Writing for Fun
February 2016
The Vanishing - Jan Osborne
As the hundred strong party of the Ojibwe Fox tribe rounded the bend in the river Chief Bemidii gestured for all the boats to pull over to the right hand bank; they had reached their destination. With much splashing, willing braves jumped into the shallows and began grounding the birch bark canoes. There was much laughter and light-hearted banter as the very old and the very young were hauled or carried onto dry land.
Everybody lent a hand to set up camp. Deerskins were thrown over and secured onto birch tent frames left year on year in this summer camp; cooking fires were lit and water fetched. Lastly Totems were set up to make it easier to distinguish tribes for friendly visits or business. All food, fine clothes and goods for bartering had been brought with them as this yearly gathering of tribes was, amongst other things, a time of meeting old friends, making new, exchanging news and gossip and finding marriage partners. In fact Bemidii's very attractive, sloe eyed granddaughter Tahki was now fifteen summers and of marriageable age. Although whether she and her grandfather would agree on who the lucky man would be was another matter.
In the days to come the many Ojibwe tribes mingled with the Ottowa and Potawatomi Indians who all spoke dialects of the same language. Goods were traded and romances blossomed. In the evenings fires were lit around which groups gathered to dance, sing or listen to the story tellers.
Chogan was very old. He was not very sure how old but believed he had seen nearly seventy summers. He settled down, with help from Bemidii, on a pile of furs near one of the great fires and prepared to tell, perhaps for the last time at one of these gatherings, one of the most mysterious and tragic stories of all time. Over the years he and his story had become legend and many, on hearing he was to be reciting, sat down in a circle around him and waited with bated breath for him to begin.
Eyeing the growing crowd with satisfaction Chogan took a deep swig of his favourite medicine and began.
'This is a true story as witnessed by myself and the few of my tribe still alive after the terrible event including our great chief Bemidii. It has come to be known as "The Vanishing".'
The great Spirit of Creation, Manitou, had blessed us with a golden day. I had been hunting with fellow braves; Bemedii as a strong young warrior of ten summers was with us. As the light began to fade we were returning to our village on the shores of the lake when dark, ominous black clouds began rolling in from the west. The light took on a sickly greenish tinge and the wind suddenly dropped. The air was thick and heavy and our skin began to crawl and the hairs on our bodies stood on end. We were feeling uneasy and quickened our pace. Something was wrong – very wrong. As our village clearing came into view we halted transfixed. On the western horizon we could see the air begin to shimmer and wobble and grow darker until it formed a spiral from the clouds and touched land. Whooshing and roaring it began to head towards the village and our people. The force of the wind increased and the noise was indescribable. It whined and buzzed like a thousand angry bees throwing dust and detritus into our faces as we dropped our kill and ran towards our loved ones. Then the unimaginable happened. The swirling nightmare gathered all in its path and flung it skyward. We watched in agony as we saw our wives, children, animals and even our teepees being tossed like rag dolls. Helpless we watched; most were flung back down onto the ground as the monster tore a path of destruction through the middle of our village and over the distant plateau but some were carried higher and higher into the vortex and then lost in the distance.
Dazed and shaken we joined with the survivors and began the horrific task of gathering the dead and injured.
Everyone lost animals, goods and people. Most were accounted for but some were never found. My beloved wife Rowtag was dead and I buried her along with many others, but Sakima, my son of only five summers, had vanished.
For years I scoured the countryside around looking for my son. I never remarried and now have no son or grandson to comfort me in my old age. All that is left to me is the telling of this story in the hopes that someone new will come to this gathering with news of a small boy being found nearly fifty summers ago and that he lived a good life. That is my story.'
Swallowing hard Chogan coughed and with shaking hand took a swig of medicine. The silence was almost palpable. The shaman danced into the circle chanting and throwing dried Datura leaves onto the camp fire to dispel the tension. A low murmur of voices began and then died away as all eyes turned to watch the commanding figure of a young brave detach himself from the circles edge and walk towards the story teller. When within touching distance he stopped and held out one of our tribe's talisman.
'Let me answer you, honoured elder. This was my father's. He married into the Ottowa tribe who found him as a boy. I am your grandson Sakima named after my father. I am here to tell you that he did live a good life. Sadly both he and my mother have gone to join the Great Spirit in the sky but I swear by Manitou that you will not be alone in your last years.'
Tahki, sitting near Chogan took one look at the earnest young brave and smiled a slow smile. 'Grandfather you need look no further. I have made my choice.'