Scattered Bones (28 page)

“Yeah maybe, but what a hypocrite I was! Prattling on about essential goodness of Cree philosophy when Grandfather was planning mass murder. I couldn’t say a word. I couldn’t. My connection with my Indian self – whatever that is – was too new, too strong. And maybe I was hoping that nothing would come of it. But let me get on with it.

~•~

Overnight,
on the last day of August, the temperature plunged twenty degrees. Summer was over, time to rejoin my Indian relatives. I was now more comfortable with the idea of travelling with them – the Cree way of doing things was more familiar, and, of course, there was Marguerite.

Every day, I imagined her walking in the woods or sitting with her beadwork or looking after the kids as she so liked to do. I never stopped worrying that she had forgotten me. The camp where she spent the summer would be full of young guys as attracted to her as I was. I was sure of that. But when we met at the end of summer, she presented me with a pair of moccasins so exquisitely beaded that they were obviously a token of love.

“But I have nothing for you,” I cried, ashamed that I hadn`t thought of bringing her a gift.

“I know something you could give me, but it’ll be so much trouble, I’m afraid to ask.”

I looked at her in surprise. “But I’ll do anything for you.”

“You can teach me how to speak English and how to read and write.”

I was taken aback and hesitated, but it was only a minute before I chirped, “I’d be honoured.”

I managed to hide some pencils and papers in my travel pack, and we worked whenever we could snatch a few moments together. At first it was hard going. She could easily copy the alphabet, beautifully print words, but pronouncing the sounds, remembering the vocabulary was difficult for her. Then it occurred to me that the subject of our study should come from her own experience.

“Sit,” I would say, “S-I-T”

She would carefully write it down.

“And what does it mean?”

“The dirt dogs and humans make.”

She punched my arm as I laughed my head off.

All summer I had worried about the assignment Grandfather had imposed on me. I had made a few rough sketches of places around Pelican Narrows – the houses of the Smiths and Arthur Jan, the Wentworths’ vicarage and the interior of Father Bonnald’s rectory. Also, I assembled a list of what time they ate their meals. But really it was nothing, and I was terrified that Grandfather would be furious with me. I needn’t have worried. By the end of summer the plan of revenge by strychnine poisoning had been discarded. A new method of mass destruction had gained favour.

Grandfather may have loathed white society but he loved the battery-operated, short-wave radio a fur trader at Cumberland House had sold him. He has just enough English to catch the gist of what was being said. All summer long, his ears were glued to news of the European war, now at last coming to its dismal end. There were many discussions broadcast about what to do with surplus materiel, in particular hand grenades. That was it as far as Grandfather was concerned. He would somehow get hold of a supply of these wonderful weapons and simply blow Pelican Narrows up.

“But what about the Indians that live there?” I yelled. “My mother, who happens to be your daughter, for example. Are they to be blown to smithereens too?”

“Of course not,” he replied with disgust in his voice. “That will be your job. Evacuating our people before we attack.”

I groaned, but said not another word. I fervently hoped that grenades would go the same way as strychnine poisoning.

The hunting that Fall was poor. Uncle Raymond managed to bag one old bull in early October. Charlie and I each shot a deer. But after that an eerie silence descended on the forest. It had been wickedly hot and dry that summer, fires had sprung up all over. Not only had many animals died in the inferno, but, because of the charred forests, they were not following their usual travel routes. As the weeks went by without anything more than a few ducks or rabbits being shot, the mood in our camp grew gloomy.

In the third week of October, just before freeze up, a fierce debate broke out, unsettling since I had never heard the adults argue in public before.

“No animals anywhere. We gotta do it. We gotta ask him,” pleaded Uncle Harold.

“He’s so old, so frail. Maybe he hasn’t got the strength,” Grandmother said. “He could easily pass to the other side, maybe...”

Grandfather interrupted, “That father of mine, he knows his duty. He can’t say no.”

