Scattered Bones (10 page)

She hardly ate, and Annie scolded her. “You’re nothing but skin and bones. How is
Witigo
supposed to make a meal of you?”

Usually a fanatical reader, she barely picked up a book. She stopped playing the harmonium, or even listening to her favourite songs on the gramophone. Her mother said, “What’s the matter with you? Oh, I know! Your monthly curse.”

There was only one person in whom Izzy could confide her love for Joe, and that was Florence Smith. Izzy adored this big-boned woman, more muscle than fat, whose mind was like a large purse always over-flowing with queer ideas – for example her belief that the Greek gods were alive and well, and dwelling in the boreal forest, along, of course, with the Indian spirits.

One summer day when Izzy was twelve, she had been invited to go on an outing to collect medicinal plants in the forest and marshlands near Pelican Narrows with Florence and Sally Sewap, Father Bonnald’s housekeeper – and Joe’s mother, although at the time Izzy hadn’t realized the significance of this. On that first trip, her sharp young eyes spotted, high on a rocky outcrop, a valuable
wikaswa
, wild mint used to relieve tooth ache. Florence and Sally admitted they would have missed it. From then on she was included in their weekly expeditions.

That Florence found the girl to be a delight was obvious, but Sally was much more reserved. Probably she thinks I’m a nuisance, Izzy thought. But then, just before she was to return to Toronto, Sally gave her a pair of gorgeous beaded moccasins which she had crafted herself. From that time on Izzy wore nothing else. On her return to school, she snuck them in her suitcase, but the rules permitted her to wear them only on special occasions, the Masquerade Party being one of them. Izzy dressed up like an Indian squaw and won second prize.

One day, Florence and Sally were up to their waists in the lake trying to yank an obstinate water lily from the mud. The root, when ground up, was used to ease headaches. Izzy was sitting on a rock nearby drawing a clump of wild roses in a notebook she had gotten for her birthday. When Florence emerged from the muck, she took a look at Izzy’s art work and was astounded at how good the little sketches were. After that, she insisted that Izzy keep a pictorial record of the various plants they collected. With the help of a volume on Victorian botanical prints sent by her grandfather, the young artist would identify and label the samples. She branched into pastels and water colours. Her latest effort, ‘Pink Lady’s Slipper,’ – called ‘Moccasin Flower” by the Cree – was exquisite. Everyone said so.

“Izzy, you’re a marvel,” Florence exclaimed when she saw it. It was added to the collection of the girl’s work which will eventually be sent to a publisher. For if Florence has a mission in life, it is to make sure Izzy’s future is not dependent on the success of some man. Which is why, when Izzy confided her passion for Joe, Florence wasn’t as sympathetic as Izzy thought she would be. She simply mumbled, “If this romance does develop into something, you’ll have to tell your parents right away.”

I will certainly do so, Izzy thought to herself. As soon as moose starts saying grace before his dinner.

Chapter Thirteen

Now that the canoe races
are over
, everyone has moved on to other activities – except Joe. He sits on a log looking dejected. Izzy spots him, and gingerly walks over. “You put in a good race, Joe. Too bad you were cheated. I’d make an official complaint if I were you.”

He smiles sweetly – Izzy is charmed. “It’s not who wins the game, but how it’s been played. Isn’t that the rule we Christians are supposed to live by?”

What surprises Izzy is not that he’s so forgiving – surely he doesn’t believe that old cliché – but what he carries under his arm. It’s a two-month old edition of Le Devoir. Probably it’s Father Bonnald’s; newspapers regularly come in his mail. Izzy is overjoyed. Joe can read and probably write, and that, in the struggle to come, will provide powerful ammunition.

The Great Writer has kept his word. With the help of that excellent organizer, Florence Smith, every jar, can, bottle of foodstuffs found at the Hudson’s Bay post, at Arthur Jan’s emporium, and in the Wentworth, Smith, and Bonnald pantries, has been rounded up. The Anglican scholars are to have a very special treat – an English picnic.

