Spirit Island - A tale by Al Mayer

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Spirit Island
A tale by Al Mayer

“On the shores of Gitche Gumee, of the shining Big-Sea-Water, stood Nokomis, the old woman, pointing with her finger westward, o’er the water pointing westward, to the purple sunset.”

- - - - - these are the words that Mary Bradford, spending her first night in Minneapolis, had on her mind as she fell asleep in her room on the third floor of the downtown Carlson Hotel. When Mary first learned that she was scheduled to attend a sales seminar in Minneapolis, she borrowed the book “The Song of Hiawatha” from a friend. Ever since reading about Longfellow’s Minnehaha and Hiawatha in a children’s storybook, Mary associated this tale with the city of Minneapolis. Though she was anxious to learn more about Minneapolis, Mary felt no great urgency to go exploring that evening knowing she would be here several more days. So, with that knowledge, and knowing she had an early get-acquainted breakfast meeting the next morning, she retired shortly after dinner.

It was about 4:30 in the morning when Mary felt the presence of someone in her room. Normally this would have frightened her, except this time, for some unknown reason, the feeling was more of assured well-being rather than concern, (More like the nights when her mother used to come into her bedroom to check on her when she was a little girl.) She felt the mattress sag as the intruder sat on the edge of the bed. Even when she felt the weight of a hand placed on her arm, there was no fear. It was too dark to see who the figure was, yet she was sure through the touch that it belonged to a man.

Mary concealed her anxiety by remaining very still as his strong hand tenderly squeezed her arm and then carefully brushed hair away from her neck. She could tell by these movements he was trying to wake her as gently as possible. When she finally dared to stir and show signs of awakening, he reached for her hands and gently tugged while saying, “Please don’t be afraid ----- come with me.” Once she sat up he released her hands and offered her the slacks and jacket she had worn to dinner that evening. He looked out of the window while she put these on over her pajamas. It was still too dark to see who this soft-spoken stranger was.

After closing the door quietly behind them, they walked down the three flights of stairs to the main lobby. Where are we going? Why am I not afraid of this stranger? Who is this person? These were some of the thoughts that raced through Mary’s mind as she walked. Lights illuminating the polished granite walls and the hotel’s floor revealed that the man was in his forties, lean, clean-shaven, dark-skinned and had long hair tied into a knot in the back of his head. She guessed he was about six-feet tall.

While walking side-by-side he cautiously grasped her left hand and cupped it in his strong, sinewy warm hand. Four blocks later they were at the edge of a tree-lined embankment. He moved in front of her, still holding onto her left hand with his right, as he led her down a steep path to the edge of a large river. Mary recalled seeing the Mississippi River while dining in the Carlson’s O’Brien Room, so deduced that this must be the same river. While peering into the darkness, Mary was able to distinguish the outline of a canoe tied to a nearby tree. Following a light tug and gentle nudge, Mary realized he wanted her to get into the canoe. Mary was barely seated when he pushed off from shore with such expertise that the canoe barely rolled as he got in.

Though the water moved swiftly, his skill with the paddle kept them abreast of the current. It remained very dark. The sole break in the darkness was the sheen the city’s lights brought to the cobalt sky. The only distinguishable sound came from the waves lapping against the side of their boat as the stranger’s paddle dipped rhythmically into the murky water. It was a much longer trip to cross the river than it first appeared under the deceptive night sky.

On the far side of the river, the stranger adroitly guided the canoe into a quiet backwater lagoon which made getting onto shore a simple task. After securing the canoe, he again took her hand. This time his felt cool, for while her hands were tucked into her pockets, his had been exposed to the cool morning air. A narrow path led to the top of the east bank of the river where they followed the brim of a bluff for about a quarter of a mile up stream. There, on a rocky ledge overlooking the Falls of St. Anthony, they sat on a blanket the stranger had brought with him. To help ward off the dampness, he draped a second wrap about her shoulders.

While sitting huddled under the blanket he told her how over the many years, the Mississippi River had served as a highway of travel for Indians, voyagers and explorers. The falls required travelers coming upstream to unload their wares in a cove beneath the falls. Their cargo, including the canoes, was then portaged up a steep bluff past the falls to a point a half mile above the falls. The ledge they sat on was once part of this “Old Portage Trail.”

