Gentle Wind

  Kahnawake

  It took three weeks to reach the village of Kahnawake, where the grand council fire would be held. A meeting like this was held once every three years, and they were always events of great occasion. Kahnawake was a melting pot of different people—culturally, linguistically, religiously. Originally founded by Bear People, exiled from the Five Nations for converting to Christianity, they had moved here, forming a new village and a new community. This new land attracted outcasts from other tribes as well, many of them Christian, but not all. It was a refuge for anyone from any tribe, somewhere they’d be protected from the cruelty of the outside world, sheltered by the tall wooden walls of the Kahnawake palisade. And so it became a neutral gathering place among all the great powers of the area, making it an ideal place for a pan-tribal council.

  This council was the Kahnawake League, though it did not function like a typical confederacy. Most unions were political first and foremost, but were rooted in linguistic and cultural familiarity. The Three Fires, for example, were brother-tribes—Ojibwe, Odawa, Potawatomi. Despite minor differences in dialect, they could understand each other when speaking, and their elders passed the same histories down to their young ones. As a united confederacy, they acted as one cohesive unit, despite being made up of three smaller tribes.

  In contrast, members of the Kahnawake League had different allegiances, different backgrounds, different ideals. One tribe from each major confederacy was selected to represent themselves and their brothers—the Odawa from the Three Fires, the Bear Folk from the Five Nations. The various tribes of the Dawnlands, none of them united under a single banner, each brought a representative. Gentle Wind was here, then, as a voice for not just her village, but all the Pαnaw?hpskewi, just as Taqanansis represented the Wolastoqiyik.

  Though she had been to this council several times by now, she had never shouldered this responsibility. Before she had attended as a wife—a wife whose words were measured and valued by the others, but still a wife. Now she found herself in a strange limbo—her village and community relied on her to represent them here, and yet she was not officially saunskwa. She couldn’t be saunskwa, forbidden by her customs until the grieving year was over. Oftentimes the Dawnland folk spoke in metaphor—a chief of a village was not just a chief, but a father, and the villagers his children. How could she, then, speak for her children, if she was not yet their mother?

  It were these thoughts, among others, that plagued her worries as she walked with the other Dawnland sachems through the wintry wood. If she did not carry herself well at this council, it would certainly spell her doom come election time. The odds were already stacked against her—while it was not unheard of for a village to elect a saunskwa to lead them as opposed to a sachem, it was far less common. The majority of the chiefs in the Dawnlands were male, and there were several young men in the village who would contest her claim for rule.

  Yet, she found that she could never linger on these worries for long, inevitably distracted by Little Salmon. It was like he saw the anxiousness on her face, the way her brow scrunched whenever she was troubled, and he, in his classical way, had resolved to rid her of it. As she made her way through the forest, she found herself torn from her line of thinking every so often, seeing him out of the corner of her eye. Of course, they could not interact much at all—Gentle Wind was still a widow, after all, and forbidden from any overly-friendly encounter with a man until her mourning was over. Taqanansis knew all of the rules imposed upon her, and seemed determined to toy with each one. He would move erratically and mime exaggerated motions, just conspicuous enough to alert her, but just subtle enough to evade the eyes of the others.

  The first time she noticed what he was doing, she almost burst out in laughter. A shot rang out in the far distance—likely from just a hunter, though one could never be sure. This put everyone in the group on edge, and added to Gentle Wind’s nervousness. Suddenly, she saw a flash of quick movement in her periphery, and she whirled around, only to see Little Salmon. He had taken upon itself to try and hide from this distant threat, taking refuge behind an aspen tree, only to have the enormity of his frame betray him. He stood behind the scrawny trunk, his wide shoulders peeking out so conspicuously it became comical. As he noticed Gentle Wind looking at him, he bulged his eyes in a facetious fright, and turned 90 degrees so his shoulders were flush with the trunk. Still, he was far too wide for it, his strong nose and gut poking out like bulbous welts.

