Sword Stone Table

by Sword Stone Table- Old Legends, New Voices (retail) (epub)

  “Boozhoo! Good morning!” Art called as he set his bike down on the ground. He took a few steps closer to the old man’s place. Through the screen he saw that the main wooden door was open.

  “Mino gizhep,” an elderly voice boomed. Art saw a silhouette saunter to the doorway and step outside. Merle squinted in the morning sunlight, and once his eyes adjusted, he gave the boy a friendly smirk.

  “Aanii, my nephew,” Merle said. “Aaniish na?”

  “Oh, I was just riding around and figured I’d stop by. You busy?”

  “Just getting to the bottom of this cup of coffee.”

  Merle raised the white mug to his cracked lips. Then he set down his coffee on the porch railing and leaned gently against the banister. His mostly black hair was tied back in a long, tight braid that ended at the middle of his red plaid flannel shirt. The lack of grays belied his seventy-two years living in this community. He motioned his head to the left, inviting Art to have a seat on one of the wide stumps of wood on the porch that served as chairs. The boy walked up the few steps obediently.

  They sat silently for the first moments, as usual. Art listened to the squirrels nesting high in the trees, while Merle glanced casually through the bush, as if to make an inventory of tasks for the fall ahead. It was peaceful this far from the main road, and Art understood why Merle chose to stay back here all these years.

  Their visits began just two summers earlier, when Art was ten and first allowed to ride his bike on his own through the community. He had known Merle as an uncle (he was technically a great-uncle, his paternal grandfather’s brother) his entire life, but they were never close because Merle didn’t regularly attend family functions. And he was never at church, which puzzled and intrigued Art.

  Art knew where he lived, so one day after church he went on his bike to find him on his own. It was a brief but entirely enlightening visit for Art. Merle told him a few simple stories about Nanabush, the trickster figure in their culture. Art loved it and found ways to learn from his uncle whenever he could.

  When he was a child, Merle’s parents always told him to run into the bush whenever they saw the white men coming, so he was one of the fortunate ones who wasn’t apprehended by the government authorities and forced into one of those assimilation schools. His three older siblings weren’t as lucky. Each was sent to those faraway schools every fall until they were legally adults. Merle never spoke of why his parents chose him to be the one to escape, and others in the community could only speculate why. Some said it was because his parents believed he was born with strong medicinal knowledge. Others believed they wanted to spare just one of their children the horrors of the schools.

  And here he was, an elder in the community who still spoke his language fluently and knew a lot of the old ways. He knew how to lead a sweat lodge ceremony. He left to go fasting in other places that were more tolerant of Anishinaabe traditions. He was an anomaly, which was why he kept to himself. But he enjoyed sharing what he knew, and Art’s interest empowered him to feel pride in himself as an Indigenous person.

  “You been giving your thanks at sunrise?” Merle asked the boy.

  “As much as I can,” replied Art. “I can’t always get outside, though. My mom and dad would probably flip out if they caught me doing that.”

  “That’s okay. As long as you’re being thankful. It’s important to carry yourself in gratitude while walking in creation.”

  Art nodded. Merle’s eye remained fixed on the forest in front of them. He sipped his coffee again.

  It was Art’s turn to prompt the conversation. “I wanted to ask you about something.” Merle looked to him with stern but caring weathered eyes.

  Art continued. “Last time I was here you took out your drum. You sang a couple of songs for me. One was the traveling song. I can’t remember the other one. I wanna learn how to play those songs.”

  Merle sighed and looked out to the trees. Art worried he’d said something wrong but knew better than to press the elder. He waited for Merle to respond.

  “There was a time in this place when all the kids your age learned those songs,” Merle finally said. “It was part of growing up. Learning the songs on the drum and the stories behind them. They were important lessons, and they kept us all together.

  “But we don’t have any drums to play them on no more. Once upon a time the Anishinaabeg who lived around here carried important drums. There were different drums for different ceremonies and different occasions. A big one for powwows. A little water drum for the sweat lodge and the sacred ceremonies. And the hand drums for everyone to have on their own if they wanted them.”

