XXIV
THE MESSENGER
They looked at the Indian in awed and speechless horror. His tale of suffering was told before he spoke. He had come from a land of Tragedy. He had been stalking side by side with Death.
This was a mere shadowy caricature of the Mookoomahn Bob had known. The face was fleshless as that of a skeleton head, with the skin of the former inhabitant stretched and dried upon the bones; the lips so shrunken that they scarcely served to cover the two white lines of teeth; the eyes deep fallen into gaping cavities below the frontal bone.
Drawing his skeleton hands from their mittens, and raising them in an imploring gesture, Mookoomahn looked, as he stood there in the dim candlelight under the low log ceiling, more a spectre–a ghostly phantom visitor–than a living human being.
Then he spoke in a voice low and broken:
"White Brother of the Snow, Mookoomahn has long been tormented by the Spirit of Hunger. When he slept the Spirit of Starvation sat by his side, never sleeping. When he travelled the Spirit of Starvation stalked at his heels, never tiring. For many suns the Spirit of Death has had his cold fingers on Mookoomahn's shoulder."
Gently Bob removed the caribou-skin coat from the starving and exhausted traveller, and made him comfortable while the others brewed tea and heated some cold boiled ptarmigan in the pan.
"'Twon't do t' give he much at first," cautioned Dick Blake, setting before Mookoomahn a small portion of the meat and a small piece of bread with a cup of the hot tea. "He's like t' be wonderful sick, anyway, th' carefullest we is. We'll let he have a small bit at a time, an' let he have un often."
No questions were asked until after the Indian had eaten. It seemed almost that no questions were necessary. The man had come alone. He was in the last stages of starvation. These facts spoke loudly enough. They told the tale of wasting strength, of hopeless struggle, of tragic death that had taken place in the bleak wild wastes above.
The food revived and the tea stimulated Mookoomahn, and when he spoke again, in answer to Bob's urgent request that he tell them of the fate of Shad and the others, his voice was stronger.
He described the journey to the Lake of Willows, and thence to the camp of starving Indians. He told how the shaman had made medicine to the spirits; how the spirits had revealed to the shaman the things that it was required the Indians do; how the Indians in their starved condition were not able to fulfil the requirements laid upon them by the spirits; and how in consequence the wrath of the spirits was not placated.
He described the journey to the cache on the northern lake; Sishetakushin's instructions, and gift of Manikawan to White Brother of the Snow; of the parting from Sishetakushin.
Vividly he detailed the long and tedious return to the Great Lake; and how the angry spirits reaching up had seized Shad, cast him into the snow, and lamed him.
"The friend of White Brother of the Snow could not walk. The Matchi Manitu had wounded his knee. Manikawan, the sister of Mookoomahn, had promised White Brother of the Snow that she would not leave his friend until he came.
"Mookoomahn told Manikawan White Brother of the Snow would not hold her to her promise. That White Brother of the Snow did not mean that she should die for his friend.
"Manikawan would not listen to Mookoomahn, and she said: 'When White Brother of the Snow comes he will find Manikawan waiting with his friend. She has promised. If the Spirit of Death comes into the lodge, White Brother of the Snow will find Manikawan's body with the body of his friend, and he will know that Manikawan kept her word.'
"Seven suns ago Mookoomahn left the lodge. He travelled slowly, for the spirits clung to his feet and made them heavy. The spirits tripped him and made him fall often. He killed three ptarmigans as he travelled, and the flesh of the ptarmigans made him strong to reach the lodge of White Brother of the Snow.
"For seven suns the friend of White Brother of the Snow and Manikawan have had no food. The Spirit of Death stood very near the lodge when Mookoomahn left it. The Spirit of Death has entered the lodge and destroyed Manikawan and the friend of White Brother of the Snow."
With this sombre prophecy Mookoomahn ceased speaking, and leaned back exhausted. As they looked at him they could appreciate the sufferings of Shad and Manikawan, and no great stretch of the imagination was necessary to picture the gruesome spectacle that they had no doubt awaited them in the lodge on the Great Lake.
XXV
A MISSION OF LIFE AND DEATH
Bob's face had grown pale and tense as he listened. With Mookoomahn's last words he rose from the edge of the bunk where he had seated himself, and turning to Ed Matheson, asked:
"Be you goin' with me, Ed? Th' moon's good for travellin', an' I knows th' way."
