by Rick Revelle
Skenhchio and I chuckled and then took off running with the two laughing women chasing us. We passed Zhashagi and he asked as we went by, “What’s the cause of all this commotion?”
“You!” Skenhchio shouted, and we kept on running, much to Zhashagi’s puzzlement.
Since we had brought so much food back with us, Kìnà Odenan, Agwanìwon, and my mother hosted two feasts in the three full moons we were in Ossossanè. Crazy Crow and Mitigomij spent their time away from the village doing whatever they did. The rest of us hunted, ate, and slept. Pangì Mahingan, Ki’kwa’ju, E’s, and Jilte’g went out hunting one sunny day near the spring moon of kà-wàsadotòj (kah-wah-suh-koh-tooj: April). Six suns later they came back with a huge wàbidì (wah-bi-dee: elk). That night there was another feast, and the elk skin was presented to our hosts for their kindness in sheltering us for another winter.
The days were getting longer and the sun warmer. Snow still lingered on the forest floor, but on the unprotected areas that lacked tree cover the whiteness had disappeared. Then, one sunny day, Waughshe Anue, Zhashagi, and our two chiefs, Agwanìwon and Kìnà Odenan, told everyone that the Ouendat volunteers, the Omàmiwinini, and Zhashagi’s men would leave for the land of the Anishinaabe. We had to be prepared to depart the next day. There would be one hundred and seventeen Ouendat warriors from the surrounding villages, our eighteen, and the five Anishinaabe along with favourite war dogs. The Ouendat had prepared the canoes the previous fall, and they were waiting for us at the lake. Thirty canoes would transport us to our destiny in a far-off land. I counted Crazy Crow and my uncle in our group, even though we hadn’t seen either of them for most of the winter. When the time came, I knew they would appear from the darkness of the forest to watch over us.
That night was filled with excitement, dancing, and striking the war post. Everyone ate heartily and told stories of past battles. Sleep came quickly for me, comforted by the warmth of Nìj Enàndeg beside me.
19
The Blood Sun
ANOKÌ
Kìnà Odenan and Agwanìwon circulated through the camp before sunrise and collected our scattered group. There would be sixteen of us. Achie and Önenha’, even though they were Ouendat warriors, had been travelling with us for so long that they would never consider not being in our tight-knit group. Mitigomij and Crazy Crow, we all knew, would show up sometime in the future.
Agwanìwon told us that the war party would run at a swift pace through the forest. Our group would guard the rear, and we were only to take enough food to last ten days. Hunters would be put ashore along the route to keep us in meat, and while we were in the canoes we would fish and shoot waterfowl. Nìj Enàndeg knew something was about to happen and didn’t leave my side while I got ready for the journey.
As we left the camp, I sniffed the faint aroma of corn soup being brewed intermingling with the scent of burning wood. Walking out the gates, I turned to glance back and watched as the glowing fires faded from sight along with the village smells.
The first part of the column was almost through the fallow cornfields when the sun crested over the tops of the trees, highlighting the steamy breaths of the warriors as they silently loped single file. Once the sun broke the horizon, the earth turned white from the frost. It was still in the early days of wàbigon kìzis (wah-bi-gon key-zis: May). Even though the days were becoming warm, daybreak still had that early spring coolness, creating a white blanket of frost the moment the sun rose above the trees.
With the rising of the sun, the air around us became filled with the deafening sound of male songbirds greeting the early light with their high-pitched songs, trying to impress the females with the quality of their singing. It was a wonderful feeling to hear the birds and watch the sun rise.
Since we were the last of the long line to leaving the village, I turned to Pangì Mahingan and Ki’kwa’ju and said, “With the rising of the sun, we have enough light to make sure we can walk around all these dog droppings.”
“Too late for me!” Ki’kwa’ju replied, raising his heel.
My childhood villages never had a problem with dog dung because we didn’t live in a stockade and the dogs went into the woods more times than not to defecate, plus we moved our villages frequently. Our dogs probably picked up the habit of going into the forest from watching our people enter the bush and squat to do our jobs. The dogs, however, didn’t turn a heel in the dirt to make an indentation beforehand to bury the droppings after the job was done as we did.
