Black Bird

  Odawa Territory (Modern-day Ontario)

  Black Bird stood in front of the Dawn Lodge, a cold sweat beading on his brow. It was an hour’s walk or so from the village, nestled in the bottom of a wide hollow in the forest. A small creek ran through the bottom of that dell, ending in a shallow pool at the foot of the lodge. It was, in fact, the only way to find the place. The wabanowin were a reclusive group, coming to the village mostly just for supplies. They did not operate like the midewiwin—those that needed their services were forced to seek them out, following the stream down the hills and through the woods to reach this sacred spot.

  If the midewiwin spent their lives in pursuit of understanding the body, its ailments, and its cures, the wabanowin did the same for the soul. They were powerful shamans who communed with the spirit world, granted visions of the past and the future. It was said that their society was founded by Manaboash, who was the first wabanow. The wabanow of today still followed Manaboash’s original teachings, or so they said, and that granted them a semblance of the great trickster’s power.

  Normally, Black Bird would have consulted the midewiwin instead. But part of him was convinced that his father’s illness was more than just physical—it was a spiritual sickness, something that he had perhaps struggled with his whole life. In Black Bird’s mind, whatever slowly killed his father now was also what compelled him to wander aimlessly through the world, to abandon him and his mother. And if that was the case, only a wabanow could cure it, and thus save him.

  Black Bird wrung his hands in anticipation as he waited for someone to answer the door. The wabanowin were never easy to deal with—all of them were eccentrics who tended to speak in riddles and metaphor. Their lives spent in relative hermitage didn’t do anything to help their social graces either. Black Bird hoped that this was a quick and relatively painless process, even though he knew these encounters never were.

  The door suddenly opened, and Black Bird stiffened, trying to make sure he carried himself in a way that wouldn’t offend. But no one greeted him there. Instead, a voice called out from inside the lodge:

  “Enter.”

  Black Bird swallowed, taking a deep breath to still his nerves. He took two steps into the lodge. It was large compared to most wigwams, but a good amount smaller than the gigantic midewigaan where he had been given his cure. A fire pit in the center smoldered with a handful of embers, barely lighting the room. Straining his eyes, he could faintly make out the faces of the wabanowin standing in a semicircle around the pit. The Dawn shamans said nothing, as if they were waiting for Black Bird to speak.

  “B-bozho,” Black Bird stammered, trying to find the words. “My name is Memeskoniinisi. I am—”

  “We know who you are,” a wabanow on the right said. “You are the Boy Immune, the one Chosen to abate the pox. We have been expecting your visit for some time.”

  “Oh. Right. Well, I actually didn’t come about that. I’m here to seek your aid with my father. He is dying, they say, and—”

  The wabanow in the center raised a hand to cut him off.

  “Come,” he said. “Sit.”

  Black Bird hesitated for a moment, but obeyed. The others followed suit, sitting cross-legged around the firepit.

  “Search inside yourself for a moment,” the central wabanow instructed. Black Bird could see his face better now that he was closer to the embers—he appeared to be the eldest among them. He was probably the senior here, then—the wabanowin, like the midewiwin, organized their members into different levels in a hierarchy based on seniority and experience.

  “And what am I looking for?” Black Bird asked.

  “Whatever you originally intended, you have come here because of your own future, not your father’s. His time in the earth world is over. You know it, too. We built him a Shaking Tent* and consulted the spirits. Nothing more can be done.”

  “That’s not true,” Black Bird protested. He felt the heat of anger rise in him again. “You could do more. You and the midewiwin. You’ve chosen not to. You’ve abandoned him.”

  “Not us,” the elder wabanow replied. “The world, perhaps. Just as he abandoned it. Our world is one of reciprocity, of an eternal symbiosis. If you do not participate in the world, if you abandon the life you create for yourself, your life will abandon you in turn.”

  Black Bird clenched his fists. He tried his best to choke his anger down—these were respected and valued elders, and he needed to be respectful. But they spoke so callously of his father’s death, like it didn’t even matter, like he didn’t matter. The injustice of it burned in his heart and throat, despite his best efforts to cool off his temper.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he returned. “You don’t—”

  “Hush. Drink.”

  The wabunow to his left handed him a wide and shallow cup filled with some dark liquid he couldn’t identify. Black Bird took it and held it close, trying to determine what it was.

  “Drink,” the elder repeated.

  “What is it?”

  “The Truth.”

  Black Bird hesitated, but he wasn’t about to disobey them. He took the wide cup in both hands, pouring the liquid into his mouth. It was as thick as molasses, but terribly bitter. It was an ordeal just to swallow it, and Black Bird coughed and sputtered trying to down it.

  “Doesn’t taste like the Truth,” Black Bird remarked.

