Windigo Moon

by Robert Downes

  Nika said that he himself had fought like a panther, but as the Ojibwe fell one by one, he could see that it was hopeless. When he saw his younger brother dragged away by the enemy, he decided to run and hide in the hope of rescuing him.

  Misko had no reason to doubt him, for though he had no use for Nika, there had never been any question that he had the heart of a killer. He had always been fierce in the games of their boyhood, a bully.

  “The Old Man was right,” Nika said. “We were too few and the signs were against us from the start.”

  Nika had followed the enemy for two days at a distance, creeping up on their camp at night in the hope of rescuing his brother. But the Dakota were many in number and had posted watchmen. The toll of hunger, worry and spying on their camp until the fires burned low wore him to exhaustion.

  At last, they had come to a village on the rocky shores of a lake, where the enemy had made sport of his brother with flint and fire as Nika watched from the brush.

  “He was young, barely a man, and I prayed that the enemy would adopt him as one of their own,” he said. “I thought perhaps some widow would take him as her husband, or a warrior would claim him to replace a lost brother. But none came forward.”

  Nika paused, his throat constricting at the memory.

  “My brother had fought bravely, which was all the worse for him,” he said at last. “He had excited their admiration so they chose to caress him with fire. They taunted him, said it was to be a great honor for his courage.”

  He said he watched as his brother was paraded naked through a gauntlet of women who stabbed at him with burning branches. Others rushed forward bearing wooden trays filled with embers to lay at his path. One sprang from the line and hacked at his genitals with a skinning flint.

  Nika’s brother was led to a frame used to stretch the hides of elk and bison and was tied with his arms and legs spread to its four corners. Then, he had been roasted slowly from the ankles up on both sides of his body until his skin blistered and bubbled white as the snow.

  “Only when he was white as a dead man did the skinning begin,” Nika said, his eyes shining with tears in remembrance. “He was as red as the sunset when they finished. Red as the Moon of the Falling Leaves.”

  By afternoon his scalp had been taken along with all of the things that make a man; penis, eyes, ears, fingers, and toes.

  “My brother screamed, but it was in defiance! He spat at them; he taunted them to do their worst. He called them shit eaters and dog fuckers and lashed at them like a wolf!”

  “Yes, I believe,” Misko replied.

  “Do you believe, brother? Do you truly? You, who were not there to see for yourself?” Nika gave him an odd look.

  “Yes, truly.”

  “He died defying them to the end. Nobody owned him.”

  “Yes, I believe. I knew him and he was a brave man,” Misko said, though in truth he knew nothing of Nika’s brother. His thoughts flashed on the evening when the boy had stepped over his bow in the moonlight; perhaps it had been an omen for both of them.

  “Yes, brother, he joined your father’s raid as a boy, but he died a man,” Nika went on. “He bled out through his stones before the enemy could own him. I heard his death song above the chants of the enemy and it was strong, mocking them to the end. He will live in my heart until the stones melt in the earth.”

  Misko let the memory hang over them like a low cloud, saying nothing more. But he wondered if the soul of Nika’s brother had passed over to the Dakota. His father had said it was a myth that any man could withstand the caress of fire, because time was always the friend of the enemy. Eya, they could make it last for days if they chose.

  Yet, no man could complain of his treatment. Every tribe strove to teach their enemies to beware, to take their souls as slaves in the afterworld, and to honor the spirit of the sun who lived in the fire.

  “He had become my own son,” Nika said after a time, watching the sand run from his cupped hand. “When my mother and father died of the fever, I took him as my son when he was only six summers old. He was my brother, but he was also my son.”

  Through all this, Ashagi sat agog at Nika’s appearance. His carefully roached scalplock had fallen for lack of grease and the stiffening wax of spruce powder, That, and his headdress of porcupine quills was in tatters, but still, she could not take her eyes from his body. It was as if he were a demon passing through her dreams, yet, undeniably, also a thing of desire.

