The Journey Prize Stories 32
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Amiskweecheeiskwew did not see him again. She left an offering of tobacco and harvested some wîhkês for a pain relief tea and paddled away. She returned to her camp later that evening, exhausted from paddling. She started her fire and snuggled in her buffalo hides without dinner. As she drifted off to sleep, a kamāmakos entered the tipi and danced around the fire, intricate designs on its brown wings. It landed on her chest, its soft fuzzy feet tickling her skin. She felt a sudden shift of loneliness in her heart, where the moth had crawled and nestled. Amiskweecheeiskwew put her hand on her chest next to the moth and she sang a heart song to the moth, a prayer asking for love. She knew in her heart she would not find love here, alone in the woods, she would have to wait until after her journey, but she longed for love now.
Pipon settled in. The frost appeared along the shore, the leaves fell away, the earth turned grey. The nights got longer and colder, she huddled under her blankets, always keeping the fire hot. One night she had a vivid dream that she was lying in a soft moss bed on a beautiful warm summer day, sunlight dreamily drifting through the treetops, kissing her body with leafy shadows. The world was green around her, safe and protected by a canopy of trees. Her body felt weightless in the moss, she could almost feel Mother Earth breathing beneath her, in and out with soft undulations. The lower tree branches ahead of her rustled and an osâwahkesow emerged from the bush, shy at first, then boldly approached her. He curled up beside her, his satiny fur touching her. He nestled his nose on her lap. Suddenly a pink moth came out of her chest and landed on the fox’s nose. This must be her soul, she thought. The fox walked away, the moth flying beside him, he looked back at her, overwhelming her with love.
The next day she awoke to a noise in the woods, it filled her with a sense of dread. There was a breaking branch and a growling, sniffling noise. She gathered her courage and peeked out her tipi and, sure enough, there was a massive muskwa eating her food. She hurried out, yelling, “Awās!” He turned toward her, about to charge. With her bow ready, she pulled back and released an arrow, it hit him in the ear. He roared out in anger and took off with a bag of food still in his mouth. As he disappeared into the woods she shot one more time but missed. She fell to her knees in anguish, looking at the mess around her, half-chewed food and grains of rice lost in the soil. What bad luck it was that a bear would be out so late. Most of her food was gone and she felt sick with fear. How would she ever survive the winter? She wanted to cry, but instead she cleaned her campsite and set out to hunt again. She must be strong.
She hunted for many days without luck, winter blowing in wind and snow from the north. Her food supply shrank, the animals became harder to find.
One night she noticed the kamāmakos from earlier was still in her tipi, she caught the moth in her hands and prayed to the moth, “Please help me, Kamāmakos, I am in great need, I have never been so alone. I do not know if I will survive winter. Manito, hear my prayer, may the wings of this kamāmakos carry my prayer to you.” The moth fluttered away, flying out the smoke opening into the night sky toward the moon. Amiskweecheeiskwew felt more alone than ever, the silence of the woods surrounded her.
Many cold dark days passed and she came to the end of her food, the last meal being dried wâwâskesiw meat. She remembered the good times she shared with her family as they had a feast of elk, her Aunties smiling, licking greasy lips, and laughing so hard their eyes closed and heads flung back. She made a soup with the elk meat, the dried pieces becoming soft and delicious in the boiling water. She filled her body with nourishment and good memories of her family.
The next morning she woke to an icy day, stoked the fire, and set out to find more food, putting on her wolf-skin jacket, moose-hide mukluks, and rabbit-fur hand coverings. She travelled on her snowshoes all day, followed tracks, and checked traps, but there was nothing. Her stomach was empty and painful. Her vision blurry, even blinking her eyes felt like a chore. She lost all hope that she would find food.
Several days passed, her hunger extreme, she could no longer leave the tipi. She wrapped herself in her buffalo hides, trying to conserve energy. She drifted off to sleep, her stomach rumbling, rolling in on itself.
