“Get off,” I said.
Malsumsis woofed and then hopped off to one side.
“Idiot!” I scratched my wolf friend’s ears with the fingers of my hands and he whined happily. “Yes,” I said, “I am glad to see you too.”
The two of us began to run together through the forest. I had never been able to run with my friend before, only swooped on silent wings over his head. I liked the feeling of our running together, the soft thump of the earth beneath us, the way the ground seemed to rise up to catch me each time I lifted a foot and let it fall. The night wind in our faces was sweet. I’d been eager to reach the tree where I knew my great-grandmother would be roosting, but it was almost too soon when we arrived there. This running was so much fun.
As soon as I called her name, she came swooping down.
“Whoooo-whoooo,” she said. “Wabi, there is more that you need.”
It was not a question. As always, it was as if she knew my thoughts.
“Yes, Great-grandmother,” I said. “I forgot that humans are not like owls when they hunt.”
I looked down at my feet—so good for running, so pathetically useless for such things as striking and killing prey. “I need something to hunt with.”
Great-grandmother chuckled. “I know,” she said. “I would have told you before, but you were toooo eager to go.” She nodded her beak toward an old, old maple tree. “Look inside the hollow of that tree.”
I went to the maple. Its hollow was a narrow slit, but I was able to reach my arm far inside. Even without seeing, my sensitive human fingers were able to find what was hidden there. I pulled it out. It was a long object wrapped in old worn deerskin, just as my clothing had been. I undid the laces that tied it to disclose a fine bow with its double-twisted string wrapped about it, a quiver of arrows. I placed them carefully on the deerskin and stood back to look at them. I knew that they had been in that tree for many, many seasons, yet they glistened like new in the light from the full face of the moon. Nadialid’s own weapons.
CHAPTER 19
Stringing the Bow
WHEN THE SUN LIFTED AGAIN into the sky, it found me asleep, really asleep, inside the wigwam in Valley Village along with the dozen other young men. In fact, I was the last of them to wake. The clouds at the edge of the sky had already begun to show the first streaks of red when I had finally slipped back in among the snoring suitors. I had spent much of the night learning to use my new weapons.
But the voices of the young men woke me.
“What is wrong with Gwanakwozid over there?” I heard one of them say.
Gwanakwozid? The Long Tall One? Who is that?
“Hah, he is probably one of those who just looks like a good hunter but is really a lazy fool,” another voice said. “Let him remain there like a dead log.”
“Too late. Look, he’s moving.”
“Slowly, though. You would think from the way he acts that it’s time to sleep and not the dawn.”
Ah, they were talking about me. Little did they know how true those last words actually were.
I sat up, rubbing my eyes against the light. The other suitors were chuckling as they went out the door of the wigwam. I stood, rearranged my feathers—er, clothes—and followed them outside.
The others in the village were eating. It was food that had been damaged by hot water and burned by their fires. Some of it was not even meat. Yet it smelled good to my human nose. My impulse was to hop over to the pots and help myself, but I was cautious.
Watch what the others do. Learn from them.
I noticed that the other young men from the guest lodge looked as hungry as I felt. But none of them went over to take food. Dojihla’s father, who was also the village leader, came to stand before us. Wowadam, He Who Knows. That was his name.
“The job of the hunter,” Wowadam said, “is to feed the people. So none of you will eat this day until you have finished your hunt. Are you all ready to begin?”
He looked at each of the young men who stood there, their bows and arrows held out before them for his inspection. He stopped in front of me.
“Wabi, great-grandson of Nadialid,” he said, “where are your weapons?”
“To show that I came here as a friend,” I said, “I did not bring them with me. I left them hidden just outside the village.”
“Ah-hah,” Dojihla’s father said. He looked relieved. “Run and get them,” he said.
Run, he said. I ran swiftly from the village to the cedar tree just within the forest. I reached up into its branches to grasp the bundle that held the unstrung bow, the quiver, and the arrows. Then I returned to the place where the others still stood.
For some reason, the young men were all gaping at me. Some of the others gathered around were making gasping sounds. Others were saying such things as “Wah-hey,” and “Nanabi! So fast!”
Dojihla, though, was just looking at me in a way that made me feel uneasy. Had I just run a little too swiftly?
“Wabi,” Wowadam said, “are the others of your family as fast a runner as you?”
“No,” I said, answering quite truthfully. There was no way any owl could hop as fast as I had just run.
“Ah,” he said. Then he shook his head and turned his attention to the bundle I held. “May I see your weapon?”
I unwrapped the bow and held it out in front of me. As I did so I realized for the first time that it was larger and thicker than any of the bows held by the other young men.
“That is no bow,” said the young man next to me. “That is a tree.”
“A war club, more like,” said the next young man. “Perhaps he hunts by hitting animals over the head with it.”
All of the other suitors laughed, as did many of the people gathered around.
I was beginning to get used to this kind of teasing. I had listened often enough from the forest to such talk between humans, especially young human males, to know that it was meant both playfully and, sometimes, as a challenge.
It came to me then how I could respond. I turned toward the other young men and held out my unstrung bow.
“Here,” I said. “Would anyone like to try to string this?”
