Chickadee Page 8

  “We respect the tiny one,” said the other hawk. “He has different power than ours. No claws. But you see that our claws have got us into trouble.”

  Chickadee saw that they had locked their claws so fiercely and tightly that they could not spread them out.

  “If you do not help us, we will die together,” said the hawk. “We are not enemies; in fact, we are sisters. But we were both greedy for the rabbit.”

  “Which you may have, human,” said the other hawk, “as a sign of our gratitude, if you help us.”

  “Miigwech,” said Chickadee, crouching beside the hawks. He carefully unbent each claw, pulling it from the grip of the other hawk. When they were free, they tried to hop apart, but flopped on the earth, powerless.

  “We have lost too much strength,” gasped one hawk. “Surely, we must die anyway.”

  “Wait here,” said Chickadee.

  He ran over to retrieve the rabbit. With his little knife, he skinned away several pieces of the rabbit and fed them to the hawks. He took care not to get his fingers near their razor-sharp beaks. They gulped down the food. Although their yellow eyes were still cold and haughty, there was something friendlier about them once they had eaten.

  “You have shared your food with us willingly,” said one of the hawks. “Only our parents share food willingly. We have to fight our way through life. You, although human, we now regard as our child. We are your mothers and must share with you. We have excellent eyesight and we are superb hunters! We will help you wherever you go.”

  The hawks beat their wings now, feeling the power course through them. The light showed through the lovely scorched red colors of their tails.

  “Whenever you find the feather of a hawk, pick it up. It will be a gift for you,” said one of the hawks.

  Up they flew, beating their powerful wings hard at first, then soaring as they caught the wind.

  Chickadee looked down at his feet. There were two red tail feathers, striped with black. Beside the feathers, the rabbit.

  Right there, he made camp and kindled a small, hot fire to roast the skinned rabbit. He kept the pelt, too. He could smoke it at his fire overnight and put it inside his moccasins for additional warmth.

  As he sat on soft balsam boughs, eating the meat, he hummed the song he’d been taught. He was not so lonely now. He’d been adopted. He had a father, the chickadee, and two mothers who were hawks.

  Now that Chickadee had found the stream, his luck improved. If he followed the stream, he’d come to a trail, perhaps, or at least a river. He might find a camp of Anishinabeg. Animals came to the stream, too, and he would be able to build a fish trap. With the stream he had a source of food, water, and a possible way home.

  Chickadee followed the stream for days. Sure enough, it widened. It passed through a small lake and he picked up its path on the other side. Always, when he made his night camp, he thanked the chickadee and sang the song it had taught him. Many times, as he walked, he heard the chickadee in the bushes. Sometimes the chickadee perched near him and sang its spring song or scolded in a friendly way, but always in the language of birds. Never again did the little bird speak in a voice that he could understand.

  Perhaps it was because I was so weak and helpless, thought Chickadee. Perhaps my namesake then had pity on me, and the hawks also, though they needed my help.

  Once, as he walked along the stream’s edge, a plump gopher dropped from the sky and nearly hit him on the head. He saw the sun through the red tail of a hawk as it disappeared beyond some tall pines.

  SEVENTEEN

  THE CART TRAIN

  The stream widened into a river, and as that river grew there appeared beside it a well-worn trail. When Chickadee came to the trail, he looked from one side to the other as far as he could see. There was no one, and nothing. But the trail was beaten smooth in spite of the spring rains and melting snow. Chickadee had his doubts about taking the road. On the one hand, he could walk it easily and make good time, heading north. On the other hand, so could enemies, and he’d already been kidnapped twice.

  Chickadee thought back on the short time since he’d been kidnapped. It had seemed endless! He’d been a servant; he’d eaten miserable bouyah; he’d been painfully scrubbed; his braids were nearly cut off. Chickadee decided that he didn’t want to meet other people anymore. Not until he saw his family.

  Walking beside the trail, out of sight, was much more difficult, but a better idea altogether. So that’s what Chickadee did. When he stopped to sleep, he took a good look up and down the trail to make sure there was no one on it, friend or foe.

