Brindle’s Oddysey
by
Nicholas Antinozzi
PUBLISHED BY:
Nicholas Antinozzi
Copyright (c) 2010 by Nicholas Antinozzi
Edited by Coleta Wright
Cover Design by Steve Peterson
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Prologue
There were three members of the Grand Medicine Society, known in the Ojibwe language as the Midewiwin, standing outside the Mide lodge. The lodge had taken days to build and it had been abweson anokiwin, sweat work, for three old men. Still, they did not complain because each of these men knew that the completed lodge would protect them from evil, and that an evil spirit was definitely headed their way. The lodge was constructed of poles made from birch saplings. Three tall poles stood in the middle of the lodge, one for each man at the ceremony. The men lashed the frame together and then set about cutting the many pine boughs that needed to be placed carefully around the structure. There was no sign of rain, so no roof had been needed. Three dead dogs stood guard outside the door and the men had to step over these before entering the lodge. The old ways needed to be followed to the letter, just as they had always been.
The afternoon was warm, but an occasional gust of wind helped keep them cool. The Mide lodge sat in the middle of a small clearing deep inside the Fond Du Lac Indian Reservation in northern Minnesota. Odemini Gissis, or the month of June, had been cool and wet, but with the new sunshine the surrounding forests had come to life. The sounds of life came from all around them and it helped lift their spirits.
Odd Whitefeather would be first as he was the youngest of the group. Barely into his mid-nineties; leather-faced and solemn, Whitefeather entered the lodge in his everyday clothes, faded blue jeans and a tired denim shirt. Much to the relief of the others, he took off the straw hat and left it outside the door. He was tall and lean with long white hair that hung to the middle of his back. He remained standing until the other two men entered the Mide lodge.
The next man to enter was Wawanishkam, known as Crooked Walker, (one who covers much territory.) Crooked Walker was said to be at least one hundred and five years old. He also had long white hair, which he had tied back over misshapen ears the size of saucers. He was dressed in his summer outfit; a fringed buckskin shirt, buckskin leggings, and a pair of fine moccasins that never seemed to age. Like Odd Whitefeather, Crooked Walker stood tall and erect for a man of such considerable age. He stood next to the younger man and waited for the last of their group.
Dog Breath carried the sacred piece of birch bark, known as the Mide roll. The roll had been engraved many years ago with a bone stylus and the lines had been carefully filled with vermillion, to protect it against the ravages of time and the elements. The time had come to complete their number and the Mide roll needed to be shared with the newcomer, whoever that person might be. This needed to be smoked over and discussed among the three. Some people said that Dog Breath was one hundred and fifteen, but no one knew for sure. He was a fierce looking man, still lean and muscular despite his great age. He wore a simple breech cloth and walked on his bare feet. Like the others, his wrinkled face was painted green on the top half and red on the bottom. Like the others, his Mide bag, Medicine bag, was tied to his side and filled with things he would need.
They sat down on the floor of the Mide lodge and smoked for a long time. Crooked Walker nodded in appreciation at the flavor of the tobacco. Odd Whitefeather had visited many tobacco shops looking for something that would remind the others of the old blend. The shopkeeper had sold him the pipe tobacco, which he had called the Fragrant Vagrant, for twenty dollars. He had hoped they would like it. They hadn’t smoked in many years. They used Crooked Walker’s pipe which had been carved out of the antler of a whitetail deer.
Dog Breath began to speak after they had finished smoking and he had set the long, ornately carved pipe, aside. “Tell me about your grandson,” he asked Odd Whitefeather. “We should know about him and his character. You say he is a good man?”
Odd Whitefeather nodded and began to speak, but he was cut off before uttering a single syllable. He had grown used to this over the years, just as he had the unmistakable smell of the breath of the man across from him. He sat and listened as Dog Breath asked him yes or no questions, answering each of these with a nod or a slight shake of his head. Dog Breath had a deep voice that sounded like a bear’s growl. He spoke in the old words, using sign language to accentuate their meanings. A beneshi, little bird, sat above them on top of the middle pole, which they all took to be a good sign.
Crooked Walker took over from there, asking serious questions about a serious matter. The Midewiwin had very strict rules and it was no small matter that they were about to initiate another into their fold. Crooked Walker spoke in a dry voice that floated up and down like the tones of a well-played flute. He asked many questions, none of which required Odd Whitefeather to even open his mouth.
When Crooked Walker was satisfied, he turned to Dog Breath and the two of them spoke as if they were alone. They nodded in agreement and they turned to face the youngest of their group. Odd Whitefeather stood and stretched and scratched his bottom, which had fallen asleep. He peered over the walls of the Mide lodge and was happy to see no one. The beneshi watched him from its perch on top of the pole.
“It is true, he has no idea of who he really is and it will take time for us to teach him the old ways. He was raised by white men, but somehow he managed to live a good life. There is no time to waste. The end of time will surely arrive if we do nothing to stop it. The white men are very close to making that happen. We need to complete the circle if we have any chance of stopping them. I will go now and bring him to you. Prepare for our return.”
