“When I pushed my brother over the edge of the world, my grandmother became very sad. She liked my brother very much, she missed him greatly, and she died soon after. So I put her head in the sky so that she would watch over the earth during the night and watch over her grandson when he comes up from the world below to move about.
“There was still one more thing that happened here on earth before I created you,” Shonkwaya’tíson added. “I was walking through the forest one day when I met a manlike being. He said he was very powerful and could do many special things. He said that he had created all the swimming creatures, walking creatures, foods, and rivers on earth. I told him that it was not true, that I had created those things. So he challenged me to see who had the greater power. ‘The one whose power is greater is the one who is telling the truth,’ he said. I then told him to look in the distance, for there, far away, stood a great mountain. I challenged this being to use his power to move the mountain as far as he could. He stood there looking at the mountain, gathered all of his powers, and made the mountain move closer. He turned to me, smiled and said, ‘Its true, you see. I have great power for I have moved a mountain.’
“‘It’s my turn,’ I told him. And I looked at the mountain, I looked hard at the mountain, and made it fly to where we were standing. It flew across the valley with a great roar and a rush of wind. This startled the being and he turned to see what had caused it. He turned so fast that he smashed his face on the side of the flying mountain just as it came to rest at his feet. When he turned back around, his face had been pushed to the side; his nose was bent and his lips were twisted.
“The deformed being then said to me, ‘Truly, it is you who has the greater power and it was you who created all the good things on earth.’ I then told him of my plan to create you, the human beings, and he agreed to use his powers to help you. So if a time comes when you become sick, you may burn the dried leaves of Oyèn:kwa and call on him for help. He will come to you and you will know him by his twisted mouth and broken nose. He will help you and make you well again.
“And then everything was in place for me to make you.”
“Oh ní:yoht takya’tíson?” the man asked. “How did you make me?”
“Enyesahró:ri,” he answered. “She will tell you. And together you will tell your children everything I have told you.”
The man and woman looked at each other and nodded.
“Yes, you will have children. Many children. And,” he said, nodding at the sun which was now settling into the horizon, “you will have much to tell them because there is still more I must tell you before I leave.
“You now know how you’ve come to be here and how this earth and everything on it was created. You should know that this land and all of its wonders I made just for you. I have given you the knowledge of how to use all the many forms of life on earth to sustain yourselves. I have given you the knowledge of how to build your lodges, where to find and how to make the things you will need. Everything you will need to know is already within you.
“Before I leave this earth I will make more human beings. You will meet them. In time you and they will have children. Together your children and their children will have more children. And it is my wish that you will all live together and love one another. It is also my wish that you respect the earth and all the blessings that I have laid before you.
“Now consider this. I have given you life, this land, the knowledge of survival, and the ability to speak with one another, with the medicine beings, and with me. It is my wish that you will be grateful for all of these things; that you will give me your thanks every day; that you will celebrate the earth’s blessings at mid-winter, at harvest time, and at other times throughout the year; and lastly, that you will pass on my words to your children and their children until the end of time. This is what I ask of you.”
The first human beings sat silent for several moments as they considered the burden to be borne for the magnitude of Creation. Finally, they spoke together. “Tó:kenhske ki wáhi, eh nenyakení:yere tsi niyenhén:we.” “Truly, we will do these things of which you spoke forever.”
Their promise made, Shonkwaya’tíson stood up and gathered himself to leave. It was dark now. His body, which had softly glimmered during the day, was now glowing warmly and lighting everything around him.
“My work here on earth is nearly complete. I will soon journey to the sky-world.”
The humans looked dismayed but Shonkwaya’tíson went on. “Your days here on earth are numbered and when you have reached their end, you will do as I do. You will walk the path of stars that lead to the sky-world, where we will meet one another again.”
The man and woman stood holding each other as the Creator moved away, his glow fading into the distance, his grandmother’s face shining brightly in the southern sky.
To most people, the story I have just told is just that—a story. Quaint and colourful, yes, but just a story. But it is far more than that to the people who have been telling it since Shonkwaya’tíson told it to the first human beings.
For starters, when Shonkwaya’tíson told the first human beings the story of their creation, it wasn’t in English. He told it to them in His language—the language He gave them when He gave them the gift of speech. And beginning with the first human beings, our people have handed down the story of our creation in the Creator’s language ever since. Only in the most recent generation has the story been widely shared in English.
And when Shonkwaya’tíson gave us our language, He gave us a unique way of looking at the world around us—His way. He made it clumsy for us to express things that involve negative concepts. For example, we don’t have a word in our language for “zero,” “empty,” or “failure.” We can say them but only by saying, “It isn’t something,” “It doesn’t have something in it,” or “Something did not succeed.”
He did not make us obsessed with objects. If He had, He would have given us the need and the ability to separate, categorize, and classify everything on earth by giving them all different names, just as Western society through the English language does. He could have given us this obsession, but He didn’t.
