A Gift Is Passed Across the Ages
IN those days my only sources of information about Indian lore were the local public library and the American Museum of Natural History, both of them frequent sanctuaries for me on rainy days. Based on the exhibits in the Museum, I made mental notes of projects I would like to try. High on my list was the making of an arrowhead, and it was while doing this under Joe's direction that I got to see the arrowhead pouch and other hereditary things left to him by his father.
Under Joe's guidance, I had just finished chipping finger grips in a large stone so it could be used as a hammer for flint. As I finished chipping, Joe disappeared into his small wigwam shelter. The door flap had been left ajar, and I could see that he was rummaging around inside. After moving several blankets and other paraphernalia aside, he began to dig at the edges of a flat stone that was embedded in the soil. After more prying and digging he finally loosened one corner of the rather large stone. Placing a sturdy pole under that part, he managed to lever the rock out of its clay mortar. Having accomplished this, he pushed the stone cover, for that is what it was, aside, and peered into the hole below. The tiny vault was lined with stones and made a very nice cache. He seemed a bit undecided as he kneeled there, but soon he reached inside and withdrew a pouch about the size of a lunch bag. He took the bag and weighed it in his hand. I could tell he was thinking about it in very serious terms. Finally, he came to some conclusion. Turning, he brought the pouch into the light of day.
We both looked at the still-closed pouch. I, with a kind of awe; he with a sort of reverence. It was of leather, and from its appearance very old. The material was a chestnut brown and quite stiff. It was creased and cracked open in several spots. The best description I can offer is that it had the look of age, very great age.
Here, Joe told me the story of the hidden cache. When he was just a baby and his mother still carried him in a pouch attached to a board on her back, men had come to this woods and discovered his father's presence. (This was probably during the early 1840's.) They frightened the father and mother into running to the mainland, on the other side of Vagabond Bay. The men had plans to use his father's home as a farm.
The father knew that he must leave or the men might kill his child and wife. He also knew that making a farm here would not be a practical job. The giant trees and deep-seated rocks would see to that. He felt that, in time, he would be able to return to this, the place of his father and grandfather. So he opened up the special hiding place that had been built by his great-grandfather, and secreted away all the medicine things. He hid the pouch, and other items of hereditary importance under the same heavy stone that his great-grandfather had used during the time of the Iroquois invasions. He removed all signs that this had been his camping place, and left with his little family.
In time, the stones and stumps proved more than the white men wished to move, and they left. The father came back across Vagabond Bay with his family. He was older, the baby was now a boy, the squaw had much silver in her hair of black, but the father could return to the land of his ancestors. Today, said Joe, was the first time the hidden vault had been opened since it was sealed by his father long, long ago.
He opened the pouch very gently and brought out the contents on a patch of soft grass. First came a portion of deer antler with two small tines protruding from it. I could tell that it was some sort of tool at a glance. The points, or tines, were worn and scratched. The handle portion was smoothed in a way only many years of use can cause. Joe said it was used in flaking the final point and edges on stone tools such as arrowheads, knife blades, and spear points.
I was amazed to think that the deer that had once worn the antler had walked the woods of this very island. I was even more engrossed by the evident fact that the deer had been killed by Two Tree's great-grandfather, probably with an arrow tip of his own making. I began to feel very new to this world around me. I suppose I was, only then, beginning to comprehend the fact that things had been going on here for a very long time. Somehow, this thought was a reassuring one. I found pleasure in the idea that there was a continuity operating here, and I was part of it.
The next things out of the leather bag were objects of great beauty: flint, quartz, argillite, chert. They were all worked into arrow points and other edged tools. The Indian said we would use them as our models. When our abilities began to fail us we would fall back on the silent teachings of his ancestors.
In the old time, the making of these stone tools was an important thing for all braves. The man who did not become proficient in this skill was not able to kill the deer or bear. He was apt to go hungry much of the time. No woman of any intelligence would find him suitable for a husband. Nor would her family. So, young men sometimes made a small number of excellent stone tools and put them aside to save. These were not used in woodworking or hunting. When the young man found a girl he wanted for a wife, he would present these, along with other gifts, to her father. If the father was impressed with the man's work, he was more likely to feel favorably toward the marriage.
These particular tools had been made by his grandfather. They had been presented to his great-grandfather in order that he might smile on the courting of a daughter.
