Up Ghost River (5 page)

Mama's mouth looked very big and her voice was getting louder, but there was a breathy, pleading note underneath her anger. Papa was the same as ever, gruff and direct, but he too looked worried that everything would fall down. And so they went back and forth, to and fro, getting even louder. I remembered the story of the fight between the jackfish and the bull moose, the Lord of the Water vs. the God of the Land, who pulled and pushed, the water swelling around them, the currents rising and falling, until the conflict took on a momentum of its own and became part of the landscape, creating the tides and laying down the pattern of things to come.

During the season of
nipin
, when the sun beats down and the black-flies are at their thickest, Mama started going to see Father Lavois
more often. He was an influential man, and told her things she held close to her heart. I didn't know the full extent of his powers, but everyone acted as if his words could stop a bullet. Like he had special magic, more potent than the shamans that Papa told me about, and who existed before I was born.

I'd never met a shaman. But I'd heard stories about them through the moccasin telegraph. It was said that they knew how to cure sickness. They had special powers, like being able to fix a broken leg or cool a man who was sweating and hot all over. Some said they could read people's minds. And see into the future. They got some of their knowledge by crossing over the
apeteyo
, the veil that divides the physical and spiritual worlds, to talk to an animal manitou or ancestor, who got their powers from the Great Creator, Gitchi Manitou. He showed them how to see the interconnectedness of all things. To dip below the surface to see the secret forces that ran our lives, the undercurrents, as a wise fisherman would study a river and know how the current would one day shape the river's banks. But the shamans didn't do their ceremonies anymore. They had been banned with the wemistikoshiw laws.

Did Papa miss the shamans? He never said. For Mama, it was like they had never existed. I wondered if it was because she was so busy. Since we had gotten back to the reserve, she went to see Father Lavois every few days. I didn't realize where she was going the first few times. I just awoke one morning and Papa was making bannock instead of Mama.

“Where's Mama?” Alex said.

“Church.”

“Can I go?”

“No.”

“When's she coming home?” I asked.

“At lunch.”

“When's that?”

“Eat your bannock,” Papa said.

Mama came home in time to make lunch. We were having moose steak and I helped her cut the meat. Papa was cleaning his gun.

“You need to ask the Hudson's Bay manager if you can work at his store,” Mama said.

“Did Father Lavois tell you that?” Papa asked.

“He might have mentioned it,” she said.

“I have a job,” he said, and he blew a little too hard into the muzzle of his gun.

“Abraham. Yesterday we ate food that the Father gave us.”

“Yes.”

“I had to ask the priest to feed my family.”

“Don't accept it then.”

“And have the kids go hungry?”

“They're fine. Aren't you, kids?” I looked between Mama and Papa, feeling caught. Papa looked like he needed me more.

“What about the sickness?” Mama said.

“What sickness?”

“The one that killed the Spences' boys.”

“They're at home with Gitchi Manitou. In the land of the ancestors.”

“Father Lavois said they wouldn't have died if they hadn't been hungry. Maybe Rita would be here too.”

“That's nonsense!”

“The Big Father in Heaven is a powerful protector. He will help you if you agree to be helped,” Mama said.

“By coming to church?”

“It's a start.”

That night Papa went outside with a cup of his special bear oil. Papa had already told me a little about the amber liquid. He said it
was very powerful and the shamans used it a long time ago. Now a few people used it, but only when they were out in the bush and no one was around. It was dangerous if you were caught.

I stood in our doorway and watched him. First he built a fire, then when it was about as big as me, he took the oil and threw it onto the flames so they reached up and hissed yellow and white. He wafted the smoke toward himself and breathed it in. He stared at the fire. The light reddened the palms of his hands, and his body was completely still as if his life force had seeped into the fire.

Why was he doing it now? The thought worried me. It was like he didn't care if anyone saw or if he got into trouble. I wanted to approach him to ask about it but he looked lost, staring deep into the fire.

The next day when I awoke, Papa was already gone. Alex was sleeping and Mama was cooking on our woodstove.

