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When the Haida moved, they moved as
thunder. Their feet pounded upon the earth as steady as the cadence from their
deerskin drums. During battle, their red cedar armor seemed to glow like the
skin of Ta'xet, the God of warrior death, and their wooden helmets masked
everything but their determined, violent eyes.
Tonight, two of these eyes burned brighter than usual. For today was the anniversary of the death of a dear friend to the Haida. Today, one year had passed since Claude-Benoit De Saint Ouen had been killed fighting the Tsimshian. One year had passed since his pale skin had been blessed by the shaman and his body crushed into the small wooden box atop the community longhouse. It had been one year since Kúng Xa and Táan Gadáang had taken the blame for the Trader's death. They had been beaten, marked and almost executed. De Saint Ouen had been a close friend to the Haida. He had shown them the power of black powder and shot, brought them good medicine when the diphtheria had taken their children and had shown them that some of these Europeans could be trusted. Táan Gadáang and Kúng Xa had blamed each other for the death of the Frenchman. They each knew in their hearts that his death had been the fault of the other, and their feud was well known by every member of the tribe.
Kúng Xa readied his spear; fire had burned in his heart every day since the trader had died, but tonight the white man's death would be avenged, and his honor would be renewed. Tonight, during the blood and the chaos, amongst the death of battle he would kill Táan Gadáang. The Tsimshian camp was within sight and thin wisps of smoke exhaled into the heavens, a beacon for the approaching Haida. He glanced across the war party, the engraved armor showed the totems of war: the bear, the wolf, fire. At the other end of the party ran Táan Gadáang, his armor showed the face of Ta'xet across the breastplate. That is where Kúng Xa's spear would enter; that is how he would die.
In an instant they were at the Tsimshian camp. Stones and spears flew unfettered into eyes and mouths. The shaman had already damned the Tsimshian spirits; there would be no eternal peace for them. Kúng Xa made his way across the camp, slaking his bloodlust as he ran. When his spear was lost he brought the long, gunstock club from his side and began swinging it wildly. A Tsimshian fell in a spray of blood, his eyes disappearing behind the crimson mask. Suddenly a flash of white and searing pain: Kúng Xa was pinned against the Tsimshian longhouse by a long, metal tipped spear. The iron head had pierced his left shoulder and buried deep into the wooden side of the shelter. The thrower strode quickly towards Kúng Xa, a short, ugly knife clutched tightly in his bony fingers, brutality in his eyes.
Kúng Xa knew his death was imminent. The Tsimshian opened his mouth; an unexpected spurt of blood ran down his chin and dripped onto the ground. With a sickening wetness, the spear was pulled from the warrior’s back. He fell down to reveal the emotionless face of Táan Gadáang. Kúng Xa stared in disbelief at the young Haida. Moments earlier he had swore to kill this man, and now this man had saved his life. He realized in that moment that even this man, this man whom he had hated and eventually hunted was a Haida, a warrior of his own blood, kin and kind. He could no sooner kill him then kill himself.
Táan Gadáang raised his spear. He had been waiting for this moment for four seasons. No one would question Kúng Xa's death, another Haida casualty of war, another body for the pit. He squeezed his white knuckles against the leather wrapped cedar. At last.
Tonight, two of these eyes burned brighter than usual. For today was the anniversary of the death of a dear friend to the Haida. Today, one year had passed since Claude-Benoit De Saint Ouen had been killed fighting the Tsimshian. One year had passed since his pale skin had been blessed by the shaman and his body crushed into the small wooden box atop the community longhouse. It had been one year since Kúng Xa and Táan Gadáang had taken the blame for the Trader's death. They had been beaten, marked and almost executed. De Saint Ouen had been a close friend to the Haida. He had shown them the power of black powder and shot, brought them good medicine when the diphtheria had taken their children and had shown them that some of these Europeans could be trusted. Táan Gadáang and Kúng Xa had blamed each other for the death of the Frenchman. They each knew in their hearts that his death had been the fault of the other, and their feud was well known by every member of the tribe.
Kúng Xa readied his spear; fire had burned in his heart every day since the trader had died, but tonight the white man's death would be avenged, and his honor would be renewed. Tonight, during the blood and the chaos, amongst the death of battle he would kill Táan Gadáang. The Tsimshian camp was within sight and thin wisps of smoke exhaled into the heavens, a beacon for the approaching Haida. He glanced across the war party, the engraved armor showed the totems of war: the bear, the wolf, fire. At the other end of the party ran Táan Gadáang, his armor showed the face of Ta'xet across the breastplate. That is where Kúng Xa's spear would enter; that is how he would die.
In an instant they were at the Tsimshian camp. Stones and spears flew unfettered into eyes and mouths. The shaman had already damned the Tsimshian spirits; there would be no eternal peace for them. Kúng Xa made his way across the camp, slaking his bloodlust as he ran. When his spear was lost he brought the long, gunstock club from his side and began swinging it wildly. A Tsimshian fell in a spray of blood, his eyes disappearing behind the crimson mask. Suddenly a flash of white and searing pain: Kúng Xa was pinned against the Tsimshian longhouse by a long, metal tipped spear. The iron head had pierced his left shoulder and buried deep into the wooden side of the shelter. The thrower strode quickly towards Kúng Xa, a short, ugly knife clutched tightly in his bony fingers, brutality in his eyes.
Kúng Xa knew his death was imminent. The Tsimshian opened his mouth; an unexpected spurt of blood ran down his chin and dripped onto the ground. With a sickening wetness, the spear was pulled from the warrior’s back. He fell down to reveal the emotionless face of Táan Gadáang. Kúng Xa stared in disbelief at the young Haida. Moments earlier he had swore to kill this man, and now this man had saved his life. He realized in that moment that even this man, this man whom he had hated and eventually hunted was a Haida, a warrior of his own blood, kin and kind. He could no sooner kill him then kill himself.
Táan Gadáang raised his spear. He had been waiting for this moment for four seasons. No one would question Kúng Xa's death, another Haida casualty of war, another body for the pit. He squeezed his white knuckles against the leather wrapped cedar. At last.
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