Wagikoman

The year would be remembered as the Year of the Blood Moon. The gibbous Spirit Moon had glowed dull red at it’s zenith. What else could it mean but Grandmother, Nokomis, was warning the People of suffering to come?

Suffering came.

The winter had been bitterly cold with little snow. Game was difficult to track, and hard to catch without snow to hamper the fleet of foot. Wolves competed with their two legged brothers and were more successful. Sometimes a hunters could brave the snarling teeth and steal a kill from the wolves, but not often. The hunters must search farther and farther afield. Still they returned with little. The ice was thicker than any elder could remember. Few fish could be caught. The dogs had been eaten. The People were hungry, eking out the precious stores of manomin, dried meat and berries, eating less and less each day to have something for tomorrow. Trees were scrapped of bark. Spruce needles were boiled with club moss. Still, the day came when there was nothing more.

None of the Elders remembered a winter this cold, this long. Deep into Bebokwedagiming-gisiss, the Snowshoe Breaking Moon, the temperatures were still freezing. Even if the thaw came now, many would die before there was enough maple sap or fresh greens to harvest.

These were the realities nipping the heels of Wagikoman, Crooked Knife, as he searched for game. He was five days from home, hunting, searching for food to feed his family. He would not turn back until either he found food or dropped of hunger himself. He was near to dropping now.

The People scattered into small family camps for the winter. This was wise, a large group of people was harder to feed during the long, cold moons. Each camp had enough territory to sustain itself. But not this winter. In every winter camp he passed the dying grieved for the dead. Some families, who had traded game and manomin for goods at the trading posts, were even worse off. The trading posts were as desperate for food as the People, and feared to sell any food back, lest they too perish of hunger.

Although he had traveled far, to not trespass on the barren hunting grounds of others, Wagikoman had nothing to show for it. His snares and traps were unsprung. There were no targets for his rifle. His belly no longer gnawed with hunger, his vision was bleary, his limbs weak. Worse, his heart gnawed with fear, thinking of his starving wife and son, his mother-in-law and the three orphan children of his brother. These depended on him and he was failing them.

Every night for four nights he had offered tobacco to Gitchi Manitou for his family. He drummed as he sang his prayers, begging for game to feed his loved ones, to give him just enough to survive until the crows returned. Every morning he set forth hopeful. Everyday ended hopeless.

Wagikoman was stumbling now. When he fell he cried out to Mesakkummik Okwi, the Great Earth Mother, for mercy. He rose, stumbling and falling until he could rise no more. He gave himself over to death.

He came to as the sun was setting, roused by the faint scent of bear. Wagikoman crawled painfully in the direction of the scent, cautiously following the elusive smell to a den, its entrance hidden in a thicket of branches and crusted snow. Listening so intently that he could hear the pounding of his own heart, he heard the faint breathing of a bear. Bear meat would mean survival for his family.

He pulled tobacco from his pouch. He offered it to the cardinal directions, then to the zenith. He lit the tobacco. As the smoke rose he prayed to the dodem spirit of Muk wa, asking forgiveness for taking its life, giving thanks for its life to nourish his family.

Carefully he loaded his rifle, pouring powder in the pan, cocked it to the ready. Quietly he dug the snow aside until there was an opening large enough for him to pull himself through. Crawling on his belly he pushed himself into the den. He probed in the gloom, he could dimly see the bulk of the bear before him. But what part of the bear was before him? A good shot would be a clean kill, a bad shot meant an injured bear. For all of its size an enraged bear could burst out to maul him in a heartbeat. His one shot must be true.

The bear stirred slightly, enough that Wagikoman could discern the outline of its head, far at the opposite end of the den. Gently he moved his rifle where he believed the base of the skull to be. Breathing deeply, Wagikoman fired.

The hind legs of the bruin jerked backward, slashing Wagikoman’s face with sharp claws. Wagikoman rolled aside, dropped his rifle and drew his hatchet. The bear shot backward form the den, hoisted itself on its hind legs and roared. Blood sprayed from its mouth as it staggered forward, falling at Wagikoman’s feet as it died. Wagikoman jumped away, swinging his hatchet down deep into the skull. The bear shuddered once, then was still.

