The Tao of Nookomis

by Thomas D. Peacock

  The alpha male spoke again. Why should we believe your story? How do we know you have not come here to feast upon our bounty, to steal our mates? You know as well the fate of wolves like you who run without the pack, dare to infringe upon other’s hunting lands.

  And all the while the other wolf was speaking, my father was secretly sending his thoughts to me. Prepare to run. When I motion you to do so, run like you have never run before. Run hard and do not look back, even though your lungs are burning and feel like they will burst.

  Then just as suddenly, he motioned and we were off. His speed amazed me. And I was hard on his tail, the other wolves chasing just behind me. Running hard, harder than I have ever run. Not looking back. My lungs burning, burning, running for what seemed like an eternity. My father sending his thoughts to me, run hard. Run hard. Think of the boy. Put his face in your thoughts, only the boy. Now run toward your thoughts.

  And I did. I ran toward my thoughts, ran until the wolves tired of the chase, until we reached the outer fringe of their land, until the soft light of dawn began creeping over the earth. And then we ran some more.

  Then finally, beyond exhaustion, we stopped. Too tired to find food, we both fell into a hard sleep. To sleep and dream of the chase, of running.

  We slept briefly. We’re almost there, my father spoke his thoughts to me. Then we were up, sore and aching, and off again. Running, running in full daylight, we were close, running.

  Off in the distance now, we could see the bottom of the big lake, the great hills that mark its beginning, and the sacred mountain of our Ojibwe brethren. Running, running. We trod the thin ice across a river, past the island of spirits the Ojibwe speak of in their prophecies. To the boy whose scent I could discern, who I knew was alive, who I sent out my thoughts to, I am coming to you. I am almost there.

  There were several encampments along the ridge of the mountain and we silently walked along the fringes of each one looking for the boy and his family. There were fires at some of them, but others were dark and cold and spoke of death. We did this while the sun moved across the lake and warmed the land.

  The boy’s scent was stronger now. Put his face in front of you, my father reminded me. Run toward your thoughts.

  And I did.

  Again, we came to an encampment, and this time I knew we had found him. I ran at full gait toward a makeshift shelter, around a dwindling campfire.

  And there he was, the boy.

  I jumped on him and licked his face, wagging my tail so hard my whole body was shaking back and forth, back and forth, the dog in me. The boy hugged me and spoke my name.

  My father stood back at the opening of the shelter, composed, the wolf.

  The joy in our meeting seemed to go on for the longest time and when it was over my father sent his thoughts to me. The boy, he said, his father is dead. And his mother, she is dying. And the boy is cold and hungry.

  He again sent his thoughts to me. I will stay here with the boy. You secure us some food. And I did as he requested, leaving, even though I did not want to put the boy out of my sight. I went in search of food.

  In my life I have become convinced there are times when the Creator walks right alongside us, and that day was certainly one of them, for my hunt was successful and a rabbit soon offered itself to me, which I brought back and laid in front of the boy.

  We stayed in that place for days, my father and I taking turns with the hunt, for rabbits, mice hiding under the snow, voles and salamanders that lived in the stumps and the hollows of logs. We were rewarded as well with small birds, a woodchuck hiding deep in some deadfall. We stayed as the boy gained strength. We stayed while he buried his father and mother in the proper way, while he kept a mourning fire, and said the songs and prayers for the dead, and mourned for them for four days as was their custom. We stayed at a distance from his encampment during these proceedings, as was our teaching. For neither wolves nor dogs have any business with the ceremonies of our human owners. We have our own prayers and songs, our own ways.

  And then, when all was done, we took him home.

  The boy. My ‘way ay, the young Ojibwe boy who raised me, who became my alpha, who named me Ogema, without even knowing the name was part of my ancestry. Who saw something in me as a young pup. Who saw that maybe I was bigger and stronger than my brothers or sister, that 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.

  A Bear Story

  I know that a lot of people think I am just an old man who doesn’t know anything and isn’t useful anymore, and few seem to care about what I’m thinking or have to say, or care what will become of me. I know that. I can feel it when I talk to most people, as it is in the sound of their voices and the look in their eyes. I mean, I am just this old bachelor who lives in a trailer house out on a dead-end road on the fringe of the reservation and I don’t get too many visitors except for a sister and niece and a couple of old fart friends, so not that many people really know me. And I don’t have any of the cultural knowledge that so many of the young people seem to want from the “elders,” as they call us now. I can’t speak the tongue, although when I was a young boy I remember Old Grandma, that was all she spoke around us, and she was always speaking it to my mother and sometimes to my father as well, although she rarely spoke directly to him, only through my mother. So I grew up around the language, sort of, whenever I was home from St. Mary’s School in Odana, anyway, that boarding school we were sent to, where all us young Indians were sent back then. So the language is not something that is foreign to my ears. It’s just that I can’t speak it, except for the basics.

  “Boozhoo. Aaniin” (hello). That’s about it.

