In Night Flying Woman, Ignatia Broker (Ojibway) lovingly recounts the life of her great-great-grandmother, Ni-bo-wi-se-gwe. This is a story rich in Ojibway traditions and lifeways that moves from a life of precontact peace and contentment to the disruption and displacement caused by white settlers. In Broker’s own words, it was a time of “great chaos and change.”
The following passage tells the story of a family’s refusal to capitulate to government demands that they be placed on a reservation, their subsequent flight from white encroachment, and the sorrow and desolation of leaving playmates and loved ones behind, perhaps never to be seen again.
Ignatia Broker was an Ojibway elder and storyteller. Over the course of her life she worked to educate the public about Native American people. She was involved with the Upper Midwest American Indian Center in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and founded the Minnesota Indian Historical Society. She died in 1987.
NI-BO-WI-SE-GWE IS A GREAT-GREAT-GRANDMOTHER TO MANY people of the Wolf and Fish clans, and in our family we speak of her with pride. She was a great and unusual woman, and there are many stories told of her life and ways.
As it is told, many of the events and circumstances pertaining to Ni-bo-wi-se-gwe were unusual, even from the time before her birth. Her father, Me-ow-ga-bo (Outstanding), and mother, Wa-wi-e-cu-mig-go-gwe (Round Earth), were young, healthy, and strong. Usually such Ojibway couples have children early in marriage, and often they have at least five. But it was not so with this young couple. They had been three years together, a long time, and they had not had a child. The people of their village began to wonder and feel a sadness for the young couple. After the third year, Ni-bo-wi-se-gwe was born, and she was the only child.
The time of her birth was after the blueberry gathering and before the wild-rice harvesting. The day began bright and sunny, and it was so when Wa-wi-e-cu-mig-go-gwe felt the first pangs of birth. Just before the sun was high in the sky, at the exact time of birth, the sun and moon crossed paths and there was a pitch darkness. In this darkness the first wail of the child was heard, and because of this her parents knew that the tiny girl would be different. But they felt it was good because she was born of love and joy.
So out of the darkness, called the eclipse, was born a person who became strong and gave strength, who became wise and lent this wisdom to her people, who became part of the generation of chaos and change.
Me-ow-ga-bo and Wa-wi-e-cu-mig-go-gwe were happy, for it was a time of plenty. The velvet of the forest shone as soft and bright as the love they had for Tiny Girl. They had waited a long time for their child. Now that they were fulfilled, they would fill the life of their child with all that was necessary to honor her and thus the people and the Gitchi Manito, the Great Spirit.
Three weeks after birth, according to the custom of the people, came the time when the naming must be planned. The spirit of every person must be honored with a name, a song, and an animal. Tiny Girl must be given a name, and she must be given in honor to her grandparents.
Me-ow-ga-bo and Wa-wi-e-cu-mig-go-gwe consulted with Grandfather and Grandmother and decided that A-wa-sa-si (Bullhead) should be the namer, for A-wa-sa-si was old and wise and good. A-wa-sa-si was the storyteller, and when she placed her hands on the heads of the children, their crying and fears were stilled. The family lit a pipe and offered it to the Gitchi Manito. Then they sent Tiny Girl’s cap with a bag of kin-nik-a-nik inside to old A-wa-sa-si. If A-wa-sa-si accepted the cap and smoked the kin-nik-a-nik it meant that she would, indeed, be the namer.
A-wa-sa-si took the cap and smiled, for it pleased her to be the namer. First she went into the forest to choose the medicine for the animal bag that she would make and give to the baby. Then she visited the child and returned to the forest to meditate and to choose an animal and a song. She visited Tiny Girl again. A day was set for the naming feast, and the family sent kin-nik-a-nik to all the people in the village to let them know that they were to come.
The family began to prepare the feast for the naming ceremony. There would be much food, for it was after the ricing time when food was stored and buried. Acorns were roasted. Hazel nuts were ground and mixed with dried berries to make small cakes. Ma-no-min, the precious wild rice, was popped and mixed with si-s-sa-ba-gwa-d, the maple sugar. There would be fish, deer, and rabbit for all, but the heads of the bear and buffalo were reserved for the Old Ones of the Mi-de-wi-wi-n.
The ceremony and feast were held in the beautiful autumn season. Although the days were cooling, they were yet sunny. The green of the forest was turning to orange, gold, and brown; this orange, gold, and brown fell and cushioned the earth and reflected the glory of the trees.
All the people of the village arrived bringing gifts. They came to hear the honor of the name given to the child of Me-ow-ga-bo and Wa-wi-e-cu-mig-go-gwe, for by honoring a child the people also honored the Gitchi Manito. A-wa-sa-si had chosen the name Ni-bo-wi-se-gwe, which means Night Flying Woman, because Tiny Girl had been born during the darkness of the day. A-wa-sa-si said that the shadows when the sun left the earth and the shadows when the day began would be the best time for her. But because Ni-bo-wi-se-gwe was such a long name for tiny tongues, the child was soon called Oona, for her first laughing sound.
