by Aaron Galvin
The men laugh as I turn around and show Ciquenackqua that I hold the ball in hand.
He looks as one confused as his father sighs. “Why do they laugh? She lost the wager.”
“No,” says Whistling Hare. “She did not.”
“But—”
“You wagered the ball would fall to earth untouched, my son. It never reached the ground.” Whistling Hare nods at me. “Black Pilgrim taught you well, white squaw.”
“She is no squaw,” says Deep River. “She has a warrior’s spirit. As great as any of us here.”
I fight my cheeks from reddening as others whoop in agreement.
Even Whistling Hare grins at that. “Come, my son.” He touches Ciquenackqua’s shoulder. “Before you think to wager the shirt off your back.”
The men laugh.
I do not, seeing Ciquenackqua flush with anger as both he and his father leave our company.
“Ciquenackqua,” I call.
When he turns around to see me, I fling the ball skyward. Drawing my long dagger, I tune my ears to the ball’s song and wait for it to descend. Then I fling my weapon. The wood cracks as my blade splits through the middle, pinning the remainder against a cabin log.
Ciquenackqua’s eyes round and he looks on me in disbelief.
I point at the ball and dagger. “Lest you think I cheated you with clever tricks.”
He shakes his head as his father leads him away, all to the tune of more cheers and playful banter as the men congratulate me.
More clans arrive by midafternoon, and soon we are all conversing and trading with one another. Not for the first time, I marvel at how well my brother prospers among the natives. It saddens me to think of those like Mary who will never embrace their goodly nature as George has done.
“You have been asked on,” Deep River says to me, late in the afternoon.
“How so?” I ask.
“Braves from a few of the other clans,” he says. “Looking for a wife.”
I shake my head at such talk. “What did you tell them?”
“I showed them what would happen to any man thinking of you as a simple squaw.” He points to the cleaved ball from Ciquenackqua’s wager.
“Thank you,” I say, laughing with him, “for warding off my suitors.”
“Do not tell my wife,” he says. “I believe Numees would have you settled and with child that you and she might raise them together.”
“She looks to the wrong sister,” I say.
“I tell her the same,” says Deep River. He points again at my dagger and the ball. “Why did you do that when you had already won the wager?”
My jaw works back and forth as I think on my words. “You and many others in our tribe welcomed my family as your own,” I say finally. “But Father teaches me not all in the other clans think the same. He says we must always prove ourselves worthy of being called Miamiak.”
“You are Miamiak.” Deep River clasps my forearm. “And I will have more than words with anyone here who disagrees.”
I grip his forearm in return, smiling back even as he yanks to me my feet and bids me join in a game of stickball with he and the other men.
Come the feasting at nightfall, I sit next to George and Hannah. I talk little, preferring to listen to the men boast of hunting stories and other tall tales. The scent of tobacco smoke from the calumet they pass round the circle clouds my nostrils. I inhale deep of it, its smell comforting.
Our laughter stops when Whistling Hare and Ciquenackqua approach our fire.
“My father reminds me I gave you no further winnings.” Ciquenackqua jerks his necklace free and tosses it at my feet. “This is yours now.”
I lift his necklace from the dirt in acceptance of the offering.
He nods in return, fire in his eyes, as they join our circle.
The necklace holds my attention. I rub its stones between my fingers and find one side rough, the other smooth. Experience tells me they are not true stones at all, and I ponder on its familiarity. I don the necklace, though the realization of where I have felt such an oddity before eludes me.
“They are turtle shells,” says Ciquenackqua. “My father carved and gifted them to me on the same day he named me.”
I look up at my rival of many years and shake my head. “I cannot accept this then.”
“You will,” says Whistling Hare. “To teach my son wisdom.”
Knowing my place, I keep my silence, though I would have Ciquenackqua take the necklace back. I gaze across the fire to our wizened shaman, Creek Jumper, for guidance.
