by Rick Revelle
“Agwanìwon has told us we’ll be travelling on the north shore and going through the strait between the big island and the mainland,” my mother informed me. “We’ll stop at the rapids between the two big lakes and try to take as much fish there as we can. After that, as we enter the big lake, Gichigami, hunters will be dropped along the north shore to hunt and will be told which predetermined places to meet up at.”
As we were eating, Zhashagi and his dog, Misko, came to our fire. He had five filleted fish on a couple of sticks and stuck them in the ground over our fire to share with us. Opening his hand, he tossed some fish guts to Nìj Enàndeg, who eagerly gulped them down. The two dogs sniffed each other and then settled together on the ground. Zhashagi wiped his hand that had held the guts on Misko, which in turn caused my dog to lick Misko’s fur clean of the fish taste. The five of us sat there and laughed while Nìj Enàndeg groomed Misko.
Zhashagi gazed at the fire, then said, “The journey begins today in earnest.” He dipped out some tea and continued to brood at the fire.
We broke camp, doused the fires, and picked our canoes to push into the early mist on the water. The Anishinaabe warriors led the way, with our group of Omàmiwinini between the divided Ouendat warriors.
My mother called out, “Anokì, make sure you get us a good boat with no leaks and at least one paddle for yourself! We’re going to spend our time fishing and sleeping.”
I selected a well-made Ouendat canoe and brought it to our campsite. Dropping it at the edge of the water, I tossed my weapons in the back where I had been designated to sit and steer. My mother, sister, and Ki’kwa’ju quickly got into the boat along with Mitigomij and Nìj Enàndeg.
“Uncle,” I asked, “where’s your black companion?”
“Don’t worry. He’ll never be far away.”
Thinking back to my younger years, I might have seen Makadewà Wàban only once or twice in a boat. When we camped at night, he always showed up. The Haudenosaunee feared this animal friend of my uncle, who they called Kahastines, and believed lived in the under waters of the lakes. Many of our people also believed this and called him Gichanami’e-bizhiw. Even I had started to believe the legend, mainly because I couldn’t explain his disappearances and reappearances.
The bright sun began to burn through the mist, skipping fractured beams of light off the water and through the steamy morning haze as we left the shore. The only ripples on the water were made by the bows of our canoes and the dipping of our paddles.
Designated warriors patrolled ahead along the shoreline to ensure our safety. Another boat was given the responsibility of making certain no one ran into problems, usually as the result of a leaky boat.
On the first day we paddled toward Manidoowaaling Minisi (Manitoulin Island) and then entered the channel between the big island and the north shore. Travelling through this system of islands sheltered us from the lake winds.
Once we were halfway into the channel, some of the boats went ashore and dropped off seven or eight hunters. They would stay along the bank, hoping to find game that might come down to drink.
During the day, a few of the warriors shot waterfowl with arrows or fished. It wasn’t really enough fresh game and fish to feed this large group, but mixed with the corn we all carried, the day’s catch made for a tasty soup with small chunks of meat.
Passing by one of the islands at mid-afternoon, we were entertained by the antics of a group of otters. There had to be more than a dozen of them. Some swam alongside the boats, and a few of the warriors threw them fish and watched them manoeuvre to retrieve the handouts. The otters all seemed to come from a nearby island. Once we approached the end of that island, we stopped our boats and continued to observe the playful animals slide down a muddy trough running off the side of a hill and into the water. Once in the lake, they dived for fish, and the younger ones scampered back up the hill to slither down again. I had seen bears glide down a snowy hill in the early spring, but the otters were much less dangerous to watch.
Near the end of the day we approached an island at the mouth of a river (Aird Island at the mouth of the Spanish River). Except for the canoes that went back toward the main shore to pick up the hunters at the predetermined spot, the rest of us went ashore on the island. We got out of our canoes and many of us bolted into the forest to empty bladders and intestines. The dogs rushed around doing their jobs and then chased and caught small rodents for hastily arranged dinners.