  Since boyhood, Nika had been obsessed with tattooing every part of his body. It had begun at the age of twelve when a captured warrior of the Haudenosaunee was dragged through his village. The Haudenosaunee was full of fight and tattooed from head to toe with rivers of black and red. Even lying bloody on the ground with his hands bound before him the lines on his body swirled with a power that called out to Nika. Thereafter, Nika had endured the needle and thorn by the fire over the course of many painful winters as the streams of black and red crept over his body. Those parts of him that were not yet tattooed were painted and greased with such care that he often spent days at a time naked and gleaming except for the art of his skin.

  Nika had blackened a mask around his eyes with the aid of charcoal dust embedded in his skin. Through his nose a rare blue shell from the ocean far to the east was threaded with the thin tendons of a swan. Blackened eyes were common among warriors who painted themselves thus for battle, but the delicacy with which Nika’s mask had been created with a ring of white dots within the darkness gave him the look of a proud and dangerous dandy.

  Nika’s ordeal was legendary among the bands of the Anishinaabek, and many came from a day’s walk or more to observe his flesh pricked countless times with the sharpened rib bones of a sturgeon or the thorns of a crabapple tree. Blood had streamed in rivers from his chest, arms and legs as the patterns were pricked and the colorings of charcoal and ochre were rubbed into his wounds. He had nearly died for his art on one occasion when fever swept over him in the weakness and inflammation of his pain, slipping into a coma from the bubbling infection of his wounds.

  All men had tattoos; Misko carried the mark of nenookaasi the hummingbird on his calf, but Nika took his to the extremes of the Wendat and the Haudenosaunee, who were known throughout the Great Turtle Island for the art of their skins. As a result of his trials, Nika was considered both hideous and handsome, both desired and shunned by the maidens of other bands. His skin made his reputation as a warrior, for he was as frightening as a demon when he burst through the trees on those unfortunate enough to meet him in battle. His tattoos had also saved him in the enemy’s ambush, for he had faded black as the tree trunks into the forest.

  Ashagi had seen her share of painted dandies among the Dakota, yet never a man given to such extreme markings and mortification. And no man of her own lost village would have affected such a prideful display. Nika’s painted body offered visions of trouble. With the caution that comes with beauty, Ashagi instinctively knew she must not encourage him. She lowered her eyes and edged closer to Misko.

  “And what is this?” Nika said of her after a time.

  “I have taken her from the enemy,” Misko said. “She is of the Anishinaabek, from the very village that my father sought to avenge. She was a captive of the Sioux, but no longer.”

  “And your scar?” Nika said, fingering Misko’s torn cheek. “Did this too come from the enemy?”

  Misko was conscious of Ashagi beside him, but did not look her way.

  “A wolverine,” he muttered.

  But Nika grasped the wolverine’s identity at once and laughed, seizing Ashagi’s wrist and pulling her towards him.

  “I will tame your wolverine with my cock,” he laughed as she squirmed away.

  “That is not possible,” Misko said, looking up with a cold stare.

  “No? And when is a captive not available for pleasure?”

  “She is of our people and she is my wife,” Misko said. “She bears my child.”

  Ashag
i said nothing, staring straight ahead with a mask of stone. But her heart lifted with Misko’s words and she could not control the flicker in her eyes. He had lied for her.

  “Is this true?” Nika demanded.

  “Yes,” she said. “I am only his, and he is only mine.”

  Nika satisfied himself by calling her a fish cunt for mating with a muskrat such as Misko.

  Misko shrugged. “Go fuck a tree if you need it so badly,” he said, nodding to a sagging ash where woodpeckers had hammered a pattern of ragged holes.

  At this, Ashagi gave a low, musical laugh. “Brothers, do not fight over me,” she said. It was a laugh that would rumble in Nika’s soul for years to come, for there was something within the husky timbre of Ashagi’s voice that chimed within the chambers of his heart. He turned his gaze upon her; she was filthy with the days of wandering through the forest; there were tatters of leaves in her hair and ribbons of dried mud caressed her face. This, and the coarse dress of a slave, the unadorned, worn and dirty cast-offs of her sister-wives. Yet, her voice swept through him like the low tones of rolling thunder.

