Cree Narrative: Expressing the Personal Meaning of Events 9780773570191

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cree narrative

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Cree Narrative Expressing the Personal Meanings of Events second edition

Richard J. Preston

McGill-Queen’s University Press Montreal & Kingston · London · Ithaca

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© McGill-Queen’s University Press 2002 isbn 0-7735-2361-8 (cloth) isbn 0-7735-2362-6 (paper) Legal deposit third quarter 2002 Bibliothèque nationale du Québec Printed in Canada on acid-free paper that is 100% ancient forest free (100% post-consumer recycled), processed chlorine free, and printed with vegetablebased, low voc inks. McGill-Queen’s University Press acknowledges the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (bpidp ) for its publishing activities. We also acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program. This book is an expanded and edited version of Canadian Ethnology Service Paper no. 30, published by the National Museum of Man in the Mercury Series in 1975.

National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data Preston, Richard J. (Richard Joseph), 1931– Cree narrative: expressing the personal meanings of events 2nd ed. Includes bibliographical references and index. isbn 0-7735-2361-8 (bound). – isbn 0-7735-2362-6 (pbk.) 1. Cree philosophy. 2. Oral tradition – North America. i. Title. e99.c88p73 2002 970’.004’973 c2001-903910-7 Typeset in Palatino 10 /13 by Caractéra inc., Quebec City

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Contents

Illustrations vii Acknowledgments ix Introduction to the Second Edition xi An Introduction to Waskaganish in the 1960s 3 Introducing John Blackned 21 One Year from John’s Youth: An Introduction to John’s Memory 42 1 The Setting 63 2 An Ethnography of Personal Meanings 68 3 Conjuring 78 4 The Mistabeo Concept 116 5 Narration as a Vehicle for the Expression of Attitudes 174 6 Songs as an Expression of Personal Symbolisms in the Use of Culture Patterns 194 7 On the Relationships between Human Persons and Food-Animal Persons 209 8 Hunting and Deprivation in a Contingent World 219 9 Conclusions 237 Appendix 254 Notes 259 Bibliography 273 Index 281

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Illustrations

photographs (taken in the mid-1960s unless dated otherwise) 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

John Blackned and Dick Preston ix High altitude aerial view of Waskaganish 4 J.S.C. Watt Memorial Community Hall 5 Willy Weistchee, with Tom Mark Stewart from Eastmain (left), and Lynn Joiner, graduate student (right) 6 Waskaganish, looking west from the east end 7 Reverend John and Sophia Wesley 8 Twenty-three foot freight canoe, made in Waskaganish 9 Austin Airways Norseman aircraft and audience 10 The hbc tug Rupert River and barge 13 John Blackned’s house 16 Chief Malcolm Diamond, his wife Silda, and their son George 19 Summer michwap John may have lived in as a child, ca 1905 27 hbc Rupert’s House manager (“boss”) Mr Allan Nicholson, ca 1915 (photo courtesy of Rupert Woodall) 32 John in middle age, fixing his fishnets, ca 1935 38 John and Harriet Blackned, with Eddie Diamond 41 Building the kwashapshigan, in front of John’s house 83 The completed kwashapshigan, with my house at the left 84 EO poses for Maud Watt, showing how he would kneel in the kwashapshigan during a performance, ca 1950 106

figure 1 Sketch map of Waskaganish (Rupert’s House), Quebec, as of 1963 4

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Acknowledgments

Fieldwork was supported in 1965–69 by research contracts from the urgent ethnology program of the National Museum of Man (now the Canadian Museum of Civilization). I wish to thank those responsible for the continuing support that made depth ethnography financially possible. In deep and sincere appreciation, I dedicate this work to my two principal teachers, John Blackned and John Honigmann.

Photo 1 John Blackned and Dick Preston

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Introduction to the Second Edition

A second edition of Cree Narrative seems worthwhile simply because it speaks to strong contemporary currents in anthropology and native studies. No less importantly, it will be of interest to the generation of well-educated Crees of James Bay, where secondary school graduation became common only in the late 1960s. In the community of Waskaganish, the site of most of my fieldwork, the first Cree graduated in the mid-1960s, and after a couple of years working for the school board in Moose Factory, Gerti (Diamond) Murdoch became an important part of the editorial work on this book’s first edition. The next few years saw the graduation from residential secondary schools of many of the people who became the Cree leaders of the 1970s and 1980s. Now they and their children may read stories that they may not have had the opportunity to hear at first hand, in the traditional Cree form of school in camps in the bush. I hope they find the stories interesting. For reasons I will try to make clear in this introduction, the drift of humanist scholarly interests in the past three decades has been in the direction of the study of the use of language in defining culture. Because of this recent trend, the first edition of this book, which came out in 1975, now appears to have been “ahead of its time.” Narratives have become a topic of great interest, and because this study was written before the interest was strong, and also because the broadly inductive, phenomenological perspective I used seems quite appropriate to contemporary research, we have, in Cree Narrative, both a useful resource and a historical moment to document. My deep interest and long-term ethnographic research in the region of the Eastern Cree people of Quebec began in 1963, when I was a

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graduate student doing my first summer’s fieldwork at Waskaganish [Rupert’s House], James Bay, Quebec. This all happened many years – a full career – ago, but the visual image and ‘feel’ of that arrival and first summer are still vivid. Although I was not aware at the time, it was a life-transforming experience, and I am grateful for it. Cree Narrative was the dissertation that resulted from those first seven summers’ fieldwork, and I have added many other writings over the years. Given that most of the original draft of Cree Narrative was written in the late 1960s, I wondered whether revisiting this manuscript in 2001 would become personally a risky, or worse, a disappointing business. I wondered if my experiences from many more trips to the region, or the variously intuitive and critical intellectual accumulations of many years in academe, might expose to my eyes an embarrassing clutter of ethnographic errors and intellectual naivete. But I need not have worried. At the time that I first wrote it, I thought it did fair justice to the stories I had been told, and I still think so. And, fortunately, I am not alone. Over the years, both Cree and non-Cree people have found it valuable for their purposes. Last year, McGill-Queen’s University Press sent the manuscript to a scholarly expert for review, who recommended that it be published without revising the text, but with new sections added. The reviewer’s reason for advising me to leave the original text substantially unchanged was that it is now both ethnographic and, as a scholarly work of the 1960s, historical. This new introduction and three new introductory chapters provide a historical context: an overview of changes of style in writing of cultures (ethnographies), a sense of the community of Waskaganish in the 1960s when I was recording John Blackned’s stories, and some scenes from John’s life, when he was a youth and student of Cree oral tradition in the very early 1900s. Although the narratives within the new material illustrate many of the points made in the original edition (most notably self-control and the lack of focused fear shown throughout the challenging events of John’s year in childhood), the original material has not been revised or expanded to include discussion of the new narratives. I invite you to hold these events in your memory, and make the connections as you read further. Also, to make this edition more timely, in some cases where in the 1960s there were unresolved questions that have had the benefit of

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further thinking by myself or others, I have inserted endnotes to mention the ideas or references. This is the place to point out that my work of the 1960s became a family affair. My late wife, Sarah C. Preston, did her m.a. thesis on the biography of a Waskaganish woman (1986), and she published articles relating to Waskaganish women in the several volumes of the Proceedings of the Algonquian Conference and elsewhere. My daughter Jennifer did her m.a. thesis on contemporary Cree narratives, “The Rez Sisters” and “Dry Lips Oughta Move to Kapuskasing,” two plays by Tomson Highway (1990). More recently, my daughter Susan M. Preston has used some of the stories that I recorded for her m.l.a. thesis, finding things in the stories that I had not seen, to make a reconstruction of Cree bush landscape meaning – specifically, how tracks are perceived. She also returned to Waskaganish and went to a winter camp to see for herself (1999; 2000). Although John Blackned died some years ago, his voice can still be heard in the present time. Thanks to the meticulous efforts of my daughter Susan, assisted by my grandson Eric Preston, a good portion of the recordings we made have been transferred and edited onto compact disc format, and many copies provided to the Cree School Board, who funded most of the project. A set of the twenty-six cd s is also deposited with the Rupert’s Land Research Centre at the University of Winnipeg, and another at the Redpath Library at McGill University. And yes, one of those cd s has the sounds of the conjuring tent performance.

ethnography as spirit and technique Cree Narrative was written just a few years before the publication of Clifford Geertz’s influential book, The Interpretation of Culture (1973), which signaled a resurgence of interest in the humanist side of social sciences: what has been called the interpretive turn. Humanist anthropology has provided theoretical guidance – a spirit and a technique – for understanding the meanings of life experience in one culture, and then interpreting these meanings to readers in another culture. In the 1960s, when I was a graduate student, the humanist side was not of much interest. We were trained in a variety of structural theories and methods, which I found to be intellectually challenging and interesting but not very satisfying as a way of understanding people’s

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experience. I intuitively resisted the rigours of structural, experimental, and quantitative methods. When the time came to formulate a research proposal and do my fieldwork, I had no sense of using a systematic method. In fact, I was convinced that being methodical in a community I knew nothing about was at best a disagreeable prospect, and probably a serious mistake, something better suited to experimental sciences. I thought then, and think now, that a deep understanding of the idiom of another culture cannot be made to happen by the use of predetermined method, but can more likely happen when we are unbound by our own categories, and open to discovery and having our assumptions dislodged by the assumptions of the other culture. I had, and still have, a strong preference for using my intuition to discern how things look from the other person’s point of view. From my first reading as a beginning graduate student, I was (and still am) inspired by Edward Sapir’s optimistic, humanist essays (Sapir 1949). My m.a. thesis on Sapir’s anthropological perspective became a threeyear labour of love and then landed gloriously as the lead article in American Anthropologist (Preston 1966). Sapir’s inspiration was the attitude that I carried into my Cree fieldwork – my spirit of ethnography. But Sapir was thinking and writing before World War II. By the time my graduate school training began, the humanist focus of Sapir’s time had been largely overshadowed by more pragmatic perspectives: an interest in the ways that societies and cultures function – the integrative connections that hold groups of people together as social systems. By the 1960s, human feelings and thoughts were often regarded as merely anecdotal – the stuff of raw experience. While these individual experiences might be interesting in their own right to artists and psychiatrists, anthropologists were expected to go deeper into the general forms underlying social life – we were looking for something more systematic, and more amenable to scientific method. If you are interested in this intellectual history, I suggest that you read the rest of this section. But if you are not, then you may wish to skip over it and turn to the introductions to Waskaganish and to John Blackned, and the rest of the book.

reflections on the method and theory of ethnography As graduate students in the early 1960s, we read widely in cultural anthropology, archaeology, physical anthropology, and linguistics,

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and were directed to British social anthropology and American sociology for examples of method. These studies of kinship and social structure could be compared, somehow, at the level of method, with evolutionary genetics and archaeological sequences and formal linguistic analysis. All this method was a bit much, and not too well integrated with theory, but the hope was that by being intensely interested in “forms” and their relations, we would become more “tough minded” and anthropology would become more reliable, statistically significant social science. We also struggled to understand French – well, Lévi-Straussian – structuralism. His method of social structure hinted at a path to discovering the universals in human thought and experience, but he seemed to us to be operating on a different wavelength, and we felt remarkably ignorant trying to figure out the sense to his elegant arguments. There was a good reason for our difficulties. With the cognitive emphases of American cultural anthropology in the 1960s (notably ethno-science), we could do better. This formal analysis was not so forbiddingly settled in the midst of French theoretical discourse, and it still gave us the promise of being able to discern the systems of logical categories that a people use to order their experience. Both the French and the American structuralists shared the goal of discerning the structure of human thought within cultures (ethno-science) and cross-culturally (deep structuralism). But structuralism seemed forbiddingly rationalistic to some of us, and anthropology shifted back towards the humanistic and literary perspectives, led most notably by Clifford Geertz (from the 1970s). Developing ideas adapted from literary criticism, he urged us towards “thick descriptions” or deeply discerning interpretations of culture – to translations of idioms of experience. It gave us more leeway to explore and intuit what was really going on in peoples’ lives. The interpretive turn in ethnography made the study of texts and oral tradition central to the renewed humanist goals of enlarging the universe of human discourse. The next major theoretical perspective was that of hermeneutics, rediscovered after its development centuries ago for the careful reconstruction of the original intentions of the long-dead authors of old texts, specifically the texts of the Bible. Most of the social sciences and humanities were already influenced by Geertz’s literary facility, and found promise in this approach. Its best-known theorist was Hans-Georg Gadamer, whose Philosophical Hermeneutics and Truth and Method offered a foundation in detailed,

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systematic thought. Many of us struggled through the 1980s, trying to use the terminology and find ways to make hermeneutics useful. Alas, we were not heeding Gadamer’s warning that reducing hermeneutics to a pragmatic method was missing his point (and our opportunity) that hermeneutics was not a method but a philosophy of knowledge. The strong initial years of enthusiasm for hermeneutics passed rather suddenly back into more general interpretive theory and methods, and then, in the 1990s, into discourse analysis. During these three decades the emphasis on the interpretation of texts became increasing popular in ethnography. In Canada, University of British Columbia anthropologists Julie Cruikshank and Robin Ridington have been among the most articulate contributors.

my ethnography, within the history of ethnography The theoretical perspective I held in the 1960s was not carefully thought out in advance; it was simply inspired by Sapir and the desire “to see things from the native’s point of view.” My approach was not defined clearly in my mind, and my method was to think about it a lot (Preston 1999). I could claim that my intuitive approach was anticipating the interpretive perspective, but that may be stretching a point. In any event, the intellectual approach of Cree Narrative is, to my delight, quite consistent with current trends. Recent studies of the Cree have emphasized land occupancy and use as the context of a variety of contemporary scenes and their political economy. But the ethnological literature on traditional (mostly the nineteenth-century fur trade period) northern Algonquian-speaking peoples has not changed radically in the past four decades, even though there have been important contributions to our understanding of the worldview, values, attitudes, beliefs, and actions that I describe in this book. Most important is an edition of George Nelson’s letters and other papers on Northern Saskatchewan Cree religion and narratives in the early 1800s (Brown and Brightman 1988). Here we see, in fine detail, yet another proof of Subarctic Algonquian cultural stability and uniformity. While the details vary from region to region and from century to century, Nelson’s descriptions are surprisingly familiar to me as variations on persistent cultural themes. In their general synthesis following Nelson’s texts, Brown and Brightman explore some of these themes.

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In Bringing Home Animals Tanner (1979) uses a structuralist perspective on topics very similar to mine, with data from an adjacent Cree group in Quebec. Our two books differ quite significantly, but also complement each other, and demonstrate the consequences of differences between my phenomenological approach and his intellectualist one. In sum, general anthropological theory and method, and the ethnological works specifically on the Subarctic Algonquian peoples, have not changed very much in the past half-century, since A.I. “Pete” Hallowell did his fine work on the Ojibwa worldview. The interpretation or translation of cultures as functional systems and as coherent idioms of experience has continued to be the central emphasis of most anthropologists and the basis on which we understand the other goals and methods we experiment with. We have developed sub-specialties of structural, Marxist, ecological, and other models of cultural and social integration, but these too are variations on the old functionalist theme. If we are to find major changes, they must be found “on the ground” rather than in the abstract world of intellectual circles. The really dramatic changes are to be found, then, in the contemporary daily life in the Subarctic, and especially in the Cree region. The pace of change has been rapid, and people have their hands and their minds full in trying to keep up with these changes. They have for the most part taken the attitude “that it is time to let the past go” (Sarah Preston 1986). When home was a series of hunting camps built or rebuilt annually in the bush, the deep traditions that were expressed in narratives about singular events of the past were tangibly meaningful guidance for life. But today’s Crees are modern townspeople, and home for the Crees in northwestern Quebec is located in one of nine municipally governed villages within the Cree Regional Authority, on land specified for the Crees by a series of acts passed by the governments of Quebec and Canada. Connections with past Cree identity, environment, and culture are still profound, but are not now actively brought out for sharing as narratives to occupy the leisure time of the evening. Perhaps the next generation will be more inclined to preserve and cultivate their traditions and to ponder once again what the old ways may have to say to those living in the present. It is now the television set and satellite dish, rather than the conjuring tent described in chapter 3, that bring the news over long distances, and that predict the future of these people. It is now the

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Holy Spirit of Pentecostal worship (Preston 1975a) and the effects of connections with a world-wide technological, political, and economic system, rather than the conjuror’s attending spirit described in chapter 4, that influence the personal destiny of the Crees. Traditional narratives and songs described in chapters 5 and 6 are little used or remembered, their symbolic messages only partly replaced by new forms (Preston 1985). Where people used to find their food through close knowledge of and relationships with animals, suffering periodic hardships as described in chapters 7 and 8, they now have the choice to get their food from the store as well as from the bush, and no one suffers the hardships of starvation. The normal response for many who are not Crees themselves is to see this culture as being virtually swept away by changes, but this pessimistic view is contrary to what we have learned. Hallowell made his case years ago for long-term cultural persistence through the means of core psychological characteristics (Hallowell 1946). That is, culture is carried through a period of great outward changes by a shared, basic personality structure that is true to the cultural type. Other students of this region have confirmed his view. Mary Black Rogers found expressions of worldview that were very similar to those found by Hallowell in northern Manitoba and Ontario in the 1920s and 30s, though the people she studied were on a reserve in Minnesota in the 1960s, with the outward appearance of being much acculturated to American culture (Black 1967). Most of us can recognize this deep psycho-cultural persistence in the history of the Jews, from the pastoralists of Old Testament times through centuries of dispersions and many other radical changes into the present. And closer to home we can see the cultural persistence of the Upper Canada British loyalists, changing from hardy pioneer founders to an elite marked by affluence and influence, and still maintaining their culture today as a minority in the province of Ontario. The Crees, too, have cultural continuity in the midst of changes: a characteristic, shared personality type (Preston 1975c, 1982) that makes each Cree settlement still very much a Cree place, for all its outward modernity. There are fundamental changes, and some of them affect the development of personality characteristics. But there are also fundamental continuities, so that this book is a picture not of a lost culture but of the not-so-distant past of a living, evolving culture. As with the first edition, the heartfelt dedication is to my teachers: John Blackned, who is now deceased but was back to the bush every

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year until he was into his nineties. He found in me a dedicated student and gave much of his time for several summers. And John Honigmann, too early a victim of cancer, who guided me through the pitfalls of graduate studentship, gave me my lead, and, at its finish, told me that he regarded this book “as one of the great ethnographies of the north.” My gratitude for the gracefully timed generosity of these two teachers goes far beyond words.

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An Introduction to Waskaganish in the 1960s In the summer of 1963, my family (myself, Sarah, and our daughters Sarah, Alice, and Susan) flew into Waskaganish for the first time. We had driven from Chapel Hill, North Carolina, to New Haven, Connecticut, to meet and visit with Cornelius Osgood, my professor’s professor and an old Subarctic ethnographer. From there we went to Quebec City and northwest on to Cochrane, Ontario, a journey totaling well over 2,000 miles. Because there was no road, we took the train the last 186 miles to Moosonee, on the bottom of James Bay. Access to James Bay communities north of Moosonee was by Austin Airways’ old but reliable planes or, in the summer and much slower, by canoe or boat. From the low-flying bush plane’s windows, we could see last winter’s ice pack. In late June it was still covering the southern portion of James Bay, except for the shallow water of the tidal flats along the coast. The land itself was mostly muskeg swamp, flat and smoothlooking, with patches of scrub here and there. Broad expanses of pale green swamp grasses were occasionally cut by ribbons of darker green, mostly the black spruce trees that grow in the drier earth near the banks of rivers and creeks. As we approached our destination, we could see the little summer community of about 500 people, spread along the south side of the Rupert River for about a kilometre. The river itself was surprisingly large. It was about one kilometre wide at high tide at that point, only a few kilometres from where it opens its mouth into James Bay. The river was the landing strip for aircraft, on floats in summer and on skis when it was frozen over in the winter. We, like almost all visitors, were both curious and naive, with hardly any idea of where we were going.

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Photo 2 High altitude aerial view of Waskaganish. Note the “fur coat” texture of the landscape, a metaphor suggested by Willy Weistchee.

Fig. 1 Sketch map of Waskaganish (Rupert’s House), Quebec, as of 1963

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Photo 3 J.S.C. Watt Memorial Community Hall

Tourists were not too common in the 1960s. Visitors from outside the region usually already knew the area well enough to make advance arrangements, because there was no hotel. Cree visitors from other communities would have relatives to stay with. For outsiders, there was the Hudson’s Bay Company’s post manager’s house, the Oblate (Catholic) mission house, or the nursing station, none of them commercial places for sleeping or feeding tourists. Actually, as luck would have it, we had made one advance preparation. While we were waiting in Moosonee to fly in, we met Mrs Maud Watt, widow of a former hbc manager, who had lived at Waskaganish for most of her adult life. Maud agreed to rent me a very small house in front of her place, the J.S.C. Watt Memorial Hall. We were part of an anthropology graduate student training program from the University of North Carolina, along with Lynn Joiner (a fellow graduate student) and our supervisor, Dr Harriet Kupferer. Harriet had written in advance to Waskaganish’s Chief Malcolm Diamond, describing who we were and what we would like to do. Malcolm had then asked a man to work as our interpreter and generally help us. From our point of view, Malcolm’s choice of Willy Weistchee was fortunate. Willy was not only fluent in both Cree and English, he was also very intelligent and knew how to manage our

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Photo 4 Willy Weistchee, with Tom Mark Stewart from Eastmain (left), and Lynn Joiner, graduate student (right)

sojourn so that we would learn about life in the area without intruding upon or irritating our host community. We would soon be very glad for his friendly guidance and help. On our same Austin Airways Norseman aircraft that landed on the Rupert River at Waskaganish were Eddie Diamond, one of Waskaganish’s first high school graduates, and the Oblate mission priest, Father Jean Bergeron, o.m.i. Our arrival was the occasion for two unexpected messages. Eddie was met at the plane with the news that his older brother was being married the next day and that he was to be best man. Father Bergeron delivered a surprising note from Mrs Watt to David and Sarah Blackned, telling them that they would have to take their small children and their possessions out of her house right away to make way for “government people” (my family). Father Bergeron delivered his note, and told us its contents. We were alarmed at being the cause of David and Sarah having to move (and at being called “government people”), and asked them to please stay where they were. This left them balanced very uneasily between Maud’s order and our opposing request while we walked up to the other end of the community to Chief Malcolm Diamond’s house. With his daughter Annie translating, we explained what was

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Photo 5 Waskaganish, looking west from the east end

happening, and that we did not want to start our summer’s visit by turning a family out of their home. We suggested that we would prefer to put some tents up in the Indian end of the village rather than near Mrs Watt. Malcolm was much more sensible about small community politics, and not too keen on our idea. He said that David and Sarah had another place they could go, and we would do best to stay down at the house in front of Mrs Watt’s place. We swallowed our liberal qualms, accepted his advice, and kept the peace. How can I describe the look and the feel of Waskaganish? On the bank of the big river was an assortment of small wood-frame houses, some canvas tents that were wood-framed and -floored, a few dome-shaped wigwams, several conical wigwams, and a few larger buildings. The prevailing wind was from the northwest, bringing cool air off the Bay and, while it was blowing, keeping billions of biting insects mostly (but not all) back in the bush. The hbc store and warehouse were more or less the centre of the community and were painted with the company’s typical white walls and red roofs. The manager’s house was of modern 1950s suburban “ranch” style. The land was sandy on the east side of the company buildings, where only

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Photo 6 Reverend John and Sophia Wesley

five of the Cree families lived, along with Watt Hall, the provincial game warden’s house, and the Oblate mission, with its hectare-sized potato field. Towards the other end of the settlement, to the west of the company buildings, were most of the Cree homes. A dirt road led past a few homes, the Anglican church and parsonage, and then straight through a very uniformly spaced set of seventeen Indian Affairs houses, each with their very uniformly spaced outhouses behind them. These were three-bedroom frame houses with asphalt siding and roofs, located on drained but still spongy peat. There was also a scattering of some smaller (one or two rooms), older houses. Some houses had conical wigwams near them, or a wigwam frame with one tarp on the sunward side, to serve as a sunshade on hot days. On higher, dryer ground, up the bank to the south, were many more small houses and tents, a federal nursing station with two resident nurses, and a federal school and teacherage.

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Photo 7 Twenty-three foot freight canoe, made in Waskaganish

The Anglican parsonage housed a Cree family. Anglican modernity had reached into the Bay. Rev. John Wesley and his family, from across the Bay, were the residents for many years. There were fences around all the non-Cree houses, the three vegetable gardens, and the cemeteries. There were no fences around Indian residences. Each of the non-Cree houses had their own equipment to provide running water and electric lights. The Cree residences had “walking” water. This means taking a shoulder yoke and two pails to the river, filling the pails, and hooking them onto the yoke to carry the water home. The Cree residences had light from kerosene lanterns, and some had battery-run radios and record players. Some people had their sled dogs chained to stakes behind some houses. Other dogs were kept across the river. This says something about how Waskaganish looked. How did it sound? There were no cars and trucks to make noise, only occasionally the small Oliver caterpillar tractor belonging to the Oblate mission, and the Band’s caterpillar tractor, also rarely used. So it was pretty quiet. Children’s voices could be heard during the day, and hungry dogs would bark and howl at night. Sometimes someone would go out on the river in their canoe, and the sound of their outboard motor was audible in the village. These motors were 10or 20-horsepower, on large (18-, 20-, or 23-foot), sturdy canoes with a square stern for the motor and space enough for a family and their gear.

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Photo 8 Austin Airways Norseman aircraft and audience

One kind of loud, man-made sound was the exception to the norm. A few times a week an aircraft would break the quiet with its identifiable radial engine sound, and the kids would call out as soon as they could hear it in the distance. An arriving plane was excitement, and a small crowd would gather at the hbc dock to see who or what was arriving, and see if perhaps someone was departing. In early July, a twin-engine Canso flying boat brought the children home from residential school. After it landed and was taxiing on the river, there was a fluttering of small pieces of paper out of the side window, seen by those on shore. The fluttering papers brought an eloquent, audible sigh from the crowd. They were the names and addresses of each child, which had been pinned to their jackets to ensure that they got to the right village. Now they were home, and the papers could be discarded. When we landed on that June day, a crowd gathered and watched us come off the aircraft and walk up to our first few days’ temporary quarters behind Mrs Watt’s. Everybody watched, and nobody spoke. It was very quiet, and we felt quite noticeable and awkward. At Father Bergeron’s request, some teens helped us carry our baggage. We had arrived. On our first day I took my family for a walk along the road through the Indian Affairs houses, out of a combination of curiosity and the wish to let ourselves be seen. A small child saw us and ran bawling to her house. Her mother came to the door, looked at us, let the little girl in, and then shut it firmly. It was a bit daunting. We later learned

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that one way small children were kept near home was with the bogeyman threat that “the white people will come and take you away.” But older children came to visit and see us, quite soon and quite a lot. They came right inside our house until late in the evenings, and were quietly interested to watch us. Usually in groups, they came unannounced, watched us, whispered, and after a while, went away again. We felt a bit self-conscious and on display, but were pleased not to be shunned. The next day, Eddie’s brother Luke was married to Gertie Blueboy. As was the custom, everyone – including us new visitors – was welcome to come to the feast and to the dance that followed that evening and again the next evening. The community hall was set up to seat at least a hundred people, and in three seatings, everyone had their generous portion of goose, vegetables, bread, cakes, and tea, with some extra to take home for afterwards. Following the ceremony, everyone went home and waited as the wedding party came around to visit each home to receive well-wishes. Then came the evening, and the dancing was old-fashioned step-dancing, part of the Bay’s Scottish heritage, with fiddle and guitar for music. It was a memorable community-wide celebration, and people helped us to feel welcome. A day or two later, Willy took Lynn and I across the river for tent poles, using his old canoe with its old outboard motor and canvas covering coming loose from the gunnels. The mosquitos were plentiful and hungry, and we were glad to get the poles cut and into the canoe, and shove off. On the way back, there was a good breeze and medium-sized waves to make our careful way through, trying to keep the waves from spilling into the crevice between the canoe and its peeling canvas. It wasn’t too bad, until the propeller hit a rock and broke the shear pin. Now the waves looked a bit more threatening, and we paddled energetically the rest of the way. Getting to shore was a relief. It struck me that Willy, who could not swim, had taken a real risk for the sake of our tent poles and a little payment. I commented to him that it seemed like a pretty hard life here, and I wondered why people didn’t leave for the south. He gave me a puzzled look, and replied, “Because they like it here, I guess.” In the 1960s, my first strongly felt impression of the Cree adults was their reserve, or reticence, and I eventually wrote about how it looks and the reasons behind it.1 People in many cultures appear cautious to engage strangers, but with James Bay Cree it is a characteristic that impresses visitors right away and takes time to get “past.”

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With no police or other public security, their security of person, family, and land was protected only by their ability to deal personally with each eventuality. Strangers are hard to predict, so there are good reasons for caution. We encountered no hostility or rejection, but most people were quietly going about their lives without engaging us. Some adults were readily sociable, especially Willy Weistchee and a few people like Josephine Diamond and Billy Stephens, who were living close by. But sociable initiatives were offered mostly by other Whitemen, some of whom, like the two nurses and young teacher, were also temporarily sojourning at Waskaganish. It was pretty slow getting to know most Cree people, and slow also figuring out what a budding anthropologist should be doing in a place like this. The adults tended to be reticent, while the children and teens were frequent visitors. There was a good deal to look at, but conversation was more of a rarity, and something of an event for us. One place I frequented was the hbc store, since there were usually a number of other people there who came just to watch others buy and, sometimes, after a while, to buy something too. Jock Holliday, the manager, stayed in the office, while the store was clerked by Isiah Salt, an experienced, bilingual, and confident middle-aged Cree man. We made an initial impression on one young man of being rich, since we bought two tents at one time. But when I later also bought pilot biscuits (hard tack) and peanut butter, our appearance of wealth diminished in his eyes. With a good deal of quiet time on my hands, I made a map and recorded some population figures. My fairly accurate list for 1963 included 497 Crees in fifty-nine residences, and 18 whites in eight residences (plus three anthropologists and the wife and three children of one of them [me]). Perhaps a dozen young families or single men were “out” at Chapais, Kirkland Lake, or Virginiatown, for work at the mines. Others were at Moose Factory hospital, one was in Timmins, and one was married to an American girl and working as a truck driver in Arkansas.2 Some very basic changes were unfolding at the time. Until early in the twentieth century, people wintering on the land spent about fifty weeks of the year in the bush. By the 1960s this had shortened to thirty weeks, and some families had become year-round residents of the village, relying on wages instead of, or in addition to, hunting. Nevertheless, for the more “traditional” people the real home was

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Photo 9 The hbc tug Rupert River and barge

still a series of fall, winter, and spring locations or camps in the bush, and Waskaganish was still primarily a summer vacation community for hunters. Most of the adults were unemployed, and for them it was a time of ease, relaxation, socializing, and casual planning ahead for the coming winter. And when the hbc tug Rupert River towed in the barge with the year’s merchandise, the excitement was strong enough to bring out an audience of a hundred or more. The arrival of the tug was an annual event. A smaller cargo ship, L’Esperance, brought the Catholic mission cargo once a year, and drew a smaller crowd. At Waskaganish in the 1960s, everyday life was pretty quiet. Waskaganish was not simply the settlement of houses and other buildings within the village boundaries. It was a community of people and their activities, and their summer activities included family trips out to some favoured site on the river for a day’s picnic outing, or along the James Bay coast for a week, more or less, at a fish camp. People who wintered in small family groups in the bush found the village a welcome and entertaining place to summer. Nonetheless, 500 neighbours with watchful eyes were sometimes a bit of a crowd for families that might be ten or fifteen people for most of their year, so going to a fish camp was a welcome “getaway” from the village. The fish camp also gave a chance to bring dried fish back to Waskaganish and distribute them to others.

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Late in my first summer’s stay, I went for a week’s getaway, about eighty kilometres up the coast for a visit to the village of Eastmain. It was a two-day trip each way, in a large canoe with a 20-horsepower motor. Charlie and Eddie Diamond went with Willy, Lynn, and myself, and Willy arranged the borrowing of the canoe and motor. Traveling with people is a very good way to get to know them. For example, I had an unexpected, low-key, but vividly memorable lesson in food sharing. We had gone ashore for a meal, and I brought out a tin of small sausages to heat over the fire. After we ate, I still felt hungry, and noticed that there was one sausage unclaimed in the frying pan. As I forked it out, I saw Eddie watch, smiling. Oops, it was his sausage. So I said out loud, “I guess we could open another tin of sausage,” and Willy said he thought that would be good. This time I kept count. The next summer my food-sharing lesson continued. Lynn had dropped out of graduate school to make a photographic record of a trek through Nepal, but Willy, Charlie, Eddie, and I had another getaway. This time we went south along the coast by canoe to the third rapids on the Nottoway River. The place is called Gachegasuk, which means “there’s ice here a long time.” During the winter the ice builds up very deep in a place where there is an island, and it remains through most of the summer. It’s a good place to set fourinch mesh nets for good-sized sturgeon, dig out the ice, and preserve the fish fresh. This trip had a purpose, devised by my friends. No English was to be spoken, so I could learn some Cree language and especially some bush skills like setting nets, setting snares, and the like. This included developing new attitudes to getting our food. While going past an island on the first day, we saw some young geese who were not yet able to fly. Charlie beached the canoe and my comrades jumped out with paddles, chasing the geese. My first reaction was that this was a harsh hunt of helpless creatures. But it was only a fleeting moment of tender and childish sentiment, replaced with a surge of enthusiasm for the hunt, and joining in the chase. Geese are delicious. Eating geese is not so simple. They were boiling in a good-sized pot until there was a fine gravy. Eddie had gone hunting, and we waited hungrily for his return before we ate. By that time the pot had cooled enough to fish out a piece of goose. I got a foot. There is very little other than bone, skin, and gristle to a goose’s foot. I was feeling quite hungry and not too pleased with this foot. I put it back and

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dipped into the pot again. I got a head and neck. I looked the goose in the eye and thought that there was not much meat there either. On my third try, I got a piece with good meat on it. I enjoyed this very much, until I saw Charlie pull out the head and neck that I had rejected, and eat what he could get from it. I guess it was a disrespect to the others (somebody had to eat it), and a disrespect of the goose to discard a part of it. Other aspects of our trip were challenging enough, but easier for me to take part in without such obvious blunders. We set nets, one each for Willie, Charlie, and Eddie. I still wonder at their ability to recognize whose sturgeon was whose when the canoe floor was covered with them after checking our nets. But I had my first caviar – about a pound of it, boiled, for lunch. We kept the sturgeon live in a pool on the island where we were camped, and when they were dead we dug out a hole and covered them with ice. I set snares and made bannock. They were surprised that I was already able to operate a canoe and motor, and shoot. Eddie “borrowed” my hat, with the idea that it would be a sort of memento of our friendship. And Charlie gave me my nickname at this time. Sheyu literally means old man, and sometimes implies a person who takes it pretty easy, likes stories, observes the goings-on around him, and doesn’t strain himself in the bush or by chasing skirts. I like it. It was a friendly and accurate description, even though I was only thirty-three at the time I was given it. Native villages in many parts of the world, including this region, are often viewed stereotypically by non-natives as dismal, amoral places. So I will anticipate and answer that question now. Booze and violence? Far less, I would say, than most urban non-native communities. Homebrew parties were low-key and occasional, and once, late in that first summer, there was a fight consisting of two drinkers holding each other by the shirt. There were no blows, but their pushing and pulling ended with a torn shirt. This was regarded by some Crees as disgraceful, but was, after all, pretty mild considering that these two men routinely killed large animals to get their food. Enough of stereotypes, then, and on to the main story. John Blackned lived in what was probably the oldest house in Waskaganish, near the Anglican church and the Hudson’s Bay buildings and residence. I didn’t meet John until near the end of the first summer, when Willy took me to see his old friend. This first meeting set the direction of my entire career.3

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Photo 10 John Blackned’s house

John’s house was pleasant inside, cool on the ground floor, with a main room and a smaller bedroom at the back, and a room in the loft. The door was solid and weather-stripped with bear fur. Many things, only some of them recognizable, were hung from the walls. There was some furniture: a cooking stove and a small table and chairs in the main room. In the back room were two beds and a small table, with a chair by the door and a small trunk by the window to sit on. I was motioned to the trunk, and eventually had the good fortune to spend a great many hours sitting there, with my tape recorder on the table. John told a story of a man who showed contempt for a bear’s skull, and what happened. Willy translated. Other Waskaganish people I had recorded that summer were interesting, but this was different. The story was almost visual; the events unfolded in a way that I found fascinating, with detail that made it both understandable and a discovery of something new to me: an almost tangible feel for Cree traditional values. In mid-story, the reel of tape ran out. I ran all the way to my house for a new tape and back again, feeling as if I had to rush so that I didn’t miss anything. As I returned to his back room, John laughed at my hurry and my panting and perspiration. Then, with the tape recorder again in operation, he finished the story. And so my apprenticeship began. For the second summer, in 1964, I was by myself. My son was born that May, and it was unwise to take such a small infant to James Bay.

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My professor, John Honigmann, agreed to my request to return to Waskaganish while the rest of the graduate student training program group went further north, to Great Whale River. The chief selected, and I rented, a small (11 by 16 feet) cabin from Bertie Whiskeychan that was quite close to the frame tent where Willy Weistchee lived with his aged aunt and his niece. While talking with Stewart Stephens one day about his new fourroom house, we agreed that, when I could raise $100, I would buy his old, small house, located between John and Harriet Blackned’s house and Anderson and Rosie Jolly’s house. It was an ideal location, and I sent the cheque the next winter. We occupied our house in the summers of 1965–69, and then gave it to Bill and Emily Jolly. At the time they had three small children and lived nearby in a frame tent. The tourist trade got serious in 1964, with two Canso loads of senior citizens, arranged by the Minnesota Historical Society. I was asked to be the stand-in guide when their appointed guide was indisposed on their arrival in Moosonee. Mrs Watt fed them (and me) lunch in Watt Hall. Most of them took advantage of her indoor toilet, and she grumbled to me about all these “leaky old ladies.” I took them on a tour of the village, past the cairn commemorating the founding of the first Hudson’s Bay post in 1668, and explained to one that what she rather loudly took to be “shabby” Indian homes were small and plain, but quite clean and neat inside. The walk was partly through sand and was quite enough for most of the visitors. They had seen something new to them, and departed satisfied. That year was also the year that the maple leaf flag was adopted, and one was sent to each chief of an Indian band. An event involving the flag will give you a good feel for the flavour of life at Waskaganish at the time. A new, young Oblate priest, Father Maurice Provencher, had directed his hired men to place his logs at the front of the lineup for the sawmill, and some people protested to the chief. Malcolm went to speak with the priest, but was rebuked and insulted by him as “a liar.” Malcolm went back home, and the flag was mailed back to the Indian agent at Moose Factory with a letter explaining that Malcolm was resigning as chief, and that someone else seemed to want the job. Sending the flag back certainly got the Indian agent’s attention, and he flew in very soon after receiving the packet. I was on my way to John’s house when someone asked me if I was going to the general meeting of the Band at Watt Hall. I thought that John would be going

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too, so I went without stopping to pick up my tape recorder, which I had left the day before on John’s table. This was A Mistake. The hall was full of people sitting or standing around the perimeter. The priest did not come. The agent had brought with him Bill Turner, a Cree interpreter, and made a speech, saying that Malcolm was the best chief on the Bay, and that he would personally speak with the priest to get things straightened out, and would Malcolm please re-consider his resignation. Then some men spoke, asking Malcolm to continue as chief. Finally Malcolm spoke, unfolding the new maple leaf flag and putting it around his shoulders like a cape. I could not understand the Cree, but the oratorical music of his voice made the back of my neck prickle. I was told afterwards that he spoke of the importance of people getting along together, and encouraging their children to do well in their schooling, so they could get jobs and work well with the Whitemen. Afterwards, I went to John’s house, and found that he had waited there for me, rather than going to the meeting. I was embarrassed and apologetic. John asked if I had recorded the speech, so he could hear what the chief had to say. My recorder, still on his table, answered silently in the negative. I wished then, and now, that I had recorded that speech. The aftermath was that John forgave me, the Indian agent could not get the priest to answer his door, but the logs were soon moved back to the end of the line. Malcolm never got an apology, but continued on as chief for about six more years. Malcolm’s quality of leadership was not always so dramatic, but was almost always a fine example of bringing conflicted situations back to an even keel. Perhaps it was that same summer that Edward, a Moose Factory Cree, brought his family by canoe to Waskaganish to visit relatives. He tried a shortcut on the way but miscalculated the rising tide, which meant that his family spent a night trapped in a tidal creek or “gutway,” plagued by mosquitos. To add insult to injury, the Waskaganish people could easily figure out what had happened by their appearance when they arrived the next morning. So he was in a bad temper, feeling humiliated, and he managed to get drunk. In a poorly chosen attempt to regain his esteem, he went to the hbc store and demanded a pack of cigarettes to be charged to his account at Moose Factory. Isiah Salt, the clerk, knew that this was a bad idea and went into the office to speak to the boss about it. Marshall, the new boss, became indignant, then angry, and physically hurried Edward out of the store. He then called the chief to complain

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Photo 11 Chief Malcolm Diamond, his wife Silda, and their son George

about a drunk coming into the store. The visitor, his pride now even more injured, went to the nearest phone and called the chief to express his indignation. Malcolm came, brought the man into the store where the manager and others were waiting, went to the counter and bought a pack of cigarettes with his own cash, turned, handed them to Edward and said simply but audibly, “You are a guest here.” And then he went out, with Edward. The conflict was reduced by courtesy and generosity, not by an exercise of power. No one had anything further to say, because the incident was so well resolved. This was a superb example of Cree leadership. Rather than trying to exert the force of his position as a chief, he quickly assessed the situation and decided how he would act. Simply and directly, he acted in an exemplary way, as a leader should. Edward could have chosen the right way to act, by staying sober and buying his own cigarettes, rather than making a demand for deference in telling the clerk to “charge it.” Marshall could have said that he was not able to charge it to another store, and if Edward was difficult, he could

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have given him a pack, as he was a guest, rather than manhandling him out of the store. But these better alternatives had not occurred to them until Malcolm came and showed them the way. So life in Waskaganish in the 1960s was not without incident, but for the most part it was peaceful, with fairly adequate housing and food, a school and nursing station to look after education and health, and very capable leadership. People were certainly not wealthy, but they got along well enough, and I did not see the marks of poverty. People had their summer rest, and visited each other. From my point of view, it was a good place to have come to, and a good place to have brought my family. John Blackned was as capable a mentor as I could have possibly imagined, and my children got on easily with the kids there. We kept coming back for seven summers and I came for some short winter trips. Then I had to face the deadline for writing my dissertation. Starting in the 1970s, with Cree Narrative completed, we returned for shorter visits and worked on some practical tasks, for example, a Cree-based curriculum project called Cree Way. After a few of those 1960s summers, a Cree friend asked, “How do you like it here?” I said I liked it well, and that it was much more peaceful than living in a city. He replied, “Other people come here and say the same thing, and then they never come back.” It turned out that, in his memory, I was the first one who came back. And from time to time, I still go back.

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Introducing John Blackned

John was born at the end of the nineteenth century, probably in 1894, into a world remote in time, space, environment, and culture from ours, and even very different from the village of Waskaganish in the mid-1960s, when I started to get to know him. He was the oldest of four sons (John, Charlie, Tommy, and one for whom I have not found a name) and two daughters (for whom I have no names) born to Jacob Blackned and his wife. Jacob was a capable hunter and hunting group leader, as we shall hear from John in a few minutes. Jacob, in turn, may have been the son of Black Ned, an Eastmain River inlander who is mentioned several times in the hbc records for Rupert’s House (the Cree name is Waskaganish) between 1870 and 1901. Christian (indeed, Biblical) names were created for Crees at about that time by missionaries and traders, and the elder male’s Cree name was often used as the surname. So the son of Black Ned may well have been Jacob Blackned.1 This was late in the fur trade period in this region. James Bay Cree people had already been trading for three centuries with Europeans and especially with the Hudson’s Bay Company. As it happens, the first, small hbc post was built here in 1668, dubbed Charles Fort by the traders, and called Waskaganish, “the little house,” by the Crees. John’s parents and grandparents, like others in the region, had been involved to some extent with missionaries of the Anglican Church for nearly half a century by the time John was born. Much more than the use of Christian names was involved, for people were interested in learning about gaining access to the powerful Christian God, as promised by missionaries like John Horden, whose integrity impressed the Crees.

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By the time John was growing up, the fur trade and Anglicanism had been adapted into Cree culture as a major part of the familiar, normal way of living. The hbc ’s activities in the James Bay region had been a comparatively decent example of colonial mercantile capitalism, in which the Crees, as “Partners in Furs” (Francis and Morantz 1983), obtained tools and clothing in exchange for furs and provisions for the company’s employees. But by the nineteenth century, the population of food-animals and fur-bearing animals in the James Bay region had been depleted and people were sometimes starving, and the company had long since expanded westward in search of new sources of fur. John told me that his grandmother was a grown woman before she saw an hbc post for the first time. In those days (the mid-1800s), the men would leave the women and children in the bush when they went to the post to trade. This made their canoes lighter and the trip faster. Since the trip for inlanders might be a hundred or more kilometres, with many portages, it was a lengthy and arduous undertaking. Further, before returning to their families, some of these men would be assigned by the hbc post manager to work for the company for part of the summer, freighting to inland posts canoe-loads of supplies that had arrived via sailing ships from Europe. John did this himself. For the women and children, remaining inland was not usually more risky or arduous than the men’s canoe trip down-river, since they would make their summer camp at a lake where there was plenty of fish and where they could snare rabbit, ptarmigan, and other small game. John’s grandmother was certainly equal to the task, and since she was the source of many of the stories that he, in turn, told me, we should hear a story from her mother’s life – of the storytellers behind the storyteller. It was my grandmother’s mother who killed the deer. She was the one who killed a deer without anything, not even an axe. Their husbands left them there for a long time. They (the women) stayed there, all summer. They didn’t travel with their husbands to the post. These people were my grandparents and my grandparents’ parents. Long ago, the men hardly brought their wives to the post. They always left them inland. My grandmother was almost a grown woman when she finally saw the post, as she was always living inland. She never saw the post when she was young. When she

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first saw Waskaganish, Eastmain did not exist yet. At Eastmain, there was a man in charge of gunpowder, bullets, primers, rabbit snares, rolled oats, this is all. This is all he had to trade. This man also grew potatoes which he traded. He also had pigs and cows; he was in charge of all this. He also had some sheep. All of the animals were there before there were houses in Eastmain. Everyone still bought their supplies here, not Eastmain. Waskaganish was really busy trading. The man who was staying in Eastmain, he did not have a house, only a tent-frame house. When they reached this man in Eastmain, he was still referred to as the manager, but he could not even give them tea or bannock. The hbc was giving out free gunpowder if you shot geese for them. The hbc salted the geese and stocked them in barrels to trade. This man in Eastmain was responsible for salting the geese and stocking them in barrels. The manager did give them two geese when they reached Eastmain; they also received a small can of rolled oats. This manager was completely out of supplies such as tea and sugar. When he ate a meal, he drank the liquid of the boiled meat as a tea. When they finally reached Waskaganish, then they had their feed on bannock and tea. My grandmother was almost a fully grown woman when she finally saw the post. They were always inland. My grandmother and her mother were always left inland. They stayed in the north, inland. Nemiska is only a recent post. It is not an old, old post. Willie Moses was born when they started building Nemiska. (Anderson Jolly, who is translating: “[Willie]’s younger than I am.”) He still acts pretty young. My grandmother’s father bought only the goods the manager gave him. He did not buy any flour. He usually used his supplies on their way inland. He only had two bags, after he bought the goods. They used up all of the supplies on their way inland. Long ago, they only gave them hunting equipment. After they were inland, they started hunting for themselves. Sometimes, he bought flour for one bannock. When she made the bannock with the small amount of flour, they had a feast. They didn’t taste bannock again all summer, or all winter. They killed wildlife for their meat, this is what they ate, meat. When they started killing a lot of meat, they started drying it. While the women were left inland, they managed to kill a deer without an axe. They only had their net sticks, with a sharp point [net floats]. The women were out, checking their nets. They saw a

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lot of deer crossing the river. The old woman was looking for an axe; she did not have one. She only had their net sticks [floats]. She told her, let us paddle to them. She picked up the tail of the deer, and pushed the net stick up its rear end. She did the same to another deer. This was not the first time she saw this done; she had seen it before. They found them all dead. I guess she must have injured them internally. The old woman was able to kill all three of the deer. While the women were left behind, they had to hunt for themselves. All they had were nets. They hunted for themselves while their husbands were away. There was no spare gun that could be left for them. dick preston : Were the women able to handle a gun? Yes, the women always used guns. There were a lot of women who could handle a gun. They were able to shoot a bird flying, just like a man. Their husbands could not very well leave their guns behind as they only had one gun each. The men hunted for themselves on their way down to the post and on their way back with their guns. Long ago, not every man had a gun. The men bought very little tea and sugar. Not very long, they were out of tea and sugar, so they had to drink the liquid of boiled meat for the rest of the summer and all winter. My grandmother was the oldest person who lived in Waskaganish. She had a perfect set of teeth, no cavities. She never tasted sugar when she was a young girl. Her front teeth were very sharp, but you could tell they were wearing out, not spoiled. John’s grandmother had seen things that were no longer practiced by the time he knew her. She described the way a stone axe would be made, the stone celt being inserted in a split made in the mid-trunk of a sapling. The split was only made long enough to bend it out to receive the celt. The split portion was then bound up so that, in a few years, the split would heal and grow tight around the celt. This required a long time, but was much tighter a hafting than just splitting the end of a pole and binding the axe-head as tightly as possible. There were small dogs that were used only for hunting. They did not have husky dogs. The dogs were not used to pull the sleds, only for hunting companions. When beavers were trapped, the dog was able to smell if there was beaver in a certain place. The dogs were very good for chasing caribou. The dog would outrun the caribou and the caribou would mill around. The dog would bark

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as it ran in circles around the caribou. The man would appear on the side and kill all the caribou. The man would talk to his dog, telling him that he (the dog) killed all the caribou. The dog thought that he really killed them, as he waited to be fed first. The man cut a piece of meat for the dog. The dog left with the piece of meat, not to bother the man while he cleaned the caribou. The people always moved with the caribou. They would not follow them if the ground was not hard for the dog to run. If the ground was soft the caribou would outrun the dog, also the man. There were quite a few people who died of starvation. My grandmother, who was very old, told me a lot of stories about people starving. My grandmother’s father, mother, and brother starved to death. Many people were searching for them in the spring, fall, and winter. They never did find the bodies. No one was able to find a trace of them. John’s father’s family wintered far inland, up the Eastmain River. This area was hard hit by starvation in the later decades of the nineteenth century, and many of John’s relatives died on their lands. It will not surprise us, then, that John’s stories were focused on hardship and endurance. The remarkable character of the stories told by John and others of his generation is their seeming composure in the face of severe hardship, for the stories focus outward on effective action rather than on the insecurity of their inner feelings. The stories are also notable because they speak with a focus on the family, rather than on John as an individual. The family unit, not the individual, is the basis of survival and the basis of community, so this focus is quite appropriate. His focus on conjuring, reflected in the many stories in Cree Narrative, is perhaps a little more difficult for us outsiders to understand. But if we realize that conjuring was a central part of hoping for success in hunting for a living, then it makes good sense. Since John was both a staunch Anglican and a staunch traditionalist, I do not find it hard to surmise that giving emphasis to the spiritual side of traditional life expressed his personal values and also added significance to his memories of his ancestors. I asked John, “When you were young, did most older people tell stories like these, to the children?” Yes, this is why I remember them. There were six of us – two girls and four boys – in our family. We used to ask our grandmother to tell us these stories. If she was busy, she would not tell us stories;

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only when she was not busy. Old people today do not tell these stories to their grandchildren. There are some stories I only remember vaguely; these I cannot tell you. I told you a lot of stories since I started telling them to you. I don’t think you can find another person today to tell the stories I told you. If I did not have an old grandmother, I probably could not have told you these. There was only one person who told a story at a time. Not only did the children listen, also the older people. It was like going to school today. These old tales were passed down long ago. When children heard these, they started trying to tell them to each other. If a child paid no attention, the others realized it was not true. When Lawrence Katapatuk was young, he used to tell a lot of these stories. The people would offer him money to tell a story. He was very small when he used to tell these stories. As a boy, John was lucky to stay awake and focused on the stories his grandmother told, and he remembered many of them very well, far into his old age. He told me that he was very interested in the stories. His grandmother must have been an excellent teacher, since John’s brother Charlie also remembered many of these stories.2 In the next chapter, we will hear John’s memory of one entire winter, but first we will hear him describe several significant times in his life. One story he told was of a winter when he was quite young. When the youths and adults all went out together to break open a beaver house and capture the beaver, the small children would be left behind. If there was no old person to look after them, they would be wrapped and tied in warm blankets or skins, and a little food left right beside them where they could just wiggle out a hand to reach it. This was to allow the grown-ups to let the fire die down and know that no children would accidentally get into the fire and be injured. On one occasion when this was done, John felt that he was too old to be swaddled any more, and he managed to get himself and his siblings untied. He tended the fire, and when it was late in the afternoon and time for the grown-ups to return, he put the tea water over the fire, to have it ready. His parents were very surprised to see the tea water all hot and ready for them. John told them that he was too big to be tied up any longer, and they laughed at his indignation, and in the future they did not tie him. John’s next story is again from when he was quite young. (In these stories, for my [and now your] benefit, John would add little sections

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Photo 12 Summer michwap John may have lived in as a child, ca 1905

to explain how people got their living, working with the animals and preserving the meat or fish for later use. To keep from interrupting the flow of the story, I have put these informative asides into endnotes.) It was very poor in those days. There was no Whiteman’s food available. People were able to eat when we were able to kill meat. I did not live here. I was living about 200 miles inland. Nobody was able to come to the post, to tell that they were out of food. We tried to kill other animals, such as rabbits, deer, bear, partridges, fish, not only beaver. There was no moose at this time. All of the furs were sold. There were lynx, marten, and beaver. One marten skin was worth 50 cents. Otter skin was worth $3. Extra large beaver skin was $2.50. Lynx was $1.50. We would come in the spring to sell our furs to the hbc . The fur did not bring very much. If you had three bags of fur, it was worth very little. Therefore, the Indians could not offer to buy a lot of supplies. They bought very little clothing, but they bought mainly hunting equipment (gunpowder, shells) with their money. There were many men who did not have pants. They would wear leggings and wear a fur like a diaper to keep warm. The [flint-lock musket] guns did not need caps, but gunpowder was used. This is the first gun I can remember. Then they had guns

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with the [percussion] caps. Indians thought they were very good guns when caps were on the gun. They were very good. They were able to kill bear and caribou. The cost of the gun was less than $20. The French company [Revillion Fréres, at Waskaganish ca 1910–30] was not here, the period I am talking about. The French came but they never stayed. People who were out hunting would leave early August. They would return at the end of June. They used tea for a short while and a little sugar. Then they were out of [store] supplies. When they were out of tea and sugar, they drank the liquid of their boiled meat. In the spring, we started killing fish and drying and smoking them. We would keep them for the winter. We dried the eggs of the fish and made bannock out of the eggs. We also made pancakes out of the eggs. I have tasted both the bannock and pancakes. The pancakes taste better. When you make bannock with the eggs, it’s very dry. Sometimes, we used smashed fish that had been dried and smoked with the eggs to make a bannock. Sometimes, we mixed the smashed fish and eggs and added water. We let it boil; this made porridge. The people ate mostly fish and meat. When we had meat or fish left, we smoked and dried it, to preserve it. The fish was smashed finely with a stone. When we had grease, we mixed the smashed fish with grease. The fish was smashed finely [until] it almost looked like flour. The fish had to be smoked and dried before it was smashed. We would try to keep a supply of this smashed dry smoked fish. Berries were preserved. We made baskets out of birch bark which were sewn securely. After the berries were boiled, the mixture was poured into the birch bark baskets. We used this mixture to eat with the dried and smoked fish. There was another mixture that we kept. The berries were cooked very long until the mixture was very thick. When it was thick, we emptied it into a wooden bowl. We let it sit outside and dry. After the top was hard and dry, we turned it over. When the other side was hard and dry, we kept this during the winter. We could not add anything to the mixture, not even sugar, as we did not have sugar. These were blueberries. We also had blackberries that they kept during the winter. We did not make a mixture, as the blackberries stayed preserved.

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When I was up early in the morning, I was still sent to hunt, although I did not have any food. My father and my brothers didn’t eat either. We ate when we brought meat home from the hunt. Sometimes, when we went out hunting and killed no meat, we would travel to another area in the morning. When we moved in the morning, we did not have a meal. When we reached the new area, my mother and grandmother would build the wigwam. My father, brothers, and I would help them for a while. Then we left to go hunting. I had a very old gun that my father handed down. My father had the best gun. Sometimes my gun would not go off. Sometimes rabbits were plentiful. There were a lot of rabbits about every three or four years. In this story, there were three men (my uncle, father, and I) who were hunting. There were sixteen of us, as there were two families. That morning, when we moved, we only killed three partridges – shared with sixteen of us. The next morning, we moved again. The children were told that they had to walk, even the small children had to walk [so that the adults pulling the toboggans could conserve their strength]. That evening, we killed two partridges. We still tried to save a little of the partridges. I think my share amounted to one mouthful. We also found a beaver lodge. The next morning, we all went to the beaver lodge. All day, we did not eat. After the beaver lodge was blocked on all sides, I was told to go off and hunt around for meat. We did not eat and it was almost sunset. That morning, we had only eaten what was left of the two partridges. This day I was able to kill four partridges. We were able to eat again as I took them to where the men were working on the beaver lodge. My brothers and sisters were home and they did not eat all day either. The four partridges were eaten by the men, as they were working hard. We killed four beavers, one male and three small ones. It was dark and the women were sent home to cook the beavers. It was very late as we continued working, as we knew there were more beavers. Although there were four beavers cooked, no one was full since we tried to save some of the beaver meat, in case we were unable to kill more meat. We had nets, and hooks. We could not kill all of the beaver in the beaver lodge. The next morning, we were able to kill two more beaver. We saved the beaver meat. My father killed fifteen partridges and I killed ten partridges. My uncle, father, and I killed over thirty or forty

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partridges that day. We tried to save the partridges for later. Sometimes we saved a lot of meat. Then we were running out of meat again. We only ate twice a day, early in the morning and late at night after the hunt. We had very little tent coverings. We used caribou hides for tent coverings and large pieces of birch bark that were sewn together. When it was cold, they had to warm the birch bark over fire until it was soft, then they applied it over the tent poles. We had to pull all of our belongings on a toboggan. The birch bark had to be warmed again [when the tent was taken down], so it would roll easily. We bought a few tent coverings from the store. They were only small tent coverings and were useful for the bottom of the wigwam. We used birch bark most of the time. The birch bark was very weak and tore easily. If you banged it, the bark cracked. We made a cache where the canoes were hung during the winter. The cache was built in an area where no trees would fall on it. The canoes hang up [upside down] all winter. In the spring, we settled in an area with a lot of fish. Then the men went for the canoes and took them to the area with a lot of fish. We must have covered about 200 miles (walking miles), travelling during the winter. We only stayed in one area for three or four days, then we moved again, as there was no food. If we had a lot of meat such as killing ten caribou, then we would stay in the area longer. The men left their wives, in order to hunt. Sometimes, we would be out for one night, sometimes three nights and sometimes ten nights, if we were trying to trap beaver. We were out ten nights one time, as we were working on four beaver lodges. The women had food to last them for ten days. We were out for ten nights, then we returned home to the women and children. One time, there were a lot of rabbits and the women were alone for a long time as the men were out hunting. Another time, when there were a lot of fish and the place was good for setting nets, the women were alone again for a long time. The men were busy and so the women set the nets. When we killed bear or caribou, we preserved the meat. We were always careful of our meat. If a man killed meat during the winter, they dried the meat, so it would not spoil. We saved the meat that would be eaten when we ran short of meat. When a man killed his first caribou, bear, or beaver, we had a feast with it. We hung the skull up, hoping (wishing) that he would kill more.

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Hanging the skull is to have the luck to kill more meat. All of the skulls of the animals were kept for awhile; then they were hung up. If a person killed a bear he would hang the old skull and keep the skull of the latest animal killed. We hung all of the bear skulls, even the small ones. Many Indians looked at the bear necklace as a different idea of luck. They made the fancy bear necklace, hoping that he would kill another bear, that he would be able to kill another bear soon. They also kept the bones to show respect, and [so that] their luck in killing a bear would last.3 Later there was flour. I was grown up enough to be a capable hunter [by the time] people used flour. People started to have bannock for the feast. If we had beaver or other meat, we still cooked it, to go with the bannock. The feast was very small [the ritual feast they had using dried beaver meat, before the bear was skinned]. They would only cook one bannock and maybe one or two beaver if there was meat. There might be a lot of people but the feast was still very small. Sometimes there were many people hunting together. There might be over twenty men, and sometimes there was no meat although there were twenty men who were hunting together. If there were only two men killing meat, they had to share it with everyone. There were a lot of women, too. The men who were hunting, there were over twenty of them. There were children and women. Sometimes, there would be close to seventy people including children. If there were two or four beaver killed, everyone was not full. If there was a bear killed, we were all full. When caribou were killed, everyone was full, including the children, as they acted very greedily. When they made porridge out of the caribou, there was a lot of it. The caribou’s blood was all saved. They would mix the blood and parts of the stomach – that was the porridge. All of the caribou was used, including the bones. The bones were smashed and boiled, which made very good liquid for drinking. They also used this liquid to make the porridge. There is a lot of fat in the bones of the caribou. All of the bones were boiled. Bear grease does not freeze very hard. Caribou grease is very hard when it freezes.4 I moved to Waskaganish from far inland. I did not miss it because many times I was very hungry. We did not have meat all the time. We were too far away to go to the post for supplies. Another reason I left was because there were no more caribou in the area. After I left I heard stories about people starving there.

