Our Stories

Sismoqnaputui’skwe’j – Sweet Water Maiden – The Legend of Maple Syrup
by Mary Louise Bernard
“It is with great pride and honour I share one of my mother’s stories with you.”

© Indian Maiden Maple Products 2013, Wagmatcook, Unama’ki, Nova Scotia (with permission)
(Originally published with illustrations by Ashley Dawn Bernard)

It was a harsh winter, the snow deep and the wind bitter cold, slowly the warmth of the sun melts the frozen land.
O’na to’q metuipuk pastek wastew aq wju’sn teksik, aq atel kla’qej na’kuset poqji-apu’nik maqmikew

Deep in the forest stands an old Indian man, with arms outstretched to the sun,
Na to’q knekk nipuktuk ula kisikuo’p kaqmiss aq eliptina’sisnn na’ku’selitl

For today he would go on his spiritual quest, it would not be the same as springs before. He would travel on his quest alone
Mita kisita’siss pasik tapukwa’lukwenew wjijamijl. Ma’wijey tle’ktnukw ula siwkw aq ktikikl, Mita nkutukwa’lukwetew
ketuatqa’sit kiskuk

His life partner and mother of his children did not survive the bitter winter
Witape’sko’ aq wkwijuowa wnijanua eule’jitaq musapi’putwek tele-mtuipukek

With sadness in his heart he knows this journey will be his last.
Teli-pkije’k wnmajita’suti weju’aq wkamlamunk, ketitoq u’t ta’n eliet na kespi-lietew

Awakening from her sleep, comfortable under a deerskin blanket
Ansma ke’sk pem-tukwiej miaw-wilisink wtanquno’sutimk lintukey ankuowey

A young Indian maiden hears footsteps; she peeks thrug the bearskin hide which is the doorway to her home
Na to’q ula l’nu ske’j nutuatl na’tuweni meteteskkawelitl aqq paneka’latl muine’l piskwate’knn

She sees her grandfather tugging slowly up the mountain
aq nemiatl wniskamiji kla’qaj so’qleka’litl kmtniktuk

She feels his pain and knows he must travel alone to speak to his spirit
Kejiatl tel-kitnmalij aq kejiatl ktu’nkutukwa’ lukke’s naji-tlewo’kwe’tilij wjijaqmiji

She remembers springs before, where she would watch her grandparents enter the forest together
Mikwite’tkl ktikikl siwkikl ta’n nemiapni Wniskamijewiliji kitk ketuatqa’tiliji

The days grow warmer and grandfather has been gone for many days
Tlia’ pemi-naji-wtaqne’kl pemikiskikl, kaqi’sukna’q ki’s wniskamijl to’q maja’silin

The Indian maiden whispers to her mother with a concerned look on her face
aq kimaknutmuatl wkqijl ta’n tel-sespete’lmaj wniskamijl

Her mother reaches for her hand and places a flint in her open palm
Na to’q wkwijl elnmaj mals a ika’tuaj wpitnk

She gathers her belongings and hurries into the forest, glancing back she waves farewell to her mother
Na to’q ula l’nu’skwe’j ilpalikatk wutmo’taqnji’j aqq nenaqteskik nipukt, pe’tmk wa’tmuatl wkwijl ke’sk atiuiktuaj

Her mother smile and nods her head in approval
Weskewikwa’silitl to’q wkwijl aq matkwetatl wel’te’lmilijl

Soon the Indian maiden disappears into the forest; all that remain are the footprints in the fresh fallen snow
Na to’q mu pekije’ktnutkw keska’siss ula l’nu’ske’j nipuktuk; pasik me’j ta’n koqoeyek ettoqatkek na ta’n tel-jilaptoqsipnaq piley
waste’jiktuk

Grandfather weak from days on his quest, rests on a rock listening to the running water of a small stream
Na to’q ula kikiku ki’s menaqnat ke’sk kaqi sukna’q pemiet e’pa’sit to’q kuntew iktuk, aq ke’sk jiksitk pemitk sipu’kij.

He senses someone coming in a distance. He builds his shelter and strikes a tree with tomahawk, leaving a gap on a tree
ami-wetueiwatl na’tuwenl juku’elin weli-amase’ji’jk Na to’q pe’l eltoq magatewikan’ji’j tujiw nastestoq wutmi’knji’j tujiw nastestoq wutmi’knji’j kmu’jittuk jel walnoqtesk kisitoq

And then he slowly retires into his shelter of branches and dreams of a time as a young warrior, once vibrant and strong.
tujiw kla’qaj piskwa’t maqateewikank aqq pewitoq newte’jkek sa’q ke’sk maljewe’juitek smwa’knisuijek, miaw-sesaqe’kek aq melkiknajek

The Indian maiden sees the tomahawk from a distance, she slowly approached it, beneath it are her grandfather’s belongings,
water from the handle of the tomahawk drips into a hollowed out log.
Na to’q ula l’nuskwe’j ke’sk amasek eyk wetaptik tmi’knji’l, kla’qaj to’q elleka’t ta’n etek aq mikuapmuaj wniskamij wutmo’taqniji’j aq samqwan ta’n pemitk ula tmj’knatkwiktuk pijijuik pijistaqiktuk

She quietly starts a fire and prepares her Grandfather’s meal.
Na t’oq kla’qaj poqte’nmat aqq wissukowatl wniskamiji.

As the sweet aroma drifts into the shelter, her grandfather awakens, there by the fire sits his grand-daughter,
I’ welimateket to’q aq ke’sk u’t welimatek maqatewikank, na t’oq tukwiet kisiku aq nemiatl wejkwapilitl wuji’j kwe’jl kikjiw nu’te’nmaqnituk

She hands him the bowl of food and gives him a questioning look, for the food she has prepared has a foreign taste to her.
Knmaj to’q eptaqniktuk wilu katu kestalikwetutmlitl Ula l’nu’skwej to’q mna’q mestmuksip koqoey ap telpima’q staqe u’t kisi-ki’sik

Grandfather finishes his meal, he glances up at the tree as the sweet water drips from his tomahawk
Na to’q teli-nqsayiw kisatalk kisiku na wenaqapa’sit aq ankamatl kmu’jl ke’sk pemitk sismoqnapu tmi’knatwikuk

He smiles and secretly tells his granddaughter os his vision and bestows her with a special name
Na to’q westkewikwa’sit tujiw aknutmuatl wuji’jkwe’jl ta’n tel-puass aqq nankmi-wisunkewasnn keknue’k wisun

For without her, his vision would have only been a dream.
Telita’siss to’q mu wuji’jkwe’jl j’mlikw na ta’n koqoey kis-nmitoq mu naji-koqoe’nusoqq aq katu pas+k puaqn

The creator has given us a gift to be shared by all.
Kisu’lkw ula kis-iknmulkw wjit wtapesin ta’n te’sit wen.

As seasons turn into years, the Indian maiden often told her story to her people, while making sweet foods using the sap from the maple tree
Ke’sk kawi’sipunkek ula lnu’ske’j kaqi’sk aknutmuaj wta’tukwaqnm wikma ke’sk el’toq sismoqnima’q wilu’wow weja’toqsismoqnapu snawe’l

The Indian maiden became known as the ‘Sweet water maiden’ – the name her grandfather gave her
Na weja’tekemkek ula l’nuskwe’j telnenut ‘Sismoqnapui’skwe’j’ Ta’n tel-wisunkowtipna wniskamija