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  Ki’kwa’ju and I were working steadily at our task, skinning the bears at the bottom of the cliff, when off to our left two bodies crashed out of the bushes. Glancing up, we saw a very irritated bear cub and a cut and battered Achie. Again this prompted another round of laughter from Ki’kwa’ju and me. Achie peered at us, then looked at the bear, and he, too, started to laugh.

  “This young bear will make a very fine pet for the village,” Achie said. “He has the grit of a true warrior. I’m going to call him Tindee Anue, which means Two Bear in our language, to remind everyone that he had a twin.”

  We were just finishing cutting up the two bears when our three other companions and their dogs trotted down the small valley. They stopped and smiled at us.

  “Good hunting, I see, Anokì,” said Kìnà Odenan.

  “A gift from Kije-Manidò (Great Spirit),” I replied, then told them the story of the bears.

  The ten dogs they had were able to take most of the meat and the bear pelts on pole sleds we made from the available saplings in the area. The rest of the meat was carried by the three companions. Achie had his hands full with the cub, and Ki’kwa’ju and I had retrieved the rolled-up birchbark for his canoe and had loaded it on our shoulders to carry to the shoreline of the lake. We would start making his canoe there tomorrow.

  That night, as we huddled around the fire to ward off the night chill, the forest sounds intermingled with the young cub crying for its mother and the dogs whimpering because of the distressed noises of grief from the bear cub.

  Achie had dug up some roots, gathered berries, and vainly tried to feed the little one. Finally, the animal settled down, and everyone in the camp was able to sleep.

  The next morning Achie took some of the bear meat and left for his nearby village along with Kìnà Odenan, Agwanìwon, our dogs, and the bear cub. Kànìkwe stayed with Ki’kwa’ju and me to help build the canoe.

  We steamed the wooden cedar ribs in hot water for five days as we worked on soaking and making our spruce rope. Then we lashed and fastened the gunwales. Once we could bend the ribs we fastened them to the birchbark and the thin cedar sheathing that strengthened the boat. Now all that was left to do was the boiling of the resin to seal the seams. Right from the start Ki’kwa’ju didn’t listen and forgot to wet his thumb to spread the resin. As a result, Ki’kwa’ju’s finger stuck to the seam he was covering, and Kànìkwe walked toward him while removing his knife from its scabbard.

  Ki’kwa’ju looked at Kànìkwe and asked, “What are you going to do with that knife?”

  “Well, the only way I can get that thumb free is to cut it off — unless, of course, you want to go around the rest of your life dragging a canoe on the end of your hand.”

  Ki’kwa’ju’s face paled as white as the birchbark, and he stammered as Kànìkwe bent over and worked the knife around the thumb, freeing it from the resin. Sighing deeply with relief as the colour returned to his features, Ki’kwa’ju held his thumb up, brandishing the clump of resin on the end. He glanced at Kànìkwe and laughed nervously.

  Kànìkwe chuckled, turned to me, and winked. Gazing over his shoulder at Ki’kwa’ju, he said, “Maybe the next time you’ll listen when we instruct you in the ways!”

  It took Ki’kwa’ju a few hours to pick the resin, plus a layer or two of skin, away from his thumb, but it was a lesson he would never forget.

  After working on the canoe for six suns, it was ready for Ki’kwa’ju to try out the next day. I had been working on a canoe paddle for my friend, fashioning it from an ash tree. The wood was strong and smooth to the hand. After our evening meal, I gave Ki’kwa’ju the paddle as a gift. He thanked me with a hug and a gift of tobacco.

  The morning sun rose in an orange fireball, and the bay was ripple-free, enabling us to see the sun and surrounding trees in the reflection of the water. It was as if there was another world below the stillness of the lake. Ki’kwa’ju ate the early-morning meal with us and then shoved off to paddle to a small island and back. As he left, the wind increased from the south, causing the waves to reach up and push the canoe and occupant effortlessly along.

  “Anokì,” inquired Kànìkwe, “has he ever paddled a canoe by himself in the wind?”

  “No,” I replied, “and neither did he take any weight for the front of the boat.”

  We looked at each other and smiled.

