NATHAN ADLER
Oose-Tynuck splashed through the shallows at the creek’s edge, the water sparkling in the sunlight, minnows running from his bare feet, pink toes gripping the rock and sand, water so ice cold it hurt his bones. That ache that slid up his calves and made them sing. The fount of the little stream was subterranean, which meant it came out of a cave under the ground where it stayed cold all year round, even when it was the height of summer. The closer you were to the springs, the colder the water became. Could have been frozen solid if it hadn’t been in constant motion.
He scrambled up the small embankment on the other side – the short stride of his legs made it difficult to clamber back onto solid ground, but he managed it, just barely. It wasn’t a very big river, barely a stream. A brook really. Too small to have a name. But Tynuck was still growing, and he knew that one day he would be big enough to step across this brook without even trying. His birch-bark bucket full, he struggled not to spill any of the fresh water he’d collected.
He’d gotten mud all over his leggings, but the sun would bake it dry, turn the mud to dust and then flake off with his every movement. The water sloshed over the top of the mkaak as he walked, the birch-bark bucket sewed together and sealed with bear fat and pitch so it was waterproof. It didn’t leak, but it was still tricky not to spill any. The water was heavy. When it was flowing out of the rock, burbling nicely and sparkling in the light, it didn’t look heavy. But as soon as he scooped out a portion it seemed to pick up a lot of weight.
The sun was hot on his face, and sweat beaded, even though he’d only made it a short span in the direction back to camp. A drop of salty water trickled off his forehead and dripped into the bucket. Ripples in the sheen distorted his reflection. Eww, gross Tynuck thought, this water is for cooking!
Oh well. He pictured the radiant smile that would surely be on his mother’s face when he returned with his cargo. Sun bathing her in a corona of light, backlit so the frizzy split-ends of her hair caught in the light like spider webs. Aate would appreciate his efforts to fetch the water. She would be proud of him. He was seven winters old now, and he wanted to prove that he was old enough to collect water. She’d never allowed him to do so on his own before.
He wished there were somewhere closer for them to gather water, but this area of land was high in elevation and dry, lacking in streams, ponds, or rivers – with only a few marshy areas where the water was stagnant and not fit to drink. The springs were the closest source of freshwater on the plateau, Ghost Lake was too far. Tynuck didn’t mind. He was a big boy now, and his mother trusted him enough to go to the stream to gather water by himself.
He paused to wipe the sweat from his forehead so more of it didn’t drip into the bucket before beginning the steep ascent. It was a very steep hill. He noticed movement in the distance, and saw his omishoomeyan, his stepfather coming down the hill toward him. A cold fist gripped Tynuck’s heart. He wanted to squirm back into the shallows like a snake, hide in the reeds and bulrushes. What did he want? Tynuck’s face felt hot, not from the heat, but like a medicine bundle squeezed tight, forcing the contents into a tighter and tighter space until the bag ripped open. He almost dropped the birch-bark mkaak, but managed to lower it gently to the ground without sloshing too much over the sides – though the waves rocking back and forth continued to make the bucket dance.
Chaboy didn’t like him. Gshkaadiz. Angry. Chaboy was always angry with Tynuck.
No matter what he did, he could never do anything right.
“Why are you so stupid?” His stepfather towered over him. Then speaking in a soft, kindly voice when his mother came back, “You’re a good boy, Tynuck.” Tynuck could see through the fake kindness. It was a lie. Chaboy was only kind to him for show. He turned nasty again the second they were left alone. His face was a mask. It changed so quickly no one else saw it. They were all fooled. Only Tynuck saw through the mask.
“Chaboy doesn’t like me.”
“Oose. Don’t be silly,” his mother said. “Your stepfather is a good man, a good provider. He wants to be your De-De. It will take some time getting used to. That’s all.”
But Tynuck knew this wasn’t true. Chaboy hated him. His eyes squinted, crinkled around the edges, lip curled back from his teeth like a snarling dog, face twisted up. Lopsided. Like Oose was something that disgusted him. That was his true face.
“There you are.” Chaboy came close, teeth gritted in a smile. Chaboy actually seemed happy to see him for once. Tynuk didn’t trust it, that smile. Feared it was some trick. His legs felt weak.
Chaboy grabbed him by the shoulders and began shaking him. Then shoved him down. Oof! The strength with which Tynuck hit the ground forced the air from his lungs. It didn’t take much. Chaboy was a grown man, and Tynuck was still only a boy.
