Ancestor Approved

by Cynthia L. Smith

  “Me too,” I said.

  And I was sorry. I was sorry there were stories he’d told me that I couldn’t remember. I was sorry about the songs he’d sung but not recorded. Like I said, some tribes believe to say the names of the dead is to call them back.

  I didn’t have to call him back, though. The poem on the bookmark had been about loss and grief, but some of my stories were like a good dream. I got to be with him when I was writing, I got to say things to him I hadn’t. I got to imagine another universe for him and me. In another time and place, the intertribal dancing would last as long as you wanted. The drummers would play a song about a lineman, and my father would join us in the circle.

  Bad Dog

  Joseph Bruchac

  The pickup truck was standard powwow issue. An old Ford with one broken headlight. Older than usual, though. Maybe, with its rounded fenders, boxy shape, and wooden bed, something from the fifties. The old man leaning against it fit right in with his truck. Indian, from the look of him. Not in regalia, but in everyday dress like most folks his age on the Rez. Black leather work boots, sort of like the ones Uncle Charlie had favored when he was on a job hanging iron. Levi’s jeans that were worn, but clean, maybe even pressed with an iron that morning before he put them on. Not a hole in them, unlike the new designer jeans that were full of strategic, fashionable ripped spaces. Like the ones Wendell had seen the other kids from his school wearing on the weekends. But not him, even if he had the money. He hated jeans like that. Purchase one of those pairs of jeans, you were buying more air than cloth.

  The old guy had topped it off with a plaid long-sleeved shirt that had a really well-beaded bolo tie fastened tight. So tight that it made the loose skin on his neck stand out, sort of like the wattles on a turkey. The clan animal on the bolo tie was a bear. Like the bear pendant carved out of bone on Wendell’s necklace. The necklace Wendell could never wear to school back in Binghamton without having dumb remarks made about it by the non-Native kids, who made up 95 percent of the school population. The way he got treated for being Indian made him feel so bad sometimes he just wished he was dead.

  “Hey,” the old guy said, touching two fingers to the brim of his cowboy hat.

  Just that one word, but said in a quiet, friendly way.

  “Hey,” Wendell said, putting down the big stainless-steel cooking pot. It was three-quarters full of the water that Aunt Maisie had told him to bring back to her portable kitchen. All set up to serve out the best corn soup in seven states, alongside her authentic Navajo tacos. And even though she was too polite to say it, her fry bread was at least as good as that at the food stand across from them labeled World’s Best Fry Bread. Now, though, she’d needed more water from the RV, which hadn’t been able to fit into their vending space and so was parked on the far side of the field.

  Wendell’s bright idea had been to avoid making two quarter-mile-long trips by not bringing just half a pot full like he’d been told. Genius, right? Give him that much more time to change into his outfit for the smoke dance competition in one hour. Except it was breaking his thirteen-year-old back to lug that heavy a load.

  “Water’s heavy, innit?” the old man said.

  Wendell smiled. It was okay to be teased that way. No malice or sarcasm in it, like when kids in school called him “Little Chief” or even “Tonto,” meaning both as a put-down.

  “Water’s wet, too,” Wendell said.

  The old guy laughed. A nice, deep laugh that showed his teeth and made him look younger. Maybe he wasn’t quite as old as Wendell had thought. Just worn—like leather gets from being left out in the sun.

  “You got me there,” he said. Then he spoke a phrase in Abenaki.

  “Paakwenogwesian, nidoba.”

  The greeting that means “you appear new to me, my friend.”

  “Alnoba?” Wendell asked.

  “Ôhô,” the man replied. “Ta kia?”

  “Ôhô, Alnoba nia. Ndelawezi Wendell.”

  “All right,” the old guy replied. “Ndeliwizi Ktsi Mdawela.”

  Ktsi Mdawela. Big Loon, Wendell thought. Cool. Maybe I should have told him my Indian name. Too late for that now.

  “So, Wendell,” the old guy said, “I bet your mom or your auntie is waiting for that pot and that water, right?”

  Wendell nodded.

  Big Loon pointed with his lips at the bed of his truck. There was something dark and alive in there. Wendell could see through a gap in the wooden side that it moved just a tad as he looked there.

