“Chief, you will see me again this evening.”
In reply the chief deigned to express his views on the land question.
“My grandmother not for sale.”
“Chief, the sentiment does you credit. But I am willing to disinter your grandmother, and bury her again wherever you direct.”
Ojeeg contemptuously picked up a handful of mother earth and held it out.
“My grandmother, Noko.”
“Ah, I get the point. Say on.”
“Land, she can’t be sold. Manabojo he make her for his uncles. He make her out of pinch of mud, one little island. He put mouse on her, she grow. He put muskrat on her, she grow. He put fisher, crane, bear; she grow. He say, ‘My uncles, you not sell. Land will grow forever.’ Then you come. No room for us. Get off the earth, you God-damn Injuns. Bien, old Nenbojo go away, sit beside frozen chigomee. He will come again. Where his foot touch land, fire will jump. Every damn land-hog get burned good.”
Chapter 53. Iodine
Marvin embarked and departed. He did not understand such references as “chigomee,” which was Ojeeg’s abbreviation of Gitchie Goomee, Lake Superior. Long before Ojeeg’s ancestors came to Keego they had dwelt along that sweet ocean, content with maple sugar instead of alcohol, and feeling out copper to make themselves pans. They found sprays of it in rocky banks where water had made it visible. They felt it out on On-du-nog-o-ning, the place where one feels for the dishpan.