Wabi

by Joseph Bruchac

  I watched them from my favorite hiding place in the cedar.

  “My wife,” Dojihla’s father said, shaking his head, “it is now two winters since our son, Melikigo, married and went off to the village of his new wife’s family. We need a young man to take his place. Our daughter needs to finally take a husband.”

  “My husband, Wowadam,” Dojihla’s mother said, “you are right. But I fear our daughter will never have a family of her own. She is so stubborn, and so critical.”

  “Do you think she will approve of the young man who is coming today?” Wowadam asked.

  “What do you think?” Dojihla’s mother replied.

  Dojihla’s father shook his head again and sighed.

  I saw their point. Love might have made me sick to my stomach, but it hadn’t made me blind. Graceful as Dojihla was, beautiful as she was, perfect as she was in form and movement, that human girl was just as finicky. I knew because I had been watching her so closely—as had every human youth in every nearby village. They all knew Dojihla. She was the lovely maiden with the sparkling eyes and the sarcastic voice—the one whose words were sharper than flint-tipped arrows.

  It had gotten to the point where suitors had almost stopped coming around. Most of them had become afraid of what she would say to any man foolhardy enough to seek her hand. With a few well-aimed words or a single gesture she could destroy the tallest, strongest, most capable suitor. However, there always seemed to be at least one who thought he could succeed where others failed.

  I flew off to take a look at the new suitor and found him walking along the river on his way to the village. His name, I soon learned—for he had the nervous habit of talking to himself—was Bitahlo.

  “I, Bitahlo,” he said, as he walked along, “will be the one to win her heart. I am sure of it. My song will show her how I feel. She will not be able to resist its power.”

  Then he began to sing it. It spoke of Dojihla’s beauty and grace. He was right about that. But when he came to the part about her sweetness, comparing her to flowers, swaying reeds, and a doe with her fawn, I shook my head with pleasure. I thought I knew how Dojihla would react to that.

  I flew back on silent wings and managed to conceal myself in the tree before Bitahlo arrived and stood in front of his prospective bride and her parents.

  “I have made this song for you,” he announced. Then he sang it.

  Dojihla’s parents looked over anxiously at their daughter when Bitahlo finished. I was anxious too as I watched from my perch in the cedar. The song had actually not been that bad. Also, to be honest, Bitahlo’s voice was good. What if that song actually did work?

  Dojihla looked up. Her eyes seemed far away, as if entranced by the song. Bitahlo leaned forward, eager to hear her acceptance of his declaration of love.

  “What was that?” Dojihla said. “Did I just hear a moose breaking wind?”

  I almost fell off my branch with laughter. For his part, Bitahlo went pale, turned, and stalked off.

  Dojihla’s mother looked up into my tree. “My husband, what is wrong with that owl?” she said. “It sounds as if it is choking.”

  “Forget the bird, my wife,” said Dojihla’s father. There was a look in his eyes that told me what had happened was like that last stick pulled from the beaver dam, the one that makes the pent-up water come rushing forth. “We must talk.”

  Then the two of them went into their lodge where their daughter could not hear them.

  Of course I could. If you can hear the deliciously terrified heartbeat of a mouse hiding in the grass far below your treetop perch, it is not at all difficult to make out a human conversation within a nearby wigwam. That conversation! It both worried me and gave me hope.

  “Our daughter now has nineteen winters,” Dojihla’s father whispered. “It is well past the season for her to choose a husband.”

  “But how can we find any man who is stupid—I mean suitable enough?” said Dojihla’s mother. “Our daughter is so choosy.”

  “My wife,” Dojihla’s father replied, “we shall no longer allow her to choose. We will have a contest in the old way. The man who brings in the most game in a day will be the winner. Our daughter will have to marry that man. It is an ancient tradition. Even Dojihla cannot refuse to follow it.”

