Chickadee (9 page)

At first light, while the men were still sleeping, Chickadee crept out of his covers and noticed that there was another lump of blankets in the cabin. He kindled the fire from the banked ashes, and added buffalo chips. Because there was another lump on the floor, which he assumed was a person, Chickadee added an extra big chunk of moldy old meat to the kettle, and slipped out for an extra dollop of snow. As the bouyah slowly warmed, he stirred in the flour. There were also plenty of mice droppings from the night before. No matter how tightly Chickadee put the lid on the kettle, mice somehow got into the stew pot. He was already used to the musty taste.

As the stew heated up, the cabin air filled with the unsavory steam so beloved by the Zhigaag brothers.

“Ah,” said Babiche, stirring and yawning, “how good it is to have a servant!”

“Awee,” said Batiste, “he creates a good bouyah, this boy. He makes bouyah like our mother used to make!”

The brothers paused and made the sign of the cross and kissed their lips.

“Mon dieu!”
they cried. “This boy was well worth stealing.”

“Stealing?” Orph Carter had awakened. “You stole him?”

“Har, har, har,” said Babiche. “We stole this boy from the family of Mikwam, Ice, and the hunter Animikiins, whose wife is Omakayas and whose brother is Quill. She has a sister, Angeline, whose husband is Fishtail. They have a grandmother with them and they sometimes travel with a strange woman called Two Strike.”

“Two Strike?”

Orph Carter jumped out of his blankets.

“Have some bouyah,” said Batiste, spooning a glop of the stuff onto a slab of wood and passing it to Orph.

“Are you fellows crazy?”

“You would be the crazy one,” said Babiche, “if you passed up this delicious stew.”

Orph pushed away the plank.

“I'd rather eat boiled mice,” he said.

“All right,” said Batiste, bending over the stew pot, “I'll dig around and get some for you.”

“Two Strike? You have stolen some boy from Two Strike? She'll gut you like a fish when she finds out.”

“Har?” said Babiche.

“She will lay in wait for you with two knives between her teeth, two knives in her hands, a knife in her hat, knives in her socks. For all I know, that woman carries a knife in her britches too. Those knives will flash out and cut you to ribbons before you can say—”

“More bouyah,” said Batiste. “What are you two talking about?”

“A savage and frightening woman,” said Babiche, but he was not worried. “She sounds like just the woman for us, my brother! Har!”

“I'm getting out of here,” said Orph. “Take the mail sack. I'm going out to saddle up Sylvia. Poor Sylvia. I'd hoped to get her more rest. But I don't want to be here when Two Strike comes after this boy.”

Babiche and Batiste spooned their stew hastily into their mouths, tossed down the bowls and spoons to be licked clean by mice, and picked up the sacks of mail.

“We'll ride out too,” said Babiche, “not because we are afraid of this Two Strike, but because we have taken a blood oath pledge to deliver this precious mail.”

As he bolted out the door, Orph pointed at Chickadee.

“And what about him?”

“We'll pop him in a mail sack and take him along,” said Batiste.

“Oh, no,” groaned Chickadee. “Not the mail sack again.”

Batiste raised his fist.

Orph Carter cried out:
“Do. Not. Strike. Him.”

Orph leaped onto his horse, and shouted as he wheeled to gallop south. “Don't you fellows know why she's got the name Two Strike?”

Orph kept yelling the reason, and they might have learned it, too, but as he galloped away in delirious haste, his voice was cut off by wind.

“I'll climb into the mail sack myself,” said Chickadee, bolder now that he knew the brothers would not punch him. “It would be better if you left me here, though. That way, when Two Strike tracks me down, you won't be here. There will just be me. I promise I will tell her that you treated me well!”

The two brothers looked at each other. Then Babiche shrugged. Batiste shuffled his feet around in the snow.

“We would actually
like
to meet this ferocious female,” said Batiste, “and the fact is … you tell him, Babiche.”

“The fact is,” said Babiche with a deep, heartfelt sigh, “although it has been a short time, our affections, they grow quick! We have actually begun to
like
you. Once we
like
a person we can never part with him! Har! Har! Awee!”

“We feel this way about few things,” said Batiste, stuffing Chickadee gently down into the mail sack. “Liking leads to love. Our horses, Brownie and Brownie, we love them with all the passion in our souls. And each other of course, we love. We do
not
like our father, but we will forever love our mother, the miraculous saint!”

“The saint!”

The last sight Chickadee saw that day was the brothers making the cross over their chests, and kissing their fingers, just the way they did the first time they mentioned their mother.

