Prairie Grass

by Joan Soggie

  Eventually they overtook other survivors, a ragged band fleeing across the windswept snows towards a Blackfoot camp within British territory. They shared their few belongings, took their portion of the deer brought down by Jean-Jacques’s rifle, and plodded on day after day until the first line of tipis showed among the bare poplars lining a creek gully. They had reached the camp of Peigan chief Mountain Child. One of their number died on the trail, of hunger or sorrow or cold. But miraculously both children survived and were immediately taken in by a sombre-eyed woman whose own children had died in last year’s epidemic.

  Jean-Jacques for the first time since the raid was able to feel something other than weariness. Finally, with leisure to sit and talk and piece together the bizarre chain of events, he realized the soldiers had been acting under the orders of a captain who, besides having a reputation as a drunkard, couldn’t tell one Indian from another. “The only good Indian is a dead Indian.” Jean-Jacques sat with the men around the chief’s fire, smoking and listening, feeling a kinship of indignation and fury, grief for the friend he had lost, sympathy for all the dozen survivors had lost. Nigger or Injun or half-breed. Give us an ugly name and it seems to give them license to kill us.

  “What about the peace treaty your people had with the Cree?” Jean-Jacques asked Mountain Child, after it seemed the more current topics had been exhausted. “Last time I was in a Blackfoot camp was some years back, with Maskepetoon. He wanted to get the plains people to stick together and help each other. Any of you know old Bras Casse?”

  There was silence for a space long enough for him to be aware of a stiffening and turning away by those on either side of him. Then the chief, a leather-faced man with tattooed cheeks, spoke.

  “Monegubanou, as we called him many years ago, was a brave man.”

  “Was?” questioned Jean-Jacques, striving to keep his voice steady and low, as was fitting in such a place.

  “He was your friend, I see,” observed the chief. “He had many friends. Many enemies, too. For everyone who loved the idea of peace between the tribes, there were two who hated such talk. But Monegubanou never gave up his dream of making old enemies into friends.”

  He coughed, passed the pipe on, and continued.

  “With such happenings as you, and these from Heavy Runner’s band, tell of, it would have been well if old enemies had become friends and allies. But I am afraid the time for that is past.”

  And Mountain Child told the story of the past springtime, when old Maskepetoon, with his sons and grandsons and a few others, walked for fifteen days through the greening prairie to come to the place where the Blackfoot, Peigan, and Blood bands were gathering in preparation for their first great hunt of the season. The elders and peace chiefs prepared to meet him as usual, with due decorum and honour. But some, none could say if it was one or two acting alone or if the warriors’ lodge had sanctioned it, prepared another welcome. As Maskepetoon entered the camp carrying his praying book, he was cut down by a Blood warrior known as Black Swan. Others drew knives to support Black Swan, while Maskepetoon’s sons and grandsons ran to defend him. Every Cree was murdered.

  Mountain Child turned his somber eyes to Jean-Jacques.

  “It grieves me to tell you this, my friend. Believe me, not all agreed with Black Swan’s actions, but it was too late to undo the harm. The spirit of war had returned. We had to prepare for battle with the Cree. And sickness came again that summer. The stinking sores the traders call the pox took one man of every two, a few women or children from every lodge. And when the sickness left us, raids and attacks continued between our people and the people without chiefs.”

  * * *

  Now, months later, Mountain Child’s words continued to echo through his brain. Jean-Jacques shook his aching head. He willed himself to focus on the present moment, feel the heat of the sun, smell the dry prairie grass. Think about meeting the Fagnants, hearing Michif voices

  The spirit of war has returned. Will it never end?

  He reined in his plodding horse. Like an itching scab, the same scenes drew his thoughts, whenever weariness or solitude overcame him. Nights were the worst. Screams and the smell of scorched flesh and the explosive shot that splattered Simon’s blood on the snow; or just as bad, the weary endless journey with the two suffering children in his arms, knowing that even if he got them to refuge, they would never know safety again. Sometimes in his dreams Maskepetoon rode with him for a time, and then disappeared without a word. Each day he awakened knowing all the people he held dear were dead, and that the world was filled with hatred, treachery and murder. The world is sick. The land, the people, the weather, all sick.

