1

The Canoe

ANOKÌ

“How long should I make this boat, Anokì?” asked Ki’kwa’ju (Wolverine).

“Depends,” I replied. “How many people, dogs, and supplies do you want to carry? Also, if you use it for hunting, you need a good-sized canoe to carry back a moose or an elk.”

“Three lengths of the measuring stick?” Ki’kwa’ju asked.

“Yes, that will work. That’s the length of three men. It will give you a good-sized canoe.”

Ki’kwa’ju was a Mi’kmaq name, except Wolverine wasn’t born a Mi’kmaq. He had been captured by the Mi’kmaq in a skirmish with people they called the Eli’tuat (el-e-do-what: Men with Beards). Wolverine was perhaps only twelve summers old at that time. The Mi’kmaq gave him this name because he fought them like a wolverine as they captured him and because his light-coloured hair matched the hue of the wolverine’s light-shaded stripes of fur.

Ten summers ago he was brought to our group by a close Mi’kmaq friend and fierce warrior named Elue’wiet Ga’qaquj (el-away-we-it ga-ah-gooch: Crazy Crow). The woman who had reared Crazy Crow, Nukumi (no-ko-miss: Mother Earth, Grandmother), also raised Ki’kwa’ju. She and the Mi’kmaq Elders decided that the boy should come farther inland and live with us. The boy enjoyed living the Mi’kmaq life, but Nukumi was worried that the Eli’tuat would someday return and take him back from them. So the decision was made for Wolverine to come and live with my group of Omàmiwinini. In his time with us, he has proven to be a fast and eager learner and a brave warrior and is now my brother-in-law since marrying my sister, Pangì Mahingan.

Wolverine had picked a tree with no branches within the three lengths of his measuring stick. Branches created holes in the skin that took a lot of time and effort to close up. A tall, straight tree with very few skin blemishes was what we needed. We had prepared ahead of time an akwàndawàgan (a-kwon-da-way-gan: ladder), and using the stick to measure three times as he scaled the ladder, Wolverine arrived at where he had to make his final mark. Here he cut around the trunk of the tree and then made a slit all the way down to the bottom and again cut around the trunk. Then Wolverine started to peel the bark away from the tree, using a rigid wedge of bark to help with prying the skin off the trunk.

“Ki’kwa’ju, do you hear the noise of the bark peeling away from the tree?” I asked. “That’s the tree telling us it’s giving its coat to us as a gift. Once we have the bark, we’ll make a tobacco offering of thanks to the tree. Now roll the bark up and we’ll tie it in a bundle to make it easy to carry. Fill the inside with ferns to help take the moisture away. Now you have to go and pull up spruce roots. You’ll need at least fifty roots and then you have to split and soak them.”

“Anokì, are you going to help me?” asked Ki’kwa’ju.

“How will you learn if I do the work?” I asked. “Achie (White Ash), come and help us. We need an extra pair of hands if you can tear yourself away from whatever you’re doing.”

Achie was an Ouendat warrior who had fought with us against the Haudenosaunee chief Ò:nenhste Erhar (Corn Dog). His brother, Öndawa (Black Ash), had been slain in that battle along with another Ouendat friend, Tsou’tayi (Beaver). Since that time twelve summers ago, he and another Ouendat who had fought that day, Önenha’ (Corn), had become part of our group.

Walking out of the surrounding forest, Achie said, “Anokì, I’ve been watching something entertaining that you and Ki’kwa’ju should come and see.”

We followed the Ouendat up a treed embankment to a small plateau overlooking a narrow gorge. Beneath us a small stream flowed through the valley. Peering down, we eyed a nòjek (now-shek: female bear) and her two makons (mah-koon: cubs) as they foraged along the shoreline. The mother made a meal of the berries lining the stream, while the cubs wrestled on the shore, tumbling into the current and chasing each other through the water, all the time squealing. Every once in a while they roamed a little too far, and the mother grunted her dissatisfaction. Upon hearing her, the two stood up on their hind legs, sniffed the air, and then ran back to their original area, where once again they renewed their play.

