Scattered Bones (26 page)

“That’s ridiculous! From what Father Bonnald told me, the Sioux were blood-thirsty, savages.”

“That’s not your grandfather’s interpretation. And he’s out to get revenge.”

“What kind of revenge?” I yelled.

“I won’t say a word more. If he wants to tell you, he will. Now let’s get going with our wood chopping before we’re in trouble.”

Since the hunting was so good, large stores of meat, fresh, frozen, by being buried in the ground, and smoked, placed on racks over a smouldering fire, had been cached. No worry about hunger this year. Our camp relaxed, although there was still plenty of activity. The women made pemmican from moose, deer and occasionally elk and got ready to cure the caribou and moose hides. And, except on the coldest days when the temperature dropped to minus forty or even fifty, the men tramped into the bush to tend their traps.

I was told I could trap beaver for clothing or food – beaver stew was one of the favourites – but I was not allowed to sell the skins at the trading posts, because, according to Grandfather, this was how Indians had been ruined by white men. As chief of the Cumberland House Band he had forbidden this trade. Charlie told me a rebellion had broken out, and he had been ignored. The old man, however, didn’t hesitate to impose his will on his close relatives, especially me.

I knew something fishy was going on, though, and then I discovered that my uncles were secretly storing pelts which they would later cash in. This infuriated me. I’d hoped to get my hands on some hard cash that winter – it was the only thing about being exiled that had appealed to me. A new Evinrude motor might be worth it all. But Grandfather strictly forbade me from trapping for trade and, of course, his eagle eye never wandered far.

“I want you to find out what it was like to be an Indian before the white man arrived in our land, corrupting the likes of you with his foul ways.” The old man’s expression was so grave I thought his face might crack. I bit my tongue and said nothing, but I felt even more resentful.

There was one thing I did enjoy about that winter – being cocooned in the wigwam during the frigid evenings. Wrapped in a caribou skin, my feet to the fire, it felt so cosy with the lazy smoke curling upwards past the rack filled with smoking meat and drying clothes. Fresh balsam boughs covered the floor and the smell was so intoxicating, I dream of it to this day.

My young cousin Cornelius always made sure he sat beside me and, as the evening progressed, would snuggle closer. Half asleep, we’d listen to the drone of voices, for always, without end, there was storytelling.

Everyone took their turn although Charlie was the most enthusiastic. The Battle of the Trickster and the Water Lynxes, The Origins of the Beaver, The Tale of the Traveller and the Wolf Spirit – these stories would wind on and on. Some of them were interesting, but often I’d become bored, and I’d pick up a book, either the
Daily Book of Psalms
that Father Bonnald had given me or
Walden
, although the author’s ideas seemed pretty useless, even ridiculous, here. If Thoreau thought self sufficiency was so wonderful he should try a winter in the Canadian bush. Of course my reading annoyed Grandfather. “Pay attention,” he hissed at me. “These are your ancestors’ stories, the history that made you.”

One evening while Charlie was rambling on, I caught sight, in the golden light, of a silhouette playing on the side of the wigwam. Marguerite Settee, the orphan girl, was stretching moose hide for a garment she would later embroider. Instantly, I knew that the she would one day be my lover and my wife.

~•~

Joe pauses
to light a cigarette. In the glow of the match, he notices that Izzy looks startled – and dismayed. “I’m not sure I want to know anything more about her,” she cries.

“I promised myself that I would tell this story only once in my life. All of it, every detail, even the risqué parts. You came along and seemed to me so full of sympathy and understanding, so I grabbed my chance. But I’ll shut up now, if you want.”

“No, no. Go on, please. I’ll just have to bear it when you speak of loving someone else. Or even the sexy bits. ”

“You are brave,” Joe said.

~•~

What was it
that appealed to me so? I still ask myself that question. She had a lovely round face, but what sixteen-year-old Cree girl doesn’t? She was sweet and good-natured, and that was certainly nice. She was curious about everything – bats, butterflies, honking swans, anything that crossed her path – and this I found endearing. But more than the beauty she saw was the beauty she made. Her bead work on moccasins, vests, birch bark boxes, was amazing. The snowshoes she webbed and then painted in an intricate design were considered by us all as a prize. Even the way she cut hair made the men more
handsome. At least I thought so. I was happy and content in her
company, a relief after feeling anxious all the time. But that first win
ter we were both young and shy, nothing more than friends.