  He forced himself to straighten his back. The prairie stretched in dun-coloured sameness under sunlight so intense it bleached colour from land and sky. Even though it was not yet the longest day of summer, sloughs had already dried up, the sparse remains of winter snow long since gone.

  This treacherous heat, the wind blowing day after day, drying the grass. Nothing matters. The land is empty. The buffalo won’t come this year.

  He rode on, knowing the little Mouse River had to be just beyond that next ridge, or the next after that. Every rise looked the same.

  Then suddenly there it was, the Fagnant’s place, the sod-and-stone buildings almost lost in a broad sweep of grass and sage brush. Home of M’sieur Antoine Fagnant. Trader, hunter, farmer, sometime wagon-man. He lived from the land. Always ready with a story or a song. They’d met years before at Fort Pitt, but Jean-Jacques had never visited his home or met his family. It was old Jacob who had given him directions to this place and entrusted him with this package to be delivered to Antoine.

  The burnt umber grass rippled right up to the buildings, wherever the ground had not been trampled bare. The house stood square and sturdy on its stone foundation. Surrounding it stood a cluster of storage sheds, lean-tos, corrals, wooden-wheeled carts, and one large wagon. At least a dozen horses grazed nearby, as well as several cattle. It seemed strange to him that he should have ridden all these hundreds of miles north and still find cattle.

  But there was nothing strange about the dogs. They behaved as dogs do, a welcoming committee that could turn ugly if the stranger was not welcomed. They should have sensed his approach, but for the wind and heat dulling their senses. Now they made up for their neglect by jumping at his stirrups, barking at his horse’s heels.

  A slight figure appeared from behind one of the buildings carrying a milking pail, her skirt billowing. She set her pail on a rough bench by the house and shielded her eyes from the sun as she watched Jean-Jacques ride into the yard. He swung down from the saddle.

  Suddenly it came to him that this dark-eyed girl, braids whipping in the wind, might be frightened to see such a rough stranger approach. It seemed important that he explain himself to her. Of all the evils of recent months, the worst would be that this girl might turn from him in fear.

  He doffed his hat and greeted her with the southern courtesy of a shy Texan cowboy.

  “G’day, ma’am.”

  The girl’s eyes widened in surprise. “Qu’est vous?”

  Her high clear voice speaking an almost forgotten tongue cut through his layers of misery. He strode forward as he replied in her own language, explaining that he had brought a packet for Antoine Fagnant ... “son pere?”

  “Oui,” she nodded, smiling, relieved to find they could understand one another.

  “Pîhtikwî, tâwâw, âyapi nîtî, mîtso.”

  She waved towards the house.

  Eat. Rest. Talk. With people who knew what he knew, loved what he loved.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Pasture Sage. Alternate silvery grey leaves, feathery and covered with woolly hairs. Tiny yellow flowers in terminal clusters. Silvery grey stem. Woody roots forming mat. Aromatic. Traditional and ceremonial use among Plains First Nations. Increases in disturbed areas. Limited forage value. Gabriellas’ Prairie Notes

  Gabby (2012)

  My h
eadache returned when I woke early Thursday morning. But this time it was not heat-induced but from eye strain. The effect of the glaring sunshine at the lake yesterday, compounded by obsessive reading throughout the night, reduced me to a gloomy hypochondriac.

  The gloom was due to almost entirely to the subject material. After reading accounts of Jean-Jacques’s life in Annabelle’s journals, and digesting Madeline’s research notes, I turned to the few histories I had found in the library. They made for depressing reading, both in content and presentation. Some continued the tradition of old westerns, simplifying horrific events into sensational campfire tales. At the other end of the spectrum were scholarly books which left me feeling Indigenous people had been relegated to the level of museum exhibits. Only Jeff Relleter’s biography of Maskepetoon attempted to convey the stark tragedy of that era.