  Then, the coup de grace—he leaned backwards, almost enough to lose his balance, and looked Gentle Wind right in the eye. He widened his eyes again, and put a finger over his lips, motioning how important it was to stay quiet. Then he fell, collapsing backwards onto the snow. It made a resounding whoomph as he collapsed onto the powder, and a gust of it shot into the air from the impact. It took all the self-control of a woman her age to keep from keeling over. Gentle Wind bit her lip to keep her laughter, and averted her eyes, trying her best to keep them away from that idiot man. She could not laugh at all right now—it was completely unbecoming of a widow to be jubilant or silly. Yet Little Salmon seemed completely apathetic to her struggle. Worse, he was actively tempting her, and it almost worked.

  Gentle Wind chided herself for acting this way, for betraying the widow’s code, even if it was only on the inside. She should be mourning her husband, even if they never really loved one another. For thirty years she dutifully played the role of wife, and now she couldn’t even be a widow for one? But then again, how could she be? How could she sit and feign despondence when the love of her life walked beside her with that stupid grin on his face? It was like they were children again, carefree and foolish. How badly she wanted to cast off her widow’s veil and embrace Little Salmon, how freeing a feeling it would be—to laugh again, to frolic. But she wouldn’t. Not yet. For thirty years she had waited to lead her village and people, and no matter how much she fancied this chief of the Shining River, she would not let any man get in the way of her destiny. If she slipped up at all, her honor and reputation would crumble, ruining all these years she’d spent cultivating them. So she ignored the light-hearted tauntings of her lover-to-be, and kept her eyes on the path ahead.

  They arrived in the late afternoon. Their small congregation was welcomed by a chief of the Odawa, representative of the Anishinaabeg at Kahnawake. His name was Gikendaasod—The One Who Knows. He was an elder among the Odawa, and had presided over many important meetings and negotiations, even before Gentle Wind was born. He was among those who helped broker the peace between the different tribes at the end of the last Great War*, even though the Three Fires did not fight in it.

  “Welcome, cousins,” he said with a smile. If the tribes of the Three Fires were brothers with one another, the Dawnland tribes were their cousins. They could understand each other well, and shared many of the same cultural values.

  “Come this way,” he beckoned. “We have much to discuss, and not as much time as I’d want.”

  Gikendaasod led them past the high wooden walls and into the town. Kahnawake, being predominantly a Bear settlement, was built in the fashion of the Big Snakes. The town itself was fortified by the high wooden wall surrounding everything, and several large longhouses dotted the town. Despite this, however, there were still some things familiar to the Dawnland visitors—several wigwams lay in two corners of the town, including a wigwam for each of them, and a large communal one in the middle where they could hold smaller meetings amongst themselves.

  “I must admit, I am surprised to see you here,” Gikendaasod whispered to Gentle Wind. “I was under the impression that your village is mourning their chief.”

  “Just because we are mourning doesn’t mean we should be ignored,” Gentle Wind replied. “We have the same right to be here as any of the others.”

  “I agree. Forgive me—I did not mean anything by it. I am just surprised. But, I must admit, it is a pleasant one. I did not get to see you at the last council fire.”

  “Yes. I was ill with a fever.”

  Gikendaasod led the Dawnland sachems into the large communal wigwam in the center of the cluster. They took comforta

  “Shouldn’t we be going into the longhouse?” Little Salmon asked. “When are we starting the council fire?”

  “Not for a few days, at least,” The One Who Knows replied. “Aronhiatekha is away consulting with his fellow chiefs, and has not yet returned from his trip.”

  This was unusual news. Aronhiatekha was one of two chiefs of Kahnawake, and

  “And what of Athasata?” One of the sachems asked. “Surely he can represent his people in Aronhiatekha’s stead.”

  Gikendaasod sighed.

  “He is at war, apparently, fighting on the side of the French.”

