by Rick Revelle
Minicônjous: Planters Beside the Stream
Sihásapa or Blackfeet: Note — not the commonly known Blackfeet/Blackfoot tribe of the northern U.S. Plains and Canadian Prairies
Itázipaco or Sans Arcs: Without Bows
Oóhenupa or Two Kettles
When the Lakȟóta migrated west, they became a lesser threat to the Anishinaabe. Starting in 1695, the Anishinaabe turned their military might against the Haudenosaunee (ho-de-no-sho-nee: Iroquois Confederacy) and began driving them back into New York State. This war was the direct result of the Haudenosaunee massacre of the Ouendat (Huron) allies of the Ojibwe (during this era, Ojibwe became synonymous with Anishinaabe) and the takeover of their lands in 1649. In 1701 the Iroquois were forced to sue for peace because they feared the Ojibwe might wipe them out as the Iroquois had previously done to the Huron.
Now that we have a short historical synopsis of these two nations, let’s go back to their early beginnings around the shores of Lake Superior, known as Anishinaabewi-gichigami to the Anishinaabe. There, these two nations made a life for themselves until the coming of the Europeans, when guns, furs, and horses created a different kind of life and warfare, changing their lives forever.
Did the bad blood between the Anishinaabe and Lakȟóta begin in a place now called Crow Creek, South Dakota, around 1325? If so, why?
Some interesting facts about pre–European contact Native people have been uncovered at the Crow Creek Massacre site, one of which dispels the fallacy that scalping was introduced by Europeans. Archaeologists, in fact, discovered that Natives of that era did scalp their enemies. The bodies unearthed at the site revealed marks of scalping and ritual mutilation during the massacre, some of the remains showed indications of previous scalp and battle wounds that had healed, and prevalent in most of the bodies were signs of malnutrition.
As a writer, I have had a few things said to me that have made me proud of what I have written, but none so much as what one man said in passing to a friend of mine. In Yarmouth County, Nova Scotia, there is a Métis lobster fisherman named Alvah D’Entremont who told my good friend and his brother-in-law, Larry Porter, something that made writing I Am Algonquin, Algonquin Spring, and Algonquin Sunset so worthwhile that it brought a tear to my eye.
You see, Alvah never had time in his fifty odd years of life to read. He was too busy trying to make a living for his family hunting and fishing. Alvah had never read a book until Larry gave him I Am Algonquin to read. Among other things, Alvah told Larry he was totally amazed at what I had written and how I was able to put him right there in that time frame in the woods and that he couldn’t put the book down.
Alvah has read all my books and has said they are the best he has ever read in his life — the only two, in fact, until he reads this third one.
For me, as a writer, that has made everything worthwhile. Thanks, Alvah!
If we looked at a map in the 1300s to see where the Lakȟóta and Anishinaabe lived pre-contact, we would find that the Lakȟóta held the territory west of Leech Lake and the junction of the Crow Wing and Mississippi Rivers. Everything east of that was Anishinaabe territory, to Lake Superior and then to the north of Superior.
To the southeast of Lake Superior, other tribes began to settle after being driven west by the European incursion three hundred years later. These tribes soon learned the might of the Anishinaabe and their powerful warrior societies.
The story that is about to unfold takes place in the Upper Great Lakes region of the lakes Gichigami (Lake Superior), Mishigami (Michigan), and Misi-zagging (Huron). It begins around 1342, a century and a half before the way of life of the people on Turtle Island was pelted with a raging storm they could not find refuge from, a storm that did not abate until all the peoples of Turtle Island were diseased, slain, beaten, or demoralized enough that they became prisoners in their own lands for life eternal.
Dedication
Author’s Note
Prologue
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Afterword
Glossaries and Pronunciation Guides
Mi’kmaq Glossary
Selected Resources
Copyright
Prologue
Twelve years have passed since the Omàmiwinini (oh-mam-ih-win-in-e: Algonquin) and Mi’kmaq allies clashed with the great Haudenosaunee (ho-de-no-sho-nee: Iroquois Confederacy) force of the Kanien’kehá:ka (ga-ni-en’ge-ha:ga: Mohawk) warrior known as Ò:nenhste Erhar (o-noss-tay air-har: Corn Dog) and his friend, Winpe.