  I took flight from the tree while they were still talking. I should have been depressed at the thought that Dojihla was going to be forced to take a husband. But I was not. An idea had come to me. It was a crazy idea. It was so strange that I was not sure where it had come from. Still, it made me feel a glimmer of hope. Was it possible? There was only one who could tell me. I had to find my great-grandmother.

  CHAPTER 14

  One More Question

  IN SOME OF HER STORIES, Great-grandmother told that long ago there was not as much distance between the various beings in creation. Back then, things were not as set in their ways as they are now. Nowadays, it seems, if you are a fox, for example, that is what you will always be. But back then you could sometimes become something else. That fox might be able to turn into some other creature.

  The thought of one creature turning into another made sense to me. After all, I saw it happen every day, firsthand. There’s a nice fat mouse scampering about in the grass. Swoop, grab, gulp. And now that mouse is a mouse no longer, but part of an owl.

  But that old way of one thing becoming another did not involve either dying or digestion. It was just plain and simple shape-shifting. In certain of the stories Great-grandmother told me, it happened because some being made a foolish wish. Like the owl who wished it would never grow old and die. The Great Darkness gave that owl its wish, but not as it expected. It was turned into an owl-shaped stone that would never grow old and die. Great-grandmother had pointed that very stone out to me, where it stood at the edge of the chestnut forest.

  In other stories, though, the being that changed shapes did so because it had fallen in love with some creature that was of a different kind. Like an owl falling in love with a human.

  It took me some looking about, but I finally found my great-grandmother. Instead of her usual perch, she was in a big oak tree near the spot where I had been a nestling.

  As soon as I landed silently by her side, she turned her head to look at me.

  “Wabi,” she said, “you have a question for me.”

  Not just any question, I thought. This one had been spinning about in my head like a whirlpool. It was the most important question I had ever thought to ask.

  “Great-grandmother, was my father a human being who turned into an owl?” I had thought she might hesitate, but to my distress, she did not. Her answer was as quick and simple as it was disappointing.

  “Nooooo,” she hooted, “he was never anything but an owl.”

  “Ohhh,” I said, lowering my head in dejection.

  My thought had been that if my father had turned himself into an owl, perhaps the ability to turn into a human being would be in me.

  “Listen to me, Wabi,” Great-grandmother hootuled. “Your father was very brave. I never told you, but he gave his life to save me before you were hatched. One night, after I had been hunting very late, I did not choose a good place to hide for the day. A mob of giant crows found me. They would have killed me had not your father flown in and attacked them. He led them away and was never seen again.”

  I lifted my head up. The story of my father’s sacrifice made me feel both proud and sad.

  “Why did you wait so long to tell me?” I asked.

  Great-grandmother dipped her head. “Because of me, you never knew your father,” she said. “I did not want you to hate me.”

  I rubbed my head against my great-grandmother’s shoulder. “I could never hate you,” I said in a soft voice. Then I sighed. “I just thought that if my father had been a human, that might explain why I have always been so attracted to them.”

  “Nooo,” Great-grandmother said. “My brave grandson was always an owl. It was your mother who was once a human.�
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  I almost fell off the branch. My beak gaped wide in amazement.

  Great-grandmother nodded at me. “It is not a long story, Wabi. Your mother did not like being a human. She did not like all the things she had to do, such things as cooking and skinning deer and making clothes. She wanted to be an owl so that she would never have to do those things again. Long ago, someone else in her family had made such a change, so it was in her to do this. So she went to the place in the forest where the old stories said such things could happen. It was the place where seven stones made a great circle near the foot of a giant oak tree. And she became an owl, leaving behind all that was human.”

  Great-grandmother chuckled. “Your mother is a beautiful owl, but she has never been very good at being an owl. If your father had not taken pity on her, she would have starved. And after he was gone, when she had you little ones to care for, I stayed close by. Most of the mice she fed you were ones that I caught for her.”