Makeshift tables holding all the goodies have been set up on a grassy plateau above the beach, but by the time the children scramble up the hill the lunch has been covered with tablecloths. The games come first. The tracks have been laid out, the pits dug, the poles set. Once the contestants are divided into age groups, the rules spelled out, and the admonishments about not being too rough made, a flurry of activity erupts – dashing, jumping, somersaulting, tossing horseshoes. A thousand bee hives would not have made more noise.

“Good thing Bob Taylor isn’t here,” Florence jokes. “Too much unbridled happiness for him. He’d close us down for sure.”

There is order of sorts, with winner and losers, although Florence makes sure every kid, even the fattest and slowest, wins one bag of candy.

On one side of the grassy knoll, Izzy has set up an easel, and is making quick sketches, more cartoon than art, of the participants. These are a resounding success, each kid running off to show the portrait to friends, who all laugh their heads off.

Angus Crane, who has thrown himself into every activity, a tornado of joyous enthusiasm, hops up and down in line like a grasshopper. When it’s finally his turn, he can hardly hold still long enough for Izzy to catch him on paper, and with this kid, she wants to do a good job. She also wants to gently admonish him for the tale he told that morning.

“Angus, dear,” she begins. “You know that story about the three men who tried to steal the
omomikwesiwak’s
medicine? Maybe it’s not a good idea to say it out loud.”

“Why? Everyone knows those guys are dead ducks. My Uncle Leonard says he’ll kill them himself – with his hunting rifle – if they’re not gone from here by the time the lake freezes over. ”

Izzy recoils at this. Angus’s uncle Leonard is one of the more approachable members of the Crane clan. She makes a mental note to try and pry out of him what’s going on.

The most laughable event of the day, the three legged-race for adults, is announced. Just as the strips of cloth are being handed out, and legs are being bound together, Joe Sewap and Claude Lewis come walking along the path. Izzy wonders if Joe’s been complaining about the results of that morning’s competition, but no, they’re smiling. Florence rushes over, “You boys have come just in time for the fun,” she booms.

Thirteen-year-old Isaac Morin, the only truly surly boy in Izzy’s class, has refused to participate in the games. He’s been skulking about, mocking both the winners and losers, so now he grabs his chance. “Dr. Lewis, I’ll bet you’re fast as the wind, and Mrs. Smith, I’ve seen how good you swim. Very strong, very fast. So why don’t you join the race?”

Izzy winces when Florence pipes up, “That sounds like fun,” and marches over to an astonished Claude Lewis to have her right leg bound to his left.

“And what about you, Miss Wentworth?” Angus Crane calls out. “Wouldn’t it be exciting...” Izzy realizes Angus intends to link her up with Sinclair Lewis, so she makes an instant decision. “I’ll join in if Joe Sewap agrees to be my partner.” A few seconds later she finds herself lashed to the limb of the man she adores.

Meanwhile, pretty Betty Bird has buttonholed The Great Writer and, surprisingly, he has agreed to team up with her. Now they’re hobbling towards the start line.

The three teams ready themselves. The start-gun blasts. Off they go. Or at least try to. In about five seconds, Claude Lewis and Florence Smith tumble to the ground. They are both rotund, and coordinating their legs to march as one proves impossible. Like stout acrobats they roll, the doctor on top of Florence, then Florence on top of the doctor. Izzy hopes that neither sprains a limb.

Betty Bird and The Great Writer make a formidable team. At fifteen she is very swift – she’s won all the races in her age group – so she can easily adapt to Sinclair Lewis’s long-legged stride. They’re off to a strong start.

Izzy and Joe stumble at first, but then quickly synchronize their movements. Izzy can feel his muscular hip against hers. Later, when she remembers this moment, chills will run down her spine. Right now, all she can think about is winning.

Only ten yards from the finish line, Sinclair Lewis, whose face is as red as beet, throws his hands up. “I’m finished,” he gasps. “Can’t go on.” Then falls flat on the ground.

“Oh drat!” exclaims a chagrined Betty, and tumbles besides him.

Among cheers and applause the winners are presented with the first prize, a copy of
A Child’s First Book of Verse
. Izzy and Joe bow their appreciation and everyone claps.

Izzy would like to manoeuvre Joe into some quiet place so they could enjoy a good laugh together, but The Famous Writer, recovered from his exertion, calls for silence.