The Ouendat seemed to have an abundance of this problem in their stockades and assigned young boys to scrape it up and take it into the woods for disposal. Today, though, with the rising sun and white frost, the lumps stood out on the ground like small corn hills.
The dogs we took on this trip were fierce ones and weren’t expected to pull pole sleds; unlike normal working dogs, these animals were bred to fight alongside their owners.
Waughshe Anue led us past the village women and children who had assembled in the fields to see us off. The warriors who stayed behind to guard their lands had also gathered to yell and whoop as we entered the forest.
A brisk pace through the forest and beaver meadows was set for us by Waughshe Anue. In the early-morning mist as we passed beaver ponds, we startled flocks of ducks and geese, awakening them from their night’s sleep.
As the sun warmed the day, most of the warriors stripped to just breechcloths and moccasins, tying up the rest of their clothes and fastening them to the backs of their dogs. Once suitably unclothed, everyone applied whatever they could find to their bodies to keep the spring bugs from biting.
While we ran, I ate a handful of corn along with a mouthful of the pikodjisi (blackfly) that were so numerous. Washed down with a sip of water, the corn eased my hunger pangs. The only sounds I heard as I raced were the quick breaths of the runners, the panting of the dogs, and the noisy announcement of our presence from the surrounding trees by vigilant jays.
Looking ahead, I noticed steam rising from the sweaty bodies as we sprinted through the morning coolness. The aroma of the pine trees and the crisp scents of spring awakened my senses, giving my body renewed strength and life.
At the noon sun we stopped by a swift-moving spring runoff and drank our fill. There was very little conversation as warriors hastily ate and shared what they had with their dogs.
Mònz approached and said, “Nephew, if during this adventure to the setting sun I should suffer a warrior’s death, please look after Wàbìsì for me.”
“She’s family, so you know I will,” I replied.
Mònz had painted his facial scar red, making him appear even more frightening. His voice was still strong and he carried himself tall and erect as always, exuding the same confidence we all knew. But as he turned to walk away, I wondered if he knew something about what was coming.
Waughshe Anue then whistled sharply, and everyone got to their feet and followed him into the forest and the path leading to the canoes. Kìnà Odenan, Agwanìwon, my mother, and Kànìkwe trailed the column along the sides in the forest, keeping watch for bears and enemies. Our women warriors were always the first to volunteer for anything. The Ouendat men held great respect for our women and treated them as equals on the hunt and during battle.
We continued to run for the rest of the day, never needing to stop. Once in a while we passed a warrior relieving himself alongside the trail, but he soon caught up and resumed his place in line. Because we were the last in the column, if one of us had to step aside to heed nature, our people who were scouting on the sides made sure the straggler was watched over until he caught up again.
The sun was just starting to change colour and drop into the west horizon when I sensed the tang of water as well as the smoke of a campfire. Waughshe Anue halted the column. The smell of the fire set off alarms all down the line. Warriors readied spears and strung arrows in their bows. My mother and Kànìkwe rushed to th
e front of the line and told Waughshe Anue they would find the source of the fire, then quickly headed into the forest off the warrior path.
My mother was one of the most skilled fighters with knives I had ever seen. She could cut an enemy up in the blink of an eye. Kànìkwe, too, was an expert and agile fighter. I knew they could handle anything ahead of us. But just in case, I said to Nìj Enàndeg, “Go with them!” Without hesitation the dog followed my mother, who turned and touched the half wolf’s head when he caught up with her. Then the three of them entered the dark forest, vanishing into the shadowy light.
20
On the Crow Wing River
CHAŊKU WAŠTE
The canoes surrounded us as we entered the bend of the river. SápA Ziŋtkála went for his weapon, but I touched his hand and shook my head. “They’re friends, the Itázipčho (ee-dah-zeeb-koh: Sans Arc), from north of here. The Itázipčho are known to be very generous and never mark their arrows when hunting, enabling all to share in the bounty. Due to their generosity, the holy woman of our culture, Ptesáŋ Wí, gave them the sacred pipe because she knew they would share it with the other tribes of the Lakȟóta. Their name’s true meaning is “No Markings,” meaning no markings on their arrows.”