Tynuck scrambled to his feet and turned to run, tears stinging his face, making his vision blur. He ran toward the nameless creek but Chaboy caught up with him in the shallows. Grabbed Tynuck’s foot as he ran, making him fall, so he tripped face-first with a splash, half of his body submerged in frogs’ depth water. The sand and grit of the river-bottom imprinted into the flesh on his palms. He kicked and struggled, but Chaboy was too strong. Tynuck’s head was forced down. No deeper than a puddle, but bubbling like a kettle when he screamed. He couldn’t breathe! He couldn’t breathe.
KAAW! KAAW! KAAW! KAAW! KAAW!
The weight of Chaboy’s hands on the back of Tynuk’s head let up for a moment, as his stepfather turned to look at the crow, cawing like crazy up in the branches of a tree. Tynuck gasped, drawing in air frantically now that he was able to raise his face from the stream. Chaboy was trying to kill him!
Tynuck didn’t want to lose this brief opportunity to escape, in case the attack resumed. He had to get away. He had to get away. Chaboy had palmed a river-stone, his body turned, and his arm extended as he aimed for the noisy bird up in the tree. Tynuck crawled, scrambled to his feet, taking off toward the embankment, and toward the village. He didn’t look back to see if Chaboy had hit his mark.
Heavy hands wrenched Tynuck back, and his legs went out from under him as momentum carried him forward. Oof! The back of his head banged against the ground. Hard. He was staring at the sky again like an upended turtle, the wind knocked out of him. Chaboy’s face swam into view above him, smiling, mask-less, looking down at Tynuck upside down. There was a large rock in Chaboy’s left hand. Tynuck raised his arms to protect himself as the large stone descended toward him, growing larger as it filled the field of his vision. He turned his face away, every muscle in his body clamped tight, preparing for the blow.
The rock hit him. The world went red. Then black. Blood flowed.
Chaboy lobbed the bloody stone into the creek, gathered the boy in his arms and carried the limp form a few yards away, placing the body where the banks were steepest, and the shore littered with stones – much like the one he’d used to cave in the boy’s skull.
He’d never liked the little shit. Always whining and crying to his mother, and stealing all her affection from him. He had no intention of rearing another man’s son. And as long as Aate had her dear little boy, she was uninterested in bearing more children. He wanted to father his own sons, strong sons, not be tasked with her onaabeman’s child. The child of her deceased husband, like a ghost trailing after.
The blood flowed down over the rocks, co-mingling with the waters at the river’s edge, where it slowly became diluted, curling away like a red ribbon of smoke. So much blood flowed from his skull, it was shocking that so much blood could flow from such a small form. He’d killed many things. All manner of fowl and game, he was a skilled hunter – elk, moose, deer, beaver, marten, porcupines, pheasants, duck, geese, loons. His family was never short of meat. This hadn’t felt all that different from killing any other animal.
Except the blood was surprising.
The way it flowed, as if the boy’s heart still pumped, as if the blood still circled through his network of veins, branching out from his head in a series of red rivulets, the stream tinged brackish brown.
His mother had placed far too much confidence in the boy. He had fallen from the bank and hit his head on the rocks. An accident. Nothing more. A sad occurrence, but not exceptional. The land was a dangerous place.
In a nearby tree, that damned crow cawed again, and Chaboy looked up at it. The sole witness to his crime. Aandeg tilted his head, looking down at Chaboy, and crowed, a long cawing sound like a rattle. Chaboy rinsed his hands in the water of the cold, cold stream, chilling his fingers to the bone. Then turned to collect the bucket, washing the ground where he’d hit the boy, spilling out the contents – the boy’s hard work – to clean the blood and brain matter. The evidence washed away from the site where Oose-Tynuck died. Then Chaboy layed the birch-bark bucket at the top of the steep embankment.
The boy’s body lay bleeding out into the creek below. The network of blood extending out from his head like horns, like the antlers of some beast. For a moment, the atmospheric pressure seemed to shift, as if Chaboy had dove into Ghost Lake, and the weight of the surrounding water was pressing in on him from all sides before lifting as he rose. For a moment, he felt stretched and distorted, before reality reasserted itself around him. It was odd the way the blood continued to flow, long after Tynuck’s chest had ceased to rise and fall, rise and fall, his heart surely stilled by now. But the flow was continuous, and if anything, seemed to blossom and grow as he watched. Probably owing to the fact he’d positioned the corpse head-first on a slope, so all the fluids drained downward. That was probably it. The flow of blood would slow once all the fluids had drained out.
