Editor's Notes:
1) This essay may not be published elsewhere without written permission from its author, Beverly Slapin. Copyright 2012 by Beverly Slapin. All rights reserved.
2) I selected Two Wolves as the illustration to use for Slapin's essay because Joseph Bruchac and Richard Van Camp are two Native writers giving us outstanding work. A selected set of illustrations is available at Pages from Native American Classics.
____________________________________________
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| Title page for last story in book |
Pomplun, Tom,
editor, and John E. Smelcer and Joseph Bruchac (Abenaki), associate editors, Native American Classics (Graphic
Classics, Volume 24). Eureka Productions, 2013.
INTRODUCTION
The “Graphic
Classics” books, unlike other graphic adaptations, are anthologies, with each
short story, poem, or abridged novel illustrated by a different artist. Native American Classics highlights the
nascent English writing and publication by Native people, including Zitkala-Sa,
Charles A. Eastman, E. Pauline Johnson, and others. It’s not the only anthology of earlier Indian
writing; many others come to mind. One of my favorites is Paula Gunn Allen’s
excellent Voice of the Turtle: American
Indian Literature, 1900-1970 (Ballantine, 1995). One of the differences
between Native American Classics and
the other anthologies is that its graphic format will appeal to “reluctant”
readers and others who are attracted to this particular genre. But Native American Classics is not without
problems.
Way back, when
the earliest Indian writers published their pictographs on vertical and
horizontal outcroppings, they transmitted information, history, lessons,
culture, language, and more.
Fast-forward a
few centuries, to the early 1900s. Stories by Indian writers of that era had to
be both carefully written and suitable for publication by, of course,
non-Native publishers. As such, many of the lessons they imparted were so
subtle that a casual reader, especially one from outside the culture, might not
recognize their messages.
If there were
pictures, they supported the story
rather than obstructing it; they
provided a background rather than a foreground; and they enhanced, rather than
interfered with, the reader’s imagination. And, perhaps most importantly, the
pictures did not reinterpret the
story; did not tell readers what to think.
“Telling readers
what to think” is the main problem with some of the pieces in this collection,
problems inherent in transmogrifying stories by the earlier Indian writers into
a genre in which graphics foreground the story—and the graphic artists don’t
always understand it or their work is mismatched. Another problem is that
often, details are belabored in “dialogue bubbles,” at the cost of the
integrity of the story. Yet another is that stories are sometimes “edited down”
to what is seen to be the reading level for this kind of anthology. And
finally, the stories would have benefited greatly with prefatory material that
clearly set each in a historical, geographical, political and biographical
context. This last problem, again, although inherent in this genre, stands out
most glaringly in what is purported to be a “multicultural” anthology.
In the third
edition (1992) of Through Indian Eyes:
The Native Experience in Books for Children (Slapin and Seale, eds., New
Society Publishers), there’s an essay by Lenore Keeshig-Tobias (Ojibwe), entitled,
“Not Just Entertainment.” She writes:
Stories are not just
entertainment. Stories are power. They reflect the deepest, the most intimate
perceptions, relationships and attitudes of a people. Stories show how a
people, a culture, thinks. Such wonderful offerings are seldom reproduced by
outsiders.
“Native stories
deal with the experiences of our humanity,” she continues, “experiences we
laugh, and cry, and sweat for, experiences we learn from.”
Stories are not just
for entertainment. We know that. The storyteller and writer have a
responsibility—a responsibility to the people, a responsibility for the story
and a responsibility to the art. The art in turn then reflects a significant
and profound self-understanding.
To Lenore’s
heartfelt comments I would add that adaptors and illustrators of stories—as
well as editors of anthologies, if they are honest and really care—also must
own up to these responsibilities.
Some of the
stories and poems in Native American
Classics are incomparably beautiful—some whose texts have been left whole
and some that have been adapted. Some of the art in Native American Classics is—to use a descriptor I’ve recently been
known to use too often—awesome. Others, not so much.
