I Am Atiwaka

“I am Atiwaka. Son of Eagle Claw. This is our land; this is where my people live”

I’ve lived on the Great Lake like my father and his father’s father before him. I know who I am, but I do not know why I am here at this time, right now at this moment. I know this place, but not the hour. This place has somehow changed. I am Atiwaka, of the Erieye people. My time was of the Crow, the season of the Deer Moon.

We were preparing for the long winter in our long huts, before the snows came when the Seneca arrived from the east, from the land of the rising sun. My brother Damchukete Onhwa'tsia'ke (He who crosses over) and I were hunting deer. In the silence, the warrior howls and whooping cries were soon upon us as we each became prey and predator. The arrows rained down on us like a cold storm as we stood and fought. My tomahawk at the ready and it was then that the dark clouds returned.

Now I find myself here in this strange world. Where is Damchukete? Where is my long home? These trails of my people are not the long trails I once knew. Fishing the Great Lake from my canoe with spear and long nets. We looked forward to the festival of the fish. Smoking the flesh for the winter’s larder was now well past the day's task. But now as I lift my head, it passes our tribe by, like the running of the salmon and trout. I see big white canoes grumbling with loud deep moans and cries. Canoes that move without paddles. Spirit boats.

Where is my devoted, my woman, my Red Sunfish? Long ago we played together as children, and we knew we were bound to one another. She became mine and I became hers. She would say my name slowly. “Ah-Tee-Wah-Ka” O’he’kwah. My Forest. I was just that - her world. She was my little Sunfish, My red jewel. She kept me warm on the cold night and we would swim under the moons of the warm night, she too fast for me to catch. She who I held close like the abandoned baby kit fox we found as children. I held her close even then, long ago. She who made me drink from the red berries of the Sumac and Sassafras that soothed me. Otsi'non:wa'.

I am Atiwaka. Now I am alone. I am thirsty in a place I once knew. I long for her and the woods that are no longer here. In a land that was once mine. I was strong in my village, to my family I was their protector. I still smell the breeze of the yellow and white vine flowers and the warm winds from the south rain. It was the Seneca and Mohawk from the Iroquois nation who came to destroy my world, turning our world upside down. Damchukete and I fought. We fought bravely. Was it you brother Coyote the trickster, who had stayed in the shadows to make me fall? Was it you who played your games but awakened me just in time to find my enemy in the woods? Where are you now?

Now I see and hear dogs barking. I see people I do not recognize or know. I see things I’ve never seen before. I smell odors I’ve never smelled. People moving in shiny tepees, like running water without wooden poles that move on their own. They move without legs. Where are my woods oh brother and sister deer? Where did our woods go? I see the long homes made not of birch or yew wood but made of stone. I see tall shelters with flat eyes that reflect the great sun spirit. Where am I? What magic is this? I hold my bow, my arrowless quiver searching the horizon for an enemy I no longer see or fear. I am bleeding and dizzy. I must lay down on the short grass where my enemies will surely find me. I look upwards to the great spirit and see a heroic bird like no other. A giant eagle. A bird who flies faster and higher than the great geese of the north. A great bird who trails white smoke and whose wings do not move. Whose voice is louder than any bird, elk or bear. Is this where the great spirit lives? Is this where I am? Surely this is the reason I am here.

Did I not fight bravely? Where is my brother Damshukete? Where are all my warrior brothers? Where is my Red Sunfish and our beautiful young son Cooya, my little raccoon, whose curiosity made him smart and mischievous all at the same time. Where are our elders, our strong village and sweat lodge at the mouth of the river to the Great Lake?

I am Atiwaka. I feel no pain. I sing the song of lamentation and woe. I sing the song of the wolf who cries for his mate in the frozen north. I cry for my people, I cry for my spirit. Who are these strange people from this unknown tribe who now stand over me whispering a hushed language I do not understand? I hear a loud cry that pierces the silence in my ear and gets louder and louder by the moment. O witch spirit with your red fire light flashing, be gone. Leave me and your shrieks of dying. I have fought bravely, leave now and be gone with the black birds of death. Time is frozen and moves all at once and not at all. Faces and clothing, a bright yellow I cannot identify. Unrecognizable other worldly warriors take hold of me and lift me. A warrior with hair like the color of the setting sun, eyes blue like the sky. His skin the color of sun-bleached bones. They must be spirits to take me away to my family to my final destination. They ceremonially pick me up and place me in the witch’s wigwam, the wickiup that moves. I cannot move and I struggle not, crying out to the great spirit and my Red Sunfish and Cooya our son.

I hear the words “Hoo-Izhee, Hoo-Izhee” and I try to keep my eyes open. I try and I try to stay awake, and I tell myself I fought bravely. I will hunt again. I cry out once more to the Great Spirit, Red Sunfish and Cooya, I will see you again soon and say hoarsely,

“I am Atiwaka. Son of Eagle Claw. This is our land; this is where my people live”