Talking at the Woodpile

by David Thompson

  Wilfred sat bolt upright in bed, soaked in sweat. William snored peacefully on the other side of the cabin, unaware of the drama that had just unfolded in his friend’s dream. Wilfred threw off his covers and shook William awake.

  “William, wake up! I know what we have to do. I had a dream. I saw Bear Man, the mammoth, everything.”

  With hot coffee cups in their hands, Wilfred recounted his dream and his plan. “We can ask Chief Daniel and the Han elders to take the body. Bear Man is one of theirs, an ancestor. We’ll explain everything to them. With their help, we can get ourselves off the hook.”

  “Wilf, you’re a genius. That dream was God-sent,” William said.

  One month later, on a spring afternoon, Wilfred and William stood high on the hills across the valley from the mouth of Bonanza Creek, once called Rabbit Creek, near the confluence of the Yukon and Klondike rivers. A sombre spectacle was taking place. A multitude of people stood in a silence so complete that distant sounds carried clearly. They had gathered to honour Bear Man. His oak casket, inlaid with copper wolves, was suspended over an open grave. Wilfred and William stood, hats in hand, at a place of honour. They had helped to carry the casket. Both shed tears unabashedly.

  From across the clearing, within the fringe of trees, came the single rap of a drum. A high-pitched, plaintive woman’s voice sang the first verse of the “Goodbye Song,” followed by a loud chorus. Wilfred had heard this song many times before at funerals, and both he and William joined in.

  A procession of dancers appeared, led by Tlingits in black and red button blankets; other dancers wore the full-feathered bonnets of the Plains people. Some were in Inuit garb, and many wore brightly decorated buckskin and headdresses. Han, Gwich’in, Iroquois, Cherokee, Dakota, Micmac, Paiute, Apache, Cree, Winnebago, Stoney, Hopi, Arapaho, Navajo, Haida and Blackfoot had all travelled far to be here today to honour the ancestor of them all. The unity of their diversity wove a flowing tapestry of colour and grandeur toward the burial site.

  Commissioners, Members of Parliament, chiefs and people of many backgrounds were present. The elders spoke first, thanking William and Wilfred for their wisdom and help in bringing Bear Man to where he was today. Sweetgrass smouldered, and elders dabbed attar of rose on foreheads. The great gathering sang, chanted and recited prayers. Then Bear Man was laid to rest.

  A four-day potlatch followed. Friends were made, and many generous gifts changed hands. William and Wilfred had to call on Windy with his horse and cart to carry everything home.

  After the potlatch, Wilfred and William returned to the claim to finish removing the mammoth. They had plenty of help. Federal civil servants, enraged that they didn’t get their hands on Bear Man—but unwilling to challenge the elders—jumped in and took over. Wilfred and William didn’t stop them but charged a hefty rent for the use of Wilfred’s cabin. The bureaucrats took their prize, bundled it up and stored it in Richard Cooper’s ice house to wait for the next boat back to Whitehorse. The narrow-gauge White Pass & Yukon Route railway carried it—packed in a thousand pounds of ice—to Skaguay; a ship ferried it to Vancouver. The Canadian Pacific Railway carried it in a freezer car to Ottawa.

  Wilfred never heard from any of the bureaucrats again. “Ungrateful louts,” he said whenever they were mentioned.

  The mammoth remained in Ottawa until the 1980s, when the government shipped its bones and tusks to the Beringia Interpretive Centre in Whitehorse to be assembled for display.

  If you visit the centre, walk past the sabre-toothed tiger and look to the left. There you will see William and Wilfred’s mammoth. The display text doesn’t say anything about them, but Wilfred and William could have told you the real story. If you look closely at the chest bones, you will see the deep, serrated spear cut inflicted by Bear Man so very long ago on that day on Rabbit Creek.

  Bear Man

  Angunatchiuk heard laughter as he awoke. Rolling onto his side, he propped himself up on one elbow. His wife Ayauniq sat with their two children Saluk and Qalu. They were laughing over a game; Ayauniq was keeping a feather aloft by fanning it with another feather. Every time the feather approached the floor, Ayauniq would pretend to panic and frantically wave her feather until it floated up again. The children fell over, limp with laughter, and Angunatchiuk laughed along with them. When Ayauniq saw that Angunatchiuk was awake, she put away the toys and laid the children down for a rest, covering them with a blanket made from feathery duck skins.