I can’t, in good
conscience, “recommend” or “not recommend” this anthology. Rather, I chose to
review each entry as a separate entity. Sorry for the length of this review;
it’s the best I could do for the integrity of the stories and poems therein.
Teachers who
would want to use Native American Classics
to introduce “reluctant readers” to Native literatures should do so with
caution.
REVIEWS
“After a Sermon
at the Church of Infinite Confusion,” by John E. Smelcer / art by Bahe
Whitethorne, Jr. (Diné) (p. 2)
The poem
beginning this anthology defies cultural logic and exemplifies incongruence
between text and art. Whitethorne’s painting is of a Diné girl on Diné land.
Flying into the foreground is a huge black bird, its beak wide open. The bird
is larger than the child. Could be a raven, a crow, a blackbird, or maybe even
a mockingbird. The painting was originally done for the cover of a children’s
book called The Mockingbird’s Manual
by Seth Muller (Salina Bookshelf, 2009) and someone must have thought it would
be appropriate to illustrate this poem. It isn’t.
The girl’s name,
“Mary Caught-in-Between,” is apparently supposed to be ironic. It’s not. It’s
insulting. The singular experience of attending “sunday school” is interpreted
as turning Mary’s whole world upside down; in reality, it would’ve taken years
of Indian residential school to do that. Mary’s spiritual world appears to be
inhabited by “Raven and Coyote,” whom she tells they aren’t “gods anymore.” But
she’d know that Raven and Coyote never were
gods and that you don’t worship tricksters—and you don’t talk to them, either.
Mary is dressed in traditional Diné clothing, but children don’t generally
dress like that just to hang out. And if she is indeed Diné, I don’t understand
why a “totem pole” (on which she thinks that “god” was nailed) would even enter
her consciousness. Is that big black bird supposed to be Raven? If so, there
are ravens in Diné country, but Raven? No. He’s a Northwest Coast-area
trickster. The poem itself is infinitely confusing, and a casual reader will
probably think it’s authentic. Not recommended.
“The
Soft-Hearted Sioux” (1901) by Zitkala-Sa (Yankton Nakota), adapted by Benjamin
Truman, art by Jim McMunn, Timothy Truman and Mark A. Nelson (pp. 4-21)
“The
Soft-Hearted Sioux” is a heartbreaking story about what happens when a
Christianized Nakota man returns from mission school to proselytize his tribal
community. The young man has become a stranger who disrespects his culture and
community, his elders and his spiritual leader. It’s a tragic story with a
tragic ending. There can be no positive outcome; Zitkala-Sa presents the
dilemma and leaves out the moral. This is as it should be.
But it’s clear
that the illustrators here do not “get” the subtleties of the story. While
Zitkala-Sa’s Christianized narrator describes the community’s spiritual
leader—aka “medicine man”—only as “tall and large” with “long strides
[that]…seemed to me then as the uncanny gait of eternal death,” the artists
portray him as a charlatan, as evil incarnate. He is dark and glowering and inhuman-looking,
his head and face almost totally covered with eagle feathers; even his
bear-claw necklace and the burning sage bundle he holds appear menacing.
When Zitkala-Sa
writes, “seemed to me then,” she
means that before the young man
entered mission school, he saw the spiritual leader as a person whom he and the
rest of the community respected. After
the missionaries had finished with the young man, he saw the spiritual leader
as someone with “the uncanny gait of eternal death.” Indeed, the medicine man had not changed, the young man had. Although I love “The
Soft-Hearted Sioux,” I cannot recommend it in this form.