  “What?” she said, gazing back in defiance. “Do not look upon me so, brother. You know it is not proper.”

  But Nika looked past her as if he had not heard. Then, his eyes bright with revelation, he looked up at Misko. “Brother, give her to me. Give her to me to replace my brother. You will do honor to his sacrifice by making her a gift.”

  “A woman cannot replace your brother,” Misko growled. “Only a man can replace a man.”

  “This woman can,” Nika said. “My brother’s blood calls for her sacrifice. She may be of our people, but she is also of the enemy.”

  “What? Would you have her as your brother? She could no more be your brother than a duck could fly with the eagles.”

  “Ehn, but I would see my brother when I look upon her face, and I would feel my brother’s spirit, knowing she is mine. It is only right.”

  “Have you forgotten that I too have lost the blood of my own blood?” Misko answered. “Yet I would not think to replace my father with her. I have taken her from the enemy, I alone, and I will keep her.”

  “Give her to me.”

  “No.”

  “A gift, brother.”

  “No.”

  “You know you must. Feel my pain. Heal my loss. Think of my brother, who was also my son. Only she can replace him now.”

  By now, Misko’s face was full of rage and Nika’s eyes flickered in recognition. Although Nika was a head taller, he knew enough to beware of an angry man.

  “Have you done begging, brother?” Misko asked quietly, his voice barely a whisper. His face had flushed purple with anger and his hand stroked his father’s war club. Eya, it was well known that Misko had an obstinate streak, going back to his days as an infant when he refused to speak to his father. “I do not like to be pushed,” he said after a moment.

  “I do not beg; she is nothing to me,” Nika replied in a huff, easing away. “I ask only for what should be mine.”

  “Then settle yourself,” Misko said through the grit of his teeth, waving his hand a flat “no” with a violent motion. “There will be no gift, and you will not have my woman. I would not take a woman from you, and there will be no taking from me.”

  Through their bantering, Ashagi sat off to the side feeling a mixture of anger and bemusement. They had become as two boys, arguing over a rabbit.

  Nika gave a sour laugh and began to speak again when Ashagi raised her hands. “Have peace!” she said in a loud voice, startling them. “Your brother and your father would not wish to see you fighting when you are the last of the warriors.” Then, gazing into Nika’s blackened face, her voice rose and her eyes flared in the way that had frightened so many jealous sisters in her village so long ago. “I will not have you!” she cried. “Wolf, do you hear? I will not have you!”

  Nika gave her a long look of disdain. Turning, he walked off into the forest without another word.

  Misko watched as his rival disappeared into the trees, knowing he would soon be back.

  “Shithead.”

  “It is not good to argue when we are so far from our people,” Ashagi reproached him.

  “No, but what would you have me do?” Misko said angrily. “Make you his slave?”

  Ashagi stroked his arm and smiled. “Migwech,” she said, “thank you. I have been slave enough already. But that thing you said, about us—”

  Misko waved her off in irritation and embarrassment. “It was not a proper thing for a man to say,” he said, “but the words came to me without thinking. I have made a fool of myself.”

  “Perhaps,” Ashagi replied, but she nuzzled close to his shoulder.

  Ashagi aside, there had always been bad spirits between Misko and Nika. It had started over a dog. As a boy of ten summers, Misko had taken a liking to a yellow pup in the village that wandered at his heels. The two had become companions, and Misko had even clipped whiskers from the pup’s chin in order to compose the charm that would ensure his faithfulness.

  But Nika had noticed the bond, and with a boy’s sense of malicious intent had dashed the pup’s brains out before Misko’s eyes, laughing as if it were a game. Misko had swung at him in retaliation, but Nika was two years older and much stronger. He had laughed at Misko’s blow and spat on him. The pup had ended in the coals that day as a morsel to be shared by the band. Thereafter, as the boys grew to manhood, Misko could think of little when he saw Nika, save for burying a club in his skull.