  Lying in bed I listened to the rumble of thunder as rain pounded on my tiny balcony. I closed my eyes and reviewed what I’d learned from these sources.

  In the fall of 1871, a year and a half after Maskepetoon’s murder, Cree and Nakoda from all parts of the Saskatchewan set out to take revenge on the Blackfoot confederacy for his death. They attacked near Fort Whoop-up. The Bloods and Peigan were armed with vastly superior guns. Cree casualties measured in the hundreds.

  That was the last great battle for these warriors, Blackfoot or Cree. After that point, hanging onto life itself was the battle. Epidemics continued to sweep through the grieving tribes. The massacre of the buffalo persisted, given tacit sanction by all levels of military or civil authority and with the enthusiastic participation of adventurers from both sides of the imaginary border dividing the Great Plains.

  Madeline’s notes contained miscellaneous nuggets of information. One such nugget had burned itself in my brain. She quoted a commemorative plaque seen on a trip into the states. A history marker at the outskirts of a small north Texas town read, “In 1876 during an international demand for buffalo hides Charles Rath founded this town … He sold supplies and bought the hides from buffalo hunters. On one occasion in 1877 there were 1,100,000 buffalo hides at his post. … By 1879 the buffalo vanished.”

  “Vanished.” Just like that. No acknowledgement of cause and effect. In the interest of good clean sport and immediate cash, a ten-thousand-year-old way of life was destroyed. Get rid of the buffalo, and presto, the Indians are as good as gone, too, in Texas, or in Saskatchewan. The land was open and ready for settlement.

  No wonder when settlers like Eric Tollerud’s parents, or my own great-grandparents, for all I knew, built their homesteads and towns, they did it free of any qualms of conscience. The original inhabitants were dead and gone, their surviving descendants out of sight on reservations. It was almost as though they’d never existed.

  I sighed, sat up in bed, and considered my options for the day. Drive to Mammoth at the usual time and take my chances that frail old Eric Tollerud had recovered from yesterday’s heat and would welcome an interview today? Or wait until the day shift at the Pioneer Home had time to evaluate the situation and then call to check on him? Or call the home and leave a message that I would not be coming to see him today? I could work at home. Call this another background-research day.

  My vote went for option three.

  But as it turned out, that was the only option open to me.

  “It’s just as well you do not come today, Gabby. Mr. Tollerud is not up to having visitors.” But the nurse refused to give any more information, suggesting that, if I wanted to, I could call one of Eric’s family.

  I didn’t think there could be anything seriously wrong with him. Surely Jo or Carol would have called me? If he had heat stroke? Or a heart attack? Maybe I should call them to be sure he was alright. On the other hand, if Eric was just a bit under the weather, wouldn’t my call alarm them unnecessarily? I dithered for several minutes, even considered calling my mom to get her advice. I realized that, socially adept as I believed myself to be, this was a situation that was beyond my experience. I had no claim on Mr. Tollerud, no right to inquire after details of his health. Ours was a purely professional relationship. In fact, I was merely using his memories to further my own career.

  Except, that was no longer true. I cared about the old guy. I cared a lot.

  I was still holding my cell phone, debating who to call, when it chimed, and Carol’s number showed up on the screen.

  “Hello, Gabby? Yes, I’m here at the Home with him now, they called me earlier this morning. We think Dad had a slight stroke sometime during the night. He is not allowed visitors. It would be best if you didn’t come this week. I’ll call you if there’s any change.”

  Well. Now I knew he was as fine as any almost-100-year-old man can be after a possible Cerebral Episode, I made my morning coffee and determined to put my concern about Eric to the back of my mind and concentrate on the Metis story for the rest of the day. Thunder boomed. Rain ran in rivers across my window. My chair was cozy, the coffee hot, and Annabelle’s recounting of Jean-Jacques’s story beckoned.

  It must have been a scary time. Traditional economy in ruins, tribes hungry and scattered, the old way of life a thing of the past.