  As he made his way through the brush and woods, alongside the trail, Chickadee surprised himself by finding food and staying warm. He had the striker and flint for fire, and the knife he’d stolen from the priest. He had thoughts of his family, and the protection of his namesake, the chickadee. Whenever sad thoughts came over him, or loneliness seized him, he stopped and listened. He always heard the chickadee’s cheerful call, urging him on, and his heart lifted.

  Again, and again, he sang the chickadee’s song. He wore the hawk feathers, gifts of his fierce mothers, in his hair.

  So Chickadee survived.

  He dug cattail roots and roasted them, or ate them raw. He found a rabbit trail and set a snare on it. He waited patiently near the snare, caught a rabbit, and ate that too. He stole eggs from blackbird nests and trapped a fish swimming in the shallows. He ate turtle meat and fashioned himself a little cup from birchbark, which he filled with water. He heated up a stone in his fire and put it into the cup. The water grew very hot. He put in balsam needles and had tea. How comforting it was to drink it. The tea reminded him of Nokomis and her medicines.

  There were holes in Chickadee’s moccasins now, and his pants were in tatters. His vest kept him warm even in the rain, but the elbows of his shirt were worn out. His elbows stuck out of the sleeves of his shirt. He could see his knees and ankles sometimes as he walked.

  How long will I be on this trail? he wondered. Will I grow into a man as I walk?

  And then something happened.

  One day, as he made his way through brush along the trail, he heard something in the distance that he’d never heard before.

  It began with a musical creaking that seemed to come from the sky far beyond the trail. Startled, Chickadee crept into some bushes beside the beaten track. He craned out to see down the road as far as he could. There was nothing, and yet little by little the noise increased.

  From a songlike creaking it became an off-key squealing. From a squealing it became a squalling. From a squalling it became a screeching, and grew louder. From a bawling screech it became a roaring screech. From a roaring screech it became a deafening shrillness. Just when Chickadee’s fright at the sound became panic, he saw an oxcart, the first in a long row.

  The ox, the animal that drew the cart, was small, powerful, dark, and tough. It was shaggy and brown with a white spot on its brow. The cart had enormous wheels and it moved shakily but steadily along, lurching and swaying. This cart was the first of two hundred oxcarts in a long line, all piled high with furs and pemmican, dried meat, even quilled pouches and baskets. Some carts were drawn by ponies. The wheels made the screeching sound. A man in a blue shirt, the cart driver, sat in the cart, his feet hanging down right behind the ox. His whip flicked out occasionally, and smoke drifted up out of his pipe. As the cart came closer, Chickadee saw that it was loaded behind with pressed bundles. He knew that these bundles were made up of furs.

  The oxcart train was bound from the northern fur country, down through the plains and woods, to St. Paul, Minnesota. In that city, the furs would be bought by fur buyers and sent to New York City. There, they would be sold again to fur buyers from France, England, Germany. There were tons of furs on the Red River oxcart train. Each fur was from an animal trapped or hunted down by an Anishinabe man or woman. Each animal skin was stretched out and preserved, usually by Anishinabe mothers and grandmothers.

  Chick
adee had never seen so many furs all at once. He had never seen so many carts! One or two at a time, maybe. Never so many in a row!

  The carts made this unbearable noise because they were made entirely of wood. Although bear and buffalo tallow was used on the wheels to make them turn more smoothly, the grease did nothing to keep down the noise. Some of the drivers put plugs of wax in their ears. Others had already gone half deaf.

  From his hiding place, Chickadee watched the oxcarts pass. He watched with his fingers stuck firmly in his ears, and his jaw hanging wide. There was a strange and beautiful assortment of people in the carts. One man wore a blue coat with a beautiful ribbon-trimmed hood. There were checkered, calico, plaid, flannel, and wool shirts—all brightly colored. Fancy fringe, beaded shoulder bags, finger-woven red sashes, and every sort of scarf and hat. Some carts were driven by women, who had open parasols tied to shelter against the sun. A few older children ran beside the carts and little children peeped out of the furs. Pots, long-handled frying pans, tipi poles, extra skins, and guns were tied to the sides of some carts and added their clanking to the general din.