“In honour of the Anglican scholars,” he announces, and whips off the tablecloths. The picnic is exposed in all its glory.

There are plates piled high with sandwiches made with Florence’s own bread, some filled with grape jelly, others with tinned ham. Canned tomatoes and pickles, radishes and lettuce, the latter two from Florence’s garden, serve as the condiments. There’s a huge potato salad and plates of Belvedere cheese, which the Indians don’t much like and make a face at. For dessert, bowls of canned peaches and pears, and, best of all, sweet cakes with raspberry sauce.

The children are shy at first, slowly deciding what they want, and carefully placing these items on their plates.

“Gosh, I thought they’d be in there with both hands, gobbling like little pigs,” says Claude Lewis.

“You will find, Doctor, that Cree kids are better behaved than most white progeny,” Florence replies.

They sit in the sunshine enjoying the delicacies, the children sprawled on the ground, the adults in chairs that have been carried up for the occasion. Izzy’s heart leaps when Joe parks himself beside her.

“Look in the bushes,” he whispers.

She sees a dozen little brown faces peeking out. She laughs. “It’s about time the Catholics have something to envy the Anglicans for.”

Sinclair Lewis suddenly springs to his feet. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” he barks in a vaudeville voice, “It’s show time!”

From behind a clump of birches, he pulls out the Wentworths’ battery-operated gramophone. Angus volunteers to wind up the machine. Izzy carefully places the needle.

A scratchy rendition of
My Waikiki Mermaid
echoes through the boreal forest. The Great Writer’s angular hips begin to sway back and forth, his right arm and then his left imitate an ocean wave; all that’s missing is a grass skirt and a lei around his neck. Soon everyone, the scholars, Florence Smith, Dr. Lewis, Joe, Izzy, even the kids hiding in the bush, are doing the hula, sashaying like true Hawaiians gods.

It’s a perfect ending to a perfect afternoon.

~•~

Izzy has promised her father
she’d help translate during meetings with his parishioners and the Indian agent, so she has to unhappily says goodbye to Joe. As she wends her way down the hill, she spots Albert Jan walking quickly towards her. “Hello, Mr. Jan,” she yells out. He looks startled as though she’s an alien dropped from the heavens. He barely nods at her. With his skinny body, pointed snout and black beady eyes, he reminds Izzy of one of the ferrets found around Pelican Narrows that torture rabbits. He’d go for your jugular, that’s for sure.

Reverend Wentworth’s Summit

Friday afternoon

Chapter Fourteen

Ernst Wentworth sits fuming.
Now and then he lets go with an exasperated gasp, followed by a pitiful sob. For the umpteenth time he remembers the warning of Bishop Everett-Smith: “If God has called you to the mission battlefield, you will have great joy; if there is any other motive, it will be Hell.” Obviously the Almighty has made a hobby of poking holes in his intentions because, during his twelve years at St. Bartholomew’s, Ernst has suffered every sling and arrow the Devil himself tossed.

This morning had brought yet more humiliation, another defeat. He was making his monthly pastoral visit to the family of Harold Nistawepesim. As usual, babies, toddlers, aunts, uncles, grandparents, friends, all making a frightful noise, were spilling in and out of the log cabin. The older children were at school with Izzy. Harold was at the back inspecting his fish nets. In his usual cheery manner, he yelled out, “Glad to see you, Reverend Wentworth. Good news for you today. Father Bonnald came early this morning, and baptised our mosom and nokom into the Christian faith right here on the spot.” Ernst almost choked. How many winters had he travelled in the most dreadful weather to the Nistawepesims’ winter camp so he could comfort the old people and teach them the Word of God? How many gifts of warm underwear, tobacco and candies had he handed out to win them over to the love of Jesus? How many summer evenings had he sat with them patiently explaining the gospels’ teachings, while they smoked their pipes, all the while glaring at him as though he was some alien from another world? They weren’t ready to accept Christianity, that was made clear. So how come the Catholic priest, who up to that point had not given a damn about these particular heathens, had arrived unannounced, and managed this miraculous conversion? Harold explained that the grandparents were tired of the religious people nagging at them. “So they thought, might as well get baptised, then they’ll leave us alone.”