Authors: Frank Christopher Busch
Grey Eyes (2 page)
“My people will sleep for one hundred years,
but when they awake,
it will be the artists who give them their spirit back.”
Louis Riel, Jr. (1844-1885)
Contents
19 mitÄtaht kÄ«kÄ-mitÄhtosÄp
29 nÄ«stanaw kÄ«kÄ-mitÄtahtosÄp
36 nistomitanaw nikotwÄsosÄp
37 nistomitanaw tÄ«pakohposÄp
38 nistomitanaw ayinÄnÄ«wosÄp
39 nistomitanaw kÄ«kÄ-mitÄtahtosÄp
49 nÄ«mitanaw kÄ«kÄ-mitÄtahtosÄp
51 niyÄnanomitanaw piyakosÄp
53 niyÄnanomitanaw nÄ«stosÄp
55 niyÄnanomitanaw niyÄnosÄp
56 niyÄnanomitanaw nikotwÄsosÄp
57 niyÄnanomitanaw tÄ«pakohposÄp
58 niyÄnanomitanaw ayinÄnÄ«wosÄp
1
PIYAK
T
he old man fought his way home through deep snow. Beneath a ragged buffalo skin robe, he wore a buckskin shirt and leggings. Once adorned with intricate flower and vine quillwork, the shirt was now bare, the leather scuffed and scratched. His long grey hair was half loose and half braided, to show he was still in mourning.
“Kitchi Manitou,”
he called out in prayer. “It is your servant, the one they call Painted Turtle Man. Thank you for letting me be alive to see this day. You have given me so many days upon Mother Earth, for which I am grateful. I am ashamed to ask you for just one more, so I can live to see the miracle you have promised.”
The wind howled. There were not enough hides to keep out the cold, not enough meat to stave off hunger. He had walked long and far to check his snares, which he had been forced to set farther and farther from the village. This was a job for a much younger warrior, but
Kitchi Manitou
had given the old man a task of the highest importance. He had to do it himself.
With his right hand he clung to the tattered robe, his only refuge from the icy grip of Old Man Winter. In his left hand he carried the body of a half-starved rabbit, the fruit of his labour. Last night, he'd had to dig a hole in the snow for shelter, so he was desperate to make it home tonight. He thought about crossing the frozen lake to save time, but the wisdom his years had earned him argued against it. The open wind of the lake would cut right through him and his shoddy robe. If his old joints locked up on him out there, he would surely die and his family would starve.
The edges of the lake were deep with drifting snow and the old man steadied himself from one tree to the next. It was hard to break the trail and he had to be mindful of the rocks beneath the snow. He had run these paths as a boy and knew every hill, rock, and root on them, but his body had begun to lose its willingness to undertake such journeys.
From the edge of the forest by the shores of the lake he could see the circle of hide-covered lodgesâ
Nisichawayasihk,
the place where three rivers meet. His people were the
Nehiyawak
, the two-legged ones. The land did not belong to them, but they to the land. The
Nehiyawak
were not the only two-legged ones, though one would have to travel for many moons to find another people.
As Painted Turtle Man approached, he heard something: a woman wailing and moaning against the beat of a drum. The heaviness in his body lifted. He was not too late.
“Thank you,
Kitchi Manitou
, for giving me my legs that have carried me home.”
2
nīso
A
scream ripped through the cold winter night. The glowing lodges continued to flicker their fire light, as though not to notice or care. Wind whistling through pine trees was the only answer to the sound. The inhabitants of the other lodges remained quiet, both out of respect for
Kitchi Manitou's
coming blessing and out of fear for the danger to mother and child.
The labour cries came from a small and ragged lodge made of mismatched buffalo hides strewn together against the bitter cold. Bear lodge was the home of Walking Moon Woman, the grey-haired matriarch of the Bear clan. She shared her home with her two daughters and their husbands. Her three elder children, boys, were gone, married into other clans as was the way of the
Nehiyawak
. Her sons tried to help when they could, but their obligations were to their new clans.
The days of glory for the Bear lodge had passed, and its inhabitants struggled to prove their value to the village. For their hunters, fish were hard to catch, berries hard to find, and animals scarce. Times were hard for all of the
Nehiyawak
, but hardest for the Bear clan.
In the old days, when Painted Turtle Man and his wife still walked together, he helped her make the medicines for the people, evoking the spirits of the ancestors to take pity on the sick and suffering. Now that she was gone, he had been all but forgotten by those he had dedicated himself to helping. The emptiness in their bellies was mostly what the
Nehiyawak
thought about.
Of course a true medicine carrier gifted by
Kitchi Manitou
could call upon the ancestors for visions and heal wounds and ailments with a little magic and a wave of the hands. But Painted Turtle Man had not been born with such abilities. He had to make do with what he had been taught: the secrets of the plant world, how to guide a hunter to good hunting grounds, healing the sick with medicines, and the mysteries of the medicine wheel. He could pray and that he did, every day, asking
Kitchi Manitou
to take pity on the
Nehiyawak
and make life easier for everyone.
It mattered not that the other clans snickered at Painted Turtle Man's prophesy, whispering behind his back. It mattered not that the villagers would accept neither his teachings nor his medicine cures, and would not send their young to him to be guided in the healing ways. None of it mattered now, for Painted Turtle Man knew that
Kitchi Manitou
, the Great Spirit, was about to bestow a great blessing upon the Bear clan, a blessing that was sure to restore their former glory.
