The people flowing out of the church join the throngs outside, all of them following the crucifix. Women carry rosaries and Andrei hears the hushed rumble of French prayers. Gabriel has said that his people pray in French and hunt in Cree.
Though it’s not Ukrainian, the procession seems to warm Andrei, seems to fill him with a sense of well-being. The walk of the people reminds him of his lost homeland, with its colours, and the smell of incense and candles burning... Andrei belonging in the pageantry. Uncle Moise holds the silver crucifix high, leading them in the direction of the river, to an outdoor altar where the people kneel and pray. After long minutes, Uncle Moise rises, and he leads the procession back to the church, as the people sing, and pray the rosary.
The priest stands at the altar, facing the people. They are kneeling in their pews. He raises the sunburst in his blessing. He then sets it down, takes the wafer from its centre, and places it in the chalice. He parts the golden curtains and returns the Holy Sacrament back to its safety in the tabernacle.
•••
Gabriel drives the buggy along the trail following the river to the Village of Batoche, half a mile northwest of the church. To their right are the fairgrounds, a wide open stretch of prairie rising to a broad hillside in the east.
“La Belle Prairie,” Gabriel says. “La Jolie Prairie.”
The grounds soon cover with crowds. Women stand chatting in groups, some in white dresses and bonnets, others in black done up snugly with long rows of tiny buttons. Some carry parasols blotting out the sun. Men in groups wear black suits and felt hats. Several in a line hold bulls on leads. One man with a tall top hat balances on a bicycle with a tiny back wheel and a front wheel five feet high. Gypsies cart goods out of three red-and-gold circus wagons. They’ve set up booths and a fortune teller’s tent.
Gabriel stops in front of a bluff at the top of the steep-sloped riverbank. He unhitches Raven and ties the horse to a tree. Gabriel’s going to race him. He wants Andrei to brush him down, then let him rest in the shade. They won’t be racing until later in the afternoon.
“Let’s spread a blanket here,” Gabriel says. “It’s in the shade and out of the way. I’ll be busy with the races, and it’s getting hotter and hotter. Some of the time in the afternoon, you might want to get away from the crowds. It’s just perfect for that right here.”
They’ve parked the buggy between the bluff and a magnificent house. A rail fence surrounds it, some of it collapsed, some still standing. The house has board siding painted white with blue trim. The many windows have louvred shutters, some sagging, some of them gone.
“This was Mr. Letendre’s house,” Gabriel says. “He still owns the store, but he doesn’t live here anymore. He rents the store to an Englishman from Duck Lake. Mr. Letendre sold the house to the police for a barracks, and he bought a ranch maybe ten miles south of your homestead.”
A veranda surrounds two sides of the house, supported every six feet with latticed posts. A round window looks out from the face of a third-storey centre-gabled roof. A cupola rises from the very top of the house.
“What’s it for?” Andrei asks.
“A ventilator,” Gabriel says. “That’s some house, eh? I wanted to show it to the both of you. I want you to know something more about my people. Something more than what you might hear.”
At the fairgrounds, people stare, but more at Marie than Andrei, and their dark eyes are friendly. The colour of Marie’s attire stands out, as the women’s dresses are either white or black. But some of their blouses are bright with beadwork, and some with embroidered flowers. A girl Andrei’s age wears a black dress with matching stockings. Her hair is done in a braid tied with a white ribbon jutting below the rim of her broad-brimmed hat.
In the entry to a tent, a Gypsy woman waves to Andrei.
“Go ahead,” Gabriel says. “She wants to tell your fortune...for a price, of course,” and he hands Andrei a dime.
Should he go? The woman keeps waving, her bracelets jangling on her wrists.
“Ask my fortune,” Marie says.
“Ask her yourself.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” Marie says, grinning at Gabriel.
Every year after the harvest, Gypsies had camped by Andrei’s village, and often people went to have their fortunes told. Andrei will go in, just to see what a fortune teller does.
She closes the tent flap. Inside on a small table covered with red velvet, sits a glass ball. Beside it, smoke curls up from a brass burner, filling the tent with the heavy scent of incense. A monkey sits tied to a stake in a far corner. The woman’s long fingers tuck the tresses of her hair inside her black-and-red silk shawl. Her fingers lower from her face to hover around the ball. She hums and nods for several moments.