“On Wolf
Mountain” (1904) by Charles Alexander Eastman (Santee), adapted by Joseph
Bruchac (Abenaki) / art by Robby McMurtry (p. 22-44)
Told from the
perspective of a gray wolf, “On Wolf Mountain”—from Eastman’s Red Hunters and the Animal People
(1904)—shows their natural respect for, and complex relationship with, the
Indian peoples who hunted large game animals on the plains. As well, it
describes the relationship between the wolves and the white settlers (here,
sheepherders), who attempted to disrupt the ancient rhythms of life and death,
feast and hunger—a dance that existed long before the wagon trains, railroads,
and banks got here. “It was altogether different with that hairy-faced man who
had lately come among them,” Eastman writes, “to lay waste the forests and tear
up the very earth about his dwelling…while his creatures devoured the herbage
of the plains.” In one section, an enraged sheepherder whose flock is decimated
by the wolves sets out to destroy them. A soldier tells him: “I told you before
to lay out all the strychnine you could get hold of. We’ve got to rid this
region of the Injuns and gray wolves before civilization will stick!”
Both Bruchac’s
faithful adaptation and McMurtry’s art—on a palette of mostly grays and
browns—are right on target. In text and illustration, the wolves are as
detailed as the humans, and on every few pages, McMurtry inserts Eastman’s face
as the story unfolds. On the final page, McMurtry depicts Eastman telling his
story to a group of Boy Scouts, an organization that he co-founded. “On Wolf
Mountain” is highly recommended.
“The Red Man’s
Rebuke” (1893) by Simon Pokagon (Potawatomi), art by Murv Jacob
(Cherokee/Creek) (p.45)
This poem was
part of the preface of a small 16-page booklet, a series of short essays
printed on birch bark and originally written in 1893 as a political argument
and protest against the Columbian Exposition. I can see Pokagon, in my mind’s
eye, standing at the entrance of the Exposition, giving away (or selling) his
booklet to the startled white people going in to see this celebration of the
“discovery of America.” FYI, what follows are a few words from Pokagon’s speech:
In behalf of my
people, the American Indians, I hereby declare to you, the pale-faced race that
has usurped our lands and homes, that we have no spirit to celebrate with you
the great Columbian Fair now being held in this Chicago city, the wonder of the
world. No; sooner would we hold the high joy day over the graves of our
departed than to celebrate our own funeral, the discovery of America. And while
you who are strangers, and you who live here, bring the offering of the
handiwork of your own lands and your hearts in admiration rejoice over the
beauty and grandeur of this young republic and you say, “Behold the wonders
wrought by our children in this foreign land,” do not forget that this success
has been at the sacrifice of our
homes and a once happy race.
Jacob’s painting
of the death march known as the “Trail Where the People Cried,” or more
popularly known as the “Trail of Tears,” is amazing. It’s wintertime and you
can feel the deathly cold winter as the people lean into the freezing snow and
wind. Pokagon’s short poem might have been paired with Jacob’s painting because
the Potawatomi had their own “Trail of Death,” as it is known. Yet the Pokagon
band of Potawatomi were not
marched—they remain in southwestern Michigan—because Pokagon, as a hereditary
chief, sold a substantial part of what is now the Chicago waterfront without
his people’s permission. As a beginning of a discussion of Pokagon’s life, the
Potawatomi people, and/or Manifest Destiny, “The Red Man’s Rebuke” is highly
recommended.
“The Cattle
Thief” (1914) by E. Pauline Johnson/Tekahionwake, art by Weshoyot Alvitre
(Tongva) (pp. 46-53)
“The Cattle
Thief,” a long poem, was originally published in Johnson’s anthology, Flint and Feather, in 1914; and is
reprinted here in its entirety. An enormously popular performance poet, Johnson
toured her native Canada, the US and England, placing her Mohawk name alongside
her English name and strongly maintaining her identity as an Aboriginal woman.
The Cree woman in “The Cattle Thief” is strong and resolute as she protests the
murder of her elderly, starving father, called “cattle thief” by the white
riders who have relentlessly hunted him down and now raise their knives to
mutilate him. Standing over her father’s body, the woman harangues his killers,
daring them to touch him.
And the words outleapt
from her shrunken lips in the language of the Cree,
“If you mean to touch
that body, you must cut your way through me.”
