Only Lynda McLeay, our Grade Eight teacher, Paul Granmercy, the French teacher, and Diane West, Kindergarten Assistant, lived outside Burchill. Neither Lynda nor Diane could join us today and Paul usually only had one drink. I secretly suspected that, if the first round weren't free, he wouldn't even have had one.
By the time we reached our destination the group was in high spirits, and I could tell we were in for a night of humour and letting loose. I was glad I'd warned Barry and Kathy Mills that we were coming.
Constructed in 1848 as a general store when the village was a hive of activity and industry, the Main Street Station Pub was built of rubble stone covered with stucco. Since then, of course, it had been modernized both inside and out, but the front door and outer wall of the building still had a warm, traditional character that was reminiscent of old pubs in Ireland.
Barry and Kathy Mills, both Burchill-born, were the latest owners. Their good humour, creativity, and Kathy's ability as a fast food chef contributed to its huge popularity among the villagers and the tourists. On weekends, we could enjoy a variety of musical groups, many of them local, and during the week there were munchy specials to tempt every after-work appetite. Thursday was Nacho Night. The spicy meat, huge dollops of sour cream, mounds of tomatoes and peppers and lettuce were my favourite combination.
We tumbled through the door cheerfully greeting Barry, who stood behind the bar ready to fill our orders, and called hello to Kathy, who waved from the kitchen archway, already piling nachos onto enormous platters.
Their son Bobby, who was fifteen and a graduate of Burchill Public School, greeted some of his former teachers. Bobby now attended a private school, the prestigious Ottawa Boys Academy. From what I'd heard, Bobby Mills had gotten himself involved in a few predicaments. Probably nothing in comparison with the trouble I'd seen with some city boys, but his parents had decided boarding school was the answer.
Kathy and Barry work long hours, so I'd guessed that a troubled boy might act out for attention. In addition, he was a small, thin boy, and appeared to want to continuously prove that he was strong or smart or tough. Maybe a strict private school was a good solution for their situation, but as Bobby was proudly telling some of the staff, he had two weeks spring break instead of our paltry one. More time for trouble, I thought.
Barry directed Bobby to help us get settled. We shifted small tables and chairs in the area that usually served as a stage but was large enough for all of us to be seated in a circle, where every face could be seen and enjoyed. A big picture window allowed the sun to follow us into the pub. Very shortly after dealing us napkins and utensils, Bobby Mills disappeared with some friends into the afternoon.
Everyone shared pitchers of cold beer, or litres of wine, and platters of steaming food and crisp nachos. Conversation was loud, funny, and irreverent. Margaret Johnston, our Resource teacher, was retiring this year, and I swore her enthusiasm and wit had actually increased as the school days fluttered past. She began a litany of jokes and anecdotes that had us all clutching our stomachs from laughter.
Before we knew it, dinnertime had approached and a round of French fries and burgers was ordered. Several people began to drift home, mindful of the fact that we did have one more day to get through, or of family obligations that beckoned. May, Margaret, Duncan Otiquam and myself were the only four left at seven o'clock. We had wound down some, even Marg, and had moved into one small corner of the staging area. Several other patrons had entered the pub as the hours progressed, including May's uncle Henry, Basil Fisher, and Peter Smallwood.
The topic of conversation for our little group had turned to Oona and Frieda's disappearance, the impending search of Bahswaway and the mystery in general. Duncan agreed with May's belief that the two women would never have committed suicide. For half the week, Duncan was our Native Studies/Second Language teacher. For the other half of the week, he worked with students at the Sahsejewon School.
"Those two have been raised in the Oral Traditions, which teach that you must never harm another, and that includes yourself. They believe strongly in the spirits that reside in all living things. You would go straight to some kind of hell or be condemned to live between earth and heaven if you killed yourself," he was saying now.
I chimed in, wanting to get my guilt off my chest. "I have to admit, even though I've been in Burchill for four years, I haven't done much research into the native traditions. I know the kids we've got at Burchill Public, but their parents have chosen to live away from the reserve, and don't really practice the rituals of your culture or seem to believe in the so-called old ways. Of course Oona has taken me on some camping trips, and I learned a lot about the land, but I didn't really pursue the history or the cultural associations. I feel badly about that. It's something I plan to remedy, maybe this summer when I've got more time."
"I'll help you, Em," May said, sipping more white wine. "I think you'll find it's really interesting. When Oona comes back, I'll get her to take us on another camping trip, and this time she can teach you about the traditions." No one seemed to notice May's hopeful projection about her aunt's return, or if we did, we didn't have the heart to contradict her.
"The Oral Traditions are deceptively simple at first," Duncan added, as if he were about to begin a lecture. "But they're many layered. I agree with May, I think you'll find the study fascinating, Emily. Besides going camping with Oona, I would say you should also spend some time with Agnes Lake."
"I've been around Burchill for thirty years," Margaret chimed in, "and I've only been in Agnes Lake's presence twice. But both were very memorable occasions. Somebody said she's on a vision quest right now. What exactly is that?"
