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Telling animals : a histology of Dene textualized orature Spencer, Jasmine Rachael 2017

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  TELLING ANIMALS: A HISTOLOGY OF DENE TEXTUALIZED ORATURE   by  JASMINE RACHAEL SPENCER   A DISSERTATION SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF  DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY  in  THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE AND POSTDOCTORAL STUDIES  (English)   THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA  (Vancouver)   July 2017  © Jasmine Rachael Spencer, 2017  ii Abstract  In this dissertation, I create an interpretive framework based on deictic constructions to analyze Dene/Athabaskan poetics in four print collections of dual-language textualized orature— Denesułine/Chipewyan (Alberta), Dena’ina/Tanaina (Alaska), Dene Dháh/South Slavey (Alberta), and Diné Bizaad/Navajo (Southwest). Using this framework, I focus on the epistemological power of animals via the critical metaphor of animal tissue (muscle, bone, blood, and breath)—thus “histology.” My Introduction describes my framework. Chapter two, “‘Grandson, / This is meat’: Wolf and Caribou on How to Live in This Is What They Say,” focuses on ɂɛtθén, the word for both “meat” and “caribou,” and the homophonic relationship between meat and caribou. Chapter three, “‘I will be popular with the Campfire People, so ha, ha, ha’: Porcupine and Lynx on How to Love in K’tl’egh’i Sukdu/A Dena’ina Legacy,” on k’etch eltani, the prophetic practice of true belief. Chapter four, “‘What will you do now?’: Wolverine and Wolf on How to Die in ‘The Man Who Sought a Song,’” told by Elisse Ahnassay, on the (a)historical function of wodih, “news,” an oral genre that shapes the future. Chapter five, “‘If it floats, we will all live forever’: Coyote and Badger on How to Live Again in Diné Bahane’: The Navajo Creation Story,” on the reincarnational exchange figured by niłch’i bii’ sizinii, the inner wind. My Conclusion, “Histologies,” considers how the above concepts correspond to: flesh (ɂɛtθén), mind (k’etch eltani), breath (niłch’i bii’ sizinii), and bone (wodih): an animal that is a dream, a dream that is an animal. One of the primary ideas in my dissertation is the concept of narrative revitalization, which I define as cognate to and coeval with community practices of language revitalization, by comparing our conditions for who we are, how much space we believe ourselves to share, and how much time we have to share it in.  iii Lay Abstract  In my Introduction, I offer a language-based interpretive framework for animal narratives in Dene/Athabaskan languages Denesułine/Chipewyan, Dena’ina/Tanaina, Dene Dháh/South Slavey, and Diné Bizaad/Navajo, and in English. Chapter two, “‘Grandson, / This is meat’: Wolf and Caribou on How to Live in This Is What They Say,” focuses on ɂɛtθén, the word for both “meat” and “caribou.” Three, “‘I will be popular with the Campfire People, so ha, ha, ha’: Porcupine and Lynx on How to Love in K’tl’egh’i Sukdu/A Dena’ina Legacy,” on k’etch eltani, prophecy and belief. Four, “‘What will you do now?’: Wolverine and Wolf on How to Die in ‘The Man Who Sought a Song,’” told by Elisse Ahnassay, on wodih, “news.” Five, “‘If it floats, we will all live forever’: Coyote and Badger on How to Live Again in Diné Bahane’: The Navajo Creation Story,” on niłch’i bii’ sizinii, the inner wind. My Conclusion compares these concepts.  iv Preface Chapter Two will be published in the form of a book chapter as “‘Grandson, / this is meat’: Hunting Metonymy in François Mandeville’s This Is What They Say” in Activating the Heart: Storytelling, Knowledge, Sharing, and Relationship, with the permission of the publisher, Wilfrid Laurier University Press.  v Table of Contents Abstract……………………………………………………………………………………………ii Lay Abstract…………………………...…………………………………………………………iii Preface……………………………………………………………………………………………iv Table of Contents………………………………………………………………………………….v List of Tables…………………………………………………………………………………….vii List of Figures………………………………………………………………………...…………viii Acknowledgements………………………………...……………………………………………..ix Dedication……………………………………………………………………………………….xiii Chapter One: Introduction—“Histories”…………………….………………..…………………..1 Chapter Two: “‘Grandson, / This is meat’: Wolf and Caribou on How to Live in This Is What They Say”………………………………………………………………………………………...53 Chapter Three: “‘I will be popular with the Campfire People, so ha, ha, ha’: Porcupine and Lynx on How to Love in K’tl’egh’i Sukdu/A Dena’ina Legacy”………………………………………85 Chapter Four: “‘What will you do now?’: Wolverine and Wolf on How to Die in ‘The Man Who Sought a Song,’” told by Elisse Ahnassay………………………………….…………………..110 Chapter Five: “‘If it floats, we will all live forever’: Coyote and Badger on How to Live Again in Diné Bahane’: The Navajo Creation Story”……………………………………………………147 Chapter Six: Conclusion—“Histologies”……………………...………………..……………...221 Bibliography……………………………………………………………………………………257 Appendices……………………………………………………………………………………...280  A………………………………………………………………………………………...280  B………………………………………………………………………………………...296 vi  C………………………………………………………………………………………...308  D………………………………………………………………………………………...367   vii List of Tables Table 4.1: Soundscape………………………………………………………………………….122 Table 5.1: Summary of Animacy Hierarchy in Navajo………………………………………...175 Table 5.2: Animacy, Greimas, Sacred Mountains……………………………………………...212 Table A.1: Animals Included in Mandeville’s Story Cycle…………………………………….282 Table C.1: Names of Storytellers in Wolverine Myths and Visions…….………………………308 Table C.2: Evidentials and Viewpoint………………………………………………………….346 Table C.3: Deictic Field Actors Using Hanks and Rice………………………………………..352   viii List of Figures Figure 2.1: Frame Metonymy……………………………………………………………………63 Figure 2.2: Frame Metonymy—ɂɛtθén (Caribou/Meat)…………………………………………79 Figure 5.1: “Four Sacred Mountains of the Dinétah” (Morris 2014); reprinted with permission of the Crow Canyon Archaeological Center………………………………………………………159 Figure 5.2: “Great Seal of the Navajo Nation” (Hawkins 2013); Wikipedia, Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license, 2013…………………………………………...161 Figure 5.3: The Verb Wheel (Fernald et al. 2011); permission to reprint on request...………...162 Figure 5.4: Cover image from Leading the Way: The Wisdom of the Navajo People 14.10 (2016): 25-27; permission to reprint requested…………………………………………………………163 Figure 5.5: “West Mountain” (Begay 1967); reprinted with permission of the Museum of Northern Arizona……………………………………………………………………………….164 Figure 5.6: Greimas Square (EmmaSofia515 2010); public domain…………………………...167 Figure 5.7: Greimas Square and the Sacred Mountains………………………………………...168 Figure 5.8: Greimas Coordinates in the Navajo System………………………………………..169 Figure 5.9: Reversals from Leading the Way: The Wisdom of the Navajo People 14.10 (2016): 25-27; permission to reprint requested…………………………………………………………189 Figure 5.10: Corn pollen on a Corn Tassel (Spedona 2007); Wikipedia, Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license, 2007…………………………………………...202 Figure 5.11: Tulip Stamen Tip with Glittering Pollen (Harrison 2009); Wikipedia, Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license, 2009………………………………..203   ix Acknowledgements This project was funded by a three-year Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council (SSHRC) Joseph-Armand Bombardier Canada Graduate Scholarship (2011-2014) and by the University of British Columbia; it is important to state that UBC is situated on unceded Musqueam territory. I was further assisted in writing this dissertation with the funding provided by the Navajo Language Academy/Diné Bizaad Naalkaaah (NLA/DBN) to attend the Institute on Collaborative Language Research (CoLang) 2016 in Fairbanks, Alaska. The people who have made this project possible are many—there are the storytellers, listeners, interpreters, transcriptors, translators, editors, publishers, readers, and commenters. There are the animals, too. Anything good in any of my chapters is theirs, and those whom I thank here. At the University of Victoria, Leslie Saxon is to be thanked above all, for her outstanding past, present, and future scholarship and mentorship. Adar Anisman, John Tucker, Trish Baer and her husband Richard, Iain Higgins, and Ewa Czaykowska-Higgins are also wonderful colleagues. At the University of British Columbia, my dissertation committee has made this project possible. Margery Fee is a scholar and mentor whom I can never thank enough. Her conviction, tolerance, humor, and breadth and depth of knowledge are unparalleled. I am proud to work with her and very grateful for her contributions to the field of Indigenous literary studies. Thank you, Margery, for being such an inspiring interlocutor. You have also given me many books, all of which I treasure. And you have read so much of my writing in so many forms! Your gift of time is better than gems. Barbara Dancygier and Patrick Moore have made it possible for me to draw upon cognitive-linguistic theory and ethnopoetics for my language-focused approach, and I am deeply grateful for their indispensible support. Barbara, your gift of a copy of Diné Bahane’ helped to form the direction of my project and, I hope, will help to shape the rest of my life. Pat’s x time and thought over the years, as we have discussed Dene stories and ethics, is a kind and ever-helpful gift, and I will always remember it. Pat’s archive of Wolverine stories is extremely special; thank you, Pat, for allowing me to have a listen—I was delighted. Also at UBC, Deena Rymhs, Bo Earle, Bożena Karwowska, and Martina Volfová are wonderful colleagues.  The Navajo Language Academy is a place where I can learn in a very real way. Irene Silentman, Lorene Legah (Diné College), Ellavina Tsosie Perkins, and Leroy Morgan: your linguistic and cultural knowledge is very beautiful, and I learn so much from your classes. I am also deeply grateful to Ted Fernald (Swarthmore College) for his excellent mentorship and for many outstanding books. Milton and Warlance Chee, practitioners, shared their insights on Navajo ceremony with the NLA experientially. Other NLA people I thank include Alessandro Jaker (Goyatikö Language Centre), Barsine Benally (Diné College), Elizabeth Bogal-Allbritten, Ignacio L. Montoya, Irene Tsosie, Joan Cooley, Joaquin Cooley, Johnny Harvey, Kayla Palakurthy, Kelsey Dayle John, Louise Ramone, Paul Platero (Navajo Technical University), Peggy Speas (University of Massachusetts Amhurst), Rose Gambler, Sam Gray, Theresa Begay, and Willem de Reuse. I cannot thank everyone in the NLA by name, but I am grateful always for the work that goes on. I also thank very much Melvatha Chee and her husband Joey, who take the time to connect in a sincere and uplifting way that defines real friendship; Melvy possesses as well the gifts of a true colleague. Also to be thanked for the best of support are Paul Zolbrod and his wife Joanne McCloskey; their books have helped to shape my understanding of ethics and poetics, and Paul’s interview, so generous, uplifts me each time I read it. Also in Albuquerque are my great colleagues Michelle Arviso Devlin (Navajo Technical University) and Lukas Denk. And I am very grateful to Shawn San Roman at the Museum of Northern Arizona. Other friends and scholars of Dene studies! Cindy Allen practices Dene and Euro-Canadian law and is like a xi butterfly. Siri Tuttle (University of Alaska Fairbanks) suggested the phrase “poetics documentation”; Jim Kari gifted me with a rare copy of Peter Kalifornsky’s K’tle’egh’I Sukdu: Remaining Stories (1984) and described what it was like to work with Kalifornsky; Alan Boraas (Kenai Peninsula College, University of Alaska Anchorage) shared with me materials and insights that I would not otherwise have access to: on receiving Alan’s permission, I include his very moving comments in my footnotes; also in Alaska, Susan Paskvan and her husband Steve were incredibly hospitable. Keren Rice (University of Toronto) is making a huge difference in my life in such a huge number of ways. Nick Welch (University of Toronto) is a great colleague and sci-fi expert. Chris Cox (Carleton University) and Andrea Berez-Kroeker (University of Hawaii Mānoa) taught excellent classes on language documentation, and Andrea kindly served as my very helpful external dissertation reader. Fibbie Tatti (Sahtu Renewable Resources Board) is a mesmerizing storyteller; Suzanne Wong Scollon has been a lovely email correspondent from before the start, reading my early work and encouraging me to write about Copper Woman and other Dene stories in ways that apply to now and to the future as well as to the past. Thank you, Suzie. I’ll always think of you and of Ron. Anthony Webster (University of Texas Austin) does work on Navajo poetics which deeply inspires me—thank you, Tony, for loving the word ch’agii, too. Kawenniiostha Wakathahionni, Klara Bilić Meštrić , Melanie Frye, Mangyepsa Gyipaayg, Farhat Faheem, Susan Smythe Kung (University of Texas Austin, Archive of the Indigenous Languages of Latin America), and Susan Gehr (Humboldt State University, Karuk archives) at CoLang 2016; friends and mentors Erin Debenport (University of California Los Angeles), Larry Kimura (University of Hawaii Hilo, who, with his gentle way taught me a great deal about teaching Indigenous-language stories), and Julian Gunn (Camosun College, whose poetry kills me); Sylvan Goldberg (Colerado College), Will Lombardi (Feather River College), xii and Laurie Ricou at the WLA; Alejandro Pérez, whom I have never actually met but who is a very good friend; and Summer Baird, strong, beautiful, and kind—thank you. My family are beyond thanks, but I still thank my parents, my sisters, my darling niece, my brother and his wife and adorable children, and my grandparents on both sides.  xiii Dedication To my parents Rachael and Will Spencer  1 Chapter One: Introduction—Histories  “The stories never die” (Madelaine Drybone to Sally Anne Zoe and Alice Legat; Legat 36).  Overview of the Project In this introduction, I provide a history of some of the concepts important to my project, integrated with a description of my approach. In my dissertation, I research the oral-textual literary histologies,1 or embodied, living narratives, of four published works of traditional and yet also contemporaneous Indigenous Dene (northern and southern Athabaskan) narratives concerning dreams, visions, hunting encounters, and instances of reincarnation between animals and humans that lead to renewal, revival, and revitalization. All of the works I analyze here are in the “told-to” genre (McCall 2011; cf. Miller 1984). Using theoretical and informational cues from linguistics research to construct an approach to Indigenous literary studies that permits engagement with Dene-language narratives, I construct a reading framework using deictic reference, expanding on it in places, and drawing together definitions of deixis from linguistic and literary approaches to discourse analysis. By deictic reference, I mean deictic centers, flexible grammatical markers of personhood, place, and time. I also mean deictic shifts, the formation of intersubjective understanding through overlapping pronoun references and through cross-species constructions of personhood, as well as overlaps between locations (e.g. sacred mountains) and temporalities (e.g. pre- and post-Indigenous/European contact and reincarnational iterations of animals and humans) and divergences between referential and expressive meaning (e.g. phonological variation, and onomatopoeia). In brief, I look at deixis                                                              1 Jacques Derrida writes of the “graphic relations between the living and the dead: within the textual, the textile, and the histological,” that we must “keep within the limits of this tissue: between the metaphor of the histos and the question of the histos of the metaphor” (Dissemination 71). 2 and sound metonymy in chapter two, deixis and the archive in chapter three, deixis and expressive markers of animacy in chapter four, and deixis and the limits of animacy in chapter five. All chapters’ focuses require attention to voice. I use this framework to address the possibilities to understand something in the stories about the importance of voice in Dene poetics: the means by which form and structure transform the referential nature of speech into reflexive and regenerative systems. These living systems are demonstrably alive in that they produce unique responses in listeners and readers and also persist through time. The phenomena which constitute poetics are language—but are also body-based, contingent upon social realties, and consistent with ecological and often esoteric truths which guide the speech and actions of contemporary Dene people. The poetics of traditional stories perpetuate themselves: you can tell that a story is good when you feel the urge to re-tell it.  It is my thesis that traditional Dene textualized orature uniquely regenerates its own interpretive meaning through the deictic movement, centerings and shiftings, of ecologically and culturally significant animals of the regions within which the orators live or lived. The animals in Dene orature tell and are telling—both denotatively and connotatively. They are more than symbols in that they operate as flexible but specific centers for reference to time, place, and most importantly personhood. Listeners and readers learn from animals how they should interpret the historical meaning of the narratives as well as how to enact the potential in these narratives for revitalization of and through the narratives, an animating process available to reading and listening communities who would learn how to live, how to love, how to die, and how to live again. The four main books that I write about are Denesułine (Chipewyan) This Is What They Say: A Story Cycle Dictated in Northern Alberta in 1928, orated by François Mandeville (ca. 3 1878-1952) (Mandeville 2009; see also Mandeville 1976); Dena’ina (Tanaina) A Dena’ina Legacy, K’tl’egh’i Sukdu: The Collected Writings of Peter Kalifornsky, orated and written by Peter Kalifornsky (1911-93) (Kalifornsky 1991; see also Kalifornsky 1977 and 1984); Dene Dháh (South Slavey) Wolverine Myths and Visions: Dene Traditions from Northern Alberta (Moore and Wheelock 1990); and Diné Bizaad (Navajo) Diné Bahane’: The Navajo Creation Story (Zolbrod 1984) along with some accompanying, related texts. These cultural texts are outstanding examples of northern- and southern-Dene narratives that together reveal epistemological values important in Dene cultures, while, at the same time, serve as richly contrastive works of beauty and knowledge.  The production of four books usefully contrast so as to provide insights into different historical stages and circumstances of collaborative narrative documentation, analysis, and poetic translation and interpretation. Mandeville, a polyglot, made notes on the order and episodes of the stories he wished to orate (Bringhurst, Tree 76); his stories were transcribed by himself and Li Fang Kuei (1902-87) and translated twice by Ronald Scollon (1939-2009) in 1976 and 2009. Kalifornsky heard the stories told and wrote them down himself, often translating them in consultation with Alan Boraas and James Kari (“Writing” xxx-xxxi). The Elders who told the Wolverine stories wished to create a Dene narrative collection which served the epistemological role that the Bible does for some, and these stories were recorded, transcribed, and translated by a team of community scholars and Euro-American scholars, including Patrick Moore (see chapter four). And Paul Zolbrod, whose project took decades, drew from a myriad of written and oral sources for his translation of the Navajo emergence narrative (see Appendix D for an interview with him on his process). Each book was thus produced with a high degree of documentary fidelity in word-for-word transcriptions from the oral Dene languages to written 4 English. So the collaborative nature of these stories, in conjunction with their traditional roots and ongoing power, suggests to me that I need a specific yet flexible approach to their comparison and contrast within and between the languages in which they were told and translated. I focus on the implications and potentials of deixis, in a broadened, narratological sense, within this genre in its sense of medium: poetic—or more precisely “ethnopoetic”—renditions of oral narratives; and in its sense of mode: oral narratives shared across ontological, spatial, and temporal limits. The narratives I study belong to the “told-to” genre and exist in the form of “textualized orature.” Some explanation of these terms follows.  Genre, Medium, and Mode Genre is a question of both media and modalities and the constraints, possibilities, and expectations about both of these kinds of conditions on these components of genre. The orature which I study in this project is written, in terms of medium, and, due to the practicalities of technologies of reproduction, this orature is primarily verbal in mode. Although of course gesture, gaze, and audience cues must also at least be acknowledged. For this reason, the reason of multimodality, however invisible it is in print, this orature must also be read in terms of its interactive, intersubjective, and interpretively dynamic nature. It is meant to be shared: it was orated for specific listeners in specific times and places. These stories were “told to” someone. Sophie McCall defines the “told-to” genre of Indigenous verbal arts as the product of the juxtaposition of multiple media and cultures—as an “interpenetration of authorship and collaboration between storytellers, recorders, translators, editors, and authors” to produce the literary and filmic works sometimes described as Boasian salvage ethnography (see Boas 1895), ethnopoetics, and life narratives (McCall 2).2 The question of genre, especially a genre that is                                                              2 Of orature wherein personal and mythic narratives are especially coeval, Julie Cruikshank’s comments in full are, “recording a life history is usually a social activity. It is the collaborative product of an encounter between two 5 constituted by multiple stages and kinds of collaboration and mediation, must address the problem of function as well as of form; and as Carolyn Miller writes, a “rhetorically sound definition of genre must be centered not on the substance of the form of discourse but on the action it is used to accomplish” (151). The reception of the narratives I write about is indeed a crucial one, and at times, written versions of these narratives have been recontextualized by Euro-American scholars for ends that have served imperial, colonial agendas. However, context and content are not held so easily apart; Miller writes further that genre is always a socially-cued, historical, “ethnomethodological” act (155) that entextualizes the situation—whatever it is, in each instance—even as it aims to conserve the originary situation for the verbal art form in question: “Genre, in this way, becomes more than a formal entity; it becomes pragmatic, fully rhetorical, a point of connection between intention and effect, an aspect of social action” (153). So genre, through the contemporaneous effort at conservation of its typical rhetorical devices, brings the historical into the present, driving innovation. Thus the power of the “told-to” genre is that any conditioning social cues are cross-cultural, meaning that a diachronic, or historical, sense of action is inherent. As Miller suggests, “genre is a rhetorical means for mediating private intentions with the public, the singular with the recurrent” (163). For Miller, genre is the constituent center of small-scale and large-scale contexts—the nexus of meaning that derives its                                                              people, often from different cultural backgrounds, and incorporates the consciousness of an investigator as well as that of a subject. Crapanzano has charged that orally narrated life histories are too often written as though the narrator were addressing the cosmos when in fact narration is occurring in a very specific context. Yet oral testimonies are more than just the spontaneous product of an encounter between an interviewer and a subject: the narrative has symbolic qualities—a kind of autonomous life that simultaneously reflects continuity with the past and passes on experiences, stories, and guiding principles in the present” (Cruikshank, Preface x). This “autonomous life” in the “symbolic qualities” of the narratives refers to a form of recurvature or renewal of past and present for the future through some kind of narrowing (dispersion)/reflection (inference)/substitution (adaptation)/expansion (regathering) at work where self-consciousness itself becomes an indexical category through transformative movement—or, rather, punctuated movements, movements framed by moments of ontological stillness—being becoming by way of encounter and momentary unity with glaciers or bears. 6 meaning from its network and, in this, imbues its network with meaning. Told-to orature, then, is a form of temporal, as well as spatial and ontological, reference. It is both collectively social and deeply personal; it is both a literal and a literary animal as it reincarnates, like animals do in Dene systems of thought (see, e.g., Blondin 1993, Mills and Slobodin 1994). Dene orature is structured in special ways: this was my starting assumption, in comparing Dene narratives across related Dene languages. These special structures go very deep. They go down into esoteric and spiritual levels of meaning that are sometimes meant to be discovered, and sometimes not. But the potential, in Dene orature about animals, in particular, is always there. Of these levels of meaning that go very deep, Ronald Scollon and Suzanne Wong Scollon write that the “fuller the version, the deeper into the hierarchical structure it looks,” while the “shorter the version, the closer it sticks to the top of the structural tree” (“Cooking” 189)—a hierarchical tree that is structured by “intonation, pausing, and sequencers” (187)—even in English (192-93). This deeply structural approach to retelling serves highly pragmatic cultural ends: the “Athabaskan listener responds in a traditional storytelling” with the practice of “making of sense, building a new sense out of the materials provided by the author” to “mak[e] his [the listener or reader’s] own sense, not the author’s sense”—even when the text is being read rather than heard (187). Scollon and Scollon emphasize that this combination of structural fidelity and narrative compression, even including patterned silences, to demonstrate a cross-linguistic Dene value, from “from Athabaskan oral tradition,” of a “high degree of respect for the original [narrative], which is shown in the careful abstraction of the main themes of the story” in retellings, and, at the same time, of an “assumption of the individual’s right to make his or her own sense of the situation”—all while “carefully attending to the other’s sense” to make “negotiated sense making in non-focused interaction” (193). This is a negotiation that expresses 7 an intersubjective process of language-based transformations in the meanings of those linguistically-constituted expressions. This language-based process of transformation occurs in many ways, but the way that I investigate it, in this project, is through the framework of deixis: through the understanding of story events emerging from the construction of deictic centers—the here, now, with you—and through the necessarily flexible, faithful yet personal, renditions of oral narratives that characterize Dene oral genres, as Scollon and Scollon describe. I construe these narrative phenomena to be examples of narrative-level deictic shift, which is an “imaginative capacity” that “allows the reader [or listener or viewer] to understand projected deictic expressions relative to the shifted deictic centre” between one point of view and another (Stockwell 47). Viewpoint is key: and thus being—ontology, position, needs, and desires—is the key to the sharing of viewpoint. Intersubjectivity is key: and thus the viewpoints of both animal people and human people must be inferred from Dene genres. I have stated above that modality is key: but in Dene orature, media are also key—and through animals, it becomes more possible to reconnect the oral and the written, since genre is, as Miller suggests and McCall especially confirms, social and active.  