Wisaka and Friends

August 1948: ROY

So far this month, skinny Roy Parr, all 127 pounds of him, has unearthed three chunks of petrified wood—a bit crumbly, not the shiny spars in the Field Museum nearby in Chicago, but real enough, multicolored pink and brown and crystalline white—plus various hunks of charcoal and driftwood, some tan pebbles, and two Indian arrowheads. 

Today Roy is digging again. He knows he’s too old for this, but he burns with curiosity. An inch below where he was digging yesterday, he finds two objects almost touching. One is small and shaped like an arrowhead. But those he found before were sharp and made of brown rock. This one is metallic and has blunt edges.

Roy rubs it on the leg of his shorts. It shines up to the color of an old copper penny. He wonders why someone made an arrowhead of metal. The larger, heavier piece shines up to a brighter copper color. It is a rounded lump, flattened on one side.

Roy perches the flat side on his palm. Now it looks like a little statue, of a sitting person with a huge mouth eating something. Is it a talisman of luck—a one-armed man eating a long, nourishing loaf? Or is it an omen of starvation and despair—a monster reduced to eating its own arm? He turns the lump over. Underneath is an indentation full of sand. He snaps a twig off a cottonwood, teases the sand out of the hole, and finds that it is a deep slot. He wonders if the arrowhead would fit into it. He wonders if the combination is magic.

Roy’s father, Mel Parr, has given Roy a head for magic. They both needed something to replace Roy’s dead mother, yearned for something deep and mysterious to help ease their loss. Magic, tribal magic gave them a love to share. It started when Mel showed Roy the deed to the land on which their little bungalow sat, how it was passed down from the Potawatomis. 

The elder Parr learned tribal legends from a half-blood Potawatomi named Anson Eagle who lives on Miller Beach. Mel and Anson work together, white collar jobs in the rolling mill at Gary Works.

Anson told Mel and Mel told Roy of the tribe’s beliefs—in the two spirits, Kitchemonedo the Great Spirit and Matchêmonedo the Evil Spirit, of the Seven Grandfather Teachings, and of the Great Chain of Being connecting past, present, and future generations… and that the mission of the people was embodied in their name, Keepers of the Fire, the counsel fires that the Potawatomi made to keep peace with their relatives the Chippewas and the Ottawas. They united to smoke the pipe of peace—the calumet.

Soon Roy begged to meet Mr. Eagle. Mel worried that he would lose his special bond with his son, but he introduced them and hoped for the best. 

They first got together that June in Marquette Park. They fished in the morning and lounged in the afternoon by a picnic table to grill dinner the old way, skewered on sticks over an open fire. The bluegills weren’t biting, so they ate Mel’s store-bought pollock. But, over the glowing embers, with their bellies full of charred fish and some roasted marshmallows, Anson got expansive with the curious boy. He told Roy how his tribe used to fish the very same river. The lagoon in the park was an isolated remnant of the old Calumet River. The slow, winding stream and its boggy boundaries used to provide wild rice, too. His forebears plied it in the warmer months, using spears for the mighty sturgeon—as long as a man—nets for trout and perch; and beating sticks for wild rice in the fall. The women farmed and collected berries and wild plants. Their specialty was grinding sweet calico corn and vegetables into cakes to wrap in basswood leaves and bake on hot embers.  The leaves made the cakes smell like wild roses. 

Come winter, Anson said, the tribe trekked east to the woods of Michigan to trap and hunt deer, bear, moose, elk, even foxes. They followed the old Sauk Trail, now paved over into U.S. Route 12 running through Gary.

“The highway that goes past our house?” Roy said. 

“Yep,” Anson said. “You go to school on a Potawatomi trail. It ran all the way to Detroit.”

 “Winter,” he said, “was also the time for setting down the tribe’s beliefs and stories on scrolls of birch paper. The Potawatomi wrote for hundreds of years before the Europeans invaded.”

Roy was astounded. “Tell us a story!”

Anson smiled. A story he loved was of Wisaka the Trickster. Wisaka was raised by Grandmother Earth in great poverty. He remained scrawny, roaming the land until one day he met a fox. Wisaka told the fox he would be poisonous to eat. But, Wisaka said, if the fox helped him build a lodge, he would bring a bounty of food. When the fox had built the lodge, Wisaka said he would provide food by turning into a woman and charming the chief’s son in the neighboring village into marriage.

He took two elk kidneys, tied them to his chest under his coat, and sashayed into the village, calling himself Nanabush the Beautiful. The chief’s son was entranced, and a wedding ceremony soon took place. But when the village showered the couple with gifts to leave for their honeymoon trip to ‘her’ lodge, Wisaka / Nanabush told them ‘she’ feared a ravenous fox had invaded it. The village’s braves armed themselves and followed the newlyweds, carrying loads of dried venison and trout. 

