by Rick Revelle
As we ambled farther into the enclosure, we came upon five men gutting two deer hung up on poles, surrounded by flies and eagerly watching dogs. The aromas of cornbread wrapped in husks baking in the hot ashes and corn soup boiling made my stomach growl.
My four companions and I passed a cooking fire where a girl was engrossed in making soup and boiling corn. She glanced up from her job and held a wooden bowl out to Nitaage Niibiwa, saying, “Ask your friends to stop and eat with me and my family.”
We eagerly sat on our haunches, and the girl handed us bowls of hot soup, tea, and boiled corn. Soon one of the warriors who had been in the group that had brought us to the village joined along with two young boys and the warrior’s wife and mother of all the children, including the girl who had invited us to eat. We enjoyed a fulfilling meal, answering questions about our travels and where we lived. The young boys smiled, listened to every word we said, and never uttered a word themselves. They were quite shy but cheerful.
The father’s name was Ohskënonton’ (o-ski-non-ton’: Deer), the brother of Achie, the Ouendat who had fought with us in the battle with the Haudenosaunee. The bear was Achie’s, who had raised it from a cub after he adopted it one spring ago not long before we joined the Ouendat and their Omàmiwinini allies in the fight against the Haudenosaunee. Achie had been with the Omàmiwinini back then and still travelled with them.
That night we and the others went to a council meeting and presented the red war belt. Waughshe Anue took the belt and accepted it on behalf of the Ouendat Nation. He told us that any Ouendat who desired to go to war in the spring with us would be allowed to as long as enough warriors stayed to defend the families that remained.
“Are the Omàmiwinini in the land of the Ouendat?” I asked.
“No, they left after our Feast of the Dead and journeyed to a river that empties into a bay the Haudenosaunee call Kenhtè:ke,” Waughshe Anue said. “It’s on the northeast end of an island at the end of the last of the big lakes. If you must go to find them, I’ll send two men with you.”
“Yes,” I replied, “we need them also!”
“If you go south now, you’ll have to be prepared to winter there,” the Ouendat chief said. “If that’s what you decide, my young men will be ready to leave with you at spring breakup to make war on the Nadowessioux.”
“We would like to rest one more day and then head out to where the Omàmiwinini are. When we left our homes, we fully expected to spend the winter in these lands.”
The next day we traded our copper for moccasins, heavier clothing, extra food, and arrows. The two warriors who were leaving with us were called Otawindeht (o-ta-win-dat: Otter) and Skenhchio (sken-shoe: Red Fox).
The morning of our departure our hosts fed us well, and the young daughter of Ohskënonton’ gave us a leather bag full of leaves and said, “We call this evergreen, and if you drink the tea from the leaves, it will give you strength and take away your aches and pains.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Here is a bear claw to remember me by.” I took it from my neck and hung it around hers. When we returned through here in the spring, I thought, I would ask her father for her hand. She was probably fifteen or sixteen summers old with a smile that lit up her face and melted my heart. When my companions and I left the village shortly after dawn, I felt different, happier, and hopeful for the future.
The seven of us and Misko made good time in the early going. The Ouendat had many trails connecting their villages and they were well worn. With the two young warriors leading us, we ran unhindered through the network of paths. It took us a day and a half to leave the immediate Ouendat territory, staying one night in a village of about five hundred people. There we again showed our war belt and were told that warriors would join us on our spring return to the land of our people.
Eventually, we came to a lake and paddled across it without any problems, catching a few fish in the process. That night, when we camped, I made tea from the leaves the girl had given me. Thinking of her, I became embarrassed. I didn’t even know her name. I was so caught up in her beauty that I had never thought to ask. As we sat by the fire, I asked Skenhchio, “What is the name of the daughter of Ohskënonton’?”
He grinned and said, “Yatie’ (sha-tip: Bird). Why the sudden interest, my friend?”
“No reason. She gave me these leaves for tea and I never knew her name.”
Otawindeht spoke up and said, “I’m sure she liked the bear claw you gave her.”
