Journey's End

By Don Hayward

Annie, on a quest given to her by an ancestor, travelled from her home north of Lake Huron to the Beaver Valley, the place where her hero Nimise Makwa, Brandi Shadly lived and died. Her mother charges Annie with completing Nimise’s search for the light of knowledge and peace to protect it, she believed, from growing mysticism. This journey takes place in the book, The Seventh Path.
Invaders, from the aggressive industrial power, Erie Nation take Annie hostage along with several friends. The captors take them to Erie nation, which occupies much of what was once the state of Ohio south of Lake Erie. Annie soon understands that her quest is to destroy this entity. She realizes its misuse of knowledge is a greater threat than mystical belief. She does not realize, until later, that she will not be the one to do complete the task, but she is bringing the young boy who will be the key to success.
The solution requires uniting good people within Erie Nation with a power from the south. The final struggle leaves hope and Annie can then return home, free of her quest, and reach her journey’s end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Don Hayward
• Release date: Sep 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005915711

Don Hayward

Don Hayward was born in Sudbury Ontario in 1946. He grew up at a hydro-electric generating site on the Spanish River, surrounded by the natural world of the Canadian Shield hard rock country. This is the location for Echo of the Whip-poor-Will. Don resides in Goderich Ontario

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Journey’s End

Sequel to The Seventh Path

By Don Hayward

Copyright 2020 Don Hayward

Smashwords edition

Licence Notes

Thank you for downloading this eBook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and no one may redistribute it to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download a copy from their favourite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover photo courtesy of Pixabay.com

Acknowledgement: To Alex, who read the manuscript, highlighted corrections and made suggestions for improvement.

To my wife Diane, who patiently attempted to discover all of my technical errors, confusing text and provided many helpful suggestions.

Any errors are the author’s own.

Dedicated to the memory of Merilyn Quesnel and Theresa Filek, my friends, who reached their journey's end, but they have left me thankful for their memory and inspiration.

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Chapter One

"Grandfather only met him once, but the man pronounced a great prophecy to Joseph. He ordained Joseph to seek the light, and his descendants would carry that charge forever. You are one descendant, my sweet love. That is why the Great Mother gave you the task of passing on the duty to your children. She did not say, but I know in my heart, it will give your children a great task."

-Annie’s grandmother explaining the legacy of the quest to Annie’s mother

Annie walked into captivity behind the last wagon. The sad, lamenting song she played as Kimberly fell behind did not cheer her, and she grudgingly put her flute away. As Roger’s slaves, she, Paet and Thomas trailed in subservience, followed by a contingent of heavily armed men who guarded the prisoners while keeping constant watch against a surprise attack by Huron fighters. The steep valley sides loomed above the trail, hidden by an ominous, thick forest that could conceal hundreds of enemy warriors.

The lack of bounds and hobbles on the slaves puzzled these men, but Roger had assigned loyal troops to the trailing contingent, and their respect and love would not question their commander. Threatening shadows where the forest crowded the roadway held their attention. The few cleared farms offered little comfort. No sign of human life revealed itself, but the men imagined the occupants hiding, armed and full of hate.

With their nerves on constant edge after months in hostile territory, the fighters hoped for a quiet trek to Erie Nation. The knowledge they were going home lightened the mood of the fighters. Leaving Huron Territory disheartened the unfortunate five who had sacrificed their freedom to prevent bloodshed.

Annie and Paet contemplated the journey with interest. Annie’s belief that completing her quest could only end in violence and death kept her cautious. Her close watch of the thick woods matched the rear guard. She hoped the Huron forces would stick to their word and not attack.

Paet embraced this uncertain future as an extension of his search for excitement that had torn him from the predictable backwater of McNeil village. He did not feel threatened by Roger, although the other fighters seemed dangerous. For Thomas and his two fellow scholars, kidnapped from the Institute at Kimberly and torn from family and friends, the prospect of an uncertain future dogged each reluctant step.

The sun-filled valley near the river gradually evolved into small fields and mixed plantations, while fruit and nut trees climbed the lower slopes, only replaced by cedar and pine as the valley walls curved steeply to the hidden lip of the escarpment. The growing gentleness of the countryside brought ease to Annie’s troubled heart. She remembered Nimise Makwa writing about the safe comfort of this valley, and the last words in her journal had extolled the sun, warming her valley home.