“You want something very badly,” she says. “Yes, very badly, and you are searching for ways to get it.”
How does she know that, Andrei wonders?
“You will work hard to save money.” For a long time she stares, squinting, drawing back her head as if trying to pull out a picture. “I can’t quite see...”
“Is it a horse?” Andrei asks.
“Wait...yes. Yes, a horse, a beautiful horse...”
“Is it a bay?”
“Red...yes, a bay horse with a boy riding, galloping across a meadow...a church...they follow a path to where it pairs off...one of the paths to good, and the other to evil.... Oh! Something bright...”
“Like the sun bursting...? A gold sun on a stand with a glass centre...?”
“Yes...gold.”
“A cup of gold?”
“Yes, gold. The brightness of gold...it’s fading, fading.” She caresses the ball with her fingers. She rubs it, staring with her dark eyes, blinking. “Nothing more...I see nothing. The gold has turned all white. In all directions, nothing but cold white!” She stares again, wipes her eyes, blinks, blinks, and stares, all at once whipping back her head. “No! No!” she says. “No, it’s nothing. Nothing more.”
She turns away from the ball. “Perhaps if you pay another dime...”
Andrei hasn’t any money. What he earns at Kuzyk’s, he’s saving for the colt. Mr. Kuzyk hasn’t said how much he wants for the colt. What if it’s a hundred dollars? He could never earn that much. So what difference would ten cents make? He could ask Gabriel, but he won’t. Gabriel has been too good to him for Andrei to ask more favours, and he doesn’t put much store in this fortune teller’s skills. She hasn’t told him anything that he doesn’t already know. Andrei’s secret is at the rock. Surely Dido will go back there, and Andrei will go with him. She didn’t mention the Scythian guards. Perhaps at the rock the warriors will appear, as they did in his vision of the cave, and this time they might tell him wonderful things.
From their picnic blanket, Andrei gazes out at the crowds of people. He can’t find Chi Pete.
“He must have gone home after church,” Gabriel says. “Don’t worry. He’ll show up. Let’s have our lunch.”
Gabriel has bought meat pies, and a bread pudding on which he pours syrup he says is made from the sap of birch trees. He’s brought oranges, and he hands one to Andrei.
“What is it?” Andrei asks.
“Fruit. Go ahead. Eat it.”
“What kind of fruit?”
“An orange. They sell them at the store. Go ahead. Eat it.”
He bites into the hard skin, chews, then squints at Gabriel.
“You have to peel it first,” Marie says, as if she knew that all along. He squeezes the orange instead, the juice suddenly sweet in his mouth. He tears it in half and sinks his teeth into the flesh, tearing it from the peel. He’s never tasted anything so deliciously sweet and tart all at the same time. When he’s done, he watches as Marie still plays with hers. She breaks the orange into segments, placing a portion on her tongue, all the while her eyes on Gabriel across the blanket from her. She chews, licking her lips, and her eyes sparkle.
After they finish their lunch, Marie stays at the blanket. Gabriel tak
es Andrei to a group of nine boys assembled on the racetrack.
“There’s Chi Pete,” Andrei says. Two men hold a length of string at the finish line. The boys eye Andrei; some are laughing.
“Chi,” one of them says, pointing at Andrei. “Chi! Chi!”
“Don’t let them bother you,” Chi Pete says.
“He’s calling me your name,” Andrei says.
“It’s nothing,” Chi Pete says. “Chi means ‘little,’ that’s all.” He shakes Andrei’s hand, then gestures by swatting the air in the direction of the rude companions. Andrei should pay no attention to them.
As they line up, Andrei takes off his shoes. He’s one of the younger boys; some of them are thirteen, some fourteen, the taller boys all arms and legs.
The gun fires. He’s off like a rabbit and doesn’t look back. He glances over his shoulder just once and sees that he’s in the lead. Just ahead is the string stretched across the track. He wins...he breaks through the string.
