by Rick Revelle
I broke the silence by calling one of the cousins’ names. “Gichi Bizhiins, I need you and your cousins to come with me to the Midewiwin ceremony to get our blessing for our trip. We’ll be leaving in two days before the fall weather to take the red war belt to our allies.”
“We’ll be there, Zhashagi, on the day you want us,” he replied.
I then turned to the two boys, Mayagi-bine (my-a- gay-bee-neh: Pheasant) and Bikwak (be-kwak: Arrow), and asked them, “Will you hunt for my brother this winter while he heals from his wound? To repay you for your hunting skills this winter, Omashkooz will make each of you arrows and a spear for the spring when we take both of you on the war path against the Lakȟóta.”
They looked at each other in amazement. The older one, Bikwak, answered, “To even be considered to go on this upcoming raid with you and your brother is such an honour that supplying a hundred deer this fall and winter will never be enough to repay the two of you for this opportunity. Zhashagi, we’ll make you proud! Mayagi-bine and I will bring your brother more meat than he and his wife have ever seen in past winters.”
“Boys,” I said with a smile, “if I come back in the spring and there’s a lack of dogs in the community, you’ll have to answer to me for your laziness. This will be your first step to being warriors, so do the job well! Now I would like to take both of you on in a game of makizin ataagewin!”
Two days later the three cousins, Misko, and I pushed our canoe off from the shores of our village into the Gichigami-ziibi (gich-e-gam-e-zee-bee: Great Lake River, present-day St. Louis River), which would take us to the big lake called Anishinaabewi-gichigami. From there we would stay close to the shoreline and away from the big lake’s perils.
Our canoe was loaded with just enough food to get us all the way if we were careful and didn’t eat too much. Our intention, though, was to hunt and fish when the opportunities presented themselves. By leaving now during the start of the manoominike-giizis, we would easily make it to our allies, the Naadawe, before the next moon cast its shadow. If the weather was kind to us and the Midewiwin blessing was a good one, we would be warming our bodies in the Naadawe longhouses before twenty suns passed. There we would spend the winter and leave to come back to our people by the zaagibagaa-giiziz (zaa-gi-ba-ga-gee-sus: Budding Moon — May).
Our second day of paddling found us nearing Mooningwanekaaing (Madeline Island) where our ancestors had come during their journey from the east. Here they had found abundant rice beds that helped sustain them that first fall.
“There will be a village on the eastern side of the island where we’ll ask for their kindness for one night,” I said to my three companions.
As we pulled ashore among a group of barking dogs and chattering children, we were approached by their leader, Misko Zhiishiib (miss-ko zhe-sheep: Red Duck). My dog, Misko, jumped from the boat and soon disappeared into the swirling, noisy mass of children and other canines. All I could see was his large red tail sticking up in the air as he wagged it with excitement.
“Welcome, my brothers,” Misko Zhiishiib said with his arms outstretched in greeting. “Please accept our food and lodges on your journey and tell us the news from our people to the west of us.”
The village was composed of about a hundred and fifty men, women, and children, and that many dogs plus some. That night we enjoyed a meal of mooz (moans: moose) with manoomin (man-oo-men: rice) sweetened with zhiiwaagamizigan (zhe-wah-ga-miss-e-gan: maple syrup).
When we showed Misko Zhiishiib our wampum war belt after we ate, he said, “On your return trip you must stop to dance and feast with us. During the feast, our young men who want to accompany you on your pursuit of the Nadowessioux will strike the war post!”
The next morning we departed at dawn, leaving the smells of the early-morning cooking fires behind. That morning brought heavy dew, which covered our canoe, making it slippery to the touch. The camp soon disappeared from sight as we paddled into a mist. Our presence on the water was greeted by the soulful echo of a maang (mong-ca: loon) and the flutter of a flock of ducks rising from the steamy water.
Gizhiibatoo Inini looked around at me and said, “We must try to keep the shoreline in sight as long as this early-morning haze shimmers above the lake.”
The first night after leaving the village of our friends we camped along the shore. Here we were able to spear a few fish to accompany our dried meat and tea. The next day found our boat approaching the peninsula of Keewaynan (kee-wi-wai-non-ing).
