Chickadee Page 3

  “I’ll be right back,” said Makoons. With a stick, he reached into the pot and smeared a large lump of fat on the piece of birchbark. Makoons sneaked furtively and quickly back to Zhigaag’s shelter, which rattled with his snores. He leaned in and smeared the back of the old man’s jacket with the fat. Then Makoons went back to his own sleeping corner inside his family’s wigwam and fell asleep in great satisfaction. He’d revenged his family, upheld his brother’s honor, and he felt certain that John Zhigaag would have only the greatest respect for his grandmother from now on.

  Late the next morning, at the time when John Zhigaag usually rose, there was a roar of hilarity from the end of the sugar camp. Makoons gave a sign to Chickadee, and both ran over to see what the excitement was about.

  To their satisfaction, John Zhigaag was wiggling out of his shelter like an earthworm, with the hat pulled low over his ears. His ankles were bound together with his moccasin laces. As he appeared at the entrance, dozens of mice, which had been feasting on the fat that coated his jacket, jumped off and scurried away. The mice had eaten most of the fabric along with the fat, and when the strings were untangled and he was able to stand, the halves of his fancy coat fell abruptly off his arms. The mice had eaten the entire back away.

  Now the whole camp howled with laughter. John Zhigaag had been mean to nearly everyone around him, and there were few who had much sympathy for him. But as he stamped and roared and swore he would get even, he woke his big angry sons, who had ridden up to the camp the day before on shaggy brown horses.

  Whether or not these two hard-faced men had sympathy for their father was impossible to tell. They watched impassively as their father raved and swore at the pieces of his coat. They did not help him. But their cold narrow eyes passed over the other people one by one, and many of those who laughed fell silent.

  These two sons, Babiche and Batiste, were silent, crafty, massive men who liked no one better than each other. They trusted only each other. Having been starved and beaten by their father in their youth, they came to his aid only for form’s sake. They looked around the gathering to ascertain who had embarrassed their father, not because they loved him, but because they loved revenge.

  A pall fell over everybody at the camp, and Nokomis stamped away muttering that the gathering would be ruined now. With these two hard men watching everything that took place, the ease and pleasure of the undertaking, the taste of sugar after a hard winter, and the sharing of the maples’ gifts, would be spoiled, she said.

  She had no idea that things would be worse, much worse, than that.

  Later that day, as Chickadee and Makoons again hauled makak after makak of sap to the giant boiling kettles, they tried to avoid Zhigaag and his two sons. Luckily, their mother was engaged in the difficult but delightful task of making sugar. Both boys put down their makakoon and stayed near to help her, and help Nokomis, knowing that their reward would be a cone or two of sugar as a treat.

  Omakayas knelt beside a maple log that Animikiins had scraped and smoothed into a sugaring trough. Nokomis ladled syrup, which had been boiled until it was so hot the surface crumpled like a thick skin, onto the heavy tray. Then the two women took turns working it back and forth with wooden paddles carved especially for this task.

  This was very hard work—the women kept the paddles constantly in motion and stirred the syrup fast, fast, fast, until it magically crystalized into lovely, sandy-colored grains. But even though they were panting and their arms had begun to ache, both were smiling. The scent of the new sugar was so pleasant, and behind them the kettles of bubbling sap and hot fires exuded such a fine aroma. Birds fluttered and sang out high in the branches. The cool, fresh breeze came from Zhawanong, the South, the bringer of green life to the Anishinabe world.

  A visitor sat watching them on a stump, asking questions from time to time. He spoke French or English, so Nokomis couldn’t understand him. But Omakayas, who knew and understood the languages from listening to her father, answered the man in the black robe.

  Mekadewikonayewinini. Black Robe.

