Wāpan-nikamowin sipped her muskeg tea and thought she’d gotten her Earth legs under her at last.
Wāpan barely remembered making landfall. After the comfortable confines of the shuttle, the planet beyond was too bright and unfathomably vast. There had been speeches and ceremonies, but her mind was nothing but whirling silence, lost in the endless stretch of blue sky that you could fall into and drift through forever like the eagles circling overhead.
They had a sky on Mars, of course, but not one you ever saw without a screen of plex between it and your all-too-human eyes. Wāpan’s home was a cold, harsh world, unpredictable despite all they’d done to tame it. She’d always expected her first step onto Earth to feel right, like a mother’s hug welcoming her home, but instead she wanted nothing more than the safety of her envirosuit.
She’d needed crutches to stand for the first two weeks. The doctors said that was common, and she would adjust to the heavier gravity. Three months later her steps didn’t waver when she walked, though her knees still complained bitterly. She was nearly sixty, though, so knee pain was hardly unusual.
She took a bite of her breakfast—Saskatoon-berry jam on toast—thinking how funny it was that only this felt right. The Earth was a stranger, but these small, sweet berries woke something ancestral in her.
Wāpan thought back to the Welcoming Ceremony, where she’d been expected to recite her lineage back to the ancestor who first left Earth. Under the eyes of the assembled crowd, she’d been terrified she would slip up and suddenly forget how to speak. She’d stammered once or twice, but no one had seemed to fault her for it. At the end of her recitation, they’d draped her in a starblanket and turned her over to the care of her cousin.
The tall person wearing a beaded vest had been imposing until they smiled. Ocīk’s warm grin was the same she’d imagined when reading her cousin’s correspondence. That first night she’d slept like the dead. But the next night they’d talked for hours, filling the darkness with their laughter.
Wāpan heard the groan that signaled Ocīk was awake and listened to them shuffle to the bathroom. Still a novelty, daily showers. Water rationing was better on Mars, but it still felt terribly decadent to have so much water on hand. When water fell from the skies on a regular basis, she supposed you could get cavalier about it.
And speaking of—she gasped and pressed her face against the window, tea entirely forgotten.
Her brain refused to believe the snowflakes weren’t dangerous. If flakes of matter this large had fallen from the sky back home, the “take shelter” alarms would be blaring.
She slipped on her moccasins and went outside. The wind was thin and bitter, but she savoured the cold as it cut through her sweater. She had never been able to stand unprotected in the Martian winds, but she imagined this is what it would feel like—the coolness leaving her cheeks numb, her brain shocked into icy clarity.
“It’s winter, cousin!” came Ocīk’s voice from inside the house. “You should be wearing a coat.”
“I’m from Mars. I’m tough.”
Her cousin shook their head and hugged their robe tighter. Their expression said they disapproved of snow as much as they disapproved of mornings.
“Even Martians wear suits when it’s this cold. Your fingers will freeze off!”
“Will they?”
“Eventually. Let’s get you some winter clothes.”
Wāpan took another deep lungful of cold air, then joined her cousin inside. Her eyes were sparkling with joy. “Winter is the time for stories.”
“Yes?”
“Well. It’s a darn good thing I’ve got my feet under me now. It’s time to do what I came here to do.”
•••
Later that day, Wāpan was glad for the thick coat. The gentle flakes had given way to small pellets that fell unrelentingly. She was shocked to learn her own stories never mentioned that snow squeaked underfoot.
They made themselves late for the meeting by walking back and forth on the pathways outside the Council building, each of them laughing at Wāpan’s delight at the squeaky, crunchy snow. Only the chiming of the bells signalling Morning Session brought them back to their senses. They straightened each other’s jackets and brushed snow off their shoulders, feeling like guilty children caught by a teacher.
The Council building was shaped like a wheel, with offices and other workspaces making up the outermost ring, and an inner ring of community spaces encircling the Council gardens. Food smells drifted in from the community kitchen where the day’s lunches were already being made but, though enticing, they turned toward the open atrium at the heart of the wheel. Here, amid the carefully tended medicine plants, the Story Council met.
