In the beginning, after the Great Flood had cleansed the Earth, Wîsahkêcâhk — the shape-shifter, the trickster, the teacher — walked alone upon the damp new land. He had helped the animals bring up the mud from the bottom of the waters to rebuild the earth, and now the land stretched wide and flat, but cold and silent.
The trees stood bare. The rivers were locked in ice. The winds howled through the empty sky. There was no warmth, no colour, no songs of birds. Even Wîsahkêcâhk, who loved winter games and mischief in the snow, began to feel heavy in heart.
He went to speak with Kîsikâw Pîsim, the Sun, and said, “Oh Grandfather, why do you shine so far away? Why do you not bring warmth to the land anymore?”
Kîsikâw Pîsim replied, “It is not yet time, Wîsahkêcâhk. The Earth sleeps. To awaken her too soon would cause harm. She must dream her deep dream until the spirit of spring is reborn.”
Wîsahkêcâhk, ever impatient, thought to himself, There must be another way.
He journeyed to the high mountain where Pônî Pîsim, the Winter Moon, sat in a lodge of white fur and blue shadows. “Let me borrow your drum,” Wîsahkêcâhk asked. “I wish to sing a song to wake up the land.”
But Pônî Pîsim warned him, “Be careful. The drum carries power. If you beat it too hard, the ice spirits will grow angry.”
Wîsahkêcâhk promised, though his promises often danced like the northern lights — beautiful, but hard to hold.
So he took the drum, and he sang.
He sang the song of the loon’s return.
He sang the cracking of ice on the river.
He sang the buds opening on the poplar trees.
He sang until even the oldest spruce began to quiver.
And deep beneath the snow, the heart of the Earth stirred.
Warmth began to rise. The rivers flowed. The snow melted. The geese returned with songs in the sky.
But he had sung too much, too fast. The drum cracked. Thunder rumbled. Pônî Pîsim sent a great snowstorm to cover the land again.
Wîsahkêcâhk knew he had gone too far. So he walked to the center of the world — a place only he knew — and there he knelt, placing his own heart into the earth, wrapped in the memory of the songs he had sung.
And from that gift, the first true Spring was born.
Since then, Spring returns each year, not because of the turning of the Earth alone, but because of Wîsahkêcâhk’s heart, still buried deep, still singing the songs of warmth, renewal, and hope.
⸻And that, my relatives, is why the melt comes with thunder. Why the rivers sing as they break free. Why we feel joy rise in us when the geese return.
Because Wîsahkêcâhk still sings beneath us — reminding the land and the people that life, even after the coldest of winters, always finds its way home.
êkosi, that is the story.
Kanipawit Maskwa
John Gonzalez
Standing Bear Network