“Wake your brother,” Mama said. “Put on your best clothing. We have to see Father Lavois.” I wanted to ask why, but Mama had one of those don't-answer-back-do-as-I-say looks. We left before I had finished my tea.

We arrived at the church and Mama told us to wait by the wooden seats. I looked around. I had been to church once last summer and had seen the painting of the bird-men. This time I looked around for the same painting but couldn't find it. There was another drawing framed with a golden square: a man wearing a prickly tuque who was bleeding everywhere. He seemed to be calling out in pain. A group of men was around him, but no one was helping. I wondered what it meant.

A man came toward us, dressed all in black.

“Is this him?” the man asked Mama in Cree. He was looking at me.

“Yes, Father.”

“You are doing the right thing,” he said.

Then Mama drew some marks on a piece of paper and we went home.

Mama said she would make us all new cups of tea. She kept fussing around us while we were drinking. She asked if Alex and I were hungry, then got up and sat back down. Then she asked us all if we were warm or cold, and I said that I was fine, and Alex did too. I asked her if anything was wrong and she said, “Nothing, nothing.” She opened the door, I guess to look for Papa.

When he came home a few hours later, he opened the door wide, rushed in and gave us hugs.

“We have been blessed,” he said.

“What are you taking about?” Mama said.

“Alex and Ed, get your shoes and coats!” he said.

“Where are you going?” Mama said.

“I had a vision last night in the fire. A caribou manitou. She led me along the river into the forest.”

“You know I don't believe in that stuff,” Mama said.

“Let me finish. So this morning when I got up, I retraced the footsteps of my vision. When I got to the forest, I looked down. I didn't see anything. So I shut my eyes and smelled. It was that heavy muskiness that you never forget. I could tell she was near. I opened my eyes, and I began to walk forward. I couldn't see anything at first, but I knew that it would happen. Through the trees was a patch of fur. She was pretty far away, but she had spotted me, so I couldn't get nearer without her bolting. I raised my gun and she didn't even move. Like she knew her fate. She fell with a single shot.”

“A caribou around here?” Mama said. Caribou tended to stay away from the reserves and other settlements.

“I know. It's a sign, right?”

“It's … I'm not sure. A sign from who?”

“Oh you know, whoever, does it matter? I have something for you,” Papa said. “Wait here.”

He left the house and came back a few moments later with a metal pail. Inside was something red and wobbly—a caribou heart.

“Netchi. This is for you.” He offered it to Mama.

“My favourite. Thank you, Keshayno.”

“I told Charles Tomikatick, and he is there now, skinning the animal. I came home so Ed and Alex could see the caribou preparation. I want to show them how to remove the fur and how to extract the tendons for thread. Then we can go to the store manager and—”

Mama interrupted. “Keshayno. I have something to tell you.”

“Okay,” he said dismissively, turning to Alex and me. “You ready? Let's go.”

“Abraham!” Mama said.

“What?”

“Today I went to see Father Lavois.”

“What?” he said, focusing on Mama.

“I signed Ed up for residential school.”

Papa muffled a cry. “For school? Why, Mary?”

“This life is over. They have to get an education to have a better life. That's what Father Lavois says too.”

“What are you talking about? Look!” he said, gesturing at the caribou heart.

“It's just a matter of time.”

“We're getting by.”

“No, we're hungry and in debt.”

“Everyone's in debt,” Papa said.

“Exactly.”

“Is that what Father Lavois said?”

“Yes,” Mama said. “Other stuff too.”

“I should never have let you go to church!”

“Abraham, you are not the boss of me!”

“But …”

“And it's not just Father Lavois who says the kids must go,” Mama said. “It's the Hudson's Bay store manager. It's the nuns. It's everyone.”

We walked north across the Albany to where Charles was skinning the caribou. By the time Papa, Alex and I got there, the animal lay on its side in a pool of blood, its brown fur skinned from its belly and hanging like a cape from its neck.

“She's all yours,” Charles said. He gave the knife to Papa.

“No thanks,” Papa said. Charles raised his eyebrows.

