Warnings at Pictured Rocks

Wabeno - Part 1, Chapter 5

Archie Fayette woke before dawn and stumbled to the bathroom. On his way to the toilet, he stopped at the mirror and pressed a finger to his forehead—another liver spot. Damned things are sprouting up like mushrooms. He took two more steps, dropped his boxers, and waited. Nothing happened. He tried to relax. A few days ago, he turned on the faucet to coax himself into going. Not a moment before conceding defeat, the waterworks turned on. Oh, thank God. Megwetch! He stood there a minute longer, waiting for the dripping to stop. My plumbing doesn’t work half the time, and when it does, I can’t get it to shut off. He laughed at himself.

Turning to the shelf, Archie grabbed the toothpaste he had made from mint leaves mixed with baking soda. He believed that most modern conveniences are just scams run by marketing agencies to sell products no one needs, but which make the rich richer and fill Mother Earth with plastic junk. The Creator’s Original Instructions told humanity to live in harmony and balance with all creation, requiring a simpler life. By making small changes, people can detach themselves from toxic living.

         Archie dressed in jogging pants and an old sweatshirt and walked into the living room, where his old hound dog Boozer lay curled up on the couch. As Archie entered the kitchen, Boozer stirred from his rest, jumped down, and followed at a respectful distance. Archie retrieved the meatloaf leftover from last night’s dinner, carved a slice, and placed it in Boozer’s dish. The dog sniffed it but refused to eat. “For God’s sake, can’t you eat it without?” The dog stared up at Archie with a hopeful look. “Oh, all right, but you're spoiled.” Archie reached into the refrigerator and grabbed the ketchup bottle. Once he smeared the meatloaf red, Boozer devoured it in three bites.

         Archie shook his head and chuckled. Dogs and people aren’t happy unless things go their way. He slipped on his shoes, grabbed a blue and black duffel bag from the table in the back room, and stepped outside. Not far from the front door, the ground suddenly dropped off in a steep cliff, plunging forty feet into Lake Superior, Gitchi Gami – The Great Lake. This area gave the reservation its name, Mazinaabikiniganan, or Pictured Rocks. The sun broke the eastern horizon, casting a long glow over the stunning sandstone formation along the lakeshore—sacred land with waterfalls, medicine caves, and white sand beaches, all inhabited by powerful manitous, spirits honored with tobacco offerings. On a rocky point ahead and to the right was the curious rock formation the white folks called “the castle,” but in the Ojibway language, it was known as Asiniiwipwaagan, Stone Pipe. Downshore to the right, beyond the Serpent River, Indianhead public beach was known for wild parties and, more often than not, police. To the left, across the water, was Gitchi-Minisiing, Grand Island, once home to an Ojibway community. Though Gitchi-Minisiing wasn’t part of the territory reserved for the Pictured Rocks Indian Reservation, treaties preserved the Ojibway’s right to hunt, fish, and gather throughout the ceded territory, allowing them access to the island for cultural purposes. Still, losing the island as a sovereign land hurt deeply, and many elders felt a bitterness whenever the subject came up.

         Spreading out his blanket, Archie sat facing east and prayed toward the rising sun. Vibrant bluish-green water lapped against the rock face below. Taking sacred items from his bundle, he placed his smudge shell to the front center, his zhiishiigwan (rattle) to the right, and a migiziwigwan (eagle feather) decorated with a black and blue spiral-beaded quill to the left. He set his opwaagan (ceremonial pipe) beside the feather, with the stem facing east, not yet connected to the bowl. He pulled out a pinch of silvery gray leaves from a brown paper bag and rolled them into a tight ball between his palms. Taking a lighter from his pocket, he said, “Ah’ho, mushkoday wushk.” The sage ignited immediately, and Archie allowed the wind to blow out the flames. The smoldering leaves produced fragrant white smoke. Placing the smudge in the shell, he leaned over the blanket and bathed himself in the smoke, cupping it with his hands and directing it over his head. Archie then smudged each item on the blanket, and after connecting the pipe bowl and stem, passed the whole pipe back through. Saying, “Asemaa,” he drew seven pinches of tobacco from his pouch and tapped each down into the pipe bowl with a carved stick.

         Standing with the rattle in his right hand and the ceremonial pipe in his left, close to his heart, with the stem facing the eastern horizon, Archie sang a fast, old song, asking the Great Mystery to bless his pipe and accept his prayers. After singing, he set the rattle down and picked up the eagle feather. In Anishinabemowin, he said, “Great Mystery, I am Biijibiisaan, Coming Rain, from the Bear Clan. I thank you for another day on Mother Earth. Thank you for the many blessings I’ll enjoy today, the food I’ll eat, my home, my family and friends, and my people. I ask you to bless the Pictured Rocks reservation. I ask you to guide me throughout the day. Guide my thoughts and actions. Help me, as a Mide, walk the earth with a good heart. Ah’ho, megwetch.”