“I’ve heard of these men, Chaŋku Wašte,” replied SápA Ziŋtkála, “having met some the past few years, and as you say, they’re a very kind and open-handed people.”
“Chaŋku Wašte, it’s me, WičákȟA (wee-chah-kah: Speak True),” a voice piped up.
As I looked toward my old friend, I noticed that all the warriors with him, twenty in total, carried crooked lances wrapped in wolf skin and had otter fur around their wrists and necks. They were the Íȟoka (ee-hoh-ka: Badger Society), known for extreme ferocity in battle.
“WičákȟA, you’ve brought the best of the best with you,” I said. “Is this just a visit?”
“No, my people heard you might have troubles this summer, so we’re here to help our friends!”
“Many thanks, my friend. Please come to our village and we’ll find lodging for your stay. Your help is sorely needed.”
Once we reached the shore of the village on the east bank of the Wakpá Atkúku, my people came toward us whooping and singing to welcome our friends. The women, children, and warriors all had smiles on their faces. Knowing that the Itázipčho thought so much of their brethren that they sent their Badger Society warriors gave them a great sense of relief.
“WičákȟA, when the day comes for battle, I want your warriors to be the last line of defence guarding the women and children,” I said.
“I would expect nothing less in the battle than to do this for you. My warriors are war-hardened against the Ȟaȟátȟuŋwaŋ over the years and know the foe they face.”
The women fetched chunks of fresh venison and buffalo that had been brought in by hunters over the past few days. Then they built the fires up to cook for the visitors. Stories of past battles, drumming, dancing, and food kept everyone up until dawn. What fear the future would bring was put aside while we celebrated with good friends.
21
On the Shore of Attigouatan (Georgian Bay)
ANOKÌ
As I later learned, Kànìkwe, Nìj Enàndeg, and my mother, Wàbananang, followed the scent of woodsmoke. When they neared the edge of the woods and the shoreline where the canoes were hidden, they heard the faint flapping of wings and then a black shadow swooped down from the forest canopy and landed on Kànìkwe’s bald head. As soon as that happened, an unmistakable laugh echoed in the woods.
“Crazy Crow!” my mother shouted. “Come out here and feel the sharpness of my blades!”
“Even I’m not foolish enough to give the warrior wife of the great Mahingan a chance to carve me up as she’s done to so many unsuspecting enemies,” Crazy Crow said, then roared with laughter. “I’ve seen your knife work and I don’t want to be on the receiving end of it!”
Crazy Crow then appeared from the shadows and gave my mother and Kànìkwe huge hugs, sending the crow perched on the bald one’s head fluttering into the trees, its sinister cackle resonating through the forest long after it was gone.
“Kànìkwe,” Crazy Crow said, “go back to Waughshe Anue and tell him all is well here and that you’ve found some old friends who have an evening meal waiting for them. Wàbananang, please follow me. Mitigomij and I have two fine deer on spits waiting for someone to take a first taste to see if they’re ready. Your expertise with knives will come in handy taking a slice off. We also have lots of spruce and cedar tea boiling in birchbark vessels.”
“Crazy Crow, the two of you never cease to amaze me!” my mother replied.
As they broke through the forest line and stepped on the shore, my mother noticed Nìj Enàndeg turning to look up into a tall tree. When she followed the dog’s gaze, she spied the black outline of Mitigomij’s magnificent panther. She then turned her attention to where her late husband’s brother was standing between two spits, rotating them over separate fires. My mother now felt sudden warmth course through her body, knowing that Mitigomij and the great Mi’kmaq warrior Crazy Crow were now among them.
When the warriors started arriving, my mother was tending the boiling teas. They didn’t need to be asked twice to come forward and cut off slices of venison and dip their drinking vessels into the tea containers. Before they came back for seconds, many of the Ouendat went into the forest to retrieve the hidden canoes and bring them out to the shore. Our Omàmiwinini group then built more fires for the evening.
