Chickadee Read Online Free Page B

eaten the entire back away.
    Now the whole camp howled with laughter. John Zhigaag had been mean to nearly everyone around him, and there were few who had much sympathy for him. But as he stamped and roared and swore he would get even, he woke his big angry sons, who had ridden up to the camp the day before on shaggy brown horses.
    Whether or not these two hard-faced men had sympathy for their father was impossible to tell. They watched impassively as their father raved and swore at the pieces of his coat. They did not help him. But their cold narrow eyes passed over the other people one by one, and many of those who laughed fell silent.
    These two sons, Babiche and Batiste, were silent, crafty, massive men who liked no one better than each other. They trusted only each other. Having been starved and beaten by their father in their youth, they came to his aid only for form’s sake. They looked around the gathering to ascertain who had embarrassed their father, not because they loved him, but because they loved revenge.
    A pall fell over everybody at the camp, and Nokomis stamped away muttering that the gathering would be ruined now. With these two hard men watching everything that took place, the ease and pleasure of the undertaking, the taste of sugar after a hard winter, and the sharing of the maples’ gifts, would be spoiled, she said.
    She had no idea that things would be worse, much worse, than that.
    Later that day, as Chickadee and Makoons again hauled makak after makak of sap to the giant boiling kettles, they tried to avoid Zhigaag and his two sons. Luckily, their mother was engaged in the difficult but delightful task of making sugar. Both boys put down their makakoon and stayed near to help her, and help Nokomis, knowing that their reward would be a cone or two of sugar as a treat.
    Omakayas knelt beside a maple log that Animikiins had scraped and smoothed into a sugaring trough. Nokomis ladled syrup, which had been boiled until it was so hot the surface crumpled like a thick skin, onto the heavy tray. Then the two women took turns working it back and forth with wooden paddles carved especially for this task.
    This was very hard work—the women kept the paddles constantly in motion and stirred the syrup fast, fast, fast, until it magically crystalized into lovely, sandy-colored grains. But even though they were panting and their arms had begun to ache, both were smiling. The scent of the new sugar was so pleasant, and behind them the kettles of bubbling sap and hot fires exuded such a fine aroma. Birds fluttered and sang out high in the branches. The cool, fresh breeze came from Zhawanong, the South, the bringer of green life to the Anishinabe world.
    A visitor sat watching them on a stump, asking questions from time to time. He spoke French or English, so Nokomis couldn’t understand him. But Omakayas, who knew and understood the languages from listening to her father, answered the man in the black robe.
    Mekadewikonayewinini. Black Robe.
    That’s what Omakayas called the curious man. Catholic priests were known as the black robes—they dressed in the same curious costumes and carried a certain book. They sometimes pulled out anama’eminensag, or what some called praying berries or praying ropes. Their hands moved on these strings of beads as they recited the same words over and over. They were interesting people, and sometimes took the trouble to learn the Anishinabe language. This priest lived as the Anishinabe did, too, and traveled with those who had moved out onto the Plains. He was known to them all as Father Genin. This priest had come to the sugaring camp in order to learn about how the Ojibwe made their delicious sugar. This priest had traveled from the prairies past the Pembina Hills, with the two hard sons of Zhigaag. On the way, he’d hoped to convert them, but seeing as all the way there they’d fought, swore, hit their horses, drank whiskey, and insulted each other