The problem of understanding exactly what is being “told to” the reader is one that cannot be overstated. Oratorical intention, when interacting with Dene narratives, is easily misunderstood. In other words, to use an example which I explore further in chapter two of my dissertation, a caribou both is simply and always a caribou and is also not at all the same caribou for orator and transcriptor—and for translator and reader. The signifying power of the synchronic figure of the caribou in the moment of its oration diverges from there as the narratives are re-mediated in written and oral re-iterations, in translations, re-translations, and back-translations 8 into their source languages, i.e., as they are interpreted through field notes, book culture, linguistic data, and critical and/or personal responses. This recurrent practice of meaning composes genre and that composes, in the case of Dene textualized orature (see below for further commentary), the told-to genre. Because, as Miller writes, “What recurs cannot be a material configuration of objects, events, and people, nor can it be a subjective configuration, a ‘perception,’ for these, too, are unique from moment to moment and person to person”; so then, as Miller states, the thing that recurs must by definition be an “intersubjective phenomenon” (156), which I suggest is the animal, in a Dene-orature context. The further we come from the caribou in the minds of the orator and all those who follow, the greater the divergence of the caribou’s significations—the more profound the link between inter- and -subjective—and thus the broader, the greater, the range of the caribou’s total historical meaning. Intersubjectivity grows along with the stories: and that is always a good thing.  Because the caribou-as-story is already conditioned by the social action of centuries of tradition, its pragmatic resilience has already been temporally defined backwards into the past preceding the moment of oration—of the formation of the narrative within the “told-to” genre—and forwards from that social act as well. Thus I believe that the reception of the narratives I shall study is a process that must actually be viewed atemporally because these narratives are animated by animals whose powers are culturally inflected but never entirely appropriated by any genre. Indeed, it is only in the gap between sign and referent, source and target languages, story and context, caribou and caribou that reference as an epistemological act of intersubjectivity occurs at all. As “point[s] of connection between intention and effect,” then, orature—and, I believe, animal-centered orature in particular—recurrently references and thus transmits cultural and zoological truths that readers and translators—and re-readers and re-9 translators—can re-read, re-translate, re-tell, and revive in order to pursue the ends of language and narrative revitalization (for my definition of this latter phenomenon, see below). And just because animals may be said to revivify does not mean that they are not hunted, killed, and eaten—just as humans sometimes are, both literally and, in a corporate age, figuratively. But with animals, the objective is to avoid hurting those with whom one has become family, and to treat the remains of game in a respectful way that will feed the land (e.g. Kalifornsky 1991). Thus the “told-to” genre of traditional Dene animal stories rests between the specificities and universalities of the animal in contexts both deeply personal and broadly transpositional: as Dell Hymes writes, “In practice a community, and individuals, have foci of concern, local cycles, favored figures and formats. Widespread elements and types of story may be given new meaning through structural context and expressive form” (“Mythology” 595). Miller proposes a hierarchy of contexts that can drive new meaning making, which are these: experience, language, locution, speech act, episode or strategy, genre, form of life, culture, and human nature (162); animals bridge experience and nature—and not just human experience and nature. If animals are the embodiment of communicable thinking from experience through to nature, then these stories must effect change and yet maintain referential relationships. The question to begin with, then, in order to consider these constructions of personal, temporal, and spatial reference and shift, is: what do specific animals actually reference in order to achieve narrative—and generic—action? By focusing on one form of reference—deixis—in English and in the Dene source languages, I ground my interpretive framework for reading these stories in the historical conditions of reference from the specific “experience” of one place, time, and relationship between a human and an animal (here, now, with you), with my own historical conditions, in order to infer a more general interpretive—futural—framework.  10 These narratives are expressed in the medium of textualized orature, or oral narratives transcribed into print, forms of remediation that extend the temporality but curtail the spatial dimensions of their epistemological effects. “Textualized orature,” as the term is defined by Susan Gingell, refers to oral narratives that have been recorded into writing, though also, at times, as film or audio, for the purposes of circulation, analysis, or curation for a multitude of intellectual, imaginative, and social reasons (286). Gingell contrasts the aesthetics of oral verbal arts that “operate inside a closed community, in a context in which the story, poem, or chant is widely known” (289) with the printed arts, as they are delivered today, with punctuation grammatical and rhetorical and with circulation that is not necessarily predicated upon historical speech communities. Gingell also suggests that, following Walter Ong, in “verbomotor cultures,” language as “sounded words, being dynamic,” are “conceived of as having great power,” so that “Language . . . is understood as a mode of action, not as an encoding of thought” (290). This expectation that desire, word, and action enact an incarnational epistemology is, as Gingell suggests, one of the contexts for some oratorical events that have been remediated into print (290).  I thus analyze how the aesthetic and ethical dimensions of the production, transmission, and reception of both the context and content of some examples of Dene textualized orature can contribute to research on practices of Indigenous narratives arts in the nation-states Canada and the United States from the deep past through to the present—with a view to the future meanings of these narratives, a set of possibilities I describe as narrative revitalization.  Narrative Revitalization While this project does not integrate my experiences in language revitalization into the analysis for ethical reasons (see Preface), I look to the notion of revitalization through language 11 to suggest that narrative revitalization could become a useful practice within language classes. Narrative revitalization I define as cognate to and coeval with community practices of language revitalization3 (Canese 462-63; Hinton 2013; Meek 2010) that have emerged from earlier, and very important, Indigenous-Euro-American cross-cultural projects such as ethnography and ethnopoetics, where translators seek, in Indigenous-language texts, the “lineaments of poetic patterning that were ‘there all the time,’ but that an earlier philology, ‘applied’ in the format of published text collections of Boas, Sapir, and others, had obscured” (R. E. Moore 295-96). Poetic form is present in very old stories but also even in life narratives, the making of which is a “social activity” that has “symbolic qualities” that form a “kind of autonomous life that simultaneously reflects continuity with the past and passes on experiences, stories, and guiding principles in the present” (Cruikshank, Preface x). The term narrative revitalization is meant to describe the possibilities of 1) revitalization of the narratives in how they continue to be interesting and useful for survival of all kinds and 2) revitalization of the languages in that stories are more memorable ways to engage with language than grammar lessons alone. But I think they                                                              3 Broadly, the issues implicit in the project of recognizing and documenting Indigenous language loss and thus language documentation and revitalization are those of sovereignty, identity, and cultural or epistemological diversity. The Encyclopedia of Bilingual Education suggests that the “process by which languages become extinct is known as language loss, language obsolescence, language death, or extinction,” and, in a combination of rather capitalistic and animistic registers, defines language revitalization as the “other side of the language coin,” where “efforts to instill vitality in a language that is either extinct or in the process of becoming so are referred to as language maintenance, language revival, language renewal, and more generally, as language revitalization,” which “refer[s] to efforts to impart vigor and restore vitality to a language that is experiencing a decline in use” through “increasing the number of users and promoting new uses of the language, by expanding its domains and instituting learning programs (Canese 462-63). These efforts are meant to counter what Patrick Wolfe claims to be the heart of the settler-colonial agenda, cannibalism at one remove—specifically, the cannibalisms of slave labor and of reterritorialization that “characteristically involve alienation . . . natal . . . [and] spatial” (886). While Indigenous languages are considered minority languages that have been deliberately eroded by the genocidal policies of Canada and the United States (see especially Article II.b, c, and e of the UN General Assembly’s Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide), the reasons for their revitalization are as many as there are speakers and students of those languages. Salvage ethnography, ethnopoetics, and life narratives are each defined by historically situated reasons for pursuing the study and preservation of Indigenous languages. While each of these movements is fraught with Euro-American assumptions about Indigenous cultures, they also represent ineradicable expressions of cross-cultural intellectual and imaginative power and deserve to be recuperated as both products—in the published texts—and processes—in analyses of the same and in the ongoing work of cultural renewal in Indigenous communities. 12 also enact the possibility of 3) revitalization of humans and animals in the way the identities and relationships of both are articulated in the languages and in the narrative patterns, which I began to analyze in terms of deictic reference and shift but which has become more singly about references to personhood, and to the embodied and emotional or expressive implications of personhood as flesh or meat, bone, mind, and breath. Why Animals? Why Deixis? Animals are the origo, the reference point on which deictic relationships are based, of deictic constructions because animals preface everything else in Dene worldviews. Thus the origo, in everyday speech, might be “I,” but because animals are the source of life, I suggest that the origo of flexible forms of reference, which traditional oral narratives constitute in a sequential, sustained way, must always be the animal. Further, in Dene cosmologies, reincarnation and recreation renew human and animal lifeworlds cyclically (Blondin 2006; Mills and Slobodin 1994; Zolbrod 1984). Likewise, then, the oral-textual cosmologies of the narratives I am researching are likewise produced through cyclical recreations in the forms of re-mediated, re-read, re-translated, re-stored, and re-interpreted textualized orature. The antecedents of narrative reference may thus shift, while the animal origo consistently remains the animal. In other words, the “deictic field” may shift spatially, temporally, or, most interestingly to me, there may be “perceptual” and “relational” deictic shift (Stockwell 47). Perceptual deictic shift, Peter Stockwell suggests, occurs where “expressions concerning the perceptive participant in the text” change to a new perceiver, which he suggests is a necessary interpretation of referential language because “taking cognition seriously means that reference is to a mental representation and is a 13 socially located act and is therefore participatory and deictic” (45).4 Relational deictic shift, Stockwell suggests, occurs when  expressions that encode the social viewpoint and relative situations of authors, narrators, characters, and readers, including modality and expressions of point of view and focalisation; naming and address conventions; evaluative word choices. (46) I suggest that perceptual and relational deictic shift occurs in animal orature as different audiences and interlocutors are referenced in different transformations of oral narratives, while all the anchors of reference, all the animals, remain the same, just as they always are. Because the many related oral versions, written editions, and re-translations of the four main books I focus on demonstrate how textual production, transmission, and reception are mutually interpenetrating and regenerative in both analogical but also (a)historical ways, a consistent but flexible approach to epistemological reference is crucial to understanding that the content of such narratives comes both to prescribe its own re-interpretation and to describe the history of its making after the fact. Indexicality, while crucial to all communication, is not specific enough a concept in the components of its figuration to describe and trace the work of the animal in such orature. Deixis, in its components of figuration which are both open and definite, permits the pointing and shifting that occur at sub-lexical levels all the way up to whole stories. Animals that serve as the origo of deixis thus both anchor those stories and, at the same time, also demand attention to context to such as degree that both the textual and the biological become crucial to a materially-grounded approach to reading.  Because the narratives I write about give voice to the animal, I use and expand on the concept of deixis, a uniquely flexible form of reference to person, time, and place in lexicon,                                                              4 See Stockwell for an interesting taxonomy and assessment of various kinds of deixis in narrative: perceptual, spatial, temporal, relational, textual, and compositional (45-46). 14 grammar, and narrative that demands—and thus imputes—knowledge about the contexts of these references, to read closely the ways that animals tell us what to do. Spatiality—what direction to go—is crucial in Dene narratives, and as Keren Rice writes, for example, of movement through space: The deictic/directional system of Slave is elaborate. Most deictic/directionals consist of two morphemes. The first is a locative noun, generally a bound form, specifying location in time or space. The second is a postposition indicating the relationship of the speaker to the location. (Rice 319) Spatial deixis has been especially well-researched in Dene languages (see especially Moore 2003, Moore and Tlen 2007, and Berez 2011). Naming practices using spatial coordinates derived from a larger network of anchors, Kari has shown, permit movement across not just space but also time. Kari describes this as his “Athabascan Geolinguistic Conservatism Hypothesis,” in which he argues for hydronymic (“Concept” 205) (water-named) and oronymic (204) (mountain-named) reference practices that are grammatically encoded in many Dene languages north and south, from archaic times to the present (194). Spatial deixis, Andrea Berez-Kroeker has shown, works differently in different kinds of narratives such as animal stories versus travel accounts. She comments that:  In some superficial ways, frog stories and Ahtna travel narratives are similar: animate referents move across the countryside in pursuit of animal(s). But in many ways, particularly cultural ways, they are different. In Frog, Where Are You?, referents engage in activities that do not happen everyday . . . speakers telling travel narratives make full use of the grammar of path and location available to them, including adverbial verb prefixes, a class of riverine directionals, and highly systematic toponymy. Interestingly, 15 while all of these are also available to frog-story narrators, speakers in this genre seem to restrict themselves to only a narrow range. (Berez 118-19) Spatial references in frog stories are more limited than in travel stories; in animal stories, animate referents move under narrative conditions that are not everyday happenings. It is in deictic reference to person that I find my focus for my dissertation—specifically, references to animal people. Animals guide humans in Dene narratives by serving as both references and as frames of reference. Animals often situate references spatial, temporal, and personal through visionary and practical advice. Of course, all three kinds of reference are interconnected (Dancygier, Language 118). For example, in Kaska, the directional prefix ah- is used when someone other than the focal character (or other than those who are part of their immediate group) determines the direction taken. These characters may include people making a side trip, people belonging to another group, and animals. (Moore, Point 61) Such forms of reference do not necessarily require animal figuration for articulation. However, as many Indigenous Elders from a range of different cultural communities have commented, voice, landscape, personhood, and language are deeply interconnected: and they have a voice. From a Cree Elder in a recent collection on Indigenous poetics in Canada: “when Edwin Tootoosis was visiting my father, he told me ‘Môy ê-kistawêt’ (‘It does not echo’). He was referring to the land, and the fact that it no longer had sound in the way it had before” (McLeod 6). From an Interior-Salish scholar: the land is  constantly communicating. Not to learn its language is to die. We survived and thrived by listening intently to its teachings—to its language—and then inventing human words to retell its stories to our succeeding generations. (Armstrong 176).  16 From a Pueblo verbal artist:  The memory of my ancestors and their story resides in part with the high, dark mesa. For as long as the mesa stands, people within the family and clan will be reminded of the story of that afternoon long ago. Thus the continuity and accuracy of the oral narratives are reinforced by the landscape. (Silko 35) In Dene stories as well, animals most definitely speak, teach, and remember, often persistently.   The connection between voice as sound and deixis is something that I have developed as my research has progressed, and I discuss it further in my chapters and conclusion. This deixis of sound itself inheres within phonomorpological constructions, but also often exceeds them in what Edward Sapir (1884-1939) called the “feeling-tone” of words, which is a phenomenon like a “sentimental growth on the word’s true body, on its conceptual kernel”—and a phenomenon which is “exceedingly variable and elusive” (39-40). Yet his ensuing discussion of storms, tempests, and hurricanes is quite beautiful.  Sound can function as an expressive deixis of vocal emotion, and therefore of viewpoint, position, relation, and being itself; thus animal voices tell and are telling—they point to the meanings of the stories which they inspire and which they inhabit. Pointing through sound is an old concept. As Karl Bühler (1879-1963) writes of deixis, These lexical items, so simple in their sound structure, might induce the language theorist into philosophical abysses or to respectful silence, when challenged to determine their function. . . . In the sound form, in the phonetic pattern of the words now, here, I, there is nothing conspicuous; it is only peculiar that they ask, each in turn: look at me as a sound phenomenon, take me as a moment marker, as a place marker, as a sender marker (sender characteristic). (Bühler qtd. in Galbraith 21) 17 Sound is powerful: it moves between our inner and outer worlds in a way that is unique to the senses. Mary Galbraith’s response to Bühler’s early claim concerning the aural force of deixis is to assert that the “key to [the] intersection between the linguistics of subjectivity and the phenomenology of language is the term deixis” (20), suggesting that this speech phenomenon is “extralinguistic, subjective, and occasion-specific” (20). Galbraith’s focus is on the grammaticality of deixis, while Bühler’s sense—and indeed, I think even Sapir’s sense—is that sound itself points—a topic that is taken up in sound-symbolism studies in the form of proximal and distal deictic forms (e.g. demonstratives), as well as phonologies of size (Ultan 1978). So deixis is aurally compelling, while the aural is inherently both expressive and referential—for example, as I explore in chapter two, homophony is both lexical and polysemic; for another example, in chapter four, phonological variation in combination with evidential constructions of viewpoint permit an extralinguistic emotional response to the spiritual work of the animal at a morphological level. And animals are, in many Dene frames of reference, both spiritual and physical: they are the teachers through which knowledge becomes power, the organ through which sound becomes voice.  Because I am engaging with cultural texts, my premise is to begin with the assumption that these animal teachings are true. If so: how? And from there: what does it mean, and then what more does it mean? The voice of the animal must come through loud and clear in the human storyteller’s voice if indeed certain animals teach humans who look for this kind of knowledge. There is no one answer to the question of meaning, just as there is no one kind of deictic reference that does not implicate other references, ultimately constructing a unique viewpoint from which to say: here I am, now, with you. It is thus experience of animal power that ultimately lends significance to the question of meaning and of interpretation. Dene wisdom 18 is based on direct experience for the sake of personal survival (Mandeville, This 23, 199). Human encounters with animals, if they occur in the right way, lead to wisdom. This wisdom persists as contexts change; animals still permit survival as history exacts its deaths and its births. In other words, deictic centers and shifts in reference across multiple cultural and disciplinary collaborative contexts constitute historical and personal—face-to-face, skin-to-skin—histological—revitalization because the analogical with the (a)historical places the reader at the intersection of embodiment, language, and narrative, demanding that the reader integrate their personal interpretive context with the intersubjective contexts of everyone, both animal and human, who contributed to the formation of the narratives in their never-final forms.  Because animals are embodied, social, and discursive, they are therefore ecologically cogent, which permits a system of constraints and flexibilities in how narrative meaning can move across time. The importance of constraint and flexibility—the connotative and denotative powers of deixis, in fact—cannot be overstated in the language-focused construal of narrative meaning-making. And the very act of interpretation is both crucial to survival and a compulsion that can overtake survival in a form of intellectual gluttony: this is action that always proliferates wherever it is found. Miller writes, “at the center of action is a process of interpretation” (156) that is meant to make the “new . . . familiar through the recognition of relevant similarities” that become “constituted as a type” (156-57). These “types” allow for groups to “create recurrence, analogies, similarities” such that “What recurs is not a material situation (a real, objective, factual event) but our construal of a type” (157). Humanity, that elusive self-concept, can never be fully rendered without lapsing into a fascistic standing reserve, on the one hand, or a transcendent miasma, on the other: problems that Claude Lévi-Strauss and Jacques Derrida, as I discuss below, did much to contest. Constraints on self-description that are very much alien, 19 totally other, yet still animate, are therefore one way to counter the syndrome of human exceptionalism and permit what Miller calls construal through group creation. In this group creation of meaning that is not limited to the human, in animal stories, we find a cure for the impossibility of total and totalizing self-reference that invades invasive colonial thought, which I always risk perpetuating. This is how to both excise the human and yet continue to live: only with others.  In many Dene stories, animals are more-than-human (see Abram 1996 for one iteration of this term). As Dene-Tha Elder Willie Ahnassay teaches, Animals have special abilities which they depend upon to live, giving us only the powers which they no longer need. . . . An animal chooses someone to receive these leftover powers, a person who has treated the animals with respect” (Moore and Wheelock 7); “Wonlinghedi yet’áin ghedi ehsíin ju. Gáa xónht’i a’onht’e. . . . Gúhyeh xónht’e dene ewón xónht’e. Ghedi ewón xónht’e edu íhk’eh kawots’edeh wonlinghedi edu mbéhchehts’edah.” (111) The ways in which this statement is true are intersubjective, through the mutuality of language—through showing how all viewpoints are intelligible, and showing this truth through not just spatial or temporal but also ontological deixis, which I examine further below in relation to Eduardo Viveiros de Castro’s theory of “cosmological deixis,” which interrogates Euro-American theories of nature versus culture, animal versus human. The Euro-American obsession with self-description as ontologies of human exceptionalism, in which, at least in a post-structuralist age, discourse is the only animator imbued with an agency that operates beyond the limits of the human self, is cured through reference, or more precisely formalisms of reference—Miller’s recurrences of type. Her point that analogues—central ideas, set relations, allegorical 20 forms of intersubjectivity—recur in new contexts that inflect or derive new meanings in relation to old ones suggests that narratives of animals can be dreams that one climbs into like the skins of animals in acts of radical spiritual revision. This skin-to-skin interplay, as it were, is that which Miller defines as “substance”—and is “considered as the semantic value of discourse, [and] constitutes the aspects of common experience that are being symbolized” (159). But “form”—the “ways in which substance is symbolized” is that which “shapes the response of the reader or listener to substance by providing instruction, so to speak, about how to perceive and interpret” and becomes a “kind of meta-information, with both semantic value (as information) and syntactic (or formal) value” (159) so that “form at one level becomes an aspect of substance at a higher level” of meaning (160). The formalisms accessible through an expanded interpretive framework focused on deixis permit a specific focus on what Miller calls the phenomenon of “communication” that “must rest on experience” (161). Through open forms of deictic reference that demand interpretation through the application of context, communication itself becomes conceptualized as experience. In this way, the fact that we point, and how we point, are crucial questions of a poetics that attends to being, to relationship, and to the survival of relationships across time, space, and being through an intersubjective experience of emergent meaning-making.  