And that band of
cursing settlers dropped backward one by one,
For they knew that an
Indian woman roused, was a woman to let alone.
On a palette of
mostly browns and blacks, Alvitre’s art effectively captures the bloodthirsty
riders, the old man, and most of all, the courageous woman who strikes out
against white predation of her people and land. “The Cattle Thief” is highly
recommended.
“The Hunter and
Medicine Legend” (1881) by Elias Johnson (Tuscarora), adapted by Andrea Grant,
art by Toby Cypress (pp. 54-62)
Johnson’s story,
in about three pages, is a good read. Children—and adults as well—who read or
listen to it will see the action in their minds’ eyes, and will take in the
lessons as well. Not so with the adaptation, which is belabored and too
“cartoony” for my taste. The adapted text follows the original somewhat, but
then veers into extraneous and annoying and hokey “conversation bubbles,” which
explain what does not need to be explained. For instance, the text (and adapted
text as well) read:
There once lived a man
who was a great hunter. His generosity was…praised in all the country, for he
not only supplied his own family with food, but distributed game among his
friends and neighbors…. He even called the birds and animals of the forest to
partake of his abundance.
Then, in the
adaptation, the hunter explains to the animals, including two deer, why he is sharing his kill (a deer!) with them:
“We are all connected in our life cycles...and so if I take, I will always give
back.” Sounds like Tonto explaining something obvious to the Lone Ranger. Read
the original. It’s much better. Not recommended.
“The White Man
Wants the Indians’ Home” (date unknown; pre-1885) by James Harris Guy
(Chickasaw), art by David Kainetakeron Faddon (Mohawk) (p. 63)
Little is known
about Guy, other than that he was a member of the police force of the Chickasaw
Nation, and that he was killed in a shootout in 1885. This poem was published
in Native American Writing in the Southeast: An
Anthology, 1875-1935, edited by Daniel F. Littlefield. Fadden’s amazing oil painting—on a
bejeweled pallet of mostly sky blues, grass greens and browns—depicts a Mohawk
couple against the backdrop of the land. Here are sunbeams breaking through the
clouds, a bear in the sky, a deer in the meadow. It all comes together to carry
this simple poem that laments the continued depredations of Indian lands.
Recommended.
“How the White
Race Came to America” (1913) by Handsome Lake (Seneca), as told to Arthur C.
Parker (Seneca), adapted by Tom Pomplum / art by Roy Boney, Jr. (Cherokee)
(pp.64-71)
Since its
founding in the 19th Century, the Code of Handsome Lake has been a
source of controversy, political divisions, and pain among the Haudenosaunee
(People of the Longhouse). It is known that Handsome Lake was recovering from
alcoholism when he experienced his visions. It is also known that Handsome
Lake’s mother was not Seneca and so, in this matrilineal society, he may not have
been recognized as Seneca. In addition, Handsome Lake’s visions, as passed down
in written form by his grandson, have a distinctively Christian influence, and forbid
much of what is practiced today by the traditional Longhouse People. And
finally, an important part of the controversy is whether or not it was proper
to have taken his visions out of the oral tradition in the first place. That
part of the Code of Handsome Lake is now produced in graphic format for the
amusement of non-Natives belittles the whole thing. Not recommended.
“A Prehistoric
Race” (1919) by Bertrand N.O.
Walker/Hen-To (Wyandot), adapted by Tom Pomplun, art by Tara Audibert
(Maliseet) (pp. 72-79)
Bertrand N.O.
