Bone Coulee

by Larry Warwaruk

  “Maybe we have,” Mac says.

  Jane examines the display of books on the mantelpiece.

  “Local writers,” Sid says. “All from Saskatchewan.”

  “Are the books for sale?”

  “All part of the business,” Sid says. He takes a book down from the shelf. “A rancher north of Bad Hills wrote this one. He gave me a copy at last year’s rodeo. All cowboy poetry. He didn’t sell a whole lot. Not like the guy making belt buckles.”

  Mac reads the titles of the used books that Darlene put in the old bookcase she brought in from the farm. A lot of them she got from Esther, and some were Peggy’s books. Leave Her to Heaven, Main Street, How Green Was My Valley, Gone With the Wind. And the book that Esther shoved on him last winter. She said it was Cameron’s favourite: East of Eden. He pulls it from the shelf because an idea has just come to him for Cameron’s eulogy. Mac will take the book home with him over lunch.

  A van with British Columbia licence plates pulls up on the street. Seven passengers get out, led by a guy with spiked orange hair and a nose ring. The group appears to pose for a moment, clustered at the outside entry of the boutique. Then all seven of them…three young guys, two women and two men somewhat older march in to find an open table across from Pete, Nick and Jeepers.

  “You in town for the funeral?” Nick asks.

  “Yes,” one of the older men says. “For coffee, we help ourselves?”

  “Cups and the urns are right there on the shelf,” Nick says. “Darlene will take your money when she gets around to it.”

  The Duncan community has done its utmost to comfort Esther, but it is uncomfortable with how to relate to these people from Vancouver. Esther had asked Mac whether she should have the funeral in the United Church, Pastor Eddy’s Community Church or the village hall, or whether she should have just left it in the hands of Cameron’s friends in Vancouver to have his funeral out there?

  Mac asked her what Cameron had wanted. She said that Cameron didn’t want his funeral to be in a church, but that he wanted his ashes to be buried in the Rawling plot at the Duncan cemetery.

  “If that’s what he wanted,” Mac said, “that’s what he should get. And have the funeral in the hall.”

  “I’ll ask Pastor Eddy,” Esther said. “I want Cameron’s funeral done properly.”

  She knew he was busy with the election, but she also knew that he would always put matters of faith before politics. He had visited her even before the election was called to give her what comfort he could with her sorrows, and then, when Cameron died, he said that he would conduct the service if she wanted him to. He said that he had no problems at all doing a non-denominational service. Esther was so relieved. Pastor Eddy is a Duncan person. He knows the people, not like the United Church minister, who is a city woman living in Bad Hills.

  Chairs sit out on the hall floor. At the back of the hall, ladies bring chocolate squares and set them on the tables. The maplewood box containing Cameron’s ashes rests on a table just inside the entry, on a table covered with Esther’s Wedding Ring quilt, along with a photograph of Cameron in his cap and gown, a toy fire truck that Esther found in a box in the attic and a depression-glass candy dish filled with marbles.

  People enter the hall. Sid Rigley hands them funeral cards, and Mac sits at the Wedding Ring quilt table where everyone signs the funeral book. Each person stands a moment to look at Cameron’s picture before taking a seat in the hall. Angela pushes her mother in the wheelchair, and she too, pauses, then sets something down on the quilt, a dream catcher.

  Pastor Eddy’s sermon is not a long one. He speaks of mercy and the promise of eternal life in heaven. He says that all are sinners and that only through God’s loving grace can one be saved. He says to pray for grace, and then he says that Mac will come up to give the eulogy.

  There’s no avoiding this. It has haunted Mac from the moment he told Esther that he’d do it, and to make matters worse he has come up with a hare-brained idea for a speech that is not at all in character with a community funeral, let alone his own character. But he knows as well that Cameron wasn’t in keeping, so Mac has just got to carry this thing through. He walks up to the front with the Steinbeck book in his hand.

  “We mourn the death of Cameron Rawling,” Mac says. “And we mourn together with his mother, Esther.”

  Mac knows what everybody’s thinking, and he has pondered long and hard on this speech.

