She pointed at the horses, who were tossing their heads up and down. To Makoons it looked like they were agreeing with Two Strike. Actually, they always tossed their heads up and down when they saw Two Strike because she brought them whatever treats she could find. She shared tender plants, sweetened bread, dried berries, and more. The horses believed she was one of them, their leader. Wherever she walked, they followed. When she stopped, they stopped. They stood behind her, craned over her shoulder, and gently lowered their hard noses and velvet lips to her hands.
Makoons looked at them indifferently, but allowed Two Strike to help him into the saddle. Brownie flicked her ears to Two Strike and listened to all she said, then began to trot around and around her in an even circle. As Two Strike turned, the horse kept her eye lovingly on the powerful woman. Slowly, Makoons eased into the horse’s stride. Soon, he was cantering along with wonderful ease, his hands caught in Brownie’s flowing mane.
“Majaan!” cried Two Strike, sweeping her hands toward the open prairie. Away Brownie loped, Makoons on her back. He actually laughed. He rode the horse into the distance, and then Two Strike whistled. Brownie flicked back an ear and headed home. Two Strike had a piece of jellied bannock waiting. She looked anxiously at Makoons. His eyes looked brighter, but the moment his feet touched ground his shoulders sagged.
“If only we could keep him on a horse day and night, he might get better. You could help him,” said Two Strike to Brownie. “But he is a human. Sometimes he must walk the same earth as his brother. As soon as his feet touch that ground, he is reminded that somewhere, nowhere, anywhere, his brother walks too.”
TWENTY-THREE
RETURN OF THE BOUYAH
After the mosquitoes, the oxcart train made good time on a level piece of prairie and even managed the difficult part of the road that wound in and out of the woods, through sloughs and alongside quaking bogs. There was plenty of fresh game along the trail, and every night the fiddles came out. Antoinette brewed coffee. The Metis liked to celebrate any small thing that happened, as well as big things. Birthdays were big things, and it seemed to Chickadee that everyone and even the oxen had parties at night for their special days.
The sloughs began to blend together, and the oxen struggled in the mushy ground. One day the carts at the beginning of the line made it through a deep slough, but by the time Uncle Quill’s cart—and then Antoinette’s, who was just behind them—got to the swampiest place, it was impossible. Both carts sank their wheels right in and could not budge.
Immediately, men from the other carts came to try to extricate the two carts. From firmer ground, they tried to pull the oxen up. From behind, they tried to push the carts. They cut great bunches of reeds and laid them down under the wheels, but the muck seemed bottomless.
In the middle of all the effort, everyone paused to catch a breath. They stood around the stuck carts pondering their next move, arguing and thinking up new advice. As they stood there, Chickadee saw two men approaching. They were coming down the road far ahead, but he recognized them anyway. Though tiny, they were also huge. They slouched along, packs slung across their backs, smoking their pipes, gesturing, laughing. They wore the same knitted red hats, had the same drum-tight bellies, and their beards stuck out to each side ferociously.
“Uncle,” said Chickadee, pulling on Quill’s sleeve. “Those two men are coming, the two I told you about!”
“Not now,” said Quill. He was worried that an axle or wheel might break beneath the strain. Or that the cart would sit in the mud until the middle of summer. He was trying to figure a way out.
“Uncle,” said Chickadee, more urgently, “those are the men who kidnapped me!”
“Eya’,” said Quill distractedly. “Maybe we can cut some popple trees and make a little bridge to get those oxen out. I saw some trees a few miles back.”
“Remember their names? Babiche and Batiste! They’re here.”
And they were. Chickadee held tightly to his uncle’s jacket. He wasn’t exactly afraid that Babiche and Batiste would steal him again, but he wondered what they were up to. He didn’t trust them. And their horses were gone. Where were Brownie and Brownie? Why were they on foot?
“Sacre coeur!” bellowed Babiche when he saw Chickadee.
“Our Little Master!” Bastiste cried. “He survived!”
