Chickadee (19 page)

O
makayas sat next to her son Makoons, holding his dry hand. He was hot with fever, and lay perfectly still. At least the worst of it was over, and he squeezed her hand back from time to time and sipped cool water or Nokomis's medicine. Nokomis was out foraging for more willow bark. Brewed into a tea, the inner bark helped ease the fever. Makoons was slowly improving, but these days it seemed that no sooner did he get over an illness than he succumbed to another one. Zozie, so good at hunting small game and drying meat, was busy boiling a broth of rabbit and beaver meat. She stirred in dried and pounded cattail root, to thicken the broth. Then she brought a bowl over to Omakayas. Slowly, she spooned the broth into Makoons's mouth. He swallowed carefully, then fell asleep. Even eating seemed to exhaust him.

“Chickadee, my brother,” he mumbled in his sleep. Makoons smiled. He smiled only in his sleep. Omakayas was sure those smiles happened only when he was dreaming of playing with Chickadee.

Zozie put her hand on her second mother's shoulder.

“I know he is alive somewhere,” said Omakayas.

“I know it, too,” said Zozie.

“I think that I should feel it if my son were gone from this earth,” said Omakayas slowly. Inside, she was not so sure. Nobody could understand all that happened on this earth, and Omakayas was not a medicine person yet, not like Nokomis, although her grandmother was teaching her everything she knew.

The little cabin was propped up and stabilized now, and the logs were tightly chinked with mud. The floor was tamped down and then covered with rush mats. Everyone took off their moccasins when entering, so the mats stayed nice and clean. Fishtail had traded for a small square stove, and the wood was neatly stacked beside. He and Angeline had roped off a small room in one corner, hung with blankets and made snug. In another corner, Mikwam and Yellow Kettle slept. Omakayas and Animikiins had their part of the room too. Nokomis curled near the stove with Zozie and Makoons. And Two Strike slept outside with the horses.

Although nine people lived in the tiny cabin, and one outside, there was empty space that could be filled only by Chickadee.

Out in back, the seeds that Nokomis had saved so carefully were now sprouting. The corn leaves were sturdy and fresh. The dark potato leaves curled down from their mounds of earth. Tendrils of squash and bean vines had begun their searching climb up the poles Nokomis sank near each plant. Every day Nokomis, helped by Yellow Kettle, added to the fence around the garden. Fishtail, Animikiins, and Two Strike worked with the horses.

Mikwam was learning how to build a cart. He decided that his canoe-building skills were of little use on the prairie, and he'd best learn from the masters of the Red River cart. When he began building the cart, using borrowed tools, cutting and working the wood, he amazed his family.

“This old man is a wonder,” said Yellow Kettle proudly. “He will not be stopped. He is building us a cart!”

“He is making it so that we can join the buffalo hunt,” said Two Strike. “We will learn the ways of these Metis people and copy their hunting.”

“It is lucky that Babiche and Batiste so kindly gave you their horses,” said Fishtail.

“Kindly,” said Two Strike. “I'd like to see them kindly try to take them back after stealing our Chickadee.”

Makoons came out the door and she fell silent. Two Strike reached out helplessly as Makoons walked by.

“My boy,” she said, her harsh voice unusually low and coaxing, “would you like to ride Brownie or Brownie? They have become gentle, obedient, and love you. Look!”

She pointed at the horses, who were tossing their heads up and down. To Makoons it looked like they were agreeing with Two Strike. Actually, they always tossed their heads up and down when they saw Two Strike because she brought them whatever treats she could find. She shared tender plants, sweetened bread, dried berries, and more. The horses believed she was one of them, their leader. Wherever she walked, they followed. When she stopped, they stopped. They stood behind her, craned over her shoulder, and gently lowered their hard noses and velvet lips to her hands.

Makoons looked at them indifferently, but allowed Two Strike to help him into the saddle. Brownie flicked her ears to Two Strike and listened to all she said, then began to trot around and around her in an even circle. As Two Strike turned, the horse kept her eye lovingly on the powerful woman. Slowly, Makoons eased into the horse's stride. Soon, he was cantering along with wonderful ease, his hands caught in Brownie's flowing mane.

“Majaan!” cried Two Strike, sweeping her hands toward the open prairie. Away Brownie loped, Makoons on her back. He actually laughed. He rode the horse into the distance, and then Two Strike whistled. Brownie flicked back an ear and headed home. Two Strike had a piece of jellied bannock waiting. She looked anxiously at Makoons. His eyes looked brighter, but the moment his feet touched ground his shoulders sagged.

“If only we could keep him on a horse day and night, he might get better. You could help him,” said Two Strike to Brownie. “But he is a human. Sometimes he must walk the same earth as his brother. As soon as his feet touch that ground, he is reminded that somewhere, nowhere, anywhere, his brother walks too.”

A
fter the mosquitoes, the oxcart train made good time on a level piece of prairie and even managed the difficult part of the road that wound in and out of the woods, through sloughs and alongside quaking bogs. There was plenty of fresh game along the trail, and every night the fiddles came out. Antoinette brewed coffee. The Metis liked to celebrate any small thing that happened, as well as big things. Birthdays were big things, and it seemed to Chickadee that everyone and even the oxen had parties at night for their special days.

