Kôna’s Purpose

By Jasmine Sears, in consultation with Shannon Cornelsen

Soft snowflakes fluttered against my face as I trudged through the sparse forest. Walking the trapline wasn’t usually my job, but this was a hard winter, and our hunters needed help.

My snowshoe caught on a bush, sending me tumbling. I tried to fling my arms out to catch myself, but I was too slow; instead, I gingerly pushed myself back up, my mouth full of slush. My legs ached, although I couldn’t blame my fall for that.

Why is it so cold?

The forest wasn’t cold, though. The snow was too fluffy. The air was too moist. I could see the overcast sky covering the landscape like a blanket. Every other sense was telling me that this was a mild winter day, so why did I feel so chilly? Did I have a fever?

I forced myself to keep moving. As soon as I checked the last few traps, I could return to camp and warm up with a kettle of tea. If we were lucky, I’d also return with something to roast over the fire, but the odds were dwindling.

As I passed under a spindly tree, I heard a crashing sound from above. I brought my arms up to shield my head⁠—too slow, again. The branch grazed the side of my face. My knees buckled, even though the blow had been blunted by layers of clothing. I didn’t even try to catch myself this time.

Why am I so weak?

I lay in the snow, struggling to catch my breath. Slowly, the whiteness faded to black.

❇ ❇ ❇

With a flash of light, I was back. My eyes met Maskwa’s, and I saw my awe and relief reflected in his face. I took a step forward and tripped on my snowshoe, my husband catching me and pulling me close.

“I didn’t think you were coming back,” he whispered.

I took a deep breath and looked around at the shrubs and trees lit by the nearby pond’s column of light. Even tinted an ethereal blue, the shapes of the trees and the smell of the early summer flowers were too familiar. “Are we . . . ?”

“A couple days from the village, yes.”

That was convenient. The stories about the veil were always about someone trekking to a distant corner of the region to bring back a loved one. Compared to those ancestors, we’d be home immediately.

But then I remembered another detail from the stories. “Maskwa, when did you start feeling pulled to the veil?”

He looked exhausted. “Three days ago. I didn’t recognize it at first. I was one of the last to get here.”

“We can take our time on the way back,” I promised.

❇ ❇ ❇

I led the guest into the chief’s mîkiwâhp, but as soon as I stepped inside, I realized something was wrong. “Where is Papêwê?” I looked around the tent again. “And Oscikwânis?” Two years ago, Nânakowêw had barely been considered an elder⁠—now, she was the oldest in the circle.

The chief gave me a heavy look. “It was a difficult winter. You were not the only one we lost.” He straightened up. “But you’re returning. We should focus on supporting your purpose.”

I gestured to the man I’d brought with me and switched to English. “This is Nomura-san. He specializes in helping returning souls.”

The chief smiled and addressed our guest. “You didn’t mention this during your first visit. I was told you were a mapmaker.”

“I am. A plan is just a different type of map.”

❇ ❇ ❇

“There’s nothing you need from me?” Maskwa asked again. We were waiting at the edge of the village as our guests prepared to leave.

I gazed across the plains, trying to let my pull speak to me. Gentle nudges seemed to jostle inside me, urging me ever so slightly east or south or north⁠—but nothing towards my husband. Whatever my purpose was, it didn’t involve him. “Not right now.”

As I watched my husband lead the small group towards the mountains, I thought through my plan. With so many conflicting pulls, the advice was to simply pick one and see where it led me; there was no single way to fulfill my purpose.

A hunting party had departed to the east yesterday, and I suspected one option was to follow them. The second, southern pull was a mystery, but the third seemed to point directly toward Nânakowêw’s mîkiwâhp. I realized I knew very little about her⁠—I had spent much more time with the elders who were no longer here.

I made my choice.

“Hello, Kôna,” the old woman said, lifting the flap to her tent and smiling at me. “Can I h⁠-⁠help you?”

I wasn’t sure how to respond. I couldn’t be sure I was drawn to her specifically, and even if I were, I didn’t know why. “I was pulled this way,” I finally said. “May I join you?”

“Of course. I was about to have the children g⁠-⁠g⁠-⁠g . . . collect moss.” Nânakowêw looked down as she stuttered, but beckoned me to follow her toward the center of the village. “Mispon will need it.”

As the elder walked around a cooking fire, I froze. Something felt . . . wrong. I stared at the bright copper kettle hanging over the flames between us. It didn’t repel me, exactly, but my pull seemed to curve around it, like a gust of wind split by a boulder.

I closed my eyes to be sure. Yes, even with several pulls competing for my attention, the space in front of me was a void.

“Kôna?” I felt Nânakowêw’s weathered hand on my arm. “Are y⁠-⁠you alright?” I opened my eyes, and she followed my gaze to the fire and kettle. “Muskeg tea. Sâkwês is ill.”

