Runaway Dreams (7 page)

he stands at the corner

looking through the tangle

of one braid undone

the nest of it falling

against his cheek

while he toes

the butts at his feet

shrugs and stoops and fingers

one to his lips

like a desultory kiss

then flares the match

and sighs

the day into being

she sits in the window

overlooking Pigeon Park

and eases silken fringes

between arthritic fingers

the shawl her grandmother

gave her at the Standing Buffalo powwow

the year before she died

fancy dancing spinning

kicking pretending

the drum could push her

floating across the air

she touched down here

many moons ago

the faded outline

of the Saskatchewan hills

sketched in the wrinkles of her brow

she doesn't dance now

can barely walk

but staring down at derelicts

hookers, junkies, drunks

and other pavement gypsies

she sings an honour song

so that their ancestors might

watch over and protect them

the same song

her grandmother taught her

to sing in the shawl

snug about her shoulders

he stares across a vacant sea

of asphalt and pulls both hands

across his belly slanted

to his hip

and recalls the great canoe

they paddled out of Kitimat

then down Hecate Strait

and into Queen Charlotte Sound

the summer he was twelve

and he can still feel the muscle

of the channel on his arm

the smell of it

potent, rich, eternal

the smell of dreams and visions

thunderbirds dancing

orca chasing raven

across the slick surface

of the sea

he crosses to his closet

and retrieves the tools and wood

and paints he stores there

bundles it in the button blanket

he danced in once

and heads down the stairs

out into the street

to find the kids

he teaches to carve paddles now

the ocean

phosphorescent

in the moonlight

what he brings to them

me I never thought that bein' Injun

was any diff'rent than someone else

we see the same sky, breathe

the same air, feel the same

earth under our feet

and everyone smiles with the sun on their back

an' the cool wind on their face

us we never knew no better

than what our teachin's told us

and what they say is that us people

swim out into the world the same

born innocent us, all of us

needin' help and shelter and warm

skin against our own to tell us

that this world outside our mother's belly

beats with one heartbeat

like the drum of her heart

we heard in darkness

that's what teachin's are meant to do, my boy

lead us back to that one heartbeat

me I remember once long time ago

when I was small maybe nine, maybe ten

when we still lived the trap line life

thirty miles out near One Man Lake

where the
manomin
grew thick as the bush

in the coves an' bays near our tents

and I could hear it rustle in the wind at night

in my blankets on a bed of cedar boughs

me I went to sleep all summer hearin' that voice

like a whisper in my ear all night long

the promise of the rice

filling up my dreams

anyhow my grandmother says to me one day

it's time for me to be a man an' me

I thought I was gonna get to hunt

get my first bear, first moose, first deer

but she took me walkin' through the bush

an' made me gather sticks and dry wood

to carry back to camp

an' said that I was gonna be the fire-keeper now

oh, me, my boy, I wanted to hunt so bad

and makin' fire didn't seem no warrior kind of thing

to me an' I made a big sad face at her

well her she sat me down beside her

and never said nothing for the longest time

until she raised a hand and pointed around our camp

“see the Old Ones,” she said to me

“see how they sit close to that fire to warm their bones?

see how they like that lots?”

me I seen that and it made me smile

“see them young ones,” she said

“see how they run to that fire for their soup

see how happy in the belly they are?”

I seen that too me

“tonight,” the old lady said

“the storyteller will sit at that fire and us

we'll sit there too and hear the voice of magic in the night,

that fire throwin' sparks like spirits

flyin' in the air all around us all

and us we'll feel happy in that togetherness

like we done for generations now here

on the shore of this lake with the sound

of the wind in the trees like the sound

of the Old Ones whisperin' our names.”

me I seen that too an' I looked at her

and my face wasn't so big and sad no more

“you bring the fire here,” she said

“you light the flame where we gather

an' you cause all that to be, my boy

you take care of us that way

keep us warm, keep us fed, keep us happy

every stick you gather is a part of that

a part of learnin' how to care for us

and when you learn how to do that good

your grandfather will come

and show you how to hunt.”

me I never forgot that

and I learned to be a fire-keeper

before I learned to hunt and trap and net

that's how the teachin's work, my boy

learn them slow and they become you

and you in turn become them too

more Anishinabeg, more Injun, more human being

and by the time you turn around on that path

to look back on where you come that's when you get to see

that you learned the biggest thing first

to care for people

to light a fire in the night

for them to follow home

and us we're all the same us people

guess we're all Injun that way us humans

we tend to that one heartbeat that joins us up

like we tend a fire to keep our people warm

and fed and happy

the teachin's are the same for all of us

one heartbeat, one fire

callin' us home, see

each morning he lights the sacred medicines

in the abalone bowl and walks

every inch of his home with blessings

and prayers for peace and prosperity

health and well-being and with gratitude

for everything that already is

he eases the sacred smoke over everything

the drum, the rattle, the rocks

and everything he's collected

that reminds him of the relationship

he has with Earth — 
Aki
in his talk

and thanks her for her blessings

standing at the window that overlooks

the lake nestled in the cut of mountains

he feels the sky holding it all in place

and the land singing in its grasp

so that when he closes his eyes he feels

the notes trill within him

now and then he goes to the sweat lodge

to sing and meditate and pray and maybe

cry for things that continue to hurt

and to feel the waves of that ancient heat

purify, rejuvenate and elevate him

to a state where he can carry on

he doesn't dance, doesn't carry a pipe

or wear his hair in braids or a pony tail

or adorn his truck or hats or home

with displays of eagle feathers, buffalo skulls

or the ceremonial trappings that have come

to mean native pride these days

instead there's prayer ties in the corners of the

four directions of his home and a pair of blankets

elders wrapped his wife and him within one time

when they brought stories back to the people

that visitors wrap about themselves and feel

the sacred nature of that gift

he's got an Indian name and he carries teachings

that elders gifted him with on his travels

and he passes those teachings on in the work he does

because they told him that this is how you honour

the gifts that come to you and make you

bigger inside, stronger somehow and proud

so he goes about the process of being Indian

oblivious to fashion and any need to present

an image of himself with books or art or relics

because he's learned to carry ancient paintings

splashed on the caverns of his being

and be content in the knowledge that they're there

and all of that's funny because in the beginning

when he finally made it home

and surrounded himself with Indian things

and learned to talk his talk and walk

a ceremonial road and dance and sing and pray

his own people laughed and called him a Born Again

those voices hurt and cut him deep with shame

and a sense of guilt that he hadn't learned

anything about himself while he was growing up

even though they knew he'd been swept away

and made to live alone with his skin

in a world that was not his own

so when he made it back against all odds

he wanted this living connection to who he was

so desperately that he celebrated openly

letting the joy he felt flow outward

in the dances, songs and ceremonies and the hair

he grew out and braided to honour all he'd learned

but they laughed and called him Born Again

because he fumbled with the pipe and struggled

to pronounce his name and pray in his Ojibway talk

apple, they said sometimes, with the white inside

and the red skin on the outside tacked on

almost like an afterthought

it took a long, long time to get over that

and it was only the elders that came to guide him

that showed him that what it really meant

to be an Indian these days was to present yourself

openly and earnestly to the spiritual way

and be “borne again” to the heart of it

so he stands content and watches the sun break

over the crest of the mountains across the lake

offers a pinch of tobacco to the spirit of Creation

asaama nee-bah gid-eenah
, he says in prayer

I offer tobacco today — then he looks up at his home

and walks inside to find himself again