The place had held wonderful anticipation for Annie, until her rape, and now the fear of a bloody fight to the death between angry Huron residents and Roger’s force. Not even Nimise’s wonderful, promising sun could erase those shadows.

Perhaps, Annie thought, I may one day return with an untroubled heart and feel comforted as Nimise did.

For now, the Beaver Valley had joined the Spanish River as a place of struggle between happiness and tragedy deep within Annie’s being.

We have places like this that are working in Erie Nation. Roger halted beside the seemingly intact remains of a hydroelectric generating station, save for the gaping window spaces.

Perhaps if Erie conquers this land, we can restart this.

Annie shuddered at the thought.

History has moved on, she thought, and people judged these places, this technology as wanting and abandoning the natural evolution of human existence. We can’t risk it working. Erie Nation is the corrupt result of technology.

She pondered the meaning of her thoughts.

I love getting these things working. Roger looked at Annie and remembered his first visit to Annie’s father, Roger’s clumsy attempt to ingratiate himself with Chester, the father of the woman he loved. It worked, but I enjoyed the thrill of fixing the windmill as much as earning Chester’s friendship.

They rumbled on. The crunching of the steel-tired wheels of the stolen wagons on the gravel surface and snorting horses dominated, while the prisoners whispered surreptitious conversation. When the road twisted and climbed out of the valley, Annie remembered Nimise’s stories of fighting here during the escape from the before time, where fighters had died and it had forged character in the heat of battle. Near the end of Brandi’s journey, friends had lived along this road, tempering the sadness in Nimise’s heart.

Somehow, Annie mused, those were better times, yet Brandi Shadly, Nimise Makwa walked these roads with a shadow hiding the full warming of the sun. Only at the end, sitting above Longview at the far end of the valley, when Brandi’s end approached, and she knew she would take the last of those shadows with her, that the brilliant sun had comforted her soul.

Tears dripped down Annie’s cheeks as she felt her quest, many decades later, joining with Brandi’s mission, carrying one of the new shadows that Nimise had predicted and longing for her brilliant sunrise of future hope. For now, her quest passed through the darkness of the forest, the uncertainty of success and the enormity of her task. She looked at Roger, marching at the front, and Paet, the boy in search of adventure greater than the suffocation of his village, and somehow she knew her success lay in the hands of both. The flicker of that hope comforted.

Perhaps we can avoid more struggle and bloodshed.

Late in the afternoon, after passing through a small village where a few silent onlookers had stared in resentment, the contingent made camp beside the remnants of an old railway. The tracks remained rusted and overgrown, disappearing into a jumble of trees, perhaps useful even after all these years.

A large frame building beside the rails attracted Roger. The structure, although suffering, stood strong, with a strange round roof at the near end. It contrasted with the squat houses made of salvaged brick in the village they had just passed,

Several families lived in this fascinating building, while others shared a large, rectangular, peak-roofed structure some distance away. The buildings defined a hamlet of clannish people, not outright hostile in the face of superior weapons but obviously unfriendly.

Can I look at your house? Roger accosted a man standing on a broad wooden front porch, staring at the intruder’s encampment across the trail.

Come see, stranger.

Was that a hint of a smile, or a look of resignation? Roger had seen these people before as they had first travelled to the valley. His now-dead vanguard had not treated the locals well. He knew, a few kilometres to the south, his men had murdered an innocent villager. There would be hatred here. He fought the temptation to stay outside or to bring a bodyguard.

No, that would look like a weakness to my men and these locals.

Roger followed the man into the darkness and paused until his eyes adjusted.

Women and two children, dressed in a variety of costumes of hemp, linen and wool, engaged in humorous banter as they laboured at a well-used cook-stove in the far corner of a vast room. All the windows and doors were open to exhaust the excessive cooking heat. A community table with perhaps two dozen set places ran the length of the space. Hardwood benches, beautifully joined and finished, shone against the long walls. At the opposite end of the cooking area, a few large wooden chairs covered with colourful, woven hemp cloth and rough cushions surrounded a cast-iron stove that sat cold in the season's warmth. Above the chairs, rows of strange wooden boxes hung along the wall. Their purpose escaped Roger, but they reminded him of message slots in an Erie railway station. Two doors obscured what Roger assumed were living quarters.