While we were there, we were able to pick up pieces of miskwaabik (miss-kwa-bic: copper) to trade with our allies. Our ancestors had taught us how to break up copper into powder by hitting it with other rocks or a stone axe. We dug a pit in the ground and started a fire. Charcoal from our cooking fires was then thrown on top followed by the copper powder. More charcoal was added, the hole was covered, and a channel was left open by making a narrow chute lined with rocks. Then we created airflow into this chute by waving our hands rapidly, blowing, or taking a cedar bough and moving it quickly across the opening to increase the temperature in the hole. After a while, we dug up the pit, picked up the liquid rock with a stick made into a small shovel, and dropped it into the water to cool. The solidified material was then made into arrow and hatchet heads and jewellery we could use for ourselves or trade.
After leaving Keewaynan, we continued along the shoreline. Misko, when not lying in the bottom of the boat sleeping, stood in the bow replicating a lookout. This day started out as a calm, sunny one and stayed that way until the wind rose toward evening. We took that as an omen and came ashore to camp and eat. This was a welcome rest, since we rarely stopped canoeing while it was still light, always eating in the boat during the day and occasionally dropping a fishing line. Relieving ourselves of our liquid intake was handled by standing in the boat.
That night, after we ate, the three cousins mentioned that I should get a tattoo on my hand where I had been wounded. Apiitendang Makwa decided that the tattoo should be an arrowhead over the scar. Gichi Bizhiins had kept some charcoal from the previous night’s fire and would use this to make the black tattoo.
I sat by the light of the fire and drank tea as Gizhiibatoo Inini took my hand and etched an arrowhead on my hand with the teeth of a fish he had caught in the past few days. There was little pain, only the punishing of the teeth as they broke the surface of my skin. Gizhiibatoo Inini kept the cuts clean by wiping the blood off with fine moss and water.
Once he was done, he asked, “What do you think of the carving on your hand?”
I shrugged. “It looks fine, but I’ll be able to tell better once the colour is added.”
Gizhiibatoo Inini then took the charcoal and rubbed it into my skin. “Zhashagi, don’t wash your hands until the cuts heal and lock the colour in.”
I looked down at my hand and smiled. iI was a wonderful likeness of an arrowhead and a reminder of my close call.
After three more suns of travel, we reached the rapids our people called Baawitigong (Sault Ste. Marie), which connected the two lakes, Anishinaabewi-gichigami (Lake Superior) and Naadowewi-gichigami (Lake Huron). We rode the rapids toward calm water and then went ashore to rest. Once we made camp, the four of us waded into the water below the falls and speared thirty fish, most of which were adikameg (a-dik-a-meg: whitefish).
Misko enjoyed a feast of fish guts and eagerly ate whatever we threw his way. As we were washing up after cleaning the fish, I was careful not to get water on my tattooed hand. Then we sighted three canoes coming upstream. It was a group of Anishinaabe families who lived to the southwest in a village on the shores of Naadowewi-gichigami. I recognized the man in the lead boat. He had been with us when we visited the Naadawe the previous year. We had allied with them and the Odishkwaagamii to battle the Onöndowága. His name was Nitaage Niibiwa (ni-ta-gay knee-be-wa: Kill Many). He was a strong warrior and a brave fighter who handled himself with ability that border
ed on mayhem when he fought.
The fish that our visitors had speared before sunset were cleaned and hung on drying racks that the women had erected immediately after their arrival. Once the cooking fires were lit, we feasted on fresh fish and spruce tea.
Before we made our beds for the night, we lit our pipes, smoked, and told stories of past deeds of warriors we knew. As we emptied our pipes, Nitaage Niibiwa asked if he could travel with us to the land of the Naadawe with my group and then continue on the trail when we made war on the Nadowessioux.
“What about your family?” I asked.
“These are my sisters, their children, and their husbands,” Nitaage Niibiwa replied. “My wife died last year giving birth to a son after I came back from the land of the Naadawe. My son passed away the next day after my wife. It is now time for me to move on and take my mind off my losses. What better way to do this than to travel with you and these three Spirit Warriors and help revenge your losses. The excitement of battling death in warfare and living through it makes a man feel like he is invincible. Isn’t that what life is about, my friend, Zhashagi?”