The tattoos round his eyes and cheeks give the impression of an imposing warrior. I have only ever known him gentle, and remember he would call magic from the bones around his neck to chase evil spirits from my dreams.
As with all things, Creek Jumper senses my unease with accepting the necklace.
“It is right Black Pilgrim’s daughter keeps this gift,” he says. “Let Ciquenackqua learn from his manitous in this matter. That he should be slow to speak and act.”
Hannah leans to me, whispers. “I know not this word. What is a manitous?”
“The guardian spirit that guides our paths,” I say. “Each of us is given one to find and follow if we will seek it out.”
The men grow quiet as Creek Jumper takes the calumet.
He puffs it several times, blows circles, then passes it on. “My own son will not recall the day he earned his name. His mother and I could not make child for many years and so I prayed to the ancestors. Grant us a child, and I will give what you ask in return.”
Creek Jumper places his hand on Deep River’s shoulder.
“My son came into this world not long after.” Creek Jumper’s face turns sullen. “And so I fasted to learn what the ancestors would have of me. In a vision, the water panther, Linnipinja, came to me. Linnipinja say, ‘You will give me your son.’ Then he showed me where the river moves quick and white from his thrashing tail. ‘Bring your son here and honor your promise.’”
A shudder runs through me. I think on the rapids Creek Jumper speaks of and the first time Father took me through them that I might learn fear and respect for Linnipinja’s power. I recall also Father’s smile as I did not wilt, helping him guide our canoe through the fast water and then safely to shore.
Creek Jumper clears his throat. “My own father had warned many times the water panther drowns men as he wishes, and so I feared giving my son to Linnipinja.” Our shaman sighs. “I took him anyway.”
My brother and his wife alone seem uncertain of the story. Some of the braves from the other clans lean forward, as I do, the lot of us eager to learn how our friend earned his name.
“Together we went to the white waters. I placed my son in the cradle his mother makes, then gave him to the river.” Creek Jumper sits taller. His shoulders back, chest out. “My son did not cry, even as Linnipinja took him under the crashing waves.”
Hannah gasps.
My grin broadens to match Creek Jumper’s.
“Then I see Linnipinja gives my son back to me. He sweeps him to shore with his guiding tail, my son still in his cradle. Linnipinja say to me, ‘You will name your son Deep River, for I took him into my lair and found him strong.’”
Our shaman looks at each of us in turn. We meet his stare with silence, waiting for the lesson he would teach. Creek Jumper’s gaze settles on me.
“Tomorrow, Black Pilgrim’s adopted daughter starts a path to learn her manitous.” He grins at me. “Let you think on my story as you fast. Where the manitous leads, there you must go. Even if into the water panther’s lair.”
I breathe deep at his words, my body tingling with the thought of what form my own manitous will take. I have long waited this quest and planned the start of my fast accordingly, at a suggestion from Deep River. He warned that fasting in the woods alone took longer to bring on the vision. Instead, I begin mine with the journey home, a reflective trek through the wilderness alongside my friends and adopted family, all of it a
reminder of the new life granted me and the promise of what lies ahead.
The night ends too soon for my liking. I bid my brother and his wife goodnight as they retire into their home. Like Father, I prefer sleeping outdoors under the stars and moon.
I retire into my sleeping furs and rub the turtle beads between my fingers as weariness and warmth ushers sleep to take me. All the while, I think on Creek Jumper’s words, wondering what path my manitous will lead me on and the name awaiting me at its end.
-3-
The morning sun wakens me, bids me rise and prepare for our leave.
My stomach grumbles in desire as I sit with George and Hannah and watch them break their fast.
I do not partake. Instead, I stave off my hunger with the knowledge my manitous will not reveal itself without sacrifice. Still, the smells of Hannah’s cooking prove too great a temptation, and I take my leave to find Andrew and bid farewell. I find him nowhere on the ground, and take it as a sign he has spoken his piece to me.
