Orenda: Eternal Vendetta Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

Pierre looked down at the sleeping child. She no longer reminded him of Lilly. He could not imagine his Lilly ever in the pitiful straits that this child was in. His mind simply blanked out the connection he had made between the two. Perhaps he could not bear the guilt that washed over him at mistreating the child, or perhaps he simply couldn't stand the idea of being responsible for putting his Lilly in such distress. Whatever the reason, Pierre now perceived Jenny more as bait than as a human being. It was necessary that he do so, because if he allowed the weakness of remorse or pity to overwhelm him, he would not be able to complete his task.

Twofeathers stepped into the morning sun, and saw that the snow was already beginning to melt. He trudged steadily along his snare line, and grunted in satisfaction when he spotted a fat white rabbit dangling by its neck from one of them. He undid the snare, laying the dead hare on the ground while he worked at carefully resetting the rawhide trap. He brushed the disturbed snow back to a smooth appearance, and picked the rabbit up. He did not bother to complete the entire circuit of the snare line, but headed directly back to the shack. The rabbit would do for today. He was exhausted from the night-long vigil, and feared that he would have to do it again tonight. He needed some rest.

Inside the shack again, Pierre quickly gutted and skinned the rabbit. Although he did not intend to sell the hide, he removed it from the flesh as expertly and carefully as if he was. He folded the fur neatly and set it aside. The entrails he scooped up and took to the pit where he buried all his refuse, and kicked a layer of dirt and snow over the gory mess. Returning to the shack, he spitted the carcass of the rabbit, setting it high above the fire to be sure that it did not burn while he slept. Twofeathers then spread some fresh pine straw over the dirt floor in front of the fire, and stretched out beside the child. He did not take the blanket from her, but rolled himself into a fetal position, and went instantly to sleep.

Jenny walked hesitantly toward the wall. She was full of trepidation, and every few steps she faltered. She didn't want to climb it. She was too tired. But it drew her; the black, glistening immensity of it held an irresistible allure. She must see what was on the other side. Then, to her amazement, Mr. Twofeathers stepped through the wall! From the other side! He saw her, and beckoned slowly. This added to her fear of approaching the barrier. After the way he had been treating her, she certainly didn't trust him anymore! He saw her falter, and stepped backwards into the wall; becoming a part of it, framed all around by the glistening black. How could he walk through the barricade that had defied all her best efforts, all these years?

She looked back along the long, dark corridor in her mind, and saw her Granpa, down on his knees, his hands pressed together as if praying. Tears were streaming from his tightly closed eyes. Did he want her to come back to him? Or, did he want her to try to get over the wall? After all, he had often told her that someday she would get back across it, and then she would be able to talk again. Again? She couldn't remember ever being able to talk. She tried to call out to him, to ask which way to go, but as always, the words stuck deep in her throat.

Jenny advanced, with mincing steps, toward the shiny monolith. When she glanced over her shoulder again, Granpa had disappeared. She took this as a sign of confirmation that he wanted her to finally get beyond the glistening barrier.

As she came within arm's length of the slick, black surface, the old Indian knelt in front of her, still partially inside the wall, and extended both hands, palms upward, for her to use as a step up.

In a blaze of understanding, Jenny realized why the old man had kidnapped and brought her here. He intended to help her over the barrier! She would be able to talk! Eagerly, she placed her tiny foot into his upturned hands, and stretched upward, leaning against the cool surface. The bottom of her chin pressed against the featureless slab, she gazed upward. Her fingers still seemed a long way from the top. Mr. Twofeathers then rose, keeping his hands at chest level, bringing her even higher. Still, she could not wrap her fingers around the leading edge.

Perhaps, if she squatted down, and then jumped upward with all her might, she could grasp the smooth edge and hoist herself over the top. Carefully, she lowered herself, sliding her palms along the smooth surface facing her. Her leg muscles bunched, and with every ounce of her strength and will, she leaped for the top of the wall. Her fingers slid over the lintel, and held. Slowly, she began pulling herself upward. Mr. Twofeathers was pushing on her rump, standing on his tip-toes, helping her.

As her eyes came level with the top of the wall, she began to feel the tingles of mounting fear. Did she really want to see the other side? It was not yet visible; just the gleaming, flat top, perhaps an arm length in width.