  Ki’kwa’ju had no problem sitting in the back of the canoe going toward the island with the wind at his back, but once he reached the shoreline and began to come back, things got tricky for him. The wind had picked up and blew into his face, and because of the lack of weight in the bow, the boat sat up in the air. With Ki’kwa’ju in the back and no extra weight in the front, the wind and waves pushed against his efforts to paddle, causing the vessel to spin in a circle and propelling it back to the island’s shore. After this happened a couple of times and Ki’kwa’ju pushed off the rocks with his paddle, he moved to the middle of the canoe.

  “Anokì, are we going out to help him?” asked Kànìkwe.

  “No, this is a good lesson for him. He never asked any questions before he went out onto the water. Besides, he’s from a people who have lived their whole life on water. He has good balance and will figure this out. Kànìkwe, I’ll bet you three of my best arrows he’ll make it back to shore without tipping the canoe.”

  “I’ll take that bet, Anokì, and I’ll match your wager with three of my arrows. Just in case, though, I’m going to get an Ouendat canoe from its storage spot and ready it for when our friend tips his canoe. I won’t have him drown. Your sister, Pangì Mahingan, would skin both of us alive if that happened!”

  Turning our eyes back to the water, we watched as Ki’kwa’ju made small gains into the wind, but for each advance the wind caught him and the canoe in its grasp and spun them in a circle backward. Finally, he crawled to the front of the boat, weighing it down, and proceeded to paddle as quickly as he could. With the end of the canoe sitting in the air and the front now weighed down, he was able to get to the shore.

  Keeping a straight face as Ki’kwa’ju exited the boat, Kànìkwe asked, “How did the new canoe handle?”

  Not saying a word at first, Ki’kwa’ju bent over, scooped up a handful of water, and sprayed both of us. “You knew, didn’t you?”

  When Kànìkwe and I burst out laughing, Ki’kwa’ju glared at us, then also hooted and chuckled. “The canoe handles beautifully,” he said finally.

  Kànìkwe put his arm around Ki’kwa’ju and said, “It cost me three good arrows. However, I’m happy you didn’t drown. Plus now I won’t have to face the wrath of Pangì Mahingan. So the day has ended well for everyone. I’ll go hunt for our meal tonight to celebrate your new canoe and the experience you achieved today.”

  That night we ate a beaver Kànìkwe had killed. We roasted the tail over the fire and boiled the rest of the meat. What bear meat we had left was roasted on a spit. Tea was made from some berries I had picked that afternoon.

  When I went to sleep, I dreamed once more of my father Mahingan’s last days. The dream that had haunted me these past few years, the message of which I had yet to figure out, was one I would have to share with Uncle Mitigomij so he could help me find its true meaning.

  2

  The Dream

  ANOKÌ

  The dream started out as it always did: Nukumi, the Mi’kmaq Grandmother, had the children and wounded gather around her. She told everyone not to worry, that her son, Crazy Crow, and her guardian, Glooscap, would save everyone and that help would appear.

  The sounds of battle drifted to our hiding place. Then, like magic, Uncle Mitigomij’s big cat, Makadewà Waban (ma-ka-de-wan wah-bun: Black Dawn), and my father’s wolf, Ishkodewan (Blaze), appeared among us. The panther had a young girl gripped in his jaws, carrying her like a dog would hold a newborn puppy. The wolf’s muzzle was reddened by someone’s blood. Nukumi took the
girl, and the two animals disappeared back into the dim light of the forest.

  Handing the girl to me, Nukumi said, “Anokì, this is your sister. Protect her.”

  While I clutched my sister, a crow swooshed through the air over our heads, then, out of the forest, a silent column of painted men emerged — Wolastoqiyik (whoa-la-stow-key-ick: Maliseet) warriors! There were over forty on my count, and once they passed through, five of them remained to watch over our small group.

  In a short time the noise of the battle increased with the war cries of the Maliseet and then I heard the distinct war whistles of my father’s friend, Pangì Shìshìb (pung-gee she-sheeb: Little Duck), an Omàmiwinini chief. Soon my ears picked up the whoops of his warriors.

  Nukumi turned to everyone. “The battle has started to turn. We’ll be safe now.”

  Two bodies crashed through the forest, startling us and our companions. They were Haudenosaunee trying to escape. Unluckily for them, they ran into the Wolastoqiyik warriors guarding us and met their fate quickly.

