Reclaiming Mni Sota by Colin Mustful

Author:Colin Mustful
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: History Through Fiction LLC
Published: 2023-03-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 18

WasabishkiMakwa

Gaa-mitaawangaagamaag / Gaagaagiwigwani-ziibi

Abitaa-niibino-giizis

(Sandy Lake / Crow Wing River, July 1862)

As Waabi walked through the scattered sunlight of the familiar wooded terrain, he felt the firmness of each step against the softness of the forest floor. The early morning summer dew that clung to the sage leaves soaked his torn and muddied moccasins and spread cold water up the tattered hems of his pant legs. Without the benefit of a canoe, he was guided by a natural bearing ingrained in his lifeblood from years of living off the land and centuries of ancestral heritage. His feet hurt and his stomach rumbled, but he thought only of his father who had done nothing to deserve the bitter, lonely death he experienced merely by following the orders of the American government. His father, who died when he was still just a boy. His father, who was not here now to give him wisdom or direction.

Waabi arrived at Gaa-mitaawangaagamaag after a five-day journey from Miskwaabikaang. It was not his final destination. He sought Gaagaagiwigwani-ziibi where it intersected with Misi-ziibi, since he knew this was the nearest agency that was enlisting Indians for the white man’s war. It was also the place that Agnes had left to—a place called Crow Wing. But that is not what propelled him forward. Agnes was an infatuation of childhood remaining only in the back of his mind, perhaps even the longings of his heart. But at the front of his mind were grief, anger, and a desire to find himself.

The lake was crystal clear and shone with a brightness that forced Waabi to shield his eyes. Walking north and west along the shore while sidestepping moss-covered birch trees that reached toward the clear blue sky, he found a camp of scattered summer lodges. The people there, about half a dozen families, were drying meat, scraping furs, and resting in the sprinkled sunshine.

“Boozhoo, I am WasabishkiMakwa,” he said, meeting a camp of Ojibwe who lived near the lake. “You may call me Waabi.” He then asked his fellow Ojibwe where he might find the burial location of those who perished at the annuity incident half a generation earlier. They responded with looks of despair, as if their loved ones were killed only days earlier. “We will show you,” one of the clansmen said, “but you must take your mourning elsewhere.”

“Where shall I mourn?” Waabi asked with the sincerity of a child.

The man shook his head. “Our fallen kin were not shown the spirit path. We do not know where they shall be mourned. We know only they are not here.”

Waabi followed the man, an elder who wore the traditional clothing of leggings and breechcloth, to a small hill on the north end of the lake. It was treeless, covered in crimson clovers and lush green grass. The elder pointed, looked Waabi in the eyes, said nothing and walked away.

Emotionless, Waabi stood there admiring the pristine look of the mound. After a few silent moments, he felt a rush of sadness and fell to his knees as if struck by a blow to the gut.

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