Algonquin Spring

by Rick Revelle

  “Go ahead,” I answered.

  “It was right after the hunters had left to hunt the wàbidì, where they had the encounter with the Hochelagan hunting party. Àbita said she was out collecting firewood and upon tiring she sat down on a rock to rest. After a few moments she heard footsteps to her left. She sat very still. In a small clearing she watched as Mitigomij removed all his clothes and weapons. He laid his clothes on the ground, put his weapons on them, and rolled them up inside the clothing. Taking the roll, he tied it to Makadewà Wàban’s back. Your brother then reached his hands to the sky and said something Àbita could not hear. After he said these words, a blinding flash of light struck the exact spot where Mitigomij stood. Once Àbita’s eyes readjusted, to her amazement a wàbòz had appeared in the spot Mitigomij had been. The wàbòz then sped off with the panther following. Mahingan, she swore what she saw was true!”

  “Nigig, I need to ask you to talk to your mother and request that she keeps to herself what she experienced. In addition, I must trust you to do the same.”

  “Mahingan, then is it true what the Haudenosaunee say, that your brother and the big cat are Shape Shifters? Are they Michabo and Gichi-Anami’e-Bizhiw?”

  “It seems so, my friend, it seems so,” I replied. “Nigig, this secret is yours, Àbita’s, and mine. We have a very powerful ally in my brother and Makadewà Wàban, something that the Haudenosaunee fear beyond all else. It explains how he can move from place to place with such speed. It seems that his powers are increasing and he has found the way to control it to his benefit. Are he and the cat immortal? That I do not know. I recognize that he is a powerful warrior and the cat is a deadly killer. Nevertheless, he is my brother and his secret stays with the three of us, till death.”

  “You have my word as a Wàbanaki warrior, Mahingan. Àbita and I will never divulge what we know. Death will take us before we give up this information!”

  “I trust you. Mitigomij cannot find out from us that we know. The mystery is safe.”

  I knew the time would come when I would have to reveal to Mitigomij what I knew about him, but for now his secret was safe.

  We continued with the job at hand. Once we had uncovered and lined up all the boats, the people inspected them for small tears. They repaired the canoes by scraping pine resin off the trees and heating it, then spreading it on the slit. Once cooled it would seal and waterproof the split.

  That night was the last evening we spent at the winter camp. You could sense the excitement of the community as we readied for the move. There would be ample food after reaching Asinabka, and then after that they would renew old friendships when all the family units arrived at the summer site. That morning found us travelling up the Kitcisìpi Sìbì; it would take three or four days against the current to arrive at our destination.

  The first day everyone was keen, even though the winter had made our paddling muscles soft. The canoes were well loaded with three people to each boat, along with a couple of dogs. My boat had my nephew, Makwa, and Anokì, who was now sound asleep between his constant guardians Pìsà Animosh and my wolf Ishkodewan. The wolf had grown into an immense, imposing animal. He was all black except for the white blaze on his face and totally dedicated to my son and myself. The camp dogs looked to him for leadership, and none had ever challenged him. I had seen him take down a full-grown wàwàshkeshi on the dead run several times. He could carry twice the pack weight that the other dogs could. He defended me when we were involved in the mìgàdinàn (war) at the waterfalls. Still, Ishkodewan had yet to prove he was as lethal a killer of men as the big cat that followed Mitigomij. The small dog was his constant companion and had the heart of a bear. I had never seen this small dog back off from danger.

  We camped that night beside a set of rapids that we had to onigam (portage.) Everyone tired easily on this first day of paddling since last fall. It did not take long to prepare the shelters for the night. We were able to repair some of the cover that previous travellers had erected and construct a few new ones. Then the women started fires and prepared food. The people were not long for sleep once they had eaten. Mitigomij and I took the first watch and tended the fires. We would switch with someone else once we tired, and then that pair would do the same when sleep started to overcome them. During the course of the night, probably five or six teams would take their turns.

  Before dawn, the last watch woke everyone. While the meal was prepared, the boats were loaded. After dousing the fires, we set out on the river to continue toward our destination. I gave the task of fishing to Anokì and Àbita, the youngest and the eldest, while the others paddled. They worked diligently at this chore and were quite successful.