"That I be," Ed responded, beginning his preparation at once. "I couldn't be restin' here a minute knowin' them poor souls was dyin' out there."
"I'm goin', too," declared Dick Blake, reaching for his adicky. "Three can travel faster'n two, by changin' off in th' lead."
"What you doin', Bill, with your a dicky, now?" Ed suddenly asked, observing that Bill Campbell was also drawing on his adicky. "Goin'," answered Bill laconically.
"No, Bill, you better stay here with th' Injun," directed Ed. "Somebody'll have t' stay with he. If they don't, by to-morrer he'll get eatin' so much he'll kill hisself if he ain't watched.
"You stay an' keep an eye on he. Give he just a small bit t' a time, till he gets over th' first sickness. He'll be wonderful sick t'-night, an' for a week, but sick's he is, by day after t'-morrer he'll be wonderful hungry, an' want t' eat everything in sight, an' more too, an' if he eats too much 'twill kill he sure. His belly'll be givin' he trouble for a month yet, whatever, two ways–wantin' t' stuff un, an' makin' he sick because he does."
Bill Campbell was plainly disappointed, but there was no doubt Ed was right, and laying aside his adicky he uncomplainingly assumed the role of nurse to which Ed had assigned him.
The men set forth in haste upon their mission of life and death. The moon, a white, cold patch, lay against the steel-blue sky. The snow, thick coated with frost, glittered and scintillated in the moonlight. A silence impressive, complete, tense, lay upon the frozen white world. It spoke of death, as the bated breath of the storm, before it breaks, speaks of calamity.
The three trappers, who had entered the tilt that evening wearied from the day's labour upon the trail, forgot their weariness as they swung forward at a rapid pace toward the camp on the Great Lake.
First one, then another, took the lead, breaking the trail and making it easier for those who followed. To men less inured to hardship and less accustomed to wilderness travel, it would have been a killing pace, continued unabated, unvarying, hour after hour.
At length the moon, falling near the western horizon, threatened quickly to withdraw her light; and then a halt was called, the tent quickly stretched between two convenient trees, the sheet-iron stove set up, a fire lighted, a few boughs spread for a bed, and the men stretched themselves for a two hours' rest.
They were up again before light, a hurried breakfast was eaten, and with daybreak they were away. Seldom was a word spoken. Each was occupied with his own thoughts, and each was stingy of his breath. To have talked would have been to expend energy.
Only once during the day did they halt, early in the evening, to make tea and partake of much-needed refreshment, and then were quickly on their way again, continuing by moonlight.
It was past midnight when, Ungava Bob in the lead, crossing a barren rise, beheld the smooth white surface of the Great Lake stretching far away to the northward. Descending the ridge and plunging into the thin forest below, he turned with a nameless dread at his heart toward the lodge where, three months before, he had said farewell to Shad and Manikawan. Then they were in the full exuberance of health and strength. How should he find them now? He dared not answer the question.
A little farther, and the lodge, a black blot on the snow, loomed up through the trees. Quickening his pace, he peered anxiously ahead for smoke, half hoping, wholly dreading, the result. Yes, there it was! The merest whiff rising above the protruding lodge poles at the top! At least one lived!
Bob broke into a run, the others at his heels, and, scarcely halting to drop the hauling rope of his toboggan from his shoulders, he lifted the flap and entered, calling as he did so:
"Shad! Shad! Manikawan! Does you hear me?"
The place was dark. The smouldering embers of a fire gave out no light, and receiving no answer Bob shouted to the others to bring a candle. Ed Matheson had anticipated the need, and, close at Bob's side, struck a light.
XXVI
"GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN THAN THIS"
As the candle sputtered for a moment and then flared up, it revealed, lying prone on opposite sides of the lodge, feet to the embers of the dying fire, two human wrecks, whose emaciated features and shrunken forms could never have been recognised as those of Shad and Manikawan.
Bob stooped, and taking Shad gently by the shoulder shook him, saying as he did so:
"Shad! Shad! Shad!"
Slowly Shad, awakening from deep and exhausting slumber, opened his cavernous eyes and stared vacantly at Bob.
