Chickadee (16 page)

The next morning Chickadee could hardly stir.

“Wake up, little nephew,” said Uncle Quill.

Chickadee's mind was sunk in sleep now. After so many nights on bare ground, cold and hungry, the buffalo robe was so comfortable that once he fell asleep, his body wanted to stay asleep. Quill shook his shoulder.

“I brought you tea and bannock,” said Quill. “Get up, get in the cart.”

Chickadee rolled over and tried to get to his feet, but fell over. He was so sleepy that Uncle Quill lifted him into the cart and nestled him back into the robe. There, Chickadee sat as the oxcart train began to move. He nibbled the bannock and drank the hot brewed black tea, sweetened with maple sugar, from Quill's tin cup. The terrible screeching of the wheels started again and Chickadee put the plugs of wax back into his ears. For that first day, he dozed on and off as the cart slowly made its way along the trail. It was as though he had been in another world, out in the woods, and had to sleep his way into the new world of the oxcarts and Uncle Quill.

At last, when the cool sun was halfway up in the sky, Chickadee crept over to sit beside his uncle. And there they rode. Folded blankets cushioned their bottoms, a comfortable strap made of buffalo hide was tied so they could lean back against it. No sound that they made could penetrate the vast screech in which they moved, so they tried to communicate through signs. There wasn't much they could say yet with signs—that would come later. Mostly they sat companionably together, jouncing back and forth as the cart rolled across the ruts and over the holes in the Red River Trail.

The days and nights began to blur. Their oxcart broke down once, splitting an axle. Uncle Quill cut a new poplar axle from a nearby tree, and lashed it into place with wet strips of buffalo hide. As the strips dried, they shrank, fixing the axle firmly into place. Quill and Chickadee got right back into the train an hour later. Every piece of the cart was made ingeniously of local materials—wood, hide, rope—and could be repaired along the way. There was no metal in the cart, which turned out to be a very good thing one night, as they waited out a lightning storm in some high bare hills.

Although the heavens raged and the rain poured down in sheets, Chickadee and Quill were dry and warm underneath the cart. Lightning struck down everywhere, crashing so hard the earth shook. The oxen were slightly worried but very tired, too, and merely slept with heads bent under the driving rain.

“We are safe from the thunderbirds under these carts,” said Quill. “They love biwabik, you know, things of metal. When the U.S. cavalry comes out on the Plains with its iron tent poles, the thunderbirds amuse themselves by striking them!”

Quill knew lots of things. He told Chickadee about the people with the colorful clothing.

“They are Metis. They are the sons and daughters of the French and Anishinabe and Cree all mixed together. My Deydey, your grandfather, knows how to talk with them. Listen to the way they speak! They mix all of the languages into one language. After a while you'll pick it right up, as I have.”

“They sing French songs,” said Chickadee.

“Their fathers taught them songs from the days when they paddled canoes. Before these trails, that was the only way to carry furs! I remember it!”

“What are those crying instruments they play?”

“Those are fiddles. You'll see.”

“And their clothing—it is all colors and yet some is like ours.”

“They like to wear moccasins. Who would ever want to wear white men's shoes? But the women wear big skirts. The men wear blouses. They like some of our clothes. We like some of theirs.”

“Why do you know so much about these people, Uncle Quill?”

“Because I am married to one!”

Chickadee was silent. He had forgotten that his uncle had married. Chickadee was out of questions.

The next day, as Uncle Quill brewed tea and fried some bannock on a little fire, a Metis woman came up to him and began to talk in her language. Quill answered her, and Chickadee tried to make out what they were saying. He caught a few words here and there—it sounded like they were talking about him. The woman made gestures all about herself, slapping her knee, rubbing her elbow. Chickadee realized that she was describing the rips and tears in his clothing. Quill was smiling and nodding now. The woman left.

“She's going to make you a new shirt, new moccasins, and fix your pants and vest,” he said. “She said such a nice-looking boy as you shouldn't be dressed so poor.”

“Am I dressed so poor?”

Chickadee looked down at his clothing, and noticed the rips and tears and spots of grease he'd gotten used to.

“Yes, I guess I look pretty bad, my uncle.”

