Motorcycles & Sweetgrass (13 page)

The early morning light found the motorcyclist sitting on a fallen log to the east of Maggie’s house, watching. He’d seen the light come on in her room an hour ago. From where he sat he had an excellent view. John, having just come from the church, hadn’t slept all night, but he didn’t feel tired. In many ways he had slept for decades, and besides, the idea of sleeping only reminded him of passing out, and he’d had enough of that.

The night was a time for thinking, while the daylight hours were a time for doing. Though he didn’t yet know what he was going to do tomorrow, or the next day. Generally he was a man of impulse, of improvisation. Planning was for those who feared surprises, but on occasion some advance forethought made things more amenable to his needs. Over the years he had discovered that the hard way. So there he was. Why he’d come, the man was not sure. Was it the secret promise Lillian had extracted from him, or perhaps something of a more personal nature? Besides Virgil, Maggie was the only person he knew in the village, and he would love to know her a lot better. This place called Otter Lake had changed so much since he’d been here last. This very spot had once been an open field, with the nearest house half a kilometre away. Now he could hear a clock radio going off just a dozen or so metres behind him.

It was still early enough that there might be raccoons about. That made him uncomfortable. They’d get what they deserved someday, by every god that was worshipped, but not this morning. He did not want to start something he couldn’t finish.

He stood up, stretched toward the rising sun. There were things to be done and places to go. His motorcycle was hidden down by the water, behind a large lilac bush. He made his way along a path that cut through the woods, always conscious of masked faces with beady little eyes following his progress, from the trees, bushes and ditches. The man muttered under his breath all the way back to the Indian Chief.

Every day he was here, there seemed to be more raccoons. They were gathering. This was not good.

TEN

Virgil was lying on his rock by the train tracks, deep in thought. The next train was not for another hour and a half. He had promised himself he would miss only the first two classes of the day. After all, he had vowed to his mother he’d try better. Just two classes was at least a beginning.

Luckily, there was no blond man here today. Virgil lay across the rock, as he’d seen John Richardson/Tanner do. The smell of sweetgrass was unusually strong. High above him, the clouds slowly drifted by, not really caring about the problems of an earth-bound Anishnawbe kid, just intent on reaching the far horizon. Virgil watched them pass, one by one, against the blue sky. One cloud looked like a fat fish with a big head. Another had a wispiness to it, like a streak left behind by a paintbrush. Next came what appeared to be a horse’s head. Then, for a moment, he thought he saw a puffy white image of a man on a motorcycle, but the cloud quickly morphed into something more abstract.

He sat up and took a sip from the ginger ale he had brought, then, without looking, put the can down on the surface of the rock—right on top of a pebble. The can tipped and most of the pop poured out. The boy jumped from the rock, not wanting to get wet. Muttering to himself, he righted the can to save what drink he could.

“Shit! It figures,” he said as he grabbed a handful of leaves and tried to brush the sticky liquid off the rock before the local ants, bees and other assorted bugs would home in.

That’s when he saw the markings. Something seemed to be carved there, on top of the rock. Clearing the surface of fallen leaves and pebbles, Virgil was surprised to see what appeared to be pictures gouged into the limestone. It took him a moment but he remembered the name of what they reminded him of:
petroglyphs
. And judging by the dust and small chips surrounding the images, their creation was recent.

There were two distinct images. One appeared to be a man riding something—maybe a horse—or sitting on something. The second crude rendering, appearing beside the first, seemed to represent a woman, if those appendages were indeed what the young boy thought they were: boobs. Scrambling around for a better view, Virgil traced the etchings with his fingers.

This rock had been here since the ice age, at least. And he had been its only friend, to the best of his knowledge, for about two years. Except… except for John Tanner. Once more studying the first petroglyph, Virgil thought it could easily be a man on a motorcycle. Not the best representation, but it had to be. The motorcyclist had done this. It must have been him. But why? And the other image… the stranger had been talking to Virgil about his mother. Could this be his mother? He thought the boobs were exaggerated, but then, he’d never really looked at his mother’s… Virgil put a stop to that line of thought.

And then Virgil noticed there was another stick figure, a smaller one carved under a small ledge. Just below it, he thought he saw a word scratched into the rock. Virgil thought the word was
tikwamshin
. It sounded and looked Anishnawbe but he couldn’t be sure.

Once more, he traced the images with his fingers. The more he looked at them, the more it seemed as if the male figure was beckoning with one arm to the female. The other arm was pointing at yet another image the boy had almost overlooked, carved farther down the rock. It appeared to be that of the sun on the horizon. Did the man who had carved these images want to take the woman away on his motorcycle? Maybe to disappear into the setting or rising sun? Was that his plan?

So that’s why the stranger was spending so much time with his mother. It all made sense now. The more he learned about the mysterious man, the more Virgil had a bad feeling about him. And now the stranger was coming over for dinner. Tonight. In Virgil’s house. With his mother. There were questions to be answered, and tonight they would be answered. He would see to that.

It was just after one in the afternoon and John was hungry, but he wasn’t sure where to go. He pondered this question as he continued to familiarize himself with the local terrain. For the last few days he’d been discreetly—as discreetly as you can be when riding a loud and large motorcycle—mapping the whole area. He always found this to be an excellent survival tactic. Another day or two and he would know the local landscape as well as those born here. Roads, trails, gullies and paths were now a part of his memory. This land, much like Lillian’s face, hadn’t changed much, just a few lines added here and there.

