“Swallow it, child, and it will grow within you,” she said with an assuring smile, rocking slowly back and forth on her couch of furs.
Gravely, Ashagi took the pebble and held it up to the dim light filtering through the door flap in the hope of seeing the child within. Then, with the help of the tea, she choked it down.
A long time passed with Mashkikikewkway humming sweetly and fanning the air with a hawk’s wing as they sat together and held hands. Then at last the old woman said, “Can you feel it, child? Can you feel it growing within you?”
Ashagi felt a warmth in her belly. Could it be?
“Yes, Grandmother. Yes, I feel it,” she murmured.
The treatment had taken seven days as the old mother plied her with teas, herbs and restorative roots. Mostly, it was tea of the partridgeberry, licorice, and black cohosh root. This latter Ashagi knew as a remedy for the bite of the rattlesnake.
Indeed, she thought, some of Grandmother’s remedies were not fit for a rattlesnake as she gagged or vomited over a succession of bitter compounds. She spent her days feeding a fire in the lodge with green herbs, which filled the air with healing smoke. In the evening, Mashkikikewkway sat beside her, tapping lightly on a drum and singing for the manitos of fertility to find her.
Through it all, Ashagi made no mention of birthing Kesamna’ista’s infant, fearing that if this was deduced as the cause of her troubles, it would require the Old Man’s attention for an exorcism. She had seen an exorcism as a young girl and the patient had not survived the ordeal.
Days later, Misko returned to find Ashagi uncertain but hopeful. As was expected, he brought the old woman a gift of tobacco, dearly traded from the south, as well as a precious handful of fine white shells from the tribes of the salt water, Zhewitaganibi, far to the east.
That evening they made a union of their bodies, camping along the lakeshore where a forest of birch trees spread white as a flock of swans above the beach. Misko had her again at dawn, raising her buttocks high as she went down on her forearms and knees before him so that the seed would run deep into the chambers that made her a woman.
But by the new moon Ashagi was back in the lodge of seclusion. What irony, she thought, that the fine moss used to line a baby’s cradleboard was also used to clean between a woman’s legs when the bright red flow announced that no child was forthcoming.
All was not lost for Misko and Ashagi, however, for they had the child, Niimi, to raise as their son.
Dancing Boy was as free-spirited as his name, spending time in the lodges of all his uncles and aunties in the band, but always returning to Ashagi’s wigwam as his first and dearest home.
He had no memory of the time before they had become his parents, having been less than two summers old when they found him leaping and crying on the shore of Kitchi Minissing. Ashagi had held him close from the start, wrapping her arms around him as they slept at night beneath a thick pile of caribou pelts traded from the Cree of the far north.
Only four children of the Amiks had survived the red death, yet these were soon joined by others from the mainland, all becoming brothers and sisters of the resurgent band. Niimi spent his days at play with them, free of all the cares that would assail him when he was grown to manhood.
Even so, Misko took care to instruct Niimi in the skills he would need as a man. When Niimi turned seven, Misko set about making him a squirrel bow, just as his own father had done.
Misko trimmed a supple branch from an ash tree to make the bow, stripping it of its bark and whittling it into shape with a flint chisel.
The bow was scraped flat on both sides and scalloped along its edges for ease of use. Then, taking Niimi to a marsh east of the village, they searched until they found the wood nettle containing the fiber that would serve as a bowstring. This would be soaked in water to make it pliable, spun into a strong cord, and coated with the pine pitch to make it waterproof.
Misko fashioned his son’s arrows from the juneberry tree, smoothing them with a grooved piece of sandstone.
“Do you know why we make arrows from this tree?” he asked.
Niimi shook his head, no.
“Deer and rabbits like to eat the bark of this tree and arrows made of its wood will help find their mark,” he explained.
For arrowheads, he crafted blunt tips of stone, useful for knocking squirrels and birds senseless. Two arrows were tipped with bone points, which is what hunters often used for taking deer. Misko also made an arrow tipped with the claw of a turtle, to be used for hunting rabbits. “You see this spike?” he showed Niimi the tip. “The claw is better for piercing the rabbit’s fur.”
