Mahihkan

The name given to me at birth was Mahihkan, Wolf, for it was my grandmother’s name. It was she that bore the strong hands that brought me into this world. Later in life, I was given the name Margaret Taylor as it was easier for the traders to say. I still love the way those of French blood say it, Marguerite. But this is not a story of my name; it is a story of the path taken by Margaret Taylor, and more importantly, the way in which the moons were to turn for her son, John MacKenzie, born of the well known fur trader Sir George Simpson.

He came during the crisp days when the leaves changed and the animals began to grow thick coats. He came to where our tribe was camped by way of the fast river where we fished. Many canoes followed his, showing his leadership and importance among his people. It was not the first time we had come to meet these men of a land far away. Many of my brothers and sisters had travelled away with them to aid in the building of canoes, coats and snowshoes. I struggle to think what sort of a home land these men must have where they survive with no proper clothing for the cold months. I had learned from my wise grandmother the tongue in which to communicate with these men, English they called it. He came and I was called to the Big Tent to aid in trading, as this was my role within the tribe. When he came, it was different; I was not asked to leave after the smoking of the pipe, signalling the acceptance of the trade. The Chief turned to me and said in Cree,

“Mahihkan, you are to go with these men. They will be travelling through the cold months and need the aid of one who speaks both tongues.”

I felt my strength drain from my body. How could this decision so easily be made for me? For all my days to come? I knew it would be fruitless to protest the decision, but made my attempts. With strength in my voice I spoke from my heart,

“The cold days are coming, and I am to aid in making fur coats for the tribe.”

There was no movement from the Chief. “Wahana will be heavy with child, and I am to aid in bringing it into the world.”

Still there was no sign that he had heard my reasons for not being able to leave. I felt a boiling anger bubble up inside of me, bringing heat to my face and tried once more. “In the cold months my family needs me! I cannot leave!” My pleas for family and my home were answered with a dismissive wave of the Chief’s hand. Our conversation was complete.

I was only given the night to say good bye to my young brothers and sisters. I could not bear to tell them how long I would be away. I knew in my heart that I may never see them again on this earth. I let my heart sing out as I wished good fortunes and many happy times upon each of them. I forced my eyes, heavy with sleep, to remain open so I may sip warm birch tea with my father and mother. We placed more wood to keep the flames of the fire alive as we traded as many words as possible. Not one of us said when we would sip tea again; we all knew the time would not come quickly. I cried softly only to my strong and understanding grandmother. I buried my face deep into her soft leather dress, the tears burning my eyes. She allowed me to cry until I could no longer bring the tears to my eyes and then gave me these words to hold as I set forth;

“Mahihkan, you are of the blood of the Wolf. The Wolf is strong within the pack, but also has the courage and strength to run alone through the woods. Now is your time to run alone. Do not fear. The pack will always be with you in spirit.” Grandmother gave me the bundle which would see me through the winter; herbs and dried berries to keep away cold and disease, kakewak - dried meat when fresh cannot be found, and astinwan - sinew to be able to trap the fresh meat.

He who had come to trade and take me away was called George Simpson. He was a young man, having only seen 25 winters. I had few words for him when we began our journey. In my heart, he was a man of no respect. He did not speak words of kindness to me before tearing me from my home. In a group of 15 men, I was the only woman. To protect my spirit and my body, I vowed silence. I decided to speak only when trading needed to be done.

The air quickly became sharp and the grass dew became icy frost. The colds months would soon arrive. I was told to make the clothing needed for the cold months as these men came dressed in thin clothing not made of warm animal skins. I was spoken to roughly for not working quickly by one man. George Simpson dragged the man away by his shirt and yelled,

“If you think you can make a finer coat faster than this lass, by all means, pick up yer needle! Otherwise, I suggest you let her work and perhaps do the same yer self!” He then came back to where I was making a moose hide jacket and softly said, “Lass, you work very hard, and I thank ye for it. But it is getting colder every night and we need clothing to fit the weather.” His harsh words to the angry man warmed by spirit and made him less disagreeable in my eyes.

Breaking my vow of silence, I suggested we wear the skins of the animals as my people did, wrapped around the shoulders, until each could be make into a jacket.