John was tearing down what was called Charlie’s Path when suddenly he saw the raccoon ahead, sniffing a mud puddle in the dirt road. It was difficult to say who was more startled, but John had the definite advantage. He was sitting atop a large,
gas-powered, metallic and heavy machine that obeyed his commands. Determining to utilize that edge, he urged the Chief forward at a deathly speed.

The raccoon, having never heard the story of David and Goliath, wondered if she’d eaten her last crayfish. Barrelling down on him was the man all the other raccoons had been obsessed with lately. And it was just her luck to be here alone. The shoulders of the path had been cleared about a metre or two back, meaning she’d have no chance to make it to the safety of the woods in time. So, the young creature did the only thing she could do. She faked him out.

The furry creature dodged to the right, toward a patch of wild raspberry plants, and John augmented his aim to compensate. However, at the last moment, the raccoon stopped, tucked and rolled backward as the motorcycle roared over where she had been scurrying a half-second before. The front tire caught the tip of her tail, tearing out a patch of black and grey hair. By the time John stopped and turned the motorcycle around, the raccoon was already calling him and many of his family members rude names from the bushes.

The raccoon, nursing both her bruised tail and a grudge, worked her way deeper into the woods. The latest skirmish in this ancient feud had ended, but the war was just heating up.

Disappointed, the man left the area. Barely slowing down as he merged onto the main road, John returned to the thought of filling his empty stomach, and decided to ask a resident for recommendations. John pulled up beside a girl, apparently on her way home for lunch.

Dakota jumped at the roar of the engine beside her and then stood rooted to the sidewalk when she realized who it was.

John took his helmet off and gave her his best smile. “Hello there, beautiful. I got a question. Where would a guy like me go to grab something to eat around here? I’ve got an empty stomach and would love to contribute to the local economy. What fine establishment would you recommend?”

Dakota was stunned. This amazing and mysterious man was talking… to her! Asking her something. And more importantly, she had an answer! “Um, um, well, um… there’s Betty Lou’s Take-Out. It’s just around that corner and up the road a few blocks.”

“Yeah, I’ve driven by it a few times. I can smell the grease from here. What else is there?”

“That’s it.” Dakota said, puzzled. There was only one restaurant in the village. Everybody knew that.

The man thought for a moment. He’d been hoping for an alternative, for it seemed to him the diet of the contemporary Aboriginal had changed substantially over the years, and now most First Nations chefs had adopted the adage “When in doubt, deep fry.”

“What kind of food does Betty Lou’s have?” Unfortunately, his nose had already told him the answer.

“Food. Just food. Nothing fancy. Just food.” For the life of her, Dakota couldn’t remember anything on the menu.

John looked up the street in the direction the girl had pointed. “Hmm, that way, huh? Looked like you were heading that way too. Wanna ride? You can be my faithful Indian guide. I’ll even buy you some fries if you want.”

At that moment, Dakota was so thrilled she would have married him, if it were illegal. He was inviting her to ride on his amazingly cool motorcycle. She could get in trouble for this… a lot of trouble. If her parents found out they would scream at
her about the possibility of him being a kidnapper, a rapist, or a bunch of other horrible things. Still, it was such an amazing bike. And he had such beautiful eyes… those piercing blue eyes. But time was wasting.

“Sure!”

Almost leaping onto the gas tank in front of the man, Dakota prepared for the singlemost exciting moment in her life so far. The man put the helmet on her head, tightened the cinch and then said, “By the way, my name is John. John Clayton.”

“D-Dakota… my name…”

“Dakota. I’ve been there. And I know the Dakota people. But that’s such a long story. Let’s go.”

Placing a muscular arm around her waist, he turned the throttle and the machine set off for Betty Lou’s Take-Out. They were there in a scant few minutes, much too soon for Dakota, comfortably nestled between his arms and thighs.

Taking off his helmet and then Dakota’s, he surveyed the establishment. A handmade sign confirmed this was indeed Betty Lou’s Take-Out.

“So this is the finest restaurant in Otter Lake?” he asked.

“It’s the
only
restaurant in Otter Lake.”

“Yeah, I figured that, Dakota. Stay here and I’ll get your fries.” Dutifully, Dakota sat down on a much vandalized picnic table.

It was after the lunch rush, and the place was almost deserted. Most people had eaten by now and were on their way back to work. The noise of the Indian Chief idling outside had announced John’s arrival long before he entered the place and began scrutinizing the menu, which offered two possibilities. The first was the Canadian menu with your usual fast-food potentials like hamburgers, hot dogs, fries and BLTs. The other listed Indigenous
fast food, such as elk burgers, buffalo stew, Indian tacos and the oddly named Indian steak.

“Interesting. What’s Indian steak?” he asked Elvira, who had come out of the kitchen. She had hair like Flo from
Alice
—a Native Flo, mind you.

“You probably wouldn’t like it,” Elvira said, drying her hands on a stained tea towel. “It’s fried baloney on a bun. A local delicacy.”

“I could never be that Indian,” he muttered to himself as he continued to scan the menu. “How about an Indian taco. I’ve heard of those. Fried bread, chili, cheese, hot sauce. That sound about right?”