Lost in the Barrens (5 page)

 

CHAPTER 8

Alone in the Wilderness

H
IGH ABOVE THE RAPIDS A HAWK
soared over a darkening world.

Suddenly he folded his wings and came gliding downward in a plunging flight that ended barely a dozen yards above the churning surface of the rapid. With wings spread wide and tail expanded like a fan, the bird checked
his drop and sailed across the river. Curiously he stared down at two figures lying half on shore, and half in the water. They showed no sign of life, but the hawk nevertheless took alarm. Opening his hooked beak he screamed shrilly, then beat his way inland, gaining height until he became only a faint speck in the distant sky.

The cry of the hawk pierced to Jamie's mind through the haze of unconsciousness. He stirred. Shivering, he drew himself clear of the frigid water. A sharp spasm of pain shot through him as he drew his right leg up on shore. With sudden terror, he saw the roaring rapids and the smashed hulk of the canoe.

He tried to scramble to his feet but the pain in his leg was like a burning knife, and he fell back groaning.

“Awasin!” he cried frantically. “Awasin! Answer me!”

Hidden from Jamie by a ledge of rock, Awasin lay only a few feet away. Jamie's shouts roused him and he stood up dizzily. His head, bloody from a cut above the eye, appeared over the edge of the rock.

“What are you yelling for?” he asked almost peevishly.

Then he grinned, and limped stiffly around the rock to his friend's side. “You didn't think a rapid could drown
me
, did you?” he asked. “Why, I'm half fish. And you must be half muskrat—you were underwater long enough to grow webs between your toes! But the old canoe isn't going to swim any more.”

The casual way he spoke, and the relief at seeing him still alive, raised Jamie's spirits. But the mention of the canoe brought him back to earth.

“What'll we do?” he asked anxiously. “I think maybe my leg's broken. It hurts like fury. And if the canoe's smashed, how'll we get out of this?”

Fear and hopelessness, combined with the pain in his leg, brought tears to his eyes.

Jamie, who had done the leading while all went well, and who had once taunted his friend with being frightened, was now the more frightened of the two. Awasin, the cautious one who had held back from Jamie's wild plans, seemed neither frightened nor particularly upset. His own life and the life of his people had always been filled with sudden and crushing accidents. And to survive these blows of fate the Crees had learned to waste no time worrying about what was past.

Awasin had already grasped the situation fully. The canoe was completely wrecked. They were at least forty miles from the Killing Place and perhaps much farther. This was Eskimo country, and a dangerous place to linger. Jamie was evidently unfit to travel on foot, and probably most of the gear in the canoe was lost. The situation could hardly have been any worse. But all Awasin was considering at the moment were the ways and means to make the best of things.

“Let's see your leg, Jamie,” he said.

Painfully Jamie rolled up his trouser leg. Along his shin was an ugly purple bruise and the knee was badly swollen. Awasin felt the injured leg with tender fingers. At last he looked up. “I bet it hurts,” he said smiling, “but it isn't
broken. Only bruised. You will be able to run like a caribou in a week at least.”

He put his hands under Jamie's arms and half dragged him to a more comfortable place where he could rest with his back against a rock. “You stay here,” he said, “while I see what's left in the canoe.”

As Jamie watched Awasin haul out the shattered canoe and start salvaging its contents, he began to feel a little better. He hoped Awasin had not noticed his tears. The matter-of-fact way Awasin went to work relieved some of the fear that had filled Jamie's heart and he made an effort to be of help. There was a pocket of driftwood near him—a handful of dry twigs—and he dragged himself to it and was about to light a fire when he realized he had no matches.

“Throw me the match bottle, Awasin,” he called. “We'll have a mug of tea. That is, if there
is
any tea.” It was a brave attempt at a joke—but it fell dreadfully flat when Awasin replied.

“No fire tonight. The grub box couldn't swim—and the matches were in the box.”

Jamie's moment of bravery vanished. No fire and no food—these were blows too strong to bear. He gave way to a mood of self-pity.

“You'd better leave me and walk back by yourself,” he said, and his face was working. “I got us into this. It's my fault. You'd better leave me here.”

Awasin looked up in amazement.

“You must be crazy!” he replied. “Your head must have got a wallop too! Why would I leave you? In a day or two Etzanni and Telie-kwazie will probably come down the river looking for us. And if they don't, we will walk back to their camp. We can do it as soon as your leg is better.”

Awasin turned brusquely back to his work. He began to sort out the pile of water-soaked gear. Only one rifle had survived, but there were almost a hundred shells for it. There was a hatchet, the tea-billy, a frying pan, blankets, some deerskin robes, a fishline, part of a fish net and some other oddments of camp equipment. One of the paddles, broken at the blade, had washed up on shore nearby. The tracking line, used for hauling the canoe up rapids, had remained tied to the bow thwart, and Awasin salvaged the fifty feet of half-inch rope.

