by Rick Revelle
The two Warrior Women were great leaders and fighters. They led with an immense degree of skill and strength and were always open to different ideas from the rest of us. The other women in our group weren’t as skilled as the two leaders in hand-to-hand fighting, yet they were able to hold their own in battle with expert marksmanship with their bows, and Mitigomij had also taught them to use his main weapon of choice, the wewebasinàbàn (way-way-buh-sih-nah-bahn: slingshot).
At this time there was also a group of Anishinaabe in the Ouendat village who had come to trade. They were led by two brothers, Zhashagi (sha-sha-gee: Blue Heron) and Omashkooz (oh-mush-goes: Elk), who had about fifteen warriors with them.
That night the celebration went on until the stars were high in the skies. When I woke the next morning and exited the longhouse I was in, I looked toward the war post. There, on top of it, was a crow preening itself. That brought a smile to my face because I knew that Crazy Crow, the famous Mi’kmaq warrior, had to be nearby.
I kept my thoughts to myself, just in case I was mistaken about the crow, though I very much had the feeling the man the Haudenosaunee called Tsyòkawe Ronkwe (dio-ga-wee ron-kwe: Crow Man) would make an appearance.
Later that morning the village became a noisy din of barking dogs anticipating their departure with the warriors, the nervous chatter of the men who were leaving, and the prattling of the members of the community going about their usual activities. Then the clamour suddenly subsided as the sentinels on the stockade walls got everyone’s immediate attention when they roared that a small group of people was advancing toward us. The camp guards below opened the gates and warily approached the newcomers to see who they were. As they got close enough to the visitors to recognize them, they shouted a greeting. Both groups then merged, slapping one another’s backs and talking and laughing loudly as they entered the village. Once in the village, the other warriors gave a huge welcoming cheer to the visitors. It was Crazy Crow, Glooscap, Apistanéwj (a-bis-tan-ouch: Marten) — called the Little One — and their dogs. With them were Nukumi and Uncle Mitigomij. My uncle also had my part-wolf dog, Nìj Enàndeg (neesh en-nahn-deg: Two Colour), the son of Ishkodewan, with him. There was no sign of the great black panther, Makadewà Wàban (Black Dawn), but everyone knew this ageless beast lurked somewhere in the nearby forest.
I had been forced to leave my wolf dog with Mitigomij when I departed last fall to come to the Ouendat Nation. He had been hurt in a battle with a bear, and Mitigomij had volunteered to keep him and bring him back to health. My dog’s father, Ishkodewan, and Pìsà Animosh (pee-shah an-ney-mush: Small Dog) had both died of old age six winters ago. Nìj Enàndeg had been born about a moon after Ishkodewan had died, the only one in the litter, and I had raised him from a pup. He grew bigger than his father and was grey with a black head.
As was the custom of our people when visiting the village of an ally, Crazy Crow presented Waughshe Anue with an elk skin as a gift, ensuring that the recipient wouldn’t refuse the visitors food or accommodation.
With the addition of these three warriors, I could see the spirits of the Ouendat fighters rise. The Anishinaabe visitors, the brothers Zhashagi and Omashkooz, though, didn’t have the same awe-inspired expressions on their faces for the newcomers. The brothers were from the western edge of the big lake to the west, and the exploits of these three men might not have reached their ears. But Zhashagi walked up to Mitigomij and said, “Our friends, the Nipissing, have talked about a great warrior who walks with a limp, is an expert marksman, and is feared by all his enemies. It is a privilege now to meet the man behind those stories. Please honour myself, Zhashagi, and my Anishinaabe warriors as new friends and allies.”
“Zhashagi, your reputation as a warrior has preceded you,” Mitigomij replied. “I’ve also heard from our allies, the Nipissing, of your bravery, and I welcome the friendship of the Anishinaabe people, who I am told are a powerful nation of warriors.”
I approached Mitigomij through the crowd that had gathered around him and his companions and shouted, “Uncle, I’m happy to see you and that you’ve healed my wolf dog!”
