The Seventh Path

247

THE SEVENTH PATH

By Don Hayward

Copyright 2017 - Don Hayward

Smashwords edition

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Prologue

'Corn is sacred, everything that grows is sacred,' she said. 'But I warn you there will come a time when the sons of your sons will forget this. Then hunger and sorrow will return to the world.' She shook her head. 'It will not end until - unless - their grandchildren learn once more this lesson - the only lesson that is worth remembering: how to love and respect the Earth.'

- Iroquois legend

When the earth is ravaged, and the animals are dying, a new tribe of people shall come unto the earth from many colours, classes, creeds and who by their actions and deeds shall make the earth green again. We will know them as the warriors of the rainbow.

- Native American Prophecy

My Journals are a remaining shadow, the memory written down. I have longed for them to be a light on the past and a warning not to travel that path again. I long for them to be a guide to tomorrow so that others will record the journey of the future and find the forest’s edge. I have many sisters and brothers with paper and pen, charcoal and paint. They walk my trails and find their own. There are so many paths to the truth. My life has been to shine light onto those paths. The history will spread throughout the land, and the people’s stories continue. Listen... Listen!

- From The Journals of Brandi Shadly, as edited by Erin Thomas

Giving of Her Name

Amidst the drumming and singing, the sound of the stringed gitter danced over the throng, and soon the words of the old song wrapped about the people. Longing for Longview, passed down through the generations, the song held only mystical meaning now, with many phrases in old Glish puzzling to the listeners.

Joseph of Longview was simply another of those ancient wise ones. Longview, the home of Nimise Makwa, lost in the mists of time, was a fable, a myth although many knew that the community still thrived in the land of Amik, the river Beaver and the valley of fruit and shadows.

The gathered people were a blending of many races, with some individuals showing the characteristics of several at once: black, white, Asian and the natives of Turtle Island; others seemed to be the unaltered echoes of centuries old differences. No family grouping possessed only one set of racial features.

A woman elder, adorned in a colourful costume of pounded deer hide, dyed quill and feathers, rose amid the throng and lifted high a blazing torch of woven cattail, saturated with spruce pitch.

Nimise Makwa, you are the ancestor of many names.

The woman’s voice, old and wise, strong and sure, rose above the quieting din of the throng, as she slowly made her way to the front. Mother’s voice was the voice of the people; they prepared to listen.

The crowd, the entire community called Patterson, sat cross-legged in a semi-circle, mimicking the crescent moon.

The focus of the gathering was a pile of wood and sweet grasses. The tightly knit mound resembled the lodge of the beaver, but with a conical chimney dominating the top of the curve.

Mother’s torch dipped, touching the base of the pile. Small flames appeared amongst the sticks and wormed their way into the centre, following a path of pitch-laden tinder, gradually embracing and igniting more of the fuel. Sweet scents of burning grass and herbs wandered over the gathering.

Drumming arose once more, earnest, urgent and heartfelt. Several gitters added lamenting flat notes to the sounds, as if calling to the dead.

The flames climbed higher through the inside of the pile. Sparks struggled into the night and died in the blackness. Silent eyes followed the embers. The glow strengthened, lighting the pile, as if some interior sun spirit was struggling for release.

Flames inside reached the top and the base of the round crown, a hollowed out dry cedar trunk filled with pitch and tinder. Fire burst into a torch of white-hot flame reaching to the stars. Embers shot high, rising forever, refusing to yield to the dark, finally drifting down upon the watchers, silent, orange fireflies descending. The circle glowed as if the sun rested above.

The crowd gasped!

Drums picked up an urgent, fast, wild beat of celebration, and the gitters joined with rapid, uplifting chords. Chanting drummers called forth hope and promise.

The old woman turned to face the throng; her white robes glowed. Quill adornments sparkled in the blazing light. Her eyes glistened. A necklace of polished bear's teeth rose upon her breast. She spoke.

I give you the words of our grandmother, Annie Patterson, when she and Joe Giingoo were told Nimise Makwa had joined the spirits.

Seeker of light

Sister of the bear

Go into the night

We remember your words

Of love and understanding

Embracing all that is living

That lets life be

Spread your light, and we know

Your spirit, your memory is

The end of shadows

"Nimise Makwa, I name you now and forever, Seeker of Light."

The sparks continued to rise and fall. Some drifted down and extinguished. Others burned brightly, landing upon some children and adults.

