Star of the Fisher

I'm returning to a story I looked at before, How Fisher Joined the Stars. I wanted to use it for a keynote I delivered at the 2026 Critical Perspectives Conference at Brock University so to refresh my memory on the story itself, rather than the way I retold it for the blog, I cracked open the William Jones collection (Volume 7, part 2) and guess what. It's quite a bit different than the one I wrote about and I see that I had previously relied largely on Isaac Murdoch's telling of it in his book The Trail of Nenaboozhoo and Other Creation Stories for that blogpost. The fundamentals of the story are the same. It's always winter because somebody stole the birds. Fisher and his crew went to retrieve them. They are successful but Fisher dies and becomes the constellation that we are more familiar with as the Big Dipper because colonialism isn't satisfied with taking our land, they want our skies too.

This story, The Star of the Fisher, is told to William Jones by Wâsāgunackąng, he-that-leaves-the-imprint-of-his-foot-shining-in-the-snow, from Bois Fort in Minnesota. Bois Fort spreads across three distinct communities about 45 miles south of Rainy Lake which is bisected by the Canada/US border. They are inland of Lake Superior, about a 3 1/2 hour drive from the Temperance Bay State Park (just south of Grand Marais) which I have fond memories of. By fond memories I mean memories of sitting for hours waiting for a tow truck to come and take us to Duluth because we had two flat tires and the tire-repair-in-a-can that a Toyota Prius comes with instead of a spare was of no use on shredded tires.

We didn't go to Bois Fort (red outlines near Kabetogama State Forest), because we were on our way to The House on the Rock having watched American Gods before we knew that Neil Gaiman was trash and we were sticking to the main highway. It is visibly Ojibwe country all through there. We're in all the shops and many of the street and town names. Leech Lake, Red Lake, and White Earth Reservations are not too far from Bois Fort. Fond du Lac Reservation is just outside of Duluth. This is Louise Erdrich country and indeed one of William Jones' connections was the head chief of the Pillager Ojibwas in Leech Lake. If you've read any of her novels you've likely come across a family with that name.

We've gone pretty far afield but I do want you to get a sense of the geography and present existence of the people that Jones had gone to see along the northwest shore of Lake Superior. In fact, this reminds me of another Fisher story, Nanabushu and the Great Fisher in which I posit that they were jumping back and forth near what is now Sault Ste Marie. That wouldn't make any sense really, Jones' sources were at the other end of the lake, which is massive by the way. Maybe it refers to the narrows near either Duluth or Thunder Bay or why not both depending on the storyteller. My own reserve of Lac Seul is visible in the top left, Frenchman's Head being the first community you get to when you come to the reserve. Just to the west you can see Grassy Narrows which has been devastated by mercury poisoning because the Dryden paper mill contaminated the river. Decades later they are still fighting for justice while layers of government argue over whose responsibility the cleanup is. Canada has reserves, the US has reservations. Same difference really, it's all federal land held in reserve for our use. Until they want it back.

Nipigon in the top centre which is where another of Jones' collaborators, Marie Syrette of Fort William, Ontario grew up. You may be familiar with the children's story Paddle to the Sea, Nipigon is where the little carving of a man in a canoe got his start. Fort William, by the way, amalgamated with Port Arthur to become Thunder Bay in 1970, 5 years after I was born in Port Arthur. Fort William First Nation is just outside Thunder Bay, across the Kaministiquia River which flows into Lake Superior. Canada's reserves are also called First Nations, even though they are not actually nations, it does get confusing

800 words in and I haven't even started the story yet. Here we go.