He walked away, to finish his hunt, pleased. With that unpleasantness accomplished, he would now possess all of his Aate’s affection, and she would now be more amenable to bearing his children. He would have sons of his own to raise.
After a successful hunt, Chaboy returned to camp a few hours before dark, carrying slabs of moose-meat on his back in a bundle of flesh, a young bull-calf tied together with intestines, the way people carried their children in a dikinaagan, a cradle-board. He passed first through the forest and then through the high-ground plateau, where the stands of trees clustered together like islands here and there on the more open areas of the plain.
By the time he arrived, their summer-camp was already in a disarray. No one was working or going about their various tasks and occupations. The boy’s body had no doubt already been discovered. Aate had been the one to send Tynuck to the creek bed to fetch water after all, so she would have known where to look when he didn’t return.
Aate was sobbing, her head on the shoulder of wizened old Maingan, scrawny as tree-branch limbs.
Maingan squinted at him.
“What’s all this now?” Chaboy asked.
“Where have you been?” Maingan asked. Aate abandoned Maingan’s shoulder to throw her arms around Chaboy, her face streaked with tears, the long strands of her dark hair sticking to the moisture on her cheeks.
“Bizaan. Shh-shh-shh. What’s this?” he soothed Aate, and then turned to Maingan. “Hunting.” Chaboy lowered the bundle of meat to the ground at Maingan’s feet like an offering, tied tightly together with sinew and intestines. Maingan’s eyes widened at the sight of the dead calf. Nostrils flaring. It was against proper decorum, disrespectful even, to hunt such young moose.
“He’s deeeaaad,” Aate wailed. She spoke more, but her words were incoherent, too choked by her own despair.
“Who’s dead?” Chaboy asked, looking toward Maingan. He let some of his actual apprehension show on his face, to give his question legitimacy. The lines on Maingan’s face softened.
“Oose-Tynuck. He never returned. Aate sent one of the other boys to fetch him from the creek. He must have fell from the bank. Hit his head. Tynuck’s dead.” The low continuous keening from Aate was getting on his nerves. He patted Aate’s dishevelled hair and held the woman tight.
“Oh my dear. I’m so so sorry.” He turned Aate away from the wizened old Medicine Man and led her to their roundhouse, whispering comforting nonsense words in her ear. Following the unfortunate passing of Aate’s late onaabeman, her husband, Chaboy had moved in shortly after the 12 moons of her mourning had elapsed, in order to help console her through that difficult winter. Maingan stood his ground, watching them as they walked away, face creased with lines, as if there were more wrinkles etched onto his face than there had been yesterday.
Nosy old man. When Chaboy emerged from his endaad, his home, the old man was still waiting.
“I need to speak with you.”
Chaboy nodded his head soberly in assent. These were terrible times, terrible times.
“I’ve instructed everyone to leave the boy where he lies for the time being.”
“Why?” Chaboy asked, finally allowing some irritation to slip through in his voice. “We need to prepare. He deserves a proper funeral. It’s cruel to make his spirit wait.”
“I’m going to hold a Shaking Tent. Something about the boy’s death doesn’t feel right. I need to speak to the manitous.” And for the first time, Chaboy felt a twinge of real alarm. He didn’t want the old man talking to his spirit guides. Who knew what they would have to say? Not that he had much faith in Maingan’s abilities – always predicting the weather – incorrectly. Stupid old man. Chaboy nodded again, unable to come up with a suitable reason to delay the ceremony.
“I’ve already begun fasting.” Maingan turned, and it was Chaboy who watched this time, as the old man walked away.
Chaboy watched the construction of a small burial hut being built around the child’s body, to ward off predators, though this would not be the gravesite. Oose-Tynuck could not be moved until after Maingan had finished fasting for three days, not until after the Shaking Tent ceremony. Funeral rites were being delayed, put on hold for this foolishness.
They had had to move the little house back from the edge of the stream, not once, not twice, but three times, as the level of the waters continued to rise, mysteriously, as there had been no rain. But since the source for the spring was subterranean, something else must have been causing the flood. Swelling the small creek like winter snow melt, until the waters rose far above their normal bounds.
