by Muriel Gray
Sam didn’t need to ask who “he” was. His grandfather was obsessed. He had sighed internally, bored with the old man’s hobby horse. “You see he ain’t good at makin’ human shapes. Gets it wrong enough for a shaman to spot him like a bear in a flock of geese. Plenty be fooled by it and he be enjoyin’ himself doin’ it, but you and me, we be seein’ him right off.”
Sam humored the old man by feigning interest. “So why’s he do it? Why don’t he just stay inside animals or be the shape he is?”
Eden had pursed his lips then, and scratched at something in his pants. “Don’t know. When I sees him he was doin’ it to hurt your great-grandpappy. But I guess he does it sometimes to find the likes of you and me when he ain’t sure who we are.”
He never knew what it was he did wrong, but Sam’s face must have betrayed some kind of skepticism or worse, boredom, because Eden had gone crazy. He sat forward in his chair and slapped both his palms on the arms of the chair, and hollered. “You start actin’ like an Indian, Sam! You be born Indian, you gonna die Indian, and unless you knows that, that excuse for a face gonna come at you in a crowd some day and you gonna walk right past it. You hear?”
Sure, he had heard. Born Indian. But fifteen years of being born Indian had been enough. Those white guys he saw in town, same age as him, same everything as him except their skin, they had homes and families and jobs, and no one filled their heads with all this shit.
He would watch them sometimes, from the steps of the food store, where Sam sat with Randall and Harry doing nothing but kicking the dirt and watching the cars. The sight of those white guys filled Sam’s throat with a thick envy that stopped him from swallowing, when they hung their elbows out of their new trucks and the girls would come over and do that cute twirling thing with their hips while they stood and spoke to them. They would drive away to things Sam could only imagine, things like they did on TV. Parties, maybe, with big tents and chairs and tables on lawns. Or picnics in blowy meadows with ball games and rugs on the grass.
And what did Sam get to do, because he was born Indian and would die Indian? Sam got to hide from Moses’ fist in the trees until Calvin found him, and then build sweat lodges to help him bring spirits that scared the living shit out of him.
If the spirits that spoke to Sam and Calvin could do anything for him, it would be to change his skin and let him ride around with those kids. Change his skin and kill his father. That would do, thanks.
Eden must have read his mind. He went deadly calm. “Two paths, Sam. Shamans got only two paths. Good medicine or bad medicine. Nothin’ in between. Other folk can go all kinds of ways and still be kind of good. But we got only two paths. You let that dark one inside get you, you be ending up much worse than your pappy.”
And he’d stared at Sam real hard then, until the boy had been so ashamed of his thoughts a film of tears had formed in his jet-black eyes. Eden had just closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair.
And Sam’s eyes were closed now as he wrestled for his sanity.
Indian shit. Just a pile of steaming, festering, stinking, made-up Indian shit. These were the nineties. That was a ski restaurant out there full of people eating fast food, who came here in hatchback cars along highways and went home to brightly lit houses with central heating. It wasn’t a fucking tepee full of old men who still believed in wittagos and demons and spirits.
And he was Sam Hunt, for Christ’s sake. He went to the movies. He had an electric toothbrush. He played Pac-Man on Billy’s Nintendo. Fuck all that ancient bullshit.
If Eden James Hunting Wolf had been such a powerful shaman, how come he couldn’t even save himself? All bullshit. There was no face in the crowd except the demons of his own sick and fevered mind, and from now on those memories were going to stay where they belonged. In the place in his heart where he’d buried Sam Hunting Wolf the Indian, and given birth to Sam Hunt the human. As if in reply, his father’s amulet pressed its small bone weight against his chest, and Sam made a fist and muttered out loud, although under his breath, “Fuck every last one of you. I’ll be who I want to be.”
The door of the hut burst open with such violence, the window rattled and the wild wind that burst into the room knocked a rack of skis backward, sending them clattering to the floor.
Sam bellowed in fright and leaped to his feet. A figure was filling the doorway, the light from the snow making it a silhouette in a frame. Sam, his heart pounding, struggled to make out the features against the impossible glare of white.
