This is how Ki’kwa’ju caught the birds — he fooled them.
This is how Ki’kwa’jusi’s saved the birds — he fooled Ki’kwa’ju.
And kespi-a’tuksit, this is as far as it is told.
Sources and Notes
Retold from Rand (“Badger and His Little Brother.” 1894: 262-263)
This story contains one of the most important lessons a Micmac child must learn: to treat with respect the Animal Persons that give themselves to him for food. He must not kill more than he needs. He must treat their bones with respect, placing the bones of fish or beaver back in the water, and the bones of moose or bear in trees or up on scaffolding like a human’s bones, so that not only will the animal want to reincarnate in the neighbourhood, but its bones will be there so it can reanimate them.
Ki’kwa’ju kills unnecessarily. Here the story shows us how Power can be tricky to deal with. Like electricity, it can both help and harm. Ki’kwa’ju’s Power-shape takes him over. He goes on killing and killing, because that is the nature of his shape. So the story shows us another thing: it is important to have allies, to have relatives to help. For Wolverine’s younger brother saves him, in a way, by letting some of the birds escape. Otherwise he would have been left with heaps of meat which would rot before he could eat it, and there would be no more birds or baby birds when he got hungry again.
Rand thought from the description given him that Ki’kwa’ju was a badger, and many people have based their identification of Ki’kwa’ju on this. But Ki’kwa’ju means wolverine. There are no badgers east of Ohio.
Lindsay Marshall
Progress
Handshakes, smiles all around, the
suits come in the band office
carrying their pens
Fast polite chatter, wet palms
hiding papers piled like a pyre
inside leather boxes with brass locks
Minions of the queen mentioning her
thorny hat, this and that and the act
words spoken with no ahs or ays
The counselled Council listens
to the Concord pitch, its pros and cons
weighing each grain against each rock
Four plaque like walls holding their eyes
Seeing nothing, new or different
since the last time
Mouthpiece spinning spiels, nods of non-comprehension
feathers combed not ruffled, patted nor struck
sign here, initial there, witness here
more handshakes dry palms wet again
Saunter out the old Indian Day School now
band office, boxes go out with white blisterless hands
clutching pens like Cornwallis trophies
Black ink slowly drying with red splatters here, there …
(October 4, 1995, Revised October 25, ’95)
No Match for Steel
A loam filled spade
covers the poxed, constant face,
the high cheek bones,
until dust.
A bow with broken sinew
laid quiet, no match for steel,
along side a quiver, half
empty.
Drum beating slower for the dead,
whispering feet, light of night,
coughing, rattles, all joining
a chorus.
Birch bark canoes with pitch
cracking under a sun
aided by wind heavy
with sorrow.
An empty lodge of mud, sticks,
and water, ripped open by a
surgeon turned butcher,
till gone.
Flattened grass springing to life,
moccasined feet caressing
seasoned paths with barren
pots of clay.
Scent of Sweetgrass gliding out,
almost left fallow,
recedes towards
the sea.
Songs lay forgotten on sand, gentle
breezes dispersing unspoken
lyrics unplayed melodies,
a quiet moment.
A scream of life echoes within
a new wigwam bouncing off the faces
of skin and granite dispersing to a
forest reborn.
Shadow Dancers at Night
My shadow dances as I move
towards the rising sun.
I am not a dancer but my shadow
dances smoothly and with purpose.
When I pause
the dancing stops,
the music of the drum
silent.
As I go faster
tempo picks up
cadence matches sounds
heard only by my shadow.
The dancer hides sacred steps
seen only by the corner of eye.
Forgotten dancer hides from
the noon day sun until time
comes to remind,
go back.
My shadow dances as I move
towards the setting sun.
Dancing smoothly and with purpose
no hesitation, dancing the way.
Growing ever larger, impatient
needing to break free,
till the sun hides from night
and my shadow disappears
joining shadow dancers
at night.
The First Light
I stand alone in my kitchen
Looking through the glass
My breath fogs up the window
Making it difficult to see
The more I want to see
The less that I am able
Above my head sweetgrass is
Hanging and gives comfort
It is here to give strength
To keep evil spirits from
Entering the place of my
Refuge, my safe haven
An aroma drifts through out
Chasing the spirits away
Battles arise a visible
Entity fighting unseen forces
This braid of medicine to
Be used in ceremony the
Believers will cleanse and
Purify seeking the purity
Of a newborn when held up
In the first light when time
Began when Mother Earth gave
Birth the time when they
Were visible to the eye.
