Algonquin Sunset

by Rick Revelle

  “Anokì,” he said, “your dream is a reminder being sent by Mahingan, your father. He wants you to hold the value of life dearly to your breast. He didn’t get to choose the place or time for his demise. That’s chosen by the powers of all the mysteries that surround us. He died knowing that his family was safe and would be able to go on without him. He wants you to know that he’ll be watching over you, but you must give up your mourning for him and become a leader. Your birthmarks were chosen for you and are signs of the future. The one on your head is a sign of knowledge and the one on your buttock is a sign of travel to distant places. Mahingan has also come to me in dreams at times, but now he must move on because he has left us with the knowledge that he wanted to pass on.”

  “Thank you, Uncle. I understand now.”

  After eight suns, we reached our destination. The roar of the rapids could be heard before we saw the foaming white water. It was amazing: thousands of ogà and odawàjameg (oh-duh-wah-shaw-megg: salmon) leaped in the rapids, trying to make their way inland to spawn.

  Since it was close to evening, we immediately set to work making three shelters for ourselves. The two Ouendat, Achie and Önenha’, were tasked with scouting the area for any dangers. The dogs would alert us to anything out of the ordinary heading toward our encampment. Once the shelters were erected, fires blazed and Achie and Önenha’ returned to join us in a feast of the remaining elk meat and some fish that were hastily speared before nightfall.

  The next morning the women erected drying racks, half of the men constructed a stone fish weir, and the others stood in the cool, swift water spearing fish. Everyone was kept busy spearing, trapping, gutting, and filleting the fish.

  Mitigomij came to my side and said, “This is a place of danger. With this much fish, others will know of the bounty of the waters here. I’m going to travel around the area to make sure we won’t be surprised. Crazy Crow will stay with the group. We have powerful warriors here, but an ambush would weaken us quickly.”

  7

  The Treacherous River

  ZHASHAGI

  The sky was a magnificent blue in the midsummer that year, and the reflection of the sun’s light bounced off the calm waters of the river, sparkling and dancing over the slow-moving stream, seemingly replicating evening fireflies in their mating ceremony.

  Our canoe consisted of me, Zhashagi (sha-sha-gee: Blue Heron), three other sinewy warriors, and a big animosh (an-eh-moosh: dog) we called Misko (Red) because of his colour. I sat at the back of the boat, handling the steering and bailing water with a wooden bowl. We had previously clipped a small log jutting out of the waterway, causing a slight tear in the birchbark covering, and until the group stopped I was responsible for removing the water that seeped in from the river through the small tear.

  My companions in the canoe included Makadewigwan (mak-a-day-eh-we-gwan: Black Feather) situated in the front. Directly behind him was Ininishib (eh-nay-nish-hip: Mallard). My older brother, Omashkooz (oh-mush-goes: Elk), sat directly in front of me. Whenever I changed sides with my paddle, I occasionally splattered his back with water. Each time this happened Omashkooz growled that this action irritated him, telling me that once we got to shore I would suffer his revenge.

  We were making our way from our friends, the Omashkiigoo (oh-mush-key-go: Cree). Gone more than forty suns from our village, we anxiously looked forward to our return with the results of this trading trip. To visit our Omashkiigoo friends we had travelled the lakes and rivers to the northwest of our villages. The warriors who travelled on the trip came from three villages within Anishinaabe lands.

  To avoid the big waters of Anishinaabewi-gichigami (Lake Superior) we worked our way down from Kababikodaawangag Saaga’igan (Lake of Sand Dunes — Lake of the Woods) along the connecting rivers that drained into the Gichi-ziibi (gich-e-zee-bee: Mississippi River). Our villages were in the Mitaawangaagamaa (Big Sandy Lake) area.

  The canoes heading for home were loaded with dried adik (a-dick: caribou) meat and skins from the large animal. We were also able to trade with the Omashkiigoo for mashkode-bizhiki (mush-ko-de-bish-eh-ka: buffalo) robes and, of course, there was always frenzied trading among the warriors for a good animosh. The Omashkiigoo in return for their trade goods were always looking for fish, rice, clamshells, squash, and rolled-up birchbark for making canoes. The two or three days spent trading always became a spirited affair with laughter, yelling, games of chance, and a weapons competition.

