Bone Black

by Carol Rose GoldenEagle

  “What are you talking about, Wren?”

  “I’ve been feeling sick lately. And my period is late.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful news!” Lord brightens up and begins to plan. “I can renovate the baby’s room. You pick the colours, of course.” He smiles at his wife and gently holds her hand as though she’s something so delicate he worries she’ll break.

  Wren’s expression changes from worried to uplifted, but she warns, “Remember last time, though? I didn’t tell you because it sometimes happens that babies go away. It’s all been so much, my love, but now I think God is smiling on us.”

  “This is the most wonderful news in the world. Do you know for sure?” he asks.

  “Well, no, I don’t. I just suspect I am because I threw up this morning for no reason. It’s usually an indicator. I guess I’ll make a doctor’s appointment as soon as possible.”

  “Who wants to wait that long?” Lord exclaims. “I say we get back into my new Bronco right now, drive to the drug store and pick up one of those tests.”

  Wren tries to explain that home pregnancy tests are not always accurate, but that doesn’t seem to concern Lord. He grabs a piece of quiche from the kitchen island to snack on as the two make their way to the vehicle.

  Ponderance and Superstition

  With out-of-town projects well underway, Lord elects to stay close to home. The pregnancy test showed a positive result and that very afternoon, Lord insists that he and Wren head to the city for some baby furniture. To calm his wife’s concerns about faulty results, he also suggests that the couple go to a walk-in medical clinic to have a blood test done. The smiling family physician made it official that afternoon: the couple is expecting a baby.

  Since that moment, Lord has been treating Wren like a precious treasure. He has forbidden her from moving heavy objects and hires a house cleaner to come in once a week, over Wren’s objections. He goes with her when she’s shopping for food because he doesn’t want her to carry bags that might be too heavy. He buys jugs of milk every couple of days, which makes him chuckle because Wren has never been a big milk drinker until now. He’s happy to know his wife has a craving for calcium which is good for a baby’s growth. He’s even learned to cook.

  The first trimester comes and goes without upset, and Lord accompanies Wren to each checkup with the doctor. The baby is growing well and Wren is now showing. It takes all his effort for Lord not to caress his wife’s belly each time he sees her. Choosing paint colours for the baby’s room has not been an easy task but there is no question that that old wallpaper in the spare room must go. Dated and yellowed by the passage of time, neither Wren nor Lord want their beautiful baby to wake up to it each day. After some discussion, the baby’s room will be painted the colour of the sky, the colour of infinity and hope, a shade called “Blue Lagoon.”

  Before any colour is added, however, the hardwood floor is in need of some care. The room is pretty empty, with only an old dresser and a few boxes filled with old books needing to be moved. As Lord opens one of the boxes, he is filled with contentment upon seeing a copy of Dr. Seuss’s Green Eggs and Ham. He figures it’s something Wren often read as a child and he removes the book from its place, hidden in a box. It will be a part of their baby’s life, too. Lord smiles as he imagines sitting on the bed and reading a book to his child. He makes a point of taking the copy and walking it down the hallway where he sets it on his bedside table. He knows it’s a memory that will make his wife happy.

  Back in the baby’s room, Lord opens a dresser drawer. He finds the death photo of his mother hidden underneath some scarves. Hidden from sight by his wife.

  Banish Thee

  Lord has come down to the kitchen where Wren is making some tea. He’s carrying the photo of his dead mother lying in her coffin. “Why did I find this hidden in the spare room?”

  “Oh that.” Wren feels a twinge of guilt. “How can I explain?” she starts.

  She admits her fear, that the Magras curse might be something real, kept alive, if only in the imagination. Wren tells Lord that something about that photo seems wrong to her. Haunting, as if his mother still doesn’t want anyone to enter their home. She talks about how the couple has not had any visitors except for Raven, but that Raven went away. And that first baby, too.

  Wren tells Lord about the dreams she’s been having about a scarecrow, and that it is somehow influencing her not allow anyone across the threshold of the farmhouse. She tells him she worries for the new baby, and that somehow that photo of his mother might be trying to undo what happiness they have found.

  “It is just a photo, Wren.” Lord does his best to console his wife, though he is upset that she hid the picture in a drawer.

  “A photo, yes,” Wren replies, “but what if, somehow, your mom attached a part of herself to the photo? What if the curse is not just something that was talked about, but something real? I can’t risk losing another baby, Lord.”

  Wren continues, trying to explain the intensity of her fears so Lord will understand. She describes a memory from her childhood, standing alone on the prairie near an abandoned farmhouse, its wood rotting with age and weather. “There are voices that can be heard from its cistern. And a smell, like sour flesh. There was always something about that place that said Stay away. Raven and I went there on our bikes sometimes when we were girls, even though we were warned not to.”

  The prairie area is near the lake, within walking distance of the point. Wren talks about an old hermit who used to live there who died in his sleep and no one found him for months. He had not picked up his mail all those weeks, which is why the post office alerted police to go and check. By the time the rcmp showed up, he’d already been wrapped in cobwebs and was stiff and rotted. The whole house was filled with spiders. In life, that man hated and cursed anyone who crossed his path. The story says he ended up like that because he was jilted by his young bride, who left him with no explanation. His heart went to darkness and he called on a curse. He believed in it and gave it life.