The three of us stood downwind enjoying the goings-on. Bears had poor eyesight, so we were safe from being sighted. Yet, if the mother caught our scent, she would charge at us to defend her cubs. Then we heard a sound that shook the air around us. The cubs reared up and looked downstream, while the mother stood with her nose quivering and the hair on her mane standing on end.

Glancing toward the source of the noise, we watched as a huge nàbek (male bear) splashed through the stream toward the cubs at a full run, muscles trembling and mouth frothing. As his massive body drove through the water, the force of the animal caused water to spray upon his black coat, which glistened in the sunlight. His deafening roar as he approached the defenceless cubs echoed through the forest, sending all the roosting and ground-feeding birds into a noisy departure and adding to the imminent mayhem.

From the opposite end the mother bear loped in huge strides to defend her cubs. A full-grown makadewà makwa (ma-ka-de-wa mah-kwa: black bear) could run very fast and could overtake a fleeing warrior in a very short distance. These two bears below were running at top speed with only one thought in each of their minds: the male to kill the cubs, who in the future would threaten his existence; and the female to protect them from his fury.

The nàbek reached the cubs first and grabbed the closest one by the neck, shaking the defenceless animal until its neck snapped. As he turned to chase the other cub, the nòjek hit him at full stride. She was no match for this enormous male, but when it came to her cubs, there was no fear in her body. The two roared, bellowed, clawed, and bit, and the stream became a froth of churning water reddened by their blood. In the end, the male crushed the female’s skull with his massive jaws. He stood over her, bloodied and with chunks of hair missing from his wet and glistening coat where she had bitten and clawed him. The male then reared up on his hind legs, turned his head sideways, and let out a massive roar. Turning, he limped away to recover from his wounds. Once he recuperated, he would carry the scars of this battle for the rest of his life: bare spots where she had torn out the hair and maybe the loss of an eye where it appeared the female had raked his face with her sharp claws.

Stunned, we looked down at where just a short time ago we had been entertained by the young makons. The stream was washing away the redness of the battle. The remaining cub, which had run and hidden in the woods, returned and stood over its mother, bleating a sad lament.

Achie broke the silence by saying, “I’m going down there to capture the makon. It will never survive by itself in the wild. Wolves or the male will end its life in a few suns. Once I’ve secured him, we’ll prepare the two carcasses. The hides and the meat won’t go to waste.”

Glancing at Ki’kwa’ju, I saw the sorrow and shock in his eyes. Walking past him, I said, “Come, we have work to do.”

As we made our way down the face of the cliff, the noise of our descent startled the remaining cub, which took off into the underbrush. Achie, seeing the little one take flight, sped up, causing him to tumble end over end onto the floor of the gorge. Quickly jumping to his feet and not seemingly suffering any ill effects from his fall, he continued after the young bear, crashing through the undergrowth on its trail. Ki’kwa’ju and I looked at each other and laughed. The sight of Achie plunging down the slope and then getting up and racing into the brush to pursue his quarry was just too funny.

“Ki’kwa’ju,” I said, “blow that horn you carry and let’s hope Kìnà Odenan, Agwanìwon, and Kànìkwe (No Hair) are within hearing distance. We can use their help to carry this meat out.”

Ki’kwa’ju sounded the horn in one long, mournful tone. Besides the clothes he had on when captured, the horn was the only thing Ki’kwa’ju had that was his. When he came to us, the Mi’kmaq had given him an axe made out of material we had never seen before, a leather shield, and an item Ki’kwa’ju called a sverð (sword) that could cut off a man’s head with one powerful swing. The Mi’kmaq had captured these items from Ki’kwa’ju’s people during a battle years previous and had gifted him with the items when they sent him to us.

If the three of them were close by, they would be here soon. Since my father’s death, the two women had been our leaders. Kànìkwe was their constant companion. He told everyone he met for the first time that he was their àbimì (ah-bih-mee: guard), which created a roar of laughter from all who knew them, including the two women. Kànìkwe feigned insult when that happened, but all who were familiar with him and the two Warrior Women knew that the women had no need of a protector. The three of them were ruthless in battle, and Kànìkwe owed his life to Kìnà Odenan and Agwanìwon from many years ago.

