Part 6

Two weeks or so later, on our return trip, we stopped at one of our outposts. Our trader was entertaining a small group of natives with a gramophone and the tune was “Tipperary”. Then, and only then, did I get the explanation of my Eskimo’s sudden but limited outburst in English.

He had listened so often to the well-known tune that he had eventually mastered the words of the chorus which he could repeat by heart.

He had no idea of their meaning and those words were the only ones he actually could pronounce in the English language.

Tale XLVII: Man and Wife

Kakarmick is a full blooded inland Eskimo. He is supposed to live somewhere on the shores of Enendeia Lake in the northwest territories of Canada, but every two years or so he seems to grow restless and pitches off hurriedly at a moment’s notice for new fields of action.

He has travelled as far south as Brochet on Reindeer Lake and White Partridge Lake further west. He is known in Hudson Bay at Fort Churchill—Chesterfield Inlet—Repulse Bay. He has roamed as far as Bothnia in the North, along the banks of the Copper Mine River—as far west as Fond du Lac and Great Bear Lake.

I have known him for several years. Kakarmick is the most independent native I know. Contrary to the immemorial custom of his kind, he does not follow the caribou the year round. When he feels like it, he deliberately turns his back on the immense supply of food which Providence has given him and, fearlessly risking starvation, strikes straight through the Barren Lands towards his new goal.

Now and then he outfits at one of our posts, for he is a born trader and we know that he can reach certain Eskimos which we could not get at otherwise.

However small the catch may have been in fish, fur or fresh meat, Kakarmick always seems prosperous and happy. However long may have been his absence from one station, he is certain to appear some day, a year or so later, with a complete load of fur for the patiently expectant trader.

He has a wife, Taitna, who everlastingly and cheerfully travels with her lord and master through the thousands of miles of bleak wilderness which they both seem to know like a book. She is a big woman for that part of the country; 5 foot 3, two inches taller than her husband. When one sees her stalking up to you, one knows instinctively that she is the wife of an important person.

She shakes hands with a prize fighter’s grip and her deerskin coat seems to weigh a ton. It has wonderful designs of thousands of multi-colored beads. She even wears a thick border of empty cartridge cases at the bottom, which shine when the sun is out and clink merrily at each step.

Notwithstanding her appearance, Kakarmick rules her with a rod of iron. The last time I saw them it was on the frozen shores of Windy Lake. They were both sitting on the top of their sleigh and their five dogs were plainly tired.

The man had lost his whip but held, instead, a short thick piece of hard wood about three feet in length. Every hundred yards or so, he hurled that strange missile straight at one of the dog’s backs. I never saw him miss once. But what impressed me more was Taitna. Each time her husband threw that stick, she would jump off the sleigh, retrieve it and jump on again. Meanwhile, Kakarmick remained sitting astride his load, paying absolutely no attention to the exertions of his wife.

Tale XLVIII: “Forty Years Ago”

Last summer I met a very old Catholic missionary whom I have known for years. We were both on an inspection trip in the depths of the Canadian wilderness. Our reasons for roaming so far north from civilization were absolutely different. Still we both had one main interest at heart, that of the Indian; and, instinctively, we chose that topic of conversation while we sat smoking around the camp-fire that evening.

Wise to the ways of the natives, broad-minded like all the missionaries of the old school, the Father was in a reminiscent mood. His stories referred chiefly to his early days when many Chippewayans were still pagans, refusing to accept Christianity, although allowing their children to listen to the missionaries and follow some of their instructions.

The following story, among many others, appealed to me the most.

In a certain district, not so far from where we were, the Father, forty years ago, was endeavoring to convert the last “die hards” of a small tribe. He had, then, a rival in the person of an English Anglican missionary, who happened also to speak the native language well and to be a great traveller.

Both men, strange to say, were the best of friends. For economic reasons, they often joined forces by canoe and dog-sleigh, and during their hundreds of miles of travelling invariably compared notes on their religious achievements.

Each baptism that one missionary added to his list spurred the other one to greater efforts. It was a close race with honors about evenly divided for, where one missionary failed, the other one was almost certain to succeed.

