She rummaged in a bag tied to her waist and took out a piece of bread. She held the bread out in the tips of her fingers. It was fragrant, fresh, and before Chickadee could stop himself, his hand darted out from beneath the grass and snatched the roll from her hand.
“There,” said Seraphica. “See?”
The other Sisters leaned over the edge of the wagon. Even from there, they could hear the munching and smacking of Chickadee enjoying the bread. He spat out a strand of grass. The priest smiled.
“Let’s try to coax him out.”
The priest and the Sisters hadn’t much to eat themselves, but each contributed a morsel. Seraphica held each bit out, an offering. And every time Chickadee smelled what she held, he reached out and grabbed it. He meant to stay hidden, but his hunger was just too much for him.
“Will you come out now?” asked Seraphica. She held out her open hand. Chickadee tried to burrow farther down, but he knew it was no use.
“Come on, we won’t hurt you,” she said. Of course, as she spoke English, Chickadee could not understand all of what she said. But the tone of her voice was so smooth and sweet he knew that she meant no harm. He peeped his head out.
“Ah!” cried the Sisters.
“He’s a terrible mess,” said Seraphica. “Neglected, so sad.”
“Can we take him with us?”
“Yes, yes, let’s!”
“He is such a nice-looking boy under all that dirt!”
The priest put his hands out, too.
“Come along,” he said. “We have a place prepared for you!”
“You’ll be fed, warm, happy!”
The Sisters called melodiously and the priest was so pink and jolly that Chickadee found himself sliding from the slough grass into their arms. Seraphica brought him to the wagon, and the Sisters laughed and held their noses, but climbed in and made a place for him in the straw with the little black dog. The dog had the sort of mouth that curls up in a cheerful smile. He seemed to grin as Chickadee settled in beside him. How could a boy resist what seemed to be a happy family? From the few words he understood, they called the priest Father and there was a woman in the wagon, worn and stern, whom they called Mother.
“Mother,” said Seraphica, “wasn’t it a blessing that we found this boy? He might have starved to death, the poor orphan.”
“Orphan, my foot,” said Mother. “He is a filthy savage.”
“Mother, you shouldn’t say that,” said the jolly priest.
“Don’t you dare tell me what to say,” said Mother. “He could kill us in our sleep.”
“He’s a little boy!” said Seraphica.
“Just you keep on eye on him,” said Mother. She fixed a cold gray eye on Chickadee and held him in her glare.
As Chickadee bounced along on the straw bedding with the dog, the six Sisters, the Mother and the Father, he didn’t know if he was leaving his family behind or if, through this new adventure, he might be brought closer to them. He knew only that to stay behind was impossible. He would certainly have starved before the two brothers returned. And once they did return, he would once again have been their servant.
Wherever he ended up, he hoped he’d find an Anishinabe who could bring word back to his parents. As the wagon went on and on, roughly following the path of the river, he tried talking to the nice Sister, the one who pointed to herself and said Seraphica.
Chickadee pointed to himself, and said the word for Chickadee in Ojibwe, which is Gijigijigaaneshiinh. No matter how hard Seraphica tried, her tongue got tangled up when she repeated the word. But once, when the wagon stopped and the Sisters got out to eat their tiny scraps of food and to pray, a small bird landed in the bushes near the wagon. Chickadee looked at the bird for a long time, and it looked back at him.
“Stay with me,” he said to his namesake. The bird seemed to understand.
Chickadee took Seraphica’s sleeve and pointed to himself, to the bird, and back again. She understood.
“Your name means Chickadee!”
Excited, she told the other women, who smiled at him and told Seraphica that the name was perfect for such a thin and lively little boy.
Only the one called Mother frowned and gave Seraphica a sour look.
“He’ll be baptized and given a proper name,” she said, “a saint’s name. How typically pagan, to be named after a bird!”
For two days the little wagonload of women traveled. At night they all slept, curled in the straw. During the day, Chickadee saw them secretly wincing whenever the wagon jounced over a big rock. He had the soft straw to sit on, while they were arranged across two hard board benches. At last, they reached a river crossing.