  Our canoe was among eleven other boats, thirty-eight warriors, four boys, two women, and a dozen dogs. Most of the men had removed their deer and moose skin shirts, and their bodies glistened with beads of sweat as they kept up the rhythm of the paddle strokes. With each warrior’s stroke the canoes lunged forward, parting the stillness of the waters, scattering the busy pods of water bugs, and rippling the water toward the shore. The boys and women spent their time fishing from the moving canoes.

  In keeping with tradition, the day before we left, there was a wild game of baaga’adowewin (lacrosse). The night before the contest the players danced, feasted, and told stories. The day of the game they painted themselves as if they were going to war and made their wagers, placing the items they had bet with on racks that the winners of the gambling could collect from once the match was over. The game was always a high-spirited affair with lots of cuts and bruises to heal from once it was over.

  Many years before my brother and I had entered this realm of Turtle Island birthed from our mother, the Anishinaabe people had travelled here from a big sea in the east. The Prophet of the First Fire had told the Anishinaabe to move or be destroyed. Then the Seven Prophets of the Seven Fires told our people where to go and what to look for in the seven major stopping places. With the help of their friends, the Mi’kmaq and the Abenaki, we were able to journey through Haudenosaunee territory without much loss of life, finally arriving at Mooningwanekaaing (Madeline Island) in Anishinaabewi-gichigami. During this movement, we met and made allies with the Odishkwaagamii (Algonquin and/or Nipissing) and the Naadawe (Huron/Ouendat).While travelling, my people left accounts of their trek on rock faces along their route.

  Our allies kept us strong in times of want and hardship, enabling us to trade for items we desperately needed. They also strengthened our numbers in times of war.

  Although the Anishinaabe had forged strong alliances, they had also made a very powerful and violent enemy. The Nadowessioux (Lakȟóta) became our most feared foe because of two incidents after the Anishinaabe arrival on the shores of Anishinaabewi-gichigami years ago. These confrontations had continually occurred for years in revenge and mourning raids, driven by both the Nadowessioux and the Anishinaabe Nations.

  “Zhashagi,” Omashkooz yelled at me, “wake up! The others are going to shore for relief and food. Steer us to that opening in the forest on shore.”

  His sudden shout startled me out of my deep thoughts, sending a shiver down my neck, and I immediately turned the canoe. The other two men laughed, and I joined in with them once I realized how much off course I had taken our boat from the rest of the group in the short time I was inattentive. We were able to quickly regain course and arrive along with the others. The group was headed to a huge bare rock looming up from the river that after a quick glance seemed to be pushing the forest back into itself as the huge granite stone jutted from the river.

  As the boat neared the rocky shoreline, Makadewigwan swiftly jumped from the front and pulled it ashore. The other two and Misko hastily made their exit, and just as I stood, my brother rocked the canoe and sent me backward into the water. Ininishib and Makadewigwan had big grins on their faces as both of them waded in, took my arms, and carried me to the shore.

  Coming up from the warm water sputtering and spitting, I gasped, “What was that for?”

  “To wake you up from your daze,” Omashkooz replied. “And, remember, I did tell you of my desire for retribution for your carelessness when s
witching paddling sides and splashing me.”

  “Don’t worry, friend, we’ll look after you,” Makadewigwan said. “When we finish our meal, one of us will steer and you can sleep on the furs we have in the canoe to get your rest.”

  I pulled my arms away from them and kicked and splashed water at them, driving both to shore laughing and still teasing me.

  My brother approached and handed me a leather bag containing dried caribou. “You can make tea and prepare the meal. The fire will dry you out.” He then chuckled and continued to a clearing where everyone was gathering, wading into the crowd of boisterous people and barking dogs.

  I gathered a couple of armfuls of dry wood and kindling, dug a firepit, and threw both round and flat rocks into the hole. In a very short time, I had a good blaze going.

