Jikohnsasee
Michilimackinac (Mackinac Island, Lake Huron)
What was joy? That unknowable, alien thing? Jikohnsasee learned day by day here. What a wonder it was, to be among her new people. Her revenge was a distant memory now. The war, the Five Nations—Wherever they were, they were not here. Here, the waters were calm, and people smiled. Even her, when it suited her, and she found it often did now.
Jikohnsasee flowed into this new family so naturally, filling its gaps, finding herself in them. Whatever was she before? She could hardly remember now. Some ghost of her forefathers, a soulless husk cobbled together from scraps of an impossible vengeance. Back then, it took all her strength to keep from falling apart. Here, among orphans like her, she became what they needed, what she needed to be. So many children among them, each of them needing a teacher, a mother. She never thought she could be these things, that she deserved to even try. And here she was, the only one who knew the stories her own mother had told her. Each one she shared was a seed of herself planted in this new island she called home. She mused on what it would grow up to be, watered by the once-different cultures of all who now called themselves Wyandot.
Still, there were the old ghosts. They drifted in and out of her mind, intruding most often when she dreamed. Their faces came to her as woeful shrouds: of her parents, of her brother, of her comrades. Of Chrétien. She wasn’t fully surprised she thought about him the most, if only because she saw so much of herself in him. That poor child. Those angry, bitter eyes. She wished she could show him this place, that there was more to life, that he, too, could learn what joy was. But even now, she had heard or seen nothing of anyone from her life before. The weeks went by, and her memory of the look of his face and the sound of his voice faded to the back of her mind, eventually followed by the rest of him. But like all the other ghosts, he never really left.
She found it hard to talk about. In the afternoons, she shared tea with Kondiaronk, and the two would pass the time enjoying the brisk winds of early spring. She relished their conversations—he had a unique mind, brilliant and clear as a siltless brook, and she felt as though she learned something each time he spoke. To her surprise, he spent most of the time asking about her. One day, she would think about why that was, when she was ready. For now, it was enough to enjoy his company.
Today, they welcomed two unexpected visitors. The first was a French soldier, leading a full company of marines. The children saw them coming from beyond the river—they kept watch for Kondiaronk whenever they weren’t playing or sleeping. There was a brief thought to mount a defense, but Kondiaronk was never one to rush judgment. Thankfully, there was no cause for alarm—the company was here for supplies and a place to stay. Their leader, who Jikohnsasee came to know as the Baron de Lahontan*, also came for a dialogue with the Rat he’d heard so much about.
“Please, call me Louis,” he said as he shook Kondiaronk’s hand. “I must confess, I have looked forward to this meeting for a long time.”
“Oh?” Kondiaronk mused. “And what have I done to earn this anticipation?”
“Your reputation, of course. I have heard many speak of your incredible mind, and I have long waited to pick at it.”
“Well, you’re in luck. We were just about to start our late morning tea. You are free to join us.”
Kondiaronk led the man to his home—a temporary hut, before the new longhouse was finished. Inside, he began brewing a pot, and Jikohnsasee took her usual seat. She sized up Lahontan—he didn’t look like much. He shifted somewhat uncomfortably, trying to sound diplomatic in what she knew would be a complaint.
“I will say,” he began. Jikohnsasee hated being right about these things. “I was rather hoping we could have this discussion in private.”
“Jikohnsasee always joins me for tea,” Kondiaronk shrugged. “She is as insightful as I am, and she, too, would benefit from learning your perspective.”
“I do not mean any disrespect, but I doubt that’s true.”
“Why?”
“Well… isn’t it obvious?”
Each man looked at the other like he was a rambling fool.
“She’s a woman!” The words left his lips exasperated, like he was surprised he had to say it.
A brief silence in the hut. Then, Kondiaronk’s lips turned upwards into a smirk. Then he laughed. It was a belittling, condescending laugh, and the Baron’s eyebrow twitched to hear it. Jikohnsasee did her best to stifle her own smile—the laugh was insulting enough.
“If you truly believe that, I’m afraid it casts an ill omen for our dialogues,” Kondiaronk chuckled, patting the man on the soldier like he was a child. “But for your sake, I will forget you’ve said it. Come, and entreat us with an open mind. I’m sure you will learn something valuable from the both of us.”
And that was that. Kondiaronk poured tea for the three of them, then took his seat, and the Baron followed. Reluctant as he was to admit Jikohnsasee was an equal, the opportunity to speak with the Rat was more important, and he swallowed his pride.