But the bow was not done until it had been painted with a design that was pleasing to Niimi, and also lightly charred to strengthen the wood.
Then came days of practicing with targets, and at night Niimi slept with the bow curled at his side. “Your bow is part of you now.” Misko patted his son’s back after a particularly good shot. “Treat it as you would your own arm, for you will not live long without it.” He squatted before his son and, in a serious tone, confided the secret of a true hunter. “We do not take the animals of the forest with our bows, nor our arrows; it is they who give themselves to us.” Misko ran his fingers along the smooth arc of Niimi’s bow. “The deer must give its life to you as a gift. If your spirit calls to the spirit of the deer, your arrows cannot miss.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Never forget to thank the deer for its gift. A deer which is not properly thanked for its life may curse you with aching joints in your old age.”
“This I know.” Niimi frowned, anxious to show his awareness. “I have thanked them many times with you.”
“Yes,” Misko smiled. “But sometimes men forget.”
“I know we are all brothers and sisters, Father. The Old Man taught me about the animals and every bird in the sky. The earth, the lakes and rivers, we are all one thing.”
“And what of the trees?”
“Those, too.”
“And the sky?”
“Yes, Father, and the sun, too. The deer is my brother, and the bear too. I will not forget them.”
“I think you might yet be more of a shaman than a hunter.” Misko laid a hand on Niimi’s shoulder and laughed.
Niimi was thrilled with his bow; it made him a “big boy” in the eyes of the other children and he practiced for the better half of each day without prompting until he could hit his mark four times out of five. Misko’s own bow was crafted of hickory for strength and was versatile enough to be used for either hunting or as a war bow. He had used the neck sinews of a snapping turtle for a bowstring, a length of which was stronger than any cord known to the Anishinaabek. His arrows were not long, for a shorter arrow is of greater use to men hunting in a forest. They measured from the end of his elbow to a little past the tip of his pointing finger and were tipped with blades chipped from jasper and flint. Misko marked his arrows with the sign of his spirit, Nenookaasi, the hummingbird, and fletched them with eagle feathers. Just as an eagle could dive from a great height to spear a fish or a rabbit with its claws, so too could its feathers help guide an arrow to its target.
Misko looked forward to guiding Niimi as he improved his hunting skills as well as helping to fashion snowshoes, toboggans, canoes, and chipping arrowheads of flint. Niimi would not be expected to excel in these skills, just as Misko was no expert. Everyone knew a good canoe maker was a rare man whose work was highly valued with many presents required for his guidance, but Misko would be proud to have Niimi assist in making their clan’s new crafts, without which the Anishinaabek would be helpless.
19
THE BURDEN
The creation of Niimi’s bow was the brightest moment in a bad year for Misko and his first turn as head man of the Amik clan. As chief he had no authority other than cajoling with words of wisdom. The decisions of the clan were made by consensus, often in a council of men that could deliberate through an entire night, or even for days on
end.
That year was miserably cold and the violence of the winter blizzards settled over the land for days on end as the Anishinaabek huddled in near hibernation in their wigwams. Outside, Biboon, the north wind, howled until the people feared that the trees themselves would upend from their roots and tumble among their lodges. Many times that winter, the women of the band were sent into the teeth of the wind to repair the tattered sheaths of bark which had blown away in the gale. Above, the stars twinkled a deep purple as the fingers of Kitchi Manito wandered among them. Eya, the Anishinaabek said that even Death fled in terror from the cold that winter.
The cold contributed to Ashagi’s gloom over her failure to conceive. If even a powerful medicine woman could not resolve her problem, what could? The birth of three children in the band that fall only added to her sense of worthlessness. Her black mood settled on Misko’s shoulders, adding to his burden as chief.