  The din of the battle continued through most of the day. As the evening sun started to glow, the warriors of the Wolastoqiyik tribe returned to our site. They brought their wounded to our small camp, and Nukumi and the other women tried to do what they could for them. Of the thirty-five warriors who entered the conflict, seven never came back and ten were wounded.

  Soon after, my father’s people entered the camp. Mitigomij brought a woman to me and said, “This is your mother, Wàbananang.”

  My mother took me and held me close. “Anokì, your father, Mahingan, and Uncle Kàg (ka-hg: Porcupine) have perished. They died with honour. We were able to save their bodies from Ò:nenhste Erhar and his men and have given them a warrior’s burial.”

  Tears appeared in my eyes: of joy for seeing my mother and of sadness for the loss of my father.

  My mother told me that the Mi’kmaq warrior E’s (s: Clam) had, with the help of the wolf and the panther, saved her life. Pangì Shìshìb came in behind Ò:nenhste Erhar and his men and drove them off before they could mutilate the bodies of Mahingan and Kàg.

  When Uncle Mitigomij arrived in the camp, he told us the warrior the Mi’kmaq called Glooscap fought the wizard Winpe for a long time. They scarred each other but neither came under the axe of death.

  Then, out of the forest burst the bellowing and blood-covered warrior Crazy Crow, rapidly gaining the attention of the camp group. “Today was a great battle. I feel like my body has received a boost from the Great Spirit, and that skirmish between the big one, Glooscap, and the so-called wizard Winpe was one for the ages. When Winpe left with his warriors, he turned to Glooscap and said, ‘Watch over Nukumi and Apistanéwj, your little friend. I will be back for them!’ That Winpe doesn’t know when to quit!”

  I will never forget the entrance Crazy Crow made, his one good eye glistening, his imposing stature, chiselled body, and bellowing voice. He was something to behold. Then I spotted my twin cousins coming into camp, bloody and in mourning for their father. Uncle Mònz (moans: Moose) walked beside them with his head hung down. Of the four brothers, Mahingan, Kàg, Wàgosh (wa-gosh: Fox), and Mitigomij, only Mitigomij was still alive.

  Suddenly, my dream ended as I was shaken awake. Opening my eyes, I gazed up into the bright morning sun at two dark shapes between me and the early fireball. Rising from my sleeping spot, I soon realized they were my cousins, Kàg’s twin sons, Makwa (muck-wa: Black Bear) and Wàbek (Bear).

  “Come, Anokì, the Attawandaron (Neutral) and Tionontati (tea-anon-ta-tay: Tobacco) Nations have sent emissaries to the Ouendat with a mikisesimik (wampum belt). They need help. The Onöndowága (oh-n’own-dough-wahgah: Seneca) and their allies are preparing to invade the lands of our friends. An ally of the Attawandaron, a Wenrohronon warrior who lives near the Great Falls, brought the terrifying news. He said his people had captured an Onöndowága warrior during a skirmish as they were passing through their territory. Before he died in the fires at the stake, he said they were on their way to raid the Attawandaron and Tionontati villages for captives and tobacco. We must hurry and gather our forces to help them in this time of peril. The Attawandaron are a peace-loving people who depend on their allies for protection. They’re no match for the powerful Onöndowága!”

  3

  Readying for War

  ANOKÌ

  The Tionontati Nation lived along the shores of what the Ouendat called Lake Attigouatan (Georgian Bay) and the Attawandaron resided on the shores of Erielhonan (Lake Erie). Both nations were planters of the soil, growing the Three Sisters — mandàman (corn), askoot-asquash (squash), and azàhan (beans) — and nasemà (na-sem-mah: tobacco). The Attawandaron also lived near the flint grounds where all the tribes in the area came to collect the material to make weapons. Because of this important resource, the tribe had a certain neutrality and freedom from being attacked. However, the Haudenosaunee warriors of the Onöndowága Nation rarely took this neutrality into account. They were also a people of soil tillers with immense orchards of apples, fields of corn, squash, beans, and tobacco. They often traded for what they needed, but they were, first of all, a warrior society, and would rather go to war and take what they wanted. The Onöndowága were powerful and liked to constantly weaken their neighbours by raiding them. They considered the Attawandaron and Tionontati to be weak and easily overpowered.