  Their dome-shaped tent was made of caribou hide stretched over a birch-pole frame. The walls had windows of caribou intestine sewn into them and an opening in the roof to let smoke escape. Soft light filtered into the warmth of the interior, and clean-smelling fresh-cut pine boughs covered the floor.

  Angunatchiuk and Ayauniq were married when Ayauniq was fourteen and Angunatchiuk was fifteen. Ayauniq was a member of the Crow clan, Angunatchiuk a member of the Wolf. The children would take their mother’s clan. Their parents had arranged the marriage at a large gathering held at the junction of the Whitestone and Porcupine rivers. Angunatchiuk delighted in Ayauniq. Her kindness and beauty pleased him, and their two children were healthy and happy.

  Their winter camp on the Blackstone River was situated in the middle of the caribou winter range. Since early morning a caribou head hanging by a braided rope had been roasting over the fire. Smooth rocks shoved into its nostrils would keep it cooking evenly. Every so often someone nudged it to keep it spinning. When the skin cracked, it would be done.

  The door flap was pulled back, allowing a gust of cold air to flow in. Angunatchiuk’s father-in-law Yugunvaq had come to visit. He closed the flap behind him and stomped his feet to remove the snow. He took a seat by the fire.

  “How are you, Angunatchiuk? And how are my favourite daughter and my grandchildren?” he asked.

  The children threw the blanket off and ran to sit with their grandfather. Yugunvaq hugged them both while Ayauniq fetched dried caribou meat and a bowl of bear fat. Dipping the meat into the fat, they ate and talked.

  Yugunvaq asked about everyone’s health, and shared tidbits of news. His presence was dignified. He stood taller than most. He had thick grey hair, a creased and weathered face with sparse facial hair, high cheekbones and a broad nose. His eyes were penetrating and expressive. Yugunvaq was a respected elder who was known as a shaman. People said that he could fly, but he would never admit to it. How else could he leave one group of people and arrive so quickly over a long distance among another group? And how else could he say to people returning to camp from far away, “I saw you and your brother at the sandy creek, fishing”? The only thing they would remember seeing at the creek was a hawk flying high above them.

  Angunatchiuk told how, when he first met Yugunvaq at the Whitestone Village, the elder picked him up and held him under one arm. Yugunvaq told him to close his eyes, then Angunatchiuk felt as though they were flying. When they stopped, Yugunvaq told him to open his eyes. They were in a different place. It took them the better part of a day to walk home.

  At night, when the snow looked blue from the moonlight and the shadows in the pine forests were darkest, people could hear Yugunvaq chanting. One by one they made their way to his tent and filled it. When Yugunvaq finished, others took up their own prayers. It was hours before Yugunvaq spoke.

  He told ancient stories about the great migration across “the sea that lost its water.” He described how man had come to exist, how his place was set in creation and the purpose of that place. As morning grew near, Yugunvaq spoke with the authority of a shaman who saw the future. He spoke of things to come, when people with snow-white faces would travel to this land and cause difficulty because they had not listened to the Creator when He spoke to them.

  “They kill their shamans and do not see or hear. This will cause much suffering. For many years, it will disrupt our lives. But this time of suffering will end, and from it a great spirit will develop, and our people will one day take their rightful place in the world, a place o
f wisdom and honour,” Yugunvaq said.

  “The times will be dark, but the future will be bright. This will take place in a time far from this time, when many families will have come and gone.” He warned the people, “Tell this story often. Watch for this and don’t lose heart. At the coming of the snow-faced people, the Frog Spirit Helper will appear as Ti’anaxeedakin, the Wealth Woman. This will bring many people to this country.”

  Yugunvaq stopped speaking, dropped his chin to his chest and covered his face with both hands. He looked up and said solemnly, “Tell your children to tell their children for as long as the rivers flow never to drink the firewater given by the snow-face, and always respect their elders.” With that he stood up, took his coat and left. Those inside heard branches rustle in the pine trees above the tent. Yugunvaq was gone and would not return for days.