It seems they have community meals here. Roger tried to tease out the place, amid haunting memories of similar arrangements at Patterson Village and in most communities on Manitoulin Island.

This was once what they called a railway station, the man seemed to read Roger’s mind, but I never saw that, gone in great-great granddad’s time. He was the last station keeper here.

Whoever built this, Roger enthused, was a master carpenter. Roger ran his hand along the smooth surface of a bench. I built a meeting house at Little Current, in another lifetime, but this is teaching me.

I can see you are a carpenter, the man’s hand followed Roger’s fingers, absorbing the warm fineness of the wood. You love wood.

To be a carpenter, you must love wood; a mason must love stone; to be a grower, you must love the soil; a herder loves animals, and any woodsman loves the forest. It sounded as if his host repeated a holy catechism. It also gave Roger the impression that being a carpenter somehow solidified his standing in the man’s mind.

Roger stared at this backcountry philosopher and then swept his gaze over the table and chairs and to the comfortable seats near the stove.

Someone here is a fine carpenter, that’s for sure. Someone loved these into being.

These benches and this entire building are almost 200 years old, the man smiled and ran his hand once more over the back of a bench by the wall. You can see that feeling in these, the man’s voice softened, but my grandfather who taught father who taught me built the others, the eating table and chairs.

Roger felt the memory of these things and longed to touch his handiwork on Manitoulin, now far away. Roger stooped to examine the finely joined and smooth tabletop. Dressed in linseed oil, the shiny surface caught the light from the windows.

You must have good saws and other tools. Roger longed for a kit of his own.

We have no big saws, only small hand ones. The carpenter ripped the planks in the two-man method, then finished them with adz and polished them with stone rasps. We have no glue, so they have simple butt joints.

Roger stooped in shock to examine more closely. The finely fitted board edges on the tabletop almost appeared as one piece except for mismatched grain. He noticed a few cut marks left from an adz, but this was superior. His host had fastened everything with finely turned wooden pegs and fitted, so they left no gaps.

I could learn here, he thought

Come, sit, the man gestured to one of the padded chairs.

Mary, he called to one woman, raspberry drinks, please.

A scolding response in a patois of local slang that Roger could not decipher made his host blush.

Don’t talk like that in front of guests. Let’s be courteous.

The woman responded with indecipherable grumbling and a smile. The sweet drinks came at the hand of one child.

Here, Papa. The boy handed them clay tumblers of cool, sweet liquid.

Thank you, Jojo, a hand patted the boy’s head and the lad ran back to the women.

Roger felt a hunger for his family, families, he thought.

You don’t sound like a killer, the man suddenly looked hard and purposeful. Roger shuddered as if expecting a blow. The man remained seated and quietly sipped, showing no sign of attack. You have some bad guys in that bunch. Are you like them?

The man had a perceptive authority that Roger had not guessed at and seemed to have decided Roger was different, but his hard expression did not change. Roger suddenly felt the need to explain, to apologize for his vanguard’s crimes. Unlike many fighters from Erie Nation, Roger saw the wisdom of making friends, not enemies, along every trail.

They were killers, evil men, Roger hastened. They are dead. I shot one myself for another crime. He thought of Annie’s rape at Kimberly and his white rage when he pulled the trigger with the attacker’s revolver. Even now, a few days distant, his fist balled in anger. He quickly relaxed, afraid the man might think he would lash out.

All of those died, except two who will be dead by tomorrow night. Roger gulped down the last of his drink.

The man nodded, his face softened slightly. He escorted Roger to the door.

If we ever meet again, the villager said softly, I hope it’s on better ground.

If I ever return, Roger insisted, I won’t have guns.

Their hands clasped, and the host had a hint of a smile. He retreated to the dark interior. Roger returned to his encampment and the evening meal.

Roger ate with his men, joking with his deputy commander and keeping a close eye on the last two survivors of the seven men sent by Will Delanie and the opposition in council. They had instructions to watch Roger and gather evidence that could remove him from the government’s favour and perhaps replace Chairman Koch.

