Kakarmick is a full blooded inland Eskimo. He is supposed to live
somewhere on the shores of Enendeia Lake in the northwest territories of
Canada, but every two years or so he seems to grow restless and pitches
off hurriedly at a moment’s notice for new fields of action.
He has travelled as far south as Brochet on Reindeer Lake and White
Partridge Lake further west. He is known in Hudson Bay at Fort
Churchill—Chesterfield Inlet—Repulse Bay. He has roamed as far as
Bothnia in the North, along the banks of the Copper Mine River—as far
west as Fond du Lac and Great Bear Lake.
I have known him for several years. Kakarmick is the most independent
native I know. Contrary to the immemorial custom of his kind, he does
not follow the caribou the year round. When he feels like it, he
deliberately turns his back on the immense supply of food which
Providence has given him and, fearlessly risking starvation, strikes
straight through the Barren Lands towards his new goal.
Now and then he outfits at one of our posts, for he is a born trader and
we know that he can reach certain Eskimos which we could not get at
otherwise.
However small the catch may have been in fish, fur or fresh meat,
Kakarmick always seems prosperous and happy. However long may have been
his absence from one station, he is certain to appear some day, a year
or so later, with a complete load of fur for the patiently expectant
trader.
He has a wife, Taitna, who everlastingly and cheerfully travels with her
lord and master through the thousands of miles of bleak wilderness which
they both seem to know like a book. She is a big woman for that part of
the country; 5 foot 3, two inches taller than her husband. When one sees
her stalking up to you, one knows instinctively that she is the wife of
an important person.
She shakes hands with a prize fighter’s grip and her deerskin coat seems
to weigh a ton. It has wonderful designs of thousands of multi-colored
beads. She even wears a thick border of empty cartridge cases at the
bottom, which shine when the sun is out and clink merrily at each step.
Notwithstanding her appearance, Kakarmick rules her with a rod of iron.
The last time I saw them it was on the frozen shores of Windy Lake. They
were both sitting on the top of their sleigh and their five dogs were
plainly tired.
The man had lost his whip but held, instead, a short thick piece of hard
wood about three feet in length. Every hundred yards or so, he hurled
that strange missile straight at one of the dog’s backs. I never saw him
miss once. But what impressed me more was Taitna. Each time her husband
threw that stick, she would jump off the sleigh, retrieve it and jump on
again. Meanwhile, Kakarmick remained sitting astride his load, paying
absolutely no attention to the exertions of his wife.
[Illustration: Man and Wife]
Tale XLVIII: “Forty Years Ago”
Last summer I met a very old Catholic missionary whom I have known for
years. We were both on an inspection trip in the depths of the Canadian
wilderness. Our reasons for roaming so far north from civilization were
absolutely different. Still we both had one main interest at heart, that
of the Indian; and, instinctively, we chose that topic of conversation
while we sat smoking around the camp-fire that evening.
Wise to the ways of the natives, broad-minded like all the missionaries
of the old school, the Father was in a reminiscent mood. His stories
referred chiefly to his early days when many Chippewayans were still
pagans, refusing to accept Christianity, although allowing their
children to listen to the missionaries and follow some of their
instructions.
The following story, among many others, appealed to me the most.
[Illustration: Catholic priest praying]
In a certain district, not so far from where we were, the Father, forty
years ago, was endeavoring to convert the last “die hards” of a small
tribe. He had, then, a rival in the person of an English Anglican
missionary, who happened also to speak the native language well and to
be a great traveller.
Both men, strange to say, were the best of friends. For economic
reasons, they often joined forces by canoe and dog-sleigh, and during
their hundreds of miles of travelling invariably compared notes on their
religious achievements.
Each baptism that one missionary added to his list spurred the other one
to greater efforts. It was a close race with honors about evenly divided
for, where one missionary failed, the other one was almost certain to
succeed.
One Indian alone had withstood the assault of both religions, refusing
steadfastly to give up his old beliefs. He was a venerable great
grandfather, the nominal head of a large family whose members had all
been converted one way or the other. He always received the priest and
the clergyman with great friendliness but invariably turned a deaf ear
to all their arguments.
The more both missionaries agreed that the old pagan was
“unconvertible”, the keener each one felt to achieve the impossible and
win a triumph over the other.
One day, in winter, my friend the Father was travelling alone when he
heard that the old Chippewayan was dying. Instantly he swung out of his
road and raced to the Indian’s camp.
He found him lying peacefully on a bed of spruce, very weak and
surrounded by several of his children.
To quote the priest’s own words, “The time had come. Surely the old
Indian would not refuse to be baptized at death’s door.” Accordingly, he
asked him if he could pray for him at the foot of his bed. The Indian
opened his eyes for an instant, recognized the priest and nodded.
The Father started praying out loud in Chippewayan. He prayed and prayed
with all his might while he watched the dying man’s face.
After a long time, the shadow of a smile hovered on the latter’s lips.
The missionary thought that he was at last making an impression on the
old native and resumed his prayers with even more fervor. Finally he
stopped exhausted. Surely victory was his. He got up on his feet and
gently touched the man’s hand.
The old Indian opened his eyes and looked up at the priest steadily. His
lips moved and the Father bent forward to listen. His hour had come at
last he thought! His religion had won!
“My! but there was a lot of lynx last winter—a lot of lynx—a lot of
lynx...!”
The words rang out clearly through the silence of the tepee. Then the
grey-haired pagan closed his eyes. He smiled once or twice softly to
himself, and then died suddenly without a quiver.