“A group of men from zee camp has not yet returned from a trading trip downriver,” Léon said. “Some of zee women ’ave agreed to move to other tents, so zat you may ’ave a teepee to yourselves.”
“Isn’t the tribe worried about them? Because of that creature you warned us about?”
Léon shook his head. “Windigo is a part of Cree folklore—zat is all. Zey are stories told to frighten children.” He pointed at the jittery kids with a long bony finger, as if to prove his point.
“It might be nice for all of us to be together and get a proper night’s sleep,” Rachel said.
“And it will be dark in a few hours,” Anna added.
Léon looked up at the sky. “We should go. It is mealtime.”
“That settles it,” Eric said. “If it’s suppertime, let’s go. I’m sick of granola bars and water. I need some home-cooking.”
I reluctantly agreed. If there really was safety in numbers—that’s what adults always said—we might be better off back at camp. And we could figure out the rest—Léon, the chief, and the pillars—in comfort.
We grabbed our packs and followed Léon and the kids back to their campsite. Barks-Like-An-Otter skipped along beside Eric and chattered non-stop with her little pals. They made enough noise so that I could stay back and tell Anna and Rachel about the drowning without fear of being overheard.
“I can’t believe I’m going to say this,” Rachel said, “but thank goodness Eric had to pee. Otherwise … ”
“That explains why they were so eager to have us return to the camp,” Anna said. “They wanted to return the kindness you showed them. And a way for them to do that is to keep you safe from the forest monsters. They might be mythical to us, but they are obviously real to them.”
We knew it was dinnertime when we got to the camp because the smell of food rose to the sky like billows of smoke. As expected, Eric’s gut rumbled and grumbled. A string of fresh fish was cooking over the main firepit near the centre of the camp. Another lady was making some sort of bread, and a huge pot of wild rice sat steaming next to her.
We all froze and stared wide-eyed at the feast being prepared all around us. We hadn’t eaten any real food for a long time and we were starving. The Cree women who were assembling supper saw us gawking and waved us over to join them. They laughed and said something to Léon.
Léon translated. “Zey said you should all eat as much as you can. Zey are joking zat perhaps no one wants you back because you look ’alf-dead.”
I had to laugh too. I suppose we did look like four unhealthy kids, especially Eric and Rachel with their blond hair and lighter complexions. To the Cree, they probably looked like walking corpses.
Somehow word had spread quickly through the camp that we were back from the stones and that we weren’t going anywhere. People poured out of teepees and gathered around the food—more food than I’d ever seen in once place. In fact, it dawned on me that this was a welcome-to-the-family dinner. And that was too bad, because I still planned on getting home.
Léon gave us each a wooden bowl and wandered off. I started off my supper with a huge scoop of wild rice. I saw a few rice husks, but otherwise it looked exactly like the wild rice my mom made. And it tasted just as good. I was nervous that the meat—deer or moose or caribou—would taste gross and gamey like the stuff Uncle Mitch dragged out of the freezer when we visited him. But it was cooked perfectly. They didn’t use—or have—as many spices as we did, but all the meats were tender and flavourful.
When we finished mopping our bowls with bannock, Barks-Like-An-Otter spoiled Eric and me with fresh blueberries and strawberries. Eric didn’t seem to mind all the extra attention.
“It must be nice for you guys, having your own personal server,” Rachel teased.
I laughed and popped another strawberry in my mouth. “It’s not our fault we’re heroes.”
Eric nodded. “Saving people is what I was born to do—just like Indiana Jones.”
“If only I could remember all this,” he continued, “I’d get an awesome grade next year in Canadian History.”
“Yeah,” Rachel agreed, “this is pretty amazing. We’re actually spending time with the first people in Canada. And a real voyageur.”
Eric scowled at the chief over his bowl of fruit. “Too bad he smashed your camera. It would be neat to get some pictures of him and—”
“Are you kidding?” I said. “We can’t start taking pictures of the chief with a digital camera. What would we do with the photos? I mean, we can’t go back to school and do a presentation on ‘How We Time-Travelled and Met a Real Cree Chief.’”