  “Come back later and I’ll introduce you to Bad Dog. Now go dance. You’ll do good.”

  Wendell picked up the cooking pot. It seemed lighter now. He was able to walk faster with it. Maybe because he was anxious to reach Aunt Maisie so he could get into his regalia for the competition. Or maybe because he was curious about who Bad Dog was. And also how the old guy who called himself Big Loon knew Wendell was going to dance.

  The man who was the smoke dance singer was from Onondaga. And he was good. Wendell had heard him singing before, drum held firm in his left hand as he tapped out the rhythm, voice high and strong. Wendell spun, dipped, his feet moving fast and perfectly in time. And when the song stopped, he ended up right with it, bent way over at the waist, balanced on one foot. He didn’t win, but he was in the top three in his age group. Which was his best showing yet.

  “Oh man, their feet were just about breaking the sound barrier,” Sheldon Sundown, the Seneca emcee, exclaimed over the PA. “You all give it up for these three young warriors.” And Wendell couldn’t help but smile as all the people gathered around the dance circle applauded.

  Wendell changed back into his T-shirt and jeans, putting his regalia carefully into the closet space Aunt Maisie had cleared for him in their big Winnebago RV.

  “We need you, nephew,” Aunt Maisie called from outside.

  And that was true for sure. Now that there was a break in the dancing, people were lining up in droves to buy the best food at the powwow. No time to check out whatever was in the back of that vintage pickup. Throwing on his apron, he took over the grill from his cousin Eddie, who moved over to start ladling out corn soup.

  The rush lasted a solid hour and a half. It only calmed down when the drums started again and people began heading back to the circle to watch the fancy dancers. Aunt Maisie rapped her big spoon against the empty steel pot and looked at Wendell, who slipped off his apron and picked it up without saying a word.

  “You doin’ good, nephew,” his aunt said. “Take your time.”

  “Don’t miss your water, till your well goes dry,” Big Loon said as Wendell put down the pot—filled higher than the last trip. Then the old man laughed—a laugh just as warm and friendly as the first time he’d spoken to Wendell. He was sitting now in one of a pair of old-fashioned folding canvas camp chairs that he’d set up along the sunny side of his one-eyed pickup. Even though it was about 45 degrees outside, it was comfortable there.

  “I got extra here,” Wendell said. “Thought you might want some for . . .” He nodded toward the back of the truck.

  “Right thoughtful of you,” Big Loon said. “He will be thirsty.” He stood up, reached in through the open window of the truck, and pulled out a clean-looking clay pot with curlicue designs on its sides. “Want to dip it out with this?”

  Wendell nodded and took the clay pot. It felt good in his hands. It was more than just smooth and cool. It felt almost as if it was saying something to him. He dipped it into the water and lifted it up. Hardly a drop ran down the side. It was as if the pot drank the water up.

  Big Loon motioned with his chin toward the back of the truck, then held out one hand for Wendell to stay back before opening the gate.

  “Bad Dog,” the old man said in a soft voice. “You thirsty?”

  A deep rumble of a growl that seemed to shake the ground around them answered that question. But it wasn’t threatening. Somehow Wendell could sense that. Big Loon unhooked the gate, lowered it, and spoke over his
shoulder to Wendell.

  “Give it to him slow, Grandson,” he said. “And don’t be trying to pet him. He’s not like that happy-go-lucky dog wearing a Rez Dawg T-shirt been wandering around all day.” Then he stepped aside so that Wendell could see into the bed of the truck.

  What Wendell saw surprised him. He’d been expecting something the size of a bear, especially after that growl. But what looked up at him was a stocky, muscular little canine no bigger than a beagle, though its head and body and tail were wolflike. Its fur was jet black except for two white spots over its eyes. Those eyes—which looked up at him with a calm, knowing gaze—one was black and one was as blue as the sky.

  Wendell put the clay pot full of water down in front of the animal. It looked up and then seemed to nod approvingly at him before stepping forward to drink.

  “Good enough, Grandson.” Big Loon gently moved Wendell back as he closed and hooked up the tailgate. “Now come sit a spell.”