As long as I could remember, the Ouendat had always kept orphaned animals as pets in their large villages. Unlike my people, the Omàmiwinini, who travelled with the seasons, the Ouendat stayed in one spot for ten or fifteen years and in doing so tended to collect these animals when the beasts were young and to raise them as village pets. These past few years when I visited the Ouendat villages, my first impressions upon entering were the smells of my newfound surroundings: the pungent odour of meat and corn being cooked, the aroma of cedar, pine, and maple wood burning in their cooking fires, and the stale scent of close to two thousand people in a local area. Then there was the whiff of the numerous dogs that ran around, defecating and urinating wherever they pleased.

If you had been with me, after the jolt to your sense of smell, your sight would have suddenly taken over and you would have begun to view the spectacle going on around you. More times than not, you might have seen a full-grown bear that had been reared from a cub, either tied to a stake or begging for food, with a child holding it on a roped tether. Or you might have witnessed a young deer walking around, nuzzling up against the women and children as it tried to get handouts. The deer would have had the run of the village, and once they had grown older most would have left. It was different with the bears, though. When they were no longer cubs, they had to be tied up or else they would have raided the food stores of the village and gorged themselves. In the end the bears usually met an ill fate.

This past winter the longhouse I lived in had a pet wàgosh (wa-gosh: fox) that kept the mice down. He was definitely well fed, and when he had hunted all the mice where he was staying, he moved on to the next dwelling. I figured out early in my stay that this animal would make a warm bedmate, so I took a little food to bed with me each night and trained him to come and get it. Once he was there, I stroked and cooed to him as the animal fell asleep inside my fur covering. Even when he was off mousing in other quarters, he always came back to my sleeping area every night for his treat.

Ki’kwa’ju and I were working steadily at our task, skinning the bears at the bottom of the cliff, when off to our left two bodies crashed out of the bushes. Glancing up, we saw a very irritated bear cub and a cut and battered Achie. Again this prompted another round of laughter from Ki’kwa’ju and me. Achie peered at us, then looked at the bear, and he, too, started to laugh.

“This young bear will make a very fine pet for the village,” Achie said. “He has the grit of a true warrior. I’m going to call him Tindee Anue, which means Two Bear in our language, to remind everyone that he had a twin.”

We were just finishing cutting up the two bears when our three other companions and their dogs trotted down the small valley. They stopped and smiled at us.

“Good hunting, I see, Anokì,” said Kìnà Odenan.

“A gift from Kije-Manidò (Great Spirit),” I replied, then told them the story of the bears.

The ten dogs they had were able to take most of the meat and the bear pelts on pole sleds we made from the available saplings in the area. The rest of the meat was carried by the three companions. Achie had his hands full with the cub, and Ki’kwa’ju and I had retrieved the rolled-up birchbark for his canoe and had loaded it on our shoulders to carry to the shoreline of the lake. We would start making his canoe there tomorrow.

That night, as we huddled around the fire to ward off the night chill, the forest sounds intermingled with the young cub crying for its mother and the dogs whimpering because of the distressed noises of grief from the bear cub.

Achie had dug up some roots, gathered berries, and vainly tried to feed the little one. Finally, the animal settled down, and everyone in the camp was able to sleep.

The next morning Achie took some of the bear meat and left for his nearby village along with Kìnà Odenan, Agwanìwon, our dogs, and the bear cub. Kànìkwe stayed with Ki’kwa’ju and me to help build the canoe.

We steamed the wooden cedar ribs in hot water for five days as we worked on soaking and making our spruce rope. Then we lashed and fastened the gunwales. Once we could bend the ribs we fastened them to the birchbark and the thin cedar sheathing that strengthened the boat. Now all that was left to do was the boiling of the resin to seal the seams. Right from the start Ki’kwa’ju didn’t listen and forgot to wet his thumb to spread the resin. As a result, Ki’kwa’ju’s finger stuck to the seam he was covering, and Kànìkwe walked toward him while removing his knife from its scabbard.

Ki’kwa’ju looked at Kànìkwe and asked, “What are you going to do with that knife?”

“Well, the only way I can get that thumb free is to cut it off — unless, of course, you want to go around the rest of your life dragging a canoe on the end of your hand.”