  Weeks later Angunatchiuk fidgeted restlessly in the tent. He and his family were hungry for fresh meat. A hunter had seen a small herd of caribou migrating among a larger herd of mammoth that were travelling south on the hills beyond the camp.

  As he buckled on his knife belt, Angunatchiuk told Ayauniq, “Your mother Alak asked for fresh meat, and I told her I would do my best. I’m going after those caribou and should be back before night.”

  His uncle Suyuk met him as he was about to leave and said, “Why are you going out, Angunatchiuk? We have enough food, and those caribou are too far away. You are wasting your time. Find something better to do.”

  Suyuk was powerfully built and wore his hair in a braid down his back. He looked strong, but he had one weakness: he was selfish and took care of his own interests first. Suyuk was the chief, but Yugunvaq was the spiritual leader that people turned to. Yugunvaq was training Angunatchiuk to walk in his footsteps. Angunatchiuk didn’t like Suyuk, but he was a great hunter and held in high respect by people far and wide.

  Out of respect, Angunatchiuk didn’t argue. “I will try. If it is too far, I will return.”

  “Maybe I should send Malak with you. He’s a good hunter,” Suyuk said.

  Angunatchiuk bristled at the suggestion that Suyuk’s oldest son should accompany him. Malak was younger and less experienced than Angunatchiuk, and he was heavy and slow, with rotting teeth. Other hunters said, “His clumsiness makes it impossible to track game. When he lies on his belly he passes wind and the animals run off. He and Suyuk just laugh—they think this is funny—but it is more work for us. One time Ojuk, the elder brother of Alak, smacked him with his bow while they lay in the bushes and then had a big fight with Suyuk.”

  On their return Malak would criticize every move Angunatchiuk made to anyone who would listen.

  “No, uncle, don’t trouble yourself or cousin Malak. I will be fine,” Angunatchiuk said, failing to keep the anger from his voice.

  Suyuk heard the tone and snapped, “Go do what you want, waste your time. Don’t listen to me. I don’t know what I am talking about.”

  Angunatchiuk’s snowshoes kicked up snow as he ran toward where the hunter had last seen the herds. The caribou and mammoth had trampled the ground, and willow bushes were torn up by the roots so that clumps of soil dotted the snow. He would keep his eyes sharp; mammoths were testy, and the thick willows hid them until they were almost on top of you.

  Caribou were more plentiful; mammoth numbers had declined in recent years. Yugunvaq had seen great numbers of them dead on the plains, some with blood around their mouths, while the living staggered about wheezing as if they couldn’t breathe.

  Crawling over a hill, Angunatchiuk came upon a herd of caribou grazing lichen by scraping away snow with their hooves. He crept forward with his bow and paused to rub two pieces of wood together, mimicking the sound of antlers rubbing on trees. A curious bull approached Angunatchiuk’s hiding place, and when it was close, he leaped out. The animal bolted and slipped to its knees. Angunatchiuk released two arrows in quick succession. Each found its mark deep in the animal’s chest, and the caribou dropped to the ground. The herd scattered.

  “Alak will be happy,” Angunatchiuk said softly. He was exhausted. The burst of speed and excitement had drained his energy, but he was pleased at his success.

  He turned the caribou over on its back and cut off the legs at the knee joint, then removed the head. He sliced, then pushed and pulled the hide away from the neck, stomach and legs. With the skin lying on either side of the carcass, he split the stomach, and the steaming guts spilled out, filling the air with the pungent smell of warm meat. He removed the organs, set them aside and cleaned the bum-gut. He split open the stomach and ate the undigested vegetation. Using a length of babiche, he wrapped the meat in the hide to sled back to camp. Then he dug a hole in the snow and cached the rest.

  Busy with his work, Angunatchiuk hadn’t noticed the dark line of clouds forming on the horizon to the north. A torrent of wind and blinding snow slammed into him, catching him off guard. In a minute he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. The elders had mentioned conditions like this. Their warning, “Wait it out,” rang in his ears. He dropped his work and groped toward a large snowdrift in a clump of trees. He put on his gloves and hollowed out a tunnel with his snowshoe. Once inside he sealed the entrance and lay in the dark, catching his breath and listening to the wind’s howl. Then, saying a prayer for the end of his difficulties, he fell asleep.