The Council was deep in conversation when the two stragglers arrived, but Wāpan saw amused glances as they noted her flushed cheeks and wind-tousled hair.
They’d already finished the morning’s Telling and were deep in discussion about the winter travel schedule. Traditionally, the winter stories were told by the community’s otâcimow, but having guest storytellers travel between communities kept the ties between them strong and kept things fresh for the audience. Though the words of the sacred Oral Tradition didn’t change, every teller brought their own nuances to the tales.
Wāpan let this discussion flow around her, feeling like an outsider in someone else's home. She was shocked to find everyone’s eyes on her as Mīkwan, the eldest among them, stood up.
Mīkwan was a magnificent personage, with a birch-bark headband holding back her puff of silver hair. Her skin was a brown so dark that her smile flashed like the moon against it.
“Wāpan-nikamowin, our honoured guest.”
Uh oh. Mīkwan had taken to calling her “my niece” lately. The formality of her full name made Wāpan sit up straighter in her seat.
“It has been a pleasure to have you with us,” Mīkwan said. “It is always a time of great joy when the nēhiyawak meet again after a long journey.” Her lined face crinkled into a smile. “The journey of our people to Mars and back made for a longer separation than most, but that makes our reunion that much sweeter.
“I know your time on Earth is limited. I imagine you want to make the most of it, especially now that it is the Season of Stories.”
Mīkwan paused, and Wāpan nodded her acknowledgement that yes, she felt time passing. Mīkwan swept on majestically—her trained voice was beautiful to listen to, even while Wāpan was eager for her to get to the point.
“Would you like to see more of this planet? You may travel with any of the otâcimowak this winter, or anywhere else that you choose. We’re sure people will flock to hear stories from Mars.”
Wāpan smiled. “But my stories are from Earth, honoured one. During our comparative Tellings, we heard no divergence in the Oral Tradition.”
“Indeed so. And you and the Martian otâcimowak are to be commended for maintaining them so well. That was the intention of sending our best storytellers to Mars when The Crisis was at its worst—that even if Earth was lost, our stories would live on.”
The Council bowed their heads in respect, as they always did when The Crisis was mentioned. Wāpan felt a familiar stab of guilt she’d never quite trained out of herself. How had those first otâcimowak felt, leaving their world behind, knowing they were the designated survivors for their entire cultures? Generations later, Wāpan still felt the weight of that obligation.
“Thank you for the praise. I will make sure to speak of it to our Council when I return. But I must ask, are Tellings from Mars really all that exciting?”
“Your Tellings are compelling, of course,” said Mīkwan. “But the entire Council has been fascinated by your additions—the small stories you’ve added before or after the Tellings. What do you call them?”
“Oh, those are the Explainers.” Wāpan flushed, embarrassed. “Our ancestors didn’t think we’d need them, and I know there were major disagreements about adding them. But, eventually, people stopped understanding certain things about Earth.
“It was the children who alerted us to the problem. Most adults would just quietly listen and nod along as though they understood how Rabbit hopped, but kids are wonderful. They always ask questions after a Telling, and eventually, our Story Council invented the Explainers to supplement the Tellings.”
The Elder nodded. “A very reasonable thing to do. But the way you tell them, they seem to be just as codified as the Tellings?”
“We didn’t mean for them to be, but our Story Council listened to all the different versions and tried to weave them into a truth… Something to bridge the gap, so that when we returned to Earth, she wouldn’t be a stranger to us.”
“And was she a stranger?”
Wāpan laughed and saw smiles around the circle. “Yes, though I hate to admit it.”
Mīkwan’s smile was slow but knowing. Wāpan saw that she was building to a point and straightened her spine.
“Tell me again about the ocean,” asked Mīkwan. An odd request, given that Mīkwan’s trained mind could repeat stories heard only once, many years ago. Wāpan sat for a moment, clearing her mind. Then she stood and let the story pour out of her.
“The ocean is vast as the endless blackness of stars stretching before your shuttle. Your stomach clenches, feeling the primal connection, and you shiver with a wild, fierce joy.
