Long ago when the caribou flowed across the tundra in great antlered waves and the steam of their breathing raised clouds above the barrens that hunters could see for miles, before the missionaries taught us to sin, before the silent diseases of the white man broke our hearts with the frozen bodies of our children, the elders sat in smoky igloos eating fermented caribou paunch and argued for hours the merits impressionist soapstone carving and the symbolism of bifid bows.
Long into the deep and oppressive night they raged stopping only to relieve themselves in the snow where, a few nights later the constant and conquering wind would leave small yellow pillars that children would kick through the village as they laughed and pushed each other into the snow or speared imaginary seals with child sized weapons for little hunters. And the elders argued for they could no longer remember how the kayak came about or if it was art or science but knowing only that it was gift from the Gods.
Older than the other children I would sit for hours at the feet of the elders as they droned out the tales of how Sedna taught them to make the kayak and hunt the seals. How she led them to the willows and the driftwood and taught them the secret wood and bone joints. With deft hands she skinned the seals and showed the elders from long ago how to sew them together and make the skins watertight. And she taught them to shape the ends like a fish that would guide them on their journeys and to put eyes in the bow to see through the fog. She showed them how to shape the back like the tail of a bird that would carry them before the wind home safely to their families.
And Sedna told them, "Forget not what I have taught you or you will die. Your children and wives will starve. Some day men will come in great winged kayaks. They will have big words and will flatter you with many questions and will go away and tell their families lies about you. Soon they will claim to know more about you than you know yourself and they will teach you how to paddle and hunt and carve soapstone like you were little children and knew nothing. They will call it art. They will pretend you are great artists and will feed you sweet tasting food and give you drink that makes you crazy and soon you will want to be like them. And your teeth will fall out so you cannot eat muktuk and you will forget how to hunt seal and caribou and to build kayaks."
And Sedna told them, " Do not be deceived. You are the people. You live and you die. Your art is in living not in your kayaks or trinkets. Everything you do has a reason and a purpose. When you sit in your igloos and argue about art you will know you will no longer be the people. You will become as white men."
And the elders sat in the igloo eating fermented caribou paunch and arguing if Sedna's words were true while the wind scoured their souls. My tongue found a hole where a tooth used to be and I remembered how we no longer hunted seals and saw only a few caribou this year. I thought about how we bought our food at the store. Then I knew that only the white man has time to argue about art and we had become as white men.
And I saw a great bird of death soar across the sky.
John Winters
Redwing Designs
Web site address, http://home.ican.net/~735769
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