"Shad!" Bob repeated. "'Tis Bob an' Ed an' Dick come for you! Shad! We has grub, Shad!"
Still Shad gave no sign of recognition.
"Shad! Shad!" pleaded Bob. "Don 't you know me now, Shad?"
Then light came into Shad's face, and he forced himself to a sitting position.
"Bob! Oh, Bob!" he exclaimed, in a weak voice. "Am I awake or is it just a dream? Oh, Bob! Good old Bob! And Ed! and Dick! I was dreaming of you and the tilts. The dear old tilts! And you've come! You've really come? I heard you calling, Bob–days and days and days I heard you, and I answered. But my voice was too weak, and you couldn't hear.
"We've been in hell, Bob! In hell! The devils chased us, Bob–chased us for months and months and months. They looked like wolves, Bob–hungry, ugly wolves. I shot one! Yes, shot it! We ate it, and it was good! Ate the devil, Bob! and Ed! and Dick! Are you angels from heaven, or really you?"
"A bit o' tea's what he needs first thing," suggested Ed, in a shaky voice, as Shad paused in his ramblings. "Dick, you cut some wood, now, an' I'll be fillin' th' kettle with ice an' get un over. Bob better be stayin' right here."
"Bob!" Shad continued, as Dick and Ed passed out of the lodge. "Is it really you, Bob?"
His voice was now more rational, though very weak.
"Yes, Shad, 'tis me."
"How is Manikawan, Bob? Look after her, won't you? I'm all right now. I've tried to keep her out of the deep sleeps she falls into. I've been afraid she'd die. But I was very tired, and I think I must have been very sound asleep myself–and slept for hours. Leave me, Bob, and wake her up. I'm all right."
Bob obediently passed over to Manikawan, leaving Shad sitting and anxiously watching him.
It seemed for a time that he was not to succeed in rousing Manikawan from the coma-like sleep into which she had passed. But when Dick placed wood upon the fire, and the lodge began to warm, she displayed symptoms of waking; and Bob lifted her head to his shoulder, chafed her temples, and spoke her name over and over again. At last she opened her eyes, and with almost instant recognition smiled:
"White Brother of the Snow–Manikawan is glad you have come. It has–been–long–but Manikawan knew–White Brother of the Snow–would come at last–she did not–leave his friend."
Then she paused, exhausted, but presently continued:
"Manikawan told–White Brother of the Snow–she would–stay until he came–for his friend."
"Manikawan has done well. She has been very brave. She is a Ne-ne-not (Nascaupee), and brave." Bob could trust himself to say no more, for his voice was thick.
Manikawan's eyes lighted at these words of praise, and, never taking them from Bob's face, she lay silent upon his shoulder until the food was ready.
Ed Matheson gave some tea and a small portion of broiled ptarmigan and bread to Shad, while Bob held the cup for Manikawan, then fed her some morsels of the meat as one would have fed a child. It was difficult for her to eat, though the tea stimulated her temporally, and she began presently to speak again, in a scarcely audible voice:
"The Spirit–of Hunger–followed us. The Gaunt Gray–Wolf–was–always–behind–us. The–Spirit–of–Death–stood–at–the–door–of the–lodge. The spirits–were–strong–and cunning–like–the wolverine–Manikawan–was–weak–like a rabbit."
She was out of breath again and had to rest, and Bob held the cup of tea to her lips. With renewed strength she continued:
"Manikawan–killed–two ptarmigans–with–her–arrow. She–ate–the–entrails–but she–gave–the meat–to the friend–of White Brother of–the Snow. She was–not afraid–to die. She–could–not say to–White Brother–of the Snow–when he came–'The Spirit–of Death–has–entered–the lodge–and–taken–your–friend.'"
There was another pause. Bob could see, and Ed and Dick could see that the Spirit of Death was even then in the lodge, and that his cold hand was upon Manikawan's brow. Tears trickled down Bob's cheeks. He could not check them.
"White–Brother–of–the–Snow–must–not–feel–bad. He–must–be–strong. Manikawan–is–happy. She–is–warm–as–when–the–sun–grows–brave–in–summer–and–comes–to–warm–the–earth."
A smile played upon her lips.
