The Singing Bow

A literary retelling of Ojibwe folklore, capturing the spirit of North American tales.

In the bird’s-nests of the forest,
In the lodges of the beaver,
In the hoofprint of the bison,
In the eyrie of the eagle!
All the wild-fowl sang them to him,
In the moorlands and the fen-lands,
In the melancholy marshes;
Cheewaik, the plover, sang them,
Mahng, the loon, the wild-goose, Wawa,
The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
And the grouse, the Mushkodasa!

— Longfellow, The Song of Hiawatha


In a distant land of lakes and waterfalls, where the splendor of dawn rivals the sorrow of dusk and crimson curtains are drawn across ancient red stone, there lived a small tribe of Ojibwe. The men hunted and fished; the women did all the rest—raising children, sewing clothes, preparing food, and lining their wigwams with fresh skins.

The children, meanwhile, knew nothing of care. They laughed and ran beside the waterfalls, bathed, fought, and gamboled through the grass. Only one among them never joined their games. He would sit quietly apart, upon a stone, and listen—always listening to something no one else could hear. They called him Gabedab, which means “the one who always sits.”

No one disturbed Gabedab. He was still young. In time, he would take up a bow and join the hunt. As for his sharp ears—that was seen as a gift. A hunter must have keen hearing and understand the ways of nature.

Gabedab heard everything—the straining of an ant beneath a blade of grass, the whisper of butterfly wings. The sounds wove themselves into a melody so exquisite, it was as if spring rains were singing over the trembling river. Sometimes Gabedab tried to hum this tune, but it never came out right. Something was always missing—a meaning. Nature's song had meaning, but Gabedab could not find it for himself. So through his childhood, he sat and dreamed of something just out of reach.

One day the time came for every boy to face the trial that marked the path to manhood.

That morning, the chief gave Gabedab a bow and arrows, as he did to two other boys. The next day, each was to take enough food for two days and enter the forest for a full moon. If he survived, he would earn the right to be called a man.

Gabedab accepted the bow, adorned with sacred wampum, and bowed in gratitude. He weighed the bow in his hands as if to test it, then lowered it, thoughtful. He plucked the string, and it sang out—a new sound, finding its way into his heart.

Before dawn, while the world was still dark, Gabedab stepped from his wigwam. Only Waaban-anang, the Morning Star, lit his way, and even she soon vanished behind the trees as he entered the forest. When daylight finally came—late and dim, turning the gloom emerald green—Gabedab set to work. He took four more sinews and strung them to his bow, making something like a harp. Each string sang its own note, from low to high. But still, the song did not come together. Each sound remained apart, no unity, no flowing melody his heart so longed for.

So Gabedab dared to break taboo. He rose quietly and left the woods, making his way toward the Red Rocks. For two days he journeyed, and when he arrived, he saw his task was only beginning, for now the path led upward. He climbed the steep cliff, fingers raw on the sharp stones, his feet seeking purchase where none could be found. All the strength of nature seemed set against him—but surely man's mind is given him so that he might persist and prevail, not by force, but by cunning and resolve.

Hours slipped by. At last, as the sun neared the edge of the sky, Gabedab hauled himself onto a high plateau, smooth as a forgotten red lake.

Above the plateau, adrift in the clouds, hung the mighty Sky Wigwam—the dwelling of Gitche Manito, the Master of Life. He who commanded the lives of all beings—and, indeed, had created them all.

The Master of Life stepped forth from his sky-lodge and descended to the rock before Gabedab. The earth shuddered beneath his weight, cracks ran outwards, birds screamed into the darkening air. His face, painted in red and white stripes, blazed in the dusk; feathers trembled in his headdress, and wampum rattled. In a thunderous voice, the Master demanded:

“What brings a mortal to my door?”

“I have come to ask you—only to ask,” Gabedab called out.

“Ask, then, and I will answer.”

Long and earnest was Gabedab’s tale—of the voices of the forest, the murmur of brooks, and his longing to echo their music, though he did not know how. He searched the Master’s stern, unmoving face—carved, it seemed, from the same red stone. At last, the eyes came alive, the lips moved, and a fleeting smile appeared and vanished.

“Listen to me, mortal. I will grant you skill, and more besides. But I cannot give you joy or happiness—you must discover those for yourself. My gift will bring you much sorrow, and I offer you no comfort. You have chosen, and it is yours.”

Gitche Manito bent down and touched Gabedab’s bow. Instantly, the bow blazed with shifting colors, like a mollusk shell in the light, and sang.

The journey home was light. The Singing Bow played of the wonder of walking on earth, and how short the way is for one returning home.

When at last Gabedab entered the village, all the people came to greet him—for not one moon, but three long years, he had been mourned, wept for, and almost forgotten.

From that day the tribe wanted for nothing. When the Singing Bow’s string was plucked, animals emerged from the forest—deer and elk approached, and once even Mishe-Mokwa, the mighty bear, padded out and sat on his haunches, deep in thought. He who had slain many hunters, who had once raided the village and crushed a wigwam with his weight, now came in peace.

From the bear’s claws, the women wove a new wampum and gave it to Gabedab in honor.

Fish crowded the river, so plentiful that men set aside their spears and caught them with bare hands. The sky filled with birds, and a field of maize flourished at the village edge. Hunger disappeared.

Each evening, all would gather around the fire to listen to the Singing Bow. It sang of the full moon, of the joy of a man on his own land, and of the beauty of Gayashkons. The once-quiet girl, Little Gull, blossomed before their eyes, radiant with happiness, chosen by the maker of music.

