Timber Wolf

by Caroline Pignat

  “You did well,” the old man says.

  Mahingan takes it and wipes the head in the snow, cleaning it of my blood.

  “Am I—” I swallow, as Grandfather presses snow against the wound. “Am I going to die?” My voice is raspy. I don’t want to hear the answer, but I have to know.

  “Yes,” Mahingan answers.

  “But not today,” his grandfather adds. “The wound is clean.”

  He could have fooled me. It felt like he was up to his bloody elbows in my shoulder.

  Grandfather binds the wound. I wait for Mahingan to be chastised—after all, the boy did try to kill me—but the old man says nothing.

  “You shot me.” I say again as I sit up. “I can’t believe it. You actually shot me.”

  He doesn’t even apologize. He seems proud of it. Then I’m left to sulk and suffer while they turn their attention to the bear. After a prayer of thanks, Mahingan tosses some of the steaming entrails to the wolf and his own dog. The wolf takes it with him into the woods.

  “How did you know where I was?” I finally ask when my heart slows to a regular beat.

  “The Wolf told us,” Mahingan says, not looking up as he helps his grandfather skin the bear. “We were way out on our trapline and it kept appearing. Day after day. Mishomis said it wanted us to follow. And so we did. But when it started running today, Mishomis told me to keep up with it. After all, I am the fastest runner. Then I heard the gun and the bear.”

  They cut up the meat, wrapping it in smaller packages and loading it on Grandfather Wawatie’s sled beside the bear hide. During the hour or so it takes them to prepare the skin, meat, and bones, I collect a few rocks with my good arm and pile them in a cairn over Skinner’s body. I’m thankful for the Wawaties’ help, for my shoulder is throbbing and I haven’t the strength to cover his whole body. Using my knife, I carve William Slattery on a bit of wood and leave it on the mound. It isn’t much, but it’s something. It’s near dark by the time our work is done.

  “Come to our camp,” Grandfather Wawatie says as he picks up the sled rope. “We will tend your shoulder. And celebrate Mahingan’s kill.”

  I look at Mahingan, unsure if he wants me there, but he’s bursting with pride. “I killed a bear!”

  “Skinner’s knives helped,” I mutter.

  “I brought down a bear with three shots,” he grins at me. “And a shognosh with one,” he adds, outside his grandfather’s hearing.

  I can’t stand that boy. Had I any other option, I’d be going as far from him as I could. He tried to kill me, I’m sure of it. And I’ll bet he’ll try again.

  CHAPTER 42

  We trudge through the woods for what seems like hours, before arriving at their camp by the river. Only, unlike their small trapline camp, this one has three large bark-covered shelters, upturned canoes, several skinned carcasses smoking over fires, and numerous hides hanging on stretching frames. Mahingan’s family gathers to meet us. Grandfather Wawatie introduces me and speaks to them in their language. I don’t catch their names, but I nod politely at Mahingan’s mother and sisters, his uncles, aunts, and cousins of all ages. I’ve never met his father, and yet, even I feel his absence. Like the open glade of a felled tree. The sense that something solid and strong once stood here. I see Mahingan looking beyond his uncles as though he feels it, too.

  A small hand tugs on mine and I look down at Mahingan’s youngest sister. “Chiki,” she announces, pointing at herself. Her earnestness, despite her missing two front teeth, makes me smile.

  One of the men, a son of Grandfather Wawatie, it seems, speaks lowly and gestures at their hunting sled. It seems they had less success at their traps, for their mound of fur and packaged meat is nearly half of what Grandfather and Mahingan brought.

  Grandfather Wawatie waves his hand as if to say this is not the time to speak of it. Instead, he claps Mahingan’s shoulder and gestures at the bear meat weighing down their sled.

  A taller boy pats Mahingan on the back. Even in the dim light, Mahingan’s smile shines like a crescent moon.