Fires were started to make our meals and also to guide the other canoes to us if darkness set in before they returned. Just as the sun was setting, lighting the waters around us with a deep red glow, the hunting party arrived, paddling through the shimmering waters and appearing as if they were exiting a burning landscape.
When they approached the shore, a cheer rose up among everyone. Hanging over the side of the lead boat was a large moose: enough fresh meat for everyone and ample bones for the dogs.
With many eager hands to help, the moose was gutted, skinned, and apportioned out in a short time. Mitigomij took a large bone and a fist-sized piece of meat and strode into the treeline, reappearing a short time later. There was no need to question where he went; the black one was there and Mitigomij did what he had done for years — looked after his friend. They had taken care of each other like that for many years. The cat was older than I was, but he still seemed like a young cougar given his stamina and deeds.
The night’s sleep was restful except for the usual bugs that tried their best to eat us alive. The next morning I happily rose before everyone else, started a fire, and went around poking everyone with my feet to rouse them from their deep slumbers.
We were able to reach the area the Anishinaabe called Baawitigong (Sault Ste. Marie Rapids) around midday. Here we would spend seven to ten suns spearing and netting enough fish to dry to sustain us on our remaining travels. We wanted to reach the land of the Nadowessioux during the moon of miskomini-kìzis (mih-skoh-mih-nih-kee-zihs: July) strong, able, and well fed. It took a lot of food to keep this many warriors satisfied. While most were fishing, others were off hunting game.
After five suns, the drying racks were full and it was a seemingly perpetual job to maintain the smoking fires. The smoke was essential to speed up the drying of the meat. It also helped to create a crust that kept flies from laying eggs in the flesh. Until then it was a constant task to walk around and wave the flies off the meat. The quicker the meat was cut into thin strips and hung over the fires, the easier it was for this to happen. The meat had to be hung high enough so that it didn’t cook but still gave us the end result we wanted.
Ten days later the war party had enough meat to get us to Zhashagi’s village. Before we left I approached Agwanìwon, Zhashagi, and Waughshe Anue and asked a favour of them. “A few of the Omàmiwinini warriors and I would like to travel the north shore to the big island at the end and enter the bay behind it. There’s a large lake north of there that Nitaage Niibiwa calls Animbiigoo-zaaga’igan (Dog Waters Lake — Lake Nipigon). He said that the elk are huge up there. We want to go there and kill one and bring the hide to Zhashagi’s friend, Misko Zhiishiib (mis-ko zhe-sheep: Red Duck), at Mooningwanekaaing (Madeline Island).”
“You have twenty suns to do this,” replied Agwanìwon. “You must arrive at the peninsula of Keewaynan (kee-wi-wai-non-ing) by then. We want to attack the Nadowessioux in the heat of the summer and then be able to get back to Ossossanè before fall. Twenty suns, Anokì. We leave without you and your hunters if you’re not there by then!”
“We leave now!” I said.
22
A Battle Unlike Any Other
CHAŊKU WAŠTE
“For weeks, Óta Heȟáka,” I said to my son, “our warriors have been scouting the two rivers. There are no signs of the Ȟaȟátȟuŋwaŋ. I’m beginning to think they won’t attack us this year. It’s now the first suns of wípazukȟa-wašté-wí (wi-pah-zoo-kah-wash-tay
-wi: June). The attack on the river last year might have sent them into hiding and maybe they have no stomach for any more bloodshed. We’re spending too much time looking for ghosts. The camp is well protected here. I don’t think we have anything to fear. I’m going to talk to the akíčita and change our focus to hunting for the next while.”
“Father, let me take Tȟatȟáŋka Kat’á and some of the other Sotkàyuha warriors in the days toward the end of this moon and start looking again. They’re coming. I feel it!”
“The Sotkàyuha are young and not battle-tested,” I said. “None of their lances have any war honours. They’re not yet warriors.”
“Father, it would only be to scout. We wouldn’t be strong enough even to ambush the Ȟaȟátȟuŋwaŋ if we found them. I promise that if we see them I’ll come back immediately with the warning!”
