Fly Away Snow Goose, Canadian Historical Brides Northwest Territories and Nunavut

Fly Away Snow Goose

Nits’it’ah Golika Xah

Canadian Historical Brides

Northwest Territories & Nunvavut, Book 8

By Juliet Waldron and John Wisdomkeeper

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 9781772994551

Kindle 9781772994568

WEB 9781772994575

Copyright 2017 Juliet Waldron and John Wisdomkeeper

Series Copyright 2017 BWL Publishing Inc.

Cover art by Michelle Lee

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Waldron, Juliet, author

Fly away snow goose = Nits’it’ah golika xah / by Juliet Waldron and John

Wisdomkeeper.

(Canadian historical brides ; book 8)

Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 978-1-77299-458-2 (softcover).—ISBN 978-1-77299-455-1 (EPUB).—

ISBN 978-1-77299-456-8 (Kindle).—ISBN 978-1-77299-457-5 (PDF)

I. Wisdomkeeper, John, author II. Title. III. Series: Canadian historical

brides ; bk. 8

PS3623.A38F57 2017 813’.6 C2017-906964-0

C2017-906965-9

Dedication

BWL Publishing Inc. (Books We Love) dedicates the Canadian Historical Brides series to the immigrants, male and female who left their homes and families, crossed oceans and endured unimaginable hardships in order to settle the Canadian wilderness and build new lives in a rough and untamed country.

Books We Love acknowledges the Government of Canada and the Canada Book Fund for its financial support in creating the Canadian Historical Brides series.

Glossary

Tłı̨chǫ Yahtı̨ı̨̀ Multimedia Dictionary

http://Tłı̨chǫ.ling.uvic.ca/users/mainview.aspx

babàcho grandfather

bebı̀ – baby

behchà - riverbank

chekaa – teachers

dahba – wild roses

dèè – land

Dene - Tłı̨chǫ tribes

dehcho – big river

detsı̨kǫ̀ – log house, cabin

dı̀ga – wolf

dı̀gatsoa - coyote

Tłı̨chǫ got’ı̨ı̨̀ – Dogrib people

ekı̀ıka wilderness

Ekw’ahtı RCMP

ewòhɂeh – hide jacket

Ehtsèe – grandfather spirit

Fly away - nıts’ı̀t’ah

Gam`e`t`i – Village in NWT where children are from

gochı – younger brother

goɂeh uncle

gòet’ı̨ı̨̀ – cousins

goɂǫhdaà elders

gòı̀chı – chosen one

gocho– ancestors

gots’èke – wife

gots’ı̨ı̨̀ – human spirit

gahkwǫ̀ – rabbit meat

ink’on – spirit power

ı̨k’ǫǫ̀ – medicine power

Ka’owae – Trading Chief

k’i – birch

kinnickkinnick – grouse berry

kw’ahtıı – government agent – indian agent

kwet’ı̨ı̨̀ - white persons

łık’àdèè k’è – fish camp

Lac la Martre River Nàı̨lı̨ı̨

mamàcho grandmother

Métis a person of mixed American Indian and Euro-American ancestry,

Nààka – Northern Lights

Nàı̨lı̨ı̨ - Lac la Martre River

N’asi – Feast (Christmas)

Nıts’ı̀t’ah Golika Xah (Fly Away Snow Goose)

Nǫ̀htsı̨- Creator

Sahti – Great Bear Lake

snow - golika or zhah

Tłı̨chǫ dèè – Dogrib land

Tındeè – Great Slave Lake

ts’et’ı̀ı tł’ehwò – tobacco pouch

ts’ı̨ı̨ta – spirit world

whagweè – sandy places for camping

Wha’t’i – Dogrib camp

xah – goose or geese

Yahbahti - Shaman

yatı – prayer

Ethnography

The Dog Rib Rae Band which is located on the west side of the Mackenzie River Delta (Peel Channel), about 110 km upstream from the Arctic coast