  A few whispers spread through the wigwam. They had heard that the French had recently led a campaign into Longhouse territory, but did not know the extent of it. This had dangerous implications for the Dawnland folk. The borders of their territory were not far from those of the Five Nations, and they had fought before. Most of the Dawnland tribes had historically allied themselves with the French as well, given that they were valuable trade partners that provided them firearms and other valuable European goods. Madockawando had even allowed the Frenchman Saint-Castin into his home to marry one of his daughters.

  “The invasion of the French is just the beginning,” Gikendaasod warned. “The Five Nations will no doubt retaliate, perhaps with the support of the English, and the French will likely ask all of us to fight for them. This raises many important questions. Do we want to fight for the French? Do we have a quarrel with the Five Nations same as them, enough to warrant sending our young men to die? I do not know the answer myself. Thus, I think that it is prudent we discuss our plans and response to these events.”

  “Wlel?msen,” he said suddenly. “I would like to hear your thoughts first. For years you have attended these meetings at your husband’s side, and yet you have always spoken through him, as was your charge. Regardless… well, I will not speak ill of the departed, but it is no secret that he would take your words and twist them, to suit his own tastes and ambitions. I would ask that you speak now, free of such distortions, so that we may learn your true feelings.”

  A series of nods and murmurs resounded off the walls of the wigwam. The late Great Runner was well-known as arrogant, petulant, and often selfish. He shared the sentiments of the last generation of sachems, isolationist and stubborn. He saw no reason, for example, to help his neighbor tribes or share with them, since they were not directly his own children. Gentle Wind felt a lump grow in her throat as the gazes of a dozen men bore down on her. Still, she nodded, taking a deep breath to calm herself, a gentle exhale like her namesake leaving her lips as she began to speak.

  “This is alarming news for many reasons,” she began. “The most severe of which, I fear, is that we are not ready to face such conflict. Many of us are still recovering from the Great War, and the smaller bands will likely not survive another on such a scale. We are disorganized, overly prideful—selfish, really. All of our peoples are strong, and yet we make ourselves weak by constantly in-fighting.”

  “I agree,” Little Salmon chimed in, coming to her aid. “For years we have quarreled amongst ourselves like teenage boys rather than men. The Five Nations, the Three Fires—they have united under one belt of wampum, and they have thrived.”

  “You act like that’s a decision made by everyone,” one of the other sachems retorted. His name was Madawāāk—Where Two Rivers Meet, sachem of the Red Earth. “How many years have the older brothers** bullied the younger? We have been excluded, mocked, disrespected. And we’re supposed to just take it all in stride?”

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  “I agree with you completely, Two Rivers,” Gentle Wind said. As she spoke, she saw Madawāāk’s eyes widen in surprise. “I remember when I was a child—My father would attend these councils and others, and the Red Earth were not invited. I always asked him why—I could not understand. He would wave it off, saying you were too young, too naive. I want you to know I would never exclude a brother from something important—no child is too young to learn the truth.”

  “And I’m supposed to take you at your word, then? That you hold an opinion that completely contradicts your father’s, and your late husband’s?”

  “Hear me now,” Gentle Wind said. Her voice was stern, eschewing her usual grace. She needed to make this point now, or forever be haunted by her late husband’s reputation. “I am not my father. And I am not my husband. You, of all people, should know that. Or should I liken your nature to that of your father?”

  Her words were cutting, perhaps more than she intended. Madawāāk’s father was a veteran of the Great War, and had earned a reputation for being brutal on the battlefield, capturing his foes alive if he could just to torture them. Madawāāk, in contrast, was largely a pacifist, perhaps as a result of his father’s violent inclinations.

  “So what, then?” Ahsuwikon, the Growing Shadow, cut in. He was a sachem of the Pollock-Fishers, and had never hid his animosity towards Gentle Wind’s late husband (and, by extension, towards her). “What do you suggest we do?”

  Gentle Wind hesitated. She was in a precarious position—she could not speak too much, demand too much. She did not carry the same weight or power of any of the sachems here—not yet. A step too far would be seen as a grab for power, an attempt to exert political influence she had not yet earned.