The little creek had become a river. Trout leaped from the waters. New life congregated on the banks to drink, to grow. Tynuck’s Creek was now teeming with all manner of animals and plants, fish, fauna, and fowl. This change did not go unremarked.
Someone was stationed with the body at all times. A fire was lit. Family, friends and community members came to put down tobacco and say their prayers.
“It is weird.” The old magician shook his head. The corners of his mouth turned down as he overheard talk of others from the village.
“Isn’t it marvellous?”
“It can’t be a coincidence.”
“The swelling of the stream. The child’s death. They must somehow be connected.”
“Maingan is correct in calling for a Shaking Tent. He is wise.”
Standing on the embankment, the image of Tynuck came to Chaboy’s mind: skull caved in, the blood continuously flowing, branching out like a fine network of lightning arching across the sky. Valleys filling between the peaks of the rock, interminably swelling the waters. Foolishness.
The boy would have bled out and the flow would have stopped days ago. Chaboy was tempted to rip apart the little wigwam perched at the edge of the engorged stream, to find out. But he knew this was folly. There was nothing to see. Unless he wanted to look on the boy’s corpse, surely beginning to rot by now in this heat.
On the third day of his fast, Maingan would perform the Shaking Tent. And then they could be finished with all this foolishness.
Far below the tiny stream carved a silver ribbon through the forest. This was one of Euwen’s favourite places in time to visit, back when the water was fresh and new, and the ice had retreated from the land. Wings extended, Euwen skimmed across the tops of the trees. Some of their leaves had already begun to turn as the light shifted, despite the continuing heat of the summer. He pulled his tail feathers forward and flapped his wings to bring his body into position as he came to alight on the branch of a tree overlooking a small creek. Barely a rut in the ground really, though the slight tinkling of sound was soothing. The wind blew and attempted to ruffle his feathers though they all remained in place, not a single feather gone astray.
Best thing in the world to be was a crow. Better than the two legged or four. Or the sleek-scaled fins of the things that lived in the rivers and lakes. Though Euwen knew Nimosh, Dog, would disagree. Euwen wouldn’t trade his wings for anything. Two legs, fins, or four. Two wings were better than four legs on any day of the year. If Nimosh had wings then maybe he would agree. Maybe he would understand. The best thing in the world to be, is a crow.
Aandeg.
That’s what Anishinaabeg call him. Though he preferred to think of himself as Euwen. The king had named him. No one else had ever thought to give him his own name before. He puffed out his chest, and refolded his wings so they were nicely tucked. Euwen tilted his head, watching a two-legged Anishinaabeg gathering water in a birch-bark pail. They were wasteful beings, always leaving food behind. Though rarely willing to share. Greedy two-legged beasts.
Euwen watched the two-legged child struggle across the small stream, carrying the bucket heavy with water now. Maybe the child would leave some scrap behind, some morsel. Wasteful beings.
Euwen loved them.
This is why he often he visited a withered old man, who was king for a brood of roosting crows. But that was far in the future from here. Euwen was always willing to accept an easy meal. Though he knew most humans were not generous. Far from it. His beautiful blue-black plumage was mottled with a splatter of white where bleach, tossed maliciously from a jam-jar, had sprayed his feathers. Not all humans were so generous, or kind; some were outright malevolent. And greedy. Greedy. How he loved them. Wasteful.
But he’d learned to be cautious.
Another human appeared on the hill. It walked toward the young one. Euwen didn’t recognize either. Friend or foe. Neither was the withered old man. The king. They were unlikely to feed him morsels of flesh, though they may leave scraps behind. Greedy. Greedy. Wasteful. It was worth waiting for a moment or two, to see what they would leave. His eyesight was keen. He felt sorry for the beasts below with their poor vision, blundering around in the dark, almost blind. And they had no feathers!
A commotion below. The wiigwas gourd, with its captured spring water was rocking back and forth, sloshing, threatening to tip over. The grown man had knocked the young one to the ground. Was holding his head, face down in the water. KAAW! KAAW! KAAW! KAAW! Euwen called out in alarm. The man turned, stone in hand, and the boy scrambled to escape. Euwen easily evaded the projectile. But by the time he had resettled on his perch, the boy was once more pinned by the weight of his attacker. The man raised a rock above its head. Mad beasts, always throwing the world into chaos. Disturbing the balance of the day with their violence. Dumb beasts. KAAW! KAAW! Euwen called out again. But it was already too late.