“Just two seconds to get a fucking Coke, huh?”
It was Dean. Sam nearly wept.
“There’s half an hour of light left and an hour of fencing to do, thanks to your Coke break and ten minutes to track you down here, you lazy bastard.”
Sam found his voice. “I have to get home fast. I was getting skis together since you had the mobile.”
The figure in the doorway put out an arm and leaned on the post. “Jesus, Sam. I can’t finish it on my own, and Baz’ll bite our balls off if that fence is still down tomorrow. Can’t it wait?”
“Please, Dean.”
The figure stood for a moment, having the advantage of seeing Sam’s face and seeing its pleading distress.
Dean made an upward sweep with his hand in exasperation. “Sure. Don’t mind me.” He turned and walked away. “Have a nice ski, y’hear?” he said sarcastically into the wind.
Sam watched him go, sat back down and pulled on his ski boots. He could get down to the base with the snowmobile now that Dean was back, but he wanted to ski. He needed something to clear his head and help him flush out this garbage that was making him ill. Keep moving, Sam. Every time you stop those black clouds from the past get you. The door banged in the wind and Sam kicked it shut with a foot as he snapped the clips of his boots closed.
36
Alberta 1907
Siding Twenty-three
Even as the snow fell, the wind was blowing it from those two straight rail tracks, and in the thick pillow of white that covered every other trace of topography, it was as though two infinite charcoal black lines had been drawn on a white sheet.
Tall pines, fronted by scrub birch, formed a lugubrious wall on either side, and Hunting Wolf felt them imprison him as he staggered along between the tracks, his chest heaving for breath as though it would explode.
Over the pounding of his own heart and the rasping of his elusive breath, he could hear this new abomination gaining ground behind him. He could hear its paws beating in the snow, its breath grunting with every bound. Great Spirit, he had no prayers left for these poor creatures. How much more? He lurched forward and his foot caught a sleeper, pitching him forward spread-eagled into the snow. He could run no farther. And running was a pointless conceit. Hunting Wolf lay gasping, waiting for his torment.
A bear cub this time. A bear cub roused from winter slumber by its mother’s side for this atrocity. It bounded a few feet ahead of the Indian’s body, lying half-submerged in the crystalline snow, and stopped in front of him.
“Look at me, you worthless scum.” The voice was forced from the bear’s unwilling and violated vocal chords, grumbling in its throat like a growl of pain.
Hunting Wolf kept his eyes shut and began chanting a prayer for the bear’s soul to the Eagle God, his outspread palms grasping the snow into balls.
“LOOK AT ME!”
He chanted louder, grimacing as the cold of the snow started to burn his face with its sting. A theatrical pause, as the evil in the animal enjoyed the wait, and then that noise—the ripping of animal flesh, the snapping of bone and the sickening wet slick of fur being torn by teeth from the viscous membrane that attaches it to skin. The animal roared in agony as it devoured itself, and Hunting Wolf felt its hot blood splash his face and hands.
He threw his hands to his ears, but his frozen fingers could not muffle the sound of the creature in such torturous pain. It bellowed and screamed and the snow churned around its doomed body as it writhed in the pin
cer of its own jaws and talons.
It was worse this time. He knew it was going to leave the creature half-alive. Hunting Wolf felt the Trickster leave the cub’s body and the animal ceased its frenzy of self-destruction. But it was still screaming. He opened his eyes and pulled himself up out of the snow. The cub was propped up on the edge of a crater of snow it had created with its own death throes, and it sat looking grotesquely comical, like an old man in a hammock. It had torn its stomach open and bitten off both its feet, the bone protruding in sharp spears of ivory from the seeping dark stumps. Its muzzle was ripped by those razor claws and one eye hung from its socket. Hunting Wolf could see the young animal’s exposed rib cage, and the organs that had spilled out were steaming gently in the cold snow.