Maybe it is sign language for mother, thought Chickadee. But the black robe priest made that sign too. Of course, priests have mothers.... I wonder if their mothers wear black robes too....

With the mail sack shut, the darkness, and Babiche's woolly vest cradling him again, Chickadee became drowsy.

The horses had stopped. Chickadee was gently lowered to the ground in the mail sack. Babiche let him out.

“There is trouble, my little servant friend,” said Babiche. “Look.”

On the winter-grassy ground still littered with bits of snow, lay Batiste. He was moaning incoherently, clutching his stomach.

“I blame myself,” said Babiche. “Last night, while you were sleeping, we took out a bottle of rotgut whiskey. Batiste is very sensitive. Now his gut is rotting. Terrible!”

There were tears in Babiche's eyes.

“And just as bad, Brownie and Brownie!”

Chickadee noticed that the two horses were panting strangely, foaming at the mouth, and their heads were hanging low.

“There must have been some jimsonweed in their hay. It makes them loco-crazy. We must go on somehow,” said Babiche. “The mail must be delivered! Can you carry this sack?”

Chickadee tried to pick it up, but he couldn't budge it.

“Can you carry Batiste?”

Chickadee tried to pick up Batiste, but he couldn't even manage to hold up one of his heavy tree legs.

“Can you lead the horses?”

Chickadee took the reins.

Babiche looked wildly from his brother, to the heavy mail sack, and back to his brother again. He groaned as if he lay beneath a terrible weight.

“Which to choose? Do I carry my brother? Do I carry the mail? Even with my vast strength, I cannot carry both!”

The horses seemed drunk, rolled their eyes, neighed sadly and softly, spat up green saliva.

“Please tell me what to do, little servant friend,” said Babiche. “Do I carry the mail, which my blood oath compels me to deliver, or do I carry my brother, whom I love beyond all things except my sainted mother, the horses, and now, perhaps you?”

Babiche crossed his chest and kissed his fingers with tragic desperation.

“What would you do?” Babiche asked, his eyes filling with tears.

“I would carry my brother first, then lay him down and go back for the mail. Then repeat. Over and over until you get there. Meanwhile, I would send my servant back to the barn with the sick horses.”

“Not only are you a master cook,” said Babiche, “but you are wise. We will follow your plan.”

So Babiche hoisted his heavy brother onto his back and staggered forward, leaving the mail in its sack on the ground. Chickadee tugged the reins and the addled horses followed him.

“Au revoir!”
called Babiche.

“Gigawaabamin!” cried Chickadee.

They began to walk in opposite directions.

O
makayas woke in silence and poked her head out of the pack of furs. The wind and snow had stopped. It was near dawn, the stars were out, and the air was warm. Omakayas took a pinch of tobacco from the pouch at her waist and put it on the ground.

“Miigwech,” she said to the Southern Thunderbirds. A southern wind had blown the snow away. There was the scent of spring in the air. The family huddled together, relieved. In her heart, Omakayas said a desperate prayer, begging the Creator to keep Chickadee safe.

From a low bush nearby, she heard the soft call of a chickadee, and she smiled in hope. Omakayas and Nokomis built a fire to boil some tea and warm their stomachs. They ate some dried meat flavored with maple sugar. Before dawn, they hitched up their dogs and started walking. They went toward the Red River, for when they reached it they would follow it north, toward Pembina. But in the blizzard, they had lost the trail.

Mikwam, Two Strike, and Animikiins woke in their cave of snow to the noise of dripping water. They had hollowed out their snow cave in the roots of a great tree on the banks of the Red River. It was a cave that led farther back into the earth, but the back wall was a heavy mat of dirt, leaves, and sticks.

As the three of them oriented themselves to the light, there was suddenly a great cracking crash behind them. With a gust of odorous steam, a huge bear scrambled and squeezed by them. The bear liberated itself so suddenly from its den, and was so surprised by its visitors, that in a moment it was gone and the three humans were blinking their eyes and rearranging themselves. Two Strike was out the entrance in a flash, but instead of following the bear, she stood rooted to the riverbank.

Before them, they could see the ice was starting to break up. From their den deep in snow, earth, and roots, they hadn't realized the ice had already begun to jam and melt. Already, the river was too dangerous to cross.

There was no trail for them to follow. They would have to meet the others in Pembina.

“Nevertheless, we will find that boy,” Two Strike said to the river. She hit Animikiins across the shoulders. It was her way of comforting him.