The old bear comes last to see me off, his approach stilted, though he walks without the use of cane or crutch.
“Farewell, lass.” Bishop pecks my cheeks, his fuzzy beard tickling me. “Give your sister me love and tell the bastard I said hello.”
“I will.” I hug him close and drink deep of his familiar smell.
I take my leave of him and join my people by the Wah-Bah-Shik-Ka. We load our goods and hoist the canoes upon our shoulders to bear them over land. I am forced to share the load with Ciquenackqua, he and I being the only two of similar size among the men.
The French trader bears me no love as I wave farewell to his wife, the pair of them readying their own wagon.
My fasting makes the overland return journey to our village harder than I first imagined, but the songs we sing keep my spirit fresh. So, too, do the laughter and stories we share each night beside the fire.
My legs stumble by the time we reach our village, near evening of the fifth day. Weakened by hunger, black spots cloud my vision. Still, the sight of our people gathered in welcome outside the wooden palisades that ring our village lends me strength.
My sister, Sarah, stands out amidst the people, not only for her paler skin or her eternal grimace, but for the dress she wears—blue as the spring sky, sewn of white man’s cloth and laced with silk.
I recall the day Father traded beaver pelts, stacked high as a Frenchman’s long rifle, for a bolt of cloth to please her. I sigh at the recollection and the knowledge it did not sate her desire for the life before.
She hobbles toward me, leaning heavy on the crutches Father fashioned her.
My gaze homes on the furred pads beneath her arms, notes the padding is worn from heavy use. I remind myself to hunt a few squirrels after my fast and use their hides to replenish her comfort.
“Good morrow, sister,” says Sarah. “I have missed you sorely.”
“Aye, and I you. The others send their love and wish you would visit at the next trading.”
Sarah frowns. “Come. I would hear all about our brother and Bishop.” Her eyes meander to my neck. “And how you came by such a pretty necklace.”
I laugh that she should notice, though she were ever observant of such things.
We take our time entering the village, pausing whenever she needs to give her legs rest.
It pains me that Sarah’s body works against her, though I hide my feelings and continue telling her of our time at the trade post. We work our way through the maze of wikiamis, dome-shaped huts crafted of saplings tied together and covered with bark and animal skins.
We reach our own, and I pull back the buckskin flap to allow Sarah enter first.
The scent of smoke and spices hangs heavy in our hut.
I sit cross-legged beside the fire, listening to it sing with crackling pops. Its light casts long shadows of my sister and me against the far wall. They dance in time with the flickering flames.
A black bear’s stretched hide lies before me. I glide my fingers through its soft fur, parting hairs in my wake. Even now, I find it easy recalling the day I tracked the beast to its lair. Easier still remembering the faces of those who mocked me.
None are so foolish now.
Indeed, few braves can match my aim with bow or rifle. Only one can best me with the tomahawk and the long knife.
Only Father.
New pelts lay upon the floor, and I study the hides—elk, beaver, fox. My thoughts turn to memories of tracking such worthy creatures with Father. I honor them again with silent thanks for the lessons each taught me during the many hunts. Yet for all the pelts before me, I know the bounty lacks one prized hide—the elusive trickster of the forest. The only pelt I have yet to acquire.
Seated across the fire, I catch Sarah watching me.
I am no stranger to the look she gives. Many of the squaws in our village disapprove that I should go into the wood alongside our braves to fetch game and pelts for the trading posts.
But my sister is no squaw, and the disapproval in her eyes cuts worse.
“You should not look on the furs in such a way, Rebecca,” Sarah says. “You have only just returned from our brother’s post. Can we not sit and talk together without your attention turning to hunting and hides?”
My fingers dig deeper, clutching tufts of fur. “Father would not care.”
Sarah shakes her head. “I have asked you more than once to cease such pretenses.”
She wraps a bit of tanned leather round a bundle of pelts. Jerk the knot tight.
