Free Our Story: Aboriginal Voices on Canada's Past by Tantoo Cardinal Page A

was surprised to find her laughing, a dry, mirthless, bitter sort of laughter.
    â€œI told you how I taught the Shining One our language,” she said. “But I learned some of his, too. The Tunit call the giants Siaraili because that is what they shout as they attack. The Tunit think that this is what the giants call themselves. But shall I tell you what they are really shouting? They shout ‘Skraeling!’ because they are calling to the Tunit, in mockery. It is their word for ‘weakling.’ They call the Tunit Skraelings,because they never fight, but simply run, and run, and run. As well they should. For the Shining One’s people have spent generations at war. They have grown fond of it. How could a community of Tunit contend with even a few of those born of conflict, armed with materials harder than stone? This is why the giants run through the camp playfully, kicking walls in, slashing at everything blades can reach. This is fun for them. Afterward, they gorge themselves on whatever they find in camp, washing it down with a harsh tea they are fond of.”
    Kannujaq was silent. Siaq was right. There would be no standing against the giants, not even with their own artifacts. These were the men whose ship prow was carved like a beast, like a wolf. And that was how they attacked. The Tunit were like caribou. They were all caribou. And the sea raiders were wolves.
    Wolves. Siaq was stuffing more heather into the fire when Kannujaq asked her, “How does a Tunik hunt a wolf?”
    â€œThey don’t,” she said. “Wolf pelts, among the Tunit, are rare and valuable, because it is almost impossible to get near enough to a wolf to kill it.”
    But Kannujaq knew how his own people hunted them.
    You did not catch a wolf by running it down, nor by ambushing it. The creatures were too wily. They could sense humans, evading them every time. Instead, you used a wolf’s habits against it. The wolf was like a dog. If it found food lying about, it would stuff itself with as much as its gut could carry, eating faster than it could think. So what Kannujaq’s people did was this: Soften some sharpened antler. Bend and tie it. Freeze it into the centre of a piece of meat or fat. Invariably, the wolf would swallow it down. The meat and ties would melt and digest inside the wolf. The sharpened antler would spring open. Dead wolf.
    Siku walked in while Kannujaq was trying to explain this to Siaq. He seemed to grasp immediately what Kannujaq was implying and began to rummage through his bags. In a few moments, he had retrieved a handful of dried, ugly, greyish lumps.
    â€œIs that what you burn in the fire to make people sleepy?” Kannujaq asked.
    â€œThat’s a mushroom,” Siaq said grimly, “that is very dangerous. It can make one permanently stupid—even kill, if used improperly. But an
angakoq
, like myself or Siku, can prepare small amounts of it properly.”
    â€œBut if we made a solution of the stuff,” Siku grinned, “it would be very deadly, indeed.”
    â€œIs there enough to saturate some meat with?” Kannujaq asked.
    â€œI have three bags here,” said Siku.
    Siaq ran off to retrieve her own stores.
    It took a little over a day to ready everything, and the Tunit needed a great deal of convincing. Kannujaq was adamant about securing their promise that they would help out. Everyone’s movements were orchestrated and rehearsed. The homes nearest the beach were left abandoned, storage areas full of meat. As many Tunit as possible would share homes nearest the hills, allowing them a head start if the raiders were sighted. They were not to move far, but only to take cover near the base of the hills.
    Kannujaq alone would creep back to the camp to see if the Shining One’s men took the bait. If so, he would signal.
    There was no back-up plan.
    The days were long now, so it was late evening when the Shining One returned in creeping