Makoons

Makoons opened his weak eyes, blinked, and saw himself as he used to be-a boy glowing with strength and health. He closed his eyes and heard a voice singing the way he used to sing-a voice full and pure. The hand on his arm felt like his old hand, before the sickness-capable, excited, concerned. Makoons opened his eyes again, and saw his twin brother. He struggled to rise but weakness fixed him in his blankets. The voice continued. Small things have great power, his brother sang to him. The notes were sweetly cheerful. Makoons closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He smiled. Chickadee, his twin, the other half of his soul, had returned, and Makoons was going to get well.

The boys were born in the thaw of late winter, when steam ravels from the dens of bears to signal their birth. Makwa is the Ojibwe word for “bear.” Makoons is the word for “little bear,” or bear cub. Makoons had grown ill when his twin was kidnapped and taken away. He recovered once his twin returned. The boys were connected to each other by invisible strings of life. They understood each other like nobody else, and also they annoyed each other like nobody else. Makoons knew that his brother slept beside him now, fed him from a spoon made from a buffalo horn. His brother continued to sing to him until his voice changed from the trill of the chickadee to the harsh and ragged croak of the crow. Still, Chickadee kept on, healing his brother song by song.

One morning when the two boys were alone, Makoons stared from the blankets at Chickadee and whispered.

“Brother, I have seen something.”

“What did you see?”

“Last night, I was hot with fever. I could not eat. I was staring out at nothing, when my mind was strangely opened. I saw all that is to happen. I still see it, brother.”

“Tell me,” said Chickadee.

“I am going to get well,” said Makoons, “but that is not important. We will become strong and bring down buffalo. We’ll have horses; we’ll feed our people. All of us will travel into the great grass places, toward the western stars. We will never go back east to our lake, our deep woods.”

Chickadee’s heart pinched, for he loved the trees and water of his old home.

“My brother,” said Makoons. “That isn’t all. We will be tested, too.”

“What is going to happen?” Chickadee sat very still in the blankets, a spoon poised in one hand. A bowl of buffalo broth was cupped in the other hand.

“I can’t see exactly,” said Makoons. “But I know we will have to save them.”

“Save who?”

“Our family. Only…”

“Only what?”

“Only,” said Makoons. His voice failed, tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes. His voice dropped so low that Chickadee had to bend close to hear it.

“My brother,” Makoons whispered. “We cannot save them all.”

So it began-the living out of this vision-which Makoons saw in the early summer of 1866.