When the fox smelled the food coming his way, he licked his chops with pleasure. But when the braves unloaded their provender, the fox could see their carrying sticks were spears. The fox ran away keening in fear. Wisaka cheered with the braves, waving his coat in triumph. When his false breasts were revealed, the chief’s son and the rest of the braves ran away screaming of Wisaka’s betrayal. And Wisaka had provisions to last the whole winter.

To use one’s wits to survive was the lesson, Anson said. Roy heard only that a weakling can use creativity to become a hero.

Such a tale might seem quaint to people like the Paars who live in the middle of the 20^th century in a frame house rather than a wigwam, on a street paved with black cinders—slag from the blast furnaces—rather than on the shore of a stream. But their neighborhood, Indian Hills, has kept its age-old surroundings of sandy fields and dense woods because of its remoteness from the trendy beaches, the smoke-belching steel mills downtown, and the stores on Broadway. 

Indian Hills owes its sandy surface to recession of the Big Lake over thousands of years. That has left a foot or more of what everyone in the neighborhood calls sugar sand. A bit farther from the street, dunes rise and a wood of maples, beeches, and oaks.

To Roy the sand is the mysterious provider of treasures. The greatest of them now lie in his hand. To appreciate their potential, he recalls Mr. Eagle’s story of Wisaka.

Could a weak child really fool a fox, a brave, a chief, even a whole village? Roy wants to believe the story. He’d love to share it and his new treasures with friends. But he has no friends, sees no one his age during the summer. He tells himself he doesn't care, he has magic. 

Roy thinks as hard as he can about someone more important than friends—Wisaka. He hungers for adventure too much to wonder whether the statuette is of a lucky man or a desperate monster, or whether magic comes from Kitchemonedo or from Matchêmonedo. He whispers fervently, “Wisaka, help me. Send me!” and inserts the arrowhead into the slot.

The sand, the hills and the woods blur into a vortex, a swirl of colors. A cacophony of warrior howls and fox screams assaults Roy’s ears. The sweet rose aroma of burning basswood leaves fills his nose. And everything turns black.

August 1810: NIKAN

“Cigwe'!”—Thunderbird! —Nikan shouted in Neshnabek, which we call Potawatomi. He pointed at a large black bird ruffing its tailfeathers.

To the old man, such enthusiasm was childish in a sixteen-year-old. “Co, mshike',” he said. “No, it’s a turkey.” He sighed. “You have turned away from what growing men must see, must do.”

Crouched in the stern of his birch bark canoe, ash-wood paddle in hand, he spoke again to the boy in the bows. It was more courteous this way, with the boy not having to face him. “You have become a dreamer.”

The boy kept paddling and craning his neck to see the sights. It was August, and the Grand Calumet was running slowly. 

The man dug his paddle into the water, turning the canoe to avoid a snag. “Do you deny it?”

“No, grandfather. But…” He trailed off.

 “But what?”

“But I love to dream! Of the bear and the elk. Of what the whippoorwill’s call means, and why the dove sounds so sad. Of how the pheasant got its beautiful feathers.”

“That will not help us face the Sauk or the Ojibway in their war canoes. Nor will we eat if the Pokagon take our game. If all young ones sat around like you, our people would vanish.”

“But grandfather. Medicine Woman says we are all joined together, that we must love and respect all beings. How can I fight—kill—humans if I believe Medicine Woman?”

Grandfather huffed. “Medicine Woman has no need to gather food. It is brought to her for giving us wisdom. A man cannot live on wisdom alone. He and his family need food in their bellies. A man must learn to tell the clouds of wisdom from the rain and snow of the real world.”

“But, grandfather, don’t clouds become rain and snow?”

The old man threw back his head and laughed. “Ah, Nikan. Yes, all is connected. And all that grows matures in its own good time. And you—" he chuckled— “you may be too clever for your own good. Or maybe you will become the next Medicine Man. Shall we speak to Kwe’ Wapun, whose words you revere, and ask her if you will become our next healer?”

Nikan beamed and threw his hands in the air. “Yes, grandfather!”

“A grandfather’s recommendation must be taken seriously,” The Medicine Woman said, seated with Nikan and Grandfather by the evening fire outside her wigwam. “But the test is what counts. If you cannot pass the test, you cannot become a man of medicine—ever. Are you sure you want to dare the dream hunt?”

Nikan said, “I am not a boy, Kwe’ Wapun.  I am old enough and sensible enough to ask of the dangers.”

The Medicine Woman nodded approvingly. “It is no small thing to go without food for three days. It is a test of bravery to wander alone without the company of the Neshnabek for that long. Who knows what animal might hunt you? If it be a spirit animal, what kind of magic might befall you?”

“Does magic come from Kitchemonedo the Great or from Matchêmonedo the Evil?”

“A prudent question. I will answer it with a tale of Wisaka the trickster. It was a time of drought. Wisaka’s people—our people—were dying of thirst. Miles upstream, Wisaka had seen a dam made of reeds, branches, and mud. A lake lay behind it. The Frog People had built the dam and were luxuriating in their water. Wisaka took on the form of a coyote and spat in the dirt. He rolled in it until he was coated and filthy. Then he trotted south to show himself to the Frog People. 

