“My brother’s wife,” said Omakayas at last, through Deydey, to Margaret, “it has been a good visit. We will find somewhere else to sleep tonight. If we have Chickadee, we’ll be warm and happy anywhere we camp!”
“Wait,” said Yellow Kettle suddenly, “and listen and think. We have come so far. This is our chance to see your brother, Quill, my son. If there is a place for us to live, we can stay and gather up our winter’s food. It might be a good idea.”
“There is another reason,” said Deydey. “There is a school here.” He pointed at the wall. “The twins must learn to read, and to write the white man’s language. If they do not do this, everything will be stolen from them.”
“Not if we go back! Not if we live far from everybody!” cried Omakayas, holding Makoons.
“There is good in what everyone says,” said Nokomis. “But we cannot decide this until we know for sure whether we can stay in one of these left-behind houses.”
Everyone agreed that this was true, and in addition, that they would have to wait for Chickadee’s return somewhere. But not in Margaret’s bed, as she was very protective of her pretty bed, it was clear!
As the family took leave of Margaret she entreated them to think over all she had said. This time, when she spoke, her face did not have the opposite expression. She meant it. She had begun to like Quill’s family very much and, although she didn’t want them to take over her carefully groomed cabin, she wanted them, very much, to stay.
FIFTEEN
AT THE MERCY OF TWO STRIKE
“I will not stir,” said Two Strike. She sat on a rock and sharpened each of her knives on another rock. She stared into the distance. So did Animikiins and Fishtail. After a time, the air grew dark and cold. Fishtail made a fire. Animikiins took out some dried pemmican. They ate. They slept. They woke again, and waited. Two Strike kept a lookout while the two men hunted. The air grew dark and cold again, and Fishtail built up the fire. Animikiins roasted the rabbits he’d caught. The three ate, slept, and waited again by the rock.
At first there was just a dot on the horizon. It was a curious dot. After it appeared, it disappeared. Then after a time it appeared again. The dot seemed to go forward, then backward, to enlarge and shrink. It wavered and sank out of sight. When it finally got big enough so that the watchers could tell it was a man carrying a large load, Two Strike growled.
“Something is wrong here,” said Animikiins.
“Let’s find out,” said Fishtail.
The three ran toward the strange figure and soon reached Babiche, who staggered beneath a tremendous weight. His brother was on his back, groaning and half conscious. The huge canvas mail sack was at his feet.
For all of his other faults, Babiche had two fierce loyalties. He had carried his brother, then the mail sack, then his brother again, whenever he could not walk. Somehow, as the result of this extreme effort, the two brothers and the mail sack had continued along the trail.
“Merci, mon dieu! Merci beaucoup!” cried Babiche. “Come help me my friends … and, ah!”
Suddenly he recognized that Two Strike was not a man. Not only that, but she had a knife between her teeth and two knives in her hands and was running straight at him. In a flash the words of Orph Carter rang in Babiche’s head and he sank to his knees.
He dumped his brother on the ground and put his beefy hands in the air.
“Pardon! Pardon!” he cried.
In a bound, Two Strike reached him and loomed over him. Animikiins was right behind.
“Where is Chickadee?”
Babiche’s eyes welled with tears.
“What do you mean? Chickadee? You want a little bird? I haven’t seen one!”
“Gaawiin, you lying son of a skunk,” said Two Strike. “We want the boy you stole. Where is he?”
“Boy?” Babiche gave a frozen grin.
On the ground, Batiste had stopped groaning. He was pretending to be dead.
“If you don’t answer me right now,” said Two Strike, “all the knives come out!”
“Oh yes, now I remember,” Babiche blubbered. “The boy wanted to go with us.”
Animikiins grabbed Babiche around the throat and lifted him with one hand.
“We took the boy!” Babiche gasped. “Awee! I admit this! But my friend, you have two. Both the same! Could you not spare one?”
