Scattered Bones (18 page)

It’s a straggly regiment, a mixture of Merastys, Birds, Ballendines, Cranes, Custers, Bears. Izzy spots three of Chief
Whitebear’s sons who are in their twenties, but eighty-year-old Isaiah Dorin is marching along as well. A few wear parts of World War I uniforms; all carry weapons – rifles, hatchets, knives. At the head of this parade marches Florence Smith dressed in leather-kneed jodhpurs and an army coat. “Buck up, men. Hup, one two, one two,” she commands.

Izzy and Joe remain hidden, but once the army has tramped passed, Joe bursts out laughing. “What the heck was that?”

“If you think it’s a joke,” says Izzy, “you don’t know Florence very well. Whoever she’s waging war against, you can be sure they’ll come to grief.”

Father Bonnald’s Tea Party

Saturday

Chapter Twenty-Two

Etienne Bonnald has arrived
at the unhappy conclusion
that God enjoys playing tricks on humans. His elder brother had been a man of such sharp intelligence, clever wit, and joyful piety – their mother claimed that angels sang to him in his cradle – that Étienne had spent his young years worshipping him. Indeed, his very reason for existence, his religious vocation, had come to fruition under Ovide’s guidance. And now Ovide is driving him mad.

Buzz, buzz, buzz, all day long, wrapped in his silly apron, a cigarette between his lips – he takes short puffs, blowing the smoke in front of him with exquisite pleasure which irritates Étienne to no end. Incessantly humming ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary,’ he never stops shuffling about, dusting the furniture, peeling the potatoes, feeding the stupid rabbits which Étienne had not wanted and now hates, chopping wood, weeding his garden.

This morning Ovide is positively frantic. He leapt out of bed in a panic. His voice rang out, “The tea! It’s today. We must begin the preparations at once.”

Straight away, the two brothers quarrelled. Ovide was determined to serve cold tongue with a French mustard sauce. Étienne was against it. “Why go to so much trouble to entertain a writer of English, an American, who is probably an infidel, and certainly a blasphemer?”

“It was you who thought up the idea of an afternoon tea,” Ovide shot back. “Why, I don’t know, since you have no intention of being civil.”

Étienne doesn’t know either except that Joe had wanted it. “Mr. Lewis and me, we became quite good friends on the Treaty trip. He gave me that fantastic knife. Would really appreciate it, Father, if you would return the kindness.” And Ovid had put in his two cents – Everyone else is entertaining the famous author, how could the priest hold his head up in Pelican Narrows if he didn’t do likewise. Étienne finally acquiesced. “Yes, all right. But it will be simple fare.”

Slices of bread and butter served with Ovide’s Saskatoon berry preserve was what he had in mind. But his brother insists on a much more elaborate affair. Besides the boiled moose tongue, there is to be on offer pemmican larded with blue berries – Ovide calls it
paté myrtille
– and pineapple sponge shortcake, since a can of the fruit was found in the pantry.

And, of course, every crevice of the rectory must be scrubbed.

Ovide begins his tasks by waving a duster in his brother’s face. And this is a man, thinks Étienne, who once could recite Thomas Aquinas by heart. Fortunately, he has a legitimate excuse to escape the mayhem. The new chief of Ballendine Band is to be chosen this morning – the government allows such elections only when the Indian agent makes his annual visit – and as a pillar of the white community he must attend.

It’s a lovely, breezy day. Peaked waves on the lake sparkle in the sun. Wild asters, pink-purple in colour, boasting bright yellow faces, bloom along the path leading from the rectory. They remind Étienne of young missionaries, so sprightly and eager to do the Lord’s work, and yet so vulnerable in the hostile boreal forest.

As he walks by, he peeks into a tent that has been set up on a meadow just above the lake front. This is Doc Happy Mac’s makeshift clinic. Cree kids, supposedly standing in a straight line, squirm about, making faces, laughing, jabbing at each other, as they wait to be inoculated against a variety of diseases. Harold Linklater, his face swollen like a Puffball, sits patiently hoping the good doctor will yank his abscessed tooth. And Mary Sewap wants her newborn examined – he has a bad rash.