It bellowed and shrieked as Hunting Wolf fumbled in his belt for his long knife. He took it out with a shaking hand, held it by the blade and aimed. With one strong throw the knife spun through the air and pierced the cub’s remaining eye with a wet thud. It screamed again, twitched and was released.
The man stood staring down at the pitiful remains of the once beautiful animal, clenching and unclenching his fists. He turned and glanced down the track behind him. The bodies of the others lay in dark patches all the way back to the point on the horizon where the two black lines of track met. Shapeless sacks in the snow. So much death.
Hunting Wolf knew it would not take his demon long to find and command another innocent creature, and he ached with regret for his madness in running so far from the camp along the tracks. It was growing dark and he would soon be unable to see anything but the subtle difference between the snowy ribbon of his path and the dark wall of trees. He would not make it back to camp in daylight, even if he had a horse. But how to stop the slaughter? Running like a child would solve nothing. He walked forward, retrieved his knife from the cub’s skull, knelt beside its violated husk and offered up one last prayer for its soul.
There was so much he did not know. His father had said this spirit was weak. Weaker by far than a man. How could that be?
Only the spirits could help him and they were as silent as the falling snow that was floating around his face like feathers on the wind. Hunting Wolf wiped the blade of his knife on his leggings and stood erect. He was a shaman. Enough of this running. The Trickster was feeding on his fear, and he must contain his horror. He would walk back to the camp, slowly, like a warrior. He was shamed by the cowardice that had made him flee in the face of these nauseating displays, and ultimately, he was weakened by it.
The killings could become no worse. Already his heart was hardening to their frequency. From now on, he would keep his eyes open and show the monster it meant little to him. He had, in his medicine bundle, a powerful herb that would aid his courage, and as he replaced the knife he fumbled for the pouch with his freezing fingers, opened it and took out some shiny blackened pieces of plant. His tongue stung with the acid from the small bitter leaves, and he bit into them to release more of their natural magic. He waited, and when that soft hand of soporific started to caress his temples, he placed two more leaves beneath his tongue and started to walk back along the tracks, treading carefully in his own untidy trail as he retraced his steps.
Deep in his pocket, James Henderson’s fingers toyed with the small crucifix he had whittled from a piece of seasoned jack pine, and rehearsed in his head the Siouan words he would use in the giving of the gift. The huge flat flakes of falling snow were so light they hung on the minister’s hair and face like flying summer seeds.
He felt good. Singing Tree and her silent, doe-eyed boy had stayed with him and soothed away his fear. There had been no recurrence of the nightmare from three days ago and he knew now that he had been feverish, ill and deluded. Strange that the people who had induced his madness with their tales could also cure it. But he wanted to show his gratitude to them, and he felt a stab of guilt that he had not granted the prize of the ivory-and-mahogany crucifix to the little boy who had fetched his wood and filled his cabin with his childish humanity. He hoped his own amateur effort in carving would suffice, and possibly help bring the heathen child to his God. And he wanted to speak with Hunting Wolf, to try to make sense of what had happened to his mind after the incident in the tunnel.
A dog barked as he approached the camp, its yelping muffled in the thick, snow-padded air, and a woman wrapped in a rough striped blanket stepped from behind the first tepee. She stared impassively as he raised a hand in greeting, and went back inside her shelter. He let the disappointed hand fall as he entered the encampment, and walked along the flattened snow path between the cones of hide that concealed the occupants, grateful to be out of the knee-deep snow.
There was no mistaking Hunting Wolf’s tepee, painted as it was to mark a great chief and shaman. A primitive eagle spread its wings above the entrance and a band of reddish-brown paint encircled the whole structure, dotted with white circles and vertical lines.
Henderson stood outside, looking up at the wisps of smoke from the tepee’s fan of sticks, unsure what to do. He cleared his throat, and said in Siouan, “It is Henderson.”
He heard low voices inside, and a man’s hand pulled back the stitched-hide door flap. Powderhand’s face followed. He looked up at Henderson with a mixture of contempt and disinterest, then made a small head movement for him to enter.