  My head was truly spinning now. I finally understood why my lazy mother had done such an awful job of caring for me when I was young, why she had not even tried to find me after I fell from our nest. Perhaps it even explained why, after my brother and sister had also left the nest, our mother just disappeared. Being an owl had turned out to be harder than she had expected. Had my mother found some way of going back to being a human again? But that was not what I needed to ask now.

  “Great-grandmother,” I said. “I have one more question.”

  My great-grandmother looked off into the forest before she turned her head back to me.

  “I am sure that you dooo,” she said.

  CHAPTER 15

  Seven Stones

  “AH,” GREAT-GRANDMOTHER SAID. THEN SHE sat silently for a long time after I had asked that one more question. It was this:

  How can I change into a human being?

  I could tell how much my question troubled her. Her eyes were closed and her ear tufts were lowered back on her head. Finally she clacked her beak, opened her eyes, and swiveled her head to look straight at me. Then she made one of those soft little whoot-a-luls that is an owl’s way of sighing.

  “So-oo-ooo, you are sure this is what you want?”

  “Yes.”

  She sighed again. “Look down.”

  I looked down over my right shoulder. Malsumsis, who had followed his nose to find me, was sitting there on his haunches at the base of another big oak tree a few steps away from the one in which we sat, looking up expectantly at us. It seemed that Malsumsis could sense that something out of the ordinary was happening—even more out of the ordinary than a wolf having an owl as his best friend.

  “Not there, Wabi,” Great-grandmother said. “Look to the other side. Right below.”

  I turned my head to peer over my left shoulder. It took me a moment to realize what I was seeing. There, right below us, were seven tall standing stones. Why had I never noticed them before? They stood as straight as seven giant owls. The way they were arranged in a perfect circle made it seem as if someone had placed them there. In the middle of their circle was a mound of earth that was about the size and shape of a human being lying on its back.

  “Long agooo,” Great-grandmother said, “there were seven beings. Some said they were owls, for they were as wise as owls. But whatever they were, they could answer any question. They were mdawelinnok, wise ones. But so many came to ask them questions that they grew tired. So they decided to hide. They flew to a place deep in the forest and changed themselves into a circle of seven cedar trees. For a time they were left in peace. But they did not stay silent. They would whisper to each other in the wind, sharing all the things they knew. So it was that someone heard them and told others. Once again, many came to them to ask questions, and because they were trees and rooted to the ground, they could not escape. So one night, they changed themselves back into owls and flew away. They flew to the base of a great tree and there they changed themselves into seven stones. Because they were stones, they remained silent and so it was hard for anyone to find them. But within their circle is the answer to many questions.”

  I stared down at that circle of stones. The answer to my question had to be there. But what was I supposed to do now?

  “Should I fly down there?” I asked.

  “No. Stay where you are. First I must ask you, are you certain this is what you want to dooo?”

  I nodded my head so hard that I shook loose a few feathers. “Yes!”

  Once again, Great-grandmother was silent for a long while. Finally she turned her head one way and then the next, moving her gaze through the circle of creation surrounding us. As she did so, I could see just how old she was, how many seasons of flight were beneath her wings. Lately I had been worried about what would happen when she no longer was able to fly. What if a flock of crows should ever spy her daylight roosting place and then dive in to attack her? Was it wrong of me to want to leave her? For a moment I felt uncertain about the decision I had just made.

  I opened my beak, but Great-grandmother raised her wing, gesturing me to stay silent.

  “Wabi,” she hooted softly, “it is all right. You must do what you must do. Just remember, you will always be yoooo.”

  Then she took flight.

  “Whooo,” she said as she circled me the first time.

  “Whooo,” she repeated as she came around me the second time. I had to keep turning my head to watch her as she flew. I couldn’t help it.

  “WHOOOOO,” she called yet again, flying around me a third time, so fast that I found myself becoming dizzy.

  “WHOOO ARE YOOOOOOO?” she hooted so loudly that it almost deafened me as she made a fourth and final tighter circle that ended with her not going around me but flying right at me!

