September 24, 2018 | Occasus | Issue 8 | Creative Nonfiction
Migiziwigwan
(The Bald Eagle Feather)
The day started with the hum of chatter. There had been an eagle at the dump, and the community was buzzing about it all morning, so Warren and I drove out to see it for ourselves. It was exciting; bald eagles weren’t often seen in the area especially during the winter months. The Saugeen First Nation community believed that the eagle might provide a resolution to the conflict at the Band Office; raptors could hear messages from the Creator. “Don’t see an eagle,” Warren shouted, “a few bears though.” He climbed back into the truck and handed me an eagle feather. The feather didn’t look particularly impressive—like a large gull feather I might find on a walk along my parent’s beach in British Columbia. Still, there was something special about it—perhaps it was because the feather was from such a sacred bird. I ran my fingers across the thin silky bristles, careful not to separate the vanes from the tiny barbules that held it smoothly intact. Back at the big house, I enjoyed a cup of coffee while Warren sat eating his breakfast. The quiet was interrupted by a loud bang on the door followed by two burly men piling into the foyer. This was a common occurrence in our household, one that used to frustrate me. “Boys!” I looked at them in disappointment, “take your snowy boots off outside, before you come in.” Everyone laughed, and Barry and Ben stomped the snow onto the floor mat. I grabbed the broom and began cleaning. “They seen an eagle down by the dump this morning,” Barry said with his usual jovial tone. “Probably hangin’ out close to the river because it hasn’t froze,” he added. “How was the naming ceremony for Mindy?” Warren asked, giving Barry an acknowledging nod. “They named her Blue Herron Woman,” I said smiling. The day before, I had attended a naming ceremony with Lisa and her cousin Mindy. Mindy handed out blackberries from a wicker bowl to honour her new name. Moments after the ceremony finished, a teenage boy came rushing into the house and declared, “There's a porcupine roadkill along the B-Line, just after the gas station!” Everyone jumped up from the table and headed out the door. Lisa explained later that the quills would be used for boxes and jewelry to sell, and the meat would be eaten. Life on the Saugeen First Nation was very different from where I grew up and even with the extensive poverty and political differences, the support community members had for each other was infinite. Barry and Ben were brothers who had both lived on the territory since birth and they both agreed that even though things could be hard sometimes, they would be there until their last breath. They hunted for food, sold cedar brows in the winter and did small jobs for money throughout the year. Warren had moved to the US and had only returned a few years earlier accepting a policing position in his home community. “We set beaver traps again yesterday,” Barry said, reaching for the coffee pot “With that eagle around, there will be movement in the river,” He added, “you should come with us,” Barry looked over at me smiling. “What, beaver hunting?” I couldn’t hide my reluctance, I was nine months pregnant and had endured extensive rounds of doctors’ appointments and ultrasounds which had left my specialist scratching his head: “Everything looks normal and fine, but I just can’t figure out where you're hiding that baby?” The Doctor’s fears were warranted, I was still wearing a size four jean. I gave Warren the wide-eyed stare, but he was excited about the idea of an outing for me and encouraged me to go along. So, with late morning in the sky, and a few extra layers of clothing for warmth, I hopped into Barry’s old ford truck. The air seemed particularly cold and I could feel the hairs in my nostrils sticking together. “Keep bundled.” Barry cautioned, “the heater in this old truck ain’t workin’.” I pulled my scarf up tightly. Driving through the ‘Res’ didn’t match the typical cliché one would expect of a First Nation territory. The land was cared for, gardens pruned, and wilderness left for animals to seek out their symbiotic existence. Still reluctant about the trip, I leaned over and looked through the side window and spotted an old dilapidated camper trailer sitting on an empty lot. There were several men huddled around a fire with one man ringing out a pair of wet jeans and hanging them on a clothesline. I felt overwhelming sadness seeing them, and I mentioned it to Ben. “It must be difficult to dry clothes like that in this cold.” Ben just laughed and pointed to another house with clothes on their line. “They can’t afford hydro,” he said. By the time we reached the edge of the forest, it was lunch and Barry dragged out an old cooler from the back of the truck. Fresh scone and corn soup made by Warren’s mother was on the menu. Corn soup wasn't my favourite; it always reminded me of dirty dishwater