The Dream Book

I wiped the sweat from my forehead, careful not to let it drip on the pages. I tucked the notebook into my pocket and stepped onto the shovel. Clunk.

Was this it? Is this what my mothers and grandmothers had been protecting all these years? I continued to dig, sweeping the frozen earth away with my hands.

I heard the men off in the distance. They were getting closer. I crouched down, hiding under the blanket of night. I dug faster. I didn’t have much time.

* * *

“Take this,” Nimâmâ said to me. My mother was weak; it had been a long winter and her bronchial cough shook the bed. Her copper skin looked pale, and she struggled for something hidden under the feather mattress.

“Nimâmâ, rest. Please.” I begged. “I can’t lose you too.”

“Nitânis, I will always be with you. But you need to hear my words. They are the words of your Nohkom, and her Nimâmâ, who feared this day might come. Take this,” she said, thrusting a small black notebook into my hands. “Do you remember?”

It was hard to concentrate. Memories flashed as I flipped through the weathered pages. There were drawings of buffalo and beaver and rivers and gold. Flowers blooming in a field, and a small wooden box made of birch. Pressed petals creased the edges, and I was careful not to smudge the charcoal. “Did you draw this?” I asked, studying the last image; an old white birch tree that I used to climb as a child.

“No.” She said. She coughed again. “You see? It is not my writing. It is the writing of my Nohkom, grandmother. See how she curls the lines?”

I smiled. I’d heard stories about my mother’s grandmother, and how she was mischievous and full of trickery. “Ah,” I said. “That sounds like her.”

We smiled, and I loved my mother more than I knew I could. I kissed the ends of her long black braids and closed my eyes. Her hair held the scent of wood smoke and Hickory, and I was reminded of being a child…running through the field with my cousins, dancing by the shores of the sâkahikana, lake, tracing the ends of my father’s colorful sash…

Gunshots echoed in the distance.

“They are coming. You don’t have much time.” I looked at my mother and my eyes welled with tears. Her soul was so strong, but her body was saying goodbye. She chewed a gooseberry and kissed the last page of the book, leaving a mark in love. “I am here with you, always Nitânis.” I looked at my mother and knew: this was goodbye. “They can take our land,” she said, “but they can’t take your freedom. Nohkom will protect you. Follow the pictures from the dream book, and look into the earth. It will be there.”

“What will be there? What am I looking for?” Nimâmâ coughed and the gunshots drew closer. She placed the notebook in my palm and wrapped my fingers around the edge. She tilted her head towards the window and closed her eyes. We heard French voices carried by the wind.

“Run, Nitânis. Run.” I ran through the woods and passed the lakeshore I danced in as a child. I leapt over branches and around ditches made by rotting earth. The winter air was cold and burned my lungs but I kept running, guided by the spirits of my wahkômâķana, ancestors. I could hear their voices singing in the wind, encouraging me, hugging me, loving me, telling me to keep going…

The sun set, and the temperature dropped but I kept moving. There was no other way. These men were coming to claim our land, to sell it to the highest bidder, and I would be left with nothing. These men lusted for gold, and I had none. I had to keep moving, or die. I wrapped my fur even tighter and walked until I couldn’t.

Off in the distance just beyond the hill, was the old birch tree I used to climb as a child; the one from the book. I opened the pages and noticed a box drawn tangled beneath the roots. I scraped at the snow with my hands, but the ground was frozen. I hugged the tree, and waited.

“Help me, wahkômâķana.” I whispered. “I don’t know what to do.” Another gunshot echoed in the distance. They were getting closer. I stood up and screamed into the crackled bark, muffling the sound from the men not so far off my trail. “Help me wahkômâķana!” I cried. “What am I to do?”

But all was silent.

I collapsed at the base of the tree and began to cry. Tears streamed down my face as I mourned the company of my Nimâmâ, and the home I loved for so long; the home that would be, no longer.

Suddenly, I could feel the spirit of my mischievous Câpân giggling through the branches. The winter wind picked up and the air grew even colder. Tears poured from my eyes in a way I couldn’t control, and droplets attached to droplets forming long gleaming icicles. The spirit of Câpân giggled some more. It felt as if I was being lifted up and hugged, and then- crack. I looked down at the earth, and my frozen tears had formed a spade.

A spade!

I dug into the hard winter earth like it was all I had left. I crouched down, hiding under the blanket of night. The men drew closer and I dug faster. I didn’t have much time.

Clunk.

Was this it? Is this what my mothers and grandmothers had been protecting all these years?

I continued to dig, sweeping the frozen earth away with my hands, uncovering a birch box, just like the charcoal drawing. I tried to pry it open- but it was frozen shut.

The hounds howled. They knew I was here.

The spirit of Câpân whistled in the wind. “Keep digging, child.” So I did.

I dug so deep that the dogs and the men ran right past me; covered in earth and snow and hidden deep in the ground. Had my Câpân really foreseen this day in a dream? I kept digging.

I dug until the earth became warm, and the tear spade melted, and I could dig no more. I opened the notebook and studied the drawings. I hugged the berry stain kiss from my mother and felt her presence. “Open the box Nitânis,” she said. “The earth has warmed it.”

I held the birch box to my chest and wondered. What could it be? All of those little drawings, passed down through generations, leading me here...

I opened the box, and it sparkled, reminding me of the crooks and curves of Câpân’s drawings. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Thousands of gold nuggets sparkled in the moonlight. Câpân’s spirit giggled in the wind. “You can stay, child.”

I looked up at the night sky and smiled. I breathed deep. I could use this gold to bid for our land. I no longer had to leave.

I was still home.