As Awasin looked critically over the collection he felt almost confident. There was enough equipment here for any real woodsman to make a living with for several weeks at least.

Twilight was falling fast as Awasin gathered up the wet blankets and brought them up to Jamie.

“We're not so badly off,” he said, and awkwardly patted his friend's shoulder. “But there's nothing much more we can do tonight. I'll bring up the front half of the canoe and we can use it for a shelter.”

Half an hour later, when the two boys were huddled under the broken remnant of the canoe, Jamie relaxed a little. “Sorry I was such a chump,” he muttered. A few minutes later both boys were asleep.

When Jamie woke in the morning he was alone. He crawled out from under the canoe and discovered that his leg no longer hurt so badly, though it was stiff and he could not use it. The sky was clear and the sun bright and hot. Jamie rolled up his pants and let the sun beat down on his injured leg.

Half an hour later Awasin came over the high bank carrying two animals the size of small ground hogs. Their fur was a brilliant yellow, unlike anything Jamie had ever seen before.

“What are
those
things?” he asked in astonishment.

“They are some kind of ground squirrel,” Awasin replied briefly. “Like woodchucks, but they'll be good to eat. I'm hungry. How about you?”

Jamie grinned. “Sure. I can eat those queer-looking beasts if you can.”

At dawn Awasin had left camp to scout out the land. He had gone less than half a mile when he spotted one of the brightly colored arctic ground squirrels sitting bolt upright on a ridge, whistling at him. Awasin had never before seen such a beast—but any animal was food just then. He had not brought the gun, and he was afraid to go back for it, so dropping on hands and knees he crawled carefully forward. When he was ten feet away he picked up a jagged chunk of rock and threw it with all his strength. It missed by an inch, and with sick disappointment Awasin saw the squirrel vanish down its hole.

He was about to turn away when a shrill whistle stopped him. The round head of the ground squirrel
popped out of the hole again and the black beady eyes watched him curiously.

For a moment Awasin stared back while he racked his mind for a way of killing the beast. Then an idea came to him. Hurriedly he untied the moose-hide lacings of his moccasins. Knotted together, the two pieces stretched about six feet. He tied a noose in one end, walked up and laid the noose over the hole—down which the ground squirrel had vanished—went back to the end of the lacing and lay down.

Two minutes of tense silence passed, then the head popped up again. A sudden jerk on the moose-hide line, a moment's hectic scramble, and the animal was dead.

Flushed with success, he searched for and found another which he also snared. Then he started back to camp.

As he climbed a gravel ridge he saw a high hill a mile downstream. On its barren crest stood a square, ugly mass of stone. This could only be the Great Stone House that they had set out to find.

 

CHAPTER 9

The Kayaks on the Lake

T
HE GROUND SQUIRRELS WERE SOON
skinned. They were plump and layered with fat. There remained the problem of cooking them, but lighting a fire without matches was not as impossible as Jamie feared.

Awasin went to work systematically. Using wood from the canoe, he cut a rounded stick about two feet long, and pointed it at both ends. Then he took from a canoe thwart a flat piece about six inches long, three inches wide, and an inch thick. In the center of this he carved a small coni
cal cavity with his knife. Next he cut a small piece of cedar shaped rather like the segment of an orange, with another conical hole cut in one side. This was the “mouthpiece” of the fire drill he was making.

The final step was to take a three-foot length of rawhide and wind it two or three times around the pointed stick.

The fire drill was now complete and ready to operate. Placing the flat piece with the hole in it (the fire board) on the ground, Awasin inserted one end of his pointed stick (the drill) in the fire board's conical hole. Now he crouched over the drill, and taking the little mouthpiece firmly between his teeth, set it over the top end of his pointed stick. Then he grasped the two ends of the rawhide line and firmly, but quickly, began to spin the drill. The shaft spun rapidly, first one way, then the other, its two ends turning freely—one in the mouthpiece, and the other in the fire board.

Awasin pressed down hard on the mouthpiece and the friction between the shaft and the fire board increased. The wood grew hotter and hotter until a thin thread of smoke began to rise from the hole in the fire board.

Satisfied that the outfit would work, Awasin laid it down for the moment. After some searching he found a punky piece of willow root. With his knife he shredded this dry stuff into the hole in the fire board until it was almost full. Then he again set up the drill and made it spin at top speed. The spiral of smoke returned and in a few minutes the plug of shredded root was glowing hot.

Without stopping the drill, Awasin shouted through his clenched teeth: “Ge'm grath—quick Yamie!”

