Black Bird
Whereabouts Unknown
Unbeknownst to most, there are different kinds of darkness. The layman is familiar with only one: the absence of light. Some confuse the variety of situations in which this darkness appears as different forms, but it is all the same. The bedroom once the lamps are snuffed, the underground cellar without a torch, the sky when the sun sleeps past the horizon. In reality, this is darkness at its most benign. The darkness is not even there. It is merely filling the space that the light left, and only until it returns.
Then there is the second kind: the first and initial presence of actual, sincere darkness. The layman does not know it, and would not recognize it upon seeing it—at least, not at first. Despite this, however, it is not rare. Rather, it is extremely common, so common that every single person on earth learns it. Most only learn it once. It is the darkness of death. When the light leaves a man’s eyes, darkness takes its place, and for good. Every now and then, there comes a man who sees this darkness, who learns it intimately, and through the grace of some god or benevolent spirit is reawakened. The light returns, and though it resumes its roost in the man’s eyes and mind, the darkness that came never truly leaves.
The third form could be considered its truest, a form learned only once a generation. However few experience the shadow of death and live to remember it, fewer still ever feel the umbral gaol of limbo. It is darkness unending, all-encompassing. And it is the ultimate suffering. To never know light, to never be spared by death. To feel nothing, see nothing, hear nothing, taste nothing. No joy or serenity, no pain or sorrow. Nothing but void. Darkness so thick it coagulates the senses, filling the ears, the mind, the throat, the lungs. But it does not choke or suffocate, for that would kill, and thus bring an end to its ceaseless torment.
It is this darkness that strikes fear, more than anything else, in the hearts of men. Most think it is the fear of the second darkness, but a heart can steel itself against the fear of death, emboldened by honor or bravery. Nothing can stave off the fear of the final darkness. Man fears the unknown, the uncertain, above all else. Even in death there is certainty, for those that die know whatever lies beyond. But being captive to the final darkness provides no respite, no release. It is the ultimate torture, to hold the reins of consciousness with no idea where the carriage is heading, or even if it is moving at all. To sit in eternal stasis, to be trapped in a cage of nothing. Yes, it is this darkness that man fears most. And it is this darkness that befell a trade-keeper named Memeskoniinisi, on the eleventh eve of the month of December.
Everything was dark. Not just in his vision, either—it smelled dark, felt dark, tasted dark. They were sensations he had never felt before, or likely would again, for they were not sensations at all. Nor were they an absence of sense in the familiar understanding of it—not a numbness, nor a muted echo of feeling. Just nothing—a mind floating aimlessly in space, praying to be granted something, anything, to save it from this fate.
In the beginning, Black Bird would flail wildly around, trying desperately to feel something. Even if it was pain, even if it was fire or icy water or a thousand sharp needles, he would plunge himself into it if given the chance, just to know he could feel. But it never worked. He would scream, as loud as he could, out into the endless void, though he knew no words to speak. All he could do was scream, and even though he tried so hard and so loud, no sound ever left his lips. Eventually, he stopped trying, giving himself to it, letting his body and mind be swept away by the current of nothing, present and absent all at once, just as he was.
Worse still, his imprisonment did not last forever, although it seemingly had no end. Every now and then, he would be granted a brief moment of lucidity. In those few fleeting seconds, he could think, he could feel. He remembered that he was Black Bird, and that he had a best friend like a brother, and that he had left for something important. And then it would leave him as soon as it came, and he once again was a faceless, nameless, nobody. Every time the memory left him, he remembered it leaving, despite not knowing what it was that left. All he could do then, was writhe in agony, tossing and turning to think about all the parts of him that were gone. And eventually, they would return to him for a few seconds more, only to leave again. The memory was there for so little, and once it left, the time until it came again seemed infinite.
During these waking moments, Black Bird’s senses were still cordoned off, but not completely. Like an aperture opened so slightly, or sand sifting through a colander, only the tiniest amounts passed through. He could still not hear, or feel, or taste, but he could see, just a bit. Yes, during these short and epiphanous instances, Black Bird could see something out there, in the everlasting darkness. And every time he did, he saw the exact same thing. A bird, black as night, black as the darkness that surrounded him and everything else. A black bird with black eyes, haunting and observant, peering into the depths of the boy’s soul. It was hard to see, blending in with the surrounding void almost perfectly. But every time he remembered himself, it was there, watching him. And so he watched back.
