But there is yet another wonder connected with this, which of all the phenomena of Nature, nearest approaches to the supernatural: it has uttered a sound—that beautiful sheaf of many tinted flames! Once, twice, we have heard it, or if it were not that, it was an angel's whisper! In that great solitude there is no fear of any other sound intruding to deceive our ear. There, is such deep silence over hill and dale that scarcely a leaf would dare to flutter unperceived, and the ear might start to catch the sighing of a breeze. But this faint sound, given on rare occasions by the Aurora, unlike any sound of earth, yet seems in perfect keeping with the marvellous and spiritual beauty of the phenomena, and but increases and deepens the awe with which it must ever be beheld.
But on this memorable night there was yet another sound, which from time to time broke upon the almost unearthly stillness: this was the cry of an infant, coming from the neighbourhood of Michel's camp. The little one, of whom mention has already been made, had, it seemed, been, forgotten by all, or if once thought of, there was yet no effort made to save it from the doom which, to all appearance, now awaited it,—the Indians comforting themselves with the hope that the father would look after it, and the father supposing, not unnaturally, that all his children were together taken off by their indignant friends and relatives. And so the little one, who had been but a few hours previously nestling in her mother's arms, spent that cold night of early spring unsheltered and alone on the high bank of the river whither she had crawled in the early morning hours. One could fancy its plaintive cry increasing in vehemence as the hours wore on, and cold and exhaustion overcame her, with a sense of weariness and desolation unknown, unfelt, before. There must have been a sad feeling of wonder and perplexity at the unwonted silence which reigned around her, at the absence of all familiar sounds and voices. True, her father's dogs were there, faithful watchers through the night, who had helped to keep the family in food and fuel through the long winter months, hauling the sleighs, laden with moose or deer's meat; or with good-sized fir trees, morning by morning, for their camp fires. Strong, faithful creatures they were, patient and enduring, sharing all the hardships and privations of the Indian, with a fortitude and devotion to be met with nowhere else. It would have been hard enough to tell when those four watchers of the little one had had their last good meal; the scraps awarded to most dogs seldom could be spared for them,—the very bones, picked bare by the hungry masters, were grudged them, being carefully kept, and broken and melted down for grease (that most necessary ingredient in Northern diet.) Sometimes indeed their famished nature would assert itself, and they would steal something, it might be a rabbit caught in the snare near the camp (a most tempting bait for a hungry dog) or perchance a choice piece of dried fish hung high, yet not quite high enough to miss the spring of "Capri" or "Muskimo;" or a piece of soap lately purchased of the white man, or even a scrap of moose-skin reserved as shoe leather. All helped to assuage the pangs of hunger, yet these indulgences would be dearly purchased by the inevitable cuffs and blows which followed, till the poor brutes, scarred and bleeding, were fain to creep away and hide in some hole, until the imperative call or whistle made fresh claim for their services.
How little do we know for whom we are pleading, when, morning by morning, we beseech our dear Lord to "comfort and succour all them who in this transitory life are in trouble, sorrow, need, sickness, or any other adversity!" And still less able are we to realize the countless answers to our feeble prayers already winging their way to every portion of the inhabited globe; o'er moor and fen, o'er lake and sea and prairie, in the crowded town and in the vast wilderness. Was it in blessed England, where the sun has long past the meridian; while here in the far North-West, there are but the first faint tints of early dawn:—was it in England, or in some far distant isle of the sea, or on some outward bound ship—where the sailor finds time but for a few hurried words of daily prayer—that that heartfelt petition went up, offered in the Blessed Name, which won for the helpless infant on the river-bank the succour brought her?