As fast as his injured leg would let him, Jamie gathered handfuls of grass and dumped it beside Awasin, who suddenly dropped the drill, picked up the fire board, and emptied the glowing shreds of root on the pile of dry grass. On his knees beside the pile, Awasin blew until his cheeks hurt. The smoke grew thicker until a tiny yellow flame leaped up.

The rest was easy. An hour later the boys sat beside the embers of their fire wiping the meat juices from their faces. Nothing remained of the ground squirrels except some well-picked bones.

Now that he was fed, and the fire problem had been beaten, Jamie was himself again. If it had not been for his aching knee he would have been almost ready to enjoy the adventure. “Awasin,” he said suddenly, “I've been thinking. I can't walk on account of my leg, but maybe you should go back upstream a way and meet the Chips when they come looking for us. It'd be safer. They might not come this far otherwise.”

Awasin nodded in agreement. “Yes,” he said, “and if I go now I could walk to the other end of the lake by dark. But”—he paused and there was a note of uncertainty in his voice—“I might have to spend the night away from camp.”

“You take the rifle then,” Jamie said. “But what you're worrying about won't happen. You won't see any Eskimos.”

An hour later, when Awasin had set off, Jamie felt very much alone. The faded sky above, and the endless roll of hills, gave him the feeling he was on a strange planet where no other human beings lived. The day was hot, but he shivered as he looked out over the wilderness of rock and moss. Then firmly he put the great loneliness out of his mind. To keep occupied he spent some time sorting and cleaning the gear salvaged from the canoe. After a while he looked up to find he had company after all. A pair of horned larks had come looking for scraps, and they scampered fearlessly about almost within Jamie's reach. Watching them, Jamie was aware that the feeling of absolute loneliness had vanished, and he was grateful to the little birds.

He had built up the coals of the fire for the third time when Awasin reappeared. Jamie glanced up to see a tiny figure running toward him. When Awasin was only a hundred feet away—and still running full tilt—Jamie felt his heart sink. Awasin looked terrified!

“Did you find them?” Jamie cried anxiously.

Awasin waved his hand frantically as if to say “Keep quiet!”—then he was beside Jamie, gasping for breath and panting. He jumped on the fire and scattered the precious coals furiously, tramping them out until not a thread of smoke still rose. Only then did he speak.

“Eskimos!” he panted. “Three boats full—out on the lake—we've got to hide!”

Awasin's fear was infectious. Despite himself, Jamie felt his heart pound furiously—not just from fear of the
Eskimos, but because it dawned on him immediately what the incident really meant. “That tears it!” he cried. “The Chips will never dare come looking for us now!” He stopped, horror-stricken at the thought.

But before he could dwell on it, Awasin, already at work packing the camp gear, paused to say, “Never mind that. We've got to hide, and quick! I think I know a place—the Stone House! The Eskimos are probably frightened of it. Come on!”

It took only a few minutes to roll their belongings into the blankets. Awasin shouldered the load and set off, while Jamie stumbled after him, half supporting himself with the broken paddle shaft.

They made painfully slow progress. Every few yards the pain would become too great to bear, and Jamie would have to rest. Fortunately their goal was only a mile away, but it was almost dusk before they staggered up the long hill and found a sheltered spot under the squat, black ruins of the Great Stone House.

Tired, hungry and frightened, they had no interest to spare then for the mysterious object that had brought them into their present trouble. Instead they wrapped themselves in the blankets and fell into an uneasy sleep.

In the meantime Jamie's fear about the Chipeweyans' giving up the search had been fully realized.

When Etzanni and Telie-kwazi returned to the Killing Place late at night and found the boys missing, they had been worried, and frightened as well. But the next morn
ing, when they found the sign in the sand, Telie-kwazie and Etzanni were more angry than anything else.

“They went downstream!” Etzanni said furiously as he examined the marks in the sand. “They have been bitten with madness!”

Since Denikazi had made them responsible for the boys, there was nothing else to do but follow them. They launched their canoe and set out. “If we catch them in time they will have sore backs!” Etzanni swore grimly.

“And if we do not catch them, then the Eskimos will spill fresh blood,” Telie-kwazie added.

Traveling slowly and with extreme caution, they had only reached the place where the boys had cooked the fish duck by the time night fell. Here they camped without fire. Tensely they kept watch through the dark hours, their rifles cocked and lying on their knees. Centuries of warfare with the Eskimos—of ambushes and dawn raids—were in their memories, and by morning they were two very frightened men.

It took all their courage to move on down-river, but they went. Before noon they came into the maze of channels, and at last emerged around a point to catch a glimpse of the long lake which ended at the fatal rapids under the Stone House.

The first glimpse the Indians had of the lake was also their last!

Desperately they spun their canoe around and made it fairly leap upstream again—for they had seen three slim kayaks putting out from shore only a mile or so ahead.