Formalisms within orature are intersubjective, in certain genres, and perhaps in more than has been attended to in ethnopoetic history. As Dell Hymes writes,  Those who produce texts and those who interpret them vary in their attitude toward the significance of form. Let me leap past the view of historians and critics to observe that there are texts in which significant form is difficult to discover, texts whose form is mainly an external constraint, and texts in which form is interwoven with meaning to 21 such an extent that interpretations which neglect the form are inadequate. Many Native American narratives have proven to be of this kind. (“Arikara” 264)  The formal deictic features I attend in this project to are the material (biological, embodied) and spiritual personhood of animals because references to personhood are both derived from, hermeneutically, and construed, contextually, by relations between human and animal forms, voices. Animals are more than metaphors in Dene narratives: I argue that they are in fact essentially and existentially deictic, organizing both centers of reference for experiential narrative encounter and shifts in reference for renewed meaning and narrative revitalization. For example, in chapter three, I consider how collaborative relations between multiple kinds of entities—bone and flesh, breath and word, Dene-language speaker and linguist, story and song—permit the revitalization of the archive. And in chapter five, I consider how it is that the tension between ever-present Coyote and almost-always absent Badger permits the cyclical intercalation of air and earth—sky and stone—life and death—through the ceremonial, narratological, and grammatical movement of pollen in Navajo genres.  I preface my introduction with a quotation from Madelaine Drybone: “The stories never die.” Put this another way. Deictic reference, especially to personhood, permits the construal of viewpoint, which is an always-already intersubjective process. Viewpoint is special: it connects, and, when given by the animal, it permits perspectives beyond the human. These viewpoints move through stories. The viewpoints within and of animal stories are mobile in that they push against the limits of human understanding. Certain viewpoints never die. Framework: Theory My theoretical framework for analyzing the content of these narratives recuperates a wide range of kinds of textualized orature, including Boasian ethnography and Hymesian ethnopoetics 22 (e.g. Hymes 1996, 2003), by applying ecocritical, cognitive-linguistic, and structuralist approaches to deixis to the question of context and content, with a special focus on “cosmological deixis,” or references to ontology conditioned by positionality, as Viveiros de Castro (1998) has termed it, and which I explore below. I believe these approaches are especially fitting for two reasons: first, the theoretical framework can be used to examine the ways that textualized orature is animate, according to both Derridean ideas of writing and to Dene ideas of the power of stories; second, the ethos which emerges in my analysis is one in which semantics is pragmatics (Evans 47), since, in textualized orature, social context is form—social context is the referential structure that articulates the flesh and bones—the content—of the stories to create intelligible messages. And the question of context is always open: there can be no limit to the layers of context which contribute to the emerging meaning of narrative art. At the same time, the nature of narrative is such that, whatever its organizational nature (for example, life story, history, travel account, hero stories, transformer stories, and so on), its sequential structure allows for certain constraints to be placed on the interpretive cues derived from context. These constraints are themselves sequential: they are the production, transmission, and reception of orature, in this case. Further, the conditions for the production, transmission, and reception of orature can be hermeneutically defined by (here I do not use the word constrained) interpretive cues within the stories themselves: deictic forms of reference permit, even demand, both an awareness of context and a sensitivity to interaction: who it is that is actually here, now, with us. To consider the stories we tell about the stories we tell—to make the contexts talk with one another—thus challenges readers to identify deictic links between the context and content of the narratives. As William Hanks writes, “Deictics mediate precisely between the speech event (Es) and the narrated event (En) . . . and this mediation inherently alters the former,” so that 23 “What is actual prior to an utterance and what is actual after it are not the same, since reference reflexively alters the context of its own production” (Referential 519). In order to perform the move from the speech to the narrated event—and, I would argue, of necessity, back again—one must first identify the deictic center, contextual information in the content of the stories such as “topicalization, focus, extraposition, foregrounding and backgrounding, presentatives, anaphora, tense, aspect, and spatial deixis” (Zubin and Hewitt 140-41) and second identify deictic shifts, which occur when the deictic centers are changed by “voiding a component” of these elements of the deictic center or “by shifting them apart” (143). These centerings and shiftings of meaning occur across the contexts of production, transmission, and reception within which the texts as products must be read into texts as processes. Because if Bruno Latour is right about how meaning is reified in Euro-American approaches to discourse, many “moderns have confused products with processes” (115)—leading to a paradoxical and destructive effect of purification and translation. One of the most important ways that deictic centers shift within these narratives is through the intersubjective connections that emerge through animal-human conversations—dialogical deixis—and, as a result, ontological animal-human convergences and, thus, epistemological conversions: we come to see history in new ways by reading such stories and by allowing these stories to change us.  An example of how trans-species dialogue can enact the work of contextualization is to be found in Mandeville’s story “The Man Who Became a Wolf,” which I focus on in chapter two. In this story, the protagonist, Spread Wings, is a human man who has the special ability to become a wolf whenever he is old and in need of renewal—he “from time to time became a wolf. This is what they say” (Mandeville, This 157). When he becomes old on the occasion of Mandeville’s story, a wolf who is always a wolf approaches Spread Wings and speaks to him to 24 remind him that “If you want to live longer on the earth / you must live with us again” (157). Spread Wings “thought, ‘I don’t want to be a wolf again’”—and although he only thought the words, the wolf answers him by stating that if he does not, he will die soon (157). Spread Wings realizes that he “want[s] to live longer on this earth” (157) and so “He immediately became a wolf” (158). This centering and shifting between discursive speech-thought-speech with human-wolf-human communication leads to utterance so powerful it becomes relational ontology: Spread Wings replies to his wolf guide, “I will become a wolf again” (157), and instantly he does so. Thus a wolf becomes a “grandmother,” a close relation, one who has engendered him—or, perhaps more accurately, a human becomes a wolf’s pup. This reversal shifts the deictic center of personhood in this narrative—the human, wolf, threat of death, and life sustained in death—when the subjectivity of the human-animal divide shifts—reference to personhood shifts such that both animal and human are shown to be people.  The result of ontological shifts in reference in this story about the man who becomes a wolf is that the context shifts from the strictly human to incorporate references to both human and animal, so that a story about communicating across massive differences enacts the intersubjective working relationship between Mandeville, the transcriber Li, and the translator Scollon. Their respective frames of reference converge to add layers of meanings to the story as they contribute to its transmission. For Mandeville, much of his practical motivation came from looking for ways to create a Dene-specific syllabics (Scollon, “Narrative” 229-30); for Li, the stories attested to a search for a broadly comparative linguistics;5 for Scollon, the stories meant Mandeville’s search, but also Li’s, although not comparative between Asian and Indigenous                                                              5 “It was Sapir who provided him with funds . . . Sapir had considered the possibility of a relationship between Sino-Tibetan and Athabaskan . . . When asked about this idea of Sapir’s more than thirty years ago back in the Mid- West, Li smiled and answered, ‘Distant as the floating clouds!’” (Yue-Hashimoto 6). 25 languages, but sociolinguistic, between the local languages of Fort Chipewyan, Cree, English, French, and Denesułine (Scollon, “Variable” 223). For me, their cooperative textualizations permit an ever-clearer picture of how these stories serve as vessels of ontological instruction through remediation into written form. Semiotic negotiation through collaboration occurs with wolves and humans—so perhaps humans are also capable of the same. The hermeneutical struggles associated with meaning-making—through living, loving, dying, and being reborn—revivificate in that they require the epistemological work of identifying the bones and the flesh of stories that narrate and enact these struggles. There is no point without specificity, the bones and flesh of our creatures which we love. The bones and the flesh: in intersubjective, discursive terms, these are the deictic centers thereof and the deictic shifts that are required as meaning moves. My methodological framework extends the theoretical scope of deixis as is demanded by these unique narratives through four levels of meaning making. Dene oral contexts are often quite personal and yet intersubjective—expressed through contextual cultural frameworks, allowing for “multiple indexical links to a single linguistic form” (Bucholtz and Hall 475-76)—in other words, one verbal or narratological form connotes multiple frames of reference, permitting an intersubjective construction of meaning through convergence on form. One of the most significant kinds of intersubjectivity occurs when “different temporal and spatial environments are talked about as if they were exchanged in the course of a conversation, in a shared environment” so that the “original input spaces (of the two opponents’ individual views) are now blended into one” (Dancygier, “Personal” 168).6 When                                                              6 This form of compression can even be expressed, in Apache, through “speaking with names” that convey old meanings in novel contexts by using the interface between landscape and toponyms to reference cultural frameworks and personal situations. As Keith Basso’s collaborator Lola Machuse explains, “We gave that woman [i.e., Louise] pictures to work on in her mind. We didn’t speak too much to her. We didn’t hold her down. That way she could travel in her mind. She could add on to them [i.e., the pictures] easily. We gave her clear pictures with placenames. So her mind went to those places, standing in front of them as our ancestors did long ago. That way she could see what happened there long ago. She could hear stories in her mind, perhaps hear our ancestors speaking. She could 26 this happens, even though a “speaker and his opponent [or interlocutor] may never have met,” an “emergent structure of . . . interaction” (168) occurs; the form, I believe, of conversation permits atemporal epistemological inferences to be construed between ontological positions to compose cosmologies. Such cosmologies are founded on “transspecific” exchanges of and shifts in perspective (Viveiros de Castro, “Exchanging” 465) in a phenomenon Viveiros de Castro calls cosmological deixis (1998), where shifting into an animal world permits shifts in the construction of personhood through changes in ontological reference: The fact that many “natural” species or entities were originally human has important consequences for the present-day state of the world. While our folk anthropology [in Euro-American culture] holds that humans have an original animal nature that must be coped with by culture—having been wholly animals, we remain animals “at bottom”—Amerindian thought holds that, having been human, animals must still be human, albeit in an unapparent way. Thus, many animal species, as well as sundry other types of nonhuman beings, are supposed to have a spiritual component that qualifies them as “people.” Such a notion is often associated with the idea that the manifest bodily form of each species is an envelope (a “clothing”) that conceals an internal humanoid form,                                                              reknow the wisdom of our ancestors. We call it speaking with names. Placenames are all we need for that, speaking with names. We just fix them up” (Basso 82-83). This is an act of shifting, expanding reference comparable to that of Mandeville, Li, and Scollon: “‘in front of’ (bádnyú) the site; and it is here, centuries ago, that ancestors of the Western Apache are believed to have stood when they gave the site its name. Accordingly, consultants from Cibecue explain that in positioning people’s minds to look ‘forward’ (bidááh) into space, a placename also positions their minds to look ‘backward’ (t’aazhi’) into time. For as persons imagine themselves standing in front of a named site, they may imagine that they are standing in their ‘ancestors’ tracks’ (nohwizá’yé biké’é), and from this psychological perspective, which is sometimes described as an intense form of ‘daydreaming’ (bił ‘onaagodah), traditional accounts of ancestral events associated with the site are said to be recalled with singular clarity and force” (89). In other words, by evoking detailed pictures of places, together with specific vantage points from which to picture them, placenames acquire a capacity to evoke the past for the future, transforming references to place into references to time, and vice versa, by using flexible modes of reference that permit the simultaneous maintenance and convergence of two deictic centers. 27 usually visible to the eyes of only the particular species and of “transspecific” beings such as shamans. This internal form is the soul or spirit of the animal: an intentionality or subjectivity formally identical to human consciousness. If we conceive of humans as somehow composed of a cultural clothing that hides and controls an essentially animal nature, Amazonians have it the other way around: animals have a human, sociocultural inner aspect that is “disguised” by an ostensibly bestial bodily form. (“Exchanging” 465) While every kind of animal is actually unique in Dene stories, this passage demonstrates a way of thinking structurally but also Indigenously about referential constructions of ontology as deictic reference to person not just at a grammatical level but through narrative: in Euro-American binaries between nature and culture, there is always an accompanying opposition between intelligence and language and inarticulate, irrational instinct. But as many Indigenous stories demonstrate, intelligence and language are about position: are you outside the bear’s cave, or have you been permitted to enter?  Thus rather than viewing “nature” as an object that can be empirically dissected or merely metaphorized, Viveiros de Castro suggests that, in Amerindian thought, the categories of “nature” and “culture” are better expressed as a “spiritual unity and a corporeal diversity” so that “culture or the subject would be the form of the universal, whilst nature or the object would be the form of the particular” (470). Rather than a “nature” that always exists independently of “culture,” there is culture—which I am construing to pertain specifically to language—that exists independently of any given creature’s apparent nature—their skins. In this sense, cosmological—as ontological—deixis coheres with the important lesson in Dene stories that animals are people—although this principle is ever-changing in its applications and implications. 28 Viveiros de Castro thus redefines culture and ontological reference as a self-conscious universal in Amerindian thought and nature as a highly-specific but ever-changing order of forms or bodies. In other words, forms or bodies—animal, human, glacial, stony, vegetal, and airy—are merely inflections of a shared category of (self-)consciousness. And the physical appearance of a body as an object (not conscious) or as a subject (conscious) depends on one’s position or point of view: “animals are people, or see themselves as persons” (470). Thus the “manifest form of each species is a mere envelope (a ‘clothing’) which conceals an internal human form . . . This internal form is the ‘soul’ or ‘spirit’ of the animal: an intentionality or subjectivity formally identical to human consciousness” (470-71). Like clothing, a consciousness can slip animal, human, or even glacial, bodies on or off. Each body provides a unique perspective on the world—so to be human is not to be a species but to live in a certain state or condition: the “common point of reference for all beings of nature is not humans as a species but rather humanity as a condition” (Descola qtd. in Viveiros de Castro, “Exchanging” 472). Reversal for metamorphosis is thus a key relational process in the construction and maintenance of the world. The means of metamorphosis is, in Viveiros de Castro’s opinion, cosmological deixis—the movement of culture through a variety of natures. Viveiros de Castro writes, then, of cosmological deixis as one of the capacities of “Whatever possesses a soul,” which, as a “subject,” is “capable of having a point of view,” and thus “Amerindian souls, be they human or animal, are thus indexical categories, cosmological deictics whose analysis calls not so much for an animist psychology or substantialist ontology as for a theory of the sign or a perspectival pragmatics” (Viveiros de Castro, “Exchanging” 476). Viveiros de Castro’s “theory of the sign” or his “perspectival pragmatics” is based on the contrast between form and consciousness, departing from the “Saussurean formula: the point of 29 view creates the object” to arrive at an Amerindian perspectivism where the “point of view creates the subject” (476). Self-consciousness in this sense becomes an ever-changing historical force through relational movement. So then the  human bodily form and human culture—the schemata of perception and action ‘embodied’ in specific dispositions—are deictics [that are] . . . reflexive or apperceptive schematisms by which all subjects apprehend themselves, and not literal and constitutive human predicates projected metaphorically (i.e. improperly) onto non-humans. (477) This is the problem of anthropocentrism and radical human exceptionalism. Most importantly, Viveiros de Castro writes that “deictic ‘attributes’ are immanent in the viewpoint, and move with it” (477). Which means that telling stories—and transmitting them across media and modes—changes people.  The important key here is, again, that the stories I examine are cultural texts: taking the truths of these seriously is crucial; cosmological and ontological deixis permit me to do so through discourse. Framework: Method Thus, in each of my chapters, I analyze how the deictics of narratives I look at motivate viewpoint by re-mediating four levels of context. Many events in Dene narratives occur in sets of four: four acts of violence, four revelations, four songs, four worlds (Scollon and Scollon, “Cooking” 188, 191). I think there are four deictic levels that can be considered for each of the four main works, in two modes, content and context, which are fundamentally all retellings of the stories for various interconnected purpose. These levels are: 1) animal utterances in connotative or reported speech and conversation with humans and in denotative or direct speech and conversation with humans (dialogical deixis); 2) the occasion for, social context of, and 30 process of recording these narratives—the human interlocutors (social deixis); 3) the pedagogical and disciplinary methods that contribute to the framing and reframing of the narratives (cultural deixis); and 4) the epistemological systems that result from reading these books from textual products back into epistemological processes (cosmological deixis). From these four levels, I also suggest that it is useful to trace the deictic shifts between: 1) the encounters that occur between humans and animals (sourced in the content of the narratives); 2) the orator and the transcriptor and, often, translator (accessible through archival research and oral interviews); 3) comparisons of the cultural methods and theories followed by translators and re-translators to produce different textual iterations of the same narratives (remediation); and 4) historical receptions of the narratives by reading and listening communities (language and narrative revitalization).  The question of content and deixis is intended to focus on the intersubjective heart of the narratives: animals that can tell us what to do. Of course, these hearts of the narratives signify differently depending on the context—thus grammatical and narratological levels of meaning both function deictically. While the narratives are the work of many minds and have the capacity to be interpreted in multiple modes with multiple conclusions, the question of context and deictic analysis is meant to consider these nested contexts cumulatively—to make the contexts talk with one another—to consider the stories we tell about the stories we tell. While this synthesis is conditioned by the scope of this project and needs to be expanded in future work, it is my hope that, through writing this dissertation, I have come to gain a more detailed and accurate understanding of Dene narrative principles so that I can begin to see what kind of chimera a comparative Dene orature looks like—what kind of animal.   31 “La pensée mythique est par essence transformatrice” (Literature Review and Discussion) This introduction, besides summarizing my project, also serves as a literature review of some of the anthropological and literary concepts which have inspired my thinking in the theories and methods sections of my chapters, primarily via structuralism and post-structuralism. This is my cultural context from within which I come to Dene stories in both the languages of their telling and their translations into English. It is my hope, as I try to convey throughout this project, that Dene narratives will come to instruct me about some of the problems inherent in and addressed by my own cultural tradition.  In the traditions that I come from, I am conditioned by a linguistic ideology of dialectical transcendence, and a recognition of the possibility of a disruption in the perception of the synthesis required for transcendence through attention to the absolute limit of uncertainty about limitation itself. It is from this context of certain uncertainty that I look at the production, transmission, and reception of Indigenous textualized orature as chimera—as animate discourse entities—via two concepts proposed by structuralist Lévi-Strauss (1908-2009) and poststructuralist Derrida (1930-2004): the mythographic and pharmacographic—“La pensée mythique est par essence transformatrice” (Lévi-Strauss, Naked 603), which births the “literal parasite: a letter installing itself inside a living organism to rob it of its nourishment and to distort [like static, = “bruit parasite”] the pure audibility of a voice” (Derrida, Dissemination 128). This tension between inner and outer defines the tensions between the contexts and contents of shifting—i.e., transformative—animal epistemologies: organic yet not anatomical. In other words, mythic thought persists even in print. The nature of mythic thought—that which makes it “mythic”—is its life-like, perhaps animated, effect on those who are exposed to it. To hear one of these stories is to experience a fundamental change in one’s pattern of thinking. It has been 32 my experience that Dene stories expose a way of thinking fundamentally organic but also deathly and lively: these oppositions play out at semiotic levels but also more expressive, language-based levels, through the animating effects of sound, where animals speak, and humans are changed. Of the relations between humans and animals and objects and subjects, Latour writes, “All natures-cultures are similar in that they simultaneously construct humans, divinities and nonhumans,” and that “All of them sort out what will bear signs and what will not” (106); while Derrida writes of the “graphic relations between the living and the dead: within the textual, the textile, and the histological,” that we must “keep within the limits of this tissue: between the metaphor of the histos and the question of the histos of the metaphor” (Dissemination 71). More specifically, Latour describes this interstitial form of embodied intersubjectivity as a network of “translations” between objects as agents—as “hybrids” of “nature and culture” or “exact knowledge and the exercise of power” across the linguistic and semiotic margins of—within the bounds of my project—cross-cultural and re-mediated modes of encounter (Latour 3). Just as the cross-cultural encounters that Dene narratives represent necessitate remediation, witnessing change in itself—as such—is central to the structure of the Dene narratives I study—much more so than linear narrative arcs of conflict and resolution found in some mainstream, contemporary Euro-American narratives. And because these narratives are “traditional” and have been and continue to be told and re-told orally, visually, in print, and because they concern the realities of life and death for animals and humans within Dene worldviews, their multitudinous instantiations are, like Latour’s “sociotechnological network” (5), very much “simultaneously real, like nature, narrated like discourse, and collective, like society” (6). Latour’s networks are patterns that play across media spaces to enact the nature of their agential hybridity; as I discuss in chapter two of this project, the Copper Woman’s caribou are patterns that play across media 33 spaces through the animal that indexes, as Alyce Johnson writes, a “time when animals and humans interchanged and interacted within both worlds spatially,” that “measures time, projects space, socializes people, identifies place, and narrates practice” for affirming ways that Dene “belong to the trails that memory ancestors . . . through narrative genres of stories, songs, dances, and ceremonies” (137). Thus such stories signify the wisdom of intersubjective ontologies—ontologies that intermingle species, human collaborators, and cultural perspectives on the same—on time, space, life, and death.  An example of intermingling from another Indigenous cultural system, but one that is also intercultural. As Margery Fee writes of the kinship system espoused by Grey Owl, an early conservationist who was European but married into Anishnaabe and Iroquois families and immersed himself in Anishinaabeg languages and cultures: Of course, to live harmoniously and morally is a wide-spread human ideal, but not all cultures share an epistemology that entails egalitarian relationships with such an array of material and spiritual beings. (Fee, “‘They” 149). Aside from the charming pun on “entail,” Fee’s point is especially salient as I seek both to contextualize and changefully renew my ability to engage with Dene animal stories. Grey Owl was not, contrary to his choices in appearance and behavior, Indigenous—although he did marry into two Indigenous families whose kinship systems worked differently from colonial definitions of status and blood quantum. His life is a cautionary example of the epistemological mobility of white privilege. But he also serves as a much-needed lesson in the impossibilities of any kind of purity—racial, ethnic, linguistic—even ontological. His love for beavers (and again, animal language practically pushes itself into a ludic mode of creativity) crosses the boundaries not just of ethnicity and language but also of species, and his work was good. In the name of 34 environmental and social justice, Grey Owl promoted, with his second wife, the “beaverly charm” (150) of their chosen animal affiliates—so much so that Fee suggests that it is not so much that Grey Owl “went Indian” as he “went beaver” (150)!  