I stammered, “Roncommock! Shouldn’t you be resting? What are you doing way out here?”
“Skyco, I was visited by the spirits again. Your bear guardian is particularly interested in you. It is time that you move in with me, away from your mother’s wigwam. We will be busy. I have much to teach you, and you have much to learn. The spirits have decreed that you undergo the black drink ritual as a preparation for the spirit quest.”
Uh-oh. I had heard about the black drink ritual. It was unpleasant, second only to the husquenaugh. I’d never heard of anyone dying from it, only that they wished they were dead, which might be worse. Ascopo’s mouth dropped open.
“He’s doing that now?” he asked with astonishment.
Roncommock turned to him and said, “Yes, and so are you, Ascopo. Memeo is waiting for you at his wigwam. You will be his apprentice. Go to him. He does not like to be kept waiting.”
Roncommock paused to watch Ascopo leave, and then turned to see my reaction, which was probably written all over my face.
“This first day will be uncomfortable, Skyco, as you prepare your body to accept your new role. You will drink the black drink today for the first time. It will purge your body. When your body is clean and empty, together we will refill it with wholesome food and knowledge. I, too, will undergo the ritual to prepare myself as your guide in the spirit world. It would be best if you removed your new loincloth so that it is not soiled during the ritual.”
“You mean now?” I stammered. “Here?” Roncommock just nodded, so I pulled the loincloth from under my belt, folded it carefully, and set it down. This was it. The fateful moment had arrived. From his cloak he pulled a macócqwer that was full of dark fluid and we both drank swiftly from the gourd, choking down the bitter liquid. Almost immediately I felt strong contractions of my stomach and bowels and soon purged the entire contents of my body. Everything came out at once. The cramps hurt and my mouth tasted bad.
“Once more,” Roncommock said as he again handed me the macócqwer. “All at once is the best way,” he said as I paused and stared at the macócqwer. Did I really want to do this? I looked up at him and he nodded, sensing my indecision. I took a breath, then almost gagged as I gulped down the potent drink, just hoping to get it over with and survive the experience. This time there was hardly any waiting and the purging came quickly. Just as quickly, however, the cramps subsided. I felt weak and empty, but no longer hurting from the cramps. Considering the effect, I was glad that Roncommock had told me to remove my new loincloth.
“Now that our inner bodies are empty, we go to the river to cleanse our outer bodies.” We walked down the path, through the forest to the washing place. Roncommock carried the stem of a yucca plant, from which he’d trimmed the large, spiked leaves and tough outer skin.
We both waded into the water and picked up handfuls of sand from the bottom, scrubbing our bodies vigorously. It felt good to wash out my mouth and clean my sweaty, stinky body. Then we used the piece of yucca to scrub ourselves all over again, which left little soapy bubbles in our hair. The river’s slight current swept it all downstream. Each of us scrubbed the other’s back so that every bit of skin had been scrubbed clean. My skin tingled from the unaccustomed scouring. Once we rinsed off the sand and soap we were positively shiny, and I felt much better. Perhaps this black drink ritual was not so bad after all.
We returned to his wigwam and anointed ourselves with bear grease, which left my skin smooth, soft, and a little darker than its natural color. Our bodies were clean and purified both outside and inside, and I felt ready for anything. When I donned my fancy loincloth, I felt almost like a new person.
Looking over at Roncommock as he tied up his shaman’s cloak, I was reminded how much his hair and clothing differed from the typical warriors of the village because of his status as a shaman—a keeper of our people’s history. He lacked the thin, dark lines and circles that were common tattoos among the other men and women. He wore a short cloak year-round that was made of rabbit skins. It tied up over each shoulder to leave his arms free and came down to just below his buttocks. Children often wore rabbit skins because they were so soft, but the loincloths and cloaks of the warriors were made from the skin of deer—noble animals and our most important source of food. Only on the war raid did he wear a deer-skin loincloth like the other men.
As was our custom, his head was shaved on each side, leaving a ridge of hair down the middle and a fringe across the front above his eyes. Most of the warriors only shaved their head on one side, the side of the hand they used to draw the bow, thus preventing their hair from tangling with the string when they shot, but left the other side long so that they could decorate it with feathers or other adornments. My hair was long, down to my shoulders on both sides since I was still a child.
Even as I was thinking this, he said, “It is time to cut your hair. You will learn to draw the bow as part of your training.” I sat on a reed mat and he took a sharp shell, carefully cutting back the hair on my right side from my ear up to the crown of my head. He also trimmed the length on the other side, shortening it to less than a finger-length. It was a little uncomfortable, the way he pulled a section of hair out straight and then sawed through it with the shell. He had a jar of bear grease thickened with clay and dyed slightly red in color, and as the final touch to our cleansing ritual, he rubbed the stiff, colored grease through his hair and mine, making it stand up on our heads. I brushed my hand over the top of my head and could feel the short hair along the crown standing straight up while the rest of the hair on the left side flopped over; the right side was bare.
“You look like a small warrior now!” Roncommock said, and I puffed out my chest with pride. “You could be a little cocky redbird—a meesquouns—with that red crest of yours!”
