Wesahchechak and the women’s fancy: a Christmas story

Christmas time drew closer. Somehow, the days seemed to be brighter and the night sky seemed bluer.
Wesahchechak wondered about Christmas. Was it special because people hoped … hoped for something to happen on that day? Was it because people remembered something that happened on that day? People wanted to be with other people at Christmas.
And all the people loved Christmas parties.
He walked from the small camp he called home to the North of Sixty, a store on the Enock reserve. An ad on the bulletin board read ‘Come to celebrate Christmas at the Friendship Centre in Edmonton.’
Wasahchechak put his sunglasses on top of his black fedora, still reading.
‘Really cool, a Christmas dinner and mini powwow Dec. 23.
He did a small dance. ‘Maybe they will have donuts.’
“Oh, oh, we’re going to have a parteee…!’ he sang (like Marvin Gaye) to himself.
Lately, he had taken up the habit of talking to himself.
‘Old boy, I should say, old man, what exactly will be required of you, to make an appearance at the party.’
The old coyote had read there would be crafts. He had read there would be drumming but he wasn’t good at that either.
And then, he said to himself ‘there must be something that you are really good at, dear old boy, Wesahchechak.
‘How about eating food?’
But sadly, he realized he had no money to buy a ticket to the supper.
‘There must be a way to get included in the dinner,’ he said to himself.
As he was walking by some houses, he saw Christmas trees were set up. Smaller kids were playing while their kokums made cookies. Some bigger kids playing were playing with snowballs but they did not notice as he took a closer look at the kokum who looked very efficient.
He wished he was a kokom for then everyone would love him and want his company.
As he looked back at the house, his eyes were sad and droopy.
That was when he noticed something hanging on the porch railing. It was a beautiful patch-work blanket was draped neatly on the railing.
Wesahchechak took a good look at it. Quickly, he scooped up the blanket and ran into the trees. He heard the kokom call out “Now, what happened to my blanket? You kids better not be taking stuff to play with in the snow.”
He could hear the protests of the children saying “but we didn’t take it,” as he kept walking,
When he got back to his camp, Wesahchechak hung the blanket up on a tree branch. ‘Why, I will just borrow the blanket, that is all,” he said to himself.
He went to bed happy that night. No one would refuse to let in old, old kokum at a Christmas party, he thought.
The next morning though, he had a sober thought as he stared at his hairy feet and toes. Why, he needed boots.
Finally, he went to the band office. In the hallway, there was a nice pair of boots. He made a coyote jump for them and gathered the boots up. And he ran all the way back to his camp.
The day of the party came and he hung around the store called North of Sixty. He hopped in the back of the pick-up. As luck would have it, the Indians were headed back to Edmonton.
At Jasper Avenue, Wesahchechak hopped off the back of the truck.
He was pretty cold and he walked to Concordia College and straight to the men’s washroom. When he put on the blanket and the boots, he looked in the mirror. His tail was hanging out of his blanket and he took off a shoe-lace and tied his tail to his leg.
Suddenly, the door opened.
“Oh, sorry, ma’am,” the man said and went outside to check the sign.
As Wesahchechak left the bathroom, he gave the man a dirty look.
The evening was mild and the coyote whistled as he began walking to the friendship centre. When he got there, people were lined up already. But no one seemed to question that he was not a kokum.
Downstairs, a young woman with long hair squinted at him. “Are you here for the dinner?”
“Why yes, Nemsis. I forgot my ticket.”
Wesahchechak pretended to look under his blanket.
“Oh-Oh. lost my purse. Maybe, I left it in the 7-11,” he said.
“I will go see if there is anything we can do,” the girl said.
She came back with good news.
“Kokum, don’t worry. We will not charge you and you can have a supper, too.”
“Thank you, darling … I mean, dear,” he said.
Wesahchechak almost walzed into the large room until he remembered his kokum dignity.
He sat himself closest to the large table. His mouth watered as he admired the bannock and the berry jam which he especially liked. But where was the usual Tim Horton’s box of donuts?
Suddenly, a fellow sat down.
“Hello there, granny,” the man said.
Wesahchechak moved his chair. “Cheeky old guy” he mumbled.
Finally, the emcee welcomed the guests. An Elder thanked everyone and offered a prayer of thanks. No sooner had the Elder sat back down, a lone voice was heard.
“Amen. Mooshum. Lets eat,” Wesahchechak exclaimed.
And Wesahchecak did just that though he did not see donuts. He ate until the tables were cleared right away.
The emcee checked his mike. “One-two. One-two.”
Then he said. “Welcome. All you Indians and other guests…those that are from out of town. We are honoring the women here, what work they do at Christmas. So here is the women’s honor dance as advertised. Now, you women, come on up.”
“Aren’t you going to dance, sister?” the man sitting besides Wesahchechak asked.
If I was a woman, why would I not be up there, I wondered.
“Old coot,” Wesahchechak mumbled.
The emcee heard.
“Why, don’t be shy Kokum. Let’s hear a round of applause to help bring Kokum up.”
Wesahchechak walked slowly to the centre of the room.
There, he became conscious of the drum.
Ka-boom. Ka-boom. Kaboom. The other women were moving slowly. Some carried eagle feathers and were looking so dignified. Wesahchechak copied their movements. Move slowly, regal-like. Bounce on your toes. Turn a little, he told himself.
But as the drumming grew louder. Coyote bounced just a little more. As he was bouncing, he didn’t notice that the shoe-lace that tied up his tail to his leg had come loose. His bushy coyote tail swung up free and out of his blanket.
Some country people began whispering. The old woman was Coyote.
But Wesahchechak was having the time of his life. He swung with his blanket a little to the left, a little to the right. Silver strands of tinsel swung across his long Coyote nose.
The emcee coughed.
“Ho-kay, Kokum. Heh-heh. Take it easy now. We wouldn’t want you to show up everyone. Heh-heh!”
“Better tell the drummers to pack it up in four minutes,” the emcee said to another man. “The kokum may have been into the berry juice before that one came here!”
He made a few motions as if he were having a drink.
“Thank you to all the women,” the emcee said as the drumming stopped. “And wouldn’t we all want to know what Indian country that kokum hails from? But stick around, people. There is still lots of tea, coffee and donuts.”
Wesahchechak was sorry about his lack of dignity, but only because he was having to miss out on his favorite thing, Tim Horton’s donuts.
The emcee seemed disappointed.
“It appears that kokum has left the building.”
And it was true as Wesahchechak had already boarded the No. 5 bus and was headed towards the west-end of town.
About the author and story.
This is a modern day story about Wesahchechak, the coyote-man. The story is not a traditional (passed down) story but a modern day story written by the author.
Many cultures have trickster figures. And lessons are learned about what is acceptable or not acceptable behavior by laughing at the actions.
Gail Duiker is a Cree writer and artist born on Red Pheasant reserve in Saskatchewan.