The Tłı̨chǫ (IPA: [tɬʰĩtʃʰõ], English pronunciation: /təˈlɪtʃoʊ/) people, sometimes spelled Tłı̨chǫ and also known as the Dogrib, are a Dene First Nations people of the Athabaskan-speaking ethnolinguistic group living in the Northwest Territories, Canada. The name Dogrib is an English adaptation of their own name, Tłı̨chǫ Done (or Thlingchadinne) - Dog-Flank People

Tlicho, also known as Dogrib, fall within the broader designation of Dene, Aboriginal people of the widespread Athapaskan language family. Their name for themselves is Doné, meaning the People. To distinguish themselves from their Dene neighbours - Denesuline, Slavey, Sahtu Got’ine and K’asho Got’ine - they have come to identify themselves as Tlicho, meaning dog’s rib, although the epithet is derived from a Cree term. Tlicho lands lie east of the Mackenzie River between Great Slave Lake and Great Bear Lake in the NWT.

The Canadian Encyclopedia, article by June Helm, Thomas G. Andrews

http://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/article/tlicho-dogrib/

It’s the land that keeps things for us. Being our home it’s important for us to take good care of the dwelling, the land, for wherever you go is home. (Rosalie Tailbones PHP-98/08/05)

Prologue

Yaot’l and Sascho splashed along the shores of the behchà, spears hefted, watching for the flash of fin to rise to the surface and sparkle in the sunlight. Tender feelings flushed their faces, so they laughed and teased one another with sprays of icy water. In the distance, the warning about the kw’ahtıı sounded, but went unheard.

Transport to the Fort Providence residential school is only the beginning of their trial, for the teachers intend to kill the Indian inside their pupils. Attempts to escape end mostly in failure and punishment, but Yaot’l and Sascho, along with two others, will try. Wild geese, brave hearts together, it is do or die—homeward bound.

Chapter One

Yaot’l grew tired of scraping moose hide. She and her aunts had, off and on, been at it for a day and a half. Her thin arms ached, upward from the wrist and somehow, from there, straight into the back of her neck. It took a long time to scrape such a vast expanse of hide clear of bits of flesh and fine silver skin. Mamàcho Josette had set her to work as soon as she and her aunts, assisted by two cousins, had the hide stretched onto a frame. Building the frame, too, had been a project, but one completed yesterday.

With spring thaw underway, the Snow Goose band travelled to summer łık’àdèè k’è (fish camp,) a long traverse through bush. They hauled their few possessions, the precious metal kettles and iron spikes, on their backs and on dog skids.

The young moose had been an unexpected bonus; he had jammed a back leg in a tangle of wood in the shallow water near the island. In his struggles to get free the leg had broken. Fortunately the band came upon him before the wolves did. His quick dispatch by the men had been mercy, and they’d made an offering of tobacco to thank the animal for giving up his spirit.

The strips of flesh now smoked in an enclosure of peat and sticks prepared for the purpose. They’d made camp, near the little island of willows, taking time to prepare and preserve their bounty. The thaw had come, as it always did, with days bringing an ever longer sun, with creeks and ponds spilling over, full of water and silver fish. There was work to do at every season, but especially now in the fishing time.

Spring melt meant water everywhere, trickling through the bogs and rushing in the fullness of the streams, pooling in the pothole lakes. On the willow-covered islands where the moose had wintered, water locked inside snow and ice turned liquid again. It was still cold enough, Yaot’l thought, to shatter her bones when her hands were in it. Today, though, the sun burned hot on her back and it seemed she’d been scraping hide forever.

Pausing to stretch her arms over her head, she shook her hands to remove the sticky silver skin from her fingers. Knowing the older women would tease, she glanced around, in her head she heard their voices—Ah Yaot’l! How will you ever get a good husband if you can’t prepare a fine big hide? You’re almost grown now, and no hunter wants a weak woman.

Ah, but the sun beat down on her head and the water all around her sang. It would be such a welcome relief to take her spear and go take a stand in one of the creeks at a place where it tumbled from one level to the next, a place where the fish would jump. She could hear the sound of voices—her cousins, all down fishing already. Some kids playing, she guessed, and not working at all.