“That’s a unique way of describing survival, my friend,” I said, laughing. You’re welcome to leave with us in the morning as long as you don’t mind sharing a canoe with a dog, a deer, a bear, and a cougar.”
“Zhashagi, what are you among those you’ve mentioned?” Nitaage Niibiwa asked
“Just a man,” I answered. “Just a man.”
The next morning, before we left, the women took all the fish off the drying racks and gave them to our group.
“We’ll be here for many days to spear and smoke a lot more fish,” said one of Nitaage Niibiwa’s sisters. “This will sustain you for a couple of days in case the game is sparse.”
“Thank you for your generosity,” I replied.
After leaving the rapids of Baawitigong, we travelled for two more days. We made exceptional time with the added paddler, and except for a short rainstorm that drove us to shore for a bit of an afternoon, we experienced no problems. As always, we had one or two fishing lines hanging over the sides as we paddled, and this kept us in a continual supply of fish. Our dried meat was almost gone, and we needed a break from fish each and every day. However, the chance would soon come to do something about our diet.
Two suns after leaving our friends, we came upon a waterfall on the Kagawong-ziibi (kag-a-wong-zee-bee: Kagawong River) on the northwest side of Manidoowaaling Minisi (mana-do-wah-ling men-eh-si: Cave of the Spirit — Manitoulin Island).
That night we camped at the waterfall and agreed that Gichi Bizhiins, Misko, and I would travel along the northeast shore of the island to hunt for game. We agreed to meet in five suns at the southeast end of the island.
The next morning Gichi Bizhiins and I covered ourselves with jimson weed juice to keep the biting bugs away. We had to be careful, though. If ingested, this plant caused hallucinations and sometimes death. There was not much of a choice between being driven to hysterics by insects or by the juice of a plant.
The first day we kept along the shoreline, searching for fresh activity on the game trails. The second day we located a game trail with fresh deer scat that led to a meadow. Once there we sat in silence and hoped for a deer looking for fresh grazing grass.
Sitting under a huge pine that allowed us to view the whole meadow, we became very comfortable. I started to doze off from the warmth of the day and the buzz of the bugs trying to take a piece of me. I nearly nodded off, but was awakened by the sudden stiffening of Misko’s body beside me. Opening my eyes, I saw the dog’s ears perk up and the hair on the back of his neck bristle. Misko emitted a throaty growl and hunched in readiness to spring into action.
Gichi Bizhiins touched my shoulder and pointed. Being downwind, I then picked up the odour the dog had sensed. It was a mixture of berries and carrion that an advancing animal had eaten — pungent and thick to our nostrils. Then, as my eyes adjusted to the dull light under the tree, I spied what my two companions had seen: a male black bear, fat from summer berries and anything else he could devour.
I held the dog back. We needed the bear to enter the meadow at least halfway so that we could get a good shot at him. The dog, when released, would try to get the bear to stand on its rear haunches so that Gichi Bizhiins and I could fire at its exposed organs. The dog would also need to keep the animal from turning and running back to where it had entered the meadow. The bear then would have to make a decision to stand and fight or to run toward us. Either way, whatever choice the animal made would benefit us in our quest to bring him down.
The bear took his time, oblivious to us in our hiding spot. He sauntered through the grassy field, stopping and shoving ground-covering berries into his mouth every few steps. At times he sat on the ground and used both paws to fill his mouth. At this distance we could see the saliva coloured by red berries dripping from his mouth. It plastered the front of his furry stomach, changing it from black to a muddier hue.
Misko sat calmly and waited for my signal, while Gichi Bizhiins chuckled at the actions of the insatiable bear. My dog loved baiting bears and was an expert at getting the animals to rear up, enabling a kill shot. He and I had slain many bears using that method.