“Now,” Kondiaronk began. “What exactly were you looking for when you sought me out? I hope it is not an army. We grow tired of war in these parts.”
“Oh, no, no.” Lahontan chuckled nervously, trying to diffuse the tension. “Nothing so dreadful as that. I am writing a book, you see, chronicling the details of these lands and its people. I wanted to hear your perspective on things, given your status as such a decorated and influential man among the savages.”
Savages. Jikohnsasee flinched at the word. It was the word that gave the French license to come into these lands, bringing their bibles and their plagues. It was the word that brought war, and fire, and death. He said it so casually, like he was calling a rock a rock, or a tree a tree. She stayed her breath, telling herself she would need to keep calm. All the more reason to prove him wrong, she thought. All the more reason to show him the truth.
“I see,” Kondiaronk mused, taking a puff of his pipe. “Well, you have our ears then. Ask away, and we shall do our best to enlighten you.”
“Excellent.” The baron rubbed his hand like a fly over a pile of dung. “Well, firstly, I would like to speak to you on the matter of religion. It is a subject of great importance, and I do believe it is my duty to unfold to you the great truths of Christianity.”
“Ah.” Kondiaronk snuck a quick glance at Jikohnsasee, though in truth, he didn’t need to. Both of them had half-expected this, and both of them were disappointed. This supposed great thinker among the French, chronicler of their peoples’ culture—just a Jesuit in fancier clothes.
“I do hope you will spin a better yarn than your Jesuits,” Kondiaronk mused. “I have listened to many of their tales and, while romantic and fabulous, that is all I can say that is positive about them.”
“Well, I’m not sure what they’ve told you, but I imagine we are of like minds on many things. You must understand that Christianity is a religion that men need to profess to obtain a place in Heaven. God has permitted our discovery of these lands, so that we may save all nations that will follow Christianity and its laws. It was his divine pleasure that the gospel be preached to you, that you all might be informed of the true way to paradise, the blessed mansion of good souls.”
“What discovery?” Kondiaronk chuckled. “You speak as though these lands were shrouded in mist, unpopulated before your arrival a mere half-century ago. Surely you don’t actually believe you were the ones to discover these lands. They are not something that can be discovered. We have been here since the beginning, and we will be here in the end.”
“A semantic error,” the Baron said, though Jikohnsasee was only half-convinced. “Nevertheless, we had not even known of these lands for thousands of years, and yet God guided us here. And I believe it was for a purpose—to free all of you, to save you.”
“And what proof of this is there, other than your word? I could just as easily claim that it was our Great Spirit that brought you all here, so that you might learn of our ways. We are at an impasse then—your word against mine. Can you name a difference between them, other than that you believe yours to be the truth and not mine?”
Lahontan hesitated for a moment, not knowing what to say. Kondiaronk seized the moment.
“I can,” he said. “The difference is that we do not believe our Truth is absolute. Our Truth is one we have arrived at, that we believe, because we have seen and lived it. You would have me walk off a cliff in blind faith that your God would save me. Your God doesn’t even know me. I, on the other hand, would never claim that you must acknowledge my Truth, and accept it as the one and only—you are rigid and fundamental, when the world is vast and complex. Who are you to say we must pray and worship your way or burn eternally in the fires of Hell?”
“You attribute to me a mission of malice. Don’t misunderstand—we are benevolent here. It is your ignorance of the ways of God that will bring your eternal damnation, and it is that fate I am trying to save you from. I believe you and your people to be virtuous, to have the capacity for good, if only you knew the truth. And I can name another difference. Your Truth is some intangible thing, existing only in your mind, and nowhere else. You want proof of God? It is here.”
The man produced a small black book from the folds of his jacket and patted it confidently.
“Ah, yes, the great and all-powerful scripture,” Kondiaronk mocked. “And I suppose all that is written in your books, then, is true and absolute? That truth is truth because it’s been written? Tell me why, then, that I have seen so many lies in them. I have read what your Jesuits have written about us. So many falsehoods, misunderstandings, poor translations. Your bible, I assume, cannot share these grave errors, for reasons I hope you will elucidate.”
“My dear Rat,” the Baron tutted. “Have you not considered that it was not the Jesuits themselves that wrote these falsehoods? That they were merely transcribing information that they were told, reliable or otherwise? Still, it matters little. You cannot compare records of lore written by mere men to holy scriptures written by God.”