The two great brothers plunged through the slough and rose dripping and happy. They tried to embrace Chickadee, but Quill now remembered the whole story and stood between them and his nephew.
“Your Little Master?” Chickadee was more than surprised. “I was your servant the last time I saw you! What happened?”
“Ah,” said Babiche, “my good brother and I had our hearts clarified. We met a great woman. A woman of many knives. A woman stronger than the two of us together. We both asked her to marry us!”
“Two Strike? You asked her to marry you?”
“Awee,” said both brothers.
“She is strong enough a wife for both of us,” said Batiste. “We said that we would serve her until we perished. But she said, ‘Serve Chickadee instead.’”
“But we didn’t know where you were! Oh, Grace of God, now we have found you! You, our Little Master!”
Babiche and Batiste threw their arms wide.
“No need,” said Chickadee, and introduced his uncle and then Antoinette and her grandchildren. He asked what had happened to Brownie and Brownie.
“We gave them to the great lady. We gave them as wedding gifts,” said Babiche. “May it be true that she still has them and is considering our request!”
“I am sure she’s thinking about it,” said Uncle Quill. “But we will never know unless we make it out of this mud. It threatens to suck these carts right down to hell!”
“We would never let that happen!” cried Babiche.
“We will use our endless strength!”
The two great brothers rubbed their hands together, and their force was combined with the others who strove in the muddy slough. Slowly, with an endless sucking groan, the first ox was pulled free. Then the brothers put their immense arms to work and lifted the cart right out of the mud and carried it to firm ground. They did the same for Antoinette’s oxcart.
“Mon dieu,” she exclaimed. “I have never seen such power! You must need food for your great bellies now!”
“Awee, madame, so we do,” said the brothers.
The carts labored on for some distance, until the way looked clear again and they had caught up to the rest of the train. The first carts were already camped, and so Uncle Quill did the same. Antoinette invited the two brothers to camp with her family, and to enjoy her cooking. Chickadee heard Babiche say the word bouyah, and he sidled over to his uncle.
“Uncle, have you ever tasted bouyah?” he asked.
Uncle Quill looked down at Chickadee with pity in his eyes.
“Were you forced to eat bouyah?” he asked.
“Yes, my uncle.”
“There is some good bouyah,” said Quill. “My wife makes it, and I’ll bet Antoinette makes a good batch too. But it can be terrible stuff!”
“Geget, I could not agree more. Gidebwe,” said Chickadee.
“If Antoinette offers us some supper,” said Quill, “and I know she will, we will smell it first. We will test it just a little. I have found it is always wise to be cautious where bouyah is concerned.”
That night, the camp rested exhaustedly after the efforts of the day. Passing into slumber, Chickadee heard a pack of wolves howling in the near distance. He could tell that they were howling for joy and thought they were probably celebrating their young pups as they emerged from their dens. Maybe they had made a kill that day, and all of them felt like singing. Their song went on and on into the night, and Chickadee slept happily, his back against his uncle’s buffalo robe. When he woke the next morning, a light rain was lashing down all around the cart. Antoinette had fixed a set of bent willow branches on her cart, and when it rained or the sun became too hot, sh
e fastened her canvas tipi over the poles and traveled in comfort.
“My boy,” said Uncle Quill, “we are going to do the same.”
He had bought some canvas in St. Paul, and now he spotted strong new willow growing near. After drinking some tea at Antoinette’s camp, he cut the poles and erected the same contraption on his oxcart.
“Now this is traveling,” he said happily to Chickadee as they started out. In spite of the rain, they now continued along a ridge of land that was perfectly solid. It was a pleasure to jounce along. The ox was well fed on new grass and pulled easily. The gentle rain blew about them in warm gusts, but they were dry beneath the canvas.
When they talked now, they mainly read each other’s lips. With their ears plugged and the appalling creaking of the carts, they couldn’t even hear each other yell. But they managed to communicate quite well even so.