Dog Breath and Crooked Walker stood and stretched their old bones, which signified that the meeting was over. When Odd Whitefeather walked out the door he was followed by two sandhill cranes; his grandfather, and his grandfather’s grandfather. Crooked Walker and Dog Breath then flew to the sky, flapping their great wings in the crane’s mysterious way that defies logic. They had lived to be old men and had come back from the dead, disguised as the strange birds.
Odd Whitefeather stood and watched them fly over the trees until they disappeared in the distance. He was hungry and wanted a cheeseburger and fries. He checked his wallet and found a crumpled twenty dollar bill inside. He would go have a cheeseburger before going out to see his grandson, Huckleberry Brindle. Maybe he would work out an explanation as he ate. He hoped so. This was going to be tricky.
He walked down the trail, the hunger pangs were sharper now as he slowly began to run out of energy. The Polaris ATV was parked just where he had left it. He shed the straw hat, storing the hat in the large trunk behind the machine. He climbed aboard and thumbed the engine to life. The tuned exhaust rapped and he shifted the Polaris into gear. Odd Whitefeather loved his machine and he rode like he was in his mid-twenties. Mud flew in chunks and his eyes watered as he wound out the ATV on the old logging road.
The other people in the little restaurant stared at him as he entered. He had grown used to this over the years and he walked right by them, heading to the men’s room to wash his hands before ordering his food and eating.
He moaned when he saw his painted face staring back at him in the mirror. He washed the paint off and cleaned the sink with some paper towels. He then walked back out to the counter. His young waitress, Judy, nodded in approval. He ordered a chocolate shake to go with his cheeseburger and fries. He thought about what to say to his grandson, who had no idea they were even related. Nothing came to him. The food was good and he tipped Judy five bucks. Knowing what he needed to do, Odd Whitefeather straddled his machine and began to ride out to see Huckleberry Brindle.
Chapter One
I found out five years ago that there are some things that cannot be cured by medical science. That was when I learned that this embarrasses those people, and, that inexplicable maladies that don’t threaten your life are usually swept under the rug. That was how I felt, like I had been swept under a rug. I lived alone and there was no one close to call on, or even to visit. I had spent five years talking to myself and had grown tired of my own company. The days came and went, separated by restless sleep. The only difference was the change in the weather. I had stumbled into something evil and I was paying the terrible price.
I knew they’d come; knew it like I knew my own name, except that I wasn’t expecting them to send two young boys to relay the message. They were no older than twelve and they could’ve been a lot younger than that; I wouldn’t know; I never had any kids of my own. They rode up to my place on their bicycles and waited for me out by the equipment shed.
The morning was sweltering hot and the air was thick with humidity, but there was a nice breeze blowing out of the west and the equipment shed is on the west end of my property. The boys may have been young, but they were smart enough to make their stand up by the shed. I’ll explain that in a moment. They stood out there in the hazy sunshine and flung rocks against the old corrugated steel and hollered my name after each toss. They couldn’t have been out there for long; the racket was loud enough to wake the dead, not to mention washed-up drunks, such as myself.
I dressed after splashing cool water on my face and taking a nip of the bottle. The cheap whisky tasted like turpentine and I washed it down with a Coke and a Lucky Strike. I may be a drunk, but I don’t usually drink my breakfast. I simply needed the liquid courage to face them.
My name is Huckleberry Brindle, but my family raised me as Huck. I am forty years old and I own what used to be a thriving demolition business just outside of Carlton, Minnesota, a two hour drive to the north from the Twin Cities. Let me be clear on one thing, the booze came after the incident, long after I lost my crew and my business had dried up like a fallen leaf. I don’t want anyone to think it caused any of my problems; I brought them all on myself, the whisky simply helps me deal with them.
I walked out of my little trailer and sat down on one of the steel folding chairs. I then laced up my Red Wings and watched the boys head over towards me. They moved like a pair of whipped dogs, careful and wary, and they stopped a respectful twenty yards away. “Close enough,” I said. “What the hell do you want from me?” I asked, snarling my teeth. I didn’t want them on my property, young as they were, they were from town and they would know all about me.
“We need your help,” replied the taller of the two. “Please…”
The two kids looked tired and dirty, like they’d ridden up a mountain to come and see me. They kept their distance as they waited for my reply. I stood up and put my hands on my hips, preparing myself for the argument that was sure to come. I knew why they were here and I knew exactly what they wanted of me. I wasn’t about to risk my life for a town that had banished me from its city limits for nearly five years.
I looked at the boys again and I could see the tears falling down their cheeks. I immediately understood why the town had sent the two young messengers; no man with an ounce of self respect could look them in the eyes and turn them down. I closed my eyes and nodded my head in defeat. “Fine,” I said. “Go back and tell the others that I’ll do what I can.”
I couldn’t believe how fast they were, they covered the twenty yards in the blink of an eye and were on me before I could think. They grabbed me by the waist and hugged me with all of their strength. I couldn’t help but hug them back, what was I supposed to do? One of them handed me an envelope and I took it in my right hand.
“Oh,” snorted one of the boys, as if I’d poked him in the ribs.
“Whoa!” the other one shrieked, holding his hand over his nose.