Actually Great Grandfather wasn’t in the least interested in cooperating. “I can do it, I’ve never failed, but I’m an old man on his last legs. Why should I put myself in danger? The spirits are angry at you, not me. Maybe you neglected them, or maybe they don’t like that bathtub booze you bunch get into every night. Or probably it’s that white punk you have traipsing around with us.”

“He’s a born Cree, as Indian as you are,” Auntie Rita replied.

“Maybe he looks a little like an Indian, but his head’s full of white garbage.”

Although he slept in the same wigwam, I had paid little attention to my great grandfather. The old man sat chewing tobacco and spitting it into a tin can with a disgusting gurgle of the throat, saying not a word to anyone, so I hadn’t known that he disliked me so much. Thank goodness I had Marguerite or I would have taken off right then, never mind I probably would never had made it out of the dense bush.

Grandmother tried to soothe my anger. “Your great grandfather was a famous medicine man once. But when the white man’s sickness came, he could do nothing. Most of his relatives and friends died. His wife too. And four of his children. He cried and beat his breast, and then not a word came out of his mouth. For years now. Still, we know he has great powers to conjure up the spirits. He could save us if he wanted to.”

By November the situation was desperate. No sign of big game anywhere. Beaver and otter had vanished. Even the fishing was poor. This time Grandfather decided to confront the old man alone. For a half day they sat smoking their pipes, not uttering a word, until finally Grandfather said, “Please, my good and powerful father, you must help us.”

“If I die with the effort, it’ll be on your head.” The ancient man had finally spoken.

There was to be no audience, Great Grandfather insisted on being alone, but Cornelius had found a hole in the wigwam wall and invited me to watch with him.

From his bag, Great Grandfather took out his sacred nostrums – roots, herbs and rocks – and laid them on the ground. After sucking on his pipe for a good long time, he began beating the drum and shaking rattles. I put my ear to the hole and could hear him singing, “Come my intimates, visit me. Tell me what I want to hear.” Then silence. Cornelius finally got bored and wandered away and I soon did the same.

The old conjurer slept until noon the next day. When he finally emerged, he looked grey and drawn. Even more ancient than usual, if that could be possible.

“Listen carefully to what I have to say. All the powerful spirits came – bear, north wind, lynx – all came to me. They say, travel west up the river past two trees that have been struck down by wind and, on a hill, on the second plateau, you’ll find a young cow that has been downed.”

With that he sat down, sucked once on his pipe, and fell back to sleep.

My uncles Raymond and Harold set out immediately, and sure enough, in exactly the spot Great Grandfather had described, they found a small female moose recently dead. Unfortunately it had been attacked by wolves, so only a little flesh was left, hardly enough for one decent meal.

“Did any of the other guardians talk to you?” Grandfather asked when the old man awoke.

“My
pawachi-kan
warns, ‘The animals have gone. Beware the
witigo
.’” Then he fell silent again.

A few days later, Lionel Bird, a cousin of Grandmother’s, arrived. He explained that everyone was so worried about the lack of game that they had sent messengers to Big River to ask the famous shaman, Jimmi Benaouni, to conduct a shaking tent ceremony. The Blackfishes and Charboyers were welcomed to participate.

“Now, you’ll experience something you’ll never forget,” Charlie told me.

The ice had set so we travelled by dogsled, arriving at the Bird camp in a day and a half. Six family groups were already gathered there, as well as Shaman Benaouni. He was busy over-seeing the construction of the shaking tent. “Nah, not good enough. We need a tree that will please the spirits,” he said time and again, as his three assistants, Charlie among them, followed him through the bush. Finally he decided that a particular white birch, which to me looked the same as every other white birch, was perfect.

They chopped it down, and whittled half a dozen poles out of it. These were pounded into the ground in a circle – the shaman had heard an owl calling so he knew exactly the right spot. The sides of the sacred wigwam were then covered with moose hide. A small hole was left in the top. “So the guardians, they can come and go freely,” explained Cornelius who had experienced a similar event when he was younger.

