Chapter 1: The Canoe

ANOKÌ
“How long should I make this boat, Anokì?” asked Ki’kwa’ju (Wolverine).
“Depends,” I replied. “How many people, dogs, and supplies do you want to carry? Also, if you use it for hunting, you need a good-sized canoe to carry back a moose or an elk.”
“Three lengths of the measuring stick?” Ki’kwa’ju asked.
“Yes, that will work. That’s the length of three men. It will give you a good-sized canoe.”
Ki’kwa’ju was a Mi’kmaq name, except Wolverine wasn’t born a Mi’kmaq. He had been captured by the Mi’kmaq in a skirmish with people they called the Eli’tuat (el-e-do-what: Men with Beards). Wolverine was perhaps only twelve summers old at that time. The Mi’kmaq gave him this name because he fought them like a wolverine as they captured him and because his light-coloured hair matched the hue of the wolverine’s light-shaded stripes of fur.
Ten summers ago he was brought to our group by a close Mi’kmaq friend and fierce warrior named Elue’wiet Ga’qaquj (el-away-we-it ga-ah-gooch: Crazy Crow). The woman who had reared Crazy Crow, Nukumi (no-ko-miss: Mother Earth, Grandmother), also raised Ki’kwa’ju. She and the Mi’kmaq Elders decided that the boy should come farther inland and live with us. The boy enjoyed living the Mi’kmaq life, but Nukumi was worried that the Eli’tuat would someday return and take him back from them. So the decision was made for Wolverine to come and live with my group of Omàmiwinini. In his time with us, he has proven to be a fast and eager learner and a brave warrior and is now my brother-in-law since marrying my sister, Pangì Mahingan.
Wolverine had picked a tree with no branches within the three lengths of his measuring stick. Branches created holes in the skin that took a lot of time and effort to close up. A tall, straight tree with very few skin blemishes was what we needed. We had prepared ahead of time an akwàndawàgan (a-kwon-da-way-gan: ladder), and using the stick to measure three times as he scaled the ladder, Wolverine arrived at where he had to make his final mark. Here he cut around the trunk of the tree and then made a slit all the way down to the bottom and again cut around the trunk. Then Wolverine started to peel the bark away from the tree, using a rigid wedge of bark to help with prying the skin off the trunk.
“Ki’kwa’ju, do you hear the noise of the bark peeling away from the tree?” I asked. “That’s the tree telling us it’s giving its coat to us as a gift. Once we have the bark, we’ll make a tobacco offering of thanks to the tree. Now roll the bark up and we’ll tie it in a bundle to make it easy to carry. Fill the inside with ferns to help take the moisture away. Now you have to go and pull up spruce roots. You’ll need at least fifty roots and then you have to split and soak them.”
“Anokì, are you going to help me?” asked Ki’kwa’ju.
“How will you learn if I do the work?” I asked. “Achie (White Ash), come and help us. We need an extra pair of hands if you can tear yourself away from whatever you’re doing.”
Achie was an Ouendat warrior who had fought with us against the Haudenosaunee chief Ò:nenhste Erhar (Corn Dog). His brother, Öndawa (Black Ash), had been slain in that battle along with another Ouendat friend, Tsou’tayi (Beaver). Since that time twelve summers ago, he and another Ouendat who had fought that day, Önenha’ (Corn), had become part of our group.
Walking out of the surrounding forest, Achie said, “Anokì, I’ve been watching something entertaining that you and Ki’kwa’ju should come and see.”
We followed the Ouendat up a treed embankment to a small plateau overlooking a narrow gorge. Beneath us a small stream flowed through the valley. Peering down, we eyed a nòjek (now-shek: female bear) and her two makons (mah-koon: cubs) as they foraged along the shoreline. The mother made a meal of the berries lining the stream, while the cubs wrestled on the shore, tumbling into the current and chasing each other through the water, all the time squealing. Every once in a while they roamed a little too far, and the mother grunted her dissatisfaction. Upon hearing her, the two stood up on their hind legs, sniffed the air, and then ran back to their original area, where once again they renewed their play.