"Manikawan–is–very–happy. She–sees–a–light–like–the–rising–sun. White–Brother–of–the–Snow–"
That was the end. Bob's cheeks were wet as he laid the lifeless form upon its couch of boughs, and gently covered it with a deerskin robe; and tears streamed down the weather-beaten cheeks of the two rough trappers standing at his side.
Manikawan was not a Christian. She had never heard of Christ and His saving grace. But dare any say He did not welcome her to His Father's house?
She had renounced her own hope of life by remaining behind in the lodge when Mookoomahn left them. In the name of love and duty she had made the supreme sacrifice–she had laid down her life for another–and Christ hath said: "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends."
And, after all, did Manikawan not worship the same God that you and I worship? Standing upon the high pinnacle of rock, looking toward the rising sun, she offered a silent prayer to the Great Mystery, that she might be made nobler, braver, and more generous–worthy to stand in the presence of the Great Mystery–the Maker of heaven and earth and all things.
We call Him God. Manikawan called Him the Great Mystery.
XXVII
SHAD'S TRIBUTE TO THE INDIAN MAIDEN
Though Shad's weakness caused him to wobble woefully when he walked, his knee had much improved since the day of his injury.
The food, given him in small portions at frequent intervals, and the assurance of continued life that the appearance of the rescuers brought, stimulated his body to new strength and restored to him his mental equilibrium. Hope is life, and one possessed of a large degree of hope, coupled with a good physique, may withstand a tremendous amount of hardship and privation.
The very presence of Manikawan during the long period of enforced inactivity and waiting, had kept alive in Shad Trowbridge the hope that Mookoomahn might after all reach the river tilt and send his friends to the rescue before it was too late. Had it not been for this, it is scarcely probable he would have survived until they came.
The few Indian words which Shad had acquired had not been sufficient to permit him to carry on connected conversation with Manikawan or the other Indians. Denied this privilege for so long, he talked almost incessantly to the three trappers, while the four sat through the hours until daybreak, keeping vigil with Death. He talked of the prospect of continued life, and what a blessed thing it was to know that he was still to be in and of the great and glorious world; of his trying experiences since he had joined the Indians.
With dawn the tent was pitched among the trees, not far from the lodge. Then they removed to its more comfortable shelter, with Bob walking at Shad's side to steady his uncertain footsteps.
Shad was sick, and suffered severely from nausea that day–and at intervals, indeed, for several days thereafter–a result that always follows the introduction of food into the contracted stomach after a long period of starvation, particularly when the food is of coarse quality and unsuitably prepared.
Almost immediately, too, his legs began to swell. But this disturbed him little. It was merely an incident and another result of his long period of starvation, quite to be expected.
"Don't worry about un none," advised Ed Matheson, when Shad called attention to the phenomenon. "Injuns as starves always gets swelled legs, an' they stays swelled for quite a bit, too. Just forget un now. You'll be all right so long's you don't get too rapid wi' th' grub, an' set you'm belly swellin' too fast."
"Ed," said Shad, "after what I've been through, I think there's nothing would alarm me much. It doesn't disturb me in the least to have my legs swell. I'm rather proud of them. They contrast beautifully with the rest of me, and give me a certain sense of stability that otherwise I should not have, for they're the only part of me that looks in the least natural. Do you hear my bones rattle when I move? I have a presentment that, unless I'm pretty careful, my skeleton will fall apart before I get flesh enough to hold it together."
"Now that's th' way I likes t' see folk!" exclaimed Ed. "Not growlin' like a bear because they looks summat like a dead man, an' because they has a bit o' ache in their insides every time they eats. You'm do look as though you'm just rize from th' grave. But you'm a wonderful live corpse yet, Shad. A man may's well be happy even if he do feel like all creation turned inside out, 'specially when he knows he ain't goin' t' keep feelin' that way. A man is just as happy as he's thinkin' he is, an' no happier, an' as miserable as he's thinkin' he is an' no miserabler. I finds bein' happy an' content wi' things is just a matter o' th' way o' lookin' at un."
"Yes, Ed, I think you're right," agreed Shad. "I'm finding no fault. I'm thankful to be alive and in the beautiful world, and I'm very much contented with my lot. I would be very happy, too, but for the thought of that poor little Indian girl."
