Jikohnsasee
Michilimackinac (Mackinac Island, Lake Huron)
Alone again. Perhaps this was her fate. To survive, ultimately, was loneliness. To be a survivor, then, was to be alone forever, as the rest of the world crumbles around you. Even as a child, before the calamity that befell her people, she felt alone. She was different from the girls her age, boyish and brash in a way that left her alienated. She would plead with her father to teach her the things he taught her brother—he ignored her. She avoided the duties of womanhood her mother thrust upon her, and was scorned for it. It was cruel, surely, to be the last one alive, that she was the only one who didn’t belong in the first place.
The fight to escape was brutal, more traumatic than even the attack on her village when she was just a girl. The soldiers trampled over one another just to get a few steps further, fleeing hopelessly through barrages of spears and arrows. The darkness both helped and hindered—it made them harder to hit, but it also made the fleeing and the fighting blind. What the darkness could not obscure, however, were the sounds. Gore and death, waves upon waves of that macabre cacophony. Jikohnsasee had fought enough battles to know them so intimately, to identify each one. A spear landing in her comrade’s throat, the sputters of blood from his mouth, the collapse onto the ground. The slip on the mud, the crying out in vain, muffled by the crushing stomps of ten other men running for their lives. Feeble lambs in the dark, surrounded by hungry wolves.
When dawn finally broke, she was miles from the fort. She collapsed by a stream, unable to take another step. Overwhelmed by exhaustion and grief, she slept, hoping the world would take pity on her, and let the slumber be forever. But she was a woman cursed to survive, and so she did. She woke a few hours later, alone again. She could not even see a deer grazing or a fish swimming in the stream. It was just her and boundless wild, stretching as far as she could see.
All she could do, then, was make good on her promise to Chrétien and the other Deer. It was no easy thing to get her bearings—these were former Wendat lands, and not her own. Still, she knew that the sun set in the west, and rose in the east. She used it and the other stars as her guides, making her way northwest. It was a shot in the dark, but it was something, and this was not the first time she had traversed the wilderness alone.
Eventually, she stumbled upon a footpath. Long-abandoned, she could tell this road had not been used in over thirty years, not since the Wendat still claimed these parts. She tread upon it, a welcome reprieve from climbing hills and crossing brooks. The path took her through the graveyard of this forgotten land, past moss-grown roofs of dilapidated longhouses. It reminded her of home—lost once to the Haudenosaunee, now only to the uncaring passage of time.
After two weeks of wandering, she stumbled upon a vast lake. A small outpost lay tucked away by the shore, and she found hospitality there, of all places. She was fed, given new clothes, her wounds cleaned and dressed properly. The folks here were Nipissing—different in culture, religion, and tongue. Still, they did not seem to notice or even care. They saved her in silence, their subtle smiles and reassuring pats speaking for them. After all they had done for her, she still had another request, and they acquiesced to it, ferrying her across the lake towards the northwest. Through it all, they expected nothing in return—all they saw was someone who needed a little help and kindness, and those they could easily provide. She supposed that there were some places that the evil of the world could not reach, some hearts that it could not taint, and she found some strange peace in this truth, despite it all.
Now, she found herself surrounded by people, a grain of sand in the metropolis of trade and commerce that was the island Michilimackinac. Though it was nowhere near its full capacity during the summer, winter had begun to fade into the early grays of spring, and the markets were already back. It was overwhelming, after the quiet of the wilderness and her Nipissing saviors. Traders came from all over the continent to show their wares here. It reminded her of the melting pot of Kahnawake—French churches juxtaposed with wigwams of the Odawa, whose lands the city was on. But she was not looking for either of them. She wandered through the crowds, hoping to see some familiar face. All of them had agreed to meet here if they survived. She did not see a soul. No Chrétien, no Gyantwaka. None of her comrades. Her heart sank into her stomach—she tried in vain to calm herself. You are just the first one. You got lucky. The others will be here too, before long, and all will be well.
Suddenly, she felt something poke her leg from behind. Confused, she turned to see a young girl of ten or so standing there, looking up at the towering woman with awe.