  Now, with Ashagi by his side while Nika slept on the far side of the fire he had kindled, Misko searched his heart for compassion over the loss of his enemy’s brother and found none. Instead, he believed Nika had cried the tears of a snake. That night he dreamed that Nika was creeping over him with a tomahawk, yet he was powerless to awaken.

  For her part, Ashagi felt uneasy with Nika. He had badmouthed Misko’s father throughout the day, laying blame for the failed war party on Ogaa, and then cursing the deserting warriors of the raiding party as fools and cowards. “He is a man who is quick to blame all his troubles on others,” she said to Misko that afternoon, “especially those of his own making.”

  “Indeed, the jays themselves could not chatter more of their troubles,” Misko replied.

  “Beware him. He is painted like a demon because he longs to be one.”

  “A man must face demons if he is truly a man,” Misko said breezily.

  “Ah, but women face them every day, and I tell you to watch yourself with this one.”

  “You are a sage, Ashagi. A shaman.”

  “No, only a little bird, but one that would watch over you as you have watched over me.”

  To her surprise, a voice came from over her shoulder.

  “Do you speak of me, little bird?” It was Nika. He had crept upon them unnoticed and was shaving at a tinder stick nonchalantly with his knife.

  It was not a woman’s place to challenge a warrior, but Ashagi had cast off such notions during her captivity.

  “You badmouth Misko’s father,” she accused.

  “And what of it? He led us to ruin. My brother’s blood—”

  “When you speak of my father, you speak in the ears of his spirit,” Misko interrupted in a forceful voice. “All men have failings, but remember that Ogaa was a strong man with a powerful spirit who was cruel to his enemies. Beware he doesn’t reach to you from the grave for your unkind words.”

  Nika gave Misko a cold look and grunted, but said nothing more of his father. For a time.

  The next day they headed east along the southern shore of Kitchi Gami in the best of the canoes, with Misko and Ashagi paddling together while Nika sat paddling in the stern of a second canoe, alone.

  Ashagi had spent much of the night lying awake and wondering at Misko’s words. Although they had been lovers in the forest, there had been no talk of becoming weedjeewaugun, a man and woman joined on the journey of life. Nor was there any chance to discuss his p
roposal in the presence of Nika or amid the call of the wind and the waves of the lake.

  Misko had lied to protect her, yet it rankled Ashagi that she had not been given a say in the pretended status as his wife. Her pride was as great as her beauty.

  Sadly, she thought of her father and the role he would have played if Misko had come to their lodge, seeking her hand.

  Her father would have put him off, as he did other suitors. He would say that Ashagi was too young to marry, too inexperienced at the skills of the hearth, the needle, and at creating the comforts of home. Her father would have told Misko to come back when his little bird was older; that she was as yet unsuitable for such a man as he.

  But this would have been a test to see how serious Misko was at winning her. If he came back many times with gifts of game, waumpanoag, and tobacco, perhaps his star would rise in her father’s eyes as a match for his daughter. At the very least, her father would have required Misko to present several deer to prove his skill as a hunter before inviting him to a feast to celebrate the joining of the couple.

  But father would never have that honor now, and Misko would never be tested. How could she, alone without friends or family, know if Misko was the companion meant for her?

  What would grandmother say? she wondered, thinking of the words Nookomis had spoken in her dream when she had been taken by the enemy: “___________ him!” she had said. “_________ him!” Had Grandmother spoken then of Misko?

  She tried different words, imagining them in Grandmother’s mouth: Go to him. Beware him. Run to him. Run from him. Yet the words of Nookomis remained a mystery.

  Still, there could be worse things than becoming Misko’s mate, she thought. She remembered the nubile women of her village, barely past their first red moon, who had been married off to old men. Her sister-cousins had acquiesced, knowing that an old man’s lodge would provide them with comfort, even honor, yet few could conceal the disgust they felt at being traded so lightly. At least father had never considered such a fate for her.