White Sky, Black Bird

  Bodéwadmi Territory (Modern-Day Michigan)

  White Sky was the first to welcome the two back to the village. Black Bird and Dr. H?rk?nen ran into him on their way back, as he had been wandering the nearby forests. While they were gone, White Sky had resolved to keep his word, and to atone for the accidental killing of H?rk?nen’s colleague. In his stead, White Sky had continued the man’s research, which turned out to be a much more benign endeavor than the boys had anticipated. While H?rk?nen’s own research was cryptic and far-reaching, his colleague was conducting a simple survey and catalogue of the fauna of Turtle Island.

  “It’s incredibly tedious,” White Sky explained to Black Bird as they walked together back to the village. “Most of it just involves correcting his litany of misconceptions. Honestly, I don’t know how he managed to get so much of it wrong.”

  He produced a piece of paper from the folds of his cloak, and showed it to Black Bird.

  “Look,” he said. “The guy confused two different kinds of woodpecker as the same woodpecker, even though one’s nearly a hand’s length taller. And here, he conflated four different kinds of sparrows as all the same! Listen to this.”

  White Sky held the paper aloft, reading off of it in a teasing tone:

  “Operating with John Wray’s definition of a species,” He began, “That being a form of an organism that preserves itself in propagation through seed, we can determine that there are a variety of different species of bird in the North American continent, as is the case with any other significant landmass. However, Wray tells us to be wary of superficial distinctions and variations—he remarks that if two creatures spring from the seed of one and the same animal, they are the same species, regardless of any accidental variations they might possess. Such is the case of many birds in North America, such as the North American sparrow. As far as I’ve observed, the North American sparrow has four distinct and consistent variations that I call ‘sub-species’. We can conclude that the physiological differences between different sparrows, while originally misleading one to assume they are different species, are actually sub-species of the same bird, based on the sparrow’s sex and social standing.”

  “Social standing?” Black Bird asked. “What, like there are criminals and outcasts in the sparrow community?”

  “Just listen,” White Sky replied with a grin. “Much like the Oriental peafowl, the male and female sparrow have different plumage, with the male being larger and of brighter feathers to attract. Between males, therefore, there is fierce competition to secure a mate. While I have not discovered the exact nature of this competition yet, it is clear to me that males are then divided into two further subgroups, based on the ‘winners’ or ‘losers’ of the competition. The winners develop small crests of brown feathers atop their heads like crowns, and this marks them as the most attractive mates to females. Females, too, are dichotomized, based on whether or not they’ve already mated. Females who have already birthed at least one brood of chicks molt into more muted plumage, and typically grow a bit larger. The ‘virginal’ female sparrows typically mate with the highly desirable males, while the less impressive males must resort to mating with females who have already birthed several children, if they mate at all.”

  “What?” Black Bird asked, stopping in his tracks out of sheer bewilderment. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I know,” White Sky returned. “It’s a good laugh, right?”

  “Let me see that.”

  White Sky handed the paper to him, and he pored over it thoroughly as they walked.

  “This is ridiculous,” Black Bird replied. “Anyone with eyes can see they’re different ‘species’, as he calls them. If he spent one winter observing them, he would know it. They all migrate at completely different times—hell, this one doesn’t even live in the area. They live much farther north, don’t they? He probably saw a few come down for migration and assumed it was native to these parts. He’s just leaping to random conclusions.”

  “I know, I know,” White Sky said. “I’m sorry, doctor, but your colleague’s an idiot. This has been a complete waste of my time.”

  “It’s not a waste,” the doctor scolded. “All the work is important. Keep in mind that Paavo and the others in my organization are completely new to these lands. You have lived here your whole life, with generations of ancestral memory teaching you about the plants and animals around you. If I took you and plopped you into the African Savanna, you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself, either.”

  “Maybe,” White Sky shrugged. “But I’d like to think I wouldn’t go on a four-page rant on the existence of ‘virginal’ sparrows as evidence of a supreme and underlying virtue of female virginity.”

  “Does he really say that?” Black Bird asked.

  “Why would I make that up? Honestly, it’s great. You should read it if you have the time, though I doubt you will once we get back to the village.”

  “Oh, but now I want to. Do you think the elders will mind if I cut away from the feast early? I’ll need to learn as much as I can about various waterfowl and their sexual deviances.”

  “You joke too much,” H?rk?nen cut in brusquely. “Paavo’s work was important, however limited in capacity he might have been, and you should treat it with respect.”

