Andrei and the Snow Walker

by Larry Warwaruk

  “I think I know what to do,” Marusia says. “I can show Mama.”

  “Yes, Mr. Jarlay,” Mama says, watching from a distance. “You go help Andrei. I will help Marusia.”

  “Sure,” Gabriel says, patting Marusia’s hand. “Remember, keep it thin.”

  He helps Andrei finish the racks, then they gather punky wood and willow saplings for the smudge fire. Gabriel lays a thin red blanket of moose meat on one of the poles, each side hanging downward to the smoke. As Mama and Marusia hang meat on the racks, Andrei helps with what Gabriel’s taking home. They pack meat and entrails in hide bundles, two together, hanging them over the horse’s back.

  “Before you go,” Mama says, “You eat.”

  Andrei draws water from the well and the two hunters wash the dried blood from their hands and arms. Marusia prepares the place for their dinner. She spreads a blanket close enough to the smudge to keep the mosquitoes away. While Andrei builds a cooking fire and Gabriel brushes his horse, Marusia and Mama prepare the food, some of it in the buda, and some of it taken from the coolness of the well. Cottage cheese, butter, sour milk, cream, fresh bread, a stew of wild mushrooms, strawberries, the tea kettle and pot, a bottle of clear spirits Mama has taken from the trunk, and a small glass.

  “Come Mr. Jarlay,” Mama says. “You try this.” She pours the liquid into the glass. Gabriel swipes the dust from his trousers, and with a flair bends down on one knee.

  “What is your saying?” Gabriel asks, lifting the glass, making it sparkle in the sun. “To God?”

  “To God,” Mama says. “Yes, to God.”

  Andrei watches Gabriel sip and blink his eyes. He sips a second time then downs the rest, handing the glass back to Mama.

  “More?” she asks.

  “No,” Gabriel says. “No. No.” Marusia offers the plate of bread and he takes a crust, biting into it. The water in the kettle boils and Mama pours it into the teapot, making room on the iron cooking ring for the mushroom stew.

  Gabriel sits back and lights his pipe. “Not so long ago,” he says, “our people hunted buffalo.”

  “And didn’t the Indians?”Andrei asks.

  “Yes, Indians. They hunted buffalo for centuries. The animal was their food, clothing and shelter.”

  “And didn’t Indians live in tents made from buffalo skins?”

  “Yes, Andrei. Tents made from the tanned hides. And Indians showed the Métis how to make pemmican. The Métis then made tons of it. Dried the meat like you see smoking now. Most times, when the weather was hot, they dried it in the sun.” Gabriel puffs on his pipe. He takes it out of his mouth and rubs his fingers along the stem. He frowns, his brown eyes appearing deep in thought, squinting, his tongue wetting his lips. Then he puffs again, two, three times.

  “They’d pound the meat to a powder. Mix it with berries and fat. They packed the pemmican in cases made from rawhide, three feet long, two feet wide. Sold it to the Hudson Bay fur traders and to the freighters carting trade goods from St. Paul to Edmonton. They sold the hides to factories at Pittsburgh in the United States. They made belts out of them to run the engines in the steel mills.”

  “You know a lot.” Andrei gazes at Gabriel’s black hat, its wide and flat brim spread like a disk beside the toe of his moccasin.

  “My father told me. He said that our people were wealthy. And now, after the buffalo are all gone, we pick up the buffalo bones and cart them to the station in Saskatoon.”

  “What for?” Andrei asks.

  “They are shipped to the States for fertilizer. Or they use them to make gunpowder. Now there’s no bones left.”

  Andrei stares at Gabriel, watching the smoke curl up from his pipe.

  “Here, let me show you something.” Gabriel gets to his feet and walks to a clump of willows, cutting four saplings. He takes moose meat from a pack on the horse and brings it to the cooking fire.

  “When we hunt, we roast our suppers on a stick. “

  “Why don’t we?” Marusia says.

  Gabriel hands out the saplings and cuts the meat into four chunks.

  Soon the meat is sizzling on sticks.

  “Keep it away from the flames, Andrei!” Gabriel suspends the meat inches above glowing embers. “Like this,” he says. The rich aroma of roasting moose meat holds everyone’s attention.

  “Ooh,” Marusia says as she tears a strip of the cooked meat from her chunk and tastes the morsel, “is it ever good.” She hands Gabriel a slice of buttered bread. Their fingertips touch, and their eyes meet, only for a moment. Andrei thinks that Gabriel likes his sister.