“You purport then, that God Himself printed that little black book you hold? And all the other bibles, in the thousands, across this continent, across your own? The Jesuits claim that your religion is an ancient one, and yet the invention of the book itself is almost new in your history. How, then, do you explain this? Do you mean to tell me that through all those centuries the word of Christ has persevered immaculately? That there hasn’t been a single error? And if that’s true, why, then, are there different versions of your supposed scriptures? Between you and the English alone I see different passages—your religions are practically different themselves, despite the fact that you both claim to be Christian, and that you both claim to have the right kind!”
A coy smile rose in the edges of the Baron’s lips. Jikohnsasee was caught off guard by it. Why was he smiling? Kondiaronk was making a fool of him.
“You are right,” the man ceded, which surprised Jikohnsasee even more. Lahontan laughed and slapped his knee before tucking the book back into his pocket. “Thank God, you are right! I was worried the rumors of your genius were unfounded.”
“All of this was a ruse, then?”
“Not a ruse. A test, perhaps, to get the measure of you. And you’ll have to forgive me for my slight duplicity. I only half-believe in half of what I said. I supposed that makes it what? A quarter?”
The Baron laughed. Jikohnsasee didn’t get the joke.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
“Thank your God and mine,” Kondiaronk sighed. “The words I spoke I must have repeated a hundred times to various Jesuits over the years. And none of them could ever answer me.”
“Of course not. If you believe in your convictions with full faith, you become unshakable, even in the face of reason. If you think that an almighty God has put you on the Earth, you can do whatever you like, no matter how wicked or debaucherous, as long as you believe he commanded you to do it.”
“And what do you believe, then?”
The Baron simply shrugged.
“I believe we could learn a lot from your people. You do not cling so blindly and so fervently to doctrine—you think, debate, discuss. You are not led by a single King, but your own community.”
He gestured towards Jikohnsasee.
“You afford women the same rights as men, treat them as equals. All of these are inconceivable to us, and yet many of these values are what the Bible originally preached—what I do believe God wants us to strive for.”
He looked straight at her now, and continued:
“Though I admit, given how highly he has spoken of you, I am surprised you haven’t said a word yet.”
“Jikohnsasee is a woman of few words,” Kondiaronk returned, coming to her aid. “It is better to choose your words wisely, and to have each count, than to run your mouth incessantly, is it not?”
Both of the men looked to her. An uncomfortable heat rose in her. Kondiaronk may have defended her, but he also set her up for failure. Now, whatever she said had to carry a tremendous weight, or she would disappoint them, and represent her entire gender poorly. Why was she suddenly the custodian of all women? Why did she have to defend her right to sit with two men who would never think to apply these standards to themselves? It was all exhausting.
“I don’t have much to say,” she admitted. It was the truth. Jikohnsasee was a fighter, not an orator. “But I do have a question.”
“Ask away,” the Baron said with a smile.
She took a moment to study that smile, to study him. In many ways, he reminded her of Chrétien, but she began to see a difference between them. When Chrétien began training with her and the other Deer, he slowly started to unravel himself, to unlearn what he had been taught and told all his life. This was an inherently humiliating process—it meant acknowledging that there were lies in his own beliefs, that there were parts of his own identity he needed to throw away. But Chrétien did the hard work, and humbled himself to do so. Even in the very beginning, when she thought he was nothing less than a hapless and foolhardy child, he nevertheless impressed her when he prostrated himself in front of her, sinking into the mud to beg her for a chance. It was a gesture she thought the French were incapable of, given their constant hauteur. She could not see this Baron do the same, magnanimous as he thought himself to be.
“So this whole preamble was a lie, then?” She began. “Or, sorry—a test.”
“In a manner of speaking. In the way that I don’t really profess the things I said.”
“But you have to believe in some of them. You are a Christian, aren’t you?”
“Well… yes, I am.”
“So you believe in the Christian laws… or the parts of it that are convenient for you.”
“No, I believe in the work of Christ, and the laws of God. I also believe that France today claims to espouse these beliefs, but don’t actually follow them. Especially here. We are taught ‘thou shalt not steal’. We are taught to keep the Sabbath holy, and to do no work during it. Yet in this New World, I see the fur traders bringing their wares on the holy days, doing their best attempts to deceive you savages that purchase them of their true value. It’s hypocrisy of the highest order.”
“And your book that you’ll be writing. You plan on addressing these hypocrisies in it?”