Ki’kwa’ju’s face paled as white as the birchbark, and he stammered as Kànìkwe bent over and worked the knife around the thumb, freeing it from the resin. Sighing deeply with relief as the colour returned to his features, Ki’kwa’ju held his thumb up, brandishing the clump of resin on the end. He glanced at Kànìkwe and laughed nervously.

Kànìkwe chuckled, turned to me, and winked. Gazing over his shoulder at Ki’kwa’ju, he said, “Maybe the next time you’ll listen when we instruct you in the ways!”

It took Ki’kwa’ju a few hours to pick the resin, plus a layer or two of skin, away from his thumb, but it was a lesson he would never forget.

After working on the canoe for six suns, it was ready for Ki’kwa’ju to try out the next day. I had been working on a canoe paddle for my friend, fashioning it from an ash tree. The wood was strong and smooth to the hand. After our evening meal, I gave Ki’kwa’ju the paddle as a gift. He thanked me with a hug and a gift of tobacco.

The morning sun rose in an orange fireball, and the bay was ripple-free, enabling us to see the sun and surrounding trees in the reflection of the water. It was as if there was another world below the stillness of the lake. Ki’kwa’ju ate the early-morning meal with us and then shoved off to paddle to a small island and back. As he left, the wind increased from the south, causing the waves to reach up and push the canoe and occupant effortlessly along.

“Anokì,” inquired Kànìkwe, “has he ever paddled a canoe by himself in the wind?”

“No,” I replied, “and neither did he take any weight for the front of the boat.”

We looked at each other and smiled.

Ki’kwa’ju had no problem sitting in the back of the canoe going toward the island with the wind at his back, but once he reached the shoreline and began to come back, things got tricky for him. The wind had picked up and blew into his face, and because of the lack of weight in the bow, the boat sat up in the air. With Ki’kwa’ju in the back and no extra weight in the front, the wind and waves pushed against his efforts to paddle, causing the vessel to spin in a circle and propelling it back to the island’s shore. After this happened a couple of times and Ki’kwa’ju pushed off the rocks with his paddle, he moved to the middle of the canoe.

“Anokì, are we going out to help him?” asked Kànìkwe.

“No, this is a good lesson for him. He never asked any questions before he went out onto the water. Besides, he’s from a people who have lived their whole life on water. He has good balance and will figure this out. Kànìkwe, I’ll bet you three of my best arrows he’ll make it back to shore without tipping the canoe.”

“I’ll take that bet, Anokì, and I’ll match your wager with three of my arrows. Just in case, though, I’m going to get an Ouendat canoe from its storage spot and ready it for when our friend tips his canoe. I won’t have him drown. Your sister, Pangì Mahingan, would skin both of us alive if that happened!”

Turning our eyes back to the water, we watched as Ki’kwa’ju made small gains into the wind, but for each advance the wind caught him and the canoe in its grasp and spun them in a circle backward. Finally, he crawled to the front of the boat, weighing it down, and proceeded to paddle as quickly as he could. With the end of the canoe sitting in the air and the front now weighed down, he was able to get to the shore.

Keeping a straight face as Ki’kwa’ju exited the boat, Kànìkwe asked, “How did the new canoe handle?”

Not saying a word at first, Ki’kwa’ju bent over, scooped up a handful of water, and sprayed both of us. “You knew, didn’t you?”

When Kànìkwe and I burst out laughing, Ki’kwa’ju glared at us, then also hooted and chuckled. “The canoe handles beautifully,” he said finally.

Kànìkwe put his arm around Ki’kwa’ju and said, “It cost me three good arrows. However, I’m happy you didn’t drown. Plus now I won’t have to face the wrath of Pangì Mahingan. So the day has ended well for everyone. I’ll go hunt for our meal tonight to celebrate your new canoe and the experience you achieved today.”

That night we ate a beaver Kànìkwe had killed. We roasted the tail over the fire and boiled the rest of the meat. What bear meat we had left was roasted on a spit. Tea was made from some berries I had picked that afternoon.

When I went to sleep, I dreamed once more of my father Mahingan’s last days. The dream that had haunted me these past few years, the message of which I had yet to figure out, was one I would have to share with Uncle Mitigomij so he could help me find its true meaning.