We all laughed and then looked at Chief Raven-Feather—Léon had told us his name. The chief was eating with our group, but Léon was farther away with another cluster of diners. I noticed the chief’s fingers had lots of small cuts on them from demonstrating to everyone how sharp his new knife was.
The chief yelled for Léon to come over. He stood up without much enthusiasm, ambled over to where we were eating and sat down with us. The chief said something, and we waited for Léon to translate. “Zee chief suggests you show your appreciation for zee meal by presenting ’im with another gift.”
We looked at each other in disbelief.
The chief started laughing like a madman and slapped Léon on the back so hard he almost rolled over onto some leftover fish fillets.
When Léon recovered his composure, he said, “Zee chief said ’e is only joking with you, and zat you all need to relax and not be so serious.”
What a character!
“Tell us your story,” Eric said to Léon. “How did you come to be here?”
Léon nodded, like he was expecting one of us to ask that.
“I was born,” he said, “in 1766 in a small town called Montréal. Perhaps you ’ave heard of it?”
“It’s not so small anymore,” Eric said.
“Ahh, so it is prospering?”
We all murmured that it was.
“When I was sixteen,” he continued, “I signed on with zee Hudson’s Bay Company as a voyageur. Zee work was terribly ’ard. Long days. Paddling. Paddling. Paddling. Sleeping in zee cold … ” His eyes glazed over with a distant look.
“That does sound rough,” I said.
Léon blinked himself back to the story. “Anyway, after twelve weeks I ’ad enough. I wanted to quit. But ’ow could I leave? I was in zee middle of North America. Zen, one evening after we ’ad set up camp, I went to explore zee area. I found some interesting rocks with writing on zem, and zee next zing I knew I was somewhere else. It was all very confusing for me.”
“Tell me about it,” Eric said.
Léon ignored that and said, “I wandered for days, looking for my men—my fellow voyageurs. I zought zey left me behind and … and I was ’appy. Very ’appy. Zen zee Cree found me and welcomed me. I ’ad a new family.”
“Did you know you travelled back in time?” Rachel asked.
“As zee years passed, and as I learned zee Cree language, I began to understand—and to believe—zat zat was what ’ad ’appened. I do not care if it was magic, or God, or something else zat brought me ’ere, but my life is better now.”
“Don’t you miss your old world?” Eric asked.
“Non. I only miss my little sister, Elyse.” He looked at Rachel and smiled, and then gave Eric and me a hard look. “But zis is my ’ome now and I would not want anything to change for my people.” He stood and walked away.
After everyone had eaten their fill, all the band members pitched in and quickly cleaned up. The cooking utensils were gathered and washed on the banks of the river. And the uneaten food was carefully packaged and placed in a deep hole on the eastern edge of the camp. I suppose without a refrigerator, the best way to keep stuff cool was to put it in the ground. If all that smoked meat was stored in the tents, it would definitely attract bears. They were doing everything we were taught to do in Boy Scouts, only they were never taught to do it. They just knew.
“Anna has an idea—a really good idea,” Rachel said.
“Oh yeah,” I asked, “what is it?”
Anna turned around to make sure Léon wasn’t coming back. “Well,” she said, “what if we ignored the symbols and glyphs from all the cultures, and focused on the ones we know are from North American Natives? Perhaps the chief or one of the Elders could make sense of those figures.”
Rachel pulled out the paper and pointed to the cluster of glyphs Anna had copied from the base of the stones. Three small shapes formed a triangle and clearly represented the stones—that was a no-brainer. But the other symbols were more obscure. There was a circle with a line underneath it, a crazy lightning bolt thingy, and an object I could best describe as a comb.
Eric took a quick look at it too, before Rachel slipped it into her bag again. “Maybe,” he suggested, “someone here can look in a Cree book and tell us what it all means.”
Anna shook her head. “That’s not possible. They have oral traditions.”
“What does that mean?” Eric asked.
“Well, the ancient Egyptians, for example, documented everything,” Anna said. “They wrote down even the most boring day-to-day things. But the early Cree passed on all their legends and myths and ancestry through stories told orally—not through books.”