  As he slept, Angunatchiuk’s body heat raised the temperature in the cave to a tolerable level, and his clothing kept him warm. After he woke, listening as the wind rattled the frozen willows, he knew the storm was still raging. He cut strips of frozen meat and ate them. There was nothing more to do but shift his weight once in a while and make an air hole, which lengthened as the snow deepened.

  Days later, he awoke. Everything was silent. The wind had stopped. He kicked a hole through the snow and crawled out. The sun was rising, and the sky was clear. A cloud of warm air followed him out of the cave and hung over the willows. He inhaled deeply and nearly doubled over in pain; the cold burned his lungs and his face and hands stung with frostbite.

  “This is very cold,” he said out loud. “This isn’t good.”

  Angunatchiuk had half a mind to step back into his shelter but he knew his family would be worrying about him. With the wind down, he was confident he could make it home. He strapped on the snowshoes and moved down the valley. He crossed a frozen creek, climbed the far bank and headed across the tundra. He quickly realized that he’d underestimated the situation. The cold had him shivering. After three days in the shelter, his clothes were damp and insulated him less.

  Looking around he saw a single strand of warm air rise above the ground about twenty feet in front of him. The wisp floated up, lit by the pale sun, and then dissipated into the air. Angunatchiuk knew what the warm air was: a bear hibernating in a den.

  He removed his snowshoes and crept to the air hole. He smelled the bear a few yards below. It was a grizzly; black bears smelled like dogs. Carefully he chipped open the entrance and slid headfirst down to where the bear lay. The animal’s back faced the tunnel, and its bulk was nestled into a space that it had carved out with its powerful claws. Angunatchiuk moved closer, confident that it wouldn’t awaken, and closed his eyes as exhausted sleep overcame him.

  In a split second he was wide awake, fear racing down his spine. The urge to flee strained every fibre of his body, but his mind slowly took control.

  He heard whimpering. The bear cubs weren’t hibernating. They lay with their mother, suckling and waiting for spring. A cub was making its way over its mother’s body toward Angunatchiuk. It crawled with the unsteady bumping motion of the young, and its breath smelled of sour milk. The cub ran its cold nose over Angunatchiuk’s face, bumping his eye, and then latched its toothless gums onto his nose. It began to suckle.

  He turned his head slowly from side to side, trying to detach the cub. The animal growled and hung on, placing both paws over Angunatchiuk’s eyelids to maintain its grip. Angunatchiuk stopped resisting, and when the cub se
nsed this, it began flexing its claws in contentment. The pain of having his frostbitten nose suckled and five needles poked rhythmically into each eyelid was overwhelming. Angunatchiuk grasped the cub by its fat stomach and pulled it from his face. The cub detached without protest, probably because it was at a dry station, and climbed back over its mother to join its sibling. Angunatchiuk closed his eyes and fell asleep.

  He dreamed that he had crawled out of the den and was standing on the tundra. The sky was robin’s egg blue, and the sun shone brightly. The Blackstone River valley and the plains below the mountains glowed with light. There was not a sound. He looked to his left, then to his right. The bear stood upright beside him, but Angunatchiuk wasn’t afraid. The bear looked around, and its nostrils moved as it sniffed the air. It lifted its right foreleg with paw outstretched and claws exposed. The claws were the colours of a rainbow—red, orange, yellow, green and blue—and sparkled in the sunlight. Angunatchiuk realized that it was a shaman’s spirit bear. Then the bear dropped to all fours and headed back into the den.

  Angunatchiuk woke with a start. Everything was as it had been when he entered, and the bear had not moved. The cubs whined. He could tell from the smell of the den that the outside temperature had risen. The bear stirred, groaned, shifted its weight and settled again. Angunatchiuk crawled out. The sky was clear, and the sun blazed as it had in his dream. Angunatchiuk covered the entrance behind him so the cubs would not catch cold, then said a prayer of thanks and headed in the direction the dream bear had pointed.

  When he arrived back in camp, his family and friends greeted him. Some grasped his arms and gave them a friendly rub. “Good to see you, Angunatchiuk!”

  Ayauniq and his children embraced him. His wife had tears in her eyes. “Where were you? I was worried.”