The captured slaves ate together. The cook served them the same fare as the fighters, but even though delicious, the meal lay heavily in Annie’s gut. Her low spirit had formed a spice that even the cook’s skill could not overcome. She ate hurriedly, retrieved her satchel and flute, and eased into the forest. Annie hoped no one would notice or object. She needed a place of solitude, to contemplate her future, settle her thoughts and perhaps to plan. She remembered the night they escaped from McNeil village, but Arn’s presence then reassured her. Arn now guided the bulk of the Huron Ecology Institute’s people and knowledge to the north. Soon, he would be in the Spanish River valley, enjoying the company of Annie’s father and family. The trees closed behind her as she sought a refuge.

Roger’s eyes followed his first wife into jumbled growth.

Shouting erupted from the group of Roger’s men. A large man, one of the remaining Delanie agents, towered over a cowering smaller soldier from a farming community, a young boy who appeared to be barely a man. Roger rushed into the fray.

Stop, he commanded. What’s the problem?

The big man, his arm cocked for a blow, released the youngster’s shoulder and turned to his commander. He showed no sign of respect.

This brat said big men were stupid, the man snarled. We ain’t. I showed him.

Violence is the last desperate solution for unthinking men, Roger snarled. There won’t be any fighting amongst ourselves. We have plenty of outsiders willing to kill us, understand?

The young victim of the attack kept his eyes downcast. He did not want to seem smug that the commander had defended him. Rubbing it in now would only lead to a worse attack when Roger could not hear.

Roger turned to go. He had been trying to decide exactly how to resolve the problem of Delanie’s two remaining thugs, and the solution hit him in his anger.

You, he turned back to the big man, and you, he pointed to the other Delanie loyalist, are big and strong and brave. I need you to go with me tomorrow, first thing, to scout ahead. I have a feeling there is a death trap waiting down the road.

Both men puffed up. Despite being against Roger, they relished any praise from a superior. They saw a patrol with the commander as a sign of favour. The big man mistakenly took Roger’s order as forgiveness for his bullying.

Roger returned to his meal, satisfied with his plan and savouring his little play on words. Death indeed lurked down the trail.

The notes fell from Annie’s flute-like random splashes against the shadows of the forest. She longed for round, happy, uplifting music, but the droplets of sound wildly changed shape, writhing in sadness, forming sharp teardrops that lingered on the mossy bark of the beech and maple trunks and the dank roughness of her soul. The forest ate her notes as if a hungry monster required feeding, but the flood of the sounds of Annie’s sadness overwhelmed even that eternal beast. While her desperate lips and fingers shot out the notes, they reflected to assault her ears.

Sing for happiness, sing for the forest... Mom said.

Annie’s thoughts returned to her first broken-hearted journey, crying in the prow of Daddy’s canoe in the sad passage down the Spanish River to her future on Manitoulin, away from her mother’s death. She sang then, but it had been against her sadness, and unlike now, the trees had embraced her grief.

Her quest, revealed by her mother on the last evening of her life, remained out of Annie’s mind on that sad journey; it had taken years for the words of her mother and the Great Mother to come back to her, but now in this ultimate of broken-hearted travels, the quest loomed above her, consuming in its mistiness and urgency. Annie knew this journey could only end in death.

Would it be me, or Roger’s, perhaps Paet, maybe all? Would the dying be easy or hard?

The dark shadows in the trees offered no answer, mocking her search for the light, and the lingering echoes of the sadness of her song only burdened her heart. The quest that for decades seemed to give purpose and hope now gripped her in the merciless bonds of duty and fate. In it all, she could not falter or fail.

Annie stopped playing, but the flute remained to her lips, warm on her fingers, and now this silence between the notes focused her mind on simple reality.

Roger... Roger... Roger... His name roiled in her mind. Is it a sigh, a hope, a promise or an end? The quest is me, but not me. What about my needs, my longing for Roger, for my husband?

Annie paused and tried to clear her mind.

I must… must continue. I no longer matter. The lakes, the people, even though they don’t know it, are in my hands. My happiness is a trifle, an uncounted wavelet on the suffering water, a thorn’s scratch compared to what my people might suffer. I must!