  “Cameron has been away from us for a long time, and I knew him only as a youth. I coached him in minor baseball and hockey. He was at the top of his high-school graduating class and went on to achieve a higher education than anybody else I know who came from Duncan. Cameron lived his life, and he died, as all of us do, one way or the other.

  “I’m not well versed enough to quote scripture like a preacher can, but I did read a book that tells the Cain and Abel story. Seeing that we’re having this funeral in a hall and not a church, and seeing that I’m no preacher anyways, I’m taking my idea from this book that I got from Esther, East of Eden. The main character seemed to have a soft spot in his heart for Cain, and he thought this slayer of his brother had been dealt a raw deal. Cain killed his brother because the Lord accepted Abel’s gift of livestock, but rejected Cain’s gift of grain. And the Lord punished Cain.”

  Mac reads from Esther’s book:

  “And Cain said unto the Lord, ‘My punishment is more

  than I can bear. Behold, thou has driven me out this

  day from the face of the earth, and from thy face shall

  I be hid. I shall be a fugitive and a vagabond in the

  earth; and it shall come to pass that everyone that

  findeth me shall slay me’.”

  Mac pauses to collect his thoughts and consider how to relate them to Cameron Rawling’s place in the world, his illness – perceived by some as punishment – and his death. He peers out at the heads of the people seated in the hall and continues reading.

  “But the Lord protected Cain:

  “And the Lord said unto him, ‘Therefore, whosoever

  slayeth Cain, vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold.’

  And the Lord set a mark upon Cain, lest anyone finding

  him should kill him. And Cain went out from the

  presence of the Lord and dwelt in the land of Nod

  on the east of Eden.

  “And many are the sons of Cain,” Mac says. “None any better than the rest. I am a son of Cain as was Cameron Rawling. Each of us no better, no worse.”

  Mac rubs his chin. What more can he say? And what has he said that makes any sense? He could say something about Let him cast the first stone who...but he doesn’t know the exact words, only that one scoundrel has no right to beat on another. It’s time Mac sat down, but before he does he’ll say one more thing, one more thing for Esther.

  “The community prays with you, Esther. We pray for Cameron, and we remember him kindly.”

  • Chapter 25 •

  A funeral like Cameron’s can be unsettling for the likes of the men from coffee row, but a display of mounted stags can go a long way to restore their confidence. The horned heads are lined up along the foot of the stage. As an added attraction, Geoffrey McFadden from the Canadian Shooting Sports Association stands at a podium to speak on behalf of the movement to revoke the Gun Registration Bill.

  “Stick to your guns,” he says. “Who was it in the first place wanted to stick it to us with this bill? Bleeding-heart liberals, that’s who. Animal-rights activists hollering ‘murder’ if you as much as shoot a gopher.” He wears a ball cap with his shooting-club logo, blue jeans, boots and an NRA T-shirt that he must have picked up somewhere in the States.

  “I am one of the top ten rapid shooters in the country,” he says. “I’ve fired over forty thousand rounds of ammunition grooming for international competition. Paid $6,000 for a firearm modified to shoot twenty-six rounds, and now I can’t use it. All because of fem-type politicians in Ottawa looking f
or votes in Toronto and Montreal. All I say is, ‘stick to your guns,’ and don’t register them. They’re not enforcing it. Talk to your MLA. Email Harper to scrap the bill. He’s on our side.”

  Out on the steps at the hall entry, Jane Smythe-Crothers is interviewing John Popoff. “He talking about pistols?” she asks.

  “But not six-guns,” Johnny says. “He’s talking about a twenty-six shot revolver. I’ve never seen one of those.”

  “But they don’t shoot deer with pistols, do they?”

  “No, no. Of course not. The big issue here is the long-gun registration. Rifles.”

  “You shoot deer with rifles. Right? In my travels out here I’ve noticed a lot of deer in the countryside, to the point where it can be dangerous to drive, especially just before dark.”

  “A lot of deer,” Johnny says.

  “Are they on the increase?”

  “We’ve been having mild winters, and continuous cropping provides lots of stubble for grazing. Besides, there are fewer and fewer people out on the farms. Conditions like that, the does are having twins every year, some years triplets.”

