Among the Mohawks

I adore my wife but she’s a witch and that creates problems for me. It’s not just that she has unspeakable powers, it’s also that she sometimes forgets it—especially in moments of heightened emotional intensity—and that’s when things go haywire. I imagine it’s something akin to when the world’s strongest man is handling bone china and momentarily forgets the importance of a gentle touch when, for example, a car backfires in the vicinity. What I’m trying to say is that things can get crushed and smashed, without any ill-will on her part.

The most recent incident occurred last spring, when there was an unusual amount of rain. We live in an old wooden house and the fixtures had swollen and warped. Our bedroom door was sticking and dragging on the floor.

In the middle of the night, as usual, I got up to pee. Despite my efforts to be quiet, the door made a sound like a donkey giving birth.

“Lift the door when you open it,” Wanda said from the bed, with more than a touch of asperity in her voice. She is usually, I must say, remarkably good humored but if there’s one thing she values above all others it’s a good night’s sleep.

I lifted it. Sure enough, it opened noiselessly and swiftly, hurtling right into my big toe. The pain was indescribable. I stifled a cry and limped to the bathroom, wounded and, perhaps irrationally, aggrieved. The way I saw it was that I’d tried to be considerate to Wanda and she’d repaid me by hurting my foot. After all, she must have known what would happen.

The next morning, at the breakfast table, I planned to express my displeasure. But she looked so charming, with her pink kimono and cloud of red curls that I bent down to give her a kiss instead. There was a coolness in her reception of the kiss and I guessed immediately that she blamed me for waking her up.

I pointed to my toe, which had developed a deep blue blush.

“Look at my toe!” I said, inviting her to pity me.

“Uh huh,” she said and took a bite of marmalade on toast.

“It really hurts,” I said. “Somebody told me to lift the door up last night and it whacked right into my big toe.”

“I know. I heard you squeal like a little baby,” she said nastily before taking a sip of coffee.

I was momentarily speechless.

“A ba--! Squeal? I did not squeal. A manly cry may have escaped my lips. It really hurt. Even an Iroquois warrior would have given tongue if he were scalped or hit by an arrow or what not. A low, muted grunt, low enough to evade the detection of the enemy.”

Wanda put down her toast and fixed me with a green-eyed stare.

“I wish,” she said. “I really wish that you could spend a day with the Iroquois, pre-contact, and that they could look at your boo boo and admire your stoicism.”

“Wanda!” I cried, horrified. “No! You’ve done it again!”

Her eyes grew very large and she clapped a dainty hand over her mouth.

“Oh,” I heard her say, though the sound was already muffled. Fainter and fainter I heard her voice, “Oh Victor darling, I didn’t meanit! I’m so sorry. I take it back!”

Too late, of course. I knew from experience that a wish, once made, could not be taken back.

“Call the school and tell them I’m sick!” I yelled, just as her face was about to disappear.

It’s hard to describe exactly what happens on these occasions, partly because I’m pretty sure I lose consciousness. But when I come to, I’m invariably disoriented and have a splitting headache and a dry mouth. It’s basically the worst hangover you’ve ever had, combined with a bleak sense of having been plunged into a living nightmare.

As consciousness returned, I found myself lying on my back. Despite feeling as if I’d been brutally disassemble, a quick mental body scan suggested that nothing was permanently broken. Hesitantly, I opened my eyes and tried to make sense of the patterns of dark and light. Hearing birdsong and rustling, smelling the scent of pinesap, I perceived that I must be in a forest looking up at sunlight filtering down through the canopy. A whooshing sound nearby suggested the presence of a river or stream.

“Gurrrgh,” I groaned and turned over onto my side, into the foetal position. Resting there for several minutes, closing my eyes again, I almost managed to convince myself that I was dreaming a pleasant dream. The pleasant sounds of nature were quite similar to some of the meditation tracks recommended to me by my therapist. I became so relaxed that a smile even crept onto my face.

What first alerted me to his presence? The heat of his breath, perhaps, or its gamey stink? In any case, I suddenly realized I was not alone and opened my eyes again, only to see a blood-shot eyeball mere millimeters from my own.

I did not ‘squeal like a baby’, as Wanda would put it, but stayed motionless and silent, idly waiting for the coup de grâce. This was not due to courage on my part, I should say, but rather to a feeling of being outside my body looking on, a protective function of the brain I suspect.

The eyeball blinked once. Then slowly it drew back so the face came into focus. Then the whole body came into view. It was a young man, quite small and wiry, anywhere between fifteen and twenty-five. His face was hairless and badly scarred on his left cheek and he seemed to be missing his left eye because you could tell there was a void behind the half-closed eyelid. On his head he wore a cap of something that looked like squirrel fur, with three eagle feathers sticking up at the back. His chest was bare and he wore what looked like a leather loincloth, leather leggings and moccasins. Mohawk, I thought, Kanien'kehá:ka aka ‘People of the Flint’—three guesses what they use the flint for. He held a bow in one hand and rested on end of it on the ground in front of him as he sat crouched, looking at me. There was something about him that reminded me unpleasantly of one of my class clowns, Dwight Chaplin.

We played a waiting game. I looked at him. He looked at me, sucking his teeth. The birds started singing again. Squirrels bustled about. Despite my physical immobility, my mind was working overtime. What, I thought, can I do to convince this killer to leave me alone?

I’m a history teacher and I had a pretty good idea of what the Iroquois did to captives. It wasn’t pretty. Without going into too much detail, it was slow, painful and very public. Things like roasting body parts one burning coal at a time.

