Scattered Bones (8 page)

“He was a wonderful old bird. But strange. He maybe wasn’t even Cree. Well, they don’t know where he came from. My grandfather found him all alone on an island in Deschambault Lake. A young boy, and yet he smelled like some animal long dead, so they nicknamed him
Wichikis
, the stinky one. My grandfather thought he had buffalo on him, or perhaps it was because he ate so much raw fish trying to survive in that place. He either got lost in the bush, and his parents finally left without him, or they died from the white man’s illness that was killing so many of our people at the time.

“He didn’t speak our language so he couldn’t tell us anything, and when he did learn Cree, he wouldn’t talk about his family. Or maybe he didn’t remember. Whatever happened turned him very peculiar. Elijah the prophet, some people called him. Was there moose over there? Yes, he’d nod, and off would go our hunters. And always they came home with something. For years there was no hunger in our camp because of him.

“When he was an old man, he used to say, ‘If white men come to our land, there will be a lot of them. Life is hard now, but it’ll be harder when the white man comes.’ And, of course, he was right.”

Izzy hated it when Annie talked about the harm her people had suffered at the hands of white trespassers. She knew it to be true, but she, Izzy, would have cut off her right hand before she’d hurt Annie, she loved the Cree woman that much.

“I’ll take care of you, Annie. I’ll never leave you,” she’d say.

“Just wait until some handsome, fair-haired guy with blue eyes comes sniffing around. You’ll be gone before I can wave goodbye.”

~•~

The scholars are starting to wiggle
in their desks which means their assignments are almost finished. Izzy isn’t surprised that Angus Crane is the first to jump up. She loves this kid – he is so enthusiastic, bright and funny.

“Okay, Angus, tell us what happened.”

The boy stands up straight, his paper held in both hands in front of him, although Izzy knows that only half of what he will recite will actually be printed on the page. He’ll begin in halting English but quickly switch to Cree. Izzy doesn’t interrupt him; it’s the story that counts.

“There are these people who are this little” – the boy puts out his arm at waist level. “They live in rocks in lakes and rivers. They especially like waterfalls. They’re called
omomik-wesiwak
. One summer day – it was very misty – my
mosom
was out in his canoe tending his nets. He was surprised that they were all tangled and broken, like some huge fish had been in there. But there was no fish. Through the fog he saw a little canoe – it was made of stone – with three little people inside. They saw my grandfather and began singing” – here Angus imitates in a high quivering voice – “‘Pali, Pali, Pali.’ Nobody knows what it means. Then they paddled their canoe right into the rock and were gone.
Mosom
left some fish right there and it disappeared. They probably ate it.

“My
mosom
still has some of their medicine. He keeps it in his trunk. It’s all powdery, in different colours. He got it from the
omomikwesiwak
who live in Reindeer Lake where the water is very cold and clear. They live on a big island there with a great, steep rock in the middle. If you leave a piece of moose hide about the size of a napkin at a certain place, and say out loud exactly what is bothering you or someone you know – pain in the leg, pain in the backside, pain in the head – you have to say the details. You come back in a few days, and a bundle of medicine will be waiting for you.

“But the
omomikwesiwak
don’t like everybody, and if they don’t like you, you’re in big trouble. Last spring a white trader, his partner who’s a half breed, and a Cree guide were trying to find the
omomikwesiwak’s
island so they could get their hands on the medicine. As they came near, three
omomikwesiwak
paddled towards them. The Cree guide grabbed hold of the bow of their canoe rough like, and yelled, ‘Where you going, little people?’ The half breed asked, ‘What are you hiding there?’ And the white trader, pulling a dollar bill from his pocket, said, ‘Why don’t you hand over those bundles of medicine? See, here’s real money.’

“One of the
omomikwesiwak
looked at the Indian and said, ‘You’ll never see the wild roses bud again.’ A second told the half breed, ‘You’ll never see the leaves turn yellow,’ and a third shouted at the white trader, ‘You’ll never again see snow fall in Pelican Narrows.’ And that is the end of my story.”

Out of breath, the boy plunks himself down, and the others clap and hoot their approval.