And, just like that, they were gone. The two boys ran away from me as if their hair was on fire. I stood there and laughed, I couldn’t help myself. I watched them hop on their bikes and speed away as fast as their little legs could pump the pedals. I laughed until I cried.
I already told you that I was raised as Huck Brindle, but for the past five years the locals have taken to calling me Stinky; and as much as it pains me to say so, the name fits me like an old shoe. I may have grown accustomed to the stench, which smells similar to the inside of a turkey barn in high August, but the people from town certainly aren’t. I live like a pariah on the edge of town. My supplies are delivered and I never get any visitors. I’ve tried every product known to man to scrub that stink away, but five years down the road and I still smell the same as I did on that first terrible day.
Which brings me to the beginning of my story: I wasn’t always a stinking lowlife, shunned by anyone, or anything, with a pair of nostrils. I used to be a respected member of the community, a second generation owner of a family business. Brindle Demolition employed thirty men in its heyday, but that was years ago. I still get a little work, just enough to make ends meet, but the glory days are in the past and I’ve been sitting at rock bottom for as long as I care to remember.
I should feel fortunate, God, how I know that. I remind myself of that simple fact a hundred times each and every day. Five summers ago, on a day not much different than this, I became the last man to walk inside the Soliah Home and live to tell about it.
The Soliah Home had stood alone on the shores of Spirit Lake for as long as anyone could remember. Spirit Lake lies just outside the Fond Du Lac Indian Reservation, and is two miles from the nearest gravel road. The majestic old Victorian looks out of place, as if it had been built only yesterday. The truth was that it had been vacant for nearly fifty years, when the last of the Soliah clan had passed into the next world. The last time I had been there the lawns looked to have been freshly tended and flowers blossomed in the many window-boxes. There are people who claim that there has never been a time when the house wasn’t there, but that would be impossible, right? I’ll let you decide for yourself.
I sat on the couch and took another nip of the bottle; I then opened the envelope and read what had been printed on the wide-ruled page of notebook paper. I sat and reread that folded sheet of paper for nearly half an hour.
Being an outcast has its advantages; it spares you from the local news, the type of news that the media shuns because it can’t be spun or twisted. On that sheet of notebook paper, written in pencil, was that type of story. The news left me feeling short of breath, unable to trust my knees or my bladder. The house was up to its old tricks again and it was calling me home.
The letter had been printed by an old Ojibwe man who lived on the reservation. Odd Whitefeather was a name I immediately recognized, even though I had never met the man. I had heard the stories and understood that he, like myself, was an outcast among his own people. He was said to be a Medicine Man, half crazy, and I knew he had to be well into his nineties. His was a name that was whispered in both communities, as if speaking it aloud would bring bad luck. The last line of the letter said that he’d be visiting me, and soon.
The first stone he tossed at the shed sent a ripple of fear down my spine. I didn’t have to get up and look out the window to see who it was. Odd Whitefeather had come to bring me back to the Soliah Home; to where death waited to embrace me, to where five of my closest friends had perished in unspeakable agony. I reached for the bottle, but the brown glass felt scalding hot and I instantly pulled my hand away. I rubbed my cheeks, stood, and walked out the door into the blazing sunlight.
I had never seen the man and he looked much younger than I had expected. He was tall and stood straight with long white hair hanging beneath a straw hat. He was dressed in blue jeans and a faded shirt that looked older than he was. Something that looked like a homemade fanny-pack was belted around his waist. He smiled at me; his bronze-colored face was lined with age. “Huckleberry,” he called from the shed in a leathery voice. “Have a seat for a moment, please.”
I pulled up a stump next to the woodpile without saying anything. Odd Whitefeather was digging in the fanny-pack and muttering something I was too far away to hear. He seemed to find what he was looking for, which couldn’t have been very big, because when he held it before his eyes between his thumb and finger, I couldn’t see a thing. He then sang something that I was able to hear. I had no idea what he was singing about, the words were periodically lost in the wind and utterly foreign to me, but the melody was haunting and somehow beautiful at the same time. He slowly began to circle in an area roughly five feet across, chugging his long arms. I had to stifle a laugh, because Odd Whitefeather looked like he was doing the locomotion to his own strange tune.
It became easier to stifle that laugh after five minutes.
I don’t wear a watch, but a long time passed before Odd Whitefeather finally finished his dance. He grabbed the back of his hat and lifted his nose high in the air. He remained like that for nearly a minute before he seemed satisfied. He then walked up and stood over me, closed his eyes and muttered something under his breath.
“How do you feel?” he asked, looking at me with a slight grin playing at his lips.
I hadn’t noticed anything different, but something had definitely changed. I instantly knew what he meant. The smell; the terrible decomposing odor that spewed from my pores had been shut down like a fire hydrant. I held my right arm up to my nose and snorted it like a buck in the rut. If I have ever felt truly thankful for anyone, or anything, more than I felt gratitude towards Odd Whitefeather at that moment, I can’t remember it. I leapt to my feat and put my arms around him, careful not to squeeze too hard, but not giving a damn what he thought about the gesture. “Thank you,” I managed, before I fell to my knees and wept with absolute joy.
Odd Whitefeather hunkered down on one of the stumps with the sun at his back, and he watched me with interest as I composed myself. Imagine having a tumor the size of a basketball removed from your face after five years, without any visible scars, and you’ll begin to know how I felt at that moment.