  June

  Chapter 6

  Andrei wakes to the chirping of birds, and then he hears something else...the creak of buggy springs and a sound like a dog whimpering. He looks out the window. Mr. Kuzyk tethers his horse to a tree, the colt nuzzling to his mama’s flank. He unties a squirming gunny sack and a black-and-white puppy emerges, tumbling to the ground. It runs about the yard barking at the garden fence.

  “It’s Mr. Kuzyk,” Andrei says in a hushed voice and scrambles into his trousers. He pokes his head out the door. “Mama and Marusia will be out in just a minute,” he says.

  “Don’t bother them. I was just wondering if you could use a dog,” Mr. Kuzyk says. “I’m taking cream and eggs to Rosthern. I thought, why not drop one of the pups off at Baydas.”

  The animal’s belly sprawls flat to the ground and its tail wags. Head turns, nose twitches, then off the puppy scampers to the meat racks. He jumps at the strips of dried meat and falls over backwards. He sniffs a solitary curl of smoke that rises lazily from the spent smudge, all at once yipping and backing away.

  A dog, Andrei thinks, and all at once he remembers Brovko. He didn’t think that he’d ever wish to own a different dog after having to leave Brovko behind. He had even considered a visit to the talisman cup. Maybe it would have the power to call Brovko to Canada. But this puppy could be his twin. He even has hair falling over his eyes.

  Mr. Kuzyk examines the meat drying on the racks.

  “Try some,” Andrei says, “and feed a piece to the puppy.”

  Mr. Kuzyk tears a strip and shoves a piece of it into his mouth. He chews a long time, finally swallowing the meat.

  “Not bad,” he says. “A good way to preserve the meat.”

  “Moose,” Andrei says. “It’s not ready until you can crack it in pieces.” This was what Gabriel had told Andrei. He stirs the piles of ashes, exposing embers, and then he adds fresh willow and punk to the smouldering heaps.

  “You shot a moose?”

  “An Indian did.” It’s not really a lie. Andrei’s friend said that he was part Indian. He is a cowboy and an Indian all in one.

  Two white headscarves poke out of the door.

  “Glory to Christ!” Mr. Kuzyk says.

  “Glory forever,” Mama answers, stepping out of the buda. Marusia follows directly behind Mama, partially hidden from Mr. Kuzyk’s view.

  “What brings you here in the morning?” Mama asks. She talks so pleasantly, smiling at Mr. Kuzyk, then at Marusia, and back again at Mr. Kuzyk. Andrei hasn’t seen her smile like that since last Easter when the priest admired the eggs and decorated bread in the basket she took to be blessed at church.

  “I have an extra dog. You might have a use for a dog when you live out here all by yourself.”

  “Can I keep him, Mama?” Andrei picks up the dog. He cradles the puppy in his arms and rubs his ears. He lifts the hair from over his eyes. “See, just like Brovko.” The dog licks the back of his hand. It hadn’t been easy for Andrei to leave his old dog behind with Petrus Shumka. Surely Mama knows that. Surely she will let him keep this one.

  “I have no money,” Mama says.

  “You don’t pay money for a dog,” Mr. Kuzyk says. “What can I do with a brood of pups? I drown them in a barrel.”

  Mama looks at the racks of moose meat. Her eyes soften as she pats Andrei on the top of his head. He steps back, runs his fingers through his hair, and li
fts the dog to his face, letting it lick his cheek.

  “Put it down, Andrei. I suppose...” Mama says, “we have enough to feed it.”

  “I can keep it? Another Brovko?”

  “Stefan would like us to have a dog...what did I tell you, Andrei? Put the dog down.” She smiles. “Mr. Kuzyk, come in to the buda.”

  They sit on blocks of wood at the table, their old country trunk, drinking tea and eating pieces of corn meal cake, a special treat made from corn flour Andrei’s father bought in Rosthern. The dog pants at Andrei’s feet. He pats its head and feeds it cake.

  Mr. Kuzyk brushes crumbs from his moustache. He leans forward, eyes squinting at Mama, his eyebrows twitching. Andrei pokes Marusia with his elbow. Mr. Kuzyk’s eyes meet Marusia’s then quickly dart to the floor. A deep red blush rises from the base of his neck to his ears and nose. Andrei sees this and it’s all he can do to keep from laughing. He coughs into his hands. Marusia passes Andrei a towel. “Use this,” she says, then fidgets with the gathered hem of her sleeve.