  Black rain clouds started to form at midday, forcing us to shore. We hurriedly pulled the boats into the tree line a good distance from the river then turned them over to protect our belongings. The women hurried off to collect as much firewood as they could before the skies opened up, and we rushed to get a large shelter erected instead of several smaller ones. A larger cover would enable us to work faster because we would only need to construct two ends instead of ten or twelve. This refuge would also need bark on the roof to keep out the rain. The men worked swiftly, and just as a light rain started, they finished. Soon we had two fires going and a fish stew with some spring plants the women were able to forage. The haven soon became crowded with all the people and dogs, but all were warm and dry. My nose was definitely sensitive to the fish cooking, the body odour, and the smell of the wet dogs. That soon waned, though, as my nostrils became inured to the surrounding intermingling stenches.

  With the skies now opening up and the thunder and lightning causing the dogs to cower and whine, Nokomis (Mother Earth) was putting on a show. I looked out onto the river to see the rain producing numerous splashes on the water. The driving rain was not as powerful as a waterway but still possessed enough energy to force my people to shelter.

  It was while I watched the rain that I remembered last fall’s pimizì harvest. It was the first one that the twins, Makwa and Wàbek, had actually participated in since coming of age. With everyone huddled around the fires, I thought this would be a worthy story to pass a little time and relate how the eel was such a vital part of our sustenance.

  For the Omàmiwinini people, the pimizì supplies us with more fat and life-sustaining meat than any other awsìnz (animal) in the woods or kìgònz (fish) in the water. The late summer and early fall migration that they take is essential to our well-being. The Algonquin people always gathered at Asinabka to harvest this staple of their diet.

  Last fall, as we travelled down the Kitcisìpi Sìbì, we stopped there to harvest the eel. Usually there were two men to each boat; one steered the canoe to where the eels were and the other speared the prey. The spear that we used was different from a fish spear. The men would each cut some six- to eight-foot saplings, and then take three deer prongs, which they barbed. The creator of the spear fastened the tines to the bottom of the shaft, spaced evenly apart. The barbs were essential because the eels would wiggle off an ordinary fish spear.

  Because this was the twins’ first eel hunt, we allowed them to be in the first boat to go out below the rapids. The creatures were abundant, churning and frothing the water. Wàbek was in the bow with the spear and Makwa manoeuvred the boat. The rest of us stood on the shore with smiles on our faces. The boys had forgotten to take rocks to kill these slippery denizens of the river. To kill them you had to place their head on a stone and smash it with another rock. All of us on shore knew what was going to take place next with the writhing snake-like creature in the bottom of the boat. After a few missed opportunities, Wàbek soon got the knack of spearing. However, pulling them off the barbs was another matter. The boys’ hands would slide away from the slimy bodies when they attempted to remove them. Finally, Makwa cut a piece of leather from his leggings, wrapped it around his hand and then, and only then, was he was able to tug the eel off the spear.

  Now the fun was going to start: the
boat was starting to fill with squirming eels that were still very much alive. True, they were speared, but not maimed. In a short while both of the boys started to yell. Wàbek had eels wrapped around his legs and working their way up his body. Makwa, who had sat most of the time to steer the canoe, now had eels on his lap, arms, and some were draped around his neck and shoulders. Standing up, he vainly tried to brush the twisting mess of slimy pimizì from his body. By this time everyone on shore was laughing and shouting at the boys to come to ground. When finally they beached the canoe, the eels were spilling over the side of the vessel, wrapping around the paddle and the boys. The twins rolled on the ground to try to dislodge their visitors. After much laughter and carrying on, we gathered up as many of the eels as we could. The boys by this time had regained their composure and were chuckling along with the rest of us.

  It was their father, Kàg, who started the hooting and snickering again when he approached the boys and said, “You might need these the next time!” And he handed them two rocks.