I, Anokì (uh-noo-key: Hunt), and my sister, Pangì Mahingan (pung-gee mah-in-gan: Little Wolf), had grown into young adults. After I came through the Wysoccan Journey to enter into Omàmiwinini manhood, the decision was made to keep my childhood name because of the relevance of its meaning at the time of my birth. The Elders have always told me that I was a chosen one because of the birthmarks on my buttock and my hairline. I had yet to experience anything special in this life, but there were more years to live.
After that brush with death those twelve summers ago, the Omàmiwinini and their ally survivors had taken a different outlook on their lives. We became even more of a nomadic group than previously, wintering with the Mi’kmaq, the Ouendat (Huron), our own people, and a new ally to the north beyond the Nipissing, the powerful Anishinaabe. With these new friends we also gained a new and fierce enemy. The Anishinaabe called them the Nadowessioux. They called themselves the Lakȟóta.
With the powers of Mitigomij, Glooscap, Elue’wiet Ga’qaquj (el-away-we-it ga-ah-gooch: Crazy Crow), and the warriors allied with us, we became a group of people without any real ties to one community. The main family core of the group has always stayed together. Depending on where we travelled or what we took on, there were always other warriors coming and going to and from our band to aid us in whatever our undertaking was at that time.
The other nations started calling us the Piminàshkawà (Pursuers or Chasers) because we were always chasing something or someone and helping our friends and allies in times of war, strife, and hunger.
It is the only life that my sister and I have really known. We have been raised in the way of the warrior, to respect our family, and to be wary of our enemies. Each new day is an adventure, and Pangì Mahingan and I have been taught by the best, our Uncle Mitigomij (mih-tih-go-mihzh: Red Oak) and our guardians, Kìnà Odenan (Sharp Tongue), and Agwanìwon (uh-gweh-nee-won: Shawl Woman). Taking it upon themselves to be the protectors of the Elders and orphans, Kìnà Odenan and Agwanìwon are looked up to by all of the Omàmiwinini, Ouendat, Anishinaabe, Mi’kmaq, and allies, plus feared and respected by our enemies, who have witnessed their powers in battle. Along with our mother, Wàbananang (wa-ba-na-nang: Morning Star), this pair of two-spirited women helped raise my sister and me.
1
The Canoe
ANOKÌ
“How long should I make this boat, Anokì?” asked Ki’kwa’ju (Wolverine).
“Depends,” I replied. “How many people, dogs, and supplies do you want to carry? Also, if you use it for hunting, you need a good-sized canoe to carry back a moose or an elk.”
“Three lengths of the measuring stick?” Ki’kwa’ju asked.
“Yes, that will work. That’s the length of three men. It will give you a good-sized canoe.”
Ki’kwa’ju was a Mi’kmaq name, except Wolverine wasn’t born a Mi’kmaq. He had been captured by the Mi’kmaq in a skirmish with people they called the Eli’tuat (el-e-do-what: Men with Beards). Wolverine was perhaps only twelve summers old at that time. The Mi’kmaq gave
him this name because he fought them like a wolverine as they captured him and because his light-coloured hair matched the hue of the wolverine’s light-shaded stripes of fur.
Ten summers ago he was brought to our group by a close Mi’kmaq friend and fierce warrior named Elue’wiet Ga’qaquj (el-away-we-it ga-ah-gooch: Crazy Crow). The woman who had reared Crazy Crow, Nukumi (no-ko-miss: Mother Earth, Grandmother), also raised Ki’kwa’ju. She and the Mi’kmaq Elders decided that the boy should come farther inland and live with us. The boy enjoyed living the Mi’kmaq life, but Nukumi was worried that the Eli’tuat would someday return and take him back from them. So the decision was made for Wolverine to come and live with my group of Omàmiwinini. In his time with us, he has proven to be a fast and eager learner and a brave warrior and is now my brother-in-law since marrying my sister, Pangì Mahingan.
