Duncan Campbell Scott (1862-1947)
The Forsaken
Once in
the winter
Out on a
lake
In the
heart of the north-land,
Far from
the Fort
And far
from the hunters,
A
Chippewa woman
With her
sick baby,
Crouched
in the last hours
Of a
great storm.
Frozen and
hungry,
She fished
through the ice
With a
line of the twisted
Bark of
the cedar,
And a
rabbit-bone hook
Polished and barbed;
Fished
with the bare hook
All
through the wild day,
Fished and
caught nothing;
While the
young chieftain
Tugged at
her breasts,
Or slept
in the lacings
Of the
warm tikanagan.
All the
lake-surface
Streamed
with the hissing
Of
millions of iceflakes
Hurled by
the wind;
Behind her
the round
Of a
lonely island
Roared
like a fire
With the
voice of the storm
In the
deeps of the cedars.
Valiant,
unshaken,
She took
of her own flesh,
Baited the
fish-hook,
Drew in a
gray-trout,
Drew in
his fellows,
Heaped them beside her,
Dead in
the snow.
Valiant,
unshaken,
She faced
the long distance,
Wolf-haunted
and lonely,
Sure of
her goal
And the
life of her dear one:
Tramped
for two days,
On the
third in the morning,
Saw the strong bulk
Of the
Fort by the river,
Saw the
wood-smoke
Hand soft
in the spruces,
Heard the
keen yelp
Of the
ravenous huskies
Fighting
for whitefish:
Then she
had rest.
11
Years and
years after,
When she
was old and withered,
When her
son was an old man
And his
children filled with vigour,
They came in their northern tour on the
verge of winter,
To an
island in a lonely lake.
There one
night they camped, and on the morrow
Gathered
their kettles and birch-bark
Their
rabbit-skin robes and their mink-traps,
Launched their canoes and slunk away
through the islands,
Left her
alone forever,
Without a
word of farewell,
Because
she was old and useless,
Like a
paddle broken and warped,
Or a pole that was splintered.
Then, without a sigh,
Valiant,
unshaken,
She
smoothed her dark locks under her kerchief,
Composed
her shawl in state,
Then
folded her hands ridged with sinews and corded with veins,
Folded
them across her breasts spent with the nourishment of children,
Gazed at
the sky past the tops of the cedars,
Saw two
spangled nights arise out of the twilight,
Saw two
days go by filled with the tranquil sunshine,
Saw,
without pain, or dread, or even a moment of longing:
Then on the third great night there came
thronging and thronging
Millions
of snowflakes out of a windless cloud;
They
covered her close with a beautiful crystal shroud,
Covered
her deep and silent.
But in the
frost of the dawn,
Up from
the life below,
Rose a
column of breath
Through a
tiny cleft in the snow,
Fragile,
delicately drawn,
Wavering
with its own weakness,
In the
wilderness a sign of the spirit,
Persisting still in the sight of the sun
Till day
was done.
Then all
light was gathered up by the hand of God and hid in His breast,
Then there
was born a silence deeper than silence,
Then she
had rest.
Published 1905
Based on a story of an abandoned woman who survived a winter
at Deer Lake that he heard at Nipigon House, Lake Nipigon.
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