They say the interior of a beaver’s lodge smells sweet and fragrant with the tree sap, grasses, wet rock, and clear water which it is constituted by—possibly also by castoreum, beaver musk, which is used an ingredient in some perfumes. But the only way really to know what it is like in a lodge would be to enter a lodge myself. It is this entering into the homes of animals that the subtleties of their unique peoplehoods become apparent. Likewise with humanity: empathy comes through proximity; and at least theoretically, animal-based, told-to orature permits a unique opportunity to draw near. As such, it is a unique construction of intersubjectivity, where the animal prefaces, prompts, and perpetuates the human. But to what end? How does collaboration in the textualization of these narratives transform its participants, and how might narratives of collaboration transform readers’ understandings of Dene textualized orature concerning the animal as a formalizing medium, where its patterns persist across multiple contexts? The bounds of print and the skins of animals recirculate like a vision of the afterlife up close or like a vision from outside life, or from inside the afterlife till the past before this afterlife feels more like a beforelife. Thus the title of my dissertation, “Telling Animals,” is meant to express the hermeneutics of animals as they literally and literarily tell humans how to live, how to love, how to die, and even how to live again through the work of narrative revitalization.7                                                               7 Of rebirth in Indigenous narratives, Dell Hymes writes, “It would be a mistake to think of a strict linear sequence, one age wholly replacing another. It would be more useful to think of a center and a periphery. . . . The established world is a center, which the events and beings of the narratives encircle at a distance. One can go out to that periphery, as on a quest for spiritual power (Elmendorf 1984:290). The periphery can come closer, as in the winter sacred season, when power may be displayed in dramatic story and dance, and myths brought to life in words. Especially when the myths are travels of a trickster or transformer, they bring within the confines of the winter house origins in a world of summer” (“Mythology” 593). 35 While the narratives I am focusing on exist as historically-situated instances of meaning-making within Dene communities, because they are also collaborative in their production, transmission, and reception they are cyclically proliferated in their many productions, transmissions, and receptions both oral and written, in both the archive and in translation. They are mutable examples of negotiated meaning-making. In these Dene narratives, Latour’s question concerning the imputed Euro-American experts of epistemics, scientists, is answered by the animals themselves. While “Scientists are scrupulous representatives of the facts,” Latour suggests that it remains to be understood “Who is speaking when they speak?” (28). He argues that who is speaking is, in fact, the “facts themselves, beyond all question, but also their authorized spokespersons”; and so he must, in turn, ask, “Who is speaking, then, nature or human beings?” (28). Likewise, I ask: who is speaking, then, animals or humans? However, while I embrace Latour’s vision of an anthropology that addresses Derrida’s discursive play of meaning outside of the text as meaning spills across the margins and folds of our cognitive categories, the precise instances and means by which this inescapable form of intersubjectivity occur need a focal point.  In discursive terms, intersubjectivity is expressed through acts of indexing, of deploying “linguistic signs” that “point to (or “index”) aspects of the communicative context” that are linked by “ideological associat[ions]” that through cultural frameworks of association—these are the phenomena which allow for “multiple indexical links to a single linguistic form” (Bucholtz and Hall 475-76). These questions of referential pragmatics are embodied by nuanced messages delivered by orators who undertook the laborious projects of creating textualized orature as intelligent and powerful agents of their own artistic and pedagogical intentions. However, the question of the exact nature or structure of these highly intersubjective texts remains. What is 36 transmitted, and what cannot be transmitted? The signs and the gaps between them—between the words and the pauses—the oral and the written—the source and the target languages—constitute a challenge to readers to identify not only the deictic center of these nested production, transmission, and reception processes that define these texts, but also to identify the deictic shifts of meaning that occur across the nested contexts within which the texts as products must be read into texts as processes. Yet discussing the two, products and processes, is like trying to discuss the production of butter as if it were done in a “butterly” way (Latour 116). One way to organize concerns about the temporal and spatial implications of interpenetrating natures and cultures is to identify the intersubjective center of the texts through the figure of the animal, who, after all, serves as both an inscrutable and, in these narratives of cross-species communication, entirely scrutable vessel of meaning. They are telling precisely because they do not speak for themselves without the discursive encounters of narrative—but also, within Dene practices, of dreaming, of prophecy, and of close, personal observation of accurate animal behavior.  The pragmatics of the oral performance of traditional Dene narratives often encompasses cross-cultural, cross-linguistic, and even cross-temporal collaborations between Dene orators and Euro-American—or other Dene, or Chinese, French, German, Russian, Jewish, etc.—linguists, linguistic anthropologists, anthropologists, and translators. Once transcribed, these narratives are often translated from the Dene language in question into English while also undergoing adaptation from breath to verse and from field notes to books, incorporating the anthropological practices of ethnography and the literary practices of ethnopoetics.8 The work of Franz Boas                                                              8 Bauman describes in detail the interconnections of ethnographic and ethnopoetic practices: “no less philological than the others[. . .] is the Americanist anthropological tradition of Franz Boas, Edward Sapir, Paul Radin, and Melville Jacobs (Bauman 2003; Briggs and Bauman 1999; Hymes 1981). Boas gave explicit priority to the textual documentation of Native American cultures and his program for the collection and analysis of textual materials still shapes anthropological practice in the United States, especially in linguistic anthropology. In the Americanist tradition, texts constitute data for three principal lines of investigation: culture-historical, as evidence of historical processes such as diffusion, migration, and culture contact; cultural, as reflections—though selected and refracted—37 (1858-1942) was, in part, motivated by the discipline of philology, a discipline that has also, in part, given rise to literary studies (Harpham 71, 76).9 Boas states, in a 1905 lecture addressed to both anthropologists and philologists, that anthropologists must “acquire the habit of demanding such authenticity [a record of the customs and beliefs and traditions of the people in their own words] as can be guaranteed only by philological accuracy of the record” even though “in many cases this ideal cannot be obtained,” leaving the “student, much against his will, to adopt methods of collecting which he recognizes as inadequate” (“Some” 185). Yet over the decades and between the disciplines of anthropology and literary studies, this documentary inadequacy evolved into a form of interpretive surplus. In an interview in 1987 on the state of ethnopoetics, Karl Kroeber (1926-2009) comments that:  Family [his anthropologist parents] must have had its effect. . . . But my professional work as a comparative Romanticist was probably decisive. Romantic art gives voice to victims of Enlightenment rationality and technological conquests. So when my attention moved to America, I was naturally drawn less to apologists for Western progress like Emerson and Whitman, than to the peoples exploited by Eurocentric imperialism. And                                                              of culture; and linguistic, as extended, natural discourse. While thematic concerns are foregrounded in the investigation of texts as projections of culture, there has always been a significant interest in form in the Americanist tradition, and the analysis of form in relation to function and meaning is a prominent concern in Americanist linguistic anthropology” (33-34). 9 Karl Kroeber states that “American anthropology had the benefit of coming out of the German tradition which starts with Herder. Herder’s view is that all cultures are different but equally valuable. I understood completely the argument of someone like Leslie Silko, you know, who says these ethnologists come and steal our stuff. I think she’s wrong; she’s historically mistaken, although I understand why she says that. But American anthropology is distinct from most other anthropologies. The vision that Boas had was: here are these hundreds of cultures, and they’re dying, vanishing. So get out there and preserve what you can, because this is the evidence of human diversity. We all lose if this material is lost. I don’t mean that there weren’t other elements in it. But basically I think the preservation motive dominated. In its heyday, 1890-1940, American anthropology collected and saved, rather than classifying and judging. There are more than a dozen languages about which we’d know nothing if an anthropologist with a notebook hadn’t reached a last living speaker, but as a result nobody paid much attention to possible aesthetic dimensions in the material collected” (“Interview” 1987, 8). Cf. Fee 1987.  38 once I had stumbled into the unwesternized world of aboriginal literatures, a wilderness unlittered by academic critical trash, I felt intellectually reborn. (5)  In Boas through to Kroeber, it seems that two shared disciplinary interests inform the textualization of orature: a formalizing interest expressed though close language study, both in anthropological linguistics and in the lyric ethos of Romantic literature and criticism; and an interest in transcendence, where the critic or scholar can discover a “wilderness” of new material to meditate upon and mediate. If the past is just a story we tell ourselves, so is the future.  By comparing ethnography, then, as the primary genre of anthropology, with practices of literary criticism in the form of ethnopoetics as a form of close reading, the primary methodology of literary studies, I hope to acknowledge some of the ways that the two disciplines intersect 39 historically through philology10 and ethnopoetics, 11 but also my comparison of some of their theoretical analogues, structuralism and post-structuralism. As well as exerting an influence on methods of cross-cultural interpretation in their respective disciplines, Lévi-Strauss has also profoundly influenced Derrida’s thinking concerning the human and the animal as textual vitalities—as materials, beings, and ideas that, intercalated through the practices of hearing, touching, and reading, animate narratives for readers. I refer to this intertextual process as histology, where transposition, transformation, or translation is the membrane between writing                                                              10 Geoffrey Galt Harpham’s chapter “Roots, Races, and the Return to Philology,” describes philology as a “mirror” of scholarship in which to discern “scholarship’s highest aspirations and darkest fears” (79). He states that the “ongoing challenge” is “how to tell them apart” (79). Speculative “neohumanists” such as Winckelmann (1717-68), Herder (1744-1803), Lessing (1729-81), Schiller (1759-1805), Hölderlin (1770-1843), Alexander Humboldt (1769-1859) and Wilhelm Humboldt (1767-1835), Goethe (1749-1832), and Hegel (1770-1831) helped develop philology (48). They believed ancient Greek culture is “encoded in language” and sought to “render[. . .] the vivifying spirit of ancient civilizations in a form that could inspire imitation” (49). But imitation led to “speculative boldness . . . on an ever-larger scale as the discipline matured” (50). One of the key concepts in the development of philology is formulated by Böckh (1785-1867), who defined the discipline as the “knowledge of the known” (qtd. in Harpham 50). Thus the scope of philology as language study, according to Humboldt in 1836, could extend to comparative reconstructions of the “origins” of “Volk” through a “philosophical understanding of human nature” (50). This latter goal governs much of the subsequent development of philology (51), and human nature as “race” in philology occupies much of Harpham’s chapter (55). The “concretizing” effect of race on theories of culture as an extension of language motivated a shift in the focus of philology from the “origin of language as such” to the “historicity of languages” (55), and inspired Herder (55), Schlegel (1772-1829) (55), Humboldt (55), and Darwin (1809-82) (56-58) to develop biological explanations for linguistic origins and vice versa (56). Harpham suggests that Darwin’s “speculations” are based on “analogies” (57-58) between genealogies of biology and of linguistics (57). Genealogical “tree diagram[s]” used in philology and evolutionary biology functioned as “brilliant” ways to organise wide arrays of “empirical data and speculative inference” (59), but also allowed Haeckel (1834-1919) (60-61), Müller (1823-1900) (61-64), and Renan (1823-92) (65-69) to invert “contrastive relations” between “protocommunities” (62) into “root” (65), or characteristic, “linguistic . . . hardwir[ing]” (65). Harpham suggests that philology is revived in literary studies through philologist Bernard Cerquiglini’s (1947) landmark essay Éloge de la Variante (1989) and the 1990 special issue of Speculum on the “New Philology” (74) as well as in subsequent new-philological work (75)—but that philology remains undefined (75). Harpham concludes that philology’s influences on humanistic scholarship are threefold: “origin” as explanation (76), analysis as a “duality” of “empirical” and “subjective” approaches (77), and the text as a source of information about “identity” (77). These influences require analyses from multiple vantages rather than one totalizing narrative of philology (78). Harpham’s re-examination of the history of the history of language is useful because he suggests philology is both originary of and analogous with the humanities. Harpham’s focus on Darwin as a pivotal influence on the humanities allows him to reflect on the ethics of analogical thinking, revealing, in comparison with other readings, some of the dangers of Kantian idealism in university models (Fichte 1988). However, Harpham’s less well-developed historicizing of recent examples of “new philology” should also be noted. Harpham’s chapter thus illustrates as well as analyzes the tension between analogical and empirical scales of thought for developing future multiple “philologies” for the humanities, and serves as a justification for multidisciplinarity. 11 E.g. Dell Hymes’s work with Kenneth Burke (1897-1993; see Burke 1962) (Hymes 2003) or Robin Ridington’s (1939-) and Jillian Ridington’s (1936-) use of Mikhail Bakhtin’s (1895-1975) dialogism (Ridington and Ridington 2006). 40 and meaning. I quote Lévi-Strauss above, when he writes, “La pensée mythique est par essence transformatrice” (Naked 603), and again here as I take this punning paradox to be playing off of an earlier book’s title, La Pensée Sauvage (1962/1966)—untamed human thought—which is, in turn, a play on “wild pansies” (“Claude”)—“And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts,” says Ophelia (Hamlet 4.5.176-77). For “naked” man, i.e., the hermeneutical reader, to think mythic essence that is transformative is a punning paradox because the phenomenon of transformation contains the “matrix” of its own becoming—thus progeny is enfolded into progenitor, a form of containment that, by nature, essentializes non-essence. Wild pansies are always already seeds that were and will be wild pansies. Transformation is always already transformed. Translation, though, requires a more relational form of dissemination, non-originary and non-essentializing.  Derrida’s formulation of mythology and translation is “pharmakographic aggression” (Dissemination 128), where, in the Platonic mode of the play of language for the sake of Language, the letter as supplement must first penetrate the logos and then be excised, so that “exteriority as a supplement, inessential yet harmful to the essence, a surplus that ought never to have come to be added to the untouched plenitude of the inside” is restored in a mythopoeic imperative to “reconstitute, recite—and this is myth as such, the mythology for example of a logos recounting its own origin” (128). Derrida adds, “Such are the relations between the writing supplement and the logos-zōon,” clarifying that “In order to cure the latter of the pharmakon and rid it of the parasite, it is thus necessary to put the outside back in its place”—prolapse, as it were—in order to “keep the outside out” (128). In mythopoeic, almost transpositional contrast, Lévi-Strauss argues for the reverse—the matrix that keeps the inside in. 41 Before histology comes history—that of collaboration between the people who made the books I read and find very special.12 The collaborative process of the production, transmission, and reception of textualized orature thus requires analysis at the “midway [point] between literary criticism, which focuses on works, and bibliography, which focuses on books as books” (Williams and Abbott 54). While, in literary studies, close readings of texts combine attention to form and content so that form illuminates the critic’s understanding of content and content the critic’s understanding of form, the ethnographic means of producing many of the oral narratives I analyze here, in combination with the mediation of these narratives into print, require that I treat the social context of the production of these narratives as part of their form. After all, social context, in textualized orature, is narrative form. I also take as my cue Clifford Geertz’s statement that ethnography is a genre poised between the “uncertainty that appears in signature terms as how far, and how, to invade one's text [and uncertainty that] appears in discourse terms as how far, and how, imaginatively to compose it” (20). This uncertainty is a question that literary critics also grapple with. However, while literary studies and anthropology exist in a state of shared uncertainty concerning the question of mediation (e.g. the ethics of collaboration, orthographies, and access to records), they seem to me to do so with opposite premises: if anthropology entextualizes culture, literary criticism enculturates textualization.                                                               12 Of the many American scholars, critics, and poets who have contributed to ethnopoetics by developing various methods for formalizing, on the page, performative and linguistic aspects of Native American oral narratives, some of the key figures include: Dell Hymes (1927-2009), professor of linguistic anthropology in the departments of English and Anthropology at the University of Virginia (1981, 1990, 2003); anthropologist, poet, translator, and Tlingit elder Nora Marks Dauenhauer (1927-) and her spouse, poet, translator of German, Classical Greek, and Tlingit, and once professor at Alaska Methodist University (now Alaska Pacific University), Richard Dauenhauer (1942-2014), who have together produced the series “Classics of Tlingit Oral Literature” published in 1987, 1991, and 1994 (see for their perspective on these projects Dauenhauer and Dauenhauer 1995, 1998) ; Gary Snyder (1930-), a poet and ecologist; Jerome Rothenberg (1931-), poet, anthologist, and translator of German and Native American narratives, as well as co-editor with Dennis Tedlock of the experimental ethnopoetics magazine Alcheringa (1970-78); and Dennis Tedlock (1939-2016), State University of New York at Buffalo professor of English and Anthropology.  Paul Zolbrod (e.g. 1992b, 1995), Anthony Webster (e.g. 2006), and Sean Patrick O’Neill (e.g. 2013), whose work inspires me throughout my dissertation, may be considered ethnopoets also. 42 The textualized orature that results is the outcome of a complex set of collaborative poetics that contain each step of what textual studies terms the production, transmission, and reception of a book in each of its iterations: oral, transcription, translation, and re-translation. These essentially deictic transformations by definition must occur across ontological boundaries—animal and human, breath and flesh. So, in more recent iterations of discourse theory, Derrida responds with an open-ended skepticism to Lévi-Strauss’s transformation of Ferdinand de Saussure’s linguistic structuralism into mythic structuralism in Lévi-Strauss’s 1964 The Raw and the Cooked. In doing so Derrida transforms Lévi-Strauss’s certainty into uncertainty without changing the fundamental claim, revealing the two sides that are both troublesome and absolutely necessary to critical thought: “There exists no veritable end or term to mythical analysis, no secret unity which could be grasped at the end of the work of decomposition” (Lévi-Strauss qtd. in Derrida, “Structure” 233). Yet Lévi-Strauss makes the point that, in ritual, humanity “vainly tries to reduce the demands of thought to an extreme limit” (Naked 675) to revise the “resistance of man’s thought to man himself” (681), while Ruth Benedict’s Apollonian/Dionysian critical analogy plays on the limits of “Revision,” which “comes by way of revolution or breakdown” (249). The tension between critical “ritual” and critical “re-vision” is, therefore, one of my motivations for following animals whose biological and metaphysical logics migrate like the wind or like breath. In English, the words animal and animate come from the word anima, air, wind, breath, soul. The word for animals in Dene languages are often circumlocutionary, which for me emphasizes their unknown power—in Denesułine, ch’ądí or ’ech’ër, which in a terminology workshop on ecological contexts I learned refer contrastively to predator and prey13—in Dena’ina, ninya or ggagga, which means creature                                                              13 Predator: kech’adie (Mackenzie Valley Environmental Impact Review Board 72), prey: ’ech’ëre (73). 43 or animal, literally bear, a fierce yet protective icon of all animals (Kalifornsky, K’tl’egh’i Sukdu/A Dena’ina Legacy 71)—in Dene Dháh, wonlinghedi, something alive14—in Diné Bizaad, naaldlooshii, the one who trots about on all fours (Young and Morgan 581). This movement, so animal in its nature and action, expresses not just the power of the intersubjective, then; it also expresses the importance of an open mind. It seems safer never to assume we know absolutely. Uncertainty as the only shared certainty, then: this is re-vision as animalesque play. Chapters Summary Thematically, each chapter is framed by attention to key animals, which I chose based on my attention to the movements of animals in the stories and some key messages that each set of animal conveys to me, about how to live, how to love, how to die, and how to live again. The wolf and caribou in chapter two teach us how to live: how to survive. The porcupine and lynx in chapter three teach us how to love in a serious way, in terms of friendship and in terms of self-sacrifice. The wolverine and wolf in chapter four teach us how to die, literally and figuratively, in order to gain true knowledge. The coyote and the badger in chapter five teach us how to live again. These are not the only animals in these stories, nor are these the only lessons which these animals teach. But these animals and lessons speak to me, and so each chapter attends to the animalesque play within and across stories, focusing on key forms of reference, especially that of personhood—an animal word, a logos-zōon that does not require excision but, rather, re-birth.  Theoretically, each chapter synthesizes each of the levels of deictic reference to these animal forms of discourse as I describe above—deixis and sound metonymy in chapter two, deixis and the archive in chapter three, deixis and expressive markers of animacy in chapter four, and deixis and the limits of animacy in chapter five. I take a particular interest in deictic                                                              14 Wonlin can mean “something” (Moore and Wheelock 162), and ghedi can mean “living [thing]” (155), “being,” or “animal” (168). 44 references to personhood through the aural dimensions of voice, focusing on centers and shifts in lexical items through homophony and metonymy in chapter two; in chapter three, through articulations of personhood (animal and human) with the archive; in chapter four, animating markers of emotion in expressive speech; and in chapter five, discursive hierarchies between pollen, animals, humans, and rocks as a test or limit-case for that which is animate and intersubjective, the wind itself.  Methodologically, in chapters two and three, I comment on several stories from the same collection. In chapter four, I compare the transcription and interlinear translation of one story with the audio recording from which it was textualized. In chapter five, I branch out to include textual examples from many Navajo sources in both Navajo and English. I also, at times, integrate other relevant texts into my archives for each chapter. And chapters three and five, in particular, are informed by my experiences learning from and lending a hand with language documentation, maintenance, and revitalization communities in Alaska and in the Navajo Nation. I also, at times, integrate Euro-American poetry, poetics, and theory, since that is the frame of reference which I start from.  Eventually, I want the stories to change me as I spend years thinking about them. Thus in each chapter, I adapt my framework to the issues I am interested in examining and then at the end, I comment on the framework briefly as it pertains to the texts I focus on. I also focus on the dual-language nature of each primary work to varying degrees, always integrating some analysis of the Dene languages in which the stories were told to address the aural, grammatical, and animal features of the narratives I engage with.  Specifically, chapter two, “‘Grandson, / This is meat’: Wolf and Caribou on How to Live in This Is What They Say,” focuses on ɂɛtθén, the word for both “meat” and “caribou,” and the 45 homophonic relationship that the grandmother wolf above reveals between meat and caribou. Chapter three, “‘I will be popular with the Campfire People, so ha, ha, ha’: Porcupine and Lynx on How to Love in K’tl’egh’i Sukdu/A Dena’ina Legacy,” focuses on k’etch eltani, the prophetic practice of true belief through seeking visionary dreams (Boraas, “Work” 3). Chapter four, “‘What will you do now?’: Wolverine and Wolf on How to Die in ‘The Man Who Sought a Song,’” told by Elisse Ahnassay, focuses on the (a)historical function of wodih, a speech-act genre that “influence[s] an audience by establishing a common base of belief, by sharing the experiences of others, and by suggesting what will happen in the future” (Moore and Wheelock xix). Chapter five, “‘If it floats, we will all live forever’: Coyote and Badger on How to Live Again in Diné Bahane’: The Navajo Creation Story,” focuses on the reincarnational exchange between inner and outer figured by niłch’i bii’ sizinii, the “inner-dwelling silent wind” that “interacts with and shapes the outer wind which animates the entire world” (Toelken, “From” 7).  