  “There is something, Mrs., something I haven’t told you.”

  “Oh?” Mama says.

  Andrei imagines from the strained look on the man’s face that he is about to reveal a guarded secret. Somebody is sick, or else he has another gift. Maybe he has a storehouse full of gold and it’s too much trouble for him to guard it. Of course not. Anybody with any sense can see that Mr. Kuzyk wants a wife and Mama wants a rich son-in-law. Andrei elbows Marusia once more.

  “I can use some extra help on my farm.” He straightens up, pulls on the chain of his watch and reads the time. He must be a busy man.

  “Help?” Mama says, then touches her lips with her fingertips.

  “Yes, there is only me and my mother. I don’t know what I’ll do when harvest comes.”

  “Maybe some of us can help. When Stefan gets back from Rosthern...” Mama pours him more tea.

  “Somebody right now. You know, a man should have a wife.”

  Andrei kicks Marusia’s foot and she kicks back. He catches her eye. All at once Marusia must think it’s funny. Her head starts to shake and she buries her face in her apron. Mr. Kuzyk sips his tea. He glances at Marusia and sets the cup down, breaking into a fit of coughs, his eyes pinched and face strained red, finally pounding himself on the chest.

  “I’m all right,” he says. “Just a little congestion.” He pulls a red and white handkerchief from his vest pocket and wipes his lips. “So much work, you know. This spring I purchased another quarter of land. From the Canadian Pacific Railway.”

  Marusia picks up the milk pail and takes one step for the door.

  “Ah,” Mama says, “you see? There she goes doing chores.” Marusia stops. “I don’t even have to tell her. With my Marusia to do the work, what is left for me?” She takes another step. Mr. Kuzyk is talking about a job.

  “Of course, what is there left for you to do? But you know, maybe something can be done. Maybe the Good Lord has brought us together. I want my house cleaned for the Green Holidays. Someone to help my old mama whitewash the walls. She sent me to find someone to work. Do you know of anybody? I would help her myself, but there is hay to cut. Besides, I am cantor in the church and have to prepare for Pentecost.”

  “A church? There is a church?”

  “Of course! We built it last summer. I donated two acres of land. The church is across the road from my house. In July the priest came from Winnipeg to bless it on the feast day of St. Peter. Maybe he will come again this year. I hope so. I hate to see the church empty, especially on a Sunday. I can go in to pray, but we need a priest if we are to have Mass. But you know, I keep an eye on the building, and when we do have a visiting priest, I am cantor.” He smiles at Marusia. “Your daughter? She might clean my house? Everyone in the district knows that I can pay. Maybe both come. Maybe your son and your daughter. What do you say, Andrei? I’ll show you how to start training a colt.”

  The colt. Andrei had forgotten. He’d give anything to own the colt. He’d quit teasing Marusia. He’d coax her into liking Wasyl Kuzyk. Of course they can both work for him.

  “Oh, can we, Mama?” Andrei stands up and goes to the door, peering out. “We’ll come home every night. Five miles is not far to walk.”

  “Hmmn.” Mama places her hand on her daughter’s wrist. Marusia’s fingers grip white to the handle of the pail. Andrei sees his sister’s dark eyes shooting darts at the farmer’s hands, like hams plopped on his knees. She glances from side to side, and then with lips pursed, she bangs the pail against the doorpost, then shrugs and steps out of the buda.

  “Sure,” Mr. Kuzyk says. “Come this week. Get everything ready for the Green Holidays. Then for Saturday and Sunday you come too. Visit my mama. Meet everybody in the district at the Pentecost celebration.”

  Andrei runs outside, and in a moment is back inside with the puppy in his arms. “Brovko the Second,” he says.

  “Shoo!” Mama says.

  “Brovko,” Andrei says. “Don’t you think so, Mama? We’ll call him Brovko.”

  Chapter 7

  “He’s old,” Marusia says, as she and Andrei walk the trail to Kuzyk’s farm. It’s five o’clock in the morning, the sun just up, the air fresh and clean with no mosquitoes.

  “And rich,” Andrei says.

  “And fat!”

  “And he owns ten horses.”

  “He can keep them.”

  “But I think Mama wants you to marry him.”

  “I know, and if he asks, she will insist. What can I do?”

  “Oh, Marusia!”

  “And I’m changing my name. From now on call me Marie. We live in Canada now. No more Marusia.”

  “Marie? Isn’t that French?”