Oona’s first months were like those of all Ojibway children. The Ojibway know that a learning process begins at birth and that a baby’s first learning experience is watching. So, as soon as possible, Oona was laced into a cradleboard and placed where she could see her family at work and at play. She watched Grandmother lacing muk-kuk-ko-ons-sug, the strong birch-bark containers, or winding wi-go-b, the tough string made from the bark of trees. People talked to her about things they saw and did. Oona was happy. She would look into the shadows in the lodge and smile, and the people would remember the time she came.
Being strapped in the cradleboard was also the beginning of her experience in restraint. She began to learn this in the customary way. At certain times when she cried, a brushy stick was scraped across her face and her lips were pinched. These actions would be repeated if the family needed to make a silent journey; then Oona would know she must not cry. It was a matter of survival, especially if there were enemies in the forest.
During the first year of Oona’s life the winter white piled high around the lodges, but she did not know this for inside the lodge all was warm and snug. The fire in the middle of the lodge leaped and shone and made patterns that made Oona laugh and coo. Many times old A-wa-sa-si would be in the lodge with Grandmother, for these two watched over Oona. Mother would go about her work, and often she would stop and whisper softly to Oona. Sometimes she made tiny clothes when she sat watching the meat roast over the fire. Father would come in blowing cold air and smiling, his strength and presence making everyone feel that all was well.
When the winter white turned to water, Oona, still in the cradle, went to the maple-sugar bush with the family. In the summer Oona tasted berries fresh from the bush. She walked her first steps in the fall at ricing time. For five years Oona’s cycle of life was the same. Summer camp to ricing camp to winter village to sugar bush to planting time to summer camp. These years were filled with love and laughter and this cycle was the cycle of life of our people, the Ojibway.
It was the beautiful spring season. The days now were warm and clear and the sun shone through the new green of the trees. The stately birch, which had looked ghostly all through the winter, was sprinkled with the green. Once again it offered its yearly gift of bark to the forest people. Pale flowers, the violet and the crocus, lifted their faces and lent their fragile scent to the forest air, blending with the village smell of the wood fires and burning cedar leaves. The waters in the brooks whispered back and forth with the trees. Squirrels came out from their winter homes and they too chattered back and forth, holding their tails up high. This was a sign foretelling warmth for the coming days. Other Forest Brothers were standing, lean but shining, ready for another cycle of birth and life. Everything was so new, fresh, and good.
There was much excitement in the Ojibway village and the children felt it. It made them fearful. A do-daim, or clansman, from the east was visiting and the people held a feast in his honor. After the feast, in the evening, the people met in council to hear the news of the do-daim. He told of a strange people whose skins were as pale as the winter white and whose eyes were blue or green or gray.
“Yes,” said A-bo-wi-ghi-shi-g (Warm Sky), the village leader, “I have seen these strangers.”
“I also,” said others.
“These strangers,” said the do-daim, “are again asking the Ojibway to mark a paper. All the leaders of the A-sa-bi-ig-go-na-ya, the Nettle Fiber People, are to do this. The Ojibway to the east have made the mark, and now they are on the big water where they must stay forever. The strangers promised never to enter their forests but they came anyway to trade for the coats of the Animal Brothers. I have a muk-kuk they gave me, and I will leave it to you. It sits right on the fire and does not crack. It is called iron kettle, and the strangers have promised many of these when the papers are marked.”
“Have you studied these strangers well? Are they good people, or are they those who will be enemies?” asked A-bo-wi-ghi-shi-g.
“Some are kind. Others speak good. Others smile when they think they are deceiving,” replied the do-daim. “Many of the Ojibway have stayed with these people, but soon our people had great coughs and there were bumps on their skins, and they were given water that made them forget.”
“I have seen these strangers before. They have come into the forests many times,” said Grandfather. “I know that they desire the furs of our animal friends and wish to give us the strange things.”
“Yes,” said the do-daim, “these strangers are asking the Ojibway to trap the Animal Brothers. They give a stick that roars and that can kill faster than an arrow.”
“Also,” said Grandfather, “I have seen the men with the long dress. They speak many words about Gitchi Manito, the Great Spirit. And I have seen the men with the fire sticks. They have followed the Chi-si-bi (Mississippi) to its source.”
“But now,” said the do-daim, “these strangers are many. They intend to stay, for they are building lodges and planting food. Far to the east, the forests of the Eastern Keepers have been ripped from the face of the earth and the doors of the longhouses have been sealed.
“These strangers fight among themselves. They fought and killed each other for the land of the Mo-wi-ga-n (Mohegan) and now again they are fighting in the land of the Che-ro-ki (Cherokee).
“Our kinsmen, the O-ma-no-ma-ni-g (Menominee), the Wild Rice People, are crowded at the edge of the big water, and the O-da-wa (Ottawa) have crossed the big water. The O-bo-da-wa-da-mi-g (Potawatomi) have gone south, many of them. The Mi-s-gwa-ghi (Fox) are shivering with cold and hunger now. They are but a handful in number.