At this crossing, there was a ferryboat that ran along underneath a huge cable. The river was much calmer here—though still icy and gray and flowing fast. It would be possible to cross.
The priest and the ferry owner coaxed the ox aboard and secured the wagon. Then the Sisters stood in a bunch and held tight to the sides of the barge. Seraphica held on to Chickadee and the dog crouched near his feet. If the ferry were to sway out into the river, if the cables were to snap, they would swing out into the treacherous current for a wild and deadly ride. The Sisters prayed fervently, with their eyes closed, all except for Seraphica. Her eyes were open, and her lips moved. It looked to Chickadee like she was enjoying the ride.
When at last the party was on the other side of the river, Chickadee’s first thought was that now he could escape and follow the river north. It would lead him back home, eventually, although he was farther away than he’d ever been. For a while, the wagon followed the river north. Then suddenly a rutted trail appeared and it veered east. Chickadee watched each small landmark carefully. He was elated to again see trees, then sloughs, then rolling hills and land that looked like home, even though much of it was torn up. Now he saw small board houses painted white or even red. He’d only seen a trader’s house painted this way before. Fluffy white and rust-colored birds ran around these houses. From his mother’s description, he knew that these were chickens. They’d entered farm country, settled by tall people with pale eyes and sun-bright hair. At last, after the endless journey, the wagon stopped outside a log cabin with a cross fixed over the door.
There were two other log cabins beside the first one, and a barn behind. One of the smaller cabins belonged to all of the Sisters and the Mother. The Father had the other cabin, which was divided into a small room for him and a larger room with several small tables in it.
In the front of the room there was a smooth piece of wood as black as river rock. Father took a white stick in his hand and traced marks on the blackness. Then, with his other hand, he erased them and made other marks.
“Chalkboard,” said Father.
He gave the white stick to Chickadee. He imitated the marks that Father had made, and Father laughed.
“I believe you’ll have no trouble learning the alphabet,” he said. “This is a school. Can you say school?”
Chickadee looked at him quizzically.
“Oh well, it doesn’t matter. You’ll learn soon enough. For now, you can sleep here, in the corner.”
He showed Chickadee a tiny area where several blankets were piled.
“The other students will come in a few days,” said Father, patting Chickadee’s head. He tugged one of Chickadee’s braids and said, “Don’t worry. Mother Anthony will cut these off for you.”
Chickadee had no idea what the priest had just said, but before he went to sleep, he looked all around the room. On the desk, in an open box, he saw a small knife. Chickadee had been taught never, ever, to steal. But he broke this rule. Something about the strange family made him uneasy. He did not trust the Mother. He took the knife.
THIRTEEN
A DESPERATE MATTER
The next morning, Chickadee woke to a rhythmical brushing noise. He peeped out of his blanket to see Sister Seraphica on her hands and knees, scrubbing the wooden floor. As she scrubbed, she began to hum a lovely t
une and Chickadee crept from his blankets to listen.
Seraphica stopped, sat back on her heels, and laughed.
“Come here, little fellow,” she said. She gestured in such a friendly way that Chickadee stood up and walked over to her. She took a piece of bread from her pocket.
“I saved this for you,” she said.
Chickadee still did not understand a word anybody said, but when Seraphica spoke to him she also made gestures with her hands.
“Mother Anthony has begged some clothes for you,” she said. “Today she means to clean you up. She isn’t the gentlest person, but she only wants to help you. Oh, here she comes!”
The unsmiling Mother stamped into the room, right over Seraphica’s clean floor. She held a pair of overalls, a mended shirt, and leather tie-up shoes.
“Bring in the washtub,” she told Seraphica. “I’ve got the water heated up. I’ll use your scrub brush.”
“Oh, Mother, no! It’s much too rough!”
“He’s got the dirt of the ancients on him, caked in,” said Mother. “I’ll use some of my strong lye soap.”
“That stings!” Seraphica made a face. “Oh, you poor boy!”
