The Ones Who Stay Hidden

A Red River Métis Fable

Long ago, but also today if you know where to look, there lived an old Sabe called Sincère, who was very tall and awkward, and quiet as a snowfall. His fur was the colour of creek mud and his eyes held the stillness of old starlight. Through the years he had watched the bison herds pass, seen canoes slice the water, and listened to the campfire songs from afar, but Sincère never joined in… not once.

He sometimes wanted to speak up, and he was lonely sometimes, sure, especially in the spring. But Sincère had learned a long time ago that human people ask too many questions and can be noisy or unkind. They take pictures and want stories and they want you to stand still and smile and wave so they can study you. And Sincère didn’t like being studied.

So he stayed hidden.

High up in the trees or low in the brush he would move like wind through tall grass. He was just a blur or a rustle, too quick to catch.

He never wanted to be cruel or rude, just private.

But every now and then, when hikers wandered too close to his den, he’d crouch above the trail and flick small pebbles at them - tock! - right on their heads. Not to harm, just to confuse and keep them moving on their way.

“Did you feel that?” they’d ask each other.

“Maybe a bird.” someone would say.

Sincère would grin and chew on a chokecherry twig, content with his mischief.

One day, an old grandfather and his granddaughter walked the trail, their voices rising with the wind as they sat on a fallen log to rest. Sincère crept up a spruce tree and hovered above them, ready with his pebble.

But just before he tossed it, the old man looked up towards him and paused, and Sincère froze. The old man said, “You know, little one, some beings don’t want to be seen, but it doesn’t mean they aren’t part of the story.”

The girl looked at the bushes around her too. “Do they get lonely?”

The grandfather smiled. “Sure they do, but sometimes being alone is the price of peace.”

Sincère slowly lowered his pebble and watched them walk away, their voices fading into the distance.

He didn’t throw anything that day, but later, he left a handful of chokecherries on the log where they’d sat, his way of saying thank you without ever being seen.

Not every spirit wants to be known. Some choose stillness over fame and solitude over noise. Even the hidden ones leave gifts, if you know where to look.