The old woman removed hot ashes from the edge of the fire, mixing it with water from the creek, the source of life-giving water for the Patterson Clan. She made a dark warm paste. Then, for everyone whom a burning ember had touched, she drew a mark of deep grey on their foreheads.

The light of Nimise Makwa has touched you. You and your descendants must go forth and seek the light.

She gave each the mission, the duty. Then, she turned to the last child, Annie, a slight, light-haired girl with flashing deep brown eyes. The old woman made a mark in wet ash on Annie Patterson’s forehead. An ember rested on the child’s shoulder, flaring brightly in a sudden breeze. A second mark followed beneath the first. The girl trembled and her eyes filled with tears.

You are the great-granddaughter of Joseph Patterson the Giingoo. Nimise Makwa shared her spirit with him. It is travelling in you. She paused and her face clouded.

You will not use the spirit; it will be your children who go forth in the quest. The trickster will change events and give sadness. These ashes will be your ashes, sending your children on the journey of Nimise Makwa.

Mother made a third mark on Annie’s forehead. Bear this pain, but know it is required. The light you leave will guide their way.

Tears slid down Annie’s cheeks. Her heart felt honour and terror. The old woman smiled down, but the girl’s terror turned the loving gaze into a threatening snarl. She fled, into the shadows, away from the prophecy, away from the truth, hiding in the dark beyond the gate.

The elder smiled once more, understanding Annie had taken the words deep within her soul and would live them to the full. The old woman returned to the celebration.

What is wrong my Sweet? Annie’s mother finally found her daughter, sobbing by the path. The light of the bonfire played over the girl’s anguished face. The shadow of a fence picket parted Annie’s face from forehead to chin, giving the impression of a girl divided.

I’m afraid, Mamma. What does it mean? I know of Great-Grandfather, all you have told me of him, but who was Nimise? Why was she so important?

The mother drew her daughter to her breast, smoothing the girl’s hair, gently clearing the tears from Annie’s cheeks, smudging the wet ash.

My sweet girl, Nimise was the one who made your great-grandfather Joseph into the Giingoo. She paused, thinking.

No, that isn’t quite right, Nimise Makwa made it so he could accept the role of the Giingoo, feeding his people. He was Giingoo because of everyone before him and in his anticipation of those to come, including you my Sweet.

Grandfather used to take me to his knee and teach me to play the gitter, what he called the guitar. They both giggled at the funny pronunciation. He would have loved you, Annie. I knew that, and that is why you have his wife’s name. Again, Mother paused as warm feelings filled her heart.

There was another, a man, a Chief who also set Grandfather’s path. His name was George MacDonald. Grandfather only met him once, but the man pronounced a great prophecy on Joseph. He told me, George ordained him to seek the light, and his descendants would carry that charge forever. You are one descendant, my sweet love. That is why the Great Mother gave you passing on the duty to your own children. She did not say, but I know in my heart, you will give your children a great task. You are to prepare them somehow.

But what about Nimise? Annie was now gaining a feeling of importance; however, she could not imagine what, or how she would prepare her future children. Until this night, she had been full of childish thoughts. Now, it seemed they had snatched her into adulthood.

Nimise Makwa, Brandi, was born in the Before Time.

Annie shuddered. In her understanding, the Before Time was a mystical and dangerous place.

She must have been brave, the young girl trembled once more.

Brandi was very brave, my child. Even her name, Sister Bear, came from facing a fierce bear and absorbing its spirit. She wrote this all down in her Journals. The Great Mother has her writings in her house. I will take you there and ask her to read you the words about this. As a young woman, Brandi was brave too because the time of her birth was dangerous. The society she grew up in was greedy and selfish, taking and destroying. It finally destroyed itself by not keeping true to the loop of life.

Humans strutted over the land and believed they were above the world, above the way of nature. Because of it, they did not survive. We are still living with their sins. We see it in the weather and in the great fires sweeping over the land. The lake is withering away in its sadness. It will be many summers before that sadness ends. It is what Grandfather told me. She stroked her daughter’s hair and thought about what more she should say.

Nimise kept a Journal of great writings. It is that Journal the Great Mother possesses. The Seeker of Light wrote about the Before Time, of the threats, the bad people, the fighting and death until her people had created something good, the thing that has allowed us to prosper. They still had machines that puffed smoke and made great noise as they carried her people quickly over the water and land. These machines ate the forests, and sometime, after Nimise died they stopped using them. I don’t know why.