Suddenly she awoke to the sensation of being watched. She opened her eyes and there was Osâwahkesow. Joy and relief flooded into her heart, her prayers had brought him back. He was staring at her with sparkling eyes, his fluffy tail curled around him. He was glowing, a warm orange aura that thawed her heart. His presence was so calming she felt the glow envelop her, giving her energy. The orange light became brighter, stronger, filling the whole tipi with a fiery light, almost blinding her. Through her squinted eyes, he seemed to grow bigger, to transform. His ears melting, his arms growing, his nose shrinking into a face. His shoulders grew broad and strong. His paws became hands, his tail disappeared. He smiled at her, he had dark eyes and dark hair, she had never seen a man so stunning. On his smooth skin danced images of animals and spirits, a swirling sky and ocean alive. An eagle on his chest intertwined with divine beings, words in a strange language pouring from their mouths. On his arms gods and souls and drifting feathers vibrated with energy, and an image of Mother Earth on his hand. He was glorious.
He spoke her name in a deep gentle voice, “Amiskweecheeiskwew, omiyosiw,” She reached out and he held her hand, gentle strength pouring into her.
She spoke his name, “Osâwahkesow, kimâmaskâtamowin.”
“Ocimin,” he said. She lifted her face to his and he gently kissed her, soft and pleasant.
“I will take care of you,” he said as he wrapped her in the buffalo hides and added logs on the fire, the golden glow lighting him, stirring a feeling inside of her; he was beautiful and strong, he took her breath away.
He leaned over and magically pulled out a luxurious fox-fur jacket, its hood lined with a fluffy fox tail. He disappeared outside and not long after he returned with a rabbit. He skilfully skinned it and roasted it over the fire. He presented the roasted rabbit to Amiskweecheeiskwew. He fed her the greasy bits of meat and she licked his fingers with great delight, happiness flooding her body. All of her pain, all of her hunger gone, now replaced by desire.
“Astām,” she said to him. He sat down in front of her, face to face, his radiant eyes studying her essence. She felt safe, protected, and open. He leaned close to her, his warmth filling her with intense desire. He whispered in her ear, he spoke a strange language she did not understand, it was deep and earthy, vibrating with powerful knowledge. There was a strong energy pulling them together, beckoning them to join as one. She wrapped her arms around him, their souls touching. A spiritual bond formed between them and two became one.
She fell asleep in his arms, his heartbeat next to hers. In the morning she woke to find him getting ready to leave, so she put on her clothes, grabbed her bow, and ventured out with him. They silently and slowly walked through the woods, listening and looking carefully. He spotted a deer and with a strange power he drew it in closer. She pulled back her bow, the deer unaware of them. The arrow flew right into the perfect spot and the deer fell instantly. She turned to Osâwahkesow and kissed him, their faces lost in their furry hoods.
“Kinanâskimotin,” she said with deep appreciation.
They prayed in a ceremony to thank the animal, then they prepared the deer for a feast and saved meat to dry for later.
Osâwahkesow stayed with her for the rest of the winter, hunting and gathering. They began to understand each other, he taught her his ancient language of the plants and animals. He showed her how to open her heart and witness the vibrations coming from the plants and animals around her, this helped her understand the magnificent healing powers of the wild. She was beginning to understand what it meant to be a medicine woman and how to listen to the plants’ stories of medicines.
It was miyoskamiw and they both could feel the air outside become warmer, and the days longer, and the buds on the trees rustled with energy. Amiskweechee
iskwew looked to the sky and saw the first mikisiw return, high in the air, against the blue sky.
Osâwahkesow grabbed her and held her close, whispering into her ear, “Spring is here, I must leave. I must return to my animal form.” Her eyes filled with tears, not wanting to let him go. He held her tenderly and explained, “Do not be sad, goodbye is not final and there is knowledge we will see each other again. I will watch over you, protecting you from afar. You live here, in my heart, Amiskweecheeiskwew.”
She understood his words and felt blessed and remembered all the extraordinary memories they shared. They celebrated that night with a ceremony. She presented him with a gift. “Osâwahkesow, this medicine bag will protect you. You saved my life and ignited my soul. I am eternally grateful you have come into my life. I hope that you may find me again. Kisakihitin.”
She blessed the bag with a sage smudge. He opened his hand and there was a piece of foxtail. “I give this to you, a piece of me. I saw in you a beautiful energy, that is why Manito sent me to protect you. It was more than a pleasure for me. I’m thankful for our connection. You will always be part of me. I must go back to my people, but we will meet each other again, in real life and in dreams. Stay on your way, grow and listen to the plants every day, take what I taught you and heal people. Namōna wihkāc kikawanikiskistatātin, Nīcimos.”