Nìj Enàndeg, upon hearing my voice, ran to me and stood on his hind legs. He put his forepaws on my shoulders, licked my face with his rough tongue, and gave me an earsplitting howl of welcome that almost knocked me over. I gave the big animal a hug and ruffled the fur on his head. He then dropped to the ground and stuck close by, not letting me out of his sight. There was a very strong bond between us. His father, Ishkodewan, had saved my life when I was a young boy, and I considered Nìj Enàndeg a gift from my father and Nìj Enàndeg’s father, because when the wolf dog was born there were no other litter mates to confuse me in my selection.
The Ouendat warriors, upon seeing the dwarf Apistanéwj, rushed up and asked him to touch them. He took great pride in brushing each warrior on the sleeve of the arm that was held out to him. Dwarfs were considered War Gods to the Ouendat people, and if a War God caressed them as the Little One was doing now, it was a good omen that they would return victorious. If, though, he touched them on the forehead, they couldn’t go to war without losing their lives. Apistanéwj wasn’t tall enough to touch them on the forehead, so every warrior left happy and confident of the coming battle. The Little One enjoyed all the attention, even though he had no idea why the Ouendat warriors were so interested in him.
Apistanéwj and Glooscap made strange companions due to their height difference. Glooscap was over seven feet tall, and the Little One was only about four feet. Both of these men had become great friends and legends of the Mi’kmaq Nation and each was from a different island to the north and east of the Mi’kmaq. The two had constant companions in the dogs that had once been the property of what I had been told was a race of men with beards, unusual weapons, and huge boats. One dog was black and the other white; they seemed ageless and perhaps had hidden powers none of us could know. The dogs had been given the Mi’kmaq names Na’gweg (nah-quik: Day) and Tepgig (dip-geek: Night).
The final warrior in the group was loud, boisterous, and respected by all the nations and his allies for his bravery — and by his enemies for his skill in battle. Elue’wiet Ga’qaquj, or Crazy Crow, also had a mysterious past, since no one knew where he had come from. The Mi’kmaq had found him floating down a river in a canoe with only a crow for company. He had ended up being raised by a close friend of Glooscap: Nukumi, who travelled with this group all the time. Her common name was just plain Grandmother. Crazy Crow possessed the unique ability to talk to crows and constantly had one around him day and night. He was also at times a loner who would appear out of nowhere when needed. He revelled in warfare, especially against the Haudenosaunee, who had been trying to slay him for years without success.
The Ouendat women brought out containers of corn soup thickened with wood ash, pieces of cornbread, and chunks of greasy venison for the warriors to eat before they left. The war dogs were given fish and meat scraps to fight over. After eating, the men collected their medicine bags containing healing herbs, a few items for painting their bodies prior to battle, and other things that were sacred to them. Most of the articles used to make colours would be gathered on the trail for when it was time to paint ourselves. We used roots, berries, red clay, eggshells, charcoal, moss, and available plants relative to the season to colour ourselves. Each man was also given a pouch of corn and dried meat for the trail; eating a couple of handfuls of dry corn staved off hunger when washed down with two or three vessels of water. The water swelled the corn in our stomachs, taking away the sensation of hunger. When journeying to and from battle, speed was of utmost importance, and unless the warriors stumbled onto game or made an effort to hunt, they had to make do with what they carried.
The Wenrohronon warrior had brought the news to the Attawandaron people two suns ago and then the appeal had been sent to us for help. Our allies needed our group to get there in the fastest time that we could. To aid them was essential. T
he Ouendat leader, Waughshe Anue, stood at the gate, raised his club, and cried in his language “A-yagh-kee!” (“I go to war!”) He then left the village at a brisk trot with his three war dogs running beside him and the rest of us following. There were fifty-two Ouendat, the seventeen Anishinaabe, and our group of twenty-three warriors, plus more than fifty war dogs.
Mitigomij disappeared into the forest to rejoin Makadewà Wàban, his panther. There he changed himself into Michabo (The Great Hare). This transformation enabled him to keep up with the column while staying in the shadows of the woodlands. We wouldn’t see him again until the evening when the column stopped to camp. As for the panther, he was only seen when he wanted to be. Until then he remained in the gloom of the forest, but always close enough to aid his companion, Mitigomij.
