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He scratched his head. “Are you Ojibwe?” he asked scanning her head to toe.
“Over half.”
“Bellanger, hmm,” he said with a slight twinkle in his eyes. “Come with me,” he mumbled, shuffling his feet. Six doors down the hallway he entered his office. “Have a seat,” he motioned as he rounded his desk and plunked down in a squeaky leather chair which had seen better days.
Donja sat next to Makayla, the redolent smell of burned coffee and body odor all but forcing a grimace.
The professor busied himself at his computer and after a few minutes he peeked over his glasses and his stark demeanor had shifted. “What was you grandfather’s name?”
“Ardrey Bellanger, but my Grandma Anna called him Beaver. I think it was a nickname.”
The professor’s fingers flew over the keyboard, eyes locked on the screen with his mouth gaping. “Yes, I found him, hmmm looks like he married Anna Beaty of the Durent Clan.”
“Yes, she’s my grandmother.”
“Where is she?” he asked, glaring down his long nose over his glasses.
“Why do you ask?”
“Well she…uhh,” he stammered, “never claimed any Chippewa royalties, not a dime and there are several blurbs over the years from the Durent Clan, which I might add are all but nonexistent, as to her whereabouts. I see one that states she might have died in a housefire.”
“She’s not dead, she’s just a very private person.”
He scrunched his mouth to one side. “So, if one wanted to communicate with her, how could…”
“You can communicate with me and I’ll tell her,” Donja cut him off. “Like I said, she likes her privacy.
“So, it would seem,” he said, the excitement in his eyes fading. He leaned back in his chair, which squeaked considerably. “Do you want to tell me why you feel you need a Midewiwin, because if it’s medical related, one of the area clinics would be your best bet?”
“It’s not medical. I need protection.”
He cocked his head to one side, gazing over his glasses and he did look like Pinocchio. “From what?”
“Evil, that’s all I can say without involving you.”
He swallowed hard, contemplating. Suddenly he picked up his desk phone and dialed a number. Within minutes he was conversing with someone in a strange dialect. He hung up, grabbed a pen and jotted on a note pad. He handed it across his desk, analyzing Donja’s face intently.
“Go to this address. You may or may not find what you’re seeking, but it’s the best I can do for you.”
“That language you just spoke. What is it?” Donja asked.
“Ojibwemowin.”
“Chippewa?”
“Yes, though it belongs to the Algonaquian linguistic group, sister to Blackfoot, Cheyenne, Cree, Fox and many more.”
“I vaguely remember hearing my grandma and grandpa speaking the same language,” she said with a faraway look in her eyes. “I would love to learn it someday.”
“I would be glad to assist,” he said. “After you remedy your spirit problem, check on some classes,” he said as he handed her his card.
“I didn’t say it was spirits.”
“Your eyes did,” he said. “Good luck, Miss Bellanger, and please, get back with me in a few days. I’d love to hear of your encounter with the Midewiwin,” he replied with a broadening smile.
Donja and Makayla took their leave, traversing the hallway out the building to the parking lot. “That had to be the longest nose on a human I’ve ever seen,” Makayla giggled.
“No comment, I refuse to make fun of anyone again,” Donja said. “Karma will get you, I’m living proof.”