by Rick Revelle
Grabbing the spear, I walked around the camp area until Misko caught his own scent from our back trail. By following his scent back, a dog could always be depended on to return to where he started from if he got lost on a hunt. This was my only hope to find the river again. I was puzzled, however, as to why my rescuer had left me alone after bringing me here.
When Nanabozho was seen as the Great Rabbit, he was known as Mishaabooz, which was my first sighting of him that day when he pulled me from the river. Known as a powerful shape-shifter and a co-creator of the world, he was born of a human mother, Wiininwaa (Nourishment), and E-bangishimog, the Spirit of the West Wind. Nanabozho was sent to earth by Gichi-Manidoo to teach the Anishinaabe. Once here, he gave us our religion known as Midewiwin (Grand Medicine Society) and named all the plants and animals. His actions had saved my life this past day, and for that I owed my life in return.
Misko quickly discovered the trail back to the battle site and led me through the forest at a fast pace. The game trail we travelled on was old and overgrown, but no problem for a low-to-the-ground four-legged creature. An erect follower like me, though, received a fair share of thorn scrapes and lashes to the face from branches. Blood trickled down my arms and face from the abrasions, and Misko’s scurrying stirred up an infestation of winged forest biters that congregated around my nostrils, ears, and eyes, entering my mouth as I gasped for air.
Our path led us to a small spring exiting a rocky area. Misko and I stopped and slaked our thirst from a tiny pool of clear water kept fresh by the liquid exiting from the rocks on the opposite end, running out onto the forest floor, and disappearing into a crack in a large, flat rock below.
When the water left the pool, it streamed for a short distance on the bare ground. Scooping handfuls of mud from the little rivulet bed, I covered my exposed skin with the soothing coolness of the muck, giving my body immediate protection against the swarms of bugs. Misko gazed up at me, shaking his head and snorting to rid himself of the flying menaces that were now attacking his nose and eyes. Grasping the dog by the neck, I smeared mud on the areas where the insects were bothering him. This seemed to please the suffering animal, and then with a quick nod from me, we took off again, pushing our way through the hordes eager for quick nourishment from any warm-blooded creature that crossed their path. The mud I had applied now protected me from their bites, and as we loped through the forest, the only bothersome problem was the return of the thorns and branches.
Misko and I came upon the river as the huge ball of the disappearing sun reddened the dusk sky, streaking the river with bloody smears and providing me with a stark reminder that many Anishinaabe had lost their lives here.
The carnage of the battle lay on the opposite shore, and our sudden emergence from the dark woods scared off the crows, ravens, and ozaawaa-memengwaa (o-zaa-wah me-mean-gwa: yellow swallowtail). The ravens and crows had already removed the eyes from the dead and were now competing for the flesh of the lifeless bodies in and around the river. The wolves, however, weren’t in any hurry to leave their newfound bounty. Whereas the birds and butterflies swiftly departed in a flurry of activity, the canines stood over their corpses and were prepared to defend the meals their keen sense of smell had led them to.
I recognized the faces of friends that for many days I had travelled with to and from the land of the Omashkiigoo. There were no women or children among the dead, leaving only two questions about their destiny. Were they captured, or did they escape?
Three Lakȟóta warriors had perished, each propped against a tree facing west, the direction they would travel to their Spirit World. There they sat with dried blood on their faces and flies buzzing around, preparing to lay eggs on the decaying bodies. The wolves, birds, and butterflies had yet to turn their attentions to these solitary corpses.
Nowhere could I see Omashkooz, my brother. This gave me hope, since there were many other unaccounted-for bodies, giving rise to the realization that several of the warriors had escaped death.
The sound of the river rushing over rocks and shallows and the sigh of the wind rustling through the leaves couldn’t drown out the throaty growls and snaps of the wolves as they jostled and fought over their meals. Reaching down at my feet, I picked up some fist-sized river rocks, turned toward the wolves, and fired several stones in their direction, watching as many of my throws hit with resounding thumps followed by sharp yelps. My rock throwing and Misko’s throaty growling and barking took the wolves by surprise, causing them to slink back into the nearby forest and disappear. I hoped they wouldn’t return during the night to finish their gruesome meals before I could bury the bodies tomorrow.