  Both the Attawandaron and Tionontati Nations’ warriors were heavily tattooed and gave off a fierce look. The truth, though, was that these two nations’ warriors were more interested in farming, hunting, and fishing than warfare. Because they grew large fields of tobacco, considered one of our sacred medicines, they were always generous with their allies, who protected them, and were charitable with this plant in trade with us. The Ouendat grew small patches of nasemà beside their longhouses, but nothing to rival the two tribes to the west of them.

  We sped back to the Ouendat village and found it bustling with activity. The men were preparing weapons and readying a war feast, while the women were gathering corn and dried meat from their storage areas to supply the warriors with food for their coming trek. They had also dug a hole and erected a wooden post. Here was where the warriors who wanted to go to war would strike their war clubs, affirming their desire to fight. The Ouendat were like all the other tribes: no one was ever forced to go off to battle; it was the individual’s own decision. Most warriors would only follow leaders who they knew could give them brave and decisive leadership, a chance for glory, and the prospect of returning alive. A leader who didn’t have a good record of doing these things rarely got a second chance at leadership in battle.

  The Ouendat who had stepped forward to lead was known as Waughshe Anue (Bad Bear) in the Ouendat language. He wasn’t a very tall man, though no one should have been deceived by his appearance. Waughshe Anue was a shrewd and brave warrior who had led many successful forays into Haudenosaunee territory. His face was tattooed with black streaks on each cheek, and he was an expert with the bow and war club. Waughshe Anue’s head was shaved, leaving just a long braid at the back. The Ouendat people believed and trusted in his leadership.

  Waughshe Anue relayed to us what the messenger had told him. The Onöndowága had over fifty canoes and three hundred warriors. They had last been sighted in their canoes on Erielhonan, and from there they were three or four days from reaching the villages of our allies. The enemy would keep away from the strong currents of the Big Falls and then come to shore once they were past that danger. There would only be at the most a hundred warriors in most of these villages they were targeting, not enough to defend against the warlike Onöndowága and their allies. The Attawandaron urgently needed our warriors to help protect them!

  That night, during the feasting, Kìnà Odenan and Agwanìwon, the Warrior Women, gathered our small group together and asked if we wanted to aid the Ouendat in this fight. We all agreed and struck our weapons on the war post. Our group consisted
of the two Warrior Women who led us; Kànìkwe; myself; the twins, Makwa and Wàbek; my Uncle Mònz; my father’s sister, Wàbìsì (wah-bee-see: Swan); and Nigig (neh-gig: Otter) and his two daughters, Àwadòsiwag (ah- wa-dow-she-wag: Minnow) and Ininàtig (e-na-na-dig: Maple), who were married to the twins. Also there were my mother, Wàbananang; my sister, Pangì Mahingan; and Ki’kwa’ju, plus the two Mi’kmaq, E’s and Jilte’g (jil-teg: Scar). The two Ouendat warriors, Achie and Önenha’, had been with us so long that they would also follow the Warrior Women in battle with no concerns. Nigig’s mother and wife were no longer with us; both had passed away five winters ago. There were now eighteen of us. Sometimes the group was more, sometimes less, always depending on what our pursuit was that year and who was available to follow the two Warrior Women. We were very lucky that the main core almost always stayed together.

  Others who had travelled with us in the past had either left to return to their villages or had suffered death in one of our battles. The three Susquehannock brothers, Abgarijo, Oneega, and Sischijro, whom my father and I had saved from starvation those many years ago, had left us after the battle that had taken my father’s life. Sischijro had also been slain during that battle, and his brother, Oneega, had been wounded. Abgarijo stayed by his wounded brother until he healed, and once Oneega was fit, they journeyed with us to the land of the Ouendat and from there were able to proceed safely to the lands of their people with the guidance of a group of Lenape (Delaware) who were allies of the Susquehannock and lived near their villages.

  The Lenape had been on a trading journey among the Ouendat Tionontati and Attawandaron tribes for furs, corn, and tobacco. The Lenape lived alongside the big sea and brought sought-after seashells to trade with these tribes. Our hearts were saddened when the two brothers left, but they missed their homeland and had suffered much since their capture at the hands of Ò:nenhste Erhar and his men. Starvation and death had stalked them, but they had proven themselves to be tough and trustworthy warriors who had fought bravely at my people’s sides. They had been gone almost ten summers now, and in subsequent trading with the Lenape we had been told the brothers had made it back safely to their home village and had grown to be strong warriors who valiantly battled their enemies, the Haudenosaunee.