I Am Algonquin Page 12

  I immediately recognized him.

  “Kànikwe, have you been wrestling with a skunk?”

  “Oh, Mahingan,” he replied, “my friend shigàg had led me to a honey hive and did not want to share. We then had a disagreement about who would get what. He did not take kindly to me poking him with my spear and then lifting him on his underbelly and tossing him aside. I wasn’t greedy, I only took the honey and he still has his bees to eat when he regains his composure.”

  “Well, our friend,” said Kàg, “you will walk behind us. I think that the only people in our village who will help you at this moment are Agwanìwon Ikwe and Kìnà Odenan.”

  When Kàg mentioned the names of the two women, you could see the eyes of Kànikwe light up. When we got back to the village, the people knew we were coming long before they heard or saw us. The smell was that bad.

  The two laughing women grabbed Kànikwe and covered him with ashes and charcoal from the fire pits. This would mask the smell until such time that it disappeared from his body.

  Luckily for Kànikwe, he had suffered no bee stings because he had dulled their senses with smoke. He never took all the honey from any of the hives that he raided. He always left enough for the bees to survive. It was because of their honey that he was able to live after suffering the horrendous scalping.

  The days after Kànikwe arrived were spent harvesting manòmin (rice) on a lake that was half a day’s walk from our village. Not wanting to carry our canoes that far through the forest, we made what we needed when we arrived. Half the village came with us to help with the harvesting and preparation of the rice. The wild rice was a food that was essential to our survival over the winter. When available our women used it in all their cooking.

  After building the canoes, we were ready to start the harvesting of the rice. Each canoe had two people in it: one person who was responsible for moving the canoe through the rice bed while the other bent the stems over into the boat, knocking the rice off the stalks. The person who did the knocking held a stick in each hand. They used one stick to bend the rice stalk into the boat and the other to knock off the rice heads. The harvesters always made sure that enough rice seed ended up in the water to reseed the beds, ensuring that there would be enough to harvest the following fall. While we were harvesting the rice, we were also able to hunt the thousands of geese and ducks that also were taking advantage of this easily accessible food.

  When the people had harvested all the rice for the village needs, we then had to prepare it. We dried the heads by spreading it out on birch bark, but first the women had to trample it on mats to break off the long, sharp beards. As the grains lay drying on birch bark mats, the people continually moved it with sticks to allow the air and sun to do their work; this took a couple of days to accomplish. Once all the rice dried, the hulls started to crack open. The people finished cracking open the hulls by digging shallow pits and then lining it with skins. The men then danced on the seed, singing the manòmin harvest song. The people then put what they had cracked on birch bark trays and tossed it in the air, letting the wind carry away the chaff. After washing the rice, we placed it in bark boxes and bags of skin.

  With the harvest finished, we had a feast of thanksgiving. On the way home we took our time and collected as many acorns as we could carry. When we arrived in the village, the women took the acorns and the baskets they were in and placed them in the stream that ran beside our camp. Here they would soak the nuts for two or three days, making them easy to crack open and enabling the women to obtain the meat in the shell. The shells would then be dried and burnt in our fires.

  That winter would be one of our better winters in a long time. No one starved because we had lots of meat, and our supplies of rice, acorns, and berries were abundant. A significant problem during the winter was to contend with the congestion in our lungs caused by the smoke in the lodges. Our fires were continually burning to keep us warm and to cook our meals. Even though the days were cold, we tried to spend as much time outside as we could to keep our lungs clear.

  During that time of the year, the women made clothes out of the hides from the game that the men had hunted all summer. The men meanwhile spent the winter months hunting when the weather was favourable, making new weapons and repairing the ones we had.

  Because of the abundance of food that winter, it made it easier for the pregnant women in our village to stay healthy. My wife Wàbananang was expecting during the Onàbanad Tibik-kìzis (Crust Moon, March). This was the moon when the snow was crusty and we could walk on it without our snowshoes most days.

  When a child was born into our tribe, it was the beginning of the cycle of life. He or she would have much to learn and many ceremonies to proceed through until reaching the end of the journey, death.

  Wàbananang selected the woman that she wanted to be her midwife. She was an elder who through the years had delivered many babies and never had lost a mother or child. This was almost unheard of among our people, because there were many times that either the mothers or the child died during childbirth. Kìjekwe (Honoured Woman) always knew what herbs and teas to use to help end the pregnancy. For the last several weeks of my wife’s pregnancy, she had given her lots of miskominag anìbìsh (raspberry leaf tea). When my wife’s time drew near, Kìjekwe prepared a place for her in her lodge. There she would look after her until the child was born. Then I would be sent for if all went well.

  As a man, I was not allowed into the birthing lodge, so I asked my brothers if they wanted to go on a hunt for a few days. Kàg and Mitigomij said that they would accompany me. Wàgosh, who was still practically a newlywed even though he had got married in the spring, said he would stay back and watch over the village. The three of us laughed at this because we knew that it was not the village that he wanted to watch over. Kàg’s twin sons, who had taken their manhood journey that summer, decided that they would come on the hunt with us. The two young warriors had not yet earned or been given adult names, so we still called them by their childhood names.

