My ‘way ay (namesake), the young Ojibwe boy who raised me, who would eventually become my alpha, named me Ogema, without even knowing the name was part of my ancestry. Maybe he saw something in me as a young pup. Maybe because I was bigger and stronger than my brothers or sister, maybe because I had my way with my mother’s milk before they did, maybe because I comfortably took on the look and demeanor of my father, the wolf. My father, the wolf who seemed to live fluidly between the village and surrounding forests, who was never quite comfortable being owned by anyone, who was sometimes seen in the company of his wolf relatives, who preferred to live a solitary life, who did not bark, who did not wag his tail, who did not run happily to greet his human owners, who rarely spoke. Who was a watcher, a keen observer to all the subtleties and deeper meanings of things.
Who, when he did speak, told our story going back over many thousands of generations: That my line is of the wolves of Turtle Island, the island of islands, the place known to the Ojibwe as Moningwanakaning (the place of the yellow-breasted woodpecker), the sacred place, the place of secrets. You are a descendent of the great wolf, Ogema, your namesake, he said, who led a rebellion of wolves with the arrival of the first French traders, the new man-wolves as they were called then, to the island. The traders, and soon the Ojibwe, began the wholesale slaughter of the animals for their furs until they were almost completely gone, until there was only silence, until the forest wept. You are the descendant of the she-wolf, Waubun Anung, alpha mate of Ogema, who was the first wolf slaughtered by the new man-wolves. You are the descendant of a long line of wolves who have been in this place of water and islands for over ten thousand years, who followed the great herd animals to this place with the retreat of the last glacier. And he told me as well the story of our creation, of when first man and wolf walked together as brothers over the face of the earth and named all of the waters and islands and hills, the plants and animal beings, and that was Maen’gun, our grandfather, the grandfather of all wolves. That through prophesy, human and wolf share a common destiny. That the Creator gave us the land and waters of our dwelling in honor of the brotherhood of wolf and man, that Gitche Gummi bears the likeness of a wolf’s head as a reminder of our place and purpose here. That there is a reason we live near and among the humans.
This is the teaching, he said, and it is so. Wolves, he said, we have a story.
SO OBVIOUSLY WHILE I am half dog, I identify most with the wolf in me, and it’s not that I deny my dog side. I deeply care for my multiple human owners, especially the elderly grandparents and the boy, and having that faith and loyalty in one’s human owners is definitely part of my dog side. That sense extends out to the greater village as well, because all of us “pets,” as we are sometimes referred, whether we are dog or wolf, care for the wellbeing of our owners. And like many of us “pets,” what we sense in our Ojibwe owners is that they are going through a difficult and troubling time, that they are experiencing a period of great uncertainty and transition in the community, and that it is not just one thing that would explain why they seem out of balance, because the troubles the Ojibwe are having just seem to be multiplying and feeding on one another all at the same time. Mostly what I sense is almost a frenzy of despair, of grieving, of a village under siege with itself. And I sense the reasons for this can all be tied to the coming of the Europeans, the humans my wolf ancestors referred to as the new man-wolves. And while it may be unfair to link all of their troubles to one thing, in this case it seems to be true.
While once the forests and lakes had forever provided for us, now there is not enough meat, not enough deer or rabbit, or even mice to harvest for nourishment. The circle of the hunts has grown much larger. Humans and wolves must work twice as hard for a single kill, if they are so fortunate. The animals whose furs were most prized by the French, and later the Americans, are scarce, so the balance of things has tipped. My wolf relatives, who once harvested the animals prized for their furs, are suffering. And at the same time the new settler’s government has confined the Ojibwe into small areas upon which they are to live and make a livelihood, on bog and wetland or clay and rock with weak soils that doesn’t sufficiently support their gardens. On land far removed from the wild rice lakes, which has been their primary source of food. They are quickly trading their hide and bark round lodges for the square, wooden homes of the settlers, their hide clothing for cloth, their moccasins for boots made from the hides of cattle.
And now, especially in this village more so than others, it seems they have even traded the manner in which they worship the Creator, as the people have divided themselves into camps of those who worship the old way and those who have adopted the way of the settlers. And each says theirs is the only way and insists the other is wrong, and this has divided families and the community in a way it has never been before, an intolerance so far removed, so opposite and contradictory from the love and grace exemplified by the same Creator in whom they both worship. And now the Ojibwe, who over the course of the fur trade had grown dependent on the wares of the new arrivals, who were lured by the desire to possess things—the vessels for cooking, blankets, clothing, mirrors, furniture, metal stoves, money, guns, and, now, alcohol (which in itself has made those who drink it act completely gewanadizi—crazy) are now also dependent upon the government of the settlers for food rations. For when the forest was emptied of the prize furbearing animals, they could no longer supply the traders with furs, and their access to the things the settlers possessed dried up. Now they are trading for the land, the earth itself, and it is not an equal trading relationship between the two because the government of the settlers knows that without food rations the Ojibwe will perish from starvation. So it seems, at least from my perspective, that a once mighty nation has been humbled and is crumbling before my very eyes. And we “pets,” as we are referred to, can only watch in silence because we know that what happens to them will also beget us. That is the teaching.
