I throw myself on the ground, pounding my flsts and grieving the assault on my medicine woods. Idon't know how to defeat the monster. Thave no arsenal of weapons, no legions of Fighters He these who followed Nanaboxho into battle. lam not a warrtor. I was raised by Strawberries, who even now sre budding at my feet. Amid the Violeta. And Yarrow. And Asters and Goldenred that are just ‘emerging, and the blades of Sweetgrass shining In the sun. Ia that moment, I knew that 1am not alone.1Be tn the meadow surrounded by the legions who do stand with me. I may not know what to de, but they do {Giving of thelr medicine giits as they always do, to sustain the world. We are not powerless against the ‘Windige, they aay. ‘ememer that we already have everything we need. And so—we conspire. ‘When I get to my feet, Nanaboxho has appeared beside me, with resolute eyes and a trickster grin. “You ‘have to think like the monster to defeat him,” he says. “Like dlesotves like.” He points with his eyes to aline (of dense shrubs at the edge of the woods. “Clve him a taste of is ewn medicine,” he says with aamirk. He ‘walks inte the gray thicket and laughter overtakes him as he diesppeare. Pre never gathered buckthorn belore; the blue-black berries stain my Hingers. Pve tried to stay sway Sromt, but I follows you. It ls a rampant Invader of disturbed places. It takes ever the forest, starving other plants of light and space. Buckthorn also poisons the roll, preventing the growth of any species but Mteelf, creating a floristic desert. You have to ocknowledge that t's a winner in the free market, a success ‘tory built on efficiency, monopoly, and the creation of scarcity. It lr botanical laaperiallst, etealing land from the native species. | gather all eammer, sitting with each species that offers Itself to the cense, Hatentng and learning ite its. Pve always made teas for colds, salves for skin, but never this. Making medicine la not undertaken Tightly. ft is a sacred responsibility. The beams In my house are hung with drying plants, shelves filled with Jara of reots and leaves. ‘Walting for winter. ‘When lt comes, I walk the woods In my snowshoes, leaving an unmistakable trall toward home. A braid ‘of eweetgrass hangs by ary door. The thres shining strands represent the unity of mind, body, and spirit that makes us whole. In the Windigo, the brald ls unraveled; that la the disease that drives him to destruction. ‘That braid reminds me that when we braid the hair of Mother Earth we remember all that ls given t2 us and ‘our responsibility to care for those gifts in return. In thls way the gifts are eustained and all are ted. No one ‘s0ce hangry. Last night, my house was Pull of food and friends, the langhtar and light spilling out on the enow. I ‘thought I saw him pass by the windew, gazing in with hunger. Bat tonight Iam alone and the wind is rising. Theft my castiron kettle, the biggest pot I have, onto the stove and set the water to boll. [edd te it = (g00d handful of dried berries. And then another. The berries dissolve to a syrupy liquid, bine-biack and inky. Remembering Nanaboxho’s ‘counsel, [ay a prayer and empty in the rest of the jar. Into a second pot I pour a pitcher of purest epring water and onto its surtace I seatter a pinch of petals trom one jar, bark shreds trom another. All carefully choven, each to its purpose. Ind a length of root, = ‘handful of leaves, and « spoonful of berries to the golden tea, tinged with rosy pink. Ieet It to simmer and le by the fire to walt. ‘The enow hlsees agatast the window, the wind moans tn the trees. Ha has come, followed my tracks ‘home just as [knew he would. I put the rweetgrass in my pocket, take a deep breath, and open the door. I'm ‘Afraid te do this, but more afraid of what happens it I don’t. He looms above me, wild red eyes blazing against the hear frost of his tacs. He bares his yellow tangs and ‘reaches for me with his boay hands. My own hands tremble as I thrust into his bloodstained flagers a cup of ‘scalding buckthorn tea. He slurpe tt down st once and starts te hew! for more—devoured by the pain of ‘emptiness, he always wants more. He pulls the whole iron kettis from me and drinks it in greedy guipe, the svrup freezing 1 his chin tn dripping bieck icicles. Throwing the empty pot atide, he reaches for me again, ‘but belore his fingers can eurround my neck he turns trom the door and staggers backward out into the Ieee hilm doubled over, overcome with violent retching. The carrion stench of his breath mixee with the ‘reek of shit as the buckthorn loosens his bowels. A small dose of buckthorn is laxative. A strong dove is 2 ‘purgative, and a whole kettle, an emetic. It ia Windigo naturet he wanted every Inst drop. Se new hele ‘vomiting up colns and coal slurry, clumps of sawdust from my woods, clots of tar sand, and the ttle bones ‘of birds. He spews Solvay waste, gags on an entire oll slick. When he’s done, his stomach continues te heave ‘but all that comes up ls the thin Hquid of loneliness. He lies spent in the snow, a stinking carcass, but sill dangerous when the hunger rises to II the new ‘emptiness. Iran back in the house for the second pot and carry It te hie side, where the snow has melted ‘around him His eyes are glazed over but Ihhear his rtomach rumble se I hold the oup to his lige. He turns hie hhead away as if it were polson. I take a sip, to reassure him und because he le not the only ona who needs it.I eel the medicines standing beside me. And then he drinks, just a slp at a time of the goldenplnk tea, tea off