“Your mama would have fixed you up by now. But your Uncle Quill can't do much.”

The woman came back and made Chickadee stand still. She took a piece of sinew and measured his feet, his arms, his chest. She took his vest away and fixed it that very afternoon. When she brought it back, the woolen vest had been cleaned. The rips were neatly sewn, and where there had been holes she had cleverly beaded on circles of hide. Two days later, the woman brought back a shirt of bright blue calico. It had wide sleeves and a collar that peeked from the vest. She took away his old shirt and fixed that too, and by adding more fringe and pieces of tanned deerhide, she made it into a jacket. New moccasins came next. Chickadee gave up his pants overnight and in the morning she brought them back, all repaired and with a piece of hide stitched around the bottom so that his ankles were covered.

“I look so fine,” said Chickadee.

He was delighted with himself, and the woman could tell, and laughed. She had big white teeth in her round face and wore lots of bead necklaces. Her braids were gray when they came unbound from her neat bun. As she walked, her skirt swirled around her quick steps. Her name was French, Antoinette. She had two children—her grandchildren—with her, and they were well dressed too. Antoinette had her own cart. Her granddaughter drove it; the other child, a small boy, usually walked beside the ox and kept an eye out for game he might catch.

After she made Chickadee's new clothing, Quill invited them to hitch their ox to the back of his cart. That way the young driver could take a rest once in a while, as Quill kept the animals moving. And so the pack train went on and on until a small river stopped them.

The flood and force of the river had dissipated, and it was a mild flow now, though broad. There was no ferry. There was no way to cross it except to change their versatile carts into boats.

This was being done all up and down the river, as each cart and driver reached the banks.

To Chickadee's surprise, he saw that some carts were already in the water, floating across. Uncle Quill and another man worked together. First they wrenched off the wheels and lashed them together. Then they dismantled the carts and used the poles for siding so the baggage would not slide off into the water. The oxen and horses would swim across, and Uncle Quill and Chickadee would swim too, holding on to the poles and attempting to guide the raft.

Uncle Quill helped Antoinette to transform her cart, too, and one after the next the little cart train forded the river. The river was still very cold, and on the other side fires were quickly made to dry out clothing and warm numb fingers. The oxen and horses shook themselves and lowered their heads to graze. The sun was so low by the time all of the carts had crossed that everyone made camp on the banks of the river.

That night, the fiddle playing was extra lively, and Antoinette and her grandchildren invited Chickadee to join in the fun. Uncle Quill already knew the Red River jig, and he shouted with joy, dancing with the rest of the men. Chickadee caught the spirit and the flames leaped high. The fiddles wailed and jumped. Antoinette danced like a young woman, kicking up her skirts, her white teeth gleaming in the firelight.

“Here is how we jig, little Chickadee,” she called, and her small feet in pretty moccasins flashed fast in fancy steps.

As Chickadee watched, he remembered how his mother danced and clapped when she was happy. He remembered how Zozie trilled like a bird when she was excited, how his father played his beautiful hand drum and joyously sang a traveling song or a hunting song. Most of all, he remembered how Makoons jumped up and down, threw his head back, and laughed so hard he fell on the ground and rolled when things were too funny to bear. His chest swelled with confusion. If only his twin were here! He was happy, he was going home, eventually, someday. But could he stand it? Could he wait to see his brother? How long would it be?

E
ver since his father and Two Strike had returned, with news that they had lost Chickadee's trail, Makoons had begun to feel the strangeness of his life. One morning, fishing for goldeneyes as usual, he fell into the cold Red River. He let the current take him downstream quite a way before he roused himself, panicked, and swam wildly for the shore.

After that, Makoons just felt wrong. It was the chill, Nokomis thought, and she dosed him with many cups of thick black tea. He had a cough, which she treated with boiled cherrybark. His chest hurt. Nokomis put a plaster of steaming lily-pad root right over his heart. Makoons cried at the sting of heat, but his chest cleared. Still, he dragged from place to place and could hardly manage to set one foot before the other on some days. When he sat down, he leaned over, closed his eyes, and quickly fell asleep. When he woke, it was to the sad memory of his brother's absence.