For several winters, the Ojibwe had gathered by the thousands from all of their scattered villages on Turtle Island, the island of islands, to collect the annuities (small amounts of money) and food rations from the government of the settlers that they had exchanged for the land. For land now quickly being peopled by families of settlers, the good land with rich soil for growing their crops, the good land bordering rivers and lakes upon which they can easily travel by boat and canoe. The land upon which they have brought their cattle and sheep, the land upon which they are now killing wolves because my wolf relatives see the cattle and sheep as food to be harvested.
Now, the government of the settlers had told the Ojibwe that the annual settling of annuities was to be moved to a place many days west, that if they are to receive the food they needed to survive the coming winter they would have to travel there to get it. And in the village, many of the adults and their children were readying for travel, and decisions were being made regarding who would go and who would stay, provisions were being gathered—dried meat, corn, wild rice—and plans made on the route of the journey, and who would travel with who, and how long they would be gone. So in the extended family of our multiple owners, it was decided that the two younger families would do the westward journey, leaving the grandparents. And among those making the journey were the parents and little boy who is my ‘way ay, who owns me, who is no more than ten winters in human age, who I have spent nearly every day the entirety of my three years on the earth in the company of, and whose life I am sworn to protect.
So I watched as they readied for the journey, and I spent all of my waking time with the boy because I wanted to make the journey with him, and feared that if I left his side he would leave without me.
Take me with, I said, speaking through my eyes to him. My keen sense of smell and hearing and sight will be useful to you and the family as you journey. My speed and endurance and teeth will protect you from any enemies. I will curl next to you in the cold evenings for warmth. And if I could have spoken in his language, my pleading would
have shouted it out. Take me with you.
On the day of their leaving, however, the boy came to me as I lay in front of the family lodge. You stay here, he said to me. You stay right here and protect our elders. They need you here to protect them from our enemies. They need you to keep them company and offer warmth in the cold evenings. And in my heart I protested because I wanted to be with him, to protect him, and he must have sensed it. No, he said. You stay here. And to emphasize the certainty of his order, he used his open hand to push me away, and I was left stunned and disappointed and angry.
Then as the people gathered and the travelers began leaving in their canoes I ran to be with him, to be by his side, and he was forced to run me off many times, and finally resorted to using a stick to drive me away, even knowing in his heart it was not right. Go home, he said. I hate you, dog, he repeated over and over again. I do not want you with. You stay here. And finally, heartbroken, believing for just that moment what he was saying was true, I finally relented, and defeated, walked slowly back to the family lodge with my head down. I hate you, he had said. I do not want you, was all I could think of.
From then on I spent most days lying in wait in the front of the lodge. And the grandparents, whom I was left to protect, waited with me, as I lay at their feet and they scratched and stroked my ears and neck and face, and scratched my belly to comfort me, and I snuggled in close to them to keep them warm and let them know that I was there to be their protector.
Ogema, they said to comfort me, the boy meant no harm in chasing you off. You have no place in their journey. You have not traded the land for food. You have no need for the settler’s money. Your place is here with us.
But at night when I lay alone in front of the flap of the opening of the lodge, I dreamed of the boy and his parents, and wondered of their journey, and worried for them. And waited.
THEY HAD BEEN GONE for many evenings. And one day a young runner, a stranger, came into the village, scared and tired and hungry and out of breath. And you could see even though he was strong and had a strong voice that he was deeply troubled by what he was about to tell us, and his voice was breaking as he spoke. I am from a western village, he began, as he followed the proper protocol of telling us about his family, and clan, even though he hungered and was in need of rest, and had come to deliver somber news.
Your families are in danger, he said to those of us who had remained there in the village. The rations did not come. Then came the snow and cold. And now your people are making their journey home on foot, but there are many among them who are suffering from hunger and disease and cold. Already many have perished. They sent me here to tell you to come to them, to bring whatever food you have, to help to bury the dead.
And I was with the grandfather when I first heard the news and we quickly returned to the lodge to tell the grandmother, and then we gathered as a village in its center and the people talked about what they must do. Only a few strong men and women had been left to care for those who had stayed, and there were those who were very young or elderly, or infirmed, or those who could not travel because of injury. Who will go, they all asked, and all said they would. And they argued about it for a long time, and all the while we “pets,” as they refer to us, had already made decisions about who among them should be making the journey of rescue. Because we have that sense about who was strong enough to make such journeys, because we know full well this was not the time to waste debating who will not go or go.
And the boy who I loved, who had raised me from a pup, who had named me, was all I could think about.
The village finally decided that a few strong men and boys would go, as time was of essence and there were not enough provisions for a larger party to make the journey. Where are our people, they asked the stranger, where will we find them? The reply came that the last he was aware, many were on the western end of the big lake, Lake Superior, and they were camped out waiting for warmer weather to melt some of the snow, trying to hunt for food, and tending to the sick. They will not be able to make their return without assistance, he said. They will surely perish there if no help comes to them.