The pounding of Wagikoman’s heart boomed in the silence. Blood from his face filled his mouth. His eye was closed, burning in pain. He pushed his palm into the eye to staunch the flow, then packed snow into the gash. No time to worry about it now. There would be scars, ignoble markings of this kill. His urgent duty now was getting the bear home.

Again he offered tobacco to the four directions and zenith. The smoke rose with the spirit of the bear to heaven carrying his prayer. His family would eat. They would survive. It was worth the loss of an eye for his son to live.

Wagikoman softly chanted a song of thanks as he bled the bear. It was a sow bear, her paps oozing milk. Wagikoman crawled back into the den to pull out the cub, causing it to bawl. Drawing it from the den by its fur, Wagikoman ended its life quickly by cutting its throat. It would have died anyway, of exposure or predator, without its mother. Wagikoman thought he would instruct his wife to use the cub’s soft fur for a hood for their son. Most importantly, its tender meat and baby fat would nourish their child.

Wagikoman cut out the cub’s liver, ate it warm and raw. He felt the strength return to his body. He chanted prayers for the forgiveness of Muk wa as he cut saplings and branches to make a travois. He rolled the bear and cub onto it, tied them securely with vines, then lifted the ends to pull survival back to his family.

The snow crunched beneath his snowshoes. It seemed a singing song of hope as he walked in steady rhythm, a strange counterpoint to the anxiety he felt. What would he find at his return? Had his family survived these days he was away?

He chewed on raw meat, feeling more vigor return to his limbs. He was no longer light headed, though still trembly. It was the way of a man to push on, beyond his endurance if he must. A man must be storng of heart. Fear for his family strengthened his resolve. He walked on, waiting expectantly for moonrise to light his way.

But the moon did not rise. It should have been at its full. The stars grew fainter, finally disappearing altogether. Darkness thickened around him like a mist. He began to be uneasy. He remembered being in a cave as a child. His brother taunted him of fearing the spirits that emanated from the place. To prove he was not afraid, he went into the cave and put out the torch, waiting until his brother came to find him, and bring him light. The darkness now was as then, total. He raised a hand before his face. He could not see it.

This darkness had substance. It was not the hollow dark of an empty cave. The weight of it pushed on him until he sank to his knees. This Darkness moved, slithering around him. Biting needles of pain pierced through his capote, stinging his body. Sharp pain cut across his wounded eye, as if it were being gouged out. Wagikoman cried out. He was answered by a hissing and growling in his ear. The sound grated like gnashing teeth, angry hornets of words he did not understand.

Wagikoman waited. The darkness was moving faster. It whipped about him like a stormy wind. It lashed at him, making him cower with pain, despite himself. The hissing and gnashing became more insistent. Wagikoman sensed, more than understood, he was hearing language, telling him something malevolent and angry.

Shadows began to flicker, thicker darkness within the dark The shadows shimmered and shifted, black, then red, as Wagikoman tried to look at it. The shadows would seem to be an angry man, then change to an enraged bear.

The blood drained from Wagikoman’s face, his breath froze in his lungs, he recognized this as Manito Waise, animal spirit of a Muk Wa, bear.

The shifting shadows made him dizzy and nauseous. What felt like a heavy hand from out of the dark pressed his face down until he was face down in the frozen ground, his wounded eye mashed into the debris. Meaning began to form in his mind, though his ears heard unintelligible hissing and gnashing.

“I am Manito Waise, spirit kindred of Muk wa. The bear you have killed was my lover. The cub was my child by her. You have taken their lives, now by rights I claim yours.’

Wagikoman felt the breath being pushed out of him, as if a heavy foot were staniding on his back. “Beka! I beg you mercy! I took life only to save life, myself and my family. If you kill me, they too will die. I beg you mercy.”

The darkness stopped pushing on his back. He gulped deep breaths of air and raised his head. Shadows of all colors and none shimmered an arm’s breadth from the shifting balck and red of Manito Waise. The shadows seemed to be a woman, a bear, otter, pine tree, deer, crane, sturgeon, changing one to the other like flames in a fire. Her voice rang in his mind like the si-si-gwad of wind in the trees, soothing and compassionate.