  Merle spoke slowly and rhythmically. He paused occasionally to let Art absorb the words and to feel them float into the land before him, nestling among the leaves that were about to change color.

  “My mom and dad used to tell me about the great celebrations they’d have. They’d dance around the big drum all summer long. It was the heartbeat of this place. That’s because the drum is the heartbeat of Mother Earth. I’ll tell you that story some other time.

  “But around the time the white man came to take the kids away to those schools, they took the drums, too. The government made it illegal for us Anishinaabeg to have them. They wrote it into that law about us. That law even said we couldn’t gather in groups to practice our culture.

  “My dad even told me about one time when the Indian Agent started a fire and burned all the things he took away from the people. He threw one of the last big powwow drums in there. My dad said it tore him up inside to watch the hide burn away. But he didn’t want that white man to see him cry. He waited until he was alone.”

  Art noticed Merle trying to uphold a steely edge as he recalled the story. He’d never seen the elder cry in the time they’d been visiting. Merle cleared his throat and continued.

  “But he also told me there might be some drums hidden away somewhere here. He said there was another elder, a man named Bemassige, who saved what was left. He didn’t know how many drums or what kind. But this elder believed that one day we’d be able to sing our songs again. One day our ways wouldn’t be seen as wrong by the white man. He wanted to store them away so we could have them again someday.”

  Art was riveted. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. He couldn’t help himself. “So where are they?” he blurted. He immediately felt remorseful for speaking before the old man was finished. “Sorry,” he followed.

  Merle smirked. Art felt like maybe Merle admired the young boy’s eagerness to learn. “Well, no one really knows for sure. My dad said Bemassige never told him, but he did drop hints. Maybe Bemassige hoped he’d still be alive whenever things turned back around and that he’d be the one to free the drums on his own. But sadly that didn’t happen in his lifetime.

  “Word among some of the other old ones is they’re buried underneath that big rock down by the ball field. And there’s a hand drum hoop under the rock that marks the spot. But no one knows for sure. And it’s damn near impossible to budge that thing.”

  Art pictured that boulder. As a younger kid, he’d played on and around it. It was taller than him and even some of the adults and stood as wide as it was tall. How could anyone have even lifted that behemoth back then?

  “Funny thing is,” Merle went on, as if sensing Art’s thoughts, “nobody really knows how that big rock got there in the first place.”

  He took another sip of coffee. Art’s mind raced, imagining a trove of drums of all sizes under that big rock. He knew that couldn’t be possible. But he kept thinking about the boulder, which seemed out of place the more he considered it. How many drums could be under there? How many were there to begin with? More and more questions popped into his head before Merle brought him back down to Earth.

  “I got an extra hand drum inside,” Merle said. “I’ll bring it out and show you
those songs again. But I don’t think it’s safe for you to have a drum yet. Your parents aren’t ready. Neither is this community. But we will get there, my boy. I’m sure of it.”

  Art felt a tinge of hopeful sadness. He looked down at the bare wooden planks of the porch and listened again for the bustle of life in the high trees around them. Merle stood to go inside and, in a minute, came back out with two hand drums.

  “Here ya go,” he said, handing the round, tan instrument to Art. It was about a foot and a half in diameter. The dried deer hide was tied tight around the wooden hoop, and the face felt smooth. Merle rubbed his palm around the skin of his drum, and Art mimicked him. He handed the boy a small wooden drumstick with softer hide wrapped around one end. With his own stick, Merle beat the drum four times. The beats seemed to echo through the evergreen trees.

  “I’ll show you those songs,” Merle said. “But first I have to tell you the story of how we Anishinaabeg got the drum. And I have to tell you why this is the heartbeat of Mother Earth.”