The ceremony took place at dusk the following day. Moosehide robes were placed on the ground outside the tent for us to sit on, and blankets provided. Fortunately, clouds were thick overhead, and there was little wind, so it wasn’t too cold.

Once everyone was assembled, Shaman Benaouni emerged from the bush. He was a big impressive man, dressed in an exquisitely embroidered deer skin jacket and moccasins. On his head sat a huge hat – I thought it looked like a lady’s bonnet, the kind you could buy at Arthur Jan’s store, except it was made of crow feathers. With a slow deliberate pace, he circled the tent clockwise once. His assistants then bound his arms tightly behind him and tied his feet together with a thick rope. Once that was completed, they pushed him through the flap of the small door into the tent.

We all sat in silence for what seemed to me to be an eternity until, suddenly, from the opening in the top, the ropes which had bound Benaouni came flying out, landing in Charlie’s lap.

“My God!” I cried out, but the others took it all in their stride, their faces pure granite.

We could hear the shaman still inside the tent. “Come, my dearly beloved
Mihkināhkw
, come to us.” Then he merrily shook his rattle. In a high pitched voice he sang, “Come my turtle, come to us.”

After about ten minutes, there was a loud flapping noise and the tent shook. Then a cheery, squeaky voice was heard. “
Mihkināhkw
here! Master of Ceremonies and translator par excellence, at your service. It’s a pleasure to see everyone. Especially the ladies. Prettier than their husbands, each and every one.”

The audience outside exploded in laughter.

“But where is my little reward? I don’t see it.”

A pipe already lit, some packages of
chistamaw
, tobacco, a few wads of chew were pushed inside. In a few moments the
ospokwan
, the pipe, now fully smoked, was thrust back out.

“I believe I hear the first guest arriving,”
Mihkināhkw
continued.

There was a loud roar, but the tent remained still.

“Thunder has just come down but I’ve convinced him that he mustn’t come in. He’s so rough he’s apt to do damage. Just last month he accidentally split the poles into bits and wrecked the tent. I gave him some moose liver and he left.”

“What was Thunder’s role then?” I asked. Nobody paid me any attention.

The tent began shaking vigorously. “Flying squirrel has arrived,”
Mihkināhkw
announced.

Cornelius, who was sitting beside me, explained, “This one, he says one thing but always means the opposite.”

Strange grunting sounds were heard which
Mihkināhkw
translated. “The sun will shine every day, the game will be plentiful, and your bellies will be full.”

“Which means we’re going to have a hell of a winter,” whispered Charlie.

The next visitor, the Loon, didn’t beat around the bush. “Oh my dears, the north wind is angry and will wreak a beating on your poor hides.”

“But what have we done to deserve such punishment?” someone yelled,

“I’m not at liberty to say, but one among you knows the answer.”

It better not be me, I prayed. But, thank the Lord, nobody looked in my direction.

“Strong Neck! He’s on his way,”
Mihkināhkw
yelled, still inside the tent. If they weren’t already wearing hats, the crowd scrambled to find something to cover their heads.

“Keep your eyes down!” Shaman Benaouni suddenly thundered.

“He’s the only spirit that isn’t invisible,” Cornelius clarified. “If you look in his direction, he’ll kill you.” I quickly joined the others and stared intently at the ground.

A hoarse, heavy voice boomed out, translated by
Mihkināhkw
. “I am Strong Neck, mightier than them all. I’ve come to warn you. Be prepared. This will be a most dreadful winter. The animals have vanished.”

Strong Neck was followed by Jackfish, who spoke French so I could understand him. Then Bull, whose manners were as rough as his voice, followed by Hairy Beast who was famous for his bragging
– “I never shot a moose or bear, but always pursued them on foot, and cut their throats open with my knife.” But this time there was no boasting from Hairy Beast or any of the other spirits. None of the usual wisecracking. No jokes. All those spirits gathered in the shaking tent were sad, predicting the same thing – a winter of frightful want.