  “I don’t care. From now on my name is Marie.”

  “Mr. Kuzyk says that Marusia is Mary here in Canada.”

  “Would you shut up about Mr. Kuzyk?”

  “But if you stop and think, he’s got a big farm, Mary.”

  “Didn’t you hear me? Not Marusia, and certainly not Mary. From now on, for the second time I’m telling you, my name is Marie.”

  “Hey, it’s Gabriel. Is that it? No more Ukrainian boys. Not even Petrus?”

  “Who’s thinking about boys? Just call me Marie.”

  “Mr. Kuzyk’s older than a boy.”

  “I told you to shut up about him.”

  Andrei quits teasing for now. It used to be simple when there was only Petrus Shumka. Andrei liked Petrus as if he were a brother, but now there is Gabriel and he is not even of Andrei’s people.

  They march along the path, hurrying to keep ahead of the waking mosquitoes. Both are silent until Marusia chants to the rhythm of their walk. “Kuzyk! Kuzyk! Kuzyk!” Both of them burst out laughing.

  “Oh, Marusia,” Andrei says.

  “I mean it,” Marusia says. “From now on it’s Marie.”

  They come upon the church. It’s built in the shape of a stubby cross, of planed lumber, and not of mudded logs like all the district’s dwellings. A porch is attached, and above it, two arched windows look into the choir loft. It’s a small church, but above, at the centre of the cross, a broad hexagonal structure is built into the roof. Andrei can visualize that, from inside the building, the roof shows the dome of the heavens and the spread of angel wings.

  Across the road, Kuzyk’s yard has everything in place. The barnyard is surrounded with corrals and the entire yard fenced with rails. The garden is protected from chickens and geese with a tightly woven willow fence. A large clay bake oven sits behind the house beside the neatly stacked woodpile. Every log building plastered with clay shows not a crack or sign of crumbling anywhere. The thatched roofs are thick and trim on all the buildings. The clay on the house walls has a rich tinge of blue.

  An old woman as wide as she is tall stands bent at the well. She pulls a rope attached to a pulley, draws a pail of water, then turns to face Andrei and Marie. Half a dozen white geese waddle about her. Their beaks gape open, tongue
s vibrating a chorus of hisses. A gander nips at Andrei’s pantleg and he swats its long neck with his cap.

  “You come with me to work,” she says to Marie. “Carry the water to the house. And you, boy. Go to the shed.” She points to a building with an open door where Wasyl Kuzyk is sharpening a scythe on a grinding wheel. “My son is waiting for you.”

  The geese hiss once more at Andrei, all in unison. He steps back and swipes at them again with his cap.

  “You don’t hurt them,” the woman says, jabbing the air with her finger. She starts for the house, Marie beside her with the pail, and the six geese, heads held high, waddling behind.

  “So you came to work,” Wasyl Kuzyk says. He holds his thumb to the blade of the scythe, rubbing carefully. “You can do anything if you have the right tools,” he tells Andrei. “I will be busy here awhile. I want to sharpen ploughshares. Then I might take some time at the house. Mama and your sister might need me for something.” He hands Andrei an axe and gazes in the direction of the house at the same time. “Your sister likes my farm, don’t you think?”

  Andrei shrugs his shoulders. “Where do I go?” he asks.

  “To the breaking. You’ll be fine working by yourself. Behind the barn. Follow the path through the bush. Half a mile, you come to a clearing. Pull roots and stack them in piles. What you can’t pull, chop out with the axe. Oh, and here is something for mosquitoes.” Mr. Kuzyk takes a medicine jar from his workbench shelf, and hands it to Andrei. “Put some on your face when you’re out there. Work until you can’t find your shadow, then come for lunch.”

  Poplar forest surrounds the breaking, and any breeze there might be is caught in the gentle ripple of leaves shimmering at the tops of the trees. As Andrei pulls at a root, mosquitoes swarm around his head. He ties a scarf over his ears, and tries to ignore them. He thinks about Snow Walker, and what would happen if all of a sudden he appeared out of the trees. Would Andrei know who it was, or might he think it was merely an ordinary Indian? He wipes sweat from his forehead and retreats to the edge of the breaking. He drinks from his jar of water, and rubs his face with the ointment. Dragonflies dart, then stop and dart again, their wings buzzing in the summer heat. A dozen red-winged blackbirds flit about the reeds at the edge of a slough. Ducks quack hidden in bulrushes, and crows rasp their unknown displeasure somewhere in the trees.