“‘Take pity on me,’ he cried to their chief. ‘Let me wash in your bounteous waters.’ The chief said, ‘Get to it! You look terrible. And you smell even worse!’ 

“Wisaka dove into the lake. He swam underwater and dug into the dam. Tossing reeds and branches aside, he dug until he made a hole. When his lungs were about to burst, he popped through the hole and swam down the new stream all the way back to his people.”

Kwe Wapun stared at Nikan. “Did Wisaka’s inspiration—his trick—come from the Great Spirit or from the Evil One?”

“From the Great Spirit! Kitchemonedo took pity on his people and saved them.”

“But what of the Frog People, who no longer had water to grow their crops and feed their many mouths?”

Nikan had no answer.

“Perhaps you will learn of good and evil on your last night of praying instead of sleeping. But I warn you: it can make the faint of spirit go mad and tear their hearts out or cast themselves into the deep.”

To his credit, the boy sat still awhile. “I know of death. Were it not for grandfather, I would be an orphan. The raids, the sickness, the shortage of game… our village does not grow as the years go by. But you have taught me that the Neshnabek will be everlasting. Someone must say those mighty words to the next generation. Perhaps it takes a dreamer.”

“Anak… maybe,” Kwe’ Wapun murmured. She raised her eyes to heaven. Would this dreamer be the one?

In Northern Indiana, a boy-man on a spirit quest cannot hide in a cave at night. The limestone that erodes into caves lies deep in the Calumet region. Wind, ice, and five thousand years of time have created long spits of land that cover most of the area. Spits grew west from Michigan and, later, spits grew east from Illinois creating a huge, corrugated wetland.

The land also grew vertically. Beachgrass started it, holding grass in its roots and sheltering sand grains and seeds with its leaves against the wind, until cottonwoods grew and were themselves covered by mighty parabolic dunes.

That was where Nikan hoped to find a safe spot for his last night of the test. His goal was the highest dune in their territory, Mt. Tom.

It was a struggle to climb the two-hundred-foot hill, especially barefoot, as the singing sands parted with his footfalls. The soughing sound with each step was the only comfort in his long battle up the steep, 33-degree slope. Nikan fell onto his hands and knees now and again, breathless, when the sand gave way more than expected. Moonlight illuminated the dune just enough to keep his feet out of the sharp-edged beachgrass that covered most of it.

He reached the open top of the dune dizzy with hunger, too exhausted to take another step. But when he stopped watching his footing long enough to look up, he was amazed by the beauty of the night. The moonlight made the foaming breakers wash ashore from the Big Lake in moving lines of glowing white. The sounds of their collapse on the shore mirrored his panting. The sand on the shore stretched in great curves east and west. He raised his arms to match their arcs. The Big Lake cast a coal black shadow all the way to the horizon. Stars beamed above, swaying this way and that in the summer heat. Not a cloud marred the inky sky in which they swam.

Nikan let the world wash over him, through him. He lay on his back, spread his arms wide, slid his fingers into the cool sand, and stared up. A shooting star flitted. Soon more came, wider arcs in yellow and orange. Nikan was enraptured. But when a big, bright green one headed his way and burst before his face with a thunderous boom, he cried out in fear.

“Who’s there?” a voice called out—in English.

October 2030: ELDON

Elaine Trich, the slim, Eurasian former nun who served as chief ethics officer for the Genocide Project pointed at the image of Roy. “He made it! Now bring him back!”

The image of Roy walking along the ridge at the top of the dune at night looked eerie until one got used to it. The flat screen showed his face as orange, his swinging arms in lurid yellows. The grasses around him looked mauve. Only the sandy shore was in natural-looking tans. The tans were much the same as those out the window, a view of Lake Michigan’s southwestern shoreline from a conference room in a luxurious high-rise.

CEO Eldon Muntz turned from the screen to look down his nose at Elaine. His wide-eyed boyish face belied his intent. “Inane, tell me again. Why are you with us?”

“It’s Elaine! You know perfectly well, Eldon. And, clearly, you need ethical guidance. Claiming Roy gave informed consent by pushing the key into the slot is self-delusion.”

Hernan DeSoto, the chief of IT and, at age 45, the elder statesman of the group, said, “He did invoke magic—he wanted to go somewhere. The question is, are we going to leave him in 1810, and make him stay? Do we go for data on the Indian Relocation, or is the technical feat enough for now?”

Elaine said, “Bring him back to 1948 where he belongs! The rats never survived more than two jumps with their maze-running time intact. For God’s sake!”

They had thought it a master stroke when Hernan produced the arrowhead-statuette combination. The simulation of native copper was superb. The tranachron-transmitter combination in the lump was invisible. Its infrared holo-camera gave weird images, but it worked even inside Roy’s pocket. And it allowed the illusion of agency by a simple action of the person holding it.

Eldon raised his hands for silence. “Look, everyone, we don’t have to decide today. Let’s see what happens--whether the boys bond. We have all the time in the world.”