A small birch-bark canoe was wending its way up the river on the morning following that on which Michel's wife had met her death. It came from Fort Little Rapids, and was proceeding to Fort Simpson, some 500 miles up the rivet. There were three men in the canoe, a Cree, or Swampy Indian, in the service of the Hudson's Bay Company, and two Slaves or Etcha-Ottine of Mackenzie River. They were paddling rapidly, having lately been ashore for breakfast, and being anxious to reach Fort Simpson as soon as possible. La V.'s custom was to take the left bank of the river going up stream; but on this occasion, for no particular reason which he could give, he agreed with his men to take the right side. They had not long past the region of the smoky banks [Footnote: "The region of the smoky banks." These fires, called "Boucanes" by the Canadians, occur in several parts of the Mackenzie and Athabasca district. In the neighbourhood of Lake la Biche, and also along the miry bank, a number of jets of hot steam find vent through the mud, and make the waters of the river bubble. Above Fort Norman, on the Mackenzie, in several spots the banks give out smoke and occasionally flames. These fires have existed for ages, and are regarded with the greatest awe and superstition by the Indians. A little higher up the river there are hot springs and a small Solfaferra, like the larger one near Naples.], when a sound was heard which caused the three men simultaneously to stop their paddling and listen. It occurred again and yet again, at long intervals; one man pronounced it a dog, but La V. shook his head, and declared it to be the cry of an infant, and that he would put ashore and ascertain if it were not so. Very faint was that cry, and waxing, even as they listened, still more feeble; were it dog or infant, the cry was evidently from one in the very last stage of exhaustion. Soon, as they drew closer to the bank, the fir poles of the lately forsaken camp suggested the probability of the spot from whence the moans proceeded. The men drew to shore, and hauled up the canoe, while La V., whose curiosity was much excited, sprang out and proceeded to climb the bank. On the summit of the bank close to the edge lay four dogs; or rather they had lain there, but they all started up, and looked defiance, as soon as steps were heard approaching their charge. Close within the circle they had formed around her, lay a little bundle of rags, wrapping the now nearly lifeless form of a thirteen months old child. Apparently, the moans which had met the ears of the men in the canoe were her last, for on lifting her up in his arms, La V. could detect no signs of life. For how many hours had she lain there, without food or warmth, excepting that afforded by the dogs, who lay closely round her? But there was no time to speculate. Without a moment's delay the men cut down three or four young fir trees, and proceeded to make a fire; and La V., folding the little one in his "capot"—sat down and tried to bring back life and warmth into her. In a short, time, a kettle was boiling on the fire; tea was made, and, with womanly tenderness, a few drops were administered. After a little time the men had the comfort of seeing a favourable result of their efforts. A little natural warmth returned to the poor body, some action at the heart was perceptible, and the dark eyes opened and sought—the Mother!
That evening the three men and their small burden reached Fort Simpson, where the news of Michel's crime and the dispersion of the Indians was already known. There was no doubt now as to whose the rescued child might be, and it was touching to see how one and another of the Indian mothers came forward and offered to adopt it as her own. Yet it is no light charge for an Indian to undertake to rear a child not her own, at so tender an age; and it is especially hard in a country where milk is not to be procured, and where fish or rabbit soup is the only substitute for an infant's natural food. Minneha tried it, however, for a few weeks. She was cousin to poor Accomba, and spent whole nights in wailing and lamenting, saying, "My sister! my sister! why might I not die instead of you? Oh, my sister, who shall mother your little ones? Who shall work for them? Who shall hunt for them, and bring them the young sayoni skin (sheep skin) from the mountains? Who shall bring them meat when they are hungry—the fine fat ribs, the moose nose, or beaver tail, and the fine bladders of grease, which we cook with the flour from the white man's country? You were proud of your 'tezone' my sister. She had your eyes, dark as the berries of the sassiketoum, and they flashed fire like the aurora of winter nights. Your laugh was pleasant. Oh, my sister! like the waters dancing over the stones, it fell: it was good to listen to your words when we were partners in the days of our childhood. Our mothers dwelt together; they loved each other with sisters' love; they dwelt together among their own people. Etcha-Ottine were they, the finest of all Tinne-Zua (Indian men)! You laughed and sang, my sister, when we played in the woods together; when we cut the birch trees to make sirop in the spring time; when we sewed the rogans of the birch bark, or plaited the quills of the porcupine into belts, and made our father's gun-cases, or our own leather dresses for the Fall. Many a time we went out in the canoe together; we paddled among the islands when the berries were ripe; we spent the night in gathering the sweet ripe fruit—moose-berry and moss-berry, the little eye-berry, and the sassiketoum. In the summer we went to the Forts, and pitched our camps near the white man's house. We sold our furs to the 'big master,' and he gave us blankets and dress pieces, and beads to make us fine leggings; and tobacco, and tea, and shot, and ammunition. Then we went to the Praying man's house, and he kept school for us every day, and made us read in the big books; and told us of Niotsi N Dethe (Great God), and the poor, silly wife who listened to the bad Spirit, and stole the big berry, which God told her not to steal; and of the blessed Saviour, who was so good and came down from Heaven to save us, because He saw we were so helpless; and He loved the poor Indian as well as the white man, and, told the praying men to come and seek after us, and pour water on us, and say good words for us. Those were good days, my sister! Why did they not last? Why did bad Michel come and take you away in his canoe? So many wanted you; they wanted you much, and they would have been kind and good to you. Tene Sla asked the big master for you, and I think he would have got you, but for your mother, who said he was not a good hunter; and Nagaja wanted you, and Jemmy, the Loucheux boy; but your father was dead, and your mother said you must take a man who would hunt for her, and bring her meat; and so bad Michel came and took you away to the Praying man and to Yazete Koa (the church), and you became his wife. For a time he was kind and good to you, my sister, and be loved his children, and was a fine hunter. Many bears did he track in the woods: he had a hunter's eye, and could see them from far, and a hunter's ear to catch the faintest sound of their feet. He would bring you deer's meat, killed by the first shot. No one could say that Michel gave his children meat that had run long, and was heated and bad for food. He would bring rats in the spring time. When the water spread upon the ice, by the water side, he would track them: fleet-footed are they, and glide swiftly into their hole; but Michel was swifter than they. When Michel sank hooks in the lake, the fish came, fine trout from Bear Lake you have eaten; it was hard for you to lift it, my sister; its head was a meal for the little ones; the best for your tezone, the best for your tezone. But, ah! my sister, you have left it now. Oh! cruel Michel has made his children motherless! The baby looks pitiful—it looks pitiful: it stretches out its hands for its mother's breast; it longs to taste the sweet draughts of milk. Ah! Accomba, my sister, my partner, why did cruel Michel come and take you from my side?"