“You are a warrior,” she said with a smile, pointing to Jikohnsasee’s tattoos. Jikohnsasee wore the antlers of a buck in black charcoal across her shoulders, a constant reminder that she was Deer. She had carried them for decades, so long that she had forgotten she had them.
“You are clever to recognize them,” Jikohnsasee said, kneeling down to be eye level with the girl. “And it’s a relief to hear words familiar to me. What are you doing here, in our neighbors’ land?”
“This land is for everyone,” the girl said. “Land is not a thing to be owned. You can’t buy it, or hide it, or stow it away. It could be yours, too, you know.”
Jikohnsasee studied the girl. The girl studied her back—her young eyes were filled with a hidden cleverness, a knowing. This was not some chance encounter—someone had sent her.
“Can I ask you something?” Jikohnsasee asked her.
“You can do what you like here,” the girl said cryptically. “This is a free place, for free people.”
“I am looking for a man they call The Rat,” Jikohnsasee said. “Would you know where I could find him?”
The girl just smiled.
“The Rat is looking for you. He’s been waiting. This way, if you wish.”
Jikohnsasee followed the strange girl through the markets, past the crowds. Out of the town, to the outskirts, near the straits. There was a small enclave here, a cluster of huts. To her surprise, she heard the familiar words of the Wendat being muttered as onlookers saw her approach with the girl. The rumors were true. After the destruction of their people, the Wendat and Chonnonton scattered and dispersed. Many went Eastward to Quebec, thinking the French would protect them. Many somehow found their way here. She had never been to this place before, but she had heard rumors of some Deer remnants making it here, finding a life for themselves. It was all true.
A strange and uncomfortable feeling rose in Jikohnsasee as they walked through this small village, one she was unused to: hope. This enclave was a sanctuary for victims of the Haudenosaunee—Wendat, Chonnonton, even Tionontati, who once lived in the lands between them. Three close tribes, like brothers and sisters, all living together here in the wake of that great tragedy over thirty years ago. All those years, Jikohnsasee had kindled the flames of furious vengeance, training tirelessly to fight and kill her brother, to wreak destruction upon the Five Nations. What if she had come here instead, settled peacefully with these other survivors? What would she be now, untethered to that cold iron chain of revenge?
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
The two passed a smoker hut, and the smell of smoked eel emanated from it in rising wisps of painful nostalgia. Eel was her favorite as a little girl, especially the way her mother made it. She had not known this smell for decades, and it took all her strength not to fall to her knees. Tears welled in her eyes, and she wiped them away. She mourned a past stolen from her, of course, but also for a girl that could have learned to love instead of hate, of a path she could have chosen long ago. Time, cruel as its passing was, left the abandoned homes of her people to wither into dust. Yet even crueler, perhaps, was that it could never be changed, not even for a young girl who had her own future ripped from her, torn into a thousand pieces. Time, of course, did not care. It never did.
The girl led Jikohnsasee to the end of the enclave. A dozen men worked here, laying wood for some foundation. Upon seeing the girl, the men waved to her, and stopped their toil. They dispersed, heading down to grab some lunch and a brief respite. One of them approached the two. He seemed to be around Jikohnsasee's age, maybe five years older, give or take. And despite the fact that he wore the wisdom of forty years or more, he did not carry the weight of suffering and resentment, as she did. Rather, his eyes were bright, luminous things, reflective of the hope she had felt in this place.
“Thank you,” he said to the young girl. He handed her a shell, and she took it before running off. He then turned his attention to Jikohnsasee, bowing slightly.
“I am Kondiaronk,” he said. “That was Ononwakente. She’s an odd one, isn’t she? Far too clever for her age.”
“She reminds me of myself, many years ago,” she mused. “Do you often use children to run your errands?”
“Oh, of course. Whenever I can, honestly. Children listen well, do the task with a smile, and don’t ask for much. All you need to do is make the task seem important, which in this case, it was.”
“Am I that important to you?”
“Of course you are. So are all wayward souls who wander here. I have other children looking out for them, whenever they wander here. I am glad this one found you.”
Jikohnsasee nodded. Then, she realized she had not responded to the man’s introduction with one of her own, and felt embarrassed.
“My name is Jikohnsasee,” she said.