“Get,” I whispered to him, and Misko was off like a shot arrow. His ears were flattened against his head and his legs barely touched the ground as he charged at the rooting bear. Misko didn’t bark until he was within spitting distance of the beast. The bear roared mightily, upset that his carefree meal had been disturbed. Standing on his haunches, the brute swiped a huge paw at Misko. The dog dodged the swing, backed up, then stood his ground. The bear swerved his head and bellowed. In the sunlight, we saw saliva spray from his huge mouth.
Gichi Bizhiins and I darted across the meadow to close the distance between us and the bear. Once we were in range, we stopped long enough to gain our breath and slow our heartbeats down. Then, rapidly, we fired three arrows each. The arrows found their mark around the bear’s heart and lungs. The animal roared, then coughed up a spew of berries and phlegm, showering Misko in the process. The dog, insulted by this turn of events, loped a short distance away and rolled on the ground to remove the smell and wetness from his fur. All Misko accomplished with this action was to coat himself with dirt, grass, and ground-in berry juice. Gichi Bizhiins and I laughed at the dog’s antics and his new appearance.
The bear sat down and started pawing at the arrows embedded in his chest, breaking off the shafts. He then fell forward, coughing, sneezing, and spewing blood, berries, and mucus from his nostrils on the grass in front of him. Sitting up on his haunches, he stared at Gichi Bizhiins and me and released a noise like thunder that sent shivers up my back and produced goosebumps on my arms and neck. Reacting to the roar, Gichi Bizhiins drove his spear into the animal’s heart. Even with that, the bear had enough strength left to snap the spear shaft.
Misko took time out from rolling to return to the bloody site and bark at the bear, distracting him long enough for me to walk behind the beast and crush his skull with a tremendous blow to the head with my war axe. As the animal dropped dead at our feet, I released an earsplitting victory scream that echoed to the treeline and back, sending into flight hundreds of birds. Gichi Bizhiins and Misko stopped and stared, surprised at my outburst.
I stood there clutching my axe limply at my side, completely drained from the adrenaline that had previously driven my body to slay this animal.
“Gichi-Manidoo made sure the spirit of this bear didn’t die easily,” Gichi Bizhiins said. “However, I’ve slain bears before and they always charge or attempt to charge the hunter. Why didn’t this one? Was it because we had shot so many arrows into him?”
I was about to answer him when something caught my eye on the western edge of the meadow at the treeline. It looked like a warrior, but then it turned into a big hare and vanished into the forest. “Nanabozho,” I murmure
d.
Gichi Bizhiins turned to me. “What?”
“Oh, nothing, my friend, just my eyes playing tricks on me.”
Gichi Bizhiins reached into his medicine bag and took out some tobacco as a gift to the fallen animal’s spirit. He thanked the bear for giving such a fight to remain in the land of the living. Gichi Bizhiins also thanked him for offering himself to us so that we could live on by his death. We then sat down and cut out the heart of the bear, dividing it among the two of us and Misko. Now the three of us would gain the strength and bravery of this animal.
It took the better part of the remainder of the day to butcher the animal. We cut off the claws to make a necklace and saved the bladder to hold water. We also made sure to remove our arrowheads and spearhead from the carcass.
While I finished cutting up the animal, Gichi Bizhiins made an odaabaan (ou-da-bah: pole sled) from small saplings intercrossed with vines to hold the meat on for Misko and an extra one for us to take turns pulling. Ours would have the added weight of the bearskin. We had decided to have only one of us at a time pull the sled, keeping the other man free to guard us in case of any surprises.
As we butchered the animal, taking the choicest parts to bring to the meeting point, Gichi Bizhiins glanced up and cried, “Ravens!”
We both knew what they would bring — wolves. I was in no mood to try to defend a bear’s carcass from a pack of hungry wolves. Quickly, we grabbed what we could carry and left the area. This fresh kill would prevent the resident pack from trailing us and taking what it wanted. Many a lone warrior had lost his life to a pack of hungry wolves when he didn’t leave it part of the kill. The residents of the forest expected their due, and woe to the visiting hunters who didn’t understand that. I had seen hungry wolves trail a party of hunters for days, waiting for a chance to snatch the meat being carried out. Hunters always had to know not to be selfish and to share. If not, they would suffer the consequences.