One Indian alone had withstood the assault of both religions, refusing steadfastly to give up his old beliefs. He was a venerable great grandfather, the nominal head of a large family whose members had all been converted one way or the other. He always received the priest and the clergyman with great friendliness but invariably turned a deaf ear to all their arguments.

The more both missionaries agreed that the old pagan was “unconvertible”, the keener each one felt to achieve the impossible and win a triumph over the other.

One day, in winter, my friend the Father was travelling alone when he heard that the old Chippewayan was dying. Instantly he swung out of his road and raced to the Indian’s camp.

He found him lying peacefully on a bed of spruce, very weak and surrounded by several of his children.

To quote the priest’s own words, “The time had come. Surely the old Indian would not refuse to be baptized at death’s door.” Accordingly, he asked him if he could pray for him at the foot of his bed. The Indian opened his eyes for an instant, recognized the priest and nodded.

The Father started praying out loud in Chippewayan. He prayed and prayed with all his might while he watched the dying man’s face.

After a long time, the shadow of a smile hovered on the latter’s lips.

The missionary thought that he was at last making an impression on the old native and resumed his prayers with even more fervor. Finally he stopped exhausted. Surely victory was his. He got up on his feet and gently touched the man’s hand.

The old Indian opened his eyes and looked up at the priest steadily. His lips moved and the Father bent forward to listen. His hour had come at last he thought! His religion had won!

“My! but there was a lot of lynx last winter—a lot of lynx—a lot of lynx...!”

The words rang out clearly through the silence of the tepee. Then the grey-haired pagan closed his eyes. He smiled once or twice softly to himself, and then died suddenly without a quiver.

Tale XLIX: Fisher and Porcupine

All Indians are born liars when it comes to getting the better of a white trader. But outside of business, they are strictly truthful, especially when telling stories about animal life. A few years ago, a Chippewayan told me the following yarn, which I believe is true.

One winter, the Indian was on his way to his trapline on snow-shoes when he came across a medium sized fisher and a porcupine. He watched them at a distance without being seen.

The porcupine was huddled in a ball, every quill sticking out. The fisher, mad with hunger, was circling around, unable to find a weak spot in the prickly armor. After a while, the fisher chose a spot a few feet away from the porcupine and began digging a hole or tunnel through the snow, straight for its quarry. Every few minutes, the fisher would stop, go to the porcupine, run around it, and even scratch snow on its back so as to show that he was still there and prevent the other animal from moving away. That went on for a long time. Finally, the tunnel was ended. With unerring instinct the fisher had stopped his digging when he felt that he had reached a spot exactly beneath the porcupine’s neck. With a jerk upwards of his hard little snout, the fisher pierced the crust of snow, and before poor “Porky” could guess what was happening, he had him by the throat, far from the reach of the murderous quills.

Tale L: The Call of the Wild North of Fifty-three

You men who live in cities—who toil, day in and day out, in the thick of noisy, teeming multitudes, under artificial lights, under roofs, behind glass, in offices and factories far away from the sun and the air, the light and the wind—don’t you feel at times something tugging at your heart-strings?

Don’t you feel a great longing for something new, something clean, something different from what you have been accustomed to? Don’t you hear, now and then, a whispering coming from nowhere in particular and calling you? Calling and calling in the middle of the night when you lie awake; in the flush of dawn when you catch a gleam of the sky from your open window; in the evening when your work is done and when you find yourself going home? Do you know what I mean? Have you felt it?

It is the “Call of the Wild”, the oldest call of all—the call coming to you through generations and generations who have ignored it.

Some people may laugh; others may wonder. But the man who has answered that call will never forget it. He may return to civilization. He may cling to the memory of the discomforts and hardships only. He may endeavor not to wipe out of his mind the haunting feeling of solitude and loneliness which gripped him at times in the bleak wilderness through which he roamed. But sooner or later, the longing to go back there will come to him again and, if he cannot do so, he will always regret it.

Utter freedom! A camp pitched here, a meal cooked there. The sun rising while the crimson of sunset is still glowing in the West. The dull roar of the rapid in the distance. The sharp howl of the hunting wolf. The shimmer of the birch leaves. The hammering of the woodpecker. The splash of the fish rising to the surface of the lake. The plaintive call of the reed-warbler. The murmuring of the jack-pines. The Northern lights dancing silently in the sky. Peace and utter freedom!