“Now, listen to your heartbeat. To the ‘shh shh shh’ of blood in your ears, like a mother shushing a fussy infant. Make that sound louder and wrap yourself in it. The Mother’s heart beats and the blood of the world laps at your feet in white-capped rhythm. You can feel moisture on your face, a cold spray like the droplets in the greenhouse, except the taste is salty and sharp and the scent of it makes your nose wrinkle.
“The ocean moves, reaching for her lover the moon: greens and blues and greys below, foaming white cresting above. If you were to step into the waves, you would feel not only the shock of the cold, but also the force of a summer wind coming off Olympus Mons—the ocean is that strong and stronger. It is frightening, but also welcoming. All life came from the oceans, and deep down inside your heart, some part of you wants to return even as the rest of you shivers at her power.”
There were motions that accompanied the Explainer. Wāpan completed the last of those, a rhythmic motion of her arms to evoke the waves crashing against the shore, and let herself come to stillness.
“Beautiful,” Mīkwan said, shaking her head. “Have you ever seen the ocean?”
“No.”
“Well. Would you like to? There is a shuttle going next week, and I could accompany you. My joints always ache so terribly during the winter. Some warmth and sea air would do me good.”
Wāpan caught the undercurrent of agenda in the Elder’s words. She glanced at her cousin. She didn’t need their permission and was happy to travel alone, but she could use the moral support if their Elder had some great plans for her. But Ocīk shrugged and motioned for her to make up her own mind.
“I’ll pack my bags,” Wāpan said.
•••
The longest part of their trip was getting away from the Great Plains. The herds of bison were easily spooked by suborbital flights, and the nearest air-station was nearly six hours away by ground. Imagine that—driving somewhere by car! Settlements on Mars were scattered so they didn’t compete for Mars’s scarce resources. Setting off across the surface of a planet was quite alarming to Wāpan.
Ocīk joked that Wāpan must feel right at home in the emptiness, but Wāpan shook her head as the plains slipped past the window.
“No, this isn’t empty. Look at all the trees, the grasses sticking out of the snow.” She sighed. “I don’t know that anyone from Earth knows what true emptiness is.”
Mīkwan smiled knowingly. “Hopefully you can teach us.”
“Perhaps.”
Wāpan could feel herself brushing against the edge of a problem she didn’t know if she was strong enough to fix. She covered for her uncertainty by turning it into an anecdote.
“It’s funny. We preserved the stories of Earth, but none of them really captured…” She waved a hand at the snow-covered fields that stretched to the horizon. “This.”
The Elder’s eyes sharpened, and Wāpan could tell that she’d been waiting for her to come to that conclusion herself.
“We have always been grateful for your stories of Mars,” said Mīkwan. “It made you feel less distant to us as we rebuilt our orbital capacities. But those stories were written by people who had never known Earth. You are the first otâcimow in generations who has experienced living on both worlds, and that gives you a unique perspective.”
“I suppose it does,” Wāpan said carefully. Here was the challenge the Elder had been directing her towards.
“What of Mars, then?” said Mīkwan. “Could you craft us an Explainer of Mars?”
“That is a very big thing you’re asking of me.”
“We do not ask it lightly. The Elders of the Story Council realized our arrogance. We were so eager to show you what we rebuilt on Earth that we have overlooked the relationship you have with your world. We need to know Mars’s soul to understand our relatives who live there, just as you needed to carry the soul of Earth with you to a new world.”
Wāpan sat back, overwhelmed. The Elder was correct, of course, but to craft an Explainer of Mars? Where would she start? She felt the weight of responsibility pressing down on her. Her skills served her people, and as the only otâcimow to walk both worlds, there was no one who could help her shoulder this task. But how did a Martian describe to an Earth-born child how rich and wonderful her world was, when to Earth eyes it would seem barren?
She felt Ocīk take her hand and squeeze.
“Hey. Don’t try to run the whole way to the coast inside your head. Just take one step, and then another.”