  Wendell eased gingerly down into one of the brown camp chairs.

  “Don’t worry,” Big Loon chuckled, as he sat next to him. “These chairs been through more campaigns than you can count. Got ’em right after leaving Carlisle. Now want t’ hear ’bout Bad Dog?”

  “You bet!”

  “Nope, not me. Never go near a casino.”

  Wendell looked down at his feet and shook his head. Big Loon was like so many other Elders he knew—totally in love with their own corny sense of humor. But he had to smile because, once again, it was so different from the kind of mean-spirited crap he had to deal with at school just about every day. Thinking of that made his smile disappear.

  “School’s rough, innit?”

  Wendell looked up. “How’d you know that?”

  “Can’t say for sure. Maybe just that I know that look on your face, Grandson. Had that same look on mine when I was your age. But at least these days you don’t have boarding-school teachers that beat you, chain you in the cellar, and feed you on bread and water, if you speak a word in Indian. But, hey, enough about that. You want to hear about Bad Dog.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The old man spread his arms wide.

  “A long time ago,” he said, stretching out that second word for what felt like a half hour, “there was a boy like you. His parents were gone and he was living with someone who said she was his aunt.” Big Loon paused. “But not like your aunt, who is a right decent person. This aunt lived with him in a cave and kept her face covered up. And all she ate was raw meat from the things that boy hunted for her. Every evening she’d feel his arm and then growl, ‘Not fat enough yet.’

  “It had been like that since he was real little. Life was hard for him and he thought he’d never get away. Then, one night, when she thought he was asleep, that boy looked through a hole in his deerskin blanket and saw her face as she ate some birds he’d caught for her. She had teeth like a wolf and big staring eyes. That’s when he realized she was not his aunt at all. She was one of them cannibal monsters called Chenoos. She was just waiting till he was big enough and then she’d eat him.

  “Well, he knew what he had to do. He waited till she was asleep and then took off running. He ran and ran, even faster when he heard her chasing him and howling behind him. Finally, he came to a small longhouse where an old man was standing outside with a little black dog right next to him.

  “‘Nosis!’ that old man said. ‘Grandchild! I’m so glad t’ see you. You’ve been missing so long.’

  “And just then that Chenoo caught up. ‘Old man,’ she howled, ‘I’m a-going to eat your grandson and then I’m a-going to eat you.’

  “That’s when Bad Dog growled, and the old man smiled.

  “‘Bad Dog,’ he said. ‘Get bigger.’ And just like that, the dog got twice as big. ‘Get bigger,’ he said again, and that dog doubled its size once more. He kept on saying ‘Get bigger’ till that dog was taller than the trees. The Chenoo tried to run, but Bad Dog just grabbed that monster and swallowed her with one gulp. And that boy and his grandfather went back to their people and lived a long time happily. Amen.”

  Wendell blinked his eyes. “What’s it mean? That story?”

  Big Loon shook his head. “Can’t say for sure. Maybe it means something for you. Like big as your troubles might be, something might come along one day and take ’em away.”

  “How come you told me that story?”

  Big Loon laughed. “Grandson, easy to tell you been in a white man school. All they teach you is to ask questions and expect one of them cut-and-dried answers, eh? Well, I can’t say for sure. So. Let’s just say it was because you happened to come along.”

  He nodded toward the steel pot. “And right about now I expect your aunt is waiting for you to come along with that water.”

  Wendell stood and lifted the water pot. It didn’t feel near as heavy as before, and it wasn’t because he’d dipped some of the water out for Bad Dog. He just felt stronger.

  “Wliwini, n’mahom. Thank you, Grandfather.”

  “Nda kagwi, nosis. Now get going.”

  When he got back to the food booth, the fancy dancing was still going on.

  “Wendell,” Aunt Maisie said. “How’d you do that?’

  Wendell put down the pot. “Do what?”

  “Get back so fast with that water. Last time it took you half an hour.”

  Wendell felt confused. “Can’t say for sure,” he said.

  Aunt Maisie stared at him, a funny look on her face. “What did you say?”

  “Can’t say for sure?”

