Date: Sat, 12 Jan 2013 23:00:32 -0500
From: Jake Preston <jemtling@gmail.com>
Subject: Wayward Island 12

Wayward Island (Part 12)
How Jake Two Spirits uttered an oracle from Manitou
By Jake Preston 


      Reader restrictions: no minors, no readers who are offended by
explicit descriptions of gay sexuality. The story as a whole is a
psychological study of gay athletic hunks who love nerds, and the nerds who
love them in return. The story also deals with the problems faced by gay
guys who live in rural areas. If these themes don't interest you, there are
many other great "nifty" stories to choose from. Send comments and
suggestions to jemtling@gmail.com. Jake will respond to all sincere
correspondents.
      
      *   *   *   *   *  *  *  

	Our party of seven attended the Mission Church in Crane Lake for our 
third Sunday: me, Mrs. Ravitch, Red Feather, Sam Black Bear, Roger Johnson, 
Ben Hasek, and his sixteen-year-old son Henry. It was Ben's and Henry's first 
time at the church. Afterward we caravanned to Wayward Island lodge, along 
with Reverend Billy White Cloud, so at the lodge we were a group of nine, 
counting Tom. Roger and I drove to my cabin first. We heard sounds of 
timberwork in the distant woods. We trudged through the snow with Ma'ingan, by 
now nicknamed "Wolfie," to investigate. Ma'ingan knew our destination and 
bolted ahead of us. He ran back, tail wagging, and herded us toward the 
woodsmen. It was the four Chippewa elders-Peter Brave Heart, Matt "Raccoon" 
Aseban, Jim Beaver Trail, and Steve "Rabbit" Waabooz-cutting trees and 
dressing logs for Ben Hasek's new cabin, his mitigo-waakaa'igan, as they called 
it. Two younger men worked with them: sons of Peter and Jim. Peter introduced 
them as Misko-gekek (Red Hawk) and Misko-bineshinii (Cardinal).  None of 
them knew Ben, but they learned about his burnt-out cabin from Roger Johnson. 
Once the elders understood that the logs would be harvested from my land, they 
decided that it was their duty to help. I invited them to take a dinner break at the 
lodge, where they could meet Ben Hasek, the beneficiary of their labor.

	"There's seven more guys for dinner," I said as I led our seven volunteer 
lumberjacks into the lodge. After introductions all around, we gravitated into four 
conversational groups during drinks before dinner. Peter and Jim got acquainted 
with Ben Hasek, and learned soon enough that he was Sam Black Bear's new 
boyfriend. Matt Aseban spent time with Randy and Mrs. Ravitch. I spoke with 
Steve Waabooz, Billy White Cloud, and Tom, until it was time for me to help 
Tom in the kitchen.  Our youngest member, Ben's son Henry, hung out with the 
three Miskos: Red Feather (Miskogwa), Red Hawk (Misko-gekek), and Cardinal 
(Misko-bineshinh, a.k.a. redbird). "Looks like Henry's getting on fine with the 
Three Musketeers," I told Ben. I didn't tell him that Henry and Red Hawk were 
sending each other gay vibes. Henry and the Miskos talked about skating after 
dinner. Tom said he had skates in storage. Red Hawk and Cardinal could use 
them. That was settled. After dinner, we'd go to my place for recreation on ice. 

	Fifteen made a banquet for dinner. A serious discussion started when Ben 
Hasek said that Willy Elbo showed up at his house in Hibbing and offered him 
$5000 for his lake property. "Five thousand dollars!" I guffawed. 

	"He went on about how much it would cost to haul the charred ruins of my 
cabin off the land," Ben said.
      
      "I guess he would know," I said "If he had his way, he'd own all the land 
around Wayward Bay. Have you gone to Sheriff Nelson?"  
      
      "I called him," Ben said. "The Sheriff said there was nothing he could do, 
as there was no proof. He wasn't even sure it was arson. I asked him if he had 
looked at the cabin. He said he had other sources of information."
      
      "No proof of arson, what an idiot!" Roger Johnson said. Roger knew it 
was arson the minute he saw the ruins. Tom and I shared anecdotes about Elbo: 
times when he drove down the road firing a shotgun from the open window of his 
truck; times when he shot a rifle across the bay; mattress springs in the lake by his 
land, so fishermen would lose their lines. Tom knew some stories about how Elbo 
scammed insurance companies by repairing minor damage on a car and reporting 
the damage as more serious. "In his desk drawer," Tom said, "Elbo keeps a 
supply of deer-parts, and plants them on the car to convince the insurance adjuster 
that the car hit a deer."  Henry piped up about how Elbo quarreled and beat his 
step-son. I mentioned that Dorothy Elbo sometimes showed up at my cabin in 
distress. It looked like she had been beaten.

	"We know something about Willy Elbo," Jim Beaver Trail said. "In the 
70s, when he returned from the Vietnam War, he managed Rudy Grospitch's 
brothels in International Falls."

	"So he was a pimp!" Randy said.