Animikiins could not help his hand from squeezing. His desperation was the boundless desperation of a father who loves his son. Behind them, Fishtail restrained Two Strike from using at least three of her knives on Babiche right then. Babiche gestured wildly for Animikiins to let go of his neck so he could talk.
Animikiins dropped him, and Babiche choked, rubbing his neck.
“Talk, and be quick about it,” said Fishtail.
“When, ah, my brother took sick I sent the boy back to our little house with the horses. He kindly took them. He was a very good serv—Ah, boy! He’s probably back there by now with the horses, a cozy fire going, a nice pot of bouyah cooking.”
“Wretch! What are you talking about! Servant?” Two Strike said.
“We made him our servant, yes,” said Babiche in a tiny voice. “But now, great lady, my brother and I will serve you! We will be happy to serve you!”
“Chickadee should be your master,” cried Two Strike.
“And where is this house?” Animikiins was becoming dangerous with frustration. Servant indeed! His little son!
Babiche trembled as he gave directions to the cabin. Even as he shuddered, though, he was filled with admiration for Two Strike. He looked at his brother. Batiste had opened one eye just a crack, and its gleam told Babiche that he thought Two Strike was magnificent.
“We have treated the boy like our own son,” cried Babiche. “Because we heard of the beauty of this vision before us. This woman, Two Strike.”
Two Strike bent over and snarled at him. This snarl completely melted the heart of Babiche. He begged her to marry him—and his brother, too—right on the spot.
“And the horses will be our wedding gift!” he said.
Two Strike’s hand grabbed his throat. “You are lucky to escape with your life,” she said. “If I ever see you or your brother again I’ll slice you to ribbons, I’ll tear you to shreds, I’ll grind you to a pulp. I’ll destroy you!”
“Oh, what heaven!” cried Babiche. “My heart is already mashed like a boiled potato!”
Batiste lifted his head, dizzy with emotion. He quickly added, “And mine is crushed like a rotten turnip!”
“We are a bouyah of love, boiling for you!” they shouted together.
But the two were calling after a quickly disappearing Two Strike. She and Animikiins had already started running, following along Babiche’s trail. Left with the two brothers and the mail sack, Fishtail spoke with furious disgust.
“You can carry your stinking brother,” he said. “I will take the mail.”
Fishtail soon left Babiche staggering beneath the load of Batiste, and strode into town. He dropped the mail off at the steps of a small wooden church where he saw a priest working. He spoke to the priest for a moment, then continued on until he came to his family. They were just starting out from Quill’s cabin.
When Omakayas didn’t see either Chickadee or Animikiins, her face fell. She bravely held on to Nokomis, and together the little family listened to Fishtail’s story. When he had finished, they sat right down where they were. It was a pretty spot, on a small hill that sloped down to the roiling river. Mikwam and Fishtail took out their pipes, smoked them, prayed, and together the family looked into their hearts. They needed direction. They knew they had to wait here, as patiently as they could. The question was how long.
“We don’t know how long,” Fishtail said at last. “That is the problem. But I do know that our son is clever, and we have taught him how to live like an Anishinabe.”
“Perhaps we think over what Quill’s wife told us,” said Omakayas slowly. She was reluctant to live in a town but, more than a
nything, she wanted the return of her son.
“We will not stay with Quill or, rather, not with Margaret,” said Yellow Kettle.
Omakayas and Nokomis silently agreed, flashing a look of assurance at each other.
“If there is nowhere to live, we’ll make our own cabin,” said Mikwam.
“And plant our own garden,” said Nokomis. All along the way from the island they came from, far back in the lake, she had gathered seeds from other gardeners. Now she had a pouch of seeds she guarded day and night. She was eager to plant them.
“I have been wanting to live in a cabin like the one we had so long ago,” said Mikwam. “When they bring back our Chickadee, we’ll have a place ready for us all to live!”
Nokomis smiled at the memory and patted Yellow Kettle’s hand. Perhaps some of them were not eager to leave the islands of Lake of the Woods, where the fish were plentiful and the berries grew thick. On the other hand, the only way to find Chickadee was to stay where they were, and to wait.