While Mary was imagining what it must have been like in those days, the hypnotic sounds of the falls nearly lulled her to sleep. Both sat quietly for some time listening to the rush of the river and the muffled roar of the water as it cascaded over the brink of the falls. Wisps of fog lifting from the base of the falls came into view as the sun’s first rays brightened the horizon. It was at this moment that Mary thought she heard the faint wail of a woman’s voice coming from the direction of the falls.

When Mary turned to corroborate what she heard, all the stranger did was lift an index finger to his lips indicating she should not talk, but continue to listen. Mary listened intently. It became clearer that it was the voice of a woman singing in a language she did not understand. She looked at the stranger again. Was she really hearing this voice? A nod assured her that he also heard it. Though the voice grew louder and clearer, the words remained unintelligible to her. The source of the song continued to come closer until Mary was sure she could see the outline of a figure in a canoe above the falls. Then, all at once - - - - an eerie silence.

Many years ago when the Dakota Indians lived along both shores of the Mississippi River there was a young hunter who set up his tepee beside the great waterfall. He had a wife and loved her and was so well loved that the union and the happiness of the hunter and wife, Ampota Sampa, was spoken of among the tribe as wonderful. They had two children and lived happily together for several years. But, as he became more and more skilled as a hunter and gained riches, several admiring families came and raised their tepees near that of the great hunter and the happy pair. Words and whispers came to the young hunter that he ought to have more wives so that he might enjoy greater happiness. He listened to the tempters and soon made a choice among the daughters of his new friends. When it was time to tell his wife it was painful for both of them, but to make the news less painful to her, he began by telling her that he had thought she had too many household cares and that she needed someone to help her. So, he would bring that help in the form of a young girl who was also to be his second wife.

Ampota objected and said “No.” She said she was happy to work for him and his children. She prayed and besought him, by their former love and happy life, by every tender tie, by the love of their little ones, not to bring a new love into their tepee. He said nothing, but this same night brought home to the tepee his new wife. Early the next morning a death-song was heard on the waters of the Mississippi. A canoe was seen gliding swiftly through the rapids above the Falls of St. Anthony, and in the canoe sat a young woman with two children folded to her bosom. It was Ampota Sampa dressed in her ceremonial garments. In her song she told the cause of her despair, of her death, and of her departure for the spirit land. So she sat, singing her song of death, as she was swiftly borne onward by the rapids to the edge of the rocks. Her husband, the now famous hunter, and his friends heard her and saw her, but it was too late. In a few moments the canoe was at the brink of the falls where it seemed to pause a second, and then was pulled on by the rush of the water and dashed down onto the rocks where the turbulent water covered the victims with foam.

Their bodies were never seen again; days later, only their beaded moccasins washed up onto the shore. Tradition says that on misty mornings the spirit of the Indian wife with the children folded to her bosom can be seen gliding in the canoe through the spray as it rises above the falls, and that the sound of her death-song is heard in the wind and in the roar of the Falls of St. Anthony. Such is the legend of Spirit Island as related to Mary by the mysterious stranger on their way back to the hotel.

When they arrived at her hotel room door Mary was still mesmerized by what she had seen and heard. She began to feel faint as the impact of this experience whirled around in her head. The stranger steadied her with one hand while pushing open the door with the other. He lifted her and carried her over to the bed where he helped remove her jacket and slacks. He pulled up the bed’s light blanket and tucked it in so that it loosely covered her shoulders. The pressure of his hand and a soft kiss below her left ear brought a contented moan.


Mary bolted to an upright position. Her heart was pounding fiercely beneath her breast as she anxiously looked around the room. Was she alone? Where was he? Where was who, she quizzically asked herself. What a wonderful dream - - - or was it? Why did the jacket lying on the chair next to the bed feel so moist? Was it really damp, or did she just imagine it to be that way?

If you ever find yourself spending a night alone in Minneapolis and you feel the presence of someone in your room, don’t become alarmed, it’s probably the Spirit from the little island that once stood proudly below the Falls of St. Anthony. It’s this Spirit that reminds us of the past and lets us create our own legends and symbols. I know, for I am the Spirit of the Island.