He took her medicine bag and tied it around his neck, closed his eyes and held it in his hands, appreciating its energy. She took his piece of foxtail and did the same.
A bright glow filled the tipi again and he began to transform back into the fox. Dark hair turned orange, his body condensed, his ears sprang up, his tail bounced back. He sat at her feet, his glittering dark eyes looked into hers. She reached out and lovingly stroked his silky fur, he nuzzled his nose into her hand then darted out into the dark moonless night.
The spring brought back beautiful renewal and fresh smells to the lands, the air buzzed with insects and song of birds. Plants grew again and Amiskweecheeiskwew embarked on her plant studies. Her heart now open to all the vibration of the plants and animals around her. This time she listened to the plants, watching the aura glow around them and they began to sing to her, telling her stories of how they heal. She harvested many healing plants to take back to her people.
She prepared to return home, she packed away her tipi, and thanked the land for accepting her presence while she was there. She entered her canoe and started to paddle upstream. She looked one last time back at her sacred camp spot and she thought she saw an orange creature watching her from the forest. Her body filled with joy and she continued on her journey home, feeling safe knowing he was protecting her.
She returned back to her village later that summer, a fully grown woman with much knowledge and healing power. Her family rejoiced at her return. They noticed a change in her, she was confident, stronger, and more beautiful than ever. She showed them her collection of healing plants and they were proud of her. She told them what she had learned on the trip, the hardships she endured, but they would never truly know the full story about the magical fox who stole her heart.
Ekosi
GLOSSARY OF CREE WORDS
Amiskweecheeiskwew (ᐊᒥᐢᐠ ᐊᐱᓯᒋᐦᒉᓯᐤ ᐃᐢᑫᐧᐤ)—woman with hands of a beaver
cîmân (ᒌᒫᐣ)—canoe
kohkom (ᑯᐦᑯᒼ)—grandmother
apoy (ᐊᐱᕀ)—paddle
mahihkan (ᒪᐦᐃᐦᑲᓂᐊᐧᔮᐣ)—wolf
wâpos (ᐋᐧᐳᐢ)—rabbit fur
mikiskon (ᒥᑭᐢᑯᐣ)—early fall
osâwahkesow (ᐅᓵᐊᐧᐦᑫᓰᐢ)—orange fox
nîpisîy (ᓃᐱᓰ)—willows
minahik (ᒥᓇᐦᐃᐠ)—spruce
mîtos (ᒥᑐᐢ)—poplar
kinosêw (ᑭᓄᓭᐤ)—fish
sakaw pihew (ᓴᑲᐤ ᐱᐦᐁᐤ)—spruce grouse
sîsîp (ᓰᓰᑊ)—ducks
wîsti (ᐄᐧᐢᑎ)—beaver lodge
wîhkês (ᐄᐧᐦᑫᐢ)—muskrat root, rat root, sweet-flag, water arum
amisk (ᐊᒥᐢᐠ)—beaver
ocikana (ᐅᒋᑲᓇ)—provisions for winter
kamāmakos (ᑲᒫᒪᑯᐢ ᓂᐸᐃᐧ)—moth
pipon (ᐱᐳᐣ)—winter
muskwa (ᒪᐢᑲᐧ)—bear
awās (ᐊᐊᐧᐢ!)—go away
Kichi Manito (ᑭᓭᒪᓂᑐ)—the Creator, God, the Great Spirit
wâwâskesiw (ᐋᐧᐋᐧᐢᑫᓯᐤ)—elk
omiyosiw (ᐅᒥᔪᓯᐤ)—the beautiful one
kimâmaskâtamowin (ᒪᐢᑳᑕᒧᐃᐧᐣ)—wonder, amazement; mystery
ocimin (ᐅᒉᐦᑐᐃᐧᐣ)—kiss me
astām (ᐊᐢᑕᒼ)—come here
kinanâskomitin (ᑭᓇᓈᐢᑯᒥᑎᐣ)—thank you
miyoskamiw (ᒥᔪᐢᑲᒥᐤ)—early spring
mikisiw (ᒥᑭᓯᐤ)—eagle
kisakihitin (ᓴᑭᐦᐃᑐᐃᐧᐣ)—I love you
namōna wihkāc kikawanikiskistatātin, Nīcimos (ᑭᐢᑭᓱᑐᑕᐊᐧᐤ, ᓂᒋᒧᐢ)—I will never forget you, my love.
ekosi (ᐁᑯᓯ)—That’s it, that’s the end.