  They sat for hours. Lunchtime came and went. Art knew he’d be late, but he couldn’t neglect this knowledge. Something new had awoken inside him, and he felt like he was on the verge of something big. He knew it was important not just to him, but to the entire community. When their last beat echoed through the trees, he said his thanks to his elder uncle and got on his bike to hurry back home.

  Art picked up his pace when he reached the main road. He pedaled harder past the church and coasted down the slight hill on the other side. The bright sun hovered high above. He had no idea what time it was, but the more he thought about what Merle had told him, the less he cared about being late. He couldn’t shake the image of the big mysterious rock with drums buried beneath it.

  Since he was already late, he decided to take a little detour to the baseball field. The loose gravel on the road vibrated the handlebars, and he gripped tight to keep the bike under control.

  Art rode past the school and steered right onto the road leading to the field. As he rolled closer, he saw a dozen or so other kids playing on the diamond. His heart sank. He’d hoped to examine and explore the boulder on his own, but he knew it wouldn’t be possible with the prying eyes of others nearby. And he was already too close to turn around without being noticed.

  “Hey, look, it’s Fart!” a familiar voice boomed from near home plate. “Whatcha doing down here?”

  The rest of the kids turned to look once Chuck pointed him out. It was a mix of his classmates and some older and younger boys and girls, some who had been friendly with him, and others not so much. He let the bike roll toward the backstop.

  “Hey, Chuck. Just out for a spin,” replied Art, once he got closer to the fence.

  “Where’s your glove? We need more players!”

  Although he owned a baseball glove, Art wasn’t much of an athlete, and he didn’t trust Chuck’s seemingly amiable invitation to play. He scanned the field to note who exactly was in the game, but his eyes were pulled beyond the left-field fence to where the mighty stone stood.

  “I forgot it. I didn’t think there’d be anyone down here today.”

  Chuck shook his head. “Useless,” he muttered, loud enough for the rest in the infield to hear. He squared up in the batter’s box and shouted at Jay, the pitcher on the mound, to lob him the ball.

  Relieved, Art saw his opportunity to make his way over to the rock. Keeping an eye on the action on the field, he rode slowly along the fence in front of the bleachers. Pushing onto the unkempt grass in the foul area outside the left-field fence, he locked his eyes on the massive gray stone that appeared marbled with white, almost snakelike streaks.

  He heard the sharp crack of the wooden bat behind him. “Heads up, Fart!” Chuck called out. Art hit the brakes and turned to see the baseball bounce just behind him and to his right. It took another few quick bounces past him, headed right for the rock, where it seemed to disappear beneath it. Art felt his heart skip a beat. He dismounted, dropped the bike, and ran toward the gray boulder.

  He couldn’t see the white ball as he approached. His eyes darted along the rock’s base, looking to see where it had landed. Up close, he saw it lodged under a sharp edge of the stone, pinned to the ground and mostly concealed by grass.

  “What are you waiting for?” Chuck yelled again. “Throw it back!”

  Art crouched at the base of the rock and tried to pull out the ball. It was stuck pretty firmly between the overhang and the ground. He couldn’t wrap his fingers around it. His fingernails scratched at the white leather, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “What’s the holdup?” Art could hear Chuck coming closer. With him came a crowd of kids who gathered around.

  “It’s stuck pretty good,” Art defended himself.

  Chuck sighed and rolled his eyes. “All right, let a real man do this,” he said, shoving Art out of the way. Chuck crouched and reached under the rock, but it was immediately clear that his efforts were in vain. It wasn’t moving at all. “What the hell?” he griped, growing increasingly frustrated. He stood, red faced, and threw up his hands. The supposed alpha male of the group couldn’t even get it out.

  Jay got down on his hands and knees and tried to free the ball, to no avail. Others took turns, but no one had any luck. “Did anyone else bring a ball?” Chuck asked. The rest silently shook their heads. “God damn it!”

  The small crowd grumbled and shuffled, confused about what to do next. A few began to disperse with no hope of continuing the game.