  After he died, the property stood empty. Nothing grew except for weeds. Wren remembers feeling like there was electricity in the air whenever she went near the home. Raven and Wren dared each other but never went in, prevented by a foreboding feeling of being watched. “So, I do believe in curses. People make fun of it and call it nothing but superstition,” Wren tells Lord, “but I really think that if you give a bad thought too much energy, it becomes something real. And by its very nature, a curse does nothing but cause harm. I can’t take that chance now.”

  As she holds her belly, Lord softens towards her. He realizes that there have not been many guests invited into this farmhouse. Raven did disappear and yes, the first baby went away. He wonders if his wife is correct, that lending thought to an ominous suggestion gives it power, transforms it from an idea into a true thing. He decides in that moment that if something was done, it can be undone.

  “I will get rid of the photo,” he says. “Out of the house. I will burn it and send my mother’s intention away with it. Then she can rest in peace. But I will need your help.”

  Spring Melt

  Thoughts of revenge and vengeance no longer cloud her mind. Her pregnancy is now in its second trimester and the couple couldn’t be more excited. Lord has painted the baby’s room and put up some stained glass in the window. The colourful glass faces west, so the baby will be covered with light as the sun goes down, marking each day in colour. Wren’s appetite has returned and Lord is doing much of the cooking, although he still stops in frequently at a deli in the city to get to-go meals. Wren is aglow, happy and looking forward to the future. She suggests taking a road trip before the baby arrives.

  “I’ve been thinking about our earlier discussions about taking a trip abroad,” Wren tells Lord, “but it occurs to me that we don’t need to leave home to find something more magical than what we already have right here in Saskatchewan.” Lord doesn’
t quite follow, so Wren explains further. “We can go to Amsterdam or Strasbourg and never have to leave the ground. Never have to travel elsewhere,” she continues. “There are all sorts of towns named after international cities right here in this province.” She laughs. “Let’s see how the local folk in those places live. Let’s find out their local customs and what they do. We can even visit Norway and the Hague, just outside of Saskatoon.” Wren snickers, adding, “Besides, I don’t want to fly away somewhere if there might be problems with the baby is all I’m saying.”

  “A road trip?” Lord inquires.

  “A road trip, yes,” Wren replies. “How many people know you can visit Kandahar without ever having to board a flight? We have that town right here in the province.” At this she pats her tummy and says, “I bet they have great snacks in Penzance. Let’s give this baby an appreciation of history about the place we call home. A history that is both yours and mine.

  She goes on to talk about the prairie landscape and how it changes from farmland to lakes and bush, to Precambrian Shield and the boreal forest. Wren talks about how food traditions change along the way, too, from Russian shishliki lamb, to Icelandic jólasveinar sausage. She talks about flapper pie, raisin pie and all the different ways bread is made, adding the suggestion that they stop in at various Indigenous-owned gas stations to pick up fried bannock.

  Lord nods his head in agreement, not fully knowing what he is agreeing to.

  “We’ll be together. Just you and me,” she continues. “Hours and hours on the road. We can listen to seventies music all the while stopping whenever we want because we are not in a hurry. We can take photos, talk, eat home-baked goods.”

  His wife has had a generous appetite lately, which makes him feel assured and joyous.

  Wren adds, “It doesn’t matter if we spend each night in a cheap roadside motel. We’ll get to know the land and the people we live with, those we call our neighbours. This province where we live is multi-layered, like my pottery pieces. We are bringing a new life into this world, and I want her to know her world. I want her to be interested in stories about local museums and the people who live down the road, even if that road is hours away. It’s how we understand why we do what we do; it’s how we make sense.”

  Wren holds her husband’s hand, a gesture of hope that he’ll get more excited about it. “And how about checking out the architecture that has been imported from elsewhere in the world and is now part of this prairie landscape?”

  Finally a comment that piques Lord’s interest. He has only ever seen photos of stone buildings or sod houses across the plains. He’s looked at pictures of train trestle bridges and the wonder of that engineering, but has never seen them up close. He’s driven by grain elevators which stand as sentinels of the past in many towns. Those structures were crucial in building this province, keeping families fed at one point in time. He admits to himself he would like to see those old ones up close before they’re taken by the wind and the weather. But mostly, he’s persuaded to do this because of his wife. She beams with excitement at the plan.

  Wren pats her tummy again. “We’ll have fun, just, well, just being. I love you more than words can say. Please say yes.”

  Lord agrees to the road trip. He knows it will include drinking a great deal of gas station coffees, which will likely come with their own stories. He knows that a road trip like this means driving for hours and hours with nothing but wild grasslands, buttes filled with native bush and flora, and harvested crops. He and Wren will be exploring together, celebrating things that are ordinary but somehow extraordinary. Things like finding delightful greasy-spoon diners and wandering around main streets. They both know that a baby is always seen as a blessing, and this trip will be her introductory welcome to the world.