The three cousins’, Nitaage Niibiwa, and the two Ouendat guffawed. I merely smiled and drank my tea.
Skenhchio finished his tea, crawled under his fur robe, and advised the rest of us, “Two more suns and we’ll be near our friends. Rest up!”
16
How the Mosquito Came to Be
ANOKÌ
The great Mi’kmaq warrior Crazy Crow returned to our Omàmiwinini camp just after the first frost. He had taken it upon himself to be our constant scout in this newfound area where we were hunting and fishing.
“Kìnà Odenan!” he called out to one of the Warrior Women as he entered our winter camp.
She looked up and asked, “What is it, Crazy Crow?”
“A half day to the west of here there is a river — the Sagottaska (Moira) — that empties into this bay. A group of Haudenosaunee is camped there, netting fish and drying them. I don’t think they have plans to come down here, but we should send two scouts each day to watch the waterway until freeze-up.”
“Agwanìwon and I will take a look tomorrow,” Kìnà Odenan said. “Thank you very much for your report. Wàbananang, Pangì Mahingan, and Ki’kwa’ju killed a deer this morning, so there’s fresh deer on the spit in among the dwellings. Help yourself.”
Crazy Crow licked his lips. “Many thanks.”
I spent the day of Crazy Crow’s return with the two Ouendat warriors, Achie and Önenha’, gathering wood for our winter supply, a task the two Warrior Women chiefs, Kìnà Odenan and Agwanìwon, had assigned us. We found lots of deadfall and fastened a pole sled to my dog, Nìj Enàndeg, to cart it back, two of us taking turns pulling another sled while the third scouted. Dawn to dusk we worked and managed to collect an enormous pile of wood. In fact, we amassed so much that we surrounded our five huts with a shoulder-high fence with a small opening to enter.
Kànìkwe laughed when he saw what we had done. “You have enough wood for us to stay two winters!”
Uncle Mònz’s face had healed, but the scar he had earned in the battle with the Haudenosaunee made him seem even fiercer. His wife, Wàbìsì, who was also my father’s sister, had made sure he was well looked after. Both Mònz and Wàbìsì had been in mourning for more than a year. She had given birth to a dead son. The umbilical cord had been wrapped around his neck and had cut his air off. The birth woman had told Wàbìsì that he had died in the womb. Mònz had been sullen and in mourning ever since. He only seemed happy when busy at some task that took his mind off the death. Mònz treated everyone kindly, but we knew he was hurting. Wàbìsì, as sad as she was with the loss, concentrated on taking care of Mònz. They both enjoyed hunting with the two Mi’kmaq warriors, E’s and Jilte’g.
The twins, Makwa and Wàbek, accompanied by their wives, Àwadòsiwag and Ininàtig, had left a couple of days ago with Mitigomij to try to find either a moose or an elk to slay and bring back to camp. A big animal like that would keep hunger away for a very long time.
About once or twice every ten or eleven suns we were able to kill a deer. Its meat didn’t last very long with our group, plus we had about twenty dogs that were ravenous most of the time. We had been eating well, so the dogs got intestines and bones to gorge on. If our food supply lessened during the winter, the dogs would be lucky to get that much and they themselves might end up being our nourishment.
The days were getting shorter and the nights cooler and along with this change the bugs disappeared. The Ou
endat and I had made sure everyone had lots of firewood piled outside their lodges. Kìnà Odenan chuckled every time we came in with loads of wood. We were now down to three or four trips a day because of the lack of daylight, and we had to go farther away to find deadfalls.
Kìnà Odenan looked at us one day and said, “I have to admit that the three of you take your jobs seriously. You’ve been at this for over a moon. How about I say that’s enough wood and tell you to spend your days fishing? I’m sure that if you take that job as seriously as wood collecting, we’ll have an ample supply of fish. I’ll get Kànìkwe to erect some more drying racks in addition to the ones we’ve been using since we got here. He’s getting bored setting snares for rabbits. It’s time for him to expand his abilities.”
“One more load,” I said. “We left a pile in the woods that we want to bring out.”
