heavy snow fell over the North Woods. The weather came gently, moving in just before nightfall, and hour after hour, snow drifted silently down until it covered the ground deep as a man’s calf.
The weather did not deter the Anishinaabe. Quiet as the snowfall, they filed past the white trailer home, past the harvested garden, through the line of cedars, and gathered around a fire on the shore of Iron Lake to honor Wendell Two Knives.
The midewiwin Henry Meloux beat the mitigwakik, the Mide drum, and spoke to the spirit of Wendell Two Knives, guiding him on the Path of Souls, cautioning him against the dangers and distractions on his way west to the Land of Souls. Wendell Two Knives was guardian of tradition, respectful of the old ways. Tradition dictated that a man be buried with the implements that had defined his life. There was no burial for Wendell Two Knives; his body was never found. Instead, Meloux placed on the fire a strip of birch bark, Wendell’s deer-bone awl, a wooden bowl of pitch, and a cijokiwsagaagun, the small spatula Wendell had used to seal the seams of his canoes.
“Our brother, you leave us,” Meloux said in the language of the Anishinaabeg. “Our brother, to the Land of Souls you are bound.”
George LeDuc stepped forward. He was not ashamed to let his emotion show in tears.
“I knew Wendell Two Knives all my life. As boys, we wrestled. Wendell was stronger and smarter and usually beat me. I was a better shot. When we hunted, Wendell was never envious and was always glad for me when I brought home the deer. He was a good man who never turned away when someone needed his help. All of us on the rez, we’re better people because of him. I will miss my friend.”
Others spoke, each in their turn honoring Wendell Two Knives. Then Henry Meloux said, “Our brother was aadizookewinini, a storyteller. In our stories do we remember who we are. In our stories do we tell our children’s grandchildren about the ways of our people. Wendell Two Knives gave the gift of his stories to the Anishinaabeg. He gave his stories as a trust to his nephew’s son, Louis. The snow has fallen. It is winter. The time for telling stories.”
For one so young to be asked was an honor. Louis came fully into the firelight, a small boy with a great heart. The snow had whitened his hair, making him seem an old man already. Cork, who was watching, knew there was indeed something wise in the boy, far beyond bis years.
Louis told this story.
“There was a man who knew Noopiming-Up North in the Woods, the Boundary Waters-better than any other man. He knew not only the lakes and rivers, but also the rocks and trees and animals. He loved all life there, held sacred the belief in the manidoog, the spirits who dwelled in that place. And he was blessed in return with a skill in building canoes that glided across water smoothly and swiftly as birds in air. The man was called Ma’iingan, for he was brother to the wolf.
“A woman came and asked Ma’iingan for help. She asked for a place to hide in Noopiming, for she was being pursued by a terrible majimanidoo. The good man Ma’iingan led her to a special place and hid her there. He brought her food and he kept her safe.
“One day the majimanidoo, in the shape of the woman’s father, appeared before Ma’iingan and begged to be taken to her, claiming he was worried and wanted to see with his own eyes that she was well. At first, because his heart was so good that he did not recognize evil in another, Ma’iingan was fooled. But the true spirit of the majimanidoo could not be hidden for long, and before they reached the woman’s hiding place, Ma’iingan saw the majimanidoo for the evil it was. He refused to go any farther. Using all his terrible magic, the majimanidoo tried to force Ma’iingan to tell him where the hiding place was, but to no avail. In anger, he killed good Ma’iingan.
“The spirit of Ma’iingan stood on the Path of Souls but did not want to make the journey yet. He cried out to Kitchimanidoo, imploring the Great Spirit to let him stay a little longer in Noopiming, to keep safe the young woman, to fulfill his promise to her. Kitchimanidoo heard the good man’s plea. The spirit of Ma’iingan was given the shape of a gray wolf, for that was his totem, and allowed to return.
“In the meantime, brave hunters from several tribes had joined to track the majimanidoo. The evil spirit was powerful and many hunters lost their lives. And all the while, the majimanidoo drew closer and closer to the young woman. But Ma’iingan, in the form of the wolf, prowled the woods, guarding and guiding the woman, keeping her just out of reach of the evil that tracked her. Not until the hunters finally killed the majimanidoo and the woman was safe did the noble spirit of Ma’iingan begin the journey to the Land of Souls.
“But the wisdom of Kitchimanidoo grants the return of Ma’iingan in the shape of his brother the wolf whenever there is someone in Noopiming in need of help. And you can still hear the voice of Ma’iingan raised with his brothers, singing in the wilderness, in the land he loved so well.”
Louis stepped back, and his father laid a hand proudly on the boy’s shoulder.
“What a good man leaves behind him is forever,” Henry Meloux said. “Until the trees no longer touch the sky, Grandmother Earth and her children will hold with respect the memory of Wendell Two Knives.”
The snow fell softly on Meloux and melted. Drops gathered along the deep lines of his skin and reflected the firelight in a way that made the old midewiwin’s whole face seem aflame as he spoke in the language of The People:
K’neekaunissinaun, ani-maudjauh.
K’neekaunissinaun, cheeby-meekunnaung.
K’neekaunissinaun, kego binuh-kummeekaen.
K’neekaunissinaun, k’gah odaessiniko.
Our brother, he is leaving.
Our brother, on the Path of Souls.
Our brother, do not stumble.
Our brother, you will be welcome.