Walker/Hen-To was a wonderful storyteller. In the book from which this story is
told, Tales of the Bark Lodges,
originally published in 1919, Grandma tells old Wyandot stories to her
grandson. In these stories, the Wyandot dialect that Grandma speaks is
authentic, understandable, and very, very funny; and when her grandson replies,
he speaks relatively “standard” English. Since Grandma’s telling the stories to
her grandson, she’s also, of course, speaking the animals’ parts. In this
adaptation, Grandma tells the story, yet the animals speak dialect-free
English. For instance, in the original story, Ol’ Buffalo tells Ol’ Fox that he
wants to challenge Ol’ Turtle to a race. So Ol’ Buffalo says:
My frien’, I got make
race with Turtle. You kind a smart, an’ you got sharp eyes, you be the judge,
see who beat ‘em. You tell him, Ol’ Turtle, I beat ‘im on a ground’ or in a
wata’, jus’ how he like, I don’ care nothin’. You tell ‘im come tomorro’ ova’
there by lake when sun come up jus’ ‘bout high as sycamo’ tree. You tell
eva-body an’ he can come see race. I be down tha’, you tell ‘im that, Ol’
Turtle. He’s always best one, eva’ time; but I don’t think he could run, it’s
too short his legs. Mebbe so he’s run good in wata’, tho’. Me, too, I could run
fas’ in wata’ or anyhow. I bet I could beat ‘im’.
In the
adaptation, this is what Ol’ Buffalo says:
I have to race with
Turtle. You’re smart, and you’ve got sharp eyes—you be judge, and decide who
wins. You tell Turtle I can beat him on land or in water, whichever he choose.
Tell him to come tomorrow by the lake when the sun is as high as the sycamore
trees. Tell everybody to come and see the race. Ol’ Turtle always says he’s
best, but I don’t think he can run fast; his legs are too short. Maybe he’s
faster in water, but I’m fast in water, too. I bet I could beat him.
Adapting a story
is one thing, but to change the style and language is disrespectful and boring.
And it makes Grandma appear to be unintelligent. The art is boring as well. Not
recommended.
“I’m Wildcat
Bill from Grizzle Hill” (ca. 1894) by Alexander Posey (Muscogee Creek), art by
Marty Two Bulls, Sr. (Oglala Lakota) (pp. 80-81)
Alexander Posey
was a journalist, essayist, poet and humorist, whose writing tended toward
sharp political commentary. “Wildcat Bill,” which Posey wrote around 1894, is a
boozing, bragging settler (“a gambler, scalper, born a scout; a tough; the man
ye read about”). According to scholar Daniel F. Littlefield, Jr., “‘Wildcat
Bill’ is Posey’s attempt to imitate the speech of the white people then
streaming into Indian Territory.” In this version, Marty Two Bulls makes sure
that Wildcat Bill gets his comeuppance—from, of all things, a red-painted cigar-store
Indian. Hilarious, and highly recommended.
“The Thunder’s
Nest” (1851) by George Copway/Kahgegagahbowh (Mississauga Ojibwe), adapted by
Niigaanwewidam James Sinclair (Anishinaabe), art by James Odjick (Anishinaabe)
(pp. 82-88)
This story was
first published in Copway’s The
traditional history and characteristic sketches of the Ojibway nation
(1851) and is the story about how the Thunders, beings who wreaked havoc on the
Ojibwe people, were subdued by the bravery of a young man. Although the art
takes the place of a lot of the written story, it’s a faithful adaptation of
Copway’s version. There is no dialogue—for which I am grateful—and the art is
spot-on perfect. The Thunders are frightening, the young man is stalwart and
the heart he holds in his hands is practically pulsating. Plus—and this is
indeed a “plus” in books that illustrate traditional tales—the pipe is right,
the clothing is right, the dwellings are right. It’s good to have a talented
Anishinaabe artist illustrating an Anishinaabe story.
My only problem
with Copway’s written story is that it appears to be a Christianized version of
an old story that belies Indian peoples’ traditional respect for all the
elements of Creation. Not having heard an oral version, I’m kind of skeptical
of this one, and don’t know if I’d recommend it.
“They May Bury
the Steel” (1875) by Israel Folsom (Choctaw), art by Larry Vienneau, Jr. (p.
89)
They may bury the
steel in the Indian’s breast;
They may lay him low
with his sires to rest,
His scattered race
from their heritage push,
But his dauntless
spirit they cannot crush.