“All right, in fifteen suns you go out with them to search out our enemy. In the meantime, train them in the art of canoeing and shooting from the boats so they can at least defend themselves.”
“Thank you, Father. We’ll make the village proud.”
ANOKÌ
“There are the islands ahead, Anokì,” Nitaage Niibiwa said. “We’ll stay along the shoreline and it will bring us into a bay and from there we go up the river to the lake called Animbiigoo-zaaga’igan. There are several carry-rounds where we have to take the boats from the water, but they’re easy. Once we get near the lake, we’ll go ashore. The elk aren’t plentiful there, but they’re big!”
There were two canoes in our group. Nitaage Niibiwa, Pangì Mahingan, Ki’kwa’ju, and I were in one, while my cousins, the twins Makwa and Wàbek, along with their wives, Àwadòsiwag and Ininàtig, the daughters of the Wàbanaki warrior Nigig, were in the other. Nìj Enàndeg and three other dogs were also with us.
“Nitaage Niibiwa, we’re into our seventh day,” I said. “We have to find one of these huge beasts quickly now that we’re finally here!”
“Patience, my friend. We’ll be well rewarded.”
With our two boats of skilled paddlers going upstream we got to our destination by nightfall of the next day. After hastily made fires and a meal of fish, we put ourselves to bed among the ravenous bugs. The next morning Nitaage Niibiwa led us along a game trail in the woods. I blazed trees as we went along so that we wouldn’t get lost. Every once in a while Nitaage Niibiwa halted to make an elk call. He was very good at that, enough so that even the dogs stopped and sniffed the air for the animal.
“This is a beautiful land, Anokì,” Makwa said.
“The scent of the forest mixing with the smell of the wind off the lake gives me a sense of calmness, plus walking on the pine needles is so easy on my feet and legs,” added Wàbek.
“My cousins, the two of you are acting oddly, like you’re somewhere else,” I said. “This country is no different than any other we’ve been in. Talking about smells and how easy the ground is on your feet? Are you hallucinating?”
“No, we’re not!” they both insisted at the same time. “We’re going to be fathers!”
“Oh, my!” I exclaimed, then grabbed and hugged each of them. Turning to look at their wives, I saw the two women blush. “Who else knows?”
“Just you and us,” Ininàtig answered.
“When?” I questioned.
“Six more full moons,” replied Àwadòsiwag.
“Well, I know two warrior women who will be staying at Zhashagi’s village when we travel to the lands of the Nadowessioux.”
“Anokì, we will never leave our men!” Ininàtig said fervently.
“We fight by their sides always!” Àwadòsiwag added emphatically.
“All right, all right,” I said. Mitigomij, I told myself, would know about this and would handle it his way. They would be well protected.
“Quiet,” Nitaage Niibiwa suddenly said.
We were at a beaver pond west of the Makadewaagami- ziibi (mak-a-day-eh-wa-gami-zee-bee: Blackwater River near Beardmore, Ontario). I squinted and gazed across the pond where I spied a faint shadow in the treeline on the other side.
Nitaage Niibiwa then made the call of a bull elk. Immediately, a real elk stepped out and returned a warning cry to the interloper. He was huge! Nitaage Niibiwa called again, and the elk started to splash through the shallow water of the pond, making his way to drive his rival off.
The eight of us crouched in the shadows of our treeline and watched, waiting breathlessly as the animal moved into range. Water splashed onto the elk’s muscled withers as he uttered another loud scream of challenge. His head was held high and his nostrils flared, trying to pick up a scent. The wait seemed endless. I looked at the dogs lying on the pine-needled forest floor quietly panting and trying to stay cool.
Then, suddenly, the elk was in range. All of us stood at the same time and fired our arrows — eight shots, eight hits. The huge beast’s front legs gave out in mid-stride and he went headfirst into the shallow water, sliding toward us and splashing water into the air. I watched sunlight glisten off the beads of airborne water and listened to the final grunts of the dying creature.
We all shouted with joy at our success and then rushed to the elk to cut its throat and bleed it out. Even the dogs were caught up in the excitement, barking and howling. Their enthusiasm might have been fuelled by their canine knowledge of a future meal of entrails.