The weight of leadership was heavy, since the members of the band took to picking at each other in the madness brought on by being confined within a tight space through the long winter days and nights. When every family remedy was exhausted—derision, ridicule, crying and screaming—it was Misko’s role to step in as judge and peacemaker. Often, these were problems the size of a mouse, which had grown to the height of a moose within the lodges. Staring, babbling, gossiping, flirting, farting, and lying were among the issues and accusations, as were complaints of neighbors taking more than their share of food. There were arguments over whose turn it was to tend the fire or to fetch wood, or complaints about the quality of the wood being burned. There were complaints about missing sleeping robes and broken implements. Complaints over leaky roofs and whose turn it was to sleep beneath the droplets. At times Misko felt he was chief of a tribe of children.
Late in the winter, the band also suffered the loss of their best hunter when the ice of the lake opened and took him under. A spring beneath the lake had thinned the ice above with its warmth and though the surface seemed as thick as the length of a man’s forearm, in truth it was as thin as an old woman’s wrist.
Although he clawed at the ice and his rescuers reached forth with their bows entwined as a lifeline, the spirits beneath the ice wanted the hunter more than those who dwelt above. A day later, his wife joined him in death, leaping into the portal through the ice in her heaviest clothing, bearing her husband’s pipe, medicine bag and other tokens in her arms.
The band was also without a story teller that winter, adding to the general misery. The Old Man had been off trading when it came time for the Amiks to leave for their hunting grounds.
“Perhaps he is a guest of the Potawatomis far south of here,” Misko speculated as he and Ashagi smoked their pipes by the fire one evening.
“Eya, or worse,” she answered.
“He is not dead. I would feel it,” Misko said. “He is my second father.”
“Did you feel the death of Ogaa?” she asked.
“No, but Animi-ma’lingan is as much a father as he ever was, and we are closer in our hearts. He is a priest of the Mide; he would send me a message if he were dead.”
“I no longer have faith in priests,” she said quietly.
“You need faith in something,” he said. “How else would the Anishinaabek survive?”
To this Ashagi had no answer.
Stories have a way of turning up, however, even when storytellers go missing. That winter, the elders of the band took turns recounting the glory of their youth. Old men told of the days when men were braver, women more beautiful, and the game was much bigger, often to the yawns of the young.
After singing and drumming each night, each of those in Ashagi’s lodge took turns at the storytelling around the fire through the long evenings, with even the children taking their turns. Often, the stories produced more groans than grins, but the band made do as best they could.
To her surprise, Ashagi found that she was among the most popular of the storytellers as she told of her time living on the north shore of Kitchi Gami and of the wild and ruddy Cree who were the neighbors of her clan. Eya, she also shared tales of the Sioux and the strange beast she had seen in their camp, as well as that of the warrior hoisted on the sacred pole to the sun.
But it was Minose, Good Luck Woman, who revealed the greatest talent as a weaver of tales and her jolly laugh set the lodges ringing all through the winter.
Minose loved to tell stories of Manabozho, the great uncle and champion of the people who was so strong that he could tear pine trees out by their roots, yet was a man of peace and wisdom. This was a bright spot by the winter fires, for the Old Man Animi-ma’lingan refused to tell tales of Manabozho.
“Oh, I am not worthy to speak of Manabozho,” the Old Man would say, waving his hands in protest.
“Those of the Mide-wi-win have to be careful when speaking of Manabozho,” he added with a laugh. “I am a trickster, like him, and would not care to make him jealous.”
Many thought that the Old Man had angered the godlike Manabozho and was fearful of risking his wrath by telling stories about him, even those filled with admiration. As the Old Man often said, one could not be too careful with the spirits.
But Minose had heard many legends of Manabozho when she was still a girl of the Moose clan and was eager to share them. It was also true that during the time of Manitogiizis, the Spirit Moon, it was possible to tell tales of the manitos without fear of reprisal.