My hand ached, but the wound wasn’t causing me any fever or light-headedness. Whatever Nanabozho had done to repair my wound seemed to be working.
It was crucial that I find food. Entangled in some reeds along the riverbank, I discovered a container to make tea that must have fallen from one of our canoes and ended up here.
Walking along the shoreline, I came across a discarded bow and some arrows. I also located my canoe where I had left it, the sides still red with my blood. Pulling it out of the water, I dragged it into the undergrowth of the treeline and flipped it upside down to create a shelter for the evening. Then, taking my spear, I waded into the river. There I stood motionless with my weapon at the ready as Misko lay on the bank considering me with curiosity. Once the sun sank below the trees, I left the darkening and cooling water with three fish and seven clams. Removing the heads, skin, and guts, I tossed them to Misko, who made quick work of the scraps.
Soon I had a fire going with three fillets of fish hanging on a spit, which would satisfy my cravings for the time being. Spotting some violets, I picked, crushed, and sprinkled them into the boiling water to make a sweet tea. When I finished my tea, I refilled the container with river water, threw some more hot rocks from the fire in to bring the water to a boil, and dropped the clams in to cook. These I would eat in the morning before leaving.
After finishing my meal and daubing mud on my bare skin to keep the insects at bay, I crawled under the canoe to sleep, but not before fashioning a birchbark snake to hang on the canoe. This symbol would tell the wandering spirits of the dead Anishinaabe warriors that they were to journey to the Spirit World alone, leaving me here. The living never refused the dead supplies for their journey, so I left some corn I had and a few pieces of fish near the canoe for them.
I had a big job ahead of me to bury the fallen warriors’ remains. I needed to wrap the bodies in birchbark, along with food and water to help them on their travels to the next world. Ceremonial drums should be played to contact the afterlife and tobacco offered to the long-departed spirits to guide the recent fallen warriors on their way. But with no drum and very little tobacco and food, I would have to make do with what I had and hope the spirits understood my dilemma.
Children were always kept away from funerals when possible. Because of their age, they could easily be tricked into falling into the grasp of spirits to accompany the dead on their journey. If children did attend, their foreheads were blackened to signal to the deceased that the young ones wouldn’t be going to the afterlife with them. Children were also told to avoid eye contact with others in case the spirits tried to speak to them through another person.
I sat there for a while as the last rays of the sun caused the river to shift from red to gold. At the moment the river’s colour changed, a mother duck swam by with twelve little ones behind, two of which disappeared below the water without a sound. The ginoozhe (kin-nose-hay: pike) ended up with the final say to this river of death’s day. The beauty of this land held many dark secrets.
The last things I remembered before nodding off were the moonlight caressing the river’s surface with its soft light, the soothing sound of gentle waves lapping the shore where Misko noisily slurped water, and then his grunt as he flopped beside me to rest.
The next morning
I awoke to the smell of the decaying bodies nearby and the racket of a baapaase (baa-pa-say: woodpecker) pounding on a tree for its early meal. Then the woodpecker suddenly stopped, and glancing across the river, I noticed a jooweshk (killdeer) running around faking a broken wing to draw something away from its nest. Silently grabbing my weapons, I patted Misko on his head to quiet him as he emitted a deep growl. There was something or someone nearby. The woodpecker’s sudden halt in tapping the tree for insects and the killdeer pulling off its diversionary ploy were all the warning I needed.
11
The Anishinaabe
ZHASHAGI
Misko and I lay hidden in the underbrush beneath the canoe, from where we could see the opposite bank. We watched as three large figures dressed in animal hides exited the dark confines of the forest. One was wearing a bearskin, another was draped in a cougar pelt, and the last sported the horns and hide of a deer. All carried weapons and their faces were painted. These men would strike fear in anyone who came upon them.
Crawling from the shelter of the canoe, I stood but stayed hidden behind a large oak tree. I peered around the massive trunk and took a deep breath. “Apiitendang Makwa (a-pete-tan-den ma-kwa: Proud Bear)!” I yelled.