“You got air-conditioning in that thing?” Odd Whitefeather said, pointing towards my trailer. “How about anything to eat? I sure could go for a cheeseburger. I had one a while ago, but I think I could use another. Do you like cheeseburgers?”
I nodded and wiped the tears from my eyes. I was suddenly hungry myself and I knew the temperature was close to ninety. I certainly didn’t want the old guy to drop dead of a heatstroke. I got to my feet and motioned towards the front door. “Come on,” I said. “I think I can do a helluva lot better than a cheeseburger.”
Two sandhill cranes were now standing up by the equipment shed on spindly legs that seemed impossibly long. I held my hand over my eyes to block out the sun. They were common in the area, but this was the first time I had seen them in my yard. They seemed to be watching us.
We walked inside and it suddenly dawned on me that he was the first guest to step inside the trailer in a very, very, long time. I hadn’t done a good housecleaning in at least six months. I figured, what was the point? A great wave of shame washed over me as I recalled the old adage about wearing clean underwear, just in case you end up in a hospital bed. The place was a disaster of epic proportions.
Odd Whitefeather seemed to take it all in stride. “My sister had a place like this,” he commented, clearing a place at the kitchen table. “I think the hallway went the other way. Do you have cable television? I think Andy Griffith is on.”
“No cable, I’m sorry. Can I get you something to drink?” I asked, gathering up pizza boxes and empty Chinese take-out containers. I could suddenly smell things that hadn’t been there this morning. My stomach felt queasy as I realized the stink was of rotting food and garbage.
Odd Whitefeather nodded, but didn’t tell me what he wanted, so I gave him a can of Coke as I continued to dispose of the worst of the trash. He watched me as I worked, sipping from the can of soda and looking interested in an empty cereal box. I left it there for him to read as I took two large trash bags out to the can. When I returned, I looked around for the bottle, but it was gone--never to be seen again. I had taken my final drink of whisky, even though I didn’t know it at the time. I grabbed myself a Coke and drank half of it in one fizzing gulp. “You know,” I said. “I’ve eaten three meals a day here for five years, would you mind if we went into town to eat? Or, I could pull a couple of steaks out of the freezer…”
“Sure,” Odd Whitefeather said. “We could go eat at Bing’s. Just do us both a favor and take a shower, you still smell pretty funky.”
Again, I felt a rush of embarrassment as I remembered the last time I had bathed. I guess it hadn’t seemed very important to me, and I had adopted the old school schedule of bathing on Saturday nights. I sure didn’t have anything better to do. Wordlessly, I excused myself to the bathroom where I took a hot shower. I then shaved and ran the electric clippers over my short, thinning hair. I looked at myself in the mirror and for the first time, I realized how the past five years had aged me. My salt and pepper hair had lost its pepper and I had gained nearly twenty pounds. The weight didn’t sit right on my small frame and the lines on my face made it look like a dried-up apple. I had never been a vain man, but I had been handsome enough in my youth. Those days were gone, the man in the mirror proved that without a doubt. I walked into my bedroom wearing a towel and desperately searched for some clean clothes.
I dressed in an old work uniform, leaving the shirt un-tucked to hide the fact that I was unable to button my pants. I zipped them up as far as I could and held them up with my belt. I looked into the full-length mirror that hung on my door and stared into the face of a stranger. Finally, I walked out to rejoin Odd Whitefeather. He hadn’t said a word about the Soliah Home, but I knew he’d want to talk about it soon enough. The thought made my knees tremble.
When I walked into the kitchen, I was stopped dead in my tracks. Odd Whitefeather had been a busy man in the short amount of time it had taken me to shower and change. The living room and kitchen were sparkling clean, as if a team of hyperactive maids had attacked the mess. I was stunned; the tile floor looked to have been scrubbed and waxed, the carpet had been vacuumed, and the mountain of dirty dishes had been washed and put away. I found myself speechless and once again on the verge of tears.
“I got bored,” Odd Whitefeather said, almost as if he were apologizing.
“Yeah, well thanks a lot. I don’t know what to say…”
“Don’t say anything. There will be time for talk after we eat. I feel like a bear after waking from a winter’s sleep.”
I nodded and led the way out the front door and into the hot sunshine. The temperature had seemed to rise twenty degrees since we’d walked inside.
“We’re not going to have much time,” Odd Whitefeather said, holding his palms up in front of him, as if he were checking the temperature. “Things are speeding up.”
I didn’t ask him what he meant by that and I continued to walk towards the road. Town was a mile away and I didn’t have anything with gas in it that still ran. I’d sold most of the equipment that was worth selling and I hadn’t driven anywhere in years. I hoped that the old man didn’t mind the walk.
“Where are you going?” he asked. “My machine is parked behind your shed.”
I shrugged my shoulders and followed him up towards the equipment shed. “Can I ask you something?” I said. “Just out of curiosity, could you have helped me a few years earlier? I was like that for five years...it was terrible.”
“Life is about what is, not what could have been. You need to remember that.”