"It's like a religious retreat," Duncan told us. "Except the native people who practice it do so in the forest, away from civilization, usually alone, not in a church or a retreat house. They fast until they induce a vision that tells them what they must do. People go on vision quests for many reasons. Maybe they or a loved one has an illness, or they've lost their job, or they're having trouble handling some problem. Sometimes, when there is a difference of opinion between two people, they will both go on separate vision quests and then come back and try to solve their differences peacefully. In the old days, people would go and try to make peace with the spirits, especially in situations where the hunting was scarce or the weather was particularly harsh."
"The Ojibwa believed—and we still do really—that a spirit exists in every living thing. Thus if the animals stayed away, it meant that the spirits must be angry. Most of us don't believe in that part of it any more. Science has quashed that, but we still hold to the idea that everything on earth contains a spirit, a soul. Some extend that belief even to rocks."
"I like that concept," Margaret said. "Too bad everyone didn't adhere to that belief. Think of the death and destruction that might have been avoided."
"Why is Agnes on a vision quest right now? Is it a form of prayer to find Oona and Frieda?" I asked.
May answered this time. "It's my understanding that she went on the vision quest a few days before they both disappeared. She returned to talk to Henry and Mary, but hasn't been seen since. No one is worried about her, though. She specifically told Henry that she was going back to her Quest, that she hadn't yet fulfilled its purpose. She cautioned them that she may be gone quite a long time and not to fret. She promised she'd reappear from time to time, even if her quest wasn't finished, just to reassure them. As far as I know, Agnes didn't tell anyone why she was on this particular Quest."
"She's been known to be on a Quest for a couple of months," Duncan said. "She disappears into the forest and doesn't come back until the vision, the solution to the problem, is clear. Agnes has had amazing success with some of the greatest dilemmas facing the community. She comes back thin but inspired, and serves up the solution ready-made."
"Maybe she's trying to solve the problem of the subdivision," Margaret ventured.
It couldn't have been better timing. At that very m
oment, Victor Reeves and three other men entered the pub. Their dark business suits were way out of place, their loud voices unwelcome and intrusive. An immediate hush fell over all the other patrons, including our little table.
The seeds of knowing are in the night,
Big Bear, my transition to adulthood.
Chapter 8
Frieda's nostrils filled with the acrid smell of a fire, mingled with the odours of meat cooking. She was lying on a small straight bed, made soft with furs or blankets. She forced her mind and body to relax, first emptying her thoughts, concentrating only on the pleasant odour of the meal on the fire, conjuring up peaceful, happy associations to calm herself.
Then she began a mental and physical search of her body by tightening each muscle, beginning in her feet, up her legs, her arms and hands, through to her face and head. With each tightening, there was a corresponding release, until her body lay relaxed and her breath was controlled and deep. In her slow climb through her bruised body, she was able to take inventory of the damage: her foot was bandaged and still extremely painful. Her right leg, in response to the injuries of its lower extremity, was trembling and tight. It felt as though other bones in her lower leg had also been broken. Most disconcerting of all, Frieda's eyes were filmy and dark, swollen nearly shut.
Though Frieda was unable to see whether or not it was daylight, the lack of sun heat told her that it was probably evening. Under the smells of the fire, she could sniff out that she was lying on an animal skin. The scent from the floor of the shelter told her it was bare earth. The roofing was likely some kind of rock, perhaps a large cave. The bed upon which she lay could have been a rock shelf, carved out long ago by ancestral hands. She could tell that the campfire probably lay several feet to her left, both by the sounds of the crackling wood and the strength by which the smoke drifted toward her. There were other sounds as well. Someone was preparing dinner. Large feet scraped the ground with every movement. Utensils clicked against a pan. Water thudded into a pot. A knife slapped up and down, slid back and forth, squealed against a rough surface. It was being sharpened.
Frieda's heart began to pound, her breath responding with quickened gasps for oxygen. She forced away the fear by considering what she had heard. Walking Bear was obviously as much human as animal. The cooking was being done with some modern conveniences. She forced a sarcastic rumble from her dry lips, which would have been a laugh or a chuckle if her throat had been able to function.
The sounds of the knife sharpening stopped. There was a stillness that told her Walking Bear was listening. Frieda only knew the figure was suddenly there right beside her by the smell. Walking Bear had approached soundlessly, hot breath on her cheek and in her ear making her flinch involuntarily.
"You awaken. Your consciousness took a very long time." The voice was low, half growl, half mouthed.
A trickle of cold water scorched her lips and tongue, stinging and relieving at the same time. Her head was lifted carefully and gently. Her throat was coaxed open with small amounts of water that eased into her parched body. Frieda's mind became focused only on that life-giving drink. She lapped and swallowed, her tongue darting to pick up every drop.
When she was completed sated, Walking Bear tenderly placed her head back onto the bed, brushing her hair back off her face with soft, furry fingers, deftly scratching and massaging her itching head. Frieda's eyes filled with tears at the empathy of that touch, at the kindness she had not felt even from her family, but which now emanated from her captor. Somewhere inside her tired brain, she knew that her emotions were making no sense, that she was in terrible danger from the very one who touched her so sweetly, but the tears came anyway.