  That’s what Omakayas called the curious man. Catholic priests were known as the black robes—they dressed in the same curious costumes and carried a certain book. They sometimes pulled out anama’eminensag, or what some called praying berries or praying ropes. Their hands moved on these strings of beads as they recited the same words over and over. They were interesting people, and sometimes took the trouble to learn the Anishinabe language. This priest lived as the Anishinabe did, too, and traveled with those who had moved out onto the Plains. He was known to them all as Father Genin. This priest had come to the sugaring camp in order to learn about how the Ojibwe made their delicious sugar. This priest had traveled from the prairies past the Pembina Hills, with the two hard sons of Zhigaag. On the way, he’d hoped to convert them, but seeing as all the way there they’d fought, swore, hit their horses, drank whiskey, and insulted each other long into the night, it was evident that he had failed.

  SIX

  THE WAY IT HAPPENED

  Chickadee and Makoons were taking a well-deserved rest. They were making sure they got their rest by hiding behind the rocks again. Slowly they licked the cones of sugar that Nokomis had given them.

  “Brother,” said Makoons in a worried voice, “how many family and friends do we have here?”

  “Let’s count,” said Chickadee.

  The twins tried to count everyone in their family. Some were missing though. Animikiins, Fishtail, and Two Strike were hunting.

  “And how much family does Zhigaag have?” asked Makoons.

  “Just his sons, but they’re worth several warriors apiece.”

  “That worries me,” said Makoons. “Because I am the one who tied the old man’s moccasins together and made a feast for the mice out of his jacket. I had to take revenge for Nookoo, and for you, my brother.”

  “Miigwech, thank you,” said Chickadee with a grin.

  Chickadee was not surprised by his brother’s confession. His twin was a clever joker, and this prank had worked all too well.

  “I am just worried that I have got us all into trouble,” said Makoons. “I wish that Two Strike, our Deydey, Fishtail, or even Uncle Quill was here. They could take on ten Zhigaags. I didn’t know that Babiche and Batiste would show up.”

  “Did you see the way they looked at us?”

  “No doubt they have their suspicions.”

  “I think Zhigaag told them about the problem with his hat,” said Chickadee.

  “His hat will never be the same. I wonder what he’s wearing today—no fancy hat, no trader’s topcoat.”

  The twins lay back against the rock and gazed into the waving tops of the maple trees. Lost in their silent thoughts, they did not notice the rustling of footsteps. Then suddenly there were voices, grown men’s voices. Babiche and Batiste sat down on the rock. There was the scrape of a striker, and then the wafting odor of tobacco. As the two men puffed on their pipes, the twins shrank against the rock. They hardly breathed. Their hearts beat frantically. Makoons closed his eyes in fear, but Chickadee kept one eye open.

  “One of those two scrawny puppies has shamed our father,” Babiche said at last.

  “We should catch them and throw them in the soup pot,” said Batiste.

  “Har, har, har,” laughed Babiche. “They wouldn’t make more than a few mouthfuls for men like us.”

  “Look down at my leg,” said Batiste. “The muscles are so big I could outrun a horse.”

  “You are mighty, my brother,” Babiche agreed. “But just look at my fist. It is so hard it could smash a rock.”

  “Your fist is hard,” said Batiste. “And as large as your own head.”

  “Har, har, har,” laughed Babiche. “You are very funny, my brother.”

  Makoons opened one eye and looked into Chickadee’s open eye. The twins silently agreed that Babiche and Batiste weren’t funny.

  “Think,” said Babiche, blowing out a cloud of smoke, “of what we co
uld do to those worthless puppies with your leg, and my fist.”

  “Or my two fists, and your head.”

  “Or your two legs, and my one fist.”

  “Or if we squeezed them between our rock-hard bellies!”

  “Har, har, har,” laughed Babiche. “You are funny, my brother.”

  “All we need to do is get them alone, with nobody watching us.”

  Chickadee’s and Makoon’s eyes opened wide in alarm. Then they felt the two massive men moving above them, leaning over them, and they saw the craggy faces of the brothers very near. Suddenly both brothers sucked hard on their pipes and then blasted smoke out into the boys’ eyes.

  How it burned! Although blinded, the twins leaped up anyway, fast as rabbits. They jumped, fell, scurried, blundering into trees and tripping over branches as they fled.

  Behind them, the powerful big brothers flexed the muscles of their arms and compared their fists again, smoked their pipes, and laughed and laughed.