  When we were out in open water, the biting insects had kept their distance, but while foraging for wood I had stirred them up in an angry mass. They were now benefiting by feasting on my exposed skin. Unfastening my medicine bag, I tossed two or three handfuls of sage on the fire, creating a smudge and deterrent to the bloodthirsty predators of the air.

  Now that the flames were jumping and crackling, I laid the rest of the wood in a tight circle around the fire, butt ends facing in. This enabled me to push the wood into the flames a bit at a time without wasting it by piling it on and burning it quickly.

  Next, I needed to make tea. Walking to the canoe for the birchbark container we made tea in, I encountered Ininishib and Makadewigwan hunched over a fire, warming pine resin on a rock they had heated in the fire. The resin would be smeared on the small tear in our canoe. They would put the heated pine gum on the rip with a stick, wet their thumbs, and spread it. Once the resin cooled, the damage would be repaired.

  Gathering up my tea bucket and another container, I filled them both with water and returned to my fire. I took the forked stick, stuck it in the fire, and retrieved my red-hot round rocks. Then I dropped the stones into the container to bring the water to a boil. Next, I filled the tea container to the brim with pine needles. Once the water was heated, I skimmed the scum off the top and what was left was hot tea. To drink hot or cold liquids, each warrior and village resident carried a small clay cup for tea, water, and soup.

  Taking a chunk of meat, I cut it into thin slices with a clamshell, then approached the fire again and pulled out the flat stones I had put in the pit. After setting these hot rocks on a bed of shore stones to prevent heat loss, I lined up the thin slices of meat on them to fry. Taking the larger container of water, I pulled some more heated stones from the fire and dropped them in. While the water boiled it was time to prepare my last meal item. Not having a corn grinder like the ones women in our village used, I made do with what my environment offered. Finding a large flat rock, I set the corn on it and made cornmeal by pounding a fist-sized stone onto the kernels. In no time at all and after seven or eight handfuls of corn, there was a good supply of meal. Tossing this into the large container of water along with the thin slices of meat that had been fried, some chunks of fish that had been given to me by one of the young boys, and some leeks I had foraged from the forest, I now had a very tasty corn mush soup.

  While I prepared our meal, I watched as the others in our group laughed, told stories, and collected wood and roots from the forest. The four young boys were kept busy by running back and forth from the wooded area with armloads of dry firewood. Since wood was needed for the individual fires, people helped themselves from the communal pile the youngsters made. Ours was a culture of sharing. No one went hungry, cold, or in need of aid for anything. The community at large was there for all of us and to help everyone survive in times of need.

  During the meal, warriors went from one cooking fire to another to sample what their friends were eating. The two women by far had a larger gathering around their fire than the ones where a warrior was the cook.

  In my search for wood, I had found a forked tree branch the length of my arm and the size of my wrist around. This I had put aside. Now, taking three pieces of green sapling, I notched the ends of two of them and forced them into the ground on each side of the fire. Then I placed the third piece lengthwise into the notches. Picking up some good chunks of adiko-wiiyaas (a-day-ko-we-as: caribou meat), I hung them from the spit to cook.

  The dripping fat juices from the meat on the spit caused the fire to sizzle and the flames to jump higher. The mingled aroma of woodsmoke and cooking meat was overpowering as it flooded my sense of smell and clung to my hair and clothes. Glancing away from the flames, I realized that a very attentive crowd of five drooling dogs had been attracted to the scent wafting from the fire. I stood and whistled loudly, bringing my brother and our two canoe companions to the fire along with a couple of cousins. No worries: there was lots of tea, mush soup, and meat for all. The dogs would have to settle for the putrid fish heads tossed to them by the young boy who had been given the task of cleaning the day’s catch.

  Everyone now cut off a piece of bark from an oak or elm tree to hold the hot meat they sliced from the spit. Each warrior also dipped his drinking vessel into the tea container and gulped down the hot liquid.

  With meat juice spilling out of the corners of his mouth, my brother grinned and said, “Zhashagi, you cook as good as any woman.”