Étienne waves at them and walks on. Soon he reaches the Hudson’s Bay Company post, behind which a bald patch of ground has been fenced off. It is here that each year the Ballendine Band officially meets the Canadian Government. And, since Chief Whitebear’s illness has forced him to step down, a by-election will be held.

Most of the Cree trappers have already arrived and are laughing at each other’s jokes. Their wives and children, dressed in their best frocks of bright calico print, are milling about outside the barricade, although half a dozen women, mostly widows, have joined the male heads of households. Étienne thinks this is a good sign – the women are often wiser than the men – and he hopes Bob Taylor won’t object. There’s probably some government regulation against it.

The priest waves and smiles at various Merastys, Birds, Ballendines, Cranes, Custers, Bears, McCallums, Dorins, Linklaters, Sewaps, Morins, Highways. All nod back at him with enthusiasm.

“
Tansi ketishahen?
How’s your health?” they call out.

“
Mithosin taskoch kitsha
, As good as yours,” he volleys back, and they laugh.

Étienne spots Bibiane Ratt deep in conversation with Pierre Bird. The priest despises that shifty-eyed puppet of Arthur Jan’s. Although Bibiane is a full-fledged member of the Peter Ballendine Band, his Cree father having provided his entree, in the past he has taken no interest in its affairs. So what’s he doing here?

Traditionally, the Indians crouched in a circle on the ground, standing only when they had something to say. Last year, Chief Whitebear complained that they were being treated like dogs, so it has been agreed that this time they may bring something to sit on. Today, scattered about, are rickety willow-branch chairs, bear-skin blankets, old satchels, shipping crates, canvas sleeping bags, goose-feather pillows. A junk heap. The priest smiles when he thinks of how this will offend the Indian agent with his ridiculous obsession for orderliness and decorum.

Bob Taylor arrives, and, after shaking hands with Étienne, he parks himself in a chair set out along the south side of the building, facing away from the lake. There they will be shaded from the sun, growing hotter by the moment. The only Indian invited to join them is Chief Whitebear. He was determined to show up for what he suspects will be his last gathering of the tribe. But he is so pale and emaciated that those who haven’t seen him for a while are shocked.

Ernst Wentworth comes prancing in, smiling and bowing – like an organ grinder’s monkey, thinks Étienne. The priest is still rattled from the previous evening’s confrontation. Imagine being accused of stealing from your parishioners! With Arthur Jan, no less, as accomplice! Doesn’t Wentworth know what kind of man this is? The fur trader doesn’t just cheat the Indians, he mauls them like a wolf devouring rabbits.

The Anglican should have been witness to what Étienne had seen on a fact-finding mission to the Churchill River two weeks ago, where a hydro dam is being constructed. There had been bitter complaints about the living conditions there, and the priest quickly discovered why. The Cree, who did the hard labour, were paid 30 cents an hour – not in cash but in groceries. The little company store was pretty well stocked – anything Crosse & Blackwell could stuff in a tin could be found there, including olives to be served in martinis. Of course, only for the white population, those with the important, albeit temporary, jobs. Indians were not allowed to even set foot in the store. Their meagre groceries were shoved at them through a little window at the back.

Arthur Jan had been contracted to bring in food supplies with the understanding that he would be as economical as possible, and he came up with a brilliant idea. Pay the Indians with the half-eaten ham sandwiches the white bosses enjoyed at lunch and the left-over roast beef from their Sunday dinners. “There was a bone, but it only had a little bit of meat on it,” Ronald Ballendine had complained. And Arthur Jan had been handed a nice bonus for this ingenious cost-cutting. When Étienne heard about it, he confronted him.

“At least it wasn’t baloney,” the fur trader sneered. If Étienne hadn’t been wearing his clerical collar, he would have punched the man in the mouth. He hopes that today Jan will at last get his comeuppance.

