Excerpt # 2 - Chapter 4 of The Oak Lovers - Carl's time among the Ojibwa
Copyright 2009 by Kim Bullock
Context: Madonna meets Carl for breakfast at his favorite fishing spot in East Aurora, NY. At this time he is 38 and still married to Emily, his first wife. Madonna is 17. Eleanor is a 2nd cousin of Carl's, a painter, and his frequent companion.
Mr. Ahrens’ sole other companion was his cousin Eleanor Douglas, the lady Madonna once mistook as his wife. “Don’t be fooled by Ellie’s delicate appearance,” he once told Madonna. “She can field dress a deer faster than any man I know.”
The idea of Eleanor covered in gore offered a fascinating contrast to the image most Roycrofters had of her. Each time it rained, everyone rushed to the windows to watch Eleanor splash in the puddles on Grove Street with childlike abandon. Once others joined her and a mud fight ensured.
After a neighbor of the Ahrens family reported having spied Eleanor emerge from the forest before dawn, cheeks rosy and hair askew, gossip flared among Martha’s roommates.
“She has a lover,” Anna declared one night. “It’s Mr. Ahrens, of course. They converse in a language no one else can understand.”
“It sounds savage,” Katherine said. “Has he lived with the savages, Martha?”
“Perhaps.” She ran her tongue over the gold filling in her tooth and marveled that she had not once felt a twinge of pain. “He’s had many adventures.”
Anna persisted. “They live in the same house. Very convenient.”
Mary joined in. “They camped alone overnight last weekend.”
“He needed the light in the forest at twilight for his painting and she needed it at dawn for hers,” Madonna snapped. “They’d miss both if they didn’t stay.”
Katherine giggled. “However did they pass the time?”
Madonna bit her tongue. If anyone suspected jealousy, the next rumor would be that Mr. Ahrens seduced her as well. Such rubbish would spread all over campus.
She spied on Mr. Ahrens and Eleanor during the next Sunday lecture. They generally behaved like affectionate siblings, but now a small child could fit between them on the bench. Madonna loitered outside the chapel door after the lecture ended in order to eavesdrop as they passed by. Eleanor spoke in a language Madonna had never heard. His Mr. Ahrens responded with a tangle of consonants.
As he neared, someone jostled him from behind and shoved him into her. She lost her balance on the stair and braced for a crash against the rail but his arm shielded her from the blow and encircled her. “Are you hurt, inzahgidiwin?”
“Gizahgidiwin?”
Madonna flinched at Eleanor’s tone and pressed closer to Mr. Ahrens.
“Bizaanabi, Ellie.” Was it the command or his expression that silenced his cousin? His hand pressed between Madonna’s shoulder blades. “I’ll be a bit upstream from the usual spot a little after dawn,” he said to her. “If the fish bite, I’ll make breakfast. Meet me?”
She followed Mr. Ahrens and Eleanor at a distance, straining as best she could to hear their loud, spirited and unintelligible conversation. As they neared Madonna’s street, Eleanor turned and slapped his face. At the vicious crack, Madonna reflexively touched her own cheek. She feared it was somehow her fault.
He was, however, as promised, at his favorite fishing hole on Cazenovia Creek the next morning. She dangled her feet out over the water and waited for him to speak. Other than his yelp of glee as he reeled in a third trout, he did not. The silence grew uncomfortable.
“My friends dared me to ask you a ridiculous question,” she said at last. “About Eleanor.”
He unsheathed his knife and reached for a fish. “She’s not a wood sprite.”
Madonna averted her eyes. She had tasted fish once before and detested it; watching one being disemboweled would likely not leave a different impression now. “That wasn’t the question.”
“Let me guess. Is it about Ellie’s secret lover?” He glanced up. “Imagine my amusement to learn that her encounter was with me.”
“I heard something of the sort.”
“It’s hogwash, Madonna.”
“Her work imitates yours. You must inspire her.”
He tossed the fish waste into the creek and rinsed his blade. “She remains with us for Emily’s sake. Not mine.”
“Oh. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“It’s fine. Jealousy’s an emotion I understand well.”
“I’m not jealous.” She swatted his arm.
“I generally follow the teachings of the Bible and give a kiss for a blow.” He winked. “Strike me again and watch out.”
“You didn’t kiss Eleanor last night.”