  So nowadays, with everyone going back to the culture and all, I’m one of those who are out of the loop, of sorts. I don’t know much about singing them Indian songs they sing at the pow-wows. Never could carry a tune except when I had a few drinks in me, and then I could sing a Hank Williams song pretty good. Spent more time at the bar in the old bowling alley in Red Cliff listening to the jukebox than I ever spent at any pow-wow. Nor could I teach anyone to dance Indian. Got two left feet. Always have. At the pow-wows when they ask us elders to dance I go out there, of course, but my stepping is always a few beats off. And I never made maple syrup, so I can’t teach anyone that, either. If anyone would ever ask I’d have to admit I like Mrs. Butterworth’s better than anything on my cakes.

  I used to make wild rice when I was a kid. All of us did then, for school clothes mostly. My dad, of course, always drank most of the proceeds from selling the rice, but we usually got a few pairs of jeans and shirts from our ricing money. I quit ricing fifty some years ago after I moved to the Cities, and when I came back here to the reservation thirty or so years ago the last thing on my mind was picking up ricing again. Nowadays the tribal council gives it to us elders, so who needs to do all the work of harvesting the rice anyway? Nor can I make or mend nets, or set them, so I’m worthless with fish as well. If I want fish I go down to the Pier Restaurant on Friday nights for the all-you-can-eat trout and whitefish special.

  I don’t know any of the legends, either, so I’ll never be a storyteller. I suppose if I knew any I’d be in demand all over Ojibwe country. We had all of that beat out of us by those nuns at St. Mary’s when we was kids. About the only thing I’m good at is cutting wood. Hand me a chainsaw and you’ll see a craftsman at work. I can drop a tree on a dime.

  I think nowadays when people look at me they just see an old man who doesn’t know shit.

  Anyway, a couple of months ago I got a firewood permit at the tribal council office that gave me the okay to harvest all the dead and down alongside the roads anywhere on the reservation, so I’d been doing just that. And I was up in Big Sand Bay because there was a big blow there a couple of summers ago and all kinds of trees got knocked down and the area needed cleaning up, so I had loaded up my saw, chain oil, and so
me mixed gas and drove out there in my old pickup, figuring on getting a load of nice dry wood to cut up and sell to the campers in Little Sand Bay campground. I was cutting up a storm and all covered with chips and smelling like chain oil and gasoline and getting hungry for one of my sandwiches all at the same time. And then I saw them bears, four of them.

  I see critters all the time. Wolves, coyotes, eagles, fox, otters, you name it. Now even turkeys, for Chrissakes. Even saw a cougar once when I was walking the trail between Big and Little Sand Bays, although no one believed me when I told them. They said I must have been giwasquaybe (drunk). Bears I see all the time, though, so it’s not like they are rare or anything. And I often see the same animals as well. All of us are creatures of habit, you know. We all have our places we travel to and from, our favorite paths, our haunts. Animals have schedules just like people. I’ve been feeding a coyote visitor all season and he comes down the road by my place near every week to get his fill of scraps.

  Anyway, I was cutting firewood at Big Sand Bay that day and I seen them bears, a sow and three yearlings, that’s the first time I ever seen them before. That sow gave me a look and cut across the road and headed down over the ridge across Sand River, and then they disappeared into the brush on the other side and I figured that was that.

  Well, that wasn’t that, because a couple of days later while on my way to the elder center for lunch I saw them same bears again by the old dump off Blueberry Road, and they looked like they were headed to town, too. So I slowed down and honked at them and that old sow just stared at me like “who the hell do you think you are” and I rolled down the passenger window and yelled at them that they’d better go into hiding soon ’cause the white guys bear hunting season will be soon and they’ll end up on the back of a flatbed with their tongues hanging out. I was thinking as I pulled away from them that maybe next time I should bring my rifle with in case I see them again so I might fire above their heads in hopes of making them afraid of gunfire so they learn enough common sense not to get killed. I’m not one to understand why white folks go hunting bears, anyway. I’ve always been opposed to killing anything for “sport,” as they call it. Killing a bear by baiting it with rotten chicken guts and then siccin’ dogs on it isn’t my idea of sport. One thing I learned early on as a kid was that you don’t go killing anything unless it’s going to end up in your kettle.

  Anyway, I hadn’t seen them again for a couple of weeks and the bear season was in high gear, and one Sunday I was headed down Blueberry Road on my way to the restaurant at Legendary Waters Casino to meet up with some of my old friends for the buffet breakfast. I remember it was really foggy that day and when I rounded the curve where Blueberry meets Frog Bay Road the fog got really thick and I had to slow down to almost a crawl. Then out of the fog I saw them bears again, and they were walking down the side of the road, and then they disappeared into the fog, and appeared again up ahead of me. By then I just watched for them because I didn’t want to run any of them over.

  That last time they disappeared in the fog and I kept driving at a crawl watching for them. Then the fog cleared again. And instead of four bears there appeared four people, an old lady and three of her grandkids, two girls and a boy. They were dressed like old-time Indians, you know, like when I was a kid. The old lady was all in black, with the thick black stockings and black-laced boots and a long black dress. And the kids were in bib overalls and flannel shirts and their hair was all mussed up like they’d been sleeping in the weeds. I swear to God.

  I almost shit my pants.