Over the years, the need for them had diminished. The Europeans brought knives of iron and guns for hunting. Finally, no one had tried to make the stones anymore. These, he said, that had been buried for so long, were simply "left."
On my way home that evening, I perched, for a short while, on Glover's rock to watch the sun fade. Looking toward Turtle Cove, I could almost convince my eyes that a dug-out canoe cut quietly across its smooth water. I knew it wasn't, but I thought, in the Maker's great plan it was there only yesterday. I didn't want to think what tomorrow might bring to this beautiful little place.
Joe Two Trees had once taken me to this cove. He had described the way the tribe, in his grandfather's years, would hide in the tall bulrushes from the ducks and geese. In fall, the birds would gather in flocks on the water. When they were tightly packed into "rafts," dozens of arrows would fly. The birds that were hit would be gathered with canoes, and brought home to the pot.
The ducks still come to Turtle Cove, but their aboriginal hunters have long ago perished.
The next morning I took the long way to Joe's camp, picking up pieces of flint as I went. When I reached the place at the top of Hunter Island, my pockets were bulging. I had high hopes for a successful making that day. But after what must have been fifty unsuccessful tries, Joe said a story was called for. When things went badly, it was sometimes wise to lay them aside for a time and rest the problem. What better way than by clearing the mind with a story? I agreed that things seemed to be going badly indeed. School would begin soon, summer was over, and my arrowheads were not to be ready in time to show them off.
Two Trees asked what I called the coming season; the time when the leaves began to fall and the corn and squash came ripe. He wanted my name for that time of year with frost at night but warm, summery days. I answered that we called it Indian summer. He seemed pleased that he had been able to lead me into giving him the answer he wanted.
During the hot days of summer, work must be done. It is then, he continued, that the crops must be watered and weeded. That is the time for hunting deer, for the hot sun's rays will help dry the strips of flesh for winter use. It is this season that sees the fish in their abundance. These should be caught and also dried for winter. Yes, in the great plan, the Maker made summer to be a season of work; just as He made winter to be a season of preparation. In winter, we weave nets, make fish spears, and construct bows. In winter, he said with a crooked grin, we make arrowheads for the hunting times ahead.
But there is an in-between time. Before the snows blanket the land, before the icy breath of winter has frozen ponds and streams, the Maker gives His children a last chance to harvest the corn, and prepare.
Now is the time that He calls to the spirit of sun to make his crooked walk across the sky. No longer can he sleep his dark times in the northern regions. He must now begin his journey low across the horizon. Soon, the Maker orders, he must sleep in the South until the gentle breath of spring stirs summer back to life.
The sun spirit knows this is true, for it has always been this way. But he asks permission to confer with Earth, the mother, and give her his instructions for the time that he will not be near. Great Spirit grants the request, and the council of two, Earth and Sun, meets on a mountain. Sun tells Earth, as he has done since the beginning, not to fear when the cold winds freeze her lands. He reassures her that he will watch, even while he walks the crooked path. He says she will soon know his warmth again. He will be back to bring the green, young shoots from her soil, and the leaves to her bare trees. Earth's spirit mother is first frightened, then reassured. She knows that her time of growing is done and now is the time for rest. She listens to Sun and believes that he will come again to melt her icy bonds.
Seeing that his job is done, Sun lights his pipe and allows its smoke to make warm clouds to blanket the land this last time. After this, he says, the clouds will bring cold snow, but this once they will still be warm.
Now he begins his crooked walk, and each day it brings him farther away. Although he strains his powers to make his rays reach back, it grows colder. Winter comes.
It is during the time of the council of two that the Great Spirit stays the progress of his seasons. It is the time during this council that He gives His children a short while more to prepare. This is why it has come to be called "Indian Summer."
Only after many years did I realize that the old man had told me the story in order to stop my sadness over summer's end. I discovered, much too late, that most of his stories had an importance hidden in them, as well as a simple entertainment value. I've forgotten so many of his stories, and those I remember may not be precisely as he told them anymore. I wish now that I had placed less value on other things, and learned more from the hermit storyteller.