“Uncle Quill,” said Chickadee as they traveled the good road, “can you tell me a story about when you were young?”
Quill laughed.
“In those days I was always getting into trouble!”
“That’s what Mama says.”
“She’s right. One time I stayed behind on purpose, at wild rice camp. Everybody left without me. I was alone in the woods.”
“I know what that’s like,” said Chickadee.
“It wasn’t so bad,” said Uncle Quill.
“Did you meet any spirits?”
“Several times, I did. They were memegwesiwag, little people spirits. Once, your mother and I got caught in the rapids. At night! There we were in our canoe, washed right downstream, pushed along quick as an arrow. In the dark! We could see nothing. It’s amazing we came out of that alive. But we were protected by the memegwesiwag who lived along that stream. I saw one afterward, a hairy little round man. He was smiling at us. He looked proud that we’d lived.”
“I have never seen one of those spirits,” said Chickadee. “But when I was alone, starving, two hawks had pity on me because I helped them. Also, I have spoken to my own namesake, and the little bird gave advice to me.”
“Ah,” said Quill, “you are very fortunate! You must remember that advice forever. Did he give you anything else?”
“A song.”
Quill gave a low whistle.
“This is a very powerful thing, my boy. To have your namesake, your protector, and a song. You will be able to heal with that song.”
“That’s what my we’eh told me.”
“Yes, when you are given a song, you must use it for good things. You will help people with that song. Will you sing it for me?”
Uncle Quill tipped his head very close and Chickadee sang the song into his ear. Quill was quiet for a good bit of the time as the oxcart rolled and bounced over the trail. He hummed the song thoughtfully. Finally, he said it was a good song.
“Nokomis would say that song will last through time.”
Chickadee let the pleasure of that thought, and the happiness at the thought of seeing his family, fill him.
“Uncle,” he said, “do you have a story for me? Perhaps something else that happened to you when you were a boy? Or perhaps about your naming. Your name Quill is a powerful name. I suppose it was given to you as a young warrior. I suppose that your shot was fine as a quill. Or your arrows were always that sharp. I suppose the enemy feared your sharpness.”
Uncle Quill was silent. After a while, he looked at Chickadee, shook his wild hair, and laughed.
“One time,” he said, “I thought I was a great hunter. I saw a porcupine up in a tree. I knocked it out of the tree and do you know? That baby porcupine, it fell on me! Quills stuck all over in me. There were quills in my arms. Quills on my head. Quills even on the end of my nose. That is how I got my name!”
“Oh,” said Chickadee. He tried not to sound disappointed, but he was surprised.
“I was always playing tricks on people, always teasing your mother. I wasn’t a great hero, you know,” said Quill.
“Did you save anybody?” asked Chickadee. “Did you kill a bear as it charged you?”
“No,” said Quill.
“Did a thousand warriors surround you and you terrified them with your war cry?”
“No,” said Quill.
“Did you put out a raging fire?”
“Yes, I did that,” Quill remembered happily. “I put out a raging fire once! The fire was raging on the seat of my pants. I put it out by dunking my butt in a bucket of water.”
“You are so big and strong,” said Chickadee, almost desperate now, “you must have done something brave!”
“Not yet,” said Quill. “But I did take care of that little namesake, that porcupine. It lived with me for a year. I didn’t eat him even when we nearly starved to death.”
“That’s pretty good,” said Chickadee.
“If you want some good hunting stories, you should ask Two Strike.”
“I’d be scared to ask Two Strike,” said Chickadee.
“Did you ever hear about the time Two Strike rode a moose?”
“No,” said Chickadee.
“I’ll tell you,” said Quill. “One day Two Strike was paddling her canoe on the lake and there she saw a moose, just swimming along in front of her. You know how she always has her knives or her gun for hunting?”
“Always,” said Chickadee, who couldn’t imagine her otherwise.
“This time she’d forgotten everything. Imagine, she’d just gone out to enjoy the day. This, she never did. And here a moose swims right up to her. Of course, she wanted to hunt that moose.”