“Down by the Chi-si-bi at the place where the small gulls fly, the forests have become smaller. Strangers are there in great number. All day long they cut the trees and send them down the river. Although these strangers have said they will stay to the rising sun, already they are looking this way, for soon there will be no forest where they are now.
“Yes, my brothers,” said the do-daim, “these strangers are looking this way.”
When the do-daim left, the council fires burned. The people discussed what he had said.
A-bo-wi-ghi-shi-g, the leader, said, “We cannot escape for long the meeting with these strange people. Our kinsmen on the Chi-o-ni-ga-mig (Lake Superior) have marked the paper and now they must forever stay at O-bi-mi-wi-i-to-n (Grand Portage), the carrying place. Also, I have been to where the Chi-si-bi and the A-bwa-na-g (Minnesota) waters meet. I have seen the strangers’ lodges there. The lodges are many and the men called soldiers are many. They will forever be there, for they plant the corn.”
Oona’s grandfather said, “I also have been to the land where the small gulls live, where the strangers push the forest poles into the big river. I have seen their lodges and their planting. Soon all will be planted. But I have also been to the rainy country. The men who desire the furs are few there now. They use the waters only to pass on to the big north country, and this is seldom. The forests are thick there, and beneath the trees the earth is soft and boggy so the planting would not be good, although there are many dry places deep within the bogs. I am thinking that I shall take my family there and maybe escape these strangers for a while.”
“Yes,” said A-bo-wi-ghi-shi-g, “we shall do that. Those who wish to go with you will lay a stick in a pile. I shall take the others to the strangers at the Lake of Nettles if this must be so. But we all must move soon in order to plant the seed in our new places and find the ricing beds and the sugar bush.”
The people met and talked for three days on the hill outside the village. They spoke of the many good things that had always been. Of grandfathers and grandmothers who were the dust of the forests. Of those who would be left in the journeying places. The women listened and there was a wailing sound to their voices when they talked together.
On the eve of the third day, the men smoked the pipe of peace in council and passed around the sacred kin-nik-a-nik. The voices of the people became stilled and a quiet purpose was reflected in their faces. The whole forest became silent.
Little Oona awoke one bright new day to the busy stirrings of the village. She had felt the excitement of the past few days, and she was fearful. “Bis-in-d-an, listen,” Oona whispered to herself, heeding one of her first lessons. “Listen, and you will hear the patterns of life. Are they the same, or is there a change in the sounds?” So Oona listened. “Something different is happening today,” Oona whispered again to herself. Quickly she rolled out from under the rabbitskin robe, dressed, and went out of the lodge. She saw Grandfather and Grandmother making bundles of food and clothing.
Oona was only five years old but she was already trained in many of the ways of a good Ojibway. She knew almost all that she could not do and all that she must learn to do. She went to her grandparents and stood before them with eyes cast down, knowing she could not speak the many questions she wished to ask, for they who are wise must speak first. Always, the first words spoken should be from the older people.
Oona wanted to look up at her grandfather’s face, a face that was lined with many years. She had always sought comfort from her grandfather, who had a special look just for her. He would smile with his eyes and she felt well and cared for.
“Oona, my child,” said Grandfather, “I hope you have slept well. I know by the roundness of your eyes that you are wondering what is doing today.” Grandfather paused, sat down, and stretched out his hand to Oona. “Take my hand, and I will tell you what your eyes ask.
“Remember this day, my child,” Grandfather continued. “For all of your small life, this village, this place, has been your home, but now we must move toward the setting sun. We have been happy here and we have lived here a long, long time. A very long time even before you were born. At the council it was decided that we shall seek a new place. We move because there is another people who are fast coming into the forest lands. Their ways are different and we wish to be free of them for as long as we can.
“Take the things you wish to take—your corn doll and rubbing rock toy. Put them in a bundle. There is room.” Grandfather smiled and Oona felt comforted. She accepted the thoughts of change. With a feeling of excitement and anticipation, she went and stood before her mother.
“Mother,” said Oona, “who will be leaving with us?”
“There will be eight families,” replied Mother. “Four of your uncles and their families and three families of the do-daim of the Muk-kwa, and of course old A-wa-sa-si. Grandfather, since he is the oldest, will be the leader.”
“When shall we be leaving, Mother?”
“We shall leave in a while, for we are all packed and the men have gone to get the canoes from the place of hiding. We must leave before the others go to the Lake of Nettles to be counted. That way the strange people will not know that we are not doing what they demand.”
Mother looked down at her fragile daughter, she who was much smaller than the other children of her age. She brushed Oona’s black shining hair and lifted up the small oval face with the huge dark eyes.
“It is sad to be leaving, my Oona,” said Mother, “but in one’s life there are many times when one must leave a place of happiness for the unknown. I have done this many times, but the beauty of a life remains forever in the heart. You must remember the beauty that was here. Go, my daughter, and say the words of friendship to those who were your playmates.”
Oona made up her little bundle. Then she went to find her cousin, E-quay (Lady). They joined hands and circled the camp, smiling the smile of friendship to those they would not see again. They then went to the river to wait for the men and the canoes.