“Yes, of course. It won’t be the only purpose—like Kondiaronk said, the Jesuits have painted an incorrect picture of your people, tainted by their prejudices. I want to provide a better one, a truer one.”
“And your picture, then, will be fully free from your own prejudices?”
Lahontan shifted in his seat, and gave her a subtly incredulous look. There it was. He could not help the condescension, the coyness he claimed to critique in his own people. He was victim and perpetrator, both.
“Is this the question you’ve thought so much about?” He asked.
“No,” Jikohnsasee replied. “It was a test, I guess, to get the measure of you. Since you won’t answer that one, though, maybe you’ll answer this: what role, exactly, will this conversation play in this book? What will you turn Kondiaronk and I into, to fit your needs?”
“Harsh words. You act like I’m a charlatan slandering your good names. Rest assured, I don’t think either of you carry a reputation enough back in the motherland.”
“You ask a lot of questions, but you aren’t fond of answering them, are you?”
The Baron chuckled.
“I plan on writing of you honestly. The Rat, a brilliant mind among the savages, who can pierce through the shroud of our contradictions without breaking a sweat. Like I said earlier, there are many in France who need to hear these things, who need to learn these lessons.”
“I see,” Jikohnsasee said. “That’s all we are, then.”
Lahontan cocked his head, not taking her meaning.
“You’re the same as the Jesuits,” she continued. “Don’t you see? You call us savages, all the while using us to fuel your own salvation. We are just simple, humble idiots to you, and yet it’s our sound minds that are needed to pierce through your ‘shroud’! Our folk wisdom is only so useful as what you can apply to your own laws, your own people. What about us? What do we exist for, other than to point out your many hypocrisies? God brought the Jesuits to our lands, they say, so they could save us. You think God brought you here so that we could save you.”
A quiet fell in the hut. Jikohnsasee realized that she had stood up from her seat in her passion. She chided herself for giving into her emotion—it would be seen of course, as a girlish outburst, despite how much men loved to yell at one another. Still, she could not help herself. This man had wandered into their lives, dragging with him decades of hurt and resentment that he seemed completely ignorant of. Everything was so casual to him, so flippant, when the mere subject of their debate today caused the ruin of an entire civilization. How many years had the Christians sauntered into the lives of her forefathers, uprooting families, destroying communities? And they had the gall to think themselves saviors. The Chonnonton, the Wendat—how mighty they were before these feeble men and their hypocrisies sailed to these shores. And now, all these years later, some would sail back, using the bones and blood of her people to remark on lessons learned and assuage their guilt. What was her lesson supposed to be? To die? To be remembered only in the vague consciences of her people’s killers?
The Baron said nothing. He stewed in her words, and for the first time, she saw his facade crack. There he was, underneath the mask. Just another small man, lost in a world too big for any of them.
Jikohnsasee left the tent, and the men inside them. She doubted any answer the Baron would muster would be good enough. Not that it’d matter if it was. She didn’t really want to take part in this in the first place.
She walked out to the shore, trying to gather her thoughts and calm herself. Try as she did to move on, the ghosts of her vengeance still clung to her, even in this place, so far from their graves. Would they settle and rest with her, when it was her own time to go? Or would they linger still, drifting until they found their next victim?
She walked through the scattered, absent-minded company of troops the Baron led in the market square, passing the time until he ordered them to leave. Some played cards, some smoked tobacco. Some eyed her with a casual lechery, though it quickly passed, as she did. How horrid an impulse, to be just a passing whim. Jikohnsasee wondered what she did to deserve it, other than existing in their periphery. She figured that was enough, sad as that truth was.
She settled by the riverbank, dipping her feet into the water, running her hands through the sand. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes. Just as she was starting to feel calm again, she heard something trouble the water. She opened her eyes to see a small canoe reach the shore. It carried a single man—tall and wide-shouldered like her. She would have thought he was a relative if she only recognized him, but she had never seen him before.
The man clambered over the side of the canoe, practically falling towards Jikohnsasee. On his hands and knees, he addressed her.
“Excuse me,” he panted. His eyes wore dark bags under them, and she could tell he had been paddling a long time. “I’m looking for someone.”
“It seems you’ve found someone,” she said. She stood, helping the man to his feet.
“I am Jikohnsasee,” she said. “I’ll help you find who you’re looking for, but you should rest first.”
“I cannot,” he said. “Not yet. I… My wife… My daughters… I need to see them…”
She looked the man in the eyes. All of a sudden, something dawned on her.
“Ezekiel,” she said. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”
The man could hardly muster the strength to reply, but he nodded.