“Of course,” said Chickadee.
“She had only a rope,” said Quill. “So she tied that rope around the moose and then jumped out of the boat right onto the moose’s back. So there she was, riding on the moose in the lake, just as easy as you please. She steered it by the antlers. Of course, pretty soon the moose wants to get out of the lake, and out he comes. Two Strike is now on top of the moose, riding it like a horse. Do you think the moose likes that?”
“No,” said Chickadee.
“Oh, you can bet it doesn’t like this one bit! The moose can’t see what is on its back, but knows it isn’t good. That moose starts running furiously through the woods. It runs under low branches, trying to scrape that thing off its back. Two Strike holds on for dear life. If she falls off, that moose will stomp her with its knife-sharp hooves!”
“What happened?”
“After a long, very long while, the moose starts walking slower and slower. Finally, the moose fell asleep. She tired it out, that Two Strike. That moose was walking in its sleep. Two Strike hopped off, still holding that rope, and the moose kept walking in its sleep. She could lead it anywhere. She led that moose home. Back to camp.”
“Really?”
“I saw it! Into camp walks Two Strike with that moose walking right beside her, sleepy and gentle as a puppy. Of course, knowing me, you probably know what I did when I saw her bring that sleeping moose into camp.”
“What did you do?” asked Chickadee.
“I shouted, ‘Wake up!’” said Quill. “And boy, did it ever startle awake. That moose looked around, turned its head this way and that as though thinking, How’d I get here? Then it rears up and tears through the camp, knocking over the kettles, kicking through the wigwams. It tossed a rack of dried fish into the air. Fish rained down everywhere! It caught a blanket on its antlers and the blanket hung down over its eyes. That moose was twirling around and around in the middle of the camp, blinded. That rope swung by Two Strike. She caught the end of the rope, but it fell off the moose. She was laughing too hard to kill that moose. It just ran off, the blanket flapping off its head. Later on, we found that blanket on the ground. It was all torn up. I guess the moose tried to fight it, just stomped it to pieces. Oh, we never forgot that.”
Chickadee laughed, imagining the torn blanket. The trail wound through beautiful woods of tamarack, and over corduroy roads that were made of skinned tamarack poles placed together one
after the other. The roads were bone-rattling, but nobody got stuck. If one of the poles broke, the oxcart train stopped and cut a new pole to replace it. That was part of the way of the trail, Uncle Quill explained.
“If something on the trail goes wrong, a tree falls across, a pole breaks, then we fix it. We depend on those who went before us to do the same. Once, I explained this to Nokomis. Know what she said?”
“What?”
“She said that was how the world should work. We should fix what we break in this world for the ones who come next, our children.”
TWENTY-FOUR
THE SNAKE NEST
“Uncle, look out!”
The oxcarts ahead were slowly slipping into a coulee, and at the bottom there was a steep incline. The more that went down, the harder it was to get out. Uncle Quill halted the ox just in time.
“Now what do we do?”
“Har!”
It was the brothers, who had taken a great liking to Antoinette’s family in the cart just behind. Babiche and Batiste were surveying the difficult mess below, and decided that their bellies were full enough to help push the carts again. Down they went, and in no time the carts that floundered at the bottom were aided by the pushing shoulders of the two strong brothers.
The rest of the train took a circuitous route that took them along a rough, woody trail to avoid the deep, dry streambed. It looped around and soon rejoined the bone-jarringly bumpy road. Chickadee jumped out of the cart and walked beside the ox. Walking was much better. As he accompanied the ox that day, he saw his namesake. The little bird hovered near, then perched on the collar of the ox. It was singing, or saying something, or trying to tell Chickadee some piece of news. The little bird was so intent, trying to communicate. But the wheels of the carts were so loud, Chickadee couldn’t hear what his namesake was trying to tell him.
That night, however, Chickadee dreamed of his brother.