At first, Black Bird thought it must be his namesake, but the bird for which the trade-keeper was named had flecks of bright red in its wings. There was no red or any other color here. And besides, this bird’s beak was far too large. It was the beak of a larger bird, of an apex predator. He realized, then, that it was instead the black hawk, the beast that bore his family’s totem. Makade-gekek, of the Baswenaazhi*. And once he realized that, the bird’s presence made perfect sense to him, and even provided him a strange sense of comfort amidst the endless terrors dark.
As a child, his mother told him that his totem, like all totems, was a sacred thing. It was a symbol of spiritual identity, a pedigree of his father’s lineage and ancestry, a title that gave him a place and role in society. Even the word, dodem, meant “the absolute core of a person”. It was, in essence, a soul, passed down from father to son for generations. And, in truth, it was the only thing his father had ever given him. That fact made it all the more precious to him, a sacred treasure he kept close as long as he could remember.
His mother also taught him that his totem was more than just a title—it was a living embodiment of the virtue of that animal. The Baswenaazhi were all made up of different birds of prey: the Black Hawk, the Bald Eagle, the Thunderbird. The members of the Baswenaazhi then, embodied those traits—ever-vigilant, ever-scrutinous. Fierce predators, and even fiercer protectors of their chicks. It was a cardinal sin to kill your totem animal, for that animal was a manifestation of you, your ancestors, and your guardian spirit. His mother told him that his totem animal always watched over him, and one would appear to him whenever he needed it most. How funny that it should appear now.
Then came the agony of nothing, and the bird disappeared. And so Black Bird sat in wait for it to come again, though he could not remember what he had seen in the first place. His heart would fill with dread, and just when he was of a mind to give himself up to it, to relinquish himself to the darkness, his totem returned, and his memory with it. After a few times, he could bear no longer—he called out to it, asking it for guidance, for help, for anything.
“Please,” he cried, though his words made no sound as they left his lips. “Please, help me. Tell me what I need to do. Save me from this hell. You’re supposed to look after me. Please!”
The black hawk said nothing. It sat there, somewhere out in the infinite void, far enough that Black Bird could not reach it. All it did was watch, its enormous black eyes piercing through his very being. All his soul was laid bare, as if the totem ripped itself from his body, spilling its contents for him to see and reflect on. A boy who considered himself a man, cold and afraid, bitter and resentful. A son of a coward, forever fated to bear that inherited shame. So desperately had he tried to escape it, to leave his father and the baggage he carried behind. But he couldn’t. Not while he bore his father’s totem—a foreign bird, trying and failing to disguise its plumage. You cannot hide anything from another hawk, and certainly not from a whole kettle. It was true, then, that Black Bird could hide nothing from his guardian spirit, and as the bird’s cold eyes dissected him, he felt the heat of every shame in his whole life burst into flame, all at once.
“I’m sorry!” He screamed into the uncaring void. As he did, he felt something for the first time—the sting of his eyes watering, the sensation of tears trickling down his cheeks.
“I know I shouldn’t have left him. I should have tried to talk to him, to understand why he did what he did. But I was young, and angry. And I was right to be! He killed her, for fuck’s sake! I watched her wither and die, and he wasn’t even there to bury her! Every day she looked out into the woods. She was waiting for him! She never gave up on him, and he took her love and faith and hope and ground it into dust under his moccasin! And they wouldn’t even let me see her at the end. It was too dangerous, they said, too risky. I’d catch it too, they told me, even though I said I didn’t care, even though all I wanted was to see her one last time. That’s all I needed—I’d catch it, and die happy, just to say goodbye. And they had the gall, the audacity, to tell me she died with her eyes on the forest! And he didn’t come back ‘til she was rotting in the ground!”
With every word he spoke, Black Bird began to feel more and more. He still couldn’t feel anything of his surroundings. What he felt instead was all inside him—a burning fire, growing in his gut and his heart. A fire of hatred, of resentment, of shame. The fire grew hotter and hotter, spreading to his arms, his chest, his throat, his eyes. The water of his tears was not enough to abate it, and it consumed his whole body and mind. As it did, the black hawk began to fade into the darkness. Black Bird reached out to it, and he felt the ground beneath him as he started to run towards it.
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“No!” He cried out in vain. “You can’t leave me! Please! I just want to understand! I just need to know that I’ve earned you!”
The hawk said nothing, as always, melting into the void behind it. Black Bird finally caught up to it, but it was too late. He reached out to grab the bird, but fell forwards, collapsing into an endless freefall, careening down into the final darkness with no end in sight.