Scouts were sent ahead and warriors, as well, ranged out on the sides to prevent any surprises from befalling us. Our Omàmiwinini group brought up the rear. The party followed a well-worn warrior trail that would take us to the Attawandaron main village. At the pace we were travelling it would likely only take us one sun and a bit to reach our friends.
As we raced through the forest, we were surrounded by the aroma of the pine and cedar trees towering above. We interrupted the silence of the woods with the swish of our feet on the pine-needled ground, the quick breaths of some, the occasional snapping of an animosh (an-eh-moosh: dog) when another dog came too close, and of course the shrill cry of a pikwàkogwewesì (pick-wa-go-gwese-e: jay) as it warned of our intrusion.
The Little One, Apistanéwj, took turns riding on the backs of the two big dogs, Na’gweg and Tepgig, neither of which ever broke pace when the small rider became their passenger.
Grandmother Nukumi stayed close to the Little One and Glooscap. The warriors who knew her always looked forward to stopping for the night when she was present. Her campfire was at all times an excellent place to visit for ample food and hot tea.
All of us had put whatever protection we could find on our bodies to combat the bugs. Grease, mud, and goldenseal were the popular choices. The mud, though, had to be constantly reapplied because it hardened and broke away from the skin when it dried. In the late spring and early summer, the bugs flew in swarms that entered the mouth, ears, and eyes. Sunlight and wind always seemed to be the best deterrent of all.
We stopped once at midday near a stream to rest and drink water. Some of the warriors had found a patch of berries and shoved them into their mouths for a quick meal. When they exited the berry patch, the other warriors who hadn’t accompanied them started to laugh and point at them. Once I saw their faces, I also broke out in laughter. The men’s faces were covered in the red juice of the previously enjoyed berry patch. The red-faced berry men soon realized what all the mirth was about as they wiped their faces and saw that their hands were the colour of the berries. A quick trip to the stream returned their features back to normal.
The dogs lay in the stream to escape the bugs, cool off, and lap up the water. Waughshe Anue, though, soon had us on the trail again, and we travelled until near dusk, when two of the six scouts came back and said they had found a place to rest for the night. One of the scouts was able to slay a deer, and the others had prepared fires to keep the bugs away and cook the venison. This inspired a cheer from everyone as the thought of fresh meat was a welcome respite from eating dried corn and smoked meat.
That night we ate, laughed, and smoked. We thanked our scout for his successful hunt and watched as he rolled up the pelt and secured it in a tree to pick up on the way back. Nothing went to waste in our world. Our people also believed that by wearing the fur of a slain animal we gained the power of that beast.
Many of the warriors then gathered at Nukumi’s fire to drink her soothing tea before lying down for the evening.
At daylight everyone rose and ate a hurried meal. The eight scouts who left before camp broke were now accompanied by Crazy Crow.
With Waughshe Anue’s leadership, the party made good time that morning toward our destination. As we left the enclosure of the forest and entered a beaver meadow, three of the scouts exited the forest from the opposite side of the field.
“We smell smoke in the distance,” one of the scouts said. “The others have continued on while we returned to warn you that there might be problems ahead.”
Waughshe Anue turned to the warriors. “It is time!”
Some of the warriors quickly went into their bags for what they needed to apply war paint. Others foraged around the site for roots and berries they could use. Most warriors painted previous war wounds, and many applied hand marks to their faces and chests that signified they excelled at hand-to-hand combat. Some painted their faces white with red or black masks like the features of raccoons across their eyes. Warriors adorned in red, black, yellow, and white jumped into my sight. Glooscap covered himself with red ochre; others, like him, painted their whole bodies, while the rest just daubed arms and faces with lines, swirls, and lightning bolts that indicated power and speed. Every symbol or colour meant something to each warrior. All were prepared to die a warrior’s death in battle.