  The women scurry around and, in minutes, have cleared the sleds of all meat and fur. Even before we have put away the sled and snowshoes, smells of cooking bear meat waft from the cabin. The space inside is warm and inviting, from its spruce-lined floor to the moss-chinked walls. A fire burns at the center where the women and girls work, stirring pots that hang from wooden crossbars. Dough-capped sticks stand propped over the flame, each being carefully rotated by Chiki. After Mahingan’s mother checks my shoulder, she boils the bark she’s stripped off a birch sapling and applies it to my wound as a poultice. Then she invites me to sit in the corner next to the bundles and baskets. It seems every person but me has a job to do. After so long in Skinner’s dismal shack, I’m happy just to be here in the midst of family bustle and banter, even if they speak to each other in words I don’t understand. I slip off my belt and start to carve a bear paw at the end opposite the wolf print. A great oval with five small circles spreading over the top, each ending with a clawed tip.

  The bundled package next to me begins to wail and, as I peek around the wood frame propped against the wall, I realize ’tis no parcel, but a baby. I’m so surprised by it, I do nothing but stare at its wee face, scrunched and bright red, as the screaming continues. Tears spring from its eyes as its tiny tongue trembles with its howling.

  “Like this,” Chiki says, squatting beside me. She stands the board up and moves it side to side. Sure enough, the babe quiets. “You take care of your brothers or sisters, too, right?”

  I don’t know how to answer her. Did I?

  “Your English is good,” I say, instead.

  “Mishomis teaches me. He says it is good to speak the language for trading.”

  Perhaps my family is one of those that trade with the Wawaties. If nothing else, the Wawaties might know of my da, but before I can ask, Chiki’s mother calls and points at the fire.

  “The bannock!” Chiki rushes back to salvage the smoldering food. The minute she turns, the baby lets out another wail—only this time, there’s no one but me to help him. I do as Chiki instructed and, sure enough, the crying stops.

  Soon, the women have the meal prepared. We sit on the spruce-covered floor in a circle around the steaming bowls of meat and soups, baskets of dried berries, hot cedar tea, and a heaping pile of Chiki’s bannock. Just like the meal in the trapline pikogan, Grandfather fills a plate from each bowl and, praying, scrapes it into the fire. This time he dips his hands in the bear grease and wipes it through his hair and then invites Mahingan to do the same. I don’t know the meaning of it—but I can tell by Mahingan’s reaction ’tis a great honor.

  Then we eat. ’Tis surely a feast, for I’m near bursting by the time we’re done. Mahingan hands me a burnt piece of bannock. I don’t think I can eat another bite, but Chiki’s wide eyes beside me are waiting. Mahingan elbows his cousin and the pair start to laugh as I bite into the charred bread.

  “Chiki,” I say, through blackened lips. “I do believe this is the best bannock I’ve ever tasted!”

  She claps her hands and breaks into a gap-toothed grin.

  Wreathed in pipe smoke, the men tell stories well into the night. First Grandfather Wawatie, then his sons Kijick and Matawa, and finally their sons, share tales of the hunt. I don’t know the words—but their lively actions and excited voices tell it well enough. The little ones have already drifted off by the time their parents carry them to their blankets and furs where the family will sleep.

  In a space of my own, lying on my good shoulder, I settle in for the night, wrapped in the rabbit-fur blanket Mahingan’s mother provided. Grandfather Wawatie sits by the fire, beating a drum, soft, then strong. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Like a heartbeat, lulling all to sleep. He starts to sing, then. In the melody of vowels melting, one into the other, I feel his story. The joy and loss. The yearning and hope. Foreign words with common heart.

  With stories said and sung, soon everyone is silent. I hear th
eir breathing grow long as each one sinks deeper into dreaming. But I can’t sleep. I need to know my stories. My ancestors. I need to know it all. For what good is a man with no story?

  CHAPTER 43

  I’m soaked to the skin, heedless to the chill of that February rain, as I run up the muddy road that night. Da should have been back by now. Mick and him always arrived home in the dark after their long day’s labor on the Road Works, but not this late. Something is wrong.

  I should be with them. The thought, like a pebble long dropped in my mind, ripples on and on. But the law only allows one worker per family. And so I’d sit on that stone wall outside that yellow-thatched cottage and watch Da leave every morning. And every evening, when he’d come down the road that winds through the hills, there’d be less and less of him. No matter how I begged Mam and Da, they wouldn’t let me take his place. You’re too small, son, they said. You’re not able. And so Da went, day after day, trading his life for pennies he never got paid.