“She’d have slapped me harder.” He stoked the campfire, flicked a drop of water into the skillet to test the heat, and began to fry the fish. “She had cause, Madonna. If you spoke Ojibwa, you’d know I provoked her.”
“Did you work at a trading post?”
“No, I lived with my tribe.”
She turned to face him. “You’re as white as I am. How could you have a tribe?”
“They judged my spirit, not my skin color.”
“Didn’t you fear being scalped?”
Mr. Ahrens laughed. “Ellie’s more intimidating than most of their braves.”
“What did you say to me last night? It clearly angered her.”
“I called you inzahgidiwin. It means…” He cleared his throat. “Well, it’s a term of endearment. It surprised her.” He poked under a fish with his fork, frowned and pulled away again. “I should explain my connection with the Ojibwa to you. I can imagine the rumors you’ve heard. Here’s the truth. Four summers ago, I camped for the season with my family outside the village of Southampton. That’s on the shore of Lake Huron, in case you’ve never heard of it. Anyway, the best site flanked the Saugeen River, maybe fifty yards from the reservation. As a gesture of goodwill, I approached the chief with a gift of rabbit pelts before we pitched our tents.”
“He spoke English?”
Mr. Ahrens shook his head. “I pantomimed a lot and threw in an occasional word of Cree and Mohawk, which he seemed to understand. He indicated a better camp upstream, steps from their border. On the way there, he pointed out blueberry bushes and a good fishing spot. I remembered the words he used and incorporated them into my questions. He introduced me to the elders and they welcomed us.” Mr. Ahrens reached for the fork again and turned the fish.
Madonna tucked her legs behind her and toyed with a twig. “If I told this to anyone, they’d never believe me.”
He smiled. “The elder women brought me herbs for my pain. Everyone was kind, well beyond what you’d expect of even the best neighbors. The children’s reaction startled me most, though.”
“Your children?”
“No, theirs. They crept up close to me in groups of two or three and stared. If I said a word, they ran away as though terrified.”
“That’s odd.”
“I thought so, too. By then, I understood some of their language, so I asked the chief’s wife. She touched my face like this.” He cradled Madonna’s cheek in his palm. “She said, ‘You look just like him. My son who died. They think he’s returned to us. We all do.’”
She understood why they mistook him for one of their own. His hair was almost black and worn long. His cheekbones were high, his features sharp, and his skin tanned to a rich coppery shade. Only his eyes betrayed his true race. She shivered as she glanced at the hand that caressed her moments before. Scarlet paint lurked under his fingernails.
“She called me son from then on, and I called her my Indian mother. They adopted my whole family into the tribe, and bestowed on me the name of the son they had lost. Ahsabanang. I wish you could have been at the ceremony, Madonna. The smell of sage and sweet grass is…intoxicating.” He chuckled. “And the resonant, haunting pulse of the drum seeps into your bones.”
The forest grew silent, other than the crackle of the campfire and the faint murmur of the creek: the scent of wood embers and frying fish strong, yet pleasant. She wondered if the warm breeze on the reservation felt heady, as it did here.
He flipped a fish onto her plate.
She bit tentatively. “It’s good.” She took a larger bite. “What does your Indian name mean?”
“A cluster of stars.”
She believed that suited him. “Was living there hard on your children?”
He chewed and shook his head. “They called my younger son Nebanonquit, or Chipmunk. He soon befriended Medweash, a boy his own age, who taught him how to snare gophers. He’d eat them to this day if they could be easily had.” Mr. Ahrens took another bite. “My daughter, then four, used to disappear each afternoon. One day I discovered her perched on a boulder while her feet dangled into the water. Baby river otters swam about her legs. I imagine it tickled.”
“Didn’t you fear she’d get hurt?”
“The women assured me the otters were tame and that someone always remained near in case she slipped. She’s a spirited girl. I’ve no wish to tame that out of her.”
Madonna noticed he offered no explanation of his wife’s opinion of the experience. The omission pleased her far more than it should.
She finished her fish and glanced at the last one, still hungry, though she thought it would be impolite to reach for it. One small trout would not be enough to satisfy him. He reached for the fish, cut it in half and put the larger portion on her plate.
“I’d never let you go hungry,” he said.
“Say something in Ojibwa.”
“Kauween baekaunizid keen aetah k’bishiigaenimin.”
His gaze felt the same as when he had touched her cheek. “What does that mean?”
He picked up a pebble and hurled it across the creek. “There’s no easy way to translate.”