The Tao of Nookomis Page 14

  “What shall happen to one of you will also happen to the other. Each of you will be feared, respected and misunderstood by the people that will later join you on this earth.”

  Then Old Uncle reminded us that the Creator gave us the land and waters where we lived in honor of the brotherhood of wolf and man, that Gitche Gummi (Lake Superior) bore the likeness of a wolf’s head as a reminder of our place and purpose there.

  This is the teaching, he said, and it is so.

  So in the early morning stillness when we finally gathered to sleep in close circle around Old Uncle to keep his tired bones warm, we dreamed of the story and of our place here on the earth, and our relationship to first man, and to his descendants.

  Those we call the man-wolves.

  WE ARE AN ANCIENT TRIBE. My ancestors have been a part of the land nearly since the creation of the four-leggeds, and have lived here in the great forests along the shores of the lake for over 10,000 winters, following the great herd animals here with the retreat of the last glacier. In that early time, they seldom hungered for food, because the land provided a garden of elk and caribou and buffalo and deer upon which to feast. And closely following my ancestors to the area have been different waves of man-wolves, also in pursuit of the herds—man-wolves whose names have long been forgotten, who migrated on to other places, or disappeared, or intermarried with other tribes. Each of the various waves of man-wolves would, on occasion, steal one of our pups and raise it to pull their belongings, or use it to befriend their children and elders, or keep it to curl next to them in the deep of winter for warmth. They even gave the pups a new name, animush (dog). Often the dogs would be trained to hunt or protect their villages because of their vastly superior sense of smell and sight, because what remains wolf in them are the ability to be keen listeners, watchers. These dogs, of course, would eventually become more like man-wolves themselves, and forget many of the wolf ways we have perfected to ensure our survival all of these eons. Now, dogs seem nearly useless to us, only useful to the man-wolves.

  There are the more recent man-wolves that call themselves Dakotah and Meshkwahkihaki (Fox). Then about 150 winters ago came the Anishinaabeg Ojibwe, settling in great numbers along the shores of the lake and these sacred islands. They established their first village on our island home, and called it Moningwanakuning (Madeline Island), the place of the yellow-breasted woodpecker, the place we know as Turtle Island. The place they also refer to as the turtle-shaped island of their prophecies.

  When the Ojibwe first arrived here we were very curious, as that is our nature, and we crept close enough to their villages to listen, in the dark, deep trees to watch, and learn their stories and ways. We learn a lot in our watching and listening, in the perfect silence that is broken only by the muffled voices of the storytellers. In this way we learned many things about these new creatures. We, of course, have our own stories, and have always known and passed them down, including the story of creation now told by Old Uncle. So it was to our utter amazement early in their first winter when they gathered in their wigwams, the Ojibwe told their stories, and among the stories was the one of first man and Ma-en’gun, our grandfather, the grandfather of all wolves. And we knew at once, of course, that these were the people of our prophecies, that these were the descendants of original man, and that we share a common story, that they came to the lake and to this sacred island, Turtle Island, the island of islands, to live out the story.

  And now new man-wolves had arrived. Nephew, who I had posted to watch and listen to the newcomers, told us these were adawe winineeg (traders), who had come to trade their wares with the Ojibwe for the furs of the beaver, fox, ermine, otter, and other animal relatives. And he told us that they carried magic sticks that breathed fire, and that the fire was a killing weapon, more powerful than any club, or bow, or spear, or teeth, and that it ran faster than any creature could run. That he had seen them take down a deer with the fire, and that the animal at once fell dead. That it did not try to rise and run from death. That it did not cry out. That it did not thrash about on the ground in its final struggle. And that made us wonder of the fate of our relatives, and ultimately, of us.