  “Do you hunt?”

  “Usually get one every year. I like the meat. A lot healthier than the meat from factory feedlots that pump the animals full of growth hormones and antibiotics. That’s why I raise my own pork, beef and chicken.”

  “I take it you’re not a vegetarian.”

  “I could cut down on red meat, but don’t quote me. That’s not a popular thing to say in cattle country.”

  “The event here this evening with all these antlers, and what are they called? Trophies? Is that what you do? Hunt for trophies?”

  “I wouldn’t pass one up if I saw something really big, but I hunt for the meat, not the horns.”

  “Thank you, NDP candidate John Popoff,” Jane says. “I’ll let you get back to your campaigning.”

  As soon as the speech to scap the gun bill is over, everyone mills about sampling venison jerky, sipping beer and trading hunting stories. Many wear camouflage: the boots, caps, quilted pants and fringed jackets make them look like trees. Others wear the style of cap that’s so common to the country that to be without one could be perceived as eccentric. There’s not a farmer who doesn’t have a box full of caps in his porch closet: Western Sales, Dusyk Enterprizes, Silverthorn Seeds, Cargill….

  Both Mac and Lee follow Garth along the foot of the stage. Mac would have thought the boy too proud to drag his dad and grandfather out to show them his trophy. It’s not that they haven’t seen it before. In fact it was Mac who went along with Garth when he took the head to the taxidermist in Bad Hills. And it’s the first thing you see when you walk into the porch out at the farm. But maybe it’s one of those once-in-a-lifetime things that, pride or no pride, you can’t help wanting to share it with the whole world.

  “Here’s mine,” Garth says. He reads off the tag attached to the antlers. “187 Typical! I’m going to enter it in Boone and Crockett.”

  “Almost as big as the one hanging in my basement,” Mac says.

  “Bigger,” Garth says.

  “I think your grandson might have something,” Eddy Huff says. “It just might make Boone and Crockett.”

  Both candidates made sure to come to the banquet. They steered clear of election issues and simply praised the conservation work done by the Wildlife Federation. Both said they’d bought their licences, and were taking the day off from campaigning for the opening day of hunting season next Monday.

  Eddy grips one of the antlers of Garth’s trophy. “Just look at that,” he says. “How thick. I can hardly close my fist.”

  “Five and three-quarter inches around,” Garth says. “Isn’t that right, Dad?”

  “Boone and Crockett for sure,” Garth’s father says. “Here, I’ve got a tape measure.”

  “Eight and a half,” Lee says for the length of the tine. He extends his tape across the space between the tops of the antlers. “Two feet, seven inches.”

  Jane Smythe-Crothers approaches with her microphone. “Have you got a minute, Mr. Huff?”

  “Sure,” Eddy says.

  “I’d like to get your opinion on tourism in Saskatchewan as it relates to hunting. Mac Chorniak tells me that most of the goose hunters who come here every fall are Americans. This benefits farmers who might have crops lying out in the field, and it benefits local business, which welcomes American dollars. On the other hand, Americans aren’t allowed to hunt deer below the treeline. Only in the north can they go after big game, and only with an outfitter. Here’s my question: What is the Sask Party’s position on changing legislation to allow Americans to hunt deer on farmland?”

  “You don’t have it entirely right,” Eddy says. “Currently, Americans do hunt below the treeline, but only on Indian land, and only if they hire a First Nations outfitter. Who knows what they are paid. Eight thousand? Ten thousand? Twenty thousand?”

  “And your position?”

  “Personally?”

  “Okay, if you don’t want to commit the party.”

  “We don’t as yet have an official position, but personally I’d say there are too many deer, and the farmers could use the extra eight thousand, ten thousand.”

  Glen, Angela and their mother pull into the Holt farm driveway that leads up to the abandoned yard.

  “I haven’t tasted moose meat in years,” Roseanna says.

  “Last year,” Glen says. “You don’t remember the one I shot at Meadow Lake?”

  “A long time ago, anyway,” Roseanna says.