A large young man, a head shorter than me but a bit broader and with a face as round as that of the moon, was pushed forward by his friends.
“Go ahead, Wikadegwa,” one of them said.
“Bend it until it breaks, Fat Face,” said another.
Fat Face held out his hands and then smiled at me. It was a smile that showed no teeth. Somehow I knew that this smile was meant to say, I am only doing this because they are making me do it.
I smiled back and handed him the bow. He hefted it in his hands, then looped the string around one end, placed the other end of the bow against the ground, and leaned his back into it. The bow did not bend. Fat Face strained harder. Water began to pop out of his forehead in little bubbles. Was Fat Face’s head getting ready to explode?
“WHHHAAAAGGGH!” Fat Face blew the air out of his mouth and let go of the bow. He staggered back a step before regaining his balance.
“It cannot be done,” he said, handing me the bow. “No one can bend this. You are playing a joke on us all.”
Everyone was looking at me. I shook my head. “It is not a joke,” I said. “My great-grandfather could bend this bow.” I paused and looked around. I wrapped one leg around the bow, grasped the upper end with my hand, pressed down on it, and slipped the string in place. Then I held it up and plucked it with my finger, a deep throbbing note twanging out.
“And,” I said, plucking the string again, “so can I.”
A chorus of “Oh-hos” and “Ahs” came from those gathered around me. Fat Face was patting my shoulder in a friendly way. The sharp-faced young man who had made the remark about my sleeping like a dead log stepped forward. I remembered his name. It was Bitahlo.
“So, you can string that thing. But can you shoot it?” he asked.
“What shall I shoot at?” I said.
&
nbsp; “Can you hit the middle knot on that pine tree over there by the—WAGH!” He stared at my arrow quivering in the middle of the target he had just named.
“Like that?” I said.
“Ah, yes,” Bitahlo said in a slow voice as he moved back into the group of young men who again appeared to be trying to catch flies with their mouths.
“I am impressed,” another voice spoke up from the back of the crowd. Why did it sound familiar to me? A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped forward. He was holding a small child in his arms. Suddenly I recognized him. It was Melikigo, Dojihla’s big brother. Apparently, even though he now lived in another village with his wife’s family, he had come to see this contest to win his sister. As he walked toward me, Dojihla’s father shook his head.
“My son,” Wowadam said, “there is not time enough for this.”
Melikigo grinned as he placed his child in Wowadam’s arms. “Father, there is always time for a little friendly wrestling.”
Wrestling. I should have expected it from him. His name Melikigo, means “He is strong.” I had seen, over the years, how none of the other boys—or the men when he was grown—had ever been able to throw him.
He reached out to grasp my wrist. “Shall we try to throw each other?”
I grasped his wrist in turn. I tried to remember the words I’d heard spoken when men wrestled.
“Let us do so,” I said. “Tell me when to begin.”
“Now!” Melikigo shouted. His big muscles strained as he tried to pull me forward into him so that he could wrap his arms around me. I didn’t move. He tried another tactic, pushing into me. This time I turned in a half circle, even though there was no way he could have moved me. He was strong, but I could feel how much stronger I was.
I did not throw him, though, even though it would not have been hard to do. Instead, I stayed locked up with him as the two of us moved back and forth. Water was now dripping from his forehead. One or two times, I pushed a little too hard and had to pull him back so that he would not lose his footing. To anyone watching, it must have looked like an even match. Melikigo, though, knew.
“Enough,” he finally said. He let go of me and I released my own grip. His eyes found mine as he nodded. I understood the message in his gaze. Thank you, his look was saying, for not making me appear foolish in front of my family.
He turned to look at his sister. She had been watching us closely. I looked too, but Dojihla quickly turned her glance away from me.
“My sister,” Melikigo said, reaching out his hand to thump me on the chest, “this is a good one.”
“Hummph,” was all that Dojihla said in reply.
CHAPTER 20
The Feast
I’D SELDOM HUNTED IN THE daylight before. Things looked different than at night. You could see your prey from much farther away—and it could see you. That all took some getting used to. I’d also never used any other weapon to hunt with than my own talons. That took even more getting used to.
But hunting with my great-grandfather Nadialid’s bow and arrows had not turned out to be that difficult. For me, the hardest part about hunting that day was not finding game and shooting it. It was remembering what humans like to hunt. I had just crept close enough to the most delicious-looking chipmunk when it came to me that humans liked larger food. Forget about mice, shrews (which have a nice sharp tang to them), baby crows (yummy and crunchy). Think about animals even bigger than bunnies. Probably not skunks.
Wabi, I said to myself, think big. Think deer. Elk. Moose. Got it?
At first, when I found the animals I had decided to hunt, they fled from me. I had never approached anything from the ground before, but always from the air. When you hunt from the air, you move with the wind and it carries you. On the ground, a hunter’s scent is carried by the wind. I finally realized that I had to approach with the wind in my face. Then they would not catch my human scent and flee.
I did not forget to show respect. Each time I took aim, I spoke the words much like those we owls always speak before we strike. You who will feed me and my family, I thank you for giving me your life.