“I am Mesakkummik Okwi, mother of Muk wa, mother of this man, his wife, his child, mother-in-law and nephews. Mother of the maiden you stole and transformed to a bear. I am mother of the child she bore. Her death and his is on your head, but for you she would be alive among the People. Kitchi Manitou hears his prayers, accepts his offerings. Now by rights I spare his life.”

The Manito Waise screamed like the lion, “Souggedawin! My heart is hard! I will have revenge!” His shadow exploded into flaming fragments of dark.

Wagikoman knew no more.

*********************

Wagikoman woke to the rising sun. Dazed and afraid he stumbled to his feet. The sun was warm, he could hear the sounds of melting. The raucous caws of crows surrounded him. The back of winter was broken! The return of crows meant the sap was ready in the maple trees. They would live! Trembling he picked up the travois and began to run. Yet it was fear, not hope, that gave his feet wings. The image of the Manito Waise haunted his vision. The scream of his parting cry echoed in his ears.

As he passed near another winter camp he stopped to give them meat. No one commented on his wounded eye. The People raised prayers of gratitude to Muk Wa for giving its life for theirs, to Kitchi Manitou for sustaining them. Runners from this camp would tell others, they would come. Wagikoman would share the meat. His family and his People would live.

The Mide of the camp wrapped a poultice around his eye, chanting a song of healing. Wagikoman refused to wait for the preparation of a medicinal deconcoction. The Mide gave him a small packet of herbs wrapped in birch bark, a charm to protect him. The Mide sang to prevail upon the spirit of her own dodem for protection of Wagikoman.

Wagikoman took only a parfleche of meat, leaving the bear, that he might reach home in all speed. The pace of his feet matched the pulse of his heart. His breathing burned, his eye throbbed under the cool poultice. Fear pushed him forward. Only when he stumbled did he stop to rest, then only to get a good breath. As the first stars became clear, he drew near his own winter camp.

He heard the the bawling of a young animal and the keening wails of his wife and mother in law. The children whimpered. His son! He did not hear his son! Fear gave him speed, he cleared the brush to his home.

His wife was kneeling, reaching to a young bear, calling his son’s name. The bear wore tatters of muslin and wool, bawling while it clawed the cloth from its body, shying from his wife. The bear turned and fled into the woods, Wagikoman fleeing after him. His son! His son!

Weary from a day of running, bleeding from his wounded eye, Wagikoman fell time and again, until he could run no more. The trail of his son was clear. He turned to home, he would rest and take up the trail again in a few hours.

At camp the children were chewing the bear meat raw. The parfleche lay open on the ground, But the cooking fire was out, the kettle empty. From inside the lodge came the wailing and keening of his wife and her mother. His belongings were thrown outside the moose hide door. They blamed him for the curse of the Manito Waise.

Wagikoman did not stay to explain. He left his belongings where they lay. He took nothing more than the weapons he already carried and the clothes on his back. He departed in sorrow, to search for his son.

Full Moon, Spirit Moon of my 44th year, flying towards Rome, Italy.

This morning my family drove me to the Airport as the sun was rising. They think I am stark raving mad. Perhaps I am not in my right mind. I didn’t tell them about my plans until three days ago. They are reeling with shock. But I have my tickets and my ducks are in a tidy row. I can go, I am going, but my loved ones don’t like it. Not one little bit.

I love the airport, its bigness, busyness, serious security. Looking at the faces of people and listening to the destinations over the loudspeakers fascinates me. The only shadow is how awkward it is to be leaving. I am not successful at suppressing my excitement and my family is not successful at suppressing their fears ( and jealousy!), but they sincerely wish me bon voyage and I sincerely wish we could share this adventure.

My husband is afraid I won’t come back, the ad did say I may never return. I take that metamorphically, not literally. I cannot imagine leaving them forever – beloved husband, sons and daughter. I can not think of anything that would even tempt me to give them up, nothing and no one could ever be worth that price. My husband’s fear takes the shape of another man, younger, virile, better looking than he with charm, charisma, and without the history of twenty-three years of marriage. My fear takes the form of my family enjoying life without me, liking life better without me.