  I know it before I see the wagon come over the hill, before I see the look on Mick’s face. I know it before my sister cries out or my mother runs past me to the side of the wagon, reaching in to take Da’s hand. To try and hold him here with us.

  He’s gone, I just know it. My da is dead.

  I can’t move. Can’t breathe. I should have been there. I should have been there.

  The boulders he bore, hour after hour, building those roads, eventually wore him down. Mam and Da, they thought I was too weak, too small—but I now bear the heaviest burden. It weighs upon my shoulders and crushes my heart.

  I should have been there. This is all my fault.

  “Da!” I scream, bolting from my deep sleep. In the darkness, a baby cries. Muffled voices grumble.

  I can’t breathe ... I can’t breathe. Tossing the blanket, I stumble for the doorway, heedless of how many people I’ve trodden across. Outside ... outside ... I need air!

  Bursting through the doorway, I fall into the snow, landing on my hands and knees, drawing great heaving breaths as though each was my last. They turn to sobs, gut-wrenching hurls of tears and snot. Da … Da … he’s not looking for me … he’s not coming for me … ’Tis as though I’ve just lost him this moment. I suppose, in a way, I have.

  A hand rests on my shoulder. I know without looking it’s Grandfather Wawatie. He doesn’t sit down by me. He doesn’t lift me up. He just stands by, waiting with me, while I ride out this storm. I suppose there is nothing he could have said or done. Nothing will bring Da back. But somehow it helps to know I am not alone. I wipe my runny nose on my sleeve and sit back on my haunches, shuddering now and then in the wake of the outburst.

  “My father ...” I say, hoarsely. “He ... he is dead.”

  Saying makes it real, and I moan as the undertow of sadness draws me back, washes over me.

  Grandfather drapes his blanket across my shoulders. He slips back into the shelter and I cry at the moon until the sun rises.

  CHAPTER 44

  “What exactly are we looking for?” I ask Mahingan as we search the forest. I’ve been avoiding him the past few days. Avoiding all of them. My shoulder is healing well, but my father’s death is like an aching hole deep inside me. It festers and stings and there’s no medicine for it. That wound will never heal, for Da’s not coming for me. Ever. Nothing else matters.

  Mahingan circles around the trunks, looking for something. He’s annoyed that his grandfather insisted he take me with him.

  “I can’t help you if I don’t know what we need to find,” I say. I don’t want to be here, either.

  Mahingan clenches his jaw and continues his search, stopping every now and then to pick up a small boulder which, after inspecting, he tosses aside. Finally, he finds one.

  “You want to help? Carry this.” He dumps it into my hands. ’Tis only a plain gray rock about the size of my head. When we find two more that meet his standards, we trek back to see Grandfather Wawatie. He appraises the stones and decides only one is worth keeping, before sending us back into the bush to find even more.

  “What’s so special about them?” I ask, holding up the next stone he’s given me. Again, ’tis nothing but a rock. Mahingan ignores me. “Aren’t they just plain old stones?”

  Mahingan finally stops and turns toward me. “See? That’s exactly what I mean. I can’t believe he’s inviting you to the sweat. You don’t even know what you are holding.”

  I take another look. “It’s a rock.”

  “It’s a grandfather,” Mahingan says, exasperated.

  “Your grandfather is a rock?” I’ve heard of shape-shifting, but this is something new.

  Mahingan shakes his head. “No, shognosh. You don’t understand our ways. None of you do.”

  “Well, then, explain it to me,” I say. “You can’t be angry with me for not knowing what I’ve never learned.”

  He puts his hand on the rock in mine. “This has been part of our Earth Mother since ... forever.” He waves his other hand, taking in the woods around us. “Before the Anishnaabeg, before animals, before any plant or trees, rocks—the mountains—have always been. They have been here the longest. That’s why they’re called grandfathers. They’re wise ancestors.”

  I have to think about it for a while, but it makes sense. In a way.

  “Never mind,” Mahingan says, turning back to his search.

  “So ...” I study this ancient stone more carefully. “So then, this is my grandfather, too.”

  Mahingan considers my comment. The jut of his jaw tells me he’s not happy, but his silence tells me I’m right.