Even when he picked up a stick and poked me in the ribs, I couldn’t bring myself to do anything. The less reaction, the better, I thought. I’d wait for him to get bored. He proceeded to jab me here and there and I yawned and affected sleep again. Then the little bastard must have seen my sore toe because there was a pause in his harassment before he gave it a good whack. I saw red.

You ugly son of a skunk, I thought. How would you feel if I poked you in your bad eye, eh? Come and get it!

I won’t say that I have ever fought competitively, but I’ve watched plenty of MMA and I took a few lessons so I do know some effective moves. I started whimpering and begging, moving closer to the guy’s feet. He spat on me contemptuously and laughed, bringing up the stick to give me another whack.

All of a sudden he got the surprise of his life—I kicked his feet out from under him and while he was still shocked from having the wind knocked out of him, I managed to get my elbow around his scrawny neck and got in position for the rear naked chokehold.

“How do you like that?” I said. “Huh? You sadistic piece of turkey jerky?” Admittedly my cursing game is not strong; I’m a school teacher and have trained myself not to swear.

He couldn’t talk, obviously, but it was somewhat weird that he didn’t struggle. In fact, he didn’t even seem upset. On the contrary, he was gazing at the tops of the trees with a happy smile. This was disconcerting and I nearly let go, but I realized it could be a trick and I really, really did not want to get my fingernails pulled off today.

Wanda’s ‘wishes’ were usually carried out to the letter. She had said I hoped I could spend a day with the Iroquois, which meant the spell would last a maximum of 24 hours.

When he went limp, I panicked. It was time for me to run away. I decided to withdraw into the bushes a small way, then climbed a tree, finding a spot where I could see still see him. I didn’t want to run too far because I knew the Iroquois had freakishly good tracking skills and knew they’d be able to hear me from a mile away bumbling about in the forest.

His eyes fluttered open and he let out a happy sigh. He scrambled to his feet and looked around for me. Not seeing me anywhere, he let out a decent imitation of a redwing blackbird. A signal.

My heart started pounding. One Mohawk I could handle—I wasn’t ready for a whole bloodthirsty horde of them.

Before I knew it, another guy was running into the clearing. This one was taller, younger and had red feathers attached to a grey fur cap. I saw my guy beckon to his friend and suspected they were going to confer about the best way to hunt my white ass.

That’s when my one-eyed tormentor kicked his friend’s feet from under him and executed one of the most perfect rear naked chokeholds I’ve ever seen. It was incredible. This kid was a natural. Tears actually came into my eyes thinking of how quickly he’d learned that shit.

His friend’s eyelids were just starting to flutter when he let go and the pair of them started jabbering excitedly. I could imagine what was coming next. Soon enough, they called another two friends along and were kicking them to the ground and choking them. It was their favorite new trick and they could not get enough of it.

Well, they were having a great time but I was starting to get uncomfortable on my tree branch, not least because it was starting to give out under my weight. I was willing it to hold out until these clowns had gone home, but my wishes aren’t as powerful as Wanda’s since I’m not a scatterbrained witch and the branch ripped off and I went hurtling down to the forest floor. I got pretty scratched up along the way thanks to all the branches I fell into, but in the end they saved my life I guess so I can’t complain too much.

Well, that crowd of young thugs saw the whole thing and came running over to me whooping like maniacs. Sure enough, it wasn’t long until I was hogtied and being borne on their shoulders to the longhouse, like a pig fit for roasting.

By this time, I was in pretty bad shape. My toe still hurt, I had bruises where one-eye had prodded me with the stick and I was bruised all over from my fall. Possibly I even had one or two broken ribs. Then there was the indignity of being paraded around by teenaged boys, whose headdress feathers were tickling my back. Not only that, but the only weapons I really had--the element of surprise and the rear naked chokehold—would no longer work. Now I could look forward to little kids breaking my fingers and women feeding me pieces of my own roasted flesh.

All I could think of was that line from the movie Little Big Man: “It is a good day to die.”

Well, they set me down on the ground and looked extremely pleased with themselves as the villagers emerged, staring and asking questions. A few little kids came up to me giggling, but one-eye kicked them away, growling at them.

One-eye then summoned two of his cronies to make a little performance for everyone. Sure enough, it was the same procedure as in the clearing. One of them starting some pleasantry with his chum, all friendly and then quick as a whip had his chum on the ground gasping for air.

It went over big.

There were whoops and stamps and laughter. And one-eye made a big speech and presented me for their inspection. He untied me, kissed me fondly on the forehead and pulled me up by the hand to walk around in front of everyone, like someone showing off a prize poodle.

Well, long story short: I was a hero from that moment on. They sat me down and started plucking my hair out to make me an honorary mohawk and gave me a big song, dance and feast. The girls made eyes at me and the old men clapped me on the back and the women brought plate after plate of surprisingly digestible food.

The party went on through the night and I was just starting to nod off when I heard an increasingly loud whirring noise, like a train heading straight for me. Well, I knew what that meant but luckily I was so exhausted that I fell asleep right before it hit.

The next morning I woke up with a powerful headache. I turned on my side and saw Wanda sobbing quietly.

“Victor!” she said. “You’re alive after all”

“Aggh,” I said. “What time is it?”

“Five o’clock in the morning. You got back at midnight and you wouldn’t wake up. You’re in a terrible state. I thought I’d k-k-k-killed you!” she wailed, burying her face in her hands.

I comforted her and assured her that the trip had actually been not that bad, though I would really appreciate it if she minded her language in future. Sniffling and kissing me about a hundred times, she agreed, swearing to staple her lips together if she made any more wishes.

When I got to school that morning, I will say that the kids looked at me in a different light. I think it may have been the mohawk, or maybe the scar on my cheek where one eye had poked my face with the stick. Dwight Chaplin did not make any jokes.