That didn’t explain what I was feeling, but I didn’t want to dwell on it. “We can keep going. I’m still getting used to having a purpose.” I waved at a boy playing nearby. “Yôtin! Come with us, it’s time to collect moss.”

❇ ❇ ❇

I sat with Mispon, decorating a moss bag for her upcoming baby. I was confident now that Nânakowêw was important to fulfilling my purpose, but I was trying to follow the words of caution that had come with my plan: “Be patient. If a pull isn’t urgent, rushing to follow it may slow you down.”

“How are you feeling?” Mispon asked me.

I laughed. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

My friend studied my face. I was sure she could see my anxiety simmering just below the surface. “I feel guilty sometimes,” she said.

I stopped sifting through porcupine quills. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know if I’m doing everything I can for the baby. Am I taking the right medicine? Singing the right songs? Will something go wrong because I didn’t try hard enough?”

“I feel the same way,” I admitted. “I’ve been given a chance to protect others, but am I making the most of that?”

Mispon shook her head. “I’ve had months to think about it, and I’ve realized that instead of feeling guilty, I should feel proud. I try to tell myself why each action I’m taking now will make everything turn out well.”

I looked at the half-decorated deerskin between us, imagining Mispon’s baby snuggled inside. Maybe I wasn’t pulled to this, but building a stronger community meant that more people could help⁠—and be helped⁠—as I discovered my purpose. Was that enough?

“Does it work?” I asked.

“Sometimes.” Mispon gave a small smile. “I hope it works better for you.”

I tensed as my pull suddenly changed, curving and reforming around a nearby influence. By the time I looked up, everything was back to normal. I barely spotted a flash of copper as the kettle disappeared into a nearby mîkiwâhp.

❇ ❇ ❇

I gave a final wave to Kâkosis, her large eyes and spiky hair peeking out from the intricate moss bag. Mispon’s baby was growing fast.

The subtle yet constant pull made Nânakowêw easy to find. As I approached, the old woman greeted me with a bundle of fresh herbs. “We c‑can spread these out to dry.”

I hesitated before speaking. “Why are you always working when I come to spend time with you?” I remembered the hours I spent as a child, listening to elders tell story after story. “Why do we never sit and talk?”

Nânakowêw refused to meet my gaze. “The village needs everyone to h⁠⁠-⁠⁠h⁠-⁠⁠h . . . work.”

“The village needs everyone to contribute,” I said. Correcting an elder was uncomfortable, but I could feel that I needed to. “Sharing your wisdom is important too.”

“Who w⁠-⁠⁠wants to listen to m⁠-⁠m⁠-⁠⁠m . . .” She trailed off, still looking away.

“I do,” I said gently. “I know you have stories to tell. I think that’s why I’m pulled to you.”

That convinced her. Nânakowêw set the bundle aside. “Let us sit a-and talk, then.”

❇ ❇ ❇

Mispon and I sat in Nânakowêw’s mîkiwâhp, balancing Kâkosis between us as the baby learned to stand. Snow was falling in earnest at our winter campsite, and the elder was preparing a kettle of rosehip tea to keep us warm as she spoke.

“Can you imagine how miserable our ancestors must h-have been before they learned how to avoid the rosehip hairs?” Nânakowêw laughed. “Oh, those poor souls, with their throats itching all winter!”

“Why did people keep trying?” I wondered. “Why not give up after the first bad mouthful?” 

“We saw the deer and the rabbits happily eating the bright red fruits, and those of us who w⁠-⁠were brave enough to copy them were stronger and sharper long after the itching wore off.” Nânakowêw poured us each a cup. “Once our ancestors learned that rosehips were powerful medicine, we had g⁠-⁠good reason to try to make them more pleasant.”

I’d gotten used to the kettle’s strange presence, although I could still feel it rerouting my pull.

“Even in my lifetime, preparing tea has become much simpler,” Nânakowêw continued. “Do you remember the old w⁠-⁠⁠way, before these kettles arrived?”

Mispon and I nodded. “Wâpakwaniy would heat stones in the fire and then drop them into a skin filled with water to make tea,” I recalled.

“She tried to teach me, but I wouldn’t do it,” said Mispon. “I was scared of burning myself.”

“Oh, Wâpakwaniy was so stubborn! She went to her g⁠-⁠grave never using a kettle.” Nânakowêw sighed. “This will be our second winter without her. Sometimes I still hear her voice, insisting on the traditional ways.”

My breath caught in my throat.

The kettle. The void.

“We need to learn again,” I blurted, scrambling to my feet. “The rosehips don’t work with the new way.”

I felt a weight lifting off of me, a gust of wind blowing away the purpose I’d been carrying.

I could return to my normal life.

I was done.

Author’s Note: Rosehips are an excellent source of vitamin C, but high temperatures and contact with copper cause vitamin C to break down. A diet low in vitamin C leads to scurvy, a disease with symptoms that include weakness and susceptibility to injury.

Read more about Kôna and the world of the veil in Where the Veil Thins, a children’s fantasy novel from Electryon Press.

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