One thing He did give us through our language, though, is an obsession with people. We have many more ways of describing exactly who is doing what than English has. For example, although there is only one word for “we” in English, there are four in our language, depending on the number of people involved in the “we” and whether “we” includes the person being spoken to. As a result, we are much more precise and much less ambiguous than we are in English when we are talking about people—which is to say, nearly all the time.
From these few observations about our language, outsiders can gain a few insights into our traditional values and way of thinking—the way our Creator wants us to think. We know from the language that our Creator has given us that we should not think “negatively;” that we should not be obsessed with objects; and that we should be more concerned with people and relationships. Pretty good advice, don’t you think?
One telling aspect of the Creation Story is that all the nations of the Iroquois tell the story the same way. Many details vary from one version to another but the major elements are all the same: a woman fell through a hole in the sky-world and came to rest on a turtle’s back. She gave birth to a daughter, who died giving birth to twin boys. After creating the features of the earth, the twins battled for control. The right-handed twin won and created the first human beings with a handful of clay.
Those first human beings we call onkwehón:we, the real, first, original persons. Today we say that an onkwehón:we is someone who speaks the language of the Creator, who still carries the unique way of thinking and looking at life that stems from our language. More important, an onkwehón:we is someone who still honours the instructions of the Creator—who loves people and respects the earth and who gives thanks to Him.
The Creation Story gives all onkwehón:we a shared way of thinking and
looking at the world. But it does even more than that.
It specifically tells us that the onkwehón:we did not arrive here on what we now call Turtle Island by walking over some land bridge from Asia.
It explains why we call the earth our mother, the moon our grandmother, the sun our elder brother, and the thunder our grandfather.
It explains why we spend so much time giving thanks in our longhouses and in our daily get-togethers.
It gives us comfort, security, and a sense of purpose.
It tells us that the only things we were given were the knowledge of how to survive on this land, the gift of speech, and the responsibility to give thanks, and that therefore things like aboriginal rights, tax exemptions, college tuition, and free prescriptions did not come from the Creator.
It tells us that the many social, economic, and political problems we now face are a distant second in importance to the overriding imperative that we honour our obligations stemming from the time of Creation.
Clearly, the Creation Story is more than just a story. We take its teachings to be the guiding light in how we conduct our lives. We honour our obligations, every day, all across Iroquoia, from Quebec to Wisconsin. In most of our schools and in every gathering of onkwehón:we, someone will stand and recite, in the Creator’s language, the Ohén:ton Karihwatéhkwen—the words that come before all others. Known as the Opening Address or the Thanksgiving Address, this ritual gives thanks for all the blessings of Creation.
A short version may be just a few dozen words. A long, formal version may last forty-five minutes. But no matter who recites it and which language he uses (the speaker is traditionally a man), all of the speeches follow the same general pattern.
“Ó:nen sewatahonhsí:yohst kentyóhkwa,” the speaker will begin. “Listen well, everyone who is now here assembled.
“It is my duty to recite the words of thanksgiving that come before all others. It is Shonkwaya’tíson’s intention that whenever we gather together, we give thanks for all the blessings of Creation as our first order of business.
“So first of all, let us put our minds together as one and give greetings to all the peoples of the earth. And let us give thanks for all the peoples here gathered, that we have all arrived here safely, that we are all at peace and of a good mind. Let us remember those who could not be here because they are sick, and let us pray that they quickly regain their health. Let us remember as well and thank those who help us to keep our language and traditions alive.
“E’tho niyohtónhak nonkwa’nikon:ra,” the speaker will then say. “So let all of our minds come together as one on this matter.” When the speaker finishes expressing this hope, the men in the crowd will respond on cue with a chorus of “Nyeah!” signifying that they are in agreement with what has just been said.
“And now let us give thanks to our mother the earth,” the speaker will continue, “for all the blessings that she continues to provide for us. And let us give thanks to her for supporting our feet so lovingly as we walk about on the earth.
“E’tho niyohtónhak nonkwa’nikòn:ra,” the speaker will add. “Nyeah!” the men will respond.
The speaker will then give similarly detailed thanks to all the elements of creation, beginning with the earth and reaching to the stars. He will give thanks to all the waters of the earth; the fish life that inhabits them; the insects; the medicine plants; the fruits, especially the strawberries; the food plants, especially corn, beans, and squash; the animals, especially the deer; the trees, especially the maple; the birds, especially the eagle; the four winds; the thunderers that bring the rains; the sun; the moon; the stars; Handsome Lake; and four special sky-beings who watch over human beings on earth.
Lastly, the speaker will tell the people to turn their faces to the sky-world where the Creator resides. “Let us put together our kindest and most loving words,” he will say, “and throw them skyward to give Him our thanks for everything He has provided for us on this earth.