I turned to Ki’kwa’ju to slap him on the shoulder and express my happiness, but he wasn’t there. Instead, he was standing beside a rock on the other side of the narrow treeline between the river and the beaver pond where he was laying his shield, sword, and axe on the ground.
“What are you doing, my friend?” I asked.
“Leaving my old life behind. I’m no longer an Eli’tuat (el-e-do-what: Men with Beards). I’m an Omàmiwinini. I’m married to an Omàmiwinini and I live with the Omàmiwinini. So that’s who I am now! Someone many years from now will find these weapons and know that a Viking came this way but left his past here to walk another path. Besides, I was tired of carrying them around and I’m much more skilled with the lance and arrow!”
“Come, my brother, we have an animal to butcher.”
It took all of us to drag the kill onto some dry land to cut it up. The three women busied themselves making pole sleds for the dogs to cart parts of the kill. The rest of us would carry as much as we could. The remainder would be left for the wolves. Nìj Enàndeg would have the elk skin on his sled.
We camped that night along the river and feasted on the fresh meat. Wàbek led a ceremony thanking Kije-Manidò for his gift of the elk and to assist the elk’s spirit in its travels. During the night, we took turns feeding the fires smoking the meat. As with the fish, we needed a crust on the meat to prevent flies from laying eggs in the carcass.
The next day we reached the canoes and struck out to keep my promise to get back within twenty suns. We had been gone twelve suns now, and Nitaage Niibiwa said that we were only three or four days from Misko Zhiishiib’s village. We would have time to spare.
ÓTA HEȞÁKA
During the start of the čhaŋpȟásapa wí (can-pa’-sa-pa wi: Moon of Cherries Blackening — July), I had taken eighteen young men of the Sotka’yuha, as well as Tȟatȟáŋka Kat’á, out on scouting trips up the two rivers, alternating each day from one to the other. We always came back with fish, waterfowl, and the odd deer on our outings. The boys were learning the art of the hunt and canoeing quickly. We travelled in five canoes, and I was careful always to put an experienced boy in each canoe.
It was now midsummer and sixteen days into what we called the cherry-blackening moon. The rivers had been calm and the afternoons sunny and cloudless. The smell of the freshness of the rivers added to the joys of being alive during this time. Today we were on the wide river called the Wakpá Atkúku.
“Óta Heȟáka,” Tȟatȟáŋka Kat’á said, “I don’t think our enemies will st
rike. It’s getting late in the summer and we haven’t seen any sign of them. We’re living in fear over nothing!”
“We aren’t living in fear, Tȟatȟáŋka Kat’à. We’re being cautious. There are women, children, and Elders to protect here. It’s our duty to make sure we’re not taken by surprise. I don’t fear our enemies. Do you?”
“Yes, I’m a little fearful because I’ve never experienced warfare before.”
“Use your fear as an ally in your battles. Make it work for you in these times. It will lead you to many victories!” I looked around at the boys in the canoes. They were lazily paddling upstream. Their weapons lay at their feet.
Each day we departed the village fifteen warriors always left camp after we did and walked along the shore’s treeline, hidden in the shadows in case I needed them. I had confidence in the boys to stand and fight, though they would be no match for battle-hardened warriors in a head-to-head fight. We were just coming up to the first bend north of the village where part of the river flowed to the south, straightened out, and then went into another bend northeast. Rounding the curve, we were halfway through the straight part of the river. Tȟatȟáŋka Kat’á was in a boat in the front, and I brought up the rear to make sure everyone was safe.
As we started into the bend to the northeast, a huge flock of ducks climbed toward us from upstream. They had been spooked by something, perhaps my scouts on the shore …
ANOKÌ
Our hunting group had caught up with the Ouendat force on the peninsula of Keewaynan one sun away from Misko Zhiishiib’s village where they were collecting copper and fishing near the shore. That evening we feasted on elk meat and listened to Zhashagi tell us about his people’s battles with the Nadowessioux.