“Now that, lass, is a fine idea.” He then touched my hand which made me jump. I feel he became frightened as well because the smile went from his face and he quickly went back to the rest of the group. My silence resumed for the next few suns.

As the first snow began to fall, we arrived at a place I had never been. We had been travelling by way of the river which I knew well, but here I saw large rocks extending to the skies, touching the clouds. There were moments when you could not see the tops of the rocks, swallowed by the skies. At other times, you could see the whitest snow on the rocks. I imagined a man walking up the rocks and placing it there, in the perfect spot, brushing off the parts that did not look pleasing. On the banks of both sides of our canoes, the ground lay bare, covered only by leaves that had begun their decay. I held the air in my chest, inviting its cold fingers to explore.  Never in all my winters had I seen and felt such beauty. I drew my cloak closer as the cold invited more of itself in. I pulled the top over my hair so that only my long braids hung down in front of my shoulders. The cold did not have my blessing to explore anymore.

There were shouts from the canoes in front of ours; we were stopping to camp for the night. I allowed my eyes to close as my body swayed with the movement of the canoe on the water. The gentle sound of water splashing up the side of the canoe was slowly taking me away, bringing me back to the warmth of the fire and the smell of leather in my Grandmother’s tipi. I could taste the birch tea. My mind was ripped back from my memories by a violent bump on the side of our canoe. Then again. I looked back to the oarsman steering to see him looking in the distance. I turned to see what his eyes were fixed on and saw it, the angry waters. Churning and smashing against the rocks that would rip our birch bark canoe into many pieces.

“Tahkwahikan! Steer!”

The voice was barely my own as I grabbed the paddle from the frightened oarsman and tried to force the canoe towards the edges of the land. The other men in the canoe also became frightened, not knowing which way to paddle, forgetting how to paddle in the angry water. One man stood, trying to reach the land.

“No!”

But it was too late. The canoe answered to the standing man. The furs, food and all the people in it were plunged into the cold, angry waters. My gasp for air sent a rush of water into my lungs that burned and stung like icy fingers clawing at my throat and lungs. The frozen fire wrapped itself around my body and pulled, bringing me further down into the water.  I tried to open my eyes, but all I saw was blue and white and felt the cold against my eyes. Shutting my eyes, I reached to grab onto anything that would stop my violent movement. The mighty water threw me against a rock, making me gasp again. The cold now freely let itself in. My once protective fur cloak now aided the water and pulled me further. I forced the cloak off, and the angry waters ripped it away in their pursuit of me. This was a battle I could not survive. I needed to get out of the water, onto the land.

My arm desperately searching, I felt something tear at my skin. I held on tightly. With all my strength I pulled my head out of the icy water and sucked in the air. I was at the land. Using every last bit of power I could find in my body, I pulled my body onto the safe ground. Thorns on the bushes I had grabbed had commanded the deep red lines on my arms. The fierce air stung as it hit my bare skin. The angry waters had claimed all but my shirt and leggings. I began to cough forcefully, my body ridding itself of the water that had tried to take my life. My arms weakened. My body dropped onto the thorns, and I took no notice to the marks they left on my arms, face and naked feet.  I saw him, George Simpson, running towards me. He was yelling but I could only hear my heart pounding in my ears. My eyes closed and the last of my energy flowed out of me.

I remember smelling burning birch wood. It was warm and invited me with its gentle cracking noise. The soft fur against my skin and faint smell of leather welcomed me home. Grandmother would be boiling tea for us to sip and I would be told a teaching story before we went to sleep for the night. Tomorrow we would have to continue working on the tipi to prepare for the cold months. I slowly opened my eyes to find Grandmother smiling down at me. She softly touched my cheek with her hand.

“Mahikahn?”

This was not Grandmother’s voice. This was not her hand.

I drew my breath in quickly and sat up as I had found George Simpson instead. I drew the skins around me tightly as I was not clothed. Where had my clothes gone! Why was I alone with this man in his tent? Why had he touched my cheek? I put my hand to where his had been.  His face showed fear as he jumped back from me.

