Cipayak

JOSEPH KAKWINOKANASUM

I grew up quickly in the isolated village of Pouce Coupe; Mom had been gone for weeks drinking with her buddies. To make things interesting, all but one of my six siblings had scattered to the wind. It was just me and my eldest sister Deb at home. It was a good time to arrange a sleepover with my buddies Jacob and Eric. I cleared it with Deb and made a couple phone calls on the village party line to my friends, whose parents didn’t like me and weren’t about to let their kids sleep the night with a family like mine. So, Eric and Jacob fudged it. They lied about where they were sleeping while I arranged accommodations in my basement. Then, we met at the general store to buy as much junk food as we could afford with what money we had between us.

In 1979 you could get a lot for five bucks. We loaded up with a big bag of chips, chocolate bars, soda pop, and a shitload of penny candies. We raced back to my place to stash the sodas, chips, and candy bars, then divided the penny candies three ways. Fueled by bitesized sweets, we rode our bikes from one end of town to the other, practising our wheelies and perfecting our powerslides. We took breaks, wrestling like maniacs, and playing Buck Rodgers. By dinnertime we were starving. We headed home and locked our bikes in the backyard shed; in our village they’d be stolen if they weren’t secured. The three of us wrestled through the back door trying to remove our shoes on the porch. I led the way toward the kitchen and the smell of hot dogs. Deb was there, she pointed to the washroom and ordered us to clean up. We raced to the bathroom sink, and Deb hollered, “You can eat downstairs if you promise not make a mess, and clean up after dinner.”

We agreed to her conditions, and from the kitchen to the basement, balanced a plate of hot dogs in one hand and a glass of Kool-Aid in the other. We arranged furniture in front of the TV, ate dinner, and took our plates upstairs like we’d promised; I washed, Eric and Jacob dried. Deb sat at the dining-room table, one eye on her game of solitaire, and the other on us. “You boys can play in the basement as late as you like as long as you’re quiet. Now go wash up for bed.” It was no use resisting, we tried.

“Boys!” yelled Deb from upstairs. “I’m going to bed, watch a movie or something and keep the volume down.”

One good thing about living so far north was, as part of the Northern Living Allowance, every home received the HBO channel. So, we settled in with our junk food to watch Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

We tried to sleep, but our minds swam with extraterrestrial and paranormal what-ifs. “Okay guys,” I said, “Who wants to go stargazin’?” Faces lit, I grabbed my knapsack from the storage room and quietly led the way upstairs; Jacob and Eric fetched our shoes from the porch, I stole my way into the kitchen, prepared a thermos for tea and made three peanut-butter-and-jam bannock sandwiches while waiting for the water to boil. I wrapped the sandwiches in a tea towel and grabbed three tin mugs from the cupboard, a flashlight from the kitchen utility drawer, and some moose-meat jerky from the pantry. After loading the tea with sugar and cream, I tightened the thermos lid and packed it all into my knapsack. Deb did not stir. I crept back downstairs and stuffed in a small blanket and a pack of smokes I’d stolen from Mom’s nightie drawer the week before.

Using a creaky wooden chair to reach the ceiling rafters, we slipped through a small window in the cold storage room. Jacob went first, he stretched over his head and hauled himself up, then aimed his feet toward the windowsill and shimmied out, then I handed the pack to him. Eric went next, but was not the most agile. He struggled to get his feet up to the window; so, Jacob grasped one of his legs and pulled him by the feet while I pushed from underneath. From Eric’s efforts, he farted. I was hit by the smell of sour purple flavour crystals and burned hot dogs. Eric barely squeezed through the window.

I shimmied out last, emerging from the dark storage room to a sky filled with bright stars veiled by the pale Northern Lights; greens and yellows pulsed and

streaked across the sky. I could hear and feel them pop and crackle with powerful energy. I left the window ajar so we could get back into the house, then we climbed the backyard fence and made our way toward the schoolyard.

I whispered to the boys something my mom often warned me about—making loud noises and whistling makes the lights angry. She’d say, “Make ’em angry enough! They’ll carry you away to the other side…”

Jacob said, “My mum ’n dad told me it’s the great ancestors communicating to us from the other side.”