Izzy is taken aback at Angus’s tale. She’s heard the gossip, and knows exactly to whom he is referring. The Indian guide is George Ballendine who, while out hunting the previous April, fell through the ice and drowned. The half breed is Bibiane Ratt and the trader Arthur Jan, both men still very much alive. But then the leaves are still green and there’s no sign of snow.

Chapter Ten

The teacher is anything
but a tyrant,
so when the scholars’ captivity has obviously become unbearable – even Laura Whitegoose pays no attention when asked to recite the eight times table – Izzy dismisses her class an hour before lunch. But she is disturbed by Angus Crane’s story and decides she’ll visit his family to warn them that the child is spreading dangerous rumours.

As she makes her way along the narrow, wandering path up the hill from Pelican Lake towards the encampment where the Crane clan have pitched wigwams and built a few cabins, she thinks that, even on this lovely day, a dark pall of heartache lies heavy over this place. The story Arthur Jan told last night of the massacre, for example. Izzy’s heard versions of it many times, none more gruesome than that recounted to her by Angus and three of his cousins when one day she joined them for lunch. “They carved the captives’ flesh with their knives, piece by piece. The dogs licked up the blood,” Angus had explained. His enthusiasm for this lurid tale, verging on joy, upset Izzy.

As she approaches the Crane enclave, she steels herself. Desperation, darkness, degradation – she’s feels this so strongly that she almost turns around and leaves. But no, she would be too disappointed in herself. If there’s one thing she’s proud of, it’s her nerve to face whatever comes her way.

All day, every day, Angus’s father, Frederick, sits on a tree stump near his shack, rocking to and fro, and whimpering like a frightened dog. It’s obvious that he’s reliving the terrible event that occurred three years before.

~•~

The hunters had camped
for the night and were just finishing their meal. Fred excused himself and headed into the bush for a pee. He had just unzipped his pants when he noticed a huge grizzly standing there, glowering at him – she‘d been poking at a nearby ant hill. Her two cubs were beside her. He let out a terrified scream, but, by the time his companions got to him, the bear had taken his head in her hands and was eating his face, bones crunching like shattered glass. Frightened that they’d accidently kill their friend, the trappers tried ramming the animal with the butts of their guns. Fred shouted, “Shoot, shoot, I’d rather be shot than eaten alive.” One of the men finally got close enough to the animal to take accurate aim, and hit her in the chest. The cubs were slaughtered in revenge.

Fred survived the ordeal, but just barely. His face is a hideous mess of corrugated scar tissue. His nose and an ear are missing. He is blind. But, most tragically, his mind has shattered.

Izzy gingerly approaches him. “How are you today, Fred?”

The man, whose eyes have been torn out, turns his head towards her, but no words escape his misshapen mouth. Nothing but a moan.

“See you later,” she says, and turns towards the cabin, half-hoping her knock will not be answered.

Even before Fred’s accident, his wife, Susan Crane, ruled the roost. Big boned, handsome, smart, she is a ferocious woman who will brook no hint of rebellion. Izzy once sat in on a meeting of Indian elders, a discussion of what should be done about Arthur Jan’s illicit booze. Susan was in favour of punishing any boy or girl who partook of so much as a drop. A couple of old men were sympathetic – “They’re just young bucks after all.”

“So when they end up in handcuffs on their way to the white man’s jail, you’ll be satisfied,” Susan had honked at them. Her tongue lashing continued until they slunk away.

When in a confrontation with Susan Crane, most people simply give up and keep their mouths shut. And she’s ambitious, so ambitious. Her six sons, including mischievous Angus, will succeed, in the white world too. To make sure of that, she’s had the family baptized in both the Christian faiths so that any opportunity for education can be grabbed hold of. Summer with Izzy and the Anglicans is fine, but what she’s really
counting on is the Catholic residential school that will start that fall. There, her boys will be whipped into shape, she’s sure of that.