The wind had blown snow over the lodges, covering the door flaps. Painted Turtle Man put down the rabbit and dug the snow away so he could pull the flaps open. He picked the rabbit back up and brushed the snow from its fur. His own clan had begun listening to the talk of the other clans, and doubting him. This did hurt a little, but he pretended not to notice. It would be forgotten when the miracle occurred in this once-dignified lodge. But first, the mother-to-be would have to pass the test of all life-givers in bringing new life into the world.
“We have been blessed by the Grandmother Rabbit,” the old man declared, proudly displaying his prize as he entered the lodge.
“Close the door!” snapped Walking Moon Woman. “You are letting the cold in.” She continued about her midwife duties without another thought or consideration to Painted Turtle Man. The old man curled his lip and shuffled in. He had expected a warmer reception from the remaining Bear clan, none of whom had eaten for two days. He gave the skinny rabbit to Singing Doe, Walking Moon Woman's eldest daughter.
“Thank you, Uncle,” she whispered and began skinning the rabbit with a dull stone knife.
Singing Doe had yet to be blessed with a child. Last summer she had tried, but the baby girl had been born without breath. The young woman's face and body still bore the strain of losing the new life. For the Bear clan, the loss signalled the moment their luck finally ran out. The people of
Nisichawayasihk
expressed their sympathies, but some whispered that it was the Bear clan's fault. That they had brought it upon themselves. That the child was better offâ¦
The expectant mother pulled and stretched the braided leather ropes looped around the lodge poles above her. The leather moaned under the strain of her weight as she pulled herself into a squatting position during each contraction.
Two men tended the small fire and chanted their medicine songs in support. The man beating a buffalo hide drum was Brown Shield Man of the Wolf clan. He was husband of Singing Doe. Brown Shield Man always had a kind word or a joke to share. He ignored the rumours and gossip about the loss of his child and laughed it off when one of the younger men questioned his manhood, as though his seed had been too weak. Today his face was serious as he tried hard to ignore his fear that tragedy would strike the Bear clan again.
The other singer, the expectant father and husband of White Willow Woman, was a tall and muscular man called Blue Elk Man of the Marten clan. In contrast to his brother-in-law, he was stoic in nature, speaking only when words were completely necessary. A fierce warrior and hunter, Blue Elk Man now looked helpless. All his speed and strength were no help to his labouring wife. Adding to this was the fact that his left leg was bound below the knee where he had been injured by a sharp rock hidden by deep snow. He had not hunted in four days.
“Throw some more wood on the fire,” commanded the old man casually, still trying to shake the cold out of his old bones.
“
Motch!
” replied the matriarch, who fired a quick frown at him. “We don't have much wood left.”
“Wood,” scoffed Painted Turtle Man. “Do you think we will need wood to stay warm when our clan's Grey-Eyed boy is born?”
Silence gouged the tattered lodge. Even the expectant mother was quieted at the prospect. The Bear clan had not produced a Grey-Eye in over three generations. The other clans of
Nisichawayasihk
had begun to murmur that there was no magic left amongst the Bears. To them, the notion that the child about to be born was a Grey-Eye was at best an old fool's fantasy, at worst a cruel joke.
Painted Turtle Man was the only one among them, besides Walking Moon Woman, who had seen the last Grey-Eye of the Bear clan and had felt his magic as a boy. He had been called Grey Bear and they said his magic had no limits. Grey Bear had raised the Bear clan to prominence in his time, using the Grey-Eye magic to help all of the
Nehiyawak
. Grey Bear's magic was a distant legend now as the cold bit the Bear clan and the hunger in their bellies robbed them of sleep. Of the people of
Nisichawayasihk
, only the Eagle clan possessed the Grey-Eye magic. They alone kept the
Nehiyawak
safe.
Blue Elk Man stood up with difficulty and took the old man's arm and sat him down next to the fire.
“I know you mean well, but this is not the time for such words. White Willow Woman must not have any distraction from her purpose.” He spoke in a hushed voice.
The two other women frowned at the old man while White Willow Woman prepared herself for the next contraction.
“Do you doubt my dreams? Do you no longer believe I have the sacred sight?” Painted Turtle Man asked, locking his eyes on the warrior.
“
Motch
, Uncle, it's not that⦔ Blue Elk Man lowered his eyes out of respect.
“I am her mother's cousin!” Painted Turtle Man said, speaking of Walking Moon Woman. “I was best friend to her father. I made a vow the day he was killed by the Red-Eye that I would give his descendants the teachings. Who took you to the sweat lodge? Who sponsored you in the sundance? Who taught you the medicine wheel?”
Painted Turtle Man paused to compose himself. He regretted mentioning the Red-Eyes, from whom the
Nehiyawak
truly needed protection. Only the Grey-Eye magic used in the proper manner could keep the Red-Eye evil at bay. No one in
Nisichawayasihk
wanted to acknowledge that the Eagle clan's Grey-Eye had grown old and that her time on Mother Earth was nearing its end. Painted Turtle Man's prophesy forced them to face this fact. Rather than face it, they chose to push him away. Some in the village even suggested his journey might end out on the frozen lake, on the Long Walk.
“
Tapwe!
” Blue Elk Man capitulated, bowing his head lower. “It was you, Uncle, and I am forever grateful. I just don't want any of us to get false hope if it is not the will of
Kitchi Manitou
.”
A sudden scream from White Willow Woman silenced the men.
“Baby is coming!” Walking Moon Woman shouted.