Chickadee saw her look of concern, and warily stepped backward. Mother Anthony shook the clothes at him.
“These weren’t easy to get! You’d better appreciate them!”
Chickadee was wearing a pair of soft skin trousers, a buckskin shirt with fringe down the sides, which his mother had decorated with porcupine quills. His moccasins were lined with fur and kept his feet warm, while the leggings he wore doubled the insulation of his trousers. He had on a warm woolen vest and, in addition, he usually wore a pair of fur mitts and a fur-lined hood. But when Babiche had stolen him, he’d been sleeping without his hood and mitts. It was lucky that the night had been cold and he’d kept on his vest and moccasins. From the way Mother gestured, Chickadee began to understand that she expected him to exchange his warm clothes for these poor rags.
He stepped back farther, until he was standing against the wall. Seraphica carried a large wooden tub into the room. Another of the Sisters brought a bucket of water. She poured it into the tub. Mother left and came back with a blanket and a steaming kettle and a strange smelling waxy yellow cake. She poured the steaming kettle of water into the tub and then pointed at the tub, at Chickadee, the tub, Chickadee. He edged along the side of the room, toward the door. But Seraphica was there, smiling.
“Now, don’t be scared,” she said. “It won’t last forever. And you’ll feel so good and clean when it is done.”
Seraphica took his hand and drew him over to the tub. She tugged off his vest and then began to take off his shirt. Chickadee struggled out of her grip, but Mother was there and the other Sister, too.
“Help!” cried Mother.
Holding on to Chickadee, she and the others unlaced his moccasins, his leggings, removed his shirt, his pants. They rolled everything into a ball, and then plunged him straight into the hot water.
Although at that moment Chickadee was covered with ground-in dirt, it was because he’d been living with Babiche and Batiste. Omakayas kept her boys very clean, and their clothing as well. They bathed in cold water every single day, even in the winter, when they used half-melted snow. Being dunked in steaming hot water was a shock, and Chickadee yelled out in fear. But Mother had the scrub brush out and was sawing it across his back, leaving painful welts into which she rubbed the harsh lye soap. Now Chickadee cried out in pain.
Sister Seraphica tugged at Mother Anthony’s wrists.
“Oh, Mother Anthony, please! You’re hurting him!”
“Don’t be disrespectful, girl!” cried Mother Anthony.
Chickadee struggled, twisting and kicking to get away. But before Chickadee could wiggle away, Mother Anthony snatched up a pair of scissors to cut off his braids. When Chickadee saw the sharp scissors in her hands, he was sure that he was going to die.
With a desperate lunge, he ripped himself from the Sisters’ grip and popped out of the tub. He grabbed his ball of clothes. Then, with a tremendous leap, he cleared the table and raced out the door. He didn’t stop once he got outside, but kept on running across the muddy yard and on into the safety of the woods. And even then, as the brush closed over behind him, he kept on running. With the ball of clothing under his arm, he sped as fast as he could through the underbrush, in which direction he couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. He heard their calls at first, and then their calls died out and there were only the sweet sounds of the woods.
After some time, he entered a great stand of pine and all he heard was the sound of wind tossing high in the pine needles. That sound had always lulled him to sleep. He felt better, but still he kept going. When he’d run until he was exhausted, he stopped and put on his old, familiar clothing. He tied on his leggings and his moccasins. He looked around carefully, for any sign they were following. He listened. His heart thumped wildly, but there was no sound of pursuit.
Chickadee breathed more easily, took stock of where he was. Moss clung to the colder, moister sides of the huge pine trees, telling him which way to go. So he started walking the way the trees pointed. North. Giiwedin. Home.
FOURTEEN
SETTING UP HOME
As Chickadee set off for home, his family met in Pembina, at the cabin of Chickadee’s uncle, Quill. It wasn’t a very large cabin, and everyone was crowded into it talking.
“Quill isn’t here,” said his wife, Margaret.
The grown-ups sat wrapped in their blankets on the pounded earth floor and ate the dried moose meat that Omakayas had brought along, seasoned with the new maple sugar.