“What's wrong?” he said.

“Nothing.”

“Something's up.”

“Ed is going to St. Anne's next year.”

“Yeah, Bernadette says we have to do the same for Madeline and the boys.”

“Women!” Papa said, clenching his fists. Charles waited for him to go on, and after a pause, Papa began speaking in a low voice. “What are you going to do?”

“Dunno. Not much choice. What about you?”

“Too late. Mary already signed the papers with Father Lavois,” Papa said.

“I'm sorry,” Charles said.

“Me too,” Papa said.

“Why are you sorry?” I asked.

Charles said nothing.

“Because you're growing up,” Papa said. He turned away from me and began cutting the caribou skin. I knew that wasn't the truth,
but since no one was paying attention to me, I squatted down in the grass and watched how the knife divided fur from flesh.

A few days later I awoke before everyone else was up. I brought the goose fat and Papa's gun to his mattress, then lay next to him.

“Ed,” he said, waking and rubbing his eyes. “What are you doing?”

“I brought you these,” I whispered. “So you can teach me.” He looked at me. We both knew that I could clean his gun before I even knew how to build a fire. He sat up and got dressed, then helped me button my shirt and pants. He motioned for me to follow him outside.

The leaves had started to turn, layers of amber masking the dirt roads. We began to walk to the edge of town.

“You're going to school,” he said.

“I know,” I said. “Why did Charles say he was sorry when you told him?”

“Because he knows that I'm going to miss you.” Papa stroked my hair. We were both quiet. “I won't see you for a while.”

“How long?”

“You will have to be there all winter.”

“Can I come back and visit?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because we will be at the family camp.”

“Who will look after me?”

“The nuns will be looking after you now.”

“I don't want them to look after me. I don't like them.”

“You don't even know them.”

“They are mean.”

“You don't know that.”

“Yes, I do. Joseph told me.”

“Well, he doesn't know them either.”

“I don't understand.”

“You need to learn to read and write.”

“What if something happens?”

“Nothing will happen,” he said.

“I don't believe you,” I said.

The day I was scheduled to leave for St. Anne's, Papa rose early to fetch river water. Normally he scrubbed my hair. This time he wanted me to do it. He showed me how to lather the hard-to-reach parts behind my ears.

We came inside and Mama gave me a plate of dried fish. I nibbled at it but my tummy was too upset to eat all of it. Normally Mama and Papa told me off if I wasted anything but Papa just took my plate and finished it. After breakfast, he and Mama stood around their bed and spoke in hushed tones about what I should pack. Mama wanted me to take the family photo of us all. It was an old one, taken the summer before Rita got sick, so she was there too. I knew it was really special because there were only three photos of Rita, and they were all worn until the paper was soft. But Papa said, “No point, they're just gonna take it from him anyway.” They left the photos on their bed and I stood there and looked at them as Papa got dressed.

Alex was already up and dressed. He asked, “Where's he going? Where's he going?” Mama told him that I was going to residential school, but he kept asking, like he didn't understand. When I was
packed, I put my hand on Alex's heart and looked him in the eyes, as Papa did when saying goodbye to Mama. Then Mama grabbed me and pulled me into her, and I could smell her scent of bannock and tea.

Papa and I went outside. The sun had broken through the clouds, and I saw that our firewood was wet, so it must have rained in the night. Strange, I hadn't heard it. Papa took my hand and I looked back and saw our chimney spurting smoke. I realized that I wouldn't be there for the final fire before they left for a winter in the bush. It struck me that I wouldn't go with them at all, and I squeezed his hand tighter as we walked to school.

The three-storey school building had always been there, just across the river channel, and I studied its square windows as we approached, wishing I could see inside. For a split second I saw a man through the window. He was wearing a black cloak like Father Lavois, and grabbing the sides of a boy's head. There was a prickly feeling in my chest as I realized he had the boy's ears. The boy had lost his balance, stunned, and then I realized that my imagination was playing tricks on me. This was just a story that Joseph Tomikatick had told me—there was no boy in the window.