Another cry of sorrow was heard from Sarcelle, the brother of Accomba, that same night, and on the day following. The poor fellow was half distracted at the loss of his sister, more especially as she seemed to have anticipated her fate, and to have prepared her friends for it. Sarcelle's first impulse was to seize his gun and launch his canoe, and to sally forth in pursuit of Michel; but he was a Christian Indian, having been baptized at the little English Church at Fort Simpson, and further instructed at the Mission School. The conflict going on in his own mind between the desire to avenge his sister's death, and the higher impulses which his Christian faith suggested, were very touching. It ended in his throwing down his gun, and bowing his head on his hands while he sobbed aloud, "My sister, my sister, I would fight for you; I would avenge your cruel death, but the Praying man says we must forgive as God forgives us. I throw down my gun; I listen to the Good Spirit speaking to my heart; but oh, it is hard, it is hard, my sister, I can see no light in this; I feel unmanly to let him go free, who shot my sister to the heart, who made her shed tears, and did not comfort her; who made her the mother of his children, and left them all so pitiful, with the little one lying helpless upon the river side, and only the dogs to guard her. I feel unmanly, unworthy of a 'Tene Jua,' but 'Niotsi N Dethe' make it plain to me; oh, make me see how I can be a true man, and yet forgive!"
* * * * *
It was but a few weeks after Minneha had received the rescued infant, and promised to be a mother to it, that she discovered that she had undertaken more than she was able to fulfil. It required no very searching eye to perceive that the little one was not thriving; in truth, she was dwindling away day by day, and those who were in the habit of visiting the Camp gazed sadly at the little pinched face and shrivelled limbs, and foreboded that it would not be long before Michel's child rejoined its mother in the 'silent land.' "Owindia" was the name given by the Indians to their deceased sister's child; and in truth, Owindia, "weeping one," was well suited to the frail creature who since that terrible night was continually uttering a feeble moan unlike an ordinary infant's cry, but which appealed to all hearts by its thrilling tones.
One day a little bundle was brought to the English Mission House at Fort Simpson, by Sinclia, daughter of Minneha. The following message accompanied the bundle, which was none other than the poor little Owindia, smaller and more fragile-looking than ever: "I am sick; I cannot work for the child; you take her." And so it happened, that after all his horror of the white man, and his shrinking from intercourse with any of his kind, Michel should be destined by his own act, to have his child received into the white man's house, and to find there in all loving care and tender offices the home of which he had deprived her.
Owindia still lives, and is become a strong and active child, full of spirit and intelligence, with all the marvellous powers of observation which mark the Indian. She was baptized by the Bishop "Lucy May," but her name "Owindia" still clings to her, a fitting memorial of the sad episode in her infant life, and of those long seventeen hours [Footnote: The Indians have a wonderful knack of measuring time by the sun and moon—"In two moons and when the sun is there" (indicating a certain point in the heavens), would be an Indian's version of "two months hence at three o'clock p.m.">[ when, forsaken by all her earthly friends, God sent His blessed angels to keep watch and ward around her, to guard her from perishing from the cold and hunger, from the attack of wild beasts, from falling down the steep river bank, or any other danger which threatened the little fragile life. Surely by His Providence was the timely succour brought out of its wonted course, and the relief administered which one half-hour later would in all probability have come too late!