Folsom’s short,
evocative poem was originally published in an essay entitled “Choctaw
Traditions: Introductory Remarks,” and republished in Native American Writing in the Southeast: An Anthology, 1875-1935,
by Daniel F. Littlefield and James W. Parins. I especially like the repetition
of the word “they.” We all know who “they” are. Vienneau’s print of a huge
raven (or Raven) on a solid blue background, black with blue shining through
its outspread wings, beak open, might evoke defiance, but I think the implied
equivalence between Indian and Raven is funky. Folsom’s poem is recommended;
the art, not so much.
“The Story of
Itsikamahidish and the Wild Potato” (1914) by Buffalo Bird Woman (Hidatsa), as
told to Gilbert L. Wilson, adapted by Tom Pomplun, art by Pat N. Lewis (pp.
90-95)
This story was
found in Wilson’s field notes (vol. 16, #14) and later appeared in Native American Women’s Writing: An
Anthology, ca. 1800-1924, edited by Karen L. Kilcup. According to Hidatsa cosmology, Itsikamahidish
is a complex kind of guy who appears in many forms, including as a human;
sometimes he appears in the form of Coyote. This is a story about how
Itsikamahidish, as Coyote, discovers wild potatoes, who warn him not to eat too
much of them. Of course, Coyote being who he is doesn’t listen, and the
consequences of eating too many wild potatoes are not lost on the reader. This
graphic version is very, well, graphic; Coyote gets his comeuppance and we all
know exactly why we shouldn’t eat too many wild potatoes. In Lewis’s
illustrations—on a palette of riotous colors—Itsikamahidish looks just like
Wile E. Coyote, the talking potato looks like Mister Potato Head, and the
circular earth lodges appear accurate. I’m confused, though, about why
Itsikamahidish’s sweetheart is an Indian woman, since the Coyote stories I’ve
heard take place in the time before humans were created. However, if
Itsikamahidish takes many forms, maybe he also dates humans. Recommended.
“Anoska
Nimiwina” (1899) by William Jones (Fox), adapted by Joseph Bruchac (Abenaki),
art by Afua Richardson (pp. 96-113)
Written about
ten years after the event, this is the story of how Anoska Nimiwina, the dance
of peace, came through the territory of the Osakie, Shawnee, Delaware, and
Kickapoo, and brought an alliance with their enemies, the Comanche, Kiowa, and
Caddo. According to Jones, this version of the sacred story of how a young
woman brought peace to the warring peoples of the area was brought to the Sauk
and Fox by messengers of the Potawatomi. What has been erroneously referred to
as the “Ghost Dance” swept through the Plains nations; and it was brought about
by the same desperation. The People believed that if they danced and prayed
together in this good way, the predatory whites would disappear, the murdered
ancestors would return, and the land and game animals would come back.
Richardson’s
art, on a gorgeous palette of mostly blues, purples and browns, make a
spectacular complement to Bruchac’s amazing adaptation of a story that
reverberates even today in the Idle No More movement and a strong, courageous
Indian woman. Highly recommended.
“The Stolen
White Girl” (1868) by John Rollin Ridge/Cheesquatalawny (Cherokee), art by
Daryl Talbot (Choctaw), color by Kevin Atkinson (pp. 114-115)
John Rollin
Ridge is a notorious figure in Cherokee history. His father, John Ridge, and
grandfather, Major Ridge, as leaders of the “Treaty Party,” were leading
signatories of the Treaty of New Echota (1836), which ceded Cherokee lands east
of the Mississippi, and was said to have resulted in the death march known as
The Trail Where the People Cried, more popularly called “The Trail of Tears.”