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Photo 13

hbc Rupert’s House manager (“boss”) Mr Allan Nicholson, ca 1915 (photo courtesy of Rupert Woodall)

I was not the only one who was hunting there; there were many other men. I saw a lot of men hunting there. I heard people were starving because there were no caribou or other animals for meat. Two of my cousins starved [to death] there. One of my cousins, his four children also starved with him. My other cousin starved but the other Indians found his wife in time to survive. I don’t know anyone who starved since I moved to Waskaganish. Although, sometimes they were pretty close to starving. Far inland, it was too far to go to the post. If a man was hunting around Waskaganish, he was asked to come back to the post when he was

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out of food. If a man was hunting far inland, he could not leave his family and return to the post because his family would probably starve by the time he returned. This is why he could not leave his family. The man hunts in the same area, year after year. When he dies, his sons have the area. They don’t change the areas. [Yet this Cree ideal was overruled by the wishes of the hbc “Boss,” and John tells us that he was asked to change his lands twice.] When I was told to trap on the northeast, I was married that year [1919].5 I was shifted twice, to trap in another area. The first time I was shifted I was not married. I was moved the second time because I had to help with freighting supplies to [hbc posts at] Mistassini, Nemiska, Waswanipi, Nitchequon, and Neoskweskau. There were a lot of men [trading] in Waskaganish. When they started freighting, almost all of the Waskaganish men were sent out. Only the old men who could not lift were left. All the strong men were working on the freighting. All of the men from Mistassini, Nemiska, Waswanipi, Nitchequon, and Neoskweskau paddled to Waskaganish for the supplies too. The men from Waskaganish would help them.6 People have a few dreams. Sometimes a man has a dream that he knows is not true. Other times, he knows that his dream will be true. It is like a man who knows that his wife, children, or brothers will be dead; he knows that someday, he will have a difficult time. My wife and I had ten children; we only have two living. When I was first married, I used to have a lot of dreams. I had a watch. I used to dream that someone was stealing my watch. Every time I lost my watch, one of my children died. The last death was a daughter who was about twenty. I gave the watch to the manager for repairs and they lost it. He wanted to give me his watch, but I did not take it. I have never had another watch. I made up my mind that I would never have another watch.

the young boy’s and girl’s walking ceremony They would gather a lot of meat for a feast. They treated the child like it was his birthday. They seemed to celebrate this first day as a birthday, they had a great big feast. I will tell you first about long ago, when the Indians did not have any Whiteman’s food, just wild meat for food. As soon as they thought they had enough food for a

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feast, such as beaver, they did this. They didn’t take the baby out until the weather was warm. They didn’t want the child to catch a cold. They also made a new pair of moccasins for the young boy. They also would make something to wear around his neck. Long ago, they used to make a bow and arrow for the young boys. This bow and arrow that the boy had as his first toy also prepared him for hunting. They would make decoys of deer, marten, etc. for him to shoot with his bow and arrow. He would shoot at these decoys with his arrow. They usually put the decoys outside and he would shoot from the back end of the tent. Sometimes they would put a piece of meat beside the decoy, just as if he killed the animal of the meat. The first kind of meat they set up was bear meat, then they used meat from other animals. The people with children watched him from the inside of their tents while others watched outside. They let him shoot at the meat when he started spending time outside. They would count a good shot if he hardly hit the decoy or when he hit it. The young boy’s parents would yell, “Our son has killed some meat.” The parents went out to see what type of meat he killed. This little boy had a grandfather who stayed inside. They made a load of meat for the boy and he carried it inside. They told him, “He is bringing meat.” He took the load of meat to his grandfather. The old man said, “I think my young grandson has killed some meat.” The reason they had this ceremony is in hoping that the young boy would be a good hunter in the future. He learned the Indian ways, just the way the children are taught now in school. The old man received all the meat including the load of meat. They cooked all of the meat at once. They were hoping that, later on in his life, he would be able to bring home a lot of meat. After all the meat was cooked, they had a big feast for him. They announced to the other people at the feast that the young boy killed all this meat. All of the people praised the boy, “The boy has given us a very good feed.” I had a hunting ceremony for each of my sons. Their grandfather received all the meat because he was staying with us then. They also used to shoot at geese with a gun. At the early feasts, they only had different wild animals’ meat but now they have cookies and other flour stuff. If there were other groups of families with the family celebrating the boy’s hunting ceremony, these families would contribute some meat to the boy for his feast. Also if other old men were present, they contributed some meat for the boy’s

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feast. My son Eddie had the largest feast of the boys. We were staying with my three brothers, so they gave a lot of meat, also bannock. They also gave him geese, as this was the time when geese were plentiful. They also gave some moose meat, which was very good. My son Mark had a very small feast. He did not have any moose meat. He had a lot of geese at his feast. I was staying with his grandfather at the time. There were two old men when they had the ceremony for Mark. He gave the feast to his grandfather but the grandfather gave it to the other old man. While they had the feast for Mark, they were praising him for the larger number of geese he killed. The reason they praised him was because these old men saw other ceremonies in the past that were praised like this. These old men told stories about their ceremonies and many other young boys’ ceremonies they saw. They also told about the kind of meat they had at all the feasts. This is all the ceremony they had for a little boy. They had a larger celebration for a boy rather than a girl. This is all, about the boy’s ceremony. Now I will tell you about a girl’s ceremony. First, they gathered a lot of meat for a feast in the girl’s honour, just like for the boy. Of course, they didn’t have the feast until the days were warmer. When it was not cold, then they took the little girl out. They piled up firewood, outside, small and long enough for the little girl to carry. This pile of firewood was usually beside the other women’s area of chopping firewood. The people pretended that she cut all the wood. They made a small wooden axe for her that she carried. Then they told her, “I guess this woman will be cutting wood. I guess we will be warm now.” When she reached the pile of wood made for her, they put out a piece of wood which she pretended to be chopping with her wooden axe. After a while, they made a small load for her. They followed her as she carried the firewood on her back. Her feast was all prepared. Her load she carried consisted of a small amount of meat. When she reached the door of the tent, they all said, “A woman has bought some wood,” as they gathered around. She took the load of wood and meat to her grandmother. If a grandmother was not present, she could take it to another old woman. Her grandmother took her load of wood. Her grandfather received all of the meat. This old woman prepared the kettle of meat to cook. When all of the kettles of meat were ready to cook, they started putting her load of wood in the fire. They were teaching her that her chore would be cutting firewood when

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her husband was out hunting. Then they had a feast for her just like for the boy. They separated out a cloth (table cloth) for all the meat and dishes inside the tent. They did all this for her, so she would know what her chore was as she grew older, just like going to school. This is what it was like when an Indian thought he was teaching his children the Indian ways. The same with a boy, they hoped that they were teaching him how to hunt. The girl was taught how to cut wood because it was one of the main chores while her husband was hunting. All of the people, long ago, they had a ceremony for all their children. There was another ceremony they had for a child. When they traveled in the winter, they let the child walk. They made snowshoes for the child. This was another way of teaching their child the Indian ways. When the child started to walk then they started gathering meat to prepare for a feast. They had to make a new pair of snowshoes. They didn’t let the child walk all the distance they travelled, when they thought he could make it to the next stop then they started to let him walk. When he started walking, they gave him a small load of meat to carry on his back. When they reached the next stop, the tent was not complete yet. They hung his load of meat on a tree. After the tent was completed, and the wood had been taken in, then he carried his load in. They praised him, and they had a feast. All of the meat they saved up for his feast was outside. After he carried the load of meat in, then they carried the rest of the meat inside. If he had a grandfather, he would give the load of meat to him; if not, his father would receive the load of meat. Everyone was inside when he entered. They all praised him, “He is bringing meat.” All this was like going to school, as they tried to teach him the ways of Indian life. Not only did they have this ceremony for the boys but also for the girls. They would also make a new pair of snowshoes for the girl. They also let her carry a load of meat. The reason they let the girl carry meat was hope that her husband would be a very good hunter. They cooked the meat for the girl for the feast. This also meant that the boy would have luck in hunting. When they had the feast for the girl, it was in hope that her husband would be able to have feasts like this later in their lives. This was a ceremony given to Indian children. It is about thirty years ago [the mid-1930s] since I left trapping far inland. We were split up. I was told that I had to hunt in this area. This was before the area was divided into certain people’s

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hunting grounds. I had to hunt in this area because there was plenty of fur. There were no men available to hunt in the area because most of the men trapped and hunted far inland. I was told to hunt and trap in this area; this is why I am living here. I trapped a lot of fur when I first trapped and hunted in this area. Then I was told to trap and hunt in this area permanently. Beaver was plentiful. Then it started to disappear as if we had trapped it all. As the beaver was disappearing, gradually there were less and less beaver. Finally there was no beaver. Then the area was on a beaver preserve. No one was allowed in the area. I did not go into the area when they started the beaver preserve. I was afraid that I might be accused of killing beaver if I went into the area. No Indians went into the area. Most of the people started hunting along the coast. Before they closed the area, we had to count the beaver lodges. I was with Willie Weistchee’s grandfather and we were able to find only three beaver lodges. I found two of the lodges, while Willie’s grandfather found the other. We were out paddling for a whole month. John assisted with the re-stocking in another way. He kept a beaver in a cage in his wigwam at this time, until he released it within the preserve. He was very interested to watch what the beaver did. The thing that he found most curious was that the beaver would press on the sides of its stomach and regurgitate the food it had just chewed, then re-eat the food. John offered the beaver fresh food, but to his surprise, the beaver clearly preferred the regurgitated food. John’s knowledge of beaver had a potential for healing. Probably in the 1930s or 40s, when Jimmy Watt was still the manager of the hbc store, a man named Charlie Stephens was working with some glass, and cut his wrist badly. It was bleeding a great deal. They put a tourniquet on his arm, and Maud Watt tried to close the wound with a bandage. But whenever they took the tourniquet off the bleeding started again. Then they called John. He brought a beaver castor, cut it open, and heated the fluid until it bubbled. The heating makes it sticky, and he put some of the fluid in the wound and around it. That stopped the bleeding. And in about a week, when it peeled off, the wound was healed. We had to go every summer, counting beaver lodges. The more beaver lodges we found, the more men were asked to help in

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Photo 14 John in middle age, fixing his fishnets, ca 1935

counting them. Finally, we were able to find more and more beaver lodges every summer. We could not kill the beaver, but we were able to kill other animals such as bear and geese. For the time we spent counting the lodges, we did not receive payment; we were only given some food. Our wives also received food from the company. The company was unable to obtain money to pay us, as they did not know whether the preservation would work. Finally, when the beaver started increasing, the company was able to obtain money. They started to pay us for the trips. We were not paid very much. It was Mr Watt’s idea to try and preserve the beaver. He was very upset that the Indians were unable to kill meat, such as beaver, fox, marten, mink, and the other wildlife. He wondered how the Indians would survive without these animals for food. He asked me, “Will trying to preserve the beaver help? Could you help me?” I answered him, “I think it is a good idea. Maybe it will help the Indians in the future if the beaver is preserved.” I never

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thought that I would see the day when the beaver would be plentiful again. I only thought that probably my children would live in a period with a lot of beaver. Jimmy Watt was a very good manager. [John repeats this three times, to emphasize his evaluation.] He had a difficult time as a manager, as there were no furs. He was very upset when the Indians were unable to bring furs. When he started off as a manager, there were a lot of furs. Then he left. When he returned again, this is when he had a difficult time. Then he suggested starting a beaver preserve. I was the first one who agreed to have a beaver preserve. There were many men who disagreed, as they never realized that it could help the next generation. When they opened the area, many of the men who disagreed wished that they could trap in the area. The first preserved area was south of Eastmain, as far east as Nemiska. The area covered 125 miles. When the beaver started increasing the men who were trapping south of Waskaganish suggested having their area preserved too. Then they preserved the whole area, and no one killed any beaver. There were many Indians who were trapping north of Eastmain who were unable to kill beaver. Then, when they preserved this area, the beaver increased more rapidly than when they first started to preserve the beaver. Not everyone has good luck in trapping beaver. Many people have luck at different times. Many times, they have a difficult time, although there are beavers in the area. When they have a difficult time, it looks as if the man does not know how to trap. Other times, a trapper will have a lot of luck killing beaver. His wife will be very busy trying to clean the beaver. Many people quit if they are unable to trap beaver, as they have very little food. They trap the beaver not only for the fur but also the meat. The trapper is worried because he is losing money, as he is unable to kill beaver. The number of years I trapped, I was able to kill all of the beaver on my quota. I was able to kill all of the furs. My sons were able to kill their quotas when they trapped with me. I have not gone with them trapping for two years; they had a very difficult time during these two years. It is not that they are not trying, but beaver is very scarce in the area. They have to move very often, as they are unable to trap the beaver. When they are unable to trap, they start to have a difficult time. They have to work hard, searching for beaver lodges. They have a difficult time as they start

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running out of time. My trap line is between Eastmain and Nemiska. It must be over 100 miles (northeast). It cost me $285 to fly two trips to my trap line. When beaver was at a good price, I made over $1,000, with a total of $2,000 including my two sons’ furs. We earn very little today, as the cost of beaver fur is not very good. Once we earned very little, as we almost could not pay for the airplane. I don’t think very many people could make a very good living on trapping today. There are very few beaver again. The beaver is trapped very rapidly, which slows down the beaver increasing. I think many people will soon have a very difficult time trapping. I think beaver should be preserved again. I suggested that the beaver should be preserved again. Their only words were, “It will be preserved soon. There are still a few beaver.” I think they should start preserving before all of the beaver are killed. If they start preserving before killing all the beaver, the beaver will increase more rapidly. If there are only a few beaver, the increase will be very slow. Hugo Watt is in charge of it today. I think if mines open up, many men will work depending on the money. If trapping is worth more than working in the mine, I think they will continue to trap. I think people will go where the money is. I think trapping will go for a while. I don’t know what the chief thinks about preserving the beaver; I think there are still some beaver in his trap line. The beaver preserve on the north side of Waskaganish was opened first. The chief traps on the south side of Waskaganish. It is over twenty years since the north side was opened. This is why beaver is scarce again as it is trapped every winter. We would have to ask Hugo Watt to start another beaver preserve. Hugo then talks it over with his boss. If the boss agrees, they can start another beaver preserve. When I was helping with the beaver preserve, the company was in charge of the land. Then the land was passed to the government. All of the land is under the government now. When I knew John, beginning in 1963 and continuing through the 1970s, he and his wife, Harriet, lived in a very old two-storey house. Their adult but unmarried sons, Mark and Eddie, lived with them, along with an adopted girl, Beulah, from the family of his cousin Walter Blackned. Tragically, their other eight children had each died

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Photo 15 John and Harriet Blackned, with Eddie Diamond

before reaching adulthood, except for one daughter who died in her twenties. John did not tell the stories of the deaths of their children. John and Harriet, for all their family losses, were affectionate and competent, sometimes calling each other by the English words Mama and Papa. As with other couples who have been married for many years, their facial expressions showed a similarity in contentment.

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One Year from John’s Youth: An Introduction to John’s Memory Since we can get to know John through his stories, I will give a story from his childhood memories that also shows John’s extraordinary memory for detail. As you will see, we can almost visualize John as a boy, following, watching, and being taught by his father. John speaks mainly of his family (especially his father), their actions, and especially getting their food. In his memory, food was the first priority, and the daily hunt for food was only interrupted once in a while by a crisis, a celebration, or the press of travelling for a long distance. When I was young, I used to go out with my father. My father would go very far from our tent. I would think, “I guess he will not be heading home yet.” My legs were very sore, especially the ankles, as I was wearing snowshoes. My father would tell me, “Walk a little faster.” Finally, he hurried home. I was really happy now and I started walking a little faster. When we reached home, my legs were very tired and aching. Finally, I was a grown-up boy. When I was older, I started to think, “I wish he could walk faster than that.” I thought, “I wonder why he doesn’t walk fast, because he walked a lot faster when I was young.” When I was young, he used to tell me, “I am leaving you behind.” I didn’t believe him. I thought, “His legs are longer than mine are.” He did not leave me behind while we went out hunting. When we came for supplies to Waskaganish, he did not leave me behind. Sometimes, when I went out hunting with him, I used to be very hungry. I used to be very hungry.

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When I would set a marten trap, he would tell me to hurry up. I was not as efficient as he was, as he had set a lot of marten traps in his life. When he used to set rabbit snares, he completed three before I finished one. He told me, “My, you take so much time to set one snare.” Then we would start off again; I always tried to beat him but he was way ahead. I told him, “I think you are competing with me in the number of rabbit snares we set.” My father said, “I’ll show you how slow you are.” As I was trying to reach him, I passed three of his snares, or four counting the one he was working on. That makes four snares to my one snare. I thought, “I will try to beat him yet.” After I was very capable of setting snares and hunting, my father died. John’s phenomenal memory is shown in the next story, where he recounts details from a winter from his childhood. My guess is that John was ten or eleven years old at this time, so the date would have been around 1905. John showed a lot of pleasure in the remembering and telling of this memory.

the people who left their wives in the bush and came out I’ll tell you about what they were doing up the Eastmain River. I wasn’t a very big boy, yet, not grown up. All I could do was with my father helping me a little. My father got his stuff here, from the Waskaganish store. After he bought his grub here, he would take it to Eastmain, using a sail as he took his canoe along near the shore. And when we started going in the canoe, the first camp would be the Pontax River. Sometimes my father used to set one net when we slept there. And after he set one net, he would start to go away to look for some ducks. Sometimes he killed pretty near twenty ducks, some of them were young. We used to eat a lot then. We went to our net before we went to bed, too, and got about ten fish. Sometimes when he went for his net in the morning he killed thirty. Then we went straight ahead again. At Sherrick’s Mount, that’s where we would have our dinner when it was a fine day. My mother used to boil fish when we had dinner. Even when we just came from Waskaganish, we didn’t even have grease to fry the fish [John laughs].

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And where we had our dinner, we’d go again. After a while we’d get up to the old man who’s killing fish. He killed lots of fish, that old man. The ones that used to hunt like that would talk to each other; he would tell my father he should have come yesterday. “If you came yesterday, I was hunting ducks, about forty of them.” He gave us half of these ducks – about twenty. He gave us more fish, about 200. We only stayed there at his place for one day. There was only that one man hunting by himself all the way to Eastmain. Then we wouldn’t go right to Eastmain. We would stop and kill some more fish. There was lots of fish at that time. We’d kill them all day – over 100 in the morning, and in the afternoon another 100. We stayed there about a week; two days were very nice, two days were blowing. My father killed lots of fish at that time – about 2,000 I guess. Some of them weren’t very big; small white fish (like we get at Smoky Hill) and some bigger white fish. My father and mother started cooking the fish right away to dry it, and make bundles of it. Then we were very close to Eastmain where we stayed. We didn’t even make a fire when we got to Eastmain. We started sharing out the fish right away. We gave more than thirty to some of these people. When my mother shared out the fish like that she put them in a pan, and when they returned the pan all you could find was a little bit of sugar or a little bannock, not very much [John laughs]. Some of the people didn’t put anything in the pan when they sent it back. They couldn’t pay anything – most of them. And the people who couldn’t give anything, it was because they didn’t have anything to give. That’s why my mother gave that fish, when they didn’t have anything to eat. We only stayed two weeks there at Eastmain. When we left Eastmain, the first rapids were about twenty miles up the river. I told my family it must be a good place for fishing. We hoped to find sturgeon, but we didn’t get much. We left Eastmain early in the morning; it was pretty near sunset when we got to the rapids. That’s the first time we had so much flour for the whole year. One bag of flour (100 lbs) and a half bag of oats (50 lbs) for the whole year. We got there and started to set the net right away; it was sunset already. Sometimes one of the seals would go that far, right up to the first rapids. My father was setting the net, and the water was splashing.

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At last I saw someone in the water. I asked my father, “Who is that?” “That’s a big seal,” he told me. We did not have a rifle yet; just the old kind [percussion musket] was what we had. When he knew that the seal came near us, he killed it. We couldn’t take it in our canoe right away, it was so big. We dragged it under the water with a line on him, and dragged it ashore. Even after we tried to take it ashore we couldn’t pull it farther up, it was so big. We were expecting twenty or twenty-five other people to come right there tomorrow [more families were on their way inland]. My father took off his moccasins to his bare feet and went and worked on it in the water. Where we took it ashore we didn’t cut it in the sand, just where there was some grass; that’s where we cut it. So we started to make a place for drying the fish.1 Then in the morning we went out to check the net. We killed ten fish. Some were four-foot-long jackfish, and some were small sturgeon. By afternoon we could see the other families coming. When they came there, it was near sunset. Of course everyone was pleased about this seal that had been killed. Then we gave them a feast of some of that flesh, and gave them a little of the seal blubber first to fry the meat. The next day we started sharing out the blubber to everyone. The grease they got from the store, even on a hot day it was hard! Seal grease didn’t freeze at all, hardly. They mixed the hard grease they got from the store in with the seal oil, so they would make the seal oil freeze [harder]. They only had very little from the store, so when they mixed it they had a little more. Even though we had that bag of flour to make bannock, we didn’t touch it yet. What we were eating was nothing but meat and fish. The reason we wouldn’t use the flour was because we wanted to use it in the cold winter. Sometimes it happened that a man couldn’t kill anything to eat. That’s when they cooked a little bannock. We stayed there one week and we didn’t taste any flour [John laughs]. So when we started from there the whole bunch of us went up. The next camp, we couldn’t set nets. We just stopped in the middle of the rapids. So we still had seal meat and fish to eat. Just where they went ashore at the foot of the rapids, that’s where we slept. So we had to carry our canoes through the bush; we couldn’t work up the rapids. The long rapids; we could just make it up [to the end of the portage] and we slept there again. The men managed to

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set nets then, a little further up. The next morning we left; not far from there the river branched. Some of the families went up one branch, some the other. Before they left each other, there were about fifteen married men, and the young men. And there were some more coming up the river. We managed to get up two more rapids that day. We didn’t kill very much fish where the nets were that morning, maybe only two or three of each kind. The next stop from there was a very nice place for setting nets – nice fishing. When we went up that far, we hadn’t even touched the flour bag yet. When I was young I didn’t even think, “I wish they would make a bannock.” I was used to the meat. Where we slept, where it was very good fishing, my father killed ten fish. Some of them killed more. Before we could get over the next rapids, it took us two days. At last we didn’t have anything to eat [John smiles]. Since we had left Eastmain about three weeks ago, that was the first time they opened the flour bag, to make a little bannock. I had three brothers, my mother and father, six of us at the time. Two frying pans of bannocks, that’s how much we made. We must have gone forty miles up the Eastmain River, that’s when I tasted bannock. And my father and mother told the kids, “We are not to make any more bannock if we catch some fish.” Of course, it was not very much bannock I got from my mother to have for my supper. I was told, “That’s how much bannock you’re going to get, you’re not going to work; you’re going to sleep” [John laughs]. In the morning I got a little bigger bannock [John shows with his hands, about the size of a deck of cards]. My father told me, “You eat bannock often; not me when I was young.” (Way far ahead in my story, we weren’t going to be very lucky. I’ll try and tell you all I remember that we did that year.) We took off again in the morning. We didn’t travel all that day. We stopped about 4 p.m. and started to set nets. At that time our bunch was still six married men, counting my father. The bunch that took off on the side of the branch was eight fellows, eight canoes. All the others that went with us, they didn’t even have as much as us, one bag of flour. When they saw my father’s flour, they thought to themselves that my father had a lot [John laughs]. Just when the sun was about to set we went to see the nets. They killed fifteen fish: whitefish, jackfish, suckers, and others. The other women of the bunch with us only made one bannock and maybe a

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little more stick-bannock. The others set nets, too. They were all killing fish, too. Then in the morning it was still better. My father killed about thirty (of different kinds). Some of them did about the same – over twenty, maybe thirty. As we traveled up the river, every time where we stopped, we would set nets right away. We always made a wigwam. The women’s job in the evening was to gather those poles. We got up way far at last. It took as far as one month, maybe more, to get up the river where we wanted to go. At last we were as far as where we wanted to go to hunt for deer [caribou]. Sometimes you couldn’t set nets in the evenings. Then when we couldn’t get anything to eat, that’s when we made a little bannock. By that time we started to kill beaver already. The first one a man killed, he didn’t skin it, he put it in a fire and singed it in the fire. At this time they would sing and drum, too. After they singed it in the fire, they made a feast out of it. When they singed a beaver like that, they wouldn’t give it to little kids, even pretty good-sized kids.2 When somebody killed two at once, they only singed one in the fire, and skinned the other. They fed the little kids from the one that had been skinned. If there was only one beaver killed, none of us got any, only the old women and old men (and we were not little kids here). I once was staying with one of my cousins and one of my brothers when I was young. They do the same thing: singe the fur and not give the first beaver to the kids; just to married people. At that time, all over from Waswanipi, Mistassini, Nemiska, Neoskweskau, all over – they did it the same way. When that time happened, I didn’t know why they wouldn’t give me any that they singed in the fire. There were six men in the bunch in the story I’m telling; they all did the same with the first beaver they killed. Well, they hadn’t even gone as far as they went in hunting that year and [already] they had all killed beaver. If they killed two, they singed the biggest one in the fire. At last we got as far as where we wanted to hunt. Then we started trying to kill fish. My father put out four nets at one time. We used different nets inland, bigger [mesh] nets. Some of the other men set three nets each. Then, in the morning, my father killed lots of fish. The other men killed lots of fish at the time, maybe thirty. Then they started to dry the fish. So they started to keep [store] them.

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At that time, some of the men would kill beaver; five beaver at one time sometimes. Some of the other men would bring two or three. When they were trying to hunt beaver like that, they would use canoes on the river, two men to each canoe. When they went off like that, some men brought home about ten beaver. They were trying to kill everything they could kill, even bear. The first man that killed a bear was my father. A pretty big one, too. The next morning my uncle killed a bear, not a very big one. The first one, they got lots of grease out of it. Of course, they don’t get so much out of a small bear. Well, they were hunting beaver, and the women started to go after the fishnets. Then, after they made grease out of the bear, off the men went again. They would go two or three nights away. At last they were going to have a bad luck time. We could hear someone, his shot, and we didn’t know who would come past there where we were staying. So my father went where he heard the shot. He wanted to find out who it was. My father didn’t come back that same day. Then my grandmother was worrying about my father, what’s the reason he didn’t come back that day. That day was very calm. The next day was the same. So at last we could see him coming in the canoe. The way they were traveling was with the canoes tied together. They came across the river to us. We were surprised to see him pulling the canoe like that, because there was no outboard motor then [for towing]. At last they came ashore. Three men were sitting in the other canoe; they were holding something tightly. The first man who came ashore was my father. He said they had brought home a woman who was crazy. “Pretty strong sometimes,” he said. They rolled her up in the tent and tied around her arms tight; still she could get out. My father said there were three men (four yesterday including him) trying to keep her quiet and they couldn’t do it, she was so strong. The woman came ashore. The man who belonged to the wife was a pretty old man. The first thing they did was build another tent where they could keep this woman. They didn’t want to keep her near the kids. Then, from there, we didn’t hunt very well. There were nine men altogether, and some of them could hunt [while the others had to stay at the camp]. Before they brought her here, she had been like that for some time. She was getting stronger and stronger. Even those nine men couldn’t hold her quiet, she was so strong.

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So we kept her there for quite a while. Part of the night, no one could have a good sleep, just watching this woman. The family of the crazy woman had some kids. So when it started to be evening, she started to move around. You could hear some of the men fighting and calling out, trying to keep the woman quiet. Once she would get an arm loose she would start pulling at her clothes like she didn’t know what she was doing. She would catch the men’s clothes and just tear them right away. Then at last they tied her legs together. At last they used big sticks, like logs, along the sides and across the top so you could just see her head. Of course, she was covered with clothes first. They tied her, and then put rocks on top to keep her from tearing loose. The weight was not on her. I couldn’t say how many pounds were on top so she couldn’t get off. She was over beside the main wigwam, and you could hear her calling out; you couldn’t sleep. The man was named Moses. Then this man said his wife has too much power. He asked all the people not to feed his wife anymore. The old man said no one could say anything to him, since if one of their wives was that way they wouldn’t like it very much. “We can’t kill her,” he said, “the way she’s going to do, she’ll starve, and if we don’t give her a drink of water, likely she’ll be dead without water.” So when she started calling out (“Oh!” Anderson Jolly, who was interpreting, suggests) she made a loud voice. She was really bad then. The woman was asking for something to eat. Even though they didn’t give her anything, she was still just as strong. Some men sitting on the rocks could hear the logs move when she was moving around. They showed her the little baby, but she wouldn’t say anything, and shook her head, she was so bad. So we stayed there for quite a while. We couldn’t hunt. Just the women could go for the fishnets, not the men. At last we started to eat the flour that we had. I couldn’t say how many days that she didn’t eat or drink and she was still alive. And then when she started talking about someone else and we asked her why she was talking that way, she would say that she wanted to kill us. The last thing, she started to sleep for a while. I don’t know how many nights and days she hadn’t slept. Soon they knew she was sleeping. Then at last she was dead. This man said to put his wife’s body in the fire. But they did not burn it; they put it in a grave. All the clothes she had on her, they

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burned them all up. Before she was dead, she told all her kids that they were going to go crazy too, that they were going to be like her. That time all of the men were scared. Later on, one of her daughters was like that. I remember since then that two of her grandchildren have been crazy like that. By that time they had used almost all of the store-bought food they had wanted to save. It was just starting to snow in the fall, when this happened. Then the men started to hunt. We only killed one bear after that, before the winter came. In a few weeks’ time, it started to be winter. They started to kill fish and rabbits and beaver. They hunted the same things that they had before; not because of the trouble, but because winter was coming now. They were going to meet cold weather now; that is why they did that. At that time, everyone would call the snow “my grandfather.” When they started to eat the singed beaver they put a bit in the fire. They thought the snow would be pleased and they could make a good hunt during the winter. Some of them were just killing their first beaver of the season. Then those who hadn’t killed any beaver since the last winter went out away to sleep away from the tent. Five men hadn’t killed any yet. When they came home, they brought twenty beaver. Those five men all singed one each at that time. Quite a big feast. They make a little bannock for the feast. They started killing marten too at the same time. Some men would go for one night and bring back five martens at a time, there were so many. We were killing lots of rabbits at that time. Where we passed in the fall, nearby there were lots of rabbits. After they put their nets under the ice, it was better to kill fish. Some of them got thirty or twenty martens. Some got nearly ten each of otter. Minks too, ten of each. It was pretty near New Year’s Day by then. From their path earlier that fall, they could see a ridge, about twelve miles away, where there were lots of rabbits. Then we shifted to that place. After we made our wigwam, the next morning nine men and six boys (even some women) started to make snares. Next morning everybody went to his snares. That’s the time I told you when I was learning to make snares. When you snare like that you would see lots of [rabbit] paths when you were looking. Then I made one and my father passed me and I could hear him cutting trees, and when I finished mine I followed and found his three snares, and when I got up to him he was finishing

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the fourth snare already. Of course, you made those snares together, my father, my mother and myself. My mother couldn’t make snares very fast, just as bad as me. Three of us would make more than 100 snares. When we went for our snares we killed about eighty-six rabbits. Some of the other men brought fifty. We put everybody’s rabbits all together to make a feast. Then when we shared them out, I ate three myself. The bear grease we had saved, we put it there in that rabbit feast. Most of the men were not very old, just two were pretty old. They also drummed and sang at the rabbit feast, just the same as at the beaver feast. They made a rabbit song and a bear song, too. They ate the bear’s meat at the same time. Then the families started talking about how they were going to leave each other. The men left again hunting. After that they were going to leave the place. Pretty near New Year’s Day that time. So they brought some more beavers. That’s why they left to hunt beaver, because New Year’s Day was very close. So when New Year’s Day came, we made a feast of what the people brought home. That’s the time we ate the bear grease again and the beavers too. They must have brought home about twelve beavers that time. We had the last of our dried bear’s meat, too. Every time when we had a feast like that we had drum singing. While they were hunting they took up all the nets and traps. The first ones, six men, went to hunt deer with their families, round about the first week of January. Where we shifted to, there were not many deer but lots of rabbits. There was just a little bit of flour left in that flour bag. Same with the others, they had just a little bit. At the end of January there was no flour left, even though we tried to save it [John smiles]. We started killing more rabbits, and beaver too. My father killed quite a few. I helped my father killing beaver; sometimes we killed six out of one beaver house. Sometimes when we were hunting, I used to work at the hooks too, myself. Sometimes, I’d kill a few good-sized fish, too. It was not only me trying to kill fish, my father and mother were doing it, too, and I had two uncles there too. My uncles killed beaver too, at the same time. They were together; sometimes one would kill ten beaver in a day. They helped each other, but it’s one of the men’s beavers. Sometimes they would kill eight beaver out of one house, sometimes six out of one house.

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Some places there were very good for fishing in the river. The three men and I went there and used hooks. We shifted our wigwam to the river, so even the women were trying to kill fish. We managed to kill forty fish between the four of us: my sister, father, mother, and me. My sister got five just dangling a hook. My father used eight hooks; I used five myself; my mother had five. Eighteen hooks altogether; the three of us, and we each used a hook, bobbing it, too. My father killed more than ten, my mother nearly ten, too, I managed to get eleven myself. We had lots of fish then, on our side. My uncles were just across the river. They killed almost twenty – all jackfish. One of my uncles only killed about ten between him and his wife. My father was the oldest and he made a feast again. [Anderson Jolly comments that there are lots of feasts going around in this story. John starts to laugh.] We didn’t put all of [the fish] together. My father said they would put two fish from each, and those who caught less fish, they would only put one. The rest of the fish, they would keep them to eat way far ahead. My father said the next morning, “We are still hunting fish.” We didn’t get many then, not ten between the four of us. Same with the other men, one of my uncles only got three. That’s the jackfish, when we used to say, “There’s the boss” [ritually announced when a jackfish was brought up out of the water]. So we didn’t stay one week, we left there again. When we left that place it was in February, already. That was the first time that winter we had some food ahead when we went to shift. Next morning we shifted from there. After we got where we were going to make the wigwam, the men went out to hunt the rest of the day. Then my father killed a bear that day, and one very small bear; so small it couldn’t open its eyes [John laughs]. It had just been born a day or so; about the size of a squirrel. We couldn’t go [to bring the bear to the camp] that day. The next morning we went for him. We only ate a little of him. The next day we had another feast. Very good meat, very fat, more than on the one killed last fall. After we made the grease we had almost eighty pounds. And there was lots of beaver in that place, where my father found the bear. At last we had good luck. Lots of rabbits and beaver. They were hunting marten, too, at the same time. Marten would come,

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smelling the food, and run around the wigwam. Sometimes they would be keeping some food outside the wigwam, under a cover, and marten would go in under the side of the cover. If he could manage to haul a piece out he would try to take it away. You could see through the tenting, and at night they would climb up around on the tent and you could see them. The marten didn’t care about stealing. We had quite a few fish that time. That was what they were trying to take away from us. We didn’t have dogs then, so we knew it was martens bothering us through the night. They used to bother people like that through the night. When we got up in the morning we could see where he had taken some fish under the snow. When we found [the fish] we didn’t pick it up, we just set a trap. When the marten got trapped, he started calling out. After they set the trap, my mother started cutting wood and my father and I went out hunting. Before the end of the day you could hear the marten calling out, this marten had done that often before, and I started laughing at him. So my mother went to see him and killed him then. He couldn’t even eat what he stole and he got killed, and they picked up what he didn’t eat and took it away from him [John gives a rich laugh]. That was about the 15th of February. When we shifted from the place where the marten was stealing from us, we didn’t bother to kill any rabbits and beaver. We went to a bluff where deer [caribou] were supposed to be at that time. After we got near there my father didn’t go right to that place; he didn’t see any sign of deer. He went to a near place. They were looking for partridges that evening. We must have killed about thirty. The next morning they went to the place where there was supposed to be deer. They saw fresh signs of deer there, all around, but they couldn’t find the path where they had gone off. It took three days to walk around to look for them. The signs they found looked like quite a few deer. At last they found a path where they knew there were only five, from their tracks. Then the next day they went after them. They killed all five of them. So they brought a little of that meat back. They had to have a little feast with that meat. Before we would have the feast my father would sing, using the drum too. The next day we all went to get them. And so we brought them home. We didn’t do a feast that time, just cooked a little at a time. Next day they made a little feast of all the heads and all the guts. We

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couldn’t have any bannock then because the flour had all gone quite a while ago. They hadn’t found even half of all the deer that they saw the tracks of. Then they found the tracks of another bunch, about ten. The next day they went again, to get them. The first five weren’t very big, but the next ten they killed, quite a few of them were pretty big. They did the same; bringing in all the hearts. Where they killed them, it wasn’t very close, so they had to shift our camp to go where they were. All that time, when we were killing deer, pretty near every night the martens would come and bother us. We killed one every time. They didn’t even know to be scared. As soon as you came up to them they only ran off a little way. They’re the kind of animal that isn’t scared of anybody. Where we shifted from, we still had all those deer bones. Then, after we cut up all the deer, we cleaned the bones and smashed them up to make grease out of them. These bones, after they’re smashed, look like sand. They just smashed the ends of the leg bone, not the middles. [“The liquor is like milk, very rich, very good,” Anderson says. “You have to hang the bones a little to dry the meat, then you scrape it good so the grease, when it comes up, will be pure. If you don’t scrape it the liquor looks dark, not pure.”] You can have this grease for butter, when you eat flesh with no fat. When a man kills a bear, then he thinks he’s got quite a lot of butter then. We had to stay there for a week to fix everything; trim the deerskins too. All the heads of deer; we didn’t make a feast out of it. We kept it in case another man came along. My father still had a little bear grease left. After they finished they went for some beaver; they found three houses and killed all the beaver. Just before that day his father had found two houses and his uncle had set traps for one beaver house – so they got all those in one day. After they killed all those beaver they went ahead on a trail where they wanted to shift again. When they left to make the trail they said that they were going to come back the same day, but they didn’t come back. Next day they came back with another family, with their wives too. My father told the family they saw to come with them to his place, that he wanted to make a feast. We didn’t stay far from the coast that year; about forty miles maybe. So other families going inland – we would meet them there. The older men from the coast included my step-grandfather, very old. One of the old men had

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two sons, one married and one not married. The other old man had one son, married. Altogether there were five men. Soon after the New Year, they would still have a little bannock on them. It was about the 5th of March at that time. They all stayed with us inside our tent. We had lots of meat. That’s what my father gathered to make his feast. So all the meat he had for his feast, he gave it to the old man, some of the bear grease and the deer grease too. So the last bunch of beaver we killed, we didn’t eat the big ones, just the small ones. Then one old man got only deer meat and the other old man got nothing but beaver meat to have for his feast. The one that got beaver from my father for his feast did not have more than ten all together, because we had some more [dried for storage] before. We got a bit of bannock from them, we hadn’t tasted bannock for quite a while. The first one to get a feast was the one with the deer meat; the second, beaver. Every feast the others cooked bannock for them, so we had three feasts (not in one day). Then the first one, who got the meat from the deer meat, they gave him some bear grease to make another feast. These people stayed with us for about one month, hunting around. When they shifted from there we looked for some more beaver to kill, all those men. Those men from the coast told us they hadn’t killed very much, so as soon as we found beaver houses, we would let these people from the coast have them. The old men were not far from seventy years old. Their wives were very old women. When they killed beaver, even the old women still went to the beaver house. When they found beaver houses, the two old men would be given the houses; that’s why the women went to help. When they went after a beaver house, that was the job of the women, to look after the nets and pull the beavers up when they managed to get caught in the net. Those men who started up from the coast just made a loop inland and back down, so we just followed them. When there were many people together and they would find three beaver houses (or two), they would try to get after all of them the same day. If there were three houses, maybe they could get two in one day. Then the next day they would all go after the other house, the whole bunch of them. Then after they killed all the beaver in the three houses, we shifted again. When we got there the men just worked at the wigwam part of the day, then they spread out and looked for

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partridges and beaver houses, and let the women do the rest of the work on the wigwam. When they moved about like that, and shifted, they would only stay in one place about three days. When the men went about like that, sometimes they would find two beaver houses the same day. Where they found the two beaver houses, a few would go and look for more. The next day the rest would go half to one beaver house, the other half to the other house. Sometimes when they found beaver, there were eight beaver, sometimes five, sometimes only two. Sometimes they would stay more than three days so the beaver skins would have a chance to dry. As we moved around like that we killed a few martens too. Sometimes when the marten came, when we found them, the women went trying to kill them. What he (the marten) likes to have, when they have beaver, he likes to have feed out of it right away. At last as we moved along, we came to a nice place for rabbits. Where they were, there was a path where the coasters were going to go right down, to Eastmain. We turned back up towards inland again, about fifty miles from Eastmain. That’s where there were a lot of rabbits, but only two beaver houses. Nobody had any kind of bannock when we turned back; everybody was short. Where we found beaver houses we just set a trap. So those men from the coast went down to Eastmain. Where our bunch had passed that fall was about 100 miles inland. All the fur they killed, they left it right there, and my father took it to Eastmain. My father didn’t have to trade it there; they were going to send it here (Waskaganish). The manager at Waskaganish told the manager at Eastmain not to take the fur, just to give [my father] what supplies he needed. Then the manager marked down all that my father sent on a piece of paper and sent it to Waskaganish. He brought home flour at that time, sugar, and tea. The little flour he brought was not very much. We started to go up to where we passed our fall that year. So we had to shift every day to go inland, because we had to get up where we had our canoes. That was in April already. So we kept on moving every morning. As we went up to the place where we spent our fall, now that’s the place where we started to kill beaver. Where we turned back, we were way up about 100 miles already. That’s the time we started to kill some more fur. The fur that my father took down to Eastmain, he must have had about 100 marten skins that time, because I managed to kill about twenty

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myself, and my sister ten, and my mother too – altogether maybe around 100 or more. As we went up, we only found four houses that day. That place we stayed for about a week; then we shifted. Next day we found two beaver houses. Next day we started to kill those two beaver houses. The other ones got one beaver house, with only two in it; the one that we got had four, two young and two old. Of course we killed marten often too. Everything, rabbits, and other animals, now and again. When we shifted from there we traveled all that day till we stopped in the evening. We didn’t move the next day; the men started to go around. They found six beaver houses this time. My father found three himself. We couldn’t get them from where we stopped; we had to go nearer to the houses. Then we went as far as a good place for fishing, too. That day when we went to shift to the beaver houses, we managed to set three fishnets. We couldn’t go after the houses the next day; all we did was to set a trap for them. Of course the men didn’t look after the nets, just the women and myself. In each net, we got pretty near thirty fish. What the men did was to take a bunch of traps to set that day. After they set their six traps that day, they went around and looked for partridges. One of my uncles found a bear and killed it. It was a big bear, a male. It was a long spring that year: about 20th of April and not summer yet. Next day they had to go for the bear. After they brought him in and skinned him they only cooked a little of him. Next day we made a feast out of him. What we did, we had a little flour yet, we cooked bannocks for that feast. The bear was pretty fat. All the fat from the bear, we started to make grease. It was my father who made the bear grease, he was given the bear by my uncle. After they finished with the bear, they went for their six traps then. Then we went to check the nets again, while the men were out checking traps. We killed a lot of fish then. With the three nets, we must have killed over 180 fish that day. Of course, they brought back several beaver too, and then they went after some more traps. The last time they went for their traps they brought five beaver home. The next day they left to look for some more beaver houses. They didn’t return that day. What we thought was “maybe they saw more strangers.” My father was supposed to be the boss of the bunch of them. The reason they didn’t come back that day was that

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they found other people who were pretty near starving. They found one man, his wife, and two sons and one daughter. They had two boys there also and one girl that didn’t belong to him, seven kids altogether. He was keeping his brother’s kids, because his brother’s first wife had died and his second wife didn’t like the kids. The man who was nearly starving told my father that there had been lots of them in the group that fall. The ones that were starving were hunting way up inland – 200 miles. They told my father that even when they hunted together, none of them would bring anything to eat. It was a different group from the ones who went up the other branch of the river, in the fall. So my father brought them home to his place. The man was older than my father. His face was very thin, so poor, very poor-looking people. And the way he was before they found him was poorer than that. When they found a person who was starving, they just gave him a little to eat at first. When my father found these people he didn’t feed them very much, a little flour that was left, he fed them a little bannock first. After they got a little meal from us they told us what had happened. A Nemiska man found them quite some time before my father did. So when my father found him, it was the second time the man was found [in starving condition] that year. Soon after the Nemiska man found the man he killed some deer. After they got a little bit better, they left the Nemiska man and went back to where they had been before. Before the Nemiska man found them, two women starved, and two kids, one small and one not too small. Then after they left there and went back, the same thing happened, they didn’t get very much to eat. Why that happened: they had made another man mad, who made a shaking tent. The old man who conjured was named Shemagado. The reason the old man got mad was that the kids were teasing each other (bothering him). That bunch split up to three different places. The ones that stayed on the south side were the ones my father found. So my father didn’t let them go again, they stayed with us till the end of the year (open water). The bear that my uncle found, my father gave the rest of this to the people. Still we had some deer meat left. So he gave them a little feast with the meat. So this old man got a feast from my father. He was very pleased because he thought he would never have a feast anymore in his life.

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After he stayed with us for about a week, my father killed another bear. The next day after they brought the poor family, they went for their beaver traps, that’s the last time they went for their traps. They brought home nothing but young beaver, because they had killed the old ones before. That year, the ones that went on the north side saw more people who were very poor, another woman starved there, and one kid. So my father started to hunt again, after he found this family. The end of April, we had only a little snow, so you could see some little spots of ground. My father hunted geese then. He started to make decoys, where he was going to kill geese. He killed lots of fish that time. The man that my father found looked a lot better at that time. My father had a stand to kill geese [a blind] that he set up. My father always took the man he found, on his hunts. The first time they killed geese they killed four. Next day they killed more. The same with the other man, about ten, about six ducks, over 100 fish that day. Sometimes they wouldn’t kill one goose in a day, sometimes only two in one day, sometimes only one [John laughs]. Then at last lots of geese came, and they would get as many as twenty in a day. They only tried to keep on killing geese about ten days. Then all kinds of different birds started coming, loons, ducks, and the ones that whistle, quishebatum, the others, ahawi, are the little ducks. That’s how you call them. They killed lots of different birds and ducks then, counting the boy, they must have killed about a thousand of these. Loons too. I don’t know how many times they made feast of them. About forty they had for the feast, more than they could kill in one day. Each kid got one loon and the old men got two each. Early spring, the place where we passed our spring, the ice lasted a long time, so they could run around and shoot them. Only some years can you kill so many, some years not so many. They have to dry them when you get lots, to keep them. It was nearly the end of May at that time. So after they killed the birds, in the open water they killed beaver and otter. It was a long spring that spring, lots of ice yet. They kept hunting fur till the end of May. After we set the beaver and otter traps in the water, we didn’t go for them very many times. The first time they went for their traps they got five otters, four beavers, about thirty muskrats. After five nights, they went again, seven otters. They slept out two nights at that time. Only two beaver. The women kept on killing lots of fish.

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Another five nights’ time, they went again and only got two otters that time [John laughs]. The other men would go to a different creek. They killed a lot there, too. The man that my father found was still going with him. The last time we went we only brought home one otter. So we started killing nothing but fish now, making dried fish. Make smashed fish (after it has dried). Three-foot jackfish, we’d keep them dried. We wanted to keep them for next year; that’s why we dried so many. My father put them on a skaskwigan [cache rack]. We made a brand new one, and he put all his fish in it up to the summer; then he would go for it in the fall. [This story started in August.] So we were going to come down now pretty soon. Quite a ways where my father was hunting anyway, over 150 miles. That time my father quit hunting fur already; he didn’t try for anymore that year. Just as we were going to leave to go down the river, the man my father found killed a bear. He didn’t have any powder and shot left, just a few rifle bullets. My father had four and the other man three. [Their winter’s supplies were nearly used up.] So we came and went down, hunting at the same time. All we did, when we came to a place where we could kill a few fish, was stop and kill some now and again. We didn’t go very far in a day; it took us quite a while to come down. Where we were there had been no sturgeon; where we came down there were some. So we started to hunt enough sturgeon to take us to Eastmain. When we got there we set three nets and killed almost 100 fish, fifty small sturgeon and others. The other people killed a lot too. We stayed for a day and the other people we had stayed with that fall came to the same place. Those people had been having very good luck; they killed about 100 deer that year. They saw the Nemiska man who had found the other Indians. That’s the time they were killing those deer. They had also seen the brother (of the man who starved) and he had been having good luck too. All that time they had meat to eat (good times). They kept on killing deer. The group that had split off from my father up the river said they were going to make a feast at Eastmain. They killed a bear and quite a few deer. Killed lots of marten, about 300, so they started to hunt fish, too, there. So at last we started from there to go down. We had bundles of fish. We slept three times, and then we got to Eastmain. Not much different food at Eastmain then; all we could do was get a little

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from the store. No Revillion store at that time at Eastmain. There were some different kinds of meat, so everyone could get a little out of it. Two days after we came, we started to have the feast. There were some coasters there; they gave lots to eat of dried geese. The ones that had been with us in the fall gave us more food. And all that fish that my father put in the skaskwigan he lost to a wolverine. Three big bags of smashed fish, all spoiled from that wolverine. We came towards Waskaganish. We only slept once on the way. Then we arrived here at last. So after, he took the furs to Waskaganish, he had two bags full when we came here, too. I started from here. That winter was certainly memorable for emergencies befalling two visiting families, each in turn taken in by John’s father’s family and helped to deal with their particular crisis until they could return to normal. In the fall, John’s father brought home one family in urgent need of help. The men could not leave the camp to go out hunting because of a terribly distressed and out-of-control woman. They were afraid that she would get loose and cause grievous injury to the children and women in their absence. They had to constrain her from hurting others. She was thought to be getting progressively stronger and more threatening. Her husband’s solution was to deprive her of food, and then water, until she died. He then wanted to burn her body. This extreme way of disposing of remains would be used only to completely and permanently destroy a monstrous person such as a witiko or some other extraordinary and threatening non-human creature. But John’s father’s group did not agree that this woman deserved such treatment, and she was buried in the normal way. Then, in the early spring, John’s father came to the rescue of another family, who he found in the extremity of starvation, and they stayed with John’s family for the rest of the hunting season. John’s father’s initiatives saved two families that were in extreme distress, by including them in his own family’s community and sharing their food, their work, and their composure. In all of this, John tells us much less about his inner, subjective experience than what his family was doing in getting food to eat. This orientation – to family activities rather than to subjective experience – is characteristic in the life stories of people of John’s generation. It is only one or two generations later, when people had

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adapted to modern town life, that people’s stories developed selforientation and subjective reactions to external events (Logotheti 1991). John’s astonishingly detailed memories of his boyhood show us how he could remember in such detail the stories that his grandmother told him, and therefore how he could be such a good narrator of the oral tradition.

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chapter one

The Setting

A glance at a map showing the distribution of the Indians within the borders of Canada reveals that the Northern Algonquians extend over a vast area from the prairies in the west to the Atlantic Ocean in the east. This large portion of the great circumpolar boreal forest has provided, for unknown centuries, the hunting grounds and homes of the Cree and other Algonquian groups. Looking with interest at my copy of the high altitude aerial photo of the James Bay area [photo 2], Willy Weistchee commented to me that, in the photo, the bush looked like a fur coat. The metaphor is apt, for the pelts of trees, bordered or cut by rivers, serve the same purpose as a fur coat. Trees, like a coat, protect one from the wind, providing sheltering warmth and standing symbolically for the life or vitality that “goes with” the forest and the fur-bearing animals who share it with humans and other beings. To the Cree, the forest is home, where one finds much that is familiar and valued. To an outsider, a person coming into the area, the impression is one of an endless forested wilderness, unfamiliar and unyielding. Explorers, traders, and missionaries of the seventeenth century, both British and French, found the resources for a fur trade empire. The beaver and other fur-bearing mammals could be caught and their hides prepared by the Indians, whose interest in obtaining trade goods was strong enough for them to decide to give less time to pursuing caribou and moose and more time to seeking furs. These Indians were dispersed over the land in small hunting groups, living in tipis, and with a simple technology they hunted for their living. Three centuries later, we find settlement towns scattered across the north, with stores, schools, medical stations, and other modern

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services. Yet we also still find people going to the bush for their living, and the tipi is still in use. While there have been many important changes, much has escaped radical change. This book documents the traditional ethos (Bateson 1958) and related qualities of the essential personal relationships of the Eastern Cree, the cultural baseline on which persistence and change have worked. The “Eastern Cree” are those Indians living in the James Bay area and in the adjacent interior of the Nouveau-Quebec or Ungava Peninsula area. The tribal implication in the name “Eastern Cree,” or in other “tribal” names applied to these people (Montagnais, Naskapi, Montagnais-Naskapi), is misleading, for no formal political organization or sharp borders of linguistic-cultural groupings have been discovered for this area. Uniformity in culture among these people stems, in part, from linguistic and geographic-ecological continuity. A large number of semi-autonomous hunting-trapping groups have maintained a surprisingly uniform culture in spite of the lack of any obvious or explicit unifying cultural structures. Beyond the stabilizing effects of language and ecological response, the factors explaining cultural uniformity over such a large geographical area and such an extended time are difficult to define, and are often indicated in terms like “social atomism,” or “lack of centralization.” Descriptions that rely on statements of what is lacking, however, are poor in defining what is present in a culture, since they are both negative and vague. My purpose in this book is to demonstrate Cree cultural uniformity as arising from shared understandings of individuals’ experiences, where the relationships between persons are defined by tradition and affirmed by each hunter’s experiences. The defining tradition is conveyed by the Cree in narratives; a selection of these are presented here to indicate significant essential qualities of relationships that, taken all together, constitute the personal worldview of the Cree. Narratives have been the basis for understanding Cree experience for the Cree themselves, for me as an ethnographer, and hopefully for the readers of this book as well. The presentation that follows did not come easily from fieldwork experience. Most persons who are familiar with northern ethnography will not be surprised to know that my first summer’s fieldwork was a failure, where I made numerous small social blunders and gathered a quantity of confused and scattered notes and observations. Many of the questions I asked received an “I don’t know” reply, and these

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minimal replies were appropriate. I had to learn what to ask and how to ask, and even more important, when to just keep quiet and listen patiently. More structured or aggressive questioning sometimes elicits immediate answers, but in the long run the patient approach, with a gradually increasing ability to understand answers, is much better suited to the goal of depth ethnography. The third summer saw the beginnings of interpretive syntheses of data, and in the years following, this ability has continued to grow and mature. The north has seen a great many visiting scientists, yet only a few have returned to develop deeper understandings. For ethnography, at least, it is almost exclusively the latter (Hallowell, for example) whose writings stand the test of time and the critical analysis of others. My first close friend and major informant was Willy Weistchee. Willy was in his early thirties, still unmarried, considerably acculturated for his community, and marginal in many ways to it. Not the least cause of Willy’s marginality was the fact that his father died when he was young and thus never taught his son many of the things a man should know. He spent five teenage years in the Hamilton, Ontario tuberculosis sanitorium, learning a culture that was more cosmopolitan than Cree. His older brothers were not available to help, and he was finally taught to shoot by an old man. It is not surprising, then, that there were many things that Willy understood only partially or with only partial accuracy. More importantly, he was a highly intelligent and perceptive person, and handled my early resocialization with skill and grace. His early death was a deep personal loss. I will always value the memory of his friendship, and owe him a debt of gratitude. Without Willy’s help, I would have found much less success in coming to understand some portions of the patterns of meaning that are embodied in the culture of the James Bay people. The understandings I learned from John Blackned are of the highest calibre I could hope for from a single informant. He was a skilled and highly knowledgeable person who was very much in the conservative mainstream of Waskaganish life, and people in the community related to John as a repository of traditional understanding. He had a rich and often hard life, and in the 1960s was still as active as his age allowed. John took over from Willy the task of my education, and was a patiently critical and highly aware teacher. He seemed always to know what I was able to understand, and when I was ready

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to understand more without confusing the actions, thoughts, and feelings being described. He was one of the most knowledgeable people at Waskaganish, or at any other community in this cultural milieu, and the bulk of my data and much of my interpretive perspective come from him. During the fourth summer’s fieldwork, much of the sections on conjuring were read to John, to check for errors of fact or interpretation. As a result, the present form of these sections includes important additions of narrative and interpretation. Other informants at Waskaganish, Wemindji (Paint Hills), and Fort George helped me to cross-check and complete the total picture, providing the network of data and viewpoints from which I derived a confident, critical grasp of the culture as a complexly and dynamically integrated whole (discussed in the following chapter). The major flaw in my fieldwork has been the need to rely on the services of interpreters; for while they do the best they can, there is no substitute for the depth, detail, and precision of learning Cree culture via the Cree language. Partly due to the language barrier, John was able to teach more than I was able to learn. The major problem in regard to language learning and use is that total, precise mastery is both difficult for the non-Cree and important to the Cree. It is especially necessary if one is to obtain a sophisticated grasp of Cree meanings, in Cree terms, through the habitual subtleties of informal conversation. Most people at Waskaganish would rather use an interpreter or poor English than hear badly used Cree. Most adult persons spoke little or no English, and much that I wished to learn was spoken in Cree. With respect to the quality of the narratives presented here, translation was managed both at the time that the original was taperecorded and at the time that the tapes were transcribed. During the academic years 1967–69, Gerti Diamond (now Gerti Murdoch) lived in the south as a member of my family. During this time she painstakingly retranslated and transcribed some seventy hours of taperecorded narrative and discussion, adding a degree of precision in translation that I had not expected to obtain, and she offered opinions that helped me to better understand the material. Her careful work was of great value in giving precise detail and critical appraisal of many translation problems. The narrations given here were finally rewritten by me, and I took conscious and meticulous care to hold the distortion of content and

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style to a minimum while rendering the prose form more even and flowing, and thereby engaging to the non-Cree reader. Note: In the transcriptions, statements made by informants that seem to have been added for my benefit, and therefore are not a part of the narrative, are set off by parentheses. I insert statements enclosed in brackets for the reader’s benefit, to add understanding, explanation, or smooth continuity of prose.