She liked being older, but at the same time she didn’t. Not enough fun and a lot more work…not that she didn’t like having a full belly during winter. It was up to the women, she knew, to make sure that food was carefully stored.

Mamàcho Josette and Aunt Katie were nearby, busy preparing fish. With favorite knives in hand, they gutted and sliced the Uldai, heading them first then splitting length-wise, the inner flesh scored to assist the drying process. The skin and tail remained so that the fish could be easily hung. During the long winters, dry whitefish was an invaluable staple.

Katie sent a glance her way. Ah, Yaot’l, that’s not finished, you know. There are lots more scraping needed and it must be washed again before we start curing.

Yaot’l knew the weight of the wet hide, when they pulled it from the creek again, would be great. It would take several women and children to get it back on the hanger. Then the curing would start. The brains they’d use were already rendered, the pot set aside where it wouldn’t be accidentally tipped over.

I know, Auntie. Yaot’l cleaned her blade against a flat topped rock, and returned to the task at hand. It was said that there’d been a big river here and a bad flood, very long ago in dreamtime…Round the evening campfire, Babàcho Gregorie had told them all about it in one of his Gawoo-long ago stories.

Mamàcho looked up from her task and smiled. I’ve about got this basket emptied. I’ll scrape for a while. You go down to the creek and see what you can catch. There’s plenty of time before dark.

Flashing her mamàcho a smile of gratitude, Yaot’l laid her scraper on the ground beside the frame.

You bring back some fish, you hear? No playing. Aunt Katie said, but when Yaot’l looked anxiously up at her, she caught a wink from one merry brown eye.

At the lean-to where her family sheltered, Yaot’l grabbed her fish spear. She glanced at a woven willow basket attached to a pole, but she decided not to take it. It was clumsy, and snagged on rocks and branches in the shallows.

She’d need to hurry if she wanted to enjoy the fishing. The band would keep moving until they reached the confluence of two rivers. Where they emptied into a clear, deep lake was their traditional łık’àdèè k’è, Gam`e`t`i.

Other bands—more relatives—were also on the move, into canoes and then out again, making a portage through the networks of water.

The discovery of the moose had caused a small but productive delay in the band’s journey, but they would not stay long. Most of the men had already gone ahead with canoes and dogs, in order to prepare camp at the place where the fish, after a long journey, returned to spawn. The Snow Goose band would return to the home that had been theirs from time immemorial.

Since the white men had come, bringing their new and deadly sicknesses, taking land away for their diggings and towns, there had come many changes. Fewer made the trek to the fishing grounds. Some no longer looked to the land for their living, but to the white man’s jobs. Even the furred and finned brothers and sisters of the people had changed their habits. Caribou no longer came so far south; mink and otter moved away from their old grounds. Every year the tribe had to travel farther into the open lands to find food and fur.

Yaot’l headed into the brush with spear in hand and a length of line for her catch looped into her belt. At the bend in the creek, water briefly slowed and sloughed. Small children played there, but the play had a purpose—to learn to fish. Already three small ones were laid out along the bank. Now, however, the children kicked water and laughed. A pair of barking puppies ran alongside.

Yaot’l waved. They waved back, but these small cousins were too involved in their play to break off. She went on a little further, looking for quiet. Here, she washed the stickiness of the silver skin from her hands and forearms before she walked into the bush.

The sun high and bright warmed her black hair. The ache in her shoulders diminished. A little breeze blew as she walked along, lifting tendrils that had escaped from her braids. The creek sparkled and danced nearby, whispering over a bottom of rock. Carried on the breeze were bird calls — the bright sounds of courtship. The birds were singing to set territories, calling from scrub and bush that marked their home range.

Yaot’l held her arms above her head, allowing the warmth from Father Sun to seep into her hands and down her arms. It was one of those blessing moments, when the light flowed through her body and joined with her spirit making all one.