“All right,” she replied, “and tonight come to our lodge. Kànìkwe says he has a story to tell.”
That night we sat and ate fish and venison and drank spruce tea in the lodge of Agwanìwon and Kìnà Odenan. My wolf dog lay beside me, while dogs that were close companions to other warriors were sprawled behind the seated group.
“Does anyone here know where the blood-takers, the sagime (suh-gih-may: mosquito), come from?” Before anyone could say a word he came right out and said, “Well, I’m going to tell you!”
That brought a chuckle from a few of us because we all knew Kànìkwe wasn’t going to give anyone a chance to ruin his story.
“It all began many, many years ago when Turtle Island was still young,” Kànìkwe began. “The Nipissing, Ouendat, and we, the Omàmiwinini, lived very close to one another. At that time our numbers weren’t as great as they are now and we needed the protection of one another from our enemies to the south and the creatures in the forest that preyed on us when we let our guards down. Whenever we hunted, always one or two hunters from each tribe went out together. That way we learned to share and feed all equally. This worked for many years, and soon we realized that our numbers were increasing and we would have to find larger territories to feed our growing population.
“One spring it was decided the three nations would go their separate ways in the fall. Then something strange started to happen. Hunters went out and never returned. Our people would go out and search for them but couldn’t find any trace of them. For a long time we thought it was our enemies, but there was no sign of our foes coming through the area. We had to keep sending hunting parties out, because our people were now starving from lack of food. Berries, fish, and small animals couldn’t feed everyone.
“Then one day an Ouendat warrior returned without his companions. His eyes were full of fear and he was gasping for air. He told a story that sent chills throughout the camp. A monster had captured and eaten his companions right in front of him. He had only escaped by jumping off a cliff into a lake, Mazinaabikinigan (Lake Mazinaw), that they had paddled across. The monster didn’t chase him, and the Ouendat made it back to the camp safely.
“The next day they left twenty warriors guarding the camp and over a hundred others headed out to hunt down the monster. When they got to the area where the men had been disappearing, they dug a big pit and covered it with branches. Then all the warriors disappeared into the surrounding forest except for eleven who made a fire next to a rock cliff and sat with their backs to it, roasting a haunch of deer. Soon they heard a tremendous roar and a huge twelve-foot monster dripping saliva and blood from his mouth came into the small clearing. He was carrying half a bloody man, one of ours who must have been taken in the forest. Glaring at the warriors against the cliff, he growled, ‘I have you cornered and you’ll be my meal today!’
“The monster then stepped toward them and fell into the pit. The creature’s roaring and screaming sent chills down the spines of everyone. The men all rushed from out of the woods and stood beside the pit, spears and arrows ready to slay the monster.
“‘If you think killing me will stop the blood-taking, you’re wrong,’ the beast snarled. ‘I’ll still take the blood from your bodies.’ Then the monster started to laugh.
“Hundreds of spears and arrows pierced the beast’s enormous body, and when he died his carcass broke into thousands and thousands of small flying bugs that attacked the men, biting them and extracting blood from their skins. The warriors left for home tortured by these tiny insects.
“No monster like this was ever heard of again, but he gifted our lands with the bloodthirsty sagime!”
Kànìkwe rose from his position at the fire, filled his drinking vessel full of tea, and headed for the doorway of the lodge, stopping suddenly and saying, “Safe dreams.” Then he laughed and continued on his way out of the lodge.
We looked at one another nervously, threw some more wood on the fire, and decided to sleep for the night in the lodge of Agwanìwon and Kìnà Odenan.
The next morning Achie, Önenha’, and I started to rebuild the fish weirs, making them from stone and wood and putting them in the spots where we’d had them the spring after we arrived. There were a few nets also left from that time, which we repaired. The rapids and surrounding area were a popular place for fish of all types in these fall months. We took turns minding the nets and weirs, and when not doing those chores, Kànìkwe and the three of us enjoyed spearing fish.