Andrei bends forward, hands on his knees, gulping air. A judge pats him on the back and gives him his prize of twenty-five cents. The boys gather around him, laughing again, but not at his expense. This time they shake their heads and pat him on the back. Several boys flex their arms, bulging their biceps.
Chi Pete points to a crowd of people gathering in a circle. The next competition is the arm wrestle. Each boy tests his strength against another. Through a process of elimination a winner is found and it’s not Andrei. But he comes close. He’s third in their group of ten. All of the digging and haying and pulling of roots at the farm has toughened him.
“Vite, vite,” Chi Pete says. He grabs Andrei’s hand, then lets go and points to the crowd gathering further up the track.
Horses jostle at the starting line. Fifteen riders, some of them tugging at reins, others patting their horses’ necks, try to form in line. Others spin in circles, some rearing up.
When it appears the line-up is as good as it will get, the starter fires his pistol, and the twirling pack of horses whips apart in a flurry of dust and pounding hooves. Three horses fail to make the first turn, hurling in a straight line off the track through a fleeing crowd of spectators. Andrei can see across the oval where three horses are out front, with Raven ten lengths behind running in the middle of the pack. As they come into the turn, he finds some room and breaks away. Coming down the stretch he’s running third, five lengths behind the second horse.
Raven is a big horse with long legs and a massive chest built for endurance. Into the backstretch of the second lap, he’s running second and gaining on the leader. On the turn, the rider on the lead horse looks back over his shoulder. Raven’s right on his tail and the rider whips his horse again and again. Gabriel leans forward, his head alongside Raven’s neck. They keep this pace around the turn. Once on the home stretch, the big horse seems to swell out his chest, his legs stretching further and further, making it seem as if Raven’s black body flies through the air. He leaps into the lead...one length, two, three. He’s out front by five lengths at the finish line.
There is one more special event before the killing of the ox. Three riders, including Gabriel, remain on the track. They form up in place at the north end of the home stretch. At the sound of the gun they are off. Nearing the crowd, each rider stands on his head, moccasins pointed to the sky, each horse at full gallop.
From the south they return. Two riders vault from their saddles, feet touching the ground, then swinging back up on their horses. Gabriel does a double vault. He swings down on the right side, shoots back up and over to the other side, and then back again, mounted upright on Raven.
Finally, old Uncle Moise places three cloths on the track; red, yellow, and green. Gabriel has told Andrei that, in the days of the buffalo hunts, each rider marked the animal he downed, not stopping as he dropped a coloured rag by its side, but instead racing off to shoot another buffalo.
The three riders race again from the north, each to retrieve his cloth. Each bends far to the side, head low to the ground. Each grabs his cloth from the track. Andrei can’t be certain how Gabriel does it, but as he swings back up on Raven, the red cloth is not in Gabriel’s hand, but, as if he’s a Cossack, Gabriel has the prize gripped in his teeth.
At four o’clock the ox to be killed stands free in the middle of the field, but it seems out of place, head swaying back and forth, confused and alone. Hundreds of people rim the perimeter of the track, all of them ready to watch. Métis horsemen pose stripped to the waist, trotting their horses on to the field. Each man holds a strung bow and an arrow. All at once they speed around and around in a circle. They draw their bows, each man in turn leaning to the ox, shooting his arrow. A rider leaps from his horse, grabbing the ox by the horns and stabbing it in the throat. Blood streams to the ground, jetting in spurts to the beat of the brute’s heart. It wavers on its feet, then stumbles, the front legs buckling, the body tumbling to the ground. The animal’s limbs jut in frantic jerks in its final dance of death.
A group of women enter the oval. They lay the ox stretched out on its back, to butcher it the way Gabriel did the moose, preparing for roasting on hot coals.
In the evening in the centre of the oval, a bonfire burns. Uncle Moise plays the violin with three other fiddlers, and an accordion plays. Young people dance. Men talk in groups around the fire, drinking wine or homemade whiskey. Women tend to the roasting meat. When it is ready, each person will have a taste. Gabriel says this was the way it was done during the time of the buffalo hunts.