(September 10, 1995)
When Ashes Cooled
An anomaly of a storm with thunder
and lightning during a December day
destroys a Chapel that stood alone
on the shore of Bras d’Or.
Wooden pegs in place of nails framed
by hand the house of God on an isle
sacred to the People of the Dawn
on the shore of Bras d’Or.
Touching sky and as high as any on
Cape Breton Isle a steeple that
cast a shadow in all directions
on the shore of Bras d’Or.
Until a flash of fire ignited the cross
yellow and orange flames danced
the day while an inferno roared
on the shore of Bras d’Or.
With waves as high as a man
churning foam and fury striking
the lone boat unable to leave
on the shore of Bras d’Or.
Awe struck congregation faces
wet from tears and elements
witnessing an act of God
on the shore of Bras d’Or.
As each piece of timber trembled
and fell a cry in unison heard
over the blare of the storm
on the shore of Bras d’Or.
Chains of light last seen in
the heat of summer returned
in the cold of winter to lay waste
on the shore of Bras d’Or.
Time came when ashes cooled
and fire an all too recent memory
&n
bsp; and soot and spark raised by wind
on the shore of Bras d’Or.
A bell forged from a distant
foundry large, heavy and loud
was nowhere to be found
on the shore of Bras d’Or.
Some said an accident caused
by lack of rods of thunder
others said a warning from
our Grandmother who lives
on the shore of Bras d’Or.
(April 15, 1996)
Stolen Sacred Land
A storm will soon sweep across
This stolen sacred land they call
Canada, a stolen name.
Salish to the now extinct Beothuks,
Greedily divided by Caucasians
From across the briny ocean.
From crises in golf courses to
Salmon in the Miramachi.
Low flying flights in the land of
Innu to displaying our mother’s
And father’s bones in glass boxes.
A patience of an eagle who circles
Slowly waiting for the right time
To devour his prey silently as it
Lays on the surface, confident,
Smug, fat, and foolish.
Or the fox who seems like he is
Sleeping or is he also waiting?
These attributes from our brothers
We have at the ready, waiting
Silent for now until …
(August 16, 1995)
Alexander standing in tall grass on Chapel Island
Every summer since his youth he would make his way across by boat. A red apparition in blue water.
Carrying his lunch in one hand, a scythe with the other, he would walk like a man with a mission.
His purpose: to cut the tall grass for the many who would arrive at their Mecca. A resting figure standing alone on the lonely island, leaning his elbow resting on the scythe and his hand on his chin. The scent of newly cut hay everywhere, the light breeze carrying it away. A bead of sweat running down his face past the turquoise blue eyes, the Indian nose, through the white stubble and finally falling, quickly evaporating into the air before it hits the ground. The once proud tall grass fell easily from his steady measured swings of the scythe. The slain grass will be resurrected again to serve as bedding for their wi’kuoml. Bunches and bundles to serve as fire starters for their tea and foursense. Nothing will be wasted this day.
For Alexander (Santi) Marshall
(March 5, 1995)
My Four Mi’kmaq Medicine Mothers
Come look, I have a picture,
A picture with 375 years of knowledge,
power, beauty and healing.
These are my four Mi’kmaq Medicine
Mothers and I, their son.
This one see, she has a doctor of words
for a daughter.
Ah see this one, a nurse the first
in white, a healer.
The third, a keeper of old knowledge,
her daughter a teacher.
My last Mi’kmaq Medicine Mother,
master craftswoman and a doctor.
These are my Mi’kmaq Medicine
Mothers and I, their son.
They are my four directions,
my four parts of my being,
spiritual, physical, emotional
and environmental.
All bases covered,
all my healing done by my
Four Mi’kmaq Medicine
Mothers and I, their son,
healed ready for the
next part of my journey.
Porcupine Mountain
A plume of grey rises from the
heights of *Matuesuey Kmtin
A shudder felt, muffled sounds
escape as each new charge
catches current releasing rock.
With each passing day *Kmtin
dwindles, a fading shadow.
Still dwarfing bulk carriers who
come seeking cargo to cover
the green with slabs of grey
in cities south and west.
In lands intent to cover and
conceal silent footpaths
of those who roamed.
As I drive across the man
made road of rock over the
once fluid and now semi-
stagnant bluish/green/grey
highway of whales and tuna
a message posted:
Turn off all radios
DANGER
BLASTING AREA
What if I left my radio on?
Would they leave?
Would they leave *Matuesuey
Kmtin alone?