Crack, a twig snapped in the shadows, and then another. Annie stared into the gloom. Her breath froze. Annie briefly thought of ‘The Journal’, of the day that a bear’s sacrifice created Nimise Makwa, but it was the wrong season. No hungry bear would roam in the lateness of summer, and no well-fed bear would risk confronting a human. She turned with no less fear, remembering her rape just a few days ago. A human could be more dangerous. Her right hand touched the hilt of the knife that snuggled against her calf. The cold steel had never tasted human blood.

Roger appeared from the shadowy trees. Annie’s anxiety did not ease.

Did you think I was running away? Annie’s voice sounded more hostile than she wanted.

No, at least I hoped not. Roger found a deadfall and sat. If you were, I would not stop you, but I know you're loyal to what you must do. You must come with me to Erie and try to repair its soul.

Or destroy it. Annie spat.

Or destroy it, Roger agreed, smiling although he looked around as if fearing someone overhearing. There are good people there, too.

Like your new wife? Annie scowled.

Yes, I think Jen is one of the good ones, and although her father is not the best, he isn’t the worst either.

Roger hoped Annie would come to understand the complex reality of Erie Nation.

Annie frowned. She had known from the time she was fourteen years old and reminded of the quest that neither it nor her life would be simple.

What can I expect, Roger? How can I live in a town where my husband is in the arms of another? Will I ever see you? Is there no future for us?

I have a plan, but it might be too hard for you. I cannot choose between two people I love, and I love you... and Jen too, but I need you both, not for my pleasure, but for my sanity. When I was going crazy with no chance of escape, Jen became my comfort. I never stopped longing for you, but my trying to understand was too hard. I had to keep you from my thoughts, and the past days with you, I tried to keep Jen out. Neither works, but I want the best for you both. I have no answer, but for now, I think I must keep you both close. You must live in our house as a servant, and I’ll try to make that as a guest. I can only be sure of your protection if you are with me. I fear for Jen when I am away. Times are uncertain about the government, and if her father falls out of power, it will be bad.

Will she know who I am? Annie trembled in anger and longing. It might be better if I was elsewhere.

I don’t know if I will tell her. Roger tried to be honest. The others will go to the academy with the scholars. They have much to learn and much to teach. I think the boy will stay with you.

How can I survive to see you with her?

I don’t know. Roger slumped on his log, looking at Annie and fighting tears.

After a long pause, Annie asked, Tell me, Roger, would you have shot that monster if you hadn’t known it was me he was raping? Were you ever tempted to do that when they raped before?

Annie dreaded the answer and hoped for the answer. Roger closed his eyes, deep pain on his face and moving his hands in a gesture of helplessness. Annie waited.

I don’t know, Roger’s voice was low and laboured. They were violent scum. I try to avoid those when I select my forces, but they forced these seven on me. I had never reacted like that before. He paused again in a long, painful silence.

Seeing you being attacked after so many years of longing for your love, I just reacted. He was defiling a golden memory. I know now I should never have allowed rape whenever it happened under my command. I ignored it, and that condoned it.

I never knew before... his weak voice, mimicking the weakness of his defence, trailed off and silence returned.

Annie was strangely happier, but no less troubled. In the years of her longing for Roger, she had glossed over his weaknesses. Aside from her trauma from the rape, she now felt those flaws attacking her love. Roger saw the world as a man and she as a woman. Perhaps the division had always existed; a river between them they could never bridge. Annie’s emotions became raging rapids in that river.

Roger moved closer and tried to hug his wife. Annie shrugged him off.

Roger, Father once told me that after Baby-Little died at birth, Mother avoided intimacy with him. I thought it strange when he told me, but since the rape, I understand. I must work out my feelings just as had to. The bush fire ended her struggle. I hope it doesn’t take death to end mine.

Annie wished her bluntness would not cut too deeply, but Roger had to know how profoundly the horror of her rape and grief had affected her.

They sat in silence as the night shadows crept over them and the birds’ chatter faded.

One more thing, Roger, his face disappearing in the deepening gloom, finally spoke, once again with a firm voice, and changed the subject. "Tomorrow, stay close to the wagons and keep your friends near. I will disappear for a few hours, along with some men. Bad things will happen, but you will be safe. There are two men left to tell about my killing your rapist and try to have me killed. They will die