  “This will be a lot easier than Meadow Lake,” Glen says. “The moose aren’t hunted down here.”

  “Easy for me, eh?” says Roseanna.

  “You want to shoot it, Mother?” Angela asks.

  “When will I ever get another chance to shoot a moose?”

  “By the time we got you out of the car, the moose would have run away,” Glen says.

  “I don’t have to get out of the car,” Roseanna says. “I can shoot out the window.”

  “There they are,” Glen says. Three moose are up in the yard, nibbling on the lilac bushes. They are upwind from the car, so they can’t smell or hear.

  “We’re in luck,” Glen says. “Moose don’t see too good. In the bush it makes no sense for them to rely on their eyes. But see their big ears and noses?” He turns off the car engine.

  “You sure, Mother? You want to shoot?” he asks.

  “Yes!”

  Glen leans over the seat and loads the rifle, then props it out Roseanna’s open window. “Shoot the calf if you want the best meat. Bring the scope closer, until you can see the calf’s shoulder in the crosshairs.”

  “You think I haven’t shot with a rifle before?”

  “Gophers, maybe. Open your window, Angela. This could be hard on the eardrums.”

  “Boom!” The calf steps once, stumbles and collapses on the ground.

  “Hey, you got it, Mother,” Glen says.

  “Ahh, I got it!”

  “Someone is watching us,” Angela says.

  A car is parked at the lane entry. It backs up to turn, and then it drives away.

  “Whoever it was didn’t stick around to ask questions,” Glen says. “We’d better be quick with the butchering. We’ve got to get out of here before they send a posse.”

  Angela and Glen set to work, and Roseanna watches from her open window.

  “I’ll cut, you pack,” Glen says to Angela. “The plastic bags are on the seat beside you, Mother. Toss them here.”

  Glen rolls the moose onto its back, then twists its head to the side, bracing it against the animal’s shoulder. Angela holds the back legs apart. Glen cuts the hide open from neck to pelvis. He skins with the tip of his knife and lays the hide flesh side up, spread out on the ground. Soon the calf is a carcass, lying bare on its own skinned hide. Glen cuts off chunks of flesh, and Angela stuffs the meat into the plastic bags.

  Night sets in, and they use the car lights in order to see wh
at they are doing. Glen draws out the entrails, giving the heart, liver and kidneys to Angela. Roseanna calls from her window:

  “Save the bible!”

  “You’ll clean it?”

  “Angela will clean it. We can’t throw away traditional food.”

  Glen punctures the paunch, its foul air escaping as he fishes out the moose’s third stomach. It has layers and layers of membranes, like the pages of a book. The English call the third stomach tripe, but Indian people have called it the bible ever since the days of the missionaries.

  “How would I know how to clean it?” Angela says.

  “Take it to the laundromat,” Roseanna says.

  “What?”

  “I did with Glen’s Meadow Lake moose. Swish, swish, swish, and it comes so clean.”

  “Duncan doesn’t have a laundromat.”

  “Then use the bathtub.”

  A long row of headlights fills the driveway, all the way from the road to the lights coming into the yard. Not only headlights, but lights flashing blue and red. Car and truck doors slam.

  Garth runs to Angela. “Who shot it?” he says.

  “Mother did. Can you believe it?”

  Lee steps forward. “Out of the way, Garth. This is a matter for the police.”

  “No,” Garth says. “Angela didn’t do anything. Grandpa, tell Dad that Angela didn’t do anything.”

  “I said, out of the way! Stay out of this! And it’s none of Grandpa’s business either.”

  “Better listen to him,” Angela says. “Glen will handle this.”

  “Better listen to your father,” the policeman says. “We don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

  “We’ve done nothing wrong,” Glen says. “Our rights.”

  “That’s enough out of you,” the policeman says. “Hold out your arms.”

  “Handcuffs?” Garth says. “You’re not going to…?”

  “Can’t we explain?” Angela asks.

  “We won’t have to handcuff you,” the policeman says. “Only your husband.”

  “He’s my brother,” Angela says.

  “Hold the pose,” Jane Smythe-Crothers says as the policeman clasps the handcuffs on Glen’s wrists.