  “And that’s how you know it is,” the elder said. “What were you expecting? That it would be saccharine? That it would taste of honey or fine liquor? These things are not the Truth. The Truth is rarely palatable, and yet you must drink it anyway. To deny it is to keep yourself ignorant, and that is something a man of your importance cannot afford.”

  “But I don’t want to be important. I… I know I volunteered myself for it. But I didn’t know what I was getting into. I didn’t know how much pressure it would be. It feels like everyone’s watching me, like I have to do everything right, all the time. And I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be doing. It’s just… it’s all too much. If I had to do it all over again, I never would have agreed to it.”

  “That’s not true. Please speak only the truth while you are under this roof—it cannot bear the weight of lies.”

  Suddenly, Black Bird began to feel very heavy, like his whole body was made of clay. The viscous drink seemed to seep up from his stomach into his throat, then upwards into his mind, coagulating its every nook and cranny before spreading to every pore of his skin.

  “What… what’s happening to me?” He asked. His breathing sped up, short and labored. He could feel his heart beat quicker and quicker in his chest, and he started to panic.

  “Hush. Smoke.”

  The wabanow to his right handed him a pipe.

  “I don’t… I don’t think I should…”

  “Smoke,” the wabanowin all said in unison. “Smoke, and you will Know.”

  Black Bird hesitated. His whole body was covered in a strange sensation—a numbness washed through him in undulating waves, and yet every single part of him could feel more intensely than ever before. It was amazing, and horrifying, all at once. But more than anything, it was overwhelming. Black Bird found his every thought consumed by his own feelings—the scent of the smoldering embers, the shadows dancing across the Dawn men’s faces, the cold ground he sat on. It was too much for him to process at once, to think about.

  “If I smoke, will this go away?” He asked.

  “Smoke,” was the only reply.

  So he did. He took the pipe into his mouth, inhaling deeply. He held his breath, swallowing the smoke into his throat and lungs. The noise of his senses dissipated for a moment, providing him a sense of clarity he had never felt before. And then he fell forwards, careening into the abyss.

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  The liquid he drank poured out from every orifice in his body, forming a vast pool in the surrounding darkness, infinite and black. He found himself submerged in it, and began to struggle to the surface. But he had no idea where the surface was, where the unctuous ichor ended and the darkness beyond began. It was all black, and equally formless. This was not any of the darknesses he knew, or thought he knew. This was something else, something different entirely. And Black Bird feared it, more than anything he had ever feared. Whatever it was, wherever he found himself now—it was terrifying.

  Suddenly, his arms and legs seized up, his mind panicking as he realized: he was drowning. He was stuck in the liquid, with nowhere to breathe. But no, that wasn’t quite right—he could still breathe. He was breathing the ichor—it flowed freely back into his mouth and throat and lungs before being expelled again. It was a sensation like no other, alien and horrifying. He was breathing liquid, not air—in and out and in again. Every time he did, the ichor would drown him like it had before, pouring into every part of him—his stomach, his lungs, his heart, his mind. And then he would exhale, and it would all leave him, pouring out from his body back into the infinite pool.

  He tried to calm himself, but he did not have direct control over his mind or faculties. It was like he was a passenger in his own body—he could only sit back and watch as it made its way to the surface. He got further and further from himself, his consciousness drifting down to the bottom of the pool as his body swam upwards. Fear crept back into his heart. What will happen if it leaves me? What will I become without it? What am I now, while we are separate, and yet inextricable? But none of his questions were answered—he just continued to sink, and his body continued to swim away from him.

  Then, he surfaced, and his mind and body were one again. His head broke through the ichor into the darkness, gasping in desperation to breathe real air. But the air was not a relief to him—it was not pure or clean, tainted by a wispy smoke that permeated his every breath. He waved the smoke away like a pesky gnat, but it just clung to his hands and arms. He dipped back into the pool for a moment, and only that seemed to wash the smoke away. But he could not stay there, forced to live a life of liquid breath.

  He surfaced again, and climbed out of the pool. Strangely, the pool allowed him to do so—he took one step onto it, then another, until he was standing atop the surface of the ichor. The smoke swirled at his feet, wafting up to his nostrils. He held his breath, trying to keep it away from him. As he did, he saw something in the distance. He started to walk towards it, the pool casting dark ripples with each step. The closer he got, the quicker his pace grew, until he was running towards it at full speed. Then, he saw what it was, and he stopped dead in his tracks. His loss of momentum broke the surface tension of the pool, and he fell into it again. He thrashed in the ichor, struggling to climb back out.