“Please don’t be scared lass, your clothes are drying.” He pointed to where they hung, still dripping, on the other side of the fire he was tending. He quickly turned his eyes to the fire.

“It’s a miracle, I’ll say, that you managed to pull yer self from that river. The lads in the canoe you were in, well, they’re in God’s hands now.” There was a long pause as he looked on into the fire. All the men, his brothers, had been lost to the angry waters. I could see the strong lines of his face now grow soft as he thought to the lives of his brothers. Here sat not the man George Simpson, but the boy, scared and alone. He drew a long breath in and looked up, seeing that I was looking into his face. I pulled the skins close to my body and moved closer to this lost boy. We sat in silence for a moment before I chose to speak.

“How many men stay in our group now?” How many lives had the waters claimed?

“Seven. That includes you and me.”

“What do we do now?” George Simpson sighed before giving me his answer.

“It would be foolish to try the mountains with so few. Even if we made it to the other side, who would help us to carry our goods back even if we could trade anything for goods?”

There was great sadness in his face and heart. I pulled one arm from the skins to touch his hand as he had touched mine only a moon earlier. He did not pull away, but smiled and rubbed my hand. I felt warmth inside of me that made me smile and look at George Simpson in a way I had not seen him before. He was a gentle man, a young boy, filled with doubt. He knew what his heart wanted, but not how to make what he wanted his own. I smiled to think that George Simpson needed my help and that it would make me happy to help him.

“We hunt.”

I said it with such force, I surprised myself. George Simpson looked at me with a confused face. “We hunt,” I repeated to convince myself and him of the idea. “And, when we have hunted and prepared the skins, we trade with your people. We then go on to my people across the tall rocks and trade for the goods of your people. But now, we hunt.” He stopped rubbing my hand. Had I angered him? My Grandmother had warned me long ago of being too wise The men of George Simpson’s land did not like to be made less wise than my people.

George Simpson grabbed my shoulders and cried,

“Lass! That’s brilliant! That’s exactly what we’ll do! We’ll hunt!”

He pulled my shoulders closer and pressed his lips to mine. My eyes grew large with surprise of what he had just done. George Simpson jumped up and began waving his arms in excitement, planning what was to be done next. He spoke, but I could not hear the words. My head felt light like the wings of a new born sparrow and my chest grew tight with the quickened beating of my heart. What was I feeling for this man of a strange land? I smiled at his boyish way of growing excited to hunt, just as my brothers had done so many summers ago, when they were to join the men of the tribe for their first hunt. George Simpson finally calmed and placed his arms at his sides when he noticed I was smiling up him, enjoying his excitement. He came to sit beside me again as we enjoyed each other’s company, learning more from each other, both through words and silently. It was that night that we formed a close bond, though neither one spoke of this bond.

For the next passing of the moon, our group hunted and travelled through the large. It was much work, made harder with our small numbers but we continued on, knowing our work would be rewarded in great ways. In the light of the day, I became the guide for the group, showing the way, preparing the meals that would keep our bellies from being empty and teaching the men to make tools to hunt with. George Simpson and I spoke briefly and only in matters concerning the work at hand. It was by the light of the moon that we allowed our hearts to speak. He and I both knew there were rules from his people in matters of the heart with a woman of the country, like me. This was not taken to lightly. Many men forbade it. Often men were killed for breaking these laws. But, away from their tribes made of wood and stone, these rules vanished, as they had for George Simpson.

Our work was rewarded greatly when we came to the wooden tribal hut across the land of the rocks, mountains, as George had named them. They said it was a fort we had come to, and the men became overjoyed with the objects we traded for. I heard one object named as cards, little pieces of what I learned was paper, with beautiful art work on them. I did not understand the symbols, but the colours we so bright and the figures dressed in robes so large, it must have taken many moons to sew them.  I loved my gift and cherished it dearly, keeping the cards close to me at all times. We stayed at the fort for only three passings of day light when George announced we were to return to Winnipeg, the land of the muddy waters. My heart beat faster as I thought to my family and tribe and the chance to see them again and to hold them in my arms. I was ready to go at that very moment, to begin the long journey back. The ice would be breaking its cold cover soon and it would be dangerous travel, but my heart did not care. I wanted only for my family.