  With the small dog and Ishkodewan leading the way and Mitigomij’s black panther trailing in the woods, we started out on our hunt. The decision had been made that we would only go out for two days, travelling as far as we could the first day and then returning by a different route the second. Everyone except Mitigomij pulled a toboggan in case we were successful on our hunt.

  “Mahingan, do you think that Wàbananang will bring you a man child to spread your seed for years to come?” asked my brother Kàg.

  “Kàg you know as well as I do that decision is made by Kitchi Manitou. All children when they are born to us already have their lives planned out by the Creator Force. How they follow that trail is in their own hands and if it is the wrong one, he or she will be given a sign to redirect them back down the pre-chosen path.”

  “My brother, I had a dream that you would have a son,” said Mitigomij.

  “Ah, that would please me! A son strengthens the Algonquin Nation. They can’t bear children like a daughter can, nevertheless they grow up to hunt and defend their people.”

  Before we could continue our conversation, the small dog and Ishkodewan started to whimper.

  “Esiban and Agwingos, the animals have caught the scent of something. Be ready to keep up to them,” I said. “Go,” I said to the two whimpering animals. On my command, they went with the speed of a shot arrow. The sound of the dog barking and the wolf howling made for an odd reverberation in the forest. They headed toward a part of the forest that was mostly tall pines, with the twins running to keep up with them.

  Having Mitigomij with us slowed Kàg and me down. We did not want to set a pace that would cause him to fall back of us. It was not long before we could hear that the dog and wolf had something cornered. Then we heard the unmistakable roar of a makwa. I could feel my heart quicken knowing that the animals and the two young men were coming onto a very irritable and hungry animal that probably had just awakened from a long sleep.

  “Kàg
and Mahingan, you must leave me and rush to the hunt. The bear will be a handful for the small dog, Ishkodewan, and the twins. Makadewà Wàban and I will be there before you know it. They need your help!”

  Kàg and I then broke into a run. The crust on the snow made for easy footing and helped to speed up our arrival. As we ran, we could hear the sounds of the three animals and the yelling of the twins. With the cold crisp air and the stillness of the pinewoods, the sound of the ensuing battle between men and animals echoed through the forest. When we arrived, we could not believe our eyes! There was one huge bear backed up against a deadfall with a snarling dog and wolf attacking him from different sides and the twins shooting arrows at the animal. The bear had six arrows stuck into his throat but he was still bravely fighting on. Every time he roared, blood from his wounds sprayed onto his attackers. Both the dog and wolf had bloodied muzzles from their continued attacks on the bear’s withers. When the big boar saw us, he raised himself up on his hind legs and let loose a roar that sent shivers up my spine and echoed throughout the pine forest, reminiscent to the roar of a waterfall. At that instant, the twins let loose another two arrows. Both of the projectiles struck the bear in his heart, and with one last bellow, he dropped like a large tree crashing in the forest. After he hit the ground, his body twitched a couple of times and then a big gush of air emitted from the carcass. The dog and wolf went up to the bear and sniffed it cautiously. The twins seemed caught up in a sense of disbelief for a few moments, and then they raised their bows in the air and whooped. After that, they started singing a song of thanksgiving to Kitchi Manitou and the spirit of the bear. The song thanked the bear for the brave battle and Kitchi Manitou for protecting them during the clash. I walked up to the boys and handed them some tobacco to make an offering to the Creator.

  Kàg then said to Esiban and Agwingos, “Sons, this is your first kill. Your uncles and I will help you take the meat and hide back to the village. However, you are responsible for the butchering. Do not forget the dog and wolf. They deserve some choice meat for their part in this hunt.”

  As the boys started their job, Mitigomij arrived on the scene with a big smile; we could see the pride in his eyes. Kàg and I both knew that these young men had been taught well by their uncle since their entrance into manhood.

  While the boys worked away at their task, Kàg

  and I gathered wood and cedar boughs for a fire and shelter. Mitigomij busied himself with cooking our bear meat meal.

  As darkness approached, the twins finished cutting up the bear. They approached the fire and we asked them to tell their story of the successful hunt. After they told their story, Mitigomij stood up to speak.

  “Esiban and Agwingos,” Mitigomij said, “I have decided on your new names.”

  Because Mitigomij was their uncle protector and teacher, he was entitled to give them their warrior names.

  Mitigomij said, “As I watched your successful hunt, I was reminded of another great warrior, your uncle, Makwa. He fought and killed a bear and wore the scars for the rest of his life. I know that he was watching over the two of you during your hunt today. With this in mind, Esiban and Agwingos, both of you will carry the name of your uncle and this powerful beast from the forest. Esiban, from this day forward your name will be Makwa and Agwingos you will be known as Wàbek. Both names mean bear in our language. The two of you have earned it and your dead uncle and the bear will be your spirit protectors.”

