The Game of Silence Read online

  There was no explosion, there was no thunder, there were no words, only power. It was as though a great wind simply picked up Two Strike, disarmed her, and placed her underneath Yellow Kettle’s arm. Even with Bizheens on her back, Yellow Kettle carried Two Strike as easily as a stick of wood.

  “Where are you going with me! Put me down!”

  Two Strike, enraged, began to struggle as Yellow

  Kettle walked down the trail with her. She might have tried to strike out or even bite, her fury was so deep and uncontrollable, but just at that moment Deydey appeared, Angeline at his side, and when he saw Two Strike tucked underneath the arm of his wife he knew that something serious was happening. He joined her, spoke for a moment. Then, amazingly, Two Strike seemed to fly through the air and land beneath the arm of Deydey. Like a bear, with one flip of her arm, Yellow Kettle had transferred the rebellious Two Strike to her husband. He now carried Two Strike, and the four of them, counting an interested baby still tied onto Yellow Kettle’s back, walked quickly down the trail to Auntie Muskrat’s.

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  As her mother and father disappeared with Two Strike, a great feeling of happiness washed over Omakayas. Her heart was still hot over the scorn that Two Strike showered on her. The killing of the moose had permanently changed her cousin for the worse. Finally, something would be done! Two Strike would learn her lesson. Nokomis now emerged from deep in the woods, carrying a load of fresh cedar. Omakayas told her what had happened, then asked what would happen to Two Strike. She couldn’t help but ask eagerly, which made Nokomis pause.

  “You would like to see your cousin punished.”

  “She deserves it, nookoo!”

  “Ganabaj, maybe. Or perhaps the Gizhe Manidoo has something else in mind for her. Come sit down with me, my girl.”

  Omakayas sat down next to her grandma and helped her to clean the cedar, taking off the dead and rough pieces, and tie together the boughs to made a nice firm springy mattress. “Two Strike has an unusual destiny,” said Nokomis, “we have been watching her. We think it could go either way.”

  Omakayas didn’t grasp the meaning of what her grandma said, but she could tell that Nokomis was carefully choosing her words.

  “She has her grandfather’s spirit, and as you know, he was a grand warrior and an excellent negotiator, who secured this island for us and made certain of our trading partners. She has his fire, but she is young, and she lacks his ability to focus the flame. She needs guidance. Her family will put her out alone in order for her spirits to find her.”

  “But it’s cold,” said Omakayas, startled. When children fasted, it was usually in the first warmth of spring, just before the flies and mosquitoes hatched. At this time of year, there was hard frost on the ground.

  “They will send her with a blanket,” was all that Nokomis would say.

  Omakayas nodded, kept her thoughts to herself. Now was the perfect time to speak, to surrender her secret, to tell her grandma about the dream that clearly said she should go out into the woods and fast alone. Her spirits were still looking for her! She knew it, but she didn’t want to hear it. She stuffed the dream and message back inside of herself and continued to work on the cedar, breathing in its comforting pungence. In spite of herself, she felt a little sorry for Two Strike.

  Perhaps as a result of not telling her grandmother about her dream, that night Omakayas dreamed again, more insistently. She saw herself standing on a piece of bark, streaking along the water. Her face was marked with black charcoal. There was an island in the distance. The piece of bark went faster and faster until she knew that if she moved the slightest muscle she would fall from it and drown. Before her, she sensed a great, dark shadow.

  I’ve had enough of this, she thought, waking up, still dizzy from the speed of her bark boat, sweating from fear, and worried about the shadow of the future.

  EIGHT

  THE TRADER’S

  Omakayas and Angeline had come to trade. They were always welcome at the trader’s, for their family was well respected. Hardworking basket makers, quill workers, hunters, fishers, strong portagers, medicine gatherers, master jeemaan builders, and intelligent chess players were related to Omakayas. Still, although the girls were extremely proud of the two bales of dried fish, the result of their work, they stood shyly in the trading store doorway, smelling the spicy air. Finally they gathered the courage to walk in. They set their heavy fish bales on the counter and looked around.