The young one was dead. Head smashed in with the rock, brain and bodily fluid leaking out onto the ground. KAAW! Upon hearing his call, the two-legged Anishinaabeg again looked up at Euwen. Their eyes met. Brown-black to red. Too much of the whites of his eyes showing. Eyes too large. Pupils dilated to gather in the light. Darkness. Madness, Euwen thought. He was glad he wasn’t human. Irrational beasts. Murder! Murder! Euwen called. KAAW! KAAW! He launched himself into the air, pushing off with all his might for maximum lift-off from his perch, extending his hind limbs for propulsion, and then flapping away from the creek and the mad gleam in the human’s eye.
Worst thing in the world to be was a human. Useless beasts. Their original instructions came from Wanabozhoo. No wonder. Such foolishness. Such a one as that, the Hare, with a forked head. It was his fault for making them. Anishinaabeg. For-nothing-man. Such flawed beasts.
The best thing in the world to be is a crow. No matter what Nimosh said. Allowing himself to be owned by humans. What kind of creature did that!? Worse than a Boozhence, that Cat.
To the king! To the king! Euwen flapped his wings, headed to the withered old man who was the king of a murder of young male crows. They roosted in a dead cherry tree. Far, far away from here. He would find refuge there, refuge from the mad eyes of the two-legged beast, and his bloody deed. Far away from this time. Far away from this place. Flying direct, the way only a crow can fly, if a crow only knew how. Across time as well as space. Not every crow could master this. Not like Euwen. The First Crow. Crow of Crows.
Euwen had been around for a long time, and he would be around for a lot longer. What was distance to a time-travelling crow? He could traverse great distances in space as easily as time. Why other beings felt obligated to live by so many rules, Euwen didn’t understand.
Euwen had briefly considered pecking at the brain matter of the dead boy, but dismissed the idea. The mad one would surely murder Euwen as well, if he got too close. It would go to waste. The brains. Poor thing. He could always come back later for a taste.
To the king then! To the king!
If the king could listen, Euwen would tell the tale. The entire murder would know of this murderous deed, before the end of the day. He’d raise a ruckus, he would. A murder. The others would hear of this. His brothers. They’d always know to avoid the human beast, with the gleam of madness in his eyes.
He was no friend to fowl. No friend to the crow.
They gathered around, watching the tent as Maingan, the djessakid seer, began banging on his drum, and singing and calling to his manitous, imploring them for their assistance. Chaboy hated to think of what secrets they had to tell – though he had never trusted such things. It still made him shift, unable to sit still while the ceremony commenced. Maingan’s high, ululating voice emerged from the tent, and rose to the stars which were just beginning to appear in the quickly darkening skies. Medicines were burned, and the smoke from those too drifted out.
The jiisakaan, the shaking tent was not large, a roundhouse just big enough for the old man to enter. Saplings of spruce and birch bent into a frame, and secured with more saplings of spruce and birch hoops. And layered with birch bark, so that once Maingan entered, the opening was sealed, and nothing of what happened within could be seen from the outside.
Various sounds were heard emerging from the tent as Maingan continued to sing and drum, sounds which could never emerge so perfectly from a human throat, and the small birch-bark enclosure began to shake as the spirits entered, shaking whether from spirits or from the fervour with which Maingan performed the ritual – first a growl, like that of a mountain lion, then a hooting sound like an owl, and finally a cawing. A cawing sound, exactly like that of a crow. A fist gripped his heart. Chaboy could hear the beat of his heart in his ears . Lub-dub lub-dub lub-dub. Thumping. Thumping, despite the raucous noises Maingan was making inside the tent. Even Chaboy was getting caught up in the ceremony.
The drumming came faster and faster, like the tempo of his heartbeat in his ears, and Maingan’s voice came louder and louder and more urgent as the tent shook as if blown back and forth by a strong wind, though the air was still, and the tent was filled with a cacophony; the cacophony as of a murder of crows. Dozens of them must have been in there. Wings flapping, beating chaotically along with the drums, along with his heartbeat, and the djessakid’s ululating cries. Finally, the tent came to an abrupt stillness. Silence.
Maingan emerged from the Shaking Tent.
He looked directly at Chaboy. His eyes were red. He tilted his head to the side. And let out one single rattling-cawing, like no human voice could mimic, so perfectly as to be indistinguishable from the real thing. Exactly like the sound a crow would make.