  With some effort, he pulled himself up onto the surface again, and he saw it again. He blinked four times, making sure he wasn’t dreaming, but it was still there. It was him: Memeskoniinisi, the Black Bird of the Makadegekekweg. He stood in awe, like gazing into a mirror, only there was none to be found. He gazed back at himself. Black Bird raised his hand, but the other did not follow. This was no mirror, then. But no, it couldn’t be, anyway. The Black Bird he saw before him was dressed in dance regalia, decorated head-to-toe in ceremonial finery. Two beaded belts of vibrant colors ran down each shoulder—black, red, yellow, blue. The dress itself was white, with a deep blue fringe running across the arms and legs. Atop his double’s head lay a hair-roach of white deer-tail fur, fanned out and stiff.

  The two Black Birds stood there, staring at one another. Something seemed to catch the one’s eye, and Black Bird turned around. Standing behind him was another Black Bird. He too, was dressed in regalia, but of a different kind. His was a dress of black leather, the fringe of red. Atop his head was no roach of the Anishinaabe, but a gusto’weh, the wooden crowns the Snakes wore. His was covered in turkey feathers, warped into a curvature of interlocking waves. It was the ornamentation of the Wendat, and seeing it provided Black Bird a strange sense of relief. He suddenly understood. These were not doppelgangers or clones. These were him—his two halves, locked in an endless war with each other. The white and blue wore the dress of his mother’s people, of the Odawa he took pride in. The black and red wore the dress of his father’s folk, the ones he abandoned, the heritage Black Bird was ashamed of.

  They both stood facing him, eyes locked on the Black Bird in the middle. He looked down, and realized he was naked. They each looked at him expectantly, like they were waiting for him to choose a side, to don their dress and abandon the other. He didn’t. He just stood there, waiting for something, some sign that would tell him what to do. None came, and still he chose neither side. So the other two began to move. Or rather, they began to dance.

  The blue dancer began stepping in a subtle rhythm, casting rippling waves across the dark pool that made the sound of trickling rain. One-two, One-two, One-two One-two. It was the Gimiiwaniimi—the Rain Dance. It was a source of nostalgia for Black Bird—he had watched it many times growing up, and knew the steps by heart. More ichor began to pour from the darkness above, sprinkling the dancer as he continued his steps, his hands resting on his hips. It was a dance focused in the feet, on precise and rhythmic movements rather than speed or force.

  The red dancer followed suit, and began undulating like a blade of grass in the wind, bowing and squatting and bending in rapid succession. It was the Oushatanrawah—the Smoke Dance. The movements were strange and foreign to Black Bird—his father had only described the dance briefly in his youth, and yet this part of him seemed to know it intimately. He weaved the beads of smoke like they were ribbons of fabric, taking them in with scooping motions of his arms and blowing them away. It was a dance of speed and ferocity, his feet kicking up the smoke and splashing the ichor.

  Black Bird watched the two dancers on either side of him, trying to figure out what to do. This was a sign—he had to pick a side, choose what part of him to be the Truth. His mother’s Anishinaabe, his father’s Wendat. These parts of him were contradictions, and could not coexist. It was this inner conflict that destroyed his father, torn between the identity of his birth and the one of his marriage. Black Bird would not make the same mistake. He would not abandon himself as his father did. He wouldn’t abandon his identity, his family, his life itself. He would choose a side, stand for something, find his own path, wherever that path took him.

  Instinctively, he began to mimic the movements of the blue dancer. It was the dance that he was accustomed to, after all, the culture he was raised in. He placed his hands at his hips, stepping in that rhythm across the ichor. Maajiishimo: One-two, One-two, One-two, One-two. He was never a great dancer—in fact, he had always been jealous by White Sky’s superior skill in it. He started the steps half-heartedly, then self-corrected—this was not a decision to be made lightly. He tried the dance in earnest, trying to mirror his blue self best he could. One-two, One-two, One-two, One-two. He faced the blue dancer like a mirror, his feet criss-crossing in the rhythm as droplets of ichor began to fall on him from the darkness above.

  But it wasn’t right. Not completely. There was something that just felt off and unnatural about the movement. It wasn’t complete. It wasn’t… him. So he stopped. He turned to look at the red dancer, who continued his wild and fierce dance undeterred, with seemingly endless energy. Black Bird took a few moments to observe him. It was more complex than the Rain Dance, and he was wholly unfamiliar with it. His heart ached as he watched it. This was his father’s dance, the one he had never known, that he will never know. A people driven to extinction and disarray, a man driven to abandon himself.