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chapter two

An Ethnography of Personal Meanings

Understanding the human significance that events have for individuals-in-culture is an aspect of fieldwork that can be traced back to ethnographic prehistory. Although interest and sensitivity varies with each field worker and field setting, some concern with the significance that events have for the participants is probably a universal condition in ethnography. In this book, these individually experienced and culturally patterned meanings are the primary focus. My perspective is essentially an application of ideas given brilliant but compact theoretical depiction by Sapir, whose insights into the relationship of culture and personality have led to only occasional ethnographic application, and have received little development or critical attention (Preston 1966). I am approaching culture not in comparative or institutional terms, but rather in terms of a broadly conceived, personality oriented, phenomenological frame of reference. That is, I am attempting to do cultural psychology without imposing analytical reductions to psychological or psychiatric methods and categories. My basic problem is, paraphrasing Sapir (1922:570), to what extent can I penetrate intuitively into the vitals of Cree life and, on its own level of reality, fashion satisfying pictures that I can translate into written anthropology? For more than twelve years (thirty-eight years at the time of this new edition) I have cultivated my awareness and curiosity about the James Bay Cree. During this time, I believe that no other single topic has occupied as much of my time or mental effort, efficiently and inefficiently, deliberately and accidentally, seriously and casually. About fifteen months’ total residence in the field, and eighteen months during which a young person from Waskaganish lived as a

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member of my family in our home in the south, have provided me with a variety of perspectives and experiences that has matured and expanded my sense of commitment to understanding Cree culture. While I have hardly plumbed all of the depths and subtleties (I still cannot converse in Cree) I can now often respond interpersonally with Cree directness and style, based more on habit and preference than on conscious contrivance. My participation in Cree culture has been partial, often difficult and challenging, but in the overview, rich and congenial as a whole mode of experience. But my point of view and method of approach are not only derived from my intellectual background. There is a complementary balance between my interest in vicarious participation, a strong curiosity to ‘know’ from inside the culture, and the tendency of Cree individuals to emphasize meaning more than form, to view events personally rather than objectively. The nature of my fieldwork milieu, then, indicates to me a particular way of understanding events, and I have sought to work out an essential congruence between the Cree view and my own approach. Much of my data are in the form of narratives, oral tradition and more recent events that are reported with the style of “telling the story” of what happened. Because the narratives are directly and indeed often deliberately expressive of the meanings that I wish to understand, they form the core of my presentation. Cree individuals often do not convey explanation in the form of simple, single facts, preferring instead to converse about events in a narrative form. The context of narration (as contrasted with isolated facts) functions to convey to the hearer a whole and precise perception, sometimes almost a visual image, within the appropriate, inherent context. By conveying facts within their context, then, the Cree attempt a precise understanding or, on the negative side, prevent distorted or incomplete understanding. But it is not only the listener who must receive a detailed context. The speaker can best maintain certainty of his own knowledge by telling it just as he remembers it. John Blackned explained it in this way: “I know a lot of stories but only remember parts of some of them. Since the old stories were not written, they change because they are told from memory. I tell you the stories that I can remember very well. Old men and old women both told the stories. They probably tell the story slightly different.” Telling the whole and well-remembered story keeps the history of events accurate. The narrative style also respects each individual

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speaker and avoids competition at the interpersonal level, because one person does not break into the talk of another. I do not find an “exchange” of conversation in our ordinary sense of the word to be often acceptable to the Eastern Cree. In fact, where I sought an exchange, I found this contributed to my own social mistakes. The other person waited for me to finish and then took up where he had left off, or even ignored my talking and continued with his own narration, although I was speaking to him at the same time. It’s best to wait, and not to intrude. In general, I propose that narration serves to show how some event has a particular meaning (an inherent meaning for the speaker), and that the Cree are commonly concerned to convey such particular meanings. This is saying, in effect, “You might not understand this correctly, so I will give you a meaningful context to help you to see the correct way of understanding.” Also, it may happen that the narrative context expresses a particular level of credibility for the events reported through getting the whole story, whether it is the “personal truth” criterion of what the narrator saw himself or the somewhat different criterion of “just the way he heard it from someone.” John Blackned once told me, after I had recorded detailed narrations for several successive days, that he had talked to a number of Whitemen in his life, but I was the first one who wanted to hear all that he had to say. This meant, I believe, that I showed a willingness to understand these things in their meaningful Cree context, rather than demanding, expecting, or attending only to (these may be almost synonymous terms for the Cree) specific answers to specific questions. The recording of narration, then, requires primarily and simply the ethnographer ’s cooperation in normal interaction, learning to patiently accept others on their own terms. Narration is a common form of communication, especially appropriate with ethnographers and others who are not participants in Cree culture, but generally appropriate with all persons where close mutual understanding is valued. Again, I (and other ethnographers) have found that specific, fact-finding questions are often met with an “I don’t know” answer. I suspect that such an answer often means, “I don’t know how to reply to your question in a way that will be satisfactory to both of us.” If my question is phrased in a way that is appropriate, especially if the phrasing shows some grasp of the general topic in the appropriate, culturally defined terms, then an answer may usually be

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obtained. Open naivete gets no sympathy. Perhaps this is an example of how the people in a culture being studied can tell the ethnographer how to do better anthropology. My primary goal, then, is to define some aspects of Cree culture through the inductive means of presenting and interpreting a selection of Cree narratives. Conjuring power, autonomy, self-control, hardships and their associated emotional responses, and the shifting contingencies of the environment are crucial factors for understanding Cree culture and for understanding how cultural unity and persistence can be so strong where the people themselves are so dispersed. These factors are given an inductive presentation in the following chapters, and a more analytical treatment in the conclusion. Because much of Cree culture is only implicitly or covertly structured, the close study of narratives is a useful and insightful approach, since the explicit content is given in a detailed context that often reveals aspects of structure. The common usage of the term “structure” in anthropology has at least two basic meanings, one of which is crucial for my approach. For my purposes, I distinguish between imposed structures, or models used for purposes of analytical reduction, and inherent structure, or the interrelated processes in culture. In its broadest sense, inherent cultural structure is the totality of consciously and unconsciously known relationships that make life coherent and meaningful for individuals in culture (Preston 1966:1112–20). Cree narration expresses features of inherent structure in Cree culture: the patterned world of meanings that each Cree individual abstracts for himself from his interactions with other persons and with the other components of his environment. More specifically, Cree narration manifests inherent structure in the sense suggested by Mead’s concept of plot in culture, where a typical aspect of early childhood experience is later expressed by the adult in symbolic forms (Mead 1939). This concept is more useful if early childhood experiences are extended in scope to lifelong socialization (as Mead subsequently does). I have broadened the concept by depicting patterned relationships between many aspects of experience (not one crucial experiencetype). Furthermore, as suggested by Freud, some of these experiences may be purely ideational, and so never directly manifested, since their subsequent projections may “like a screen conceal understanding” (1918:126). The advantages of narration as an indicator of such covert-inherent structure stem partly from the fact that narration

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embodies culturally patterned forms of projection. On the other hand, narration is not, in itself, a sufficient means of apprehending the whole of covert cultural structure. Only some types of ideas, attitudes, and relationships will be expressed in narration.

methods for explanation and analysis An inductive method is most accurately understood by observing its use, since the particular applications will properly be influenced by the particular events and processes being examined. But my method is not pure induction, as will be seen in the subsequent chapters, and some general characteristics may be outlined at this point. Cree narration will be interpreted (1) as a vehicle for defining basic categories in culture; (2) as a vehicle of lifelong socialization; (3) as a vehicle of news; (4) as a vehicle of entertainment; and (5) as a vehicle of aesthetic expression. 1. Basic categories in culture. Evans-Pritchard (1951:79–80) has argued that the most crucial goal in fieldwork is the translation, with depth of understanding, of the meanings of a relatively few basic concepts or notions. And, as Needham (1963:viii–ix) further suggests, the field worker may have to learn to conceptualize in radically new ways, perhaps to suspend his distinctions between natural and supernatural, man and animals, and “relocate the line between life and death.” More is involved than learning the language and apprehending “a mode of classification.” The ethnographer must vicariously participate in a radically different ethos, for depth of understanding includes an appreciation of the value-tones or experience qualities of the basic categories and notions. 2. Socialization. The process of lifelong learning conveys and supports the rules and feeling-tones of appropriate behaviour. In Cree culture, the principal vehicle of sanction is the anticipation of teasing and threats (although threats to adults are much less common than threats to children). An illustration of this may be found in contrasting the reactions of children and adults to narration. Children play at narration, and the child narrator is teased by being interrupted and corrected by other children. Their disputes are, in turn, teased by adults, who laugh at the interruption of the narrator by the audience of children, for it is improper to interrupt a narrator. In this way children learn adult standards. Beyond the conveying of rules of

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proper behaviour, socialization conveys an awareness of values, and ultimately, of the configuration of the Cree worldview and ethos. The socialization aspect of narration includes the local gossip and chitchat described by Radin for the Ojibwa, in which “Every phase of existence is represented, particularly the more intimate sides, their fears, jealousies, loves, the nature of their relation to the forest and the animals inhabiting it … It is quite significant that fundamental questions – the deeper aspects of religion and ceremonialism – are barely touched” (1924:491). Cree narration differs from that which Radin describes for the Ojibwa in a lesser emphasis on jealousies and other interpersonal tensions, and in the prevalence of narratives that deal with (and sometimes define) the more fundamental questions. As will be seen in the following chapters, these fundamental questions are not dealt with in a summary fashion, as a grammar of the worldview, but rather in a set of detailed narrative contexts that lend precision and additional meaning to these questions. This is, of course, not gossip and chitchat. 3. News. This aspect is particularly prominent at the arrival of persons, known or unknown. I suggest that for the Cree, news may be seen as a means to crucial knowledge of what to expect from – and how to receive and understand – the new arrival. Also they may wish to know about the group he is from and what may be expected from them. Ignorance of what may have happened to a known individual or group, or of the nature and intent of a strange individual or group, is a problem that may be seen as potentially threatening, or at least as creating the likelihood of unforeseen complications for satisfactory relations (Preston 1967). In some situations, a hungry and exhausted person will be expected to tell his story before he eats and sleeps, because of the possibility that his situation might preclude normal acceptance by his hosts. 4. Entertainment. Children play at narration, correcting and teasing errors. Adults manifest greater competence and find more sophisticated meanings in narration; correction is much less direct. Drumming or the use of a conjuring rattle (now very rarely performed) constituted a non-verbal supplement to narration. Songs for hunting, travelling, and other activities, and the singing of spirits in the conjuring tent, add a chanting, “old-fashioned” language style to narration (described in chapter 6). As an illustration of the aspect of

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entertainment (as well as socialization), the following brief explanatory narrative portrays one kind of narration context. Narrated by John Blackned When someone wanted to tell a story, then everybody in the tent would be quiet, kids and even babies, too. If they started to make a noise, they would nurse them. The men and the women and the kids would all listen. The people would tell the kids, “Listen to your grandfather,” and the kids would all gather around the one who was telling the stories. Then whoever was telling the stories, a man or a woman, sometimes they would tell three stories, sometimes two. Then the kids would learn it from the one who was telling it. Then the kids would play at it, trying to tell what was told. Sometimes they wouldn’t be exactly right. They never used to tell stories every night – just when they had nothing else to do in the evening. That’s where the people used to pick it up – just like going to school. That’s how they would pick it up from one another, listening and trying to learn them correctly. What I have is just a small part of what they used to have. Some of those stories I was very interested in, but I can’t think now just how they go. 5. Aesthetic expression. Narration, as a truly portable art form, is eminently suited to a hunting-gathering-trapping culture. Also, it is adapted to small-group life, requiring only a single performer and an audience that may range from one individual up, depending upon who is present (usually less than twenty persons). Narrations are soliloquies, often eloquent and personally expressive as well as culturally meaningful. Its elaboration as an art form is facilitated by the Cree value on individual freedom – a value that allows for creativity in the expression of individual style. But individual freedom in Cree culture is regularly mediated by a strong sense of social practicality. The balance between individual autonomy and social practicality or responsibility is very difficult to grasp during fieldwork or to define accurately in writing. It is evidenced, however, in the balance between variations in the style of individual narrators, and the invariance of events described in their precise narrative context. Fischer has proposed that the “proportion of agreement (of tale versions) will rise as sociocultural stability arises” (1965:253). If this is true, then Eastern Cree culture is notably stable. For example,

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Margaret W. Fisher has described “singular consistency” in both time and space for the tcikapis (trickster) narrative (1946:229–30), and I have found persistence with precision at the individual level, obtaining, in 1965, the Iasheo narrative from the same informant known by Alanson Skinner in 1908! The (now late) Rev. Canon Iserhoff repeated to me the same details given fifty-eight years before, in spite of poor health, advanced age, and a vastly changed cultural milieu. Other observations on persistence are offered by Hallowell (1946:198) and the Voegelins (1946:191–2). Aesthetic style may be found not only in the personal expressiveness of individual narrators but also in the language itself. An authoritative but frustratingly cryptic comment on the artistic potential of the Algonquian languages has been dangled before us by Sapir: “Single Algonkian words are like tiny imagist poems” (1921:228). Sapir’s competence as a linguist and demonstrated skills as poet and poetry critic make this statement hard to pass over lightly. He gives a few clues in other statements on Algonquian. Algonquian languages are the example he gives of the combination of both polysynthetic and fusional structural qualities (1921:143). Polysynthetic refers to words that are highly elaborated clusterings of concepts (where an analytic language would allow one concept per word). Fusional refers to the tendency for a high “degree of coalescence between radical element and affix” (1921:130) as in “depth,” or “geese.” Fusion contrasts with agglutination, where elements are juxtaposed with a minimum of coalescence (as in “goodness,” where the affix, “ness,” is little integrated with “good”). This means that Algonquian words are often perceptual clusters and that these percepts are complexly integrated in the form or structure of the word. Similarly, imagist poems express perceptual compass and richness with compact structural elegance. This similarity is probably only a partial description of what Sapir had in mind. Furthermore, this similarity does not imply that all Algonquian speakers are imagist poets, but it does suggest something of the potential of these languages for the development of spoken art forms. Songs illustrate these imagist qualities most dramatically. But this potential is given limits by a precise context, in the skillful sequencing of symbols into a full narration, where each symbol is partially dependent upon the others, and thereby given its precise meaning. Further understanding of this relationship between language and culture waits upon more sophisticated research by anthropological linguists.

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Finally, aesthetic style inheres not only in the narrator’s selfexpression and in the language but also in the form and content of the narratives themselves. It is commonly noted that art, and more particularly myth, has a special appeal because its form utilizes an aspect of ambiguity. But ambiguity is rarely so flexible that one does not at least intuit a context for a particular understanding by the reader or hearer. Perhaps the delicate and sensitive quality of literature or narrative depends substantially upon the skill with which an author or narrator conveys and defines the context to be intuited. Further, I suggest that the kinds and amounts of conceptual compass that are left to a reader’s or hearer’s intuition may vary from culture to culture. In Cree narration, ambiguity and unpredictability are more a part of the phenomenal world, and man seeks to reduce this ambiguity through a precise and sensitive understanding of the whole context. Narration expresses patterned personal symbolisms in culture (social-psychological realities); its expressive appeal lies in its perceptually precise rendering of the complex and obscure meanings that are unconsciously abstracted by each individual-in-culture from his relationships with other individuals or with other phenomena. Ambiguity and unpredictability are less often qualities that inhere in the style of Cree narratives; rather they are inherent in the personal meanings that are symbolized in the narratives. The complex and obscure world of meanings developed by each individual-in-culture will involve ambiguity, but real (perceptual) ambiguity in a narrative is not often appealing. At least for the culture that I am dealing with, perceptual precision of real events is a prime consideration. Judgments of credibility are based on whether the person has seen the event himself, or whether he gets the information from someone known to him who has seen the event. Less credibility would be attached to information given by strangers or to reports of events that reach one at third or fourth hand. Such information is scarcely certain – either in its credibility or in its precise and complete description. I believe that this notion of a scale of personal distance closely approximates the way the Cree evaluate narrations, expressed by them with the basic lexical terms /tépâciman/ and /âtayô(h)kan/ (see the appendix). These two terms, sometimes with qualifying adjectives, refer to a range of stories that grade from the immediate to the very distant in time, space, and social relationships. Taken as a whole, they comprise my category of narrations. Analytic methods and techniques for dealing with myths are legion in anthropology, and when this manuscript was in its doctoral

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dissertation stage, there was a section of intellectual calisthenics that defended my ability to grasp these approaches, to prove a command of the literature, and to justify my own approach as not simply naive. I was then, and remain now, convinced that the holistic approach is of great value, and present its application here with less defense of its legitimacy. This means that, rather than present a breakdown of aspects of the data, I explain and convey an understanding without isolating single components. For example, rather than separating form from content, I will follow the lead of the artist Shahn and hold that form is the shape of content and is relatively meaningless when abstracted from content (1957:53–72). Paraphrasing and modifying Shahn’s position, I suggest that narrations originate from the human wish to formulate ideas and to give these formulations a place and memory-form so that they are not forgotten – so that thoughts and feelings may endure. Form, then, is the embodiment of content. It is based upon a theme, and involves an arrangement of conceptual and verbal materials, a setting of limits, the relating of the materials to these limits, and the discarding of excessive content. Narration is accordingly a verbal synthesis of psycho-cultural structure and content. But the creative or re-interpretive processes involved are among the most complex and obscure aspects of culture, requiring psychiatric tools not yet discovered, and requiring, I believe, far more than the tools of formal reduction now available. The most precise understanding available to us now is that which synthesizes and coheres the concepts expressed in narrations into patterns homologous to the overall structure of the culture. The context of each narration (ideally) indicates its position in the larger configuration of narrations. Relational positions are sometimes indicated by direct or indirect cues or comment by individuals in the context of the narration situation. Yet much of the patterning of narration is “understood” or unconscious habit, and must be inferred by the ethnographer on the basis of his acquired “feel” for the culture and the individuals involved. “When the cultural anthropologist has finished his necessary preliminary researches into the overt forms of culture and has gained from them an objectivity of reference by working out their forms … there emerges for him the more difficult and significant task of interpreting the culture which he has isolated in terms of its relevance for the understanding of the personalities of the very individuals from whom he has obtained his information” (Sapir 1949:595).

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chapter three

Conjuring

The first basic topic in Cree culture that I have selected for primary emphasis is that of conjuring.1 Conjuring is one relatively exotic manifestation of a more general mental-spiritual capability that is central to the whole of Cree mental culture. The spiritual side of conjuring is identified by the Cree term “Mistabeo” [mistapéw], or attending spirit. Because the Mistabeo is an independently active participant in conjuring, a man’s conjuring potential is only roughly proportional (not identical) to his mental competence. Mental competence, in turn, is the basis of social organization to a particular degree in Cree culture, due to the lack of formal external social controls and to the prevalence of self-controlled social standardization. To an unusual extent, social control in Cree culture is embedded in the knowledge and will of each individual. A person deliberately controls his own acts, with the control deriving partly from his knowledge of the consequences of transgression. These consequences are usually not physical punishment, but stem more from his opinion of himself and his anticipation of the opinions of others. Most cultures effect a sizeable proportion of their social controls from the organized use of force or threats of force. But some cultures lack the centralization of political power, and the resulting specialization and physical rendering of the means for social control. Where hunting-gathering social systems are often described as “uncentralized” or as “lacking formal social controls,” such phrases only tell us what is absent. Social patterning is real, precise, and persistent in Cree culture, yet control is rarely effected through physical force or threat of physical force. Cree social control is effected essentially through a mental force. Of course this is true to some

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degree in all cultures, yet the pervasive, virtually exclusive reliance on mental force is relatively rare, characterizing only those cultures where the use of physical violence against humans is both ideally and actually abhorred, and very rarely occurs. But social standards are not maintained solely by negative sanctions or the anticipation of negative sanctions. In Cree culture, one must be free to control himself. This freedom is of paramount importance to Cree individuals and is very proudly held. But this does not lead to individualistic anarchy; it is the locus of the manner, agency, and sequencing of social control. Social sanctions, the thoughts and feelings of others (and their non-violent actions) are anticipated, desired, or feared, and actively sought or responded to in precisely patterned ways by almost all individuals, almost all of the time. But perhaps self-sanctions, autonomy and pride in one’s own social competence, count for at least as much as social sanctions. Self-sanctions derive ultimately, of course, from social sanctions, since the learned norms are internalized and embedded in each personality as a response to his social milieu. But self-sanctions are a more direct, efficient, and pervasive source for the effectance of social norms, as well as being a more proactive (than reactive or conditioned) manner of behaviour (discussed in chapter 5). Perhaps the most dramatic component of mental strength in Eastern Cree culture is that involved in the ability to conjure, where a man’s mental competence is combined with the spirit power of the man’s Mistabeo. In order to derive the basic Cree notions about the Mistabeo, I will proceed in this chapter with a description of conjuring. In the following chapter, I will try to inductively define, with precision, the Cree meaning of Mistabeo. The power of an able conjuror was respected and sometimes feared by those around him. The ideals of moral behaviour were the mark of a good man (kwashaptum) with conjuring competence, while the man who deviated from moral behaviour in his conjuring (miteo) was regarded as fearsome and reprehensible (see also Skinner 1911:62–3). The distinction between kwashaptum and miteo was not always clear, however, since a kwashaptum might take advantage of his power to gather able hunters and/or more than one wife under his influence. In other words, the social ethic might be mediated by the more immediate demands of self-interest and individual autonomy, to the extent that a conjuror could be sure of adequate, or even selfish, control of his sphere of influence.

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The conjuring tent has been described by many anthropologists for many cultures, including the Chukchi (Bogoras 1909:433–41), the Crow (Lowie 1935:70–1), the Gros-Ventre (Flannery 1944), and the Blackfoot-Blood (Cooper 1944:60–78). For the above cultures, the performances were usually given by women and within a large tent that contained the audience. For a synthesizing treatment, see Ray (1941:204–16). The type of performance described for the Eastern Cree and Ojibwa, however, is almost never (ideally never) done by a woman, and involves a special small tent, or Conjuring House, occupied by the conjuror but not by the audience. The Ojibwa pattern is presented and analysed with excellence by Hallowell in “The Role of Conjuring in Saulteaux Society” (1942). Much of what Hallowell says is applicable to the Eastern Cree, and his insights have been a major benefit to me in assessing my data. “Conjuring House” seems the most precise translation into English of the Cree word kwashapshigan. It has also been translated as conjuring tent, shaking tent, spirit wigwam, etc. Data on conjuring in the James Bay area has been provided by Speck (1935:41–52), Lips (1947:476–82), and Burgesse (1944:50–3), for the area of Lake St John, including at least one informant from Mistassini. The Rousseaus have reported on conjuring at Mistassini (1947:347–416). A performance at Waskaganish (probably by Edward Ottereyes, who is no longer there) was witnessed and reported by Flannery (1939:11–16). Earlier reports of conjuring are available in the Jesuit Relations (Thwaites 1896– 1901:6:162, 7:100, 11:254, 12:17), Hind (1863:2:14, 16, 22, 102), and in Oldmixon (1708:389). Less detailed sources include Skinner (1911:60– 8), Honigmann (1956:67–75), Rogers (1962:d6, glossary), and Cooper (1944:79–81). In addition, Rogers’ unpublished notes on Mistassini have been helpful. [See also Feit 1997.] After a note on material culture aspects, I will present a transcript of narrations that I tape-recorded during an actual performance. This is followed by discussion and a series of narratives that serve to clarify the role and meaning of conjuring in Cree culture. My intent, in this form of presentation, is not simply to translate the Cree concepts and perspectives into the concepts and perspectives of anthropology or academic English. I have been convinced for some years that the Ingalik monographs of Cornelius Osgood are little read and appreciated partly because, while the lexicon and syntax are English, the concepts and perspectives are still very much Indian. Osgood did

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not, I believe, translate all the way into the concepts and perspectives of academic English. And I am of the opinion that this is why I found Ingalik Social Culture (1953), for instance, dull and lifeless when I first read it. After I had done fieldwork with Subarctic Indians, and developed some sense of their conceptual style, I reread Osgood, and found a great deal more vitality and understanding in the pages than I had expected. What I am attempting here is a kind of compromise between a presentation in the conceptual style of academic English and a presentation that remains more obscure and inaccessibly Indian in style. By using narrations, and supplementing them with analytical comments, short explanations, and the like, I hope to draw the reader into some of the inherent conceptual style of the Cree, to enable the reader to partly participate in the point of view of the narrator, and to sense some of the rich cultural content that must largely remain implicit in the narratives unless one understands them within the context of Cree culture.

preliminary information on the performance of the conjuring tent Early in my third summer (1965) at Waskaganish, I learned that JC, a conjuror who had been living inland at Nemiska, was now staying at Waskaganish. I had hoped to witness a conjuring performance and to tape it. One woman commented to me that she thought that maybe JC had been waiting until I came. Maybe this was true, but since I did not wish to be a major or conspicuous reason for bringing about a performance, I did not pursue her comment by seeking out JC. I preferred to wait until other people had asked him. Later, a man commented to me that he thought it wouldn’t be hard to instigate a performance, since JC was saying that he would make a conjuring tent if anyone wanted to give him some tobacco. When I heard that the conjuring tent, or kwashapshigan, was definitely to be made, I asked John whether JC would permit me to taperecord the performance. John asked on my behalf and found that it would be all right. He also mentioned that some of the men had given JC a little money or tobacco, and that he had himself done so. I expressed my willingness to contribute, and John felt that $5 was about right. Since I did not see JC prior to the performance, I paid him when he came out of the tent, after the performance.

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I had heard of the claim of a young Whiteman, a former Hudson’s Bay Company clerk at Nemiska, that JC had once conjured with a candle at the top, to show by his shadow on the tent covering how he remained always in the proper kneeling-squat position at the bottom of the tent. This report was inconsistent with the usual restriction on light of any kind either inside or outside the tent. When I asked if JC might do this for me, it was regarded as an unlikely possibility by John and the interpreter. I think that this hinted request on my part was not passed on, and probably it is just as well, for I would not have wished to offend JC or put John in an embarrassing position of relaying an uncongenial or unthinkable request. The kwashapshigan, approximately ten feet high and five feet in diameter, was of six upright poles, with a horizontal hoop (made from two poles) at a point about four feet above the ground, and a second hoop (of two poles) at the top. The lower hoop was located against the inside surface of the poles and the upper one around the outside, although some conjurors might prefer to have the top hoop inside. Both were tied very securely. Only the very tips of the poles were above the upper hoop. The branches and leaves or needles at the top of the upright poles were left in place during the preliminary construction. This took on potential significance when I more recently observed the use of a very similar pole to mark the grave of a recently buried infant. In both cases, the tuft of branches at the top was left on. It is the newest growth of the tree, which may be significant. The meaning is not clear to me yet, however the probability of some meaningful importance is suggested, perhaps symbolizing youthful life. The six upright poles for the kwashapshigan had been sunk about eighteen inches into the ground. The finished frame was strong (a man was easily supported standing on the lower hoop when the covering was being removed after the performance) and quite springy (it was tried out after the performance by a bystander who gave it a few pushes). Several people watched the construction, and some of the older men kept dogs and small children away from the scene. I had obtained some information prior to this time regarding the kwashapshigan, including data on the structure itself. The use of twelve uprights rather than six was claimed for some (usually older) men who conjured. The poles might be selected from as many as five different types of trees: tamarack, poplar, birch, black spruce, and either white spruce or pine, the pine being used inland where white spruce was not available. The order in which the trees are used is not

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Photo 16 Building the kwashapshigan, in front of John’s house

important, so long as no two of the same species are used in adjacent positions (only two species were used for JC’s tent). Some conjurors might use three of each species, others two of each. Balsam boughs are spread on the ground inside (as they are for other tents). Where the sun hits the poles (the east side, or the south for mid-day), they skin some of the bark off to mark them. The hoops as well as the uprights are marked in this way. Their de-barked side is then faced inwards in assembling the tent. This is a matter of individual preference, done for some conjurors but not for all. There is no door, so it does not have the door facing east as other tents would. Entrance is gained by loosening the covering (canvas) at the bottom (on the east side), which is then refastened. No drum is used, and there is no light inside or outside. Conjuring in a tent is done only after sunset, and may last till midnight, or after. I was told by Willy Weistchee that if anyone touched the tent while it was in motion, it would stop immediately, but that nothing “bad” would happen. After the tent was finished, some of the young men stayed near until the crowd gathered, perhaps to “look after” it. Later, after the people gathered around the tent (to within about five feet of it) some men saw JC coming and told people to make way, which was done right away. JC came through without speaking or looking at anyone, at a quick pace. He made a clockwise circuit of the tent, inspecting

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Photo 17 The completed kwashapshigan, with my house at the left

without stopping. He saw my tape recorder microphone (which I had suspended like a snare from small stick shoved in the ground at an angle) and started to reach for it. But John was right behind him and exclaimed that it was the “wemstukshu’s” (Whiteman’s). JC did not pause but left the microphone and went on around the tent and then inside, taking with him only a borrowed pillow to kneel on (which I initially mistook for something akin to a medicine bundle). Rumour was that JC had told some people that he was not sure whether the performance would work, and that if it did not, he would die soon. One purpose of the performance, then, may have been to find out JC’s longevity as indicated by his remaining conjuring ability. John said that he had not heard this. When he asked JC if he would do the kwashapshigan, JC told him that he would see if his Mistabeo would do it. “Sometimes they don’t like to do it in a place where the ground is broken, like tractor tracks here. Where they live the ground is not broken.” john blackned : The Mistabeo could tell JC whether he was going to live longer, but he couldn’t give him more days. If he was going to tell him about it, he wouldn’t just say it right out. For JC’s [late] wife’s future, the Mistabeo had said, “You are going to be

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alone now. There’s not going to be anybody for you to sit with.” When JC heard that, even if he knew that there was nothing wrong with his wife, still he would know that something would happen. He didn’t like it when his Mistabeo told him that. He might live one more year with his wife, then she will die. It’s not the fault of the Mistabeo; he just tells what’s going to happen. After JC went into the tent, his son closed the flap back and we waited in silence for several minutes. No smoking was permitted at this time (due to the light made by matches) and except for much coughing, there was silence. Then the tent began to move back and forth, a few inches at first, and then more: the performance began. Because I understood little of the sequence of actions and none of the language used, I was able to observe only that there were apparently several different voices singing at various times, all coming from within the tent. Also, the tent waved back and forth with varying vigour. My eager anticipation was offset by an almost total lack of comprehension of the dramatic proceedings, and I reflected upon the absurdity of feeling sleepy during such an exotic event. The performance offers a broad sample of narrations in a context that most closely corresponds to our concept of conversation. The narrations tend to be short and reciprocal, with pleasantries, news, and teasing. The audience is entertained and informed, although only a few of the people in the audience were able to fully understand the old, ritual manner of speaking and singing. At least some of the words used are very old and not easily understood. The use of singing by the spirits is not, of course, typical of everyday conversation, but the singing style does not importantly alter the narrative context; it identifies and expresses the differences between the narration of men and that of spirits. The voices of individual spirits differ perceptibly from each other and from the voice of JC. In the following transcript, comments set off by parenthesis were added by John Blackned as we transcribed and translated the tape-recording of the performance. Comments set off by brackets are my own interpretations and explanatory details. kwashapshigan [literally, “Conjuring House”] Performance by JC, at Waskaganish, James Bay, Quebec, 26–27 July 1965, 11:00 p.m. to 1:00 a.m. (A constant background of the sound of the conjuring tent, as it waves back and forth, is clearly audible on the tape.)

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JC’s Mistabeo: “Shake hands. This is the place where you have your poles.” JC: “Go out, dammit!” (This is joking.) [Dammit is the rough English equivalent of Cree /tygeyEh/.] JC’s Mistabeo: (JC’s Mistabeo talks about the poles of the tent.) [John could not make the words out.] JC’s Mistabeo: “Thanks very much for seeing you again. Shake hands, shake hands.” JC: “Be clear, dammit!” (He means to speak more clearly.) JC’s Mistabeo: “Very glad to see you again. I just came in to visit you, just to cheer you up.” JC: “Oh, yes, all right.” [English for the Cree /eyok/.] JC’s Mistabeo: “Very glad to see you again, I just came in to visit you, just to cheer you up.” [Repetition is a stylistic device in narration. The translator explained that while the English is an unchanged repetition, in Cree there are small differences that she cannot translate.] JC: “Be clear, dammit!” (So that everybody can understand.) [The short and abrupt replies by JC are teasing, and so indicates the intimacy of JC’s relationship to his Mistabeo, allowing the teasing to be taken in good humour by JC’s Mistabeo. Such teasing would be inappropriate and insulting to any but an intimate friend. It conveys to the audience a mood of congeniality, and that this communication with a powerful other-than-human-person is done “just for fun,” with no harm for anyone.] JC’s Mistabeo: “Somebody else is going to visit the-one-who’skneeling-there again. [JC is only referred to by those in the tent by the term Kaowtstibit, the-one-who’skneeling-there.] This is my house that you built. You know that it’s soon going to be a new day. I like the place where you built it.” (Repeated.)2 (JC’s son built the tent. He is saying that it is just like his own son was building it.) [To say that JC’s son is his own son manifests the degree of intimacy felt by the Mistabeo for JC, as well as for JC’s son. This is reciprocation by the Mistabeo of the expressions of easy intimacy

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given by JC’s teasing, above. The message is one of mutual good-will and intimacy, and sets the mood for the whole performance. Reference to the new day is an expression of cheer, since people are believed to be, at least ideally, always glad to be able to greet each new day in their lives.] “Oh, yes – all right.” “I am glad to see you are still making the conjuring house, and I am pleased that you are doing fine and living, and I am pleased with the tent. You will be on your feet for awhile, and you will still see your grandchildren for awhile. (JC’s grandchildren live at Nemiska.) [This continues the expression of mutual congeniality, and predicts life and health for awhile.] “One of the poles here has been living for a long time now. It’s too much older than the others. (Repeated.) [The poor quality of construction is somehow related to how many spirits will come into the tent, and how those spirits who enter will perform.] Two of the poles are very old. If they were younger, the voices would be more clear and the tent would wave more.” “I’m glad to see you. Shake hands, shake hands. [Shake hands is English for the greeting spoken by some Cree as wachia, from the English greeting “What cheer,” and by some Cree as boshure from the French “Bonjour.”] I have just come to visit you because of this tent they made for you. There are a lot of people here. Try to be just like these good people. [To be just like these good people is to be a member of the community and not to do anything to offend or threaten.] “The white man brought this thing [the tape recorder] and I guess what I say will go in there.” “Mistabeo, here’s a smoke for you.” [They pass a cigarette in under the tent covering.] (Right at the first, JC’s Mistabeo is there, but not very strong. Otherwise, they couldn’t make the tent work. Later he is stronger. If the people outside would understand every word, the tent would shake more.)

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JC: JC’s Mistabeo:

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[Belief and understanding by the audience lends strength to the performance.] (All the smokes go to JC’s Mistabeo, but if they give a whole package of tobacco, JC has this to keep.) “I’ll have a smoke now, with the smoke they gave me. (JC can have a rest.) I’m very pleased to see so many people (inside and outside the tent), and also for the smoke. And the-one-who’s-kneeling-there (JC) should look at it this way, too. Because you don’t know when it’s your last day, you should like all the people who are visiting you. [JC should be pleased and feel congenial towards the Waskaganish people. Because JC does not know how long he will live, he should try to be congenial with all persons, human and spirit, that are present. This suggests to me that poor relationships can hasten one’s death.] “I’m shaking hands with all the women who come to visit you. (Banging against tent canvas – since he can see through, it’s like rapping a greeting on the window of your house to someone outside.) (Flirting a little.) Always welcome whoever is coming to visit you” (inside the tent [spirits] and outside [humans]). “Oh, yes – all right.” “The-one-who’s-kneeling-there really didn’t want to make the tent yet, it’s not the right time; too soon yet.” (This is told to JC.) [JC’s reluctant attitude is understood by the entering spirits and should be understood by the people outside.] “I’m surprised to see this conjuring tent going on. I was just lying down here; I didn’t know it was going on. (Not JC’s Mistabeo, but a visitor.) I guess these people will like to see the open water again in the coming years.” [This reference to open water is a way of saying that people like to see the time of the year when, in the spring, the ice breaks up and things begin to grow. This is rather like taking pleasure in greeting the new day, except that here one is greeting a new season.] “Get out, dammit!”

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2nd Mistabeo (not JC’s): “This is the place where they made this tent for you, and they put up the main poles (the uprights). One of them is older than the others. I’m very glad to see you. Shake hands; shake hands, to all of you. I’m very pleased with the standing poles that you make for me. [Standing poles and living poles are both references to the special status of the poles of the conjuring tent. The status does not persist after the performance, as I will explain later.] Be pleased with these poles that you put up, even if they are not what you wanted. This is theirs (the people here). They wanted to see what it’s doing. This tent is for the people here at Waskaganish. Go ahead and do what you (people outside) like with it. (So the tent will wave more.) [I asked John if people were expected to ask questions of the Mistabeo.] (It’s not made for people to ask questions, but they could do that.) “This is the tent for the people here, and not for the Nemiska people. This is not yours, it’s for the people here. They made this tent just to laugh, nothing else. (Repeated.) Nobody (JC’s or the other spirits in the tent) should think anything about the-onewho-is-kneeling-here, because he is just making it for fun. (Because the people wanted it. He is joking now to the others inside the tent.) [This expresses the congenial intent of the performance and suggests that nothing threatening, like sorcery, will be performed. Nobody should be thinking of it in negative or fearful terms.] “The same thing, the-one-who-is-kneeling-here should not think anything about these people, because it is just for fun. If the two poles were not too different (old) from the others, it would be more loud and clear. Nobody can come to visit you at the moment. We’ll see in a while.” [There are no spirits approaching the tent at the moment.] 3rd Mistabeo: “I’m very pleased to visit you and see you again, what you’re doing. Shake hands, shake hands.” Man outside: “Mistabeo, there’s a smoke for you. I don’t have the old man’s tobacco (like pipe tobacco), just the

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A Mistabeo:

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Whitemen’s tobacco (cigarette tobacco) and cigarettes, too.” “Thank you, I’ll have a smoke now (to the others in the tent). Don’t you move the tent (to JC.) [Teasing JC, who does not move the tent in any event.] I’ll have a smoke first. “Don’t worry at all about the way they ask you to do this, just do it right away, because of the smoke they gave me. The-one-that’s-kneeling-here, I guess he won’t be in the tent very long. (Mistabeo says this so the people will know that JC will not be in the tent very long.) “Maybe he’s tired. The way he’s moving around, he won’t be in the tent too long. He’s moving around. I guess he’ll go out. (He knows that when JC went in the tent, he thought he would not be in there very long. He knows what JC thinks.) [This apparently refers to JC’s desire to do this later, on his birthday, and to explain why JC will not perform for very long this time.] I didn’t know that I would have that tent made for me here at Waskaganish. I want to sing about my tobacco now, for what they gave me to smoke. I’ll have a good smoke now. It’s you that said yes when they asked you to go in this tent. Don’t be shy to do what you are supposed to do.” [Because he should feel confident and willing to conjure when he is asked.] “I didn’t expect anything here when I came in. I just want to come in to say a few things. I didn’t expect anything at all. I came here to see this place, and see where they put the poles up.” “I’m afraid the-man-kneeling-in-here will run out. But I don’t care if he runs out, I’m here anyway.” (This is joking.) [Perhaps they are teasing JC for being hesitant about conjuring here at Waskaganish, where no one has conjured in about fifteen years.] “I’m glad to see you. I guess I’ll catch cold because of your bad cold (joking). [JC has coughing spasms all through the performance.] Why is everybody so quiet? The-man-that’s-kneeling-there is quiet too.

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A Mistabeo: JC’s Mistabeo: 4th Mistabeo:

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I wonder why he’s so quiet. Go ahead and play the tent that was made for us (to those inside). If you don’t, the people outside will get sleepy.” “You-that’s-kneeling-here. (Repeated three times.) I’m sure that this pole wasn’t born yesterday.” “One of your poles is too old, if it wasn’t like that, we who are flying around would be more clear. [The spirits refer to themselves as the “flying people.”] Be satisfied with the tent that they made for you. Think that you don’t know when your last day will be, so be good to everybody. I’m stroking your head this way, so please do everything that I told you to do. You are going to go on your trail again.” (Up to Nemiska.) [Actually refers to going up the river by canoe.] “I am a man.” “I wish I was a woman” (joking). “I’m knocking on the tent to everybody.” (He can see through the covering so it’s just like knocking on the window to people.) [Knocking on the window to someone outside is common at Waskaganish, to catch the notice of a friend. It would not be used for strangers.] “I don’t care if they say in the morning, ‘This is the man who went in the conjuror’s house.’ [This again expresses the possibility of an unfavourable reaction to the performance, and asserts that the Mistabeo is not going to be worried about that, especially because JC was asked to do it. He did not do it on his own initiative, and so is not singly responsible for it.] “The-man-that’s-kneeling-here didn’t want to do it yet, himself. He wanted to do it when all the leaves fall. He wanted to do it on his birthday.” “Mistabeo, here’s a smoke for you.” “Everybody should be satisfied with the tent and with what they hear. We like to see each other anyway, and we look for the future to be the same always. (To be good to each other.) I’m pleased with the smoke.

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“The-one-who’s-kneeling-there, he wanted to go in there on his birthday. He’s not breaking what he thought, he still wants to do it on his birthday. (Repeated.) [This second performance, on JC’s birthday, never occurred.] “Please don’t anybody tease about this. This is just like a radio, too. This is our own radio.” (They are coming from a long distance and you can hear them.) “I guess my words will go into the thing there that the white man came and put up (the tape recorder). That’s just the way with another man. He came and visited you that way. I guess another man that’s flying around is going to come and visit you shortly” (the ones inside the tent). “Shake hands to you all, my grandchildren, and shake hands to you-that’s-kneeling-here. The white man is doing more things that are exciting to see, and this is just like the Mistabeo’s radio.” [One of the white man’s things that is exciting to see is the radio. But the conjurors and Mistabeos have had this ability to hear each other over long distances for a very long time.] “We brought nothing bad to anybody, or even to the-man-that’s-kneeling-inside, and no one should say anything, even the minister shouldn’t say anything.” (He already knew that the minister had said something [but not directly to JC] about it. That’s why he is saying that.) “Shake hands, shake hands, to everybody. The-onethat’s-kneeling-there, I guess that’s the one that people are going to say, ‘He went in the conjuror’s house,’ in the morning. When these leaves fall, he’ll go back in there again. He’ll choose when to do it on his own. Sit still inside here (to the others inside the tent, to keep them from going out). This was made for the people that you see all around here.” “Don’t care what we do – this doesn’t mean anything – this is just like our own radio. I don’t want anyone (to those outside) to make fun of what we’re doing. You’re the ones who asked for it. Don’t care

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what (this is to everybody there) the other people are doing. The-one-who-is-kneeling-here never said anything bad to anybody that we know of. (To those inside and outside, if anyone does something to make him angry, he shouldn’t get angry.) “Don’t care about the other man – what he is doing against you because it’s not hurting you at all. [I asked John if this referred to someone working sorcery against JC, and his answer is not a full reply to my question.] (This is Mistabeo talking to JC, just like a father talking to his kids.) “This is the way the people are.” (Just like saying that he is pleased to see so many people visiting that never heard one [kwashapshigan] before.) 7th Mistabeo: “Shake hands, shake hands. If you live a few more years, try not to stop doing like you are now. Try to keep it going. Don’t quit (this is an old Mistabeo) while you are still living. I am doing the same thing at another place, in another conjuror’s house. I’m doing the same thing that you are, too. I’m just doing this to make the people laugh, myself too, just like you are doing yourself. “This is the place where the people wanted to put it up. [The Anglican minister had complained that the tent shouldn’t have been put so close to the cemetery.] We should be very pleased, and we should call everybody just like our sons, that’s the way we should look at it. (No one has told him, but this one that just came in knows that JC didn’t want to do it yet. But he came in anyway.) “When the leaves fall, that’s the time that I want to do it. (Each one knows, without anyone telling them the story when he comes. That’s why they’re talking about the same thing.) [John’s reference to “telling them the story” expresses and confirms my sense of the meaning and function of narration. “The story” would tell a person about the event with the precise context of understanding that is in the mind of JC.] “I’m just like anybody else, and I’m thinking the same to everybody, not one different.” [This is

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similar to the admonition given to JC earlier, to be just like these good people here.] JC’s Mistabeo: “I’m going to sing. I want to sing a song for theone-that’s-kneeling-there. This is the way our tent is made, and everybody is coming all around it, and in it. (This is the way we are both coming, both the people outside and the ones that are entering there.) [John’s parenthetical comment expresses the sense of the preceding narrations by the Mistabeo, that the bond between human persons and the other-thanhuman-persons entering the tent is a close one, and these persons think and feel very similarly.] “I just came in to visit the-one-that’s-kneelingthere. I don’t care if anybody wants to sleep, because nobody was asked to come! This doesn’t mean anything at all. I guess we’re not going to do this again tomorrow. [Here the Mistabeo’s teasing refers for the first time to the people around the tent. But it is spoken to those inside.] “Sit still. (Repeated.) (To JC.) “The-one-that’s-inside-there is going to go out now, and if anybody could do the same thing, they could go in. (The Mistabeo is wishing that another conjuror could go in – he would be pleased to have somebody go in after him.) [More than one conjuror may use the same tent.] “He (JC) is doing what you asked him to, and he’s spending more time in there than he thought he would spend. The-one-that’s-kneeling-inside-here will quit and go out now. (Repeated.) It was just made for fun, and that’s why I wanted to go in, just for fun. You are really having a bad cold” (to JC) [whose coughing spasms continued intermittently through the performance]. 8th Mistabeo: “I’m very pleased to visit you, shake hands, shake hands, I just came to visit you, not for a reason. I just came in to visit you because of what they made for you to spend a little time with you.” (Repeated.) [This repeats the idea that the performance is simply a congenial social get-together.]

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JC’s Mistabeo: “That’s right, don’t move the kwashapshigan. I’m going to sing for the new daylight that always is going to come. Watch what I’m going to do. Pretty soon we’re going to have a new day now. It looks like it’s going to open up to a fine day and I guess everybody will like to see that. I guess that’s true that Our Father (God) is going to give us a new, good day, the way it looks. [The song expresses the pleasure in the coming of a new day, rather like the earlier reference to the coming of open water.] That’s true, what I’m saying.” Someone in the audience asks about the moose that were seen up the river. JC’s Mistabeo: “I’m going to sing a few words about what they saw up the river. When I think of them, it’s just like they are flying. (Because they can’t get them.) [“Like they are flying” means that they might as well be able to fly away, since no one could get close to them to kill them.] It seems to me we’re not going to eat them when they’re gone. “Everybody think this way, when you see the-onekneeling-in-here going in his canoe, that he’ll come back safely for sure. This is the place where he wanted his body to be covered when his last day comes. [His wife, who died during a previous visit to Waskaganish, is buried here.] Nobody will be able to do anything when his last day comes. He can’t give himself more days. I guess when our time comes short, we’ll all think back where we’ve been. Nobody can have his days longer than what they are set. He can’t give himself more days. This means everybody, all around here. “You didn’t tease anybody since you were here, and nobody has done anything to you. Just keep it like that. [The teasing referred to here is not the humorous banter illustrated by earlier parts of this performance, but rather a more serious and aggressive kind of communication that might lead to friction and animosity.] Do what I told you to do, and I guess you can’t work, the way others work. I guess

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you’ll just think back on what work you did. That’s all I guess you’ll be able to do now. If anybody tells you in the morning that it’s you who went in the conjuring house, just don’t say anything, even if the boss3 asks you what you have done last night – just don’t say anything. This doesn’t mean anything. It’s just like our own radio. That’s what it means to us. (JC is afraid that somebody might ask him all kinds of questions in the morning.) “Let’s call this good enough for now. I want to go out now. Good-bye to all my partners. [Partners in the sense of close friendship in coordinated activities like trapping and hunting partners.] Everybody should be satisfied for what he (JC) did so far, and he’s expecting to do more shortly. I’m saying goodbye to the-one-that’s-kneeling-here. Let’s call this enough. I guess this is enough for now. I guess we’re going to wake the minister for the noise we’re making now, and tell him we didn’t bring anything bad in here, to talk about anybody.” A Mistabeo: “I’m sure that we didn’t bring anything bad when we came in. The-one-who’s-kneeling-inside-here can read the Bible, too. (He can read that in Cree.) [The Bible has been printed in the Cree syllabics and JC reads it often, showing his sense of being a Christian, and implying that his conjuring is not in conflict with his Christianity.] And he’s at it every day, and he’s still going in this tent when he’s asked to do it. This is what this tent means, just to have fun with each other, that’s all.” A Mistabeo: “Goodbye, goodbye to everybody.” JC’s Mistabeo: “All right, all right. When the-one-who’s-kneelinginside-here dies, the conjuring tent won’t sound as clear as this one. Maybe we can’t understand it. [I don’t understand the implication here, unless he means that all conjuring tents will be less clear and comprehensible. I asked John if the Mistabeo would be dead or no longer present in conjuring tents.] (The Mistabeo doesn’t die when JC dies, he only grows weaker.)

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“I’ll go out now, we just had this one here for a short time. The next time we do it, we’ll do it for a good time. If anybody says anything, we’ll never do this again here. [I did not hear whether people talked critically about this performance, but JC did not conjure again.] I’m going to sing about my kwashapshigan. This is the place where it’s been waving.” “Get out! Dammit!” “I hope the one-who’s-kneeling-inside-here doesn’t swear at us! (Teasing JC.) He’s swearing at me now. I never swear – I can’t swear (joking). I’m going to go out now. I’m very pleased with you for spending that much time in here. I guess the ones who are working will want to sleep now, so let’s call this enough. Next time, we’ll spend more time. This is the reason why the-one-who’s-kneeling-here said yes when they asked him to do this. The-one-who’skneeling-inside-here knows that nobody has ever done anything to him. Everybody has been good to the-one-who’s-kneeling-inside-here. I guess the clerk will want to sleep now [the hbc store clerk, who must be at work promptly in the morning]. Let’s call this enough. Call everybody here your partner. Nobody should tease the-one-who’s-kneeling-here for what he has done. You are the ones who asked him to do this.” “I guess we’ll call it enough. I’m going out now.” “This is enough. I’m going to go out, too.” “This was just for a short time only. We’ll have a good time the next time. I’m going to go out, too. I guess everybody wants to sleep here.” “I guess we’ll sleep right now.” “We’ll keep right on” (joking). “Goodbye, goodbye. This is enough for tonight. I’m going back tomorrow to my own country.” “Goodbye. I’m going to go once more up my old trail. (Repeated.) I’m going to take a canoe. Think of my canoe just as a bird. [These are “the flying people.”] I’m going to go back on my old trail.”

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A Mistabeo: “The-one-who’s-kneeling-inside-here is going to go in there again when the leaves fall. One of these poles is too old, not like the others.” (Some were staying back because of that. The ones that came in were young, except one old one. The ones that didn’t come in were older and if there wasn’t the old pole there, they would have come in, and it would have been more clear, and waved more.) JC’s Mistabeo: “I’ll be satisfied with it anyway. We noticed that one is different from the other, each noticed it as he came in. They would have had more entering in if the pole hadn’t been like that. You should be pleased with the ones that came in anyway. You don’t have as many as you should have, and I’m sure that a woman can’t enter. That’s for sure. [The ideal is stated here, that a woman could not enter the conjuring tent.] What we’ve done is good enough for me spending my time in here. Let’s quit for now. We’re going to go in again anyhow, shortly.” A Mistabeo: “I’m going to go out now. I guess all the working men will want to sleep now. I guess the clerk will want to sleep now. He’s going to sleep late on his job if he doesn’t sleep. Don’t think anything bad about your brothers. That’s all your brothers, the ones who are standing here. Especially towards the clerk, don’t say anything bad or think anything bad. [This suggests to me a potential for hard feelings towards the clerk, but my question on this matter did not get a confirmation.] He is our partner, to help us all. I’m going to go out now. I’m going to leave you. Do what I told you to do, not to think bad about the others. Do the same to all the people. You stay in for awhile yet.” (JC should stay in the tent.) A Mistabeo: “I just came in to visit you for awhile. There’s only one of the poles that really wasn’t supposed to be used. I guess there’s no young trees around Waskaganish. [Poles are preferably obtained from a burnt-over area, where the young trees are growing rapidly.] The one-who’s-kneeling-there is moving

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around too much again. If all the poles were the same as the new ones, it would be more clear and loud and there would be more shaking.” JC’s Mistabeo: “I’m afraid this man has got tb, the way he’s coughing! [A humorous tease directed at JC’s repeated coughing spasms.] I guess the-one-who’s-kneelinginside-here is going to go out pretty soon now. Watch we don’t sleep late. I’m pretty sleepy, too. This that you did, it is just like lunch, just for a short time, and the next time we do it, we’ll do it for a good long time. [Lunch is a brief meal, and this was a brief performance, casual and light.] When the-one-who’s-kneeling-here goes out, I guess there will be somebody here. There’s somebody here. (He expects somebody to go in the place of JC. If somebody did this, what we heard would be all different.) [John says, in response to my inquiry, that he knows of no one who could have gone in.] “I’m going to leave you now. We’re going to do the same thing shortly anyway. The-one-who’skneeling-inside-here is not going to spend a lot of time going up his own trail. He is going to take a visit and come back. He didn’t want to do this yet. He wanted to do it when he saw the leaves fall. That’s when he wanted to do it, on his own time. Nobody gave me a drink, not even a little bit. We thought we would have a little drink, we flying men wished a little drink. The-one-kneeling-in-here also wished for a little drink, of any kind.” [This was very unfavourably regarded by John and SG, who said they never heard of drinking in a conjuring tent. I think that the idea was quite disturbing and led them to regard JC’s conjuring as rather past its prime, degenerate, and less strong, versatile, and entertaining than other conjurors they had seen. But such opinions were not explicitly given, I have only surmised this from a variety of cues.] A Mistabeo: “I guess that’s right. I’m going to go out now. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.”

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A Mistabeo: “Let’s call this enough. We’ve played enough for tonight with these living poles. They’ll be standing upright one of these days anyway, that’s coming, and we’ll have more yet. He really didn’t want to do it yet. When he wanted to do it was when the leaves started to fall, on his own time.” [New poles will actually be used for new conjuring tents but the special status of kwashapshigan poles is figuratively given constancy over time in this statement.] JC’s Mistabeo: “All right, all right.” A Mistabeo: “We just wanted to do this for fun, not to hurt anybody. The-one-who’s-kneeling-in-here shouldn’t worry about what he has done. Nobody will do that while he is away. If nobody has made a joke about it, then when anybody asks you to do it, do it right away. They will take away these living poles without anybody teasing or saying anything about you. You do the same way that the others are doing. I’m going out now. I’m saying goodbye to all the women. I guess I won’t be able to come and see you again, in the morning. Shake hands; shake hands, to all you men, as well. I guess the-one-who’s-kneelinginside-here wants to sleep now.” JC’s Mistabeo: “I’m going to go out, too, shortly now. I’m the Mistabeo, that’s what they call me. I’m going to go out now. No one will conjure while I am gone. (Don’t tease.) [Flirting tease with the women. (Outside)] [I asked John about the meaning of the Mistabeo identifying himself, and he explained that the Mistabeo was invited to enter into the kwashapshigan by JC.] “Nobody was asked to come in. I was invited some place. (JC asked him to come into the tent. JC asked if it would be okay for the Mistabeo to come in there, and if it wasn’t okay, he wouldn’t be able to make the kwashapshigan.) I’m going to go out now. I know the brown-headed people [brownheaded refers to Whitemen] don’t understand anything about this. Well, please don’t mind when you don’t understand what all this is about. This is all

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that it means. It doesn’t mean anything at all. This is the Mistabeo’s own radio. “The white man brought that thing [the tape recorder]. I wonder why he didn’t put it right inside. I guess he didn’t pick up anything. He should have really had it inside, then he would be able to pick up something. [He wouldn’t have minded if I had put it inside.] I’m going to go out now, goodbye, goodbye. This is enough for me. Maybe there’s somebody else here who wants to do it. Let’s call it enough for now. There will be a time coming again when we are going to do this. There’s lots of times when somebody is not satisfied. Let’s all here be satisfied for what’s gone on so far. “Goodbye, goodbye my partners. I guess we’ll not see each other again tomorrow. When I used to do it at Nemiska, nobody used to be satisfied. There’s a lot of people here. I guess there’s somebody here who’s going to make a complaint about it in the morning. Just stick your ears out in the morning. Just listen to the complaints. [The expectation of complaints almost sounds embittered to me, perhaps by the mocking comments given by some Nemiska young people about his conjuring there.] “I’m going to go out.” “I’m going to go out, too.” “I’m going to go out now, goodbye, goodbye.” “This is all I’m going to do now. I waited for anybody to say anything to me. [Perhaps expressing disappointment that people outside did not ask questions, or for the spirits to talk more to each other, to do more in the way of conjuring.] Let’s call this enough for now. We did a little bit anyway, of what we were asked to do.” “Really I didn’t want to go in there for a long time. I just wanted to go in there for a short time. I see that I didn’t do what I was told. I’m sorry for not doing what I was asked to do and I said I would do it.” (JC didn’t do what he said he was going to do – make a tent where an old woman asked him to do

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it. He told her he would, but he didn’t.) [For this performance, he was asked by John, perhaps partly for my benefit.] (End of Performance) GC then went to the tent and talked to his father. JC asked him to untie the flap so he could come out, and GC told him it was only tucked in! The conversation was one of easy chuckles and cheerful tones. John and some women were also laughing at this talk. Upon emerging from the tent, JC seemed quite normal. I went up with John to give a little money as (perhaps) the only “in arrears” part of the total contribution put up by several men, including John. JC was not sweaty, glazed, or slow to respond. He appeared quite calm, alert, and unperturbed – in fact, quite what he might seem under more ordinary circumstances. When he stepped towards John and me, he came close to the microphone, which had been hung on a small stick about a foot from the tent. I made a motion to indicate the microphone there, and he made a sound of surprise and moved easily to avoid whatever it might be. In fact, he had seen the mike there before the performance, when he made a quick circuit of the tent. Whether he forgot (it was an unusual thing – normally, there would be nothing close to a kwashapshigan), or whether he was not quite himself or preoccupied is not clear – but this is the only possible clue to any residual effects. Certainly he did not overreact to my cautioning him. He accepted the five dollars with spoken (English) thanks and went off in the direction of the house where he was living. After the performance was over, the tent was stripped of its covering, and the poles were taken out of the ground before the frame was dismantled. The crowd dispersed slowly, but at no time gave any visible suggestion of awe or fear, or any other noticeable response. The frame was dragged some distance and left, for the moment, on its side. At this time I left the scene. After several days spent in transcription of the tape, with John explaining and SG interpreting, we discussed some of my questions. The question-and-answer context of the information given here is not a typical form of narration. While it is not an uncommon form of verbal interaction for the Eastern Cree, it would be regarded as both congenial and practical only when the shared understandings that are learned through narrations and direct participation in the

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ordinary affairs of Cree life have been established. This means that the likelihood of ambiguity or misunderstanding would be minimal. Discussion of the Performance dick preston: After they take [the tent] down, what do they do with the poles? john blackned: They just put it away, like anything we use. They put it away because they don’t want anybody to fool around with them; they don’t want any kids to play around with them. If anybody would fool around with it, the poles or anything that they used in there, the next time they do that I guess the Mistabeo would mention that they did this the last time, or they used it this way. They could use the poles for anything – except for re-use in a kwashapshigan. J’s own Mistabeo might talk in there, or he might sing. That’s the way we answer each other; it’s like answering the other ones. That’s the way they’re taking a little more part in it. [This means that J’s Mistabeo answers the singing communications in kind, with his singing thus taking an appropriate reciprocal part in the communication.] Only some Indians can understand it, they can understand parts of it. When the kwashapshigan starts, I think very few people understand it, the words in the beginning. Mistabeo understands the whole conversation. Sometimes the Mistabeo acts like an interpreter. The other ones [other-than-human-persons in the kwashapshigan] always sing; that’s the way they talk. They call themselves the flying people, too. When they go from one tent to another they fly. dp: When they pass in tobacco, or something to drink [if they had any] then he would smoke it for them. Is that right? jb: If they pass in a cigarette, then the Mistabeo would smoke it, or if they pass in a whole package of tobacco, then JC would have that. If they passed in a drink, I guess the Mistabeo would drink it. sg: I never saw that, when they gave him a drink. John has seen EO do it when it was really shaking one way about two feet and the other way about two feet. JC’s poles were pretty big. EO’s would be smaller and springier. dp: I wonder if E is still making the shaking tent down there (at Matagami)?