Fear built in her, becoming more insistent. It began to well up around her senses, overpowering them. She felt her arms weakening. "No, I’m almost there!" She screamed silently. She fought against the panic, but it was no use. Her fingers slowly lost their grasp, and she fell heavily.

Sluggishly, she opened her eyes. Mr. Twofeathers was just sitting up. "I must have fallen on his head, was her first half-awake thought.

The thrashing, kicking child had roused him. She no doubt had been dreaming; obviously a nightmare. He reached out a hand to her forehead, and felt the sweaty smoothness of her skin. Her eyes looked into his, imploringly. Pierre mistook the look for a plea to take her home, but in reality, she was begging forgiveness for once more failing at getting over the wall.

Pierre looked to the rabbit, turning the spit slowly. It was cooked, and he realized that he had slept longer than he had wanted to. The side of the rabbit that had been nearest the flames was somewhat blackened, and the juices sizzled out and around the burned areas.

With his knife, Pierre cut long, thin strips of meat from the carcass. He fed Jenny first, feeding the soft flesh into her mouth bite by bite until she shook her head against any more of the delicious meat. Then he ate. When he was full, he moved the remains of the rabbit even further from the fire, and wiped the grease from his knife on his blue jeans. Then he carefully inspected the gleaming blade.

Silently, he reached into his rucksack, and got his sharpening stone. He began to move the blade in soft, slow circles upon its worn surface. He enjoyed honing the blade, and soon had it to razor sharpness. He ran his thumb along the cutting edge, feeling the steel before he could see it making an indentation in his tough skin. He did not cut himself deeply, stopping at the first layer of skin. He watched it peel away from the inner, live layers, much as an onion skin will pull back from the underlying strata beneath it when split. Pierre grunted his satisfaction.

Twofeathers pulled the silent child across his lap, and rolled her now filthy, pink pajama bottoms down around her ankles. She tried to wriggle out of his grasp. Granpa had said never to let anyone see down there! Pierre held her tightly with his left hand.

"Don't make me hit you, child." He warned, his words halting, but his voice ominous. Jenny wriggled even harder, pivoting her tiny form against his firm left hand. Pierre laid the knife on the dirt floor, and firmly swatted her buttocks. She went still, twisting her neck and arching her back to look back into his face. Pierre saw indignation and fear in her eyes.

"Maybe you will understand if I tell you a story,” Pierre said. "It is an old story, about my people." He loosened the pressure of his left hand slightly, and Jenny remained still. "Maybe it will help you to understand why I must do this thing." He picked the knife up slowly, but kept it hidden from her view.

"Many, many years ago, this was the land of my people, the Tuscazoarans. They lived in peace here, taking their food from the forest and the river. The land was rich, and there was much more than they needed. The excess they traded with many other peoples." His voice became sonorous, and had the rhythm, almost, of a chant.

"White men came, and my people became their friends. They helped the whites to understand the land; how to take the food from it, and how to keep it rich. The whites gave things to us, too. They taught us their religion, which many of my people came to believe. They showed us weapons that could kill game much faster and at a greater distance than even our strongest bows. We believed them to be our brothers in spirit." Pierre rocked slowly back and forth with the tempo of his words.

"Slowly, over a long period of time, our white brothers became out big brothers. I don't know how this happened, or why it happened, but we no longer shared the land as equals. Much of it they kept apart from us, using it only for themselves. They continued to use our land, however, as if we didn't realize that they were not sharing equally. They took more from us, but gave less in return. This was the start of the troubles." Pierre paused, thinking deeply.

"Then these white men, who now considered us little brothers, wanted the Tuscazoarans to take up arms and help them fight the British. What was there for my people to gain from this? Nothing, except death and sadness. Orenda, then a minor chief, was the strongest voice in the council. He convinced the others that we should not fight beside the whites in Zoar, because then our enemy would be our real brothers, the Iroquois, who aided the British. If we joined the Iroquois, then we would have to fight our white friends in Zoar. So it was decided that the Tuscazoarans would not fight in the white man's war at all."

Jenny peered back over her shoulder at him, solemnly following the Indian's tale. She had heard this story before, but never from his unique perspective.

"Because we had not chosen to fight beside the whites of Zoar, their leaders, who had won their war without our help, were angered, and sent an army to punish our people. We were no longer little brothers, but children to be punished for not doing what our white father's told us to do!" Pierre spat the last sentence out, anger welling in him at the duplicity of the white invaders.