When I moved my head, I felt the stiff ridge of hair move too, and the half of my scalp that lacked hair was cool. I kept touching my bare scalp and short hair because it felt so strange. I also felt hunger, but appreciated the feeling as I never had before. Now it was part of my training and preparation.
Roncommock said, “We will rest until sunset. Your body is clean and prepared. Now try to clear your mind so that the spirits will come to you.”
I laid on a reed mat and rested. In fact, I may have fallen asleep, because I don’t remember what I was doing until Roncommock touched my shoulder and said, “It is time.”
While I sat on the reed mat, Roncommock added dried powder from the medicine pouch he wore around his waist to a small fire he had built while I was resting. Uppówoc, or tobacco, is sacred to us and used to contact the spirits. Only the elders who have the approval of the spirits can carry the small pouches of the dried leaves, which they add to fires or put into special pipes.
“Lean toward the fire and breathe in the smoke. It will tickle your nose until you get used to it, but it will stimulate your mind and open it to the spirits.”
When I first breathed in the smoke from the fire, I nearly choked, but managed to stay calm and respectful even as my eyes watered. Roncommock said, “This is the sacred smoke that we use to contact the spirits. Now close your eyes and open your mind. Maybe the spirits will come. You are young and still must learn the proper way to contact them, so all you are likely to notice is peacefulness. Relax.”
Relax? I was nervous. How could I relax when we were trying to contact the spirit world? The spirits controlled everything. They could strike a man dead or, worse yet, ignore him completely. If I failed at this, my training to be chief might cease as quickly as it had begun.
Relax. I could do that, just as Mother taught me. I began with my feet, imagining my muscles as I walked, willing them to relax. Next, my ankles, imagined them flexing, and feeling the muscles unwind. Calves, knees, thighs, buttocks—all were easy to soften. My stomach muscles and chest muscles were harder to relax, as were the muscles of my back since I was sitting up and using those muscles instead o
f lying down completely at rest, but I could imagine those different groups of muscles, remembering how they felt contracted and then relaxed. My shoulders, I realized, as I thought about them, were clenched. I unclenched those, then my arms, my elbows, my forearms. My arms now rested limply in my lap. Hands were tricky—so many small muscles everywhere—but I concentrated finger by finger as my mother had taught me.
Face muscles next—chin, lips, cheeks, eyes, eyebrows, ears, and forehead. When I reached my forehead, it felt as if some benevolent touch magically released all the tension within me. I experienced the sensation of being suspended in time, so that even my breathing ceased as I floated light and free as an autumn leaf drifting gracefully in space. I was as peaceful as a baby. I could even see my mother’s gentle face beaming at me and feel her comforting arms holding me snugly against her chest. I could see her fingers approaching my cheek and felt the lightest caress. She touched me, and then directed my attention along her finger toward something just out of my view.
I opened my eyes, startled.
“Your spirit is strong, Skyco,” Roncommock said to me when he saw my eyes open. “You have not yet learned how to call the spirits from the spirit world, but they came to you anyway. I could feel the peace that they bring flowing from you. And I could sense that they pointed you toward your quest.”
I looked at him uncertainly.
“But I didn’t see any spirits. All I felt was my mother, as if I were a baby in her arms. She pointed, but I couldn’t see what she was directing me toward.”
“That is good,” Roncommock said, “very good. The spirits have recognized you. They are ready to receive you and to teach you. You are like that newborn babe to them. They have indicated the quest even if they have not yet revealed it. We will build your ability to contact them and will practice entering into animal minds other than that of the great bear. Eventually, you will be able to enter the spirit world, to see as they see, to understand what they know. I sense that you have a strong natural connection and will be able to strengthen it as you grow and learn.”
“I will try my best, teacher.” I was relieved. The spirits recognized me after all.
Roncommock continued, “But now sunset is near and it is time for food. The ritual is nearly complete.”
We left his wigwam for the central fire, where the people of our village usually gathered together for the evening meal. I was proud of my new haircut and loincloth, and looking forward to seeing my mother, my sister, and Ascopo. My sister, Mamankanois, is older than I and likes to boss me around because of it. She will have to give me a little more respect now. At least I hope she will. And I wonder if Ascopo received a haircut today, too.
I felt oddly different as I walked through the village, noticing it as I never had before. Details stood out, reminding me of the experience when I saw all the scars and other features of the bear’s face on the day that Roncommock was attacked.
The fragrance of fresh grass drifted over the village as it seeped from the doorways of the wigwams we passed, newly broken onto their floors to keep them clean and smelling sweet. Equally pleasant, the strong, smoky odor of deer meat grilling over the central fire mingled with that of the clean wigwams. I could even detect the rather pungent odor of the midden. Through it all floated the tiniest whiff of ammonia, the slightest indication of the river, full of fish and mud.
Looking at a new, as yet uncompleted wigwam that stood right next to an older, finished one, I realized how much the completed structure resembles the smoothly rounded back of a deer. Our wigwams are half-cylinders, built from a series of strong but supple saplings that are anchored in the ground. Wooden strips are woven in lengthwise to join the saplings together and provide stability. The sides and roof are covered with long pieces of bark and mats woven of reeds, tied down against the wooden structure. To let in light and vent out smoke, we roll up the mats. As I examined the site with my altered senses, the wigwams blurred in the smoke and seemed to move just like deer, but then something startled me and the sensation passed.
