Me'tekw knew he was dead. The instant his braid was yanked back and a filthy, shaking hand pressed a blade to his brow, he knew this life was over. The fire from a musket had already burned through his thigh, and blood streamed down his chest from a gash on his neck. One eye was swollen shut, and his lips throbbed. He tasted iron on his tongue. He could run no longer, could not slide his broken body out of the soldier's reach. He was dead.
There was barely time to make peace, to thank the Creator Kji-Niskam for giving him this life, to ask for greater wisdom for the next. Forcing his eyes open, Me'tekw stared into the calm, safe distance and prayed to Mother Earth, offering what strength he had left.
The tension on his neck released suddenly, and his cheek slammed onto the ground. His braid landed beside his face, and he noted with surprise that its long black length was still attached to his head. He breathed, inhaling the sun-warmed grass, though it stank of fresh blood. Overhead, the only break in the blue sky was a pair of silent gulls gliding in wide, curious circles.
He was not dead after all.
The British soldier who had hesitated lay lifeless nearby. His death cry had been cut short, the gurgle in his slit throat the only sound he’d emitted after hitting the ground. A second redcoat fell near the first, and Me’tekw rolled away in confusion. Sunlight blazed into his eyes when he glanced up, then Charles Belliveau stepped in front of the glare. The Acadian farmer clutched a knife, its bloodied point aimed toward the ground.
Me’tekw was still staring at Charles when two of his friends arrived and crouched beside him, assessing his wounds. They helped him to his feet, but his leg failed him. He collapsed amid blinding pain that made him long for death—though in truth, it was only a fleeting wish. His life was not his own and never had been. Everything he had and was belonged to the Creator. Evidently, Kji-Niskam had plans for him. If he had not, Me’tekw would be pumping the last of his life onto the ground beside the men Charles had slain.
He held up a hand, asking his friends to wait, needing to get his heartbeat under control. When he was ready to try again, he nodded, and the two Mi’kmaq slung his arms over their shoulders. They began to drag him away from the fallen soldiers, but he stopped once more and looked back at Charles.
Me’tekw was ashamed, not simply for his injuries but for his stupidity. He’d wanted nothing more than to go fishing from his favourite rock, but the warm caress of the sun had lulled him to sleep. He’d been an easy target for the enemy soldiers, who saw him as little more than a plaything to terrorize. They’d treated him as such many times before. He should have known better.
Me’tekw had been born eighteen years earlier without a voice. He had survived by expressing his thoughts and needs through face and hands, and neither his family nor his friends had ever treated him differently from anyone else. Certainly he regretted not being able to vocalize, but he understood: this was a trial given to him by the Creator.