  Retelling this story brought back memories and renewed laughter. Makwa and Wàbek enjoyed the story and the teasing all over again, laughing until the tears rolled down their cheeks. The resulting laughter woke Ishkodewan and the dogs. Thinking something was approaching our encampment, they all stood at the edge of the shelter looking out, trying to figure out why we were making so much noise.

  That fall day, after everyone had regained their composure, the men launched their canoes into the river and continued with the spearing. We spent two days there stocking up with all that we could carry. Winters are the starvation season and the community would need all the nourishment it could transport.

  To skin the eels we forced a stick into the gills and through the head. To keep the eel’s body still while skinning it (even in death they still squirmed) we rested it on a forked branch forced into the ground. Using a leather grip so the eel did not slip, we were able to remove the skin, which we used to make clothes, pakìgino-makizinan (moccasins), and bags. Eel skin lasts longer than leather and is softer to wear. The women then smoked the pimizì over fires and stored them in bark baskets.

  We cooked the fresh eel by shoving a stick through the length of its body then roasting it on a spit over the fires. Pimizì is a delicacy enjoyed by all.

  With the harvest over, we buried the heart, liver, and heads of some of the eels to thank Kije-Manidò (the Great Spirit) for the successful hunt. This dweller of the river got us through most of the pibòn (winter).

  The pimizì never turned up in abundant numbers until the late summer during their migration to the ocean. Occasionally during the summer we would catch an eel on a migiskan (hook), in an asab (net), or while spearing fish.

  But only in the fall did they congregate in the numbers that enabled us to spear them in huge quantities.

  The rain never let up until late into the day. With little daylight left, we made the decision to stay the night. In the meantime, a couple of hunting groups ventured out to seek whatever they could find for a meal. Just before dusk, they came back with an interesting mixture for the evening stew: amik (beaver) and a nika (goose). The women skinned the amik, saving the pelt to tan later. They cut the tail off the body to be roasted; it definitely was not bound for the stew vessel. The nika’s feathers were taken off and given to the young people for decoration. The bird’s innards they put into the stew and the carcass on a spit to roast alongside the amik’s tail. Everyone had a portion of the stew and the ones that wanted amik or nika used a piece of bark to hold the hot meat. Tonight all went to sleep on a full stomach. Tomorrow would be another day.

  That morning all that we had left to sustain us was tea. My hope was that Àbita and Anokì would be able to catch a few kìgònz for a midday meal.

  One canoe had three strong paddlers compared with the others, and this vessel led our small group through the waterway. They were able to scout far ahead and find the best landing places to go around rapids and ensure our safety. Every person who travelled this river used these portages. Sometimes during the spring, the movement of the melting river ice would crush shorelines, moving rocks and trees. Storms would bring weak trees crashing to the ground, blocking access to the pathways around the rapids. When the lead canoe found obstacles like this, those paddlers’ job was to clear away the debris or to find another exit from the river to skirt the white waters. The lead canoe contained three fierce warriors, Agwanìwon, Kìnà Odenan, and Kànikwe, the two women and their hairless friend.

  Agwanìwon and Kìnà Odenan were nìj manidò (two spirits) (lesbians). They were vicious in battle, proving themselves repeatedly. The two women were also healers and looked after the elderly and orphans. Dedicated at all costs to the well-being of the Omàmiwinini community, they were among the first to volunteer for hunting or war parties.

  Kànikwe was not nìj manidò. He was a close friend to the two women, owing his life to them. When they were young girls, they found him in a swamp bleeding from a severe head wound, completely covered with honey. He had raided a beehive for the precious healing power of the honey to cover the injury. Taking him back to their village, they cared for him until he healed. To this day, he was devoted to them. Kànikwe had no hair and a deeply scarred head. He painted his skull black and his own scalp hung from his war axe.

  These three were our eyes and ears, leading us to safety each day. Mitigomij, who was by far the strongest paddler, always had one of the twins in his boat. On this trip, it was Wàbek, along with a dog. Always at the rear of the line when we were in the water, he guarded us from any surprises. His cat Makadewà Wàban never travelled in a canoe unless necessary. He patrolled the shore beside us, never letting Mitigomij out of his sight.