The canoes, tipped on their sides, would serve as places to sleep for many of the warriors this evening. Others built quickly erected lean-tos close to the fires for their night shelters. Evening guards were assigned, but with so many dogs in the camp and Mitigomij’s powerful panther companion, Makadewà Wàban, lurking in the shadows, there was little chance any man or beast could surprise this camp.
That night, as the fires burnt, Mitigomij sat beside Crazy Crow and asked everyone as they warmed themselves, “Would you like to hear how I saved the Crow Man’s life this winter?”
Several of the gathered warriors spoke in unison, saying, “Yes, we’d like to hear how one great warrior saved another great warrior’s life!”
Crazy Crow cleared his throat, nervously laughed, stood, and then came and sat beside me to hear Mitigomij’s tale.
Mitigomij’s Story
It all started when we decided to hunt separately, figuring we would have better luck covering twice the area. It was bitterly cold, and we had to shield our faces with our fur scarves, only letting our eyes peek out from the protection against the harsh wind. I was gone five suns and had very little luck — one scrawny rabbit that Makadewà Wàban and I shared. Hardly enough for myself, let alone a full-grown panther. The evening of the fourth sun I was able to dig into a large drift, making a warm sleeping burrow just large enough for myself and the cat.
That morning we were awakened by a noisy crow sitting at the opening. Figuring my good friend had made a kill, we quickly followed the bird as it led us through the forest for most of the day. The snow was very deep, but my snowshoes enabled me to keep up with our overhead messenger. The sky was bright blue, and the only noises in the forest were the branches snapping in the cold, the intermittent knocking of woodpeckers searching for a meal, and the occasional displeasure of a jay whenever we happened into its area.
It was very close to dusk when we arrived in a clearing where there was a loud gathering of crows around a frozen moose carcass. The crows were diving at a pack of seven wolves that were intent on obtaining a meal from the dead animal lying in the blood-encrusted snow. After a loud scream from Makadewà Wàban and a yell from me, the wolves reluctantly slinked off. As I approached the carcass, I wondered where Crazy Crow was. The crows were here, and if he had slain this moose, he should be nearby.
As I got closer to the moose, I heard what I thought was the mu
ffled sound of my name but couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. It seemed as if someone or something was uttering it from a deep hole. Looking around, I continued to have trouble discerning the source of the noise until Makadewà Wàban sat down and stared at the animal’s chest. I knelt, looked hard, and there he was — Crazy Crow — inside the moose’s belly, which was frozen stiff!
Once I cut him out, he told me that after he had slain the animal and gutted it, he was chilled to the bone, so he had crawled inside to get warm and had quickly fallen asleep. He was awakened the next morning by the wolf pack and the crows noisily fighting over the carcass and him. The body of the animal was so frozen that he couldn’t get out. The wolves were determined to have a meal from the dead animal, and the crows were just as resolute in keeping them away from him. Crazy Crow had been inside the moose for two days before I was led back to save him. That’s the story!
Anokì
Crazy Crow stood and said, “You haven’t known the closeness of death until you’ve spent two days in the belly of the beast!”
Everyone laughed, and many said that was the best survival story they had heard in a long time. Some of the warriors dipped their cups in the tea container and others, including me, left the fire to go to their sleeping areas.
The next morning I felt a foot dig into my side, startling me from a deep sleep. “Anokì, time to wake up!”
I opened my eyes to see Ki’kwa’ju, my sister’s husband. He was warming some of the previous night’s venison on five or six sticks stuck in the ground and hanging over a fire.
Pangì Mahingan and my mother were boiling tea. Both looked at me and my mother said, “Since you’ve had so much sleep, you can load the canoe and take the rear to steer.”
Smiling, I got up and ran into the woods to relieve myself of the buildup of my evening’s sleep collections. Once all that pressure was relieved, I was able to function better. When I returned to the fire, I dipped out some tea and stuck my knife in the meat, taking a chunk off one of the sticks.