It is a risk I have chosen to take. And the fact remains husband and children do not fulfill me, and should not! Imagine the definition of my existence being solely defined by roles and relationships I fill! I am wife of Baptist pastor, mother of two adult sons and a preschool daughter, teacher, counselor, fencing coach, art club coach. I am sister, daughter, daughter in law. Each role, each relationship, has its expectations, spoken and unspoken. But who am I as a woman? Who am I as a being? I like my roles and am blessed by my relationships, but the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. I want to know who I am. Funny, I never understood that cliché until I just wrote it to explain why I am doing what i am doing.

I lingered until it was the last call to board, I was the last on the plane. My husbands kiss was still warm on my lips. His fragrance remained on my clothes. At the last he held me tightly and I felt his trembling. “Come back to me,” he whispered. Tears were in his eyes and mine.

“If you love something, let it go free,” I answered, “if it returns to you it is yours for always, but if it does not, it was never really yours to begin with.” A hackneyed quote from our college days, but it seemed to fit. It never seemed relevant since we made the commitment to marry. “I’ll be back. I love you. See you in three months.”

I didn’t say good-bye.

Another quick kiss and I’m on my way….. Through security, who relieved me of my Swiss Army Knife and embroidery scissors, down the concourse, to my gate, hand over my boarding pass, down the ramp to the plane. Doors are closing behind me. Ahead of me folks are stowing away luggage. A steward finds a place for my pack. I keep my journal and a novel – something frothy and naughty – something the wife of a Baptist preacher shouldn’t be reading.

My thoughts slosh through my mind like clothes in a wash machine. I cannot focus to read, everything is tumbling. Instead I concentrate on the rituals of flying, and that steadies me. I listen to the presentation on seatbelts and floating seats, emergency exits, oxygen. In support groups of one kind or another throughout my life I have heard time after time the analogy of taking care of yourself first likened to putting your oxygen mask on before assisting your dependents. If you pass out from lack of air, they will die too. I learned to breathe for childbirth, and taught the same breathing to my children when they went for shots and stitches and dentist appointments. Breathe, deep and slow. Count slowly to four, in through the nose, out through the mouth.

I breathe deeply and slowly now, and enjoy the aloneness in this jet full of fellow travelers. I am in the center of the center of the big bird. My port side neighbor is working from a laptop, a scowl on his face. My neighbor starboard is lost in a world defined by her MP3.

Take Off! I love the feeling of the racing plane, the sudden lift to space, the way my stomach flutters, lurches, sinks. Jubilate! I have done it! I am on my way. Airborne. What a word! Lifted by air, traveling on the back of Wind to who knows where!

While I savor my freedom, snacks are served. I eat mindfully, savoring each bite. I eat the peanuts one by one and sip the cola slowly. Again I try to read. Usually I speed read. The story winds fast, an action movie in my head. I see it, I hear it, but I don’t live it.

Now I purpose to read each word, silently moving my lips. I let the words become colored paintings in my head. I pay attention to the sound of the voices. I paint the scenery in my imagination with concise detail. The characters become alive for me, holographic dancers on a mental stage. I worry about their problems, become enmeshed in their passions. By doing so time passes and my agitation calms.

I would be a better wife if I read more novels like this. One of my pastor wife acquaintances thought Francine Rivers was too graphic when she used the phrase ‘bared her breasts’, blushed to say how it made her blush to read it. Wonder how she blushes to do it. Or is her role as lover done under cover of darkness and thick blankets?

My Baptist sons are horrified by the Jean Auel novels I enjoy. Curious they skimmed through them looking for the ‘good’ parts, sons who reached adulthood without ever peeking into Playboy. I am proud of their commitment to sexual purity, but taken aback at their vehement disapproval of my reading material. Soft porn, they called it. “I do not see why I can’t read about sex,” I replied. “I haven’t read anything in this book that I haven’t done many times already.” I love how their jaws dropped, how they sputtered and blushed. I’ll ask their opinion of my reading material after they have been married a few months.