“E’tho niyohtónhak nonkwa’nikon:ra,” he will add. “Nyeah!” the men will respond.
Only when this sometimes lengthy ritual is finished can a meeting, or anything else, be started. And at the end of the meeting, before everyone goes home, a man will stand up and once again recite the verses of the Ohén:ton Karihwatéhkwen; the speaker reciting the reasons for being grateful and urging everyone to come to one mind, the men chorusing agreement.
The Thanksgiving Address, which constitutes the first words and the last words spoken at all of our gatherings, is a beautiful and impressive reminder of the abiding and loving relationship we are to have with one another and with all the works of Creation, and it reminds us that our relationship with the earth and our obligations to the Creator are more important than the day-to-day affairs of human beings.
“Nyeah!”
RACHEL A. QITSUALIK
Skraeling
IMAGE CREDIT: CANADIAN MUSEUM OF CIVILIZATION
CONTRIBUTOR’S NOTE
I ASSUMED, IN SETTING OUT to write this story, that I would require some psychological time travel. I should have known better. One forces nothing upon the Arctic, it seems—not even in fiction.
It was an understandable error. After all, from 800 to 1200 AD, the world was warmer, drawing the dogsledding progenitors of Inuit (“Thule”) culture out of Alaska, overlapping the ancient habitations of their now-extinct cousins, the Tunit (“Dorset”). This story explores a possible meeting between these peoples, and one other, along Baffin Island’s eastern edge.
When I step out in early summer, however, I still step onto the same land. I walk in the same hills that newly arrived Inuit walked in. I see the same orange lichens, the same spectacular purple of flowers in bloom, the same fat black spiders racing through the moss. The persistence of this land forbids true time travel. Instead, I can only drift, ghostlike, between the worlds of then and now, whose differences lie far more in people than in the land itself. For if the Arctic regarded itself, it would recognize no change, and the peoples that have settled or passed over time would be no more noteworthy than the spiders in the moss.
This leaves only a familiar challenge, that of dealing with culture. You see, I’m already a bit of a time traveller, old enough to remember a crazy shaman who used to get stuck in trances (needing my dad to snap her out of it) and young enough to remain sore about my mother smashing my Rolling Stones records. I’ve never had trouble reconciling “then” and “now,” so I’ve been happy to explain my culture—whether through fiction or exposition—to others.
Which is exactly why I’m avoiding doing so in this story.
Some of the characters in this tale are bound to be doing and believing things that are puzzling to non-Inuit readers. Good. We live in a time when critical thinking is not “hip,” when we demand a thorough explanation of everything presented to us, preferably in easy-to-read, brochure form. While this facilitates speed, it is also the cognitive equivalent of living on marshmallows.
I could go into great, galloping detail on how Inuit hold individual freedom to be sacred, about how open displays of violence are forbidden, or how confrontation is traditionally avoided. I could include an “inside” look at shamanism, making it accessible. But is this truly charitable? No, my feeling is that if the reader wants to understand a people, he or she has to live with those people for a while. And a story is the ultimate magic by which this may occur. Let the reader puzzle out those alien behaviours, as children might among adults. Let the reader feel the uncertainty of living in a little-understood land, as newly arrived Inuit might. Let the reader not feel comfortable with unseen powers seething in the very air, but instead feel the trepidation, uncertainty, and outright horror that early peoples knew.
Welcome to the land before it was named.
Skraeling
Kannujaq stood atop a ridge, while ravens wheeled and cursed from violet slopes.
He was soaked with sweat, but a chill nevertheless ran through him. It was unusually cold for sp
ring, true, but no cold could so disquiet him. It was what lay among the shallow, winding valleys. Upon the hills.
All around him were inuksuit—structures of rock, in the image of men. Kannujaq recalled his grandfathers tales of how these were made by the Tunit, the elusive people who had occupied the land long before Kannujaq’s people arrived. This was the way in which the Tunit hunted. Every year, the caribou would take paths that avoided the inuksuit. And every year, the Tunit herded them into kill zones. Kannujaq’s grandfather had seen one such site: there the Tunit had left piles of bones, piles that could have accumulated only after generations.
Who would live like this? Kannujaq thought.
Being unmarried, Kannujaq travelled alone. He had almost become complacent over this last winter, used to being in one place. It had been a sweet, rich autumn of good fishing, better seal hunting. He had lived under a shelter of interlocking whale ribs, found all over the rocky shores of this area. There he had practised patience while living alongside the family of his hunting partner. Elders had spent all season telling him about the much harsher winters in the times of their forefathers. He had managed to escape around the time the ravens, those first nest builders of spring, began their nuptial dances in the sky. It had been a long winter.
(But, oh, how he and the others had brought in tuugaaliit, those small, dark whales with the spiralled tusks!)
Our Story: Aboriginal Voices on Canada's Past Page 3