Our community was a rare one because there were no children, which meant that a lot of chores normally done by young boys and girls had to be shared among all the adults. Tending fires, feeding the dogs, collecting berries and roots, plus cleaning fish and hanging them to dry were jobs everyone in camp took on. We always had to stop before sunset and clean the fish.
Nìj Enàndeg, my wolf dog, guarded the piles of fish that we tossed onto the shore. Even the fish that flopped around, headed back to the river, Nìj Enàndeg caught with his mouth and brought back to where he watched over them.
None of the other dogs even attempted to steal one. Nìj Enàndeg made sure of that. After a few days, the camp dogs learned to stay away from my wolf dog and only came around when the fish were being cleaned. This was feeding time for them, and they all got to eat their fill between the snarling and short fights over the guts. Small fish were always thrown back into the water with the hope that they would grow. Within four days we had all the drying racks full and we erected more.
After about a week Mitigomij and his small band of hunters returned. They had killed a moose and had brought all the meat back along with the help of the five dogs they had taken with them. As they entered camp, I watched the shadowy figure of Makadewà Waban, Mitigomij’s panther, skirt the camp and leap into a tree to watch over his lifelong companion and the small village site.
We had made our permanent summer and winter camp above the falls on the north side of the river just before the torrent swerved toward the cataract. It gave us added safety because the river was fairly straight there and we could see anyone moving in from the northeast. Plus, if intruders came from the falls area, they had to leave their boats, giving us a good view southwest from the top of the falls and rapids.
Our people had also built a tree stand high above the camp area that overlooked both sides of the river. We all took turns up there during the daylight. The lookout time was divided into five shifts: two people split the morning and three handled the afternoon.
Whenever we fished below, we always had to carry our catches back to clean and put on the drying racks. To do that we used reed baskets and also long saplings with a short branch like a gaff still intact on the end. We slid the fish onto the sapling by sticking them through their gills. Then, when we returned the short distance to the camp, we each held one side of a basket and carried a sapling full of fish over the other shoulder.
One evening, after filling all the racks and before the frost and snow of namegosi-kizis (na-me-go-sis-key-sis: October), our group was awakened by the ear-splitting howls of Mitigomij’s big
cat. Everyone rushed out of the lodges with weapons in hand.
There, in the moonlight, was a female bear and her two cubs, which had grown to a fair size from the summer’s bounty. Because the three of them had taken turns fending off the dogs, they had managed to strip two of the drying racks and gorge themselves on all the fish that had been there. The female we had to slay, but we were reluctant to kill the half-grown cubs. If we didn’t, though, they would have kept returning to forage for food now that their mother was no longer alive to provide guidance.
Before the night was over there was a lot of snarling, growling, and roaring. In the end, we obtained a good supply of fresh meat, three warm robes, and hopefully no more bear problems. It was dawn before everything was back to normal, the animals had been butchered, and the dogs were settled down. A few of us tried to sleep for a few hours, while others who were too excited from all the unrest started their day.
About three suns after the bear attack I was out with Nìj Enàndeg scouting to the southwest along the river when I heard voices only a short distance from our camp. Motioning to my wolf dog, we scurried up an embankment and watched as seven warriors walked along the shoreline.
17
Lakȟóta Winter Camp
CHAŊKU WAŠTE
The three men on the horizon were from the Crow Owners’ Society. They had come back to lead us to the winter camp at the joining of the rivers called the Kȟaŋǧí Ȟupáhu Wakpá and the Wakpá Atkúku. They told us that the area was safe and that the others had stayed behind to clear a camp area.
At the junction of these two rivers the water was calm with no rapids. There was good fishing and the protection of a large island sitting back from the forks and a smaller island right in the forks. Both rivers had bends before they came to the junction. The three Crow Owners’ Society men said our winter camp would be situated on the southeast side of the river below the intersection, with a view of the bigger river, the Wakpá Atkúku, before it flowed into a bend to the south. The village could also see toward the exiting part of the bend on the Kȟaŋǧí Ȟupáhu Wakpá and could station warriors on both islands for protection.