	"More of a mega-pimp," Jim Beaver Trail said. "Grospitch had four 
whore-houses that we know of. Most of the women were recruited from the Res. 
Willy Elbo was bad for the Ojibwe. The whore-houses are still there."

	That was news to me. Matt Aseban chimed in: "Why do you think there's 
so much traffic on Highway 53, especially middle-aged white guys driving by 
alone or in pairs? They're come from the Iron Range towns, and some from 
Duluth. They're not driving to Orr for Helen White Dove's donuts. They're on 
their way to the Falls to get Ojibwe nooky." Even though they were straight, the 
Chippewa elders didn't mind that Wayward Island Bay had become a magnet for 
gay Ojibwe. "That's their personal choice," Steve Rabbit said. "An inini, an 
Ojibwe man, doesn't wreck his future by taking a white lover, but girls in the 
Falls get hooked on drugs, and they're trapped in whorehouses until they get 
kicked out for the transgression of growing old. Willy Elbo moved on to all things 
Chevrolet, but he's the one who opened the whorehouse pipeline." I understood 
why the Chippewa elders came to help Ben Hasek. They were acting in solidarity 
against Elbo. My opposition to Elbo was my first practical deed as a Chippewa 
Shaman. 

	After dinner, we drove to my cabin in three cars. On the way, we stopped 
at Willy Elbo's. I told the guys, and Mrs. Ravitch, to stay in their cars while I 
knocked on his door. When he answered, I said, "I just want you to know that I've 
got a lumberjack crew cutting trees and dressing logs on my land. We're building 
a new cabin for Ben Hasek." 

      Willy gawked at the men in the cars, strangers to him. "Looks like a band 
of wild Injuns," he said. Do segregationists have souls? I wondered. More 
pathetic than proud, Willy's face was washed out from years of heroin and 
alcohol. His white silvered hair, which should give an old man dignity, was a 
rumpled haystack, the talisman of a madman.  
      
      "Injuns or not, I want you to know that if we have another fire at the 
Haseks, it'll spread to your property, too," I said. Willy slammed the door shut. "I 
suppose we'll be getting a visit from Sheriff Nelson," I thought to myself. 
      
      When we got to the cabin, the Chippewa elders returned to their 
lumberjacking, joined by Ben Hasek, Sam Black Bear, and Roger. The boys were 
excused from work so they could skate. Mrs. Ravitch had skates, too, so we were 
six on the ice, including me, Henry, and the Three Miskos. I showed off my 
figure-skating, but to everyone's merriment I tripped in a rough spot and fell on 
my ass in a snow bank. Mrs. Ravitch was a conservative skater, but good enough 
to dance to imaginary music with me on the ice. The Three Miskos and Henry 
raced in circles around the rink, four circuits in each competition. I joined them 
for some of the races. No one could come close to Henry for speed-skating. 
      
	We skated until daylight started to fade. I assigned Red Feather the job of 
firing the sauna, and told Henry and Red Hawk to go with him. It was the closest I 
could get to allowing Henry and Red Hawk some time together. Red Feather 
picked up on their vibes, too. He started the fire, prepared the water-buckets, and 
gave them instructions on gathering balsam boughs. Then he returned to the 
cabin, leaving Henry and Red Hawk alone in the woods near the sauna. The 
lumberjack crew would want time in the sauna when they got back, but the 
younger guys-Henry and the Three Miskos-would take their turn first. 

      Mrs. Ravitch and I watched from a window while they rolled in snow. 
Ma'ingan ran around them in circles, barking and wagging his tail in excitement. 
Above and around them sported the birds of winter, attracted by the birdfeeder 
that I kept near the sauna: chickadees, sparrows, cardinals, bluejays-
"gijigaaneshii-g, gakaashkinejii-wag, moski-bineshiii-wag, diindiisiw-ag." I 
recited their Chippewa names for Mrs. Ravitch, placing emphasis on their plural 
endings. Red Feather and Cardinal played grab-ass like athletes in a locker room. 
I concluded that Cardinal was an open-minded straight guy, maybe gay-friendly, 
but not gay. Henry and Red Hawk embraced in the snow and fondled-neither 
seemed to mind the other's hands exploring genitalia, or fingers exploring the 
inner curve of ass. Mrs. Ravitch was more interested Chippewa names for the 
birds. 
      
      "Henry and Red Hawk are going to become lovers," I said.
      
      "It's beautiful, isn't it?" Mrs. Ravitch said. We watched young love being 
born. I told Mrs. Ravitch that I was tempted to join them in the sauna. "No, don't 
do that, Jake. These boys will find their way in their own good time."
      
	Dusk turned to dark. Henry and the three Miskos settled down to a game 
of Scrabble by the fireplace. It was Gay Scrabble, meaning that anytime a player 
laid down an arguably "gay" word, he doubled his points. Misko-bineshiniii 
(Cardinal) agreed, "but only if Chippewa words count too, same as English." This 
put Henry at a disadvantage, but he didn't mind.
      
