A Concise History of the Goldfish Trade

“Use English,” says my mother, Nkij. “Like your father used to. The traders hear one word of what they call ‘Indian talk’, they’ll cheat us extra bad.”

I arrive after a half day’s paddle, following the route my father described to me in his dying days. The settlers call this the Public Square. A dust and gravel field, with a church at one end and a joyless brick building called a bank at the other. Fishermen and trappers fill the square, pretending to haggle even though there are only two prices: one for the settlers, and one for us. Nkij has her own idea of what’s a fair amount of flour and molasses and salt to demand for fourteen kopit pelts, which the settlers call beaver.

Some traders ride horses with carts in tow, the sides hung with display goods. Others are content to walk from their boats and spread the contents of their packs out on the ground. One trader stands out from all the others. He has neither cart nor pack and peddles only one ware that I can see. He roams the square, holding his offering aloft.

“God Fish!” he yells. “Only one in the Colonies. Own a piece of Heaven for just twelve pelts.”

I’ve never heard of a God Fish, much less seen one. God is what settlers call Creator, but somehow better because it comes with a son and a holy ghost. This trader’s belief must be strong. He holds the God Fish high, his voice cutting through the noise.

“Only one of its kind! Just twelve measly pelts!”

“Feck off!” one of the horse-and-cart traders shouts at him. “Some of us have real business here.”

I can’t help myself. The God Fish draws me in. It hovers motionless in the very middle of a glass jar. I step closer, careful to avoid eye contact with the trader. This fish is no bigger than my thumb, yet its bright metal orange outshines even the finest copper wire. Side fins like fly wings paddle furiously to keep it on a straight path into the side of the jar. An endless voyage to nowhere.

The trader’s eyes turn to my pack. “You have twelve pelts?”

Fourteen is more than twelve, so I nod. “I’m trading them for flour and molasses and salt.”

“Young friend,” he says, “the owner of the God Fish wants for none of these things. With this kind of power, you could own your own flour mill. With molasses by the barrel and enough salt to pickle a moose.”

My mind slips to every time my father came back from this very place, red-faced and tearful. He’d set the stingy portions of flour and molasses and salt in Nkij’s lap, and they would talk in hushed tones about how to make do with what we had.

With our own flour mill, we’d never have to worry about making do again. We’d eat until our bellies burst, with plenty to share. Or better still, trade for meat and fish. No more running snares in the wet cold of winter or chiselling through ice to set bait lines. Just the endless warmth and sweet smell of bread baking over our fire pit.

I open my pack and start draping pelts over my arm, counting as I go. When I reach twelve, the trader squints into my pack.

“Did you bring a jar I can pour Him into?” he asks.

“No. Was I supposed to?”

“Not to worry, my friend. Two more pelts, and you can have the jar, too.”

I hold the heavy, clumsy jar up to my face as the trader stuffs all fourteen of my pelts into a linen sack. The God Fish stares back at me, expressionless eyes catching the light. His mouth opens and closes with perfect rhythm, singing to a drum only He can hear.

“Does He just know the one song?” I ask.

I look up to find the trader has vanished. The crowd ripples like eels under moonlight, until I can no longer tell one body from the next. A patternless swarm of greys and blues. No sign of the man with the linen sack.

I turn to the glass jar cradled in my hands. The God Fish stares back at me, eyes and mouth opening with painful slowness. And then, His silent song stops, the tiny mouth motionless. The fins stop paddling, too. The God Fish turns first onto His side, then His back. His pale belly teases the surface of the water. A sickly lump sets up camp in my stomach.

Still no sign of the trader and my pelts in the growing crowds. I close my eyes and breathe a long, slow breath through my nose.

Sunlight seeps through clenched eyelids, dim orange light taking me back to our wigwam. My mother’s face, disappointed and pained, gazes at me through the darkness.

“Oh, Sosep,” Nkij says. There are no other words. The imagined sound of her voice uttering my name is enough.

I open my eyes and let in the full glare of the sun, squinting at the comings and goings of the Public Square. A pair of settler boys in stiff wool pants and white shirts carry a hand barrow between them. It overflows with beaver fur. Their heads turn this way and that, confused faces desperate for answers, like they don’t know where to start.

I straighten my back and square my shoulders, forcing a smile as I hoist the belly-up God Fish high overhead. My voice rides the tide of the deepest breath I can manage.

“Ancient Indian God Fish!” I yell. “Only fish in the world that can swim upside down. Powerful good luck. Only fourteen pelts.”

* * *

Ⓒ Jason Pearce

Author’s Note: This story features the Indigenous language of L’nui’suti, also known as Mi’kmaw. The word Nkij directly translates as “my mother.”

While Mi’kmaw is still spoken throughout Atlantic Canada and Maine, the last fluent speaker in my family died around 1850. Like many of my generation, I have been working to learn and revitalize my lost ancestral language. I am grateful to the Ktaqmkuk Mi’kmaw Fluency Project for its education and support in this endeavour. For more information, please visit www.mikmawfluency.ca.