I painted red lightning bolts down both of my arms and streaks of black on my face. On my chest I put a black handprint. Taking some of the black dye, I put it on the deer horn that protruded from my battle axe. Then, after tying my hair in a topknot, I was prepared to go to war with my friends and family. Beside me, my friend, Ki’kwa’ju, painted his face half red and half black and then ran a white line from the left side of his forehead down to the right side of his chin, dabbing white dots along the line.
The two Warrior Women had painted their bodies yellow, which meant they were heroic, led a good life, and were willing to fight to the death. They gathered their warriors together.
Once everyone had applied their paint, sunflower oil was passed around to slick our hair. Kànìkwe took the oil and rubbed it on his bald head, which he had left unpainted. He looked at me and said, “Makes me slippery if anyone tries to grab my head.” Then, laughing, he joined his close friends, Kìnà Odenan and Agwanìwon, whom he would die protecting if necessary.
I stood with my mother, sister, and Ki’kwa’ju, the man we called Wolverine in our language. He had the shield, axe, and big blade the Mi’kmaq people had given him when he came to us. The blade he kept in a leather sheath attached to a belt. The axe and shield he clutched in his hands. Over his back he had a quiver of arrows and a bow. The rest of us had bows, arrows, spears, clubs, and flint and bone knives.
I glanced around to see if I could spot Mitigomij, but to no avail. He wasn’t with us. I knew, though, that once the fighting began, he would appear with the big cat and at that place death and the smell of death would surround both of them.
Then Agwanìwon spoke. “When the battle starts, we’ll stay together as we always have, watching out for the person beside us and also those nearest to us. We have always achieved success fighting for one another. Follow me and Kìnà Odenan to victory. Aye, aye, aye!”
Her voice resounded through the open area, and the Ouendat and Anishinaabe warriors looked around at our group and then also took up the chant, sending the birds in the treetops to the heavens.
At that moment Crazy Crow came from the opposite side of the meadow. “It is time!” he roared. “Our enemies have already attacked and are now burning, killing, and taking captives.” Then, turning toWaughshe Anue, he said, “Lead us, great warrior, to victory!”
4
The Land of the Tattooed Warriors
ANOKÌ
Crazy Crow led us to the edge of a cornfield that surrounded the village. Once we arrived, we discovered that the five scouts who had stayed behind had two Attawandaron warriors with them. The faces, arms, and legs of both men were covered with tattoos. All seven of the warriors in turn were splattered with blood. The Attawandaron had been chased through the cornstalks by three Kanien’kehá:ka (ga-ni-en’ge-ha:ga: Mohawk) w
arriors who had met a sudden demise under the clubs of our scouts and whose bloodied bodies lay among the broken stalks.
Crazy Crow came to me and whispered in my ear, “These Kanien’kehá:ka warriors will have followed only one man on this raid — Ò:nenhste Erhar!”
“The wizard Winpe will also be with him,” I said. “We must be careful of their presence. I’ll let the others know. Glooscap especially will be interested in the nearness of Winpe.”
Waughshe Anue called Zhashagi, Kìnà Odenan, and Agwanìwon together to plan the attack. When the meeting broke up, Agwanìwon gathered our people and said, “Waughshe Anue has asked the Omàmiwinini to take the left side, the Anishinaabe will take the right side, and the more numerous Ouendat warriors will be in the middle.” She then added, “When walking through the corn, try to stay away from the stalks. If the enemy sees the tasselled corn tops of the plants moving, they will suspect an attack, so walk carefully, my friends. We go on Waughshe Anue’s signal.”
Shortly thereafter, Waughshe Anue gave the hand signal and more than eighty warriors and their war dogs crept silently through the cornfield. Everyone bent over to stay below the corn tassels, weapons clutched in their hands, fierce dogs at their sides. The only sound that could be heard as we drew nearer was the faint rustling of the cornstalk leaves in the gentle breeze that blew from the south. As we closed in on the battle scene, the light wind carried to us the pungent smells and flying embers of the burning longhouses. One ember landed on my shoulder, and before I could sweep it off, it singed my skin. I noticed other warriors with the same problem, and even some of the dogs experienced hair-charring embers that their masters had to douse with handfuls of soil. The stink of scorched dog hair added to the stench around me.