Wolverine had picked a tree with no branches within the three lengths of his measuring stick. Branches created holes in the skin that took a lot of time and effort to close up. A tall, straight tree with very few skin blemishes was what we needed. We had prepared ahead of time an akwàndawàgan (a-kwon-da-way-gan: ladder), and using the stick to measure three times as he scaled the ladder, Wolverine arrived at where he had to make his final mark. Here he cut around the trunk of the tree and then made a slit all the way down to the bottom and again cut around the trunk. Then Wolverine started to peel the bark away from the tree, using a rigid wedge of bark to help with prying the skin off the trunk.
“Ki’kwa’ju, do you hear the noise of the bark peeling away from the tree?” I asked. “That’s the tree telling us it’s giving its coat to us as a gift. Once we have the bark, we’ll make a tobacco offering of thanks to the tree. Now roll the bark up and we’ll tie it in a bundle to make it easy to carry. Fill the inside with ferns to help take the moisture away. Now you have to go and pull up spruce roots. You’ll need at least fifty roots and then you have to split and soak them.”
“Anokì, are you going to help me?” asked Ki’kwa’ju.
“How will you learn if I do the work?” I asked. “Achie (White Ash), come and help us. We need an extra pair of hands if you can tear yourself away from whatever you’re doing.”
Achie was an Ouendat warrior who had fought with us against the Haudenosaunee chief Ò:nenhste Erhar (Corn Dog). His brother, Öndawa (Black Ash), had been slain in that battle along with another Ouendat friend, Tsou’tayi (Beaver). Since that time twelve summers ago, he and another Ouendat who had fought that day, Önenha’ (Corn), had become part of our group.
Walking out of the surrounding forest, Achie said, “Anokì, I’ve been watching something entertaining that you and Ki’kwa’ju should come and see.”
We followed the Ouendat up a treed embankment to a small plateau overlooking a narrow gorge. Beneath us a small stream flowed through the valley. Peering down, we eyed a nòjek (now-shek: female bear) and her two makons (mah-koon: cubs) as they foraged along the shoreline. The mother made a meal of the berries lining the stream, while the cubs wrestled on the shore, tumbling into the current and chasing each other through the water, all the time squealing. Every once in a while they roamed a little too far, and the mother grunted her dissatisfaction. Upon hearing her, the two stood up on their hind legs, sniffed the air, and then ran back to their original area, where once again they renewed their play.
The three of us stood downwind enjoying the goings-on. Bears had poor eyesight, so we were safe from being sighted. Yet, if the mother caught our scent, she would charge at us to defend her cubs. Then we heard a sound that shook the air around us. The cubs reared up and looked downstream, while the mother stood with her nose quivering and the hair on her mane standing on end.
Glancing toward the source of the noise, we watched as a huge nàbek (male bear) splashed through the stream toward the cubs at a full run, muscles trembling and mouth frothing. As his massive body drove through the water, the force of the animal caused water to spray upon his black coat, which glistened in the sunlight. His deafening roar as he approached the defenceless cubs echoed through the forest, sending all the roosting and ground-feeding birds into a noisy departure and adding to the imminent mayhem.
From the opposite end the mother bear loped in huge strides to defend her cubs. A full-grown makadewà makwa (ma-ka-de-wa mah-kwa: black bear) could run very fast and could overtake a fleeing warrior in a very short distance. These two bears below were running at top speed with only one thought in each of their minds: the male to kill the cubs, who in the future would threaten his existence; and the female to protect them from his fury.
The nàbek reached the cubs first and grabbed the closest one by the neck, shaking the defenceless animal until its neck snapped. As he turned to chase the other cub, the nòjek hit him at full stride. She was no match for this enormous male, but when it came to her cubs, there was no fear in her body. The two roared, bellowed, clawed, and bit, and the stream became a froth of churning water reddened by their blood. In the end, the male crushed the female’s skull with his massive jaws. He stood over her, bloodied and with chunks of hair missing from his wet and glistening coat where she had bitten and clawed him. The male then reared up on his hind legs, turned his head sideways, and let out a massive roar. Turning, he limped away to recover from his wounds. Once he recuperated, he would carry the scars of this battle for the rest of his life: bare spots where she had torn out the hair and maybe the loss of an eye where it appeared the female had raked his face with her sharp claws.