  A barrel of salt sat plump and round on the floor and a tin of something called pepper stood behind the counter. There were two small casks of molasses, a wooden box filled with cakes of sugar high on a shelf. Bolts of fabric—red and blue trade cloth, calico with the tiniest flowers and leaves on it—ribbons of every color, tools, and bullets filled the counters and shelves. There were sweet-smelling medicines in small beautiful bottles. Peppermint. Cloves. Myrrh. Angeline sounded out the black marks on the labels.

  “What have we here?” said the trader as he came through the little back door. Seeing the two girls, he smiled and leaned back on his heels, folding his hands over his round belly. Angeline suddenly became very shy and pointed at the fish.

  The trader lugged the fish bales over to his scale, weighed them, and then tested a piece of one of the fish with the end of his knife. He nodded and then took a long flat fork and wiggled it into the middle of the bale. He drew out a morsel of fish and with a shrewd look at Angeline he popped the sample into his mouth. He chewed. The girls held their breaths. His eyes lit up.

  “Excellent quality!” he said. He wrote down a number on a piece of paper, and now Angeline shook away her bashful air. She took the paper in her hand and regarded the number. She mouthed the chimookoman number to herself to be sure, then frowned. Politely but firmly, she took the pencil from the hand of the trader, and slowly constructed another number.

  “Oho! Sharp dealings from these pretty girls!”

  The trader crowed, delighted to have the chance to barter. He tapped his chin with the greasy pencil, wiggled his eyebrows up and down, and wrote down yet another number. Reading it, Angeline impatiently shook her head, and tapped on the number she had written. The trader heaved a sigh and wrote down yet another number. This number made Angeline bite her lips and narrow her eyes. She hesitated, took the pencil, and carefully wrote down still another number.

  At last, at this number, the trader nodded and stuck out his hand.

  “Howah!” Omakayas almost shouted with pleasure. It was exciting to see her sister behave so strongly, and with such purpose. Now, with the credit that their baled fish brought, they looked at the items in the store with new eyes. The spools of ribbon, the loops of brilliant glass beads, the fabrics and the candy, all were available to them. They had a rich, substantial feeling.

  “Little sister,” said Angeline, “you thought that I was working to buy a gift for Fishtail. You were right. But here is something you don’t know. I was also working to buy something for you. Little sister, you need a new dress. Look at the one you are wearing!”

  Omakayas hadn’t really thought about it, but now, as she looked down at the trade cloth dress she’d been washing out and wearing all year, she saw that it had tiny holes in it from eager raspberry picking. It was stained and mended, faded on the front and hem. She was surprised to see how old it looked next to the new material in the store! How happy she was to pick out fresh new cloth. She looked for a long time at the blue, but it was too much like the dress she had. She considered the yellow, but then changed her mind and with a firm nod settled on the red. Angeline had it cut, and then bought white beads for trim. She also bought brilliant beads and enough expensive black velvet for a vest she would make for Fishtail.

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  Omakayas wanted to ask whether the vest would be a wedding vest, but she didn’t dare spoil the good feeling between them. Angeline might frown and close up if she said too much. So she helped Angeline pick out little things—tobacco for Deydey, hanks of beads for Mama
and Nokomis, black licorice candy for Pinch. Angeline didn’t know what to buy for Bizheens, but finally settled on a bell that would hang on the head guard of his tikinagun. Every time he batted the bell, it would reward him with a musical tinkle.

  As they walked away from the trader’s, bearing their happy gifts, they were silent in thought. Finally, Angeline spoke.

  “Do you think he will come home?” she asked carefully, her voice working hard to control the hope and fear in her heart. Immediately, Omakayas knew exactly the “he” whom her sister meant.

  “Of course he will!” Omakayas exclaimed. It had not even entered her mind that Fishtail might not return. There were dangers, of course, but she knew that he was strong and clever.

  “When he comes home, you’ll set up your lodge,” she teased, “and in no time I’ll be an auntie.”

  Taken by surprise, Angeline laughed. Then she threw her blanket shawl over her shoulder and hugged her little sister. With Angeline’s arm around her, as they walked down the road, Omakayas felt completely warm and protected. They passed the school where, soon, Angeline would go once again to learn to scratch out the tracks that spoke. Writing, she called it, ozhibee’igay. Now that is was clear that those chimookomanag memory tracks could not be trusted, Deydey was anxious for his daughters to unlock their mystery. Maybe Omakayas would learn the speaking tracks that winter. Maybe she would go to the school as well. Angeline kept her arm around her little sister’s shoulder even when they came to the rough parts of the road. They grabbed each other’s shawls and joked and laughed as they carefully picked their way through the mud and garbage left out by the chimookomanag.