That very day, the family took their packs of furs to the traders. As they were beautifully prepared and well kept, and as Mikwam and Yellow Kettle were good bargainers, they got the best price possible. Next, the family went to the priest Fishtail had met, Father Belcourt. The first priest, Father Genin, had told Father Belcourt all about the family. Father Belcourt was known to be sympathetic to the Ojibwe and to the Metis. He often came along on the buffalo hunts and provided a blessing, helped the hunters get along, and said a Mass of thanks when the hunt was over.
Now they asked the priest where land was available. Father Belcourt was just leaving the little cabin next to the church, where he lived. He spoke Ojibwe with Mikwam and pointed out a plot of land high enough to stay clear of the river’s floodwaters. Many people made the mistake of building too close to the Red River, he said, and it cost them dearly come spring. The land he pointed out had been abandoned. It belonged to a family that had left for St. Joseph, just as Margaret had said. There was a cabin on it already, the roof collapsed from winter snow. There was even a garden laid out alongside and the beginnings of a pole barn for horses.
“You will need horses out here, on the Plains,” said Father Belcourt.
“True enough,” said Mikwam.
Omakayas gave Father Belcourt a makak of maple sugar. It was a special basket, with a picture of a wild goose on the side and fit with a clever lid.
“Such nice work,” said the priest. “And my favorite food. Nothing beats the excellent taste of your maple sugar!”
His long, grave face brightened with pleasure and he smiled at all of them. As they walked toward the hill, carrying all that belonged to them, his smile became thoughtful. Here was an intelligent and hardworking family. He would like to have them in his church, and the children in his school. He hoped they’d flourish on the side of the hill, and come back to him. He hoped he could save their souls.
That very day, the family set about making themselves a new place to live. Fishtail and Mikwam set the fallen rafters aside and straightened out the log walls. Omakayas and Nokomis mixed mud with broken grass and wood chips to set between the logs. Makoons and Zozie were sent down to the river to haul water. Yellow Kettle fetched wood, chopped it into a pile, and made a fire in a sheltered area where she could cook. The dogs, their harnesses and loads removed, roamed the area and hunted for rabbits.
After hauling bucket after bucket of water, Makoons and Zozie decided to try catching some fish. There were other people by the river catching fish, big fat ones with golden eyes and rough scales. One of them had thrown a smaller fish aside, which Makoons picked up. He whittled two sharp fishhooks from a bit of wood. Each had a coil of strong and slender line from Mikwam, who had bought it along with the other supplies. Zozie sliced the small fish to ribbons, and then she and Makoons baited their hooks.
One fish, another! The fish were biting hard in the spring flood, hungry from their winter’s fast. When they had a neat string of fish, they carried them up the hill.
That night Yellow Kettle baked them in the coals of the fire, and seasoned them with maple sugar.
As Makoons ate, he wondered what his brother was eating, and his chest began to hurt all around his heart. He put down his food and crept into his blankets. He put his hand over his face but his tears leaked through his fingers.
SIXTEEN
THE SMALL AND THE FIERCE
Chickadee was alone in the woods. Very alone. He walked as long and as far as he could, then gathered up a pile of leaves for a bed. He still had the fire-steel, flint, and the knife he’d taken from the desk of the priest. Maybe tomorrow night he’d make a fire, but for tonight, he’d not risk it. The smoke might give him away. Hungry, cold, thirsty, and lonely, Chickadee curled into the pile of leaves. As he fell asleep, he too put his hand over his face. Tears leaked through his fingers. He sobbed his brother’s name.
The strong spring sun woke Chickadee, and he sat up, scattering leaves all around. He began immediately to walk, and he walked with great purpose, but by the time the sun was high Chickadee was so weak he had to sit down on a rock.
He put his head down on his knees, for he was dizzy with thirst and hunger.