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jb: Yes, he’s still making it, and his own boy, too. Some people, they really do that, bring in the animals. You can just hear the bear, you know, making a noise in there, like blowing, making that kind of noise … and the moose, too. You can hear the moose call sometimes, too, inside the tent.4 I guess some Whitemen, they don’t believe that. They think they’re shaking it with their own hands. It’s just like some Whitemen, they do magic, only some can do it. Well, it’s just the same thing, only some can do it.5 They really can do it, too. I mean some people can. [This seems quite a literal affirmation.] EO, when he does the kwashapshigan, he even takes in a toboggan, and it sounds like any of the others [spirit voices] – just like the others singing in there – you could hear the voice. The tent is waving more, too, when EO does it. Sometimes they used to make each other mad and conjure against each other. If someone wanted to get married, and if they won’t give the woman, the one that was asking might get mad. Not only those things; all kinds of things could make people mad at each other. After the performance, when SG and John translated the part of the performance where a spirit said that the tape recorder could have been put inside the tent, I commented, intending mild humour, that it would be pretty hard to change the tapes. It wasn’t funny. Perhaps it was seen as insufficient respect for an outgoing gesture of good will, and/or interpreted as my indirect request to be inside to tend the machine, and thereby to see what went on. The lack of response is not necessarily negative (it may have been), but more probably a position of non-involvement, since they did not want to participate in any attempt of mine to extend the spirit’s commitment, perhaps by asking JC if I could enter the tent the next time. Later the hbc clerk (a Cree) did not think it was funny when I made a casual and quiet reference to flying people by suggesting a rather useless young apprentice hbc clerk as a candidate for being thrown out. He has since expressed his pleasure in being rid of him and said that he hoped the clerk would not return. Apparently this sort of light humour is not appropriate in a conjuring context, or else my joke was not too well understood. Yet the ease of social relationships, little structured or selectively biased by formality or fear of solemnity, is characteristic of the performance itself. This is illustrated by the joking (that got chuckles

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from the audience) of the voices within the tent, and by the way that JC emerged. One woman took pains to explain that people do not worship there. In sum, the easy style of more ordinary intimate social relationships is carried over to the conjuring ceremony milieu. JC’s own Mistabeo is the only one who talks in there, as well as sing (the spirits’ voices only sing). JC does not sing in the tent. JC’s Mistabeo would never refer to JC by name; he would say instead kaowtstibit, “the-one-who’s-sitting-[kneeling]-here.” JC’s own Mistabeo is in the tent from the first, but is not active until some of the others have come in. John explained that, had we thought to ask JC before he started the kwashapshigan, JC would have identified each spirit voice as the performance went on. The people outside were apparently invited to participate more actively in the performance, but did rather little. The people did not, for instance, ask questions of the spirits, except one question about the moose seen up the river. Perhaps this was proper restraint, since this was the first time in some years the tent had been made, and since JC was not doing this when he wanted to do it. One man asked me if I had seen the light near the top of the kwashapshigan when the Mistabeo was given the smoke. He said that he saw the glow of the cigarette.6 He asked what I thought about it, and told me he thought that a man wouldn’t keep the tent waving three or four hours anyway. By this he indicated that he thought it could not be the conjuror himself who shook the tent. He told of a big tent he saw between Nemiska and Nichikun that went almost over to the ground. He was afraid something would break. I commented about the old poles for this one and he agreed, saying that the poles inland “were younger; but where the wind is strong [as it is here by the bay], the poles are older [by the time they are big enough to use].” Young trees that grow quickly, unaffected by severe weather and in soil with optimum water and nutrients, will provide poles that are straight and springy, ideal “living poles.” “If there is too much marking [scars or other blemishes?] on the poles, the kwashapshigan will not work. Some conjurors want all of the marking removed before building the kwashapshigan. They use a knife to cut the old markings of the poles. They only remove the branches, not the bark. If you use an axe, you will remove too much bark.” john blackned: A Mistabeo is like a giant [referring to European stories John has heard]. When JC looks up he sees the Mistabeo

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Photo 18 EO poses for Maud Watt, showing how he would kneel in the kwashapshigan during a performance, ca 1950

there, and also sees all the others that are entering there, that went in there. [John demonstrates how the conjuror squats down in a kneeling squat position.] That’s the way they call them [kaowtstibit: the-one-who’s-kneeling-there] the way they are sitting down. That’s the way the conjurors go and visit each other, the one that’s here, and another one down there [at another place]. Sometimes they will be just like children, you know. Children, when they visit, they will start fighting. Well, in the same way the conjurors will start fighting, and think bad. Just like men working, sometimes one does more than the other one. Something like that, maybe one wants to get smarter than the other one, and that’s the way they go sometimes, when they do that.7

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dp: Is that what makes the tent shake? jb: No, those [Mistabeos] that came in there, that’s why the tent is shaking. dp: They are doing it themselves, then? [I meant the spirits, but SG misunderstood my intended context for “they,” and replied immediately without translating the question to John, and with positive tones.] sg: What do you mean? With his own hands? It couldn’t be that! [Then asks John about it.] jb: It’s just what they can do. [SG is upset at what he perceives as my disbelief.] dp: It just shakes when they are in there? sg: Yes, when they’re in there, it just shakes. [Checks with John.] jb: Yes. The ones that came in there, it’s just like flying when they come in there. They are not touching this earth here at all. dp: Like souls, or spirits? jb: Yes, like spirits. dp: You couldn’t see them? jb: Yes, you couldn’t see them. That’s why they call themselves the flying people. I guess if the pilot could ever do the same thing, I guess the tent would shake more. [This is a joke.] Some people are really good at that. They bring in all the animals, birds, too, in the tent. An animal that was coming in there, it was just like talking, too, the way those [other-than-human] persons came in, and sometimes they would say that the people outside wouldn’t get this kind of animal, they would tell them that. Especially those men who go hunting all those kind of animals, they would be good at it. Any kind of animals, not just big ones. [SG had thought only the big ones were included, but was corrected by John.] John showed pictures in the book Pilgrim’s Progress of a giant, which he said is of a Mistabeo.8 He then told me the story in the book about the giant finding the two sleeping pilgrims in his garden. jb: Sometimes when men make each other mad – well, they have their ground [hunting territory], each one, and this one will use the other one’s. Well, maybe they get [kill] animals in the other man’s territory – caribou and beaver, like. That’s why the man is so mad, because he sees what happened on his land. Sometimes if they make each other mad, one would make a kwashapshigan, and this

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one would take the other one inside the kwashapshigan, and then, well, he gets awful mad, just like fighting. That’s why he brought him into his kwashapshigan there – just his Mistabeo in there. Mistabeos fight. Well, this one Mistabeo kills the Mistabeo of the other one. Well, the body of the man doesn’t live anymore, he dies. They don’t come in like the body, just like a spirit, the one they call Mistabeo. dp: Does the Mistabeo have a body when he’s not inside the tent, like in the book [Pilgrim’s Progress] there? jb: No, I guess not. He doesn’t have a body; they just call him like that. He’s just a spirit – but he wants to be more than what he is – he thinks more of himself – that’s why they call him Mistabeo. He can do all kinds of things, too. [Note: Yet John showed the pictures of physical giants to explain Mistabeo to me. The resolution of this apparent mind-body problem must lie in the allegorical use of thought and language on John’s part, and on the part of other Crees.] dp: So, it’s not his body that’s big, it’s what he can do? jb: Because he is different from what we are, we call him Mistabeo. When one is really good at it, he brings the man from the water. I don’t know what you call him in English. He’s the boss of the fish, all kinds of fish. The Cree name of it is Misnaek. He tells the man, too, just as the other animals do, if he can get a lot of fish. If the man is poor about fish, well, he brings Misnaek in there about that. Sometimes he would ask Misnaek, “Why can’t you give me some of the fish you have?” Misnaek tells him, “You’ve got all kinds of brothers, that’s why I can’t give you so much. I want to share them out.” Misnaek has a boss, too, and he would tell them that was what his boss was telling him to do, to share it out. That would be God, Kichimanitou. That’s why the man can’t say anything, because he sees what everybody needs, and those that aren’t born yet, what they are going to want. He might fight with Misnaek too, if they are not satisfied – and if the Mistabeo wins the fight with Misnaek they will get more fish. Those conjurors that take those animals, and Misnaek – it is really hard to take them in there. The bear is really hard to take inside the tent there. Sometimes the bear would see when he goes in the tent; he would say, “If you can throw me flat, well, I’ll like that; and if you can’t, you won’t be able to get anything.” They will try it three times. The bear isn’t mad; he wants to see if the

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Mistabeo is strong enough. (If the Mistabeo is not strong enough, it means the man won’t be able to kill any bears.) A lot of the Mistabeos were in there, and they were talking to the man there, telling him not to fight there, not to be thrown down – and you could just hear them inside the tent, there, just like they were fighting – well, it’s not really him fighting, it’s the Mistabeo fighting for the man. Sometimes the bear is strongest when they fight, and sometimes the bear would get the worst of it. When that bear is thrown down, the man in the conjuring house would kill a bear shortly. And the others, too [the Mistabeos of other conjurors], the ones that came in, they sometimes fight the bear, too. When the other Mistabeos fight the bear, this wouldn’t be at the same tent. Same with that Misnaek, they fight him inside the tent, too, and the same thing happens. If that one gets beaten up they will get lots of fish, just like good luck, and if the conjuror gets beaten, it’s just like bad luck. dp: So you had better be good when you try? [This is acceptable joking.] jb: If anybody was really good at it, the geese would come in – you’d hear them in there calling. Anybody who had been on the coast there, and killed a lot of wavies [wavies are the Blue or Snow Geese], he would have them in there too.9 Except for the bear and Misnaek, the others are brought in there just to make it sound good and be interesting and enjoyable to the people outside. The year before I recorded the ceremony, Willy Weistchee explained to me his understanding of the conjuring tent: “It is made with different trees, tamarack, birch, and others. The sounds of geese and ducks and animals come from inside.” dp: The conjuror is not making those noises? ww: No. [His tone is one of certainty.] RC made one for the man once and there was dog-mess on one of the poles. The man went in and it started shaking some, but it stopped suddenly and the man came out and said there was something wrong. They took the covering off and there was dog-mess near the top, on one of the poles. RC didn’t know it made any difference. Willy didn’t know of the ceremony being used for sorcery [this is what he told me], only for seeing and predicting. He said that he

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didn’t know what to think about these things. Willy then went on to topics not directly related to conjuring tents, but closely enough related to be part of a single train of thought: There is a man here who can see ghosts. Last fall, while I was away, he took some young kids out at night. He could see them just as if they were alive, but he couldn’t speak to them. Did you hear of the sick boy at the hospital who was threatened by an old man? [No.] DS’s mother-in-law was sent here [from Eastmain]. She’s the only one [likely to practice sorcery]. There was a young girl and an old woman who died last summer. The old woman put it [sorcery] on the girl. [The old woman later died of cerebral hemorrhage]. Last winter Billy’s daughter was sick and the nurses couldn’t do any good. A man who was some drunk, not really drunk – but feeling good – he heard about it and he said, if anyone wanted him to, he could do something for this girl. Billy said to go ahead and the man took some bear chins and went around Billy’s house three times, singing. And then he put the bear chins under the head of the bed, way down and left them there. dp: Bear chins? ww: Well, maybe he could have used something else. [A classic type of Cree answer to a pushy question.] dp: Did he sing over the bear chins first? ww: I don’t know. dp: Would it be very hard to find out more about what he did? ww: It sure would [with emphasis]. After some other talk I asked Willy if he would tell me who it was or would he rather not? ww: Sure [with real stress now manifest on his face]. It was M. dp: M? [with tone of surprise, thinking him to mean MD.] ww: MW. [Willy was very uneasy about this and I dropped the topic there.] ww: It was Walter Diamond’s father who looked in the mirror to get his watch back. Some men look into the water, and others in the eyes of an animal – they hold the eyes up close. [Willy’s train of thought then returned to conjuring in the narrow sense.] An old man (Peter Trapper, John’s classificatory grandfather) with conjuring power said it was not just fun being that way. The first time Peter Trapper knew he had a Mistabeo, he was out alone

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one time hunting geese. He was up cooking one, and it was dark. He got uneasy, then he heard steps in the bush, something was out there getting closer and closer. He got very scared, took his stuff, and started back to the shore where his canoe was. As soon as he got into the dark – from the light of the fire – he blacked out. And the next he knew he woke up at dawn. Where he had piled his geese on a log the day before, he now found that he was on top of the pile. His Mistabeo had saved him and put him there. When I later mentioned Willy’s narration to John, he commented as follows: “The Mistabeo couldn’t come where the fire was because of the light of the fire. As soon as he was out in the dark, the Mistabeo came to see him. He saved him and took him where his geese were.” John commented further on this story when I related to him all that Willy had told me. I think he told you the story incorrectly. His Mistabeo heard an atoosh.10 Peter told me the story. This was not the first time the Mistabeo came to him. I think Willy misunderstood the story. When a Mistabeo is after a person, the man can only see the Mistabeo trying to talk to him. When a Mistabeo first goes to a person, the man will see the Mistabeo going to the person. When a man does not care about the Mistabeo, just like a man disliking his brother, then the man does not have a Mistabeo. Other men really respect the Mistabeo when they know the Mistabeo wants to go to them. A young man who is fully grown can have a Mistabeo. Finally, the Mistabeo will have a chance to talk to the man. In the foregoing brief explanation, John has explained that a man would not know of his Mistabeo through an event, such as that described by Willy. Instead, as John explains, in somewhat elliptical language, a man would first perceive a Mistabeo when he perceived an attempt at communication from him, and reciprocal communication must be sought by the man and nurtured. It is only in this way that the Mistabeo relationship may develop. Anderson Jolly commented on Peter Trapper, who lived at Waskaganish when he was a young man, as follows: “Peter Trapper was a very nice old man. He said that he couldn’t do anything that God didn’t approve of [that is, conjuring]. Once he asked for a cup, inside the kwashapshigan. He said that the soul of our saviour was in there. He passed out the cup

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for everyone to have just a sip. It tasted like a sacrament. I want to believe it, too, the old man who told me that.” Willy had heard a similar story from his grandmother. “Once a man came to some people and asked them to give him something to drink of whatever they were drinking. They had some tea so they gave him some. He took only a sip. They all did, and it tasted like wine. Then he went away. They only saw him for five minutes.” Willy Weistchee said, “There used to be men (atoosh) in the bush who could catch people and eat them raw. The conjuror would go into the shaking tent and then go into the bush a little way. People would see him rise into the air and then disappear. Then they heard screams and when he came back he was like almost asleep.11 He killed them all and there have not been any more since. One time he didn’t make a tent. He was out in the bush and so he put a kerchief over his head and that was okay.” Willy had seen two shaking tents when he was a boy. Inside (he peeked) are just two poles, sticking up about ten inches. The man never touches the ground, just holds the poles. [When John later told us about the tent, Willy asked him about the poles and was surprised when John denied it. He did not press it further. I think that Willy’s memory was probably incorrect, unless the particular conjuror was unusual.] John Blackned said, “A man was told by the conjuror to put his hand inside the tent. He didn’t feel anything until the one inside told him that his hand was on it right then. He could just feel it then – very small.”

preliminary explanation of the KWASHAPSHIGAN Probably the most common and obvious question asked about the conjuring tent performance is “What makes it shake?” or “How does he shake it?” The first phrasing is obviously more acceptable to the persons who perform or who give credence to the ability of the conjuror. Their answer to the question is that the Mistabeos make the tent shake, by their entering the tent, or leaving the tent, or other activity within the tent, or simply by their presence there. This answer does not satisfy non-believers, who expect an explanation in mechanical terms. No adequate solution has been published, to my knowledge, in mechanical terms.

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Skinner (1911:67–8) has reported a second-hand account from a white man at Eastmain who claimed to have broken through the crowd, rushed to the tent, lifted the covering and found the man inside with his hands on one side and his feet on the other, throwing his weight back and forth. The truth-value of this account is probably nil. In the first place, the covering is not easily removed, it is securely put on to keep it in place during hours of shaking (more accurately “waving”) back and forth with some vigour. The likelihood of a conjuror attempting to continue to gyrate while someone outside is trying to dismantle his tent is very small. I was told that if anyone touched the tent it would stop right away. At one point during JC’s performance someone approached the area with a flashlight. The tent suddenly stopped shaking and people standing near the tent shouted to the person to shut off the light. A second point here is that the tent does not require so much mechanical force to shake it. The poles are carefully chosen (and judged by entering spirits) for their youth (suppleness) and the tent can be moved with relatively little physical force. Finally, the protracted effort required for two to four hours or more of continuous exertion as described by Skinner would be extreme, especially for older men. I think that we must conclude that Skinner was the recipient of an imaginative speculation, not a description of an observed event. Another explanation of mechanical manipulation is given by Densmore (1932:313). I concur with Flannery (1939:15–16) that such a hoop and line explanation does not accurately describe the construction of the tent as it was made in Waskaganish (although such a device would probably suffice). But Whitemen are not the only sceptics. John explained: “There was a man (an Indian) who didn’t believe it was true, so the conjuror asked for a shaking tent to be made, and then he kneeled outside the tent and passed his hat inside and it started shaking right away. Then they passed in a pipe for the Mistabeo, and the Mistabeo said, “Here is my smoke,” and then he passed the pipe out again and said, “There’s part of the smoke for you” (to the conjuror). And he finished the kwashapshigan without his going in there – he was still outside. After everyone had gone out of the tent, still he had never gone inside. Then he told the people there, ‘Do you think it’s true now?’” Anderson Jolly told me the following story after I had told him what I had read of Densmore’s account of how the kwashapshigan

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moves, and that I did not think that she was right about it. He did not comment on Densmore’s sceptical ideas, but rather narrated an incident that sheds light on the personality of JC and illustrates the lack of fear or awe in which Anderson held this particular conjuror. Perhaps it is a statement of Anderson’s scepticism. The winter following JC’s playing with the conjuring house, near Christmas, JC came to see AJ. JC was drunk when he came, and AJ was upstairs (in the loft) having his sleep. JC came in and asked, “Where is the old man?” AJ heard him but he didn’t say anything himself. The woman told JC that AJ was upstairs. JC started to come up the stairs, but AJ didn’t want him up there. He said, “Don’t come up, it’s too dangerous on these (very steep) stairs, you’ll fall down.” JC was about half-way up and talked to AJ, telling him to come down. AJ said he was sleeping and didn’t want to come down. JC then told him, “I have brought something for you.” So AJ [almost necessarily, by Cree standards of courtesy] got up and came down. They sat at the little table and JC just talked on and on. AJ couldn’t even understand what he was saying. AJ just said, “Oh,” but he didn’t know what JC was mumbling about. Finally JC got up and went out, and he didn’t give AJ anything. He left behind his cigarettes and also a bag with something in it. The cigarettes weren’t full, AJ shook the bag, and he doesn’t know what was in the bag.12 JC came to their house the next day to look for his gloves. AJ told him, “They must be someplace, but they are not here.” Then AJ gave JC his cigarettes and paper bag, and he said to him, “I’m going to tell you a story.”13 Then AJ told him what happened the night before, and how JC didn’t give him anything. Then JC said he guessed that was true. AJ said, “You shouldn’t have laughed at me when I was drunk, you’re no better yourself.” [AJ had used the narrative as an expression of reproach, and thereby as a vehicle of socialization.] To return to what makes a shaking tent shake, I suggest that further speculation (for that is all that remains) in the realm of the mechanics of manipulation is not only futile but, even worse, it misses the essential point. The important aspects of the ceremony are far more concerned with the symbolic and expressive than with the mechanical, and it is to this interest that we shall turn. If we remain stuck on

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trying to prove one or another mechanical hypothesis, we implicitly dote on an assumption of insincerity and fraud, which “simply indicates that we find it impossible to penetrate and understand the behavioural world in which these Indians lived” (Hallowell 1942:76). With Hallowell’s good advice in mind, let us turn from the common and obvious to questions that are of more basic importance to the performance. The most crucial concept involved is that of the Mistabeo, the “big man” who actively assists the conjuror and acts a central role in the conjuring performance.

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chapter four

The Mistabeo Concept

The precise meaning of the Mistabeo concept has proven difficult to define, partly because of the private and intimate nature of men’s relationships with their Mistabeo. Also, different individuals may have different perceptions of the Mistabeo. Speck has offered a valuable preliminary effort (1935:41ff), in which he explains the Mistabeo as the active state of the soul, a source of guidance, a means of overcoming “spirits” (other souls?), the “equivalent” of life in human beings, very near an “ego” concept, as the “essential of man” and as “the seat of the appetites, emotions, and passions.” The evidence or manifestation of the Mistabeo is in dreams. Speck claims that each individual has a Mistabeo, but doesn’t specify whether this includes women. The Mistabeo also requires ethical behaviour (and so seems to be “super-ego” as well). Speck’s treatment omits reference to the conjuring tent, which is a curious, major omission. It is possible that Speck obtained most of his information largely from an informant who, from my reading, was a marginal person as far as his participation in these beliefs is concerned, not unlike Willy Weistchee. Alternatively, if we accept the informant’s account as a well-informed and accurate report, then we have a significant difference between the Mistabeo concept of Speck’s informant and that of my informants. According to my information, the soul (achak) is not connected to or identified with the Mistabeo – there is a clear separation of the two. On the other hand, such a difference of opinion within the culture is entirely possible, as Kluckhohn (1967) has documented in detail for Navaho witchcraft beliefs. Also, consistent with Speck’s version, and a hundred years previously, Clouston uses achak

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(which he spells achack), the term for “soul” (Davies 1963:46,51), as an agent for conjuring. The meaning of the term “achak” may have evolved over that one hundred years, leaving an older meaning remaining alongside a newer one. But Speck’s style raises some further questions of method – of the process he calls “creative ethnography.” I come away from reading Speck with the feeling that he is often guilty of what Whitehead has termed the fallacy of misplaced concreteness – that Speck has inadvertently imposed qualities of his own idea of reality upon the data of Cree ideology. He has a tendency to overgeneralize, to interpret his data as if they are subject to a scientific law and therefore follow a strictly literal and intellectual logic, and he is inclined to see allegory as “really” false and illogical. He finds identity (life-soul-Mistabeo) where allegorical similarity may well have been intended by his informants. Of course I was not there and do not know what Speck saw and heard, so I may do him great injustice. Even so, I must express my convictions regarding a possible weakness in Speck’s interpretive perspective. Perhaps my criticism is too strong, and perhaps Speck was not interpreting with critical, Western intellectual premises – but I feel that his view was that of a sympathetic observer trying to make sense of his data in terms of awkward and inadequate psychological and ethnological premises, and with too partial a grasp of underlying Cree premises and Cree meanings. This partial grasp would produce a distorted interpretive perspective, altering the Cree world of meanings. Before going further into treatments of the Mistabeo concept in the literature, we will consider more precise information than can be had through critical analyses and speculations. The Cree have their own explanation of the Mistabeo concept, in narrative form. “The Mistabeo Story” concerns a man named Chou-a. This particular story is one of the finest I have heard as a means of communicating the feel or flavour of the hardships and the style of social relationships of Eastern Subarctic life. This narrative provides the core for the further narratives and analysis that follow it, and deserves a thoughtful reading. I will refer back to it in later chapters. The first man who found a Mistabeo was the trickster-hero Tchikabesh, and the character of the trickster seems occasionally echoed in the characters of Mistabeos. But Tchikabesh didn’t bother to cultivate the relationship after he met the Mistabeos, and it remained for Chou-a to establish a relationship between man and Mistabeo.

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the mistabeo story Narrated by John Blackned When Chou-a met the Mistabeo, he thought of him a lot. So this Mistabeo talked to the man. The Mistabeo told this man, “You are going to kill one beaver, and that is the only food you are going to have at that time. Even if it is all the food that you are going to have, you can’t feed it to your kids.” The Mistabeo told him, “Put something in the fire, just like giving me some food, that’s what I will see it as.”1 And the Mistabeo told the man that if he can’t do what he told him, he will have bad luck. Then the Mistabeo told him what would soon happen to him, that he wasn’t going to be able to kill anything (for food) and “Finally you’ll kill that beaver I was telling you about.” At last the man killed the beaver. The Mistabeo had told the man to singe the beaver in the fire, not to skin it out.2 At the time that he killed the beaver, his children hadn’t eaten all day. After he cooked the beaver, he started to have a feast of the beaver, with his wife. He asked his wife, “What am I going to do about feeding my kids?” “We’ll feed them,” she told him.3 The reason he talked to his wife about this was because he had been conjuring when his Mistabeo talked to him, and he had told his wife all that the Mistabeo had said. Then his wife told him, “If you don’t give them something to eat, don’t you think they will cry if you don’t kill anything pretty soon in the morning?” So then the man told his wife to feed the kids. The woman told her husband, “You know what to do.” Because they didn’t have anything to feed their children, that’s the reason they didn’t do what the Mistabeo told him to do. If they had had anything else for food, they wouldn’t have given the children any of the beaver. But the children hadn’t had anything to eat for one day, and so the parents gave them some of the beaver. This man didn’t have just one Mistabeo, he had several of them, and they had a sort of boss: one of them was the leader. When the man fed the children part of the beaver, one of these Mistabeos was not very far off. It made him very angry, and from that moment, this Mistabeo didn’t eat anymore, he just lay down. After the man ate the beaver with his children, he went out hunting, but he didn’t find anything. For many days he couldn’t kill anything to eat. And the man was very hungry. At times he shifted from the place where they were staying and went to

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another place, taking his family with him. It had been several nights and they hadn’t eaten. They were becoming very weak from starvation. The man told his wife, “We should move on while we can still move.” They went for some distance and finally the man couldn’t walk any farther. When the woman came up to her husband, she found that he had fallen to his knees from weakness. He told her that he couldn’t walk anymore. The woman was already pulling her children on the toboggan, and she put her husband on the toboggan and went on.4 They were still travelling; the man was under the covering of the toboggan. Then he heard his wife crying. The man asked his wife, “Are you crying because the way is hard?” The woman replied, “No, it is because I see the tracks of the caribou.” She was crying because she thought her husband would not be able to kill the caribou even when they had found the tracks. Then the man told his wife to untie the lashings of the toboggan. After he was released he got up and saw the tracks of the caribou. They had a baby at that time and the mother was still suckling it. The man told his wife to uncover her breasts. And the man fed from the breasts of his wife. Then he got up and put on his snowshoes. He told his wife that he was going to track the caribou. He told her not to go any farther, but to make their tent there.5 So he went to track the caribou. On his way he saw the tracks of another man that followed the same caribou, coming to the tracks of the caribou from one side, and then following the caribou tracks. He could tell from the tracks that the man was travelling very fast. Chou-a knew it was his Mistabeo, and he thought to himself that all of his Mistabeos didn’t bother about him when he was starving.6 But he turned away from the deer’s trail and followed the trail back up to where the Mistabeo had come from, and he came upon a tent. This tent was shaped like a big conjuror’s tent (kwashapshigan). When he got there and went in, he saw only one man in there – his Mistabeo. Since he had seen his Mistabeo before, he knew right away it was him. Then he saw that they had an open fire in there, and he saw another man lying just beside the fire. Some of the ashes had fallen over him. Then the Mistabeo told him, “You can see that one that’s lying there, he’s the one who got mad when you fed the beaver to your kids.”

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Then Chou-a thought, “I guess that’s why I couldn’t find anything to eat.” He told the Mistabeo that he had seen the tracks of the deer. He didn’t even see any wood in the fire, it was just coming up. It burned very nicely. This fire wouldn’t stop, that’s the Mistabeo’s fire. Then when it started to be evening, he saw men coming in. So at last all the men were sitting around the inside of the tent. There were many of them. One of them had killed a porcupine. (They had not yet succeeded in killing the caribou that Chou-a had been chasing.) There was one woman there, too. The woman brought in the porcupine. After she came in, she went out again. Then she came in wearing an iron dress. She had iron mittens, too.7 She started to take off the needles from the porcupine. After she had plucked the porcupine, she started to roast it. At last it was cooked. The first man to get the porcupine was the Mistabeo-leader. It was covered when she gave it to the Mistabeo. They only eat in the evening; nobody would eat anything in the morning. The man that got the porcupine ate the whole thing. Chou-a thought, “I guess it’s only one man that’s going to eat.” Then the Mistabeo covered the plate back up and gave it to the next man. When that man took off the cover, another whole porcupine was there. Each one ate all the porcupine and placed the bones back on the plate and covered it, and when the next one took off the cover the porcupine was renewed. At last almost everyone had the porcupine except Chou-a. When he saw the porcupine, he thought, “I guess I’ll eat half.” The Mistabeo knew what Chou-a was thinking, and he said, “It will be no good if you leave any.” So Chou-a ate it all, and covered the bones, and passed it on to another man. Finally everyone had eaten except the one who was lying near the fire. He didn’t say anything. “That one’s still angry,” the Mistabeo said. Chou-a had two pieces of tobacco, that was all he had.8 He got up and gave the tobacco to the Mistabeo-leader and the Mistabeo said in a loud voice, “I have been given some tobacco by Chou-a.” Then the man who was lying by the fire jumped up, and he asked, “Is that true it’s tobacco?” So the Mistabeo showed it to him, “It is tobacco,” he said. Then they gave him the covered porcupine. The Mistabeo-leader told Chou-a, “The time that you

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ate the beaver, that’s the last time this one ate. Now he is going to eat again.9 Then the Mistabeo told Chou-a that they were going to get up early in the morning. The plate was given last to the woman. The leader told Chou-a that his wife had killed a porcupine while she was making the tent. And the tobacco was passed around after everyone else had eaten. In eating the porcupine they felt that they had eaten all their meals of the day. Then the leader told them that somebody had seen the tracks of the caribou. They had not yet killed the caribou that Chou-a saw the tracks of. In the morning the Mistabeos didn’t eat, they went out. The leader stayed at the tent. Even the one who had been angry went out and wasn’t at the tent. The Mistabeo told Chou-a, “We will go, too.” The Mistabeo-leader told him that the others were going after the caribou. They had not gone a long distance when they came to two caribou who were fenced in. The Mistabeo shot one with his bow. Then he told Chou-a, “The other one is yours, go ahead and shoot.” And after they had killed the caribou, they went to a wooded area and they saw a trail leading to the tent; the others had already killed the caribou and had taken them back. That was their trail. The Mistabeo-leader told the man that they were going to take the caribou back. So he took a dragging cord (nimaban) and tied it around the neck of one and dragged it. He told Chou-a to put his own cord around the neck of his caribou. The Mistabeo-leader told him that each of the Mistabeos had killed one also. The Mistabeo told him, “Bring your caribou.” But Chou-a could not drag the caribou as fast as the Mistabeo, so the Mistabeo dragged both of them, and still the man couldn’t keep up. When they came, the other caribou were already butchered and hung up in the tent. They started to cut the meat up (the leader and the man). The rest were all cut up already. The head Mistabeo told him that he wasn’t supposed to share the caribou with anybody.10 And he told him also, “It’s your choice to go (it’s up to you if you want to go) and bring your wife and children. When you bring your wife in, don’t let her look around the tent and see the people. She should just walk in and sit by the entrance and not

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look around.” And the Mistabeo told him, “Look at all the men sitting around the tent. They don’t want a woman to look at them.” The leader told him this because all of the other Mistabeos wanted to live with Chou-a. When Chou-a got to where his family was staying, he told his wife, “As soon as we get to the tent, you just go in and sit by the entrance.” Then they went to the Mistabeo’s tent, and entered and they had a place by the entrance. They went to bed and the woman wondered why she couldn’t look at the people who were in such a big tent. While she was lying there, she said to herself, “I’ll look around the tent and maybe they won’t know.” She put her head up and looked around and all she saw was men. So Chou-a made his Mistabeos mad again. The man and his wife were still sleeping and it started to get cold. In the morning when Chou-a and his wife woke up, all the men were gone, even the fire and the tent covering. The man told his wife, “Maybe you looked around the tent last night.” And Chou-a lost all of his Mistabeos. And he said, “I won’t bother them again, they are too fussy in doing things.” This is the end of the story. The man never bothered about his Mistabeos again, because he made them angry once and nearly starved. He thought to himself, “Perhaps if I don’t bother with them, then I won’t be in such trouble.” So after that, he didn’t care about them. At the end, the woman looked around, and the man lost his Mistabeos; and that’s why you never hear of a woman in a conjuring tent. Also, that’s why nobody now would want several Mistabeos, because they know how this man had trouble from having so many Mistabeos. At this point I have two alternatives for procedure: (1) to begin an analytical and speculative explanation, or (2) to present more narratives and to ask the reader to withhold his judgment and his expectations of my judgments or explanations. I prefer the latter alternative for the purpose of giving the reader a more inductive and holistic approach to the subject. Since the goal is to approximate the inherent structure of conjuring belief and action, an inductive method is most appropriate. While more narratives may burden the reader ’s patience, the greater effort demanded is rewarded by greater precision in understanding and gaining a feeling for the intrinsic Cree coherence in the perceptions and explanations presented. I will

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compromise the inductive emphasis with occasional analytical endnotes and periodic discussion where they seem most appropriate. The following excerpt shows the wide range of possible manifestations of a Mistabeo, where even a young boy may have a Mistabeo (although this would not be likely). It is the extraordinary nature of such a young boy having a Mistabeo that makes the story begin in such an interesting way.

tchu-swash, the best hunter among men Narrated by John Blackned There was once a boy who didn’t have a father. He lived with an old man. The old man had one daughter. This old man’s daughter was wanted by another man, but she didn’t want him. This boy was playing with some other children. They made a conjuring tent. They had seen other people do it and they wanted to do it, too. This little boy’s name was Tchu-swash. The children who played with the boy went into the conjuring tent. They started shaking the tent and imitating Mistabeo. They went in one by one and everybody shook the tent, and then they told Tchu-swash, “Now you go in.” Then the children heard Tchu-swash’s Mistabeo’s voice coming from the conjuring tent. The children said, “The Mistabeo has entered the tent.” There was no older person there. And they told him to stick his hands out in the open at the bottom – to see if he was shaking the tent. When he stuck out his hands the tent was still shaking. Somebody else was in there with him. They could hear the boy’s Mistabeo saying that he (the Mistabeo) was going to marry the woman. (If the Mistabeo is saying this, the boy is saying it, too, through his mouth.) And the children outside laughed at him because of his size. He was too small to be married. The remainder of this very long story does not deal directly with conjuring again, so it is not included here. The young orphan boy is ostracized along with the girl, grows miraculously to full maturity in a few perilous days, and saves the entire group from starvation. The next narrative, which was probably influenced by missionary work, illustrates the actions of a conjuror and his Mistabeo where an apparent miracle is demonstrated for its own sake. Still, the thoughts of the man who made the toboggan are emphasized and

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indicate his deep desire and determination to succeed without the use of conjuring. Narrated by John Blackned There was one man at Eastmain; he was really good at it [conjuring]. (He’s dead now.) He did it once, when there were a lot of men outside. The one inside there could give them something to eat from inside the tent, each one a piece, and it was already cooked. [When] there were not so many to a tent, they used to make one tent big enough for four families.11 The old man asked, “Can anyone make a toboggan without having the wood near the fire, and without using water?” He asked somebody to do that. They always used fire and water to bend the toboggan. There were young men there. They thought they couldn’t do it, to make the toboggan without fire. One man wasn’t a young man, he was pretty good at making toboggans. He didn’t ever go in a kwashapshigan. He thought nobody would be able to beat him when he made a toboggan.12 He thought, “If I can’t make it, nobody could make it.” He went away, he thought he would make it. He didn’t finish making the bottom the first day; he just looked for the logs that he would use. He warmed the toboggan with his body heat, just sitting on it and holding it between his legs. After he finished making it he didn’t drag it on the snow, he carried it on his shoulder. He thought that the old man would want to be the first to use it. After he brought it in, he put it up right outside by the place where the old man stayed. He didn’t want to cheat. After he had something to eat, he told the old man, “I brought the toboggan that you wanted, and put it outside where you’re living.” The old man went out to see. After he came in, he said, “It is a very nice toboggan. Whoever made it is very good at it.” They didn’t know what the old man was going to do. They thought the old man wanted the toboggan for himself. Four days after, he wanted a kwashapshigan to be made for him. He went in after they finished making it. He brought everything in there, the bear and everything. The Mistabeo was asking the man that was in the conjuring tent, “We’ll take your toboggan to go and get that caribou.” And again they heard the Mistabeo talking in there. “We are cooking the caribou now. Pretty soon we’ll have some meat.” The Mistabeo told all the men to get up close to the kwashapshigan.

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They were sitting very close. The man who had made the toboggan – well this part under the shoulder of the caribou is the part that he likes the most. He was the first man to get his share. The Mistabeo told him to put his hand inside the tent, under the covering. He put his hand in there and felt something, still warm, and pulled his hand out, and there was a piece from the part he liked the most. Then after that he did the same with all the men, he shared the meat out, the part they liked the most. The Mistabeo said to go ahead and eat what they were given. The women didn’t get any. Then after, the Mistabeo told him, “Somebody is going to get a caribou shortly. Don’t care if the caribou looks to be poor. I guess you all know you are eating some of it now.” Then he was finished playing with the conjuring tent. Three days after, they got one caribou, and it looked pretty poor, the arms and legs, too. (They had already eaten it off.) The people said, “This must be the one we ate already.” Then they asked each other, “How could he do it, to give the meat to eat from the kwashapshigan?” All the men that ate got quite a lot. At Eastmain, there, they said that man was really good at it. They never saw another man who could do that. In another discussion, John had told me: If a man hunts a lot he would want to keep his Mistabeo, but he may not be a conjuror; he has the power but if he is asked he won’t do it. The Mistabeo is like a much bigger person, who helps the man, does the heavy work. EO is very concerned with it. Also some people who hunt in the bush a lot. A man would start to lose his power when he gets old. The Mistabeo might leave a man before he dies or else gradually weaken until taken by a son, when it will be strong again. Some people would want to have this power and some would rather do without it. Some people would want to keep their Mistabeo and some people don’t care about it. I asked John how a man gets a Mistabeo, half expecting something like the vision quest cited by Skinner (1911). But I was wrong. “You meet them, you see them coming and if you want to bother with them you meet them. If you don’t want to bother you don’t go on to meet them.”13

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At this point, I will offer a hypothesis on the nature of the Mistabeo. While the Mistabeo concept may reasonably be included in the class of all North American Native “guardian spirits” (Benedict 1929), there are more precise qualities that deserve definition. I think that there is allegorical merit in Speck’s soul-concept interpretation, and that there is no real opposition in Flannery’s (1939:12ff) preference for the Mistabeo as a sort of master of ceremonies at the conjuring tent. But I think that the whole explanation is more complex than either position allows. Clouston (Davies 1963:46) in 1820 refers to the idea of an “attending spirit” and this seems appropriate. Lips (1947:480) refers to the Mistabeo as the conjuror’s “own spirit.” Brief mention of the concept has been made by Honigmann (1956:67) as a giant, and by Rogers (1962:d6) as a combination of spirit helpers into a single entity. Other references include Burgesse (1944:51–3), Cooper (1944:79–81), Johnson (1943:71), Honigmann (1953:320–4), and Hind (1863:2). If we are to single out one label from these, probably the idea of an “attending spirit” will serve best. Clouston had some knowledge of the concept, for he used the idea in influencing a group of Indians in order to serve his own advantage, although not as a legitimate conjuror! To label it a “soul,” as Speck does, seems in some situations to identify it too intimately with the personality of the conjuror. Clearly there is an intimate bond, but there is also a measure of autonomy for both man and Mistabeo. Speck describes some psychological qualities of the Mistabeo, but terms such as ego, super-ego, or wish fulfillment projections are more suggestive than explanatory, at least for present purposes. If Speck’s definition offers too little social distance, Flannery’s “master of ceremonies” label (made with Michelson’s support), which seems to make the Mistabeo’s relationship to the tent performance itself as important as his relationship to the conjuror, suggests, I think, too much social distance. Perhaps the Mistabeo concept is a way of explaining a potent personalized power “belonging” to an individual but with whom he is in only partial rapport. By partial rapport, I mean that not only does the Mistabeo have an autonomy and personality of his own but also that a man does not always have direct communication with the Mistabeo. The Mistabeo may manifest himself by influence on other persons, food-animals, or objects. Also the Mistabeo may observe events not known or accessible to the conjuror. He may serve as a kind of master of ceremonies within

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the tent, but his most essential qualities, from the point of view of a Cree, are those that put him in a more intimate personal relationship to men. Cree descriptions of the Mistabeo as an other-than-human-person are usually allegorical, and are directed at qualities more spiritual than corporeal. The Mistabeo usually manifests himself in the material world by his actions, influencing events or providing knowledge (as in what we call good or bad luck), in sorcery’s illnesses, in cures, in predicting the future, and in explanations of the past. Perhaps, too, individual variation in Mistabeos shows up in the differing degrees of overall potency of each conjuror. Here the crucial qualities of the Mistabeo’s personal relationship to a particular Cree man enter in, for the Mistabeo’s manifestations always occur in response to the individual who has an exclusive and close relationship with a Mistabeo, although the manifestations vary with the personality of the particular Mistabeo. Individual variation also holds for the intensity with which the man is involved. He may believe in and cultivate the relationship intensely, casually, or very little. Every man has, then, some spiritual potential, but not every man wishes equally to cultivate this sort of spiritual commitment. Further, some men might be disqualified by temperamental or other mental limitations to develop the relationship, whether or not they would wish to. Also, the spiritual commitment has its drawbacks. It involves some sacrifice of the man’s freedom and autonomy, and puts one in a more or less obliged status with respect to the wishes of the Mistabeo. Perhaps the explanation of why some men have Mistabeos but will refuse to conjure is that they do not wish to put themselves in a situation of potential competition with other conjurors. Also, if there is a degree of loss of self-control, even though it may be simply a transfer of self-control to control by the Mistabeo, it may seem to threaten a possible loss of self. The concept of spirit possession may apply to the Mistabeo concept, but the extent of legitimate application is not clear to me. John told me, “He knows everything that’s going on” (the man is in control of himself during the conjuring ceremony) – but one who is really good at it could feel different. He could also see “without the use of anything too” (a conjuring tent is not necessary).14 I do not know beyond this kind of information whether the conjuror retains a conscious control of his mental facilities, or whether

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he might go into a trance or some intermediate state. I am confident that the conjuror does not coercively possess his Mistabeo or the spirits, and I suspect that the conjuror is not very often or very significantly possessed by the spirits. This “separate but equal” status is consistent with the character of other Cree social relationships. If there were a loss of conscious control of the self during conjuring, that aspect would bear investigation as a potentially threatening state for the individual. Hysteria is viewed as seriously threatening, and the violently insane used to be feared and put to death. For many reasons, self-control is an important virtue.15 It is worth noting that the Mistabeo may speak through the mouth of the conjuror. Also the Mistabeo may speak other languages than Cree; perhaps this can be related to glossolalia (“speaking in tongues”). Narrated by John Blackned People long ago were like that, often conjuring. A conjuror (miteo) could throw a stone over a long distance and kill a man. At Eastmain it was my grandfather’s grandfather that did that. He was sitting with his grandchildren. “Sit behind me,” he told them. He was sitting with his axe beside him. “Someone is coming [going] to throw a stone at me.” This was all the way from Fort George to Eastmain. At last they could hear something, just like whistling, and this old man put up his axe, just like he wanted to stop something. Then he16 hit the axe. It was a little piece of rock, very nice-looking. The rock fell on the crust of the snow (it was in the spring). After he picked up the rock, he started to try to send it back to the conjuror who sent it. He put the piece of rock [in his hand?] and then he blew at him, like that. And then the piece of rock went off. These kids said they could hear, just like somebody whistling. The man knew the old man at Fort George that had sent the rock, and he mentioned his name. After he blew the rock, he looked there, just like he’s watching the piece of rock. The other old man (at Fort George) couldn’t stop the rock. So this man said, “You just watch and see what kind of story you are going to hear about him.” When they heard the news from Fort George, this other old man couldn’t stop the rock. Other people long ago even used their bows and arrows for conjuring, when they wanted to do bad things like that. Where it would happen, a young man would want to get married to a woman. The old man asked for the other old man’s daughter.

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When he couldn’t get the woman to marry his son, then he started conjuring. Also, people used to hunt around, around the country. That means their country. If anyone is around there before they get there, that’s when they get mad. That’s when they get right to conjuring, especially when they know that the man killed a lot of meat in their country. All men are not the same at conjuring, just as some are good hunters, and some are not so good. The way kids do [fighting and manifesting strong, poorly controlled emotions], that’s the way it was long ago. I asked what people long ago who were near a conjuror thought about him. The way they were doing then, the people were afraid of him, some of them. When they knew what he was doing, and that he was very good at it, they were afraid of him. Whatever he told them, they would do it. They wouldn’t go to stay with him, until he wants them to stay with him. That’s the only time the other people would go to stay with him. Men who could conjure used to look for some people to stay with him, some good hunter. Then they are afraid of him, they have to stay with him. Even the old women were like that. [Anderson Jolly volunteered that he had heard about the old women, too.] One wonders how much of the fear of conjuring is a hangover from the experiences, fears, and impressionability of childhood. The events reported about the old man with the conjuring of the rock could easily be seen (by me) as an act contrived to tease the grandchildren. The kind of teasing I could envisage is very like that of the teasing of children with threats of capture by the cannibal atoosh. If the pattern of childhood fear of threats is congruent with adult fear of sorcery, this does not necessarily mean that the adult is simply projecting infantile fears and thereby creating the fantasy of conjuring. Nor is it sufficient to say that some old people are clever and selfish enough to recognize and exploit, by subterfuge, their gullible fellows. Such a state of affairs may sometimes have occurred, but it is far too simple an explanation to be adequate for the whole of this complex pattern. Parallels between the atoosh and the conjuror and/or Mistabeo must be taken as only suggestive, since I have no reason to know

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that Cree are aware of such similarity. Tentatively, however, we may note that the ability to fly, to have great strength, and (partially a consequence of the preceding) the quality of being regarded as dangerous are common elements. Associated with these elements is the attribute of loss of selfcontrol, though this is not identical in detail. In the case of the conjuror, the loss is probably slight, controlled by the relationship with the Mistabeo, and temporary in nature. In the case of the atoosh, or an insane person, the loss is severe, poorly controlled (if at all), and likely to be permanent. While loss of self-control in the latter case involves an increase in power, it also involves a loss of humanity and a proper place in the world, and is very threatening to others. Further study may show other parallels. In the next narration, a conjuror unites with his Mistabeo to overcome an atoosh. The conjuror may be in an altered psychological state at the completion of his action.

story about john’s (classificatory) g r a n d f a t h e r ( p e t e r t r a p p e r ) 17 Narrated by John Blackned He was on a freighting trip up the Rupert River with Hudson’s Bay Company supplies to go to Mistassini. They were way ahead of another group, also freighting to Mistassini. The men of the group behind could conjure, but so could John’s grandfather. The people behind were Mistassini people. These Mistassini people could feel that an atoosh was close now. And they said to themselves, “We’ll send the atoosh to these James Bay men.” The James Bay men went ashore to camp, then after they were set up for the night, they heard the atoosh. The river was about three-quarters of a mile wide and they heard the atoosh on the other side. They heard the atoosh breaking something, the sound was very sharp. And they didn’t make a conjuring tent. Peter Trapper just did this from an ordinary tent. He just looked in the water (like looking in a mirror – it could be fish eyes, too, or anything). His Mistabeo told him, “The atoosh is going to throw the stump he has broken, across the river towards us, and if it lands on the land he will kill us, and if it doesn’t he won’t be able to kill us.” His Mistabeo told him, “He is getting ready to throw the stump.” Then he said, “Now he’s throwing it.” But before it came down, his

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Mistabeo pushed against it so that it fell in the water. (He was working then.) And they heard a big splash – and his Mistabeo said, “The man said push it back a little.” Then Peter Trapper asked the people if anybody had a pipe that had never had tobacco in it. There was a man in the group who had one. He was taking it to Mistassini to an older person who might want it. Peter was given the pipe, along with the tobacco. He requested a kerchief that had never been worn. There was a man there also who had a kerchief that was taking it to an old woman at Mistassini. He gave the kerchief to Peter. [John has seen it. It was white and quite big.] He tied the kerchief around his head, like a hat. He was preparing to fly, and didn’t want to lose his hat so he used the kerchief and tied it around his head. He wanted to wear something on his head. And before he went he filled this pipe. His Mistabeo told him that if the atoosh had come across, they would all have been eaten – that’s why they were so afraid of the atoosh. And the person who was given the pipe said, “I won’t be able to have all my good smoke or I’ll be eaten by the atoosh.” [Peter] was sitting for just a short time and then he got up and ran out. And the people in the tent heard a noise like a piece of chain. He was flying with his Mistabeo. The Mistabeo took this atoosh and put him out in water beside an island out in the bay. (We call this island Minyinooks [Stag Rock].) He killed him when he dumped him there – in the water with the chain around his neck so there couldn’t be anymore atoosh after that.18 Then, the people that were in the tent (everyone stayed inside the tent except for Peter Trapper) heard a sound of rushing wind. And when he went in his tent, he was unconscious from flying and from being frightened by the atoosh. At this time the Mistabeo spoke. He told the people not to be afraid – that the atoosh had already been put out in the bay. He could have killed him on land but he didn’t want to do that. If he had killed him on this land, and burned him, he would still be able to come back. He was so bad that even if they burned him he would still have come back. When the Mistassini people sent the atoosh over to these people, they knew that this man was going to kill the atoosh. And both groups didn’t sleep at all that night. His Mistabeo told them that they could see the atoosh tracks in the morning. In the morning

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after they ate they crossed over to the sandy part of the beach. The person who had killed the atoosh [Peter Trapper] was sitting at the bow. He got off the canoe and saw footprints that were twice the length of a man’s foot. The atoosh had been barefoot. The atoosh’s face was all brown, the same all over. The threat of attack by an atoosh is a fearful situation, and must be coped with by means of powers and forces that are beyond the ordinary human means. Peter Trapper had, through the services of his Mistabeo, the power to fly, to put a chain around the atoosh’s neck, transport him some distance (presumably by flying) to the coast of James Bay, and deposit him underwater, near an island just off the coast. The fact that the second group sent the atoosh (which was apparently threatening the Mistassini men at the time) towards the Waskaganish men suggests the motivation of sorcery. I inquired about this and was told that the Mistassini men knew that the Waskaganish men would be able to succeed in killing the atoosh. This reply implicitly seems to deny a sorcery motive, suggesting instead a competitive test of strength by groups who were competing already. Both groups were freighting up the Rupert River for the Hudson’s Bay Company. The work was very heavy, and speed, as well as the per man weight-load, was a source of prestige for a group. Also, John once mentioned that the Mistassini men used to be unhappy about the men from Waskaganish arriving and staying for a few days at Mistassini when the Mistassini men were away on the freighting route, while the Waskaganish men didn’t care about the men from Mistassini visiting Waskaganish under such circumstances. I am not sure whether this means that the Waskaganish men are more sure of their women, or more generous with them, or merely like to make the other men look weak and jealous or greedy. Attitudes towards sexuality are poorly understood by anthropologists of this area, and I will refer to the topic later, in the context of Cree songs, where hunting of food-animals appears related to sexuality. At this point, I will introduce a narrative that shows the role of the Mistabeo in the expression of interpersonal conflict. This narrative is rich in content, not only as a relatively typical case of sorcery, but also as a vehicle for illustrating standards of ethical social relationships, and for detailing the way that such relationships may be sustained, or broken, in a situation of great hardship. The serious and eventually calamitous consequences of persons’ actions that break

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the standards of ethical social relationships develop as a sequence of events within the narrative. The narrative also bears comparison with the Chou-a story given earlier both in the theme of hardship following the breaking of a social contract, and because the Chou-a narrative is an atiukan, and the following is a tipachiman. As detailed in the appendix, the two are rather flexible categories for a continuum of narratives that range from contemporary events to very ancient and uncertain events. The absence of a sense of dichotomy in the two categories is well illustrated in the similar content of the Chou-a narrative and the following narrative. Since old man Meskino was John Blackned’s grandfather’s father, I would estimate the date of these events to be about 1880.19 The surviving son was drowned in a canoe brigade accident near Nemiska around 1915.

the story of p and meskino conjuring each other, and what happened Narrated by John Blackned The old man (P) had six sons (two sons were not married), and a son-in-law. The old man Meskino had two wives, two sons, and four daughters. One of the daughters had a bad leg; she was lame. [Her leg was locked in a flexed position, she couldn’t walk.] One of P’s sons was married to this girl who couldn’t walk. [Anderson Jolly, the interpreter, thinks this is funny, that he wouldn’t ask for one of the other daughters.] This young man, then, got the girl pregnant. So then he wanted to change the girl for another one, he wanted to give the girl back and have another daughter. Old Meskino didn’t like that, he said the man should keep the one he wanted first. That’s how they got mad at each other. When the young man wanted to give the lame girl back, that’s what made the old man mad. “You shouldn’t do that,” he told him, “after you have made her pregnant.” He told him all about how he shouldn’t do it that way, that he should stay married to the first girl he asked for. I’ll start it from the first. Those people were getting their supplies from here [Waskaganish]. They never used to buy very much flour. All they bought was clothes, gunpowder, primers, bullets, and some twine to make nets with, and snare wire. The young man was married for a year to the daughter with the lame

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leg. When they started from here, that’s the winter they never came back. When they started off inland they saw the other old man [Meskino], and they wanted to give her back, and get the other daughter who was not lame. Old man Meskino didn’t like that, when he saw she was pregnant, he told them he couldn’t give them the other girl. “What you should have done,” he told them, “you should have asked for the one that’s not lame the first time. I can’t let you have my other daughter. I can’t just change like this. It doesn’t work that way.” Old man P and two of his sons, and Meskino, had Mistabeos. That was the time that they started to go in to the kwashapshigan to fight each other. Meskino’s two sons didn’t have a Mistabeo, just the old man. He asked them if they wanted to have a Mistabeo. One of his sons thought, “Even if I had one, I would be hungry often.” “It’s no use to have a Mistabeo,” he told his father. So just the old man had a Mistabeo. Then old man P gave Meskino back his daughter, the one that was pregnant. (Old man P left the pregnant daughter behind with Meskino.) When those two families went out from here [to different areas] they were always making the conjuring tent. When one man made the conjuring tent, he could hear the other one making his conjuring tent. It was just like talking to each other. They could hear him inside the conjuring tent, talking about it. [This is an example of what was meant by “It’s just like the Indians’ own radio.”] Then when the P family went up the Eastmain River, right away they had a bad time hunting. That’s where my [John’s] grandmother and grandfather were, on that river, but they didn’t stay with them that year. They saw that they were playing with the conjuring tent every evening, one man one evening, and the other man next evening and so on like that. They couldn’t kill much of any kind of animals to eat. [They had bad luck with all kinds of hunting.] At last they [John’s grandfather’s family and the P family] got to a branch of the river, and they left the P family, they didn’t stay with them through the year. In prior years, when the two families were together, the old man never used to play with the conjuring tent that way, every evening. That old man, when he was playing with the conjuring tent, he has lots of other Mistabeos in there, too. Some of those other Mistabeos, when they heard him talking in there, they said, “You shouldn’t do that, conjuring the other old man. You are going to

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get killed.” (These were the other Mistabeos inside the tent; he got talk [warning] from them.) That’s what they told him, “The other old man is conjuring, he has got more Mistabeos and more strength in doing the kwashapshigan.” That’s what some of the Mistabeos told him. (Not all people who make the conjuring tent can do as well at it. Some people can do a lot, some can’t do so much.) [Afterwards] the woman from Waswanipi told this story. Robert P couldn’t tell it because he ate his mother and father and his brothers. She said every night they were making the conjuring tent. She said you could hear the fighting inside the tent. All of this old man’s sons didn’t like the other old man (Meskino); they wanted to kill him. The other old man, he was only alone. When they made the conjuring tent, they could hear this old man in there, he told them that they couldn’t kill him. Then, even at a good place for fishing, they couldn’t kill any fish. They couldn’t make their living very well, and their appetites were very large; before that time any one of P’s sons could eat ten rabbits (these rabbits were small). They couldn’t have enough to eat. [The sons had abnormally large, perhaps insatiable, appetites.] Only the old man couldn’t eat that much, he ate six rabbits at one meal. That’s how they knew that they were going to have very bad luck, eating so much. When they had a big appetite like that and had no food, the woman [from Waswanipi, who originally narrated this story] figured they would soon be eating something they should not be eating. (That’s why my grandfather thought he wouldn’t stay with them, they were eating so much.) All of them managed to get a little fish at a time, but they couldn’t get enough to eat. As the cold weather came, they got worse and worse. So two of the married sons left their father there and went in another direction. So he still had four sons with him, and a son-in-law, too. So there were still six men in all (and the old man). The two sons left their father before Christmas. Then the old man still couldn’t get much; sometimes there were only two rabbits for all of them. The women couldn’t have anything then, because the men could each eat ten rabbits, and himself six. They then started to get thinner and thinner. They were shifting now and again; they couldn’t stay in one place. They were trying to get to lakes where they could fish. So they didn’t play it anymore, they quit playing with the conjuring tent. The old man knew that the other old man [Meskino]

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was going to kill them all. They could get only two fish in a day. And when they were having such big appetites that was very little. At last some of them couldn’t walk. At last one of his sons, who was out looking for partridges, starved while he was out (couldn’t come home). That was the husband of the woman from Waswanipi. When he didn’t come back, the old man didn’t even say to follow his tracks. Then this woman, when her husband didn’t come home, and she heard that the old man was going to shift the next day, she went out to follow her husband’s tracks. She found him starved. She thought the old man would say to bury his son before they shifted. When she got home, she told the old man. But the old man didn’t even say to bury his son, he still said that they were going to shift. So then the woman couldn’t go back that day, she had to go where it was good for fishing. When they got there they couldn’t kill any fish. She started then for her husband’s body, to get some brush to cover him up. She couldn’t even dig a grave; she hadn’t eaten for two days. That day was the third day nobody ate. They kept on hunting, but they couldn’t kill anything. At last they had been staying there about ten days without eating. Some of the men couldn’t walk anymore. Same with the old man, too, he couldn’t walk. So this woman stayed inside the tent, too. Then old man P said, “I guess we are going to starve all right. I’ll try to get something to eat.” So he wanted a needle from his wife, and a knife. So one of his veins, on his leg – he used the needle to pull it up and the knife to cut it off. He got quite a lot of blood that way. Then he started cooking it. Then he told his sons to eat it. This woman from Waswanipi thought, “I’m not going to eat any.” After it was cooked, he passed it around. At last it got to the woman from Waswanipi. The old man said, “The one who is not going to eat it is not going to see the time of year when everything’s growing.” This woman thought she wouldn’t eat it. She thought if she didn’t eat it she would still manage to be alive. So she didn’t eat it. One of the sons told the old man that she didn’t eat it. He told his daughter-in-law she was not going to see the time when everything grows. So next morning she left them there.20 (That’s why the two sons ate their father and their mother, because the father made them eat his blood.) She left them there, and that day she got one partridge.

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She started to look for rabbit tracks, too, and make snares. She killed another two partridges that day while she was setting snares. This woman knew that the other women couldn’t even cut wood. They couldn’t do much. She thought if she could make it for a week, then she would go to see what they were doing. When she got there, all that was left was two men. All the rest were dead. She saw the bones of what these two had eaten, their father and their mother. There were some kids there, too. I don’t know how many there were. My grandmother told me, but I don’t remember. Some girls, too, they were pretty near grown. The two men went out right away, when they saw the woman; they wanted to feed the woman what they had been eating. “I have something to eat in my bag,” she said. She went back to her little tent for a week. Then she was sure that these two men ate all of the other people. This woman remembered that she had told the men where her husband had starved and she thought that they would go there and eat him. So when she got to her little tent she killed quite a few rabbits to eat. (From there she couldn’t always find something to eat.) At last it was a stormy day, and she took the toboggan to go for her husband’s body. She made circles to hide the place where her husband’s body was. Then she managed to dig a hole for her husband’s body. She couldn’t go in the tent where the two men were. She was afraid of them. So she wanted to leave the men. The reason she didn’t want to come down to the coast was that she thought maybe the two other families had made their living. If the other two families came for their canoes (in the spring) then she could stay with them, she thought. She didn’t want to go there anymore, where the two men were. She knew that they had eaten the others already. (The reason they had done that was that they had eaten their father’s blood.) She was afraid that if she went back they would kill her. So where they had left their canoes, that’s where she stayed. She was able to get her living there, waiting for the other two families. Before the two families could arrive, the two men who had eaten their family got to the canoes, where she was staying. She was frightened right away. She had everything, rabbits, and fish; she had started to get fish now. (The season was far enough advanced.) So she started to feed them what she had. They didn’t eat right away, only after awhile.21

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She told the two men that she was waiting for the other two families. The two men told her, “Likely they will come, because they can’t make their canoe.” At last the ice started to get bad. Then they were sure that the other two families wouldn’t come to that place, it was so late. They were starting to kill fish while they were there. When they saw the late spring like that, they were sure that the other two families starved, too. Just the three of them were left there. These men didn’t even tell one story of what they had been doing.22 Then when there was open water, the woman asked the men if they could go down (to the hbc post). At last she got a few words from them, they said, “If we go down there, they will kill us for what we’ve been doing.” And this woman told the two men to take down the fur. “If you take down the fur, no one will know what you are doing.” “They will soon know what we have been doing,” they said. So they stayed there all summer, then it started to get cold weather again, and these two men started eating lots again. [Their unnatural appetite began to manifest itself again.] They didn’t even think to go down that summer. Then she was sorry that last year she didn’t try to go down, instead of coming where the canoes were. She was very sorry she didn’t go down. At last it was freeze-up. One day, the youngest brother told his brother to come and open the door, because he saw a squirrel out there. After they ran out of the tent, she could hear them. She heard a shot outside, and she was sure one of them got hit. After she went out, she saw one of them was shot. She asked him what they were doing. She couldn’t help him, the blood kept leaking. Then the older brother said his younger brother shot him. He told his brother, “I didn’t want to shoot you. It was an accident.” At last the blood didn’t come out anymore, and the oldest brother got very sick. At last he died. (At this time, the ice was so thin that they could only go along the shore.) What this woman thought was, “I wish we could dig a grave to bury him.” It was in the night when the brother died, and the next day the other brother didn’t say anything about a grave. Then she told the man to dig the grave for his brother’s body. He told her he wasn’t going to bury it. This woman was scared right away, she thought he was going to do something.

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So another night came, and he didn’t say that he was going to bury his brother. The next morning they got up and they didn’t have anything to eat. They didn’t have any meat. She saw him pull a knife from the side of the tent and a file, too, and started to sharpen his knife. Then the woman was pretty sure that he was going to cut some off his brother. So she started to put on her clothes, and the young man asked her, “Why are you putting on your clothes (cold weather clothes)?” She told him, “I’m going to cut some wood.” So she started to carry the wood three times before she left. When she went out the third time she just kept going. She walked all night to Eastmain. My grandmother told me that the woman from Waswanipi didn’t have to cross any big rivers, the side she was on, just small ones. [They would already have frozen over.] The man who was there to look after Eastmain [a small outpost of Waskaganish] was named Corston. At last she got down to Eastmain. By the time she got down, the ice was hard enough for her to go across the [Eastmain] river [to the place where Corston was staying]. She told Corston all that they had been doing. She thought that the two families might be still alive, that maybe someone had seen them. Then after she told him the story, she asked if anyone had seen them. Corston told her that nobody had seen them. Then she knew that they had starved. At that time, when people were lost, they didn’t even think to look for them right away. That’s the kind of bosses they were long ago. [The bosses were unconcerned about the perils of starvation or the tragedy of death without burial, and the anguish of other Natives to know if the people were, in fact, dead, and how they had died.] So Corston sent a letter by dogsled to Waskaganish, to tell the boss (those Natives were Waskaganish Natives). He told all the story. Corston expected the young man [Robert P] to come down to Eastmain after the woman. The Waskaganish boss sent the mail servant from Eastmain back right away to where there was an old man, old Jacob, John’s grandfather (his wife’s father’s father). The Waskaganish boss told the man at Eastmain not to tell Robert when he got down that the woman was with Jacob. “Try to get a few words from him about what happened.”

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So the servant, when he got back to Eastmain, took the woman down to where old Jacob was. At that time, Corston had two sons, and he was keeping another boy. There were four of them. So at last this young P managed to get to Eastmain from inland. The Waskaganish boss had told Corston to let him know. So Corston sent one man. Then the Waskaganish boss sent a team of dogs to go and get him. Young P told Corston a little bit, that they all died except the woman from Waswanipi and one of his brothers. When they started to feed him he didn’t eat right away. He was just sitting, like thinking. So one of Corston’s boys told him to eat, “There is some grub for you.” Then the other Corston boy said if P didn’t take and eat from the food that Corston gave him, he’s going to take a gun and shoot him, but he was talking English, and Robert P didn’t understand. This Waskaganish boss had told Corston, “If the boys there want to do something bad to him, send him right down. Don’t try to kill him. I’m going to try to do what is right.” The Waskaganish boss sent one of his servants with a team of dogs to go and get P. Old Jacob was keeping the woman at the Jack River. They told him to hide the woman when P came by there. So the servant went on to Eastmain, after he told Jacob about this. Corston sent a letter with all that the young man said, so that the boss had all that story. When they came down, they slept at the place where this woman was. John’s mother (she wasn’t married then) took the woman to an old tent out on the side, and they slept there. (The woman told my mother every word of it.) Then the next morning they took the young man to Waskaganish. The same day Corston’s boy came to Jacob’s from Eastmain to pick up the woman to take her to Waskaganish. “P must be there already,” he told them. So the next day [after Robert was brought down] John’s grandfather went right down, with the woman, to Waskaganish (he didn’t wait for anyone to come for her). When my grandfather brought the woman, the boss kept her at the staff house. [She was not put up by one of the other Native families at Waskaganish.] They wanted to have a trial when Robert came, with the boss and the parson. The boss had letters telling what had happened. He asked the man just to see what he would say. There was a man here named Kepan, he was a foreman for men who were working. They gave Robert to him to keep him until the woman came.

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Then when the woman came, she stayed at the hbc residence. Then they had the trial. They asked for Robert P first. They asked him questions about all that had happened. They asked him if his father was sick when he died. He said the father wasn’t sick, he was starving, and the mother, too. And they asked him about the brothers, too – what happened to them. So then the men talked to P, and asked him what happened. And the boss talked to him especially. He asked him how many of them were alive. And he told him there was the woman, and his brother and himself, three of them. They asked the young man about the woman. He told them that the woman came down this way. “When I got down to Eastmain, Corston told me he didn’t find the woman. Maybe she drowned,” he said. The boss asked him why she came down alone. P told the boss that he didn’t know the reason why the woman left him. “Did you try to kill her, or did she see you trying to do anything?” the boss asked him. “No, I didn’t try to kill her,” said the man. He hadn’t told the boss yet the reason this woman left when she saw him sharpen his knife. Then the next thing the boss asked, “What did you do with your father and your mother and your brothers? Did you make graves? All the brothers that died, you saw everyone die. Did you make their graves, and do right?” Then he couldn’t talk; he just sat there. Then the boss took a hold of his ears and said, “Do you hear me, boy? My questions?” And he answered the boss that he couldn’t bury them, because he didn’t have very much to eat. (He couldn’t go out to do each one.) [He is saying that weakness from starvation prevented him from doing this work.] And the boss said, “They all died in one place, those brothers.” The man said, “No, two of my brothers left before Christmas. I didn’t know what they had been doing. Maybe that’s where they starved, over there.” Then the boss asked him, “Did you have any fur, before the other brothers starved?” “Yes, there’s quite a bit of fur over there,” he told him. They had been hanging it, the way the Natives used to do [in a cache?]. The boss asked him, “Why didn’t you bring it down?” The boss told him, “What you should do, when your father died, and your mother, you should have come right down and told about it. I don’t see why you didn’t come down and tell us about it.”

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He asked him all sorts of things. He asked the man if he got sick. He asked him everything. So he just didn’t talk to him then for awhile. “All the brothers that died, was it sickness or starved?” he asked him. “All my story is true,” he said, “All my brothers and father and mother, they all starved.” The boss didn’t listen to the young man. After three days’ time, then they got after him again. The young man didn’t even know the woman was there. There were two of them when they talked to him, the parson and the boss. They wanted to find out what exactly they had been doing. They kept him in the kitchen there. That’s where they were talking to him. (My grandfather was here at that time, too. They told him to watch him.) Then the boss asked the young man if all the stories that he had told were true. “That’s true,” he said. The boss’s wife was there, and a lot of other men. The boss told him, “All the stories you told us, I don’t think they’re true. Did you eat your father or your mother?” he asked him. “No,” he said, “I didn’t eat my father and my mother.” They told him, “You’re lying!” Then the boss opened the room door, and told the woman to come in to the kitchen. He took the woman by the shoulder and brought her in front of the young man. He put a chair for the woman to sit in. That’s the first time that he knew that the woman was alive. The boss said that the young man wasn’t telling that he had eaten his father and his mother and that the woman had given them the story. “You see this woman. She brought the whole story of what’s been happening.” “The woman’s story is true,” the boss said. “Your story is not true.” So they told him that this woman saw the young man with his father’s bones. “All the rest of them, your father and your mother and the women and the babies were all starving [starved to death] and this woman saw that they were still lying in the tent. This woman saw them when she saw you eating your father, you and your brother.” Then they asked him, “Is it true that you ate them?” He didn’t say anything. “This woman told that you’ve been eating all those people, you left the bodies till after you ate them all. The first bad thing you did was when you ate the blood your father gave,” they told him.