  “How important can a simple catalogue of beasts and birds be to your people? Aren’t you all world-renowned scientists and scholars?”

  “It is important because we don’t know it,” H?rk?nen replied. “Everything that is unknown must become known. All secrets of the universe must be uncovered. That is the creed we follow. No matter how small in scope or seemingly insignificant, all knowledge has its purpose. And I don’t need to tell you boys how important it is to be able to distinguish between different plants and animals out in the wild.”

  “True,” Black Bird mused. “Though I have to imagine if sparrows gave the man this much trouble, the Longhouse raiders were the least of his troubles out in the wilderness. There are a great many berries and herbs in the area, and a great many of which are poisonous.”

  “Suppose he ate one of the bad mushrooms,” White Sky laughed. “I’d probably start honing in on sparrow sex, too.”

  H?rk?nen ignored the boys’ teasing, shuffling past them as he grumbled something under his breath. White Sky just laughed, and Black Bird laughed with him. It was an amazing thing, he realized, to laugh again. Despite how monumental his return was, despite the strange and terrifying ordeal he’d been through—all of it melted away as soon as he saw White Sky again. There was nothing, he realized, that the company of his best friend could not solve, no situation that could not be made fun, no weight that could not be lightened. Here they were, two pieces of driftwood awash in the vast tidal waves of history, and yet it seemed no more than a gentle stream when the two were side by side.

  And so they went, striding confidently in unison, their hearts swelling with pride and hope. They approached the village, and as they did, a young boy saw them. His eyes lit up, and he ran into the village, calling far and wide:

  “They’re here!” he cried. “It worked! We’re saved!”

  The boy ran to each and every wigwam, knocking on their outsides, peering through their doorways. Each time he did, villagers emerged with him, until he was followed by a veritable swarm of folk. His cries were echoed by each one of them, calling the other villagers to attention. Soon enough, every family in the village was outside, forming a crowd to welcome the hero’s return.

  “Mskwangé!” They all yelled, each one trying to pat him on the shoulder or kiss him on the cheek. Black Bird found himself assaulted by a barrage of affection as he and White Sky pushed through the crowd. At least I got to enjoy some peace while it lasted, he thought.

  And, once again, Black Bird found that he was wholly unprepared for the role of his peoples’ savior. Before all this, he was just another Trade-Keeper, a small drop of water awash in a sea of young men and women looking to find their place in this world. Not that he was insignificant—he just occupied the same space as every other young man in his community. A name, a face—something to recognize rather than revere, a familiarity in the back of one’s mind rather than the subject of one’s prayers. He had lived his whole life on the ground with everyone else, and it had taken being placed atop this new pedestal to realize he was afraid of heights.

  Finally, the two boys managed to break through the crowd, and the elders awaited them atop of the hill in front of the longhouse.

  “Welcome back, young Mskwangé,” Distant Sky Man said with a smile. “We prayed every day and night you were gone for your recovery and safe return. I am glad to see our prayers answered.”

  Black Bird opened his mouth, but he realized he had no idea what to say. The words just didn’t come to him, and he froze, unsure of what to do.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “Is it done?” Méyéwkét the Trailblazer asked.

  “It is,” Black Bird found the words to reply.

  “How do we know whether it works or not?”

  “The midewigaan was filled with those infected by the pox. I walked among them. I spoke with the chief, who had it too. Surely I caught it then, and yet I am immune.”

  “And we’re sure you won’t pass it on to others?”

  Black Bird wasn’t sure. He turned and asked the doctor.

  “The amount you were given during the variolation was small, and shouldn’t be enough to pass on to others,” H?rk?nen explained. “There might be a chance that if you caught the disease from another in the hut but became immune, you might be able to pass that on, but I just don’t know. This process is new, and hasn’t been researched enough.”

  Black Bird translated to the elders, who mulled it over.

  “I find it troubling how little we know about this whole endeavor,” Wasegishgonene said. “But there’s little we can do at this point. Let us feast tonight, and leave the worries for tomorrow. You are here, and you are healthy. And that is a thing to celebrate.”

  As the eldest said those words, the crowd behind in jovial elation. The elders led Black Bird into the longhouse as everyone else in the village dispersed to prepare for the evening festivities.

  It wasn’t long before the feast was ready. In the harsh winter, much of their food was smoked, cured, or pre-made, having been hunted before the snows fell. However, this was a feast, and therefore an occasion to cook and dine in extravagance. The men went out and caught rabbits as the women prepared the rest. Potatoes, rutabagas, parsnips, yams, all put together and roasted over the fire. Trout from successful ice-fishing ventures cleaned and smoked to perfection in the smoke house. Wild rice, seasoned and cooked to serve with it all in the light of the Little Spirit Moon*.

