The legends of a nation are the spontaneous and unself-conscious expression of the ordinary life of its people in the early days of its history. They form the basis of the culture of the country and also reveal those qualities, aspirations and values that collectively make up Canada's character. Generally love (or lost love) with potential to tug at one's heart strings, is a common thread running through most of the folklore, as evidence this the 4th in a continuing series simply entitled "Qu'appelle".
Fleet-of-Foot knelt in the prow of a long canoe, occupied by French voyageurs in the service of one of the great companies that were becoming fabulously wealthy through the trade of furs in the vast reaches of Western Canada. A member of the Cree nation, he was acting as a guide through the intricate network of rivers, streams and lakes which he knew so well but which were always a puzzle to the bold Frenchmen with whom he was journeying.
The voyageurs were a light-hearted company and often, as they journeyed, sang in the rhythm of their paddles the old songs their fathers had learned in their distant homeland and had taught them as children. Often, when threading the turbulent waters of a canyon, they would answer the echo of their own singing with the familiar French question "Qu'appelle?" (who calls?)
Fleet-of-Foot was quick to pick up their language and to join in their songs, and he particularly loved to answer the echo.
One day. while travelling down a river in the region that is now the Province of Saskatchewan, the voyageurs brought their canoes to shore at an Indian encampment. The natives were friendly and bade them stay for a few days, an invitation the weary Frenchmen were glad to accept.
On the evening of their first day at the village, Fleet-of-Foot wandered along the river bank watching the play of the moonbeams on the rippling water. Suddenly he came upon an Indian maiden standing by a tree. This would be their first meeting, but Fleet-of-Foot saw her often in the subsequent few days of his stay. Forest Flower, he called her and very quickly their friendship grew into mutual affection, then love.
When it was time for him to leave, he told her that he would be making a long journey with the Frenchmen, but that when spring returned the following year he would come back to her and nothing would ever separate them again. Never had a journey seemed so long for Fleet-of-Foot.
In the earliest days of the next spring and when he knew that the rivers were clear of ice, he put his canoe in the water again and headed westward. It was a long trek into the wilds, but Fleet-of-Foot was glad at heart, for each stroke of his paddle brought him nearer to his beloved.
Then one evening he reached the river on which Forest Flower's village was located. It was too late to press forward and the air was still and heavy. A strange foreboding seized Fleet-of-Foot and as he lay on his bed of boughs he had difficulty falling to sleep. After a fitful sleep he was awake very early next morning and at dawn he launched his canoe.
His paddle was uplifted for the first stroke when he heard is name "Fleet-of-Foot! Fleet-of-Foot!" Swift to his lips came the old cry of the voyageurs in which he had often joined, "Qu'appelle?," but there was no answering call.
Restless and fearful, he pressed on. As he drew near the encampment, he knew that something had happened, for Forest Flower was not on the shore to greet him. Instead he was met by an old woman who, in silence, led him to a wigwam near which a few Indians were lingering. Within, lay the still lovely form of the maiden whom he would have made his wife.
"Ere she died, she called your name twice, O Fleet-of-Foot, for great indeed was her love and longing for you," said the woman sadly.
"When did she cry out?" asked Fleet-of-Foot.
"Even at dawn this day," was the reply. "Just as her last breath was leaving her."
The stunned and dejected Fleet-of-Foot returned to his canoe and, in silent grief, paddled down the river. Never again in all his wanderings did he return. But the voyageurs, when they heard the sad story, named the river "Qu'appelle", and so it is known to this day.
~~with thanks to the late E.C. Woodley for this story
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The Qu'Appelle River /kəˈpɛl/ flows 430 kilometres (270 mi) east from Lake Diefenbaker in southwestern Saskatchewan to join the Assiniboine River in Manitoba, just south of Lake of the Prairies, near the village of St. Lazare. |
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