  In another life, in another world, Black Bird could have grown up with this dance. He could have learned his father’s tongue, his culture, his faith. He had tried—oh, he had tried, so desperately over the years. In the fleeting moments his father was home, he would pester him for any of it—stories, fables, songs. His father would begrudgingly oblige him, like he was ashamed of his own heritage. But sometimes, Black Bird saw the truth. There was a twinkle in his father’s eyes when he would regale him of the stories, a hidden pride, a longing. And that twinkle just pushed him to learn more, to glean all he could. Once he left the village, whenever he could, he would speak to traders from other tribes, the scant few ones left from the Wendat. They gladly taught him his own culture, his own history. When they allowed it, he even spoke with the Snakes, as many of them were once Wendat, too, taken and assimilated. And so watching the red dancer filled him with nostalgia too, only a stranger one. It was a nostalgia for a childhood he’d never had, a reverence for a part of him that he had never truly known. Even now, his understanding of it was piecemeal, a desperate attempt to glue together anything he could get his hands on.

  The Red Bird danced and danced, and the Black Bird began to move with him. His heart compelled him forward—he needed to learn these moves, understand this part of him. It was a part he had never given credence, scorned and spurned out of contempt for his father. But it was still a part of him, one he could not ignore forever. He emulated the red dancer’s movements, squatting and moving his body in a wave, then whipped back up, twirling and kicking his feet rapidly. Despite how fast he was moving, his body didn’t tire, his legs and. Despite never having known the dance, there was a part of it that came naturally for him, like it had always been a part of him. Duck, kick, and twirl.

  And yet, this dance wasn’t quite right, either. As he twirled, the same feeling rose inside him—that something was incomplete. He stopped this dance, too. On either side of him, both parts continued their dances. Their movements grew more intentional, more fervent, like each was trying to sway him to their side. Black Bird watched them both, an anxiety growing over his own indecision? If neither of these was right? What did that mean? What was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to be?

  Then, a thought occurred to him. Without another moment to waste, he started dancing again. He started with the blue, the subtle steps of the Rain Dance. Only he didn’t complete it—instead, he immediately shifted into the wild movements of the Smoke Dance, bending and weaving his arms to guide the smoke. He returned his hands to his sides, stepping across the ichor in the Rain pace again. Each time he did so, he changed it ever so slightly—a different step, a different wave, a different tempo, faster or slower. He experimented with both dances, and as he did, he began to merge them into something else. Something new. Something that was his.

  Above him, the black rain began to pour. Beneath him, the black smoke began to rise. And as he continued this new dance, he found himself newly equipped for both. Step through the rain, make drops of it with your feet, trickling on the pond. Madwewaanzhibiiyashimo—One-two, One-two, One-two, One-two. Sway with the wind, blow away the smoke. Oushata’ohkwat—Duck, kick, and twirl.

  And soon enough, Black Bird found his own rhythm. It was not the slow and measured paces of the Rain Dance, nor was it the rapid and fervent kicks of the Smoke. It was something in between, some mixture of both, for both of these dances were his. He was never meant to choose a side—how could he? These two dancers were him, in equal part. He was Odawa, and he was Wendat. All his life, he had viewed this as a contradiction. The two tribes were so different—different tongues, different faiths, different cultures and beliefs. How could he, then, be both? He had always clung to the Odawa in him—in his mind, he could never claim the tribe of his father, the culture he had not grown up with, the people he had never known. And yet here they were, with him, sharing their dance with a boy who had never known it. Here he was, dancing it, too, synthesizing it with the other, and forging his own path.

  The other two dancers did not protest or lament his decision. Instead, they smiled, and simply continued their dances. As they did, they began to fade, merging with their true self in the middle. They surrounded him in a swirling mist as he stepped and kicked and twirled, forming a new dancing dress for him. It was dark blue, with a bright red fringe—two colors for two sides, two peoples, two dances. A hair-roach of red porcupine fur formed atop his head, and inside it grew an interlocking weave of turkey feathers, their tips dyed blue. The feathers inside formed in a circle like a bird’s nest, the tufts of porcupine hair protective branches to shelter it. This was his dress, the one worn to perform the one-and-only dance of the Black Bird. It was a dance of rain and smoke, of triumph and failure, of past and future. It was a dance of endless contradictions, and making peace with them. It was the dance of a boy who had finally come to Know himself. It would be accompanied with chimes and bells of metal, like the shaking of chains breaking free.

  End Notes:

  *The Shaking Tent ceremony is performed by a member of the wabanowin or midewiwin in order to commune with powerful spirits. The ceremony involves building a unique miniature wigwam (the Shaking Tent) for the shaman to enter. Once it is built, the shaman enters the tent alone and communes with the spirits. The name of the ceremony comes from the phenomenon where the tent is seen by outsiders to shake from the power of the spirits invoked by the shaman. Shaking Tents can be built to ask the spirits for guidance, but also to ask them to heal an individual of an ailment or curse. Once the ceremony is complete, the tent is taken down, which means each time the ceremony is performed, a unique Shaking Tent is built and then deconstructed.