My Conclusion, “Histologies,” considers how the above concepts correspond roughly to: flesh (ɂɛtθén), bone (k’etch eltani), mind (wodih), and breath (niłch’i bii’ sizinii): an animal that is a dream, a dream that is an animal. In the motivic, cumulative, ardent, and terrifying afterlife of the hearts from which, into which, and between which these narratives have, do, and will emerge, I hope to compare our conditions for interpretive uncertainty—fundamentally fleshly, histological uncertainty—about our historical moment: how much space we believe ourselves to share as well as how much time we have to share it in—as forms of narrative revitalization. Summary of Introduction  This sub-section meets a university requirement; as such, there is some reiteration of content. Identification and Design of the Research Program. In this dissertation, I contribute to my field of Indigenous literary studies by taking a language- and literature-centered approach to 46 northern and southern Dene (Athabaskan) textualized orature—oral stories written down. Indigenous literary studies, often defined by Indigenous literary nationalism, permits a focus on cultural specificities defined by various markers of identity.15 I focus on poetics in Dene and English as indicators of unique epistemics which model ways for thinking that permit intellectual and spiritual survival. To do so, I draw on some of the valuable theoretical, methodological, and factual contributions of cognitive linguistics, Dene linguistics, and linguistic anthropology as well as some Euro-American contributions to critical animal studies and ecocriticism—but the focus is on Dene theories of the animal inasmuch as I am able, so that problems in Euro-American theory, such as that which divides animal and human, or the materiality of discourse, are examined using Dene narrative theory rather than the reverse.  I focus almost exclusively on Dene narratives since little literary criticism has been done on narratives in the Indigenous Dene languages in which they are told and which contain both translatable and untranslatable knowledge; the practices of translation in fact reflect the already intercultural construction of these texts—an effect with impacts positive and negative, depending on the relationships enacted by such transformations. I do reference neighboring narratives and epistemologies at times, finding particular inspiration in Okanagan orator Harry Robinson, and some Haida and Apsáalooke (Crow) narratives. Dene languages are far-flung, ranging from Alaska, the Yukon, the Northwest Territories, northern British Columbia, northern Alberta, northern Saskatchewan, and northern Manitoba; to southern, coastal Oregon and northern, coastal California; and down to the Southwest, in Utah, Arizona, Colorado, New Mexico, and Texas. While these languages are very widespread geographically and, according to some theories, temporally, they retain remarkable similarities in grammar. My project is thus to begin                                                              15 I am grateful to Margery Fee for specifying the issues of Indigenous literary nationalism in relation to Indigenous literary studies. 47 a comparative and contrastive study of Dene-language narratives in the languages in which they were told and in translation—dual-language form—focusing on their expressive poetics and philosophical implications for survival in multiple senses of the word.  By comparing Dene oral narratives both northern and southern, I seek some depth as well as breadth—I focus on the narrative features of only one Indigenous language-family, but one which is widespread and with protocols for verbal arts that are, quite often, based on respectful pedagogical relationships. I have identified my research program based on the connections between Dene languages and have designed my research program based on my interest in potential connections between Dene narratives. Performance of the Various Parts of the Research. I have performed my research on four published works of traditional and yet also contemporaneous Dene-language and translated narratives concerning dreams, visions, hunting encounters, and instances of reincarnation between animals and humans that lead to renewal, revival, and revitalization. Using theoretical, methodological, and informational cues from linguistics I have constructed an approach within Indigenous literary studies that permits engagement with Dene-language narratives: a reading framework using an expanded definition of deictic centers—flexible references to personhood, place, and time—and deictic shift—the formation of intersubjective understanding through overlapping pronoun references and through cross-species constructions of personhood, as well as overlaps between locations and temporalities and divergences between referential and expressive meaning—to address some of the possibilities in the stories for their interpretation. I link key instances of grammar-level references to personhood, in particular, to narrative-level embodiments of voice; my focus in doing so is on the personhood of certain animals. 48 The four main books that I write about are Denesułine (Chipewyan) This Is What They Say: A Story Cycle Dictated in Northern Alberta in 1928 (Mandeville 2009); Dena’ina (Tanaina) A Dena’ina Legacy, K’tl’egh’i Sukdu: The Collected Writings of Peter Kalifornsky (Kalifornsky 1991); Dene Dháh (Slavey) Wolverine Myths and Visions: Dene Traditions from Northern Alberta (Moore and Wheelock 1990); and Diné Bizaad (Navajo) Diné Bahane’: The Navajo Creation Story (Zolbrod 1984) along with their variants in translation. These texts belong to the told-to genre and exist in the form of textualized orature. These cultural (Subarctic, Pacific, Arctic, and Southwestern) texts are outstanding examples of Dene narratives that together reveal epistemological values important in Dene cultures, while, at the same time, that also serve as richly contrastive works of poetic forms and which do not as far as I know violate any ethical protocols.16 While dual-language texts are the most useful for deepening understanding, I have often had to look at older editions of the stories as well as the newer translations, two of which include English only (This Is What They Say and Diné Bahane’). All such iterations of the stories are useful and of interest to those studying Dene knowledge and experience through Dene aesthetics. Attention to poetics in the Dene-language texts I look at is possible because each of the texts I look at was produced with a high degree of documentary fidelity in word-for-word transcriptions from the oral Dene languages to written English at different methodological stages of documentary work on recording Indigenous texts; subsequent translations and retranslations were undertaken by community and ethnopoetic experts with knowledge of the social as well as linguistic dimensions of the texts. For further information on the intentions and qualifications of the orators and transcriptors, please see the first sections of each chapter and Appendix D.                                                              16 I am grateful to Margery Fee for suggesting that I expand commentary on texts produced through intercultural work. 49 By performing this research, I have contributed to my field in the form of the following thesis: traditional Dene textualized orature uniquely regenerates its own interpretive meaning through the deictic figures of ecologically and culturally significant animals of the regions within which the orators lived. These animals tell and are telling—both denotatively and connotatively. Listeners and readers learn from animals how they should interpret the historical meaning of the narratives as well as enact the potential in these narratives for revitalization of and through the narratives, an animating process available to reading and listening communities who would learn how to live, how to love, how to die, and how to live again. Analysis of the Research Data. While the term data is one used by my university in some contexts, a better term in the context of my work is narratives texts. The narrative texts I study were gathered through the passionate labor of Elders, Dene-language speakers of all ages, linguists, and anthropologists. For the last one-hundred years or more, much work has been done to record oral narratives, archive them, transcribe and translate them, and publish them. Of course Indigenous artists continue to use oral traditions in profound ways—Vancouver, British Columbia’s Jordan Abel; Winnipeg, Manitoba’s Garry Thomas Morse, Alaska’s dg nanouk okpik; and the Southwest’s Orlando White are all experimental, language-based, and tradition-oriented Indigenous poets, while science-fiction and fantasy author Richard Van Camp weaves together contemporary lives with deep Tłįchǫ knowledge—however, less has been done to interact with Dene-language narratives at a detailed interpretive level in Indigenous literary studies. Thus my analysis of the texts is artistic, not scientific, although linguistics is often defined productively as a science in pursuit of falsifiable data sometimes drawn from texts. In this project, I draw upon the stories as they are, looking at their contexts of production as well as within them, hermeneutically, for cues to their own interpretation.  50  There are key sources and supports who have made it possible for me to look at the stories at all to analyze some of the creative knowledge enacted by them. First, the Navajo Language Academy, where I am a student and teacher, has provided community beyond saying. By studying Navajo linguistics with Elders, Navajo-Nation language teachers, Dene linguists, and graduate students, I learned both factually and emotionally what narratives have the potential to represent in Dene cultures. Second, Patrick Moore and Leslie Saxon have provided first-hand insight and expertise in Dene languages, speech communities, and archives. By spending a great deal of time with me to discuss possibilities and realities, they have corrected many of my misapprehensions in my analysis. Remaining misinterpretations are mine. Third, Keren Rice’s A Grammar of Slave (1989) and Robert Young and William Morgan’s The Navajo Language: A Grammar and Colloquial Dictionary (1987) are monumental contributions to the field, and my analysis of grammatical markers of deixis as it pertains especially to animacy, and various etymologies, have been cued by merely scratching the surface of these invaluable references; I am also excited at every turn to read the continued work on ethnopoetics by Anthony Webster, as in his book Intimate Grammars (2015). Fourth, the kind mentorship and collegial help of experts in the field have taught me a great deal about the power of presence, which is to say the importance of context as form when interpreting the content of orature: for example, Paul Zolbrod and Siri Tuttle have helped guide my analysis of Dene poetics by providing a great deal of information about the arduous work of translation and about the importance of documentary poetics.  These two forms of knowledge, interpretive and documentary, have inspired me to pursue analysis in a narrative framework, which is both sequential, like didactic texts, and, I have found, often obliquely descriptive rather than linear: i.e., causation is relational via a kind of 51 positionality (a moving ontology) rather than psychological in the Euro-American sense, with its roots in dialectical theories of an unconsciousness. Rather than an unconscious, in Dene narrative theory, it seems to me that there may be multiple consciousnesses, all different, all requiring respect expressed as deep knowledge of those differences in combination with unfailing reciprocity through sacrifice and through—at times—secrecy: a form of privacy in a time of explication. The stories which have nonetheless been shared represent a revealing generosity on the parts of those involved in constituting those stories.17 Thus I have interpreted the texts using an explanatory ethnopoetics as well as pursued some knowledge of what might be called ethnopoiesis—or, more accurately, given the influence of animals on the formation of the narratives as grammatical and narrative patterns of reference to animacy—zoopoiesis: you think about what the stories mean to you.  The relevance of this project to Dene or other readers of any given heritage or identity is fundamentally indeterminable by me; I will not and cannot speak for others’ responses to the stories or to my approach. To do so would be to presume, to intrude, to ascribe, and to impute. Please see footnotes 96 and 97 of chapter five for further comments on ethics, which I will also quote here. From footnote 96: “I would very much like to draw on information and insights offered while I was a student in the Navajo Language Academy classroom in my discussion of this question in this chapter, but there are university ethics, at this stage of my research, that determine what and who can be quoted. I can only say that I am deeply grateful to all those who participate in the NLA for their knowledge and wisdom as I have tried to learn about Dene speech community perspectives on language and narratives.” From footnote 97: “In a class on orthography which I attended at Institute for Collaborative Language Documentation (CoLang)                                                              17 I am grateful to Patrick Moore for useful discussion of this point. 52 2016, Keren Rice and Mike Cahill observed that, in their experience working in northern-Dene contexts, unique enunciation as well as dialectical variations express valuable information about identity. While variation may be a widely held value in the north, there are many in Navajo territory who believe that a standardized vocabulary as well as orthographic practices are better: this depends in large part on how the speakers whom I have heard discuss this engage with their language. However, standardization means, in the Navajo context, not just a mastery of regional variation; it also refers to a deep understanding of the underlying forms of words that enables sophisticated contemplation of the philosophical relations between words.” My future postdoctoral fellowship research will address the questions of poetics documentation in the context of language maintenance and revitalization; for more information, please see my Conclusion.   53 Chapter Two “Grandson, / this is meat”: Wolf and Caribou on How to Live in François Mandeville’s This Is What They Say18 “The caribou are walking across the ocean, but they don’t come back. There is no land I can see in that direction so there must be land lying right underneath the surface. I’ll follow the caribou” (Mandeville, This 23). “[A] style of being wherever there is a fragment of being” (Merleau-Ponty 256).  Introduction  François Mandeville (1878–1952) was a Métis-Chipewyan trapper, fur trader, interpreter, and storyteller who lived in a region of northern Canada that is defined by Great Slave Lake to the north and Lake Athabasca to the south, connected by a system of waterways that leads, eventually, to the Arctic Ocean (Bringhurst, Foreword 7). Mandeville worked for the Hudson’s Bay Company until he became ill; throughout his convalescence, he built boats and trapped for himself (Scollon, “Narrative” 228). Eventually, he returned to the HBC, retired, and passed on at the age of seventy-four in Fort Chipewyan. His was the life of a true translator; he was, in addition to a navigator of a landscape riddled with muskeg, lakes, rivers, and boreal forest, accomplished in oral and written communications and a polyglot, and thus he was also a navigator of multiple cultures and worldviews (229). In 1928, he narrated twenty stories to a                                                              18 Chapter two will be published as “‘Grandson, / this is meat’: Hunting Metonymy in François Mandeville’s This Is What They Say” in Activating the Heart: Storytelling, Knowledge, Sharing, and Relationship with the permission of the publisher, Wilfrid Laurier University Press, secured thanks to one of the editors of the book and of this chapter, Christopher Cox. I am very grateful for his editorial support, as well as that of Barbara Dancygier, who oversaw the development of this chapter in a cognitive-linguistic framework through a directed reading she did with me, which started me on this dissertation. Without her detailed feedback and support, I could not have written this chapter. 54 young Chinese linguist, Li Fang-Kuei, who was seeking to study Dene languages. Five of these stories were elicited by Li (Scollon, “Narrative” 238). The elicited stories are highly pragmatic, containing descriptions of how Indigenous peoples educate their youth, how to fish, how to make a canoe, how to tan a moose hide, and how to hunt beaver. But fifteen stories were chosen and arranged in the order of their delivery by Mandeville himself (238). Most importantly for the place where I would like to begin my analysis, Mandeville collaborated with Li on the transcriptions of those stories, editing many of the discourse markers and contributing to an exhaustive collection of paradigm slips (236-37), a textual trace of his attention to the structural qualities of the narratives. Mandeville was as fully cognizant of the way text is put to page as he was of how to live off the land and as he was of how to negotiate cultural difference: in other words, he was aware of and adept at signification and interpretation in multiple modes—oral, written, environmental, and ontological, in the figures of animals and of their tracks and trails.19  Mandeville was also sensitive to literary style. He served language in both legal court contexts and liturgical church contexts (Scollon, “Narrative” 229, 258). Indeed, Ronald Scollon, who translated Mandeville’s stories from Denesułine (Chipewyan) to English twice, once in 1976 and again in 2009, writes that “when Li asked Mandeville for stories, Mandeville took it as an opportunity to produce his ‘highest liturgical style’ . . . developing a ‘high’ or, if you prefer, literary language” (257). In the same vein, Robert Bringhurst suggests, in his Foreword to Scollon’s 2009 translation, that  [Mandeville’s] tales of hunters and animals are Athabaskan [Dene] metaphysics  incarnate. He achieved, with the Chipewyan language, the kind of symbiotic relationship                                                              19 The titular quote refers to the tracks of a moose (Mandeville, This 162). In an earlier translation of the same story cycle (1976), the phrase is rendered, “(This which left these) tracks which we are looking at is meat” (Mandeville, Chipewyan 324).  55  that literature demands. He knew not just the meanings of the words, the permutations of  the verb, and the syntax of the sentence. He had learned the motivic form of those much  larger units of Chipewyan thought that we call stories. This made it possible for  Mandeville and the stories to speak through one another, and that is what they did. (10) “Metaphysics incarnate”: this phrase leads me to consider the incarnate, the carnal, further. The carnal, the fleshly, sensuous, embodied, material: what does this mean in narratives that are, after all, patterns of thought that inhere—are incarnated—in the mind or on the page, neither of which are “motivic” in the usual musical or mechanical senses?20 In a literary sense, Mandeville’s narratives have been and continue to be intensely mobile; or, if the stories are not mobile, they motivate the minds and bodies of their hearers and readers to carry them around. Historically, Mandeville’s narratives have circulated the sub-arctic, made their way to the eastern seaboard of the United States, Hawaii, Taipei, and, now, again, Canada (Mandeville 1976, 2009). And that is just in terms of their printed circulation; oral versions of these narratives were before Mandeville’s time and still are very much in use in northern Dene communities.21 So Mandeville’s conversation with these narratives infiltrates and reverberates within the                                                              20 But as Margery Fee suggests, cf. Kenneth Burke’s A Rhetoric of Motives (1950); see also footnote 11 of my Introduction on Burke in ethnopoetics. 21 These continuously circulating narratives continue to be instantiated in print. For example, Copper Woman’s story, a version of which is the first of Mandeville’s stories proper, is extant in the following publications: an unknown teller to Samuel Hearne in 1771 (published in 1795), Rabbit’s Head to John Franklin in 1820 (1829), Ekunelyel to Émile-Fortuné Petitot in 1863 and Alexis Enna-aze to Petitot in 1881 (both published in 1886), Jean Baptiste Ennou to Pliny Earle Goddard in 1911 (1912), François Mandeville to Li Fang-Kuei in 1928 (1976, 2009), Joseph Naedzo to June Helm in 1978 (2000), and Anne Cameron’s novel Daughters of Copper Woman, published in 1981.  I am grateful to Christopher Cox for telling me about a version of the Copper Woman story recorded in Edward S. Curtis’s The North American Indian (1928), Volume 18, “The Chipewyan. The Western Woods Cree. The Sarsi.” The story is titled “Tseqi Tsatsane Hehohl'ai, Woman Copper She-found” (127-28). This version links a wolf guide with caribou food, and it also associates beaver excrement with the appearance of copper. 56 imaginations of those who encounter them.22 The conversation continues, but the entities participant in it have yet to be well defined.  I am particularly interested in the idea of the “carnal” in Mandeville’s narratives because flesh, particularly animal flesh23—meat and the eating of meat—is such an important motif in almost all the narratives. Because the corollary to the presence of flesh is ingestion, and this is a pattern that recurs throughout Mandeville’s narratives: flesh and ingestion. In the north, hunting, trapping, snaring, and fishing were—and many argue are—essential to survival. But if Bringhurst is correct in asserting that Mandeville’s narratives are Dene metaphysics incarnate (and their intensely communicable qualities suggest to me that this must be so), then “meat,” while the essence of bodily survival, must imply much more than metabolic fuel; meat or flesh animates the narratives at the level of structure, such that the plots themselves “ingest”—and sometimes regurgitate—the stuff of their own making.  Perhaps Bringhurst has read Maurice Merleau-Ponty on the phenomenology of flesh where he writes that flesh is not matter, is not mind, is not substance. To designate it, we should need the old term ‘element,’ in the sense it was used to speak of water, air, earth, and fire, that is, in the sense of a general thing, midway between the spatio-temporal individual and the idea,                                                              22 Ronald Scollon, who, with his wife Suzanne Scollon, did fieldwork in Fort Chipewyan in the 1970s with Mandeville’s surviving community and family members, were told in conversation with Mandeville’s son, Philip, that “[a]fter hearing many telling of his father’s stories as well as the stories of many others over the years, [he] held the view that each storyteller has a different version of a given story, but that each person would have only one of them”; Philip states, “[t]hat’s the story and that’s it: That’s the way it goes on right now. A different person tells it and it’s all out of shape” (Scollon, “Narrative” 230). Philip’s words about his father suggest to me that, in addition to the conversational structure identified by Bringhurst (one might even call it polyphonic), Mandeville’s stories extend some of the unique form of his cognitive outlook—a possibility beyond the scope of this chapter, but one that could be pursued in a chapter comparing versions of the same stories told by other people. 23 There are examples of human flesh—muscle divided from spirit—but always as instances of inter-tribal conflict, and almost never as examples of ingestion, except in one narrative concerning a monstrous but non-human Cannibal—story 8, “The Cannibal” (Mandeville, This 117-24). 57 a sort of incarnate principle that brings a style of being wherever there is a fragment of being. (256) Flesh is a “style of being wherever there is a fragment of being”: this is an assertion I would like to take seriously in regards to Mandeville’s stories because it evokes a kind of metaphysical frame metonymy, a figure structuring thought where source and target are both materially and conceptually incarnate and mutually interpenetrating. And if I have learned anything from Mandeville’s narratives, it is that ethics and aesthetics both are interpenetrating, inherent in the metaphysics and the pragmatics of narrative, and essential to survival.24  Metonymical structure requires a sense of the whole as well as of the interconnection of its parts. A sense of transformation that retains its origins even as it moves. In Mandeville’s narrative of “The Man Who Became a Wolf,” for example, ontological survival is premised on embodied and interpenetrating relationships between wolf and humanity. Such relationships or connections lead to the renewal of the protagonist’s life through his transformation into a wolf—and back again—and through the discursive and embodied transformation of tracks into meat—of hoofprints in the bush into caribou or moose and caribou or moose into meat or food. In other words, the “this” in “Grandson, / this is meat” refers not to the animal but to its trace, a discursive trace that enacts its embodiment as food. Just as Mandeville’s work with Li crosses disciplinary, linguistic, and cultural boundaries, this narrative enacts its own meaning, revealing metonymical connections in the mind and in the material world in the mouth. I say this because                                                              24 See, for example, story 5, “Scabby” (Mandeville, This 75-92), where the protagonist has a pragmatic affinity with rabbits, whose soft fur skins makes it possible for him to manage a potentially-debilitating skin condition, and, perhaps as a corollary to wearing their skins, with rabbits as game who make their bodies abundantly available to his snares when he is tested by his elders. For a full overview of the narrative arc of Mandeville’s collection as well as notes on each of the animals who occur within it, see Appendix A. 58 the word for “caribou,” in Denesułine, is “ɂɛtθén,”25 the same as the word for meat or flesh—while it cannot easily be translated as such in English, caribou is an icon of meat; it is a form of deictic reference that, in Denesułine, simultaneously points to the sustaining nature of the caribou and to the sustaining nature of the word for it that persistently connects the notions of the animal and of the role it serves in survival.26 These words come from the same places in the tongue and teeth. They are breathed into and spat out of the mouth in the same order. They talk to each other in that cave. By encompassing one another so that prey is always already food through the work of interpretation, the signs—the words for animal tracks and the animal tracks—becomes sustenance—meat. This is one of Mandeville’s messages in this story, a message that becomes very good “eatin’,” as it were, in, I think, both source and target languages—in translation.27 Because, as Jacques Rancière writes, it is translation “under the sign of equality” (11) where interpretation—and the teaching of the skills necessary to interpretation—reveals that “all sentences, and consequently all intelligences that produce them, are of the same nature,” so that “Understanding is never more than translating, that is, giving the equivalent of a text, but in no way its reason” (9). “In no way its reason”: the reason that “ɂɛtθén” works with itself in the story is not merely aesthetic. It is also practical. But how does this shared lexical quality permit practical as well as conceptual exchange beyond the body of                                                              25 In Li and Scollon's orthography (Mandeville 1976); also spelled, respectively, “ɂetthé̈n” and “-etth'é̈n” as in “denetth'é̈n,” “flesh, a person’s” (South Slave Divisional Education Council 2012). 26 I am grateful to Leslie Saxon for this insight. Further, I am very grateful to her for overseeing an early version of this paper when I was a MA student, for re-reading it during my PhD, and for her all-round incredibly kind guidance and support. I am also grateful to Iain Higgins for supervisory support during my entire MA and for overseeing the early version of this paper along with Leslie. As well, Suzie Wong Scollon read my MA project and continues to encourage me via correspondence in ways to make my engagement meaningful. 