I imagine that Wâsāgunackąng sat back in his chair and pulled out his pipe, dinner long past. Jones could have sat opposite him, pen in hand, careful not to rush the man. He was probably drinking tea thick with tannins from cooking all day on the wood stove where a fire burned. Spoonfulls of tea being added to the pot throughout the day along with water. It may have been sweetened with condensed milk which is how many of the old ones still drink it with bannock fresh from the pan. The wind might have howled outside, it must have been winter for these stories to be spoken aloud and I am beginning to wonder how these stories experienced being put down on paper. If they felt thin and stretched as the ink scratched across the page, stretched like a hide on a frame and scraped just as clean. I wonder if their roots tore when they were taken from somebody's voice, their journey from one mind to another interrupted, and held on the page. I wonder if they felt alone, isolated from the other stories that surely mingled and connected in the minds of the storyteller and the listener. This makes me wonder if the work of people like myself, putting these stories in conversation with other stories, offers any kind of healing or relief to them. Because stories are beings in their own right, sentient and with a social life we don't understand. We don't have to. It's not always about us.

Wâsāgunackąng may have unrolled the tobacco that Jones had surely brought, perhaps a packet of pipe tobacco that he had brought with him from Minneapolis before coming north. I have purchased pipe tobacco from shops in Minneapolis, dark fragrant stuff, a little bit damp. The smell would have filled the room while he filled his pipe and, after taking a long pull on the stem and letting the smoke settle around them, after putting some tobacco in the fire or outside as an offering of gratitude to the stories themselves, I imagine that he began to speak in that older form of Anishinaabemowin spoken in 1906: Ānīc ōdä' tōwąg īgi’^u ąnicinābag; kägä·t ki'tci·ō·dänāwan.

Now, in a town did the people live; in a really large town they dwelt. The men noticed the sun high in the sky. They noticed the lengthening days and the shift of constellations in the sky but it remained cold. It remained cold long past even the worst winters any of them could remember being told of let alone experiencing although the language itself held memory of giant sheets of ice covering the land. We need to have a pipe ceremony the men said, and so they called others to join them. As they went around the circle, each one having their turn, Fisher spoke up.

"I know who is causing this. I know who is holding back summer. It's not coming, but I know what do."

Ok the people said, if somebody really has shut up the birds of summer then we'll do what you say. And Fisher gathered a company to go with him. Wâsāgunackąng specified that these were all sons-in-law: Caribou, Fox, Beaver, Muskrat, and Otter. Fisher figured out how many days it would take them to get to where it was warm, because that's where the person he spoke of was holding the birds of summer, and the provisions that they would need. They left the following day.

"It's going to be difficult, where we are going, and I'm not sure about your support. If you follow what I say, we'll be fine and we'll get there."

After 5 nights they needed more provisions and Fisher knew where to find them. He wanted Otter to stay behind, you laugh too much he said, and if you laugh at her she won't feed us. Whenever she exerts a strain on her body she breaks wind, that will make you laugh. You cannot laugh at her. If you laugh, she won't feed us.

Otter assured them he would be fine.

Otter was not fine.

The first time the old woman exerted herself to get food for them he laughed and she stopped getting food ready for them. Her name was Red Net which is footnoted as a term for vulva.

The animals regrouped outside her wigwam and Fisher suggested they try again. They did, but they kept Otter outside promising to bring him the bear tallow he asked for. Nobody laughed while she was exerting herself this time and they all got fed along some they could take with them. They continued on, but Otter isn't mentioned anymore.

Again they grew hungry and again Fisher told them that he knew of a place where they would get something to eat. There were many paths leading up to the dwelling they were going to. They saw him drag home a bear, he was a man with a strange appearance, a small mouth that opened differently from theirs, and no neck to speak of. What will I give them to eat he muttered, saying "isp" which is the sound of drawing in one's breath. Isp, isp. Now it turns out that this man was Big Penis, which is a name referring to the giant Mesâbä or Wīndigō according to the footnotes. He did feed them, presumably from the bear he was dragging home, and off they went again.

Ok, Fisher says, we're going to get to the village tomorrow. They had noticed that it was getting warmer, that there was no longer any snow which might be why the giant did not pose a threat to them, I don't know.

"Here's what we're going to do," Fisher told them, "You've noticed the narrows of the lake. Caribou, as soon as dawn breaks you're going to cross those narrows. Fox, you are going to bark at him. Muskrat - you go among the canoes and gnaw holes in them, do that tonight. Beaver, you go with him and gnaw the paddles. In the morning, I'll go against the wigwam."