“Brothers, sisters, as you know, Manabozho is the master of life who watches over the Anishinaabek,” she began one night when more than twenty had crowded into Ashagi’s lodge. “He is the transformer, and can change men into animals, or even trees, though always with an eye to helping the Anishinaabek. But he also makes fools of those who deserve it.” To this, the assembly of men, women, and children nodded in agreement as they huddled shoulder-to-shoulder around the fire. “As you know, Manabozho led the Anishinaabek to the shores of Kitchi Gami many lifetimes ago during a time of great trouble,” Minose continued. “This was a difficult time even for Manabozho, who had to put up with whiners and complainers the whole way. Once on that trip, Manabozho was walking through the forest when he came upon a hunter who had just killed an elk cow.
“‘Brother, I am hungry,’ Manabozho said to the hunter. ‘Give me a haunch of the elk to ease my hunger.’
“The hunter looked at him and said, ‘Brother, I would be glad to share this meat, but there is a poor man in camp whose family is starving and I must give it to them.’
“‘Can he not hunt himself?’ Manabozho asked.
“‘No,’ said the hunter. ‘He has broken his leg and is also cursed with two lazy sons who do nothing but complain and will not hunt for him.’
“Manabozho was impressed by the hunter’s generosity, but decided to test him further.
“‘Just give me a slice of the liver then and I will be on my way,’ he said. ‘Just a small slice.’
“But again the hunter said no. ‘Come, friend, and help me carry the meat home instead and we will all eat together,’ he told Manabozho, not knowing who he was speaking to. ‘Then, I will give you the choicest portion of meat that you desire.’
“So Manabozho helped butcher the elk and they wrapped it in birch bark for the way home, with each carrying a load.
“But as they walked, the hunter felt his load growing heavier with each step until he could barely carry it. ‘Brother, I am thankful you are with me,’ he said to Manabozho. ‘For I could not carry this load without you.’
“When they arrived at the poor man’s lodge, they unrolled the birch wrappings to find that there was not one, but three large elk inside, and it was the sweetest meat that anyone had ever tasted. For himself, Manabozho ate only a tiny slice of the liver, saying that he was full.”
At this, a small voice interrupted the story.
“Did they know then that Manabozho was among them?” the child asked.
Minose drew on her pipe. “Oh, yes,” she said solemnly. “Non
e dared to call him by name, but they thanked him many times over.”
But this was not the end of the story.
“That night, one of the poor man’s lazy sons came to Manabozho and demanded a favor. ‘Give me the gift of flight so that I can hunt from the sky like an eagle,’ he said.
“‘And why should I do this?’ Manabozho asked.
“‘Because you have honored my father, and so you should honor me,’ the lazy son replied.
“‘So be it.’ Manabozho waved his hand and the son flew off into the sky.
“The next day the other son came to Manabozho and demanded that he give him eternal life.
“‘Are you sure of that, brother?’ Manabozho asked. ‘To live forever is a heavy burden. I know of it myself.’
“‘Yes, I am sure,’ the second son replied. ‘You have the power over all things, uncle. Make it so and let me live forever.’
“‘And why should I do this?’ Manabozho asked.
“The second son replied with sweet words of praise. ‘Because you are kind and generous and a great hero of the Anishinaabek,’ he said. ‘And because you have honored my father, and so you should honor me.’
“So Manabozho did as the greedy son asked, turning him into a large rock on the isle of Mishi Mackinakong. For more than two hundred winters now he has watched over the straits, and there he will live for eternity, silent as stone and never changing. But that is not the end of the story,” Minose said. “Because within a cycle of the moon, the hunter’s crippled leg was healed by Manabozho’s magic and he was able to walk again. On his first day out, he saw a fat duck flying toward him, quacking in a rage and making a great show of beating its wings. He downed it with an arrow that flew straight to the bird’s breast.
“That night, the poor man and his daughters feasted on the duck and found that it had a familiar taste,” Minose concluded. “Fortunately, there was plenty of food for all of them because both of his sons were still missing.”
Late in the season, Misko stood another test as head man of the Amiks. As was sometimes the case, an old woman, said to be more than eighty summers, was accused of being a witch.
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