27 In fact, the words for star, caribou, meat, and trail all come from quite similar places in the mouth: respectively, (ɂe)tthé̈n, ɂɛtθén, ɂɛtθén, ɂetën (South Slave Divisional Education Council 2012). It is not impossible to imagine that Mandeville would have been aware of the cross-linguistic echo in the English word “eatin’.” In this longer possible “chain or network of metaphorical representations,” as Anselmo Urrutia and Joel Sherzer suggest in their discussion of esoteric lexical associations in Kuna healing songs (147), these echoes promise to transpose anatomy, to form strange new animals. Stars become meat, tracks become a trail of meaning, innards become skin. Bones rearticulate perpetually to form resolutely historical articulations of Dene truths. 59 the animal through its tracks on the land into its narrative traces—through intersemiotic transformations? While Roman Jakobson defines intersemiotic translation as an “interpretation of verbal signs by means of signs of nonverbal sign systems” (“On Lingsuistic” 233), Mandeville begins with the interpretation of non-verbal signs by means of verbal signs. If as Jakobson writes there is “no signatum [meaning] without signum [sign]” (232), then Mandeville’s homophony becomes sustenance. But how do words come alive—or reveal themselves to be already alive—in Mandeville’s stories? How does he make visible the interconnections between words and wisdom? How does he embody—make flesh—his intelligence? In the following section, I use the concept of frame metonymy from cognitive-linguistic theory to explore the connections between the oral and the embodied, the track and the animal. I conclude that the one constant, “meat”—the cultural frame (2) always evoked by variable references (1)—thus emerges as a consistent metonymical target domain emerging from networks (3) coordinated by opposing yet overlapping nexus that come into “dual focus” often through bodily exchanges (in whole or part) to generate transformative blends (4)—blends that are the product of intensive, almost volcanic, fusions and fissions between ontological positions for the sake of generating life.  Frame Metonymy I take a particular interest in deictic references to personhood through the aural dimensions of animism by focusing on centers and shifts in lexical items through homophony and metonymy in this chapter. I use the concept of frame metonymy from cognitive-linguistic theory to analyze the meat of Mandeville’s narratives because this theoretical approach is flexible yet highly specific, much as a hunter’s approach to navigating the muskeg must be. As well, there are at least two well-defined examples at a grammatical level where animals, or their 60 tracks and trails, metonymically refer to meat: “His meat is certainly here” references a living bear in his den (Mandeville, This 130),28 while, as I describe above, a wolf states, “Grandson, / this is meat” in reference to some moose tracks (162). These sentence-level examples illustrate in quite a visible way some of the interconnected parts of Mandeville’s larger narrative principles.  Klaus-Uwe Panther provides a definition of frame metonymy that draws on cognitive linguistic research and semiotics, stating that “metonymy is an indexical relation between source and target meaning” (147). He fleshes out this indexicality by suggesting that “metonymy is a kind of meaning elaboration whose result is a conceptually prominent target meaning, an integrated whole that contains the backgrounded source meaning and novel meaning components resulting from the process of elaboration” (147) where the “target meaning resulting from a metonymic shift is an elaboration of the source meaning” (151). This “metonymic shift can be regarded as a substitution operation, but one in which the source meaning does not vanish but remains part of the conceptual structure of the target meaning” (151). These points are salient not only for the emphasis they place on discursive metonymy as a retroductive (hermeneutically achieved) cognitive phenomenon but also because narratives, in Mandeville’s milieu, provide important information for physical as well as social survival: it is unwise, in the immediacy of survival in the north, to identify some components of narrative discourse as real and dismiss the rest as unreal.29                                                              28 In the 1976 translation, the phrase is rendered, “His meat is certainly here again” (Mandeville, Chipewyan 266). 29 In Ways of Knowing: Experience, Knowledge, and Power Among the Dene Tha, Jean-Guy Goulet suggests that in a Dene world-view “true knowledge is personal knowledge” ( 247) but also comments on the holistic necessity of narratives as instruments of survival; in order “to apprehend a social world ‘as a whole in the form of a personal experience’ (Lévi-Strauss 1963, 272) [it] is necessary to depict adequately that world to oneself and to others” (247)—to depict adequately that which is inner as well as outer, apparent and unapparent. 61 To define fully my usage of animal referentiality within frame metonymy, I will adopt two additional points from Panther’s discussion of metonymy. First, metonymical source and target are often structures that elaborate segments of concepts, not always entire domains: In elaborating a source concept, metonymy relies in general on pre-established inferential patterns. The kinds of conceptual realms in which metonymic shifts operate are not necessarily whole cognitive domains (and subdomains) stored in long-term memory, but they might be more like mental spaces, i.e., “small conceptual packets constructed as we think and talk, for purposes of local understanding and action.” (161) Panther makes the point that elaboration is a matter of referencing and networking mental spaces, or “conceptual packets,” a cognitive phenomenon not unalike to Bringhurst’s narrative motifs but with the additional parameter of anatomy, as it were: sometimes the flesh of the narrative operates by parts, not wholes—by intermittent analogies, not just zoological realities—by moving to change one’s position for the revivification of muscle with breath. Panther also makes the point that elaboration by a way of these domains and subdomains or “packets” of “local” relations are often “a matter of perspective,” where the scholar may or may not immediately or wholly be able to determine “what to regard as the superordinate domain and what as the subdomain(s), respectively” (158). I find this point particularly salient in relation to Mandeville’s animal referentiality because position—geographical, ontological—as a determiner of meaning seems to be very nuanced in the narratives. What I mean by this kind of position has to do with relations or even alliances between species—human and caribou, human and wolf—but also between much more conceptual values such as ingestion and projection (who or what is eating whom or what), or, even more abstractly, predation and perpetuation (which comes first, destruction or renewal?). These values seem to come into dual focus due to frames defined by 62 the contiguities (spatial relations) and contingencies (temporal relations) of lived experience—where environmental factors such as landscape or the cycles of seasons bring together entities in ways defined by a hierarchy of relations—but also by more fragmented yet syllogistic visual analogues such as colour, texture, or even in moments of fury, or of song, or in acts such as the putting on human clothing (as with the man who becomes a wolf and then returns to his human form).  Thus existential (contiguous and contingent) as well as ontological (morphological) states seem to be a major factor in overlapping frames and generating blends. So which predicates which: narrative contiguity and contingency or narrative analogy? The key to understanding the structure and directionality of Mandeville’s unique metonymies is found by examining the total context of their deployment—their total ecological topography. Barbara Dancygier’s definition of frame metonymy expands upon Panther’s point about metonymical “elaboration” by showing that narratives provide powerful contexts for indexing between source and target. Frame metonymy is a “set of directional associations between culturally-rich concepts, or domains, that are activated by combining lexical and grammatical entities through narrative” (Dancygier, Language 33).30 This definition is composed of four key components that specifically address the                                                              30 To provide an example of how frame metonymy, works, from a cluster of concepts readers have encountered in my Introduction: pansies. Claude Lévi-Strauss’s La Pensée Sauvage (1962/1966), which describes untamed human thought, is, in turn, a play on “wild pansies” (“Claude”)—“And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts,” says Ophelia (Hamlet 4.5.176-77). The lexical pansy, modified grammatically by its French sauvage, is activated as a metonymical frame through the historical directional association of literary allusion, for the author of Lévi-Strauss’s biography (see “Claude Lévi-Strauss: Biography,” The European Graduate School, 2012). The domain of pansy in Hamlet is madness; this value is combined through allusion to that narrative with Lévi-Strauss’s title, and, although the languages are different, the syntax of the French versus English is, interestingly, reversed: pansies for thought becomes thought for pansies—a wildness that is madness to the patriarchal, colonial Modern, but which counteracts the Modern colonial process by remaining sauvage, maintaining the referential and expressive, playful meanings of the smallest thing (a flower), and then inverting the judgement value of just what it is that is savage—so that wild thought is shown to be not savage in contrast to the warfare that characterizes much of Modern politics, but, rather, quite sane in comparison and by the default of delegitimization. Thus wild thought is shown to be subversive, uncontrolled, and ultimately coherent according to its own frames of reference. The pansy is thus a metonymical frame not just for rebellion (Ophelia’s, against the irrational male-dominated state of biopolitical hysteria which characterizes the play), but for resurgence. The pansy as resurgence cannot be read as a metonym in sole reference 63 structure of frame metonymy in a cross-cultural context. These components are 1) associations as reference; 2) domains as cultural frames; 3) lexical and grammatical networks; that 4) produce transformative blends. In the figure below, I propose to apply the metonymical template below, with its core idea of the frame as a transformative dual foci, to Mandeville’s metonymical narrative structures.   Figure 2.1: Frame Metonymy  There is one additional component—an “incarnate principle”—that underlies, “midway between the spatio-temporal individual and the idea,” all four components: 5) some latent ground or                                                              to Hamlet, nor alone in La Pensée Sauvage, either. Both domains are needed in order to interpret Lévi-Strauss’s punning, yet also totally real, political message. The pansy both is a pansy, fragile yet important, and more, an idea, also fragile, constructed only between the associations between a primary text, an ethnographic text, and a critical-biographical text. 64 conceptualization of lived experience. This latent ground is laid, I believe, by Mandeville’s narrative topography—the verbal signs of his narrative collection or “cycle,” as it has been titled, that construe the “nonverbal sign systems” of lived experience by permitting the listener or reader to experience his story world as its own ground for intersemiotic as intertextual transformation. Panther writes of lived experience that “metonymic meanings provide generic prompts that are fleshed out on the basis of background knowledge (world knowledge), the situation of the utterance and the linguistic context (co-text) in which the metonymic expression occurs” (148). As a southern student of literature, it is not easy for me to define all that lived experience entails for Dene inhabitants of the north, especially as it would have been during a time of great transition such as that which Mandeville witnessed. However, Mandeville’s story collection—or “story cycle,” as Scollon’s 2009 subtitle suggests—offers a rich array of literary—“intersemiotic”—life experience as a context for interpretation. After all, Mandeville states in the first of his elicited narratives, “Education,” that  It’s been said that our people didn’t teach each other,    but that isn’t true.   We have always taught each other.  Now I will tell you how people taught each other. (This 199) He then proceeds to orate and transcribe narratives that overwhelmingly concern meat and the source of meat: animals.  In order to work towards a view of the narrative “situation of the utterance and the linguistic context (“co-text”) in which the metonymic expression occurs,” then, I will next summarize my findings of the work of the two “big-game” animals, caribou and moose, and then 65 conclude by applying the schema of frame metonymy to “meat” as it is embodied by these animals, which are the most “meaty” of sources of sustenance for hunters in the north. I will focus my “experience” of the presence of and narrative frames evoked by caribou and moose,31 who compose “meat” in the pragmatic sense, because they also operate in especially transformative ways, in story 1, “How Copper Was Discovered” (Mandeville, This 19-31) and story 11, “The Man Who Became a Wolf” (157-73). These animals serve as such—animals, biologically-bound creatures whose personal lives intersect in realistic landscapes with those of the protagonists—but also as “fragments of being” that evoke the dual foci of intertextual comparison in which the components of frame metonymy—1) reference; 2) cultural frame; 3) networks; 4) transformative blends—inform one another mutually, i.e., in an intertextually lively manner.32 In analyzing the presence of caribou and moose in Mandeville’s cycle, I hope to trace an emergent set of textually salient cultural frames for these animals—and thus to come to understand better their “motivic” blending through metonymical referencing—and thus I hope eventually to touch upon and to touch narrative animals as carnal matrices of Mandeville’s story cycle, where life and death—predation and perpetuation, affinity and affiliation—are worked out in mythopoeic ways. The motif that ultimately emerges, I anticipate, will be that of “flesh” in Merleau-Ponty’s sense of the living fragment, as indicated in the second epigraph to this chapter, but inflected peculiarly by Mandeville as “meat” to evoke and work through the hermeneutics of                                                              31 There are, by my count, sixteen kinds of animals mentioned at least once in Mandeville’s story cycle, bears and wolves, maggots and puppies among them. See Appendix A for full details.  In future projects, I think it would be fruitful to include the significations of all these animal presences in an intertextual analysis of the story cycle. However, in order to come to understand more fully the metaphysical structures that animals surely embody in Mandeville’s narratives, I focus on caribou and moose in this chapter because they are such a common source of sustenance in the stories—and in northern lived experience—and therefore richly embody key cultural domains. 32 I read once that one cannot know the meaning of any story until it is finished; in the case of Mandeville’s story cycle, perhaps one cannot know the meaning of any one of the stories without reference to all his other stories. 66 ecological transformation—of contiguity and contingency—as an interpretative problem within lived experience. Meat  Caribou appear in nine of the stories in in Mandeville’s story cycle (1-4, 6-8, 10, 11). First, I will give a quick schematic outline of each story, and then I will analyze how the schemas operate. Some of the most significant of these appearances occur in the first story, “How Copper Was Discovered” (Mandeville, This 19-31); in this story, caribou serve as guides to Copper Woman, a woman captured by enemies who runs away from them through an unfamiliar landscape. At the beginning of her flight, at the shore of the ocean, Copper Woman carefully observes caribou migrating through the water and decides that because the caribou are almost always walking, not swimming, she could follow them (12-25). Later, one caribou from the herd she follows serves as a source of meat for her; she spears, butchers, and cures the meat by laying it out on the ground to dry (25-27). Later still, when she notices a bright light in the sky and walks towards it (abandoning the route of the migrating caribou and the son she has borne to an enemy) she discovers “native copper” (naturally-occurring chunks of copper) that resembles meat lying on the ground (26, 28-29). After this point, her journey turns from the horizon and goes downwards when she guides some men to the copper and they rape her, although she enjoins them to act in a good way (30). Because she is angry, she and the copper sink down into the earth in four increments—the copper and Copper Woman become less and less visible and available until they are completely gone, hidden underground and therefore unattainable (30-31). In the second of the nine stories that mention caribou, “How Iron Was Discovered” (32-36), caribou trails guide Beaver Orphan, a powerful man, and his people to meat on the shore of the northern ocean, in the barren land, in the same territory of the enemies who took Copper Woman 67 (32). Beaver Orphan and his people discover caribou, which they kill for meat (33), and then chunks of iron, a material that initially, for them, bears only a partial analogy to more familiar materials such as stone and wood (33). The discovery of iron goes differently than copper; Beaver Orphan has a dream that guides him to sing over the iron, blow on it, and so split the hunk into more workable pieces (34-35). From these “small pieces like wood” (35), the people make arrowheads and speartips (35-36). So the metonymical process at work in story 1 can be schematized as: 1) trail; 2) guide, meat; 3) new alliance (with metal); 4) new environment and in story 2 as: 1) trail; 2) meat; 3) new encounter (with metal); 4) new weaponry (arrowheads and speartips for hunting and warring).  In stories 3 and 4, “Raven Head” (37-71) and “His Grandmother Raised Him” (72-74), tribal fortunes likewise change due to the absence or presence of caribou, but rather than caribou bodies serving as guides to migration, meat, or innovations in technology, in these two stories, caribou serve to form new kinds of human community. “Raven Head,” told in four parts (an important number in Dene cognition) vividly examines conflicts between leader and followers, brother and sister, and one tribe with another. The protagonist, Raven Head, is something of a trickster figure33 who rises in power in the first two parts of the story and falls and dies in the latter two; caribou appear at the end of the second part of the story. Raven Head tells his brother that their dead relatives spear caribou “up north / at a caribou crossing” on the sandy edge of a lake (60), so the trickster and his brother canoe to the “lake with the caribou crossing” to be with their dead relatives, including their mother and father (60). Part two of the story ends with a short “epilogue”: “If people have done no wrong, when they die / they go to that place where Raven Head / and his brother canoed. This is what they say” (61).                                                               33 See especially the formation of a tail of snow when Raven Head runs unnaturally quickly through the snow ahead of his people (Mandeville, This 40, 48). 68 “His Grandmother Raised Him,” story 4, was narrated by Baptiste Forcier, an elder in Mandeville’s community in Fort Chipewyan; Mandeville, believing Forcier to be a superior storyteller, chose the story and asked Forcier to narrate it to Li (Scollon, “Narrative” 237). In this story, the protagonist, His Grandmother Raised Him, takes his grandmother away from a group of people who displeased him (72) and then goes and lives with caribou for a long time (73). When he returns to her, he brings a belt full of caribou tongues for them to eat (73). In another version of the story that is told by Fred Marcel (who is from the same community as Mandeville), it is stated that the protagonist “was found in the moss by his grandmother” and that he “killed caribou by biting the end of their tongues” (Scollon, “Narrative” 259-60). The presence and power of the tongue is intriguing: it suggests that the extraction of parts from metonymical wholes is transformative. Compare the extraction of body parts from wholes with the suction of blood from the body in order to become a better hunter in a Dene culture adjacent to Dene Sułine, the Dane-zaa (Beaver), whose territory lies on the border between Alberta and British Columbia. A spiritual guide—“a big fat man” (Ridington and Ridington 155)—teaches a hunter how to go under the earth and form an affinity with his prey by sucking on the hunter’s forehead until he draws blood:  The big fat man leaned down  and put his lips to the man’s forehead.  He sucked and drew out blood.  He did the same thing on the back of his head—  and again he drew out blood.  “That’s why no animals like you,” he said.  “Now you can make friends.”  69 The big fat man took him with him  and he opened a doorway in the lick and they went inside. (Ridington and Ridington 155)34  In the emergence system of the Dane-zaa, all animals originate from giant animals who live under the earth (Ridington, Swan 65). Robin Ridington comments that a “moose lick is a place where, the Dane-zaa say, the bodies of moose emerge from beneath the earth. It is a cosmic center where game trails converge and change direction. It is a place of shamanic transformation,” and, just as the “initiate [the hunter advised by the big fat man] himself passes through the portal of the moose lick, a place where moose lips touch the earth,” so the shamanic “lick sucks an initiate inside itself and into another world” (Ridington and Ridington 236). The acts of sucking blood and eating, perhaps even biting out, caribou tongues in these stories are, I think, analogous ritual acts upon transformative bodily thresholds that induce fleshly affinity with animals. This latter story in particular illustrates the power of the mouth as a source of life—in a sense, special words and stories are small animals that emerge from the cavern of the larger. But sucking is an act of atomic transfusion across membranes or transfiguration across boundaries. Biting, on the other hand, is a muscular cross-boundary act of ingestion leading not merely to exchange by passing through a portal from human to animal, but, rather, to an aggressive internalization of the threshold itself to induce total transformation, where that which once resided on the distal side of the boundary is drawn through to the aggressor’s proximal side of the boundary. In Forcier’s story, His Grandmother Raised Him and his grandmother return to the caribou who have, tongueless, died by a lake; the old woman butchers and dries all the meat,                                                              34 A “lick” is a place in the landscape where mineral salts have naturally accumulated. These deposits draw wild terrestrial ungulates much as a blue salt block in a goat pen draws goats. It seems likely to me that the big fat man is a moose—large and rather jowly as they are—in his human form, which is to say in a form that recognizably signifies personhood to the hunter, but this is conjecture at this point in my research. 70 which they then take to the protagonist’s uncle’s community to make a new life—and “since that time the caribou have lived together with people” (Mandeville, This 74). So in story 3, the schema for caribou is: 1) lakeside crossing; 2) meat; 3) new camp; 4) new life (heavenly). In story 4 it is: 1) tongues ingested; 2) meat; 3) new species alliance; 4) new human community with a new way of life. In stories 6 and 7, “Old Axe—Story One” (93-105) and “Old Axe—Story Two” (106-16), the protagonist, Old Axe, suggests that his people invade another people’s territory because there are lots of caribou and fish in that territory (story 6, 101) because there is a caribou crossing on a large lake full of fish (story 7, 106). Both stories involve the prospect of aggressive migration into others’ territories for access to caribou migration. In story 8, “The Cannibal” (117-24), a human is captured by the Cannibal in an invisible snare and pretends to be dead when the Cannibal finds him (117). The Cannibal ties him up in “sunbeams” (117) and carries his prey home where his children call the human man the Cannibal’s “caribou” and warn their father that he is “coming back to life” and escaping (119). This story suggests two things: one, that “animality” does not always predicate “meat”: rather, animality is, sometimes, a subcategory or subdomain of meat—to be prey is to be animal—to be signum (a sign) is to be signatum (the meaning). What a “caribou” is in a figurative sense, then, depends on who is hunting and who is being hunted. So in story 6, caribou work as: 1) trails; 2) meat; 3) invasion and takeover; 4) new territory. In story 7, caribou work as: 1) trails; 2) meat; 3) invasion and takeover; 4) new territory. And in story 8, as: 1) prey; 2) meat; 3) mutual predation; 4) undesirable new species that infiltrates the territories of skin itself. Interestingly, in story 8, the skin is infiltrated swarmwise: a Cannibal is decapitated; the human protagonist burns the skull which was following him; it turns into mosquitoes like a cloud of smoke who bite him (122-23).  