“You've cut yourself badly, Jesse. I think you must have gouged yourself on the zipper of your sleeping bag.” His uncle held up the corner of the sleeping bag. “See? The zipper has snapped in half, and what remains of it is very sharp.”
“A zipper?” Jesse couldn't help but think of the arrow that had struck him in his dream. Perhaps it was the zipper cutting him during the night that had first started his bizarre dream.
“I'll walk you down to the creek. We'll wash it off and see how deep it is. We may have to leave the woods in order for you to get a couple stitches.”
Jesse climbed out of his sleeping bag and walked with his uncle to the water. Using a washcloth, his uncle carefully cleaned the area and examined the wound.
He smiled. “I guess you are just one of those bleeders, Jesse. This doesn't look too bad after all. It's actually just a graze.”
“A graze,” laughed Jesse, wondering what would have happened if the arrow in his dream had hit him in the chest. “I guess it could have been a lot worse. Uncle Matthew, has anyone ever died by impaling themselves on a zipper?”
Uncle Matthew chuckled. “Not to my knowledge. I suggest we try to keep you out of the history books.”
Jesse shook his head at the irony of his uncle's comment. If he only knew. But the dream was simply too weird to share with anyone. Uncle Matthew would think he had a lunatic for a nephew if he confessed to the dream he had experienced last night. Jesse decided to keep it to himself.
After a breakfast of blueberries and trail mix, Uncle Matthew taught Jesse how to tie flies for fishing using a hook and the feathers of a blue jay. By lunchtime, Jesse was ready to try out his new creations in the creek using a thin willow branch and some twine. His first two flies didn't see any action, but the third was hit by a hungry brook trout almost immediately. Within an hour, Jesse had caught dinner for the two of them. The euphoria of catching fish with his own handmade craft was cut short by a deep rumbling in the forest.
Uncle Matthew looked up. “What do you make of those clouds?”
Jesse peered up through the trees. Great grey and white mountains with scalloped summits were forming in the sky. “I'd guess those are storm clouds moving in.”
“By the sound of the thunder, I think you're right. We'll need to build a shelter. Go back to camp, take my small hatchet and chop down several saplings. We'll tie them together to make a matchejin.”
“A match-a-what?” asked Jesse.
“A matchejin is the Indian name for a lean-to. But we'd better hurry. The storm will be upon us soon.”
“What about Jason?”
Uncle Matthew smiled. “Knowing Jason, he's probably already started his own lean-to by now. Don't worry, he'll be fine.”
Jesse ran back to the camp and grabbed the hatchet. He chopped down a dozen small trees, then dragged them back to camp. His uncle then skillfully chopped the trunks into poles. They jammed one pole horizontally into the V-shaped trunks of two nearly identical young maples. They then used the sideways pole to build a rectangular frame that angled down from the pole to the ground. Next, they built a second frame just above the ground and under the first angled frame.
“I'll cover the roof of the lean-to with leafy branches,” Uncle Matthew explained. “I need you to go and find birch bark for the frame on the floor. The bark will help keep the sleeping bags from getting wet during the night. Luckily, we have the small tarp to keep the kindling dry.”
A clap of thunder sparked Jesse into action. It was getting darker by the minute, and he knew it was only a matter of time before the rain began to fall. There were no birch trees in sight, so Jesse jogged along the bank of the creek until he saw a stand of birch on the opposite side of the water. He carefully stepped across the shallow creek, being careful not to slip on the slimy surface of the stepping stones. As he sprinted for the trees, he stumbled into a ditch. Unhurt, he brushed himself off and noticed that the ditch curled around the birch trees, then back towards the creek.
He left the ditch and approached the nearest tree. He tore off loose pieces of birch bark, careful not to strip too close to the trunk and possibly damage the entire tree. Moving from tree to tree, he quickly built up a pile of white, papery pieces of bark. Satisfied, he bent down and picked up his load, but several loose pieces of bark dragged across the ground. The bark brushed away a layer of dead leaves, exposing the surface of a large flat rock. Jesse froze. He had seen that rock before. Shocked, he dropped the bark and looked around. The ditch! It was about the same size as the meander from his dream. If that dream had been real, then the meander would have existed hundreds of years ago. Over time, the meander would transform into an oxbow lake and eventually dry up, leaving a curved ditch just like the one in front of him!
Jesse shook as he stared at the rock. He had to lift it and find out for sure. Large drops of rain began to explode on the surface of the stone as Jesse wrapped his fingers about its edge. He heaved. His arms and fingers burned with pain as he managed to slide the rock several feet from its resting place. Jesse dove to his knees and peered at the round depression of dirt. He could see only worms, and a salamander which quickly scampered to the protection of another nearby stone, in the rich soil. A wave of disappointment rushed over him, although he knew he had no reason to believe that the knife would actually be there in the dirt.
A flash of lightning cracked across the sky, and to Jesse's amazement, a tiny twinkle appeared in the soil. Eagerly, he dug into the earth. His fingers touched something hard and metallic. He gently pulled the object from its resting spot. A hunting knife materialized in his hands.
A terrific crash shattered the forest, and the heavens opened up. Jesse shoved the knife into his back pocket, grabbed the bark and ran. The wind howled ferociously as branches as big as small trees thrashed above him. The heart of the storm lashed at the green sea above, whipping the leaves into a frothing emerald tempest. Jesse rounded the hill and threw himself into the lean-to as a mighty crack shattered the air around him. The bark flew across the wooden frame as he tumbled in a heap before his uncle.
“Jesse, you're soaked!” Uncle Matthew could barely be heard above the raging storm. “Why didn't you come back right away when the rain started?”
Jesse's wet clothes were the last thing on his mind. “Never mind that, Uncle! Look at what I found!”
Jesse pulled the knife out of his pocket and passed it to his uncle. His uncle gasped. His fingers quivered as he gently rubbed the dirt off the rusty blade. Using the loose bottom of his flannel shirt, he cleaned the handle and examined the intricate carvings of symbols and animals.
“This is the most beautiful artifact I have ever seen. The carvings of people and walls in the forest tell the story of a traditional deer hunt. This knife has to be at least several hundred years old. And the metal blade. Blades such as this were European in origin. Do you realize what you have found?”
Jesse shrugged innocently.
“It's definitely Wendat. This knife should be shared with our people. What a beautiful piece of our history. I've never seen anything quite like it. Where did you find it?”
“Under a rock.”
“What?” He stared at his nephew, surprised.
“I lifted a rock, and the knife was in the dirt beneath it.”
“But you were out gathering bark,” exclaimed Uncle Matthew, pointing to the pile of birch at the back of the lean-to. “What were you doing looking under rocks?”
Jesse hesitated, then told his uncle the story of his dream, the shape of the creek and the recognition of the rock at the centre of the old oxbow lake. His uncle listened