Maybe I will die here, he thought. That thought made him get up and walk again, heading steadily north.
Soon the sun sank deeply through the bare branches of the trees. Chickadee’s knees wobbled. His stomach pinched so hard he cried out. He sat down again, his back against a tree. He closed his eyes.
Maybe I will die here, he thought again. And again this thought forced him to rise and travel, although he staggered and reeled along.
The next time his strength gave out, though, Chickadee lay down on the earth. He’d found a patch of sun and it was warm on his face and arms. He did not want to give up, but there was no strength in him. The wish to travel on was there, but his legs were weak as stems of grass. If only he could find water, a bit of food, but water most importantly.
I will die here unless you help me. Please help me, he thought.
He wondered whom he was asking to help him—Gizhe Manidoo, the great, kind spirit? Other helpful spirits, the adizookaanag? Perhaps the memegwesiwag, the little people, spirits of the forest. Or his we’eh, his namesake, perhaps? Who would answer if he spoke aloud?
“Help me, please help me, or I will die here,” he said to the air, the trees, and anything else that could hear him.
Immediately, on a thin branch right over his face, a chickadee perched.
This bird spoke to him, not in the voice of a bird, but in a voice he could understand.
“I have been following you, my son,” said the chickadee, “and I remember that you insulted me once, but that you were very sorry. You fed me. You asked my pardon. Therefore I will help you now. Do you remember what Nokomis said?”
Chickadee listened and smiled. “I remember,” he said. “Nokomis said that small things have great power.”
“You remember well!” The chickadee trilled with pleasure. “I do have great power, my little son. And I will help you. Now listen.”
The little gray bird with the jaunty black cap told Chickadee that just beyond the trees, and over the next rise, he would find a fresh stream of water. There, too, he would find a rabbit that two hawks had fought over. They had dropped the kill, but in their fury over who should have the rabbit, they had grappled together and held on so tightly that their deathly sharp claws had locked together.
“You will find the rabbit on the ground, and the hawks close by. The hawks are not my friends, of course. I tease them. But as I am too little to bother with, they try to ignore me. If you help the hawks, and tell them I sent you to their assistance, they will one day return the favor. And now, to give you strength my little son, I will teach you my song.”
I am only the Chickadee
Yet small things have great power
I speak the truth.
Chickadee learned the song. It was a short song, as all real Ojibwe songs are. The melo
dy went up and down like the chickadee’s song. He sang it over and over with his we’eh, his father and protector.
“Whenever you need my power, you must sing this song. Use it wisely. You can help others with it, too. This song can heal people. Now go on your way!” the bird said.
Then Chickadee stood and his we’eh darted away into the brush, singing the song. Chickadee began to walk just the way he’d been told, following each direction carefully. Whenever he wobbled and felt that he could not go on, he sang the song he’d been given. The song became his own song very quickly. It gave him strength. He could feel the words flow through him and his legs moved with purpose.
At last, walking down a low hill covered with brush, he found the stream. He raced to its edge, thanked the chickadee, and drank. No water he’d drunk had ever tasted so good.
When Chickadee raised his head and sat back on his heels, he saw the dead rabbit, freshly killed, lying next to him. He stood, strengthened by the water, and looked around. Sure enough—there were the two hawks, their claws clenched, panting in exhaustion. They had been stuck together struggling to get loose for so long that they had no strength left.
“I have come to help you,” said Chickadee, approaching them.
The hawks’ yellow eyes regarded Chickadee with hatred and cold contempt. He thought he heard their voices, too, though they were as faint as thought.
“We would rather die than have you touch us, human. Anishinabe though you are, we call you death!”
“I will not hurt you,” said Chickadee. “I have been given a message.”
“A message? From what being?”
The hawks panted and opened their beaks, hissing at him.
“I have a message from the chickadee.”
“Ah,” said one of the hawks. “That one. He eludes us. He plays tricks on us. We pretend he is too small to bother with. But the truth is we just can’t catch him.”