Chickadee (2 page)

“It was Iskigamizige-giizis, the Moon of Maple Sap, when we always get together to make maple sugar. There you were, in the sugaring camp. The chickadee had got whirled around in the snow, just like you!”

“And we came early, too,” said Makoons. “We surprised you. We were very tiny. Each of us fit in a small makak, a little bowl. Our father could hold each of us in the palm of his hand.”

“Eya',” said Omakayas, remembering what her grandmother, Nokomis, had said about how the world was created by twin brothers. As she had looked at the tiny babies that day, she wondered: Could they have been as small and helpless as these ones?

“The chickadee stayed with you the whole time we were getting born—that's why you named me for him, right?”

Omakayas thought of how the chickadee, unafraid, had perched near her the entire time. She smiled and nodded.

“And it was the time when little bears are born. They were waking in their dens. It was a late snowstorm,” said Makoons, whose name meant Little Bear.

“And nobody thought we would survive,” both twins said with satisfaction. “Everybody said we would die.”

Omakayas tried to hide the tears in her eyes.

“But you had strong guardian spirits,” she said, remembering too. “The chickadee, the bear. Both there in the snow. They stayed near and helped us all.”

At that moment, the twins' father, Animikiins, could have used some help. He had tracked a moose deep into a low mashkiig, a wet marshland, and with every step his feet sank deep in freezing mushy grass. His feet were past pain and growing numb. But, like all Anishinabeg, he knew exactly where the line was between a numbness that could awaken painfully and a bitter, frozen numbness that meant the destruction of a foot or finger. He still had far to go, he thought, and took one careful step after another on the precarious ice. The moose was a large suspicious male with a heavy rack of antlers. It paused whenever Animikiins moved, ready to bolt, knowing something was not quite right. The two moved farther, farther, out onto the spring-melted ice. The man and the moose stood motionless for what seemed an eternity to the man, but didn't bother the moose one bit. Then all of a sudden the moose gave a moose shrug and relaxed its guard. At that moment, Animikiins slowly raised his gun, fired, and, in taking a step forward, plunged into icy water up to his armpits. The moose turned, saw the man go down. Its eyes went red, its expression turned brutal as pain shot through its body, and it charged toward the man trying desperately to scramble back onto solid ice.

Back at home, the twins were still pestering their mother.

“Show us how you kept the blankets warm with rocks,” said Makoons, “so we wouldn't die!”

“I've shown you that a hundred on a hundred times,” said Omakayas. “Your father helped. He kept the flat stones from getting too hot. He got the stones to exactly the right temperature. Then we put your little sleeping makakoon on top of the rocks so you would stay warm. But mostly, I just carried you everywhere. You were so tiny I could hardly feel your weight.”

“Now look at us,” said Chickadee. “We are warriors.”

“Warriors,” laughed Omakayas. She smiled at her thin little boy whose spirit was so much larger than his body. “Yes, great warriors!” she said. “So how about checking my rabbit snares? How about doing a little hunting, too? And where is your father?”

Animikiins was trying to scrabble back onto frail ice. He raked at it with frozen hands. He'd thrown off his mitts. He kicked up once and fell back. The moose scrambled up the shore and ran off. At least now if he made it out of the freezing water, he wouldn't be stomped to death!

Animikiins kicked himself upward again, but slid backward, off the ice again, and cried out for help. The cry was loud, from the depth of his being. A hunting song came floating into his mind. He heard his love, his wife, Omakayas, singing. Her song gave him heart, but still he could feel a numb weakness spreading through him. What would his family do without him? He cried out once more. Then he saw something strange.

Animikiins saw his father standing on the shore. But that could not be! His father had died eight years ago. His father had always dressed in poor and ragged clothing, but now he wore a new blanket.

The blanket was not of this world—it was covered in strokes of pale lightning. His father's head was covered with a beautiful woven turban. An eagle feather floated from the side. Oh, how kindly his eyes shone down.

“Deydey!” cried Animikiins.

He knew at that moment that his father had come to bring him to the spirit world.

“We're going, we're going!”

The boys laughed as Omakayas shooed them out the door. They ran into the woods with their small, strong bows and their quivers of arrows. During the winter, the fat partridges, binewag, liked to roost on low tree branches. Chickadee knew that his mother would smile with pride if he shot a bine from a tree branch. Zozie, who lived with them and was like his big sister, would happily pluck and roast it. She would tell him what a little man he was and stir some of the last maple sugar into the strengthening cedar tea that she would make for him.

“Bizindaan!” said Makoons. He stopped and looked around.

“What?” asked Chickadee.

“I thought I heard Father call,” said Makoons.

“I don't hear anything,” said Chickadee. “Nashke!” He pointed up at a tree where a fat and fluffy bine sat blinking its mild eyes. The boys crept to the exact right place to shoot. They silently fit their stone-tipped bird arrows to their bows. They both shot at once, but neither hit the bird. The bine just watched the arrows float by. It turned its head a little, ruffled its feathers.

Again, the boys brought up their bows. Again, they shot. And again, they missed.

The bine looked bored and shut its eyes for a nap.

Each of them had only two arrows, and now they had to go find them in order to shoot at the bird again. They were certain to scare the bine off, they thought. Knowing that they'd lost their chance, they walked boldly to the tree and thrashed around to find the arrows. To their surprise, the bird did not move.

“Maybe it knows how hungry we are,” said Chickadee.

“Maybe our namesakes are helping us,” said Makoons. “Although my little bear cubs are still sleeping this winter.”

“Maybe our grandfathers are helping us from a distance,” Chickadee said.

Again, they stood close to the perching bird, who looked even juicier now than before. Again they fit their arrows to their bows.

A
s his father smiled, Animikiins felt joy at seeing him, but also despair.

“Deydey,” he gasped, gripping the ice, weakening, “I am not ready to die! Gaawiin mashi! Not yet!”

His father looked at him with steady eyes. Animikiins thought he was going to tell him, gently, to come along, just as he had when he was a boy. His father would tell him to come along to a place that frightened him, and he would join his father in the spirit world. But Animikiins did not want to go.

“I must go back!” he cried. “Father, I cannot join you!”

At last his father lowered his head and nodded. Then he pointed at a place on the ice just to the left of Animikiins. Suddenly Animikiins saw that a branch had lodged there, in the ice, a little beyond his grasp. But if he just kicked a little harder, strained a bit more, he might reach it. Might reach it … there! With an effort he didn't think he was capable of, Animikiins pulled himself forward. Then he crawled and wiggled carefully across the thin ice onto the shore and stood. Where his father had been there was only empty snow. No tracks. Nothing.