FLORENCE MACDONALD
HOUSE ON FIRE
The summer I turned eleven, the firemen in our town planned to burn a house down. The girl who lived next door, Gail, told me about it. We were the same age and appeared to be friends, but I didn’t want to be friends with her at all. I didn’t know what to make of her, thick and tight-fisted. I only wanted to know things that she seemed to know.
“They’re burning down the Bernard house,” she said. I knew she was repeating what her mother had told her because we would never have said “the Bernard house.” We’d say “Paul’s house” or “Cheryl’s house,” and we’d struggle with the last name, embarrassed because it would look like we were getting ahead of ourselves.
At first I couldn’t understand. Wouldn’t the Bernards be homeless? But all I could think to ask was, “Why?”
“It’s a fire demonstration,” Gail said.
I had to ask my mother.
“It’s practice for the firemen,” my mother said. They would learn things from burning it, she told me.
I was determined to see this, and for some reason I was desperate to bring along my baby brother, who was two at the time and still in diapers with rubber pants, waddling sweetly and attracting attention with his beatific smile and his golden curly hair. The women on the street called them “locks” and scolded my mother that in no uncertain terms was she to cut them. My youngest brother was everyone’s favourite.
“Your brother’s got the sweetest disposition,” my grandmother told me, meaning I didn’t. I suppose I hoped that, in bringing him to the fire, admiration for him would reflect on me. I had eczema and scratched my arms raw. I was nervous and couldn’t control it. “If you don’t stop scratching, they’ll cut your arms off,” Gram told me.
The house to be burned was not far from where we lived, and one of the reasons I wanted to see it was because a boy in my class lived there—Desmond Bernard.
Gail said he would be at the fire. “He’ll be standing on his front lawn watching his life go up in flames.” Life go up in flames. I knew that was her mother talking again.
“How do you know he’ll be there?” I asked. I tried to sound like I didn’t care about the answer, just like Gail.
“Because he’s destitute,” Gail said, her tone superior. “The whole family is.”
“No they’re not.” I didn’t know what destitute meant, but I had to argue. I needed an intellectual victory so I could lord it over her. School was the only place where I stood out.
Desmond’s house then, the house that was to be burned, was outside the town line, just beyond the school, in an open field. Beyond that, the houses were sparse and soon gave way to farms and forests. Ou
r houses were just inside the town line, one of twenty houses all in a row and all full of kids, with dirt yards because we trampled the grass underfoot. They were referred to as “wartime houses.” We thought that was because they were all the same, regimented and uniform, but we later came to learn that it meant they were built after the war. They also had plumbing hooked up to the town sewer, which meant that our houses were better than the Bernards’.
I coerced Gail into coming with me to the burning. She let on that she wasn’t remotely interested and said she’d only come if I stole her some cigarettes from my mother. I agreed. I had the idea that it would strengthen my case if she were there.
I waited until my mother was in the basement, putting a load of washing through the ringer, before I asked her. Her dark hair looked electric, backlit by a bare bulb hanging over her head, the rest of her face moving about in a patchwork of shadow. I couldn’t make out her facial expressions, and that mystery led me to say more than I might have if I could have seen her reactions.
My mother refused, claiming that Gail had the Devil in her. And because it irritated her that I’d asked for something, she forced me to hold the basket and hand her the pegs as she hung out a monstrous load of washing, most of which was Danny’s diapers. Clothes pegs in her mouth, she said that the people who stopped in the street to fluffle his hair did not understand how much work Danny entailed.
“I need you here, not up the road at that house full of…” I saw her press her lips together before she turned her head away.
“Full of what?”
“Go check on Danny.” She jerked her head toward the cellar stairs.
We were Catholic, and by then I had four siblings—two older brothers, my younger sister, and Danny—and another on the way.
“Six is the limit,” my mother told my father, holding her belly with an impatient, distracted kind of love. I made a count of the mothers on our street and found that the Protestant mothers all had four children and the Catholic mothers all had six, so she appeared to be right.