Dark moon, Spirit Moon of my 44th year Isle of Mille Lacs, Village of the White Deer

 
It snowed through the night, and through today.  It is bitterly cold. My walk to the shore is silent, the gentle, sleepy silence of winter.  The sky and snow are the same dull white, the trees black and grey against the pristine backdrop.  My boots make no sound in the snow.  My feet are the only human tracks.  Few creatures stirred today, so even animal tracks were scarce.  No birds wing across the sky.  My face is numb, and I will do what I must do quickly to get back to the warmth of my home.  There is only the scent of cold and snow.  My nose is too cold to smell at any rate, but runs steadily.  My fingers and ears are so cold they burn.
 
The silence is full of my whirling thoughts.  My petition for this journey was slow in coming.  Had I been asked what petition would I request for my life, I could answer easily: to live a life of loving kindness.   I believe it is in giving that we receive. And giving without expectation brings peace even in troubled times.  I am never so poor that I have nothing to give, be it even time and attention to listen to another.  Givers know no poverty.
 
But this petition is for a season, it means defining precisely what it is I want from this journey.  To say I want to be inspired to write and draw is not encompassing enough.  As I walk I grapple with putting my finger on my hearts desire, for that is what the journey is about.  A trek to an unimaginable future, to my deepest self, where I don’t even know who I am. Writing, drawing, creating things, is what I enjoy; they are why I hurry through my daily responsibilities to do. Yet it is not why I am embarking down the Silk Road. 
 
Why then? why, o why?
 
As I shiver in the cold it comes to me, a realization settling like a snowflake – I want to be known.  How simple, how true.  Not as wife or mother or friend or counselor but as a soul, a creative being.  I want to be known by myself.  Not as who others define me to be, but who I am when no one is looking, when no one cares, not even me.  In the daily grunge of hurry and worry, I forget who I am, what I mean to myself. 

Perhaps when I share my impressions of this essential me, someone will care.  Who and when and why will be dazzling surprises.
 
Freezing cold clarifies like nothing else can. 

Last sliver of waning moon, Spirit Moon of my 44th year Isle of Mille Lacs, Village of the White Deer

 Last sliver of waning moon, Spirit Moon of my 44th year
Isle of Mille Lacs, Village of the White Deer

“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”  Ancient Chinese.
 
Today I took that first step. I am committed to a thousand mile journey of my soul.  I will go East on the Silk Road.  That is all I know of the journey, besides that we and foot and imagination.  I have put myself under the guidance of a faceless, unknown woman, Sybilla Palermo.  I have never seen her or heard her voice, only read her travel brochure and e-mails, but I am putting my life under her care.  Perhaps she is corrupt.  Perhaps she will lead me to danger and death.  Perhaps I am a fool. 

I do not know why I was attracted to the ad in the first place. I was cleaning cabins vacated by the tourists that descend upon our lake village like the annual scourge of mayflies. They enjoy the scenery and quiet, the excitement of seeing a white deer. Their largess keeps our body and soul united. For me, it is another day, another dollar. But that day among the debris was a sleazy paper I never read, have never wanted to read. As I scooped it up my eye happened on an ad. Small, smudged and unlikely.

“Caravan the Silk Road. Learn its secrets from the back of donkey or camel. The past becomes a door to a future you cannot begin to imagine. Perhaps you will never return. Contact Sybilla.” An e-mail address followed.
 
My life has always been proper. I have always been afraid to risk, so afraid of pain that safety has become a prison.  A cluttered prison of every necessity for comfort and survival.  Complicated by health insurance, baby tylenol, heating pads, emergency band radio, storm cellars and survival kits.  Locks bar out danger, but still pain and grief have found chinks to enter.  There is clutter everywhere, among the necessities are mixed memorabilia from every phase and event of my life.  Still memories slip away from me.  I am aging and cannot stop the tide.  Nor do I know how many years or days are left to me. I look back and wonder where I would be had a chosen a different road. A silk road. Traveled by camel rather than mini-van.
 
Lately I had been pacing the confines of my comfortable cage.  I have a good life and cannot complain, but still there are voices calling me in the night winds, niggling at my content, hissing like little snakes, “What if? What if?”
 
I am blessed with every good gift. I do not want to give up what I have, but I do want to see for myself places I have read about. Experience things I have only imagined. Become heady on the flavors and fragrances of another place. I want to look at the world from another point of view.  Reexamine my beliefs from a fresh perspective.  I want to be sifted and shaken until only my naked pure self remains. 
 