“Our father died long ago. My husband remains—” She levels me with her eyes. “And Priest will never be father to you. No matter how you might wish it.”
I know that I should hold my silence in keeping with Father’s lessons. My sister does not often fall into such a foul spirit, but I have learned to tread lightly when such a mood strikes her.
Still, for all Father’s teachings, I have not yet mastered his skillful, quiet way.
“Your husband is Father to me,” I say. “More so than the other one you speak of. That man is but a shadow in my memory.”
Sarah grimaces. “Odd that you should say so. I recall our true father showed you more favor than ever he did for George or me.”
She ties the other end of the pelt bundle, and chuckles in a way I like not at all.
“Perhaps it is just,” says Sarah. “That you also think of Priest in such a goodly manner. You were ever the only one to coax the smallest of smiles from our real father. Why should you not also steal my husband’s affections?”
Her biting words swell anger within me. Still, my conscience warns I am partially to blame for goading her. I humble myself, as Sarah oft preaches her god would have us do, and steady my tone. “Sister—”
“Do you think I cannot not see him turn from me?” Sarah asks. “I may be crippled, but I am not blind.”
“You wrong me,” I say, noticing her cheeks glisten in the firelight. “And him also to speak so.”
My sister shakes her head and busies herself with tying another leather strip ‘round the bundle of pelts in her lap. Her fingers work deftly, far more skillful than mine at such tasks.
“My husband is a good man, and true, but even the best of men crave youth and beauty. And I—” Sarah’s voice flutters. “I grow older, Becca. My womb barren, no matter the prayers I offer God to heal me.”
She sets the finished bundle aside and folds her hands in her lap while I struggle to think of what words to say.
“I-I give my husband no sons,” she says. “Not even a daughter with a wild spirit to match his own. Why should he not turn from me when one such as you shares our hut?”
“Sarah—”
“You have ever been the more beautiful sister.” Sarah looks at me, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Must you be the wilder also?”
I rise, thinking I might go to her and offer some little comfort.
The earth spins beneath me.
My head swoons from the hunger pains I have
endured the past week in preparation for the dream fast. My stomach grumbles in warning that my vision comes soon.
The moment passes, and I abandon my own bundle to cross the distance between us. I hold Sarah in my arms, embracing my sister with a tenderness not shown between the pair of us in many a year.
Her body shakes, trembles as she clutches me closer.
“I have naught, Becca…naught to offer my husband but grief,” Sarah says, her voice a whimper. “A darkness lives within me ever since the night I slew Hecate, I swear it on my soul. Th-The Devil’s daughter laid a curse upon me that God will not lift.”
I know not how to ease my sister’s mind, for the god she speaks of is but another foreign memory to me. A relic from the life before, like the father she recalls and I do not. Indeed, as a river divides one bank from the other, Sarah’s mention of her god reminds me time serves only to further the distance betwixt us.
No small part of me wonders if the rift will ever be healed.
“The white man’s devil has no power here.” I stroke Sarah’s hair. “Creek Jumper would fend away such an evil spirit with his magic. Just as he warded off the sickness in your legs once.”
I regret my words the moment I speak them.
My sister collapses into another fit of tears. “Your shaman has no power, Becca.”
“He does,” I say. “I have seen it. With you and—”
“Then why can I not stand of my own power?” Sarah asks. “What cruel sorcery is this that I may walk one day and not the next? No…no man, or shaman, can heal me. This curse is the Devil’s work, sister. Only God can heal me.”
I keep my silence this time, though knowing well the reason Creek Jumper’s medicine does not keep. The old ones say my sister has not renounced the white man’s ways. They believe Sarah, like Bishop and George, will always cling to the life our family led in the time before.
Not like me.
Not like Father.
“But I fear, sister,” says Sarah. “I fear He brought this torment upon me for my sins. M-my legs grow weaker each passing season. I think it be God’s intent for me to slither on my belly the rest of my days…my punishment for murdering Hecate.”