  “I would defer to the knowledge and wisdom of Gikendaasod,” she said. “He has presided over these situations before, and we have always found his counsel to be valuable. He is an outsider, yet he is still our cousin, and knows our struggles better than most.”

  The men in the tent slowly nodded, seeming to agree. The One Who Knows smiled knowingly at Gentle Wind, and nodded as well. He closed his eyes for a moment, deep in thought. Then, he spoke.

  “There is strength in unity,” he said. “You are all brothers, yet you do not act as such, fighting amongst yourselves. This is, in part, because you lack a father to keep you from fighting. Each of you wants to be on top, yet each of you knows that you are all equal. You need to embrace this truth, and stop trying to rule over each other.”

  The old man stood, his words reverberating off the walls of the wigwam.

  “Join your peoples together, as my brothers have, as the Five Nations did. Unite, and fight with your newfound strength. Fight to defend your homelands from invaders, to protect your wives and children, your country. But fight together.”

  Some of the sachems nodded vigorously. “Yes!” They chanted, louder and louder. As they did, Gentle Wind saw Little Salmon. He too, shouted in approval, but his eyes were locked on hers as he did. The words he spoke to her in her wigwam returned to her memory. We are in such a time where peoples merge, anyway, so let us merge our peoples. And for once, her heart and mind were in agreement. Strangely, it never occurred to her that such a thing was even possible. Even though it had been done before by their neighbors and cousins, even as they discussed it now, it still seemed farfetched to her. Perhaps her father’s sentiments did linger in her psyche, however far she had tried to distance herself from them. She imagined that many of the sachems here were the same—stuck in their ways, unwilling to change what had worked for their whole lives.

  Finally, Madockawando spoke. He had been silent since the beginning, and Gentle Wind watched him the whole time, anxiously waiting for him to say something. For he, too, represented the Pαnaw?hpskewi, and if he was set on competing with her for power, she would lose. He carried more influence than perhaps every other sachem here, having earned his stripes in the Great War. He also had the best reputation among the French, ever since the Saint-Castin had started living with him.

  “This is not something you suggest lightly,” Madockawando said. “This would fundamentally change the structure and lives of all our children. That being said, I do not necessarily disagree with the sentiment. We are wayward leaves now, drifting wherever the wind takes us, without a tree to anchor us in place, give us a purpose. Yet we must ensure this tree’s roots are strong, enough that it can weather the harsher winds to come. Let us meditate on the nature of this tree, and the form it should take.”

  The other sachems nodded in agreement. Gentle Wind did, too. A decision of this magnitude would take time to hash out, especially between four different tribes with different perspectives. So they sat there, many with their eyes closed, as each of them thought deeply about what they should do.

  For seven days, the wigwam remained silent. For among the Abenaki, only a fool spoke without thinking. Therefore, before any of them spoke further, they needed to think. And think they did, in silent contemplation, for a week. Every day, they would wake from their individual wigwam, and head into the communal one in the center. Every day, they sat there in meditative silence, not speaking even a word to one another. Even Little Salmon did not use this opportunity to try to grab Gentle Wind’s attention. As much as he liked to make fun, he knew how important this occasion was, and took it seriously.

  Then, on the eighth day, the wigwam was opened, and everyone spoke, opining from their own tribe’s perspective, and discussing amongst one another.

  “I believe we are all in agreement, then,” Madockawando began. “That we should unite our peoples under one confederation, one union. That we remain separate links, but joined as one chain.”

  A choir of yesses echoed through the wigwam.

  “Good,” Madockawando said. “Now we must discuss the details. I think, first and foremost, it is important that we maintain the seniority of the different brothers.”

  “Unacceptable,” Madawāāk retorted. “This is our opportunity to start anew, to right the wrongs of generations. There is no reason to uphold the seniority in this new confederacy.”