The earth, frozen to adamantine hardness, precluded the possibility of digging a grave during the winter season. Therefore, after the manner of her people, a platform of poles, high raised above the snow, was built among the spruce trees to receive Manikawan's body.
It was late in the afternoon when the platform was completed and the four weatherbeaten men again entered the silent lodge, where they were to conduct a simple, primitive funeral service, and give Manikawan the rites of Christian burial before raising her body to the platform.
Bob, who never was separated from the little Testament his mother had given him years before, drew the book from his pocket when they had seated themselves in the lodge, and opening to John xv, passed it to Shad, who, accepting it, read the chapter aloud in a low but clear voice, while the others reverently listened.
[Transcriber's note: John XV:12-13–"This is my commandment: love one another as I love you. No one has greater love than this, to lay down one's life for one's friends."]
"Bob," said Shad at length, closing the Testament, "you knew her first. Tell us about her."
Responding, Bob described how Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn, finding him unconscious in the snow, had carried him to their lodge–the very lodge in which they were now sitting; and how upon first opening his eyes to consciousness he had seen her, weaving the web of a snowshoe, opposite him, across the fire–just where she was lying now; and she had looked up and smiled when she discovered he was awake. And then, ever gentle, ever considerate, she had nursed him to health, and ministered to him until he had left them.
When Bob had finished, Shad spoke of her never-failing thoughtfulness and consideration. Of the encouragement of her example as, uncomplaining, she followed the weary, endless trail day after day. Of her hand lightly laid upon his shoulder as she looked into his eyes and spoke words of encouragement he could not understand, but which never failed to call him back to himself and his manhood and to banish an impulse which frequently assailed him to give up the fight for life, lie down in the snow and accept the release from suffering which Death offered.
"But her crowning sacrifice," said Shad, "came when she refused to leave me alone to die; and I certainly could not have survived had I been left in this lodge without human companionship.
"Manikawan could have gone on with Mookoomahn and saved herself. He went to you and told you of our need. He did well, but he did it mainly to save himself. It was the instinct of self-preservation that gave him inspiration to accomplish it. But she remained, and remaining she gave me the only food that fell to her arrow, while she starved. That was divine unselfishness–divine sacrifice."
Stepping to the side of Manikawan's lifeless body, he lifted and laid aside the skin robe which covered her face, then kneeling at her side, with tears upon his cheeks, he continued:
"Manikawan, your skin was red, but your soul was as white as the driven snow that covers the desolate land of your people. Your features are shrunken with starvation and suffering, but still they are beautiful, for they reflect the beautiful, unselfish soul which they once sheltered.
"Your lips smile. Did you see the glory of heaven as you passed from us–a thousand times more beautiful than the brilliant aurora or the gorgeous sunsets that glorify the skies of this land of awful desolation where you existed? Did you see the light of the Eternal City shining through its gates when they were opened to receive you?"
As though in answer to Shad's question the last rays of the setting sun dropped through the open top of the lodge and rested upon the upturned face of the dead Indian maiden in a bright, illuminating glow.
"Manikawan, you sacrificed your life to duty and to human sympathy. You died a Christ-like death, and your sacrifice shall not be wasted. Your body is dead, but your spirit still lives.
"So long as the breath of life is in me, Manikawan, I shall never forget your example of patience and encouragement and self-effacement. It has built for me new ideals. It has taught me that there are other things to live for than the mere attainment of pleasure and the gratification of selfish desires.
"You were an Indian, Manikawan, and the world would have called you a pagan and a savage. But you have pointed out to me the way to a nobler and better life."
Shad arose and resumed his seat. He had spoken in a voice of tense earnestness, and for a little while all sat in awed silence. Then Ed Matheson began to sing, and the others joined him:
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in thee."
With the last notes of the grand old hymn they all knelt, while big Dick Blake, in a voice shaken with emotion, offered a short but fervent prayer.
Manikawan's body was wrapped tightly in deerskin robes, and in the darkening twilight of the cold winter evening it was reverently borne to the newly erected platform among the spruce trees. Here it was to lie exposed to winds and storms, but beyond the reach of marauding animals, until the next summer's sun should warm and soften the earth sufficiently to permit Mookoomahn and the trappers to dig a grave and lay it in its final resting-place.