Now she was offered a small, juicy piece of the meat that she had smelled earlier. Her body was ready for the nourishment and though she tried to chew slowly, she snatched it from the outstretched hand into her mouth at starvation speed.
Walking Bear was silent, breath almost imperceptible, patience alive between them. Frieda could feel herself drawing toward a figure she could not see, pictured herself crawling into huge arms, her head against soft fur, wanting to be protected and touched and never let go.
Once again the thinking side of her scorned the weak emotional part. What kind of hunter are you, giving in to your captor so easily? Are you a deer, your wit and strength crushed by one blow? Are you a bird, your tiny pea brain flying into the light of your captor's weapons? But in her needy, vulnerable, soft state, Frieda could only feel a strong aura of love from the being that had trapped her.
As she was fed, the strong fingers continued to give her relief from the itchiness of her dried scalp, and the furry hands rubbed softly over her limbs, gently bringing her circulation back. Frieda imagined this was how an animal felt when it was being stroked and petted.
Finally, once she was lying peacefully and much more comfortably on the bed, Walking Bear spoke again, the strange voiced muted and low.
"Your body continues its healing. You have been unconscious for a long time. Now that you awaken, you will begin in earnest. Do not be afraid. You have begun your Quest." The fingers continued to massage. "The fever has caused your eyes to be blinded, but soon you will see. You will see everything, my friend."
And Frieda, too exhausted to explore her feelings, believed. Her heart beat in a steady, satisfied rhythm. The throb of pain became a burning sensation that did not spread agony throughout her body. She closed her tortured, glutinous eyes.
"I leave you now, for only a short time. Sleep, sleep."
Immediately Frieda fell into a heavy sleep, her snores muffled by the trees and rock that made up her shelter.
Walking Bear moved swiftly through the forest, the sure steps a testimony to knowing your home well. If anyone had been there in the twilight, they would have seen a huge head bobbing past the trees, dipping and swaying as though too heavy for the rest of the body. Walking Bear felt a heaviness in that head and a raging chest pain, but these were borne of anger, not illness. The feet made large tracks in the damp earth, but Walking Bear knew they could be covered up on the return journey, and that would be shortly. There was only one small errand on this trip.
Walking Bear was able to hear them long before they came into view. Young, loud voices, raucous laughter, filthy words, stung the air. Cans of beer, its liquid spiralling onto the ground, were flung mostly empty among the trees. Four young boys sat around an earthen campfire, where the remains of a rabbit, several birds, and a tiny fawn lay bleeding into the earth. The left leg of the small deer twitched, indicating that its life was still ebbing away, slowly and painfully.
One of the boys, a small, thin boy with bony shoulders—the one Walking Bear had targeted on this foray—had a gun lying casually across his knees. His face was suffused with the afterglow of murder. Just by looking into his eyes, you could tell that he had the blood lust, that the thrill of the hunt had consumed him. He was completely unaware of his helpless victims, totally ignorant of the deer suffering at his feet. Instead, he was laughing the loudest, king of this empire, celebrating his mastery over the animals of the forest.
Walking Bear was almost overtaken with the rage that had propelled this race through the forest. A short rest brought back that control. Breath eased. Heart returned to normal. Walking Bear began calculating distances, planning for the greatest effect. This would be the only chance and that meant it had to be used well.
Suddenly Walking Bear crashed into their circle, snatching the gun from the boy, dangling him from one paw, roaring in their faces. At first the other boys stood in silent shock, staring through the dusk at the apparition before them, unable to react. Terrified, one by one they raced away like rabbits, screaming and hollering, falling, jumping, hopping over logs and tree branches and bushes. Walking Bear turned a huge head and flashing eyes toward Bobby Mills.
Chapter 9
Victor Reeves and his cronies didn't seem to notice that the rest of the patrons of the Main Street Station Pub had grown comp
letely quiet at their entrance. In fact, it seemed to me that Victor was louder than necessary. He grinned at everyone, made a show of shaking hands with most of us—especially the principal of the local school—and ordered piles of food. In general, he behaved as though he were an accepted and celebrated member of the community. Victor Reeves was tall and muscular, his blond hair touched with just the right amount of grey, his face tanned and reflecting that perfect blend of experience and youth. Though I didn't like to admit it, I found him exceedingly handsome.
The contractor was accompanied by three other men, who were all dressed in the same expensive suits, varying shades of dark blue or black, with bright ties and shirts. Their collective heads of hair had been expertly dyed and cut. I couldn't see their finger nails from here, but if they were anything like Victor's, they too were shaped and polished. One of the men parted from the group, which had thankfully settled at a table on the other side of the pub, and came toward us.
"Hi, are you Emily Taylor?" he asked, looking directly at me.
Wondering if the criterion for working for Reeves Construction was good looks, I nodded my head at the sandy haired, blue-eyed man before me, giving that reserved-principal look that I've been able to cultivate so well. He took it as encouragement to continue, however.
"My name is Evan Fobert." He pronounced it the English way. "I'm crunching some numbers for Victor, which I'll be happy to share with you at any time. I think I can give you a pretty accurate projection of the increase your school population will experience once the subdivision is fully committed."
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