The three of us stood downwind enjoying the goings-on. Bears had poor eyesight, so we were safe from being sighted. Yet, if the mother caught our scent, she would charge at us to defend her cubs. Then we heard a sound that shook the air around us. The cubs reared up and looked downstream, while the mother stood with her nose quivering and the hair on her mane standing on end.
Glancing toward the source of the noise, we watched as a huge nàbek (male bear) splashed through the stream toward the cubs at a full run, muscles trembling and mouth frothing. As his massive body drove through the water, the force of the animal caused water to spray upon his black coat, which glistened in the sunlight. His deafening roar as he approached the defenceless cubs echoed through the forest, sending all the roosting and ground-feeding birds into a noisy departure and adding to the imminent mayhem.
From the opposite end the mother bear loped in huge strides to defend her cubs. A full-grown makadewà makwa (ma-ka-de-wa mah-kwa: black bear) could run very fast and could overtake a fleeing warrior in a very short distance. These two bears below were running at top speed with only one thought in each of their minds: the male to kill the cubs, who in the future would threaten his existence; and the female to protect them from his fury.
The nàbek reached the cubs first and grabbed the closest one by the neck, shaking the defenceless animal until its neck snapped. As he turned to chase the other cub, the nòjek hit him at full stride. She was no match for this enormous male, but when it came to her cubs, there was no fear in her body. The two roared, bellowed, clawed, and bit, and the stream became a froth of churning water reddened by their blood. In the end, the male crushed the female’s skull with his massive jaws. He stood over her, bloodied and with chunks of hair missing from his wet and glistening coat where she had bitten and clawed him. The male then reared up on his hind legs, turned his head sideways, and let out a massive roar. Turning, he limped away to recover from his wounds. Once he recuperated, he would carry the scars of this battle for the rest of his life: bare spots where she had torn out the hair and maybe the loss of an eye where it appeared the female had raked his face with her sharp claws.
Stunned, we looked down at where just a short time ago we had been entertained by the young makons. The stream was washing away the redness of the battle. The remaining cub, which had run and hidden in the woods, returned and stood over its mother, bleating a sad lament.
Achie broke the silence by saying, “I’m going down there to capture the makon. It will never survive by itself in the wild. Wolves or the male will end its life in a few suns. Once I’ve secured him, we’ll prepare the two carcasses. The hides and the meat won’t go to waste.”
Glancing at Ki’kwa’ju, I saw the sorrow and shock in his eyes. Walking past him, I said, “Come, we have work to do.”
As we made our way down the face of the cliff, the noise of our descent startled the remaining cub, which took off into the underbrush. Achie, seeing the little one take flight, sped up, causing him to tumble end over end onto the floor of the gorge. Quickly jumping to his feet and not seemingly suffering any ill effects from his fall, he continued after the young bear, crashing through the undergrowth on its trail. Ki’kwa’ju and I looked at each other and laughed. The sight of Achie plunging down the slope and then getting up and racing into the brush to pursue his quarry was just too funny.
“Ki’kwa’ju,” I said, “blow that horn you carry and let’s hope Kìnà Odenan, Agwanìwon, and Kànìkwe (No Hair) are within hearing distance. We can use their help to carry this meat out.”
Ki’kwa’ju sounded the horn in one long, mournful tone. Besides the clothes he had on when captured, the horn was the only thing Ki’kwa’ju had that was his. When he came to us, the Mi’kmaq had given him an axe made out of material we had never seen before, a leather shield, and an item Ki’kwa’ju called a sverð (sword) that could cut off a man’s head with one powerful swing. The Mi’kmaq had captured these items from Ki’kwa’ju’s people during a battle years previous and had gifted him with the items when they sent him to us.
If the three of them were close by, they would be here soon. Since my father’s death, the two women had been our leaders. Kànìkwe was their constant companion. He told everyone he met for the first time that he was their àbimì (ah-bih-mee: guard), which created a roar of laughter from all who knew them, including the two women. Kànìkwe feigned insult when that happened, but all who were familiar with him and the two Warrior Women knew that the women had no need of a protector. The three of them were ruthless in battle, and Kànìkwe owed his life to Kìnà Odenan and Agwanìwon from many years ago.