BTAM: A Nootka
What follows is not necessarily another boring dissertation about me, or a ego-panegyric. It's my first attempt of writing a short story. Excuse my English.
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A Nootka
On an evening without wind, lying against a tree, John trembled and awaited anxiously. He wasn't siting directly on the ground: a layer of white and something that might be a pinecone came before the humid soil. From there, he could still see the shore line and the endless ocean upon it. The destroyed tall ship and the ones that would never come to rescue him could find shelter on that bay.
People from the tribe were approaching in silence. He lost track of time a while ago, but it must been more than two years, and by now he knew everyone's name. An old man was climbing slowly but effortlessly. By the time they both were face to face, John couldn't tremble anymore, a strange resignation was given to him while they look at each others eyes. The Chief held his cane on one hand and the fowling piece on the right, the same shotgun that once saved John's life.
Fate is a careless inattention: a hunter who forgot to remove one of the bear traps before winter, and John's body ended stabbed by multiple spikes and needles. The cold penetrated through the injuries, it was like a tree branch crawling up inside the veins. He leaned back his head. "The snow flakes falls silently and with such a majestic swing"; thought in English language.
He wouldn't be understood in the forgotten old world. Once kidnapped by salvages, now a loving member of them. Every night, he thought about the day they will come back. Armed and cautious, there will not be room for trading anymore. It will be the hour of the sword. Despite the Chief's advice, John will volunteer to be at the front with the lancers. The respect for his decision will the last proof he was looking for. He was know a member, a Nootka. On the eve of the skirmish he will take a last look at the Chief's shotgun, the one he repaired for him on that first encounter. In return, he got spared his life, unlike the rest of the crew.
The people on this new ship were soldiers, and they have chosen the sunrise for their attack, so the foggy morning could disguise the smoke of the white gunpowder. But the savages were hard to track, bushwhackers popped out from the mist with pieces of dented steel on their hands. When penetrating a caribou or a deer skin, the steel will punch inside like if it was into the peel of an orange. But with white people, John advised them to aim for the throat, to avoid the shining parts on their body.
There was no battle. It was too hard to fight above the din of the firearms, and the bullet that would penetrate John came from a musket held by a youngster. Other pieces and shrapnel impacted on the pine tree where John was trying to get cover. Lying against a tree, John trembled and awaited anxiously. He wasn't siting directly on the ground: a layer of snow and pine branches came before the humid soil.
The young shooter who ran towards his prey got caught by his own perplexity. Behind the marks, the blood and the costume, a white man lied injured from his shot. They stared at each other, knowing that the difference will not make a distinction. Holding the bleeding with his hand, John looked into his eyes and recognized his own face, and the Chief's face too. In life, he had picked a side, and thou shalt die honouring that. But as a last wish, he will write his own end, opposed to fate, just a few moments before the man in front of him cocked the firearm, the same one that once saved his life.
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A Nootka
On an evening without wind, lying against a tree, John trembled and awaited anxiously. He wasn't siting directly on the ground: a layer of white and something that might be a pinecone came before the humid soil. From there, he could still see the shore line and the endless ocean upon it. The destroyed tall ship and the ones that would never come to rescue him could find shelter on that bay.
Fate is a careless inattention: a hunter who forgot to remove one of the bear traps before winter, and John's body ended stabbed by multiple spikes and needles. The cold penetrated through the injuries, it was like a tree branch crawling up inside the veins. He leaned back his head. "The snow flakes falls silently and with such a majestic swing"; thought in English language.
He wouldn't be understood in the forgotten old world. Once kidnapped by salvages, now a loving member of them. Every night, he thought about the day they will come back. Armed and cautious, there will not be room for trading anymore. It will be the hour of the sword. Despite the Chief's advice, John will volunteer to be at the front with the lancers. The respect for his decision will the last proof he was looking for. He was know a member, a Nootka. On the eve of the skirmish he will take a last look at the Chief's shotgun, the one he repaired for him on that first encounter. In return, he got spared his life, unlike the rest of the crew.
The people on this new ship were soldiers, and they have chosen the sunrise for their attack, so the foggy morning could disguise the smoke of the white gunpowder. But the savages were hard to track, bushwhackers popped out from the mist with pieces of dented steel on their hands. When penetrating a caribou or a deer skin, the steel will punch inside like if it was into the peel of an orange. But with white people, John advised them to aim for the throat, to avoid the shining parts on their body.
There was no battle. It was too hard to fight above the din of the firearms, and the bullet that would penetrate John came from a musket held by a youngster. Other pieces and shrapnel impacted on the pine tree where John was trying to get cover. Lying against a tree, John trembled and awaited anxiously. He wasn't siting directly on the ground: a layer of snow and pine branches came before the humid soil.
The young shooter who ran towards his prey got caught by his own perplexity. Behind the marks, the blood and the costume, a white man lied injured from his shot. They stared at each other, knowing that the difference will not make a distinction. Holding the bleeding with his hand, John looked into his eyes and recognized his own face, and the Chief's face too. In life, he had picked a side, and thou shalt die honouring that. But as a last wish, he will write his own end, opposed to fate, just a few moments before the man in front of him cocked the firearm, the same one that once saved his life.
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| John Jewitt |
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