Bursts of red streaked across the sky so bright the stars disappeared.

Eric squeaked, “Wha! What does red mean?” “Anger, now ssh.”

We rolled our eyes at Eric; none of us dared whistle as we walked across the school playground to an open field where my neighbour’s dog, Coyote, ran about. We called her that because she looked like a stout coyote; her favourite pastime was chasing cars. I told Jacob and Eric, “Last week, Albert Moostoose’s stepdad clocked Coyote at forty miles an hour.”

She jumped and ran, zigzagging all over the field. Jacob asked, “Probably chasing mice, eh?”

Coyote made a giant loop, our heads followed as she suddenly changed direction, moments later whipping past. “Man, she’s fast!” said Eric.

We spread the blanket out for midnight tea under a starlit night, Coyote settled in with us, and I gave her jerky to chew while we scanned through the Northern Lights for flying saucers or maybe a falling Russian satellite. We pondered the possibilities of it all; well, as much as one could for a ten-year-old. Then Coyote’s ears perked, she lifted her head and sniffed the cool air. She gave a low base growl—sensed something we didn’t. Suddenly she stood and pointed her nose toward the forest. Jacob pointed, “What’s that?”

We all saw a faint green glow move toward the treeline. Coyote gave chase; her barking yelp stirred up all the dogs fenced in backyards across town. The sky surged energetically. We tried following Coyote but quickly lost her in the bush; she even stopped barking, then our flashlight died, but with the bright glow above we found a familiar trail.

Made over many years by Johnny Muskrat, an old Cree man who lived in the forest, it was the trail to his camp just outside of town. In this part of the world Johnny was the closest living example of a real Native; he knew roots, mushrooms, medicine, too; was a trapper and hunted in the old ways. He knew where to find the sweetest meat and fished with a net made of sinew; the small game he took with a bow and arrow, big game with his Winchester. He cherished every bullet like it was food and clothing for the year.

Jacob whispered, “My dad told me when Johnny’s parents died of the drink, he was brought up by his grandparents in a teepee. Some say he buried his musham and kookum out here.”

Deeper into the forest, the smell of a campfire grew stronger, and we knew we were on the right trail. Soon we ran into Johnny’s camp. He was whistling a low tune and looking up at the Northern Lights. Coyote was resting at his side. In a thick accent, Johnny said softly, “Come sit by the fire boys. Warm yourselves.”

Tin cups rattled as I took off the pack and sat on a stump about the fire. I said, “Hey, Mr. Muskrat, thanks for keeping Coyote.”

He nodded, “What you got in the bag?” Jacob said, “Hot tea, sweet with cream…” I asked, “Would you like some?”

Johnny nodded. Pulling out the tea I filled his Mason jar, then Jacob’s, Eric’s, and mine. I returned the thermos to my pack, grabbed another moose jerky for Coyote, then offered Johnny a sandwich. Hypnotized by the fire, we ate silently while sparks burst; smoke and ash twirled, twisted, then faded into the night sky. The veil of bright Northern Lights seemed to crack, hum, and snap back at the fire. I opened the cigarette pack and handed them out, Johnny first. I placed the pack beside him like my uncle taught me. Johnny reached for a long thin stick at his side and lit it from the fire. He put the flame to my cigarette, then Jacob’s and Eric’s, then he lit his. We smoked, and for long moments, no one said a word.

Then, Johnny spoke, “I walk in the path of the medicine wheel. Starting in the east I moved clockwise around the wheel through the stages: childhood, young adult, to adult, and then elder. For many generations my people have moved with the medicine wheel.”

Johnny told us that when his grandfather was a boy, his great-grandfather told him a story. It was about a man and his son on their hunting trip. He continued,

“They stretched the hunt out as they were having no luck. They hunted late into the day but still nothing. They became lost in the dark. The father pulled out his woodpecker drum, lit a smudge, and offered tobacco. Then Cipayak came out so bright it lit the way to a trail. The son, still angry over the bad hunt, swore loudly as they walked. The father asked his boy to stop making Cipayak angry or risk being taken to the other side.”