The travel was slow and dangerous. One man that travelled in our group did not speak soon enough when the cold bore on his hands and lost the smallest finger. I did what my Grandmother had taught me, wrapping the man’s hands in soft leather after applying the berries that would help his hand to heal. It was the first time in all my moons that I had seen a grown man cry out in pain from the cold, screaming that it was never this cold in Scotland, his homeland. I began to understand why these men came so poorly dressed for the land and why they concerned themselves with shiny buckles and buttons rather than warm cloaks and moccasins.

It was four full moons before we came to Winnipeg, weighed with trade goods and our bodies heavy from the travel. We stayed at another fort close to the where the two rivers meet. I had been at this place before, with my mother, when our tribe was trading with the men of the forts. To return home, I had only to take a canoe up the river, to where the big trees sagged and their leaves touched the water. There was my home, my family. I decided to stay in the fort to rest, regain strength and when the light of the day first broke, I would return to my home.

That night, I found George by the firelight, with his brothers, singing and enjoying the warmth. I quietly whispered into his ear my plan for the coming day and saw his smile leave his face. Had I said something wrong? He pulled me away from the firelight, to where no one else was and spoke to me,

“Mahihkan, I know you want yer family.” He was very quiet, speaking slowly and sadly. “I have to leave tomorrow as well, but I’m going much further. I have to go home to Scotland.” His eyes did not leave mine, and saw that I was angry. When was I to know of this? Was he to leave and let me find out only when he was no longer here?

“No, not at all lass! I wanted you to come with me.”

My anger became fright and I thought only to my family and my homeland. I had no purpose to be in this Scotland but did not want George to leave. “I’ve no choice in the matter, but if you won’t come to Scotland, I will come back here.” He paused for a minute, looking back to where the firelight was. “Come on, we’ll let those lads drink. Let’s enjoy what little time we have left together.” I took his hand as George led me to his cabin. There in the still and quiet night, I found the tender George Simpson I loved.

When the light of the day came, George left for his homeland as promised. I left at the light of day but travelled in the direction of my family. For many days I paddled along, seeing only pale skin and houses of wood. Finally, when I saw men of darkened skin on the shore, I called to them in Cree. They called back in a new language, one I did not understand. We found common ground in English. I asked if they knew of my tribe, my family.

“Mahikahn, there is no one here that is pure blood Cree. We are all mixed. Metis.” They warned me of the dangers of being Cree. I told them I decided to be Metis to remain safe. They warned me of the dangers of being Metis.

“Then what will I be?”

“Be safe. Return to the fort where they know you. Remain there.”

I returned to the fort to await the return of George Simpson. During the cold season I lived in the fort, aiding as one who spoke in both tongues. I made warm clothing with the furs that were brought to us. It made me happy to help these people who knew so little of my land. I felt safe to have help from these people that were changing my land. I longed for George Simpson, but I knew in my heart he was to return and I eagerly waited for each light of day as it brought me closer to him.

Soon the days became hot and made the clothing stick to your skin. Many complained of the heat, as it made it very hard to work. It was on a day such as this that there was a great excitement in the fort; a great ship had been seen coming down the river, and it was said that George Simpson was on this ship. When my ears head this, I stopped my work to see the ship, to see George Simpson. My heart wanted for nothing more.

A large crowd of men and women had gathered to see George and everyone he brought with him. I stood tall on my toes to see. Through the people I saw George, dressed in a shirt that was as white as the snow, and a hat as black as the fur of a bear. His face was more round than I remembered, but still my heart danced. There was a woman at his side dressed in the large gowns like the ones on my cards. George took her hand and led her off the boat and onto my land.

My head began to demand questions; who was this woman? Why was George holding her hand as he had held mine? Why were they smiling? I ran away to stop the questions but it did not help. The faster I ran, the louder the questions demanded an answer. I ran to my cabin, to my bed and let the tears burst from inside of me. Should I have travelled to Scotland? Would it have made me the woman now holding George’s hand? Why had I waited so long to have something I knew their rules would not permit?