Grandfather hinted at other stories, and he too kept a Journal, but it does not tell what happened. I know her Journal tells of a terrible year when the winter ate the summer and many died. We have seen nothing like that since. I think it is because we have been true to the loop and the winter and summer are happy. We don’t want to anger the winter with its cold wrath or the summer with her heat and fire.

You are of the third generation since Nimise died, over eighty summers ago. The Great Mother is aging, born the year Nimise died. She wanted this ceremony tonight to reaffirm the warning Nimise left, to remind us of the promise of the light. She saw people were weakening and straying from the loop. Your future is in keeping the loop and keeping the light shining upon it.

She drew her daughter to her feet. Annie and her mother walked back towards the celebration, with the light of the fire shining in their eyes.

Chapter One

"This is Joe Patterson. Brandi hugged the young boy. He’s coming with me to improve his writing and drawing and learn other stuff. Joe will be a giingoo and a makwa. He’s from the Island." She didn’t need to explain which island.

George knelt and looked intently into the boy’s eyes, staring so long that the lad flinched and turned away.

"There is no end to his soul. George glanced up towards Nimise. He will hold the sacred bond even more than you, Nimise Makwa. His children will be the future." Joe buried his face in Brandi’s thigh, not comprehending the prophecy. A tear dropped from Brandi’s cheek splashing onto the boy’s dark hair.

- expanded from Erin Thomas’ summary of The Journals of Brandi Shadly

In the years that followed the emotional naming ceremony, Annie Patterson found peace and grew into a strong, attractive, smart woman. She had often visited with the Great Mother, hearing the stories of the past, reading from Brandi’s Journal and Great-Grandfather Joe Patterson’s writings. Her sadness was profound when the Great Mother passed away, just before Annie became accepted as a woman.

The Patterson family, a community of aunts, uncles, cousins, descendants of the Giingoo, and a few unrelated residents, thrived in a gentle valley about thirty kilometres south of Little Current on the great Island, known as Manitoulin.

In the one hundred and fifty years since the Great Calamity, almost a century since the death of Nimise Makwa, the Island had become a safe and prosperous part of the Great Lakes basin. The old Federation had vanished, made impossible by the decline of industrial activity, especially since the end of steam powered transport. Every community and local region had become more isolated. There were rumours of machines and industry, somewhere to the south. Most thought this was dreaming by the few. With each passing decade even fewer longed for the return to the world that existed when Nimise had died. Her world had its own shadows.

The only vestige of the old Federation of the Great Lakes was the meeting of the Great Water Council every two years. Even this had declined, mimicking the level of the lakes, with no one attending from the two lower lakes at the last five gatherings. The meeting had become ceremonial, with the exchange of promises of peace and cooperation and the ritual of reaffirming the sacredness of the receding lake water. On the practical side, it was a chance to exchange goods and new knowledge. There was little of that in the past decade.

Annie thrived in Patterson and was much sought after by the young males of nearby communities. On her eighteenth birthday she married Chester Robinson, a fine young man who might have been a very distant cousin in her Mother’s family. They made two children. The oldest, Brandon, was a boy of lively spirit and a sense of humour that would raise a sigh from a frustrated Annie. Their little girl, Annie’s namesake, seemed quiet and thoughtful compared to her irrepressible brother. Brandon and the younger Annie held a close bond, reflecting the love and commitment Annie and Chester had for each other. It was a happy time.

Chapter Two

As little Annie approached her fourth birthday, the family departed Patterson, heading to the Spanish River, up beyond the broken concrete dams to the place of two falls. The old community had become overcrowded. Annie and Chester volunteered to found a new village. They would be the first of several families marked for the new settlement in the fertile valley bottom at the falls. A high escarpment shielded the place from the harsh winter winds. Two years of hard work and loneliness, especially for the children, followed their move. Only the occasional daylong trek to the trading post at Narn Falls broke the isolation, allowing the children and adults to socialize and find hope. Circumstance delayed the other families for one more winter. It would be another season on their own; the promise raised their spirits. All would endure. The belief that the move was an important part of her commitment to the Seeker of Light strengthened Annie.

The quiet sounds of a gitter washed lightly over the dwelling place. Music seemed to dance with the flames of the little talking fire that flickered in the clearing, casting dancing shadows sharply against the dark, encroaching trees. Annie Sr. picked out a flowing melody, Silver Clouds, written long ago by the old genius, Joseph of Longview and taught to her by her own mother who had learned it from the grandson of the Giingoo. She smiled at her little family and felt content.

