Wolves and Dragons of the Blood True BeginningsChapter 34
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I stopped my bellows and looked around fearfully. The only weapon in reach was the big stone mallet I beat the bloom with, but I knew that to reach for it would be death itself. The Indians closed in, forming a tighter ring around me. Beyond, I could see two braves stand near Mataoka and little Harvey, too.
“Hello,” I tried to greet them in Indian. They stared at me, then turned and talked to one-another in a language I did not understand.
One of them reached for where the bloom I had been working lay on the dusty ground. He leaped back, burned, as, although it looked quite black, it was still much too warm to touch. Another got close and held his palm over it, feeling the heat it gave off. They talked some more and Mataoka was pushed and shoved towards me.
“Speak English,” Mataoka whispered as she reached me. “I don’t think they speak it.”
“Will they kill us?” I asked her carefully.
“You, maybe,” she shrugged. “Maybe they want iron?” she added thoughtfully.
The Indians were still talking and gesticulating and pointing at everything in our camp. One prodded me thoughtlessly with a spear and I had to jump back a bit to avoid being skewered. Another brave hit that brave and shouted something at him, clearly telling him to be more careful.
“They think French buy you,” Mataoka translated.
“Can you understand them?” I asked her, bewildered. Mataoka only shrugged and wriggled her hand in reply, meaning ‘a bit’. She was watching them.
“I worry they have raided the village,” Mataoka added after a while. “They talk about winning much honor.”
The Indians set up camp in our camp, keeping us prisoner. One of them was dispatched and ran off into the dusk. “He will fetch the others,” Mataoka explained. “We talk English; none of these know English,” she added helpfully.
The next morning there were now two dozen braves. The whole raiding party, sat around our camp. Now that yesterday’s ingots had cooled enough, they would often pick one up and pass it around in wonder. Some of the new braves spoke Mataoka’s language well enough to talk to us, but they gave us no information on our fate. They gave us no food, either, and Mataoka’s body had trouble making milk for little Harvey. Mataoka only shook her head at me when I tried to remonstrate with the braves.
By mid morning it felt like something had been decided. A brave came and fetched me, dragging me by my bound wrists towards the chief and forcing me to kneel in front of him. He sat regally on the stump that I used to hammer the blooms, a feathered spear in each hand.
“You run gauntlet,” the chief said in Mataoka’s tongue. “You win, you make us iron. You lose, we sell you to Frenchman.”
I tried to read Mataoka’s face; she had heard this, but she was unreadable. Quickly five braves came over and stood in a row and I was made to stand beyond them, my hands untied, facing the sitting chief. I glanced back at my wife for encouragement. I saw a single tear trickle down her brave, hard face.
I felt a spear prod me in the arse. It made me jump and move forward, but it didn’t break the skin. It was just to get me to go through their gauntlet.
The five Indians were far enough apart that they could swing their clubs and sticks without hitting one another, but quite close together, all the same. There was a clear line of them, and a definite path I had to take. The spear stuck me in the arse again, to remind me to keep moving. I stepped carefully towards the first brave, now all thought of my empty stomach forgotten.
The first brave swung wildly, laughingly, thinking it all just fun. He hadn’t expected me to duck and then leap up at him as his stone axe, blunt end first, swept over my head. They were only meaning to break bones, not kill me. And they were most surprised when I fought back.
The second brave stepped back as I approached him, me wielding the axe of the first as though it weighed nothing. I had just spent months hammering bloom and now packed quite a bit of strength. Behind me the first Indian just stood and watched, not intervening. Although there was a string of Indians, it was clear that I was to fight each of them one-on-one and they weren’t going to overpower me.
That second brave had only a cudgel to swing. He backed a bit as I approached, his weapon pulled back, poised to strike at me. I paused, thinking it better for him to have to move towards me.
When he made no move and I became impatient I lunged at him and he swung his cudgel down in a big arc towards my forearm. I managed to catch his hand as he did so with the back swing of my hammer and I disarmed him. He dropped the bough and and held his ringing hand with the other. The other Indians laughed, most amused. It was much funnier to them than it was to me.
I bent down and picked up the stick from the ground and snapped it in two across my shoulders in anger. That got their attention! Now there was a stunned silence as I approached the third brave.
Now the gloves were off, as it were, and the third brave was swinging his metal hatchet to keep me at bay – the cutting edge first. I stepped towards him and realized he was much better poised and ready than the previous two. As I lunged, keen to keep the momentum of the fight going, I accidentally kicked up some sand at him. Realizing he faltered for a split second, I did it again, this time deliberately, and threw the two halves of the cudgel at him in rapid succession, too. Now he was cowering, and as I made my final approach he tried to swing a backhander with the the hatchet to fend me off again, but I was ready for him. I got within his arms and met him in the stomach with my knee. He fell backwards and I sank down, pinning him.
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