One day in mid-March, Charlie announced that he had dreamt that night that Skeleton was angry. “I’ve been neglectful of
pawachi-kan
, forgetting his sacrifices,” he said. “If I don’t hurry and do so, he’ll come here rattling his bones like a bunch of dried beans, and crying in that frightening loud way he has – ‘Hey! Hey!’ I have to think of the safety of our little ones.”

I was disappointed that the offering turned out to be nothing more than a bowl of grease and some tobacco left on a rock one evening.

“So what does Skeleton look like?” I asked. My sarcasm must have been obvious, but Charlie ignored it. “First of all he’s skinny, nothing but skin and bone, having died either of consumption or starvation. He’s as bald as a blown up bladder. He’s usually a green colour, although sometimes he’s black. And he has a giant, boney prick which clears the bush as he walks.”

I burst out laughing. “Now that is a guy I’d like to meet!” I chortled. Then I noticed my grandfather glaring at me. A day of reckoning would follow, I was sure of that. It came, with a vengeance, in the second week in May.

All during the winter, the adults had argued about whether Cornelius, at age eleven, was old enough to undertake a vision quest. The women said no, it was too dangerous for so young a boy. The men insisted that he was strong and alert and therefore ready and, in the end, they prevailed. Cornelius was to undertake his vision quest that spring.

Father Bonnald had told me about it. “It’s a kind of rite of passage. The Indians acquire a guardian spirit which they keep for life. They call it a
pawachi-kan
.” It infuriated him that Christian missionaries had regarded this ceremony as superstition and had made giving it up a condition of baptism. “The vision quest, that’s exactly what these young bucks need to keep them in line,” he insisted. So I was fascinated to find out what would happen to my young cousin.

For months, Cornelius talked of nothing else. “My
pawachi-kan
, who will it be? Who will come to me in my dreams? A wolverine would be good, or an eagle or a duck. But what I really hope for” – and here he stretched his arms wide – “is a gigantic sturgeon.”

After the ice had melted in the bays of Lake Deschambault, the walleye and pike were practically jumping into the boat, so I was surprised when, one morning, my grandfather, a fanatical fisherman, laid his rod aside. I was more astonished when, after he lit his pipe, he began peppering me with embarrassing questions.

“So my grandson are you
p
ē
hkisi
, chaste? Or have you polluted yourself?”

I was mystified. What was he talking about?

“What I’m saying is, have you lain with a woman in the last while?”

Of all the stupid questions! First, I had been under Grandfather’s watchful eye for the last nine months. Did he really think I could have snuck into the bush for a quick snatch with some female who suddenly appeared out of nowhere? Second, as a devout Roman Catholic, I was, of course, a virgin. But I was so intimidated by the old man all I could do was whisper, “
p
ē
hkisi
.”

“Well, that’s good news ’cause you’ve got to be in a pure state to dream the dreams. I’ve thought about it since you joined us, considered one side then the other. You have to believe with your entire soul for the spirits to come to you, and since you are so much a doubter, you could easily fail. On the other side, never will you be a true Indian unless you find your own
pawachi-kan
. He will stay with you your whole life. Show you how to see into the future. Help you heal the sick. Give you the power to deal with evil spirits. And, if you are in trouble, he’ll come, even if it’s a big trouble for him. But I cannot force you to go on a vision quest. This you must decide yourself.”

I surprised myself at how quickly I responded. “I’m ready.”

I had been feeling a little guilty that I’d been so surly and pigheaded with my relatives. I knew I’d have to try harder if I didn’t want my mother angry at me – being told off by her was not something to look forward to. But really it was the challenge that appealed to me. Three days completely alone in the bush, exposed to all kinds of weather, without a sip of water or bite of food – that would prove that I was as Indian as any of them.

