Winter

Gentle Wind

Penobscot Land (Modern-day maine)

Her name was Wlelômsen, named for the gentle breeze. All her life, her community knew her to be calm, thoughtful, and serene. Sachems from nearby bands often called her “The Wife who Ponders Quietly and Speaks Softly”. Yet her soft-spoken words always carried the great weight of wisdom behind them, and though she was not a saunskwa herself, any tribal leader would be wise themselves to heed her words whenever they left her supple lips. For forty-five years she has pondered quietly and spoken softly. But today, she was silent. Today, in the earliest days of the harsh Dawnland winter, was the day of her husband’s funeral.

The dearly departed, known by all as Great Runner, took over leadership of the village and their band after his father died. But although he was a great runner, and an even better fighter, he was not a good sachem. He was too trusting, too susceptible to gifts and flattery, to whispered promises from the white man. Worst of all, he had no way with words. Among the sachems of the Abenaki, eloquence was perhaps the most coveted skill to possess, for how could one be a good leader if they were not persuasive? Thankfully, Gentle Wind was his wife, and she did enough thinking for both of them. For all his shortcomings, Great Runner was smart enough to always take his wife’s advice, even bringing her to meetings with other sachems and white men. And now he was gone.

The death of anyone in the village was to be mourned, but the loss of a sachem was a great one indeed. And so it brought with it the rituals of such magnitude, and Gentle Wind was made to bear them all. In the early hours of the day, as the first sun’s light graced the land, she was visited in her wigwam by the elder women of her village. They lamented the loss of her husband, expressing their sympathies and draping Gentle Wind in a black veil. The veil marked her as a widow, and she would wear it for a full year until the next winter.

One by one, more visitors came to her wigwam, representatives of nearby bands, each of them paying their respects and condolences. She greeted them with half-hearted smiles and simple pleasantries, but her mind drifted elsewhere. Great Runner was not just a mere man–he was a sachem of his village, and the death of any sachem was like dropping a heavy stone in a pond, casting great ripples upon the water. After a sachem’s passing, an election was held to replace them, to fill the hole they left in the community. Her village would wait a year after the deceased’s death, after which a great council would be held with the other sachems to elect the next one. Therein lay a problem for Gentle Wind. A mourning widow was expected to conduct herself in a certain way, to follow certain rules until her black veil was lifted. If she did not, the elder women would rip off her veil prematurely to her disgrace, branded as one who did not respect her departed husband’s memory.

At the same time, she needed to spend this year in preparation for the election. She did not sit patiently at her husband’s side for thirty years just to be discarded once he passed, and she would not remarry just to keep the same position. She intended to take up the position in her husband’s stead, becoming saunskwa. But there were competitors in her village, young men with ambitious heads and prideful hearts who sought to lead themselves. They would spend this next year building their reputations, laughing and drinking with neighboring sachems to win them over come election time. But she could not do the same without breaking the pact of the veil placed upon her. As a widow, she would be expected to mourn, and to isolate herself to that end. She could not drink, make merry, or interact with men in an unbecoming manner. But every day that she acted as a widow should, she’d slowly lose her claim to rule. What was she to do?

Her worried thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the next visitor to her wigwam. Another problem for her to deal with, and this one far more troubling. For this visitor was a sachem of the Shining River, and her closest childhood friend. His name was Taqanansis, which in the Shining River tongue meant “Little Salmon Who Has Never Seen the Sea”. But Taqanansis was far from little–rather he was a mountain of a man, his shoulders and chest as large as a bear’s. It was said he could split the trunk of a tree with his bare hands, and he played into the reputation, choosing never to wear a shirt or cloak even in the coldest winters. He stood in the doorway of her wigwam, his towering figure ever-imposing, his long black hair tied tightly behind his head. Yet he gazed upon Gentle Wind with such a softness, his dark brown eyes glistening in the light of her hearth-fire; in truth, he was her first love, and she was his.

“Wlelômsen,” he called to her. Her name from his lips was a sound so sweet, like the gentle coo of a warbler in springtime.

Try as she might, the usually-stoic Gentle Wind could not hide her feelings from him. She stood, turning her back on him as he entered her home.

“Forgive me,” Little Salmon said. “I should have sent word of my coming.”

“The word would have arrived the same time you did,” she returned.

A silence hung in the wigwam. Neither could look one another in the eye.

“It seems the pox only takes good men,” he continued. “And allows the wicked to live and prosper. Did he suffer greatly?”

“Only at the very end, they tell me. The Midewiwin’s medicines eased his pain, but they would not let me see him, lest I catch it too.”

“It is a miracle, then, that it came to him while away, and that you have avoided the sickness yourself. I only wish I had gotten it in his stead, as my passing would leave no widow to mourn me.”

Wlelômsen turned to Taqanansis, her face stern.

“Don't say things you do not mean,” she scolded him. “A man will not speak falsely under my roof.”

Her accusation caught the big-bellied man off guard, but only caused his face to soften further.