As those who were selected for the journey hastily made their preparations, I made my way to the far side of the village to where my father, the wolf, lived with the boy’s father’s old uncle. I found him there sunning, the old man scratching his ears.
Father, I sent my thoughts to him, the boy. I was so distraught I was tripping over my words. The boy needs our help. And then I asked him to do the journey with me to find the boy and his family, to make the rescue, to keep them warm, to protect them from enemies, to assure their safe return.
He was, however, not easily swayed by my plea for help. Maybe, he said, it is not our place to interfere in the course of things, in the playing out of the people’s story. Maybe this is the way things should be, maybe if we alter the way of things we will only delay the people’s demise, and they will only suffer more, and longer, for many more generations. Maybe it is the Creator’s wish to call them to Him so they will suffer no longer.
Father, the boy, I said. He is just a boy. He had no say in the decisions to slaughter the fur-bearing animals so the people could possess things, no say in the decisions to trade the land for food, no say in deciding whose manner of worshipping the Creator is right or wrong. He is just a boy, and I am sworn to protect him, my ‘way ay. And it is not our place to wonder what will become of the people in the future. We can only live for now, for what is happening now. And what we have in front of us now is a little boy and his family, and other families, who will surely perish without our help. That is all that should concern us now. Father, please.
And my father, the wolf, who seemed to live fluidly between the village and surrounding forests, who was never quite comfortable being owned by anyone, who was sometimes seen in the company of his wolf relatives, who preferred to live a solitary life, who did not bark, who did not wag his tail, who did not run happily to greet his human owners, who rarely spoke, who was a watcher, a keen observer to all the subtleties and deeper meanings of things, said he would help me get the boy and his family.
And with that decision began our journey to rescue them.
FATHER, WHEN WILL WE set out?
Now, he said.
We knew this would be a difficult journey for us, a journey over several days into strange territory. There would be constant danger of attack from other wolves whose territories we would infringe upon along the way, of the possibility of hunger given the scarcity of other animals from which to harvest, of the snow we would encounter, of cold. And we also knew we would have to travel without the humans, the men and boys from our village who were also making the journey on foot, because they would only hold us up. For wolves are much faster. Our eyes and nose and ears are much keener.
So we set out. We will follow the hills along the lake, said my father, always keeping the lake within view. And we will travel in the night, stopping only to rest and gather whatever food we can for energy. We will not challenge other wolves that may confront us. And if confronted, we will request permission for safe travel through their territory.
Then, traveling westward we went, running, running. At first light we stopped for water and were able to catch a vole and mice. Then to sleep, too tired to dream. Then awakening to wait, to wait more, then at dusk just when we were about to lose patience we set out again. Running, running. Then again at first light we rested again. The ground now had a dusting of snow. Again, hunting for whatever we could capture, this time we were rewarded with a salamander, hiding deep in a rotting tree stump. Then to sleep, again too tired to dream.
On the third night we heard other wolves calling in the distance. Quiet, my father said to me. We stopped for a moment, than ran a wide arc to avoid them where we could hear the voices. Running in silence, broken only by our hard breathing, the vapor from our breath trailing from our nostrils, from the hot dampness of our fur. Running, running. Then it was dawn again. Now the snow was u
p to our ankles. We knew, however, that was when the mice sometimes are careless, thinking that if they cannot be seen that they will somehow be safe. We, however, can hear through the snow. We feasted on mice that day. We ate snow. Sleep, a ragged dream. The boy. I saw him suffering.
On the fourth night we came upon an encampment hidden deep among a grove of cedar and hemlock. We approached cautiously, alert. Quietly, my father warned, speaking to my thoughts. The camp was in darkness, without fire or any sounds of humans. I was the first to put my head into a makeshift lodge, hastily cut from saplings and covered with cedar boughs. And then I saw them—two adults and two children, their lifeless, frozen bodies lying cuddled together, wrapped in a blanket of rabbit skins.
I turned and motioned my father to leave this place. We did not take the time to wonder of their fate.
Running, running. Late into the night we were running in complete darkness, the sky covered with a blanket of thick clouds, a new moon. We ran down a deep ravine and to the top of a rise. Then we could hear them. Wolves.
What shall we do, I sent my thoughts.
Be still, the answer. So we lay motionless under some balsam saplings, breathing hard from running, our fur wet and steaming. And we knew now we had probably already been discovered.
Then almost suddenly, they were there in front of us, two males and their mates and a juvenile.
The alpha male spoke. What tribe are you? This is our land.
My father spoke for us. We are the descendants of the wolves of Turtle Island, the island of islands, the sacred place, the place of secrets. We are descendents of the great wolf Ogema, my son’s namesake, he said, who led the rebellion of wolves with the arrival of the new man-wolves. And we are the descendants of the she-wolf Waubun Anung, alpha mate of Ogema, who was the first wolf slaughtered by the new man-wolves. We are on a journey and request safe passage through your land. We mean no harm.
The Tao of Nookomis Page 15