  Chickadee and Makoons reeled back to the safety of their camp to find the women in the family were finishing their work. They crept into the wigwam to hide, hoping that the family would leave the camp very soon.

  It seemed they would. Once the nights and the days were warm, and the sun increased its strength, the days of sugar bush were over. Omakayas wrapped the tawny blocks of maple sugar in birchbark and tied the bark down with split jack-pine root. After the sugaring, the family planned to return to the islands in the Lake of the Woods, where they would hunt furs and build their stores of food through the summer. They all looked forward to warm days of fishing, berry picking, gathering medicines, and swimming.

  But the two sons of Zhigaag had something else in mind.

  Even as the other families gathered their blankets and pots and prepared to move, Babiche and Batiste sat on the rock. There, the pipe smoke drifting up in curls, they hatched an inglorious plan.

  “We are important,” said one brother.

  “That is true,” said Batiste. “We carry the mail on our horses. Everyone treats us with respect.”

  “But our shanty, it is a mess,” said Babiche. “I was thinking how nice it would be to have a wife.”

  “A wife is too much trouble,” replied his brother. “Besides, we’d need two. We couldn’t share a wife.”

  “Har, har,” said Babiche, “you are funny, my brother. What we need is a servant.”

  “A servant! Now that is a fine idea. We are important enough to have a servant, but where would we get one?” asked Batiste.

  “I have an idea,” said Babiche. “Those two insulting rabbits who look exactly alike—what if one disappeared?”

  “We might get in trouble with that whole family,” said Batiste.

  “Oh, I very much doubt it, my brother,” said Babiche. “Remember, they have two the same! They have an extra! Why should they care?”

  “Har. You are very funny! But perhaps you are also right.”

  Late that night, while the whole camp slept, the two men crept to the birchbark shelter where the twins dreamed of all they would do back on their island. With a stealth surprising for his size, Babiche wiggled his hands and arms underneath the loose walls. He seized the twin closest to him, put his rough hand over the boy’s mouth, and yanked him so quickly out under the birchbark wall that the other sleepers were not stirred.

  Ever since she was a young girl, Omakayas had been visited in her dreams by a protective spirit, a bear woman. That night, the furry and powerful bear woman appeared. Omakayas dreamed that the bear woman crawled in beside her and curled up, speaking sleepily, for she was only now stirring from her winter hibernation.

  “Omakayas, my child, your little ones are in danger. The hunters are coming....”

  Omakayas woke with a start and stirred up the fire just enough to see. There was Nokomis, curled in her rabbit-skin blanket. And there was Zozie sleeping flat on her back underneath a trade blanket. Makoons was a lump entirely wrapped in another blanket, and next to him there was a lump too. But something about the lump did not look right.

  Omakayas stirred the little fire into flames, causing Nokomis to sit up, blinking.

  “Chickadee?”

  There was no answer.

  Omakayas went over to Chickadee’s blanket, felt around the spot, and noticed that the birchbark wall was pulled up. At first she thought he had gone out to the bushes. She waited. Nokomis turned over, went back to sleep. Chickadee did not return. Omakayas’s heart jolted in fear. My bear woman has spoken the truth! She woke Makoons.

  “Mama?” He rubbed his eyes.

  “Where is your brother?”

  Makoons leaned over the empty blanket and tried to focus his sleepy eyes.

  “Dibi’. I don’t know where!”

  In an instant, Omakayas was out the door, hoping that Chickadee had only slipped out on some midnight errand with a cousin. She went to every lodge, waking everyone. None of them had seen Chickadee.

  Now the whole camp was out, including Zozie and Makoons. They called out for Chickadee. They made torches of pitch-tipped branches. Father Genin crawled out of his blankets and tried to help. Everyone searched the area. Everyone, that is, except Babiche and Batiste. John Zhigaag had crept out to poke his walking stick here and there in the leaves.

  “Old Zhigaag! Where are your sons?” asked Nokomis.

  “I don’t know,” said Zhigaag.

  “You know something,” said Nokomis. “Those two sons of yours have stolen Chickadee!”