  “I disagree,” Little Salmon chimed in. “I understand your concern, Two Rivers. After all, I am a younger brother too, second only to you. I too have been slighted and disrespected by my older brothers, and bear some resentment from that. We have a right to be heard just as them, we have a right to be considered equals. But that does not mean the seniority is meaningless. In our mission to build this new roof for all of us to live under, we can not forget the trees the wood came from. The wood takes a new form, a new shape, but it still retains its memory. So too should we retain the lessons our elders have taught us, that they have safeguarded for generations.

  “Then how are we to ensure that we are considered equals? We just take them at their word, and hope they change? Where is the accountability?”

  “I never said that. There should be accountability. There should be checks and balances, so that none of the brothers may rise against the others. I think Gikendaasod is right. We are aimless because we are four brothers, all without a father to reign us in, to guide and discipline us as we grow in this new union together.”

  “That is a fair point,” Madockawando said. “It is a good compromise, to maintain the seniority, but to have a father who ensures that we remain brothers, and nothing more than that. Are we in agreeance?”

  The other sachems thought for a moment, and eventually nodded.

  “Good. Now comes the matter of appointing the father.”

  “I think it should be Madockawando,” Ahsuwikon cut in. Gentle Wind grit her teeth, just slightly, so no one would notice. Of course you do.

  “You don’t think it should be yourself?” Gentle Wind asked him. The Spearfisher chief just shrugged.

  “I am a father of my own children,” he said. “And desire no more than that. Madockawando is a born leader, and he has shown us to be so. I can think of no better man among us to shepherd us through this new frontier.”

  Gentle Wind’s brow furrowed. This was not good. Not that she disapproved of Madockawando entirely—he was a good leader. Anyone with two eyes and a brain could see that. But if this was to be a new union, freed from the ghosts of yesterday, appointing Madockawando as a grand sachem would not solve it. For however many sachems of the Dawnlands respected Madockawando, just as many disliked him, viewing him as arrogant and too willing to cavort with the white man. What’s worse, he was a follower of the old thinking, and would maintain the seniority as much as he could. If he was explicitly granted more power than the other sachems, it would only deepen the existing resentment between the older and younger tribes.

  “I appreciate your nomination,” Madockawando said with a smile. Clearly, he was waiting for this opportunity, and instantly seized it, using the momentum to garner support from the other sachems. “Does anyone else agree?”

  “I do not,” Little Salmon replied.

  “Oh? Tell us, then—who would you nominate to lead us all?”

  Taqanansis hesitated for a moment, and his eyes darted to Gentle Wind. The look he gave her made her heart stop cold in her chest. That idiot. He’s going to nominate me.

  “I would like to suggest a father,” She cut in, before Little Salmon had the chance to reply.

  “Very well, Wlel?msen,” Madockawando said. “Speak your suggestion, then, and we will consider it, despite your… lack of a position in this council. Forgive me—I do not say this to insult. Rather, I intend it as a compliment. Your words have always held the weight of a sachem, despite you never having worn the title.”

  Gentle Wind feigned a false smile, taking his back-handed pleasantries with grace.

  “Of course,” she said. “And I do not say this to insult, either, but I do not think you should be the father, Madockawando. You are a good father to your own children, but do you trust yourself to adopt more? To raise those you are unfamiliar with, who are different? No—if we are to truly be equal as brothers, our father cannot be chosen from among us. What sense would that make? If he were an older brother, the younger brothers would feel slighted. At the same time, if he were a younger brother, he would not have the years of wisdom to lead all of us. No—our father must come from the outside, who bears no biased judgment, who can think and speak clearly, who can guide us well.”

  All eyes on the wigwam were on Wlel?msen. She swallowed, trying her best to ignore the heat of their gazes. She looked at the One Who Knows, and nodded in his direction.

  “I nominate Gikendaasod,” she said. “He carries no prejudice towards any of us, and we all know him to carry good judgment. I also think it is only fair that we honor him for setting us on this path in the first place, for planting the seeds of this union in our minds and helping us water them. I can think of no better man to be our father than him.”