71 Story 10, like stories 6 and 7, involves caribou trails and conflict; in “The Adventures of Beaulieu” (133–56), the protagonists, Mandeville and Beaulieu, infiltrate a camp of people by saying that they got lost hunting caribou since they could not find any tracks where they came from (140). These three stories suggest that caribou tracks and trails cross human camp and territorial boundaries in politically destabilizing ways. This destabilization also suggests that camps and lakeshores intersect with trails is a schematic sense: they are, as Panther suggests, “mental spaces” that “tap portions of frames stored in long-term memory,” so that “whenever a metonymic operation takes place a whole conceptual frame is activated” (161). This activation occurs when camp boundaries are penetrated by caribou tracks or trails and by those following them. Beaulieu and Mandeville also hunt moose, a high-stakes, high-yield game meat that increases their social leverage in the camp because they can provide a supply of meat even as they consume others’ supplies of meat (Mandeville, This 144, 152-54). Thus caribou/moose function in story 10 as: 1) trails; 2) meat; 3) invasion and takeover; 4) new community. In the final story concerning caribou in Mandeville’s cycle, story 11, “The Man Who Became a Wolf” (157-73), caribou—and also moose—serve as prey for wolves. The ontological status of the wolves is defined by their relation to one another as hunters; the protagonist, Spread Wings, is actually a human man who has the special ability to transform into a wolf when he is old and in need of renewal—he “from time to time became a wolf. This is what they say” (157). When he becomes old on one occasion, a wolf who is always a wolf approaches him and speaks to him to remind him that “If you want to live longer on the earth / you must live with us again” (157). Spread Wings is initially reluctant—he “thought, ‘I don’t want to be a wolf again’”—and although he only thought the words, the wolf answers him by stating that if he does not, he will die soon (157). Spread Wings realizes that he “want[s] to live longer on this earth” (157) and so 72 “He immediately became a wolf” (158). This crisscrossing between discursive speech-thought-speech with human-wolf-human communication leads to utterance so powerful it becomes relational ontology: Spread Wings says “I will become a wolf again” (157) and instantly he does so—a chiasm between desire and transformation comparable to the relationship between fury and sinking down for Copper Woman or biting and eating caribou tongues for His Grandmother Raised Him. It is only once Spread Wings has assented to becoming and so becomes a wolf that he realizes the wolf who is always a wolf is actually an old woman. She addresses him as “grandson” and guides him north to hunt caribou (158). Spread Wings’s reluctance to transform into a wolf becomes understandable in the narrative that follows: it is always difficult for them to find meat. But not only does the grandmother/wolf guide Spread Wings to meat, she also teaches him how to hunt caribou, to eat it slowly so as not to become ill, to howl or sing for others who may be nearby and hungry to share in the game, and to cache the excess meat in the snow for others to use if they are hungry (158-61). This suggests to me that although Spread Wings has become a wolf before, each time he transforms, he must relearn how to hunt and survive. Such skills are a matter of pragmatic survival, to be sure, but they are also, more conceptually, a kind of epistemological movement across ontological boundaries where that which is known is peculiar to and therefore predicated by species-specific relations, i.e., to “herds” or “packs”—or to human “camps.” Movement for transformative knowing demands—must be predicated by—trans-species affinity: so a wolf becomes a grandmother—or, perhaps more accurately, a human becomes a wolf’s pup. Moose occur less frequently than caribou in Mandeville’s story cycle, but they are an integral part of Spread Wings’s story. After hunting caribou for some time, the grandmother/wolf 73 and he come to find it extremely difficult to find meat. They begin to starve. At last, the grandmother/wolf guides Spread Wings away from the barren land and into the forest to look for moose (162). Moose are more difficult to find because they make tracks, not trails35 (less permanent signs according to less predictable foraging movements) and are also much, much larger and therefore more difficult to kill even when using the cooperative hunting techniques that the grandmother/wolf teaches Spread Wings. However, in the woods, the grandmother/wolf eventually finds moose tracks, and says, “Grandson, / this is meat” (162). The triumph and assurance implied by this metonymical statement is predicated upon hunters in difficult hermeneutical situations in all the stories leading up to this one; just as Copper Woman, Raven Head and his younger brother, His Grandmother Raised Him and his grandmother, Old Axe, and the two Métis looking for a camp to make their own persist in seeking sustenance by observing and then manipulating the natural and social metaphysics of their environments,36 so do the wolves. The moose they catch together by its leg tendon, nose, and belly (163-64) is meat intensified. It is harder to catch and kill, and it must be consumed in even more explicitly incremental stages, organized by substance, than caribou—first, the wolves are to drink the blood; second, to eat some muscle; third, only after their stomachs have readjusted to food, to eat some fat; and fourth, they must howl or sing for others who may be hungry to join them (164-65). This high-stakes meat demands an anatomy of ingestion that is three-parts flesh and one-part social.  In the latter portion of “The Man Who Became a Wolf,” the grandmother/wolf reproduces (but not with Spread Wings) and together they teach her pups to hunt caribou in the winter (169) and moose in the spring or summer (169-71). They hunt and sing until meat again                                                              35 And are, as Margery Fee comments, not herd animals. 36 Likewise but inversely for the human who escapes being caribou for the Cannibal. 74 becomes scarce. This time, the grandmother/wolf sends Spread Wings back to his own “pack,” which is to say his own species’s camp. Her pack is weak from hunger and could use his hunting skills, yet the grandmother/wolf—who is also, now, a mother by filiation as well as a grandmother by affinity—tells Spread Wings to go back to live with his relatives and to always leave a little meat for wolves when he hunts and kills (172). He is to “remember this as long as you live when you kill something” (172). She then says, “Now we’ll sing, / and then you go back to your people” (172). And so “They all sang for him, / and then Spread Wings left them” (172). Just as Mandeville’s wordplay fills the mouth with food (“ɂɛtθén”) so that homophony becomes sustenance, the wolves’ polyphonic song is shown to fill the muskeg with the intersemiotic—yet metonymically unified—transformations necessary not just for their own survival but also others’ survival. Spread Wings’s transition back to humanity seems, then, to follow from two events: 1) deliberately self-aware yet selfless animal sacrifice; and 2) human retention of the principle of sacrifice learned while allied with the animal, for Spread Wings and his kin are always to remember to leave a sampling—a signature—of meat for his affiliative kind. So Spread Wings retains a “style of being” by reserving a “fragment of being” (meat) for wolves as he becomes emergent from wolves, although he could not do the opposite (retain hunting techniques in his shift from human to wolf in the first place). This story suggests to me that humanity is dependent upon animality to learn the ethics of survival but also for direction in the aesthetics of living—i.e., empathy through sacrifice but also communal discourse raised to the affective excess of song—song as an excess of homophony and polyphony that takes the human back to itself by way of the animal. It is only through song that the meat can be shared. 75 Spread Wings, still in wolf form, encounters a lone human on the edge of a lake, approaches him “on four legs” (172) and speaks to the human, explaining that he is one of his own. Although the man is scared and has a gun, he does not shoot (173); instead, he quietly goes back to his home and brings Spread Wings human clothing, saying nothing to the other humans in the camp (173). Spread Wings goes into the woods to don this clothing and emerges human; together, they go back to the people” and Spread Wings tells them “about how he had been a wolf”—and “That’s how he became a person again” (173). Thus caribou/moose in story 11 might be said to follow the schema: 1) trails and tracks; 2) meat; 3) new species alliance; 4) new hunting practices and new body. Discussion and Conclusion To summarize cumulatively, then, using the four key components of frame metonymy—1) reference; 2) cultural frame; 3) networks; 4) transformative blends—caribou/moose across Mandeville’s narratives can be observed most often to move from a reference by 1) signs, symbolic trails or tracks; to 2) signify the cultural frame of “meat,” or sustenance, whether animate and on the move or butchered, eaten, shared, and cached; which leads to 3) networks of transformation between groups—herds, camps, swarms, packs—whenever a protagonist comes into contact with a caribou or moose; in order to 4) bring two points of view together and achieve transformation. Ultimately, I think this transformation leads to the mental space 5) phenomenological flesh as a mutable perpetuation of multiple ways of being that are predational according to relational rules of sacrifice. Sacrifice in the sense of becoming animal—and of becoming human.  The target frame “meat” evoked by the source “trails” brings into dual focus disparate species to generate networks of predation and perpetuation that might be characterized by 76 “alliance” (affinity, affiliation, extension, elaboration, transfusion, transfiguration, transformation). These networks operate within and between the narratives by coeval contradistinctions, i.e., by overlapping frames to produce co-texts—“co(n)texts,” in other words. For example, tribes are defined by different languages spoken (story 1), caribou meat and native copper by the surfaces and depths of the earth (story 1), iron from wood (story 2), the before life from the after life (story 3), human comestibles from nonhuman comestibles (stories 4 and 8), the leader’s loyalty towards his chosen camp versus false affiliation with his target (enemy) camp (stories 6 and 7), warm-blooded beings from parasitical swarms (story 8), allied individuals and divided camps (story 10), and wolf packs from human settlements (story 11). The one constant, “meat”—the cultural frame (2) always evoked by variable references (1)—thus emerges as a consistent metonymical target domain emerging from networks (3) coordinated by opposing yet overlapping nexus that come into “dual focus” often through bodily exchanges (in whole or part) to generate transformative blends (4)—blends that are the product of intensive, almost volcanic, fusions and fissions between ontological positions for the sake of generating life.  These fusions and fissions operate by environmental contingencies conducted by caribou trails and moose tracks and by cognitive analogies between like and unalike—culture and language, colors and shapes, textures, life and death, physical anatomy, spraying blood and swarming insects, charisma, and the ethics and aesthetics of hunting. But to return to a question I ask above—which predicates which, contingency and contiguity or analogy?—I would like to suggest that the mutual semiological interdependence that always characterizes the emergent ground of meaning in Mandeville’s transformative narrative “syntax” ultimately demands mental 77 agility—analogical thinking—before, but not exclusive of, experiential ability—mastery of ecological contiguity and contingency. Panther suggests that  metonymy involves semantic contiguity, which manifests itself as positional similarity. . . The metonymic operation occurs in a specific syntactic position in the sentence and is therefore paradigmatic, but the relation between the metonymic source and its target is one of semantic contiguity. (150) And he elaborates by proposing that “[i]f it is assumed that metonymy is a case of indexicality, the contingence of the metonymic relation follows automatically” (155). But in the context of Mandeville’s story cycle, it seems to me that both contiguity and contingency between competing species in a challenging physical environment compete with multivalent analogy in an equally challenging discursive mental environment. Thus there are no automatic allies, but only alliances formed by great struggle between analogical entities that converge and diverge to generate their interdependent significations. Just as meat and story are interdependently constructed, for Mandeville, then, interdependent hermeneutics require deeply analogical creative construals of contingency and contiguity. These construals are mental “packets” that mutually index each other.  While the scope of this chapter permits only a sampling of the work of animals in Mandeville’s narratives, I would like to suggest that some of the domains or mental packets conjoined by networks such as caribou trails and moose tracks in the stories are: planes—sea, ice, barren land/muskeg, forest, perhaps sky; circles—tribe, herd, metal mine, stomach, shoreline, inlet, lake, snare, net, camp, tent, firepit, skull/brain, swarm, pack, den, cache; and centres that are penetrated—a woman’s body by rape; lakes by canoes; mouths by tongues removed; atomised skulls by fire and club; forest groves by tracks; packs by song. So, to return 78 to the metonymical structure predicated on the core idea of dual focus, Merleau-Ponty’s proposition that flesh as a “style of being wherever there is a fragment of being” is, in Mandeville’s story cycle, growth that blends perspective or position between domains or packets with attributes that are defined by exchange—a sort of intersemiotic transfusion—between interior/exterior, not just between biological species or chemical composition or even instrumental function. For the figure I show below, the ground from which the transformative blend of meaning that emerges from meat as flesh may be described, alternatively to interior/exterior, as emergent from networks between containment/penetration, ingestion/regurgitation, extension/intension, or predation/perpetuation. I call this ground flesh, flesh revealed as such by the hunter (interpreter), because flesh signifies the “connective tissue of exterior and interior horizons” (Merleau-Ponty 131) that storytelling demands. Because hunting is a transitional or peripheral activity like sickness, rape, and death,37 it enacts and thus makes visible the connective tissue that narrative brings forth. In other words, hunters go beyond the edge of their camp or herd or swarm or pack where they encounter the edge of another “herd”; the boundaries between groups blur in the process, which is hard work requiring predictive empathy for the quarry so radical that often the hunter merges with and emerges from her or his prey. Figuratively, Mandeville hunts the inner animal across the convex horizon of the skull; in hunting it he becomes it, inverting the inner horizon to become an ever-concaving extension of his lived physical and conceptual environment.                                                               37 Margery Fee suggests that childbirth could also be construed to fit this category. 79  Figure 2.2: Frame Metonymy—ɂɛtθén (Caribou/Meat)  Mandeville’s story cycle, then—its cursive artistry, its verbal specificities, and its intertextual sequencing—is a working translation, a translation that works for its transformation, a kind of hunting that moves between the fissions and fusions of spoken and written language. It is an intertextual text, a body of narrative in which predator and prey encompass one another “to speak through one another,” as Bringhurst puts it, demonstrating how verbal- and non-verbal signs encompass—engulf—ingest—one another—for there is no signatum without the signum—but there is also no sign without its meaning. One animal needs another. Thus Mandeville’s story cycle has the potential to make a zoology of humanity—this is his “motivic” ontology, the movement of cognitive positions and of movement between positions. If so, Mandeville’s theory of humanity and animality—constructed by and between perspectives cursive, discursive, incursive, recursive—“meat” that is flesh self-aware, not merely a “thing, but a possibility, a 80 latency” that, recurved in narrative form, becomes a “veritable touching of the touch” (Merleau-Ponty 133)—is as complex as and comparable to the insights of other philosophers of being. Michel Foucault’s “zoophyte”—where “[p]lace and similitude become entangled” and “we see mosses growing on the outsides of shells, plants in the antlers of stags, a sort of grass on the faces of men” to make some manner of “strange zoophyte” that, “by mingling together the properties that make it similar to the plants as well as to the animals, also juxtaposes them” (20–21)—Jacques Derrida’s “l’animot”—the animal-word that seeks to “open[. . .] onto the referential experience of the thing as such, as what it is in its being (416)—or even to Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari’s “anomal” (42), which is constituted by an “Alliance or the pact” that is a “form of expression for an infection or epidemic constituting the form of content” (45) in order to “border each multiplicity,” to be the “precondition for the alliance necessary to becoming,” and to carr[y] the transformation of becoming or crossings of multiplicities always farther down the line of flight” (46-47) advocate a similar textual ecology, although none of their works might guide a hungry hunter to meat in the tundra. So Mandeville’s narratives compose a uniquely northern mode of becoming-animal—that is to say, becoming-new through ever-new relations. His metonymical alliances lead to new forms, to a metonymical form of forms that is forever in conversation with itself, forever translating breath and words and blood and flesh between enemies and allies.  In traditional Dene hunting practices, a man who wants to hunt successfully sleeps with his head towards the rising sun so that the approaching light will cast his dream self forward onto the right trails to find meat (Ridington, Little 69). And Dene hunters can find in their dreams the “source of trails and the origin of game” (Brody 45). Good hunting depends on knowing these trails (45). Those who have the skill of dream-hunting can also tell others how to find trails to 81 “get to heaven” while avoiding “wrong trails”—“heaven is to one side of, and at the same level as, the point where the trails to animals all meet” (47). Perhaps similarly, then, Mandeville is a hunter who stands in front of a sun that is story; his narrative shadow streams in front of him as the hermeneutic incarnate,38 as game that goes before him on a trail that travels between and across all the world’s boundaries—like and unlike Dante’s Virgil. Likewise, Copper Woman stands on the shore and looks out across the horizon to observe that “caribou are walking across the ocean, / but they don’t come back” (Mandeville, This 23). As she contemplates leaving her captors, she reasons that although “There is no land [she] can see in that direction,” there “must be land lying right underneath the surface” (23). Thus she decides, “I’ll follow the caribou,” for “If I die, I am not with my relatives anyway” (23). And when a wolf follows game spoor to say, “Grandson, / this is meat,” the utterance signifies that moments of death or near death are recurrent nexus of exchange. This is why a hunter endures blood-letting by a “big fat man”—so that he can “renew contact with the animals and continue the hunter’s ‘holy occupation’ of transforming animals into human food” (Ridington and Ridington 244). There is perhaps, in Dene poetics, a bloody relationship between enemies and allies—the line between enemy and ally seems not to follow categories of kin, filiation, or language, but rather broad, cyclical movements between fleshly and meaty domains. This continual form of return is essential to                                                              38 The shadow is cast by the rising sun and is the dreaming hunter moving forward on trails that he will subsequently follow in waking life. The shadow moves in front of the dreamer because that is the vision of the dreamer in the senses of sight and of prescience. This resembles the culture hero, who, in Kaska, is called:  Suguya [and who] may be considered a medicine man or shaman of mythic times. He is also called Yamadeya, a name derived from yd ‘heaven’, md ‘edge, boundary’, and deya ‘he goes’. His exploits in killing the giant animals that preyed on humans established a boundary between the world of the mythological giant animals and the contemporary world. (Moore, Point 189) Like the swan, this hero follows the course of the sun (Ridington 1978). It is also interesting to note that in the subarctic, the shadows at the beginning and end of the day are very, very long: they reach much farther than they do in the south of Canada, and for much longer during the spring and fall: so the idea of a shadow traveling a great distance in dreams makes sense once one has seen the long shadows of trees cast on to trees in the low northern light. 82 Mandeville’s symbiotic metaphysics of life and death. There is a continuous sinking down and rising up, a going in and a coming out. These stories are “reincarnation” embodied, as an ever-unfinished migration between the two sources for analogy, contiguity and contingency, necessity and dream, a hermeneutics of sacrifice for working through the interpretative problem that is lived experience. If this is so, then the “human” as a positional construal of narrative topography must constantly be rearticulated; it is constantly shifting with letters on the page and oral sequences and migrating caribou that follow patterns according to a germ of anatomical articulation—schema—so that that which is inner, flesh, is exposed as meat, sustenance, and that which is exposed becomes hidden. “Ɂɛtθén” is one example of how language draws to the attention of the listener and the reader of Mandeville’s narratives the unity and translatability of the world within itself, for itself, by itself.  In terms of my larger framework, where narrative revitalization is defined by centering and shifting at all levels of context and content to renew languages, narratives, and interlocutors, Mandeville’s stories exemplify a form of deictic reference and shift based on sound: sound itself references the interconnections between species—most importantly, in this chapter, through homophony, where shifts in reference function as a sonic whole: meat is caribou, caribou is meat—sound is life, life is sound.  Analogically, Mandeville composed his collection as a sonic whole, such that deictic references arise between: 1) the encounters that occur between humans and animals in the narratives (sourced in the content of the narratives): occur between wolf and caribou; 2) pertain to the orator and the transcriptor and, often, translator (accessible through archival research and oral interviews): who are Mandeville, Li, Scollon, and Scollon; to allow 3) comparisons of the 83 cultural methods and theories followed by translators, re-translators, and back-translators to produce different or new textual iterations of the same narratives (media transformations, re-translations): which I hope to do by someday interviewing Suzie Wong Scollon; and considering 4) historical receptions of the narratives by reading and listening communities (language and narrative revitalization): by visiting Fort Chipewyan and the tar sands.  In terms of deictic centers: 1) animal utterances in connotative or reported speech and conversation with humans and in denotative or direct speech and conversation with humans within the narratives (dialogical deixis): are focused squarely on “Grandson, / This is meat” as frame metonymy (Panther 2006); 2) the occasion for, social context of, and process of recording these narratives—the human interlocutors, artists, thinkers, scholars (pragmatic deixis): is the collaborative work between Li and Mandeville; and 3) the cultural and disciplinary methods and objectives that have contributed to the framing and reframing of the narratives (cultural deixis): include sociolinguistics, ethnopoetics; while 4) the epistemological systems that result from reading these books from textual products back into epistemological processes (cosmological deixis): imply, for me, an interstitial intertextuality. Deictic shifts include, then: 1) human and animal: wolf and human; 2) orator and textualizer: Mandeville and Li; 3) spaces geographical and cosmographical: mythic time, 1929, now; and 4) times past and future: including those of Mandeville and Li, Li and Scollon, Scollon and Scollon—and myself, as reader.  In a way, teaching listeners and readers how to “read” all things is one of Mandeville’s many objectives. But it is not just reading. He teaches his listeners and readers how to translate. Mandeville advocates a hermeneutics of intersemiotic translation—in Jakobson’s words, this is a form of “intersemiotic” translation that is really “transmutation” (“On Linguistic” 233), a transmutation fully embodied, translation made flesh, wherein hunger for the word and hunger in 84 the world motivate cognitive exchanges between species—human and wolf—as signs that indicate a shifting of radically different perspectives. Perhaps the point is not so much where one ends up but that one is in motion—a point of view very much in keeping with the work of literary interpretation and with lives human and animal moving across a deadly beautiful northern landscape shot through with permafrost and pocked with muddy depths. Both demand pursuit of mutable forms of sustenance along dually-intermittent lines of sight that pass over depths of unknowable threat. To return to my epigraphs. Both, in a sense, follow the caribou. Ontological sympathy—alignment, homophony, polyphony—is essential to the perpetuation of both self and other. This is a form of excess that feeds itself. This is a style of being wherever there is a fragment of being. This is meat. This is what they say.   85 Chapter Three “‘I will be popular with the Campfire People, so ha, ha, ha’: Porcupine and Lynx on How to Love in K’tl’egh’i Sukdu/A Dena’ina Legacy”39  Introduction I open this chapter with two visual epigraphs. The first photo is of a mountain in Denali National Park and Preserve, Alaska. The day which I took this photo was dark and cloudy, and the holy mountain, Denali itself, was not visible. A Navajo colleague with whom I was traveling said a pollen prayer in any case. This mountain, part of the same chain, was more visible and still heady in its steepness and height, so I took its photo. I took the second photo in the basement of the Alaska Native Language Archive, a major archive for Dene-language documentation, in particular—and a potential source for Dene-language revitalization. The labels on the files represent many lifetimes of collaborative work, and, in the case of the label on the far right, the mountains of work still to come in properly cataloging these lifetimes of language—and,                                                              39 I am very grateful to include a number of comments throughout this chapter from Alan Boraas, who kindly read this chapter, shared a number of helpful insights about his work with Peter Kalifornsky, and gave me permission to quote him, which I do in the form of footnotes. 86 implicitly, of story, relationship, connection. I did not realize until after I took both photos how similar they are—they represent anchors to navigations physical and intellectual; they record a contiguity of inconvenience—both are iconic but not the icon (many of these files have yet to be catalogued); their colors encode a stormy background, illuminated by a middle ground. Perhaps this last similarity is rather too metaphorical in the case of the cloud-grey archival files and sky-white labels, but as with any human undertaking, the archive has seen its stormy days. In this chapter, I want to integrate my experiences in Alaska with encountering a Dene scholar of Dene whose strong vision concerning Indigenous languages and literatures inspired him to create a remarkable archive for future readers and speakers to learn from. His name was Peter Kalifornsky (1911-93), and he lived most of his life in Alaska, in one of the few Dene territories situated next to the ocean (southern Oregon and northern California are the others). His residency on the northwest coast gave him access to Seattle, California, and New Mexico, among other places, while the Kenai Peninsula in Alaska is where Kalifornsky’s Dena’ina people have a long history of interaction with other Dene and Inuit peoples as well as Russian settlers.  Today, there are perhaps eighty people who speak Dena’ina. Kalifornsky was the first Dena’ina person to write in his language, Dena’ina Qenaga, and he did so for many decades, working to revitalize his language and culture and producing, with a linguist named James Kari and an anthropologist named Alan Boraas, the dual-language collection K’tl’egh’i Sukdu/A Dena’ina Legacy: The Collected Writings of Peter Kalifornsky (1991).40 This collection contains                                                              40 Two earlier books by Peter Kalifornsky also exist: Kahtnuht’ana Qenaga: The Kenai People’s Language (1977), and K’tl’egh’I Sukdu: Remaining Stories (1984). Both are dual-language , like K’tl’egh’i Sukdu. This chapter can engage with only a very small portion of Kalifornsky’s total work, which I hope to write about further—in addition to Shem Pete’s narratives.  However, in Appendix B, I summarize the contents of each of these works and compare them for the purpose of fleshing out the archival process that is shaping Kalifornsky’s legacy.  