Chickadee by Louise Erdrich Page B

strode to the nun.
    â€œWhere is the boy?” Two Strike asked in Ojibwe.
    Sister Seraphica smiled, then looked at the knives in Two Strike’s belt. The smile dropped off her face. She looked worried.
    â€œWhere is our boy?” asked Animikiins, who spoke some English.
    He put his hand out at Chickadee’s height.
    â€œBoy,” he said again.
    â€œGone!” said Seraphica.
    Mother Anthony came into the doorway behind her.
    â€œNot only gone, but he stole a knife from us!”
    Two Strike didn’t understand the Mother’s language, but she knew that the woman had made an accusation. Two Strike growled fiercely and stuck her face close to the women.
    Mother Anthony gave a little scream and disappeared back into the cabin.
    Seraphica stayed put.
    â€œHe ran away,” said Seraphica. “He was a good boy, and Mother Anthony, ah … upset him. He ran into the woods. I think he was going home.”
    Animikiins despaired. He looked at the trees and brush, at the woods that would become great pines and extend on into the great northern forests. Once Chickadee entered the woods, there was no way of finding his trail. Animikiins knew that his son was clever, and for his size he was a strong boy, but could he survive alone in the wild woods? There were so many dangers, not the least of them other humans.
    â€œThere is nothing to do, but look and look,” he told Two Strike.
    With bitter, sinking hearts, the two led the horses into the forest looking for signs of Chickadee. Animikiins was such a good tracker that even after days had passed, he could pick up a trail. He tried, and found signs. Broken plants here, a nest where Chickadee had slept, a place where he’d dug for roots, a little fire pit, places where he’d used his knife to cut bark for tea. The bones of rabbits, the hollowed-out shell of a turtle. They saw he was following a river, and Animikiins smiled.
    â€œHe knows how to live,” he said proudly, pointing at a lean-to shelter and a scorched place where his son had made a fire.
    â€œThis boy is a true Anishinabe,” Two Strike agreed.
    Animikiins used all his skills. But the earth is good at swallowing up all traces of people. At last, in spite Animikiins’s great powers, they lost his trail.

NINETEEN
UNCLE QUILL

    C hickadee tried to sleep underneath a Red River cart. He was curled in a buffalo robe next to his Uncle Quill. Draped with buffalo skins, the cart became a snug tent with plenty of room underneath. It was a moonless night, the air was fresh and cool, and Chickadee was warmly wrapped. Uncle Quill slept silently. His breath whooshed evenly, in and out. It was surprising how quiet the carts were once evening fell; the ponies and oxen set about grazing, and everyone made camp.
    Of course, at some distance away, there was a party of Metis people laughing around a fire. Quill loved fun and would have stayed up late with them, telling stories and learning their songs. But tonight Quill had felt that his little nephew needed to sleep, and he’d turned in early with Chickadee.
    Chickadee should have slept, he was exhausted. He could feel the tiredness creep through his bones and his head was fuzzy with sleep. But Chickadee couldn’t quite fall asleep. First of all, there was the sound of musical crying. He’d never heard it before, and he kept sitting up, his ears open. He heard the sound of people singing to the crying music that sometimes skipped and sometimes wailed. Even when he did doze off, Chickadee kept waking up out of dreams in which he was home, with Makoons. He woke with a start, longing for his brother, disoriented and fearful.
    At last the music and the voices fell silent. Way off across the distant roll of prairie, wolves howled. An owl glided over and dove for a mouse. One squeak, and it was over. The grass rustled in the wind. Chickadee nestled deeper into the buffalo robe. The fluffy thick fur surrounded him and he began