The bearskinned warrior glanced at me, growled, and ran across the shallow part of the river where the attack had taken place. Once he arrived on the shore followed closely by the other two, he grabbed and nearly crushed me in a huge embrace. “You’re alive, Zhashagi!”
“Yes!” I answered. “I’m so happy to see you and your two cousins!”
Apiitendang Makwa was strong and powerful in battle. Gichi Bizhiins (gich-e be-zeans: Big Cat), who wore the pelt of a cougar he had slain, struck quick and deadly and was an excellent hunter who never came back without a kill. Gizhiibatoo Inini (giz-e-baa-too in-in-e: Run Fast Man), who was clad in the skin of a deer, had no equal in running speed and struck like lightning in a fight. Together they were a formidable trio who had had many encounters with the Nadowessioux over the years.
They all wanted to know how I had survived the ambush, and I told them about Nanabozho. Taking off my wrappings, I showed them my wound.
All three looked at me in amazement. The wound was completely healed, and in its place was a scar about the size of a pebble on both sides of my hand where the arrow had entered and exited. Opening and closing the hand, I felt stiffness but no pain. My hand had completely healed in two days. I was stunned!
Apiitendang Makwa then spoke. “We’re the scouts for about thirty warriors. Your brother suffered an arrow wound and survived along with twenty-five others. We were told the battle was fierce and the Nadowessioux drove many of our warriors away from the river. The ones in the canoes paddled downstream to save the trade goods they received from the Cree and then, after hiding the canoes, came back upstream and counterattacked. Most of our casualties were the ones the enemy had caught in the water on foot helping the canoes through the shallow rapids. The young boys were quick thinkers and escaped capture, while the two women who did suffer that fate were Nadowessioux captives from many years ago. They leave grieving families behind in our village. About five canoes of items obtained in trade during the past journey were lost, but the deaths of the warriors are far worse since they can’t be replaced. Your brother said the leader of the enemy was someone the Nadowessioux call Óta Heȟáka.”
“Yes,” I said. “I also saw Óta Heȟáka. I’m sure it was his arrow that went through my hand.”
Gichi Bizhiins then spoke. “Óta Heȟáka has attacked us several times. The Elders have given permission to gather warriors for a mourning revenge raid and to attack the enemy in its lair. When we left the village, the belts for wampum were being made to take to our allies, the Odishkwaagamii and Naadawe, to ask them to join us in war. Other Anishinaabe communities will be sent the red-ochre-painted belts to summon them to war also.”
Apiitendang Makwa, Gichi Bizhiins, and Gizhiibatoo Inini) were lifelong friends and cousins. Each warrior wore the skin of the first animal he had killed. It was their belief that by wearing them, they took on the powers of the creatures when the beasts had been alive.
Once the other warriors reached the river, our fallen friends and families remains were rescued from the scavengers and wrapped in birchbark, then the funeral ceremony was performed. Rocks were piled on their graves to keep wolf packs from digging them up to devour.
That night was a solemn gathering around the fires before our trip back to my village. Everyone had revenge in their hearts for the losses that had occurred at this river. It was decided that our warriors would go to the Gaagaagiwigwani-ziibi (gaa-gaa-gi-wig-wani-zee-bee: Raven Feather River, also known as the Crow River to the Lakȟóta). There we would look for the camps of the Nadowessioux and take our bloody vengeance. But first we had to contact our allies for help. The loss of the warriors here had weakened us, thus the reason to call on our friends to the south for their aid in this coming encounter.
We reached my village early the next morning. At the river’s edge we came upon children playing on the shore, catching frogs and fishing. A few of the older boys had a birchbark pot of hot resin to repair two canoes. One boy glanced up and asked, “Did you bring my father back?”