The missing boys were forgotten and so was everything else except the need to put as many miles as possible between themselves and the Eskimos. That very night, by superhuman effort, they regained the camp at the Killing Place. There they paused only long enough to collect the rest of their equipment. In the morning, exhausted from exertion and fear, they camped many miles south on the shore of Idthen-tua. The next day they made their way to the western arm of the lake, where they waited for Denikazi. There was no doubt in their minds about the fate of the two boys—to them, the boys were already dead.

Meanwhile, under the shadows of the Stone House ridge the boys were mercifully unaware that they had been given up as lost. And on the lake of the Kazon, three Eskimo hunters paddling their kayaks leisurely from point to point knew nothing of the panic they had caused, or of the presence in their land of strangers!

Awasin awakened first the following morning and, after a worried study of the river for signs of Eskimos, he turned to look at the surrounding plains. On all sides the Barrens were empty of motion and the only sound was the distant whistling of curlews. Nevertheless the fear of the Eskimos was still strong in his heart.

The Stone House stood on the crest of a long ridge that stretched westward and upward into a range of hills. On the skyline at the end of this range stood the massive shape of Deer Mountain, under whose western slopes Denikazi was at that moment probably preparing to meet the herds of caribou.

By the time Jamie wakened, the panic of the previous day had worn away. He had never really believed the tales of Eskimo ferocity, and this morning he felt foolish at having allowed himself to be so badly frightened. Also he was hungry, and his leg hurt with an angry and persistent pain.

“Well,” he said, “whatever happens, we have to eat. What about it?”

Awasin shook off his nagging fears and rummaged through the pile of gear. He found the fishline—a strong one, with a heavy hook—but there was nothing he could use for bait. He thought a moment, then picked up one of the cardboard ammunition boxes. Carefully he tore off a strip of the blue-and-yellow paper and ran the hook through it several times so that it formed an S-shaped bait, hiding the barb.

“The trout may have begun their autumn run by now,” he said, “and they will be as hungry as we are. Perhaps this outfit will fool them. I'll go down to the river and see.”

Carrying the rifle, Awasin started off, and Jamie set about making a fire. He knew Awasin would not approve but, as he said to himself, “If any Eskimo does see the smoke, he'll probably run the other way faster than
we
ran yesterday! Anyway,” he concluded his thought, “I'm not eating raw fish if
I
can help it!”

In the meantime Awasin had found a large whirlpool just below a rapid. Squatting on the bank, he tied a small stone to his line as a sinker. Then he whirled hook and
sinker and about five feet of line about his head like a lasso. He let go suddenly and the weighted hook shot halfway across the river drawing the line after it. Slowly Awasin pulled the hook back toward the shore.

Nothing happened. Anxiously Awasin repeated his throw. This time he had only drawn in a few feet when the line snapped taut. Quickly he took a turn around his hand; the tightly stretched line jerked so hard it cut into his skin. Bracing himself, he slowly, carefully, dragged the line in toward shore.

Something swirled near the surface of the river and Awasin caught a glimpse of an immense silver shape, so huge it was unbelievable. His eyes glistened with excitement, for Awasin knew he had hooked one of the monster trout who spend their lives in the deepest lakes and only venture up the rivers when the run is on.

The great fish lunged violently as it came into the shallows, and nearly pulled Awasin off his feet. He did not dare drag it any farther for fear the line would break. Hurriedly he looped the line about a boulder and without an instant's pause leaped into the swirling water.

He splashed into the river only inches from the giant fish, and it lunged viciously so that spray shot high into the air. The line hummed with the tension, then snapped suddenly. Awasin was ready for it. Both his hands were clenched in the red gills of the mighty trout!

The plunging, struggling fish knocked Awasin over on his back—but still the boy hung on. Shouting with excitement, he struggled to haul it into shallower water.
Then one of his hands lost its grip. Desperately he flung himself forward and the trout's broad tail smashed against his face.

With the quickness that can mean the difference between starvation or survival, Awasin acted. He sank his teeth into the trout's tail, and hung on like a terrier.

A few minutes later, soaked, and shaking with excitement, he had the fish in the shallows. He groped around with his free hand, found a rock, and with one heavy blow ended the fight. Then he dragged his prize up on the bank.

It was worth looking at. Four feet long, it would have tipped the scales at more than forty pounds. Its gleaming flanks were heavily speckled with crimson and gold. Its huge mouth was as big as a Husky dog's, and set with hundreds of sharp teeth.

Happily Awasin shouldered the big trout and carried it to camp. He was so pleased by his victory that all thoughts of danger had momentarily vanished from his mind and he did not even remark on the fire that Jamie had built—after an hour of trying.