with those bits of leftover food floating around, but I kept that thought to myself. Ben and Barry started hunting for some kindling to start a fire and I set up a little dining spot on an old stump. I loved the smell of campfire – it reminded me when my father used to take us camping over the summers as children. We pulled the foldout chairs from the backseat and settled in around the fire. “Tell me about beaver hunting?” I asked looking over at Barry. “I feel like I need to be prepared for what I might see.” This made both men laugh hysterically. “Just look the other way,” Ben said still smiling. I reached down into my bag and removed the bald eagle feather that Warren had given to me. “We found this at the dump this morning,” I said showing it to them. Barry reached out and took the feather. “A bald eagle feather has many teachings in our culture,” Barry said, “It’s one of the seven teachings and the bird hears messages from the Creator.” “We believe it is a good sign for hunting” Ben added. Barry handed it back and I carefully wrapped in the cloth and placed it back in my bag. “You carry a bridge between our two people.” Barry said pointing at my belly. “That feather was meant for you.” We packed up the remaining lunch carefully as not to waste the leftovers and put out the fire. As we walked along the path there was little conversation. I was captivated by the sweet smell of wet cedar and the sunlight on the snow made it sparkle. Nature’s glitter, I thought to myself. Ben following behind cutting the lower hanging cedar branches, adding them to the bundle accumulating in his backpack. Later, the bundles would be sold to floral shops to make bouquets and arrangements. The first stream we came across showed no sign of a beaver. The flowing water powered its way through, causing ice to build up on either side. The beaver snares were homemade from sticks and wire, and they were wedged invisibly between each side of the rushing water. A beaver could easily be caught attempting to maneuver its way through the channel. Barry leaned down and readjusted the trap pushing it deeper into the stream. “Darn cold!” he laughed as he pulled his hand out of the icy water, returning it to his woolen glove. Standing up, he extended his hand out to help me cross the planks of slippery wood that crossed the creek. The rough-hewn bridge wasn’t craftsmanship, but it served its purpose perfectly. The second trap had snared a beaver still struggling to escape. Barry and Ben both ran ahead and without hesitation, Barry pulled a mallet from his bag and struck it over the head. The beaver lay limp in the water. “Miigwech,” Barry said while he washed the blood from the pelt. “It means thank you,” Ben said looking over at me. I remembered seeing beaver pelts being sold for bassinette liners at a Pow Wow I had attended the summer before. I wandered the booths admiring the fine beaded jewelry and the arts and crafts. The booth keepers never attempted to sell anything. Instead, they sat quietly waiting for someone to buy their goods. We are people with soft voices, my friend Lisa told me later; our stories are the same. The beaver pelts were like the people, intrinsic and warm. I could never kill a beaver; I wasn’t a hunter, but I felt a deeper understanding of this honorable way of life: they took nothing that wasn’t needed, and they were thankful for the Creator’s offerings. The night set in early as it does in January and on the drive home the three of us joked around while remembering our incredible day. Without explanation, Barry pulled the truck to the side of the road in front of the old dilapidated trailer we had driven by earlier that morning. The flames of the firelight licked the tops of the branches before collapsing back down into the pit. The silhouettes of the men around the fire created ghostlike shadows on the trees and I could hear their gentle laughter from inside the truck. Barry hopped out and pulled the beaver from the back, walked it over and laid it on a picnic table beside the camper. I looked over at Ben in surprise. “He just gave it away?” I said confused. Neither Barry nor Ben said a word for the rest of the drive home but when Warren was there to meet us as we pulled into the driveway, they were their regular jovial selves. “Any good catches?” Warren said opening the truck door. “Nah,” Barry said smiling, “But we’ll try again tomorrow, there was an eagle at the dump today, it’s a good sign.” |
TIFFANY AUSTIN is a returning student, coming back to Western to finish her degree. After 20 years of raising three children, Tiffany is finding the writer within and working towards her goal of completing novel about her childhood. Tiffany’s connection to the First National community is strong because of her time spent living in the Saugeen First Nations. Her relationship with the First Nations People has impacted her life and spirit as witnessed in her writings of this incredible culture and people.