  They had scarcely been on the island for more than several days when they went among the Ojibwe and offered them gifts—samples of the wares we had never seen before or knew their purposes, wares used to take down trees, skin both animals and plants, as well vessels for cooking over the fire because their soft teeth and weak stomachs had forgotten the beauty of raw meat, beautifully woven skins made from animals or plants foreign to us which they used to cover their nakedness, and tiny stones of many colors which they used to decorate the skins, as well to wear as decoration. Late one night as they slept I had Nephew steal into their camp and take one of the woven skins and bring it back to our village, where we all wondered about its softness, took turns rolling in it to leave our scent, and when we grew bored of it left to the pups to fight over. They eventually tore it to shreds, as pups sometimes do, and scattered it all over the ground.

  Over the cycle of a moon we watched in the distance as the new man-wolves established themselves on the island. And we observed how the newcomers and Ojibwe so quickly became confidants, that several of the new ones even courted the Ojibwe females, taking them back to their dens where they exchanged the common language of lovemaking. The males of the two tribes began exchanging material things and foodstuffs—the beautiful small stones for maple sugar cakes, colorful strips of the material used to cover their nakedness for some of the cache of wild rice, a cooking vessel for the hides of deer, or several pairs of moccasins.

  Spokesmen would sit in council with each other most every day. We are willing, they said, to trade the things we possess for the furs of certain animals, and we will give you, in advance, a weapon to lure these creatures and ensnare them so they cannot run away. And at first the Ojibwe were leery of the prospects of this trade because their teachings spoke strongly to them that all things of aki (mother earth) are related, that the animal and plant beings are their elder brothers, that to claim the meat of another creature should only be done for sustenance, to survive, and that there are certain songs and prayers that are said when this is done to ensure the spirit of the creature is respected, that all of this is done in humility. And they knew as well, because the stories were told in every winter around their lodges, that their prophecies warned of a time when they would be tempted by the desire for material possessions. And their elders reminded them of these things each day after the new man-wolves left their village.

  We know, however, that man-wolves are not perfect beings, and that they often stray from the Good Path, mino-bimaadiziwin; that although in each of them are these beautiful and gentle ways, that the very essence of the Creator that was given to all creatures at their conception also has an opposite. That in each and every man-wolf is an inherent struggle. That influencing them in the external world dwells an Other.

  So among the Ojibwe, the debates went on for days about whether to accept the snares of the new man-wolves. And always the Other spoke in the ears of the Ojibwe in a strong voice for its desire to possess the new wares—of vessels made of a shiny stone that were superior to the bark vessels they cooked in, of skins softer and warmer than the hides used to cover them, of cutting tools made of the shiny stone, and even the possibility of possessing the sticks that breathed fire, which they knew at once were vastly superior to the club, spear, or bow, and which could be used to quickly overpower their enemies. The debate went on in the circle of the fire as well within each individual.

  And as we watched and listened from the distance we were reminded of the beauty of their sweat lodge, how the individual leading the sweat would always acknowledge the presence of the Other and its power, and ask it to leave the proceedings, for just a while, so the prayers and healings and discussions of the sweat could be pure.

  This time, however, the request was not made, and the Other spoke strongly, certainly more strongly than the
voices of reason, and in the end the Ojibwe accepted the new man-wolves’ snares. And when their council made its decision we heard the spirits of all the animals cry out in the wind.

  As soon as the spirit of winter won in its struggle against the spirit of fall and snow fell over the island, we began witnessing the results of the decision. And we observed how certain animals were lured into the snares and trapped, and how they suffered in their struggle to free themselves, and how they died without dignity, without the proper songs and prayers being said. Mostly, however, we saw that when their furs were gathered how their carcasses were sometimes carelessly left on the ground for the cleaners—the crows and ravens, gulls, mice, flies, worms. The manner of these deaths disrespected everyone and everything involved, and overshadowing the grisly ritual was a kind of greed, a shadow so dark that light would not cleave.