  “Stolen? Why, you couldn’t give away that worthless boy,” said the old man. “Nobody would want him!”

  “Then where is he?” said Nokomis. “And where are Babiche and Batiste? Answer me!”

  “My sons may have gone back to the river,” replied Zhigaag. “They will catch some golden eyes when the river breaks up. They were hungry for golden eyes!”

  “Hungry for fish in the middle of the night!”

  Nokomis made ready to hit the old man again with her walking stick, but he threw himself on the ground and cried out, “Pity me! I have no one! My sons didn’t even take me along!”

  “Oh, you pity yourself enough,” said Nokomis.

  Father Genin came over and helped the old man sit up.

  “Where are your sons?”

  He also was suspicious, especially since he’d failed to convert Babiche and Batiste. In spite of his forgiving nature, he suspected that they were unredeemable fellows and were even capable of wickedness. He made Zhigaag sit still and listen while he said a few quick prayers.

  Nokomis hobbled quickly over to Omakayas, who was examining the sets of footprints outside the wigwam. The footprints led straight to where the two brown horses had been tethered. Omakayas fell down on her knees, grasping Deydey’s hand.

  “Oh, Deydey, they have stolen Chickadee!”

  Deydey’s face was suffused with fury.

  “My daughter,” he said, “we will pursue them. We will find our boy.”

  The twins were favorites of his, favorites of everyone. Everyone knew how, in the stories, twins helped to create the Ojibwe world. Twins were considered blessed. To know twins, to be in the family of twins or even the presence of twins, was good fortune. Chickadee and Makoons were much loved. To divide twins was an evil.

  “I will track down Babiche and Batiste,” said Mikwam. “Fishtail and Animikiins will follow the path as well. When Two Strike hears of this, she’ll take it hard! We’ll catch up with them. Don’t worry, daughter.”

  In a gesture rare for him, Mikwam put his arm around Omakayas’s shoulder and tried to comfort her weeping. She in turn held Makoons. Poor Makoons had never been separated from his brother, and he was crying with all of his heart. Nothing would be right for anyone until Chickadee returned.

  SEVEN

  THE CHASE

  Chickadee’s dream was frightening in the first place. It was a nightmare. A huge black flying turtle had chased him through trees and over rocks. Chickadee had been just about to wak
e when a smothering hand was clapped over his mouth and he was suddenly somewhere else. The last thing he saw was the tiny flare of light inside his family wigwam. Then nothing. All was darkness. He made sounds as he was hauled up, swung around, thumped down. But those sounds were no more than panicked whines. He was sure nobody heard him.

  In all that was to come, he would fix on that little moment he’d seen the flare of light. He would wish, and wish, that he’d bitten the hand of Babiche, or shoved a stick in the eye of Babiche. He wished he had awakened sooner, or managed to grab the feet of his brother, who would have shouted the alarm.

  But everything happened swiftly, brutally. Now, tied in a sack, Chickadee was slung across a thick blanket on the back of a horse. He thought it was one of the brown horses that Babiche and Batiste had arrived on. They were galloping away before Chickadee could really make sense of things. It was all too fast, all too strange, all like part of the dream. It was as if the dream had come true and he was snatched into the air by the flying black turtle!

  Chickadee was terrified, but as he was held tight against the woolly vest of Babiche, sitting on a comfortable blanket, and enveloped in a dark sack, he also began to get sleepy again.

  I might as well sleep, thought Chickadee. No sense worrying about things now. If I wiggle hard, I’ll just fall off. I am certainly taken captive. If I sleep now, I’ll be better able to handle what happens when this horse finally stops.

  As soon as Animikiins and Two Strike found out what had happened, they decided to start out. The family would band together to find Chickadee. Fishtail would help the women on the trail. Animikiins took some fresh maple sugar, dried fish, his rifle, ammunition, and a blanket roll. Omakayas and Animikiins tried to be brave for each other, but when they said good-bye their eyes swelled with tears.

  “I will not rest until I find him,” said Animikiins. “I will bring our boy home.”