Free Adventures of Radisson by Martin Fournier Page B

The raw meat they wolfed down restored some of their energy. On the third day, he returned empty-handed, and on the fourth day of his dissent, as Radisson was getting ready to venture out despite the furious looks from Negamabat, he saw three Iroquois canoes coming toward them. From the ridge where they had set up their camp, well back from the shore, they could see that the Iroquois were wearing war paint. They were paddling slowly, looking around them intently. One of their canoes moved toward the shore, another skirted past an islet. They were on the lookout… on the lookout
for
them
, no doubt. A feeling of terror washed over Radisson. Even though their canoe was well hidden, it would not have taken much for them to be discovered and massacred. From that moment on, he gave up hunting during the day and stayed hidden instead. Not moving a muscle.
    The following night, beneath a pale quarter moon, the two fugitives carefully made their way across a large, dark lake to flee as far away as possible. Along the way they could make out the flames of an Iroquois campfire in the distance and hear disjointed chanting. It sounded angry, threatening.
    As the days passed, Radisson felt his strength abandoning him. In his exhaustion he replayed the fatal blow he dealt Serontatié over and over in his mind, and saw the moment when he tried to dislodge the tomahawk from his friend’s skull. In his nightmare, he could never manage to do it. It stayed there forever, as though the irreparable could never be forgotten. The murder haunted Radisson like no other event in his life. Cold, heavy, uninterrupted rain only added to his distress. The two were terribly cold. But they dared not light a fire, lest the Iroquois spot it. Their powder was damp, useless. Now they were weaponless and more vulnerable than ever.
    Radisson and Negamabat spent a hellish night hurtling through rapids they could not see in the dark. At every moment, their lives were in danger. But perhaps there was a god for fugitives, for they made it through the night unscathed. The next day, after they had recovered a little, Radisson gnawed at a few bitter roots before spending the rest of the day stretched out on his back. He was careful not to get too close to Negamabat, whom he both cursed and thanked God for, depending on the hour of the day. His eyes turned heavenward, he saw his whole life flash before him, as though in a dream. He thought about his father, his real father back in France, who disappeared without a word of explanation and was never seen again. Perhaps he was kidnapped, or murdered, or killed in an accident. Radisson was now more aware of these possibilities, whereas before he had always believed his father had abandoned him, his mother, and his younger sister. Life could be so unpredictable, so fragile. But whether his father disappeared of his own volition or not did not change the pain he felt. His thoughts that day could not heal the wound. Then and there, Radisson swore that if he ever reached Trois-Rivières alive, never again would he let anyone dictate his life. Never again would a Negamabat push him around or tell him what to do. He would seize his life by the scruff of the neck and make it his own, as if breaking in a horse.
    Radisson and the Algonquin at last reached the St. Lawrence. By this time, the lights and shadows of the night were playing tricks on Radisson. He was completely exhausted, mentally and physically. But he found hope. A few more hours paddling and he would be saved. Unfortunately, day dawned on them still far from Trois-Rivières. They would have to resign themselves once more to hiding for a whole day. They waded through the long grass of Lake Saint-Pierre to hide their canoe. They made it to the muddy bank— back where it all began —when despair engulfed Radisson.
    After a long pause, Negamabat broke their self-imposed rules and told Radisson to wait for him there while he went on to