"General John Sullivan, and the chiefs of Zoar village; the names are Neiderhaus, Bimeler, and Schoenbrunn, conspired to not only punish the Tuscazoaran people, but to eliminate them from the land entirely. This they did. They butchered the whole tribe, sparing not even the little children."

Jenny had wriggled slowly backwards, and now had her head laid across Twofeather's knee. She watched his eyes intently, for this was the story her grandfather had recently told to Paul and Patty. But Twofeathers told the story with such an intensity of emotion that she actually felt the grief of his people, forgetting for the moment her own pain and discomfort.

"The chief who brought this misery upon the people of Tuscazoar was named Orenda, and it is he who bears the terrible guilt. He trusted the whites of Zoar, and became closer to them than to his own people. He drank their whiskey, loved their God, and believed their lies." Pierre's voice lowered, as he felt the tragedy he was describing.

"Orenda forsook the ancient spirits which had been with our people from the first day they entered this land; spirits which had lived here before there were people. He embraced the God of the white man, and forgot the lore that enabled the Tuscazoarans to survive for more years than a man can count. He led us to abandon the ways of our ancestors, and like mindless geese, the people followed him. Because of that, they all died! All except for me, and I am the last." A tear rolled down his cheek, and splattered warmly on her quivering, naked buttocks.

"All the people are now in the spirit world. Orenda too, is a spirit, but of another kind. He does not dwell in the peaceful and happy place of his ancestors. Instead, he rides the winds of winter, trying to redeem himself through vengeance upon the whites who murdered his people. To do this, he must feed upon the peace and happiness of the spirit world, leaving those who dwell there in terrible agony." Pierre shook his head in remembrance of the horrible scene Tenskwatawa had shown him.

"The vengeance Orenda seeks is wrong, for he blames the whites. It was his fault the people died; his weakness, his lust to be like the whites. The spirits of the Tuscazoarans want him to stop. They want him to enter the spirit world as he should have two hundred years ago, and live among them. They want their own revenge!"

Jenny watched the Indian's eyes fluctuate with his intense emotion. She pitied the spirits which suffered because of Orenda's stupidity, but she could not see where she fit into the story at all. It was a good story, sad and filled with emotion; but merely because her name was Bimeler did not seem justification for her being here in the center of it all. She had certainly never killed any children, and she knew that Granpa would not have even the heart to spank a child, let alone murder it.

"There is only one way that Orenda can be sent among the spirits of his people, and that is if he is killed by one of them. He must be killed while in the physical body of a host, for while he rides the Manitou, he is as invulnerable to the physical as that spirit. I am the last of his people. There is no one else; there will never be anyone else. So, I must do this!"

Pierre placed the razor sharp knife blade against the soft flesh of Jenny's buttocks. He etched slowly downwards, opening an eighth-inch deep slit of flesh from her hip line to the back of her knee. Jenny kicked convulsively, but Pierre held her tightly across his lap with his left hand. He made another incision about an inch to the left of the first. This too, began to ooze blood.

"Be strong, child. I know the pain is great. I had hoped not to have to do this. I had hoped Orenda would come to your fear alone, but he did not. We must give him something stronger, something irresistible." He etched into her other buttocks then, running the shiny blade to the back of that knee also. Blood flowed freely down her pale, trembling legs. He made a final cut beside the third, then wiped his blade clean on his pants leg.

Twofeathers lifted her in his arms, and carried her extended in front of him to the cage. Tears ran freely down her cheeks, and fell in torrents, blending with the drops of her blood caking on the dirt floor of the cage. She writhed and squirmed, but the thongs held her fast. In her mind, she shrieked; a long, keening, undulating wail. No sound passed her lips, however, for she had learned to be silent in the face of great pain and fear many years before, when the monster had attacked and killed her father.

As Twofeathers secured her again to the sides of the cage, she turned inwards, the agony forcing her conscious mind to retreat. She saw the wall, black and glistening; as implacable and ominous as ever.

Only this time, she didn't move towards it. It rushed at her, and just as it was about to smash into her frail body; it dissolved into a black, thick fog, which swirled about her. Emerging from the fog, she saw her father. She watched him die again.

John Bimeler had not died easily. Perhaps he fought so desperately to protect his daughter, or just because survival was a strong part of his nature. Whatever the reason, the result was that Jenny had managed to crawl away, wounded by the claws of the monster; cut deeply and bleeding profusely.

