Turtle the Storyteller

a Micmac Legend

Long ago, Turtle was the great story teller, and he told his tales to all the birds and animals of the Kluskap's land. On warm summer evenings, friends would gather and listen to his tales. 

During the day, they all avoided Turtle, for once they started listening to his stories, they would not want to leave, and no work would be done.

When the cold winter months arrived in the Northland,  many of the birds flew to sunnier climes, and many of the animals hibernated, climbing into burrows and caves to protect themselves from the frosty air.  But Turtle had no cave where he could spend the winter. 

In the cold, poor Turtle walked more and more slowly.  Winter winds buffeted his shell.  Snows fell.  Turtle nearly froze.  He was cold and lonely.

Finally summer came again.  Turtle spoke to the geese, and asked them to take him south when winter arrived again.  The geese like Turtle very much, and they loved his stories.  But the geese liked to honk as they traveled south, which is how they told their own stories.  If they took Turtle, they would never be able to speak.

Finally they agreed to take Turtle, on one condition: he was not allowed to speak.  Turtle quickly agreed.  What choice did he have?  But the geese knew Turtle's weakness.  He would quickly forget his promise.  And so a plan was devised.

Turtle was to carry a stick in his mouth, and the geese would carry  him by the stick.  Once he was in the air, he wouldn't't dare open his mouth.

Turtle did not enjoy his trip, nor did he enjoy his stay in the Land of the Summer. It was too hot for him in his heavy shell, and he found no animals who wished to hear his stories.  But while he was there, he listened and learned, and soon had many new stories.

When the geese brought him back to the Kluskap's land, Turtle told his stories again.  And he listened to new stories of the animals who hibernated, so that, when winter came again, he could stay and warm digging deep under the soil, honing his stories and waiting patiently for spring. 

Turtle can be found here.

How the Calico Cat Got Her Colors

Once a long, long time ago lived a very nice gray cat named Gilda. She was very, very nice.

Her mother shook her head. "Gilda is not as big as her brother George," she remarked. "Whenever I need to make sure something doesn't blow away, George is there to sit on it and help."

"She is not a jumper like her sister Gracie," said her mother.

"And she cannot catch her food in water, like her brother Eugene."

Gilda did not mind the criticism. She did not feel like less of cat. She kept busy, helping the other animals.

When the birds needed a warm nest in the winter, Gilda game them some of her fur.

When the horse was bothered by flies, Gilda was there to brush them away with her tail.

When the dog had no one to chase, Gilda was always happy to help.

While her brothers and sisters caught mice and fish and jumped and climbed and ran and stalked, Gilda kept helping the other animals. "Gilda is not quick or a good jumper like her brothers and sisters," said her mother. "But she is a very nice cat."

One day Gilda grew ill. She had no energy. She did not want to eat. She did not want to drink. She curled into a ball and hoped to heal. Her mother licked her fur. Her brothers and sisters caught her tasty mice.

All the animal friends came by to visit.

Finally, Gilda started to get well again. She ate a little. She drank a little water. She was very weak. But she had lost all her fur.  Poor Gilda was a very naked cold little cat.

That's when he friends came to the rescue. Each brought Gilda fur and feathers, in all the colors they had. The dog gave Gilda some white fur from the fluff beneath her tail. The horse gave her dark fur, as dark as night. The birds gave her feathers of deep orange. They wove it all into a coat for Gilda, that covered her from head to tail.

"She is not big like her brother George," they agreed.

"She is not a jumper like her sister Gracie."

"She cannot catch anything in water, like her brother Eugene," they said.

"But she is a nice cat, a sweet cat, and a cat with many colors."

And they were right.   Gilda, who was now a calico cat, was the nicest kitty a cat can be.

You can find her bracelet and earrings right here.

God's favorite unrepentant calico cat

Recognition



Odd indeed
To think that we alone
Of all God's creatures
Are worthy of recognition
For I am certain beyond question
That when the last day arrives,
Our company will swell
With fox, raven, hare, and rat
And when we are finally admitted
We will see, sharpening her nails
Upon His most resplendent throne,
God's favorite unrepentant calico cat.



(C) 2000 Mary Margaret Carlisle
1st Rights:  Sol Magazine Projects



Calico cats are unrepentant here.

How the Beads Found Pieces of Harmony

Once upon a time there was a box of beads and they could not get along.



"We come from the sea, so we are better than you," said the beads of shell.



"We can do one better than that," said the mother of pearl beads, "because we lived inside creatures who lived inside the ocean."



"We lived deep in the earth, alongside the Morlocks," said the Kambaba beads.  "Clearly we are superior."



"We were shot out of a volcano!" said the lava beads.  "Need we say more?"




"We're nuts!" said the nut beads.  "We don't care."



"We come from the cradle of civilization, in Africa," the trade beads countered.



"We were carved from bones ~ the essence of life itself," claimed the beads of bone.



And so it went, with all the beads arguing and rolling on the ground.

Finally a bead of pressed glass, from the Czech Republic, spoke up.  "Can't we all just get along?" she asked.



This sounded vaguely familiar to the beads, so they stopped rolling for a moment to listen.

"It is true we come from all the corners of the earth," she continued.



"The earth doesn't have corners," muttered the resin beads.



But the pressed glass bead pressed on.  "And from the seven seas... and lots of oceans, too."

"Don't forget the islands," grumbled the beads from Indonesia.



"Hath not a bead holes?" she asked.  "Hath not a bead edges, drill marks, mandrel scratches, finishes... blasted in the same kilns, tossed by the same waters, dug out from the same earth?"



"If you drop us, do we not roll away?  If you string us, do we not make harmony with the beads beside us?  If you wrap us too tightly, do we not crack?"



"If you discard us, do we not trip the family dog?  If you string us, are we not strung?  If you wire us, are we not wired?  If you wrap us, are we not... um... wrapped?"

The beads murmured and rolled amongst themselves.  They considered the words of the Czech bead.  "She has a point!" said the pearls.



"No, that's just a flaw," said the lampworks.  "Happens to the best of us."



"She could be right," said the crow beads.



"I don't know.  I'm nuts!  said the nut beads.

But as they looked at each other (through beady little eyes) they had to agree that, no matter what their origins, they had a lot in common.



And so, without further ado, they rolled together, joined holes, and decided to bead all that they could bead.



And they all lived in pieces of harmony until the next time they had the same discussion.   (You can find these bead stars here.)