  Wren heads outside, and as she sits beside the trickling creek, she listens to the sound of melting ice breaking and says a prayer. It’s a conflicting notion, but she can’t help but wonder if she is somehow being rewarded for taking care of business and ridding the world of those who caused harm. In this joyful time, she makes a solemn promise to no longer take part in the chaos of this world. To walk along a pathway of love and light. To travel in grace.

  “Please let this baby enter this world as a protected soul who doesn’t lose her way,” Wren whispers to the river.

  Wren is hoping the child will be a girl. She always refers to it as she even though the couple has elected not to know the sex. Wren’s already decided she will name the baby after Raven. She will share with this child a love of the land and repeat the stories told to her so many years ago by her beloved kohkum. She will be gentle and kind and protect this baby from harm.

  Wren goes back to the farmhouse and smudges with what is left of the dried sage she picked late last summer, the last afternoon she was able to run with her sister toward the bluff, covered in a meadow of wildflowers. The last time they lay amongst the tall prairie grass and watched the clouds. The last time she remembers that all things were good in this world.

  She feels her baby kick. Wren strokes her tummy, feeling blessed that balance in her life has finally returned. But a craving has also returned. She’s been eating the cinnamon buns that are baked each morning at the local gas station, sometimes twice a day. Wren stands up and loosens some dried grass from her skirt before deciding to head into town.

  “There’s a bun in the oven with my name on it.” She giggles at her own bad joke and calls into the house, “Want to come with me? I’m going to make a trip to the gas station again.”

  He declines, saying there are some emails that need attention, but it doesn’t break Wren’s resolve. She is feeling happy, like good in the world is coming. And besides, she can buy an extra cinnamon bun for him and bring it home.

  As she walks down the pathway and towards her car, Wren notices the coyote watching from a distance. He hasn’t been around for a while. He’s pacing and seems frantic with purpose. Wren gives him a wave, saying, “Hello, old friend. I have nothing for you today, but if you want, I can pick up an extra bun while I am in town. I will leave it in the gully for you when I get back.” The coyote follows her more closely, halfway up the pathway, before hearing traffic on the highway and retreating into the bush.

  During her short drive into town, Wren thinks about ways in which she has conducted her own ceremony of letting go. Under the full light of Grandmother Moon, she danced around the fire. She burned the newspaper articles that told the stories of Father Hector and Myron Salt to let that poison go. She said a prayer and offered it to the fire. She gave thanks for all the people who’ve come into her life and helped by offering friendship and guidance, then burned some photos. The first was of her sister. She still gets weepy at the thought that Raven may never be found, and the mystery of her disappearance may never be solved, just like no one will ever find Father Hector, Billy Vespas or Myron Salt.

  Wren has been using this time during the baby’s growth to try and heal her own heart and always, to remember the bond she had with Raven. They shared a sacred space together—in utero, like the baby is now, and through all those years of growing and learning. Wren also burned that photo of Lord’s mother laying in her coffin. She offered food for the old woman’s spirit, hoping it nourishes her and carries her to a place where fear exists no more.

  The farmhouse seems more at peace as well. There’s a familiar energy, like she remembers when she was growing up. Kohkum’s love has returned. The morning light is brighter when it shines through her kitchen window and the old wooden stairs no longer creak. And Lord? He seems to have lost his angst about inviting people over. A curse removed forever, Wren hopes. She smiles, remembering last weekend when Lord invited work colleagues to come over for brunch in celebration of their impending arrival. A secondary purpose was to help create a new design he’d imagined for the baby’s crib: repurposed barn wood that would be covered with an old quilt from his childhood. She was surprised Lord insisted on preparing brunch that day: fry bread and Sp
am along with a lush fruit salad that included many plump strawberries.

  Wren’s happy musings come to an abrupt halt as she pulls into the gas station parking lot. Wren sees a blue pickup truck with silver bull’s balls hanging from the back hitch. It isn’t owned by a local resident, Wren is sure. No one out here would drive around with a bumper sticker proclaiming, Rednecks Rule.

  Something in Wren begins to stir again. In her mind, she is transported back to the ditch. Blood is in her hair and scalp. She’s on her bike, looking for her sister. In that moment, a stillness sets in. Even the wind stops blowing. No breeze, just calm and clarity. Wren is transported to a dream state, a place bereft of colour, and a feeling that she is floating on air. It’s in this place that she catches a glimpse of her sister, who is smiling. Raven gently reaches out to touch Wren’s cheek and everything starts to unravel.

  The wind blows Wren back to the present, where she finds herself standing in the gas station parking lot, startled by loud squawking. There is a flurry of activity in a nearby tree where a murder of crows has landed. Wren counts seven birds and wonders if their arrival signals action, a cackling suggestion from the souls of those departed. A large, grand raven flies in like a sentinel and takes a spot at the top of the aspen. The raven looks directly at Wren and squawks loudly, as if calling her to arms.

  Wren is sure she knows what it means. As she casts a glance toward a pale blue and cloudless sky, she rubs her hands together and looks back at the pickup with those bull balls and the same licence plate number she had committed to memory many months ago. She crosses her fingers and makes the sign of the cross over her head and her heart.

  “One more,” she says to no one.

  Notes & Acknowledgements