Come morning the people heard the fox barking which drew their attention to the caribou and they all scrambled into their canoes to go get the caribou. Meanwhile Fisher went into the wigwam and saw the man sitting there feathering his arrows with sturgeon glue.

"Hey cousin," says Fisher, walking around, trailing a paw along the walls and looking around at the wigwam. "I'm just here visiting for no reason." He watches the man feathering arrows and as he gets closer, sits beside him and says, tilting his head just a little, "Is that how you usually feather your arrows? Let me show you how I do it." He took the sturgeon glue and in a swift motion glued the man's mouth shut. Fisher then jumped to his feet and set about opening all the birchbark boxes filled with songbirds, ducks, mosquitoes, and so much more.

Meanwhile the people were trying hard to keep on the trail of the caribou in their leaky boats and when the man got his mouth unstuck he called out to them that Fisher has come for the birds of summer. They tried to come back but their paddles broke and their canoes sank.

The man scowled and picked up his arrows, shooting them at Fisher as he raced off dodging this way and that. Eventually one caught his tail and Fisher whirled into the sky finding himself pinned there with his tail broken. He called down to his friends, "do all you can! I may not be able to come where you dwell, but I will always be here as long as the world may last. When you get home you will decide how long winter will be."

They did get home. And when they got there Caribou suggested that winter have as many moons as hairs on his body. Good lord the others scoffed, even you wouldn't be able to get out from under that much snow. Chipmunk spoke up and suggested that there should be as many moons for winter as stripes on his back, of which there are six. They agreed on this, and the gizzard of the ruffed grouse hung aloft.

This story is a lot different from Murdoch's version isn't it. And there's a lot to wonder about, only some of which is going to make it into the blog. The Vulva/Penis thing intrigues me, the two stops where the company gets help. The first came with a warning: do not laugh at her. The second one, the Big-Penis, did not come with a warning although the footnotes say that this is a name referring to the giant Mesâbä or Wīndigō who are both giants, but otherwise very different creatures. Mesâbä, or Misaabe, is a protector, a story teller. He is associated with Saabe who is himself associated with teachings around truth and honesty. James Vukelich Kaagegaabaw, in his book The Seven Generations and the Seven Grandfather Teachings, describes debwewin (truth) as speaking from the heart, telling the truth as we know it. Honesty is gwayakwaadiziwin which asks the listener to look at our own lives and see the truth of us. The W, otoh, is pretty much the opposite. It is a cannibal, a monster of greed and consumption. Perhaps it's the duality of it, protection and destruction in a single being. Which. It's a story right? So it's not necessarily saying that this is a single being, the company perceives this duality as a single being. Maybe how you treat them determines who you see.

I don't know. I spent the better part of an afternoon trying to find out who these 2 beings are, the woman and the giant who are named according to their baby-making equipment. Finally I dropped the question in one of my chats and Shaawano said that it's probably fertility tropes. In a story that has a bunch of animals moving from winter to summer, spring fertility tropes make complete sense. Sometimes it's just not that deep. It's worth being intrigued by the nature of the relations that the animals have with these two beings. The prohibition on laughter, the cautious respect. I could write a whole lot more about this even if it is spring fertility tropes but this is blog not a book. Moving on.

Everybody wants to be Fisher all the time. Having the strategy, gathering the team, executing the plan. And yeah, we need those people. I was involved in a blockade in Vancouver led by a couple of people like this which is why I was able to plug in at the last minute and when the wheels came off because Vancouver PD had their own agenda, watching them take control in a moment that was no longer under control was a thing to behold. Everybody had their roles, some stepped forward, others stepped back. Pepper spray was treated. Videos and photos were taken. Personal belongings protected. Jail support coordinated. Aftercare went on for days.

We need people willing to be a distraction while others throw sand in the gears. During Standing Rock I joined a call for hand drummers to hold the intersection at Yonge and Dundas in Toronto for as long as we could. We held it for a good 15-20 minutes before lights started flashing and it was time to break it up. Later we found out that we were a distraction while others chained themselves inside a bank demanding divestment from the KXL Pipeline. We were the distraction so they could throw sand in the gears, and although I was annoyed that we weren't told what our role was I also appreciate the need for a compartmentalization that protected us. If we were questioned we could honestly say we had no idea what the others were doing.