  “It’s because they live in the same place all the time,” said Angeline. “Their garbage piles up. If they moved the way we do all summer, it wouldn’t be so bad.”

  There was that difference, too, in the way these chimookomanag lived. Omakayas and her family moved to maple sugar camp in the spring, then to their birchbark house near their gardens, then to fish camp in early summer, then often out to a berry-picking camp and always to a ricing camp. It was true, the garbage didn’t have a chance to pile up. Besides, they didn’t throw out the same things that the chimookomanag found useless. Even now, Omakayas’s foot kicked up a little omooday, a tiny glass bottle with a piece of paper pasted on it. The paper was tracked with words that Angeline read.

  “Tinc…tincture. I don’t know what that is. Of peppermint. I don’t know what that is either.”

  “Some kind of mashkiki?”

  “Let’s keep it and ask the Break-Apart Girl.”

  Angeline liked the Break-Apart Girl too, and wanted to visit. They drew near to her house, but she was nowhere in sight. They lingered just outside the gate, peering in at the amusing gookoosh and trying to coax the silly chickens to them. Finally their friend looked out an upstairs window and waved. Moments later, she burst out the door and ran toward them. Laughing, she threw her arms around Omakayas, who hugged her back. Omakayas pointed toward the cabins and by using signs told her that they had moved into town. The Break-Apart Girl clapped her hands together, then put her finger to her nose to signal a beak. She was asking about Andeg. Omakayas pointed south. For two days now, she had not seen her friend, nor any other crow on the island.

  The Break-Apart Girl was so friendly, so good to them. Surely she did not want them to leave! Omakayas wanted to ask her why the others, the big chimookomanag, wanted her people to go off into dangerous territory, but the idea was too complicated to get across by signs. As always, walking along, the Break-Apart Girl brought out a treat from her apron pocket. This time it was a kind of chimookoman bread that was made with something sour in it. The bread was chewy, soft, delicious. The girls munched slowly as they walked toward the beach and when they got there, as always, they bared their feet and stretched their toes in the sand. It was a warm fall afternoon and the water was perfect. All summer, the sun had heated the lake and it took a long time to cool off, so the water was warmer than the air, and even warmer than it was in the beginning of the summer. With a daring look, the Break-Apart Girl pointed at the remotest part of the beach. She took off running.

  Holding their parcels carefully, Omakayas and Angeline followed. When they caught up with her they set their parcels in a safe place and took off their dresses and put them neatly with the parcels. The Break-Apart Girl took off her dress, too, but kept on some clothing of a trimmed white stuff. Omakayas wanted to see how the clothing was made, but it would be rude to look too closely. She couldn’t help notice, though, that along with the dress the Break-Apart Girl had shed a stiff, short garment that had fit around her waist, pinching it tight. Without this thing, the Break-Apart Girl was shaped just like any girl and she seemed happy to run and play, to dive into the water. She couldn’t swim, but she could throw herself under, she could splash, and she could chase Omakayas and Angeline up and down the sandy shallows and lie in the warmth and stare at the clouds.

  THE BLACK GOWN

  After they had dried off, arranged their hair, and said good-bye to their friend, Omakayas and Angeline walked through the town of LaPointe to the black gown’s praying house. The Catholic black gown, Father Baraga, insisted that the Catholic Indians decorate the inside of their praying house with flowers and cloth. The girls wanted to peek inside, for they’d heard it was a pretty sight. Standing on her tiptoes, her hands cupped to the glass of the window, Omakayas peered into the quiet room. There were ribbons draping the walls, it was true. Big fancy arrangements of ribbons and flowers decked the table in front of the praying house. On the wall, the two sticks of wood, nailed together, that Angeline called a cross were surrounded with glittering balls of some substance that Omakayas had never seen before. She tried to get a better look, strained forward, stood taller. Suddenly, as though lifted by a wind, she was hoisted into the air by a pair of strong hands!

  It was Father Baraga himself, lifting her closer.

  “Peendigen!” He invited. He spoke the language of the Anishinabeg and although the words stuck in his mouth as though he carried a pebble under his tongue, Angeline and Omakayas understood most of what he said. He wanted them to enter this beautiful praying house and listen to his God, or Manidoo.