Izzy doesn’t know what to think. Teaching the native kids to take their place in the wider world is necessary. Well, given her background how could she think otherwise? Yet her heart goes out to Angus Crane. How will such an imaginative child, bright and brash, survive the discipline of a boarding school? She knows what her father believes – Indians are savages without a culture or religion, to be moulded into an inferior rendition of white men. Izzy wonders if Catholics will be any more compassionate. She doubts it.

Nobody answers at the Crane cabin, so Izzy makes her way to the home of Angus’s grandfather. Izzy is as intimidated by Peter Angus as she is by his daughter-in-law. At 67 he is still imposing – tall, broad shouldered, with a handsome head of black-grey hair which he wears in a thick braid down his back. He is a stern man. Izzy can’t remember seeing even a twitch of a smile on his lips. At this moment he is sitting in a chair, dozing in the sun.

“How are you today, Mr. Crane,” Izzy says, her voice full of apprehension.

He half opens his eyes, glances at her indifferently, and says nothing.

“I wanted to have a word with you,” Izzy continues. “It’s about Angus. He’s spreading dreadful rumours about Mr. Jan and Bibiane Ratt. I don’t think it’s proper in this small village.”

“It’s true, so why shouldn’t the boy talk about it? Those bastards will be dead and gone by winter.”

Abruptly the old man closes his eyes and begins to snore.

At that moment, the bells of St. Gertrude’s and St. Bartholomew’s clang out announcing the start of the canoe races. These are a highlight of the Treaty Party celebrations that will go on all day. Izzy is relieved. She has her excuse to escape the Crane family’s gloom.

Chapter Eleven

Izzy joins the crowd
gathering on the beach
to the west of St. Gertrude’s Church. There’s a pretty good view of the finish line from here. Maybe she’ll be able to catch Joe’s eye.

Each race will begin half a mile away, at the dock jutting out from Arthur Jan’s store. The canoes will travel across Macaroni Bay, around the northern tip of The Island, towards the monitoring boat anchored about five hundred yards from shore. Through her binoculars, Izzy can make out two red flags flapping from its bow and stern, and the three observers, Councillor Bird, Dr. Lewis and his brother, The Famous Writer, sitting within. The racers will navigate past the monitors, and then continue north to the wharf at the Hudson’s Bay Store.

First up is the girls’ race. There are five canoes entered, each occupied by two teenage paddlers. The starting pistol has sounded a full ten minutes before they finally come into view rounding The Island. Once she spots them, Izzy is disappointed. “My goodness, they’re hardly
trying,” she thinks to herself. As they approach the dock, there’s not a bead of sweat on the foreheads of the front-runners; Juliette Bird and fat Grace Morin are barely panting. What kind of race is that?

At Bishop Strachan School, Izzy loved sporting games – tennis, basketball, lacrosse, track and field, softball, golf, it didn’t matter, she did her best to lay to waste her opponents. She would have liked to take part in the race, show these girls how to use their muscles but, of course, no one thought to ask. It’s as though she walks around in a bell jar, exiled in a society to which she would give anything to belong.

The two-paddler race for men is next. There are eight entries, all young men in their twenties, but by the time the flotilla comes into view Joe Sewap and his partner, Moses Rabbitskin, are so far ahead of the others the finish is anticlimactic. Izzy is desperate to congratulate Joe but before she can get to him he’s already on his way back to Arthur Jan’s dock, where the single paddler’s competition is about to begin. This will be the most exciting event of the day, primarily because the top contenders are so evenly matched. The odds are about even on Cornelius Ratt, Moses Rabbitskin and Joe Sewap.

Izzy’s stomach is crunched in a knot, and it gives a twist again when the racers finally round the tip of The Island. Cornelius has been left behind – Moses and Joe are neck and neck. Both are standing, their legs apart, their knees bent for balance, their paddles slicing cleanly into the water, stroke after stroke, uniform and amazingly rapid. Moses is shorter than Joe but
heavier, barrel-chested, with bulky limbs, a result of years of hauling freight. Joe is slender, his physique more elongated, more elegant. He’s wearing a singlet and Izzy tries to keep her eyes averted from his muscular shoulders, slick with sweat, sculpted as if by Michelangelo, but still she feels a lovely tingling in the parts of her body she has been admonished never to think about.