telie-kwazie pointed up the Kazon. “I do not know for certain,” he said, “but I have heard it was near the Great Stone House, a day's journey to the north.”

“What is the Great Stone House?” Jamie immediately wanted to know.

“I have not seen it,” Telie-kwazie replied, “but it is said that by the Kazon-dee-zee stands a house made of big stones. It is shaped like the wooden houses that the white
men build, but it is much older than any white man. In ancient times it marked the boundary between our hunting lands and the country of the Eskimos. No one knows when it was built, or by what manner of men.”

As the boys lay under their blankets that night, Jamie whispered, “Awasin! Let's go have a look at that stone house!”

Awasin had been half expecting this, and he was ready for it.

“No!” he said firmly. “If we go anywhere it will be back south when the six days are up. Forget about it.”

Jamie sighed. “Oh well,” he said, “maybe the deer will come tomorrow.”