Eric asked, “Cipayak?”

Jacob and I shushed him; our arms reached up, fingers pointed to the sky, we whispered, “The Northern Lights.”

Johnny explained, “Cipayak turned red and angry, but the son continued to curse Creator for a poor hunt. The father got as low as he could, lying in the fetal position covered by his moose-hide cloak. Pulling more smudge from his medicine pouch, smoking his pipe, cleansing himself, praying, and beating the small woodpecker drum. Holding up his medicine pouch, he continued to pray for some time. Finally, the boy stopped cursing and eventually Cipayak’s colour turned to greens and blues, and the old man stood from under his blanket. Cipayak showed the two men back to their camp.”

“What happened next?” Eric asked.

Through tired eyes Johnny explained, “Cipayak took the boy three months after that hunting trip. The father’s anger with Creator over his loss was great, but became weather-beaten, forgiven by time before he met his ancestors.” Johnny finished, “Sometimes you hear Cipayak, that crackle-pop-hum, that’s the ancestors talking to the fire. It’s been a long time since I’ve told that story. I miss my grandfather; he told a good tale.” He wiped tears from his face, took big sips of his tea. We said nothing for some time.

Then Eric asked, “So, Cipayak took your grandfather?”

“No, Musham passed away in his teepee when I was a boy.” He looked up, “But Cipayak reminds us we’ll see our ancestors again. I take comfort in that, little warriors, seeing the other side where I know my ancestors are.”

Jacob said, “I would be angry with Cipayak.” “I know I’d be angry,” added Eric.

Johnny looked at us with dark eyes, “Yes, maybe me too, but anger will make you sick, like it did my mother and father. Before my grandparents passed away, they asked me to imagine spitting out all my hate, my anger, my sadness and jealousy. That way I won’t get sick. So, when anger and sickness took my father and then my mother, I spat out anger for a long time, being careful not to let it make me sick with the sorrow.”

Jacob asked, “You spit?”

“The Cree call themselves Nêhiyawak, it means to be balanced in the mental, physical, emotional, and spiritual parts of life. When Nêhiyawak is unbalanced or angry we spit it out, we rid the bad, harbour no jealousy, respect the will of the Creator, and share equally with our brothers and sisters. That’s the Indian way. That’s what Grandfather said.”

We sat for a while, the fire warmed our skin, and the tea heated our bellies. We watched him pray; the smoke from his smudge smelled so good. Cipayak and the stars danced the whole time as Johnny told us of the Indian way. He said, “When the Indian prays, smoke from the tobacco and smudge carry our words up to Creator. And when Nêhiyawak worships Creator,” Johnny stood and said, “Nêhiyawak stands, arms open wide, palms up to the heavens because the Native man has no shame. We did not cut a sacred tree and fashion it into a cross and crucify our messiah. We do not require that forgiveness.”

For several silent moments he stood and prayed in Cree, then sat and said, “Rest. For even the youngest, strongest, bravest, most honourable warriors, rest is best. Soon the sun will be up and the window will close, and I must finish praying.”

Johnny was right, the hour leaned toward daylight, and we needed to make our way back. I left the food and tobacco, but Coyote would not be coaxed from Johnny’s side.

“She’ll find her way home, guys.” Eric waved.

Johnny smiled and hugged Coyote, “She’s already found her way home.”

We quietly walked away. Johnny’s camp at our backs, the smell of his fire quickly faded. The imminent dawn glowed from behind Bear Mountain fading the night sky. We snuck back through the basement window then crept to our beds and fell fast asleep.

Several days later I checked the post and grabbed the local paper, the front page read: Johnny Muskrat found dead at camp by hunters. It went on to report he had not been seen in town for his monthly supply run. The coroner’s initial report said he had been dead for almost a month and confirmed natural causes.

I collapsed on the cold post office floor until I had legs enough to walk home. I called my friends to tell them the news and they rushed over. Their eyes bulged and their mouths were agape as they read the news at the kitchen table. Then an anxious knock at the door, Deb answered it, and it turned out to be our neighbour Carrol. She asked, “Have you seen Coyote, she’s been missing for about a month.”