Chapter 41
The Way of Wenebojo
On the last day of April, Tor’s cedar strip canoe glided smoothly and silently across the bay in the early morning light. A warm, southern breeze brought with it the fresh scents of early spring. Reaching his destination, Tor rested his paddle and drifted into position. Then, with a single, strong thrust, the bow slid up onto the sand beach on the west end of the small island.
Stepping out, Tor noticed another canoe slowly skirting the far side of the lake. He gazed at it for a moment, then turned as Makade and Waabishki, tails wagging, bounded down the bank to greet him.
“Chief Namakagon,” he called. The old Indian stepped into the sunlight, squinting and shading his eyes with his hand.
“Welcome, young woodsman.”
“Boil up some water for tea, Mikwam-migwan, I brought along a hunk of Sourdough’s yellowjack and some molasses cookies.” He grabbed his pack and climbed the hill, the dogs in the lead. The tea was soon steeping.
“Most of the men in our camp are gone now,” said Tor as he helped himself to a piece of yellowjack. “Junior and his pa left two weeks ago. They have crops to put in. Junior says, come November, he’ll be back for his third year in the pinery. Now, other than Pa, Uncle Ingman, and me, there’s only Sourdough and Gust Finstead left to mind the camp.”
“And the animals?”
“Well, we kept a couple of good teams and four ridin’ horses. The rest of our workhorses we sent along with the men to use over the summer. They’ll bring them back next fall, fat and sassy, pa says. Sourdough had a say in things too. We kept a boar and four sows and two milk cows. We’ll have plenty of cream and milk for cookin’ and butter and such, and I expect we’ll get plenty of pork for next winter, the way those swine have been acting.
“Pa put in a bid for the Bass Lake Camp. Plenty of good pine and hemlock left to harvest up there. My uncle says we’re likely to win the bid.”
“Good land,” said Namakagon. “Good pine. Needs to be treated with respect. I hope your father wins the chance.” He paused in thought. “Tor, some see our Earth Mother much like your basket of yellowjack, there. Some think they were given life so they could take without giving back. They think not of the future. Others, like your father and uncle, work to protect the land so those who come later can enjoy the richness of nature. You, Tor, are one of the protectors.” He paused again. “There is something old Mikwam-migwan needs to share with you. Many years ago a wise old man who watched over this land placed his trust in me, just as I now trust in you. He was called Old Bear. He took me to a hidden cave where silver garnishes the walls like stars grace the black winter sky.”
“Yes, I remember you speaking of it.”
“It is time for me to pass this knowledge on to the person I trust most.”
“You mean me? Isn’t there someone else who should know about this?”
“No. I have searched my mind and my heart. There are others who want to know but you are the one I have chosen.”
“I have heard some of our jacks talk about the secret silver mine. I think they figured it was just another yarn told to pass the winter nights.”
Namakagon laughed. “This is the work of Wenebojo. He confuses any who might abuse nature’s gifts. I am off to Marengo Lake today for spruce roots and birch bark to build a new canoe. Come with. I will show you the cave.”
“I am honored to have your confidence, Mikwam-migwan. Yes, I will go along with you. But, first, tell me more about this Wenebojo. I have heard you mention him before. Who is he?”
“Wenebojo?” Namakagon paused again. “Some say he is a spirit. Some say he is a man. Some say both. Wenebojo wanders the land, eager to teach us the lessons of life. Sometimes he guards us from each other and, sometimes from ourselves. He plays tricks on us to help us remember exactly who is in charge. At the same time, he works to protect nature and his grandmother, the Earth. Some say he can change from man to animal to plant to rock and back.”
“So Wenebojo is made up, like Paul Bunyan?”
“Oh, no. You see, Tor, Wenebojo is more than just stories. He watches us. He could be watching us now. He can lead you to safety or into danger. He can make you lost in the forest one moment and tell you where you are the next. He brings the frost to the ferns each autumn. In the winter, just when you plan on traveling to town for supplies, he brings you a blizzard. When you think the winter will never end, he brings you warm, sunny days to melt away the snow. When you have fished in the cold rain for hours without a bite and are ready to quit, it is Wenebojo who will tug on your line to make you stay and suffer longer. In the summer, if you are not paying attention, he will make the sun so hot it will make your skin burn all night. You never know with him. Listen closely to the wind in the pines, Tor, you might hear Wenebojo laughing at us. Oh, no. Wenebojo is more than stories. Much more.”
“Then, you say he is real?”
“Wenebojo is what he wants to be. He is real and he is not. He is always there and he is never there.”
The two friends finished their food. Before leaving the island, Tor helped Namakagon hang a dozen large, slabs of pike in the old Indian’s birch bark smokehouse.
Tor dropped one onto the dirt floor. “Don’t blame me. Wenebojo made me lose my grip.”
“Young woodsman, do not use him to explain your own mistakes. If he likes you, you will do well. If Wenebojo does not like you, life can be miserable.
I once heard of a dozen Frenchmen who made a latrine on a riverbank. When rain washed it all down the bank, spoiling the water, they blamed it on Wenebojo. That day, seven of them, those who had used the latrine, drowned in the rapids. The men who had not used the latrine survived. No, Tor, never mock Wenebojo. He can be your friend, but you do not want him for an enemy.”
Namakagon threw a hatful of tag alder chips onto the coals and closed the buckskin flap, tying it tightly to retain the sweet smoke. There would be plenty of smoked fish to put in the ice house when they returned.
Tor and Chief Namakagon stepped into the canoe followed by Waabishki and Makade. A quick push and they were out onto the lake. They paddled north, far up into the creek until brush and windfalls blocked their way. Namakagon found his old portage trail.
After lashing their paddles to the thwarts, Tor raised the light canoe onto his shoulders. With the two dogs and Namakagon in the lead, Tor followed the well-tramped trail to the next lake. They crossed the lake and portaged again, skirting the next small lake and crossing a bubbling creek.
Tor noticed steep ridges on either side of their trail now. Rocky outcroppings faced the trail from both sides. Neither Tor nor the chief noticed the dark shape moving quietly behind them.
A shadow flashed across the trail.
“Look. Our brother the eagle is here to show us the way.”
Tor rested the canoe’s stern on the low limb of a tree and looked out from under. Above, a bald eagle flew so close that each wing beat could be heard.
“We are near, young woodsman. We have but one more lake to cross.”
They crossed the last lake, paddled up the creek that fed it, and pulled the canoe onto shore. The last leg of the trek would be without a canoe on Tor’s shoulders.
They hiked fewer than a hundred yards when Tor heard a faint noise in the brush. The dogs froze, staring down the trail. The hair on their backs and necks stood on end. They growled a warning to the menace ahead. A huge bear stepped out onto the trail. Tor and Namakagon remained motionless.