Chickadees were known to be friends of human beings, more so than any other bird. Okwaho knew the story of how, in the most ancient times, it was the chickadees who did something wonderful. It happened when the Good Mind, one of the twin boys who were the first to walk the earth in the shape of men, found himself in a contest with his grandmother, Sky Woman. She wrongly blamed the Good Mind for the death of his mother. She wanted to end all life on the earth and to then return to the sky. The Good Mind did not think that was right and convinced his grandmother to play the Bowl Game. Whichever of them did best would decide what would happen to all of Creation.

Back then, as now, that game was played using peach stones painted black on one side and white on the other. They would be placed in a wooden bowl. When that bowl was struck on the ground, the peach stones would be flipped up. The way they landed—with most either white side or black side up—would determine the winner.

When it was the Good Mind’s turn, a flock of chickadees came and landed on his shoulder. We will sacrifice our own heads to use as stones in the game, they said. And they did just that. When the bowl was struck on the ground, their black and white heads flew up into the air singing and landed in just such a way that the Good Mind won.

It was said that losing the Bowl Game changed his grandmother’s mind. Not only did she allow life to continue, when she returned to the sky, she became Grandmother Moon, looking down on the earth with a kind face.

Okwaho nodded at the chickadee. “Niaweh, little brother,” he whispered. “Thank you for letting me know it is safe now to come out of my hiding place.”

Still, despite the small black-capped bird’s reassurance, Okwaho moved out slowly—a finger’s width at a time—making almost no sound at all as he crawled from beneath the shelter of the thick tangle of blackberry canes. Staying on his belly, he pulled himself along a narrow tunnel that had been made by other creatures—rabbits probably—that used what had been his hiding place as their own safe haven. One sharp thorn scratched his cheek, but he paid no attention to it. A true warrior ignores pain.

A small red trickle of blood marked his face when he finally emerged. When he reached up a finger to touch it, he felt it leave a red line across his cheek—like one of the lines of red paint men put on their faces to show they are going to fight. He dropped his hand. He would leave that bloody line there.