Gabedab smiled to himself as he remembered the Master’s warning, basking in boundless joy. Where was hardship? Where was sorrow?

But trouble comes the moment you think of it. In the village was one named Gagaawendan—a name given not without reason. He had been the greatest hunter, but was envious and greedy, respected only so long as hunting and war were needed. Now all was changed—food came unbidden, and no enemy threatened the thriving village. Gagaawendan found himself useless. Worse, Gayashkons, whom he had hoped to bring to his own wigwam, no longer even glanced his way. Why would she, when her handsome singer serenaded her each evening? She had already woven him new shirts trimmed with beads and fringe, and sewn fine moccasins embroidered with colored thread.

Resolved to win back the bow, the girl, and his own respect, Gagaawendan crept to Gabedab by night while the camp slept and tried to bargain.

“I will give you my headdress of parrot feathers, and all my arrows tipped with jasper. I offer all I possess for your Singing Bow,” he said.

“No. I cannot barter or even give away Gitche Manito’s gift,” replied Gabedab. “And what need have you of it?”

“I want to change my life,” muttered Gagaawendan, and left in anger. For one Ojibwe to refuse another’s fair offer—this was deep insult.

To whom could he turn for counsel? Not the just chief Nawajibig; everyone knew he would never plot another’s downfall—his answer would be, “Tend your own maize!” Neither was the elder any softer. So Gagaawendan went to the shaman.

Mizhakwad—called “Clear Cloud”—was a man whose heart, despite the name, was troubled and dark. Seldom did he leave his lodge of black buffalo hides—why should he, when all was brought to him? He saw only the gravely ill, and so, with time, grew as heavy as a stone. He lay half-reclined, breathing the smoke of aromatic herbs, when Gagaawendan entered.

A birchbark platter beside him held the Thunder Bird's stone eggs and a bowl of sacred onaman sand. A tightly woven basket hissed with a coiled snake. Gagaawendan looked away—it was not fitting for mortals to gaze on such things. He fixed his eyes on the shaman’s shadowed face and said, trembling:

“Help me get Gabedab’s Singing Bow.”

“What use have you for it?” Mizhakwad asked, surprised. “It’s a spirit’s gift.”

Gagaawendan said nothing, eyes on the ground.

“You envy him,” the shaman sneered. “Envy devours. Did you try to trade?”

“He would not relent.”

“I will not quarrel with the spirits. But here’s my counsel: steal it. That is men’s business. And men’s failings are more easily forgiven.”

Fear clutched Gagaawendan’s heart. The penalty for theft was banishment or a mark of shame branded for life—worse than hunger or pain. He brooded over the shaman’s words through the night. At last he resolved to act.

He crept into Gabedab’s wigwam by night, cradling a glowing ember in a clay bowl. In the fading light he saw his rival, and the bow lying nearby. But Indians sleep lightly. As Gagaawendan reached for the bow, Gabedab awoke. Seeing only a shadow, thinking it a bear, he hurled his tomahawk, kept always at hand, and struck the thief’s shoulder, shattering his collarbone. Howling in pain, Gagaawendan stumbled through the village, awakening everyone.

People came running—there stood the wounded hunter, arm limp at his side, and Gabedab at his door, tomahawk still red in his hand.

“He attacked me!” cried the hunter. “He has borne a grudge for a long time!”

“But why?” the people asked.

“For a woman—my woman! He tried to steal her!”

To steal a woman, to attack a fellow tribesman, to cripple him—these were grave accusations. Everyone had seen the looks passed between Gabedab and Gayashkons, looks too warm, too telling. There stood the accused, tomahawk still in hand; the wounded man, his arm hanging. What more evidence was needed? The council gathered. Gabedab protested, but the elders judged that he must be exiled, and the bow taken for Gagaawendan—what else could the man do with only one arm? And now the tribe could not do without the Singing Bow—for they had grown so used to its wonder, none could remember how to hunt.

Gabedab gathered his few belongings and left, not looking back, following the riverbank. At a cluster of waterfalls, he heard his name called. He turned—Gayashkons was running after him, out of breath.

“Take me with you!” she pleaded. “Without me, you’ll be lost!”

So they traveled together, wearing out their moccasins and growing thin and weary. At last, parting the branches, Gabedab saw bright, painted lodges ahead.

“Perhaps they’ll welcome us?” Little Gull asked. “Perhaps we can live among them?”

“Why would they want us?” Gabedab said bitterly. “I am no hunter, and we have no Singing Bow.”

“Then make another,” she suggested gently.

“What if it will not sing?”

“You must try, all the same.”

Gabedab agreed, and fashioned a new bow. He touched the strings gently—and it sang. Then he understood the gift of Gitche Manito: it was not the lifeless bow the Great Spirit had awakened, but Gabedab’s own soul.

A wonderful song rose over the land—its sorrowful notes telling of envy and betrayal, its joyful notes of love and faithfulness. Hearing the music, the people came out to greet the travelers. At their head walked a chief in a feathered cloak. He bowed to Gabedab in welcome, for in this village, every person had their own gift—one who strung splendid wampum, another who made fine pots, another who painted the lodges. There would be a place for a musician among them.

And what became of Gagaawendan? He tried to make the Singing Bow sing, but only wrung such harsh sounds from it that all who heard them stopped their ears. He drove away beasts and birds, even the fish fled the river. An Indian lives only where there is food. At last, the whole tribe packed up their wigwams and went north. Nothing more is known of them.

But the tale of the Singing Bow has been passed from mouth to mouth, from generation to generation, until it has come down to us.