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Then he wanted to put this woman in trouble. “She ate the same thing, too,” he said. “I don’t think that’s true,” they told him, “because when they first fed the woman when she got down to Eastmain, she ate right away. It’s you that didn’t eat when you got to Eastmain. They gave you food and you just sat there thinking. Then they told you to eat, and you started to eat then.” “Please tell us if that’s true, if you ate your father and mother and brothers, and if you ate the blood, too,” the boss said. Then the boss told my grandfather to talk to him about it. Still he didn’t say a word, when my grandfather asked him. Then they asked the parson to ask him. The parson got up and got hold of the man’s ears and shook him and told him to tell if he ate them. My grandfather told him the same, and the boss. And my grandfather told him, “You only have a couple of words to say, ‘Yes,’ or ‘no.’” At last he said, “Yes.” “Your brother, too?” they asked him. “Yes.” And then the parson told him there couldn’t be a worse person in the world. They didn’t listen to the man’s story, just the woman’s story. So the boss sent a letter outside, to tell them what the boy did. So the big boss told the Waskaganish boss to send the man up inland. And the woman, send her back to Waswanipi. The reason I heard this story, my mother was a girl at that time. (Anderson comments that he now lives in the same kitchen building where this questioning happened.) They didn’t want him anymore on the Eastmain side. They didn’t want him to do the same thing again. Then the boss wanted to find the body of the brother. The boss asked my grandfather to go, but he had a sore knee at that time, it had been sore for some time, and when he got back to his tent, it was really bad. Old Jacob had a son, they call him Tommy. [John’s wife’s father.] He wasn’t married at that time. He went up, there were six of them that went up, and they had a lot of fur up there. When they got up where the tent had been, the brush (floor covering) that they had in the tent was still there and they saw the blood there. They thought he just ate it a little. They didn’t dig up the grave, they just used a stick to (probe and) find out. They couldn’t find one leg and one arm. They thought that some of the body wasn’t

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there. If my grandfather had gone there he would have dug it. One of the old men at Eastmain who went there said to dig it, but they were scared to see a dead body. After they got back, they told them that they should have looked at it, to make sure. So they brought down all the fur. (Anderson says it’s a very strange story, that they couldn’t eat all the furs when he was starving; why couldn’t he eat the furs?) [I suggested that maybe they went sort of crazy.] ( Anderson replied that he guessed so; that when Natives were starving and they had furs, why they would eat them.) The boss was very sorry that they couldn’t dig that grave. If John’s father had gone he would have dug it. So the boss sent the man up inland to Mistassini, and the woman to Waswanipi. The boss expected him to get crazy again and kill somebody. He stayed there for many years and never did anything bad. He lived just like Mistassini Natives after he stayed many years. At last he got a wife there. (Anderson: I saw him many times myself.) Some of the Mistassini Natives were scared of him at first, they asked him to stay with other Natives. They were scared because they heard the story. When he first tried to get a wife, the girl didn’t want to, she was scared that if she married him he would eat her! [This idea brought laughter from John.] He didn’t get a wife right away. He asked three girls, before he could get a wife. All the three girls said the same, that they were afraid that he would eat them. In trying to understand the full import of this series of events, one is struck by the difficulty of making an acceptable and accurate interpretation. The source is a woman who may have misconstrued events due to her emotional and physical deprivation. The alternative source is the single other survivor, whose responses are few and poorly explanatory, and who also was living in great emotional and physical deprivation. The task of the hbc manager was left unresolved by the failure of the search party to dig the grave of the last brother to die. The extraordinary appetite of Robert P had been understood differently by Anderson Jolly, a man in his sixties who translated and thereby heard this narrative for the first time. He was very interested in the events, and commented to me that he had known that Robert was called

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“Atooshish” (little cannibal), but Anderson had thought that the label was given after Robert once ate the meat of the entire head of a bear. As this narrative demonstrates, conjuring and the Mistabeopersons are integral with the whole world of the Eastern Cree. Saying this puts conjuring power in its appropriate, inherent Cree context – as expressing and seeking to influence the relationships of Cree menin-nature. This context is expressed by the acts of conjuring in the narrative of the P family. The sorcery side of conjuring begins in a particular and focused case of animosity, and it ends in the more powerful and pervasive setting of almost total adversity that renders further attempts at conjuring quite futile, in either its expressive or its instrumental aspects. The power in sorcery is, then, susceptible to being rendered weak or unreliable. The practical business of getting a living was “spoiled” by Meskino’s more powerful conjuring, yet people continued to try, and the woman from Waswanipi was able to survive with her humanity intact. There is another side to this contest, however, since the weakened power of old man P (in hunting, conjuring, and maintaining his humanity) was partly a result of his morally wrong intentions and actions. A Mistabeo told him that he was wrong to treat Meskino’s daughter as he did, and this was a warning to him. His contest was not equal in moral strength or in conjuring strength. The ideals of ethical behaviour that are supposed to be expressed in conjuring also may be rendered ambiguous in actual practice. These aspects are illustrated in the following narratives.

john heard this from his grandmother John is sure about this story, how his grandmother and grandfather saw it. The old man who beat old man P was Meskino. That’s just my grandfather’s father [grandmother’s husband’s father]. This old man killed a woman and one kid. He killed them because the woman got crazy, and ran away with one of her kids.23 I don’t know whereabouts the woman got lost when she ran away like that. Eastmain or Mistassini or Nichikun, I don’t where where this woman belonged. She didn’t belong with Meskino. This woman was going around inland. Sometimes this woman flew up, some places [on the ground she] touched, there.24

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Meskino’s Mistabeo told him, “The woman is very near. It would be pretty hard to keep the woman, sometimes she’s very bad, sometimes she’s pretty near right. When she wants something to eat and she can’t find anything, she looks for a place where people have been buried, and then digs it, and eats it. [The corpse would be frozen?] “When the kid runs away from her, she still [catches her and] keeps her. The little kid doesn’t eat what her mother eats. This woman has a bow and arrow, and she kills partridges. After she kills it she starts to pluck it and gives it to the little kid. That’s what the kid eats.” Then Meskino told his son [John’s grandfather] where their canoe was put up for the winter and to go and get it. “You’ll go for it in the morning,” he told his son. Then this Mistabeo went to see the old man again, before the boy went for the canoe. “That’s where she [the crazy woman] is,” he said, “the one that’s flying up sometimes, and sometimes she’ll touch there, on the ground.” “That’s where she’s waiting for you,” the Mistabeo said. “You shouldn’t send a kid over there, a boy. She’s pretty strong now. The best thing to do is to go yourself, and if you go, I’ll go with you. It’s the woman. Whenever she wants to eat, that’s what she’s looking for, people who have been buried. She digs it and she eats it.” Then the Mistabeo told him he could get a hold of her and bring her inside the tent. Then the Mistabeo said that the best thing was not to bring them in there, because in no time at all she would kill somebody and eat them up. “That’s a woman,” he said, “that’s not a man. This woman ran away,” said the Mistabeo, “she got crazy. “Then she got worse and worse. Just like a real atoosh,” he said. So he told him, “The best thing is for you to kill the woman, and the kid, too. If you were going to send your boy, as soon as the boy got to the canoe she would find him and kill him. Then she would eat him.” Then the Mistabeo told him that if he would go himself, that he would go with him, and then the Mistabeo could send her away from there, away from Meskino’s place. So Meskino went to get his canoe. Then the Mistabeo told him, “Just wherever you go, that’s where she’s going to follow after you.” At that time, near his tent was a big hill. “That’s where this woman’s going to be, at the top of the hill, and then I’m going to watch her from there.” When Meskino got to the place where the canoe was, his Mistabeo was there, too. Meskino saw tracks of the kid and the woman, too.

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Then the Mistabeo turned over the canoe, and from under the canoe the woman ran out, grabbing the kid with one hand, and she had the bow in the other hand. And then, while this woman was up there on the hill, they (Meskino had two wives [sisters], the oldest had only one child – that was my grandfather and the other had seven kids, one boy. And he had a daughter-in-law, too) can hear this crazy woman’s kid playing on top of the hill. After he had brought this old canoe, they could hear that kid up on the mountain, calling out. He didn’t even tell his wife; all he told her was that she was going to hear someone on the hill. Then even my grandmother could hear the kid calling out. At last Meskino made a conjuring tent. That’s what the Mistabeo told Meskino in his conjuring tent, that he didn’t want the crazy woman to live anymore.25 Then the Mistabeo told where this woman is. The Mistabeo told Meskino, “If you’ll leave this place here, then you can kill them. Tomorrow, I’m going to be up there with that woman, too. You come there to see us with a fish in each hand. When you come there with the two fish, give one to the woman, and she’s not going to take it, and give one to the girl, and she’s going to take it right away.” That evening, his daughter-in-law cooked him two fish, and he went out with one in each hand. It was near sunset when he went out. Later he showed a fish to his wife. “That’s the fish I took to the mountain, where the crazy woman is. But she didn’t take the fish.” They had been scared at that time. So after the old man took the fish up there, they could still hear the little kid calling out. (He didn’t kill her yet. He just took the fish up. His Mistabeo wanted him to take the fish up just to see that she wouldn’t eat it.)26 Finally, Meskino had to go away from there in the canoe. Then Meskino told his family, “That’s the last time we’re going to be here using a canoe.” That evening the Mistabeo went to see Meskino again. The Mistabeo told Meskino, “This is the evening I want you to kill them.” Next morning they were going to go [away], then, that evening he wanted a handkerchief to tie his head. He said that his Mistabeo told him that when they started to kill the woman they would hear them calling out. After he tied his head with the handkerchief, then he ran out. The mountain was not very far from there. Then they heard someone screaming, they could tell it was the woman’s voice. Then they heard the little kid screaming too. The Mistabeo told old man

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Meskino that he could take that little girl into his tent. Then if he took her into his tent and brought her up, she would be just like her mother. Then the Mistabeo told Meskino that it’s the best thing not to have the girl, then, if she had the same thing that her mother had, it would be still worse. His Mistabeo told him, “The best thing to do with the woman and the kid is to kill them.” That’s what old Meskino did, he killed the woman and the kid. Then he burned them. That’s the Mistabeo’s orders. He could put them in the water, like drown them, as another way of putting them, or he could burn them up. That woman loved children very much, that’s why she took the kid with her. That’s why she didn’t kill the kid too. If Meskino didn’t kill the woman, she would go around like an atoosh, killing people. Meskino was very sorry to kill the kid, because she wasn’t doing what her mother was doing, yet. He asked his Mistabeo, but the Mistabeo didn’t agree, he told him the child would follow what the mother had been doing. Meskino apparently wished to save the child and raise it with his own family. But the Mistabeo takes a different ethical position, that the child is somehow fated to become crazy and cannibalistic. During a later reference to this story, Anderson Jolly remembered that he knew one of old Meskino’s sons, George Meskino. “He was a funny old man, that George Meskino. He drew a ship with a pencil – he was a pure Indian – you’d have thought it was a picture (photo), with the rocks and all – he was very good at it. Just by his dreams. The boss saw it, and after he saw it he asked George if he could have it for good. George said he wouldn’t give it. The boss asked him to make one, then. That’s how they got him to make it – in the (hbc) office – so he made one.” Anderson then related this to John in Cree, who added that George drew houses, too. Anderson continued: “He had a Mistabeo himself, too. I saw him playing with a shaking tent. “Some of the Indians were afraid of that old man they called Meskino. He had a woollen cap, a round cap. He never used to get his hat at the store. Sometimes he had a straw hat. He used to get his wife to make his hat out of wool. I don’t think there’s anyone around here at Waskaganish now who could play with the conjuring tent, I don’t know.” [Anderson Jolly wasn’t sure, though he had lived among the fifty households here for many years! Perhaps some could but at that time

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were (probably) no longer able? This lack of knowledge on Anderson’s part illustrates an aspect of social isolation.] “Well, that old man, he must have had a bad brain. [?] That’s the one that he is. [?] The one that keeps him inside the shaking tent.” [These last comments by Anderson are puzzling in their intent, perhaps a disavowal of the virtues of conjuring, which Anderson does not seem to put much faith in anymore.] Narrated by John Blackned My grandmother said he [Meskino] is very good at it [conjuring]. He could take one of those people – they call ’em pawts – and they could hear them talking inside – not only one inside. And they could hear him talking just like English words; some of them talk Indian, of course. They talked to the people, the ones that were inside the conjuring tent. The people inside that they called pawts, they knew the people were scared of them. This pawt talked to the women outside the conjuring tent, he told them, “I know all of you are scared of me, you are afraid because of your children [pawts steal children]. Nobody notices me when I am going into people’s tents – nobody knows when I’m there.” The Mistabeo said, “That’s true, what the pawt said – he has a little box that he opens up when he goes in a tent, and while the box is open, the people can’t wake up.” One time Meskino was playing with the conjuring tent way up inland and still the Mistabeo could tell the news to Meskino while he was inside there. Far down at Eastmain someone killed his wife, still the Mistabeo told Meskino about it. Meskino didn’t want to believe his Mistabeo, he wanted to go and see if his Mistabeo was right. Then the Mistabeo told Meskino, “When you were making the shaking tent, then yesterday, that’s the time the man killed his wife at Eastmain. This man wanted to kill his wife; he didn’t just accidentally do it. He wanted to get married to another woman, that’s why he killed her.” That’s why my grandmother thought a lot of Meskino – he could tell of events from that far. So Meskino thought he would go down the Eastmain River. “The woman had got hold of her baby, giving him suck, at the time when she got killed. He used the back of his paddle, right on the back of her head. She couldn’t even lift the baby to go – she died like that, holding the baby. If you will go down (to Eastmain) and come up that way, that’s the time you’ll see about that,” his

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Mistabeo told him. Then the Mistabeo told him not to make any more conjuring tent while he went down the river, till he came up again. “That’s when you make it again. Before you get to Eastmain you’ll see the man who lost his wife, killed his wife. He’ll tell you about the story, his wife drowned. This man went to shore and pulled the canoe up. Then he got ahold of a paddle and knocked her. She and the baby fell beside the canoe in the water.” He went down the Eastmain River. Before he got to Eastmain, he saw the man who killed his wife. Just like the Mistabeo told him – the man told him how he lost his wife – he upset his canoe and that’s how his wife drowned. Meskino didn’t say a word to the man. [By subtle implication, Meskino is expressing doubt of the man’s narration.] He’d rather believe his Mistabeo than believe the man. There were more people there besides the one who killed his wife. “Don’t look for the body of the woman right there – then when you come this way again, that’s the time you’ll see it’s true,” his Mistabeo had said. My grandmother heard all that the Mistabeo told him. So he went right down the Eastmain River then, and came to the post here. The other people went there, too, and this man, too. This man had another wife already. They came and got their stuff at Waskaganish post. They stayed and then went back the way he came – up the Eastmain River. He went up with some other people. At last they were nearly where the woman got lost. That time they didn’t have tents, just wigwams (michwap). They were inside and it was dark outside and someone called to Meskino, “About dinner time tomorrow, that’s when you’re going to see the news I told you. You’re not going to see it first, your wife will see it first, then you will see it. When you see the woman she’s going to be holding the baby just like when she was killed.” Next morning they went farther up the river where the man said his wife was drowned. Just about dinner time they got to the rapids. The men would pole up, the women would walk. While the women were walking the men could hear them calling out. Some of them ran back to their husbands coming up behind in the rapids. There were lots of men. The other men didn’t want to go themselves first, because they had heard the Mistabeo talking about it yesterday. So these men told their wives to go and stand opposite the body. They went ashore. So they saw the woman lying there in a dry place on the bank of the river – still holding

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the baby – it was quite a lot farther up the river where the man killed her. Still the bodies weren’t spoiled yet, just the same as if they had been dead only a few hours. “I don’t know how many months since the Mistabeo told the news,” my grandmother said. Where he hit his wife, they saw the mark there. They picked up the body, and they found a nice dry place. They stopped there for awhile and buried the woman and the kid. My grandmother said that the body didn’t spoil at all.27 The man who killed his wife was there when they found the body. That evening they didn’t sleep right there. Where they were going to sleep, Meskino wanted a conjuring tent there. They made one for him. So he started to play with it. He wanted all the men to sit right around the conjuring tent. The man who killed his wife was named Meywapo. (Anderson asks if it is the same man by that name who used to come here from Eastmain – it is not the same man.) Then the Mistabeo told this man that he wants to talk to him. He told him, “You said you upset the canoe, but you didn’t,” he told him, “I was watching you at the time.” Then the Mistabeo said, “You took the canoe ashore, and after you pulled the canoe up you took the paddle and hit your wife and you killed her. I was watching you. The reason was that you wanted to marry this woman here,” the Mistabeo told him. “When you got back you told this wife that your wife had drowned.” The Mistabeo told the man he had told the news to Meskino, and Meskino had gone down then. The Mistabeo told him, “You can’t expect to live long now. That’s a thing you shouldn’t do is kill your wife.” That year, the same year that the Mistabeo told the man from the conjuring tent, that’s the year the man died. The preceding narrative illustrates that wrong-doing, in its derivative form of narrations, serves as a moral force through defining the consequences of wrong beliefs or behaviours. The persons hearing the narrative would be reminded of the consequences of murder for greedy and selfish reasons, consequences that here include the failure of the corpses to decompose or even to separate and thereby appear less damning as evidence (one would not expect a woman to clutch her baby to her breast while undergoing a death by drowning and then being washed downstream), and the unexpected presence of another man’s Mistabeo as a witness to the deed. With respect to the Mistabeo’s defining qualities, the narrative illustrates the ability of the Mistabeo (and thereby, the man who

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conjures) to tell the news of events over long distances (“just like the spirit’s own radio”). The Mistabeo can see events in a greater-thanhuman dimension of space. In the following brief postscript on Meskino, we see the ability of the Mistabeo to see events in a greaterthan-human dimension of future time. Meskino had two wives, they were sisters. He had a Mistabeo, that’s why he could get two wives, they were afraid of him. The Mistabeo, from Meskino, he used to be talking about what would happen, like today [the way things are today at Waskaganish]. He said there would be lots of Whitemen around this place. He said there would be two kinds of Whitemen around this place. “When that time happens,” said his Mistabeo, “there’s going to be lots of sugar and flour and kinds of food. When that time comes, there won’t be much fur.” His Mistabeo said that he was trying to remember, far ahead – like, if that’s going to be happening. He would use twelve [upright] poles all the time (about twelve feet high and eight feet wide) [to make his kwashapshigan]. The preceding narratives point up the fact that every Cree individual is socially and ecologically very much on his own in a world over which he enjoys very little and very temporary control. The Eastern Cree world is characterized by a basic quality of contingency, and the importance of this quality to the whole of the culture makes an extended treatment, in the following chapters, quite appropriate. Since this quality of contingency has important relevance to the Mistabeo concept, I will also present a brief treatment here. The assertion that the Cree world is an essentially contingent one seems to almost automatically call forth the question “Contingent upon what?” The fact that the question can only be answered in generalities, such as “quirks of weather, animal migrations, etc.” is, in itself revealing. Precise answers are not easily given by the analyst or by the Cree, for the contingencies of the Cree world are not predictably patterned and directly apprehended in all their complexity. There is, in place of our sense of a system of natural laws, only a series of changing relationships, determined empirically, case by case, as practical and congenial ends are sought. The question “Contingent upon what?” underlies the daily life of the Eastern Cree individual, and often remains largely unanswered for him. In contrast to this, the general conceptual scheme of our Western scientific tradition holds as a basic assumption the belief that natural

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phenomena are governed by (discoverable) natural laws. These phenomena occur independently of, indeed quite separate from, human mental processes, except that our knowledge and technology have brought man to the point where he can control and manipulate most natural phenomena if he so desires. Almost anyone who has lived in the north would respond to this with the observation that the north is not an easy place to try to prove this assertion. For Native and Whiteman alike, the north is seemingly animistic in its indifference, stubbornness, and capriciousness. The best-laid plans must be modified to comply with problems that are either inadequately prepared for or unforeseen in the original plans. The positivistic confidence of the south receives sardonic hospitality in the north, and it is the patient and accommodating, observant and lucky individual who succeeds in his plans. If many non-northerners see man as “in control,” the northern Native knows his control to be quite limited. Very much the same contrast holds true with the conceptualization of the spiritual world. God is omnipotent, omniscient, and infallible, while the Mistabeo has more realistically modest qualities of power and knowledge, and probabilities of success. A man’s Mistabeo may be beaten in a fight with another spirit. He may also give unreliable information or advice. The people are aware of this, if they are wise, and maintain a respectful but not uncritical relationship. Thus Meskino went down to Eastmain to check on the information which his Mistabeo had told him, and was able to confirm it. In the story of the Hannah Bay Massacre, however, we see what happens when a Mistabeo gives morally and tactically poor advice and the people are foolish enough to accept it. The event took place in 1831 (Hind 1863:2:16–17; McLean 1932:99–100). Narrated by John Blackned I’ll tell you about the story of the Indians who killed their boss at Hannah Bay. The way I heard it, some time ago. There was a place there where they were doing trade, and there were some Indians near there. That’s where they used to get their supplies. Those Indians talked a little bit different from the Waskaganish Indians. From Hannah Bay this way, our language in Indian is different from what they use at Moose Factory.28 So the Moose Indians, they had been thinking a lot of their Mistabeo. And then one old man there, he had four sons and himself – five men altogether. And the old man had had a Mistabeo,

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but now his son had it.29 When the old man had gone into the conjuring house, it didn’t work very well, but he used to think a lot of it. So that’s where they got their supplies from, the Hannah Bay store. This white man who was the manager of the Hannah Bay store, he had other white men there to just work around – servants. This manager kept servants in his house. No Indians would stay in the manager’s house, just the servants. And this old man, he was hunting up the Hannah Bay River [Harricanaw River]. The old man used to play [midwajit] with the shaking tent, but his oldest son played with the conjuring tent now. This old man thought lots of his son when he did that. This oldest brother’s Mistabeo told him that to attack the Hannah Bay store was the only way they could live. As soon as they heard that, they were going to do the thing that the Mistabeo said. They didn’t even think that if they spoiled a thing (killed the boss) like that, they would get killed. They would sooner listen to what the Mistabeo said. The first time the Mistabeo told them to spoil the Hannah Bay store, they didn’t do it right away. Then, the second time they made the conjuring tent, the Mistabeo told them to kill the boss. The Mistabeo said, “That was the only way they were going to see the summer.”30 So they asked their father what they were going to do. And this old man said that they could do what the Mistabeo said. The Mistabeo told the oldest brother that when they got near to the Hannah Bay store they would leave their wives, and then go and fight from there. When they got near to the store, that’s when they started fixing their guns. They didn’t have rifles yet, just the old-fashioned guns [muskets]. Just when the manager had his dinner, that’s when they got there. And this servant, he didn’t live inside the quarters. He lived in the kitchen. At the time when he was in the kitchen, he saw the men run up with their guns. Then, he heard someone come and open the front door. He could hear someone fire their gun. So he ran out by the kitchen door. He started to run away from the store, and they fired at him just the same. He got hit on his hand. So they called out, “Don’t go after him.” He kept on going, and the brothers said that he would be dead before he could get to Moose because they saw that he was bleeding. They thought they hit him in the body, that’s why they said that. So he went to run way out on the ice. He didn’t have any mittens

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on the way, when he went to Moose, he couldn’t even use snowshoes when he ran. He must have had a tough time; his hand was bleeding all the time, with no mittens. It’s quite a ways from there [a good thirty air-miles along the shoreline!]. So he couldn’t get to Moose in one day, he slept on the ice. He managed to get to Moose. That’s how the people at Moose found out what happened at Hannah Bay. I don’t know how many people got killed. The boss and his wife and his kids, and one servant, too (John doesn’t know if these servants were married). The manager didn’t even get his meal before he got killed. The table was set up. So they started to wipe the blood. Where he was eating, they ate there themselves. The oldest brother, who went in the conjuring tent, he sat where the manager had been sitting. So after they took as much from the store as they could, they took the stuff away from there. After they killed the boss they went for their wives. They took everything that they could use to hunt. They didn’t stay there very long. Then they went out and stayed not very far from the store. So they sent out some men from Moose to kill the men who killed the manager. They said they were just to kill the men, and the boys who were big enough to remember the things that they had been doing. Those Moose Indians didn’t even do anything to the people they had killed, all they did was to pull them out of the building, and left them. The men who came for the killers stayed at the shore. They were kind of afraid of them. Some of them stayed outside watching. The killers didn’t come the next morning. Then they went to find them. When they got to the tent where the old man stayed none of the men were there. [They would be gone out during the day, hunting around.] They followed the trail of one of them. Soon they got up to the old man and he was making snares. So they talked to the old man and asked him why he did that, killing the manager. The old man told them it was his sons who did that. Then they told the old man that he should have stopped his sons from doing that. After they told him that, they shot him right away. He was still sitting there after they shot him, so they gave him another shot. So they followed the other ones, where they went. The one that played the conjuring tent, he went on the coast that day. They were after white birds, that’s where they went. This man that played with the conjuring tent had gone with his wife that day. At last she saw lots of men coming, chasing them. So she

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went to run near to her husband. She told her husband, “I guess they are coming after us.” So this woman hid herself behind her husband’s back. They couldn’t shoot the man because the woman was behind the man’s back. So they told the woman that they weren’t going to kill her, because she didn’t help them when they killed the manager. So she pushed herself away from her husband, and they shot the man. They went after all the men that killed the manager, and killed them all. And when they got back to where the women were, that’s where the boys were, the ones who were old enough to remember people doing like that. “Just the small boys who don’t remember things, don’t kill them,” that’s what they were told at Moose. One of the old man’s sons had a son who was that small. And some old people from around here, older than me, have seen that [man] when he was a baby. Long ago he was at Nemiska. They didn’t kill the women. So they were the ones that told all that happened at Hannah Bay. They told people that the reason they did that was because they listened to that conjuring tent, to what the Mistabeo said. They took the women right to Moose. And they sent a letter way outside to a boss, telling them what the Indians did at Hannah Bay. Then, what we heard, the manager at Waskaganish and at Moose, too, they got trouble from outside. The reason the Indians did that was because the manager wasn’t trying to help them. That’s what the big boss told the manager. I don’t know if that’s right. I heard that those Indians were hard up at the time. After that, those Moose Indians never used to play with that anymore, that kwashapshigan. Those people there who used to play with it, they knew then that it was not a very good thing. Even though a person can play at a conjuring tent, still, the way they thought, it’s not all true [what the Mistabeo tells is not reliable]. They had always been thinking that the conjuring tent was a pretty true thing. The Moose Indians never played with it after that. (This story was from Moose Indians.) The events of the preceding narratives repeatedly indicate physical hardship with spiritual attempts at coping, followed by physical consequences of spiritual efforts and guidance. There appears, for the

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outsider, to be some unexplained connection between the spiritual domain and the physical domain, between Mistabeo and man, that demands explanation. Most Westerners believe that mixing these domains constitutes a “weak inference.” One solution to the spirit-body relationship (in this case, the Mistabeo-man relationship) is the hypothesis that perhaps in all cultures there exists in the mind of the beholder a chronic tension between his concept of the incorporeal nature of the spirit and the corporeal manifestations of the spirit. In Christian belief, for example, God created the (corporeal) world, and with Adam’s rib he made woman. Jacob wrestled with a divine spirit (Genesis 32:24–30). Yet there is no necessary tension in the spirit-body relationships. If we assume that the Genesis narratives are a symbolic expression of feelings about creation and relationship between man and woman, rather than a history of corporeal events, the tension theory is only one alternative among many. Perhaps the corporeal-noncorporeal dichotomy is not appropriate in Cree culture,31 but rather an artifact of Western and other cultures. The combat of a Mistabeo with other Mistabeos or spirits (such as the bear-spirit or Misnaek) is accompanied by sounds of struggle, yet there is no bear or man doing the fighting. The spirits within the conjuring tent fight with the sounds, but not the bodies, of the creatures they represent. JC’s head is stroked (or so he is told by his Mistabeo) during the performance I witnessed. In another narrative, a conjuror feeds the men outside the tent with flesh from a caribou that they do not find and kill until a later date. The ability of conjurors (and some insane people) to fly in the air or send projectiles over great distances actually suggests to me a comparative ease in shifting from what in Western culture is called physical (corporeal) object to the category (again Western) of incorporeal mind/soul/spirit. If there is a dualistic opposition in this area of Cree culture, I have not learned of it. I suspect that Hallowell’s conception of metamorphosis in Ojibwa culture is far more relevant (1960:49–82). Between our Western dichotomy of empirical fact and mystical spirit we may find, for instance, that the Cree define certain “truth value” on the basis of what a man can see with his own eyes, complemented by what he may perceive with his “mind’s eye.” In this case, one’s truth value or confidence level may taper gradually with the directness of one’s perceptual information, until it reaches a state

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where one is “not sure” of the truth of something and diminishes finally into doubt and disbelief. I do not wish to imply that any people are unable to differentiate between “truth” and “falsity.” The distinction is clear enough, but it may often be taken in terms that are more complex than or different from those offered by our own traditional dichotomy. There is a range of probability or partial certainty that often lacks the apparent certainty of the true-false poles. This is not muddle-headedness, or a lack of appropriate logic, but rather it reflects the inherent nature of a contingent existence. The contingent worldview assumes that men have only a partial grasp of their situation, and that things do look different from different perspectives. Our combined traditions of empiricism and of rationalism impose a habit of judgment that too often leaves us distant from a contingent worldview, so that these qualities of experience easily, even comfortably, slip through our fingers. A style of thought that is outstandingly appropriate to the tough-minded manipulation of inanimate physical objects may dehumanize and miss the point of qualities of belief, thought, and action in other cultures (and in our own). But the difference between our truth-falsity dichotomy and a continuum of relative credibility is only one source of possible difficulty. Probably more important (or at least potentially more basic) are the nature of the basic assumptions about reality, truth, possibility and probability, etc. These assumptions or categories largely shape not only what men do with perceptions (the meanings they attach to sensations) but also what men selectively perceive in the first place. The really fundamental question that I face, as an ethnographer, is: What is the psychologically real perspective in Cree culture? I will illustrate my position with the narrative below. Where Western men in ordinary thought and conversation typically refer to man as distinct from animals, the Cree do not. Unless we make a conscious effort, we dichotomize man-animal. The Cree differentiate, but do not separate by a dichotomy. The bear is clearly differentiated from humans but also closely related to humans; the bear is, in many respects, quite like a man. And in the atiukan, the very old stories whose personalities and places are not known to people living now, the other animalpersons, as the people of that time, were able to talk to each other as men do now. They lived much as men do, in tents and by hunting, and in one case an animal-person had his own Mistabeo.

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Narrated by John Blackned The Indians of long ago believed (said) that Mistabeo was the first one on earth. They believed he could not find Indians. The only thing he could find was a wolverine. I told you the story about the Wolverine who was conjuring, that is why the Wolverine could conjure, because a Mistabeo found him. This was the time when animal-persons could talk. Then, when Indians came to be, people started to conjure and a Wolverine always entered a conjuring tent. As a Wolverine entered he would say, “I was the first one to make a shaking tent.” When the Wolverine used to conjure he always made fun of everything he conjured. He knew he was able to beat Skunk since he killed it. (This is why he was making fun of everything, because he was able to kill the Skunk.) He bragged about himself. As Indians came to be, the Wolverine started to be jealous of them, as they took his Mistabeo. Did you ever see a Wolverine? [No, I only saw it in pictures.] On the rear end of a Wolverine, he looks as if it was burned. He has a mark on his rear end. When Indians came to be, the Wolverine asked them, “Where did you get the fire?” The Wolverine thought this was his fire. The Indians did not tell the Wolverine where they got their fire. They said to the Wolverine, “Go ahead and make your own fire first. Make your own fire.” As the Wolverine was sitting, he started to rub the two stones together. Finally, it started to burn. Then, the Indians told the Wolverine that they would show him how they built a fire as they piled some wood. One of the Indians jumped over the wood and it started in flames. The Wolverine said to them, “You can’t beat me,” as he started making another fire. One of the Indians was wishing the Wolverine would burn. As the Wolverine jumped over the wood, his rear end started to burn. A lot of the Indians believe this story. The reason he was nasty to the Indians was because they took his Mistabeo away from him. He knew that his Mistabeo would leave him and never return. The Wolverine’s Mistabeo left for good.

the big skunk and wolverine story Narrated by John Blackned At one time the Skunk wasn’t the same size as it is now – they were larger than they are today. He used

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his widui [musk glands] to defend himself, and because of his enormous size he could kill with his widui. He didn’t use any other defense. One time all the animals were in one tent because of being scared of the Skunk. These were: Wolverine, Mink, Fisher, Lynx, Weasel, Squirrel, and any other animal that runs in the forest. And at one time there were no human beings. And they thought of themselves as the humans of that time, and gathered into one tent. When the Skunk is far off, and an animal crosses its trail, it knows what happens, [because] its widui quivers. If the other animals are certain that it is the Skunk’s trail, they always back away from this trail. They gathered under one tent from fear of this Skunk, and they tried to think of how they could get rid of this Skunk. The Wolverine was the head of the animals. He had a Mistabeo. He told his followers not to go near the path of the skunk. It was the Weasel that crossed the trail – he burrowed under the snow and came up close to the Skunk’s trail and saw it. The Wolverine didn’t find the trail when he came back (to the tent), and he asked the animals if anyone had seen the Skunk’s trail. The Weasel was expecting some trouble for what he did. And the Skunk knew that someone had been by his trail, and so he went back down his trail. While he was on his way back the animals in the tent went off and left that place. They settled in a new place for the night, and the Skunk reached the old place. In the morning they started out – but the Skunk was still on their trail. The Wolverine told his people that the Skunk would catch up with them that day. There was a lake there where they lay in waiting until the Skunk came. The Wolverine said he was going to bite the opening of the widui – to keep any from coming out – and the animals doubted if he could do it. They thought it would be the end of them. The Skunk came upon the Wolverine, who had dug a hole and was waiting. The Skunk asked the Wolverine and the people, “Why are you travelling such great distances?” And the Wolverine answered, “It’s because of your widui that everybody has to go away as far as possible.” The Wolverine was peeking through a little hole, and about this time the Skunk told him to look at him, face to face.

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He popped up his head to see, and the Skunk spun around, but the Wolverine sprang up and got his teeth into him, clamped down the opening and stopped the liquid from coming out. He had told his people once he closed the opening that they should come running. Once he had his teeth in, he shouted (but you could hardly hear him), “I’ve got the opening,” through his teeth. He called his people “his little brothers.” These people said, “Our brother is shouting.” They came running and found the Wolverine still hanging onto the Skunk’s widui opening. With their spears they started stabbing the Skunk. And finally the Skunk toppled over. Their brother fell with him but he still hung on. And then the Skunk didn’t move – they knew he was dead then. And he was still holding on when he said (through his teeth), “Little brothers, do you think he is dead now?” Pretty soon he let go, and he got some from the widui then. He said, “Little brothers, I don’t see you at all.” And he said he was going to run down to the bay, and after that they wouldn’t be able to drink that water. He said, “I will walk to the bay. The way I see it, I killed him, and I’m going to be the one to give the orders. You won’t have to be scared of the Skunk anywhere in the world.” He couldn’t see, he had his head bowed down, and he said, “You will cut him up into little pieces. There’s not going to be another one born that size. Throw a few pieces to the woods, but throw more into the bay.” They would still be afraid of the widui, but it woudn’t kill them anymore. And after he gave out these orders he told them he was going to go to the bay. And his little brothers asked him if they could go with him to the bay. He said, “No, don’t go with me.” They said, “Won’t you walk into trees on the way?” He said, “There’s only going to be one tree [of each kind] that I’m going to walk into, and then I’ll come out from the bush.” And he went and walked into a tree and asked the tree, “What kind of a tree are you?” And he walked into a pine tree, and he walked into another tree. He walked into another, and it was poplar. He walked into another tree, and this was balsam fir, and another, it was white spruce. And for every tree he walked into – the tree always talked to him. And the last one that he walked into told him that he was the only tree that stands around the

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bay. The last object he walked into was a bush, and he ran out into the bay. And he washed himself all over, and then he could hardly see. And he said, “There’s not going to be any person who can drink this water that’s in the bay.” And he said, “And there isn’t going to be a person that’s going to be killed by the Skunk.” And he went along the shore, looking around, and he remembered back about his little brothers and wondered how they were managing. And he came upon this great whale, and he took one of his ribs and used it as a bow, and after he made his bow he went home. And he came upon his little brothers that he had left behind. (And this is how far I remember this, because I heard this when I was very little. And that’s the animal that made the water unfit to drink.) A few years after I heard this narrative from John, I asked some further questions about it, and obtained a detailed account of the sequel to the segment John had told me. Before relating the sequel, John explained in detail the conjuring power of both Wolverine and Big Skunk. The first account lacked this detail, perhaps because of the youth and inexperience of the interpreter, or the latter’s selective omissions, or John’s omission of the detail at a time when I understood too little about conjuring to grasp accurately the importance and meaning of such information in this specific context. The following is his detail on the first part of the Big Skunk and Wolverine narrative. Wolverine was the boss, and he made the conjuring tent. He was in charge of all the other animals. The Wolverine had a Mistabeo, and his Mistabeo told him that if the Skunk reached them through their travels than he would kill them all. That is why the Wolverine was the boss, because he had a Mistabeo and also made a conjuring tent. They still made a mistake. As the Wolverine told them, if they saw tracks, “if you go near its tracks even if the animal is far away, he will still know.” The Weasel is the one who saw the tracks. The Weasel did not go on top of the snow but traveled under the snow and took a glimpse of the Skunk’s track, and the Skunk still knew it. The Weasel saw the track, but the Weasel thought the Skunk would not know since he traveled under the snow.

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The Skunk had conjuring in his widui [musk glands], and if anyone saw his tracks, his widui would quiver [inside him and thereby tell him]. As soon as someone saw his track, he would start following him. Then he finally finds where that person saw his tracks. He even knows if the person who saw his tracks is far away, as his widui tells him, depending where it quivers. He made a conjuring tent, and he knew the exact place where the Weasel saw his tracks. He finally came to the Weasel’s track, and then followed them. Of course, Wolverine’s Mistabeo told him all that Skunk was doing along his way. Wolverine told his brothers, as all the other animals were his brothers, that someone was following their trail. The Mink, Fisher, Lynx, Squirrel, Fly, said they did not see any tracks. Finally, the Weasel said he saw the tracks. He said that he didn’t follow the tracks but traveled under the snow and took a glimpse. The Wolverine told him, “He still knows you saw his tracks and he is following us.” The next morning, they started to move on their way. The Big Skunk followed them; he was not very far from them but did not reach them that day. So the next morning, the day after the Weasel saw the tracks, Wolverine made a conjuring tent. Again they traveled on. All these animals were just like people before people were known. The next morning, they still traveled on and again he made a conjuring tent. Mistabeo told him, “The Skunk is at the place where you first settled, he is spending the night there.” The detailed explanation above serves to illustrate that not all of conjuring involves a conjuring tent or the direct participation of the person of the Mistabeo. This is an important point that I will develop following the presentation of one more narrative. The sequel to the Big Skunk and Wolverine narrative deals with the first appearance of human persons in the world, and with the changing alliance of Wolverine’s Mistabeo. As part of the new set of relationships between different categories of persons in the world, Mistabeo relationships become the potential of men and no longer are found for other categories of persons (including, of course, Wolverine). In expressing the origins of the relationships between categories of persons, the narrative conveys some insights into the essence of these categories and their relationships.

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The Wolverine went back home. (I don’t know how long he was along the shore.) The Wolverine’s Mistabeo told him that he would be leaving him soon. When he [Wolverine] found the bones, he first made his bow, this was a great big whale that he found. The size of one rib was the length of his bow and it was never, never going to break. He cured his eyes with the salt water. The water was not going to taste like Skunk’s widui, but salty. That is why the water is salty because of the Skunk’s widui. There was a lot of water, Wolverine said, and it would be all salty.32 Finally, he went up again. Of course, he had a wife (another Wolverine) where he came from. His wife was dead but he had two children. He still wanted to go back. His Mistabeo told the Wolverine that Indians would be around. “You will be the food for these Indians,” Mistabeo told him. “All of your brothers will be food for these Indians, too.” All the different kinds of trees, this Wolverine called “brother.” “One thing you can have if you want,” Mistabeo told the Wolverine, “is the tree, you can talk to it, if you want to talk to it, and it will talk back.” Mistabeo told him, “Someone is taking care of your children. The one who is taking care of your children is very cruel to them. Indians have found them, already. You will see these people when you find your children. I will not be leaving yet, time will come when I will leave you,” Mistabeo told the Wolverine. Finally, he came to a tent where they were. There were huge tracks. He thought that was the size of the people, not realizing they were wearing snowshoes. Mistabeo had also told him, “The Indians collect the very best of everything, and what is no good, they hand down to your children.” Mistabeo told him, “There is a small wigwam where your children are.” There was nobody around when he arrived. He entered the small wigwam. The Wolverine’s children were inside. He asked them, “What do they feed you?” The Indians lived on caribou meat. The children said, “We only have the caribou liver.” He went out and entered the Indians’ (own) wigwam. He knew there were only children home. He asked one of the children, “Does your father have any grease?” The child answered, “Yes, he has some, it’s outside on top of the place where they keep their food.” Wolverine told the child, “Let us go there and see all his feast.”

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The child showed the Wolverine, “Here it is, his grease and also the good caribou meat.” The Wolverine took all the feast to his children’s wigwam. This Indian was supposed to be in charge of the feast. Wolverine had already asked the children where all the Indians were, why there was nobody home. This child said, “They killed a lot of caribou and are getting them.” After the Wolverine took the grease and the caribou, he opened it and started cooking for his children. He was so angry at the Indians for mistreating his children. After he finished eating, he followed the trail of the Indians who went for the caribou meat. He climbed up a tree that was overhanging the trail. One of the Indian children told him that his father would be home soon. As the man was heading back with a toboggan full of caribou meat, the Wolverine shot an arrow at him, at the back of the head from the tree.33 He knocked him right down. The Wolverine took the toboggan of meat and pushed the Indian on one side of the trail. He came back on the trail pulling the toboggan of caribou meat. When they saw the track, the other Indians said, “Our brother is back.” The Wolverine dragged the toboggan of meat to the small wigwam where his children were. (One of the Indian children did tell the Wolverine that his father was getting the best caribou meat.) When the other Indians came on the trail, they found their boss lying on the side of the trail. They knew that the Wolverine did the harm to their boss. They reached home and carried their caribou meat inside their wigwam. They started talking about the Wolverine and a solution to try and kill him. Mistabeo told the Wolverine that the Indians would try to kill him. He also told him to stop acting and treating these people in this manner. Mistabeo didn’t like the Wolverine killing the Indians. The Indians decided how to kill the Wolverine. “If we take sips of grease, we can hit the hot grease and it will burn his eyeballs.” Then they started gathering the fat from their caribou. His Mistabeo told him, “You will be sitting near the fire. Close your eyes (only) a bit. They will tell you, ‘We are taking a sip of grease.’ When you feel they are trying to hit the grease pan, then throw the grease pan in the fire.”

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So what he did, he opened his eyes a bit, and then when he thought they would hit the grease pan, he threw it in the fire. He ran out. After he ran out, the Wolverine told them, “I have a feeling you are trying to kill me.” The Indians discussed another solution to kill the Wolverine. They thought, “Maybe if we have a drink of very hot blood, that would really burn him. We can throw frozen flat grease in his bowl when he takes a drink of the hot blood,” they said. “We are taking a drink of blood,” that would be all they would tell the Wolverine. They started gathering the frozen flat grease and one of the men was to throw them while he was drinking the hot blood from a big plate. Of course, Mistabeo already told the Wolverine what they would try to do to him. They called him, “We are eating blood, we are having a feast of blood.” (When they had the grease, they had told him it was a feast too.) The Wolverine said, “My! They have a feast very often.” They told him he was invited, so he went. He knew what they would do to him. They told him where to sit and he said, “What a complicated feast.” He jumped up where he was supposed to sit. They gave him a large plate of blood. He was watching them from where he was sitting. Mistabeo told him again to throw it in the fire. They could not throw any frozen flat grease at him as he threw his plate of blood in the fire. Then he jumped down and ran out. He came to the door, saying, “I still think you are trying to kill me.” He told them, “Be careful of my young ones.” He left them (repeated) as Mistabeo told him to be by himself and to travel alone and that he would never be able to live with the Indians again. This is the end of the story. In our sense of the sequence of past events, this narrative would lead into the Chou-a narrative, since Chou-a was the first human to have a Mistabeo. I do not know whether such a connection is made by the Cree. The importance of the narrative lies more in the resolution of statuses, where humans take the preeminence among persons that was held before by Wolverine. And Wolverine, by killing a human, is told that he must travel alone, apart from humans. The implication here is that humans and wolverines conceivably could have coordinated their lives on a similar social level. This possibility was voided by the stinginess of humans towards Wolverine’s

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children, and by the subsequent loss of self-control by Wolverine, who in his anger commits a serious moral and tactical blunder in killing for reasons that are not acceptable to humans or to the Mistabeo. The possibility of a shared status demonstrates my earlier contention that the Cree differentiate human persons from animals, but not by means of dichotomy. Animal-persons share the world of the human persons, and spirit-persons are better seen in complementary relationships than as separate, opposed categories. To sum up my discussion of conjuring and the Mistabeo concept, I suggest that the conjuring tent ritual is properly subsumed under the more inclusive Mistabeo concept, for it functions as but one manifestation of the relationship between man and Mistabeo. Since the conjuring tent is the most obvious, dramatic, and accessible manifestation, it has been the most conspicuously reported and discussed in the anthropological literature. It would be a mistake to see the ritual as independent of a much more pervasive concept of the attending spirit, as I think I have adequately demonstrated. Without the Mistabeo, there is no possibility for a legitimate conjuring tent, yet men may have a Mistabeo and refuse to make a conjuring tent, preferring to maintain a different and perhaps less competitive or ambitious character of relationship to the attending spirit and to other persons. The conjuring tent aspect of the Mistabeo relationship is usually a more conspicuously public one. The conjuror has the aid of others in construction, for he normally does none of the labour himself, and he has the presence of others at the performances. But the conjuring tent may be undertaken in more private circumstances, although I do not fully understand the differences between this style of relationship to the Mistabeo and the relationship that exists independent of any use of a conjuring tent. The difference between the conjuring (public or private) and the man who has a Mistabeo but does not conjure is also not well understood. Apparently, the one who goes in the conjuring tent may call other spirits into the tent, while the man who does not “play” with the conjuring tent has, perhaps, less direct relationships with the other spirits. More research will be necessary to discover the answers to this question, although some information is presented in the following chapters. A brief comment on the use of the word “play” (midwajit) in reference to the performance: the implication of idle or non-directed or

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pointless activity is not appropriate in this context. To “play” with the conjuring tent serves, I believe, to point up the public nature of the ritual and to set the activity apart from everyday, ordinary work activity. On the other hand, teasing is a part of the ritual in the case witnessed, and the comparison to a magician’s performance is an important one. This is still an unanswered issue. Radin defines the Winnebago term (which he unfortunately does not give) for ceremonial playing as meaning “literally actions, affairs, play” and states that it is the regular ritualistic expression for a ceremony (1963:18f) (see the appendix). Ethnographic integration, or broad understandings of culture, for the Nouveau-Quebec area is in its very beginnings. One reason may be the lack of many long-term field workers in the area. Another reason may be the lack of much explicit indigenous generalizing or theorizing on any formal level. A final, and I think most important reason is that the basic nature of culture in this area is very difficult to grasp and translate into terms of anthropological theory; that is, the basic worldview is of a fundamentally different mode of apprehension from that of the culture of anthropology and the “personal cultures” of anthropologists. Its distinctiveness has been described by Speck (1935:23) and by Birket-Smith (Cooper 1946:282) as “archaic,” implying the survival of an isolated, more or less prototypic hunting culture. While the “archaic culture” concept may have validity, isolation has not been all that complete, and in many ways the culture may be interpreted as a sort of dilute form of Ojibwa culture, perhaps a case of Kroeber’s “reductive selection” (1952:374–95). But these issues are too vague to be very useful in ethnographic interpretation. Whether Cree culture is the prototype that was elaborated into Ojibwa or a marginal and poverty-stricken residue of Ojibwa culture is not likely to be resolved soon, and no doubt will resolve into a balance of both positions. On a personal bias, I am much more inclined to the prototype theory. To be more specific, I will return to Naskapi, Speck’s pioneering work of creative ethnology. Speck finds the worldview to be essentially “mystical,” and describes hunting as a “holy” occupation. While I am convinced that Speck is on to something of great importance, I believe that his concepts do not have the precision needed to accurately depict the indigenous vision of the world.

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Confusing the personal worldview of some cultures with “mysticism” may stem from a modern Western habit of thought, where vision-seeking ecstasies are seen as the dualistic opposite to our own “tough-minded” materialism. Other alternatives are, for us, lost or obscured between the extremes of the psychically exotic and the physically secure. Attempting the former, the conjuror earns our mixture of curious respect and ultimate disbelief (mitigated by a safe cultural distance). With scientific loyalty to the latter, many anthropologists risk the loss of relevant explanation and understanding, mitigated by (1) the confidence of positivism, (2) attempts at premeditated, parsimonious, and elegant originality, and (3) accumulation of vast amounts of data as an adequate value in itself. Valuable as these three characteristics are (and they are valuable), they are nevertheless guilty of constituting safe solace from the challenge of understanding fundamentally foreign and baffling configurations of meanings, thought, and action. To return to the specific level, I would like to point out a contrast to Speck’s approach, done on a related (Ojibwa) culture. This is A.I. Hallowell’s masterpiece, “The Role of Conjuring in Saulteaux Society.” Hallowell points up a basic limitation in the use of cultural relativity in the study of cultures. Citing Kohler, he shows that in the study of modes of perception, our own mode of perception is a disturbing influence. Anyone who has attempted to study the magicoreligious beliefs and practices of a primitive people soon becomes painfully aware of this difficulty. This area of thought, feeling, and action, more than any other, is so intrinsically bound up with native metaphysical notions that are not clearly defined or articulated that it is sometimes difficult to be absolutely certain of our grasp of it. Yet we know that their conduct proceeds on the basis of such assumptions. But, even at best, our comprehension of the belief system remains on the intellectual level. We never learn to feel and act as they do. Consequently, we never fully penetrate their behavioural world. (1942:3; emphasis is mine)

While I do not here presume to finally resolve any of the basic problems posed by the conjuring complex, I would like to add a question. To borrow a phrase from Sapir, “What is the psychological reality of the culture pattern?” For the conjuror and for the individuals in his audience, what is the reality that they perceive and participate in?

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If we admit that even one, out of all possible conjurors, sincerely believes in himself as a conjuror and in his relationship to the spirits with which he communicates, then we must ask, “What is the essential meaning of this belief, or what is its psychological reality?” Hallowell seems satisfied that most of the conjurors do believe in the reality of their conjuring, and I agree on this point. Clearly, many of the conjuror’s audience, including other conjurors, accept the conjuring as reality, and it seems appropriate to cite some of the evidence given by Hallowell on this subject. Hallowell quotes from early literature the words of two individuals: I have become a Christian, I am old, I am sick, I cannot live much longer, and I can do no other than speak the truth. Believe me, I did not deceive you at that time. I did not move the lodge. It was shaken by the power of the spirits. Nor did I speak with a double tongue. I only repeated to you what the spirits said to me. I heard their voices. The top of the lodge was filled with them, and before me the sky and wide lands lay expanded. I could see a great distance around me, and believed I could recognize the most distant objects … I possessed a power which I cannot explain or describe to you. I never attempted to move the lodge. I held communication with supernatural beings, or thinking minds, or spirits that acted upon my mind, or soul, and revealed to me such as I have described to you. (1942:74)

Our last testimony is that of Schoolcraft, describing the same individual whose statement is given above: “In reply to our inquiry as to the mode of procedure … he represents the agitation of the lodge to be due to currents of air, having the irregular and gyratory power of a whirlwind. He does not pretend that his responses were guided by truth, but on the contrary, affirms that they were given under the influence of the evil spirit”(1942:75; emphasis mine). The final statement above is convincing, for the man is admitting “the error of his ways” while not in any way doubting the reality of the experience. It is interesting to note that in the 1630s Father LeJeune, a sceptic at first, after travelling and living with the Indians, finally came to the conclusion that these conjurors were not faking, as he had initially believed, but were in league with the devil. He was not able to doubt the reality of the experience (Thwaites 1896:2:254ff).

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Hallowell does not wish to commit himself as to his own view of the reality, but asserts (rightly) that we must accept the sincere belief of the participant in what he is experiencing. I share Hallowell’s position. Now, if the conjuring is real to the conjuror, then we must assess his ability to gauge reality, and, in fairness to him, assess our own ability. We find the conjuror not mentally ill, nor mentally incompetent. On the contrary, he is in relatively good control of himself and, in fact, is usually a very sophisticated person. His grasp of reality is well developed and either carefully thought out or embodied in feelings and actions. The style and content of his knowledge is qualitatively different from our own, in keeping with differences in culturally patterned and individually distinctive modes of perceptions. L.B. Boyer, a psychiatrist who did two years’ fieldwork with the Apache, says: “those who become shamans may be innately creative individuals who have more capacity than their culture mates to use convincingly conscious and unconscious impostureship” (1964:254). Further, he says: “In general, based on their greater capacity to test reality and their ability to use regression in the service of the ego, they are healthier than their societal members” (Boyer et al. 1964:178). Ego service via creative regression aside, the point that shamans may be unusually creative, unusually able to test reality, and unusually healthy is an indication that, for at least some shamans, their grasp of the world is not easily dismissed as illusory. At this point I think that we should be relativists, and say that the conjuror’s world is as valid for him as ours is for us. Many anthropologists will not find this statement satisfactory, or will personally judge that conjurors have a poorer grasp of reality than we do, even if this pejorative addition is on an implicit level. The conjuror’s reality simply will not, it seems, integrate into our body of knowledge. I cannot resolve this dilemma here, nor does Hallowell. This is the basic problem that anthropologists have yet to cope with in a way that is at once analytical and relativistic. While I have tried to synthesize the conjuring-Mistabeo concepts, the attempt is, at best, a translation of meanings. Any such synthesis imposes Western and/or anthropological intellectual order onto a Cree pattern whose (Cree) sense of coherence is not obtained by intellectual ordering, as we understand that phrase. The Cree pattern is better and more accurately represented in the data that I have given

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so far as events and narratives that have a meaningful but not essentially intellectual integration. The Cree integration is not simply an uncritical (prelogical) hodgepodge of unconscious patterning, but rather a mixture of partially understood, partially related events, narratives, beliefs, and suspicions. Even in the case of exceptional persons like John, who is known as a repository of knowledge and belief, it is not a matter for critical analysis and generalization in the fashion of an ethnologist. John’s thinking would surely work within the basic assumptions and conceptual style of Cree culture. In this context, ethnological analysis of Cree actions, thoughts, and feelings appears to the Cree to be so critical as to deny its inherent legitimacy and value, and so abstract that it is torn out of its inherent context of events that actual individuals, in the actual world, were a part of. It is hard to appreciate the extent and importance of this difference in perspectives. As ethnographer, my ability to recognize and restrain the imposition of my basic assumptions is only a partially successful attempt at competence in participation in the Cree point of view. Since my purpose is basically ethnographic, not Cree and not ethnocentrically Western, I will attempt to balance the data presented here with a more Western (and I hope complementary) analytical point of view in the concluding chapter. I, myself, must believe in a reality of some kind (psychological and/or other) without thereby resorting to romanticism, sentimentalism, or mysticism. I attempt, instead, my best and most honest personal holism; for honest belief and honest scepticism are perhaps not so far opposed. When belief is based on the wish to make coherent sense out of one’s own immediate experience, belief may be a highly intuitive but satisfying sense of resolution; its preceding scepticism may be a kind of non-ordinary awareness or wonder. That is, in telling me of his own experience of a Mistabeo, George Head said that when hunting and singing his hunting songs, “I really believed that something was helping me.” His sense of something in his perceptual world is a sense that I can believe has a psychological reality. But beyond this, I can believe in a kind of perceptual reality that I might myself experience. If pressed to explain the feeling, George might have attributed it to a spirit-person outside of himself, where I might (if pressed) explain the same experience in terms of an internal psychological condition.

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But his belief is in a setting of wonder at an experience, and my scepticism acknowledges the reality of the experience and contains also a measure of wonder that is only partly resolved by my use of an intellectual psychological explanation. We both conceive of something that is “there” and both only partly explain its nature with our labels. Furthermore, I cannot accept that John could give so much of his time, patience, and efforts only to fool me. Nor can I accept the understanding that I now have of conjuring and of the Mistabeo. Perhaps a better understanding of the meanings inherent in the Cree concepts will give this problem a more satisfactory solution. One way to pursue this goal is by trying to understand the more broad perceptual milieu that conjuring is a part of. In the following chapters I attempt to describe and partially explain aspects of the Eastern Cree worldview that relate more or less directly to conjuring and the Mistabeo concept. By going into the more ordinary and everyday aspects of Cree life in the bush, the extraordinary and unusual aspects of conjuring may be seen in the larger context of power in (1) hunting attitudes and skills, (2) songs, and (3) the stability of personal self-control in the face of threatening percepts.

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chapter five

Narration as a Vehicle for the Expression of Attitudes This chapter expands the context of inquiry and thereby develops the integration of the Mistabeo concept as a part of the hunter’s whole perceptual environment. Perception of a Mistabeo normally occurs within this larger context, and a Cree individual will normally contemplate to himself (or narrate to others) about a Mistabeo in this context. This has already been illustrated in the Chou-a narrative and in the others following it. In this chapter I inductively derive some of the attitudes – here defined as emotions in a context of readiness for activity – that characterize a Cree hunter-trapper’s perception of his environment. My emphasis excludes the purely ecological or material culture aspects of bush life, not because I think them unimportant to the Cree or to anthropology but because they are already well treated in the literature. Also, I am more interested in the mental concomitants of ecology, particularly in the perceptions of the highly contingent nature of bush life, where unexpected events are both frequent and potentially dangerous. The specific hazards and hardships that are a part of a Cree individual’s participation in his environment are not only coped with in terms of his technical, physical competence: the mental competence that an individual brings to bear on hardship situations is almost always of considerable, sometimes crucial, importance as a factor in the immediate milieu. Mental competence is partly reactive, a response to external or internal stimuli that, once learned, is predictable and essentially invariant. But some aspects of mental competence are better seen as creative, expressive, or otherwise not simply determined by antecedent conditions. In this case, mental competence may

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be described as proactive, self-motivated, and effectively reshaping an individual’s perception of his external situation and influencing his behaviour (Maddi 1963).1 I do not wish to define proactive by opposing it to reactive, since I think that the two terms are better seen as complementary. The proactive facets of mental competence are those where symbolic processes play an active role; the reactive facets are those where overt behaviour is apparently uncritically, and more or less mechanically, given by virtue of prior learning experience or conditioning. Perhaps the connection between proactive and reactive facets derives from man’s ability (demonstrated, for instance, in language competence) to arbitrarily recombine, symbolically, prior learning experiences into new sequences of thought and action. Beyond this, the symboling activity that we label “feeling” or emotion (the basis of attitudes) may be less strictly determined by prior specific learning experiences than are the areas of thought and action. Therefore, while emotion is hardly independent of prior experience, it may be that area of human functioning that reinterprets prior experience most creatively. The following narrative dramatically makes this point. The man’s Mistabeo appears to him in a situation of hardship, giving him encouragement (a change of attitude) and practical information to help the man kill food, so that he can survive.

the old man who was left behind Narrated by John Blackned This is another story about a very old man. He was older than the man who ate his moosehide pants. The only way he could walk was with a cane. He depended on a stick for a cane. If the people don’t have any food, they don’t travel very far but move very often. That is why they decided to leave the old man behind. They would rather leave him behind than wait for his death. They said to the old man, “We are leaving you behind. Don’t bother coming.” The old man did not try to go. He thought, “I guess this is the last time I will see winter.” They left him behind. He did not have any food. (Repeated.) The people had hung fish baits on a tree. He started collecting these old fish baits. He had a gun. They did not take his gun away. Also, he had the coverings on his tent. He tried hunting for partridges, although he used a cane. He tried to fish. Finally, he managed to fish. Sometimes he would hunt

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for partridges. He would make new trails to hunt for partridges. He was able to kill enough to eat. At last, he could kill very little. It was long ago, when his Mistabeo left him, as his Mistabeo had said to him, “I am going to leave you.” He had asked his Mistabeo, “Why do you leave me? You came to me. I didn’t go to you. I will ask you once more to come to me. When I am starving, I want you to come to me.” His Mistabeo had told him, “You think you will always be a good hunter and will not starve.” Finally he could not walk. Then he started melting snow from inside his tent for water. He had rebuilt his tent in an area with a lot of trees, where partridges would be plentiful. At last he could not go out. As he looked up to his tent, he thought, “I guess this is where I will lie, nobody will be able to prepare me for my death.” All he did was sleep, sleep, as he did not have any food. He was lying down for two days already, and it was over ten days that he did not eat. When he woke up, it was daylight. He thought, “I still can see another day.” He thought, “Maybe this is my last day.” He was not asleep as he was just lying there. He made a fire. He still had some firewood inside his tent. He had closed his door. Then he heard someone at the door of his tent. Here was his Mistabeo. He thought, “I guess this is his visit when I told him to see me once more.” He thought, “I don’t know why he came to see me because I am going to starve now.” His Mistabeo asked him, “Why are you lying here?” He answered him, “I haven’t eaten for a long time, that is why I am lying like this.” He had tried to go hunting in the area where the partridges would be plentiful, but he had not seen any partridges. His Mistabeo said to him, “If you go east, straight ahead, there is someone there who wants to see you. There are a lot of women there too, who would like to see you. Here you are lying down like this!” [Note here that the references to persons are Cree metaphors referring to animals that are desirable for food.] He answered back, “How could I see them because I haven’t eaten and I can’t move?” His Mistabeo told him, “Why can’t you walk? Look, here is a partridge outside your tent on a tree,” as Mistabeo opened the door of his tent. He sat up. He thought, “I am not going to make a fire.” As soon as Mistabeo told him about the partridge outside his tent, his Mistabeo went out.