I had not noticed when the door to my cabin had been opened. I did not notice when George walked in. When he touched my shoulder it made me jump up with fear. I looked into his eyes and felt only anger and hatred. My mouth opened and in Cree a thousand words cursed his name, his journey, his existence. George put his hands on my shoulders to calm me but I felt no calm. He invited me to sit, so he could explain, but I decided to stand, arms crossed.

“When I went back,” he slowly sighed. “I walked right into a trap. News had gotten out about how the trip had been saved, saved by you. The men in my government couldn’t let a women, an Indian be the hero, so they put it on my shoulders. They gave me a portion of the company and said it was all mine, but only on the grounds that I marry Theresa, that woman you saw out there.”

My heart and ears could not understand his story. Why be forced to marry? What sort of rules existed in this land of his?

“Mahihkan, my heart belongs to you, but my work is with the company.” He stood and placed his hands on my shoulders again, but this time I allowed it. “Please, come live in the fort with me. I understand if you won’t, because Theresa will be there, but I want to be able to see you every night.” I also wanted to be with George again and I loved him. If this woman was to be a symbol for his status, I would fill the part of his heart meant for love.

This is how it came to be that I lived with George Simpson and his Scotland wife. Each day, I mended clothing, cleaned their home and prepared their meals. I was made to wear the dress of their homeland, as Mrs. Simpson said that no help of hers was to wear Indian clothing. The beautiful dresses that were on my cards only looked that way; the cloth was rough and tight, making me pull at all the cloth covering my skin. I stayed as far away from Mrs. Simpson as often as possible, as she had no pleasant words for me or the other women that lived in the house. As women we both knew where George’s heart lay, but neither one ever spoke of it. At night, George would come into my tiny room and lay with me as we had done in the fort and on the land. To feel his love and tenderness within me made it possible to live through the days.

It wasn’t long before my belly began to grow. I would sew my dresses differently to hide my little lump, hiding it from the world. One night, when George came into my little room, I showed him the life that was growing inside of me. He smiled, but the joy quickly left his face. He and I both knew that this child could not be that of George Simpson. He told me that at this moment Theresa was with child, her belly of the same size as mine. The decision was made to hide my child, telling no one.

With the passing moons, it became more difficult to hide my belly. When asked who the father was, I named one of the men from my tribe from long ago. No one would know the man, and it was easier than trying to explain my love for George Simpson.

One night, the movement I felt in my belly told me it was time for my child to come into the world. I was with another girl that lived in the Simpson house with me, who would help me to guide out the child. As we prepared the clothes and water for the child, I told her to find George Simpson and tell him his child was to be born. She returned to tell me that George was away and would not return for three nights. Several hours passed as I pushed the child from my body. My son came into the world, with barely a whimper. I smiled as I held him in my arms and all my anger faded away, replaced with love for my son.

The next day, Mrs. Simpson called me to her side, as her child was ready to come into the world. I had learned from Grandmother how to bring in a child, but it was the first time it would do this alone. I prepared, asking her to move onto the floor, as her bed was too soft to bring in a child.

“I’m no animal!” She screamed. “I am going to lie in my bed! You just take this thing out of me!”

The light faded and darkness fell as Mrs. Simpson cried out in agony. She and the child and were not ready to do this task. Slowly, we worked together to bring the child out, but there was a sadness in the room, as we found the child was dead. Thinking quickly, I wrapped the child in the cloths at my feet and whispered to the girl with me in Cree,

“Go bring my son, wrap him just as this child, and leave the dead child under my bed.” Her eyes grew wide at the thought, but ran to finish the task.

“Where’s my baby?!” Mrs. Simpson yelled, her face wet from the work she had just done.

“We are cleaning him to present to you. You have a beautiful boy.” I could barely say the words. My son! My blood! I only hand him over to you so he may have a chance in this new world. My heart broke as the girl came back into the room, my son crying. He knew we were parting, just as I had done so long ago with my tribe.

So it came to pass that my son became John Simpson. I live with George Simpson and raise my son as theirs, never speaking to anyone my secret. One day I will tell my son the secret of his birth, but now, I want only to see him raised to be like his father, a man of the fur trade.