Wāpan smiled, but that pressure loomed over her for the rest of the trip.
•••
The ocean was nothing like her stories.
Wāpan went to her knees in the sand. She began to cry, and Mīkwan let her. The Elder was quietly pleased to see the ocean had touched Wāpan’s heart. But it wasn’t wonder that made her cry; her tears held the bitterness of despair.
The ocean was everything her Tellings had said, yet there was so much they left out.
The ocean had a presence. She felt its awareness of her on its shores like gentle eyes. Her heart ached, looking out at their Mother’s womb and blood and hair and heart.
How was she supposed to put any of this into words?
Gloom hung over the rest of their trip. Yes, it was wonderful to see the longhouses and tidal power plants. They heard traditional Kwakwa̱ka̱ʼwakw and Stó:lō stories, so different and yet so similar to her own people’s. But the knowledge that the Tellings her ancestors had so carefully crafted had still failed to transmit the glory, the power, the presence of the real thing haunted her. What use, then, were any of her stories? What use were the otâcimow?
By the time they flew home, anguish had settled in her heart.
•••
Wāpan sulked. Such a childish emotion didn’t fit her dignity as an otâcimow, but she couldn’t help herself.
Nothing was working. Words had abandoned her.
She sat over her computer, cup of tea long since cold, and read messages from her colleagues on Mars. Each had different advice for making her Explainer feel more like Mars, which was worse than useless. It confused her narrative, made her unsure of her own words.
Every draft felt like a lie in her mouth.
Mars was more than the safety of the underground settlements, more than the winds and dust storms. But damned if she could tell you what Mars actually was.
She groaned and lay down on the couch. She was still there when her cousin got back from their day’s Tellings.
“How was it?” she asked.
“Lovely!” Ocīk said. “We had a preschool group, and they’re always my favorite.” They paused, really seeing her for the first time. “Are you okay? Hips bothering you again?”
“No. I’m fine. Just… Thinking.”
“What about?”
She avoided her cousin’s sharp gaze. “Maybe I should go back to Mars early.”
“Do you miss home that much?”
“Yes. But also…” Wāpan waved a hand. “I’m not doing anything here. This Explainer isn’t going to get made, and I’m just taking up room at your house whenever I’m not travelling.”
“You’re exploring the Earth. Wasn’t that the point of your visit?”
“I thought it was. But this story… It’s too big. I can’t do it.”
Ocīk shook their head and left the room. Wāpan could hear them in the kitchen and the sound of hot water singing in the kettle. Ocīk pressed a mug into her hand despite Wāpan’s objection and settled in next to her on the couch.
“So tell the Story Council it’s too much. They’ll understand, and you can spend your time relaxing. And don’t stress about being my guest.” They rested their head on her shoulder. “I’ll miss you terribly when you’re gone.”
Wāpan’s eyes burned. “You could come back with me.”
Ocīk thought about it for a long time. “No. I don’t think my old bones would take to Martian gravity, and I’d miss my gentle Mother with her spring grasses and little birds.”
“Mars’s gravity is easier on old bones.” Wāpan brightened. “And you’re an otâcimow! If you came to Mars, you could help me. You’d have the opposite viewpoint. Maybe that’s what the Explainer needs…”
Ocīk sat back and looked at her. There was nothing judgemental or pitying in their look, but Wāpan felt shamed. Her cousin pulled her into a hug and stroked her hair.
“Look at you, making yourself sick,” Ocīk said. “Just breathe, my cousin, just breathe good rain-scented Earth air. That’s all she’s ever asked of you. That’s all anyone can ask of any of us.”
•••
It was summer and the meadow smelled of nothing Wāpan could put into words. It was a scent that made her want to dance in the grass like a child.
She didn’t dance, but she walked the hills every day, sometimes alone and sometimes with dear Ocīk. They rarely spoke. There was something sacred about the silence—the silence in her mind; for the world around them was loud.
Everything on Earth seemed to make noise, even things she would never have expected, like trees. She was scared when she first heard the rattling of aspen leaves, thinking she’d stepped too close to a den and some angry animal was hissing at her. Ocīk laughed and showed her the shimmering leaves flashing in the sun.