“You’re right,” he said, his eyes darkening. “In truth, I have been overwhelmed with guilt, for my first reaction upon hearing the news was joy. I feel so ashamed. He was my friend–no, more than that, even. We were practically brothers. I couldn’t count the number of times he saved my life, or I saved his, or how many battles we fought and won at each other’s side. And yet, I couldn’t feel anything but happiness to know that you would not be married to him another day.”

“Is that why you came?” She asked, turning away from him again. “To court me? You intrude into my home on the day of my husband’s funeral. You bear witness to my widow’s veil, and yet you mock it, speaking of your own selfish feelings so brazenly when you know I cannot return them. Do you intend to mock his memory, too?”

“No,” he rebutted, his voice gaining strength now. He stood tall in the wigwam, baring his muscled chest proudly. “Nor do I intend to hide my feelings any longer. So many years has my heart spoken its truth to me, and so many years have I denied it. I loved your husband as a brother. But you and I both know that he was a flawed man, gullible and simple-minded, not deserving of a wife as smart and cunning as you. By the Great Spirit, we both knew him to hardly want to be married to you, or to any woman for that matter.”

“You will not insult him so!”

“I do not speak to insult,” he continued. “Rather to speak truth. You said a man will not speak falsely under your roof, and so I will not. How many years were you married to him? And yet through all of them you bore no sons or daughters. Never was a word spoken by any Midewiwini that you could not bear children, or that he could not give you them. And yet for so many nights you would not find him asleep in your bed. How many weeks did he travel away, beyond your watchful gaze? Even after the war, even during these years of peace? Why do you suppose he spent so much time away from his loving wife, from the people he claimed to watch over?”

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Gentle Wind could take his callous words no longer–she whirled around, aiming to strike him across his face. But the battle-wizened man reacted so quickly, catching her wrist before it landed upon him. Immediately, his grip on her arm softened, and he took her open palm, cupping it to his cheek. He took his own hand, large and calloused, using it to wipe away the tears forming in her eyes.

“Do you remember the night we spent together, all those years ago?” He asked her, his voice soft and quiet now. “Does it play in your mind constantly like it does in mine? Each of us leaving our own villages on our vision quests, each of us so young, ready to be rid of the child’s soul inside ourselves. Each of us strayed far into the woods, so far we became lost. We were told we would find our guardian spirit, that they would guide us back home as grown adults. But instead we found each other. What a miracle that was, to stumble upon you. I remember being so afraid, so worried that I would be lost forever, but I found myself in your eyes, in your tender embrace. And when we fell asleep together under the stars, I knew I would return to my village a changed man. Every night since then I have looked up at the sky, and every night I have been disappointed. The stars have never shone as brilliantly as they did that night, and for thirty years I have worried they never will.”

Wlelômsen’s heart ached with every word he spoke. In truth, she wanted nothing more than to relinquish herself to her own feelings, to collapse into his arms, to hold and be held by him. But she would not dishonor her husband’s memory. Even though he had never given her a child, even though he spent all his time away from her and the village. Even though he had never really loved her, and she had never really loved him. She knew her duty as wife and widow, and she would not forsake them just to chase the fleeting memory of a teenage love.

“I do not ask that you betray your late husband,” Taqanansis said as if he could read her mind, his voice almost a whisper now as his face inched closer to hers. “I only ask that once your veil is lifted, you would consider a new husband in me.”

Wlelômsen took the man’s hand, cupping it to her cheek as he did hers.

“I will not settle for just being a wife, you know,” she told him. “I have led my people in all but name for decades now, and I will not abandon them just to chase after the fringe on your leggings.”

“And so it shall be. You will be saunskwa of your White Rock, and I will be sachem of my Shining River. We are in such a time where peoples merge, anyway, so let us merge our peoples. I will support your bid once the election comes, and I know many who will follow me in kind. In the winter, you and your people can live in my village where it is warm, and we will join you by the sea in the heat of the summer. And we will record this great marriage in wampum, not just of two lovers, but of two villages, so that our children and children’s children will forever know the deepness of our love. We will share in everything: our food, our drink, our dances and songs. So long as I live I promise I will not keep anything from you, even my most treasured secrets, even my deepest shames. Everything I have will be yours, and every burden you bear I will shoulder. I swear it to you.”

These words hurt her even more, for they were the words she had been waiting to hear from him all her life. How badly she had wished to marry him when she was young instead of Great Runner. But her father would never have allowed it, for Taqanansis’ father was his greatest rival, and neither would ever have approved such a union. But both of their fathers were long gone now, and there was no one left to oppose their love for each other.

“Do you ever think about all the wasted time?” She asked him, her eyes watering again.

“Always,” he said. “But I do not dwell on it. Rather I think of the time we have yet to spend, of the future we will have together.”

“We are old now. I can bear you no children.”

“And yet I will still ask Gluskabe for fortune that we are granted one. In these unpredictable times, who is to say what can happen and what cannot? Miracles are known to happen every day. How else could we have found one another in the forest that fateful night?”

Gentle Wind could bear it no longer–she flung herself into Little Salmon’s enormous arms. She knew she shouldn’t. She knew that if any of the elder women saw her, she would be scorned forever as an outcast. But she didn’t care. For once in her life, she indulged herself, throwing caution to the wind to embrace her innermost desires.