         Archie set the feather back on the blanket, placing it into its protective case to keep the wind from taking it. Lighting the pipe, he inhaled the sacred smoke, praying for blessings from the spirits in the east. Turning the pipe clockwise, Archie faced south and repeated his prayer, then turned west and north. Returning to the east, he knelt to offer the pipe to Mother Earth and, standing again, swept the eastern sky with the stem. Finally, he offered it to the Great Mystery dwelling at the center of all creation. As he finished, he held the pipe high, stem aimed skyward. After praying, he lowered it while keeping it vertical, turning the entire pipe four times clockwise. Cradling it in his right arm, he said, “Megwetch, Gitchi Manitou! Thank you for another day.”

As he packed up his bundle and headed for the house, the sun rose above the horizon, lifting the morning chill. He changed shirts and asked Boozer, “Wanna run with me?” The dog looked at him with a passive expression. No, but thanks for asking.

         Leaving Boozer to face his tough life, Archie jogged down Lakeshore Road, a six-mile round trip from his house to the Mosquito River and back. The road extended for another thirteen miles past Beaver Lake to the reservation’s eastern border at Seven Mile Creek, but running a marathon required more stamina than Archie had. He stayed in decent shape at sixty-eight years old, but small problems cropped up now and then, which pushed him to keep running. Aabajitoon gemaa wanitoon. Use it or lose it.

On his way home, he paused in the middle of the road. A feeling best described as the heebie-jeebies washed over him. His skin crawled, and goosebumps formed on his arms and neck. He slowly turned around, studying the landscape. A Great Horned Owl perched on a twisted, gnarled cedar growing from the bare rocks near the lakeshore, known to everyone on the Rez as the “Witch Tree.” The owl locked eyes with Archie and flew straight overhead to the south, as bad an omen as any in Ojibway belief. Even more unsettling, their eyes met, and Archie had the strange impression that the owl knew him. Spooked but curious, he approached the ancient tree. Sometimes, people hung offerings from it—tobacco ties or sacred items for the spirits—but nothing was hanging there this morning. He shook off the creeps and quickened his pace home. 

When his house came into view, Archie slowed down and walked toward his hollowed-out birch log mailbox. The door was partly open, and it was at least two hours too early for the mail if Nick even bothered to deliver it. Reaching inside, he grabbed a sealed, unmarked envelope. He held it to the light, but the paper wasn’t translucent. Huh. Well, first things first.

Tossing his strange mail on his kitchen table, Archie cracked eggs into a frying pan and turned on the radio. After an intertribal Powwow song, a familiar voice announced, “Boozhoo, you’re listening to Jordan Niibaataa Standish on WPIC – the Pic – the voice of the Pictured Rocks Indian Reservation. It’s a beautiful Thursday morning, and if you tuned in during the last twenty minutes, you heard four songs from Black Mesa Drum on their new album, ‘Thunder Nation.’ Alright, it’s time for another PIC poser. Remember, the first caller who gets it right wins a dozen donuts from Four Winds Gas Station. Ready for this? Hoh-kay, the question is: ‘How many roads must an Indian walk before the government calls him sovereign?’ Here’s our first caller. Who am I talking to?”

Archie flipped the eggs with a smile. Boozer picked up the scent and wandered into the kitchen.

“This is David Waagosh.”

“Right on, David, and how many roads must an Indian walk before the government calls him sovereign?”

“Eight.”

“Good answer. Why eight, David?”

“That’s how many roads we got on the Rez.”

“Makes sense. You just won donuts, David. Congrats!”

“Yeah, megwetch, Jordan.”

“Other good answers are four, seven, or twenty-eight. Can’t go wrong with sacred numbers.”

Archie pursed his lips and nodded.

Jordan continued, “A special thanks goes out to Pictured Rocks drum, who joined us for our ‘Honor Our Elders’ fundraiser over the weekend. In other news, witnesses in eastern Minnesota and central to northern Wisconsin reported UFO sightings last night across fourteen counties. Witnesses reported a bright blue light shooting across the sky. Meteorologists claim the sightings were rare atmospheric electrical phenomena called ball lightning. In this Indian's humble opinion, the witnesses and the scientists should pass whatever they’re smoking around the circle. Ho-ah.”

Archie turned off the stove, slid his eggs onto a plate, and sat down to open the mysterious envelope. Sliding his finger under the corner, he tore along the top and pulled out a paper slip displaying a hand-drawn diagram.

“What the hell?” he said, studying the image. It took him less than a minute to understand what it meant. “The Midewiwin Grand Medicine Lodge, but why give this to me?” The dark figure at the bottom, hidden among the trees, provoked a strong reaction–dread and loathing. It stood apart from the Midewiwin Lodge or was removed from the lodge. The word Midewiwin derived from Mino, meaning “Good,” and Ode, or “Heart.” Together, it meant “The People of the Good Heart.” The longer Archie stared at the entity hiding in the forest, the more profound his fear became. “Here, bud,” he said, setting the eggs on the floor for Boozer. “I lost my appetite.”