  Kàg and I then stood and sang their names and told the story of how they earned them.

  That night as I lay in the shelter I thought of my wife and the birth of my child. I hoped that if it were a boy that Mitigomij would be still on this earth to teach him the ways of our people when the time came.

  The next morning we loaded all the bear meat and the hide on the toboggans for the journey home.

  “Your time is coming, Wàbananang. The water in your womb has broken and the child will soon be here,” said Kìjekwe.

  “I can feel the child move; it wants to come into our world. The pain is starting to be more intense,” answered Wàbananang.

  “Here, take more tea. It will help you with the pain.”

  Kìjekwe now started to massage Wàbananang, burn sweet grass, and sing the birthing song. Outside the wàginogàn, the Shaman and other women started to sing. This continued well into the night. Then near the coming of daylight, the sound of a small child crying told all the people outside that the baby had entered the world of Turtle Island.

  Inside, Kìjekwe held up the baby in the light of the fire to show the mother her new son. She then went to a corner of the lodge where there was a bag filled with milkweed and cattail down. With this, she made a diaper for the new son of Mahingan. Then she wrapped him in a specially made hide that had been decorated with symbols to protect the child. As she lay the boy down near the fire to wrap him into the hide she noticed that he had two marks, one on the nape of his neck and the other on his right rump. She thought to herself this was a good sign; the Creator had marked him for greatness so that he could find him whenever there was a need to carry out the work of Kitchi Manitou. Just before Kìjekwe wrapped him up to give to his mother, she took a small medicine bag that she had made and into it she put the umbilical cord that she had cut off the boy’s belly.

  Putting the bag around his neck she said, “This was your attachment to your mother, keeping you alive while you were in her womb. For the rest of your life it will be in your medicine bag, keeping the attachment even after your journey into the warrior world.”

  My son was born the night after the twins had made their kill. When we entered the village just before dark the next day, Wàgosh came out to meet us.

  “Brother, you have a son. Mother and child are healthy and waiting for you. The news gets even better, Mahingan. The Creator has marked him. He has the signs of a great warrior!”

  I had a sudden rush of exhilaration. I sped to the midwife’s lodge to see my wife and son. When I entered, I could see the two of them by the fire. He was suckling from his mother. She looked up at me and smiled, handing me my son. When I picked him up, I could smell his mother’s milk on his breath. He had lots of hair and a smile on his face; I pulled down the hide and found the marks from the Creator. This made me very happy. When I thought back to the past few days I immediately knew what his childhood name would be. I took it as a sign from the Creator that because he was born while we were on a hunt, that he should be named in that honour. When I told Wàbananang his name and why I chose it, her face lit up.

  “Mahingan, Anokì (Hunt) is a wonderful name. The events that led up to you picking the name are good signs, he will make you proud.”

  Little did I know that the not-so-distant future would be one of danger for my family, my village, and me.

  23

  Red Skies

  WITH LOTS TO EAT and the birth of five children that winter, our village was a very joyful place. Moreover, with the addition of the two warrior women and their friend Kìjekwe, plus the maturing of the twins, our small band gained needed warrior strength for the immediate future. Because Kìjekwe and the warrior women had no immediate family to provide for, they could provide lots of fresh meat for the elders and for the family of Makòns, who had died at the Battle of The Small Bay while we were returning from the buffalo hunt.

  With all the snow melting in the forest and clearings, it turned the grass green and brought out the wildflowers. However, later in the spring there was a lack of rainfall, causing all the fauna to thirst for moisture.

  This lack of water did not affect our people as much as the plant life, because we had access to the big river. By late spring, the weather had turned hotter than normal and the ground beneath our feet started to wither and go dormant. Subsequently, the lack of moisture was causing concern with the women, as they were finding the early summer roots that they collected were becoming sparse, and what they did find was of poor quality. Our hunters were also finding that the game was starting t
o move away from the area because the grass they fed on was dying off. We could feed ourselves with the ample fish and wildfowl from the river, but without the presence of large game, we would soon have to move our camp and follow their lead. This would affect our summer gathering with the other family units of our close Omàmiwinini brethren. We would have to move downriver and this would put us near the Haudenosaunee and danger.

  As our days moved from the Wàbigon Tibik-kìzis (Flower Moon, May) into the Odeyimin Tibik-kìzis (Strawberry Moon, June), we could see the wildflowers start to die out from the lack of moisture. The absence of rain also prevented the wild strawberries in the meadows from growing to their usual size and flavour, stunting their growth.

  The village now had to be overly vigilant with the cooking fires. The surrounding pine and birch forest was tinder dry, and it would not take much for a fire to start. The men started to take turns going to the high rocks that surrounded the village to keep watch in case of a fire. We brought all our canoes to the river and readied them in case we did have to abandon our campsite.

  Nokomis’s bosom feeds all the plants, animals, and men, but when she decides there has to be a renewal and rebirth she will use fire to do so.