I was thinking about those words as we rounded the corner of the shed and I saw his Polaris ATV. The machine had been custom painted with Ojibwe art and looked to be nearly new.
“Make sure to hang on tight,” Odd Whitefeather said, taking off his straw hat and stowing it in a wooden crate lashed to the back of the Polaris with nylon rope. He closed the lid and latched it. “I like to feel the wind in my hair.”
I nodded, noticing for the first time that a Bald Eagle was circling overhead. It dove low over the old man, as if to let him know that it was looking out for him. I climbed on behind Odd Whitefeather and my hands found the luggage rack, just as he fired up the engine. He hadn’t been kidding about liking to go fast, the tires howled on the hot asphalt and my eyes watered from the wind. We made it to town in about a minute’s time and before I knew it, we were parked outside of the little Chinese restaurant named Bing Louie’s. I was hoping to see someone I knew along the way, anyone, just so I could prove that the smell was gone. I knew word would travel fast in the small community of Carlton. Much to my dismay, we didn’t see anyone I recognized. Odd Whitefeather led the way into the restaurant and we took a booth in the corner. The air-conditioning was on high and the cold air felt wonderful on my hot skin.
The restaurant was empty and Oriental music played softly from overhead speakers. I could just make out the top of Bing Louie’s head behind the partition in back, and it sounded like we were interrupting an argument. I don’t speak Chinese, but there was no mistaking the tone.
Bing’s wife came out and took our orders, if she recognized me she never commented about it. She was a small, ageless woman, slender and graceful, with jet black hair and creamy white skin. Our food was served a few minutes later, two steaming plates of cashew chicken and fried rice. We ate our meal in silence and I became more nervous with each bite. I realized that this was probably as good as it was going to get; the proverbial calm before the storm. Those thoughts proved to be true.
“Are you going to eat that eggroll?” Odd Whitefeather asked, reaching for my plate before I had a chance to reply.
“Go ahead,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “I’m stuffed.”
The sound of a kettle or perhaps a wok, being thrown across the wall in the next room, exploded inside the small restaurant. The argument had resumed and it sounded like it was getting nasty. “That is why I never remarried,” Odd Whitefeather said, looking back over his shoulder.
Bing suddenly charged out of the kitchen, untying his apron as he did so. His face was wild with anger. Mrs. Louie followed a few feet behind him. She was threatening him with a wooden ladle and screaming at the top of her lungs. Bing tossed the soiled apron over his shoulder and stormed out the front door.
Mrs. Louie stood at the front window and held a tiny porcelain hand over her mouth. She turned to me. “You got to stop him,” she pleaded to us in broken English.
When I didn’t rush to my feet she shrieked something in her native language and ran after her husband. “I wonder what that was about,” I said, wiping my mouth with a napkin. “They always seemed like such a happy couple.”
The sound of tires squealing on the hot pavement brought me to my feet and over to the window. Mrs. Louie was chasing a blue Dodge Caravan with her ladle. She stood in the middle of Main Street with her head tilted to the sky and screamed. I couldn’t leave her out there, not like that, so I gathered my courage and walked outside to bring her in. She watched the back of the van as it became smaller on the horizon.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s get you inside.”
“He going to Spirit Lake,” she whimpered, looking small and vulnerable. “Help me… Please?”
I opened my mouth to speak when what she said hit me with the force a wrecking ball. I stood there in the bright sunshine, wanting, needing, to say something, but I felt like a fish out of water. I turned away from her, my mouth chewing on words that would not come out. I walked back into the restaurant and stood next to the table.
“He is headed out to Spirit Lake, isn’t he?” Odd Whitefeather asked, fishing a folded twenty out of his shirt pocket and tossing it onto the table.
I felt lightheaded and all I could do was muster a nod.
“We’d better get going, we haven’t got much time. Are you up for this, Huckleberry?”
I shook my head, but I followed him anyhow. We left Mrs. Louie, weeping inconsolably out on the empty street. She was still clutching her ladle and she looked as pitiful as a lost child. I knew exactly where we were headed and suddenly, I couldn’t wait to get there. Odd Whitefeather drove the Polaris like a man possessed, whooping as we roared west out of town at high speed. I urged him on and tried to make sense of the situation.
Chapter Two
They would remember it as the Dead Winter, the terrible season of the spotted sickness. Everyone would lose someone. Indeed, some would lose many friends and relatives during that cold and cruel winter. Spring arrived not a moment too soon and the members of the decimated Ojibwe band began to prepare for their annual trek to the summer camps. The season brought much needed hope back into their lives and the camp buzzed with activity.
Man Killer was tall and slender, with curves where the men liked to see them. The women thought of her as a temptress, while the men did their best trying not to notice her. She kept to herself and practiced as a Mide Woman. That was her place in the camp and everyone agreed that she was more valuable to them now, than ever. Her entire family had slowly perished over the past three years and she had withdrawn from what friends she still had. She wished that she had a friend to share her troubles with.
The birch-bark canoes needed to be repaired after the harsh winter and supplies needed to be gathered. Few babies had survived the Dead Winter and many of those that had; had lost their mothers. The People would look after these children as their own. No families survived the winter intact, but these people had done their grieving and it was time to look ahead to the next season, their lives depended on it. The excitement built as the days grew longer and the tasks grew fewer. They would leave after the rainy season, when the rivers lost some of their anger.