Agent Taylor is about to begin the proceedings when Dr. Lewis, followed by his brother, The Famous Writer, comes strolling into the compound. Two stools are quickly rounded up for them. Étienne feels that what goes on here is no business of theirs, but he decides that for once he will be civil and not cause a fuss. Not long ago he wouldn’t have given a damn what anyone thought, he would have objected in no uncertain terms. “I’ve become complacent in my old age,” he sighs to himself.

Joe Sewap steps forward. He is to act as translator. In the past, Étienne had been obliged to perform this task, so he feels enormous relief, and pride, that his protégé has become so capable.

Taylor begins by welcoming everyone. He then asks one of the elders, Charley Linklater, to step up. Charley’s speech is simple. Turning towards the beloved old man, he says, “Chie
f
Whitebear, all of us, we give thanks to you. You have given your life for us. We will always remember and love you.” Everyone claps and hoots their respect.

The old man struggles to stand, gives a little bow, then collapses back into the chair.

The Indian agent then reminds the crowd that this is their opportunity for the Department of Indian Affairs to hear their grievances and requests. Once Joe finishes rendering the English into Cree, Noah Ballendine, who is dressed to the nines because he’s running for the chief’s job, jumps to his feet.

“Same complaint,” he says. “White trappers come into the country in the winter and set out poison in the bait. Beaver are all but wiped out. Other creatures eat the carcasses, including our dogs. Fourteen died last year. Agonizing deaths, vomit everywhere. You tell us we have to leave the white trappers alone, that you will handle it, but nothing ever happens.”

He certainly has a point, thinks Étienne. There is a law against lacing the bait with strychnine. Why don’t the police search the gear of these white trappers on their way in? Why aren’t druggists prohibited from selling the stuff? He knows what Joe would say – because the government doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the Indian.

Noah pushes his fancy sunglasses back on his nose, and continues. “The same thing goes for white fishermen. They leave the guts lying on the ice. In the spring the rivers and lakes get poisoned, the newly-spawned fish die. We see them floating on the surface. And we’re supposed to drink this crappy water.”

The crowd claps enthusiastically. “It’s true what he’s saying,” several yell out.

All the Indian agent can do is nod his head up and down like one of those plastic birds that decorate highball glasses. Every year he sends a list of complaints to the Department but nothing ever changes. With a stern face, he promises, “I’ll notify the authorities of these issues. They’ll be dealt with as quickly as possible.”

“And wild roses will bloom in January,” Étienne says to himself.

Then comes the usual requests for provisions – nails, fishing twine,
window glass, carpentry tools, ammunition, a light plough and har
row, a bobsleigh. There is particular dissatisfaction with the flour that was part of last year’s rations. Emanuel Bear yells out, “It was so poor my wife couldn’t even make bannock out of it. It’s old and mouldy, probably been sitting in the HBC warehouse for years.”

The Indian agent industriously notes everything down, although even he understands that this is a futile exercise. The government is niggardly to the point of foolishness, even cruelty. Étienne still becomes infuriated whenever he thinks of the cavalier and demeaning manner bureaucrats dismissed a proposal that Joe and two friends had put together the previous year.

When the lakes are free of ice, the young men of the Peter Ballendine Band are hired by the trading companies to transport supplies by canoe to the various posts. The money is good – $25 for a round trip to Sturgeon Landing, $35 to South Reindeer Lake and back. Why not carry on the business in the winter? All that was needed was a team of horses, harnesses, and sleighs, and they would be set to haul on the winter ice roads.

Joe knew it wouldn’t be easy, breaking trails through snow drifts and slush ice, suffering the bitter cold and stabbing wind, shivering through the night in open camps. But it would be worth it – for a sixteen-day trip, a freighter could make as much as $65.

Étienne was amazed at how well the inexperienced young man put together the business plan. He’d figured out exactly how much it’d cost to keep the horses and how much profit could be made. Even Bob Taylor was impressed, and said he would champion it with his superiors. To this day Étienne’s face grows red with anger when he remembers the reply. An official wrote – the priest could imagine the supercilious grin on the man’s face – “This is surely a joke. In two weeks we’d hear that one of the animals had died of neglect; the other will have broken its leg. The last thing we should do is purchase expensive items such as horses and sleighs for irresponsible Indians.”