Stunned, we looked down at where just a short time ago we had been entertained by the young makons. The stream was washing away the redness of the battle. The remaining cub, which had run and hidden in the woods, returned and stood over its mother, bleating a sad lament.
Achie broke the silence by saying, “I’m going down there to capture the makon. It will never survive by itself in the wild. Wolves or the male will end its life in a few suns. Once I’ve secured him, we’ll prepare the two carcasses. The hides and the meat won’t go to waste.”
Glancing at Ki’kwa’ju, I saw the sorrow and shock in his eyes. Walking past him, I said, “Come, we have work to do.”
As we made our way down the face of the cliff, the noise of our descent startled the remaining cub, which took off into the underbrush. Achie, seeing the little one take flight, sped up, causing him to tumble end over end onto the floor of the gorge. Quickly jumping to his feet and not seemingly suffering any ill effects from his fall, he continued after the young bear, crashing through the undergrowth on its trail. Ki’kwa’ju and I looked at each other and laughed. The sight of Achie plunging down the slope and then getting up and racing into the brush to pursue his quarry was just too funny.
“Ki’kwa’ju,” I said, “blow that horn you carry and let’s hope Kìnà Odenan, Agwanìwon, and Kànìkwe (No Hair) are within hearing distance. We can use their help to carry this meat out.”
Ki’kwa’ju sounded the horn in one long, mournful tone. Besides the clothes he had on when captured, the horn was the only thing Ki’kwa’ju had that was his. When he came to us, the Mi’kmaq had given him an axe made out of material we had never seen before, a leather shield, and an item Ki’kwa’ju called a sverð (sword) that could cut off a man’s head with one powerful swing. The Mi’kmaq had captured these items from Ki’kwa’ju’s people during a battle years previous and had gifted him with the items when they sent him to us.
If the three of them were close by, they would be here soon. Since my father’s death, the two women had been our leaders. Kànìkwe was their constant companion. He told everyone he met for the first time that he was their àbimì (ah-bih-mee: guard), which created a roar of laughter from all who knew them, including the two women. Kànìkwe feigned insult when that happened, but all who were familiar with him and the two Warrior Women knew that the women had no need of a protector. The three of them were ruthless in battle, and Kànìkwe owed his life to Kìnà Odenan an
d Agwanìwon from many years ago.
As long as I could remember, the Ouendat had always kept orphaned animals as pets in their large villages. Unlike my people, the Omàmiwinini, who travelled with the seasons, the Ouendat stayed in one spot for ten or fifteen years and in doing so tended to collect these animals when the beasts were young and to raise them as village pets. These past few years when I visited the Ouendat villages, my first impressions upon entering were the smells of my newfound surroundings: the pungent odour of meat and corn being cooked, the aroma of cedar, pine, and maple wood burning in their cooking fires, and the stale scent of close to two thousand people in a local area. Then there was the whiff of the numerous dogs that ran around, defecating and urinating wherever they pleased.
If you had been with me, after the jolt to your sense of smell, your sight would have suddenly taken over and you would have begun to view the spectacle going on around you. More times than not, you might have seen a full-grown bear that had been reared from a cub, either tied to a stake or begging for food, with a child holding it on a roped tether. Or you might have witnessed a young deer walking around, nuzzling up against the women and children as it tried to get handouts. The deer would have had the run of the village, and once they had grown older most would have left. It was different with the bears, though. When they were no longer cubs, they had to be tied up or else they would have raided the food stores of the village and gorged themselves. In the end the bears usually met an ill fate.
This past winter the longhouse I lived in had a pet wàgosh (wa-gosh: fox) that kept the mice down. He was definitely well fed, and when he had hunted all the mice where he was staying, he moved on to the next dwelling. I figured out early in my stay that this animal would make a warm bedmate, so I took a little food to bed with me each night and trained him to come and get it. Once he was there, I stroked and cooed to him as the animal fell asleep inside my fur covering. Even when he was off mousing in other quarters, he always came back to my sleeping area every night for his treat.