The first sunny, warm morning in May, we men travelled up a wide and fast-flowing river that ran into the west arm of Lake Deschambault until we reached Beaver Portage. Cornelius and I were not allowed to paddle; our strength must be preserved for what lay ahead of us.

Since he felt partial to aquatic creatures – otters, leeches and, of course, the mighty sturgeon – Cornelius’s quest was to take place on water. The men made a raft from birch and elm branches and moored it to the shore by ropes.

“So here the spirits from both underwater and underground might visit you,” Grandfather explained.

Since he was so young, my cousin was allowed to drink from a container full of water and to wear his clothes for warmth. Scrambling onto his raft, the boy put on a good face, but I could tell that he was frightened. As we paddled away, I cupped my mouth, silently yelling that everything would be okay.

I hadn’t been able to think of a particular kind of
pawachi-kan
that appealed to me until one day I casually mentioned that the idea of a bird was interesting. If this was so, Grandfather said, than he knew exactly the place for my vigil. “It was built long ago. Both your aunt and uncle met their guardians there.”

Located about a half mile upstream from Cornelius’ raft, it was perched on a cliff over-looking the river. I was amazed at how high the rickety structure was – at least twelve feet above the ground. It consisted of two levels, the first had been used as a scaffolding to construct the second. The higher structure consisted of a platform made from horizontal poles tied to nearby trees, with branches trimmed of leaves criss-crossing vertically. Brush had been attached to two sides, grasses strewn about on the floor. “The higher you go the more powerful will be the spirits who visit you,” said Uncle Raymond. “That first stage, only deer or moose, not much. Higher up, sky creatures of all sorts.”

“A gigantic bird’s nest,” I shouted. “I shall fly like an eagle.”

After I stripped naked, the men bundled up my clothes and took them away. Grandfather then blackened my entire body with soot. “You are leaving us here on earth for the world of dreams. It’s a sort of death, yes, but if you let them, the spirits will embrace you and you will come back again.”

I had eaten a fortifying breakfast – deer steak, bannock, berry preserves, tea. Still, by evening my stomach was rumbling. More uncomfortable, though, was not having anything to read. I always went to bed with a book. How would I manage without one, especially since the sun didn’t set until an hour before midnight? But I hadn’t realized how exhausted I was. I quickly fell into a deep sleep.

In the morning the sun shone brilliantly, but still I was chilled, my throat parched. I felt sick to my stomach – from lack of food, I guess. Once I’d peed over the side, I curled into my nest. How I would bear the boredom of time passing so slowly I had no idea. But soon my thoughts floated away. I was enjoying a picnic on Pelican Lake, such fun, fishing and then cooking the catch over a fire, high on a rock, Mother, Father Bonnald and me. There I was with my friend William laughing as we picked off spruce grouse so stupid they didn’t know enough to fly away even with a rifle pointing at their heads. The trip to Trois-Rivières that I had taken with Father, oh, what an interesting time that was. The priest’s brothers and sisters and all their kids, hugging me, wishing me well. Finally I drifted off to sleep. At that moment the phantom arrived.

It wore a bright red dress with a glittering, diamond necklace and pretty silk shoes. It was the thing perched on its scrawny neck that was so horrifying. A moose’s head, sort of. Dangling from elaborate antlers were ribbons and brightly coloured feathers like a peacock’s. Its two beady eyes were scornful – I felt I had somehow offended it. “Who am I? Who am I? Can you guess?” it bellowed. When I answered that I didn’t have a clue, it sneered, “You soon will, my boy.” The creature’s ears suddenly turned
into wings. It flapped away, snorting out mocking laughter.

When I awoke the next morning, the horror of the bird/moose’s visit was still with me, but I was so hungry that all my attention focused on my crabby, nagging stomach. As I lay curled up in my nest, I tried to keep my spirits up by remembering the orphan, Marguerite Settee. What would Mother and Father Bonnald think of her? What kind of lover would she be? I imagined my hands caressing her smooth, brown limbs, her silky nether bush. My prick stood up straight, but only for a few seconds. Then it collapsed like a fallen soldier. So much for fasting, I thought to myself.