  Thoomph! Her right wing struck me in the chest. She didn’t hit me hard, but I lost my balance and felt myself falling backward. I tried to open my own wings to catch the wind, but something was wrong. My feathers weren’t spreading out as they should. Then, all of a sudden—WHOMP!—I landed on my back right on that mound of earth in the middle of the seven stones. I wasn’t hurt, but it took the wind out of me and I didn’t feel like moving for a while.

  How strange, I thought. Why wasn’t I able to fly?

  Then something even stranger happened. The ground around me began to move and shift. It felt as if I had landed on an ant hill whose occupants had just wakened and were now crawling all over me. I began to sink into the ground. I tried to open my beak to say something, but my mouth was filled with the flow of that glowing earth that was now all around me and all over me. A bright light began pulsing, blinding my eyes to the comforting darkness. Then I became lost in that light.

  CHAPTER 16

  In the Light of Day

  WHEN I OPENED MY EYES again, it was no longer night. I was flat on my back and the bright sun was shining down on me through the leaves. Things looked different. It was as if I was seeing the light in a different way. I tried to close my inner eyelid, but nothing happened.

  I wasn’t in pain, but when I turned my head, my neck felt unusually tight. I raised my wing to my beak and was shocked at how soft it was. What were these even softer things under it and around my mouth? Lips. I had lips. For that matter, what were these wiggly worms at the ends of my wings? Fingers?

  I started to sit up, but was pushed back by two big paws that pressed down on my chest. A large head thrust itself into view, mouth open, long, sharp teeth exposed.

  Then a tongue came out and lapped my face.

  Are you you? Malsumsis whined.

  I lifted my legs, as an owl would do, and pushed against my wolf friend with my feet.

  “Get off me,” I said.

  My voice sounded strange, but it seemed to please Malsumsis. He leaped back, crouched down wagging his tail, ran in a quick circle, picked up a stick and dropped it at my feet. It was his signal to play the game where I would pick up a stick, fly some distance, and drop it. When he had found it and brought it back to
me, I would do it again.

  I pulled myself up. It was not easy, for it seemed as if the earth itself was sticking to me. Malsumsis sat on his haunches waiting impatiently for me to begin our game.

  Oh, all right.

  But when I tried to grab the stick in the talons of my right foot, I couldn’t do so. No talons. My foot was so stiff. It was just about useless. Without thinking, I reached out with one wing—which was no longer a wing—and grabbed the stick in my what? My hand? Then I drew my wing—er, arm—back and threw the stick as I had seen humans do. To my surprise, the stick went flying far off into the brush. Malsumsis bounded after it.

  I looked at myself. My whole body was bare. Not a feather to be seen anywhere. It was not a cold day, but it made me feel exposed everywhere except on my head. There I had long black hair that fell down over my face when I leaned foward. I brushed that hair back with my hand. I truly was a human being.

  “Well done, Wabi,” said a familiar voice from a low branch just above me.

  “Great thanks to you, Great-grandmother,” I said. “But . . .”

  I paused. It wasn’t because I didn’t know what to say, but because I didn’t know which to say of the many things that swarmed through my head like bees.

  “Great-grandmother,” I said, holding up my hands, “what shall I do now? I have no clothing, and humans always wear clothing. And I do not have human weapons to hunt with, and I . . .”

  I stopped, realizing that I was talking far too much. Apparently finding it hard to keep my beak shut was as much a part of my being a human person as it had been when I was an owl.

  Great-grandmother nodded her head and lifted up one foot to point with a long talon at a hollow in the base of her tree.

  I stood up and walked. Human legs were longer than I had realized, but I got the hang of it quickly. Although they were not useful for grasping things, these human feet were well designed to carry my weight. In no time at all, even faster than I could have hopped as an owl, I reached that hollow and looked inside. My new eyes did not seem to be as good at penetrating the darkness, but there was something in there. I lifted my arms and reached in. My hands proved as good at grasping as my feet had been when I was an owl. I pulled out a long bundle wrapped in deerskin and tied tightly with rawhide.