  And of course, normally I would have stopped and offered anyone walking to town a ride, but no way in hell was I going to do that. Instead I hit the gas and that old pickup blew out a big puff of blue smoke, and I got the hell out of there as quick as I could. And by the time I got to the casino parking lot, I was just starting to settle down enough to think about what had just happened. There was no way I was going to share what just happened with my friends. If they didn’t believe my cougar story they would never, ever buy this one.

  On the Sundays I meet up with my friends at the buffet, we usually make it an all-morning event. Everyone has stories to share. We all grew up here and have known each other our entire lives, so there is plenty to talk about. I suppose the waitstaff gets sick of us because we sit there and blab for hours and don’t tip, and a couple of us chew so we bring our own cans in and that must really creep them out. And I imagine the casino management would much rather have us out on the floor playing the machines.

  Anyway, that day we were sitting there for a couple of hours with me pretending I didn’t see what I saw on my way there, and then they came in, that old lady and three young ones. Except now they weren’t dressed in old-time clothes but looking usual, like everyone else. If I had taken drugs when I was young, which I didn’t, I’d have sworn I was having flashbacks, or whatever they are called, but I wasn’t. This was about as real as it gets.

  They got a table on the other side of the restaurant and from then on I couldn’t listen to a word any of my friends were saying because all I could think about was what I saw back on the road, and was happening again just across the room. And I watched as each of them, the old lady and little ones, loaded plate after plate of sausages and bacon, and blueberry pancakes, like they were starving and hadn’t eaten in months. I swear to God they ate like bears, they did. No talking, just chewing hard and breathing through their noses. Then when they were done they all got up at once and left, and I overheard the waitress say the old lady left her a fat tip.

  After they left I asked my friends, “Hey, you ever seen that old lady or kids before?”

  But no one had.

  I took the main road home that day, avoiding Blueberry Road like it carried the plague. And the next time I went cutting wood up in Big Sand Bay I brought the dog along for company. Like my old dog could stop four bears from tearing me up and scattering me all over the road. Like they would do that anyway. What I really tried to do, though, was pretend what I had seen that Sunday really wasn’t what I saw. That what actually happened was it was foggy that day and the bears wandered off into the woods and there really was an old lady and her grandkids a few steps ahead of them, who just happened to be there as well. I think sometimes we need to hear that rational voice in order for us to move on in life. Like life is rational.

  I DON’T HAVE MUCH for family left, a sister who had a couple of worthless kids, she emphasizes, except they gave her several wonderful grandchildren. Sometimes when she comes out to visit me she brings one of them along, a girl twelve years of age. The girl, Andonis (meaning “my daughter”), was given an Ojibwe name by her worthless father, who disappeared long ago from her life, but left her with a hauntingly beautiful name. And Andonis is always so kind to me and calls me Uncle. Often when she comes out with my sister she brings the awards she has won in school for her work, as well the newspaper clippings of the powwow news which list her among the winners in the fancy shawl category, whatever that is.

  “Look, Uncle,” she always is beaming, “look at these.”

  She is always so proud and even though I don’t know much about what she is talking about, I am truly proud of her. Proud that she is doing well. Proud that there is a little girl somewhere in this world who loves her uncle enough to want to show him how well she is doing. And always before she takes leave from one of their visits she gives me a hug and tells me she loves me, and to take care of myself, and that she will be out to see me soon. And I who have always been uncomfortable with hugs always melt.

  Sometimes when she leaves I am almost jealous of my sister that she has such a wonderful granddaughter. And often I even feel regret because I have lived the entirety of my life without a life partner, without children and grandchildren to call my own. That in all inevitability I will die alone without anyone holding my hand and walking me down that final, long road as far as they can.

  Anyway, last weekend my sister and niece came out to visit and sometime dur
ing the visit my niece made mention of seeing an elderly lady and three young ones walking down a side road just up the road from my place. My sister said she didn’t see them. And my heart jumped then, surprised more than anything. Confirmation maybe that I wasn’t crazy, that what I saw that couple of Sundays past was real.

  “I saw them,” Andonis said. “The elder woman waved back to me when I waved to her.”

  Later when we all went for a walk, I asked her to show me where she had seen the four, and although I would never tell my sister or niece, I saw fresh bear tracks where she said they had been.

  Anyway, after they left that day, I worked up my courage and took the dog and my walking stick and went back to the spot where my niece had seen the old lady and three young ones and began following their trail. Not that I am any kind of tracker or anything. Far from that, I sometimes think I could get lost going out to my outhouse and back. The bear tracks led up the tote road about a quarter mile or so, then veered off into the bush, a trail of sorts that I followed. Sometimes curiosity gets the better of us, I suppose, and my grandmother would have said that curiosity killed the cat. I hoped not. Into the bush for about another quarter mile or so, and then to an open field, and in the middle of the field was a small tarpaper shack. And I don’t know what suddenly gave me the courage to do so, because I remember being completely chickenshit for most of my life, but I went to the door and knocked. The dog stayed back at the edge of the field, whimpering.

  The old lady opened the door, and said, “Boozho. Aaniin. Umbe. Bein di gayn. Na mi dubin.” (Hello, come in and sit down.)

  And I did, even though the only thing I could understand was the hello part.