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Mistabeo had told him that he was sure he saw two partridges outside his tent. The old man had already prepared a hole in his tent for his gun. He had tied his gun to one of the tent poles. He thought his gun would rot. He hated to see it rot, as he was very fond of holding it. He tried to get up, he was able to move. He thought he was sure he would be able to go out. He had crawled around before he could get up. His Mistabeo had never told him a lie. (Repeated.) He went out. As he opened the door of his tent, he thought, “I am going to look for the meat” (partridges in the trees). As he went out, he saw a partridge on a tree close by. Quickly, he took his gun. It was loaded. He shot it. As he shot it, he fell back. At least he could see that he killed it as it came down from the tree. He saw another partridge. He took his partridge and his gun inside his tent so he could load his gun. He took his gun out again. He shot the other partridge. Again he fell back. He could not stand very well, as he did not eat for a long time. He took his other partridge and started to pluck it. He thought, “Now I can have food in me.” As he was looking around, he saw another partridge. He thought, “Mistabeo never told me about the third partridge.” He loaded his gun again. He shot it and again he fell back. He tried to stand still. He went to get his third partridge. Then he started to cook only one partridge. He ate half of it. (Repeated.) He thought, “I am going to try and put my snowshoes on.” He thought, “There is no reason why I can’t walk, because I ate.” Sure, he was able to walk as he carried his gun. He was walking around hunting for partridges. He saw other partridges. He killed a lot of partridges. He thought, “I will be able to walk better again.” He thought, “I will be able to go and see the person who wanted to see me.” (His Mistabeo had told him [with the elliptical reference to persons] that he would be able to kill a lot of meat.) His Mistabeo had told him before of the place where someone was waiting for him (where there was a porcupine up in a tree). He thought, “I will not go there right away, I will try to go tomorrow.” He thought to himself, “If I eat again, I will have a lot more strength in my legs.” The next morning, he started on his way. As he was walking, here, he reached a porcupine up in a tree. He killed it.

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He left it there. He went on again. His Mistabeo had told him that those who wanted to see him were out on a lake, a small lake, not a very big one, that is where they were. As he walked on, he recognized a lake. Here, there were a lot of caribou gathering around. He started to count them, as when he used to hunt caribou he would always count them. Of course, he had his bullets with him. The reason he took his gun was when his Mistabeo told him that someone was waiting for him, he thought he referred to more than one someone waiting for him. Then he started going to where the caribou would be closer. There were twenty of them. As soon as he was close, he started to shoot them. Again he fell back. As he went on shooting, he fell back after every shot. He tried to stand still but he fell back. He tried very hard to stand still. At last he killed them all. He started to work on them. He managed to cover them up, close to the shore. He took a little of the meat to take home as he still remembered his porcupine and partridges. He decided he would move to the lake and rebuild his tent there. As he was working on his caribou meat, his Mistabeo talked to him. His Mistabeo said to him, “They don’t have anything, the ones that left you. You have been given a lot of meat, although you are alone. Really, they don’t have anything. You can hardly see their faces. They are always very short of food. Sometimes, they don’t eat for two or three days. You only didn’t have food for a short time.” This happened around the last of February. He went home with the meat of the caribou that he carried home, he had a feast for himself. He also had some caribou fat. Then he moved to the lake. He did not have a lot of tent coverings and so he used a lot of boughs. He cleaned all of the caribou meat. He made fat from all of the marrow of the bones. It took him a long time, as he was alone. Finally, he knew that spring was coming and that he would stay there until summer. Where he left his canoe for the winter, he saw another canoe before his canoe. He was closer to the other canoe than his canoe. While he was working on his meat, he could see the geese flying. He always saw the spring birds and ducks. He was very pleased when he saw the flying of geese, ducks, and other birds. He had been sure he was going to starve to death. At last he had all of his caribou meat dried.

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He thought he would not stay where they used to stay in the spring. He was in a different place. He thought he would not bring his canoe yet. He thought, “When they reach my canoe and see it, they will be positive that I am dead.” He started to move again. He moved all of his meat. His Mistabeo had told him, “Not one of them will have killed any deer when they see you again.” He had also told him that all of the meat that was supposed to be given to them was all given to him.2 When the people finally came for their canoes, the old man’s canoe was still there. The people were not sure that he is dead. They paddled back from their hunting grounds. The old man’s canoe was still at the same place where they left it. Now the people were very sure that the old man was dead. They were paddling for awhile, and they saw a smoke at the point. They all wondered, “Who can it be?” (Repeated.) The old man had rebuilt his food-storage stand [cache] in a place where it could be easily seen from a distance. They did not think he was the old man, they thought he was another person. The old man had enlarged his tent. When he saw them, he entered his tent and watched them from a hole in his tent. Finally, he heard them coming to shore. He did not move. At last, he could hear their footsteps to his tent. Finally they opened his door. They all asked him, “What kind of a stranger are you, not to come down to meet visitors?” The old man answered them, “I am the stranger who you left behind to starve to death.” He started to laugh after he answered them. He said to them, “Here I am sitting here; you all thought I would starve to death.” All of the Indians were very surprised. They had thought he would starve to death, as he was not able to move or hunt. He said to them, “Come on in, come on in. Well, come in.” His Mistabeo had told him that the people would be coming back. He had cooked some meat. He said to them, “Go in, go in.” He asked them to tell a story of all the happenings since they had left him.3 They told him that they were sure that they were going to die, as they did not have any food. He told them that he was like that too as he was alone trying to hunt. He started to dish out the meat from his kettle. He started to feed them. He said to them, “This is from the person who you left behind and thought he would starve to death.” After he gave them some food, he told them that they thought he would not be able to survive and also that he was not

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capable of hunting. He said to them, “Now, tell me a story of the number of caribou you killed.” They answered him, “We did not kill a single caribou.” He said to them, “I only remember hunting for caribou once, but there were twenty of them.” They were all very surprised, wondering how he could possibly hunt, what with the poor condition he was in when they left him. He told them to enlarge his tent. They all helped enlarge his tent. Finally, he had a big feast. He said to them, “I will not be satisfied until we eat all of the meat I have. Then I will know that it was not wasted. You should be sorry for leaving me behind. If you did not leave me behind, you could have been all feeding on this meat all winter. Never leave me behind again until I die. Never leave me again. If I starve to death for leaving me behind, if I starve to death, you all will starve to death, too. I did not say anything to you when you left me. (Repeated.) I only thought that I probably will not starve since they left me to starve.” After all of his meat was eaten, he stopped having feasts. They started to live with him until his death after that. I selected this narrative because it clearly and directly expresses some Cree attitudes that I wish to discuss here, and because it illustrates the importance of proactive mental ability in a person’s attempt to cope with hardship. The degree to which the narrative accurately reports the actual experience of one specific man is open to question, but the question is probably not relevant to my purposes. Assuming that most Cree individuals find the story meaningful and credible, and also assuming that I can interpret (translate) the meaning of the story with some precision, we do not need an objective check on the sequence of events reported. We need only to know that they are an integral part of the perceptual world of the Cree. The proactive character of mental events is clear in the narrative, since the man is close to starvation, remaining inside the tent with little hope of survival until he perceives his Mistabeo. The Mistabeo’s communicated thoughts are enough to stir the man to action, successful hunting, and survival. A later, major consequence of the mental events is the old man’s rejoining the group that had left him to die. They now have more respect for him and are influenced by him, because he was able to survive so well.

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The crucial importance of mental events is a major aspect of the narrative’s significance to the Cree listener as well as to us, although the Cree listener does not perceive these events as the non-Cree analyst does. This is most obviously true with regard to the perception of the Mistabeo and the thoughts communicated by the Mistabeo, which most Cree would find a credible event, and most non-Cree would refuse to accept as real. Other attitudes towards hardship are expressed in the narrative. Particularly interesting is the apparent lack of panic or focused fear when facing almost certain death by starvation. The old man seems to view his hardship more with regret than with fear, and then with serious determination to try to survive, even when he is hardly able to move at all, much less go out and hunt. The impact of his fate of abandonment by his group is constantly mediated by the day-to-day need for practical effort to cope with the immediate problems of hunting for food, or laying in wood in his tent as he weakens too much to go out to hunt, and in concentrating his efforts to follow the advice of his Mistabeo as he begins to succeed in getting meat. His acceptance of his predicament is not one of passive resignation, but neither is it an excited reaction. Getting excited is too immature an emotional response in a world where controlled and capable action, rather than helpless or rash reaction, is highly valued and learned early by most persons. The world of the Eastern Cree often has little tolerance for behaviour that is poorly controlled or inept. It is too easy for those unfamiliar with the boreal forest environment to misconstrue the Native’s life in the bush as that of a helpless victim in an overpowering external milieu. But the situation is not quite so desperate, nor so simple. The vast boreal forest, the “bush,” does not present the spectre of a threatening environment. On the contrary, the bush offers protection. The wind does not work a hardship on man, unless one emerges from the protection of the bush onto a lake or other clear area. The hardships and hazards that threaten survival in the bush are not so vast, encompassing, and inscrutable as implied in our “helpless victim” image. Threats come more from specific accidents, or from incompetence or weakness, or from a scarcity of food-animals. The Cree view of their environment, then, is a cluster of relatively specific categories and qualities. This particularistic approach contrasts

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with the approach of most anthropologists, who look for more generalized and abstract characterizations of the role of the environment. Fundamental is a conceptualization of a generalized man in relation to a generalized environment. In this abstracted context, most anthropologists prefer the idea of “environmental challenge and cultural response,” rather than a strict determinist position where environment simply and totally moulds culture. But as a perspective for understanding Cree culture, we may do well to go even further in qualifying the role of environment. Perhaps the “challenge and response” theory is too much a projection of the free-enterprise focus in Western cultures, where a great deal is conceived of in terms of challenge and response. I do not deny for the Cree some appropriateness for challenge and response, any more than I would deny the existence of a pragmatic orientation to the task of getting a living. But I suspect that the primacy given to these qualities in Western cultures is not given identically in Cree culture, where a more close and personalized mode of perception yields a more event-specific categorization of the environment. That is, instead of categorizing their world with vast and autonomous concepts that are often external to man and explainable in terms of universal laws, the Cree prefer not to make an explicit separation of the environment from the social and mental context. They view phenomena not as something objective and self-contained but more in the context of the human significance of particular phenomena. To avoid the extreme of appearing to describe for the Cree a non-rational mentality of some sort, let me try to give my ideas inductive precision, through the use of hardship narratives. The following narrative illustrates the essential contingency of bush life where an unexpected hazard may have dramatic human consequences. Narrated by John Blackned Two brothers from Mistassini were out hunting – the ice on the river was still thick – but one of the brothers fell through where it wasn’t strong enough. After he fell in his brother could just see big chunks of ice; his brother was underneath the ice. He was a good swimmer but he didn’t come up right away, and his brother knelt down by the hole and was crying because he thought his brother was drowned now.

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He couldn’t get up just then, because he felt a pain from sadness in his heart [or chest?]. So he was kneeling there with his hands to his eyes, for nearly half an hour. And he took his hands from his eyes and he thought about the place he saw there, that he would never see this place with his brother again. Just then he saw the chunks of ice move up and his brother’s head came up above the water. His hair was long, and his brother reached out and grabbed him by the hair, one hand on each side of his head, and pulled him right out. He took him back to make a fire to dry his things. While he was drying his brother’s things he gave him some of his own clothes. After the clothes were dried, they were both dressed well again. Afterwards, his brother had trouble where his skin was pulled loose from his skull, but his brother made a small cut at each side and the blood came out, and after that he was alright. He was quite sure he would never see his brother that time, that’s why he made a story out of that. The next excerpt illustrates the consequences of not knowing how to do something the correct way, when a man creates his own hazard by sleeping between raw (untanned) hides. Narrated by John Blackned A number of men were killing caribou. This (ice-covered) lake they were hunting at had many little bays. The last time they saw this man he was running, chasing some caribou. He didn’t return that night, but they knew he had hunted caribou many times, and they thought that he had got to the caribou late in the day. When he didn’t return the third night they went to find him. They came to the place where he had shot the caribou, more than ten. They came to the place where this man had slept and they found him there. He had two caribou skins, one under him and one over. They checked to see if he was still breathing, but he wasn’t. He was covered all around, and the caribou hide was all frozen, tight. (I guess when those hides were frozen all around, I guess a man couldn’t breathe.) He couldn’t get out. After they got the body out, they noticed that his clothes had been all wet (from sweat). His snowshoes were up there, and his gun and the things that he used to load his gun. And there had

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been a fire there, where he had been eating. And this woman had expected her husband to come when the other men came. And they told her that her husband was dead, she just thought that it was a gun accident. Gun accidents were an unpredictable but relatively common hazard, often due to a hunter leaving the percussion cap on his musket. But most hazards that are told as object lessons refer to unusual events, as illustrated by the man who was frozen between the caribou hides, and also by the following narrative. Narrated by John Blackned One man, from Eastmain, just about died. This man had a brother. They were getting after one caribou. They couldn’t shoot the caribou, where the caribou were, and they chased after the caribou. His oldest brother was taking the lead, and he asked his brother to take his place. They were taking turns, the lead. This youngest brother shot the caribou. He gave the caribou to his brother. They cut the caribou into pieces. (They always carried their bows and arrows with them, to see the partridge.) After they cut the caribou into pieces, this youngest brother there asked for some fat from the caribou. And this oldest brother gave his brother what he asked. They slept there, for the night, where they shot the caribou. They only had a kettle, they didn’t have any tea. They cut a piece of wood just like a plate, and used that for a plate. They cooked that in an open fire, all that fat, and that in the plate [the grease]. They cooked some meat there too. And he told his brother to go ahead and eat. And they wanted to eat the fat first, before it got too frozen. They eat it when it’s hot; when it’s cold again it gets frozen [solid] very easy. If you leave it there just a little while, it gets frozen. And when they were eating there, he told his youngest brother to watch himself. He said, “Well, never mind, just see what happens.” I guess they were eating the meat first, that they were cooking, then they had the fat, and then they had this fat again. And they were drinking water too as they were eating. This youngest brother, well just like frozen food, that fat I guess. [The grease congealed and blocked his throat.] And the youngest brother was jumping like that, he couldn’t breathe. He tried the water there. He couldn’t drink down the water. And one of his

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arrows, he [the older brother] cut them with his knife, a little bit smaller, I guess.And he took his arrow, and took it down his mouth. And he pulled his arrow, just like a [?]. And he gave him water again, hot water. Then he breathed, after. Then he gave more hot water. Then he was sure that his brother was okay. He told him not to eat any more of that grease again. He told him to heat it up again and eat it. He told him, “You see what happened, you shouldn’t have asked for that fat!” (laughter). And the younger brother said he wouldn’t cook any of that fat. He wouldn’t ask for it. When the man told me that story, he was very old (he was one of the brothers). This man is all grey-headed now. This man that was married had one baby, the youngest brother wasn’t married. When the old man told me the story, he was all grey-headed now, he used a stick when he was walking, and he couldn’t trap anymore now. This last admonition brought laughter from the narrator and interpreter at the older brother’s teasing of the rash incompetence of the younger brother. As a final example of hazards, I will excerpt a case of a man who is hurt by an animal that he is trying to kill. Narrated by John Blackned This old man got a lot of caribou. He told me the story too. A caribou stepped on him here. He said he had forty bullets, and they were all gone. He shot them all. They were not all dead, the ones he was getting. He wounded some of them. He cut a stick, very pointed. He hit them with the stick, one of the wounded caribou. They say the caribou wants to fight back, when you make him mad. He made the caribou mad. He said the caribou jumped on him, got him before he could get away. When he jumped on him, I guess he fell down. That was his back leg, he stepped on him here [in the groin]. And it was sore for quite awhile (SG chuckles) and it was black too, where he stepped on him. He said, “It made me mad. “After I got up, I left my stick there, I took my axe. This caribou wasn’t fast, it was wounded and I could see the blood on the side there. I ran after it. The leg he stepped on me, I hit him on that leg, back here, this … I cut the … [Achilles tendon?] I hit him on the other leg the same.”

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[For the style and intonation of Cree aggression, John’s enunciation at this point on this tape is a masterpiece of cool and controlled rage and mastery of one’s own pain, leading to mastery of the offending animal in just the appropriate way, striking the offending portion of the deer, then the other back leg, etc.] “He stayed there, he couldn’t move at all. I hit him on the head (laughs). I could tell this deer was very fat, that’s why I wanted to kill him right away. I could leave him there for the night.” When it’s wounded overnight, it doesn’t taste as good, it’s eating a lot of snow and vomiting. It doesn’t taste very good there, all the meat. That’s why he wanted to kill the wounded deer, he didn’t want to leave it overnight, because he knows it is fat (especially good) and it wouldn’t be as good as the others. This man, they used to call him Mokosu [heron?] in Cree. Those forty bullets he was shooting, he got them all, and some of them he got two. He also said he killed over forty there. He didn’t even kill half of the caribou in the bunch he was getting. He had got some caribou before, and then he said he got about forty-five that time. He didn’t use two (balls); he always used one at a time. And he was alone when he got that many and he got more before. After he finished with his caribou, I mean cutting them all up and bringing them all in, other men came to see him. The other men were just as good at living… just as good as this man. These men who came to see them, they were two men. He gave one twelve deer, and he gave the other thirteen. And he still had twenty to himself. Those two there, where they came from, they had fourteen caribou (already). The others gave that man five. And when they used to get a lot of deer like that, well they used to quit, they wouldn’t kill any more. [I then asked about the caribou-sharing and John explained.] Well it was just like this man replacing what he got. And if he had got more, he would have given about the same as he got. And that has always happened, well, they’re giving each other what they get, the other one would come after it, you know. The whole thing, the hide too. And they never used to charge them anything. This man wouldn’t pay back too, [he would] just give them. They just look at it this way.

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A very basic attitude that I find towards hardship, or towards life in general, is the high valuation of mental events. Mental events refer to a range of psychological events that are typically (for us) divided into thoughts and feelings, but the division is not always so clear. How, for example, would one class the perception of a Mistabeo – as a thought or as a feeling? Rather than try to pin the label one way or another, I use the more inclusive “mental events.” Mental events may be (1) external to the self, as in the example of the Mistabeo helping the old man, or the thoughts of the other persons involved; (2) bridging the self to some thing or person outside, as in songs, hunting power, or conjuring; or (3) internal to the self, as in the knowledge of the hazards of walking on rotten ice, drinking cooled caribou fat, sleeping between closely wrapped, untreated hides, or pursuing an injured caribou at close range with only a sharp stick. Internal mental events include more than knowledge, however, for the knowledge is embedded in emotional tones. With respect particularly to hardship, and to internal mental events, I have already mentioned the notable restraint of emotions of panic, focused fear, or focused anger. The old man who is abandoned is not apparently much influenced by panic at his inability to get food, or by fear of death, or by anger at the people who have left him behind. Because the term “restraint” has an implication of negative description, telling what is not present in a situation, I supplement this with the more positive quality of self-control. Speculatively, I think that self-control is unconsciously held as the most appropriate way of coping with an external world that is full of contingencies that are only sometimes predictable. An angry, jealous, or fearful man would make a poor hunter, as would an ecstatic, romantic, or foolhardy individual. I do not claim that these emotions are not present for the Eastern Cree, but that they are not manifested as overt, focused emotional behaviour. By means of self-control, emotions are given expression in a form more diffuse than focused and are channeled into overt expressions of emotional behaviour that I describe in terms of attitudes. Attitudes denote emotion in a context of readiness for activity, rather than emotional constriction. I do not wish to imply that emotional depth is sacrificed in the control of emotional turbulence, since it is quite possible that deep feeling is enhanced instead of repressed or constrained by such control.4 By way of illustration, consider the emotions of Chou-a’s wife when she is pulling her starving husband on the toboggan, as well

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as the children and their possessions, and comes to the fresh tracks of caribou (cited in full detail in chapter 4). Chou-a, who did not know that the tracks were there, asks her if she is crying because the way is hard. I suspect that most Western persons would think that the question emphasizes the tragic plight of a near-helpless family struggling against the vast stretch of frozen forest that offers no food for starving people. In this scenario, all hope is now focused on the woman, who must bear the weight of terrible adversity alone, with responsibility for a family that she has little hope of saving from destruction. Perhaps this perspective on the situation is also shared by the Cree. But I think that Chou-a’s question is much more specific and practical, directed at the fact that she must not only pull a very heavy load when she has not eaten, but also now work much harder, breaking trail. The demand for continuous very hard effort, in itself, may be more the basis of Chou-a’s question, for the way is not only hard in the abstract sense of minute humans against the huge environment, it is hard in terms of the immediate demand of working to keep moving in search of food or signs of food. Chou-a’s wife, however, is crying for another reason, since she has succeeded in finding signs of food. Her feelings are not directed at her own inability to cope with the demands of the immediate situation, but at her husband’s apparent inability to cope by following the tracks of the caribou and killing them so that the family can live. Her expression of her feelings move Chou-a to make the attempt, using his will and what strength remains, to hunt the caribou. The attitudes or feelings seem to express the crucial importance of coping with immediate needs more than a more abstract sense of tragedy that might produce a focused emotional response of fear and self-pity. The latter alternative is more dramatic to Western eyes, but the intensity of its focus would, I think, tend to constrict or interfere with the ability of the persons to cope with their immediate tasks. Coping with hardship calls upon all the resources one can muster, and in the following narrative, the starving man works to overcome his misfortune, and is helped by a strange person (perhaps a Mistabeo). He indicates to the stranger his pitiable state, but is not preoccupied with self-pity. Instead, he observes the exposure of the stranger, who can manage to survive with only two beaver skins. In this he is subtly stating his wonder and admiration of the stranger’s ability to cope. The stranger’s reply indicates even great ability, perhaps in the transformed appearance of an eagle.

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Narrated by George Head This is a story of a man who had no luck at all, especially in hunting he had hard luck. He became very thin, almost starved. Still he tried his best to get something to survive. This man had one child. They were only living on fish, that was about all he could get. The only way he could hunt these fish was through the ice with hooks. He had four hooks through the ice. One day he told his wife, “I don’t think I’ll be able to finish visiting the four lines, because I’m very weak from hunger; it is a very cold wind.” The woman got the tent straightened up and warm. When the man started off to the lake to visit his first hook line, as he was scraping the snow off the ice, all of a sudden he saw somebody standing right beside him. He told the man, “I don’t think I’ll be able to finish visiting these four lines because I am so hungry and cold, but anyway, I’ll try to visit them all.” He went to the next line, and the man followed him. And the man stood beside him while he looked at the other one. (He didn’t get anything there either.) He said the same thing again. “I don’t think I’ll be able to finish visiting these four lines… I’ll show you how hungry I am.” And he pulled his coat at the neck and the other man saw that he was nothing but skin and bones. And the man said, “Give me your chisel, I’ll dig the hole for you.” So he gave his chisel to the stranger. Very quick, the man made a hole right through. So the men went to the other one and dug the hole, so the man could easily pull the line. So they went to the last one, and started to dig. But there was nothing at that hook either. And the stranger that was sitting there had almost no clothes, just two beaver skins, while the skinny man had plenty of caribou skins. And the man said, “I’m surprised you can go in this cold with so little clothes.” The stranger said, “Last year I had even less, I just had one eagle skin. Tomorrow, when you visit these lines, the first one you will get a small one, that’s for your child. And the third one you will get a bigger one, that’s for your wife, and the last one will be a big one, that’s for you. And you’ll keep doing this every day, until you are back in shape again. So when you feel strong, then you can go around and hunt, but I am going to point to you the place where you will go first, and there you will find fresh caribou tracks.” The stranger that he saw, he didn’t really know who he was, and when the man would blink, the stranger would have suddenly disappeared.

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So he did what the stranger said. He got lots of fish. He felt stronger and happier every day. He was doing exactly what the stranger said. The man visited the lines morning and evening. He would go from the first to the last, then start from the last bank to the first, right away, and every time there was lots of fish. Finally he was strong, and he thought, “Maybe I’m strong enough to walk around a little bit.” So he tried to go around a little. The woman said, “Don’t go too far.” He wasn’t trying to hunt, just going around for exercise. So the next morning, after he finished visiting his fish lines, he thought, “I might as well do what the stranger told me, I’ll go and visit this place that he pointed out.” So he came to the place, and there he saw a herd of caribou and he started to chase them with his bow and arrow. He saw the stranger by the caribou, and then he saw that he had suddenly disappeared again. That’s how he killed the caribou, as many as he was able to catch. And from that day the man gained his life, and after that he had plenty of food. He did what the stranger told him to do, and from that day he started to get normal again. It seems likely that the starving man did not radically alter his state of consciousness, but rather became aware of a strange person whose appearance was likely to disappear, even in a blink of the man’s eyes. It was something added to ordinary experience, not a replacement for it. His perception required increased self-control (not to blink or in any other way be distracted) rather than giving oneself up to emotional states that would distract him from his practical task. The emotional responses that I have described in terms of attitudes or feelings apparently involve a more diffuse expression of emotion, allowing competent activity. The intensity is spread to the many events and qualities of the immediate situation, not abstracted into a single dramatic focus. Some additional examples may help to clarify my meaning. In the instance of the brother who fell through the ice, a powerfully felt regret and sadness does not render the other brother unable to act quickly and rationally when he has an unexpected chance to save a life. The man who is trampled in the groin by a wounded caribou gets mad (a very rare admission in my experience with Cree individuals and narratives), but the attitude he manifests is more reproach than

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rage. He proceeds to kill the caribou with rational, methodical skill, first crippling the animal so that it cannot do him further injury, and then killing it with a practical rationale, that the meat would taste bad if the death is gradual. These attitudes of regret, sadness, and reproach in the face of hardship and hazard, are complemented by the positive or constructive attitudes of fortitude, resoluteness, and hope. Fortitude is demonstrated by the abandoned old man, who continues to try to hunt as long as he has strength, and then when his Mistabeo urges him to try once again. It is also shown by the man who risks his own welfare to try to pull his brother from the water, and by the man who does not let the wounded caribou escape, but, in spite of his painful injury, pursues and kills his meat. Resoluteness is expressed where the abandoned old man has eaten half a partridge and says, “There is no reason why I cannot walk, because I ate.” He expresses this another way when he thinks, “I probably will not starve, since they left me to starve.” This attitude is expressed over and over again in the narratives of starvation, where hardship means that a man must work much harder to get his living. He must begin to hunt earlier in the day and continue until late in the day, moving camp often in order to cover more hunting area. Finally, the attitude of hope is expressed by the old man in hoping to live to see another day, and hoping to find food to survive. The attitude of hope is not only an internal mental event for the Cree. The Cree term translates best into the phrase “in deep hope that …,” and carries the meaning of a bridging mental event, since deep hope, if it is successful, is transmitted to external phenomena and influences them. This is a kind of hunting power, related to, but perhaps not identical with, conjuring. Expressions of hope are usually in the form of songs, and this concept is developed in the next chapter. Self-control of emotional states, then, underlies the attitudes that are expressed overtly: regret, sadness, and reproach on the negative side, and fortitude, resoluteness, and deep hope on the positive side. Perhaps the ultimate expression of emotional self-control comes in reports of men who are preparing themselves for imminent death. In many narratives, men in this condition take pains to make sure that everything they leave behind shows unambiguously that death was calm and orderly. Snowshoes and rifles are tied to tent poles, the tent flap is tied shut, and signs or messages may be left – for example, “I am here because I starved here.” In one narrative men dig a shallow

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grave from the sand used for a fireplace in the tent and lay down in it to die. My following remarks have to do with an attitude that is not given explicit expression. The old man tells his group, “You should be sorry for leaving me behind, you could have been eating this meat all winter.” While the attitude is not explicit, for the Cree, it is understood to have an ethical implication. Explicitly, they should be sorry because they did not have meat. But it is understood that they did not have meat because they left the old man behind, and he warns them that in the future, if he starves, they will starve. The ethical attitude is not an absolute stricture that one must never abandon a person because of some intrinsic ethical value in all human beings. But neither is the attitude the opposite extreme of a person being worth only what he can produce, or what is attributable to his particular status at a particular time. The old man was able to find and kill meat when others were not able. He can contribute hunting power. He can also withhold, subtracting from the group’s total hunting power. But it is not only his practical value that is at stake. There is the human value of a person wanting to survive for his full allotment of days, and he sometimes needs the support of his group, as well as his power and knowledge, to be able to succeed in this goal. It is not that all men should categorically be able to live out their days, but that all men wish to be able to do so. And his friends and relatives, if they respect him and think of their own future, may accept hardship and hazard in their future to assist him in his need. The attitudes I have discussed are those having to do with hardship, and so are only a partial, and perhaps overdramatic sample of Cree attitudes. But the thrust of the narrations I have collected show a similar focus. Hardship is a common topic, and these attitudes are repeatedly expressed. My description of mental events as external, bridging, and internal is parallel to the model advanced by Leach (1967) in his analysis of the Book of Genesis. Leach suggests that all men boil down their experience into binary oppositions (my external and internal categories) and then sometimes create a hypothetical area of ambiguity and fantasy (my bridging category) between them. While the ingenuity and parsimony of Leach’s cognitive model is appealing and often insightful, I argue that for the Cree data, it is also too facile and simple an analytic model. Formal models exhibit varying degrees of

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phenomenal relevance. When the Leach model is held up to samples of Cree experience, I find only an uncertain and uncomfortable sense of relevance. I hold that the complex and obscure areas of Cree mental perception are, in themselves, neither so facile nor simply fantastic as Leach’s model presumes. Nor am I satisfied with the emphasis on cognition that seems implicitly to exclude emotion for the sake of intellect. The area of experience in question includes the perception of unseen processes and events, known only by indirect evidence and man’s imaginative reconstructions. In this area, where proactive mental events are typical, imaginative activity is based on tenuous evidence and upon personal and cultural patterns of understanding. A man projects a mental construct out into the world; for example, his sense of an attending spirit. But the process does not end there. He gets feedback from the world, for much of what the man perceives is not wholly from within himself but originates outside of himself. On the basis of the feedback that the man’s imaginative projections obtain, the man reconstructs his concepts and his understanding of his situation and his world. This is not simple fantasy, for it has been tested against the outside world. The results in Western terms are, at worst, complex fantasy as described by Leach, and at best, empirically verified facts (sense impressions in either case). I do not wish to characterize the Mistabeo as either fantasy or fact. It is because I am convinced that the situation is much more complex than the structuralists have acknowledged in their actual analysis that I have preferred not to attempt to apply these models and perspectives to my own ethnographic efforts. The expression of emotion in feelings and attitudes is further developed in the next chapter as a part of the perceptual milieu in which the Mistabeo and conjuring are properly understood.

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chapter six

Songs as an Expression of Personal Symbolisms in the Use of Culture Patterns Songs are distinctive and important as a category of narrations, and as a part of the milieu of the Mistabeo spirit concept. Put simply, songs are the form of communication used by the spirits entering the conjuring tent, thus expressing power. Some songs use words with no known meaning, and are therefore an extreme or marginal form of narration. Songs are also an extreme form of narration in another interesting way, where a few stylized words constitute the most central (rather than marginal) form with regard to perceptual compactness and poetic imagery (discussed in chapter 2). In American Indian Prose and Poetry, Astrov states that “songs are … conspicuous for their extreme conciseness both in thought and word. Few of these short songs are complete in themselves and may be regarded as mnemonic summaries of trains of thought familiar to the singer and to the listeners… The singer sketches only a thought or an impression and it is left to the poetical imagination of the listener and his resources” to supplement the detail and context that is implicit in the song itself (1962:15). In general, music conveys emotion while speech communicates ideas. Songs combine these two modes and may, therefore, express more richly and deeply the personality-in-culture of the singer and/ or the song’s creator. In sum, songs more totally involve a person in self-expression. Their significance as symbolic expressions of culture is suggested by Sapir and by Merriam in the following statements: An important field for investigation is that of personal symbolisms in the use of cultural patterns. Personal symbolisms are often the more valuable as they are hidden from consciousness and serve as the springs of effective behaviour. (Sapir 1949:568)

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… [M]usic may be useful as a means of understanding other things (than music itself) about other cultures. In music, as in the other arts, basic attitudes, sanctions, and values are often stripped to their essentials. (Merriam 1964:10)

I take the above statements as premises in seeking to understand some aspects of personality-in-culture expressed in Cree songs. While instrumental functions and intent must be acknowledged and understood, it is the symbolically expressive side of singing that is of primary importance to the singer and to the anthropologist. In a cultural milieu known for its reticent personal style, explicit and overt self-expression in song is both distinctive and revealing of personal values and emotions. From this point of view, I have analysed a selection of songs to attempt a translation of words, concepts, values, and feelings. The songs were recorded under what I believe were the best possible circumstances, with the participation of Josie Sam, who contributed his mature skills as interpreter, arranged the initial sessions, and offered valuable commentary. Three fine old men, George Head, Samson Nacappo, and Charlie Kanatiwat, who explained the songs in accompanying narration, did the singing and discussion. The recording sessions always involved at least two of the singers and Josie Sam or Gerti Murdoch as interpreter. But only minimal use of English translation was made at the time, since the tapes were later replayed for that purpose. Gerti Murdoch did final and meticulous translation of the tapes. I realize the value of recording songs in their naturalistic setting, during hunting trips or in the winter bush camps of the singers. But this is no longer possible for the Fort George Band, since only a few old men sing or even understand the songs, and they no longer go to the bush and hunt for their living. In fact, Charlie Kanatiwat suggested that a phonograph record of the songs might be made, since many of the Fort George people have never heard the songs. If the songs are to persist, some younger men must learn to understand the “old language” that is used, and this is unlikely. For present purposes, the forms of language and music deserve at least a general description. More precise and formal analysis by linguistic and musicological specialists is not yet available.1 The language used in the songs is regarded by both singers and audience as an old-fashioned way of speaking. But the songs are not simply narratives in an old dialect set to music, as I mistakenly

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implied in an earlier paper.2 As Fletcher says of Omaha songs, “The words are always few, giving a hint rather than a clearly defined expression or narration” (1893:285). That is, just a few words, perhaps a phrase or two, may be repeated over and over, eliciting a mental image in the mind of the singer and his audience. This use of repetition is more pronounced in songs than in other narrations. Spinden has offered an interesting insight into the role of repetition: “The outstanding feature of American Indian verse construction comes from parallel phrasing, or, let us say, repetition with an increment, which gives an effect not of rhyming sounds but of rhyming thoughts” (cited in Astrov 1962:11; emphasis mine) Schoolcraft (1856:114–15) gives a similar interpretation: “The number of words are few and simple, but they are made up from compounds which carry the whole of their original meanings, and are rather suggestive of the ideas floating in the mind than actual expressions of those ideas.” Only a few Cree songs use conventional speech. Some (probably most) songs use the old style of speaking, recognizable by singers and those others who are accustomed to hearing the songs, while the language content of some songs is either nonexistent or not recognizable. Yet even the meaningless-word songs convey a conventionally understood meaning. In some sense, there is recognizable patterning in the expression. After playing a tape of songs from Eastmain to men at Fort George, I asked George Head about uniformity: “Does the ‘Rapids song’ have the same music when you are singing as the Eastmain ‘Rapids song’”? “Yes, I sing the same music. We both sing the same even if two different people are singing the same song. If they hear somebody singing, even though there is no meaning [to the words], if they are not really saying something, still they can tell what kind of song it is.” George had never heard songs from Eastmain before, and so he may have expected uniformity in songs that are sung at Fort George to hold also for songs sung at Eastmain, or anywhere that songs are sung by persons that he would recognize as “Cree.” I did not find out how he felt about this question, and perhaps it is a question that he had never considered. Also, he explained an important point on the lexical form of songs in the process of answering my question on a point of musical form.3 He confirmed the existence of songs that have no recognized lexical

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meaning. That is, the words of the song convey no specific information, and the song’s meaning is derived from a person’s recognition of the music as, for example, a “rapids song.” Perhaps from other non-lexical qualities (that I do not know), or simply from associations that a listener has stirred in his memory by hearing a rapids song, there are further meanings perceived in hearing such songs. If some songs “are not really saying something,” and so do not have any known lexical content, other songs do have meaningful words. But these meanings may not be generally understood. In translating the tapes of more than seventy songs, Gerti Murdoch was able to understand only one song on a word-for-word basis, although she had no problems with the conversations that accompanied the songs. Another, older, able interpreter in his forties (Josie Sam) explained that there were three dialects of Cree at Fort George: (1) the old people’s, which he has trouble understanding; (2) the middle-aged people’s, which is his dialect; and (3) the young people’s, which is also sometimes hard for him to understand. “Young people, unless they have lived in the same home with old people, can hardly understand the old people at all.” The songs are known by only a few of the old people, and use words with meanings known to old people. Possibly, some or all of these words are even esoteric within the old people’s speech, so that not all old people would understand all of the songs. I have not inquired into this. Also, I know that Josie Sam did not recognize the words of many of the songs, but I do not know whether he was able to catch more of the words than the younger interpreter. Apparently the words, in their sung form, are altered significantly from their form in ordinary speech (if in fact they are used in ordinary speech). Josie explained: The words are the same (as those that we use) but the pronunciation is very different. The words that they are using in the songs is the old-fashioned language, and I have to get the explanation to translate it, but still, I can catch what they are singing. I’m not used to it, the old-fashioned language, because I’m the younger generation. There’s only a few of us now who can translate. In fact, I have to ask George, ‘What do you mean with that word?’ And if you get my daughter to translate George, she won’t get anywhere. There are not too many of them living now that use this kind of language. Once they go, that’s the end of it.

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I asked Josie, “Not only the songs, but also what they say is the old-fashioned language?” Yes, a lot of what they say is old-fashioned. It’s like English – the English language has changed a lot. But the Cree language is not changing at all, it’s dying out. The Indian people think that it’s not worth it to keep the Cree language, because you can’t go anywhere with Cree.

In summary, very few of the words of songs are recognized by contemporary Cree non-singers. The words are more esoteric than secret, where understanding is acquired through the experience of hearing songs and of participating in the environmental, social, and emotional milieu that the songs express. As with the words, the music form consists of one or a few lines, repeated, for an apparently optional number of times. Gradually declining pitch is a usual but not invariant characteristic, and one singer (Samson Nacappo) frequently shifted into a falsetto. He explained that not every man would choose to sing that way. While no drums exist now at Fort George (a consequence of missionary work) they would have been a preferred form of accompaniment. Rattles were also used in the past, but may have been more particularly associated with conjuring songs. I have not heard of the use of whistles or flutes. Aesthetic criteria are anything but clear to me, perhaps partly because they are not distinct and precise in the minds of the Cree. Similarly, McAllester’s questioning of a Comanche singer showed that preference is expressed in terms of an apparently undifferentiated appeal (1949:40). I suggest that a song or portion of a song is judged not through selective appraisal of word sound, word meaning, rhythm, or melody, but rather through its expressive quality as a holistic act. At least some of the songs are classed together by the Cree with such labels as “running song,” “rapids song,” or “otter song.” Singing is not solely to communicate with a specific person of a Mistabeo, as might seem indicated in chapter 3. It is, however, usually limited to the expression of deep feelings. The use of casual singing in lullaby and popular songs is apparently recent and diffused from EuroCanadian sources. Perhaps closest to these latter, casual songs is the type of song sung by women as they work, where reference is to their task, in a context of pleasure in the action or its consequences. I have selected songs that express the relationship of a man to the animals

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that he hunts for his living. About fifty (out of a total of seventyeight) songs relate to this topic. It is in the matter of songs that I most strongly feel the frustration of intellectualizing an aspect of culture, rather than participating in it and enjoying its meaning at the immediate, intended level. The songs are so appealing and personally and culturally expressive that my attempts to communicate their content are pallid substitutes for a splendid and energetic part of Cree life. Yet the songs themselves, if the tape is played for a Western audience, suffer almost complete lack of effective communication, sounding more like the muttering of a sleeping old man, and finding only a bored and uninterested response at an academic conference. By comparison with the sounds themselves, then, my commentary and translations are not quite so desperate. Still, they are a poor substitute, and my lack of skill in the language makes my commentary subject to revision at some later date. The songs serve a role in my total field experience that is central and revealing, and it is appropriate that I use them here to focus on an area of personal symbolisms in the use of cultural patterns. The cultural patterns are those of hunting, involving caribou, bear, beaver, and others. The personal symbolisms are the expressions of emotion that are manifested not in the action of hunting but in the symbolic forms of song and narrations. I do not wish to imply that the expression of emotions in the acts of hunting contrast with the expression of emotions in the acts of singing. They are better defined as complementary forms of expression, for songs may be an integral part of, and contribute instrumentally to the success of the hunt. Songs symbolically express the emotions that go with hunting, but they serve as more than a symbolic substitute for hunting. When hunting is accompanied by singing, the songs add power to the ability of the hunter. In an essentially mental or spiritual way, the songs influence the animals, making the hunt more successful. The Eastern Cree hunter feels himself to be related on an essentially personal basis to the animals that he kills to make his living. Further, this relationship between human persons and animal-persons involves a sincere belief in a reciprocal attitude of love between men and animals. The existence of a love relationship between hunter and hunted is in dramatic contrast to the prevalent sentiment in our contemporary urban milieu, where the act of killing is usually identified with an attitude of aggression. To a person in the livestock business,

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the contrast may be less dramatic, but probably few of these people would see themselves as standing in any kind of important emotional relationship with the animals they deal with. For the Eastern Cree, I argue that aggression has limited relevance to the hunting and killing of animals. Love, in some sense, is of much greater relevance. Indeed it is assumed by the Cree as both natural and essential to human efforts and goals. Also, I believe that the Cree are aware of the pervasive difference between their beliefs on this relationship and ours. This is nicely illustrated by Speck’s candid report on his difficulties in getting the old men to talk about their songs. This situation may be summed up with the declaration of Peta’banu (Ungava Band), who discussed the superstitious life of himself and his comrades while in the interior. Said he with finality and a mien of impatience, “You speak about singing for game; about using the rattle and drum before and after dreaming about the caribou! Yes, I have a song and I dream songs, and read the shoulder-blade divination. They all do, he (indicating Mictaben, sitting near at hand), he (indicating Nabe’s), in fact all! That’s how we kill the animals and live!” (Speck 1935:31)

I interpret Speck’s report to illustrate the feeling on the part of Peta’banu that he did not wish to reveal some of his most valued and essential personal feeling and knowledge to a person who would mark them as superstitious beliefs, even though Speck expressed an attitude of sincere interest and goodwill. This may be an appropriate place to add that at Waskaganish, the community where I have lived and done fieldwork most extensively, I have never been able to hear more than a few brief snatches of songs. My success at Fort George was very generously given by the people there, in part as a response to my being able, from the time of my arrival, to manifest some degree of Cree social competence and understanding of the Cree point of view. Song #1 (George Head): This is the song they used to sing when they start to hunt caribou, in a certain season during the fall. The people who never hunted caribou would never understand this song. It says, “When I hunt caribou, I feel as if they are standing still even if they are running away from me, I feel as if they are standing still. How easy it is when I go to kill caribou.” (Repeated several times.)

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Commentary People who have not hunted the caribou would not understand because they would not have experienced the peculiar emotions of anticipation and of deep hope that they will succeed in killing meat. Hope in its English context is often a passive feeling, a response to events that is characteristically set in a tone of pessimism. But hope in its Cree context is active, a vehicle for power that complements a man’s participation in the constructive efforts towards getting his living. And if the hunter is successful in his hope, the animal will know what the man hopes and will respond, so that he finds the caribou waiting for him. Perhaps this contributes to “How easy it is when I go to kill caribou.” Perhaps, also, his feeling that they are standing still will act instrumentally to slow them down or to stop them. Songs #2, #3, and #4 (George Head): There was an old man who was married to one of my mother’s sisters, his name was George Mianscum. He was a very capable and strong hunter. I used to watch him when he was shooting at caribou; he used to be able to shoot them at a long distance. This is his song when he sees a group of caribou. “I see them, waiting for me. I see them.” (Repeated.) He enjoyed hunting so much that he felt the animals enjoyed his hunting. When he saw a large group of caribou, he deeply thought about his enjoyment of hunting – as much as he loved his own daughter. This was the time when caribou was plentiful. When he saw the caribou running towards him, he spoke of them as if his own daughter was running towards him. He would sing, “She is running towards me.” (Repeated.) This is another song [#4] of my aunt’s husband. One winter, it was a very poor season for caribou. Finally, they were completely out of food and continued to move from one place to another. At last the old man was falling down (from weakness) because he could not eat. One night, he concentrated deeply about hunting. He dreamed that his daughter was returning home from a hunt. Finally he started to sing (in his sleep), “My daughter is running home.” From his singing, he woke himself up. The meaning of his song was about a group of caribou, telling him he will see them. In the morning, the caribou could be clearly seen, heading toward the camp. He had to spear the caribou. He was able to kill all of them.

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Commentary George Mianscum’s songs illustrate, in symbolic but quite explicit terms, a parallel (not an identity) between his love relationship with his daughter and his love relationship (enjoyment of hunting and passion for hunting) with the caribou. Also, in the accompanying comments by George Head, the parallel is shown between the hunter’s emotions and the animals’ emotions in a slightly different perspective. He felt that his passion for the hunting action was shared by the animals. The idea that food-animals like to be taken by men was expressed in my earlier discussion of conjuring, where the bear-spirit in the conjuring tent says, “If you can throw me flat, well, I’ll like that, and if you can’t, you won’t be able to get anything.” Song #5 (Samson Nacappo): This is a song told to my father by an old man…I used to think a caribou was talking to me, saying, “I will be standing, where I used to stand.” (Repeated.) Commentary One of George Head’s observations serves nicely to supplement this song. He explained: “The most capable hunters had the most songs… They would sing them because they were pleased and proud of what they were doing. Sometimes, many men felt the songs added to their hope of killing more food for their families. These are from dreams, as if someone4 was telling him this way so he could have more to kill or to show he is thankful towards the animals he has killed. They would sing a lot of songs in time of hardship and many times they were able to kill food again. It was like converting the hardship into a period of plenty of food to survive.” Song #6 (George Head): This is a bear song. An old man dreamed that a bear was telling him this song, when he was hoping for a bear. The old man referred to the bear as a person. The bear knew the old man was thinking about him. “He wants me.” (Repeated.) Commentary The bear has person-status closer to that of human persons than any other animal (Speck 1935:95–114). The words, “He wants me,” do not simply indicate a taste for bear meat. The desire includes this but is more person-to-person communication than simply person-to-food statements. Other cases of man-animal communication in song follow.

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Song #7 (Charlie Kanatiwat): This is an old man’s song. His song was about the geese flying south. “I will be back soon, I will be back soon.” As he anxiously awaits the return of the geese, he sings, “I will be back tomorrow.” (Repeated.) Song #8 (Charlie Kanatiwat): As they make the sound of the geese (calling them), they shoot them coming overhead. Sometimes the geese do not come in their direction. He sings, “I know you hear us,” as he wonders about the geese. Commentary Communication may be seen as a transference or bridging of feelings from man to animals or from animals to man. The mechanism of communication may be known only as a deep, strong effort to communicate. A progression from the idea of communication of desires between men and animals to the idea of love between men and animals includes the idea of a playing relationship between men and animals. The next three songs illustrate this idea, and the fourth song takes the relationship farther, to the symbolic idea of man and animal living together. Song #9 (George Head): I am going to sing about a trap … As he was setting the trap, he felt the animal was telling him, “Is this where we will play? This is where you are playing?” … Since he [the animal] enjoyed hunting very much, he referred to it as playing. Commentary The man “plays” when he sets his trap, and the animal reciprocates when he approaches the trap and becomes caught in it. The meaning of the word “play” (discussed above with regard to the conjuring tent) is here to be contrasted with the idea of sheer drudge work, since the man and the animal are taking part in a coordinated activity that both enjoy very much. While in English the ordinary meaning of play implies a diversion that need not serve any utilitarian goal, the Cree meaning is more like playing in sports, such as karate or bullfighting, or playing a musical instrument. It is like sports in that the hunter’s feelings and physical effort, the task, and the physical environment are coalesced into an uncertain and intense personal situation, a micro-milieu of contingency and excitement where playing includes a demand that the man overcome the animal.

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It is like the playing of a musical instrument in that the hunter expresses desires that are deep and central to his existence by mastering a technique so well that he can coordinate his activities with skill and pleasure. Play in this sense involves the expectation of a deeply satisfying reward and pride in one’s own competence at intertwining one’s skills and feelings with the animals. But the play is not self-contained and humourless: it is active and shows the interplay of wit and humour, as is illustrated in the following songs. Humour usually takes the form of mockery,5 where laughter is often more at the absurdity of a person’s situation than a disguised attack on the person. The latter category is appropriately expressed in the form of slanderous sallies, derisive nicknames, and the like (Hallowell 1946). Song #10 (Charlie Kanatiwat): This is a loon song. I used to hear many people singing this song, and I used to sing it a lot, myself. Sometimes you could not see them flying, but you could hear them. “You are flying too high in the sky, pointed-nose.” (Repeated.) It is a lot of fun, trying to shoot the loon; he is very quick. Song #11 (George Head): There was an old man named Bear’s Rump. These are his thoughts when hoping for a bear. “The bear looks as if it’s crawling because it is so fat.” (Repeated.) The old man’s wife was named Berry-picker. I guess the old man likes bear’s rump, that’s why he was named after it. Commentary Possibly the reason George included the wife’s name in this explanation is that bears are very fond of berries, and grow fat from them. The idea of living with an animal is a common theme in Cree narrations. It is expressed here in a song. Song #12 (George Head): The old man whose song this is was always singing. This is the song he sang about the muskrat. “This is the hole which is the home of the muskrat. I am going to live with the muskrat.” (Repeated.) Commentary To live with the muskrat is a metaphorical way of saying that he will have a close and enduring personal relationship with the muskrat. But this is most strongly and explicitly told in

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the next song, which I believe serves nicely to anchor the thesis of this chapter. Song #13 (George Head): This is a caribou song. Every woman loves her husband. He believes that the caribou love him because they are waiting for him to kill them, just like a young wife waiting for her husband. All of the caribou are hoping he could kill them. His song was about this, and someone was helping him kill the caribou. He sings, “This is what I do when I am a man. This is what I do when I am a man.” One of the greatest difficulties in understanding the meaning of a love relationship between men and animals may stem from our implicit ideal of romantic love as a big emotion, a kind of constant, powerful, spiritually exhilarating entity. This implicit ideal is given expression in our culture, for example, in the melancholy ballads of true love lost at the popular level and in the idealistic love expressed in Wagnerian opera at a more sophisticated level. From a more realistic, and hopefully more Cree, perspective, love (including varying degrees of respect) is a quality that waxes and wanes and grows cumulatively with the efforts and manifestations and mutual understanding of the persons involved, as it succeeds or fails in influencing personal relationships (in this case we are including food-animals as “persons”). Also, for the Cree, the attitude of love will vary as the person relates to his wife, his daughter, his son, his grandfather, a bear, a group of caribou, and so forth. On the other hand, I believe that some kind of similarity often exists in the love felt in relation to a wife or daughter and to the caribou, and to a son or grandfather and to a bear. Also a man would not always regard his wife, or a caribou, as primarily a participant in a love relationship; he is often more pragmatic or self-centred. Still, there is a close and patterned relationship between the hunter and the animals he hunts, built upon years of close attention, desire for possession, and the accumulation of understanding of the thoughts and behaviour habits of the type of animal. These factors combine with his placing a very high value on his ability to obtain gratification of essential physical and emotional needs. The animals give themselves so that men can live, and men are gratified and thankful. The purpose of animals is, in part, to feed men, and so it

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is a natural extension of personal relationships that results in men killing animals in order to survive. Controlled human power in the contingent world of the Cree is partly expressed in the intimacy of reciprocal personal understandings between human persons and food-animal persons (and probably between human persons and a Mistabeo or other spirit-persons). The reciprocity of the relationship is manifested in the care taken by men to show the esteem they feel for the animal, through hanging portions of the remains up on trees, or returning the beaver bones to the water. The action of the man in making the hangings (Preston 1964) expresses respect for the animal that continues beyond the killing and eating of the animal. It also expresses the gratitude of the hunter, and differently, is a symbol of success and well-being. When a campsite is set up with many hangings in the vicinity, it “looks very fine” and indicates that the group is eating well because the men have hunted well, which in turn stems from good relationships with food-animals. While it may be argued that the belief in a love relationship is only a rationalization of guilt feelings over killing the animals, I believe that such a dismissal is a poor means of understanding cultural differences. One might even claim in rebuttal that such a “dismissal theory” is merely a Western intellectual condensation of squeamish repugnance at “savage” behaviour, by means of finding an excuse for it. For the Eastern Cree, the emotional consequences of killing animals are better described as regret than as conflict-laden guilt. The strength with which regret is felt, as well as the complex of other emotional tones, such as relief, self-satisfaction, and joy at obtaining food, will vary widely with the kind of animal killed and with the particular situation of the hunter and animal. Turnbull has cited compassion and regret for the killed animals, rather than aggression towards them, in a very different hunting culture (Turnbull, cited in Lee and DeVore 1968:341). For the Cree, there is a consistent, socially shared understanding that this relationship between hunter and animal involves a parallel between the love expected from human persons and the love expected from animal-persons. The analytical error of assuming an identity of the love between man and wife and between man and caribou need not be avoided by the opposite extreme of assuming that love between man and animals is a trivial or absurd idea, or that

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love is too ephemeral to be dealt with in anthropological analysis. Less desperate is the realization that similarity in the love relationships, rather than identity, is implied in the data, and that the nature of the similarity is a worthwhile goal for ethnographic study. Both the theory and my rebuttal are, at best, partial and therefore distorted views of the question. The relationship of the power of songs to the Mistabeo concept deserves some further comment. In some of the songs, reference is made to a sense of power outside of the person singing that is helping. The reference may or may not be to a Mistabeo. In some songs the power seems much less specifically personalized or localized, more a vaguely sensed than a clearly defined power. In a few songs, the reference is explicit, such as a song for curing where the words translate as “My helper will help me cure the person” or, even more explicitly, “about the person who is looking after me.” As a last example, a song about the setting of a partridge net included the explanatory comment, “He is hoping his Mistabeo would help him to net partridges.” Whether all references to power outside of the hunter’s own skill and energy can be properly thought of as a reference to a Mistabeo is not clear to me, and I suspect it is not clear to the singers, or at least to those who sang for me. But fixing a label is less important than understanding the ideas that the singers were expressing. The most common theme, I believe, is the hunter’s expression of a deep hope that he will be able to kill animals and thereby get his living and validate himself as a competent hunter. The Cree phrase that translates into English as “in hope that” actually connotes something more than hope. Through hoping very deeply for something, the singer really believes that his song helps him to influence the animal (or whatever he sings about). Perhaps it is more accurate to say that sometimes he sings to someone (an other-than-human-person, including food-animals), rather than about someone. For example, when the hunter sings as he sets his trap, he is singing to the animal, but if he sings the song at another time, it is better seen as sung about the animal. Even then, he may be communicating his thankfulness to the animal. The ability to communicate with and influence animals through deep hope (tsed tchi tik) is surely related to the explanation cited in chapter 4, where John said that many good hunters had a Mistabeo but would not conjure if they were asked to. This seems to indicate the broadening of the Mistabeo concept beyond that of conjuring,

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and the more broad concept is probably more common and more central to Cree life than is conjuring. The idea that hope can involve more than hope sounds mystical to most Western persons, and I cannot resolve the nature of hope beyond what I have said here. The way that deep, internal hope “works,” or is conveyed, or bridged, to external persons or objects is very difficult to translate. The Cree express the process with the term ehbebukdaet. This translates literally into English as untying something, like a knot – plus the quality of a revealing insight or perception, expressing some new knowledge. To use a simple analogy, when you untie a cord that is knotted, you succeed in laying out the straight cord (perhaps now reaching from one point to another). But the term refers not to a physical thing like a piece of cord; it is referring to a mental process. Speculatively, the best idea I can offer is that a singer, expressing his deep hope, is undoing (untying) or laying straight the mentalspiritual path to the goal of getting meat. When the singer is successful, he has meat to show for it. As Gerti Murdoch expressed it, “The song is not just expressing a feeling, it is very real, mentally. It is talking or sending a message to the animal, and the animal is understanding the singer.”

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chapter seven

On the Relationships between Human Persons and Food-Animal Persons In the preceding chapter, I argued that a love relationship exists between the hunter and the animals that he kills in order to make his living. In this chapter I hope to deal more broadly with the relationship between the human hunter and his prey, and at the same time give more precision to the concept of a love relationship. The importance of food-animals to a Cree hunter is central and crucial to his existence. Hallowell has written, “Certainly the most active and vital orders of being in the behavioural environment of man are of the human-animal order, even though the line between the two may not be drawn on the same grounds in all cultures, as in those, for instance, where metamorphosis is considered a possibility” (1955:51). Following Hallowell, and proceeding first at a general level, I will deal with the atiukan narratives, where persons (human and otherwise) are sometimes involved in metamorphosis, or in ambiguity of appearance. In some of these narratives, human persons are not yet a part of events, and the animals, to quote an informant, “thought of themselves as the people of that time.” Relationships were close, various species were always able to talk to each other, often living together, coordinating everyday activities, and cooperating in the face of imminent threat. Marriage between the species might occur. When humans appear on the scene, they assume a satisfactory position in the great society of beings by simply moving into the existing social structure. The integration of men into the Cree world of persons is not, however, such that man is given dominion over the other animals and a categorical superiority in some kind of vertical hierarchy. Instead, man derives his status on the basis of his particular needs and competences, apparently in very much the same way

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as the other persons have done. Some kinds of persons are food for man, and are actually referred to as “food” (miichim) or “meat” (wiias). Others would be eaten only in desperate circumstances. But this is also true for other hunting persons such as otter, wolf, or lynx, who would rarely eat some kinds of food. Furthermore, while man is not normally food for other animals (excepting lice, flies, and mosquitoes, etc.), he is not unique in this respect. Wolverine, for example, would not be hunted as food by anyone, while bear is hunted only by man. Perhaps man’s only unique qualities, in this context, come in the fact that he is normally hunted only by insects and by monstrous persons. Warfare is a problem that I will not deal with here. In short, while narratives provide a charter for a distinction between human persons and food-animal persons, the distinction is not a gross one. Even the relationship between individual men and their Mistabeo is found to have begun with Wolverine, whose Mistabeo left him after men arrived. Also, some of the other kinds of persons have competences that men cannot attain: (1) bear copes with winter through hibernation, while man must face the cold and keep on hunting. It is doubtful that a bear ever starves to death, and he is stronger than man; (2) the man who moves on snowshoes appreciates the mobility of geese who cope with winter by migration; (3) beaver and otter are able to utilize water for security, food, and pleasure. Clearly, man is not supreme in any absolute sense. I have emphasized the point that men are only one kind of person in a world populated by many kinds of persons. In the world of persons, men have a social position that derives from their particular competences and needs. In spite of the lack of any great social distance between human persons and other-than-human-persons, there is nevertheless considerable importance attached to defining and maintaining the distinction between human and other persons. Perhaps their very closeness makes the difference more crucial. This is indicated in narratives that tell of sexual alliances between human persons and other-than-human-persons. The events of the narratives indicate the development of a relationship between these categorically distinct persons, and then lead up to the calamitous consequences of such alliances. One of these stories tells of a man who attempts to have various animals for his wife, finally stays with a beaver-wife, and eventually is transformed into a giant beaver. In another story, a woman who has a snake for a lover is tricked by her

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husband into eating the flesh of the killed and cooked lover. When her husband tells her what she is eating she vomits, and is then killed by her husband. A third narrative is that of a woman who stays with a dog and is ashamed when she is visited by men, and drives the dog away from her. The dog, in jealous anger, kills her and runs away in the night, before the men can catch him. Note that the consequences of the first case include the man losing his humanity and becoming an unnatural person. The women are killed, perhaps a consequence of loss of humanity. These sexual alliances carry a negative evaluation that is similar to that of human incestuous relationships. Also, in one of these narratives, children of a man-lynx marriage are, in appearance, very much like the otherthan-human partner, again indicating a loss of humanity. Consistent with the ethical principles expressed in these narratives, infanticide was (and is) practiced when an infant with other-thanhuman appearance is born (often where the lanugo, or fetal hair, is still present). The explanation is that if the infant is allowed to grow and mature and have children, then humans will become more like the other animals. These abnormal births are often explained as the result of a sudden, severe scare to the pregnant woman, whose child then partially resembles the particular species of animal that scared her. While marriages that are not purely human (like incestuous unions) have unsatisfactory outcomes, the relationship itself may be quite satisfactory while it endures. Death or distortion of humanity results, but it is not the whole story. Nor are the relationships constantly laden with shame and dark forebodings. Instead, hardship and calamity alternate with more ordinary events and attitudes, and even with superficial and humorous qualities. Throughout, the attitudes of actual, individual temperamental qualities play an important role, changing with the direction and depth of interpersonal communication, but always present and potentially definable. As an illustration of the superficial and humorous qualities, I will describe an episode from the story of the man who had a beaverwife. One of the females that the man tries to stay with is a caribouwoman. Caribou are regarded as very willing to be taken (in hunting) by men. Appropriately, the caribou-woman is very eager to stay with the man, taking the toboggan and setting up camp in a very short time. The naive and fickle man (he is a younger brother) exclaims to himself, “My, she’s fast!” and this draws laughter from the narrator and his listeners. The episode continues with the caribou-woman

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embarrassing the man by her manner of getting up, hind-end first. He tells her, “What are people going to think if you show yourself every time you get up? I can’t stay with you.” The caribou-woman, then, is portrayed as too eager and not modest enough – a horny woman as well as a non-human woman. This inauspicious union was short-lived, and is followed by a more enduring and interpersonally mature relationship with the beaver-woman. She is more socially competent than the man, and finally is killed as a result of the man’s mistakes. In this more important relationship between the beaver-woman and the man, the beaver consistently manifests the will and ability required to meet her part of the marriage alliance. The man in turn manifests more selfish motives and behaviour. I believe this may be generally (perhaps implicitly) true of the relationship that men perceive between the food-animals they hunt and themselves; it is the men who eat, not vice versa. In short, I think that the character of interpersonal relationships between human persons and food-animal persons is generally not one of simple and equal reciprocity in attitudes or behaviour. This appears to be true for the hunters among the other-than-humanpersons, and by natural extension, it is true for human hunters. Using the preceding discussion as my context, I will turn now to some of the specifics of human/food-animal relationships. The nature of the interrelationships between classes of persons, from the Cree point of view, depends substantially upon the personality, needs, and competences of the particular species. The Cree do not simply endow animals with fanciful anthropomorphisms, however. They know the various classes of persons through a great deal of accumulated knowledge of their actual behavioural characteristics. While these observations are interpreted in a personalistic frame of reference, the interpretation is constantly subject to new experiences and to hearing of the experiences of other men. Admittedly, the Cree hunter’s intimate knowledge of the behavioural characteristics of the food-persons is biased by the great value that these animals have for the hunter’s survival, by their close relationship, by shared competences and (perceived) motivations, and by the fact that eating a food-animal may be a very gratifying experience. But the hunter’s knowledge is also anchored in the hard realities of an often difficult, and sometimes desperate, environmental situation. One of the very important food-animal persons that has already been mentioned is the caribou. In the interrelationship between

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caribou and human persons, the caribou is typically unintelligent and eager to be taken. Unlike most prey, once the fresh tracks are found, the caribou are usually easy to kill in large numbers. If, for some reason, the caribou do not wish the hunter to find them, he will have a very hard time. But when the relationship is as it should be, the caribou initiate the hunt by letting themselves (or their tracks) be found. The motive for the caribou (and also for other food-animals) to show its availability is love. This point has been made explicitly to me, and I have confidence in its validity. Once the food-person makes the first move in the chase, it is up to the hunter to take the initiative. As Marshall (1957) has said of the African Bushman, “Hunting is the passion of men.” In the hunt are coalesced the years of close attention, desire for possession, and the understanding of behavioural habits and (perceived) thoughts of the food-animal. The animals are hunted and killed so that men can live, and men are gratified physically and emotionally by a successful hunt. For their part in the relationship, I suspect that men feel, but try not to show, essentially selfish motives. The passion for hunting includes desire and enthusiasm in pursuing and killing the caribou, as well as an appropriate heartfelt respect for what the caribou gives the hunter. But while the hunter’s desire to possess the goal of his efforts is strong, it is essentially egocentric and probably often close to our concept of “lust.” Not all food-animals are viewed in this way. Also, the hunter is not simply lustful, for the relationship to the caribou extends past the killing of the animal. Respect is shown in prohibitions such as not allowing women to eat the fat from the marrow of the caribou’s forearms, or not eating any part of a fetal calf. Respect is shown in the way the bones are put up where no one (especially dogs) will disturb them. The caribou reciprocates by aiding the hunter’s future efforts, and in the practice of scapulimancy, where the relationship is active even when the caribou appears only in the form of a single scapula. With the women and children out of sight, landmarks are drawn on the blade, and then the man heats it and talks to it, and sees where the tracks go. As a final note on the caribou relationship, I would like to cite Speck (1935:94), who was told, “When a man dreams that his wife meets one of his friends he is pleased, for there at a lake he will find caribou.” Speck interprets this as a symbol of sexual hospitality, where his wife’s relationship to his friend symbolizes the caribou giving themselves to the man. The parallel between human sexual

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hospitality and the caribou giving themselves to men is similar to the way that men and their wives relate to beaver-persons, another important food-animal. In the remainder of this chapter I hope to show that the appearances, attitudes, and feelings of the hunt have a kind of patterned meaning that transcends specific events, classes of persons, or even differences of sex. A man hunts food-animals in a psychological milieu that parallels his love and sexual relationship with his wife, or his delight in and love for his children. And as his wife or grown daughter might provide sexual hospitality to a visiting man, similarly the hunter brings the beaver he has killed home to his wife. She takes the beaver inside the tent to skin and dress it out, and the man waits outside for awhile. The woman’s welcoming response to the beaver’s arrival is parallel to the welcome of sexual hospitality. This follows the man’s hunting of the beaver, where the man relates to the beaver in a way that parallels sexual intimacy. The beaver does not change its sex in this series of events, as it relates first to the man and then to his wife, in order to keep the relationships heterosexual. Actual sexuality is not a part of these events, so there is no problem of a confusion of male and female roles for the beaver. Rather, there is a consistency of attitude and feeling and action that is manifested by both men and women – expressing the intimacy and pleasure of love and sexual relationships. This might be termed aim-inhibited sexuality, but I think that such a term describes what is absent without describing what is present, and thereby misses much of the essence of the emotional dynamics involved. Rather than regard this sexuality as aim-inhibited, I would suggest that lust and love are characteristics of, and directed to, the actions of hunting (and sex?) more than to the object of the hunt (food-animal person). Action is primary, and the hunter’s goal may be in substantial part the action of getting food, as well as the object, the food itself. The relationship of beavers to men is based partly on similarities in the construction of houses, in the size of the social group, and in the use of skill and intelligence in choosing, gathering, and storing food. L.H. Morgan has described these competences in detail (1869:248ff). While beaver differs from man in that he does not hunt for meat, he differs also from caribou (and resembles man) in his intelligence, individuality, and control of emotion. His attitude towards the hunter is closer to generosity (Speck 1935:113) than the more lustful eagerness of the caribou.