So I e-mailed. In the end I signed up for the journey.   

As a child I dreamed of dancing with the wind and being swept away to places as different from my life as my limited imagination could take me.  Sometimes Wind swept me to new planets; sometimes to heaven and sometimes to hell.  I have dreamed those dreams again of late, troubled by them, restless in my soul.  Now that the journey is begun, I am no longer disturbed by those old dreams, but excited by them.
 
Soon, soon soughs Wind, my friend, lover, daemon. 
 
Commitment made, the next step is to pack.  Pack lightly, Sybilla advised.  Pack for a three month journey into the unknown in the limited space of a backpack.
 
I am good at packing.  I am organized and practical. It all revolves around lists. 
 
Shoes are the most important.  Never skimp on shoes or your bed, the Wise Woman said, if you aren’t in one you’re in the other.  Top of the list: a good pair of  hiking sandals, and good wool/silk socks, three pairs, hand knit myself, with yarn to repair as needed on the journey. For clothing I choose practical desert wear, I am dreaming of sweeping sand deserts. Two pairs sarouelles, Folkwear pattern #119, www.folkwear.com  of a silk/cotton blend; a Gaza dress, Folkwear #101, of evenweave linen, that I may embroider my journey story; an entari gown and vest, Folkwear #108, of silk or cotton; a burnoose, Folkwear # 132, of natural wool; a keyiffah; a pocket from voyageur costume; a couple pair clean undies.  Thus dressed I will be clean and cool or warm as need be.  And exotic. Outlandish actually, well out of my comfort zone. Usually I wear blue jeans, sweat shirts and penny loafers. A denim jumper and ballet flats for dress.
 
Toiletries: Contacts, glasses, contact case, spare pair, solutions, and sun glasses.  Homemade lavender soap, wash cloth, small towel, lavender essential oil, tea tree essential oil, tooth brush, comb, hair stick, cornhuskers lotion, and udder balm.  This fills half my backpack.  I feel ready for anything.

And proud of myself. No pharmacopeia of aspirin, anti-diarheal, hot water bottle; no paramedic first aid kit; no make up, or cell phone. It is hard to leave the water purifying tablets behind, what if the water is infested with germs? But I do.

Wind, imp that he is, blows to my mind the chorus to a Sally Roger’s song: ‘Some Little Germ is gonna find you one day, some little germ will come behind you one day; every microbe and baccillius has a different way of killin’ us, and they’re all gonna find us in the end..” I laugh and am free.

Now to pack the good stuff: Sketch journal, pencils, pens, travel water colors, brushes, needlework case, photo of loved ones, airmail stationary, pearl earrings, wedding ring, coin of the realm, Swiss Army knife, canteen, and small sheepskin.  I can sleep on bare rock with a sheepskin tucked under my cheek.
 
Pertinent information written in last pages of sketch journal. Tickets, credit card, passport, emergency information, health care card, the practical ephemera of the modern world, stashed in an envelope glued inside the back cover of sketch journal.
 
I am ready to embark after
 
One thing more.
 
I must prepare myself spiritually. The next task is to bring my petition for this journey to Energy Mountain. This is a guided meditation Sybilla suggests. I am not very good at guided meditation.
 
I contemplate this journey, and what I hope to gain from it.  Phrasing it in simplest form I write it on paper, fold it and put it in my pocket with a stone to represent the petition, paper and pencil stub.  There are no literal mountains near. so I will walk to the shore of Mille Lacs. Rather than imagine myself traveling up a mountain, in my mind I walk way too fast and miss the scenery, I actually walk.  As I walk I will think deeply of this trip, yet stay mindful of the world around me. I open my senses to feel, listen, smell, experience the woods and shore.  On the shore I will sit on a freezing cold boulder and consider my petition once more.  If need be I will change it.  I shall walk on the frozen water, and find a place to bury the petition.  Then I will walk home, fingering the stone chosen to represent the petition.  The stone will go in my pack as well.  At night as I muse before sleep, I will hold it again, opening myself to answers.