  Chickadee watched each cart, mesmerized. He wanted to jump out and show himself, to beg for a handout. But he was afraid he would be sent back to the Mother, Sisters, and Father. Or to Babiche and Batiste. He didn’t know which was worse. That day, he happened to be particularly hungry. He was so hungry that he’d contemplated eating the tadpoles he saw swimming back in some sloughs he passed. He’d never eaten tadpoles before, and wondered how bad they might taste. Now he decided it would be better to eat tadpoles than hail down an oxcart and be returned to captivity.

  But there! All of a sudden! Chickadee took his fingers out of his ears and yelled:

  “Uncle!”

  Uncle Quill had beeswax plugs in his ears, but he would not have heard Chickadee yell anyway. The oxcarts’ din was so tremendous it shook the air. Chickadee had to jump out of his hiding place and run to the cart, and even then, he had to tap his uncle on the toe of his moccasin before he looked down.

  Quill was so surprised he nearly fell over in the cart. But Quill was also the sort of man who is not surprised about being surprised. With one neat motion, still holding onto the ox’s reins and whip with one hand, he reached down with the other and plucked Chickadee off the ground and hauled him over the pole side of the cart. Quill set his nephew right next to him. He grinned. Uncle Quill had big white teeth and when he smiled the world looked like a better place immediately. Quill knew how to deal with a starving boy, because he’d been one himself and never forgot it. He handed over a flask of water, a bag of pemmican, a hunk of bannock, and he took a piece of beeswax out of his pocket, too.

  Chickadee took a drink of water, put the beeswax in his ears, and then proceeded to eat bite after bite of the bannock and handful after handful of delicious pounded berries and buffalo meat. As he filled himself up, sitting there secure next to his uncle, he felt a huge wave of happiness and good luck course over him. He grinned into the distance. Although Chickadee didn’t know where he was going, he knew he was with his wonderful uncle, Quill, who loved adventure, was taking him along, and would eventually return him to his family.

  EIGHTEEN

  RED RIVER TRAIL

  Nobody knew about Chickadee’s luck back home, of course. Omakayas still woke every morning with Chickadee in her prayers. Mikwam, Yellow Kettle, Nokomis, and all of Chickadee’s relatives put pinches of tobacco out and prayed for him too. Makoons tried to be very, very good so that nothing he might do would anger the spirits. He wanted his brother back desperately.

  And his father and Two Strike kept walking until they came to the cabin that belonged to Babiche and Batiste.

  “Here,” said Animikiins. “My son’s footprints.”

  He ran to the ramshackle cabin. It was anything but the cozy place Babiche had described, and Animikiins’s heart filled with fear. The cabin was empty.

  “Here’s the stinking cabin, empty,” he called.

  “And here,” said Two Strike, looking into the stall, “two sad horses, hungry.”

  Brownie and Brownie had taken to eating the poles of their barn. The poles were now as frail as sticks. The horses would have eaten their way out to the haystack in another day if Animikiins and Two Strike hadn’t found them. The horses were dejected and skinny, and when Two Strike released them they went straight for the haystack and began to eat.

  “Don’t let them eat too much,” said Animikiins. “They’ll get sick.”

  Two Strike lured them back to the stall with clumps of hay and let them nibble more carefully.

  Animikiins was disgusted by the smell and look of the cabin, and he walked back out to examine the yard. He read the tracks just like white persons read books. He could see the story plainly in the tracks. He soon found that a wagon had stopped, that white women had jumped down. He knew what their tracks looked like with the pointy toe and heel. He saw white man’s shoes and his son’s tracks again. Then his son’s tracks disappeared and the horse and wagon tracks went on.

  “He is with these people,” said Animikiins. “Whoever they are, they took him. At least he is alive.”

  Two Strike fed Brownie and Brownie each a lump of maple sugar. The two horses quickly took a liking to her and she had no trouble saddling them up. They were eager to get away from their stall and once Animikiins and Two Strike started out, they galloped along in sudden happiness. The wagon tracks were easy to follow. Brownie and Brownie were used to going places far and fast. They’d grown up hunting buffalo and then delivering the mail. They had big and heroic hearts, gentle dispositions, and stubborn allegiances. They had never been fond of Babiche and Batiste, but they immediately decided that they would obey Two Strike forever.