He said that since a few days remained of my vacation, we should renew our efforts on the arrowhead. This time, I found it much easier to create my first flake. I made very few "scrapers" before I had a fine flake to work down. The flake began to take a new form. Soon it was roughly the shape of a Christmas tree in outline. I could see that it was thicker than the models from the pouch, and its edges were not sharp enough. I knew that any further blows with the large hammer stone would only do damage. I didn't know what the next step should be. Was the magical creation of arrow points still to be the provenance of Indians alone?
Joe reached into the old pouch and brought out the deer antler. Now, he said, hold the handle and feel it in your hand. Let it find a position that suits it. If you do this, it will work better when you begin to use it. I moved it around in my palm for a while, and its smooth shank soon seemed to be almost a part of my palm.
Joe took my arrowhead and examined it closely. He placed it back in my hand and indicated a small ridge on the edge near its base. Here, I was to push the point of the antler against the dark stone, on an angle toward the middle. I did, and was rewarded with a very small, thin flake. I placed the antler point a bit higher along the edge, and a second flake sheared off. I continued along the same edge toward the tip. Soon the edge had begun to be a blade. I ended the side with tiny flakes, bringing the tip to a neat point. Next, the other side was flaked in the same way. I had learned the technique called "pressure flaking."
The base part, the "stem" of the original Christmas tree, was still a bit lopsided. The man said we should examine the models from his pouch and decide how we would finish ours. Some of the tips were deeply notched on their bases. Some had a fishtail-type bottom. A few had no notching or base at all. Those were triangular. They didn't seem very practical since they would certainly be hard to attach to the arrow shaft. I mentioned that to the Indian and he agreed. He said he didn't know how they had come to be in his great-grandfather's possession, since they appeared to be Iroquois war tips.
That day I learned the purpose of the triangular tips which, many years later, I was to excavate among the bones of a young Algonquin boy. The old man explained that I was right in thinking this type would be difficult to keep on an arrow. It had not presented any great problem to the original users, though. The heads were wedged into a small split in the head of the arrow. A bit of pine pitch and a thin strip of bark held them in position. They were only meant to be used once.
When the arrow had found its mark in the body of an enemy, the Iroquois would pull out the wood, leaving the stone in the wound. In the event that the target had not been killed and ran away, the arrow tip in his flesh would ensure an infecting wound that would finish the job slowly.
Yes, in the old time the enemy had many tricks. It was possible that these very tips had, long ago, been taken from the bodies of Algonquins. Then, when his great-grandfather had been a young warrior, the Algonquin and Iroquois tribes were still at war. Joe thought it almost funny that these two ancient enemies had finally been forced into a friendship by the European conquerors.
Had our situations been reversed I might have found it hard to understand why the Great Spirit had not taken better care of His children. Even at that age, I was able to see the tragedy of the Indian race. Had I been cheated of my ancestral land, forced further and further from my way of life, and even murdered, my religious strength might have been shaken. Had I found myself alone, a hermit of the woods, last representative of a once great people, I might have wondered about my Tchi-Manitou. It was typical of this man, however, not to wonder at those things that happened to him. Certain events simply took place. It was not his station to do anything more than adapt and continue on. I don't think Joe ever doubted his Maker, later to reject the doubt. He simply never doubted at all. This man felt all things were a part of His great plan. Even if he could see no logic at times, that was because he was a child. The Great Spirit was the father and Joe could only obediently follow. One might say that his situation allowed no other choice, but that would overlook the fact that Joe had never really wanted one. The woodlands that his Maker had provided, the meager life He allowed, were things the Indian appreciated in every fiber of his sick old body.
Certainly there were hardships. The sicknesses came more often and stayed longer now that he was old. Sometimes it was very lonely, and Joe would wish that another had been the last, instead of him. Occasionally, he would stand near the grove of pine trees, late at night, to listen for a voice in the sighing wind. He might hear his father among the sounds of the pine boughs, calling him to another place. He might hear his mother telling of a hunting ground far away, where a wigwam had been made ready for him. Often, in loneliness, he would go to the old places of his tribe. He would try very hard to see images in his mind of how these places had been in the other time. As he got older, these things seemed to occupy a greater part of his time. There was only the small, white boy. Perhaps he was the reason the Maker wanted Joe to continue. The man knew that he was very old now, but if the great plan would use him to teach and train the boy, so be it. Maybe this was the way of the Great Spirit, to see that all things Indian should not be utterly forgotten.