“Where has he gone?” asked Omakayas.
“Quill was hired on the oxcart train down to St. Paul,” said his wife proudly. “He made his own cart and is hauling for the fur trader.”
“Our little brother has become a responsible man!” laughed Angeline, nodding at Omakayas.
The packs of furs that Animikiins, Two Strike, Fishtail, and Mikwam had worked hard for all winter were stacked around them. Two Strike had also killed a beaver on the way to Pembina, and its skin was stretched out on a willow hoop. The beaver meat was boiling on the little stove that heated the house.
Quill had surprised everyone. From a wild boy who drove his sister Omakayas half crazy, he’d become a young man. He was not a completely sensible young man, but he’d managed to build a cabin and even plant some potatoes. This was all because he wanted to keep his wife, who threatened to leave him if he kept up his old, wild ways.
Margaret was half French and half Ojibwe—both sides of her were no-nonsense sides, Makoons thought. This was the first time the family had met her, and Makoons could tell that although she tried to be nice, her real feelings showed through.
“Come in,” she had said. But her face said, Stay out. “Sit down and have some tea,” she had said out loud, but her face said, I wish you’d go away.
The inside walls were whitewashed, pasted over with written papers. A bed, covered with thick blankets, was pushed against one wall, and there were two chairs at a small wooden table. Deydey sat on one chair. Margaret gave the other to Nokomis. Everyone stood uncomfortably until Margaret asked them to sit down on the bed. A tiny woodstove with a pipe sticking into the wall glowed hotly. Margaret put more wood into the fire, and set a kettle of water on top to boil. Everyone ran out of things to say, suddenly, and stared at the floor. Margaret was silent until Deydey began to speak to her in her language, Metis, which was a combination of French and Ojibwe, just like her family. Deydey had learned the language when he was a little boy. Margaret smiled a little, and then Deydey made her laugh. She got up, moved a large pot onto the stove, and, still talking to Deydey, warmed up some stew and made a bannock.
As everyone ate, Deydey explained everything that Margaret had told him in her language. Margaret had described how she had persuaded Quill to settle down, make a garden, and pray. She described the long expeditions to hunt buffalo tha
t the two went on together, with her family. Deydey said that Margaret was very strict about going to the Catholic church, and that once she found out why the family had left the sugar bush, she had said she would pray hard for Chickadee’s return.
The family began to talk to Margaret through Deydey, who translated everything they said.
“Since we know who took our Chickadee,” said Omakayas, “we have agreed to intercept them here when they deliver the mail.”
“Even now, we have our lookouts, Two Strike, Fishtail, and Animikiins,” said Nokomis. “They will not let those skunks get away.”
“We will wait here,” said Mikwam, “for Quill to return.”
Margaret looked worriedly at her bed. Then her face brightened, and she told Deydey something that took a long time to explain.
Deydey nodded from time to time as she spoke, and then he looked very thoughtful. Finally, he told the family what he had heard.
“Margaret is urging us to stay in Pembina. She says that so many families have moved on to the other town, St. Joseph, because of the flooding, that there are abandoned cabins. She says that Quill misses us and wishes we were here to hunt the buffalo. She misses her own family, who have moved even farther west. She wishes we would stay here, only not in her bed.” Deydey smiled as he said the last sentence.
“We are only here to collect Chickadee and sell the winter’s furs,” said Omakayas. She and Animikiins lived far off in the bush for a good reason—wherever people gathered, so did illness. “We will bring Chickadee back with us,” she said.
At the mention of his brother’s name, Makoons felt his spirits sink. He leaned against his mother. He felt that only she missed his twin as much as he did.
“Nimama,” he whispered, “ I dreamed about Chickadee again last night.”
Omakayas put her arm around his shoulders. Every bite of the bannock was tasty and soft, especially dipped in the tea and maple syrup that Margaret provided. His grandfather winked at Makoons in sympathy. But still he was so lonely for Chickadee that every bite, every sip, made him lonelier. He couldn’t help wondering if his brother had anything as good to eat. He couldn’t help wanting to share.