She constantly thought about what else they might need for their journey. The last of the old Mide Women had died during the winter and there was no one to remind her of what was needed. The Mide Women were not nearly as powerful as the men, but they were every bit as important to their number. She was responsible for easing pain and suffering and to aid in the healing process. The Dead Winter had drained her of her valuable resources and she had spent a great many hours gathering the roots, berries, and medicinal leaves that would guard the young ones against the tiny biting flies and the hungry mosquitoes; also to ease the pain of broken bones and other ailments. There was so much to remember and she knew that soon she would need to teach a younger woman the ways of a Mide Woman. When the training was complete she would become one of the Old Ones. Man Killer dreaded that day, she still felt young and full of life.
Their world had changed so much in a single lifetime that it was hard for most to comprehend. The trappers had come and taken most of the little animals before moving north into Canada and west across the Dakotas, into the far away mountains. The traders were becoming more common in the area and the Long Robes appeared now and then with their faith lessons. The big game was becoming scarce and the People worried how they would ever survive in this world with such a large hole in it. Like the animals, their way of life seemed to be running away from them at great speed.
There were rumors that this may be their last visit to the summer camps to the east. It was said that the White Chief did not want them in Ouisconsin, (Wisconsin) which confused them. They had been spending summers there for as long as any of them remembered.
Their need to survive the present day was enough to keep their minds from straying into what the future held for them. The Great Spirit would watch over them, just as he always did.
She thought about all of this while quietly gathering herbs and roots for her Mide bag. The medicine bag was her most precious possession and the long winter had nearly emptied it. The bag was fashioned out of a zhingos, (weasel) skin and she wore it around her neck.
He followed her through the woods where the trees were just beginning to show their summer colors. He had tried to make pinwabo, (small talk) with her, but she ignored him as if he were a skunk. He did not understand her ways and he struggled with that. How could she not see that he wanted to take her for his wife? He was very strong and had proven his bravery many times. All of the men his age had taken a wife by now and had families of their own.
She could feel his eyes upon her as she went about her work. She felt sorry for the young brave, but that did not mean she cared for him. She would never marry this one. She had been having strange dreams which she held sacred and kept to herself. The face of her father’s father had come to her many times in her sleep and had pleaded with her to remain strong. Her life was about to change, she only needed to remain patient and she would know when the time came. She missed her grandfather, for it was he who had taught her the ways of the Mide. The healers were needed now more than ever. The Dead Winter had proven that.
She prayed to the Great Spirit to watch over them and to ease their miseries. Many in the camp were beside themselves with the grief that comes with losing a loved one. The pain was everywhere and she knew it well. She had lost everyone of importance in her life. She prayed as she searched the forest floor for herbs, prayed for a man to come along and rescue her from her own loneliness. That prayer would be answered very soon.
Huck
The terrain began to change as we entered the eastern edge of the Fond Du Lac Reservation. The lush birch trees and jagged rock outcroppings of the Canadian Shelf, gave way to tall pines, old trailer homes and tamarack swamps. I squinted my eyes against the wind, feeling the tears streaming behind my ears. I was wishing Odd Whitefeather had shown up in helicopter. I wanted to go faster and somehow felt we were losing time.
We took the rutted road that my crew had cut into the woods, it looked well traveled and Odd Whitefeather barely slowed as we rounded the tight corners. Pine branches slapped at our arms and small birds and red squirrels wisely got out of our way. My heart began to race as we approached the end of the line. Suddenly, we were slowed to a crawl by the back end of Bing Louie’s Caravan, the door was open and I was sure it’d been abandoned. The van was parked at the end of a long line of vehicles. Odd Whitefeather shook his head as he pushed the ATV ahead, doing a remarkable job of navigating between the parked cars and the pine trees.
I began to recognize more of the cars and pickups and I wondered what everyone was up to. There was no reason for them to be out here, and considering what had happened here in the past, I thought these people should know better than to come out here. The ATV slowed to a crawl as we approached the clearing. Odd Whitefeather braked, rolled his head and finally killed the engine. I stepped off the machine as he reached for his straw hat.
We walked out of the woods and onto the lawn of the Soliah Home. The afternoon sun was overhead and I cupped my right hand over my eyes to get a look at the place. It looked just as it did five years back, which didn’t surprise me at all. The paint still looked fresh, as did the cedar shake roof; flowers still lined the walkways where weeds dared not grow. I wondered what looked after the old place and found that I really didn’t want to know.
“This is far enough,” the old man said. “We are going to need some help, his magic is very strong.”
I nodded my head. I was still looking around for Bing and the others that had driven out here. “Where is everyone, you don’t think they went inside, do you?”
“They are in there, the bait to his trap. He does not care about them. The one he is interested in is you, Huckleberry. He needs you so he can move on from this place.”
I turned and looked at the old man. “How could you possibly know that?”
“This devil came to me in a dream and asked me to bring you here. I asked him why he needed you. So, he told me.”
“And here we are?” I asked him, shaking my head. “A devil asks you to do him a favor and you come through for him? Didn’t you think that might be a bad idea?”