I avoided his question and strode up the embankment with my companions to the encampment. The first thing I sensed was the lack of smells. There was no distinct odour of food being cooked, and the aroma of wood from campfires was non-existent. All of the wanage-kogamigoon (wan-a-gay-ko-ga-may-goon: lodges) that had suffered losses from the river battle had birchbark snakes hanging by the front door. The female relatives wailed for their dead and would mourn the passing of their men for the next year. Some would give away all the deceased’s possessions or burn them. At this moment they had no time for the living, not for cooking their meals or tending their fires. The sadness of death had overtaken many of the women in our village. That night a drum ceremony was held, and for the next four moons the camp lamented the departed and prayed they would be able to attain the afterlife.
After the fourth day, the council met and decided that early the next spring, once the ice left the Big Lake we called Anishinaabewi Gichigami, one group would be sent to our allies to the south with the red wampum belts to summon them to war. Another group would be dispatched to our Anishinaabe brethren for their assistance. Hopefully, the call to arms would produce a couple hundred warriors.
The speaker at the council, Ogichidaa-nagamon (oh-each-e-da na-ga-mon: Warrior Song) stood and asked, “Zhashagi, will you and your brother, Omashkooz, lead a small band to the south with a belt for a call to war?”
My brother had suffered an arrow in his shoulder, and his wife was using the healing powers of ozhaashigob (ooh-sosh-eh-go-a: slippery elm) on his wound. Until he healed I would have to hunt for my brother’s family and hoped by the spring that he would be strong enough to paddle. Of course, he could take my place in the back and steer!
Standing to answer, I replied, “I will, and I ask if I might take the three cousins who wear animal skins with us.”
“It is done,” the speaker replied.
Smiling, I left the council lodge. My eyes followed the light of the full moon toward the edge of the forest. There, standing in the brightness of the moon’s beams, sat a large rabbit on its haunches.
12
One Dies So Another Can Live
CHAŊKU WAŠTE
As my nephew, Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá, and I cleared the hill, we came upon a Lakȟóta woman giving birth in a small grove of trees on the hillside. She was just cutting the umbilical cord when we saw her. The woman then took the cord and put it in a decorated case in the cradleboard beside her.
We sat and watched the woman from a distance while the other warriors and dogs made their way down to the encampment. I wanted to make sure the woman was well before we continued on. We hadn’t been there for the actual birth, which was something men weren
’t allowed to see.
Taking her baby in her arms, the mother wrapped the child in a soft fawn skin and put the infant on the cradleboard where it would spend most of its days and nights until it could sit unsupported. The board protected the child while its mother performed her daily tasks. Until the child could walk, he or she would be bound to the board most of the time.
Once she had secured her child, the mother removed her clothes and wrapped the tȟamní (placenta) along with the last bit of umbilical cord in them. She then placed the wrapped bundle high in a tree away from animals. This would ensure that the child would grow straight and smart. After donning a new robe that she had with her, she and the child left for the river, where she bathed the newborn.
The Lakȟóta called their children wakȟáŋheža (wak-han-hay-za: sacred ones) and cuddled and encouraged them to play. There was never a need to scold children, or to ridicule them, or to strike them. It was the way Lakȟóta children were raised. It was the Lakȟóta tradition to be kind and compassionate to one’s children.
A baby was never allowed to cry and was taught by its parents to withhold the sound of weeping. In its early years, if a child cried, the mother pinched its nose and put her hand over the infant’s mouth. In this way, a child learned not to cry and give away the hiding place of its people in time of peril.
“Uncle,” asked Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá, stirring me from my thoughts, “is that what my mother did when I was born, what this woman is doing now?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Uncle, is it true the cradleboard saved my life?”
“Yes, young one, it did, and along with the love of your mother and father it is the reason you’re here today.”
Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá’s question brought back memories of the boy’s parents. Eleven summers ago, just after Tȟáȟča Čiŋčá was born, his father and my brother, Oȟʼáŋkȟo Napé (oh-hon’-koh nah’-pah: Swift Hand), and his mother, Wičháȟpi (wee-chalk-pee: Star), had left the village to go hunting, taking their newborn son with them. Oȟʼáŋkȟo Napé had slain a deer, and they were butchering it to take back to the village. Wičháȟpi had hung her son’s cradleboard in a nearby tree.
