"Where the Spirits Walk" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
"The Grave-Marker River"
The St. Croix River—so named by the white men who charted their maps and named what had already been named—was far older than any settler could have imagined. Long before logging saws pierced the silence, before canoe paddles dipped into its dark, reflective waters, before even the first moccasin brushed its mossy banks, the river had already lived a thousand lifetimes. The Ojibwe called it Jiibayaatigo-ziibi--The Grave Marker River. To them, it wasn’t just water carving through land; it was spirit, memory, and witness.
By the time Doug, Wayne, and John arrived with their sleeping bags, hot dogs, and the careless joy of being fourteen, the moon was already rising. It was full and round, casting silver light upon the black, mirror-like water. They had hiked in half a mile from the trailhead, finding a soft bend where the trees leaned in as though to whisper secrets to the river.
The boys gathered wood and lit a fire. Sparks drifted into the sky like tiny spirits returning home. They laughed—loudly—over half-burned marshmallows, teased each other about who might snore the loudest, and traded stories about friends, families, teachers, and summer plans. None of them noticed how the trees had grown quieter around them, how the wind had settled into something heavier, almost watchful.
The fire crackled as sleep took them one by one. The moon climbed higher.
Doug was the first to stir. Not from noise—but from a knowing. He blinked at the sky, then at the fire still alive with embers. Something was… off.
A whisper in the trees.
Wayne awoke next, then John. All three sat up, their laughter long gone. They huddled close, instinctively drawing together, their eyes scanning the woods around them.
Then they began to see them.
At first, the figures were shadows at the edge of the trees. But as the boys stared—really looked, with something deeper than just their eyes—the shadows took form. There were women in deerskin dresses, braided hair catching moonlight like strands of silver. Children, barefoot, running silently between the trunks. Warriors with stern, unreadable faces. White men in long coats and wide-brimmed hats. Lumbermen with axes on their shoulders. A trapper crouched beside the river, tending to something unseen.
The boys said nothing, but their eyes were wide. They didn’t need to speak. The fire held them like an island, flickering, alive.
The ghosts moved not like intruders, but like memories caught in a loop. Their lips moved without sound, yet the boys heard. Not with ears—but deep inside, like feelings given shape.
The Ojibwe warriors told of battles fought not for conquest, but for survival. Of dances and births and sacred trees. The settlers told of long winters, lost children, and fleeting joys. The lumbermen, drunk on industry, spoke of clearcut hillsides, rivers choked with sawdust, and regrets that came too late.
All night, the forest shared its stories. The river glimmered with reflected faces, some stern, some sorrowful, some content.
Doug, Wayne, and John listened—silent, wide-eyed, reverent. None of them knew why they were seeing this, only that it was real. And that it was meant for them.
As dawn broke, the ghosts faded like mist, one by one dissolving into trees, into river, into air.
When the sun rose above the pines, the woods looked the same as they had the evening before. Birds chirped. The river flowed. The campfire, now just ashes, let out a soft curl of smoke.
But the boys were changed.
They packed in silence. Not out of fear—but respect. They didn't speak of what they saw, not then. Not for years. But they would all remember. They would carry it.
Because some people are blind to the old world. Not by fault—but by forgetting.
But some... some still see.
And Jiibayaatigo-ziibi, the Grave Marker River, remembers them all.
~Wylddane
The St. Croix River—so named by the white men who charted their maps and named what had already been named—was far older than any settler could have imagined. Long before logging saws pierced the silence, before canoe paddles dipped into its dark, reflective waters, before even the first moccasin brushed its mossy banks, the river had already lived a thousand lifetimes. The Ojibwe called it Jiibayaatigo-ziibi--The Grave Marker River. To them, it wasn’t just water carving through land; it was spirit, memory, and witness.
By the time Doug, Wayne, and John arrived with their sleeping bags, hot dogs, and the careless joy of being fourteen, the moon was already rising. It was full and round, casting silver light upon the black, mirror-like water. They had hiked in half a mile from the trailhead, finding a soft bend where the trees leaned in as though to whisper secrets to the river.
The boys gathered wood and lit a fire. Sparks drifted into the sky like tiny spirits returning home. They laughed—loudly—over half-burned marshmallows, teased each other about who might snore the loudest, and traded stories about friends, families, teachers, and summer plans. None of them noticed how the trees had grown quieter around them, how the wind had settled into something heavier, almost watchful.
The fire crackled as sleep took them one by one. The moon climbed higher.
Doug was the first to stir. Not from noise—but from a knowing. He blinked at the sky, then at the fire still alive with embers. Something was… off.
A whisper in the trees.
Wayne awoke next, then John. All three sat up, their laughter long gone. They huddled close, instinctively drawing together, their eyes scanning the woods around them.
Then they began to see them.
At first, the figures were shadows at the edge of the trees. But as the boys stared—really looked, with something deeper than just their eyes—the shadows took form. There were women in deerskin dresses, braided hair catching moonlight like strands of silver. Children, barefoot, running silently between the trunks. Warriors with stern, unreadable faces. White men in long coats and wide-brimmed hats. Lumbermen with axes on their shoulders. A trapper crouched beside the river, tending to something unseen.
The boys said nothing, but their eyes were wide. They didn’t need to speak. The fire held them like an island, flickering, alive.
The ghosts moved not like intruders, but like memories caught in a loop. Their lips moved without sound, yet the boys heard. Not with ears—but deep inside, like feelings given shape.
The Ojibwe warriors told of battles fought not for conquest, but for survival. Of dances and births and sacred trees. The settlers told of long winters, lost children, and fleeting joys. The lumbermen, drunk on industry, spoke of clearcut hillsides, rivers choked with sawdust, and regrets that came too late.
All night, the forest shared its stories. The river glimmered with reflected faces, some stern, some sorrowful, some content.
Doug, Wayne, and John listened—silent, wide-eyed, reverent. None of them knew why they were seeing this, only that it was real. And that it was meant for them.
As dawn broke, the ghosts faded like mist, one by one dissolving into trees, into river, into air.
When the sun rose above the pines, the woods looked the same as they had the evening before. Birds chirped. The river flowed. The campfire, now just ashes, let out a soft curl of smoke.
But the boys were changed.
They packed in silence. Not out of fear—but respect. They didn't speak of what they saw, not then. Not for years. But they would all remember. They would carry it.
Because some people are blind to the old world. Not by fault—but by forgetting.
But some... some still see.
And Jiibayaatigo-ziibi, the Grave Marker River, remembers them all.
~Wylddane
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