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The similarity of activity in building a house, or in men’s building of traps and beaver’s building of dams, is singular, and approximated by no other class of persons. The beaver is a clever and skilled partner in the playing out of the hunting relationship. Man’s respect for the beaver is substantial and takes many forms, including the disposition of bones and special cooking of the season’s first kill or of kills especially aided by dreams. Other rituals and prohibitions are observed as particular hunters prefer them. In return, the beaver is gratified by the congenial treatment, and gives the power of scapulimancy and success in future hunting to the man. The bear is the other major food-animal person, and shares many qualities with the beaver. Speck, Hallowell, and others have written on the characteristics of the bear and his relationship to man, and I will not discuss the topic here. Instead, I will cite a narrative of a bear hunt that expresses aspects of bear’s relationship to man, and also indicates the meaning of human person/food-animal person relationships from a Cree point of view. In the preceding pages I have indicated some of the complexity and depth of personal relationships as I understand them. Precise ethnographic understanding of these qualities is difficult but important, since much of Cree behaviour and belief is responsive not simply to the objective facts of the environment but also to men’s interpretive perspectives on the environment – the behavioural environment. Ethnographic precision may not always involve exact definitions of events, because some of these qualities are obscured and elusive for a Cree. In such a case, ethnographic precision is best served by depicting what is poorly understood or mysterious, and by explaining what the particular events and thoughts might be taken to mean by a Cree person. Aspects of narratives that we find highly symbolic or fantastic, necessarily existing only in an imaginary world, may be viewed by the Cree as much more real and complexly involved in real events. While the effective involvement of signs and symbols may be obscure, the results may be powerful and of great personal significance. In the following (translated and slightly edited) narrative, I repeat a man’s first-hand account of some of the events leading up to the death of his wife, involving a complex and obscure interaction of dream events, hunting events, and personal tragedy. Narrated by Charlie Kanatiwat I have heard of many people having dreams that actually happened. I have had many dreams myself.

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I will tell you one of the dreams that I had. I had this dream early in January, before my wife’s death. I was married to this woman for a long time. We were out along the coast. I had just returned to the wigwam after a hunt. That night, I dreamt about a woman, I dreamt of a woman. When I went out hunting, sometimes I used to wander off the trails that led to my traps, as I tried hunting for partridges. I used to do this often. In my dream, I dreamt I was doing this. I dreamt I was wandering off among the trees. I dreamt I was wandering off and finally, I reached a woman. I imagined the woman was sitting inside a wigwam, although my dream was not clear if she was in the wigwam. The woman looked very old. She had two children. As I looked at her, I did not feel very comfortable; I had a sad feeling towards her. I dreamt I was unable to speak to her. Then, I dreamt about one of my children who had passed away. I dreamt she was here with her mother. Finally, I woke up from my dream. When I woke up, I did not tell my wife about this dream. I was thinking about my dream and I thought, “Maybe I was dreaming about a big kill.” I did not tell this dream to my wife or anyone else. There was no marten near the area, we were only trapping mink. I had set traps for the mink. There were plenty of rabbits, too. My oldest son, Albert, was a fully grown man then. He used to accompany me when I was setting traps far away. My second-oldest son was able to hunt, too. I only have two sons and one daughter living of all the children my wife had. Albert and I were checking fox snares. My other son was out checking rabbit snares with his mother. We were going to take him with us but he was out with his mother. It was February 5th when we were checking the fox snares. It was very far from camp where the snares were. I was carrying my gun. I had my gun loaded as I thought I would shoot at partridges if we saw any. The gun was able to hold six shells. As we were walking, I shot at a partridge, which left five shells. I checked the next fox snare and took it down. Then we stopped and made a fire. It was a very clear day with a slight wind. While we were eating, I had a very strange feeling. I had a feeling that wanted me to continue walking. I was very anxious to continue. Quickly, I packed my things and continued, without my son, on the journey. I came to a lake that I crossed.

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The night before, it was snowing very heavily. As I came to the middle of the lake, I saw a person’s tracks. I wondered who the person could be, I wondered who it was. I did not worry about it. Then I remembered it was snowing heavily just the night before. When I realized it was a person’s tracks, my wife came to mind first. As I came close to the tracks, I recognized that they were not a human’s tracks. I followed the tracks and then I saw another set of tracks. Then I realized it was a polar bear’s tracks. I decided to follow them. The tracks led up a river towards the coast. My son had gone to check fox snares along the coast, very close to where the bear was heading. I thought the bear would reach my son before I could catch up to it. I thought if the bear was walking in the woods, I probably could kill it. I kept following it and soon I saw my son Albert’s tracks. His tracks were heading back inland. Then I saw the bear tracks going in the same direction my son was going. The bear had followed him. I knew my son had not built a fire because he was going very fast. As I came close to one of the fox snares, I could see the polar bear at the trap. Then the bear started to walk towards another lake. It was going across the lake. There were two cubs, following the mother. Sometimes the bear would look back at me. Just before the bear went across, I saw my son Albert’s tracks again. The bear started to run, towards the woods. I continued to follow it and readied my gun. It was going to where some trees had fallen. I followed it. I did not want it to go any farther into the bush. I had very light loads [ammunition] with me. I did not want to let go of my axe, in case it attacked me. I shot it. I hit one of her eyes, thinking she would not be able to wander very far. Then I could shoot her elsewhere. People believed that if you talk to a bear, it will understand you. I started talking to the bear, saying, “What are you trying to do?” Then, the bear started to walk away and moved back a bit. I moved to an area where there were many fallen trees. The bear started to walk away with her cubs. I looked at them. The mother was not moving. I could not see the cubs. I had only one bullet in my gun, as I had shot her again. The bear was not very far when I shot her. I left my pack bag, still carrying my axe. She started to move. Then I followed her across a very clear area. When my son was young he was very short. I used to encourage him when we were

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out hunting. The bear was hopping along in the clear area (like my short son’s movements). I said to the bear, “Albert, why are you leaving me behind?” The bear sat down. When I reached her, she was just looking at me. I was very close to her and she was hardly moving. All of a sudden, I felt sorry for her. I was wondering what I was going to do with her. I did not have a strong rope with me. I had some string, but it was weak and I figured it would break this cord dragging the bear. I decided to hit her with my axe, and she did not move but still looked at me. I decided not to use my axe, as I had never killed a bear before, so I decided to use my gun. I shot her right under the arm. I went up to her; she was about the size of the very large husky dogs. I buried her in the snow and covered it with boughs. When I returned to my son he was making a fire. He said, “Did you kill a lot of meat?” After I finished eating I made a trail leading to the bear. I built another fire. Then I followed this trail back and followed another trail leading to the snares. When I finally reached home, I told everyone I had killed a bear. I gave the mother bear to my father and the young cubs to my son. This is when I finally told about my dream, the dream that I had. I told them, “There was a woman with two children. I dreamt that I was walking among the trees when I reached her and her children. She had two children. She acted very strange. I felt very uneasy with her. Then I started to dream about my wife. Then I woke up.” My father said to me, “Your dream meant you were going to kill the bear and her cubs.” I was really convinced about this dream. Then, that same month, my wife died. When she died my dream came back to me.

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chapter eight

Hunting and Deprivation in a Contingent World This chapter describes a more general facet of Eastern Cree ethos than that of conjuring, or that of the nature of men’s relationships to other men. We will now broaden the context to its proper scope, to the everyday and ordinary task of getting one’s living. For the Eastern Cree this task consists largely of successfully coping with the otherthan-human environment, in hunting, trapping, and fishing, and living out one’s life in the bush. In terms of subsistence potential and cultural elaboration, Kroeber, Speck, and others have ranked the Eastern Subarctic as a very poor area. Kroeber estimates population density as about one human per 100 square kilometres (1939: map 28, tables 7, 8). Periodically, the ecological support for human life was sharply reduced and many people died from the combination of starvation and exposure. During these periods, especially, deprivation and hardship took on extreme proportions. Western perspectives on life in such harsh environments include the idea of starvation as “the silent enemy,” or the idea of fear as a pervasive and motivating force for effective behaviour. The latter idea was given classic expression in Rasmussen’s report of an Inuit shaman’s testament: Look… snow and storm; ill weather for hunting. And yet we must hunt for our daily food; why? Why must there be storms to hinder us when we are seeking meat for ourselves and those we love? Why should all be chill and comfortless in this little home? Kuvdlo has been out hunting since early morning; if he had caught a seal, as he surely deserved, for his pains, the lamp would be burning bright and

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warm, his wife would be sitting smiling beside it, without fear of scarcity for the morrow; the children would be playing merrily in the warmth and light, glad to be alive. Why should it not be so? Why should we human beings suffer pain and sickness? All fear it; all would avoid it if they could. Here is this old sister of mine, she has done no wrong that we can see, but lived her many years and given birth to good strong children, yet now she must suffer pain at the ending of her days? Why? Why? You see, even you cannot answer when we ask you why life is as it is. And so it must be. Our customs all come from life and are directed towards life; we cannot explain, we do not believe in this or that; but the answer lies in what I have just shown you. We fear! We fear the elements with which we have to fight in their fury to wrest out food from land and sea. We fear cold and famine in our snow huts. We fear the sickness that is daily to be seen amongst us. Not death, but the suffering. We fear the souls of the dead, of human and animal alike… and for all our angakoqs and their knowledge of hidden things, we yet know so little that we fear everything else. (1927:129–31)

In citing this text, I do not seek to build a simple and gross contrast between fearful Inuit and fearless Cree. That would be ethnographic chauvinism. My purpose is rather to point up some different responses to, and perceptions of, the environment. Clearly, in spite of Rasmussen’s report, the Inuit do not live out their lives in abject and generalized fear. The ethnographer’s problem is to give precise definition to the cultural patterns of expression of fear and other emotions. Hallowell has penetrated more analytically into the anxiety and fear of Ojibwa Indians, finding these emotions related to particular classes of behaviour or anticipated behaviour of persons, either human or other-than-human. Non-personalized aspects of the Ojibwa environment apparently play a relatively minor role in producing anxiety and fear (1955: chapters 8, 14, 15). For the Eastern Cree, Speck describes a picture similar in its general tenor to Rasmussen’s for the Inuit, where uncertainty of the chase is the sole issue, the winter is a deadly continuous blast, and dangers are here rather than in human enemies and disease (1935:22). He describes “a region so harsh in its natural aspects as to affright the sensibilities of some who feel its desolation, yet exerting an almost irresistible allurement upon the wandering instincts of others” (33).

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His description corresponds accurately with some of my own reactions to being lost in the winter bush milieu. But I have not found this perception of the milieu expressed by the Cree. Speaking of worldview, Speck distinguishes between “a spiritualistic system as complete and as artificial for gaining control over animal spirits as their hunting devices and weapons are effective in accomplishing the physical slaughter of game” (1935:15). Speck thus finds an opposition between the practical, instrumental, and cognitive areas of life, and the symbolic, expressive, and affective areas of life. But the dichotomy is not necessarily held by the Cree; it is held by Speck. And I propose that it oversimplifies the picture in very much the same way that he oversimplifies and distorts Cree mental culture when he says, “In short, the one yearning of the Naskapi mind is for subsistence while living and postponement of death” (1935:31). I do not mean to grossly challenge the value of Speck’s work, but rather to claim that his rich ethnographic data is embedded in the restricted interpretive perspective expressed in the passages cited above, or in the following statement, which focuses on the topic I wish to discuss. He concludes: “The fatalities of life are represented in starvation, freezing, accident, and disease for which the animals, animal overlords, plant spirits, the demons of nature, and monsters are responsible. The individual has only to rely upon their benevolence for his welfare. His own soul is his medium of power in the struggle against their force” (1935:81). In my collection of the oral tradition of the Eastern Cree I have narratives that do not support Speck’s view. Since some of my informants, when they were young men, were living and hunting in the area as Speck’s informants, I believe that the problem is not simply one of a change in ethos since the 1920s, but that Speck did not go as deeply into this facet of worldview as he might have, in part due to his particular perspective. In fairness to Speck, I should suggest alternative interpretations. First, his particular informants may have seen their experience and world in a more fearful light, possibly as a consequence of having survived a hardship period just prior to talking with Speck. But I would expect this to be manifested by some of the oral tradition I have recorded, or in the perspectives of some of my informants. I have known many Cree men who had suffered deprivation and had close relatives who died of starvation, but none of these men conveyed much of Speck’s view to me. Second, Speck may have been

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better able than I to find subtle and deep meanings in the hardship stories. Hallowell, for instance, describes Ojibwa worldview in much more precise terms, coupling greater theoretical sophistication with a primary loyalty to the Ojibwa categories and manner of perception. My fieldwork indicates only a partial congruence with Speck’s image of a threatening environment. Also, I find rather less interpersonal anxiety, fear, and animosity than Hallowell describes for the Ojibwa, though the patterns are similar. His use of the distinction between human persons and other-than-human-persons is directly appropriate to Cree concepts. Since the Cree other-than-humanpersons are the inhabitants of the hunter’s world, I will specify how they may be roughly ranked with the inclusion of human persons, as they may be threatening and fearful. These categories are in general correspondence with the Cree categories, insofar as I understand them. Human-distorted persons are the most fearsome, and are known only through rare, tragic encounters and more frequent but often uncertain signs. They are the cannibal-maniacs (witiko or atoosh) and dwarfs (merged by some Cree with “white trappers”), and have a relatively mysterious nature. Alien-human persons (maendeo) are less mysterious, and inspire marked fear only when their presence is imminent in a specific situation. These are sometimes violent white trappers, and hostile, foreign Natives and Whitemen, and they include the category of pawt (described in chapter 4). Animal-distorted persons, like human-distorted persons, are rare and mysterious, and usually large and malevolent. Descriptions are often distorted in English translation, such as lion, mammoth, etc. Fear of these persons is event-specific and rarely sufficient to prevent the men from killing them. They are burned after being killed, to more completely destroy possible regenerative attributes. Ambiguous animal-persons, consisting of snakes, frogs, toads, eels, and worms, are disliked and shunned. Snakes are particularly feared by women, and are a bad omen. As far as I know, only the common garter snake is found so far north. Attending spirit-persons, such as the Mistabeo, assist the human with whom they have a close and reciprocal, yet autonomous relationship. This relationship facilitates the bridging of a man’s internal experience into external objects and events, and is only fearful when used for purposes of sorcery. The sorcerer (miteo) may send a cannibal, an animal-distorted person, or some object to do harm to another

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human. Or the Mistabeo may work directly against the human, or fight with the victim’s own Mistabeo. Sorcery is feared when it occurs or is threatened or suspected, and is more common than the occurrence of any of the distorted persons mentioned above. Yet the beneficial functions of the Mistabeo are far more common, in luring and finding food-animals, predicting future events, seeing over distances, and finding lost objects. Human-animal persons refer to Speck’s category of “animal overlords” such as the bosses of beaver, caribou, and of water creatures. Also included are mermaids or sirens, and manifestations of attending spirits as they appear in the very old narratives. Their relationship to men is less often the struggle that Speck reports and more normally an adequate and negotiable relationship. Breakdown is attributed to a hunter’s failure to show normal and proper respect for the animals, or may be due to sorcery. Food-persons are not appropriate for the acknowledgment of fear by men, even though some, such as bear or moose, may attack men in anger. Food-persons, or edible animals, are by far the most common and immediately important of the persons in the Cree hunter’s world. It is my understanding that there is no word in Cree that translates accurately as our generic term “animal.” Where I have used the English term in narratives, it is a translation of the Cree mijum (food) or wiaes (meat) or else an inaccurate translation of some species name. The term wiaes excludes fish and may also exclude birds. The purpose of these persons is to be killed so that humans may eat them and live. If they do not reveal themselves to the hunter, hardship occurs and demands great effort from men. But men are not likely to be subject to the whim or will of food-animals except by failure to show proper respect, or through sorcery. Even then, men have a synthesis of skill and power to overcome the animals and maintain human autonomy. The highly valued quality of autonomy even allows a man to doubt or criticize his Mistabeo, and I find individual autonomy more basic to bush life than fearfulness. My data strongly express the secondary and event-specific role of fear relative to manifestations of positive attitudes towards life in the bush. Hardship narratives regularly express fortitude, regret, grief, and other attitudes. But fear seems limited to special categories and rare occurrences, and is curiously rare in the hardship narratives. Beyond the idea of serious concern about the immediate press of hardships, I have been unable to find even indirect evidence of fear,

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unless I assume (1) that its absence proves its repressed presence, or (2) that the fears are, by transference, shown in the fearsome distortedhuman or distorted-animal persons of a few dramatic narratives. Such repression or transference may occur, but I have no adequate reason to believe this to be the case, so it remains highly hypothetical. Only fear of sorcery or of “white trappers” has been observed in my fieldwork. The rest remains a problem. The fear component described by Speck may be more obviously manifested in and after periods of starvation. I have chosen a detailed narrative that comes as close (and the reader will not find it very close) to the direct expression of fear as any that I have recorded. After presenting this example I will discuss the implications for the expression of fear, and the definition of feelings of fear, in Cree culture. The narrative also illustrates that a Mistabeo is not the only external and spiritual means of augmenting one’s deep hope of finding food-animals. In this case, the spirit of a recently deceased man responds to the needs of his brother, his widow, and his children. The later intervention of a Mistabeo in the death of one of the women is apparently not related to the spirit of the man who earlier helps the living persons to survive a starvation period.

the woman who had to pull her children when her husband starved Narrated by John Blackned This is a story about a man who starved and there was no one to hunt for his family (for their food). The woman knew that there were other people in the area, so she searched for these other people. There was a man from Nichequon who had six children. Two of his children could walk (on snowshoes). When this man starved, his wife had to pull four of the children on a toboggan while two of them walked. She tried to pull them to an area where there were other Indians. This woman’s husband had starved while he was hunting, as she followed his trail. There was a man hunting close by, she knew this man was hunting close by, so she tried pulling her children there. This man (Johnny Wapachee) was her husband’s brother. She tried pulling her children there. She did not reach their tent, yet, as she was still quite a distance away.

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As the man was hunting, suddenly he saw the woman’s trail. He thought that it must be a visitor. Besides pulling her four children on the toboggan she also had their belongings and tent coverings. The man followed the trail. He knew it was a woman’s trail. Then he realized that his brother must have starved. He followed her and finally he reached her as the woman was trying to build a tent. The man also was having a difficult time in hunting. He had not eaten that morning when he left to hunt. He took the children to his wigwam. He was unable to kill meat that day. The next morning, he left to bury his brother. He did not eat. The body of his brother was far away. Then the woman managed to get to their tent. She slept twice before she reached them. When he left to bury his brother, it was the second day since he did not eat. He still wanted to bury him, although he had no meat. When he reached where his brother’s tent was, it was three days since he ate. He spent the night there. His brother’s body was out in the bush, as he had starved while he was out hunting. He had to spend another night before he reached his brother’s body. He did not eat. He did all of this without eating. After he buried his brother’s body, he returned home, without eating. Where the man’s wife had their tent, there were nets and hooks for fishing. While he was out, the woman and children were unable to kill fish. Before he reached home, he spent another night about half way from his tent. He did not eat for five days. His wife and children did not eat all that time, too. It was still daylight when he reached home. He asked his wife, “Did you check the nets and hooks? When was the last time you checked them?” She answered him, “I managed to check them this morning. There were no fish.” He was thinking about burying his brother. He was thinking that if he had starved and his brother had buried him, that he would bring luck to them in hunting, for burying him. When an Indian who had starved was buried, he gave luck in hunting to the Indians who buried him, as if he was pleased that he was buried. This is why the man is thinking that he probably would kill meat since he buried his brother. His wife could only offer him water. After he drank the water, he went out to check the hooks. Since he buried his brother, this was the first time he checked the nets and hooks. He killed a very

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large pike on one of the hooks. The hooks and nets were checked every day while he was out to bury his brother. During that time, they had been unable to kill fish. This was all of the meat they had. He had a feast with the large pike. He threw a piece in the fire for his brother who he had buried, hoping that he would bring hunting luck to him. The next morning, they killed a lot of fish. Then the man started to kill a lot of meat. Before he buried his brother, he was unable to kill meat. He was having a difficult time like his brother. He started to kill meat every day. (Repeated.) He was able to help his brother’s wife and children survive. The man had five children. There were a total of eleven children. After three winters, the man’s wife died. They had two more children before his wife died. The man’s wife died because he made a man’s Mistabeo angry. He had made a man, who had a Mistabeo, angry. This man who had a Mistabeo conjured his wife’s death. There was an old woman in Neoskweskau who would look after the women when they had babies. She would look after the woman’s children, too. That night, the man’s wife had her baby. The manager told him that he would have to go out and get some moose meat. This man was staying at the post (Neoskweskau). This was during the winter. In the morning, the man left with another man who had returned for supplies and also had killed a moose. He was supposed to bring this moose meat back to the manager. The old woman who looked after newborn babies was looking after the woman. Two hours passed since the man had left, and the old woman decided to tell the Indians close by that the woman had her baby. The old woman left the woman for a short while. The old woman did not go into the houses, she only stood at the doorways and said to them, “The woman’s baby was born.” When she returned, she could see a lot of blood on the bed where the woman was lying. It looked as if she was stabbed with a knife. There were two men from Waskaganish, Robert Stephen and Charlie Stephen, and another man from Nemiska (Johnny Minister) who were in Neoskweskau when this happened. These men had made the trip to Neoskweskau because they had to take a [hbc ] district manager there. They told the post manager and the district manager the story about the woman.

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The old woman thought, “It looks like someone came running in and killed her.” The woman who died had a lot of children. The old woman had to hide all the knives, as she was scared the children might play with them and cut themselves. One of her children, who was asleep, knew where the knives were hidden. They did not know what happened. She looked as if someone had stabbed her. A few men in Neoskweskau were sent for the husband of the woman. This husband’s name was Johnny. Before he left, when he kissed his wife, his wife had said to him that she had discharged all the waste after the birth of her baby. The husband had thought that his wife would survive the delivery. (Repeated.) Three hours after the men were sent for the husband, they reached him. They had made a fire once. After they had the break, they reached the husband. The husband never thought that he would be hearing a story that his wife had died. They returned to the post. The manager and the district manager wanted to see the man. The other men went for the moose meat for the manager. There was a lot of blood on the bed where his wife was lying. The blood was dripping on the sides of the bed. The old woman had returned a few minutes before the woman died. The old woman called the manager and district manager, but they were too late. They did not touch the body, as they wanted the husband to see the body. After the husband saw the body, they started preparing the body for a burial. At the bottom of the mattress, they found a knife after removing the stained blankets. The knife was all bloody. They wondered where the knife came from. (Nobody recognized it.) The husband had made a Mistabeo very angry. I don’t know why the Mistabeo was angry with him. He had made a man with a Mistabeo very angry. The man with the Mistabeo had told him that someday, he was going to be sorry. (Repeated.) They believed that the man with the Mistabeo conjured his wife’s death. This happened about February, I don’t know the exact date. They never knew whose knife it was. There were a few people at the post, mostly women. There was a manager and an old man who cut firewood for the manager. Also, the district manager and the three men. Most of the people from the post were out hunting and trapping. There were only seven men at the post when this happened.

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They were saying that if the stab was not so deep, she probably would have survived. There was an old man at the post, he heard that everyone believed that the woman killed herself. The old man said that she did not kill herself. This old man had a Mistabeo. Later, the old man named the man who had conjured the woman’s death. (Repeated.) This man who had conjured was hunting far inland. This man had a Mistabeo. The man was able to conjure on the woman because he had conjured on other people when he entered a conjuring tent. After one winter, the man whose wife had died married his brother’s widow. This was his brother’s wife who had almost starved. He was able to save her and her children. They had over ten children – they had exactly fourteen children with his children and the woman’s children. They treated each other’s children as if they were their very own children. They were both very fond of each other’s children. Four of the children were living with other people, as they could help these people work. They had a total of eighteen children. The woman had a baby almost every summer. They had more children and people would ask them if they could live with some of their children. I don’t know if this man is still living. His sons were down to the post, here. It was not too long ago. A man named Billy Wapachee from Nemiska; he was a brother to Johnny. There were a lot of brothers in this Wapachee family. There were seven brothers and Johnny was the oldest, then Thomas, Billy. Their father was married four times. (Repeated.) He was an old man on his fourth marriage. He only stayed with his last wife one night, then she left him. This man was the minister. Although he was a minister, two of his marriages were not in church. He just started living with the women. His last wife was pregnant; that is why she wanted to marry him. She was pregnant from a married man. When the woman left the old man, they questioned her, “Why did you leave the old man, he could have made a living for you?” She answered them, “He’s too old to sleep with.” The components of hardship, deprivation, physical weakness, loss of a loved and needed family member, and other trying attributes combine in this narrative and lead, over time, to violent death in the

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wake of childbirth, with the source of the death a mystery within a small group of possible perpetrators. Surely these circumstances are sufficient for the arousal of fear, yet the feelings and attitudes expressed in the narrative are not suggestive of focused fear, and the actions and events have an atmosphere of controlled, measured response to tragedy, once again serving to illustrate what I earlier called “diffuse” emotionality. The diffuse quality is realized in part through the form of narrative reporting, for the actions and events reported give little indication of words or actions that express focused emotions. I think that we must assume that unless the narratives uniformly omit reference to any expression of focused emotions, they are simply not manifested, except possibly in very unusual situations that I have not heard about. The definition of the feelings of fear in Cree culture may well be a complex of emotional energy mediated by almost impenetrable selfcontrol in the expression of that energy, or even in the self’s perception of the energy. That is, the Cree person who is fearful may perceive his own emotional state in terms of controlled attitudes of a sense of hunger or exhaustion or a concern with increasing weakness from lack of food, in the place of a focused fear of death by starvation. Similarly, fear of sorcery may be manifested as determination to resist, through the exercise of will and one’s own spiritual power, the harmful influence of a sorcerer. In this case, it is the weak and unstable person who is most vulnerable to sorcery. In one case I know of, a person suddenly lost her self-control and ran out into the snow, towards the bush, with no clothing or snowshoes. When she was caught and brought back, she remained in a state of mental disorganization, and was soon hospitalized. This general pattern of sudden and gross loss of self-control occurred with another woman who died in the bush before she could be found. This “flight hysteria” was referred to in chapter 4 and may be the most common form that the alternative to self-control takes. Certainly it is the most dramatic form. A contrasting example of self-control occurs in the story of old man P, also cited in chapter 4. The old man stopped conjuring when he was sure that old man Meskino had beaten him, but continued to try to make his living. Perhaps his efforts were in quiet desperation, or perhaps with rather less desperation than we would think. The old man made a serious error in draining his own blood for the group to eat, but only Robert P and

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one of his brothers were guilty of a loss of self-control when they resorted to cannibalism. My last narrative reports the feelings of John Blackned during a period of deprivation in his youth, and includes a narrative within the narrative as John’s father tells of an earlier period of deprivation. This story is, I believe, a typical example of narratives regarding hunting and deprivation in the contingent world of the Cree. It also shows the important consequences of an individual’s mental response to an ecological challenge, when the question arises of whether it is better for the group to stay together or to separate during a starvation period.

a hardship story when john was young Narrated by John Blackned This is a story from when I was young. I said to my father, “I am very hungry.” I thought I would not be able to reach the tent, the way I felt. My father would ask me, “Do you want to eat?” I answered him, “Yes.” He told me, “You will not feel hungry later.” Finally, I felt better. After a while, you feel very hungry again. When it starts again, you feel twice as bad. When it was supposed to be time to eat I felt very hungry. I would think, “I wonder if he knows I am very hungry?” He gave me the wing part of a partridge plus one foot when we stopped to eat. He ate the same amount, too. My father told me, “We will have to eat the bones, too.” So he crushed the bones with his axe. After we finished eating, I didn’t feel any different. I thought, “We should have not made a fire as I am still very hungry. “Maybe, he is trying to show me all the hardships he had when he was young.” He used to tell me all about the hardships and his hunger when he was young. He said to me, “The longest I didn’t eat was five days. I thought I would not be able to walk. When I started to eat half a partridge, I felt better.” He said, “For about ten days, we did not have anything to eat or else very little. Sometimes we had a few partridges but there were no leftovers. They would serve me half a partridge. I tried to save half of that for the next morning. I was not full after a quarter of a partridge, especially the morning meal. There were a lot of children with us; I was very worried about them, as they were very greedy. For five days, we could not find any food.” He asked me, “Do you think you could walk without food for five days?” I did not answer him as I thought I probably would not have made it.

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“Finally,” he said, “they started killing partridge first. They killed ten partridges, which was considered a lot of meat after five days without it. I ate almost one partridge. Then I felt full and better. We drank the boiling liquid of the partridges.” My father said, “We had to move now and again. There were more children walking now, although they were very hungry. The parents would tell their children, ‘Hurry now, you had something to eat,’ although they ate very little. The next morning, we moved again. After everyone was settled, we went hunting. We killed two porcupines and four partridges. We did not stay there. We traveled on again. Our next hunt, we killed one porcupine and five partridges. Even when we would have very little killing, we still tried to save it up for the next meal or day. The next stop, we killed another porcupine. “There was a big snowstorm. All of the children were very tired and weak. We were not sure if they would be able to walk. The next day, we went out hunting for partridge. We decided to travel on as the storm cleared up. There were three of us men. One of the men wanted to leave us. There was very little food, the next morning. That day, when we went hunting, we only killed five partridges. All of us had to share the five partridges. This man told us, ‘We are going to leave you all.’ This family had no children; there were three of them, his wife, his wife’s sister and him. This man said, ‘I am truly leaving you here. I will go another way with my family.’ “My father [John’s father’s father] told him, ‘I don’t think you should go alone because we all had very little to eat. If one of us men is not able to hunt, one of us who can hunt will be able to go, and if you were alone, you will not be able to hunt anything.’ This man was able to kill a few partridges. This man still insisted that he would go on his own with his family. He told them, ‘I will go, maybe I will be able to kill a partridge on my way or this evening.’ (Repeated.) “My father said, ‘Let him go, if he wants to go.’ When we traveled again, we reached a lake where we could fish. When we reached the lake, it was very dark. They started making the tent. We decided to fish in the lake. Although we were very hard up, my mother had saved a little fish used for bait. All of us, two men, were fishing.1 The man had left with his family in the morning, the day we moved to the lake. “It was very dark when we finished setting the fishing lines. We decided to hunt for partridges. I killed two partridges; my father

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did not kill any partridge. After returning from hunting, we checked our fishing lines. It was almost twenty days that we had very little to eat. We brought two fish home, we caught one each. My father said, ‘Cook both of them. Don’t cook the two partridges.’ I thought, maybe I will be able to have a filling meal. My father said, ‘I guess I will be able to fill myself up.’ “They gave me the head plus the stomach to eat. I thought, ‘I have a lot to eat compared to my dishes when there was very little food.’ After I finished eating, I felt like a person who has been shot. We all fell asleep, this was because we had very little to eat for twenty days. The next morning, we caught two fish each. We started killing more fish, in a day, we would catch two, three, or four. Now I was feeling better. “My father [John’s father’s father] had a dream. He dreamt about the man who left us. He dreamt that his fire was burning out. He told me, ‘You should try and see this man. You can carry a load of food.’ It was four nights we did not see him. The day I left, it was very stormy. Sometimes I could follow his trail, sometimes I lost his trail. The day I left, I could not find them. I slept along the way. The next evening, I had an idea where they were. “When I found them, the woman told me, ‘My husband has already starved to death.’ I gave the woman all of the food I had. The woman had left the body inside the tent. That evening I returned home to tell my father. I reached home that night. My father killed almost ten fish, as he had set a net. My father and I went out to bury the man. I was able to eat when I reached home as I gave the woman all the food that I had. They brought more food for the women. We were lucky to find them, as only the man starved to death instead of all of them. “Then my father had set the net and got nine fish. Then we got five caribou. Then he said, ‘I am sorry the other man went off by himself – he would still be alive at this time.’ And we stayed at the lake for quite a while because we were killing lots of fish. Then we killed another ten caribou. So we killed a lot of food after that. We had been so hard up; it was as if we weren’t hunting. Where we killed the ten caribou we left the nets on the lake, still. All this time I still remember the man that left us and starved.” [John’s father was named Jacob. His grandfather was named Nahagagi (perhaps also called Black Ned). The man who starved was named Kamchatstatasini, “Big Rock.”] After that the partridges

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were very easy to kill. As soon as they had started to hunt in the fall his father had bad luck. My father didn’t have a wife at that time; he was just living with his father. My grandfather told his son to help his mother fix the meat when the old man left. They make grease out of the bones – smash the bones and boil them in water. When he came back again he killed another four caribou – big ones. My grandfather was very sorry, when he came back from the four caribou, “That man would be alive still if he had stayed. I guess that’s why he wanted to leave us, he wanted to go away and starve. Maybe God wanted it that way.” His father told him [John’s father], “Go for the nets, then we’ll go for the four caribou.” [John’s father said:] “And when I went for the nets and hooks, I brought back a big load, fifty fish. When I brought the big load, still I remembered the man who starved. Everybody was very poor at that time, very thin, even the women, they were so hard up. That’s the way people do when they don’t eat. They get thinner, thinner. My father told me to pick everything up from there. Where we had our tents on the lake, we left lots of food there. After that we were doing well, it was about the end of March. It was the third of March when we lost the man by starving. So we were very sorry when they had lots of food so soon.” Once again, attitudes of regret, grief, and the like are the responses to hardship and deprivation. The expression of fear is carefully controlled and, judging by the narratives, expressed in the form of the attitudes that have been discussed in chapter 5. Because I doubted that the apparent lack of fear could be truly lacking, or simply expressed in the form of attitudes or, rarely, in mental disorganization, I spent some effort in trying to find evidence of feelings that also expressed fear of hardship and the threatening appearance of the environment. I was not successful. Also, I was not satisfied to infer a high degree of fear of the environment from the large proportion of hardship and starvation narratives. This was particularly true after I had collected songs, where an inference from the relative proportions of hardship topics would have led me to the opposite conclusion. Observing the incidence of a large number of narrations on topics of apparently fearsome events is not in itself convincing evidence of a pervasive fear of the environment, since the singing of songs was until recently probably a more frequent event than the telling of

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stories, and the songs strongly express the positive side of feelings regarding the environment. This is particularly interesting since one might expect the more symbolic forms of narration would express the deeper and/or more repressed emotions. If this is true, the positive emotions are the deeper and perhaps the more repressed in conscious emotional reticence. Finally, I asked George Head, a knowledgeable and experienced old man who had lived over seventy years wintering in the Lake Kaniapiscow area in the far interior of Labrador, surviving three wives and many hardships. I said, “Some books on the North make the bush seem to be a fearful place for the people who make their living in it. Do the people look upon the bush as threatening, or not? How did they think about the bush?” I think that my question prompted a concern to correct a misunderstanding, since it seemed incompatible with the basic values that he had intended as part of events he had already described to me. He began his reply with a narrative that dealt with the specific aspects and problems of a hard winter, and then he generalized by degrees, until he gave his answers to the broad question. Here are excerpts (in translation): Narrated by George Head There are different difficulties in the bush. When I am out of food as it starts to freeze, I do not have my snowshoes made yet… In time of hardship, most of the men were out trying to hunt until very late, and they worked on their snowshoes or toboggans until late at night. We usually moved to a lake, hoping we could catch fish. If we can catch fish, then we can work on our snowshoes, but food was always first. I wanted to trap for furs, although it was hard getting a living. Everyone was very busy. We only had a little of the Whiteman’s food, for Christmas or New Year’s for the children. It is a hard life, but I enjoyed trapping and hunting. I am always hoping I will be able to kill food for my family. I enjoy working hard. At this point in his reply he had shifted from past to present tense in his sense of personal involvement with his topic. Then he proceeded to generalize his feelings, referring to the attitudes of other men in the bush. Speaking of hunting songs that express a deeply felt hope for success, he said, “If they were afraid of the bush, I don’t think they would sing like that.”

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If I were determined to find fear in the hunter’s milieu, I might claim that hunting songs were the Cree functional equivalent of whistling in the dark, constituting a flimsy denial of a frightening percept. But a close and careful look at the songs and their context does not support such speculation. Fearful whistling in the dark suggests a person who thinks he is inadequate to meet the demands of his situation. If a man sets for himself the goal of being master of his fate, he might realistically stand in fear of a hard environmental milieu. But the Cree hunter probably does not put himself into such a desperate, assertive position. I suggest that he views himself as a part of events, not as master of them. His expectations of his own abilities are not so grand, and so his sense of the possibility of failure is not one of calamity, but rather one of a need for greater perseverance and fortitude. Several men have expressed this attitude to me, and I sense it in many of the narratives I have collected. I believe that this attitude may be directly expressed in saying that the man who hunts long and gets no meat is not fearful, he is poor. If he is starving, he is very poor. Poverty, then, is a personal condition more than a lack of accumulated goods. Even in cases of death through starvation and exposure, there appears the notable self-control of panic, focused fear, or anger. Speculatively, I think that self-control is unconsciously held as the most appropriate way of coping with an external world that is full of contingencies that are only sometimes predictable, or susceptible of influence. As I put it in chapter 5, an angry, jealous, or fearful man makes a poor hunter, as would an ecstatic, romantic, or foolhardy individual. I do not claim that these emotions are not present for the Eastern Cree, but they are not manifested as overt, focused emotional behaviour. By means of self-control, emotions are given expression in a form more diffuse than focused. The overt manifestation of emotion is better described by the term “attitude,” denoting emotion in a context of readiness for activity and avoiding emotional constriction. Emotional depth is not sacrificed in the control of emotional turbulence, since it is quite possible that deep feeling is enhanced rather than repressed or constrained by such control. In summary, my data demonstrates that explicit acknowledgment is given to a deeply felt enjoyment of hunting, a passion that the Cree hunter believes to be reciprocally shared by the animals they hunt. The distinctive Cree balance in social relationships between reciprocity

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and personal autonomy may be found applicable to both human and other-than-human-persons, whether between man and Mistabeo or between man and the animals that he kills to make his living. Hardship is usually viewed more with regret than with fear, and the contingent quality of interaction with the non-human environment is a commonplace that each individual copes with on a day-today basis. The deep emotional bases that define and motivate much of Cree culture are both complex and obscure, and are only given partial and therefore distorted explanation in Speck’s work, and again, differently, in this treatment. As I have indicated, hardship stories are a derivative of dramatic hardship events, and as such constitute a moral force in Cree culture. The stories are not so much an expression of the struggle for survival in a hostile environment (although they may fulfill this function as well) as they are an illustration, in dramatic narrative context, either of right decisions and actions or of how wrong decisions or actions can render a hardship situation into a truly calamitous predicament. By contrast, the everyday difficulties of the Cree listener seem less trying or discouraging, and individuals are taught or reminded of how the ordinary state of affairs may be maintained through the use of proper thoughts and actions in coping with the mental, social, and physical environment.

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chapter nine

Conclusions

In the introduction I proposed that Eastern Cree cultural unity was maintained not only by linguistic and ecological uniformities but also by a distinctive kind of individualism that constitutes a dominant theme in Eastern Cree culture. I have attempted to indicate something of the nature of the Cree individual-in-culture through a treatment of conjuring and the Cree view of man-in-nature. The sense of controlled human competence in a contingent world is fundamental to the ethos of Cree culture, and is expressed both in action and in narration. In this concluding chapter I summarize and synthesize the ethnographic data presented in the preceding chapters and offer some analytical positions that I find useful and suggestive. The frankly speculative efforts that I present here are almost certainly of only a transient value to the understanding of Cree ethos, but such is the nature of ethnographic inquiry. My sense of a substantial difference between Cree and Western cultures makes me particularly reluctant to use theory with more than the most tentative confidence. As Freud acknowledged nearly sixty years ago, psychoanalysis and “the mental sciences” must play “the role of incentives and make suggestions” (1918:98) rather than presume to offer confident explanations. For the interpretation of cultures significantly different from our own, I believe that little more can be claimed today. The Mistabeo concept involves the intuitions and perceptions, on the part of a Cree man, of an essentially spiritual person and power that is at once outside of himself and intimately related to himself. By “essentially spiritual” I refer to the limits of substantial manifestation of the person of the Mistabeo. He is reportedly seen by the conjuror,

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probably as a small glow of light, at the top of the conjuring tent. And he is reportedly felt as a small object in the palm of the hand of a sceptic who was allowed to put his hand inside a conjuring tent. These visual and tactile perceptions are the closest thing to empirical evidence we have: verbal reports of what another person is understood to have perceived. But we will go beyond a description of flimsy empirical evidence to consider what the more spiritual nature of the Mistabeo may be, and to consider what his intimate relationship with a man may consist of. One of the most difficult qualities for us to understand in the belief systems of the Eastern Cree conjuror is the close and personal nature of relationships with spirits. The Mistabeo usually manifests personality attributes very like those of the conjuror. We may attribute this to the naivete of the conjuror, in which he simply and narcissistically projects his own character into his image of an attending spirit. But naivete is not a common characteristic of conjurors, and the similarities are surely deserving of a more sophisticated understanding on our part. In the first place, the Cree are aware of this similarity of personalities, and while they may not be aware of projection theory, they would probably not be simply confused about the location of an obvious quality of human personality. Also, I do not think that they are often blinded by narcissism. Informants are aware of the similarity of personality between a man and his Mistabeo and find this wholly proper. But they do not critically assess the idea or entertain the possibility of alternatives. I think that such questions do not ordinarily arise within the context of Cree culture. More obvious than is commonly remembered is the fact that much of the culture presented here is not held consciously (and therefore critically) by the Cree, for much of the conceptual culture is more unconsciously known and embodied in action, or as Evans-Pritchard prefers, “imprisoned in action” (1937:83). Probably no traditional Cree individual would observe to himself that alternative kinds of personality attributes would have implications for the nature of the Mistabeo as a personality construct. The reason is that only the outsider or idiosyncratic sceptic assumes the Mistabeo to be a mental construct. The participant in the culture assumes the Mistabeo to be a reality that is experienced (almost entirely) as a mental percept (and only sometimes as a physical entity). In a different and more indirect way than visual or tactile perceptions, evidence for the existence of a Mistabeo may be found in his

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actions on physical objects, and in their reported forms in the very old narratives (atiukan). In these narratives, the Mistabeo blends qualities of animal-persons with Mistabeo-persons, exceeding the ordinary animal-person in competence and power. In the Chou-a narrative and in the Tchikabesh (“trickster”) narratives the Mistabeo appears more or less as a human person, with great strength and other practical advantages (perpetual fire, regenerative food). We may assume that metamorphosis is a constant capability of any Mistabeo. Alternatively, we may assume that in narratives, the reported physical manifestation has increased in degree and humanness (through animal stages) as the event becomes more remote in time and geographic space. I have little confidence in either of these assumptions as precise or adequate explanations. The degree that metaphor or allegory makes inroads on a literal interpretation of these events is not yet clear to me, and I suspect that this factor is not well resolved for the Cree themselves, who apparently do not feel constrained to resolve this kind of ambiguity, if indeed they could; I also suspect that some of the descriptions of animal manifestations of Mistabeos may be at least in part a consequence of diffusion of Ojibwa oral tradition. Clearly, the issue is open for further understanding. Inconsistency or ambiguity in ideological beliefs is not an unlikely condition, and simply indicates the pan-human condition that no individual has perfect grasp of his behavioural environment. Yet I am cautious in applying this idea of inconsistency to Cree beliefs. The reasons are (1) that the Cree do not acknowledge intrinsic inconsistency but only possible misunderstanding of the way things “really are,” and (2) many of my previous judgments of inconsistency have been reversed when I discovered that I simply failed to perceive these elements in their proper perspective, and so created an apparent inconsistency that was not really in the data at all.1 Inconsistency no doubt exists, but I have not found its limits or typical form. While there is little explicit formal elaboration in Cree ideology, we are nevertheless dealing with intelligent and perceptive people, many of whom are consciously concerned to be precise and consistent. In the area of visual perception, this is amply demonstrated in the extraordinary memory for details of topography (see Susan Preston 1999; 2000). This skill carries over into narration, where the effort is explicitly made to be precise, and the events reported in narration may sometimes be remembered more as visual percepts than as words. In getting

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a living, an individual who is careless or inconsistent in his use of knowledge of animals or in his hunting and trapping techniques will stand a good chance of failure. Also, the uniform and subtly precise character of social relationships includes an intolerance of most kinds of variant behaviour. Inconsistency is usually negatively regarded. The variance that I find in understanding of the Mistabeo concept seems to be mostly an artifact of differential acculturation. Ideology is potentially quite susceptible to inconsistency or imprecision, for it deals with unseen events and processes, and much of the belief is embodied in action and not, therefore, critically assessed by the individual believer. But unless ideology is not learned well (as is the case with acculturated individuals) the patterns of belief may show little variance from one individual to the next, and the theme of precise, contextual explanation of these concepts would work towards minimal variance. Variance would occur more in the case of individual men who develop the ability to conjure, for here the knowledge and belief is embedded in the events and fortuities of one individual’s action, that is, understanding gained through individual participation in a relationship with a Mistabeo.2 The inconsistency of beliefs, not in terms of variance between individuals but in terms of inconsistency within the cultural configuration, is beyond my competence to even describe. I can only say that I have found little in my data that remains inconsistent once I have developed a broad context for understanding the troublesome items or apparent inconsistencies. The corpus of narrations is now, for me, a coherently integrated whole, integrated by connections of kinship or acquaintance of the participants, by locale, and in more distant time and place, by a commonality of events and responses to events, by the patterned thoughts and feelings expressed, and by a sense of the ethos. I have tried, in the preceding chapters, to convey some feeling for the integration of the Cree ethos, where the relationship of Mistabeo and conjuror is but one facet of the more common relationship of Mistabeo to the hunter who does not conjure. This spiritual person is closely related to the other mental aspirations of the hunter, who expresses his deep feelings through songs, in attitudes, or in his sense of the qualities of his world as a whole. In the following pages, I will try, through a summary and synthesis, to give further definition to this data and its inherent integration. Assuming, for the present, a substantial uniformity and coherence for the general terms of Cree ideology and particularly for the Mistabeo

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concept, let us look at the nature of the reciprocal relationship of the man and Mistabeo in more detail. Reciprocity is demonstrated at a casual level in the transcript of JC’s conjuring performance, where joking and teasing characterize the interaction. At a more dramatic level, Chou-a’s failure to properly treat the first beaver he kills (presumably found with the help of the Mistabeo) is a calamity for both himself and the Mistabeo. Chou-a nearly dies from lack of ability to find food, and the Mistabeo lies in ashes, without eating, in the Mistabeo’s tent. In other words, both Chou-a and the Mistabeo starve as a result of Chou-a’s failure to acquiesce to the Mistabeo’s orders. The whole sequence of events leads Choua to the conclusion that the demands for reciprocity are too onerous, intruding too much on his individual autonomy, so that he is prepared to make his living without the aid of the Mistabeos. This is an extraordinary decision to give up on power, surely a rarity in the world’s sacred literature. The Chou-a narrative demonstrates that individual autonomy is more crucial or primary in importance than a Mistabeo. This implies, to me, an optional quality of cultural structure that allows each person responsibility for his own choice of whether to develop a relationship with the Mistabeo, and whether to maintain it. The absence, for the Eastern Cree, of a set of formal procedures for obtaining communication with a Mistabeo, such as a vision quest, selfmutilation or humiliation, group ceremonials, and so on, is consistent with the presence of the high value of individual autonomy. The absence of these formal procedures is also consistent with the emphasis on proactive mental events as an important quality of Cree culture, and consistent with the character of the relationships with the environment and with other-than-human-persons that have been described in the chapters on attitudes and on hunting and deprivation. The character of relationships between man and Mistabeo includes negative sanctions on the part of the man. At the more casual level of joking and teasing, mentioned previously, the limits of reciprocal humour probably occur when teasing gets close to ridicule, or to remonstration. Those behaviours usually are directed at pointing out the error of a child and would be more serious and potentially troublesome between adults and, by extension, between adult and Mistabeo. To doubt a Mistabeo is acceptable and, reciprocally, the Mistabeo may decide that a man is in an ethically wrong position. But remonstration is too damaging to the other person’s pride and autonomy;

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it is too aggressive and demeaning. As a consequence such behaviour is unusual between peers, perhaps occasional towards a wife or close relative of equal or younger age, and acceptable for the scolding of children. But I think it is rare in relationships with a father or grandfather, or a Mistabeo, when the elder person might initiate it. Reciprocity in relations with the non-human environment is also relevant. Striving for a goal of competence in the task of coping with the world leads to conjuring power, where men who often hunt particular kinds of animals would, in conjuring tent performance, be particularly able to bring in the spirits of those kinds of animals. I have argued for a human person to food-animal person relationship in terms of reciprocal communications and feelings that approach the intimacy of love.3 Also, note in the transcript that the attitude of the bear-spirit inside the conjuring tent expresses the close and complementary nature of relationships, where the struggle is not hostile but inviting and friendly; if the man’s Mistabeo can beat the bear, the bear will like that, and the man will be able to kill bears in hunting. Striving for a goal is also, somewhat differently, attributed to the Mistabeo, who does not have a body (at least in any ordinary sense) but who wants to be more than what he is … he thinks more of himself … and perhaps finds success in this desire through finding a man with whom he may develop a close and working relationship. Although I have not been told this, I suspect that the psychology of the Mistabeo includes a desire to be more than himself through extension of himself in his relationship to a human. Some analysts would find in this last observation the explanation of the belief in a Mistabeo, claiming that the deep feelings of people, whether of anger, fear, or hope and courage, are projected and thereby safely externalized in the postulation of a Mistabeo, who is only the imaginative condensation of the unconscious desires of Cree men. But there are problems with this theory, since not every action of the Mistabeo is in response to, or expressive of, the deep feelings of the conjuror (or of men who have a Mistabeo but do not conjure). Evidences of wish fulfillment may be discovered with ease, but I doubt the explanatory adequacy of the concept. Of course, projection need not be limited to unconscious wishes, and so may account for conscious wishes as well. Also, attributes of the Mistabeo that are not apparently projections of either the conscious or the unconscious may be explained as ritual embellishments to increase a sense of distinctiveness or mystery that is pleasing to the believer. All this is possible, but I do not know that it is true.

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Exceptions to projection theory occur in a different perspective, too. The actions of a Mistabeo may not be of the same order as ordinary, mechanical acts, and they are not as certain as fate (as wish fulfillment would presumably dictate). In the narrative of the conjuring contest between Meskino and Old Man P, the latter finally gives up his conjuring because “he knew Meskino is going to kill them all.” But Meskino and his Mistabeo’s help are a less than fateful threat, for the people of P’s group do not stop trying to get food. The threat seems to be met with fortitude and determination and hard work in hunting. The effects of the conjuring are not simply an inevitable series of physical events. Evans-Pritchard, in his critical analysis of Levy-Bruhl, offers insight into this situation: “we must not be led astray by Levy-Bruhl into supposing that, in bringing in mystical causes, primitive man is thereby explaining physical effects; rather, he is accounting for their human significance, their significance for him” (1965:115). As I understand the gist of Evans-Pritchard’s admonition, we must be consciously on guard against our (culturally patterned) predisposition to assume that a mentalist position is necessarily irrational (this would include projection). With respect to the idea of Mistabeos in animal form, or in the transfiguration of persons between animal, human, or spiritual form, the “mystical” events may be more or less a (conscious?) metaphor4 used to explain not empirical events but the human significance that the narrative symbols express per se. Such symbols may be a creative way of expressing significances and emotions, effectively bridging between oneself to important qualities of the external world. Distance in space and time may be the basis for a shift from the immediate and literal to the seemingly allegorical, but no less real, events. In the story of the Big Skunk and the Wolverine, for example, a very intelligent Cree person, highly acculturated and yet familiar with the narratives, gave the earnest opinion that she believed the story mentioned above was true, that the Mistabeos were the first on earth, and that since there were no people, the animals could talk and have Mistabeos. She thought that “this is like God and his story,” and she preferred the Cree story, holding it to be the true (more real) account. This example of the human significance of the events in a narrative context illustrates Evans-Pritchard’s point above, and is also consistent with the psychological perspective of a Jungian psychiatrist. M.L. von Franz has creatively abstracted from Speck’s Naskapi the idea

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that the Mistabeo relationship to man is a consequence of the tendency of some (Naskapi) individuals to try to find the meaning of their dreams and test the truth of the dreams. These efforts lead to a deeper connection with the Mistabeo, who is actually: … an inner guiding factor that is different from the conscious personality and that can be grasped only through the investigation of one’s own dreams … the regulating center that brings about a constant extension and maturing of the personality. But this larger more nearly total aspect of the psyche appears first as merely an inborn possibility. It may emerge very slightly, or it may develop relatively completely during one’s life-time. How far it develops depends on whether or not the ego is willing to listen to the messages of the self. Just as the Naskapi have noticed that a person who is receptive to the hints of the Great Man gets better and more helpful dreams, we could add that the inborn Great Man becomes more real within the receptive person than in those who neglect him. Such a person also becomes a more complete human being. (1964:162)

This conception of Cree life in relation to the dynamics of spiritual maturity and completeness has great appeal, but I think that it is not quite complex enough. By virtue of its partial explanation, and because it does not correctly grasp the nature of the relationship between man and Mistabeo, it is a distorted explanation. Perhaps there is also distortion as a consequence of the postulated nature of the human psyche, which may not be constituted (in the phenomenal world) in the way that Jung claims. Without underestimating the importance of thought and emotion, the Cree place great importance and reliance on action. For example, old age may be a failure to maintain quality and frequency of mental events, but is more often a matter of the failure of the person to be competent in his actions. In this context, note that the relationship of a man to his Mistabeo is terminated by the Mistabeo when the man reaches the age where he is not able to maintain the vigour and competence of his actions. This is well illustrated in the narrative of the old man who was left behind by his group but managed to survive. In summary, the use of projection theory or Jung’s analytic perspective may be at least a partial (but thereby distorted) explanation of the nature of a Cree individual’s relationship to a Mistabeo. But since these theories are Western in conception, in data, and in language, ethnographic objectivity demands caution in the use of these

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models. The use of models is suggestive, and may act as an incentive to further understanding, but models also vary in their degree of rapprochement with the particular culture under study. I will proceed now to a model that I find more appropriate to Cree culture, where a less ambitious degree of explanatory power is offset by greater relevance to the phenomena under consideration. In my introductory chapter, I indicated that my perspectives included use of the plot-in-culture concept, taken in terms of life-long socialization and in terms of multiple basic themes (e.g., autonomy, self-control, hardships and their associated emotional responses, and power) that are expressed in symbolic forms. Plot-in-culture proceeds from basic patterns in the child’s relation to the parent. Focusing here on the boy, his apprenticeship to his father and warm support from his mother is learned early and well in an intense and intimate milieu. This relationship is well suited in its particular kind of psychological strength as a framework for coping with the contingent world that he faces as an adult. The parents provide food to the apprentice, and the world provides foodanimals to the competent adult. The affective component is also maintained as the adult looks to a world where animals are believed to love the man who hunts them. The child must only develop the skill, mental competence, and physical energy that allows him to participate, first, in the small milieu of his family, and subsequently in the larger world of persons. The personalized world in some sense symbolizes a somewhat more vast and diffuse image of teacher and provider, where learning is still on a case-by-case basis, requiring the learner to watch and then to coordinate his actions in the way that careful observation has shown him to be appropriate. It may be that narration represents a similarly scaled-up and diffused form of the more immediate and personally directed communications of adult to child. Both would contain at least implicit moral rationale and a concern to perceive some aspect of existence within its precise context. Because the maturation of the parent-milieu into a personalized world of adult action is a culturally patterned phenomenon, it is not created anew by each individual but rather embedded in the child at the time that he is learning the content of the parent-child relationship and the competencies of the parents. The resulting understandings that define the personal world are consequently highly congruent with the understandings of the other Cree individuals. Each father’s

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competence is closely related by action and perception with the common physical environment, and by this means incorporates environmental uniformity into a personality uniformity. In passing, I might observe that the Mistabeo is partially similar to the parents, in that the spirit knows what is in the conjuror’s mind, and explicitly thinks of himself as helper, provider, and ethical guide. Also, fear of conjuring grows out of the patterns of childhood threats that are similarly occasional, event-specific, and often a consequence of some behavioural incompetence on the part of the child. Children are sometimes controlled by a parent’s warning about a reputed sorcerer, or more rarely they may be directly threatened by such a person. The food focus in Cree stories is eminently practical, and directs thought habits towards small-scale, personal (rather than large-scale, impersonal) abstractions or symbolisms. These personal symbolisms are demonstrated in the use of sincere and dependable social interaction where relationships with the environment are abstracted in terms of particular personal significance. With respect to fear of the environment, it is clear that while the Cree man does not view the world as laden with mother’s milk, the food-animals are usually adequately gratifying and involve an intimate relationship that bears comparison with mothers, wives, or other love objects. The indulgence and love shown in early childhood might make more traumatic the later impact of a relatively non-indulgent environment, but might also encourage a man to feast with pleasure when it can be done, and to view food-animals as in some sense loving and indulgent of man’s desires. It is hard to see early indulgence as a projective response to fear of a threatening environment; the indulgence probably serves better to develop the heart that will be needed later in coping with a contingent world on an essentially individual, and often proactive, basis. In the first pages of the chapter on conjuring, I make the point that social control is maintained largely through self-control, where norms are embedded in each individual’s personality. Part of this process of embedding is the anticipation or actual occurrences of teasing or threats by other persons. Related to this is the sense of the refractory quality of the non-human environment when men do not approach their efforts with adequate competence. These factors are the major negative sanctions on human behaviour, and are more the effect of external influences than of projection of internal dynamics.