  It took them only two days to track down the wagon—there it was, sitting in a yard. A nun—for Animikiins had seen nuns before—was sweeping the earth in front of a little cabin. There was a cross over the doorway.

  Two Strike jumped off Brownie and strode to the nun.

  “Where is the boy?” Two Strike asked in Ojibwe.

  Sister Seraphica smiled, then looked at the knives in Two Strike’s belt. The smile dropped off her face. She looked worried.

  “Where is our boy?” asked Animikiins, who spoke some English.

  He put his hand out at Chickadee’s height.

  “Boy,” he said again.

  “Gone!” said Seraphica.

  Mother Anthony came into the doorway behind her.

  “Not only gone, but he stole a knife from us!”

  Two Strike didn’t understand the Mother’s language, but she knew that the woman had made an accusation. Two Strike growled fiercely and stuck her face close to the women.

  Mother Anthony gave a little scream and disappeared back into the cabin.

  Seraphica stayed put.

  “He ran away,” said Seraphica. “He was a good boy, and Mother Anthony, ah … upset him. He ran into the woods. I think he was going home.”

  Animikiins despaired. He looked at the trees and brush, at the woods that would become great pines and extend on into the great northern forests. Once Chickadee entered the woods, there was no way of finding his trail. Animikiins knew that his son was clever, and for his size he was a strong boy, but could he survive alone in the wild woods? There were so many dangers, not the least of them other humans.

  “There is nothing to do, but look and look,” he told Two Strike.

  With bitter, sinking hearts, the two led the horses into the forest looking for signs of Chickadee. Animikiins was such a good tracker that even after days had passed, he could pick up a trail. He tried, and found signs. Broken plants here, a nest where Chickadee had slept, a place where he’d dug for roots, a little fire pit, places where he’d used his knife to cut bark for tea. The bones of rabbits, the hollowed-out shell of a turtle. They saw he was following a river, and Animikiins smiled.

  “He knows how to live,” he said proudly, pointing at a lean-to shelter
and a scorched place where his son had made a fire.

  “This boy is a true Anishinabe,” Two Strike agreed.

  Animikiins used all his skills. But the earth is good at swallowing up all traces of people. At last, in spite Animikiins’s great powers, they lost his trail.

  NINETEEN

  UNCLE QUILL

  Chickadee tried to sleep underneath a Red River cart. He was curled in a buffalo robe next to his Uncle Quill. Draped with buffalo skins, the cart became a snug tent with plenty of room underneath. It was a moonless night, the air was fresh and cool, and Chickadee was warmly wrapped. Uncle Quill slept silently. His breath whooshed evenly, in and out. It was surprising how quiet the carts were once evening fell; the ponies and oxen set about grazing, and everyone made camp.

  Of course, at some distance away, there was a party of Metis people laughing around a fire. Quill loved fun and would have stayed up late with them, telling stories and learning their songs. But tonight Quill had felt that his little nephew needed to sleep, and he’d turned in early with Chickadee.

  Chickadee should have slept, he was exhausted. He could feel the tiredness creep through his bones and his head was fuzzy with sleep. But Chickadee couldn’t quite fall asleep. First of all, there was the sound of musical crying. He’d never heard it before, and he kept sitting up, his ears open. He heard the sound of people singing to the crying music that sometimes skipped and sometimes wailed. Even when he did doze off, Chickadee kept waking up out of dreams in which he was home, with Makoons. He woke with a start, longing for his brother, disoriented and fearful.

  At last the music and the voices fell silent. Way off across the distant roll of prairie, wolves howled. An owl glided over and dove for a mouse. One squeak, and it was over. The grass rustled in the wind. Chickadee nestled deeper into the buffalo robe. The fluffy thick fur surrounded him and he began to dream once more. In his dream he saw the buffalo, not just one, but thousands of them. Buffalo thundering across the plains. Buffalo everywhere, coming at him, so thick that they reached to the horizon. He was with them suddenly, running with the herd. Makoons was running too! They were on horses, alongside buffalo, floating and galloping, pounding into darkness and sleep.