  Murmurs spread amongst the sachems. Gentle Wind took a deep breath to calm herself. She snuck a glance at Little Salmon, but he did not return it—he was busy whispering something to Ahsuwikon. She could do nothing but wait for their response, and every minute that passed felt like an hour.

  After what seemed like a lifetime of agony, Little Salmon was the first to speak again.

  “I agree with Wlel?msen,” he said. “Gikendaasod, if you are amenable, I would welcome you as our father.”

  “I concur,” Ahsuwikon chimed in, having completely changed his mind. What did Taqanansis say to him? “While I still support Madockawando as a leader, Wlel?msen’s words rang true with me. I believe our father should not come from among us.”

  “I agree, too,” said Madawāāk. “A Fire-cousin will be impartial, and that’s what we need right now.”

  All the sachems turned and looked to Madockawando, eager to hear what he had to say. A wave of relief washed over Gentle Wind as she saw him nod thoughtfully.

  “We are all of the same mind, then,” he said. “Let us make Gikendaasod our father. But first: how do we know that Gikendaasod even wants to be our father? Surely he is already busy with his own tribe. Can he manage and lead an entire confederacy as well?”

  “A good question,” Gikendaasod mused, laughing as he did so. “As you say, I am still a father of my own children, after all, and they deserve my time just as you do.”

  The elder man stood, and smiled.

  “I accept your nomination,” he told the sachems. “But I will not lead you directly, the way you request. After all, why would you follow an outsider, even a cousin? Besides, I do not think you require a unifying leader per se—your cultures, your personalities, are more fit for a guide rather than a boss to bark orders at you. The Snakes and the white men, for example, find unity through a single leader. You would not, or at least not to the same extent. Nor can I dedicate myself to that pursuit. Let us do this, then.”

  He walked to the center of the wigwam, using his walking stick to draw a line in the soft dirt. It was a large circle, like the protective walls of the palisade surrounding them.

  “Let us build a fence around all of you,” he said. “And build the wigwam of your union inside it. I will live inside the fence, too, but not in the wigwam. I will bring two tools with me inside: a whip, and a flint. The whip I will use against any who stay inside the fence, lest they disobey me. I will keep all of you in line, and remind you of why we built the fence in the first place. The flint I will use to cultivate and nurture the council fire, to warm and keep all of you.”

  The other sachems stood, nodding and chanting in fervent approval. The One Who Knows reached into his coat and produced a flint, and lit the fire in the middle of the wigwam.

  “Then you are united,” he said, his voice booming. “Under this roof or any other, from now until infinity. This is your council fire—share it with your brothers, and I will kindle it. May it never go out.”

  “May it never go out,” the others repeated. Then they smiled, and cheered. This was a joyous day, one that would be recorded in wampum and told to their children and grandchildren, passed down for generations. They were one. They were a true family now, mighty in their unity.

  The sachems whooped and cheered, hugging each other in congratulation. Little Salmon rushed to Wlel?msen, then caught himself, realizing what he was about to do. He just smiled at her, and walked to Madockawando, clapping him on the back and making small talk. Gentle Wind watched it all from behind her widow’s veil. And though she knew she shouldn’t, she could not help but smile.

  End Notes:

  *You will see the Wabanakis reference the Great War a few times. This is in reference to King Phillip’s war, given that it was the largest and deadliest war the continent had experienced at that point. The Wabanakis, however, would not have called it King Phillip’s war, since King Phillip was Metacomet’s English name, and it is also unlikely they would have called it Metacomet’s war, since in their minds it was started by the English. Because of this, and because we do not have good records indicating what their name for the war would be, I have taken the creative liberty to posit they would have just called it something akin to “the Great War”.

  **The Wabanaki sachems tend to speak metaphorically, especially at political meetings. They refer to their different tribes as brothers, among which their is a seniority: Penobscots (Gentle Wind's tribe) are the eldest, followed by Passamaquoddy, then the Maliseet (Little Salmon’s Tribe), then the Mik'maq.