  They quickly finished the tea, and I again filled the container, adding more heated stones. This time I used the foliage of a cedar tree to flavour the water.

  While they waited for the tea to boil, they dipped their drinking vessels into the heated corn mush and scooped it out of the cup with their fingers. After finishing their mush, some wiped their hands on the grass, on their pants, or on the nearest dog within reach. Then they finished the new batch of tea. Very few words were spoken; eating was a serious undertaking, completed with a few rounds of belching, farting, and a sudden rush to the nearest tree.

  I left the fire to find my tree and then upon returning doused the flames with water. We didn’t need a forest fire following us down this small river.

  Once all the fires were completely put out, dogs and people were quick to step into their respective canoes and continue the journey. The river we were on was a connecting stream to a system of lakes that would take us to our villages another day or two away. There would be one small portage on this river, but it was steep going up and then coming down the other side. The river at this time of year of the aabita-niibino-giizis (a-bi-ta-knee-bino-gee-sus: Berry Moon — July) was deep enough to paddle in most spots, but there were two areas where we would have to get out — the portage being the second. The first place we would have to get out was a short stretch of white water that wasn’t deep enough to shoot through. We would have to walk in the water and guide our jiimaan (g-mawn: canoe) through the rocks.

  Paddling under the hot mid-afternoon sun, I faintly heard the sound of water rushing over rocks, telling us we were close to where we would have to get into the river and pull the boats. As the other three paddled, I steered the canoe toward the shore where all of us could easily exit and wade the river past this rocky hindrance. Misko swiftly stood on his haunches as we neared the shore, emitting a low, throaty growl and perking his ears. There was probably some sort of wild animal nearby that he had caught the scent of and was trying to identify.

  This part of the waterway wound through a thick forest that not even the sun’s strong rays could penetrate. The warriors who had left their canoes for the shore to scout ahead and to guard the rest of us from any trouble were soon swallowed up by the darkness as they ventured in.

  Forgetting the dog’s agitation, I stepped into the water to guide the boat through the shallow rapids. The river rocks were slippery, and I watched as a few men lost their footing and fell into the bubbling froth. The two women and the youngest boy stayed in their respect­ive canoes. Most of the dogs leaped into the river to follow their human companions. Misko stayed in the canoe, still growling.


  As I skirted the shoreline, the flies left the cover of the woods and feasted on my bare skin. Skittering fish swam between my legs, with the odd one nibbling at my toes.

  Warriors were strung out along the shores of the river. They waded to the spot in the stream where the water deepened enough to get back into the canoes. Here they all grouped together and waited for the boats as they came down single file.

  The forest seemed too quiet to me. All the birds and insects had stopped their racket. Then the shrill scream of a solitary diindiisi (tchin-dees: blue jay) alerted the forest, setting off the other birds and creating a deafening chorus. One of our warriors who had been scouting ahead slid down the embankment into the stream, reddening the water around him and the gathering canoes.

  At that same moment as another boat reached the closely knit cluster at the end of the rapids, I took my eye off where I was walking to watch as the body slid into the water among our canoes. In that instant I slipped, Misko let out a fierce bark, and I fell into the river, grasping the boat and simultaneously hearing what I thought were several whirring sounds. Then there was an intense burning in the centre of my left hand.

  An arrow had pinned my left hand to the canoe hull. I couldn’t feel any pain, but neither could I remove my hand. Misko was now barking continually because of the screams of the women and the dead and dying warriors. I gazed up at the opposite shore and caught sight of a Nadowessioux warrior with two black lines painted across his face and a red streak on his forehead. I knew this man. He was a sworn enemy of the Anishinaabe and as ruthless as they came. Óta Heȟáka (oh’-tay he-ha-ka: Many Elk) was his Nadowessioux name, a warrior who wore many eagle feathers because of the Anishinaabe scalps he had taken.

  The Nadowessioux were wading into the river, swinging their war axes, and meeting our warriors who had survived the initial onslaught of arrows in a brutal hand-to-hand struggle.