You know, little ones, Chester Robinson poked the fire, causing sparks to reach high into the night sky, teasing the stars.

Long ago, before the new world was born, when Nimise Makwa was young, even before she absorbed the spirit of the bear and became Nimise Makwa, her people sat in front of flickering campfires in their houses. These fires were cold, but they held the people spellbound. Chester and Annie often repeated stories of the Before Time passed down from Nimise.

Oh, tell us again about the bear and Brandi. Please, father. Tell us how Nimise Makwa got her name. Little Annie flashed her most convincing smile.

You always want that story, Brandon huffed. I want to hear how the people of the Before Time killed themselves.

We will talk of Brandi’s bear another time, my sweet one.

Annie scowled and kicked the dirt with her moccasin-clad toe.

It was a time, Chester returned to the story, when people sat silently as the cold fire talked, a time when they held little fire sticks in their hands, talking to the fire sticks and listening to their fire stick talk back.

No one living had any experience with television and cell phones, although there were pictures of these things in the Little Current library. The children could only think of these devices as magical. Cold fires and fire sticks sounded very mysterious.

It was a time of great sadness, when people did not sit and talk as we do, but they would only talk to each other through their fire sticks. The people became absorbed by false beliefs, ignorant, fearing each other and forgetting how to talk. They sent strange messages with their fire sticks, but they did not look into each other’s eyes.

Brandon stood and pushed a long branch of dried cedar into the hot embers until it burst into flame. Then, the boy stood away from the gathering, waving the blazing brand high above his head, writing wild symbols onto the darkness.

Is this how they did it, Father? Is this how they did it? His face burst into a teasing smile. The boy’s eyes glowed, reflecting the firelight back to his family.

It made about as much sense, Chester smiled. It seemed just possessing the fire stick was the most important part. The legend says they did not use them to do much more than brag. It was important just to let others see your fire stick.

Like my stones? Little Annie wrapped her hand around a small leather pouch hanging from her neck on a rawhide thong. I’m proud of my stones. I like everyone to see them.

Yes, you have fine and pretty stones there my sweet Annie, but pride can capture your heart and carry you away; pride in your possessions can be the most damaging. It seems the people of the Before Time loved their possessions too much.

Annie looked saddened, her small face scowling towards the fire. Chester moved to sit beside his daughter.

What is making you sad, my sweet one? He laid his big hand gently on her shoulder.

I love my stones. She looked into her father’s eyes, her own eyes pleading. I’m afraid I love them too much, like the people of the Before Time loved things.

Do you love them more than your family? Chester’s hand touched his daughter’s cheek, brushing away tear-damp strands of blond hair.

Oh, no! the little girl exclaimed. I love you and Mommy and Brandon much more.

Then you can keep on loving your stones too. You don’t love them too much. True love is a strange thing. Your love grows whenever there is more to love. We do not cut it up into smaller pieces.

Annie smiled and let a few of her stones fall from the bag into her small hand.

Why is that one rough and jagged? Her father gently touched a small piece of fractured granite that showed beautiful stripes of large mineral crystals.

It’s me. I’m not finished yet.

What wisdom. Her father smiled, trying to stifle his pride. And what are the others?

This is you, she removed a solid, ice polished egg of dark basalt, and Mommy is this one. Her hand revealed a heart-shaped multi-coloured bit of smooth granite. And this is Brandon, and this is... She listed every friend and family member she had known, matching each to a pebble.

This is Baby-Little. She took the last stone from the pouch; her voice softened. Annie held a small perfect crystal of quartzite that caught the gleam of the fire. I will love her always.

Baby-Little had been stillborn in the previous year and was now lying buried nearby, beneath the big red pine, in a place where little Annie and her mother often sat and sang.

Annie Sr., still grieving her deep loss, felt her eyes moisten. Her love and admiration for her living namesake tempered her sorrow. The little girl showed such love. The older woman, only in her mid-twenties, looked away from the fire and up to the crisp, clear sky. Stars appeared, as her watering eyes adjusted to the darkness, the brighter ones first, and so on until she could see an infinite heaven full of flickering points, with the solid brightness of Jupiter anchoring overhead. It was like the night of the naming, to the night she was marked and given her duty by the wise Great Mother.

It’s time I told them. She looked down on her children, Brandon, now earnestly poking the fire and likely dreaming of becoming a man. Annie, with her eyes sparkling, was counting her stones back into the leather