Jikohnsasee smiled, and she took the man’s arm upon her shoulder, helping him onto the island.
“Your family is here,” she told him. “They’ve been waiting for you. They’ll be so happy to know you’ve made it. Come on.”
Together, they hobbled back to the village, to one of the newer huts. She led him straight inside, and sure enough, there they were. She had met them when she first arrived—they were newcomers, too, finding this place not much earlier than she did. Their eyes lit up when they saw Ezekiel, and they rushed to him, taking him from Jikohnsasee and smothering him with kisses. The daughters helped him to the bed, and his wife fell to her knees, sobbing.
“You are alive,” she cried. “You are alive, and you are here. I’m not dreaming, am I?”
Ezekiel smiled.
“No,” he told her, his voice strained. “Not a dream. A miracle.”
The girls couldn’t keep it together either, and they began to cry. So did he, and Jikohnsasee wiped her own tear away. A part of her felt she should leave, to leave this moment to them. But after the day she’d had, she needed to witness the good in the world, so she indulged herself, and stayed quiet in the doorway of the hut, watching the miracle unfold.
“We thought you were dead,” a daughter said. Jikohnsasee thought it was the one named Delilah, though in truth, she could not tell the two apart at all.
“So did I,” Ezekiel said. “So did I. And yet I was saved by the grace of God.”
He sat up from the bed, and his daughters placed their hands upon his shoulders, trying to gently push him back.
“Sleep,” they said.
“Not yet!” Ezekiel claimed, forcing himself up, finding some energy hidden within him. “What kind of father would I be, if I had not the strength to tell my own daughters a story! Ridiculous! So come and listen.”
With a hand, he beckoned towards the door. Towards Jikohnsasee. The girls turned to see her, and walked to the door smiling, bringing her in with them. She couldn't refuse, nor would she want to. She sat in front of the bed with them, though her place in this was an awkward one. In her adult years, she had forgotten the horrid feeling of being too big, having worked past all the teasing she endured as a young woman. Now, she felt like she took up all the space here, but no one else seemed to notice or mind, so she tried to forget the feeling.
“I was captured by those men,” Ezekiel began. “I tried to take as many down as I could, that they could not chase you into the woods. They beat me until I could no longer stand, and I knew I was going to die. But I killed three of their own, and they must have decided I deserved a worse fate. They dragged me back to their village—not to adopt**—just to torture. They wanted justice for the ones I had taken from them. For five days and five nights, they burned me. I knew that the first days were the easiest. that they would save the worst, that they would keep me alive as long as they could. Three murders, three lives cut short. They wanted me to pay for all the years I took. By the end of the second day, I almost gave out. I began to believe that I had earned my fate, somehow.
“Then, on the fifth night, a dark wind blew into the chambers. Like God smote the Egyptians, he brought his furious vengeance on my torturers, and all of them fell to the ground, dead. My bindings were undone, and yet, when I turned around there was not a soul alive in that place but me.”
“Surely it was someone,” one of the twins protested. “You can’t think God Himself cut your bindings. You told us yourself about a thousand times—He works through us.”
Ezekiel smiled. It was a trickster’s grin, and Jikohnsasee —she would never expect a man so stern-looking to ever wear such a jovial thing.
“I must admit, I did see a flash of something outside the window.” He wrinkled his nose, and began to paint a picture in the air with his hands. “A wave of long hair, blacker than night, thicker than wire. I heard a ghastly shriek fill the air, and though I have no doubt it was God who sent it, I would not pray for one again. What else could it be but a Flying Head***?”
The girls rolled their eyes and pushed their father onto his back.
“You can sleep now,” one told him. “Maybe you’ll tell us the truth when you’re lucid.”
The man just laughed, though he could only do so a moment before collapsing, his exhaustion finally getting the better of him. His family immediately crowded around him on the bed, fussing over him.
A smile spread on Jikohnsasee’s face as she watched the scene before her unfold. This great re-building. Many of her past nights here she had spent in this hut, consoling the three, especially the wife.
It was a miracle, regardless of the truth of Ezekiel’s yarn. She found it endearing that he would tell a fairy tale to his daughters who were almost women now. She couldn’t help but wonder, too, how he really escaped. She wondered about the wooden cross that hung from Ezekiel’s neck, about his own journey with what he believed. In the end, she supposed none of it mattered. She had answered her own question, the one she posed to the Baron. This is why we exist. This is what I’m here to do.