* * *

The bank grew steeper. She followed a deer path as it looped higher, moving, briefly, out of sight of the water. Soon, though, the path would come down again, to a low, level sandy area where animals came to drink. Clear round about because of the intrusive rock, it was a vantage point where even a creature with its head down could see a hunter—of whatever kind—and still have a chance of escape.

Finally she spotted the small cataract she’d been seeking. Here, the fish had to jump in order to continue their journey home. It was an excellent fishing place. As she emerged slowly from the last bit of spruce shade, Yaot’l heard a noisy rattle.

She froze. Gripping her spear, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the light. Cautiously she sniffed the air. This time of year, you might come upon a bear, a very hungry one just awakened from a long winter of sleep, hungry enough to eat even a skinny human.

No. No rank smell of bear.

The rattling came again, and this time she got a fix on it. It emanated from among the rocks. Slowly, carefully, Yaot’l crept closer to the sound. It came again, and this time, she recognized it as a snore.

It was all she could do not to laugh when she spotted the boy lying there, fast asleep, propped into a stony groove. She recognized him. Sascho, they called him, from a band that often spent time in company with hers. Yaot’l knew him from other łık’àdèè k’è summers, but oh, over the winter, he’d lengthened out considerable. She knew those strong cheekbones and his rough, bushy black hair. He had, it seemed, found this bowl of rocks to be a perfect fit for a nap.

Smiling to herself, she crept away from the boy, down towards the water. If she could collect some in the palm of her hand, she’d give him a surprise.

He really was sleeping much too soundly! She had to tease him! With an ice cold handful, barely breathing, she edged back to where he lay.

Quick! Before it all leaked away she emptied her hand over his head.

Yah! He shouted, leaping to his feet and reaching for his belt knife,

Laughing, Yaot’l jumped backwards. Time to wake up, Grizzly Bear, or I’ll have your claws.

* * *

Sascho sheathed his knife. Yaot’l! That tall clever girl from the Snow Goose band with her merry dark eyes...

Warriors did NOT get caught sleeping! He hoped no one else would ever hear about this. He’d been tired, and the afternoon so warm, but that was no excuse.

Uncle John had told him not to return until he’d caught something—not fish—to put in the pot. He’d followed a small herd of deer since before dawn, but that had come to nothing when he’d missed his shot. He’d even tried snagging ducks. On the way here, he’d set a snare for rabbits. He’d dug after ground squirrel, but catching that sort of prey was something any woman or old man could do.

And now this humiliation, knowing he had been found sleeping! Sascho was a tall boy and people took him for older than he was, so he felt as if he was always catching up with what he should have learned yesterday. He’d gone as a helper to the winter trap lines with his uncles for the last few years, but his uncles never seemed to be quite satisfied with him.

Anxiously, Sascho’s gaze moved to where he’d stashed the precious item—

The rifle was still there, tucked among the rocks just where he’d placed it. He was lucky that it was Yaot’l instead of someone else who’d come along and caught him sleeping—Although, he thought back in the days his grandparents talked about, he probably wouldn’t have woken up at all. Cree or Yellowknife or kwet’ı̨ı̨̀—someone would have killed him for the rifle.

Don’t be mad, Sascho. Yaot’l crouched a little distance away. She stroked a braid, squinting against the sun.

He frowned and didn’t reply. Sascho had liked her a lot last summer! He had a sudden notion that the same feeling would return this summer.

I won’t tell anyone. Now there was concern in her merry eyes.

He nodded, hoping the gesture was enough.

Are your people already south of here?

Yes—ah, half day’s walk, at the pond with the drowned pines. I followed deer back up this way.

No luck? She nodded toward the rifle. She had noticed his rifle, after all.

He nodded, feeling even more embarrassed than before.

I—ah—was going to fish here, she said. Looks like a pretty good spot.

Go on. He bent to collect the rifle. I’ve got to get back. Before she could say anything else, he’d shouldered his gun and started back the way he’d come.