“An awfully auspicious name,” Kondiaronk replied with a smile. “And I know of it, and of you. Your reputation precedes you. I was told you led a battalion of your people against our destroyers.”
“You make it seem more noble than it was. We were a motley crew of two dozen at most, simple men with rage in their hearts. We barely achieved anything—killed a few people, burned down some empty villages. Then we were besieged and starved. I… I believe I'm the last one alive. We all agreed to come here if we made it out. I was hoping to find one or more of them already with you.”
A somber look spread across the man’s face, and he placed a hand on her tattooed shoulder to comfort her.
“Alas, you are the first one here,” he admitted. “Though I do not believe you will be the last. We must have hope, no?”
Jikohnsasee nodded.
“You have heard of me, then,” she said. “And I have heard of you. Rather, I came here in part to meet you. I wanted to learn if the rumors were true.”
“And what rumors would those be?”
“That you are building a coalition of us—Wendat, Chonnonton, Tionontati. The victims of the Five Nations’ expansion, of their Mourning Wars. The French say you’re tenacious and shrewd—they call you The Rat*.”
“Aye, and so it is my name. But they did not choose that moniker for me—I chose it myself. The French thought it strange when I introduced myself—they consider it to be a weak, tactless creature. But I know better. The rat is cunning. The rat knows better than all other animals how to survive, and it will stop at nothing to do so. That is who I am. Our people stand on the precipice of fate—one step more, and we are doomed. We are surrounded on all sides. Our enemies have never been stronger, and we have never been weaker. Our friendships are tenuous, half-based in pity—we have too little to offer anyone now. I will change that. Our fields have been burned, but the seeds are still in the ground. All we need now is the rain.”
Kondiaronk gestured to the wooden foundation.
“We have started building a longhouse,” he said. “All these years, we could not bring ourselves to make one. A longhouse is a permanent thing, like a tree laying its roots in the earth. After the loss of our own lands, building another felt like a betrayal. Instead, we became transient ourselves, never allowing ourselves to take root again. Now, I think, we have finally let ourselves grieve for what we have lost, and to start anew. I was born Tionontati, yet I am no longer. I am something more complete, a part of this new family I have worked to foster. You are welcome among us, if you wish to be.”
The man’s words struck a chord in Jikohnsasee’s heart. They were words she had wanted to hear for decades, wandering aimlessly with no desire but vengeance. Yet, that wasn’t quite true, not fully. What she had really desired was this. A new family, rising from the ashes of the old. A new village to call home, a new community to spend the rest of her days in. After the loss of her own, of her father and mother, this is all that little girl wanted, all those years ago.
“And what is this family?” She asked, her voice trembling. “What are you, if not Tionontati?”
The man smiled.
“I’ve been thinking about that for a long time, actually. When I first met with the French, I represented the Wendat here, as I was the only one of my people at that time. I advocated for them, tried to get protection from the Five Nations, still seeking to destroy us. None of the Wendat spoke French as well as I did, so I dealt with the French. They came up with this funny name. They would call us Hurons, a name which I hated, even though it was not for me. I corrected them every time, trying to tell them—Wendat, Wendat, Wendat. But they speak so oddly, you know, and they could never quite get it right. Instead, they used some awkward approximation—Wyandot, Wyandot, Wyandot.”
Kondiaronk looked up to the sky, beaming at the lily-white clouds, like he could reach up and grab them if he wanted to.
“At first, it annoyed me, how they couldn’t pronounce it," he mused. "But the word stuck with me, tossing over and over in my mind. Over the years, I have become rather fond of it. Those who live here have left behind the names of their former people—not to forget them, but to be free of the burdens that come with them. The past is a weight none of us can bear—all we can do is look forward, and move on. We are, of course, still Wendat, and Chonnonton, and Tionontati. And yet, we are all of these at once, and also none. There is no name we could make for it ourselves—our new existence defies logic, our traditional understanding of things. A nonsensical name, then, is the only one that fits.”
“Wyandot,” she said. It echoed in her chest like the beat of a drum, matching the rhythm of her wishful heart. The worries of her mind and past started to fade, and she could think of nothing, say nothing. All she could do was repeat it. “Wyandot. Wyandot. Wyandot.”