This—exploring Earth and all it had to offer—was how she spent her time now. She’d put the Explainer aside. The Story Council had been understanding. Mīkwan commended her for knowing her limits and said the work she’d done so far would pave the way for the next otâcimow to visit Earth.
Wāpan was content.
Until, looking up at the way the sunlight made dappled patterns on the grass, she felt a jolt run up her spine.
“What?” Ocīk said.
“I’m an idiot!”
“Did you forget something at home?”
“Ocīk. Do you remember the oath you took when you became an otâcimow?”
“Of course. None of us can forget it.”
“Well, I did!” Wāpan said, laughing. “I’m a fool, mouthing the words without thinking about them.
“Stories belong to no one but themselves. We are their keepers, holding them for later generations. Stories are never lost, only asleep until we wake them with our voices. The stories of our ancestors are with us, just as our ancestors are always with us.”
Ocīk looked at her like she’d gone feral. Maybe she had. Their expression made Wāpan laugh so hard she couldn’t speak.
“So?” Ocīk said.
“So! I’m an idiot. The Explainer isn’t new! It was in the sunrises over Rabe Crater and the way the Earth twinkles blue in the night sky. I’ve been trying to weave a story out of nothing, when all I needed to do was set aside my own damn ego and wait for the ancestors to tell it to me.”
“Our shared ancestors never walked on Mars.”
“No, but spirits talk to one another, and my ancestors watched over me even there.” Wāpan waved a hand. “My point is, I’m going about it all wrong. And you knew it. You were waiting for me to know it, you awful trickster.”
Ocīk smiled the thin, pleased smile of a weasel with a juicy grouse.
•••
The Story Council gathered at the landing field—a mirror image to the Welcoming Ceremony they’d held for Wāpan over a year ago. The crowd was bundled up against the chill as flocks of geese flew overhead, saying their own goodbyes.
It was the Time of Stories once again.
Mīkwan finished her speech and turned, beckoning to Wāpan. The Elder’s eyes held something that nearly made Wāpan weep: respect, from a woman who could speak like golden thunder.
She swallowed her tears and stepped up to face the crowd, letting thoughts of her home’s emptiness calm her mind. She cleared her throat, and then Mars was there with her, his harsh presence firming her spine and carrying her through what she needed to do.
She spoke.
“Earth is our Mother, and all Peoples are all her children.
“But Mars had children once as well. Life was cherished in his surface seas, until the water boiled away and left him alone. He’s never gotten over that loss, and it has made him bitter and cruel.
“Jealous of his sister’s good fortune, he became an old man who turned his back on his siblings and went to live alone with his thoughts.
“It was a great shock when human feet first touched Mars’s soil. We are the unwelcome houseguests who have burst in unexpectedly, and he has never forgiven us for breaking the silence that comforted him for so long.
“He was named after a warrior god, and that is how most people know him. A harsh world at war with himself. But Mars was also the god of agriculture. He would make places ready for growth, and once our hydrofarms were operational, he seemed to relent a little in his suspicion of us.
“To live on Mars is to live in the house of a temperamental old uncle whom you love and care for. He does not show his love openly, but sometimes you can feel it in the way a storm will turn aside, or in the fondness you feel when the ground rumbles overhead like he’s clearing his throat.
“I wish you could see him as I see him. I love the weathered lines of his face. He wears the same rumpled shirt he has for years, and his cologne is tobacco and iron and dust. He squints suspiciously at everyone and will never meet your eye, but occasionally, very occasionally, you can make him smile.”
Wāpan smiled and reached to the sky where he lay beyond the eye-watering blueness.
“So now I go back to my Uncle’s house. It will be cold there, and uncomfortable, and you cannot walk around as freely there as you can here beside our Mother. But I love that old man like nothing else, and I will happily lay down my bones in his gardens when I die so that the next generation of his sister’s unwelcome children can grow and laugh and weather his temper beneath the soil.
“And, like it or not, he will never be alone again.”