My arrows hit just where I wanted them to hit. That was very satisfying. It felt almost as it used to feel when I struck not with arrows but with the claws of my owl feet.
My next challenge was moving the game I caught. Big animals cannot just be picked up in your claws and flown away with. Luckily this new body of mine was strong. Dragging worked well, although it took more time than I had planned.
As a result, it was not until the evening, as the last light was disappearing in the sunrise direction, that I walked into Dojihla’s village. I was the last of the hunters to return. They were all lined up before the big fire, each with the game they had killed piled in front of them. Their take ranged from the two deer and the beaver proudly displayed by Fat Face (a better hunter than I had expected) to the single woodchuck at the feet of an embarrassed-looking Bitahlo.
Dojihla was eyeing them all with equal displeasure. But when I stepped into the firelight and she looked at me, it seemed as if I saw a different expression come over her face.
I dropped the two big bucks I’d been carrying, one over each shoulder. Both were larger than the two Fat Face had brought.
“Two deer,” Dojihla’s father said.
“Plump ones,” said her mother with a big smile.
Dojihla said nothing.1
Oops, I thought. Not a good sign. But I refused to let worry 1 get in my way—or Fat Face, who had smiled at me when I walked into the circle of light. A strange thing to do, smiling at a rival like that. He was now being poked in the back by the older woman behind him. I knew her to be his mother from the conversations they had the evening before.
“Speak up, son,” she commanded.
“I, uh, I have two deer and a beaver,” Fat Face said. “That should make me the, uh, winner?” To my further surprise, his voice was unenthusiastic.
I raised my hand. “Wait,” I said. Then I walked back into the woods.
When I returned, it was with another game animal over my shoulders. I placed it next to the two deer. As I walked back into the forest I thought about the look I had seen on people’s faces. Perhaps carrying a full-grown elk was a little too impressive. So this time when I returned, I did so dragging in the big bull moose by its antlers. When I straightened up I saw that everyone was staring openmouthed.
Wowadam was the first to recover. “Wabi has won,” he said, placing a hand on my shoulder.
“He will be my son-in-law,” Dojihla’s mother said. She wrapped her arms around me in a warm embrace. That made me feel good. However, the fact that she whispered “Be brave” in my ear did cause me a bit of disquiet.
Once again, Dojihla had nothing to say. Her eyes were not looking at me, but through me. A little shiver of uncertainty went down my spine.
But things went well at first. The other young men came over to congratulate me. They did not look disappointed.
“You are indeed a good hunter,” Fat Face said.
“Where did you find an elk of that size?” Bitahlo asked.
“We must go out hunting together sometime,” said a short, stocky young man who introduced himself as Gitowdeb.
As they talked with me, some of them began to confide in me. They had all been pushed into the competition by their parents, who were eager for the prestige to be gained by their son marrying the chief’s daughter. I wondered if Bitahlo with his single woodchuck might have been a better hunter than I thought. Fat Face, in particular, seemed relieved that he had not won Dojihla.
“Good luck marrying a bobcat,” he whispered to me.
“I do not understand,” I said. And I didn’t. What did a bobcat have to do with anything? It was confusing enough to have been an owl who fell in love with a human without bringing in the prospect of marrying yet another sort of animal.
“She is better suited to you,” Fat Face said, chuckling as he did so. He patted me on the shoulder. “May you su
rvive it.”
Preparations moved along for the feast as I was moved from one group of happy people to the next. They were pleased by all the game I had brought in. I was pleased, too, but getting a bit dizzy.
“We will all eat well tonight,” said a woman holding a baby.
“Welcome to our family, brother-to-be,” said the man behind her. It was Melikigo, Dojihla’s brother. He thudded me again in the chest with the flat of his palm and then slapped his hand over his heart.
“You are just the sort of hunter we need for our village,” an old man said to me. He placed a string of clay beads in my hand and then looped them around my neck when I did not seem to know what to do with them.
Children were tugging at my hands or wrapping their arms around my legs, men and women of all ages were coming up to embrace me.
I began to feel as if I was caught in a strong wind that was blowing me first one way and then the other. And through it all, every time I caught Dojihla’s eyes, I felt troubled by the look that I saw there. Questioning.
They sat me down in front of the fire with Dojihla by my side. Meat from the various animals I brought in had been thrust onto wooden spits and was being cooked over the fire right in front of us. Fat was dripping out and spattering on the hot coals. The smell of the cooking meat filled my nose. My mouth began to fill again with water. I swallowed. It made my nose twitch. What a strange sensation that was! It twitched again. I reached up to touch it with my fingers. This soft nose was not at all like my hard beak. I pushed it with my finger, feeling it move. So different. Yet I was getting used to it. In fact, I rather liked having this kind of a nose.
I looked over at Dojihla. I liked her nose even more than mine. Her nose was the most pleasing to look at of all the young women there. I smiled at her and she smiled back sweetly.
Too sweetly?
Suddenly, a feeling of panic swept over me. I did not know how, but I knew I was in trouble. I’d seen that look on Dojihla’s face before many times, from when she was a little girl playing with her friends. Whenever she got that look, someone else—who had been doing something to displease her—was soon going to be unhappy.
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