The sloughs began to blend together, and the oxen struggled in the mushy ground. One day the carts at the beginning of the line made it through a deep slough, but by the time Uncle Quill's cart—and then Antoinette's, who was just behind them—got to the swampiest place, it was impossible. Both carts sank their wheels right in and could not budge.

Immediately, men from the other carts came to try to extricate the two carts. From firmer ground, they tried to pull the oxen up. From behind, they tried to push the carts. They cut great bunches of reeds and laid them down under the wheels, but the muck seemed bottomless.

In the middle of all the effort, everyone paused to catch a breath. They stood around the stuck carts pondering their next move, arguing and thinking up new advice. As they stood there, Chickadee saw two men approaching. They were coming down the road far ahead, but he recognized them anyway. Though tiny, they were also huge. They slouched along, packs slung across their backs, smoking their pipes, gesturing, laughing. They wore the same knitted red hats, had the same drum-tight bellies, and their beards stuck out to each side ferociously.

“Uncle,” said Chickadee, pulling on Quill's sleeve. “Those two men are coming, the two I told you about!”

“Not now,” said Quill. He was worried that an axle or wheel might break beneath the strain. Or that the cart would sit in the mud until the middle of summer. He was trying to figure a way out.

“Uncle,” said Chickadee, more urgently, “those are the men who kidnapped me!”

“Eya',” said Quill distractedly. “Maybe we can cut some popple trees and make a little bridge to get those oxen out. I saw some trees a few miles back.”

“Remember their names? Babiche and Batiste! They're here.”

And they were. Chickadee held tightly to his uncle's jacket. He wasn't exactly afraid that Babiche and Batiste would steal him again, but he wondered what they were up to. He didn't trust them. And their horses were gone. Where were Brownie and Brownie? Why were they on foot?

“Sacre coeur!”
bellowed Babiche when he saw Chickadee.

“Our Little Master!” Bastiste cried. “He survived!”

The two great brothers plunged through the slough and rose dripping and happy. They tried to embrace Chickadee, but Quill now remembered the whole story and stood between them and his nephew.

“Your Little Master?” Chickadee was more than surprised. “I was your servant the last time I saw you! What happened?”

“Ah,” said Babiche, “my good brother and I had our hearts clarified. We met a great woman. A woman of many knives. A woman stronger than the two of us together. We both asked her to marry us!”

“Two Strike? You asked her to marry you?”

“Awee,” said both brothers.

“She is strong enough a wife for both of us,” said Batiste. “We said that we would serve her until we perished. But she said, ‘Serve Chickadee instead.'”

“But we didn't know where you were! Oh, Grace of God, now we have found you! You, our Little Master!”

Babiche and Batiste threw their arms wide.

“No need,” said Chickadee, and introduced his uncle and then Antoinette and her grandchildren. He asked what had happened to Brownie and Brownie.

“We gave them to the great lady. We gave them as wedding gifts,” said Babiche. “May it be true that she still has them and is considering our request!”

“I am sure she's thinking about it,” said Uncle Quill. “But we will never know unless we make it out of this mud. It threatens to suck these carts right down to hell!”

“We would never let that happen!” cried Babiche.

“We will use our endless strength!”

The two great brothers rubbed their hands together, and their force was combined with the others who strove in the muddy slough. Slowly, with an endless sucking groan, the first ox was pulled free. Then the brothers put their immense arms to work and lifted the cart right out of the mud and carried it to firm ground. They did the same for Antoinette's oxcart.

“Mon dieu,”
she exclaimed. “I have never seen such power! You must need food for your great bellies now!”

“Awee, madame, so we do,” said the brothers.

The carts labored on for some distance, until the way looked clear again and they had caught up to the rest of the train. The first carts were already camped, and so Uncle Quill did the same. Antoinette invited the two brothers to camp with her family, and to enjoy her cooking. Chickadee heard Babiche say the word
bouyah
, and he sidled over to his uncle.

“Uncle, have you ever tasted bouyah?” he asked.

Uncle Quill looked down at Chickadee with pity in his eyes.

“Were you forced to eat bouyah?” he asked.

“Yes, my uncle.”

“There is some good bouyah,” said Quill. “My wife makes it, and I'll bet Antoinette makes a good batch too. But it can be terrible stuff!”

“Geget, I could not agree more. Gidebwe,” said Chickadee.

“If Antoinette offers us some supper,” said Quill, “and I know she will, we will smell it first. We will test it just a little. I have found it is always wise to be cautious where bouyah is concerned.”

That night, the camp rested exhaustedly after the efforts of the day. Passing into slumber, Chickadee heard a pack of wolves howling in the near distance. He could tell that they were howling for joy and thought they were probably celebrating their young pups as they emerged from their dens. Maybe they had made a kill that day, and all of them felt like singing. Their song went on and on into the night, and Chickadee slept happily, his back against his uncle's buffalo robe. When he woke the next morning, a light rain was lashing down all around the cart. Antoinette had fixed a set of bent willow branches on her cart, and when it rained or the sun became too hot, she fastened her canvas tipi over the poles and traveled in comfort.