The owners of this shrinking hill
would only leave when *Matuesuey
Kmtin was a memory found in an
obscure poem by an obscure
writer who lacked resolve to
play his radio and sing along
momentarily preventing its
determined demise.
(May 18, 1996)
(* Porcupine Mountain)
Brown Shoelaces
Standing at attention Pvt. Matchee
does not smile or say much anymore.
Doesn’t he know that he, a Red man
in their Aryan eyes, is the low man?
We saw him meticulously polish and
assemble his FNC-1 through an un-
blinking eye on foreign soil while
we saw his comrades regurgitate
words and bravado against their
UNknowing, UNwilling charges.
Long before the pin hit the casing,
the finger was working its way
down until his back bayoneted.
Where did the good private get
those brown shoelaces for his
black combat boots?
Wasn’t Matchee under guard?
If this man now a toddler could
answer, I would ask him:
Private Matchee, where did you
get those brown shoelaces?
Did someone help you up a chair
so your new laces could make
you airborne forever?
A final jump.
Silence from Private Matchee,
a temporary reprieve for those
higher up the totem with maroon
hats and hands that don’t come clean.
Shadows Dancing on the Edge …
Photographs to petroglyph images,
Beaded bone belts to fleeting
Glimpses on sand swept clean
By wind and waves from distant
Shores across the water of salt.
Stories so old told around fire
Pits as ancient as time.
Easy smiles seen in the dark
With shadows dancing on the
Edge of the circle of light.
Knees pressed tight to the
Chest decorated with shells
White as the first snow, amulets
Warding off spirits unkind to
The people who walk the woods
With grandmother moon lending
Her brillance, illuminating the
Shining path to the questions
That arise like mist in the fields
Of sweetgrass near the shore.
When the morning sun touches
The tallest blade of swi-tey,
Dispersed by the gentlest
Breeze to far off places.
No answers just sensations
Felt by those who are one
With their world.
(August 17, 1995)
Andrews’s axe handles
For fifty years he shaped sticks of ash to eel spears, strips of wood for basket making and axe handles. Andrew’s hands were his only proof of this work. Each hand had its own calloused look, scars and shape. Uncle’s right thumb was thick from holding the Mi’kmaq crooked knife. His left hand worked hard in keeping th
e wood still while sitting on the te’sipew. Etched on the handle that was worn smooth with continuous use were his initials A.B. Everyday, finishing old tasks or starting new ones. The carving stopped long enough to sell his handmade wares. Early mornings the sun would rise to meet him. His mud coloured eyes squinting back against the morning glare. In the evening the sun would pass him on the way home with his pack full and heavy.
For Andrew Battiste
(March 25, 1995)
Murdena Marshall
Salite …A Mi’kmaq Sacred Tradition
The familiar faces, the beautiful works of art, the sight of old friendships renewed, and the welcoming atmosphere, all play a major role in the prelude of what is to take place here today at this community hall. The “age old” display of brotherly love will be soon in full motion. Our community is about to witness one of our most sacred Mi’kmaq traditions in process. We are about to practice an intricate part of our Spirituality, that is known only to the Mi’kmaq people. We are about to assist in the passing of one of our community members into the Spirit World. But, before this event can take place, there are certain rituals which must be followed. First of all, we must secure our belief that there is a “Spirit World” and we must be completely satisfied that our community member is at peace in that “Spirit World.” The sacred tradition of Salite is exclusive to the Mi’Kmaq. This Salite is for four-year-old Kirsten Germaine Johnson. There are no age requirements or social standings for one to qualify for part of this sacred ritual.
Very seldom the question of whether to have a Salite or not has surfaced within families. Fortunately, this does not happen often. In my lifetime I can recall only two instances when the family did not feel comfortable with the concept of Salite and the wishes of the family were honoured both times. The reason as to why we accept this ritual is because we have become stronger in our Mi’kmaq ways and customs and we are ready to display them. I will try to explain this tradition the very best way I know possible to the true meaning of Salite.
When research was first thought of a few years ago, one of the Elders told me that I couldn’t and wouldn’t learn anything by walking around with a pencil and paper in my hand. He explained that I must feel, see, cry, laugh and share all of the above before I can deal with this particular ritual of grief. One must experience the smiles, the hugs and the greetings, the mood of the people when their spirits and hearts are afloat. You must be able to recognize the spiritual atmosphere that is so evident at this time. Nowhere else will you find people’s love for one another so genuine. This is where bad feelings are not entertained or encouraged. This is where you will see true Mi’kmaqism in full bloom.
The Mi'kmaq Anthology Page 4