  And then came the day when Waubun Anung, my mate, along with Old Uncle, took several of the younger ones to the west side of the island in hopes of gathering rabbits and several other small animals for a feast. I know now the moment of the happening because I am certain I heard the singing of spirit voices, Waubun Anung’s grandmother, mother, and old aunties, as well the pups she bore that did not survive birth, all of them singing. And when I heard this, I ran toward where they had gone, and was met by several of my nieces, running at full gate, weeping. And I cried out her name, and her spirit answered me.

  I looked in vain for her as well Old Uncle and one of the young ones. And then after what seemed like the longest time I was joined by Andig, the black one, and one of the other warriors. We are here to help find our sister, uncle, and niece, he sent his thoughts to me. I could not hide my fear and rage for what fate had become of the three missing ones, and Andig came to me and assured me, because in times like that we are family and any animosities we may have had for each other are inconsequential.

  In time we found them. From what it appeared, Waubun Anung had been ensnared by one of the traps and Old Uncle and one of our nieces had stayed on with her to help free her, comfort her. The new man-wolves, however, must have heard their cries of distress and found them there. They were slaughtered in that place, their hides having been removed, leaving only their carcasses. I was wild with grief and rage and Andig and the other warrior had to calm me, console me. Not now, Ogema, he sent his thoughts to me. Now is not a good time for atonement. Now is the time to grieve and pray and send our relatives on their westward journey to the land of souls. Now is not the time for atonement. That will come later.

  So while the other two began the ritual of prayers and songs of grieving over Old Uncle, my mate, and our niece, I made my way up the length of the island to a sacred place on the northwestern shore, to an outcropping overlooking the lake where through the great pines there was a clear view of many of the other islands—the island of small bears, the island of visions, the island of red berries, the island of great hills, the island of spirits, the island of eagles, and the island of caves—a place my mate and I had often come when we were young and new to love, and that we would also come as adults as a reminder of our commitment to one another.

  And I grieved there for four days as is our custom, repeating all the prayers and songs and singing a traveling song. Although reason told me her spirit was making its westward journey to the land of souls to be with all of our relatives who had walked on and that she would be happy there with our Creator, where she would no longer suffer—never again feel hunger or cold or pain—the reality of her loss weighed heavily on me.

  For in my pain, it seemed that all promise died with her.

  And on the evening of the fourth day, she visited me in my dreams and told me she had arrived home safely, and that her grandmother and mother and old aunties, and all the pups she bore that did not survive birth met her on the other side of the river, and that they led her to the great village of our Creator, and that I need not grieve or wonder anymore of her suffering. And when I awoke in the darkness of early morning the sky was filled with stars and the Milky Way lay wrapped across the whole of the sky like a warm blanket, and the morning star of her namesake shone in all its brightness down on me.

  A PLAN OF ATONEMENT was set in motion as soon as I returned to our village. At first, Nephew was sent to watch and listen near the Ojibwe settlement and when it was time he signaled our warriors, who went into the heart of the old man-wolves’ settlement in the dark of night and stole away with the several dogs they kept so they would not warn their masters of our presence. And then just several nights later, Andig and the other warriors raided the Ojibwe’s food cache of just enough of their winter reserves so they would only have enough to make it through winter. And we did this out of love for them, our brothers. Brothers who had forgotten the reasons they had come to the island, the place we call Turtle Island, the island of islands. The place they knew as the turtle-shaped island of their prophecies. Brothers who had heeded to the demands of the Other, who had somehow been blinded by their desire for things, who had forgotten their relationship and responsibility to their relatives, the animal and plant beings, brothers who had forgotten the teachings of their prophets. Brothers who had forgotten the story of first man and Ma-en’gun, our grandfather, the grandfather of all wolves, who had forgotten that their purpose in coming to this place was to live out the story.

  We waited more days and then came the heavy snows, and then more snows, and finally the deep cold of winter. And then we knew it was time, and we entered the new man-wolves’ encampment under the cover of darkness and quietly stole away with their entire store of food reserves, knowing that their Ojibwe neighbors would be in no position to offer any of their own reserves to the newcomers, knowing that without food the new man-wolves would never survive the winter.