See you in a few days! He called the words back over his shoulder, hoping she’d think these were just an afterthought.

Chapter Two

Sascho descended the rocks and moved into the scrub, determined to put the girl and the place as far behind him as possible. He tried to stay calm and make his way through the low bushes with care and quiet, even though he felt like shouting and stamping and kicking things like an angry white man. After all, the sun was beginning to wester and he still had nothing to bring back.

And that girl—she’d grown since last year. Now she was just as tall as he was, although she still had no shape. Sascho had begun to notice the softening and rounding that overtook the active little girl cousins he played with in childhood. Although he knew that was what happened next in growing up, and that boys continued packing on muscle as they grew, her new height was dispiriting. He wondered if her aim was as good as it had been, or if it was even better. Last summer at the lake camp, she’d sometimes played knife throwing games with him and his friends. They’d soon learned that she could throw hard and accurately, far better, in fact, than a lot of his cousins.

Of course, on that occasion, she’d soon been called away by one of her Auntie’s, back to her woman’s work, but not before Sascho and the others had also been impressed by her skill with that small bow someone had given her.

One evening last summer, he’d seen her stun a duck with a well-thrown stone. While it was dazed, flopping in the shallows, she’d splashed in, seized it, and wrung its neck in an instant. It was not her only hunting skill, either, for he’d seen her spear fish, too, as expert as anyone.

She was exactly the kind of girl a man should get for a wife. Just thinking of her bright white smile and warm brown cheeks made his pulse run a little faster. He was, all in all, happy that her family would be camping with his again this summer. It had been good to see her again, even if he had been shamed that she’d caught him sleeping.

After a trek through some scrub, a place where he’d hoped to spot more deer, he found himself facing a steeply rising slope of jumbled rocks and grass. The landform lay like a huge snake blocking his path. At the base, he paused to orient himself by the sun. He’d have to move along if he hoped to make the Blackwater camp by dark. He leaned forward, carbine over his shoulder and began to climb. It would be easier to travel along the flattened crest. Where it terminated—in a mound of gravel—was the place where he’d turn his back on the sun and head east, in the direction of the small lake beside which his band camped.

Atop the esker, he paused to catch his breath. A few low clouds traveled briskly overhead, borne upon a crisp, sharp wind which made him shiver. He was glad it was in his face, for this meant his scent was going upwind. Distantly he heard ravens calling, probably in the spruce he’d just left behind. His gaze scanned the open land below in search of movement.

It was mostly flat, with patches of gray stone and greenish brush, occasionally brightened by the golden blush of lichen. Nothing stirred. Heaving a sigh he set off again, this time at a fast trot. It was clear and easy this way, but it was also a place where he could easily be seen.

It was not a road the old timers would have traveled, back in the days when First Nation people warred with one another, but now he would cover territory between here and camp faster by walking along the flattened crest. When he reached the final mound, he would descend easily into the soggy, brushy flatland. There still might be a final chance to flush another deer. He could also check the little trap line he’d made early this morning, too, the one along the rabbit path, to see if that had yielded anything he could carry back.

As he reached the terminus, the old grave appeared. Four stones arranged to sit at the four sacred directions, with a single rock set carefully at the heart, marked the place. He’d passed below it this morning through the scrub on the trail of those elusive deer. On a visit a few years back, his uncle had taken him and his cousins to the place. Uncle John had told them the names of those who were buried here, people from his grandparents’ generation, a family—two women, three children, and their husband, all of whom had died of one of the white man’s terrible plagues.

The earth, when their bones were found, was still frozen and impossible to dig. So, those family members had gathered the remains and placed them within the loose stones and gravel of the esker, where digging was always possible.

The night he and John had come here, they’d gathered brush, built a small fire, sung some prayer songs, and his uncle had told a story from the old days, when the white men had just begun to change everything. It was important, Uncle John said, for them to remember the elders, for they were still here, lying in the land that had borne them. Afterwards, they had sat in the fire light and kept the spirits company for a time.

Evening had come down. Overhead, just as the sun