  Anokì tired today of his fishing just before midday. He had caught five fish and they were lying on the bottom of the boat, a couple still flopping around my feet. He was not long in curling up to Ishkodewan. The big wolf turned his head and licked the boy’s face. Anokì giggled then laid his head on the chest of the animal and fell fast asleep.

  The sun was reaching its midday height when we rounded a bend in the river. Kànikwe was waving everyone in. There were rapids ahead so we had to go ashore and skirt around them. Kànikwe was all smiles. The women and he had come upon a wàwàshkeshi swimming across in front of them just before they had landed. They had been able to kill it and pull the animal into the canoe. The women had the big buck, which was just starting to grow its spring antlers back, hanging from a tree, gutting it. The dogs were feasting on the entrails. I whistled for the wolf and he came running to share in the bounty. In times of starvation, the dogs might not have been able to share in this reward, but today they did. This meat would keep us fed for days. Along with the fish Anokì and Àbita were catching, we would have enough to eat for the rest of the trip until we got to Asinabka.

  The rapids roared loudly. We decided that once the women finished with the deer, we would eat and continue. In the meantime, we had to bring the canoes ashore and carry them above the rapids. It was at this time I realized that I had not seen Anokì since I left the boat. When I had whistled for Ishkodewan, the boy must have woken up. Where was he? I looked toward the river, hearing my name called. There was Anokì, tumbling down the rapids, yelling my name.

  “ANOKÌ!” I screamed above the roar of the river.

  12

  THE BLOODIED LAND

  Tall Man/Glooscap

  After the cheering had stopped, I turned to E’s and asked, “Why were they calling me this name — Glooscap?”

  “Because,” he answered, “you are a hero and protector to our people. Our elders have said that a giant of a man, along with two dogs and a little person, will appear and keep us from harm. All the animals are your friends. Nukumi told us that you would be coming, but Magisgonat had to lay eyes on you and confirm her prophecy. Now that he has confirmed what Nukumi foretold, you are one of us. The L’nu’k people now feel safe!”

  I stood there, my head reeling. Just
a short while ago I was a Beothuk warrior on an island far from this place. Now I was a mythical guardian to a people I previously never knew existed. Now I knew that the Great Spirit had planned a path for me, which I would trust him to lead me through.

  From that moment on, the L’nu’k let Apistanéwj and I have the run of the village. We constantly practised our marksmanship with our weapons. I was starting to get the feel of the axe that I had taken from the dead Eli’tuat. It was a formidable weapon. I took a sharpened bone and drilled a hole into the handle, threading a leather strip through it. By wrapping this leather around my wrist during battle, I should be able to avoid dropping or losing it.

  The people of the village and I watched curiously as E’s and Matues noisily sparred with the two large-handled weapons with sharp blades that they had claimed from the fallen bearded men at the battle of the island river. They were constantly sharpening the edges with leather and flint. Unlike the bone knives that we all used, these weapons had a cutting edge on both sides. Just touching their edges would draw blood.

  One thing that I noticed in my walks around the camp was that unlike my people, who used wood to make runners for our winter sleds, these people used a large bone.

  “Matues,” I asked, “where do you find such a large bone to put on your sleds?”

  “Tia’m gives us his ribs after we take his life. They work very well in the snow.”

  I thought this tia’m must be a huge animal to have a rib like this. The caribou from my land are not as large as this beast!

  The village that we were staying in was the winter residence, maybe forty to fifty inhabitants and only about a dozen warriors. They were starting to prepare for their annual migration back to the coast. There they would join up with other small bands for protection during the summer and fall and harvest the creatures from the sea. Matues told me that during this time on the coast there was an abundance of food to harvest from the surrounding lands and waters. Seals, clams, eggs, birds, lobsters, and fish. However, now, during the last few days of winter, food was scarce. The women were using animal hooves, bones, roots, and last season’s acorns to make stews. Soon they would have to kill a few of the dogs to survive. Setting out on the trip to the coast in this weak condition from the lack of meat would result in death for the weak and young. Already an older woman and a young child had succumbed to the hunger pangs that were starting to take hold of the village.