Chapter 1
Dark Visions
We know what we have left behind. The great mystery lies beyond the next bend.
Each stroke of the Indian Chief’s paddle was strong and steady. His canoe glided silently along the shore, leaving only a gentle wake. He headed westward along Lake Superior’s southern shore, not knowing where his journey would end—a journey that began with a dark, dark vision.
September, 1831. Weeks before, he was in the best graces of Major Lewis Wilson Quimby, commander of the United States Army post at Sault Ste. Marie on the eastern end of Lake Superior. An Ojibwe scout in his younger days, the chief contracted with the United States government to explore and map the many islands in Lake St. Claire and the forests far to the north. The Ojibwe surveyor and the Major quickly formed a friendship based on mutual trust and respect. He was one of a select few who shared the Major’s dinner table. His association with the Quimby family brought him excellent reading and speaking skills. He thoroughly studied most of the books in the Major’s home library. He’d also gained social skills exceeding those of most others on the post.
The chief came to the Sault a solitary traveler. Years earlier, when he lived near the shores of Lake Owasco in the State of New York, he fought bravely alongside the Americans against the British in the war of 1812. Like his father, he was chosen by his people to be their leader, the ogimaa, the chief.
But smallpox, that dreadful gift from the white man, claimed too many of his people, including his wife and sons, and brought too many tears. The chief needed to journey from this place. His travels took him far from his first home, far from the pain. Keeping memories of his loved ones close to his heart, he moved farther and farther from his former home to Sault Ste. Marie and the friendship of Major Quimby and his family.
The chief was tall, strong, had sparkling eyes, a warm smile and a warmer heart that led to frequent invitations to share the elders’ tobacco. Seeking to learn and to share his knowledge with those he visited, he became known as a trader of wisdom. Each journey, village, and person increased the chief’s insight as he traveled from Hudson Bay to Gitchee Gumi, the big lake the whites called “Superior.”
The chief was a man of vision, understanding the differences between the Indian’s life and the white man’s way. He also understood that more and more white men would come to the northern waters just as his people, following another vision many years earlier, traveled beyond Gitchee Gumi. His ancestors sought a new home and a new life. They discovered both in the land called Ouisconsin, a place with many lakes and rivers filled with menoomin, the good grain that grows in water and gives life. The whites called it wild rice.
One evening, after sharing dinner with the Major and his family, the chief’s life suddenly changed. Following an enjoyable meal of smoked pork, buttered squash, and flat bread with molasses, he retired to his lodge. Hours later, he had the dream. Perhaps a nightmare, perhaps a vision, he knew Wenebojo, the Anishinabe spirit, presented it to him.
The chief dreamt of a fire. Edora, the daughter he adored, perished in the flames. He was wrongly blamed, put in chains, and sentenced to be hanged.
The chief escaped, in this nightmare, fleeing into the forest, the Major and his soldiers close behind. A life or death clash ended with the chief looking down on his friend, a knife sunk deep in the Major’s chest.
Wenebojo then woke the chief, who now lay in a cold sweat, his heart pounding in the dark.
As in many dreams, he saw no reason, no rhyme. Making no sense of it, he drifted back into his troubled sleep. Wenebojo brought him a second vision—two shining stars in a sparkling sky, the chief there with them. Wenebojo whispered, “Thirteen days you must travel westward along the southern shores of Gitchee Gumi. Only there will you find your peace—only there.”
The chief rose from his uneasy sleep, knowing what he must do. Well before dawn, with no one else about, he gathered his few belongings, took them down to his canoe, and silently paddled west. He would seek out the two stars. There would be no fire at the post. The vision had been broken. The horrible events foretold now dissolved, vanishing like northern lights chased by the early morning sun. The chief would never again see the Quimby family or the land he came to think of as his home.
Each silent stroke of the chief’s paddle left small whirlpools of cold, Gitchee Gumi water spinning behind. As his canoe glided swiftly along the shore, two eagles watched from the top of a tall white pine. “Is that you, Wenebojo?” he asked the eagles. An otter followed him, diving and surfacing, again and again, curious about this rare sight of man and canoe. “You, Otter,” he whispered. “You follow me and watch me. Surely, you are Wenebojo in disguise.”
A doe and two fawns watched him from the shore, motionless. “You don’t fool me, Wenebojo. You are keeping your eyes on me, waiting to play your tricks.”
Stroke after stroke, the chief moved away from Sault Ste. Marie and closer to his new life, new home, and many new friends, each with stories of their own.
The mystery of what lie ahead began to unfold. And, across the land of the northern lakes, the Treasure of Namakagon would become legend.