Because I quote only from K’tl’egh’i Sukdu/A Dena’ina Legacy, in the body of this chapter, all parenthetical references to Kalifornsky’s work belong only to that book. 87 many dense and very direct traditional stories, or sukdu, as well as Kalifornsky’s original poetry, word lists, and language-lessons. It was transcribed by Kalifornsky and translated by Kari, Kalifornsky, and Boraas.41 It is this collection that remains the sole focus of this chapter as I, unlike elsewhere in my dissertation, try to infer from it all the interpretive cues necessary to address one of the central themes of my dissertation, narrative revitalization. As his collaborators put it, “Kalifornsky believed the stories in A Dena’ina Legacy . . . had meaning in today’s world and would affect current and future generations,” and “His intent was not only to archive stories of a distant time, but also to provide conceptual tools through which the present could be informed by the wisdom of the past” (xviii). What, then, are some of these conceptual tools? I identify these in my methodology section, deploy them further in a section on close reading, and conclude with the suggestion that, in this chapter, the archive itself may be interpreted to function as a manifestation of k’etch eltani, the prophetic practice of true belief through seeking visionary dreams (Boraas, “Work” 3), and that this is one of Kalifornsky’s primary conceptual tools for teaching people how to connect, form community, and even express cross-species love—as loyalty, sacrifice, and respect. Method: Some Conceptual Tools (Aural, Animal, Grammatical) If it was Kalifornsky’s literary praxis to create an archive not just of cultural knowledge but of linguistically-encoded, multi-functional, culturally-mobile knowledge, then he created a dual-language published archive for wide circulation within and beyond his community that was meant to be used for its own interpretation. Kalifornsky traversed the orality-literacy divide, the                                                              41 A full description of this relationship is given in Jim Kari’s introductory essay: “Peter usually adds the English translations in a second phase. For the 1977 and 1984 books, Peter and I often discussed the English and made minor modifications in the translations. This process has continued with Peter, Alan, and me during the editing of this book. Some of the earlier translations were adjusted, especially as we coordinated the numbered paragraphs for this edition. Also many of his writings since 1985 were initially written only in Dena’ina. For most of these, I did the first English translation, which Peter and Alan reviewed and amplified. I supplied most of the literal translations in the book, which are presented within square brackets []” (Kari, “Writing” xxx-xxxi). 88 divide about which so much has been written and theorized. He has also traversed generic divides by recording sukdu and composing lyric poetry. Yet his teachings are resolutely traditional.  I take a particular interest in deictic references to personhood through the aural dimensions of animism by focusing on articulations of personhood (pronouns) with the archive. And so I am interested in how to interpret Kalifornsky’s archival praxis in terms that come not solely from institutional or technological contexts but hopefully from the content of the archive itself—from the teachings offered in Kalifornsky’s sukdu—which mainly concern how to treat animals in a good way, so that animals in turn will allow humans to survive. Further, I am interested in how his approach conjoins dichotomies of media (oral/written), time (pre-/post-contact), language (Indigenous/European), genre (traditional/original), and personhood (human/non-human).  I try in this chapter to mobilize clearly my core methodology concerning the animal and the grammatical by identifying and aligning this method with some of the conceptual tools inherent within Kalifornsky’s work. These tools may be meant, in part, to permit the interpretation of the many dualisms listed above by deriving certain linked elements from Kalifornsky’s stories, songs, poems, and word lists. My linkages between them are also my conceptual tools: the aural, the animal, and the grammatical, just as it is in my other chapters. But unlike the other chapters, this chapter also suggests a material link between Kalifornsky’s thoughts and his pages: it was his method to write certain key words on a blackboard that he owned and then think about them before incorporating them into his stories.    89 The Aural Breathing flesh, bone, sedimentary slate, and limestone are brought together in his mind to extend his thoughts past his mind, past these materially intercalated sites of transcription, and onto the page. Kalifornsky’s method began with slate and sound: Peter does some preliminary outlining prior to writing. This is often in the form of a few key words or concepts placed on a blackboard that he keeps for this purpose. These words become part of his next written work. (Kari, “Writing” xxx) These words are like bones that are necessary for the rebirth of animals—a concept which I comment on further below. First, some examples of Kalifornsky’s word/bones, based on the g—gg sound, quoted in the sequence he listed on the blackboard and then typed up for the archive and eventual publication: gini, this here gindi, here it is gindu, this here? gundu, this guy here?  gudi, over here guni, horse guluba, cow gushga, cat glabi, bedbug gega, berrys [sic] gedlut, seaweed gantsa, huckleberry 90 dghelggey, white itgguy, white grey k’guggesh, belly lining k’ggukena, blubber k’ggena, claws lega, squirrel  łik’aggwa, puppy ggagga, bear ggenaga, word language beyiga, his shadow. (434) This is not the whole list, but this example illustrates two things about the power of sound for Kalifornsky: 1) word-initial sounds move inward as he progresses in his contemplation of sounds; and 2) the interplay between sound and that which is referenced by the word to which it belongs is not always grammatical in terms of conjugation but also poetic derivation. For example, “ggenaga” leads to “beyiga”—word language to his shadow. I also think the deictics “gini” and “gindi” are a fascinating way to begin this meditative list—perhaps deictics make a good starting point for theory (mine) as well as practice (Kalifornsky’s).  These words in the list above are mnemonic, metonymic, and etymological at the level of sound. Their deposition reanimates the life of language in Kalifornsky’s mind. It seems to me that these derivational tools form the core of Kalifornsky’s narratives and his lyrics. It is a precept of cognitive-linguistic theory, upon which I draw at times for my project, that form-meaning pairings are significant—potentially iconic, in Peircean terms—all the way from the 91 phonological to the discourse levels of human speech (Dancygier 6-7).42 This creative form of generating words is ratified, at least in Navajo, by Robert Young’s comment that: In the verb system of Navajo lexical derivation involves four broad processes: (1) the straight forward use of verbal roots and adverbial-derivational prefixes, with their base meanings; (2) extension of base root meaning, often by metaphor, to permit application to disparate concepts; (3) figurative use of adverbial-derivational prefixes and prefix compounds; and (4) idiom. (1) While Young refers to derivation, not conjugation, and stops at the level of the word, his principle implies the necessity of creative interpretations of creative iconicities apart from, or at least in addition to, indexical meaning-making (cf. Field 2009). And as Anthony Webster writes, in Intimate Grammars (2015a) of poetic iconicity, or expression of felt attachment, phonological variation in Navajo is crucial to the freedom of marking emotions as a form of expanding the possibilities of referential meaning imaginatively. Or, as Webster puts it in another place, echoing (quite intentionally) Sapir, one way of thinking about linguistic relativity is in the ways that languages eventuate imaginative potentials. Such imaginative potentials, of course, will run the gamut of syntax, semantics, morphology, phonology, etc. (“In Favor” 122) The purpose of these iconicities of emotion is, according to Bakhtin, that chorister of texts, to move through quietude, whereby “disturbance of quietude by sound is mechanical and physiological (as a condition of perception)” to silence, wherein “somebody speaks (or somebody does not speak)” (133-34). From silence, which he conceptualizes similarly to the soundscape in my Wolverine chapter, there is derived the word.                                                              42 For example, ɂɛtθén, the word/s for meat and caribou in Denesułine, as I show in chapter two, allow for sound-based metonymy that shapes the entire logic of a narrative. 92 Bakhtin defines the meaning of sound, which I call the soundscape, as “Silence—intelligible sound (a word)—and the pause constitute a special logosphere, a unified and continuous structure, an open (unfinalized) totality” (134). This totality has the “word as the final (highest) goal” (134). Thus, the range of meaning moves from quietude>silence>word>logosphere.43 Within this range, the soundscape of Kalifornsky’s work permits the “eventuat[ion of] imaginative potentials,” as Webster puts it, from sound>word>breath>story. The prosodic power of sound of course varies depending on genre; but even in less well-analyzed genres, as I quote Dell Hymes pointing out, in my introduction, have a persuasive aural quality—and this is true even in written form. In Kalifornsky’s words, “We’re talking. But by studying the writing, you see the movement behind the words. Then they go into higher words, too” (McNamara 497). I think Bakhtin might have come to understand Kalifornsky’s point: from the silence of print—intelligible sound: that which goes higher—a logosphere that, cloudy, windy, snowy, stormy, lives and breathes life into the animal and human people who embody, bone and flesh, the sound of love. Close Reading It starts with Kalifornsky’s song, “Potlatch Song of a Lonely Man,” “Hqqetitl’ K’elik’a Ch’tunik’nasdzeden” (Kalifornsky, Dena’ina 466-68). This song comes at the end of his collection, but it was one of the first things he dreamed before writing his first Dena’ina story—in English. He dreamed the melody for first part of this song just a few months before he met Jim Kari, his long-time writing teacher, collaborator, student, and friend, in 1972, at a potlatch, an                                                              43 Which is defined as a duality of that which is unrepeatable and that which is always repeated: “Understanding–recognition of repeated elements of speech (i.e., language) and intelligent understanding of the unrepeatable utterance. Each element of speech is perceived on two planes: on the plane of the repeatability of the language and on the plane of the unrepeatability of the utterance. Through the utterance, language joins the historical unrepeatability and unfinalized totality of the logosphere” (134). 93 instance of a revived practice at that time (Kari, “Writing” xxix). He dreamed the second part of this song in 1974, as he was learning to write in his language (Kalifornsky 481). In an early, English-language piece of writing about the potlatch that inspired his dream, Kalifornsky says, the “song mentions the relatives, friends, aunts, and so on. That they may come in with love and cheer,” while in the “second part of the song, the same words are used. That was to everyone. . . . That’s why the song can’t be sold, but the song could be used by any tribe under permission. That is, permission for their respected” (374). The old relatives are sung about first, and then new people are sung about—using many of the same words but for new—or seemingly new—people. Boraas writes, in a biography of Kalifornsky included near the end of Kalifornsky’s collection, that the “concept of community included land and animals as well as human beings. It is the rebirth of this concept of community that Peter is talking about in the second verse of this song” (qtd. in Kalifornsky 481). There are other songs that are meant to be sung all day (Kizzia A1).44 Kalifornsky’s potlatch song is meant to be sung over many lifetimes. And it is a gift to be used in a good way. In the song, Kalifornsky first sings slowly of loss. Then he sings a second part that is faster in tempo, almost twice as fast. I have learned to play this song on my guitar because the musical notation is included in his book.45 I learned through practicing the song on my guitar that the melody reaches and then returns to a repeated range. I also learned that it is hard to replicate voice with strings—grace notes do not represent the “(unfinalized) totality” of the voice very well. I learned that, to approximate the voice, harmonics work better than plucked strings—                                                             44 “Kalifornsky also learned the traditional Dena'ina songs that were hummed all day to focus the mind. ‘Like prayer, something like praying all the time,’ Kalifornsky said of the songs in 1991” (Kizzia A1). 45 Alan Boraas comments, “I had a tape of Peter singing the two verses and asked a local concert pianist, Maria Allison, if she could/would write it as a musical score. She did, I then bought a music template and staff paper and with a drafting pen wrote the score on page 468. Peter had several version of this song. One includes the line ‘where are we scattered to like dust in the wind.’ The line came to him while he was sweeping the floor and dust swirled up from his broom.” 94 suggesting that even instruments are better when they echo certain values or ranges: aural plurality, in the sense of resonance, permits a more organic logosphere.  The words are also relevant: Kalifornsky sings, slowly and low, “Endi’ina ya bach’a’ina ya ada ił shu nagh qinqtudeł? / Uhi yuhi” (466). Then in the next verse, faster and higher, he sings, “Nał ch’indaqna ya nagh qinqudatl’, nagh qinqtudeł. / Uhi yuhi” (466). In his English translation: “Where are our loved ones who might come to us with kindness? / Uhi yuhi” and “Our relatives have come back to us, have come back to us. / Uhi yuhi” (467). Maybe Kalifornsky was singing in the silence lest it become quietude. Boraas comments that “The second verse, said Boraas, was a testament to the power Peter Kalifornsky had found in words” (Kizzia A1). The structure of the lyrics demonstrates this pattern of repetition with renewal. Besides the refrain, vocables are retained in the English translation, a form of cross-linguistic repetition. The Animal  Here I wish to pause and relate the English version of the key story from which I quote for the title of my chapter, where Porcupine is talking with Lynx. I first realized what animals can mean in a Dene context by thinking about this story. The story concerns prophecy, setting one’s mind to something and seeing it come true: k’etch eltani, the prophetic practice of true belief through seeking visionary dreams (Boraas, “Work” 3). However, unlike my Euro-American expectations of prophecy, which include statements about the future of humanity, this story concerns the future of Porcupine in conversation with Lynx. As with my dissertation chapters on Wolverine and Wolf (fourth chapter) and Badger and Coyote (fifth chapter), two quite different animals are often consistently linked, in Dene narratives, perhaps esoterically, but 95 also in ways that make ecological and narratological sense.46 As with Badger and Coyote, one animal, Porcupine, serves to secure the future of humanity and the other animal, Lynx, may serve as a transformer figure like Coyote and Wolverine. Stories about linked but very different animals illustrate the truth that in life, as in true stories, there are always two interconnected ethical values: chaos and clarity, sound and speech, loss and love. Both are needed.  The story from which the title of this chapter is taken is titled “The Dreamer and the Doctor,” and it teaches about the roles of human visionaries. In its entirety, in the English translation, it goes like this. The Shaman, the Prophet, the Sky Reader, and the Dreamer could picture things in their minds. They would get together and tell each other things. The Dreamer told them about his dream. The animals had gotten together, they say, and were joking. Lynx said, “Porcupine, you are really ugly.” And Porcupine said to him, “I will be popular with the Campfire People,47 so ha, ha, ha [in the Dena’ina version: hi, hi, hi].” So when he climbed up a spruce, Lynx climbed up after him, and Porcupine slapped him with his tail. And that Lynx fell off and was hurt badly. His ribs and bones were broken. The animals used various plants to cure with. Porcupine came back down and said, “Some plant medicine may cure you.” He said, “You’ll turn into an animal again.” And the Lynx got up. And they hollered at him and he ran away.                                                              46 Social sense, too. Boraas comments, “Traditional Dena’ina has partners, a formal relationship between two men or two women. Partners hunted, berry picked etc. together. It was a lifelong relationship. All animals and plants had partners as well. See “When the Animals Divided Into Pairs’ [Kalifornsky 78-81]. Note it starts ‘in the beginning . . .’.”   On looking up this story, I find this commentary on love by Kalifornsky: “This story is a lesson laying out a pattern to live by. People should live by choosing one another as friends, to be happy, to joke with one another, and to love one another” (81). 47 Footnote 1, from the text: “This is the name for human beings as used by the animals” (Kalifornsky 29). Animals have circumlocutions for humans just as humans do for animals. 96 Thus he told how he dreamed. (29) Note that the frame of the story is a human dream, prophetic in that it reveals Porcupine’s future as a small, useful, and seemingly easy prey.48 The temporality of the dream is interesting, given that most animal roles are determined outside of Cartesian time. Thus the dream of the future is of the past, in which an animal future is foretold by that animal: “I will be popular with the Campfire People, so ha, ha, ha.” As well, the nature of that popularity is paralleled by Lynx’s ordeal, where he breaks his bones and then is brought back to life again, as an animal. Porcupine, as it turns out in other stories written down by Kalifornsky, is a prophetic tool—his bones are often used for scapulomancy. Thus this story is prophetic through the retrogressive for prophecy of prophecy.49 And it all concerns bones.50  The importance of care for an animal’s bones cannot be overstated: they must be buried whole in earth or water. I examine this further in the section below, through the grammatical.                                                              48 Note this hunting story posted on an Alaska hunting forum in 2008: “One winter my cousin and I were snowmachining up into the mountain to hunt for caribou, had all our camping gear and enough supplies and gas for a week. First day on the trail after reaching the mountains we spotted a porcupine, my cousin told me he hasn't eaten porcupine for a few years and when he saw it he really started craving for the meat. So he shot it with his 22 cal. I told him he would have to skin it and cook it for our evening meal, so after we set up our camp he started skinning it, he threw the hide beside a stand of willows near our camp. Freshly cooked porcupine is pretty good eating especially out in the mountains on a cold winter evening. We slept good that night, next morning we could hear something rustling around outside of our tent, my cousin looked out and there was a red fox and he was wearing the porcupine hide on his side. Guess the fox got trapped by the porcupine and had no way of getting loose. My cousin felt sorry for the fox so he shot it. Foxes are supposed to be pretty smart, well this fox got out smarted by a dead porcupine, must have been hungry or just too darn curious for his own good. Back to porcupine; my grandmother told me back in the old days hunters would not use guns or clubs to kill porcupine, they would just sharpen a good stiff stick and poke the porcupine in the eye pushing the stick all the way back into the brain. On another winter hunting trip a few years back two Elder hunters that we were hunting with decided that they wanted porcupine for dinner. So the first one they spotted they killed. Porcupine is very good eating when your out camping with a couple of Elders that are constantly telling hunting story after hunting story while your having dinner. There's more to a porcupine than just the meat” (Nukalpiaq; emphasis added). 49 I.e., is recounts a past story of a prophetic dream in which the potential for prophecy inherent in Porcupine and in porcupine bones is recounted as mythic history for future use—just as this story is recounted from the past for future use. Linear temporality is shown to be cyclical when the principles contained within such enactments of history are taken to be true. Through belief, stories are renewed, and through stories, belief is renewed.  50 Boraas comments, “Porcupine hip bones have a very unusual shape, good for climbing trees but they waddle when they walk.” 97 The importance of porcupine bones is fascinating, because this animal is both so spiny and so defenseless. Porcupine is shrouded in spines but is small, a herbivorous rodent. The opposite, in many ways, of Lynx.  In “Porcupine and Beaver #1,” Porcupine dies by jumping into the fire of the Campfire People during the winter, and He comes back to life in the autumn and scares Beaver. Beaver claims that Porcupine is “dumb” for sacrificing Himself, but Porcupine explains: “That’s how brave I am. To make them aware of it, I jumped in the fire for them” (111). This willing sacrifice speaks to a voluntary affiliation between porcupines and humans, defined by words—or at least the semiotics of prophecy—and by bones—since, as is described below, animals only reincarnate and this remain available for food and as companions and teachers if their bones are treated in a good way.  In the next story, “Porcupine and Beaver on the Other Side,” Porcupine seeks passage across a body of water. The whole story signifies as prophetic method, in that by traveling over the water with Beaver, Porcupine is able to say,  “There will be more stories about us. They will respect your body. If you are caught, they will put your bones in the water, and you will become an animal again. That is what you said, and everything is fine with me.” (113) In a coda to this story, “About the Porcupine and Beaver Story,” Kalifornsky writes, “This story describes water transportation by boat to seek food. And there are big and small shipwrecks” (115). The footnote to this statement explains, “This refers to the Dena’ina hunters’ practice of scapulomancy, which is divination about hunting by tossing the hipbone of the porcupine” (115, note 1). Thus a picture emerges in which Porcupine embodies, quite literally, a connection between the future for the past for the future, human for animal for human, body for bone for 98 body. At a conceptual level, this is a form of reciprocity based not on exact exchange, but on exchange through alternations in linked, but contrastive, values. This form of alternation is evident also in Navajo narrative structures (see Salabye, Jr. and Manolescu 2016); in my fifth dissertation chapter, on the Navajo emergence narrative, alternation through reversals becomes productive of life, reanimation, for connection—for love: thus here, also, I suggest, “There will be more stories about us. They will respect your body.”  In the story “The Moose and the Porcupine,” Porcupine makes this reversative renewal explicit. He says to Moose: “The Campfire People will toss my hipbone in order to tell the future. They will laugh when they know the truth; that there is something missing in my stomach. What they learn will be for the bad, or the good.” (117) The missing thing is a test of knowledge for humans—“porcupines have no gall bladder” (117), as a note in Kalifornsky’s text explains, and when disposing respectfully of a porcupine’s remains, one should be knowledgeable about this or suffer the consequences—which are, in this story, the divorce of an ignorant spouse who lies and claims that they have disposed of the gall bladder, thus revealing their ignorance about important animal protocols.51  In these stories, Kalifornsky deliberately teaches what is and is not Porcupine, and, by extension, what is and is not prophecy—conceptual tools for preserving the future. He does so not through the prophetic itself, but through embodying the prophetic animal, Porcupine, voicing His words, which are strange, even grotesque and pathetic, but certainly powerful—they concern divining the fracture. The place where there is both conjunction and disjuncture—which is to say, articulation, that double-edged word for words and bones.                                                              51 Boraas comments, “Peter had at least a rough English draft of all of these stories. I helped him flesh out these English drafts, sometimes Jim helped—but they are definitely Peter’s basic work.” 99 The Grammatical Porcupine, as with all the animals I write about, is a person—a more-than-human person who enables personhood—and this is marked not just through his bones and his narrative events but also through grammatical features in his narratives. Here I will focus just on the deictic category of personhood and how it is expressed through some grammatical categories of animacy and inanimacy in Dena’ina, and consider how it relates to the animal, whose skin, blood, meat, fat, bones, mind, and breath, I suggest, compose a literal and literary method of making a story live—or live again.  I will start with one of Kalifornsky’s original poems. In “The Work of the Mind,” Kalifornksy teaches that “Our body and brain come together [to make the mind]. / Through our senses we become totally aware. / The world is represented in our mind and becomes part of us”—and so “we imagine” (457).52 Let us compare that message with what he writes in one of his sukdu, “Beliefs in Things a Person Can See and in Things a Person Cannot See,” or, in Dena’ina, “K’ełen Ił Ch’qghe’uyi Ch’u K’ech’eltani [something, k’ech’-belief, eltani].”53 It begins, in English, the “Dena’ina, they say, had some beliefs about animals,” which involve hunting and eating them and then “put[ting] the bones in one place” so that the “animals would                                                              52 Boraas comments, “Usually twice a week during the four-year course of this book, I would get Peter at his place in Kenai and we would come to the Anthropology Lab at Kenai Peninsula College and spend 4-5 hours working on the stories. Then I’d take him home. One day, as we were driving through Kenai, I noticed a Kenai Library book sale and we stopped to look around. Peter saw a book on ‘mind and body.’ I forget the title or author and I bought it for him, probably a dollar. The next time I picked him up he had this piece—‘The Work of the Mind,’ and we included it in the book. So it’s not a traditional story, but it is also not a translation of a part of the book. Peter looked for key words and phrases and put them into Dena’ina.” 53 Boraas comments, “Similarly, ‘Belief in Things . . .’ came from our discussion of why there are few artifacts or bones in Dena’ina sites. He said there was a story about that, and the next week he had written ‘Belief . . . .’ The phrase also occurs in the Old Testament (maybe New Testament) as well as many other religious texts. It is possible Peter heard it in an Orthodox service, I don’t know. I never asked him. Either way, the Dena’ina is the key to the story.” 100 be in good shape as they returned to the place where animals are reincarnated”—and born again, for themselves and for further sustenance (41).  So we have three key concepts here, coming together from the poem and from the sukdu. The first concept from Kalifornsky is the power of the mind and of focusing entirely on what one wants—so that we might become, in a sense, the archive we wish to construct. The imagination is generative. The second concept from Kalifornsky is the power of the body and of its regenerative potential when treated right—when all the articulatory parts are kept whole.54  The thi