“I did not bring you out here to help him. I brought you out here to protect you from him. A great man once said that you should be close to your enemies.”
“Are you kidding me? That’s a line from a movie. Listen, we came out here to find out where Bing went off to, now we know. Why don’t we ride back to town and get the cops. I think the further away I can get from this place, the better.”
“This is family business, there will be no cops. You might also open your ears when advice is given. That movie you speak of has changed my life. Do not speak poorly of it. Now, take a seat in the grass and let me call for help. This will only take a minute.”
“Who would we call?”
The old man held up his hand and gave me a harsh look. I sat down in the grass, thinking the old man was crazier than I thought. The fact that he possessed a little magic up his sleeve only made him more dangerous. I thought I’d play along for a while; but the first chance I got I would run for the hills.
Odd Whitefeather unzipped his fanny-pack and fumbled among the things inside there. He removed a small satchel that looked like an animal skin, and he took a pinch of something that looked like pipe tobacco. He then chanted something or other, in a language that I certainly didn’t recognize. He did a little dance and released the tobacco, continuing to chant as he did so. The ground seemed to be instantly full of electricity and I nearly screamed as I felt my rump getting zapped. That was the last thing I remembered for a long time.
Chapter Three
I woke up lying on the lawn where I had been sitting. I blinked hard, trying to clear my head and remember where I was. I turned my head and saw the sun had already dipped behind the trees in the western sky over Spirit Lake. I turned my head in the other direction and found myself staring at a newcomer. He looked very old; like he had just stepped off the set of a John Wayne movie. The old man bore a strong resemblance to an older looking Odd Whitefeather. He was dressed in buckskins and wore his long white hair in a ponytail.
“Huckleberry, this is my grandfather. He is called Crooked Walker.”
I didn’t believe him, not at first. The notion that this was his actual grandfather was beyond my thoughts, like winning the lottery. I thought I would humor him, just the same. “Nice to meet you,” I said, offering my hand to the old man. “Thank you for coming out here to help us.”
He looked at me for a long time as if he were sizing me up. The old man scrunched up his nose and scowled. “Oh no,” said Crooked Walker. “Only my wives can get me to work for free. What do you have that I might like?”
This totally threw me. I had nothing but the clothes on my back and my pockets were completely empty. The barefooted old man looked down at my Red Wings and smiled.
I stood there for a moment and tried to reason this out. Was he asking me for my boots? I looked at Odd Whitefeather and he smiled, because he knew that was exactly what was happening. As much as I loved my Red Wings, I knew we needed the help far worse. I gave the old man my boots; socks and all.
A minute later, Odd Whitefeather nodded his head to his grandfather. “Those are nice boots, you made a good trade.”
“My feet are thanking young Huckleberry. I will never take these boots off.”
“Our work here is done,” said Odd Whitefeather.
I stood there in my bare feet and pointed to the house. “Not so fast,” I said. “We’ve still got to get everyone out of there.”
“No,” said Odd Whitefeather. “Now it is time to go to the mattresses. I need some sleep. You and Crooked Walker can watch over me. Wake me up if anything happens, you will know it if it does. If nothing happens, I will wake up at first light.”
I stared in disbelief as Odd Whitefeather stretched out on the lawn and propped his straw hat over his face. I looked over at Crooked Walker and the old guy was smiling at me. The smile sent a shiver down my spine. How well did I know either of these men? What was I doing? How did I get back here?
“It has been a long time,” said Crooked Walker. He was seated across from me on the grass and was now only a shadow in the growing darkness. I could just see the whites of his eyes and teeth, which had both seemed remarkably white. The shadow began to move his arms and I suddenly found myself seated across a nice little fire from the old man. If Odd Whitefeather noticed the campfire, he never moved to show it. The night had cooled and I scooted a little closer to it, happy for both the heat and the light. I smiled at Crooked Walker to show my appreciation.
“Watch the fire,” Crooked Walker said, holding his hands just above the tips of the flames. “I will show you something.”
I did as he asked and saw nothing but sparks and flaming branches. I was just about to say as much when the flames began to twist and change colors. The fire seemed to grow, and maybe it did, but I had become mesmerized by what was taking shape inside those flames. The flames turned from orange to red to blue, and became three dimensional as they did so. A picture was forming.
“Can you see it?” Crooked Walker asked in his dry voice that sounded like autumn leaves blowing in the breeze. “That is what we are fighting against. It was good of you to wake me from my earthly slumber and bring me out here. I feel pretty good and this is a very powerful spirit. You will need my help to defeat it.”
I heard what he was saying, even understood what he said, but I was looking into those flames as if I were seeing my first fire. The blues had formed a burning wasteland that seemed to be without end. Tiny green shapes of flame languished in this landscape, very small, but undeniably they were suffering and they were human. I began to hear the fire moan.
“Maybe you should not sit so close to the fire.”
I could see hot red shapes that weren’t quite human, torturing the little green people inside the supernatural fire. The moaning grew a little louder. Though the People were very small, I was now able to see their facial features. I imagine this is how an eagle sees the world from half a mile away. The little red gnomes were everywhere, lashing out with whips and swinging molten clubs. Green sparks flew when they made contact.