  Black Bird spent the time recanting his experience to the elders. They hung on his every word closely, as if each one could give them some clue or insight to this whole process. The more he spoke with them, the more Black Bird realized that he was not the only one who felt lost in all of this. All of them were wading chest-deep into uncharted waters, and none of them knew what the future would bring. Even the elders, in all their years on this earth, would be neophytes in the new world brought about by this cure. Some were old enough to remember the times before the pox came, before their communities were ravaged to the point of near extinction. What would it look like then, to be cured? Things could not return to the way things were, of course, for too much had changed. The white men were here to stay, and the Snakes still hissed at their doorstep. It was a new frontier, then, unpredictable and wild. All Black Bird knew was that the future had never been brighter.

  Despite this, however, an errant fear crept into his heart. It was the way the elders looked at him when he spoke, like they knew something he didn’t. The eldest Wasegishgonene even looked sorrowful, like he pitied the boy for something. But before he knew it, the feast was ready, and so he decided not to linger on it.

  The village square was packed with people, crowded around a roaring bonfire in the center to keep everyone warm. And though this harvest had been meager, they spared no expense, for a parsimonious feast was an insult. Before the food was passed out, something else was distributed first: tobacco, to be smudged and smoked. Among the Anishinaabeg were four sacred medicines, each corresponding to a cardinal direction. Tobacco was the plant of the east, and therefore the symbol of tomorrow, rising with the morning sun. It was the first plant bestowed on the Anishinaabeg by Gitche Manitou, and thus it was burned in offering to him and all the spirits, thanking them for this miracle.

  The elders passed the smoking tobacco along to each person in the square as each of them gave thanks individually, wafting the smoke up to their faces and carrying it to the different parts of the body so that they might be cleansed. Black Bird did the same, starting . It was said that tobacco opened the gateway to commune with the spirit world, and as the smoke rose through Black Bird’s nostrils, and up into the evening winter sky, he realized it was true. He felt a power at presence here, one that must have guided him on this path, one that would send him forward tomorrow. But then a thought occurred to him. Perhaps it was not the plant that carried this magic, but the ritual itself. All these people here, in reverent unison, giving thanks for all their blessings. It became a blessing in and of itself, a celebration to celebrate. What else was magic if not this?

  After the smudging, of course, came the food. White Sky and Black Bird enjoyed it all in a ravenous frenzy, like they had not eaten in weeks. In truth, it was because eating, like any otherwise-menial task, quickly turned into a competition when the two were involved. Some of the elders gave the boys glaring looks—Black Bird was the guest of honor, after all, and it was unbecoming to devour their precious winter stores with all the manners of a wild dog. But the two ignored it all, their shared reverie oblivious and unshakable. Black Bird was safe. The cure had worked. Their people would be saved.

  So they ate the finest of food, and drank the finest of liquor (courtesy of Dr. H?rk?nen). Their bellies filled and their spirits swelled as the village danced and sang in wondrous jubilation. Black Bird watched the smoke of the bonfire cascade up into the night sky, and beheld the full moon watching over them, larger and more beautiful than he had ever seen it. I will remember this night for the rest of my life, he thought. This single moment—the sight, the smell, the taste. I will never forget how this feels.

  “Black Bird!” White Sky called to him, snapping him out of it. Black Bird turned to him, and saw his friend raise his glass to him.

  “Let us toast,” he said. “The way the white men do.”

  “How do they do it?” Black Bird asked.

  “The doctor was telling me—you praise something or someone, and then you drink to it. And you can drink as much as you want, because you’re doing it in their honor. It’s honestly genius—maybe the only smart idea they’ve ever had.”

  “Let’s do it. But what to?”

  “To you, of course. And to our future. The liberation of our people. The lands we will conquer once we’re free from the grasp of death.”

  “That’s too many things. Do the white men have a limit?”

  “Hm,” White Sky mused, scratching his head. “Maybe. You’re right. Just to you, then.”

  White Sky grinned, and Black Bird returned it. They held their glasses up, and clinked their glasses. Then they tossed the drinks back, as quick as they could. The alcohol hit Black Bird’s brain like a bolt of lightning, and he reeled trying to recover from it.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said with a smile. “You were right. That idea might be enough to make up for everything else. Oh, and the way they make liquor.”