      The lumberjack crew returned, sweaty but not fatigued. I told them to 
change into sweats so I could launder their clothes while they spent time in the 
sauna. Mrs. Ravitch volunteered to prepare dinner. "We've got ground venison in 
the fridge, compliments of Red Feather," I said, "so venison meatballs and 
mashed potatoes would be good," I said. She packed me off to the sauna with the 
others. "There's never enough room for two cooks in the kitchen," she said.
      
      We were ten hunky guys, squeezed in the sauna. Arms, legs, torsos and 
butts collided in comical ways. "This is just like the sweat lodge, except you have 
running water," Peter Brave Heart said. 
      
      "The sauna ritual is different, though," I said. "We take turns soaping up 
each other and rinsing, and we massage our partners with balsam boughs. So we 
need to pair off." I proposed that the Chippewa elders should choose their partners 
from the other men in the group. After the elders had chosen their partners, the 
two guys remaining would form a couple.
      
      "I'll take Jake Two Spirits," Steve Rabbit Waabooz said quickly, as if he 
needed to beat the others to the punch. He had been sweet on me during the 
Ojibwe initiation ceremony. Peter Brave Heart chose Ben Hasek. Jim Beaver 
Trail chose Roger Johnson. That left Sam Black Bear with Randy O'Grady. 
Merrily we ran the course of the sauna curriculum: soap, rinse, balsam-massage. 
At intervals we rolled in the snow while Ma'ingan circled around us with doggy 
supervision. The snowballs we hurled at him filled his heart with joy. It was 
locker-room fun, except for Sam and Randy, who groped each other with 
affection. Steve watched them closely, and started to imitate them by groping and 
fondling me. He took outrageous liberties with my ass while we embraced in the 
snow. 
      
      The climax of the evening came in the sauna, when I asked the elders to 
repeat "that thing that you said in the sweat lodge." The elders laughed.
      
      "Abeweyiingwe," Peter Brave Heart said.
      
"Abweninjiiweg," Matt Aseban said.

"Abwezideweg," Jim Beaver Trail said.

"Abwenidiyid," Steve Waabooz said. 
      
      Roger recited the translation: "His head is sweaty. His hands are sweaty. 
His feet are sweaty. His naked ass is sweaty." Roger embellished the translation 
by adding the word "naked." Everyone laughed. I stood facing the sauna bench 
and balance with my hands on the middle bench.
      
      "Biskaa," Peter Brave Heart said.
      
      "Jaagidyeshin," Matt Aseban said.
      
      "Gizhibidiye," Jim Beaver Trail said.
       
	Roger translated: "He is bent over. His butt is sticking out. His ass itches."
      
      While everyone laughed, Steve Waabooz stood behind me, parted my 
legs, and pushed his sudsy cock up my ass. His penetration was urgent. I yelped 
with pain. Much to my groaning agony, Sam had great endurance. Soap is a 
makeshift lube that allows penetration but does little to assuage friction. Over my 
shoulder I grimaced back at Steve, and saw Randy and Sam Black Bear standing 
behind him, jacking each other. Peter's gaze, and Matt's and Jim's, alternated 
between my agony and Randy's nine-inch cock, which seldom fails to attract 
attention. When Steve dispatched hundredfold swimmers into my body on a white 
surge of foam, the musky fragrance in the sauna was Randy's and Sam's. 
      
      I motioned for Billy White Cloud to take Steve's place. His penetration 
was easy, now that my anal tract was lubricious with cum. For Billy, this was his 
cock's maiden voyage into another man's butthole. He fucked furiously, and 
poured into me with a profusion of jizz. 
      
      I motioned for Ben Hasek to take a turn at me. I knew he was getting 
topped by Sam Black Bear. I figured him for a virgin, as Billy had been. He stood 
behind me and massaged my crevice with his rigid cock. A fierce penetration was 
followed by a wild fuck, but by this time my anal tract was lubriciously silken. 
There was no need for further speculation about whether or not Ben had ever 
fucked a man.
      
      "Gichi gichi ayaa'a!" I exclaimed when my semen erupted and splurted on 
the sauna bench. The English equivalent was "The elders! The elders!" I don't 
recall saying it. There was no translation. The elders told me later that I had 
spoken an oracle. It was Manitou, the Great Spirit, speaking through their 
Shaman, Jake Two Spirits; that's how it was interpreted by Peter, Matt, Jim, and 
Steve. It was a theological moment, as far as the elders were concerned. 
      
      "Whatever language you speak, Manitou will hear you," I said. The elders 
nodded, reverently. The elders debated among themselves about the meaning of 
the oracle. They decided that it was a blessing from Manitou, for cutting lumber 
on behalf of Ben Hasek. "It means that we should keep faith with a good white 
man, just as we would do for an inini," meaning an Ojibwe man, Peter said. 
      
      During dinner, Sam Black Bear and Red Hawk made plans to drive to 
Hibbing for Friday night's hockey game. It was to be a double-date with Ben and 
Henry, father and son, followed by a sleepover.