Eric frowned. “But if we can’t find a scribe here, how can we get your sketches translated?”
Anna nodded. “The symbols themselves still have meaning. Everything we see around camp has been adorned with symbols and patterns and artwork. To us it may only look like decoration, but I suspect every design holds messages too.”
“I still don’t get it,” Eric said.
Anna was patient and tried to explain. “If I took a piece of paper and painted an eye, a heart shape, and a horseshoe, does that mean anything to you?”
“Sure,” Eric said, “I see that all the time. It means, ‘I … love … you.’”
“Exactly,” Anna said. “I did not use the English alphabet to spell that out—I used symbols—but you still understood the message. The Cree would not understand those ‘I love you’ symbols, just as we cannot understand their symbols. But still, even without a written alphabet, they are using symbols to communicate.”
We all looked around the camp. Anna was absolutely right. Everything was decorated—the tents, the weapons, the food bowls, the clothing. I felt a new hope grow inside me. Someone—perhaps one of the Elders—had to know what the symbols on the pillars meant.
The sun slipped below the horizon. One of the men threw heaps of wood onto the coals that had cooked our food. The dry logs quickly ignited, and the heat pushed us back several feet. The children in the camp who had been eating their supper with their family members gathered around an old man. Older kids made a semi-circle behind the little kids, and the rest of the adults stayed back, forming a perimeter.
The chief bellowed something to Léon and then pointed at us. Léon grimaced, but reluctantly came over and sat down next to Rachel. He seemed to like her more than the rest of us. “I am to translate,” was all he said.
“Is he the storyteller?” Rachel asked.
“Oui,” Léon said. “’e is our entertainer, our storyteller, and our ’istorian. ’is name is Ghost-Keeper.”
I felt an elbow jab me. “Now, that’s a guy we want to talk to,” Eric whispered. “If he’s the historian, he has to know about their symbols—it’s his job.”
Rachel heard what Eric said, so she elbowed him. “If we’re going to ask for his help later, you better show him some respect now.”
Once the kids had settled down, he began telling stories. We couldn’t understand anything Ghost-Keeper said, but it was just as entertaining to watch him. He didn’t just talk, he acted out whatever he was trying to say. He stood up, he sat down, and he even leapt into the air one time, as spry and nimble as a cricket, provoking sharp screams from some of the kids. And me too—I actually jumped when he did that.
“He’s terrific,” Rachel said quietly.
“What is that story about?” Anna asked Léon. “It looks very interesting.”
“’e always begins with zis story,” Léon explained. “It is called Turtles Never Run. Zee children love it.”
Everyone broke into laughter when his tale ended. The children implored Ghost-Keeper to continue. He pretended to be exhausted. Standing up, he faked a great yawn and suggested he was going to leave and go to sleep. But the kids wouldn’t have any of that. They whined and they begged, and after a minute, he sat down again with an exaggerated sigh.
The storyteller saw us grinning and waved us even closer, inviting us to be part of his audience. Ghost-Keeper said something to Léon, and Léon translated. “Next, ’e will tell zee story Why Beaver Has a Flat Tail.”
Léon nodded, and the Elder began again.
“Many moons ago, Beaver ’ad a long, thin tail. And ’is neighbour, Muskrat, ’ad a big, fat, flat tail. Beaver loved zee sound Muskrat’s tail made when it ’it zee water.”
Ghost-Keeper slapped his hands to mimic the sound of a beaver smacking his tail against the water. The sudden smacking sound made the kids, including me (again), jump.
“Beaver became jealous of Muskrat’s beautiful tail. ’e thought about ’ow much fun ’e could have if only ’e ’ad a tail like zat. ’e could show it to all ’is friends, and zey would be impressed with zee thunderous clap it made—if only it was ’is.”
The kids around me were all grinning. I realized that to them, this was like when Eric and I laughed at a cartoon on TV, even though we’d already seen it ten times.