This time, it was Little Salmon who stepped away.

“Not now,” he told her, his large stature thankfully blocking the view of the doorway from any snooping eyes outside. “As much as it pains me to tear myself from you. Not today. We are meant to mourn your late husband, to remember him, and I intend to. Forgive me for tempting you with my thoughtless words.”

“I know,” Gentle Wind said. “By the Great Spirit, I know. I just… it’s been so long. So many wasted years, desperately hoping for something to change. I feel as though I won’t be able to wait another day, let alone a year.”

“You will. You are the strongest woman I have ever known. In all these years, I have never taken a wife, for I have never met another that measures up to you. You will bear the trials of this year of mourning, and once it is over, it will make our reunion that much sweeter.”

He turned to leave, the flames of the dancing hearth-fire casting flickering shadows upon his broad back.

“Tomorrow, I will embark on a long journey. I have been summoned to the place where the river turns rapid, where the Bear People hunt and fish. Every sachem from all across the Dawnlands will be there. A great council will be held. I would like you to accompany me–not as my wife, or even as my guest, but as a representative of your people. It will be a year before a new sachem is chosen, but your village deserves to have their voice heard at this council. No one will deny that you are the best choice right now, even if you are in mourning.”

“Wait,” she said, clutching his arm. Through the small gap he left in the doorway as he turned, she could make out two figures outside in the village square. She recognized them instantly–they could be no other than the sachem Madockawando and the Frenchman Saint-Castin. Both of them sat in the midst of six other sachems exchanging pleasantries and anecdotes with scheming smiles. She watched them intently, trying to glean even an ounce of their true intentions from their faces.

“Why is he here?” She asked Taqanansis.

“The Frenchman?” He replied. “Come now–you know that he has lived in Madockawando’s village for years. He’s even taken one of his daughters for a wife.”

“I don’t trust him. He wears the smile of a fox.”

“You have nothing to fear from a fox’s smile, unless you consider yourself to be a rabbit. He was a valuable ally during the war, and has learned our ways and practices them with respect. What reason do you have to distrust him besides the paleness of his skin?”

“It is because of the paleness of his skin that I do not trust him. The white men are snakes that can hide their fangs so as to seem toothless. They make treaties with us only to break them on some technicality, twisting our lack of understanding their laws like a knife in our gut. They say they respect our sovereignty, only to encroach upon our lands and act offended when we accuse them of the crimes they blatantly commit. Let me ask you this: have you ever seen a white man with the pox?”

“I have not,” he admitted. “It is something I have pondered, too. When I first learned that some of my neighbors were leaving the village, that they were going to move to a praying town and worship the white man’s god, I was so angry. I confronted them, and demanded to know why they would forsake the teachings of their ancestors. Their answer was simple: they had never seen a white man with the pox, and believed that it was the worship of the man called Jesus Christ that protected them from sickness. They said that if they started praying to Jesus Christ, they too would be protected.”

“The white men came and brought weapons we had never known of before. Now we know the rifle well, and use it to destroy our enemies, but it was foreign to us before they came. What if the pox is the same? What if it’s a weapon of their creation, one that they can wield to sicken and kill those who oppose them?”

Little Salmon scratched his chin, thinking deeply on her question.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “A worrying idea indeed. But I will choose not to believe it. For if it is true, it means their sagamores have a magic so much more potent than our own, and that we have no hope against them. But that hasn’t been the case, at least so thus far. True, we have lost so many, but the white men cannot just do as they like. Still they are forced to negotiate with us, to make treaties and trade agreements. If the pox was truly a weapon they could wield and control, they would never have had to rely on us in the first place.”

Little Salmon smiled, placing a reassuring hand on Gentle Wind’s shoulder.

“I understand your concern,” he told her. “And I will keep an ever-watchful eye on any white man in our midst, even the Saint-Castin, who I do believe to be trustworthy. But we should not dwell on such suspicions today. Will I see you tomorrow when the sun rises? Will you accompany me to the council?”

Gentle Wind nodded. In truth, he didn’t even need to ask.

“You don’t know how happy your answer makes me,” Little Salmon said with a grin. “I’ll be waiting outside your wigwam at first light. Good day, and please, forgive my insolent transgressions, especially on such a sacred occasion. I am but a slave to the beatings of my heart.”

Gentle Wind watched him leave, her own heart aching more and more with every step he took. More visitors came, even Madockawando and the Saint-Castin, but she could barely hear a word they spoke. After she had finished entreating everyone’s sympathies, she left her wigwam, walking out of the village and up the hill nearby to the top. There lay her late husband, interred in a coffin of birchbark. Nestled in his arms were the things he kept closest to him in life–his tomahawk, his waterskin, his hunting rifle. Her eyes lingered on his once-beautiful face, forever scarred by the horrible disease that took him. Fear and worry crept into her heart where a hopeful love had just briefly filled, even if it was only a passing visitor. In the late autumn cold, the ground was too hardened to bury anyone, so her poor husband would stay above ground until the spring. He would linger for months here atop the hill overlooking the village, a constant reminder of his death, and of her duty.