  “Meegwech, meegwech,” they said, thanking him as they backed away. They didn’t really want to go inside. Father Baraga’s face was grim even when he smiled, and he was something of an awesome and forbidding sight. In that black robe, for which he was known, he stalked the streets of LaPointe looking for people to join in his praying house, and he ranged far and wide visiting Anishinabeg in their camps. Father Baraga made Omakayas uncomfortable, and she was glad that her family clung to their own ways. Although they were not interested in his white God, however, Deydey respected the hardy priest. He liked that the priest had troubled to learn their language and could speak so well with them.

  “Aneendi g’deydey?” Father Baraga asked the girls. He wanted to know where their father was. He spoke to them for a while. The girls easily understood that Father Baraga wanted Mikwam to come visit the church and see the special decorations. They told the priest that their father was hunting, and that when he returned they would give him the message. Then they both felt a huge well of laughter bubbling up inside. There was no reason for the laughter, but it almost overtook them. Before they embarrassed themselves, they said good-bye and ran swiftly off.

  The next day, the Break-Apart Girl came walking up to the cabin with a basket on one arm. She was wearing a long blanket cut and sewed in an interesting way. The blanket flowed down, over her shoulders, to the end of her majigoode. It covered her break-apart waist, which Omakayas now knew was terribly pinched in by the odd garment she wore underneath. On her head, the girl wore a small cloth bucket. Everyone exclaimed at it. Nokomis brought her in and sat her down in the corner of the cabin. The girl took her head bucket off and gave it to Nokomis to examine. After Nokomis looked it over, she approved the stitching.

  “If you put a bottom on it, you could
use it to carry things too,” she said. “It could be useful!”

  The Break-Apart Girl had no idea what Nokomis said, of course, but she smiled with all her teeth showing. Then she took the cloth covering off the things she had in the basket. There were two small bags of flour and another of salted pork, which was very good to fry with fish. The girl pushed these things at Nokomis, who thanked her profusely. Everyone sat together, without speaking, unable to communicate any better than to smile and nod from time to time. After a while, Omakayas grew tired of this, and gestured for the Break-Apart Girl to come outdoors with them.

  The women of the family were preparing for a sweat bath, and Omakayas and Angeline invited the Break-Apart Girl to join them. Old Tallow had already prepared the huge fire with the stones in it. The stones, asiniig, or grandfathers, were nearly ready to be placed inside the lodge. They were red-hot and glowing in the big fire. It was time to bring in the bucket of water and sing the right songs. Omakayas gestured to the Break-Apart Girl to walk with her to fetch water, which she did willingly. Everything else was ready when they got back. Old Tallow was already inside, and also Nokomis. Yellow Kettle was outside, tending to the fire. Angeline slipped off her dress easily, and showed the girl how to crawl into the doorway.

  “Ombay,” she called, very cheerfully, from inside.

  The Break-Apart Girl seemed frozen, rooted to the ground, and drew away, smiling faintly, when Omakayas pulled at her blanket coat.

  “Come in,” she said, “you will feel better. This is good for you.” But although Omakayas smiled in as friendly a way as possible, and took off her clothes in a laughing way and tried to make the chimookoman girl comfortable, the Break-Apart Girl was clearly embarrassed. With many a wave, she turned and walked swiftly down the path into town.

  And so, together, the women proceeded to enjoy themselves. When the door was closed, they sang and prayed. Nokomis placed pinches of fragrant tobacco on the glowing rocks and spilled a dipper of water on them. The cleansing steam filled their lungs. When it got so hot inside that Omakayas couldn’t stand it, Old Tallow raised the skin flap on the doorway. They breathed the cool outside air for a while, and then, using two big antlers, Yellow Kettle picked more rocks out of the fire and brought them into the lodge. Again the flap was closed, and the medicine, good smelling cedar tips, was sprinkled on the rocks. Dippersful of water were poured out and the steam rose again. The women usually brought the grandfather rocks in four times and prayed in each direction. Afterward, they let the rocks cool slowly and ate a bowl of rice and berries, cleaned up the lodge, let the outside fire burn down. Night had come, and now the fire glowed in darkness. Soon there was a pure and peaceful moonrise.