  But just a minute. They didn’t yet know all that was coming. Things were a bit of mess, sure, but the really serious stuff like the rebellion, the Northwest Resistance of 1885, hadn’t yet happened. Some buffalo herds remained at this time, depleted but surviving. The land was not yet deserted, the tribes hung on.

  From Madeline’s notes: The fledgling government of Canada made treaties with Indigenous leaders, conjuring up the name of the Queen, the Great White Mother, as signatory with Chief One Arrow and Chief Poundmaker and others. Treaty Four was signed at Fort Qu`Appelle in 1874, Treaty Six at Fort Carlton, Fort Pitt and Duck Lake in 1876. Jean-Jacques had occasion to visit Fort Pitt shortly afterwards, and heard from Peter Erasmus, who had acted as interpreter for the Cree, that Big Bear had questioned the validity of a treaty that divided up land like a piece of pemmican.

  And I realized that even in the midst of turmoil, life had to be lived.

  Jean-Jacques (1885)

  In 1870, Marie Fagnant, daughter of Antoine and Brigette, was fifteen years old. She had heard stories of tragedy and hardships all her short life. However, she was by nature and upbringing anything but a pessimist. Personal experience taught her cheerful industriousness inevitably put good food on the table, and a good meal brought comfort to all. She understood little and cared less for the topics that kept her father talking with visitors until all hours of the night, news of surveyors who were marking the prairie and dividing the land with no regard for traditional boundaries. The failure of a faraway English government to respond to their heartfelt pleas for acknowledgement was, she agreed, a shame and a disgrace. But, surely, they could simply go on living as they had always lived, taking what they needed from the land and buying their few luxuries, some bright cloth, perhaps, or a bit of tea, with money earned from the sour-faced Anglais. Her father’s fiddle hung on the wall, ready to bring the sweet release of tears with a plaintive melody or wipe them away with a merry jig. Songs, stories and laughter brought respite from whatever maladies could not be mended.

  The future would, she felt sure, take care of itself. She knew from the light in her mother’s eyes, from the pride in her father’s tone, that she was worthy of affection. The behaviour of every young man within her family’s acquaintance — that is, everyone within a hundred miles in this sparsely populated land — assured her of her own value as a woman. She knew she would, in good time, marry one of them, be an excellent wife and mother, and earn respect and admiration for her fine beadwork and generous meals.

  And she was not one to wait to be picked. She would choose her husband herself. No boy or man of her previous acquaintance could match this tall dark-haired stranger who had stumbled to their door. He was the man she would smile on, dream of, wait for. What did it matter that she was only fifteen and he almost twice that? She, Marie Fagnant, had decid
ed.

  Jean-Jacques had been attracted to the girl from the first moment he saw her. When she spoke to him in the language of home, he felt something he had missed without knowing it come back to life. Her direct manner and infectious laugh comforted him. He imagined his own bed and hearth, with Marie to share it, and the thought was good. But first, he must acquire that bed and hearth. His years of wandering had in the end left him with a wealth of experience but nothing else. He wanted to build a place for them at least as good as the one her father and mother had provided her, for the sake of his own stubborn pride as much as from his conviction that her parents would consider no suitor who offered less.

  But Marie knew her own mind. It was not many days after their first meeting that her mother, her father and Jean-Jacques all understood he had been chosen.

  Without their unspoken but implied consent, Jean-Jacques would scarcely have dared press his suit until he had more to offer than the life of a wanderer, dependent on the vagaries of the weather, both climatic and political. For this was without doubt a most political time. Never before in his lifetime had a man’s birth and family proven so divisive a factor, nor had it ever been necessary to take such care to conceal or display accord with one group or another. Jean-Jacques found his natural taciturnity served him well. When Antoine railed against the foolishness of the Cree in launching another battle with the Blackfoot, Jean-Jacques was able to shake his head in agreement, although his heart still burned with anger over Maskepetoon’s murder and he wished he could have been there to fight with them. And when the poorly mounted red coat troops, English boys from Ontario, paused on the banks of the Souris to regain some strength, Jean-Jacques listened without comment to their earnest assertion that they brought law to this untamed land.