Years after followers of John Ross—who had led the Cherokee opposition to the
treaty—assassinated Ridge’s father and grandfather, Ridge himself killed David
Kell, a member of Ross’s faction. Then Ridge fled to California, and went on to
become—a writer. A child of mixed parentage, Ross also married a white woman,
Elizabeth. “The Stolen White Girl” is probably a romanticized version of their
courtship; absent any of this context, the poem and illustrations read like an
early version of the “dime novels” and their successors, the “Indian Romance”
novels (“Savage Heart,” “Savage Flames,” “Beloved Savage,” you get the picture).
Not recommended.
“The Middle-Man”
(1909) by Royal Roger Eubanks (Cherokee), adapted by Jon Proudstar (Yaqui,
Maya), art by Terry Laban (pp. 116-129)
In 1887,
Congress passed the Dawes Act, also euphemistically known as the “General
Allotment Act,” which broke up the vast tribal lands and allotted small
portions (about 160 acres) to individual Indian families to farm. The “surplus”
lands were then opened up to settlers, and within decades, whites owned the
vast majority of the lands. But “most” was not “enough,” and along came the
real estate speculators, who, by using the American legal system, bilked Indian
individuals of their land allotments. Eubanks, who had pursued careers in
teaching and art, became famous for his biting political cartoons and cartoon-illustrated
stories, one of which became “The Middle-Man.” Although there is some
information on the Dawes Act here (in tiny print at the bottom of three of the
ten-page story), it is not enough to carry this adaptation, which will lead
readers to believe that Indians were (and are) unintelligent and easily duped.
Not recommended.
“Changing Is Not
Vanishing” (1916) by Carlos Montezuma/Wassaja (Apache), art by Arigon Starr
(Kickapoo) (p. 130)
Carlos Montezuma
was a nationally known political leader, writer, essayist and poet, who aimed
his political arrows at the white establishment and the BIA for the devastation
imposed on Native peoples, and on those who believed the stereotypical
portrayal of Indians in the media. Montezuma was not, as the notes here read, “the first Native American to earn a
medical degree in an American University.” Actually, Charles Eastman (Santee
Dakota) earned his medical degree in
the same year, 1889. (Caution: Do your own research and don’t believe
everything you read in Wikipedia.)
“Changing Is Not
Vanishing” is Montezuma’s answer to those who would believe that changing is vanishing. Arigon Starr’s
illustration, of four contemporary traditional and modern Indian people,
includes two women, of whom Montezuma’s poem left out. Highly recommended.
“Two Wolves,” by
Joseph Bruchac (Abenaki), adapted by Richard Van Camp (Dogrib Dene) / art by
John Findley (pp. 131-139)
“Two Wolves” is
one of my three hands-down favorites of this collection. (The others are
“Anoska Nimiwina,” which Bruchac adapted; and “The Cattle Thief by E. Pauline
Johnson.) “Two Wolves” is the story of a young Abenaki, just out of his teens,
back from fighting in the Civil War. Hired by the Town Board to hunt down and
destroy a wolf who has killed some sheep, Ash has been traumatized by the
killing he has had to do in the war. The wolf has been wounded and scarred as
well, and the irony is not lost on the young man: “That’s a good one, isn’t
it?” he tells the wolf, “an Indian boy getting paid to scalp a wolf?” Ash,
after tossing some of his dinner to the wolf (now named “Catcher”), decides he
has “done enough killing for all of us,” and tells his new companion of his
plans to head north to Canada. In the north, he says, is “land where there’s
woods and deer. No sheep, no bounties paid for wolves or men.”
Findley’s art is
amazing, realistic and detailed (save the members of the Town Board, who are
appropriately caricatured). Especially poignant is Catcher’s sniffing at Ash’s
wolf skin-lined bedroll. In the last two panels, the two lie down together,
Ash’s head on his bedroll, and Catcher at his side. Or is Ash’s head on Catcher? Both art and story
complement each other, a perfect balance, neither competing for domination.
With “Two Wolves,” an anti-war story told in an “Indian” way—no “explanation,”
no stated moral, no heavy-handed polemic—the reader is left to ponder the
issues and explore the possibilities. Beautiful. Highly recommended.
—Beverly Slapin
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