“Beaver couldn’t eat, or sleep, or work on ’is dam. All ’e did was think about Muskrat’s tail and ’ow ’e wanted it. So one day, ’e asked Muskrat if zey could trade tails for one day—just one day. Muskrat said no, but Beaver would not give up. Every day ’e pestered Muskrat to trade with ’im. Finally, Muskrat ’ad ’ad enough, and ’e agreed to swap tails with Beaver for a day. But the following morning, when Muskrat asked for ’is flat tail back, Beaver shook ’is ’ead.”
The open-mouthed children shook their heads too, displaying their disappointment with Beaver’s sneaky trick.
“Muskrat screamed and begged for ’is tail, but Beaver ignored ’im and vanished into a bog. And to zis day, Beaver ’as not returned Muskrat’s tail.”
When Ghost-Keeper finished, I saw a lot of the adults offering satisfied nods. The stories are often different, I thought, but the message to kids is the same—be happy with what you have.
The storyteller pointed at the open space next to him. Then, he pointed at me.
Oh, no. Now what?
CHAPTER
9
ERIC LAUGHED AND pushed me toward Ghost-Keeper.
I groaned inwardly and snaked my way toward the storyteller. When I was standing next to him, with my back to the fire, he said something to Léon.
“’e asks zat you share a story now,” Léon explained, enjoying my discomfort. “To refuse would be an insult.”
Oh brother.
Anna nodded her encouragement, and Rachel winked at me and said, “Go ahead, Cody, tell us a story.”
“And make it a good one,” Eric added. “Or I’m going to fall asleep.”
Of course, I could have declined. I could have pretended I had a sore throat, or a ruptured appendix, or something. But we needed his help, and I wanted to go back home, so I took a deep breath and decided to wing it.
“This story,” I began, “is called … ahh … Never Believe a Fox. Many moons ago, Handsome Fox and Hungry Fox were playing near their home. They loved their forest and their river, but as they played, they began to fear that they may have to move soon, because there were too few mice left for them to eat. So Handsome Fox and Hungry Fox came up with a plan—they would trick the mice to come to them. T
hey just didn’t know how to trick the mice.”
The kids laughed politely as Léon translated. Maybe this wasn’t so bad.
“Handsome Fox and Hungry Fox were not very smart, so they asked Clever Fox for her advice. Clever Fox considered the problem and told Handsome Fox and Hungry Fox what to do. They left their home and went into the forest, where they told all the animals that they were tired of eating seeds and wild rice and wild oats and all the things mice love. They explained that to the north—that was where Handsome Fox and Hungry Fox lived—there was so much mouse food, they had to leave and go south to find fox food.”
The children grinned and leaned forward, eager for me to continue. Some of the adults chatting quietly at the back stopped talking and listened to Léon’s translations. Happy no one was falling asleep, I continued with more confidence.
“Word spread quickly among the mice that there was a land of plenty to the north—a place free of mouse-eaters and with lots of food. Handsome Fox and Hungry Fox snuck back home and waited excitedly. The mice soon followed. Their plan was working perfectly, and they feasted on mice all day long. But the mice kept coming—more mice than they could eat. Handsome Fox grew monstrously fat—”
I puffed up my cheeks and pretended I had a belly like Santa Claus. Everyone laughed as Léon turned my story into Cree.
“And Hungry Fox was weary of eating mice and longed for the taste of a frog or a bird. Their plan had worked too well. Finally, they had had enough. They told the mice it was just a trick, and that there was no extra mouse food. Word of the trick swept through the forest and reached all the mice. And they all left as quickly as they came. Handsome Fox and Hungry Fox didn’t have to move from their home, but they did have to work harder and harder to catch their food.”
I waited for Léon to translate what I said, and then I wrapped up my story. “So foxes are sly and sneaky, and you should never trust one. The end.”
Ghost-Keeper stood up—he’d been sitting on a log—and put a hand on my shoulder. He said something loudly in Cree. Léon explained what the storyteller had said. “’e will remember zat story and tell it in zee future. ’e also said zat you may become ’is … apprentice storyteller.”
Stones of Time Page 8