“Huckleberry, can you hear me?”
A red gnome appeared across the terrible burning vista, the largest gnome of the bunch. He continued to move towards me and I could see that this was not a gnome at all. This creature had horns growing out of the side of his head. He seemed to be picking up speed.
“Get back!”
I don’t think he needed to tell me that, but he was looking after me which was good to know. The bright red creature was charging across the flaming hell and the moans suddenly became shrieks of terror. I shot back five feet in one quick kick.
“Further!”
I could see the eyes of the creature were focused on me. The look was of unabashed hatred and extreme anger. The creature was close enough for me to see that he was much larger than I had originally thought. Thick red muscles rippled across his bare chest and arms. From the waist down he looked like a two-legged Ram. I tried to get up and run, but I was completely frozen with fear. I could hear a mighty roar escape the lungs of the rushing devil, and the shrieks of the little green men rose to an ear-splitting level.
“Now!” Crooked Walker screamed at me. He then grabbed me by the shoulder and hefted me like a sack of potatoes. I continued to stare at the charging creature inside the flames. The fire was now a solid blazing wall that stretched high in the air. Whatever that thing was, it was trying to leave that place. I was praying that it wouldn’t, as hard as I’d ever prayed about anything. The devil was galloping on his two hind legs and I could hear the clomping of his cloven hoofs. He was very close and he suddenly dove at me like a flying linebacker on a goal-line stand. I felt Crooked Walker grab me by the ear and he twisted my head with enough force to bruise it.
“Ouch!” I cried, grabbing my swelling ear with both hands. Ears are very sensitive to pain and I was finding that out. I turned, but the fire had shrunk to near coals and the portal, if that is what it truly was, had disappeared the moment I had taken my eyes off of it.
“Will you guys keep it down?” Odd Whitefeather asked. “I am trying to sleep here.”
“You nearly killed us all, you have to be more careful with your Medicine,” scolded Crooked Walker in a hoarse whisper. “Let us take a walk.”
“My ear, you almost tore it off.”
“He was going to kill you. Don’t invite him here again.”
Odd Whitefeather waved his arm at us. “Let me sleep, please.”
I got to my feet and followed Crooked Walker away from the glowing embers and into the shadows. I wondered if what he said was true, was it possible that the creature could have passed into our world? I certainly hoped not. I could still feel the hair on the back of my neck standing at attention and my arms were covered in goose-bumps. My heart was pounding and I tried to control my breathing as we walked across the lawn. After we were a respectable distance from Odd Whitefeather, I turned to Crooked Walker. “I didn’t invite him; I don’t have any Medicine. I am not like you.”
“Oh, that is a good one,” he said with a snort of laughter. “You are and you will see so for yourself, very soon. We are going to try something else up at the big white house. Right over there,” he said, pointing at the big bay window that overlooked Spirit Lake. The window was as black as coal and the house looked as dead as any cemetery in the middle of the night.
“That’s okay; we don’t need to try anything. I’ll believe you. I don’t think we should get too close to the house.”
“Come on,” urged Crooked Walker, waving me to cross the final ten feet of lawn and join him at the window.
I could barely see his face, but I could see that he wasn’t asking me. I moved forward on trembling knees. The house was an undeniable presence, all its own. I had known this from the get-go and I loathed the damn thing. I stood staring into the window, but it was still a great void of blackness.
“Listen to me this time. Your life depends upon it,” whispered Crooked Walker. “Okay, now I want you to light up that room.”
Chapter Four
The morning they left the winter camp was overcast and cool. Man Killer shared her canoe with two orphans and after what seemed like an eternity, the canoes were loaded and they shoved off into the big water. The Water Spirit had heard their prayers and Gitchigoomie was no worse than it was on most days. They had traveled many miles when they finally made their camp where the Brule emptied into the big water. There, they would rest for the night. Weather permitting, they would leave the following morning and continue on their journey, which might last an entire week.
Although no one knew it then, the band of Ojibwe was about to spend its last summer in the place known as Meenon or Blueberry country. They paddled their canoes up the Brule River, making many portages along the way where the whitewater gurgled over large rocks that would smash the small birch-bark canoes into pieces. There were always the young and the old and the sick to tend to. Still, the summer season was a time to look ahead after a winter of disease and death. The English had come to trade and they had given more than the band had bargained for. The traders had brought smallpox and diphtheria into their camp and many had died. There were many young orphans and they were passed around by the women to be fed, which was their way. No one should go hungry.
Man Killer carried two of these children in her canoe. She had never had children of her own and most thought that she was too old to have any, even if she could find another man to marry her. Even in her mid-thirties, she was by far the most beautiful woman of their numbers, but Man Killer had already outlived all three of her husbands. Some whispered that she was bad medicine. Most, never dared to speak of her at all. She wondered why she had been cursed for so many years. How had all of the other women seemed to find their men with such relative ease? What caused men to die after marrying her? She hadn’t killed any of them, not that anyone actually believed her. The Old Ones had told her that she may not have put a hand on any of her former husbands, but she had certainly killed them in their sleep. She was close to the end of her child-bearing years and the thought of it made her eyes water.