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When he awoke, Black Bird realized he had been crying. He touched his face, still damp with the moisture. He sat up, looking around him. He could see! He was inside a room of what was likely a larger hut. He could hear and feel the hot steam that came from beyond the door, seeping in through the cracks. They were in the medicine hut, then—steam and heat therapy was a common technique among the Midewiwin.
“You’re awake,” a voice called to him from the corner of the room. It was the doctor’s, muffled by something. Black Bird turned, and gasped in horror at what he saw. The doctor was dressed head to toe in black. A cloak or robe of some kind draped over his body, a wide-brimmed hat, and a mask in the shape of a bird’s beak. All at once, the memory of darkness returned to Black Bird. The black hawk he saw was not his totem at all, but the doctor in the mask. His heart filled with despair, and he collapsed onto the floor, sobbing. It wasn’t true, then. The hawk was not watching over him—it never had. His mother was wrong.
He felt two hands lift him up, and help him back to his bed. As he was laid down, he looked up at Dr. Härkönen in his macabre garb.
“Are you alright?” The doctor asked.
“I… how long have I been out?” Black Bird replied.
“About a week. Thought we were going to lose you the first day or so. But you held strong. Your resilience was incredible, and I had faith you would make it through.”
The doctor reached out with his gloved hand, and grabbed Black Bird’s, holding it firmly, yet with a gentle touch.
“I’m very proud of you, you know,” the doctor suddenly said. He had never spoken like this to either of them, and it caught Black Bird off guard. “For volunteering yourself, for having the resolve to survive this ordeal. Lesser men would never have tried it, and even average men would have succumbed, I think. Do you know what that makes you, then?”
“What?”
“A great man. A superior man, born to lead the lesser and average men, to guide them into greatness. I saw it in you the first time I met you, and I am so pleased that my intuition was right.”
Black Bird’s mind reeled, still not recovered from his ordeal. All he could think of was the mask. He reached towards it.
“How… how did you know?” He asked.
“That you were great?”
“My totem… you’re dressed… you’re a black hawk…”
The doctor looked down at his vestments.
“Oh,” he said. “Forgive me, my boy, but any resemblance in your culture was not intended. This is a uniform worn by doctors who tend to those afflicted by the pox and other such plagues. If it is familiar to you, I think it’s safe to say that’s just a coincidence.”
But it wasn’t a coincidence. If Black Bird had learned anything in his twenty years on this earth, if he had learned anything from the terrifying ordeal of the final darkness, it was that there were no coincidences. Regardless if Härkönen meant it or not, he was Black Bird’s guardian spirit. He watched over him during his torment, and without him, he might have succumbed to the darkness.
“You have no idea,” Black Bird said, his eyes watering. “You have no idea of its significance.”
“Perhaps not,” the doctor replied. “I am glad, at the very least, that it is significant.”
The doctor’s tone bore a hint of confusion, but Black Bird didn’t care. The Black Hawk, through some means or another, was watching over him, protecting him. His father’s totem, and thus, his totem, too.
Black Bird sat up. He already felt better. He looked down at himself. His body bore no sign of the pox.
“Did it… did it really work?” He asked. “Am I immune?”
“There’s only one way to find out,” the doctor replied. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” Black Bird said eagerly. He stood. Too quick—his knees buckled, and the doctor rushed to him, catching him.
“You should rest,” he said. “You’ve only just come back to us.”
“I’m fine,” Black Bird retorted. “Every day I rest is a day my brothers and sisters don’t get this cure. Have you told the Midewiwin how to do it?”
“Of course,” the doctor said. “They would not let me perform it without overseeing the process. They’re very protective of you, it seems.”
“They’re protective of everyone. That’s what doctors do.”
Though his face was masked, Black Bird could have sworn he saw the doctor smile. The folds of his beak curved ever so slightly.
“Of course,” he said. “You’re absolutely right.”
Härkönen helped the boy to his feet again, and together, they walked out of the room. This was the biggest midewigaan Black Bird had ever seen. In the small villages like Black Bird’s, the medicine huts didn’t even have separate rooms, although most had grown larger in recent years to fit multiple pox-ridden patients. This one had high, vaulted ceilings, which the steam in the room rose up to, nestling in the ceiling. Below were the sick in their beds, with two dozen Midewiwin tending to them. Some of them followed another around. Black Bird didn’t know everything about the Midewiwin since he was not a member of the society himself, but he knew that there were multiple ranks of Midewiwin, based on years of practice and expertise. He assumed the ones following were the apprentices, shadowing and assisting the more senior healers while they learned.