•••
The poplar forest seems more alive at night. Though Andrei sees nothing in the blackness, the moonlight casts a glaze on the cutline of the wagon trail. He imagines eyes of yellow and green glowing from somewhere deep in the blackness. An owl hoots. Coyote pups yip and yap over a midnight supper. A wolf howls an unknown sadness, something ancient and alone. Trees could well have arms with spindly fingers, knot-holes turned to eyes and jagged mouths. A sudden breath of a wind shakes leaves as if the trees walk in their rustle of forest dress. Above, the stars of the Milky Way appear to race in a swirl of spirits.
The trail passes along the rim of a coulee. Andrei hears frogs croaking somewhere down at the water below. Raven jerks at his harness, and he snorts, picking up speed.
“Whoa, easy boy,” Gabriel says with a pull on the lines.
“What is it?” Marie asks. She slides closer to Gabriel, clutching his shoulder and peering to the side into the darkness.
Andrei fidgets in the back of the buggy, like the Gypsy’s monkey in the tent. The skin on his face tightens, the twitch he can’t control. He’s spinning in the air, flung high into the secret rainbow world where he’s overcome and drawn to visions. Rainbow colours pulse in waves throughout the darkness, and down the hill, from the giant rock, from out of its crevices, from out of the rock animal’s mouth, gold strings leak like spider legs. A red spot shines from the face of the rock. From Raven’s nostrils tongues of fire shoot, the flames tumbling down the hillside, where they mingle with the strings, and snap like lightning. Sparks fly into the air...sparks turned to horses, like stars across the sky.
A shadow forms atop the rock, shaking a rattle. Andrei floats above the wagon, twirling head over heels in the swirling rainbow clouds. Finally something strikes him, pulls at him.
“Andrei! Andrei!” Strong hands grip his shoulders, shaking him. “Settle down, Andrei.” Gabriel shakes him again. “Were you having a nightmare? You must have been sleeping.” Gabriel sits him down in the back of the buggy.
“Where are we?” Andrei asks.
“On the trail,” Gabriel says. “Something spooked Raven. Maybe a lynx in the trees. Or a bear. Maybe you spooked him. You were standing up and yelling, ‘Skomar! Snow Walker! Skomar! Snow Walker!’”
“You didn’t see him?”
“Who?”
“Snow Walker. On top of the rock.”
“You must have been dreaming,” Gabriel says.
“Let’s get ou
t of here,” Marie says.
“Maybe Snow Walker is out there,” Gabriel says. “You never know with him.” He lights his pipe and flicks gently with the reins. “You’ve had these dreams before, Andrei?”
“Maybe sometimes,” Andrei says. “Something like that.” He doesn’t want to say anything more. He should talk to Dido.
Somewhere ahead of them, the Baydas’ shelter hunches in its moonlit clearing, waiting for the morning, and waiting for the late night return of Andrei and Marie. Andrei wonders about the cup. Something was out of sorts down there at the rock. Dido should never have buried the cup there. It is not the place for Scythian warriors.
Chapter 11
Andrei has hardly fallen asleep before Tato is waking him.
“Neighbours come,” he says, pushing at Andrei’s shoulder. “Hurry! You want them to catch you still in bed? Some boys your age are already here.”
Several men and women congregate in front of the buda. They have come to build the new house. Mr. Kuzyk has brought people from as far as Alvena, seven miles away. Three boys about Andrei’s age have each climbed a tree, and they caw at each other like crows.
“Get down!” a man says. “At once! I brought you to work. You want to play with trees, there will be enough limbs for you to cut.”
The boys run off with Andrei to examine Kuzyk’s team of bay mares. He has hauled in a wagonload of logs already squared. With the ones the family has already prepared, they’ll have enough to build a finished house. And Mr. Kuzyk is an expert carpenter. Everybody knows that Mr. Kuzyk was head carpenter in the building of the church.
“This mare has a colt at home,” Andrei says. “I’m going to buy him when I earn enough money.”
“What’s your name?” one of the boys asks.
“I’m Andrei Bayda, Cossack.” It’s not a lie. Sometimes Dido calls him Cossack.
“We’re Smuks,” another says.
“I’m Robbin.”
“I’m Bobbin.”
“I’m Dobbin.”
Andrei and the Snow Walker Page 9