Although Menatonon’s wigwam was not built differently from the others, it was centrally located. The dirt around it was pounded hard by the many feet that had walked to his door. The mats were open, and inside his wife tended their children, one of whom was still a baby, replacing the soiled moss in its wrap with a fresh bundle. As we passed, she smiled at me, her long dark hair sweeping across the dots and dashes tattooed decoratively on her forehead.
Next to Menatonon’s wigwam stood my mother’s, its bark siding a pale grey in the evening light. It was easy for anyone to identify, for outside the door grew a beautiful red paintbrush flower. Each small yellow flower tip was surrounded by a scarlet red sheath that changed into green lower down. It reminded me of the thorns used in tattooing, with the pointed yellow tip and the red blood. It was uncommon for anyone to plant a flower from the forest inside the village. We planted crops, of course, but only those we use for food. The medicine men gathered their herbs from the forest, never cultivating them in the village.
Mother planted it because the paintbrush plant was her spirit guide. Men always had animal spirits to guide them, but on rare occasions, women received a plant guide from the spirit world. No other woman in our village was guided by a plant, a sign of my mother’s importance and her understanding of the ways of plants. She used the paintbrush plant either as a love tonic or as a poison, depending on the dose and her preferred application. It represented her knowledge of plants and their uses, her skill in administering medicine. It was both beautiful and deadly. It was a powerful plant, but one that needed her tending. It lived only a single year, and she gathered the seed and planted it each year in order to keep the flower nearby. It was a rare find in the open meadows of the flatlands, but grew happily in the bright light and cleared ground of our village.
My mother’s wigwam stood near that of the chief because she was the head woman of the village. Menatonon was her brother—my uncle—and although men are chiefs, we trace our family line through that of our mothers. Menatonon was chief because his mother was head woman; I will be chief because my mother was head woman. Unless, of course, I fail the upcoming challenges. Then someone else will be selected from elsewhere in the tribe and my whole family line will be disgraced. For now, I am Menatonon’s recognized heir, but if I fail the husquenaugh, he will choose another. He will have to, because I will be dead.
My father was killed when I was a baby, and I have only vague memories of him. Because of her status as the head woman of the village, Mother chose not to have another man as husband. It is unusual for her to remain alone, without a man to share her wigwam, but it is her choice. She is an unusual woman.
Once past my mother’s wigwam and that of Menatonon, we reached the central fire, around which many villagers were gathered. Menatonon was already seated and my mother sat next to him. Ascopo was there, too, seated with his family, and he stared owl-eyed at me as he looked at my new haircut. His hair was still long. I smiled as I caught Mother’s eye and moved to join her. She said, “I recognize the change in you. We must acknowledge your acceptance by the spirits. You have much to learn from them, and I am pleased with your progress. It is time for you to join the household of your teacher.” How does she always know that something important has occurred before I tell her?
She offered me a bowl of water freshened with sassafras, or winauk, to wash my hands and face. Sassafras is unusual because its leaves come in three different shapes on each tree, instead of just one. It is the only tree that has such differently shaped leaves, which gives it power and makes it important in spiritual ceremonies. Luckily, its roots also taste good. I sucked a little water into my mouth and swished it around to cleanse my mouth and the words I would utter, and then carefully spat it on the ground. “I thank you, mother, and others of my family line. I gratefully acknowledge all that you have given me.” I bowed low to her and she smiled. I sucked up another m
outhful of water, spat it on the same place where the first mouthful soaked into the dry soil, turned to Roncommock and said, “I wish to join your household, Roncommock, my teacher. Thank you for accepting me as your apprentice.” The words were spoken. The black drink ritual was now complete. My training to become the next chief had begun.
The Day I Became an Ant
Now that I was officially apprenticed to Roncommock, my training in communication with animal spirits was ready to begin. I was excited, thinking about all the spirits I might contact. Would we start with the bear since he was my guardian?
I was surprised when Roncommock said, “Come with me to the crop field, where the ground has been cleared and the sun shines upon it. There we will find an animal with a keen sense of community. You will learn from this creature what it means to bond with others of the village, to fight in support of your home, to work together to harvest food, and you will appreciate the world better after having seen it from a different viewpoint.”
Not a bear then. Maybe a cougar or a wolf? But that didn’t sound right either. Did birds live in a village? Redbirds hopped around the edges of the crop field and sang and whistled to me from the trees when I was there. They were friendly birds, often found in the clearing, and the bright red males with their rakish crests were beautiful. Maybe I would study them, but redbirds didn’t seem especially exciting, so what else might we find in the crop field?
“Here we are, Skyco.” Roncommock delivered me from my musing. He slowly eased himself to the ground, his fresh scars tugging against tender new skin as he crossed his legs, folded his feet under his thighs, and placed his hands on his knees in the appropriate position of respect, but I saw no animals around us, none at all.
Spirit Quest Page 3
