Excerpt # 2 - Chapter 3 of Painter of Trees - Carl's time among the Ojibwa
Copyright 2009 by Kim Bullock
Context: Madonna meets Carl for breakfast at his favorite fishing spot in East Aurora, NY. At this time he is 38 and still married to Emily, his first wife. Madonna is 17. Eleanor is a 2nd cousin of Carl's, a painter, and his frequent companion.
“My friends dared me to ask you something about Eleanor.”
He unsheathed a knife and reached for a fish. “No, she’s not a wood sprite.”
She averted her eyes as he sliced into the belly. She tasted fish once before and detested it; watching it being disemboweled was unlikely to leave a different impression now. “That wasn’t the question.”
“It’s about the rumor started when an old lady on Center Street saw her coming out of the woods slightly descheveled. Yes, I’ve heard it.” He glanced up. “Ellie laughed hysterically when she learned her ‘encounter’ was apparently with me.”
Madonna averted her eyes. “Anyone can see how you’d be a great inspiration to each other.”
“You inspire me.” He tossed the fish waste into the creek and rinsed his blade. “Ellie’s like a kid sister.”
“I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Yes, you did.” He laughed. “But I don’t mind. I’m glad you were jealous."
“I was not.”
“If it makes you feel better, I’m jealous of anyone who so much as speaks to you.”
“No, you just want me to admit to something that isn’t true.” Her tone grew agitated as his grin widened. She swatted his arm.
“I should warn you that I generally follow the teachings of the Bible and give a kiss for a blow.” He winked. “Strike me again and watch out.”
“Eleanor knocked you upside the head last night. You didn’t kiss her.”
“I knew you watched us. Perhaps I feared you’d misinterpret the gesture.” He stoked the campfire, set the fish in a small skillet, and placed it over the flames. “Besides, Ellie would have just struck me again. She was furious.”
“Is that why she spoke to you in that odd language last night?”
He nodded. “She’s run out of insults in English and German. Anishinaabemowin is our only other common language.”
“I thought she was fond of you.”
He grunted. “Her loyalties are firmly with Emily."
“Why must she choose sides?”
“Because she wrongly believes I’ve committed an unforgivable sin. Was I blushing as we left the lecture last night?”
Madonna shook her head.
“It took some effort. If there were any Ojibwa people about, they’d be impressed by her command of their tongue.”
“So it is a savage language?”
“There’s nothing savage about the Anishinaabeg.”
“Weren’t you frightened they’d scalp you or chop you into bits in the middle of the night?”
“You tell me. You’re sitting beside one now.”
“You have blue eyes. Surely you’re not…”
“By blood, I’m Danish and Scots. I’m Ojibwa by choice. They call me Ah-sa-ba-nang.”
“I thought Indians don’t allow white men on their reservations.”
He poked under one of the fish with a fork, shook his head and pulled away again. “Four summers ago I camped with my family outside the village of Southampton, on the shores of Lake Huron. The best site we found was beside the Saugeen River, maybe fifty yards from the reservation. As a gesture of goodwill, I approached the chief with a gift of rabbit pelts before we pitched our tents.”
“He spoke English?”
“Not a syllable. There was a lot of pantomiming and I threw in an occasional word of Cree and Mohawk to show I was familiar with Indian ways. He showed me a better camp upstream, just steps from their border. On the way, he pointed out blueberry bushes and a good fishing spot and indicated I should help myself. I remembered the words he used and incorporated them into my questions. He introduced me to the elders and said we were to be welcomed.” Carl reached for the fork again and turned the fish gently.
Madonna tucked her legs behind her and toyed with a twig. “If I told this to anyone, they’d never believe me.”
He smiled. “The elder women brought me herbs to help with my pain. Everyone was kind, well beyond what you’d expect of even the best neighbors. The children’s reaction startled me the most, though.”
“Your children?”
“No, the Anishinaabeg children. They crept up close to me in groups of two or three and stared. If I said anything, they ran away as though terrified.”
“That’s odd.”
“I thought so, too. By then, I understood much of what they said, so I asked the chief’s wife. She touched my face like this.” His fingers grazed her cheek. “She said, ‘You look just like him. My son who died. They think he’s come back to us. We all do.’”
Madonna shivered at the tenderness in his touch. She understood why they mistook him for one of their own. His hair was nearly black and worn long. His cheekbones were high, his features sharp, and his skin tanned to a rich coppery shade. Only his eyes betrayed his true race.
“She called me ‘son’ from then on, and I called her my ‘Indian mother.’ They adopted my whole family into the tribe, and bestowed on me the name of the son they had lost. I wish you could have been at the ceremony, Madonna. The smell of sage and sweet grass is…intoxicating.” He chuckled. “And the sound of the native drum is a resonant, haunting noise. It seeps into your very bones.”
The forest was silent now, other than the crackling of the campfire and the faint murmur of the creek flowing past. The scent of burning wood and frying fish was strong, yet pleasant. She wondered if the warm breeze on the reservation felt like a caress, as it did here.
He flipped a fish onto her plate and handed it to her.
She bit tentatively. “It’s good.” She took a larger bite.
“I thought you looked worried.”
“What does your Indian name mean?”
“A cluster of stars.”
She believed that rather fitting. “Was living there hard on your children?”
He took a bite of fish, shaking his head. “They called my younger son Nebanonquit, or Chipmunk. He quickly befriended Medweash, a boy his own age, who taught him how to snare gophers. He’d eat them to this day if they could be easily had.” He took another bite. “My daughter, then four, used to disappear each afternoon. One day I discovered her sitting on a boulder and dipping her feet into the water. Baby river otters swam all around her legs. I imagine it tickled.”
“Didn’t you fear she’d get hurt?”
“The women assured me the otters were tame and that someone always remained near in case she slipped. Apparently we were the last to know what she was up to. That’s often the case. She’s spirited.”
Madonna finished her fish and glanced at the remaining one hungrily, though she thought it would be impolite to ask. One small trout surely wasn’t enough to satisfy him. He reached for the fish, cut it in half and put the larger portion on her plate.
“I could never let you go hungry,” he said.
“Say something for me. I wish to hear what the language sounds like.”
“Kauween baekaunizid keen aetah k’bishiigaenimin.”
His gaze felt the same as when he had touched her cheek. “What did you say?”
He picked up a pebble and hurled it across the creek. “There’s no easy way to translate.”