  Grandfather Wawatie has rejected double what he kept but, eventually, he seems happy enough with the stones we’ve found. He gives them to Kijick, and I wonder what they’re going to do with them. I don’t have to wonder long, though. A few hours later, at Grandfather’s word, his sons and grandsons head into the woods. Unsure, I stand and watch them leave. Grandfather Wawatie stops beside me and nods. I think he wants me to follow him. And so I do.

  Not far from the main camp is a squat, domed structure, covered in animal skins. A flap hangs over a low door at the front. Grandfather leads us just in front of the dome to where Kijick tends the fire. All twelve rocks Mahingan and I collected are being heated in the flames. Kijick hands Grandfather Wawatie a small bowl and a feather. The dried grass inside the bowl smolders. It smells of cedar, sage maybe, and something else sweet and strong. Smoke drifts up around Grandfather Wawatie’s face like incense, and, with a feather, he waves it over each of his sons and grandsons with all the reverence of a bishop and his censer. He comes to me then and does the same. I copy what the others have done, cupping the smoke in my hands and pouring it over my face, my heart, and down my legs.

  The men and boys strip down to nothing. And though I hesitate at first—it is winter, after all—I copy the others. Taking a pinch of tobacco, each person sprinkles it on the fire before saying their name and crawling into the lodge. It reminds me of Grandfather Wawatie’s food offering. Mahingan and I are the last in line. Numb, I am, with the cold from standing stark naked in a forest in the dead of winter. I half want to put my coat back on while I wait, but if Mahingan can stand it, well then, so can I. Still, when it’s my turn, I want to throw the tobacco and hurry inside, but I remember what Grandfather said about the food offering. It’s a way to say thanks and give honor. So I stop and think about how long the rocks have lasted—how short our time is. I think of Da and say a prayer for him as I sprinkle the tobacco.

  I’m the last one to crawl into the lodge and so bloody cold I can hardly feel my hands and feet. The room is pitch black and I bump into a few others before finding the empty spot in the circle.

  “Who are you?” Grandfather’s bodiless voice asks. I’d forgotten that stating your name was part of entering the lodge.

  Unsure of how to answer, I tell the truth. “I don’t know, but I want to remember.”

  CHAPTER 45

  Grandfather Wawatie calls and Kijic
k brings in one of the hot stones pinched between two carrying logs. It pulsates like a red heart, as it throws heat and light on the shadows of men and boys. Placing it in the middle of the lodge, Grandfather pours water on it, making it hiss and steam. Faces disappear in the mist. ’Tis as though I’m completely alone in this darkness. Grandfather sings a few songs, prayers, I think. Then he calls for Kijick to bring another rock. By the second or third stone, I’m warming up. By the tenth, I’m ready to pass out.

  On Grandfather’s word, everyone leaves the lodge. As I crawl out, I’m surprised to find them all lying in the snow. Naked or not, all I can think of is dousing my burning skin. I flop backwards into a drift and roll around. I don’t know if it’s the snow or myself that’s melting—either way, I swear, I hear it hiss. Every part of my body is beating. I’ve never felt so alive. Just as the cool relief turns frigid, Grandfather calls us back inside the lodge, and the heat I once found unbearable wraps around me like a snug blanket.

  After the next song, the lodge is a blister of steam. The very air itself scorches me. I can’t breathe.

  “Lie down,” Grandfather suggests. “Put your face on the earth.”

  The dirt floor is cooler, but nothing stops the sweat pouring from every part of my body. It runs in rivulets down my face, my back, my chest. My hair is plastered to my head. My brain bubbles and throbs. Throbs. Throbs.

  ’Tis like the fever.

  The memory emerges like tiny beads of sweat that gather together to saturate me.

  I’m aboard the ship. The Dunbrody. A soldier lifts Mam from the berth, where she’s been lying in and out of consciousness for days. Take care of Annie, she’d said, her last words to me. And I did. I kept Annie away from the sickness on the ship, hiding out by the prow, telling her stories about the monk on the figurehead, the country that awaits us, the adventures ahead. And when we land at Grosse Isle quarantine station, and I feel the fever blazing behind my eyes, feel it banging in my brain and buckling my legs, I let the priests take her to the orphanage. I don’t even say goodbye for fear she mightn’t go.