A midewinini close to Black Bird noticed him come out of the room, and he stopped. The two trailing behind him stopped too, and so did the midewiwin behind them. And the ones behind them. And the ones behind them. Before long, the entire hut had come to a complete standstill, with all eyes on Black Bird. Sweat dripped down his forehead (if not because of the stares, then the steam rising from underneath him).
“B—Bozho,” Black Bird stammered. Silence. He swallowed. “I, um… I—”
Before he could even think of what to say, a roar erupted throughout the room, cascading off the walls and high ceiling of the medicine hut. Black Bird took a step back, his heart skipping a beat. A moment more, though, and it calmed… and he smiled. It was the roar of victory, a jubilant applause from every doctor in that tent. They had done it. He had done it. Their world was about to be changed forever. His people, his neighbors and community, would be healed. And they would be free, freer maybe than even before the pox came.
“Rejoice! Rejoice” One of the midewinini called, walking around to the ones in the sick beds. “Gather your strength! A cure is here for all of you!”
The healer approached Black Bird. He was middle-aged, his ponytail flecked with an unusual ashiness for his age. He embraced the boy briefly, patting him on the back.
“Come,” he said. “I need you to speak with our chief. You’ll give him the confidence he needs right now.”
Black Bird followed him through the midewigaan. He passed the smiling faces of each of the healers as they patted him on the back and shoulders. He saw the smiles out of the corner of his eyes, and he smiled too, but his eyes were not on them. All he could see were the sick in their beds. All the ones that had the strength to turn and look at him had tears in their eyes, and the ones that couldn’t strained to try. Despite his conversation with White Sky, Black Bird realized he was not at all prepared for this.
The healer opened a door on the opposite end of the hut, and led Black Bird and Härkönen into another room like his. He was a young man, older than Black Bird by maybe ten years or so. This is their chief? Singular? What’s happened to the elders of this village?
“Gimaa,” the midewiwin said, shaking him lightly. “Wake up.”
The young chief stirred. Black Bird tried his best to stifle a gasp. The chief’s skin was covered in boils all the way up to his hairline. A part of Black Bird wanted to hold his breath, still afraid he would catch it.
“Look,” the midewiwin said. “We have made this young man immune. It’s worked! We will heal you, too, soon! Just hold on a little longer!”
“The young chief raised his hand, beckoning Black Bird. Black Bird swallowed, and leaned in closer.
“Thank you…” the young chief said, his voice raspy and weak. “It is too late for me… I know it… it’s alright…”
“We are working immediately,” the midewiwin protested. “We will have you… variolated, as they call it, as soon as we can.”
“It’s alright… the white doctor explained to me… it does not work with those at my stage.”
“What!?” The healer turned to Härkönen furiously.
“Listen to me,” the chief snapped. The healer turned to attention. “The other sick… don’t tell them… do the process with them, just to ease their minds… they deserve some hope in their final days…”
“Even if it’s a lie?” Black Bird asked.
Silence, except for the chief’s heavy breathing.
“Especially if it’s a lie,” he said. He turned, looking at Härkönen.
“I need you to promise me,” he said. “You need to give it to my daughter first. She hasn’t caught it yet… she’s only seven…”
“Forgive me,” Härkönen replied, a graveness in his voice. Black Bird translated his words to the chief. “But I have already promised the village I came from to return as soon as it worked. I have instructed your doctors here on the principles. They will have to do the rest.”
The young man stared at him for a moment, and sighed.
“Let it not be said that I hate a man who keeps his word,” He said, with a grin. “But I do hate you, if you’ll forgive me.”
“Of course I forgive you. I would feel the same in your position. I wish you no pain for the rest of your days, and a peaceful passing. And I wish you and your village nothing but health and prosperity for years to come.”
He bowed in a stoop—a strange gesture here. Then he stood, and turned to leave.
“Are you ready?” The old doctor asked, raising his hand to toast an invisible glass. “To White Sky’s Village.”
“And then to the my village,” Black Bird replied. Despite the somber scene in a den of the sick and dying, he could feel nothing but hope. He grinned, returning the toast. “And then to all the other villages, in this country and the next! And onwards and forwards to all the Three Fires!"