  Aunt Maisie put one hand up to her chin. “Lord, nephew, not only is that what he used to say, you even sound like him.”

  Wendell started to ask who she was talking about. But before he could open his mouth, someone else lifted the back flap of the tent and slipped into the booth. It was his uncle Charlie.

  “Lookit this,” he said to them, holding up two familiar-looking canvas chairs. “Real antiques. Even got the date printed on them.”

  US GOV’T 1918 was stamped in faded letters on the back of each chair.

  “This old fella in a truck older’n him just sold ’em to me. Ten bucks each.” Uncle Charlie grinned. “Some bargain, eh? Just like the chairs you told me your great-grampa, who lived to be a hundred and three, had from his time in World War I. Wendell Washington, wasn’t it? But what was his Indian name?”

  Wendell could feel the smile on his own face getting bigger.

  “Big Loon,” he said.

  “How’d you know that?” his aunt and uncle said at the same time.

  Wendell shook his head. “Can’t say for sure.”

  Between the Lines

  Cynthia Leitich Smith

  Electric colors and pulsating song beckoned from inside the high school.

  Near the busy entrance, Mel leaned against a pillar, clutching a worn paperback novel. Wind felt chilly. Her stomach, hollow. She glanced toward the video shoot on the lawn, where her mom was still—still—talking about her time in the coast guard.

  That boy on the other side of the doors, the one seated against the wall on the concrete walk . . . was he using his phone to take a picture of her? Why? She wasn’t dressed in regalia or doing anything interesting. “Hey, you! Stop that!”

  The boy, Ray, froze at the warning in her voice. In the parking lot, he’d noticed her arriving with her mom, who was being interviewed along with his grampa Halfmoon for a documentary on Native veterans.

  Earlier that afternoon, Ray had been wandering around the powwow, sketching and using his hand-me-down cell phone to take reference photos for future sketches. He’d come outside to get some fresh air. The way Mel had gripped her book had caught his eye.

  “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” she asked him.

  He opened his mouth and closed it again. He felt embarrassed, unsure what to say.

  Right then, a couple of Elder ladies, approaching the entrance, stopped in their tracks.

  “You all right?” asked the Elder in
long beaded earrings and a long denim coat.

  “Yeah.” Mel pointed in the general direction of the shoot. “My mom’s over there.”

  “Hmm.” The other Elder was sporting a Detroit Pistons jacket and a fuzzy blue scarf. “Looks like they’ll be busy for a while.” She gestured to invite Mel inside. “You’d best come along. The weather’s all over the place this week. We had sleet—”

  “More like rain,” her companion replied.

  “No, it was sleet, and a twister, too.”

  “It was not a twister, Priscilla!”

  “Was so! I told you—I heard about it on the radio.”

  Mel liked them right off, and she was tired of waiting outside.

  With a friendly grin, Priscilla added, “This sourpuss is my sister, Laurel. We drove in earlier this week to visit our niece. She’s a student in the architecture school at the college.”

  Nodding, Mel texted her mom that she was heading back to the powwow. Mel was about to introduce herself when Laurel asked, “Where’re your people from?”

  Meanwhile, Ray had tucked his phone into his clear backpack and gathered up his colored pencils and sketchbook. The girl was already gone.

  What a mess that had been! Maybe he should’ve asked her permission before taking the photo. He definitely should’ve. He’d even thought about it, but Ray had a shy streak.

  Even if he’d been back home at Chicago’s annual powwow or splitting deep-dish pizza with his baseball buddies, Ray wasn’t a big talker. But he was always doing something, and today he was mostly focused on drawing. His art teacher had told him that hands and feet were among the hardest subjects to draw. “If you can master hands, you’ll be able to do anything.”

  Ray took off jogging across the school lawn. The documentary maker, Marita, had mentioned the importance of natural light and sound quality. That was why she’d set up the shoot outside, but Ray hadn’t expected it to take so long. He should’ve known that Grampa, who was the social one in the family, would get caught up in all the excitement and make a bunch of new friends. In any case, Grampa wasn’t being filmed at that very moment, so Ray said, “Okay if I go inside to check out the vendor booths?”