We also need those who can offer hospitality and food. People attending actions or trainings need somewhere to stay, food to eat, places to feel safe. I heard one organizer on a panel talking about friends who just let her stay with them, have some peace and be cared for. She talked about how critical that was for her own mental health. I've stayed with people like that too, people generous with their space and lives.

And then there's Otter. I've been Otter. Who hasn't been Otter. I don't mean inappropriate laughter at a funeral or some other emotionally fraught moment. That's just nerves and it happens to most of us. We have the sense to stifle it, excuse ourselves, whatever we need to do to avoid being disruptive. That's not what Otter was doing. He was having a laugh at her expense and that's a much different thing. That's mean and that's got no place in our movements. I like that the animals didn't make excuses for Otter, you how how he is, he didn't mean it like that, we'll talk to him, etc. Red Net didn't say anything at all, just stopped getting food for them because that's how people respond when you've made fun of them or when you've used their disability as the punchline in a joke about people you don't like. They stop engaging, they stop showing up.

And they didn't bring him back after a scolding either. They did not expect his victim to continue to share space with him and accept an apology that may or may not have been sincere. This is what trauma-informed care looks like by the way. When they came back without Otter they got fed. And she provisioned them very likely knowing that they would bring some of it back to Otter. That's ok. Safety isn't about punishment. They still left him behind. He did not complete the quest with them. Otter has some work of his own to do.

Early in the story Fisher says that he knows who is doing this, he knows the one and he knows what to do. But it really isn't just the man is it. It's not the one and Fisher knew that. His plan dealt with the whole town. It's whoever brought the birch bark and helped make the boxes. It's whoever helped catch these songbirds, ducks, and insects. It's whoever made the traps and cooked the meals and did all the things that needed to be done so that the man could capture and hold these summer creatures, hold them so that they would always have summer while everybody else had only winter, while Red Net and the Giant with their cycles of fertility and life were forgotten.

And it's everyone who said and did nothing. The story doesn't identify anybody who let the animals in and gave them information. There's no weasel energy in this town.

There's all kinds of ways that we are implicated and complicit in the evils around us. These are two different things that are often conflated, usually to avoid taking any responsibility at all. Complicit means that we are actively participating, like when I worked in child protection. I may have had good intentions, but I was actively involved in what I eventually came to realize was a colonial system doing colonial things. Regardless of my intentions, I was actively involved in causing harm. When we are complicit we need to address that and develop an exit strategy. Until we can get out we should be throwing sand in the gears as much as possible, make whatever changes we can, but ultimately we can't stay because staying could mean giving legitimacy to the system itself.

When we are implicated that means that we are connected to the harms, but aren't actively involved in it. Like wearing clothes even though we know they are likely made in sweatshops or with unfree labour. Like the minerals in our technology. Organized boycotts can be effective, like Boycott, Divest, and Sanction because they have a multiprong approach that includes pressure strategies. There are still things we can do, like avoiding fast fashion and not replacing our cell phone every single year along with supporting organizations working towards justice for those being displaced or exploited by these industries.

This isn't about figuring out how to have clean hands. That's not going to happen. It's about looking at the connections, figuring out what you can do, who you can join with. For along time Mariame Kaba had a pinned thread on her Twitter and bluesky accounts, four questions to ground yourself:

1. What resources exist so I can better educate myself?
2. Who is already doing work around this injustice?
3. Do I have the capacity to offer concrete support and help to them?
4. How can I be constructive?

When you find yourself complicit, implicated, or outraged it is worth asking yourself the same questions as well as considering your relationship to the people harmed by this and the power dynamics at play. And know that when you look up at the night sky and you see Fisher, maybe you know him as the Big Dipper, rotating through the sky season by season by season he is calling down to you too.

"Do all you can! I may not be able to come where you dwell, but I will always be here as long as the world may last. You figure it out, then you decide how long this winter is going to last."

baamaapii!

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