  We are a patient tribe. We have been here for over 10,000 winters and have observed the different waves of man-wolves and their comings and goings.

  When the new man-wolves died from cold and hunger we went into the silence of their encampment. And in the warmth of spring we were there again to roll in their rotting flesh.

  I was given the great honor of being the first to do so.

  MY TRIBE WILL FOREVER be in this land, on this island, for our spirits run heavy in this place. We are made of the very earth of this place, Turtle Island, the island of islands.

  And my spirit is the moon over the lake, the vapor of the breaths of my descendants when they run hard through fields on cold fall nights with the stars all above and around them and shining off the perfect calm of the water. My spirit is in them when they are tracking deer on cold winter days, the chase and precise timing of the kill, and then sleeping curled together for warmth in deep snow, their mouths covered in fresh, dried blood from their feasting. My spirit is of the dark and wind and perfect stillness before a summer storm and the sounds of slow, rolling thunder off the lake, echoing through the trees. My spirit is the smell of wet grass and wildflowers, and all the bright colors of the land and water and sky.

  Someday when you are out walking in the woods and you see a wolf out of the corner of your eye.

  And you look that way and there is nothing there.

  A Wolf Story Part Two: The Boy

  In the year 1850, I traveled with my parents by canoe from the village of Red Cliff in what is now northwestern Wisconsin to Sandy Lake (in central Minnesota) late in the fall, where we Ojibwe were to be issued our annuity payments and rations. I was only ten years old at the time but the journey and its aftermath are forever seared in my memory. Thousands of Ojibwe from all over had gathered there. Only later, as an adult, was I to find out that government officials had lured us all there to get Wisconsin and Michigan Ojibwe to move to northwestern Minnesota. The rations and annuity payments didn’t arrive as promised, and we waited until early December, when it was too late. An early winter storm hit, and then the cold weather set in. Exposure, starvation, and disease claimed the death of 170 souls there at Sandy Lake. And our canoes became worthless for trave
l as the lakes and rivers began to freeze, so we began the long walk home. Two hundred seventy more Ojibwe, including my parents, perished trying to reach their villages. I was one of those who were rescued, who lived. This is the story of my rescue. Mostly, however, this is the story of Ogema, my rescuer.

  ~Michael Bear (Miskwabekong Ojibwe)

  I was born three winters ago in a litter of four, a sister, two brothers, and myself. My mother was a village dog, and I say that not meaning any disrespect in the least because she really wasn’t “owned,” as people call it, by any one family. We lived with and back and forth among several families in the Ojibwe village of Miskwabekong (the place of the red cliffs) in what is now northwestern Wisconsin along the south shore of Lake Superior, with a set of grandparents and several of their families. When we were old enough to remember, we would be told we were born under the porch of the government agent’s house, which was almost halfway between the multiple residences of our owners. Don’t ask me how my mother ended up having us there. If it were important, there would probably be a story that went along with it.

  While my brothers and sister inherited their mother’s side, the dog, I entered the world with many of the physical and behavioral traits of my father, so much so the villagers who did not know me by name often called me “wolf dog,” and that made perfect sense since I am, indeed, a wolf hybrid, the product of a domestic mixed-breed mother and captive wolf father. It seems, however, that I inherited just enough from each—enough dog to be beholden to my Ojibwe human alpha, enough wolf to retain a certain wild, quiet resistance, a yearning to be free.

  Wolf dog, the villagers who didn’t know me by name would say to me, even when I was a young pup, and if I could have spoken in their language I would have told them my story, because I know it. Dogs, few of them know their story. Their story becomes lost in the story of their human owners. I am this person’s dog, one says. I am that person’s dog, another says. None of that speaks to the dog’s own story. Wolves, we all know our story. Here is mine.