  Just then, something caught Black Bird’s eye. Or rather, someone. A man Black Bird had seen before, but not here. He was Ettawageszhig—Both Sides of the Sky. He was like Black Bird’s uncle. He took care of Black Bird when he was young, whenever his father was away (which, truth be told, was most of the time). He had somehow come all the way from Black Bird’s village, which was eight days’ walk.What’s he doing here? Did… did he know I was here?

  “Hey, give me a second,” he told White Sky. “I’ll be right back.”

  Black Bird stood suddenly, making his way over to Ettawageszhig. A girl from the village saw him walk by, and tried to approach him, but he didn’t notice her, stepping straight past her to the man.

  “Ettawageszhig!” He called, trying his best to make his voice carry over the din of the party. The man heard him, and froze for a second, like he didn’t intend to be seen by him. What the hell’s happening? It only lasted a moment, though—the man smiled, then, and made his way over.

  “Bozho, Memeskoniinisi,” he said. He embraced the boy in a hug—nice, but always just a little too tight. Or maybe it was tighter this time—he couldn’t tell. It had been years since he’d seen him.

  “Bozho, Nizhishenh,”** Black Bird replied. “I must admit I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “Imagine my surprise,” his uncle countered, “To learn that you have been whisked away by a white man to infect yourself with the pox. And imagine my surprise to learn that you stand here, right before my eyes. And you look terrible!”

  The man stared deadpan at Black Bird, and then he grinned. Black Bird grinned back.

  “You look old,” he returned.

  “Hmph. Stress will age you more than anything.”

  “So your wife’s still alive? That’s good.”

  “You’re lucky I didn’t let her come with me. Pox or no, you wouldn’t survive the night.”

  “And I suppose that makes you unfortunate, then?”

  And like that, the uncle’s smile disappeared.

  “Watch your tongue. She is still my wife, Niningwanis. Listen, I know that… you bear some resentment. Towards her. Potentially towards me.”

  “No. Not you.”

  “Not at all?”

  “Maybe back then. I’m grown now. I understand things better. You better, her better.”

  “You don’t… really know. It…”

  “No, I get it. There wasn’t enough food to feed another kid. The winters were too hard. I was easy, you know, to cut off. And I say that with no malice or ill will, I promise. I know now. I’ve gone hungry. I’ve seen the hard winters myself, all alone.”

  Both Sides of the Sky sighed.

  “You are grown now, aren’t you? I’m sorry… I am. For a lot of things, but… well, I’m sorry I didn’t get to see it.”

  “So am I.”

  “Look, I’m sorry,”

  “It’s my fault. I was trying not to make a scene tonight. This is a party to celebrate you. I should go. We can speak further in the morning.”

  “Who says it’s a scene?” Black Bird felt a heat wash over him—he was overdoing things. But the alcohol blurred everything out, and brought back old memories. “We can talk now,” he insisted. “What’s the problem?"

  “Can we sit, at least?”

  Now Black Bird’s smile disappeared. What?

  “Of- course,” he found himself saying. They sat by a log away from the fire and the crowd. His uncle’s face was somber now, ominous.

  “And you’re sure you don’t want to wait until tomorrow?” He asked.

  “Yes, yes, of course. What the hell’s the matter with you? What’s going on?”

  Both Sides of the Sky sighed, and gestured to Black Bird’s glass of liquor from his hand.

  “May I?”

  Black Bird handed the glass to his uncle, and he drank it all.

  “Your father," he said. "He’s… well, he’s dying.”

  Black Bird’s heart sank into his stomach. Before he could even process those words, he replied, the first thing that came to mind.

  “Is it the pox?”

  “No,” Both Sides of the Sky said, and Black Bird breathed a sigh of relief. “No, thank the Creator. It’s… well, I don’t know. The midewiwin don’t either. The wabunowin just say that it’s his time. I don’t… I don’t know what it is. He’s just dying.”

  End Notes:

  *The Little Spirit Moon, or Manidoo-giizisoons, is the Anishinaabe month corresponding with around the same time as the month of December. The Anishinaabeg, like many tribes in the area, followed a lunar calendar, with the name of each month corresponding to a “type” of moon (such as Binaakwii-giizis, the Falling Leaves Moon for the month of October)

  **In Nishnaabemowin, there are two different ways to refer to your uncle, depending on whether he is on your mother or father’s side of the family. This is an important distinction for many reasons in Anishinaabe culture, including that clan totems were passed down through the father's side of the family (the opposite of the Iroquois). Black Bird calls Ettawageszhig his cross-uncle, since he's his mother's sister.