  “There’s no way it could get stuck like that,” Art proclaimed. “It wasn’t even going that fast.” He stepped up to the rock for one more examination. The short lip the ball was stuck under ran a couple of feet across. He saw that he could grip the jutting stone. An unfamiliar confidence rushed through him; a surge of adrenaline told him he could get that ball. With a feeling of cool excitement, he squatted down, dug his fingers under the overhang, and lifted with his legs.

  The rock rose a foot above the ground.

  The children behind him looked on in shock, mouths agape. The muscles in Art’s arms and legs screamed. “Someone get it!” he yelled. Jay scrambled to reach into the small gap Art had created and snatched the baseball. Art gently set the boulder back down. He stood upright, dusted off his hands, and turned to face the other kids. They looked like they’d seen a ghost.

  After a tense moment, Jay broke the stunned silence. “How the hell did you do that?”

  “I dunno. I just lifted it,” replied Art.

  The other kids started to mumble among themselves.

  “Do it again!” Janice, his cousin, shouted from behind the others.

  Art turned back to the gray boulder. He looked it up and down, amazed that he had been able to budge it at all. He had done it just moments before, and already it seemed impossible. Nevertheless, his newfound conviction returned, and he squatted down again and reached for the grips at the base, this time spreading his arms wider for greater leverage. He inhaled deeply through his nose, summoning strength he hadn’t known he had—and ultimately didn’t need.

  The Saturday afternoon stood still. The light wind gusting around them had dulled, and the crickets in the grass and the squirrels in the nearby trees went quiet. The land around them anticipated a shift, and the children each felt a comforting hum in their chests.

  Art drove his feet into the ground and lifted. The rock elevated slowly, just like before, and with one concerted push, he toppled it over. It rolled once, thundering along natural soft turf, and came to a stop about fifteen feet to the side.

  Some of the kids gasped. Others fell to the ground in disbelief. None spoke. They had witnessed something they all believed wasn’t humanly possible: a twelve-year-old boy, one of their peers, toppling a boulder weighing thousands of pounds. It didn’t seem real.

  Art stared at the ground before him. The surrounding wo
rld seemed to disappear as he locked eyes on the shape in the smooth dirt, as dark as garden soil. A small wooden hoop about a foot in diameter lay planted in the ground. The edge of the circle appeared fresh: a bright yellow hue as though formed just that morning. Chuck and Janice came up behind him to look.

  “What is that, Art?” she asked.

  Art said nothing. His heartbeat pounded in his chest and echoed in his ears. His feet shuffled slowly forward to the imprint of the boulder. He dropped to his knees and reached into the dirt. He didn’t know what compelled him to do so. He began gently digging at the soil around the hoop. The rest of the kids stood by and watched.

  He dug away enough to loosen the hoop from the ground. The rim was about three inches wide and half an inch thick. He lifted it out of the ground and brought it closer. It felt smooth to the touch and seemed unweathered after sitting in the ground for decades, according to Merle’s story. Did that ancestor really place this here? he thought. How is this possible?

  “Hey, there’s something else there.” Janice broke the silence once again. The stirred-up soil revealed what looked like a strip of some kind of hide. She walked closer and crouched down to feel it. She gave it a slight tug and loosened more of the black soil. “It’s some kinda bag,” she said. She dug into the ground with her hands, pulling away more dirt to discover what lay beneath. Art crawled over to join her, and Chuck, Jay, and a couple of the others joined in.

  Art pulled out the first pouch. It was plain and smelled like deer hide. There was a round object inside: the unmistakable shape of a drum. He untied the hide string that kept the bag closed tight and unsheathed a hand drum, much like the one he’d played that morning at Merle’s. He couldn’t believe it.

  “Whoa, how the hell did someone bury that here?” Chuck wondered aloud.

  “There’s more in there!” Jay shouted.

  The rest of them joined in to dig away at the dirt. They worked silently, unearthing four more hand drums and a much larger drum underneath. They lay them all carefully in a circle on the grass, while Art stood with the first one still in his hand.