It was gloomy inside, and when Henderson’s eyes adjusted to the amber light that filtered through the walls, he realized there were about half a dozen people in the tepee, sitting silently around the edge, looking up at the tall white man as he entered in a clumsy stoop. By the small fire in the center, Hunting Wolf lay on some crudely cut and stitched furs, his eyes closed and his mouth open, panting. Singing Tree was kneeling by his side, and the boy, Walks Alone, crouched at his feet.
Henderson, feeling the awkwardness of his height, knelt, looking anxiously at Singing Tree. No one spoke and he swallowed as he tried to formulate a question that would not result in his ejection. He had never been invited into a tepee, and he was lost as to the etiquette and formality of such a visit. But concern for Hunting Wolf won over his fear of error and he risked speech.
“Hunting Wolf sick?”
Singing Tree looked back at him silently with black, liquid eyes that reflected the firelight and, though he fought to deny it to himself, made sparks ignite in James Henderson’s heart. She said nothing. It was Powderhand who replied.
“We found him on the path of the iron horse. He does not wake.”
Hunting Wolf was panting hard now, his eyeballs moving rapidly beneath their lids.
“How long since?”
Powderhand sighed, as though it were a chore speaking to such an imbecile. “Not long. This morning.”
Henderson’s face crushed with anxiety. If the man had been lying out there all night, as Powderhand seemed to imply, he was lucky to be alive. He leaned forward to feel Hunting Wolf’s pulse, but a tiny hand shot out and blocked his way. Walks Alone did not want him to touch his father.
“I must feel for his life. In his hand.”
The boy shook his head slowly. His mother spoke in a quiet voice. “We must not touch him. There is a dark spirit upon him. Walks Alone can feel it in his father.”
Henderson felt his world start to crumble again. More talk of spirits and darkness was not what Henderson had come here for, and he ached to be free of this superstitious foolishness that had led to his own sick visions. He withdrew his hand and settled back on his knees. This time, though he knew the boy could not speak, he addressed the question to those big serious eyes. “Will he wake?”
Walks Alone nodded and turned his attention back to his father. Henderson decided he would wait. If they asked him to leave he would, but right now, he would wait. The faces around the edge of the tepee were divided in their interest between the white man and their chief, but all remained silent and the only sound was the labored breathing of the unconscious man on the floor.
“Mr. McEwan. It’s Cook with some b
roth,” Saul Campbell called out.
There was no reply.
“Mr. McEwan. May I come in?”
Nothing. Obviously he wasn’t there. All the signs said he wasn’t there. Saul turned to go back, and then stopped. What if McEwan were ill and no one had checked? Everyone would simply assume he was somewhere else. The man was forever striding out in his snowshoes to the head of the pass like a scout, to see if the lines were showing any sign of clearing, or visiting the tunnel at dusk when the men had stopped work.
He could be in the cabin, weak and cold in bed, waiting for someone to come and tend him and relight his stove.
Saul sighed, put the broth on the snowbank and pulled down the latch on the door. It swung open and he held it there with his foot while he bent to pick up the tin plate.
He stood and walked in, letting the door swing shut behind him with a bang. It was almost black inside with the door shut. Black and cold. The only window was completely blocked by snow, and the light coming through the gaps in the logs was negligible. But Saul knew the layout of McEwan’s cabin. The table was in the center of the room, where the engineer would sit and hold court, and Saul knew there would be a candle and matches there. The least he could do would be to light Mr. McEwan’s stove for him, whether he was here or not. No one let their stove go out in Siding Twenty-three unless they wanted to freeze to death in the night. He walked carefully across the dim room toward the dark shape of the table. The floor seemed sticky and icy. Saul placed the dish on the wooden surface and felt around for a candle, withdrawing his arm suddenly when his hand touched something soft and cold. It felt pulpy and unpleasant, and Saul recoiled at its contact.
The experience stopped him wanting to feel around on that table any further, and leaving the soup there, he retraced his steps to the door, to prop it open and let in the thin, gray daylight.
