Tales from the Narwikins
Huddled in the depths of the debris pile, Crooked Foot could hear the great bear overhead searching for him.
Chapter 1 - Cave Bear
“Is it fresh?” Crooked Foot watched as his grandfather, Howling Wolf, crouched down for a closer look at the footprints. The tracks in the soft mud were the largest that the boy had ever seen, but then he hadn’t seen much.
By his age, other boys knew how to read many animal signs, follow game and find their way in the woods. They’d been taken hunting at an early age. As an orphan, he hadn’t been. However, he had listened carefully when the hunters and would-be hunters gathered around campfires and told of their adventures. From their stories, he learned to make a pouch sling by attaching leather cords to a piece of animal hide. Trees, rocks, and other things that didn’t move were his first targets. Rocks, stacked one on top of the next—sometime two or three piles in a row--were a favorite. He practiced all day, every day.
It was while at practice he met Red Deer. After setting his target in place, he retreated to a line a respectable distance away in preparation. Before he could use his sling, a throwing stick whizzed over head, knocking over the target. He turned and found Red Deer’s smiling face. Crooked Foot had no idea how long the chief’s adopted son had been there. It started as a contest but slinging rocks, using throwing sticks, or bolos became a game between the two of them and the start of a close friendship.
Then, three summers ago, Red Deer went off on his sojourn. This solo journey, a traditional rite of passage, is part of the transition from childhood to adult. Survival proved that they could subsist on their own. It also taught them the value of tribe membership. He hadn’t returned. Many in the tribe had given up hope and spoke openly of not seeing him ever again. Not ready to concede the possibility, Crooked Foot remained silent.
As tribal leader, Howling Wolf had little time to spend with his grandson. Now, with Red Deer gone, he began taking Crooked Foot on short outings. It gave him the chance to test what the lad knew, how he performed, and how willing he was to learn.
For Crooked Foot, it was critical he learn as much as he could from whomever he could but more important was the time he now got to spend with his grandfather.
He used the shaft of his cherished red spear to steady himself, as he carefully picked his way along the slippery river bank to his grandfather’s side.
Howling Wolf replied to the boy’s question in a quiet tone, “It rained before we started out.” He pointed to the edges of the imprint, as he went on, “See here, the mud is still soft. Mamuta, the sun, came to chase away the darkness and the rain. But look, there is no sign of rain in the print. It was made after the rain stopped.”
He paused to let the boy take it all in and then patiently continued. “At the edges, the mud is still soft. The sun brought warmth but hasn’t had time to make the edges dry.” He poked a finger into the soft border and held it out for Crooked Foot to examine. Satisfied the boy understood, he continued, “The cold tongue of Wawakin, the wind which blows off the big ice, hasn’t made it solid.”
He looked at the lad for confirmation. Did he understand?
“The rain came and made the ground soft and wet,” Crooked Foot acknowledged. “The animal that made this print came here after the rain. There hasn’t been enough time pass for the warmth of sun or the cold breath of the wind to change things.”
Satisfied the boy aptly demonstrated that he listened and understood, Howling Wolf nodded in agreement. That was good. What lay ahead would be a shock. He spread his fingers wide, palms down, leaned in close and used both hands to measure across the paw print.
“It’s wider than your hands,” Crooked Foot gasped. “What kind of animal made this?”
“Look here.” Howling Wolf pointed to the ground in front of them. “Front feet.” He stood up and pointed at another set of tracks. “Over there. Hind feet...tell me, what kind of animal do you think made this?”
Crooked Foot looked down at this print and then at the other tracks, more than twice his grandfather’s height away. Memories of nights gathered around the campfires. Old men--hunters from long ago—loudly told stories but spoke with hushed voices of this creature.
It seemed like his heart stopped and then began beating again…fast…and in his throat. His mouth went dry. He was hardly able to speak. Finally, he managed to squeak out one word, hardly more than a whisper. “Tawasiki.”
By his age, other boys knew how to read many animal signs, follow game and find their way in the woods. They’d been taken hunting at an early age. As an orphan, he hadn’t been. However, he had listened carefully when the hunters and would-be hunters gathered around campfires and told of their adventures. From their stories, he learned to make a pouch sling by attaching leather cords to a piece of animal hide. Trees, rocks, and other things that didn’t move were his first targets. Rocks, stacked one on top of the next—sometime two or three piles in a row--were a favorite. He practiced all day, every day.
It was while at practice he met Red Deer. After setting his target in place, he retreated to a line a respectable distance away in preparation. Before he could use his sling, a throwing stick whizzed over head, knocking over the target. He turned and found Red Deer’s smiling face. Crooked Foot had no idea how long the chief’s adopted son had been there. It started as a contest but slinging rocks, using throwing sticks, or bolos became a game between the two of them and the start of a close friendship.
Then, three summers ago, Red Deer went off on his sojourn. This solo journey, a traditional rite of passage, is part of the transition from childhood to adult. Survival proved that they could subsist on their own. It also taught them the value of tribe membership. He hadn’t returned. Many in the tribe had given up hope and spoke openly of not seeing him ever again. Not ready to concede the possibility, Crooked Foot remained silent.
As tribal leader, Howling Wolf had little time to spend with his grandson. Now, with Red Deer gone, he began taking Crooked Foot on short outings. It gave him the chance to test what the lad knew, how he performed, and how willing he was to learn.
For Crooked Foot, it was critical he learn as much as he could from whomever he could but more important was the time he now got to spend with his grandfather.
He used the shaft of his cherished red spear to steady himself, as he carefully picked his way along the slippery river bank to his grandfather’s side.
Howling Wolf replied to the boy’s question in a quiet tone, “It rained before we started out.” He pointed to the edges of the imprint, as he went on, “See here, the mud is still soft. Mamuta, the sun, came to chase away the darkness and the rain. But look, there is no sign of rain in the print. It was made after the rain stopped.”
He paused to let the boy take it all in and then patiently continued. “At the edges, the mud is still soft. The sun brought warmth but hasn’t had time to make the edges dry.” He poked a finger into the soft border and held it out for Crooked Foot to examine. Satisfied the boy understood, he continued, “The cold tongue of Wawakin, the wind which blows off the big ice, hasn’t made it solid.”
He looked at the lad for confirmation. Did he understand?
“The rain came and made the ground soft and wet,” Crooked Foot acknowledged. “The animal that made this print came here after the rain. There hasn’t been enough time pass for the warmth of sun or the cold breath of the wind to change things.”
Satisfied the boy aptly demonstrated that he listened and understood, Howling Wolf nodded in agreement. That was good. What lay ahead would be a shock. He spread his fingers wide, palms down, leaned in close and used both hands to measure across the paw print.
“It’s wider than your hands,” Crooked Foot gasped. “What kind of animal made this?”
“Look here.” Howling Wolf pointed to the ground in front of them. “Front feet.” He stood up and pointed at another set of tracks. “Over there. Hind feet...tell me, what kind of animal do you think made this?”
Crooked Foot looked down at this print and then at the other tracks, more than twice his grandfather’s height away. Memories of nights gathered around the campfires. Old men--hunters from long ago—loudly told stories but spoke with hushed voices of this creature.
It seemed like his heart stopped and then began beating again…fast…and in his throat. His mouth went dry. He was hardly able to speak. Finally, he managed to squeak out one word, hardly more than a whisper. “Tawasiki.”
Tawaski, the great bear, was hungry