On her hands and torn knees, she had made it to the bank of the Tuscawarus River, and looked down into the swirling brown water. She had slipped over the edge of the bank, and into an abandoned fox den. The mud hole in the river bank had standing water in it, and wriggling things crawled over her shaking body. She peered out through a screen of overhanging grass, at the water just inches from her frightened eyes.

By the time the beast had finally finished with her father, by biting his throat out, blood and gore were so splattered about the area that it could not find, let alone follow, her trail. It had cast about in circles for hours after killing her father. Twice it came within a few feet of her hiding place, and she had seen its horrible countenance reflected in the brown water. She had smelled its musky odor, and heard the snuffling noises it made. But by remaining totally silent and unmoving, she had evaded its search. All that long, cold night she remained totally still, her only movement the soft rise and fall of her tiny chest as she breathed the air befouled by the animals that had once inhabited the mudhole-haven. She had endured, watching the muddy water flowing southward inches from her face, until she heard the excited voices of the men who found her father's shattered body.

She remembered crawling carefully out of the fox den, grasping at overhanging clumps of late fall browned grass to keep from falling into the river. She had stumbled, awkwardly because her knees and the cuts on her back ached terribly, to the small group of men who were picking up the pieces that had once been her father. One of them crouched against the trunk of a Maple tree, vomiting. She had called out to the men, but they had not heard her. She limped into the middle of the carnage, and finally one of them noticed the trembling, filthy, bloody waif.

"My God!" Was all that he had said.

"Are you all right?" Another had asked.

"Is this your Daddy?" A third questioned.

She had answered all their questions, and told them where she was hurting, but they kept asking her to repeat it. Finally, one of them asked her what her name was. She told him, but he didn't seem to hear. She said her name louder, and felt the caked mixture of mud and dried blood on her cheeks crack and break into tiny chunks, which fell at her feet. He told her to speak up. She felt her mouth moving, and the words sounded clear in her mind, but the sounds wouldn't come out of her mouth. That was when she first realized that she could not talk. The men carried her to the hospital, then, and that's all she remembered until Granpa came to take her to live at his house.

With the return of her memory, Jenny realized that the nightmare was not over. The monster was coming for her again. Tonight! Twofeathers had given the nightmare a name, and it was Orenda.

In the solitude of the cave-like cage, her memories clarified. She remembered the noises the beast had made between grunts and roars. It had spoken words which she had not understood, yet they had burned themselves so deeply into her memory that not even the wall could hide them. It had also said names. Names she now recognized as words, rather than the four wavering images she had drawn in her picture. "Bimeler, Sullivan, Neiderhaus, Schoenbrunn," It had chanted. Those moments, when it was saying the strange words, and naming the four names, she was sure the monster was human. Then it would change, and its face would contort with rage, and its eyes would glow a brilliant, burning red. Jenny shivered at the remembered image.

Pierre slowly climbed the Maple tree which overhung the cage. He checked to be sure that his stout hickory spear was still standing upright along the main trunk, wedged into the fork of the branch on which he had spent the night before. As he had the previous night, he held himself securely in place with his thighs and knees, stretched out prone along the limb.

Tonight the Manitou would come, bringing Orenda with it; drawn by the suffering of the child. Pierre could smell the little girl's blood himself, and he could almost feel the fear emanating from her tortured being.

Jenny twitched as a slight, but persistent, tickling-itching sensation began on her lower legs. It brought her back from her memories. The itching was not the feeling she associated with a healing wound. It moved in a straight line up her leg, and grew steadily in intensity until the multitude of sensation blotted out all other thought. It was as if millions of miniscule fingers tickled the skin of her legs and buttocks. In the numerous, pencil thin shafts of light which filtered wanly through the thick bramble camouflage of the cage, she saw movement on her legs. She peered closer. The dimly perceived shapes came gradually into focus, scurrying in a set of long lines. Ants!

They had been disturbed in their winter nest below the ground by Twofeather's construction of the cage, and now, the warmth generated by Jenny's prone body, coupled with the smell of her blood, had induced them to partake of this unexpected early winter windfall of food. They swarmed over her legs, each carrying a tiny bit of her caked blood in its jaws. They were not, as yet, biting her. That would come later, when all the dead flesh and bits of blood had been transported to the nest. Only then would they begin gnawing at ever so tiny bits of her living tissue. When they were finished, she knew, there would be nothing left but bones. She whimpered, and the sound of her own voice startled her.