Chickadee (14 page)

“I have been following you, my son,” said the chickadee, “and I remember that you insulted me once, but that you were very sorry. You fed me. You asked my pardon. Therefore I will help you now. Do you remember what Nokomis said?”

Chickadee listened and smiled. “I remember,” he said. “Nokomis said that small things have great power.”

“You remember well!” The chickadee trilled with pleasure. “I do have great power, my little son. And I will help you. Now listen.”

The little gray bird with the jaunty black cap told Chickadee that just beyond the trees, and over the next rise, he would find a fresh stream of water. There, too, he would find a rabbit that two hawks had fought over. They had dropped the kill, but in their fury over who should have the rabbit, they had grappled together and held on so tightly that their deathly sharp claws had locked together.

“You will find the rabbit on the ground, and the hawks close by. The hawks are not my friends, of course. I tease them. But as I am too little to bother with, they try to ignore me. If you help the hawks, and tell them I sent you to their assistance, they will one day return the favor. And now, to give you strength my little son, I will teach you my song.”

I am only the Chickadee

Yet small things have great power

I speak the truth.

Chickadee learned the song. It was a short song, as all real Ojibwe songs are. The melody went up and down like the chickadee's song. He sang it over and over with his we'eh, his father and protector.

“Whenever you need my power, you must sing this song. Use it wisely. You can help others with it, too. This song can heal people. Now go on your way!” the bird said.

Then Chickadee stood and his we'eh darted away into the brush, singing the song. Chickadee began to walk just the way he'd been told, following each direction carefully. Whenever he wobbled and felt that he could not go on, he sang the song he'd been given. The song became his own song very quickly. It gave him strength. He could feel the words flow through him and his legs moved with purpose.

At last, walking down a low hill covered with brush, he found the stream. He raced to its edge, thanked the chickadee, and drank. No water he'd drunk had ever tasted so good.

When Chickadee raised his head and sat back on his heels, he saw the dead rabbit, freshly killed, lying next to him. He stood, strengthened by the water, and looked around. Sure enough—there were the two hawks, their claws clenched, panting in exhaustion. They had been stuck together struggling to get loose for so long that they had no strength left.

“I have come to help you,” said Chickadee, approaching them.

The hawks' yellow eyes regarded Chickadee with hatred and cold contempt. He thought he heard their voices, too, though they were as faint as thought.

“We would rather die than have you touch us, human. Anishinabe though you are, we call you death!”

“I will not hurt you,” said Chickadee. “I have been given a message.”

“A message? From what being?”

The hawks panted and opened their beaks, hissing at him.

“I have a message from the chickadee.”

“Ah,” said one of the hawks. “That one. He eludes us. He plays tricks on us. We pretend he is too small to bother with. But the truth is we just can't catch him.”

“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.

T
he 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.