Dawnland Voices: An Anthology of Indigenous Writing from New England

Mihku Paul

147 Mihku Paul (b. 1958) Mihku Paul was born and raised along the Penobscot River in Maine and is a member of the Kingsclear First Nation in New Brunswick. She received a traditional education from her grandfather, a Maliseet elder, and also attended public schools. She holds a ba in communication and human development as well as an mfa in creative writing. A writer, visual artist, and storyteller, Paul paired the poems below with photographs and her own drawings in a multimedia installation , Look Twice: The Waponahki in Image and Verse, in 2010 at the Abbe Museum in Bar Harbor, Maine. Her first book, 20th Century PowWow Playland, appeared in 2012, part of Bowman Books’ Native New England Authors series. The Ballad of Gabe Acquin One hundred years ago and more a boy was born within a shack, where winter’s biting wind and ice bore witness to his family’s lack. His mother lay beside the lamp, proud and breathless in delight, while outside dogs began to howl, then circle in, and fight. She put the baby to her breast, his greedy suckle strong. And marveled at his coal black eyes, his legs that were so long. The midwife brewed a tea of herbs and bid the mother take a drink, while she sang songs from older days and sat alone to think. The father walked the river’s skin, frozen hard from shore to shore, 148 maliseet hunting for some food to eat, meat to fill the cupboard store. Three days would pass before he came, hauling the carcass on his sled. Venison to feed his kin and the wife who shared his bed. He took Matilda in his arms and laughed to see the babe. Your son came three nights past, she said, and I have named him Gabe. A cradle sat close to the stove where scant warmth hovered in the air. He never cries, she proudly said, and eats just like a bear. All through the seasons and the years the boy grew tough and strong, learning to fish and hunt and trap, and never to do wrong. The rez dogs loved him all his life. He never felt their bite. The people said it was a sign that Gabe had second sight. The river was his other home, the woods he understood. When others found no game to hunt Gabe Acquin always could. Quiet, watchful by the trees his wiry frame bent to the ground, his straight black hair beneath a cap, he checked each track and made no sound. Soon he followed as they fled in shadows green and dark, Mihku Paul 149 four-footed ones could not escape once he had seen their mark. When others came, wenuche men, rich they asked for an Indian guide. The people said Gabe Acquin’s best, From him, the game can’t hide. So each autumn came and went, with Gabe a hired hand, And every year he posed beside the strangers looking grand. Those men with rifles costing more than Gabe earned in a year. Boots so fine and polished as they stood beside their deer. And once they asked him to come up and see the city sights, all the buildings treetop high, and all the brilliant lights. They took him to the Old Government House, a columned building made of stone and posed while standing on the steps but Gabe was told to sit alone. White men lounging out in front a photograph would show, how they stood like they belonged while Gabe sat down below. One hundred years is long enough to wait for someone to discover, a man that knew the names of trees who whispered to him like a lover. He was a man who from his birth heard the words of river and wood, 150 maliseet knew animals and all their ways, took only what he should. I found him in a picture when I looked for my own story, and he was staring out at me, in his simple, fierce glory. A Maliseet like me, he was a member of my tribal kin, I newly name him Muin; Bear. They called him Gabe Acquin. The Water Road All journeys begin here, Madawamkeetook, home, beside the good river, rocky at its mouth. Stone shards, bone stratum buried deep, our ancient cenotaph, Old Meductic Fort, traceless memorial on the shores of Wolastoq. Now St. John. The naming...