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More projective, expressive, and proactive is the major positive sanction, the pride that an individual holds in his personal competence. Cree pride, like the attitudes already described, is not a focused emotion, but more controlled and diffuse in its manifestation to others. While pride is not purely internal or self-directed, the external manifestations are careful and controlled, expressed more in the range of tasks a man will undertake and the satisfaction found in the successful performance of the tasks (Preston 1975c). In some cases, the satisfaction found in the successful performance of the tasks has a social context (e.g., the bear feast when a man kills a bear; the feast given by the man who was abandoned by his group; a conjuring ceremony) and in others the context is private and individual (e.g., the effects of power: a man who has a Mistabeo but does not conjure when asked; the efforts and hardships that are never told to others but coped with to the satisfaction of the individual; in the management of reticence in difficult or ambiguous social relationships). This combination of sanctions, negative and positive, is the basis of self-control and, derivatively, of social control. Probably the most dramatic expression of both negative (threat) and positive (personal strength or pride) sanctions is found in the fear of conjuring and in the ability to conjure respectively. Conjuring (including sorcery) and the fear of conjuring constitute a major moral force in Cree culture. This occurs partly through the fear of becoming a victim of sorcery, but much more broadly in the emphasis that conjuring and conjuring narrations give to defining and evaluating behaviour. More immediate and dynamic is a man’s actual participation in a relationship with a Mistabeo, where the man must have, and act upon, his mental competence in developing his communication with the Mistabeo, and the social competence involved in maintaining its special reciprocities. In retrospect, my use of the plot-in-culture concept in the expanded form of multiple themes and lifelong socialization implies little more than the integration in each individual of the ethos of the culture. Its development in the socialization process leads to more mature symbolic depth and subtlety and to more coherence and meaningfulness of the behavioural environment. In the use of narration, this sequence is illustrated by the difference in the degree to which different listeners or narrators are adept at handling the “understood” aspects of narration. The relatively simple

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and explicit and complete “news” narrations stand in marked contrast with the highly subtle and symbolic song narrations. A child may develop facility in understanding the news narrations, but it is the rare child who, for instance, shows competence in the older atiukan stories. I have never heard of a child who could participate in songs, either as singer or as listener, with any degree of competence. One mention of a boy singing is regarded as silly in its simplicity, since the boy was mimicking his father’s hunting song, and then playing at shooting with a toy gun, to the amusement of the adult hunters. In the process of life-long socialization an individual develops increased ability to symbolically integrate the meaning of experiences – greater ability to handle the distinctive Cree style of abstraction. Cree abstraction is characterized by qualities of events and processes in a context of their human significance, by the use of language that puts perceptual scope into compact form (refer to Sapir’s descriptions in chapter 2), and by a choice of context that serves the goal of precise understanding, rather than ambiguity, on the part of those who share the communication. Beyond this, the distinct Cree style of abstraction finds expression in the context and integration of symbols, partially illustrated above by my treatment of the Mistabeo; individual autonomy; and the essential contingency of the Cree world. Social distance is not often a quality of Cree narration, perhaps applying only to very recent events that are given distance by virtue of the fact of their stylized reporting. For events that are not recent, I think that the narration style effectively brings the events closer by placing detailed events and processes into an immediate social situation and inviting one’s vicarious mental participation with precise perspective and expressive richness. Where writing down of events is not a part of the culture, a man’s desire for a sense of perceptual control over his phenomenal world puts a premium on precision in memory of events. To himself and to others that he communicates with, his potential for credibility in reporting the world of his experience is based on scrupulous uniformity in reporting and on detailed contexts that confirm the precise nature of the events reported. Consistency in verbal reporting is the goal, and the result is stability of content in oral traditions (and thereby thrust for stability in culture). For the Cree in particular, and perhaps more generally for American Natives (or most small-scale cultures), a concern with personal

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honesty in most interpersonal relations has important implications for the interpretation of narratives as reliable information. For the Cree individual, the degree of confidence in interpretation may be important to knowing how to anticipate future events and interpersonal relations. And for the ethnographer, the precision influences the degree of confidence that may be put in narratives as a source of ethnographic interpretation (cultural translation). In addition, recent events are often tied to the narrator by kin who witness them. In part this simply involves the immediacy of hearing the events from a person of known reliability. Assurance is great where a man can say, “This is true because my father was there at the time and told me the story of what happened.” The concern with precision is nicely illustrated by an event related by Francis LaFlesche, an Omaha who became an ethnographer for the Bureau of American Ethnology. LaFlesche had been interviewing regarding a secret ritual, and was present when an elder expressed reproach to the informant. “No one can dispute your right to give it [the ritual detail] away, but in doing so you should not make any changes in the ritual but give it in the same form as it has been handed down to us” (1930:542–3). In general we may say that the unity of narratives, from gossip to the very old and distant atiukan narratives, is found in a common set of qualities: 1 The style includes a presentation of specific persons and events in a personal context. 2 There is a precise replication of words and events, especially notable through the use of quoted words or quoted thoughts. 3 Credibility is judged partly on the degree to which a precisely detailed context is provided, and partly on the internal coherence of the whole context. 4 There is a varying but frequent omission of detail or explanation that is expected to be understood. Unity is achieved here by the assumption of shared understandings and by reciprocal participation of the listener. Gayton has noted that “the listener is expected to know who is talking or acting, for it is apparently assumed that he is already familiar with the details of the story” (1964:379). The amount of content that is understood or assumed in some Cree narratives is more

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than a matter of the identity of individuals, and requires the active participation of the listener in filling in the gaps with their understanding of the context, either from knowing the particular narrative or from knowing, from other narratives or experiences, what belongs in the particular context at the particular point indicated. This demand for the participation of the listener in knowing how to interpret omissions or clues is, I believe, a kind of psychological forcing, obliging the listener to keep pace with the events and with a sense of the sequence of contexts that the events require. This kind of participation encourages the listener, in Lowie’s terms, “to exact a clear visual image” of the events (1935:107). Lowie also observes that the Crow language does not utilize indirect reporting, so that where in English we might say, “They are telling me that I have not scored,” the Crow person must say, “‘You have not scored,’ they are saying” (1935:108). I find a parallel between Lowie’s descriptions (and Gayton’s) and the qualities of Cree narration, although in the case of Lowie’s observations, my lack of facility in the Cree language makes my claim a tentative one. Another ethnographer’s comment on an American Native group has raised my speculative interest in its implication. In Edward Sapir’s field notes on Paiute storytelling, he observes that some children are said to be lucky enough to stay awake until the stories are finished, late at night. The meaning of “lucky enough” is intriguing, and I suggest a possible interpretation that seems appropriate to the Cree setting. The word “luck” in English is a rough translation of the Cree sense of a synthesis of a person’s will and ability, plus whatever power he obtains. The child who is able to stay with the story obtains further understanding of his world, and a confirmation of what he already knows, where the story parallels some of this knowledge. Beyond this, he is demonstrating and thereby strengthening his mental stamina, very much as young boys are urged to regular demonstrations of physical stamina. His luck, then, may consist of mental competence and stamina that is demonstrated and developed in silent participation in the narratives. Even more speculatively, it is possible that the narratives serve a cathartic function similar to dreaming, where psychic tensions are released through the symboling activity of the sleeper. Perhaps the narratives offer the virtue of a more orderly and familiar subject matter that may be (even consciously) selected as satisfying and

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tension-relieving, while the context of dreams are more a matter of unconscious selection and are thereby less orderly, familiar, or congenially controlled. In support of this interpretation, I offer the following hypothetical explanation of the dynamics of the process. The catharsis proceeds through an intensification of aspects of belief that are, because of their tension-involvement, consciously or unconsciously selected for vicarious participation (e.g. starvation, cannibalism, death, ridicule, sorcery, hunting failures). By choosing narratives that focus on these qualities of the world, an individual is in a position to face the tensions in a milieu of narration and to vicariously participate in these stressful conditions until the emotional load is reduced by catharsis and drowsiness and finally blunted by sleep. Perhaps, then, the Cree cope with life’s desperations in this “ritual” fashion and so vitiate the need for more direct expression (e.g. focused emotions and the actions of suicide, murder, panic, cynicism). Here, the common human quality of “quiet desperation” is (perhaps) handled in a psychiatrically sophisticated fashion by the use of narration. Maybe the person who narrates and the listeners who are “lucky” enough to stay awake obtain a culturally structured form of unconscious relief or catharsis, as contrasted with the more random personal needs that his own dreams might express. Also, perhaps an individual’s dreams will be more congenial when they occur in the wake of the patterned catharsis of the stories. Lowie has also described the conscious use of sleep-inducing techniques in narration (among the Crow) that include a reference to sleepiness, accompanied by: “vivid descriptions of sensual impressions of a visual, auditory, and even kinesthetic order: the rustling of leaves, the monotonous patter of rain striking the tepee, the booming of high winds, the rippling of a brook, the soothing of shade” (cited in Astrov 1962:10). This supports the idea of an association between narration and the comfort of sleep, but I can only suggest that the (conscious or unconscious) intention of the narrator is one of catharsis. I have not heard of this use of sleep-inducing or other specialized narrations (such as a selection for children’s interest as contrasted with that for adults). I do not know of restrictions on when stories may be told, except that they are not told every night but rather when there is no work to be done, and people have the time and disposition to tell and to listen. Many cultures have restrictions on when stories may be told. Bogoras (1929:597) observes that Chukchi narratives of winter storms are to

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be told only during the storms, when people remain in shelters. He reports that the telling is believed to weaken the storm. I have not been able to find evidence for these restrictive rules for the Cree, although one might look, not for explicit rules, but for the incidence of use through selection on the basis of impulse or preference. The lack of explicit rules is consistent with the other aspects of Cree culture that I have mentioned, where individual autonomy has not been much restricted by the elaboration of formal cultural patterns. If Cree narration involves little specialization or restriction, diversity in narration nevertheless derives from variations in the mood and range of inventory of the narrator, and in the particular situation of narrator and listeners. With respect to inventory, narratives of gossip and news tend towards the humorous and/or moral qualities in immediate or recent events, whether the events are dramatic or merely casual. These narratives are likely to be different when obtained from different groups, simply because the events are local and recent. More dramatic or otherwise notable events stand the best chance of being shared between groups, and over a long period of time. The very old atiukan narratives are the most likely to be shared in the inventories of many individuals in various groups. A curious lack in the content of my collection of narratives is that of atrocities specifically committed by Whitemen and the absence of epidemic illness. Starvation is well represented, but why not smallpox? Maybe such atrocities were omitted because they could not be put into a context of appropriate coping behaviour on the part of the Cree Indians involved. Epidemics may also have allowed little opportunity for effective coping efforts that would be worth reporting or satisfying to hear. Kluckhohn (1965:155) has postulated that each culture has a particular anxiety-type that is expressed in myths; for the Navaho it is illness-anxiety. Benedict (1935:21:xvi–xxix) has a similar if less explicit interpretation of Zuni myths as compensatory in the area of sexual anxiety, masking sexual animosity with stories of timid and fearful men, strong and fearless women, and the triumph of the weak. I would probably choose hunger-anxiety for the Cree narratives, where hardship is a very common theme. But I have already argued that fear is not a simple, single prime theme of the hardship narratives and I am loath to follow the lead of Kluckhohn and Benedict. The implication seems too much towards the definition of a kind of modal neurosis of the Cree – a collective anxiety, and I find this

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hard to accept and integrate with the individual autonomy and lack of formal rules that I have described. Modal personality concepts are too simple a reduction of qualities, and too consensual in the implication of typical participation by a generalized “individual” in cultural processes, to fit my ethnographic understanding of the Cree. I believe that strong confidence in a particular theory or interpretive perspective leads one to overgeneralize from the more specific, less elegantly integrated data. In some of the earlier culture and personality literature, inferences about character structure from narrative and other data is sweeping in its breadth (although usually offered only tentatively). I find myself reluctant to infer qualities of Cree personality in such basic terms. By proceeding first to the more surface aspects of personality, and developing the explicit or overt aspects in detail, one maintains a primary loyalty to the persons-in-culture. Hopefully, the implicit and covert aspects of personality in culture will be inductively accessible as the loci of numerous and complexly integrated aspects of the explicit and overt, and will therefore emerge as more of the surface detail is described and put into context. And here the problem rests, for the present. I believe that we have reached a closer approximation to understanding Eastern Cree ethos and the relation of individual personality to cultural uniformities. The narratives have served, sometimes profoundly, to define personal meaning in Cree terms. And from them we have been able to define the world of persons, and of relationships, that constitute much of Cree tradition.

postscript Some of the narratives are learned by children in the classroom instead of the winter bush camps now. Some are not learned at all. But it is too easy and romantic to spell doomsday for tradition, and I refuse to do so. The Crees have adapted to hardship and change for centuries, and I do not think that they will vanish until we all do. New notions of personal community, ethos, and the environment are developing, and at the same time ethnologists are developing their concepts and interpretations of human experience. Both the Crees and the ethnologists have problems to engage with; some are common to both groups.

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Appendix

In partial compensation for lack of fluency in the Cree language, I have obtained rather complete information regarding the meanings of a few key words. The distinctions offered below are subject to revision when I have achieved competence in the language, but I doubt that major errors are involved, since the translations I have used come from a variety of persons and contexts. the narrative categories: TÉPÂCIMAN and ÂTAYÔ(H)KAN Both categories refer to the English phrase “telling the story,” and interpreters use this phrase often. The meaning of the phrase may be inductively derived from the examples previously given. That is, “story” refers not to an essentially non-factual communication but to a narrative of events in their context, with an understood goal of maximum precision and credibility – to be as close to reality as one can hope to be. The two labels given narration categories by John Blackned are 1 âtiyô(h)kan: “no one here ever saw the people in the story; nobody knows how far back” 2 tépâciman: “story, not very long ago.” Note that this is not a simple dichotomous classification, for the tepaciman label may be modified to ki tepaciman weskit when the story reports events that took place “long ago.” In the case of events that took place very long ago, ki tepaciman weskit tâbwé (“truly long ago”) is the more precise descriptive label. This latter category is probably not easily differentiated from âtiyô(h)kan stories. (This word was spelled atiukan throughout the main text.)

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In other words, I contend that we have here not a dichotomy but something more like a continuum. It is important to note that a dichotomy is held by younger, acculturated individuals, who feel that the âtiyô(h)kan are false or fairy tales, while the tepaciman are (usually or probably) true. This corresponds to the distinction cited by Honigmann for the relatively acculturated Western Cree (1953:311), where tipatciimuwina = real accounts, and atajyckiiwina = tales of make-believe. The different attitudes of the older, more “traditional” men, as contrasted with younger, more acculturated men is nicely illustrated by an incident where John was talking of a Western Native who had come some years ago to Waskaganish as a teacher. The people asked him why the (fierce and aggressive) Naduweo Natives had to live in this part of the country. He told them, “I can’t tell you any stories about that, I don’t know anything about it.” He asked then to hear some stories “about a long time ago, about the Naduweo.” In translating John’s Cree SG (a middleaged interpreter) thought John had made an error in referring to these stories of long ago as âtiyô(h)kan. SG assumed that these were only fairy stories, and that John had meant to say tepaciman. sg : “Well, the âtiyo(h)kan, it’s not real.” SG relates this statement, in Cree, to John and a lengthy discussion follows (not translated, alas!). John corrects him, and SG then says, “Well tepaciman, that’s … well they see what’s happening there and they tell the story about it. The âtiyô(h)kan means … well it’s just like telling stories that have been told before.”

Credibility is a problem for the Cree as it is for any other people. And for the Cree, the best proof is seeing it happen. But for unseen processes and events, other means must be used to assess credibility. One means is through unusual kinds of seeing, such as the use of animal’s eyes, held up to one’s own and looked into deeply, the use of a mirror, reflections in water, or the seeing experienced by the conjuror. Lacking these forms of visual experience, the next best is documentation through verbal (and thus interpersonal) reports, or narrations. The desirability of maximum precision in narration is obvious, and the use of the exact words, given in the first person, is extended to include both what the person said and often what he was thinking to himself. Beyond the exact replication of what was said, thought, and done, the trust put in the narrator by his audience is a factor. For instance, one expects close relatives to be trustworthy, so it is good to get the story from close relatives. It is also especially trustworthy if you can hear it independently from several people. For example, John related how his father had told the Waskaganish people of a hunt he had heard of in which the men

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killed eighty-six caribou in a single day. The people asked him, “Is that right, how many they killed in one day?” And he said, “Yes, that story is true, because I had two uncles there, and my grandfathers, and they all told me the same story.” Hallowell has reported a similar, two-part division of Ojibwa narratives: 1 tabatcamowin, “anecdotes, or stories referring to events in the lives of human beings (anicinabek). In content, narratives of this class range from every-day occurrences, through more exceptional experiences, to those which verge on the legendary …” 2 atisokanak, “sacred stories, which are not only traditional and formalized; their narration is seasonally restricted and is somewhat ritualized. The significant thing about these stories is that the characters in them are regarded as living entities that have existed from time immemorial. While there is genesis through birth and temporary or permanent form-shifting through transformation, there is no outright creation. Whether human or animal in form or name, the major characters in the myths behave like people, though many of their activities are depicted in a spatio-temporal framework of cosmic, rather than mundane, dimensions. There is ‘social interaction’ among them and between them and anicinabek. A striking fact furnishes a direct linguistic clue to the attitude of the Ojibwa toward these personages. When they use the term atisokanak they are not referring to what I have called a “body of narratives.” The term refers to what we would call the characters in these stories; to the Ojibwa they are living ‘persons’ of an other-than-human class. A synonym for this class of persons is ‘our grandfathers.’ (1960:56–7)

Finally, Hallowell observes in a different article that “there is often no categorical distinction that can be drawn between alleged personal experience and the more highly formalized narrative on the same theme, ordinarily classified as a myth” (1955:152). Related to this lack of a categorical distinction, and perhaps explaining why no distinction is drawn, is a later comment: “Oral narratives are not regarded as fiction. They are believed to be true stories, accounts of actual events” (1955:303). The principal difference between the Eastern Cree conception of narrations and that of the Ojibwa appears to be in the formal definition of the “sacred stories.” The Plains Cree apparently closely parallel the Ojibwa, according to Wolfart’s observations below. … It is curious that the Rupert’s House [Waskaganish] term parallel to âtiyô(h)kan denotes the stories rather than the “prehistoric spirit animals” because I’ve observed

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confusion of the two terms among young and not so traditional informants. With older persons, they are consistently kept apart: /âtiyô(h)kan/ are the beings that peopled an earlier, unfinished state of the world and today appear, for example, in conjuring sessions, including Sun, Rock, Thunderer, etc.; so certainly the “animal” part of Bloomfield’s gloss is misleading and should be dropped. The tale on the other hand is /âtiyô(h)kewin/, regularly derived from the verb /âtiyô(h)kew/ “he tells a sacred story.” (Wolfart, personal communication)

Boas, on the other hand, has a slightly different distinction posited for myths and tales. He suggests (for North American Natives generally) that there is “a psychological distinction between the events occurring when the world had not yet assumed its present form, and tales of the modern period.” Boas explains, “It is … its distance in space or time that gives it its characteristic tone” (1915:377–9). In my opinion, Boas’ position fits my data (and apparently the other groups cited above) very nicely, for while a distinction is made between âtiyô(h)kan and tépâciman, it is not a clearly dichotomous distinction, but rather a gradation that is based less on explicit, orderly hierarchical arrangement than on implicit sense of distance in time and space. Going beyond the Boas criteria, I would refer to John’s stated criteria that “no one here ever saw the people” (see above, description of âtiyô(h)kan), suggesting to me a criteria of personal credibility or knowledge as well as the dimensions of variation in time and space. the conjuring categories In seeking a Cree term or phrase that translates precisely to the English “conjuror” I have had only partial success. In the first place, the English term has a somewhat pejorative connotation of fraudulent contrivance. The early French used “jongleur,” with the less pejorative, broad meaning of “to grasp or catch hold of,” but the English use of “juggler” has, I believe, the connotation of brazen showmanship, to amuse the wise and sophisticated, and to amaze the dull and rude. The Cree kwashaptam translates in a literal, linguistic sense as “he conjures (it)” and is given by interpreters as “one who goes into a conjuring tent.” H. Wolfart, a linguist specializing in Cree, tells me in a tentative analysis, of the stem (or term) kwashap- (or in the dialect he is familiar with, kosapaht-), that the combination of ‘try’ with ‘see, vision’ would seem to fit well with the meaning of kwashaptam. The term kwashapshikan refers to the conjuring tent itself, though my interpreter used the possessive “conjuror’s tent.” And midawajit kwashapshikan

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translates as “playing (just for fun) with a conjuring tent.” Kwashaptik translates as “he conjures,” not necessarily “for fun.” (I think the phrase “for fun” is to indicate the absence of sorcery.) The term for play, midwajit, used above in the enidawajit form, is a more inclusive concept that the English meaning. Play is usually contrasted with the idea of sheer drudge work. While the common English meaning is that of a diversion that need not serve any utilitarian goal, the Cree meaning connotes not so much idleness as pleasure or even passion in one’s activities, such as hunting animals, or conjuring. See also page 167 and pages 203–4, above, for discussions of this concept.

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Notes

introduction to waskaganish 1 I discussed this characteristic in “Reticence and Self-Expression,” 1976c. 2 My 1963 figures were not greatly different from the 1911 census, which has eleven whites, forty-six mixed, and 388 Indians, including seven widowers and eleven widows. In 1963 there were about eighteen regularly employed people: – perhaps six at the canoe factory run by the hbc – three by the game warden (Billy Stephens, Henry Trapper, Florrie Erliss), – two each by the company (Isiah Salt, Alec Iserhoff), – the nursing station (Billie Salt, Margaret Namagoose), – the priest (Patrick and Bobby Stephens), – the school (Tommy Gilpin, Angus Hester), – and one by Maud Watt (Agnes Cowboy). Casual labour, at up to $5 per day, was occasionally available from diand (the Department of Indian Affairs and Northern Development) or the hbc , and there was seasonal work for guides and cooks at two goose camps in the fall (Malcolm Diamond was foreman at McLean’s Camp, at the mouth of the Nottoway River, and Stewart Stephens was at Pronoveau’s Camp, on the Pontax River). diand had some projects that provided jobs, mostly in house-building carpentry and ditching and clean-up of the grounds where the houses were built, under the supervision of Vic Deschamps, a diand employee from Moose Factory. Erland Vincent, formerly chief of the Kesagami Lake Band, came from Moose Factory to operate the old sawmill for about a week, making rough-cut lumber for houses and tent floors. 3 My relationship with John is described in “Reflections on Culture, History, and Authenticity,” 1999.

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Note to page 21 introducing john blackned

1 An investigation by Toby Morantz of John’s genealogy in the hbc records reveals the following. Meskino, an inlander, is John’s (classificatory) grandfather’s father, and is mentioned in the hbc Rupert’s House records between 1850 and 1891, when he died. He is reported as being with Black Ned during the 1870s and 80s. The manager notes that he was formerly the best hunter at Waskaganish. He was married to two sisters, having John’s grandfather, possibly Black Ned, by the older one, and about six daughters and a son, George, by the younger one. The records show three others with the Meskino surname: George Meskino (b. 1879, d. 1946), wife Mary (b. 1881; d. 1942; nine children died prior to 1945); James Meskino (d. 1942), wife Mary Jimmikin (b. 1917); Marie Meskino (b. 1916), husband Matthew Minister. The connection to Jacob Blackned, John’s father, is not yet clear, although it is possible that Black Ned was Jacob’s father (and the older brother of George Meskino). Wappunaweskum (Old Jacob), an inlander, was Harriet’s grandfather’s father, and is mentioned as an adult in the 1840s and 50s along with his brothers John Pipes and Jolly. His son Jacob is mentioned as a boy in 1849, and [later?] was crippled by arthritis, or by eating the wrong part of a bear. His son Thomas (Tommy) Jacob was Harriet’s father, and may have been an uncle to John’s cousin Walter Blackned, as the brother of his father. Harriet’s father may have been an inlander before becoming a coaster and fur packer for the company (an A.B. Skinner photo of Tommy is in the Skinner photo archive of the American Museum of Natural History in New York). Harriet’s older brother, John Thomas (b. 1894), married Sally Blackned. Her younger brother, William (Willie) Jacob (b. 1912), married Alice Trapper in 1948. Born the same year, and probably a cousin, Andrew Jacob married Mary Hester (b. 1919) and had three sons, Lawrence, Andrew, and Joseph. John Blackned’s youngest brother, Tommy, married Mary Morrison. Edward (Eddie) Blackned, probably a cousin, (b. 1926?) married Harriet Jolly (b. 1928?) and had three children, Charlie, Borle, and Florrie. Harriet Jolly died, perhaps in 1948. John had step-grandparents (his father was married, widowed, and re-married before John was born), uncles, brothers, and cousins: That time my grandfather was dead already, only my mother’s father was still alive (but not staying with us). There was another man staying

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with us, my father’s brother used to tell me he’s my grandfather-like. Of course, my grandmother was still alive. She was there.

2 Many of Charlie’s memories were tape-recorded during the 1970s by Brian Craik. Brian’s tapes of Charlie’s stories are in the archives at the Canadian Museum of Civilization, and perhaps some day we may have a book combining both John’s and Charlie’s stories. Many of John’s stories are now available on cd s, as mentioned in the introduction. See also pages 42–62 for a longer childhood memory of hardship and hunting. (For the story of John going with his father to save the starving family [of relatives?], see my chapter “Reflections on Culture, History and Authenticity” in Theorizing the Americanist Tradition.) 3 John’s mother made him (and his brothers each) a bear necklace. His was later stolen from a cache. 4 John: “The Indians of long ago did not have the Whiteman’s tools. The Indians used the curved knife for making everything. They used the curved knife to make the canoes; they did not have plates. They also used the curved knife to make toboggans, snowshoes, and paddles. I had this curved knife for a long time. I think I am almost through with this one. “This [bone fleshing tool] is the tool the women use to skin a beaver. When women skin a beaver, they always use this tool. They always have this tool when they are trapping. This tool does not cut the skin. They don’t use a knife to skin a beaver. “As soon as the bear was carried into the wigwam, the beaded necklace was placed around its neck. There was no bannock at this time. The women would cook beaver, which was dried, and have a feast before the bear was skinned. Not until after the small feast was the bear skinned and cleaned. Then they had a feast on the bear. They tried to save and dry some of the bear meat. They made grease from the fat. The grease was poured into a large wooden bowl. It stayed in the bowl unspoiled. The grease was used for cooking, such as rabbit or fish. The grease was used like a butter for their meat. They had a feast and the grease was used like a sauce. “The bones of the caribou were not kept, not even the skull. They smashed the caribou skull and boiled it for the fat. They cut the caribou skin (a small piece) from the middle of the caribou’s chest. They kept this piece of caribou skin for a little while, and then they hung it like the bear skulls in the spring. People today don’t do this anymore. The caribou skin was very useful for tent coverings, lacing for snowshoes, and for moccasins.

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Note to page 31 “They also used the caribou skin for making nets. They were able to make the string used for nets of different thicknesses. They had all of their string from caribou skin. Strings for pulling the toboggans. They also used caribou skin strings for rabbit snares. Rabbits liked to chew on the string. They used lynx’s mess to rub on the string, and the rabbits didn’t chew on it. The rabbit cannot stand the smell, so it didn’t chew the string. “We never snared geese. Other birds such as owls, hawks, and other winter birds, we would snare them. When they stole our snared rabbits, we were able to snare them, if we used the rabbit as bait. We would put sticks and branches and have an opening, placing the bait behind the snare. The snare would be made of caribou skin. When we started having strings from the hbc for snares then we quit using the caribou strings. They used bows and arrows to kill geese before guns were available.” [I asked John if the bola was ever used.] “Yes, they would use two strands of caribou skin with rocks. When this was thrown, they would wrap around the caribou. I did not see them, but my grandmother told me about them. There were two thicknesses of caribou skin. A hunter would have a lot of these. If he missed, he could use more of them. He was able to hit one or two of the caribou. “There were snares for every animal including moose, caribou, and bear. They also used caribou strings for bear or caribou snares. This was the time before there were guns. Sometimes there would be two caribou in one snare. My grandmother saw many caribou that were snared two at time in one snare. One caribou was snared; then another was partly snared and was tangled with the snared caribou. The caribou did not know that it could be untangled. “There were two trees standing close together. If a caribou trail was between the two trees, the snare was set between the two trees. My grandmother showed me how the snare was set. The snare is very big, so the caribou’s antlers will fit the snare and strangle the caribou. When the other caribou enters it is tangled with the snared caribou. If a woman is looking after the snare, she uses a long spear. When the caribou are snared, she spears both of the caribou, which die quickly. The women would look after the snares if the men were out hunting in a different area. Sometimes there might be ten caribou snared, and the women would spear all of them in case they broke the snare. “The bear snare has to be made very strong and tough. It is different from a caribou’s snare. They make a spring pull on the bear. They

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make a cross-piece like this, then they drill a hole through it and put a string through it. It takes two men’s weight to pick this pole up. He has to fix it somehow that when the bear is caught, the poles rise up. This raises the bear up off the ground. When the two men could hardly lift the pole, they knew the pole was very good. The bear is a very tough animal. “They could also make a wooden trap. They would have logs (maybe two logs). They make an open space for them. They have the bait over here. If the bear crawls, pulling the bait, this thing falls on the bear. They have about a 1,000-lb. weight falling on the bear (a heavy load). They are rocks or logs [a deadfall trap].” 5 On 13 August 1919, at age twenty-five, John was married to his first cousin, Harriet Wabeneshkum (b. 1899), daughter of Tommy Jacob, at Waskaganish. She was twenty. They were married by the Anglican missionary Charles C. Brett. Tommy Jacob was a coaster and hbc fur packer. John’s brother Charlie married Harriet’s sister Dinah Wabeneshkum. Cross-cousin marriage was traditionally preferred in this region until Christian teaching prohibited it. As mentioned in the chapter, deaths of some of the eight of his ten children who did not survive were associated in John’s mind with several losses of a watch or clock. His two surviving sons (now deceased), Mark and Eddie, never married, and so John’s family has no survivors. 6 John: “Some of the men who were from Mistassini, Nemiska, Waswanipi, Nitchequon, and Neoskweskau argued with the Waskaganish men. They always had words passing around, but not really trouble. They did not know why the men were acting like this. The men from Waskaganish reported this to the manager. The manager had words with these men, but they stopped for a while. When we passed one of the settlements, I think they thought that we were helping ourselves to their supplies. “The payment for freighting was not very good. When freighting was first started they were paid $30 to each person from Mistassini (250 miles). The trip lasted a month, as they had to paddle to Mistassini. The pay was better when I started freighting. The ones who started freighting were only paid $30 although it was far. When I started to freight, we were paid $30 for 100 miles. Then the payment was increased to $40 for 100 miles. The last increase was $50 for 100 miles. In one load of freighting, we freighted forty bags of flour with six men helping. When portaging, each man carried 200 lbs. This was

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Notes to pages 45–104 a large canoe that we were using. A small canoe was also used for freighting which carried twenty bags of flour.” one year from john’s youth

1 John: “They used hooks, like this one. They left them in the water, all night. They checked the hooks in the evening. They used fish as bait. He checked them again in the morning. We had axes and chisels. The whole line was dropped in the water. These hooks were used during the winter. We used to make our own hooks, out of bone. They used a caribou or bear bone, like this one. The bone is cut very sharp, as it is very pointed. The hook is not round; it is different, straight.” 2 This use of the first beaver is explained in chapter 4. chapter three 1 For a detailed discussion of the word “translation,” see the appendix. 2 This may refer to the exact location, in front of John’s house, where there was space and dry, grassy comfort for a man to kneel. John’s request that JC perform may have been a concern, since the location was near the Anglican cemetery and church, with a nearby road that was broken by the Caterpillar tractor. Alternatively, the reference may be to the community as a whole, since JC had lived at Nemiska until recently, and performed there. 3 The Hudson’s Bay Company store manager is “the boss.” 4 JC did not bring animals into the tent. JC’s performance was generally not a very remarkable one. While this performance was not regarded as fraudulent, JC’s competence does not compare well with the remembered abilities of other conjurors, such as EO (Edward Ottereyes). 5 I don’t know precisely what Whitemen’s magic was believed to count for, so the meaning of this is unclear. Does this mean that the conjuror is very clever at fooling his audience? Or that he is very clever and able to do some unusual things, not fooling the audience but leaving them unable to explain what they have seen? This seems a more likely interpretation. Certainly this fits the situation as regards the Evangelical missionary, who was present at the ceremony and confided to me the following winter that he knew it to be demon worship and once, when the tent stopped shaking, he nearly ran for fear that the demons had read his mind and would “get him.” Perhaps the two other resident missionaries would have shared his interpretation, but it is

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6 7

8

9 10

11 12

13

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doubtful that any of the Cree audience saw it this way. For the Cree, the spirits are not demons but rather other-than-human-persons (Hallowell 1955:178ff) who have unusual power. These persons are, according to John, answerable to God. On questioning another witness, this was not confirmed but not denied. This implies a kind of competition between conjurors, as a testing of power. The precise Cree meaning of competition, however, is not yet clear to me. [I have since treated the concept in “Transformations of Eastern Cree economic concepts and notions.” Paper read at the 27th Conference on Algonquian Studies, Chapel Hill, North Carolina, 1995.] The translation of the English into the Syllabic Cree does, in fact, in this edition of The Pilgrim’s Progress, come out as “Mistabeo.” That is, “big” translates as mista and “man” as nabeo and “big man” translates literally as Mistabeo. (But perhaps the translator of the book did not know about the Cree concept of Mistabeo.) There is a general relationship between a man’s success in hunting any kind of animal and his ability to bring it into the kwashapshigan. The atoosh (known elsewhere as witigo) is a cannibal monster that is learned about early in an individual’s life through threats. Adults effectively control children by scaring them with threats of being taken by an atoosh. This may refer to either trance or exhaustion, probably the latter. The bag might have contained a gift, but JC’s poor handling of the situation renders the gift or its absence of little consequence. Notice, however, the respect for privacy shown by AJ towards the property of others (not only the property of JC). This is an excellent example of the “news” category of narration; the story that AJ told JC is almost certainly the exact story related above. chapter four

1 This practice of putting a little food in the fire before eating, described in the new chapters describing John Blackned’s life, is still commonly done and valued. The person may make the symbolic offering to a person recently deceased, to an important animal recently killed or being hunted, or just on a sort of “general principles” basis. [I am uncertain how many people maintained this tradition into the 1990s and even into the present, but expect that some people would continue to do so.]

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Notes to pages 118–21

2 This casual reference to singeing the first animal of a season rather than skinning him out is probably the Cree’s historic origin of this ritual practice, still used by some Natives in this area. [Again, I am uncertain how many people maintained this tradition into the 1990s and even into the present, but expect that at least a few people would continue to do so.] 3 This provides a curious parallel with the Adam and Eve situation, for it is the woman who first suggests going against the strictures of the Mistabeo, and she thus initiates the chain of events that results in the destruction of the relationship of Chou-a with his Mistabeos. On the other hand, their surrounding situation hardly resembles our concept of the Garden of Eden! 4 Since the man breaks trail in the snow for his wife, and also ranges off from the trail to find animals, he expends more energy than his wife and the effects of starvation come to him more quickly. 5 The extreme of taking food from his wife’s breasts is matched by the desperate gamble of tracking the caribou in such a weakened condition. The man may lose strength and freeze along the trail if he does not find the caribou and kill them before his strength is exhausted. 6 Chou-a makes another courageous decision at this point, which is only implicit in the narrative. Following the caribou when a faster hunter is already ahead of him is futile. To return to his family without food is also futile. Although the Mistabeos have not supported him in his need, he decides to take the initiative in approaching them, to reestablish some kind of working relationship. 7 I asked John about the iron dress, and that is the proper translation. “The woman had the iron dress for working with the porcupines. They just singe it [the porcupine] rather than skinning it out and that’s why it will renew each time the bones are covered.” Anderson Jolly, who was interpreting, said that the way he heard the story, there wasn’t any woman in it. 8 John had previously stated (a year before) that tobacco was unknown prior to the arrival of the Whiteman. This raises a chronological problem not evident to John. 9 The preceding episode is an excellent illustration of the use of a distinctive style of social indirection (not so much indirect as it is subtle, partial disclosure) in public discourse. When the Mistabeo-leader said, “That one’s still angry,” Chou-a was being told that it was now that he must act to make amends. He responds to this (obvious to him if invisible to us) cue by giving all he has to give – not to the offended

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10 11 12

13 14 15

267

Mistabeo, but to the leader. The leader, in turn, announces the event. Although the announcement seems (to us) a general one, it is directed at the most involved member of the group – who is now under the public eye in this situation, as Chou-a was a moment ago. The Mistabeo responds by coming back to life to verify the statement – but such a verification is really only a proper acknowledgment of the fact, for the leader’s statement was not really doubtable. With this public acknowledgment of Chou-a’s intention and action, the Mistabeo resumes his normal position in the group and eats, thus redeeming Chou-a’s fate. This seemingly innocuous exchange, then, has a momentous meaning, and the key to the meaning is the grasp of the particular style of subtle, partial communication. If the reader finds the style difficult to perceive, consider the blundering frustration of the ethnographer, who regularly fails to understand or respond to such communication! This mandate was given by the Mistabeo previously regarding the first beaver of the season, when Chou-a failed to observe the restriction. This is the conical lodge /michwap/. To be beaten in doing something refers to a sense of competitive skill that is rarely mentioned or manifested in an obvious way. Competition is subtly managed in Cree culture, and poorly understood by anthropologists. Open competition is obvious when two men are conjuring against each other. Perhaps it is demonstrated in other settings, but I do not know of them. The language here seems highly elliptical, but this may be due to the youth and inexperience of the interpreter at this session. The action of “seeing” translates as /wapunakaman/. The consequences of a loss of self-control are dramatically embodied in the person of the atoosh (known in the literature on Algonquian Indians as witiko or witigo, a cannibal monster). The following description is paraphrased from a narrative: An atoosh may be a human being to begin with, but, from eating human flesh, he changes. If this person ever comes across somebody, he would always kill them and eat them. They live all alone, in the bush, and are not normal. For instance, they would prefer to sit in the snow rather than on pine boughs, and they become very strong but are not clever. Long ago, when there was no place to keep crazy people, they just lost them in the bush. While alone in the bush in a crazed condition, they were getting worse and worse. They used to eat anything that they see. And somebody saw where this man who was crazy was digging up people to eat them. He didn’t keep himself clean, and his face was not nice to see. His clothes were all

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16

17

18 19 20

21

22

23 24

25

26 27

Notes to pages 128–51 worn out, and his skin was all black, he just wouldn’t look after himself at all. As they grow worse and worse, they get bigger and bigger. I am not sure whether the pronoun “he” in reference to the rock implies an animate rock, an extension of the conjuror or his Mistabeo, or only a casual use of English by Anderson Jolly, who was interpreting. The term for rock (asinii) is animate in Cree, but I do not know whether this use of the masculine singular pronoun simply reflects a grammatical rule or whether the term expresses more significance about animate qualities of the rock – perhaps as a sentient rock or at least as an extension of the sentient power of the conjuror. John is sure about this story; about fourteen men saw the atoosh, two big canoes with seven in each canoe. The back party from Mistassini had four canoes. Recovery of life and action would be possible if the atoosh were somehow able to come out of the water. A.P. Low reports such an event in the winter of 1889 (1897:85l). Perhaps she anticipated that she would be a likely victim if they started to eat each other. Also, the death of her husband and their apparent lack of concern to bury him would estrange her from the family. John: “When a person has become a cannibal, that person will not like to eat normal food, because he has changed himself through eating human beings. That is why the men did not eat right away.” This is, in itself, very suspicious. Normally people would tell their story as soon as possible after meeting a person. Implied in this phrasing is that the sons had done something so bad that they were unwilling to tell their story. Refer to Cooper (1934:11) for a summary account of flight hysteria among Cree women. This cryptic statement was very hard for the interpreter (SG) to say to me, and he did so in barely audible tones in embarrassed disbelief, or in anticipation of my disbelief. This may be an example of the non-sequential manner of some events in narratives, since the content of the Mistabeo’s communication has already been given already, in the advice to kill the woman and the child. Alternatively, Meskino may have conjured to get public confirmation of his earlier private communication. Again, the test of a cannibal is their aversion to normal food. Both the preserved state of the bodies and the continued ability of the dead woman to hold her infant although they were washed some

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Notes to pages 153–75

28

29

30 31 32

33

34

269

distance downriver appear as extraordinary responses to the murderwith-unacceptable-rationale. Perhaps the woman and the child are otherthan-living but not fully dead, but I am only guessing at this point. A partial agreement with Truman Michelson, who locates the change from Cree to Montagnais languages at Hannah Bay. John, of course, refers only to a minor dialect shift, not to a language shift. One does not simply inherit a Mistabeo, but the familiarity of one’s father with a Mistabeo facilitates one’s own potential to have one. For a son learns much of his social and mental competence from his father, and in this case, the father provides an intimate knowledge of his own relationship with the Mistabeo. An interesting “tenure” pattern is indicated here (and also in the previous story where Meskino asks his sons if they want a Mistabeo) that seems to parallel the Eastern Cree land tenure pattern. The father does not have a sense of “real possession” that he may pass to his son, but rather a detailed and intimate knowledge of the area that he has “hunted around” on, and this knowledge is gradually passed on to the son, whose use rights are then based on the practical knowledge of what is in the area, as well as a sense of tenure by virtue of continual occupation. Probably the “inheritance” of a Mistabeo parallels the criteria for land tenure. Note that a similar statement of desperation was made by old man P when he urged his family to eat his blood. This apparently is the case for Ojibwa culture. See Hallowell, 1955. Two items of information are relevant here. First, the Cree do not like the taste of salt, and before its European introduction probably obtained salt only from eating the meat and blood of animals. Second, skunk musk is regarded as strong in curing power when taken internally. The taste is not much like the smell; it is somewhat bitter. I suspect that this act of violence toward a human is a serious blunder on the part of Wolverine, in spite of the way his children had been treated. This is expressed by the criticism made soon afterwards by Mistabeo. Wolverine’s comments on the feast mock their attempts to kill him, and also mock their sudden generosity towards Wolverines. chapter five

1 Maddi synthesizes the ideas of Henry A. Murray and Gordon W. Allport on internal processes and structures as a causal influence on behaviour. Both men explicitly use the term “proactive” in this sense, in

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Notes to pages 179–204

contrast to reactive behaviour. Murray hoped to introduce the term into the psychological literature, but it seems little used so far. 2 Implicit in this statement is the fact that the finding and killing of foodanimals is no accident, but rather consists in events that are “supposed” to occur as a partial consequence of men’s prior activities. This is given some further detail in the following chapter. 3 He is asking for a narrative of the “news” about their hunting. 4 This begs the whole question of the emotional dynamics of Boreal Forest Natives, considered in detail by Honigmann’s Kaska work, Hallowell’s Ojibwa work, and documentary research on other Northern Algonquians. I prefer to skirt this issue until I am more adequately prepared to detail my position. [Since Cree Narrative, I have written over a dozen papers regarding Cree emotional dynamics (1978, 1979, 1980a,b,c,d,e,f, 1981, 1987, 1988, 1991, and R.J. Preston and S.C. Preston 1991), though I do not know of a satisfactory synthesis on the topic.] chapter six 1 Several ethnomusicologists have been interested in the recordings following the first edition of this book, but to my knowledge none have completed and published statements relating to the Cree musical aesthetic. I am aware of the existence of an mss. book by Dr Lynn Whidden of the University of Lethbridge, but I have not seen it. She has worked with Cree songs. 2 R.J. Preston, “Hunting, Travelling, and Conjuring Songs of the Eastern Cree.” Paper read at the First Conference on Algonquian Studies, mss. 3 This illustrates an important methodological aspect of fieldwork data analysis. Where the response to a direct question includes the explanation of some event, quality, or process that was not asked for – where gratuitous information is given because it is seen as relevant and helpful by the informant – such information is more valuable and precise and reliable, since it is not likely to be forced or distorted to suit a poorly conceived question, and its voluntary disclosure is based on the informant’s sense of its relevance and interest. Clearly, a detailed narration provides a great deal of information in this gratuitous and precise, and unaltered or inherent (for the informant), context. 4 The someone referred to here might be a Mistabeo, or an other-thanhuman-person of some other kind, such as a bear-spirit. 5 Gerti Murdoch feels that this word is too strong or aggressive. I have not found another English word that is more precise.

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Notes to pages 231–43

271

chapter eight 1 Perhaps this sentence is noting that the “all” now consists only of two, where three men fishing at one time would have been very desirable. chapter nine 1 The one exception that I am sure of is the use of tobacco in the Chou-a story, since the same informant was, at another interview, certain that tobacco was not known until the arrival of white men. Rather than confront John with this problem, I decided that it would be more appropriate to just not worry about it. 2 With the video and tape recording of another kwashapshigan, by Harvey Feit (2000), I was surprised to discover that the individual variation I had assumed was not to be found in the musical form of the singing. In fact, if I were to hear one or the other of these recordings, I would have great difficulty in telling whether the singing was from my recording of JC or Feit’s recording of Andrew Ottereyes, of Waswanipi, Quebec. Perhaps someone more conversant with conjuring songs would find an easy and detailed basis for differentiating, but I cannot. This brings to mind the surprising familiarity I found in conjuring in the nineteenth century and at a considerable distance from James Bay, in Brown and Brightman 1988. 3 Gerti Murdoch began my interest in this aspect of human to foodanimal relationships when she volunteered the observation, “They believe that the animals love them.” 4 My use of the term “metaphor” may also be less than (ethnographically) precise, since I am not sure that metaphor, as substitution of a symbol, is not making the same explanation that Tylor initiated, that the savage mistakes an ideal connection for a real one. The meaning of metaphor or allegory in the context of Cree narration is a problem that I have not yet resolved.

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Index

achak (soul), 116–17 alien-human persons. See strangers ambiguity, 209, 239; in stories, 76 animals: in conjuring tent, 104, 107, 108–9; depletion of, 22, 37–40; see also persons, foodanimal anthropology, humanist, xiii anxiety, 252–3; see also fear archaic culture concept, 168 Astrov, Margot: on songs, 194 atiukan (very old stories), 133, 158, 209, 239, 249, 252; defined, 76, 254–5 atoosh (witiko, windigo), 61, 111–12, 129–33, 222, 265n10, 267n15 attitudes, human: defined, 235; to physical environment, 220–4, 234; prescribed by Cree society, 180–2; in songs and stories, 174–93, 201; toward animal-persons, 199–207; see also socialization axe(s), making of, 24

bannock, 28, 31, 46 bear(s), 202; relations of with humans, 215 Bear’s Rump (an old man), 204 beaver(s): conservation of, 37–40; first kill rituals for, 47, 50; hunting of, 55–7; relations of with humans, 214–15 beaver-woman, 212 berries, preserving of, 28 Berry-picker (a woman), 204 Big Skunk and Wolverine story. See under stories told by John Blackned birch bark, 30 Black Ned, 21, 232 Blackned, Beulah, 40 Blackned, Borle, 260 Blackned, Charlie, 21, 26, 260, 263n5 Blackned, David, 6 Blackned, Eddie, 40 Blackned, Edward, 260 Blackned, Florrie, 260 Blackned, Harriet, 17, 40– 1; genealogy of, 260–1 Blackned, Jacob, 21, 232 Blackned, John, xii, xiii, xviii–xix, 15–16, 20, 21, 65–6; on Cree hunting, 261–3; dreams of a watch, 33; memories of

a childhood year, 43– 62; on storytelling context, 74; see also stories told by John Blackned Blackned, Mark, 35, 40 Blackned, Sally, 260 Blackned, Sarah, 6 Blackned, Tommy, 21 Blackned, Walter, 40 Blackned family, 260–1, 263n5 Black-Rogers, Mary, xviii Boas, Franz: on story categories, 257 burial(s), 49–50, 61, 141, 225 cannibalism, 135–45, 146, 229–30 cannibal(s), 146–8; inability of to eat, 140, 143, 147 caribou: hunting methods: dogs, 24–5; relationship of with humans, 212–14; renewed by Mistabeo, 124–5 caribou-woman, 211–12 castor, beaver: healing properties of, 37 ceremonies: for children, 33–6; first kill, 47, 50; see also feast(s) and feasting

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282 change, sociocultural, xvii–xviii; see also continuity, sociocultural Charles Fort, 21 children: ceremonies for, 33–6; mental competency of, 248; socialization of, 245; swaddling of, 26 Chou-a and his Mistabeo story. See under stories told by John Blackned Chou-a’s wife, 118–19, 122, 187–8 Christianity, 21; and conjuring, 96, 170 communications, spirit: over long distances, 92, 126–7, 149–52 competition, 124, 267n12; between conjurors, 133–44 conflict, 106, 132, 134–6; over hunting territory, 107–8, 129 conjuring, 25, 103–12, 169–72, 257–8; to cause harm, 58, 128–9, 136–9, 226, 228; competition of P and Meskino, 132–5; fear of, 129, 247; performed by JC, 85–102; scepticism about, 104, 113, 114; taping of JC’s performance, 81, 84, 85, 102, 104; see also Mistabeo(s) conjuring tent, 58, 80–83, 105, 167; animals in, 104, 107–9; cause of shaking of, 107, 112–15; drinking in, 99, 103 conjuror(s), 79, 106, 133–44 continuity, sociocultural, 74–5; in Cree societies, xviii; see also change, sociocultural control, self, 78–9, 127–30, 187, 191, 229–30, 235, 246–7, 267n15 control, social, 78–9, 246

Index Corston (hbc manager): and cannibalism affair, 139–44 credibility of storytellers, 76, 248–9, 255–6 Cree, Eastern: attitudes of to physical environment, 220–4; cultural uniformity among, 64; narration categories of, 256–7 Cree Narrative (Richard Preston), xiii Cree studies, xvi–xix Crow (aboriginal people), 250, 251 Cruikshank, Julie, xvi

firearms, 27–8 fish and fishing, 15, 28, 43–7, 52 flag incident at Waskaganish, 17–18 flying ability, 131–2, 145– 6, 157 food: cannibals’ inability to eat, 140, 143, 147; country provisions, 27, 28–30, 60; renewed by Mistabeo, 120–1, 124–5; store-bought, 23, 24, 44, 45 freighting work, 33, 132, 263n6 furs, price of, 27

Diamond, Annie, 6 Diamond, Charlie, 14–15 Diamond, Chief Malcolm, 5–7, 17–20 Diamond, Eddie, 6, 14–15 Diamond, Gerti. See Murdoch, Gerti Diamond Diamond, Josephine, 12 dogs, hunting, 24–5 dreams and dreaming, 33, 213, 215–18, 232; and storytelling, 251 drums and drumming, 51, 53, 73, 198 DS’s mother-in-law, 110

Gadamer, Hans-Georg, xv–xvi GC (JC’s son), 102 Geertz, Clifford, xiii, xv geese, 14–15, 59 glossolalia of Mistabeo, 128

EO (a conjuror), 103–4, 125 ethnography, theoretical approaches to, xi, xiv– xvii, 68–77, 77–8 family in Cree society, 25 fear, 222–4, 229; of conjuring, 129, 247; of physical environment, 219– 24, 233–6 feast(s) and feasting, 31, 33–6; first kill, 30, 47, 50; first steps, 33–4; New Year’s Day, 51; see also ceremonies fire, Mistabeo’s, 120

Hallowell, A. Irving, xvii; on conjuring, 169–70; on story categories, 256 Hannah Bay Massacre, 153–6 Head, George, 195–6; on fear of environment, 234; on songs, 196, 200–5 hermeneutics, xv–xvi Hester, Mary, 260 Holliday, Jock, 12 Horden, John, 21 Hudson’s Bay Company, 21, 22, 23, 37–40, 154–6 human(s). See persons, human hunting ceremonies, 34–5 Iasheo narrative, 75 ideology, Cree. See worldview, Cree infanticide, 211 insanity, 48–50, 61, 128, 145

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Index Inuit, fear of environment among, 219–20 Iserhoff, Reverend, 75 JC (a conjuror), 81–4; conjuring performance by, 85–102; forgets gifts for Anderson Jolly, 114 Joiner, Lynn, 5, 11, 14 Jolly, Anderson, 17, 23, 111; and story about JC and the gifts, 113–14 Jolly, Harriet, 260 Kamchatstatasini (a man who starved), 232 Kanatiwat, Albert, 216–18 Kanatiwat, Charlie, 195; on songs, 203, 204 Kaowtstibit, 86 Katapatuk, Lawrence, 26 Kupferer, Harriet, 5 kwashapshigan. See conjuring tent kwashaptum (good man), 79 LaFlesche, Francis, 249 language(s), xi, 66, 73–4, 196–8; Algonquian, 75; Crow, 250 Leach, Edmund: cognitive model of, 192–3 leaders and leadership, 18–20 LeJeune, Father, 170 L’Esperance (cargo ship), 13 Lévi-Strauss, Claude, xv love, Cree perspective on, 201–2, 205–7 luck, 39, 48, 225, 250; bad, 127, 135, 189; good, 31, 52, 108–9 maendeo (alien-human persons). See strangers mankind. See persons, human Marshall (hbc manager), 18–19 marten, 50, 52–3, 54

medical practices, 37 mental competence, 78–9, 174–5, 248 mental events: categories of, 186–7; nature of, 180–2, 192; see also attitudes, human Meskino, George, 148 Meskino (an old man), 145–9, 229, 243, 260–1; conjuring competition with P, 133–44 Meywapo (man who killed his wife), 149–52 Mianscum, George: hunting songs of, 201–2 Minister, Johnny, 226 mink, 50 Misnaek (man from the water): relations of with Mistabeo, 108–9 Mistabeo, Chou-a’s, 118– 22 Mistabeo, JC’s, 96 Mistabeo, Meskino’s, 146–8, 149–52 Mistabeo, Moose Indians’ and attack on hbc post, 154–5 Mistabeo, Peter Trapper’s, 110–12, 130–2 Mistabeo(s): abilities of: in languages, 128; to predict, 84–5, 87, 118, 128, 150; to renew food, 120–1, 124–5; to see from afar, 92, 126–7, 149–52; concept of, 116–17, 126–8, 167, 237–9, 242–5; and conjuring tent, 112–15, 167; death caused by, 226, 227; nature of, 105, 107, 132, 156; receiving of, 153–4, 269n29; relations of: with conjuror, 86–7, 93, 94, 96, 104–5; with human persons, 108–9, 125–8, 145, 157– 8, 222–3, 241–2, 244, 247; and song power, 207; see also conjuring

283 Mistabeo, Wolverine’s, 159, 162 Mistassini people and the atoosh, 130, 132–3 miteo (morally deviant person), 79, 222–3; and stone-throwing episode, 128–9 Morrison, Mary, 260 Moses, Willie, 23 Moses’s wife, insanity of, 48–50, 61 Murdoch, Gerti Diamond, xi, 66, 195, 197, 208 MW (a conjuror): treats sick girl by sorcery, 110 Nacappo, Samson, 195, 198, 202 Nahagagi (John Blackned’s grandfather), 232 narration(s). See stories Navaho, anxiety types among, 252 Nelson, George, xvi New Year’s Day, 51 Ojibwa, 220, 222, 256 orphans, ostracized by community, 123 Osgood, Cornelius, 3, 80–1 otter, 50 P (an old man), 229; see also under stories told by John Blackned P, Robert, 135, 139–43, 229–30 Paiute storytelling, 250–1 pawts (people inside conjuring tent), 151–2, 222 persons, ambiguousanimal, 222 persons, animal: relations of with human persons, 199–207, 202–6 persons, categories of, 163, 167, 222 persons, distorted-animal, 222

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284 persons, distortedhuman. See atoosh (witiko, windigo) persons, food-animal: relations of with human persons, 212– 15, 223, 242 persons, human: first appearance of, 163–7; individual autonomy of, 74, 152, 237, 241; relations with animal persons, 199–207, 214– 15; relations with foodanimal persons, 212–15, 223, 242; social and self-control of, 78–9, 130; status of, 209–11 persons, human-animal, 223 Pipes, John, 260 Plains Cree narration categories, 256–7 play and playing: in conjuring context, 167–8; in hunting context, 203–4 poles in conjuring tent, 103, 113, 152; importance of, 82–3, 89, 91, 98–9, 105 porcupine meat: renewed by Mistabeo, 120–1 predicting the future, 84– 5, 87, 118, 128, 150 Preston, Richard: theoretical approaches of, xiv, xvi, xvii, 68–72, 76–7 projection theory, 242–5 Provencher, Father Maurice: flag incident and, 17 P’s daughter-in-law from Waswanipi: tells of conjuring and cannibalism, 136–9, 142–3 reality, nature of, 157–8, 169–73 reciprocity, 241–2 respect, 15, 180, 213

Index responsibility, individual, 78–9 Ridington, John, xvi Salt, Isiah, 12, 18 salt water, origin of, 164 Sam, Josie, 195; on Cree dialects, 197–8 sanctions, 241–2; and selfcontrol, 246–7; social, 72–3, 78–9 Sapir, Edward, xiv, 68, 75 scapulimancy, 213, 215 Schoolcraft, Henry R.: on shaking tent, 170; on songs, 196 seal, hunting of, 45 sexual alliances of human and other-than-human persons, 210–12 SG (interpreter), 102 shaking tent. See conjuring tent sharing, 14–15, 44, 45, 51, 186; Mistabeo ban on, 121 Shemagado (a conjuror), 58 sickness and sorcery, 110 Skunk (other-than-humanperson): conjuring ability of, 163; defeated by Wolverine, 159–63 socialization, 245, 248; through stories, 72–4, 192; see also attitudes of human persons songs and singing, 53, 73– 4, 200–5, 234–5; categories of, 198–9; in conjuring performance, 85, 103; in conjuring tent, 94, 95, 105; language used in, 195–6; power of, 207; symbolic expression in, 194–5, 199 sorcery, 109–10 Speck, Frank G.: on fear of environment, 220–2; on indigenous worldview, 168; views of on Mistabeo, 116–17, 126

starvation, 22, 25, 31–3, 58–9, 61; caused by conjuring, 136–9 Stephens, Billy, 12 Stephens, Charlie, 37 stories, 69–77; accuracy of, 69–70 (see also credibility of storytellers); categories of, 133, 254– 7; characteristics of, 76, 249–50; language style of, 73–4; purposes of, 64, 72–7, 150, 151, 192, 250–1; themes in, 25, 61–2, 133, 156–8, 192, 233–4, 246, 252 stories, Ojibwa, 73 stories told by Charlie Kanatiwat, of dreaming of a woman’s death, 215–18 stories told by George Head: of hardship in the environment, 234– 5; of man who had no luck, 189–90; comments on, 190 stories told by John Blackned: of Big Skunk and Wolverine, 159–63, 243; of ceremonies for children, 33–6; of Chou-a and his Mistabeo, 117–22, 133, 166, 187–8, 239, 241, 266n10; of great-grandmother who killed a deer, 22–4; of Hannah Bay Massacre, 153–6; of hunger and starvation, 230–4; of hunting for food, 26–33; of man who ate cold grease, 184–5; of man who died in caribou hides, 183–4; of man who fell under the ice, 182–3, 190–1; of Meskino and the cannibal woman, 145–9; of Meywapo who killed his wife, 149–52; of Mokosu’s

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Index caribou hunt, 185–6, 190–1; of old man who was abandoned, 174– 82, 191–2, 244; of P and Meskino conjuring each other, 133–45, 229, 243; of Peter Trapper and the atoosh, 130–3; comments on, 132–3; of stone-throwing by a miteo, 128–9; of swaddling escape, 26; of Tchu-swash and the shaking tent, 123; of the toboggan maker, 123–5; of Wolverine’s burned rear end, 159; of Wolverine’s first meeting with humans, 164–6; of woman whose husband starved, 224–30; see also Blackned, John storytellers, credibility of, 76, 248–9 storytelling, 25–6; context of, 74, 251–2; Paiute, 250–1 strangers, 11–12, 73, 222 structuralism, xv structure, cultural, 71–2 Tanner, Adrian, xvii taping of JC’s conjuring performance, 81, 84, 85, 92, 102, 104 Tchikabesh (tricksterhero), 117, 239 Tchu-swash story, 123 teasing, 72–3, 129, 168, 241; in conjuring performance, 86–7, 95 territory, hunting, 33, 36– 7; conflict over, 107–8, 129; rights of use to, 129, 269n29

Thomas, John, 260 tipachiman (not very long ago stories), 76, 133, 254–5 tobacco, 120–1; in conjuring performance, 87–91 passim, 103 toboggan maker story, 123–5 Tommy (Harriet Blackned’s father), 143–4 Trapper, Alice, 260 Trapper, Peter, 110–12, 130–3 trapping, 39–40, 59–60; snare-making, 50–1 trees, talking, 161–2, 164 trickster. See Tchikabesh (trickster-hero) trickster narrative: persistence of, 75 Turner, Bill, 18 uniformity, cultural, 64 Wabeneshkum, Dinah, 263n5 Wabeneshkum, Harriet. See Blackned, Harriet waged labour, 33, 132, 263n6 walking ceremony, 33–6 Wappunaweskum (Old Jacob), 260 Waskaganish [Rupert’s House], 3, 5–11; people of, 12–13; see also Charles Fort Watt, Hugo, 40 Watt, James, 37; wildlife conservation of, 38–9 Watt, Maud, 5, 17, 37 wedding(s), 11 Weistchee, Willy, 5–6, 11– 17 passim, 63, 65;

285 describes conjuring tent events, 109–12 Wesley, Reverend John, 9 Whiskeychan, Bertie, 17 windigo. See atoosh (witiko, windigo) witigo. See atoosh (witiko, windigo) witiko, 61; see also atoosh (witiko, windigo) Wolfart, H.C.: on conjuring categories, 257–8 Wolverine (other-thanhuman-person): conjuring ability of, 162–3; defeats Skunk, 159–63; meets first human persons, 164–6 woman from Waswanipi: tells of conjuring and cannibalism, 142–3 woman who lost her mind, 48–50, 61 women: barred from conjuring tent, 98, 121–2, 125; barred from scapulimancy, 213; childbirth experience of, 226, 227; conjuror role of, 80; fear of snakes among, 222; food bans for, 213; and Mistabeo, 116; relations of with foodanimals, 213–14; work of, 22, 47, 55–6; work songs of, 198 wood chopping ceremony, 35 worldview, Cree, 168–9, 239–46; contingent nature of, 152–3, 158; defined in stories, 64 Zuni, anxiety types among, 252