I always thought it would be Raven. The one who finally decided it was time to teach me. Raven seemed like the right fit. In all the big stories, he’s the leading man. A beautiful bird with glossy black feathers. He’s strong and graceful. Got a sharp wit and clever tongue. I heard that he found the First People on the beaches of the West Coast. That he stole the sun one day just for the fun of it. Tough, self-assured, a good sense of humour. All the things a real Spirit Guide should be.
As I drive, I press the lever down to wash the windshield and watch as the pale blue liquid shoots onto the glass. I hold it down longer than I should, watching as the wipers move back and forth. Most of the bugs come off in the first pass, but a particularly juicy one stays put. No matter. I know this road well. The early-August corn is high in the fields on either side of me. I roll the windows down to let the fresh country air into the car. A flurry of birds rushes into the sky from one of the fields as I pass. I track their silhouettes for as long as I can, then return to scanning the highway stretched out in front of me.
Raven was always the one the elders and other storytellers told us about. Tales of how he stole Crow’s potlatch. How he made that proud bird sing and sing and sing until his voice was nothing but a croak, all while Raven gorged himself on food. How he’d created the world and then messed it up. A trickster and a transformer. A herald of change, sometimes by accident and sometimes on purpose. A writer who only ever uses ink, who thinks that using pencil means admitting to mistakes.
And yet I know why it couldn’t ever have been Raven. He doesn’t belong to us. The Indians of Spirit Bear Point don’t tell stories about Kakagi. Sure, I can smirk knowingly when I hear people talk about him here and there, but he’s not mine. Me and Raven—we’re different beasts. Hell, me and Raven aren’t even the same kind of Indian. We aren’t even neighbours. Something like three thousand kilometres separates us. No, it could never have been Raven. Then Wisakedjak maybe? “Whisky jack,” as my pale-skin brothers and sisters call him.
Funny how saying it like that makes people understand. As if it’s unheard of that the White Man might know a few words of a Native language, leastways enough to understand what we’re saying. But no. Easier to throw in alcohol. Another Indian always hounded by booze. He’s a trickster too. One of many in a long line. A brother or cousin to Raven and Coyote. Wisakedjak is closer to home, a neighbour who lives in the next town over. He’s a nice guy, a friend to the People. But he’s not a friend of mine. He lives farther south and farther west.
So, it wasn’t Wisakedjak either. That’s his Cree name, and I am not Cree. Anishnaabeg call him something else. Nanabush. Yes. Now that I’ve said it, thought it, felt it, I know that it’s right. It’s a name that has a certain weight on the tongue. A taste. Like lit sage in a windowless room. Or aluminum foil on an old filling.
All the stories about Nanabush read like the memoirs of an ancient troublemaker. Someone with the power to do great things but who doesn’t want to put in the work. The old, good tales they tell around a fire say he was here when the world was young. That he was a child of the People and of the gods—if you can call them gods. Not our word, but I don’t know what else to think. He had power, but so did everyone. Power that is unnoticed becomes stale. So Nanabush did what he wanted. Served himself and his interests. I think of him as a creature of endless summer. Someone who says, “I have time, so I’ll do it later.” Later, later, later, until it’s too late.
Then again, I remember hearing how G’tchi Manitou sent him here to teach the People. His first task: naming all of the plants and animals. That must have been difficult. I have a hard enough time choosing a name for pets. I can’t imagine having to figure out that a silverfish should be called a silverfish. But he did it. That Nanabush. He named everything from the eagle in the sky to the fish in the sea. I never understood how he could be a brilliant shapeshifter one moment and then the next he’s tumbling naked down a hillside.
Makes me wonder how he stacks up against all the stories about him. Smart guy, dumb choices? Is that why he came to me? So I could piece his story back together? He’s looking for a chance to rewrite his history. I’m getting ahead of myself. After all, that crow only shows up when I’m sleeping. Could be a dream. Or a hallucination. Thinking about it only raises more questions. Who is Nanabush and why would I pick that figment of my imagination to fixate on? Honestly, we’re strangers. I’m making all of this up to try to reconcile the mess that is my life. No job. Dead dad …
Source: McBride, Karen. Winter Crow. HarperCollins Canada, 2019. pp. 1—6