Virgil picked the bowl up and began to slurp away, his spoon spilling more than it carried to his mouth.
“Did Aunt Julia bring this?” he asked.
“Yep, a whole big pot. How did you know?”
Virgil shrugged. “She always puts too much salt in it.”
Dakota slurped her soup too, seeming to enjoy the salty flavour. She paused long enough to say, “Yeah, but you’re eating it. And it’s supposed to be salty.”
The two ate in silence for a while, watching the activities in the house through the large plate of glass like it was a huge television with the sound turned down.
“Are you gonna go in and see her?” asked Dakota.
“Grandma? I wanna but…”
“But you’re kinda scared. Right?”
Virgil nodded and went back to his soup. He was scared. He’d never seen anybody real sick and close to death before, and even though this was his grandmother, he wasn’t sure if he was up to it. His father’s casket had been closed.
“I was too. She’s okay. Smiled, and even told me a joke.”
They both smiled, remembering Lillian Benojee’s silly jokes.
“The one about Native vegetarians?”
Dakota nodded. “Yep, that one. Heard it a dozen times but she still makes me laugh.” She put her now-empty bowl down on the table and got comfortable in the deck chair. “Haven’t seen your mother here today. She coming?”
For the second time, Virgil shrugged. “Don’t know. Band Office business, as usual. Said she’d try, but who knows.”
To Virgil, “Band Office business” was a four-letter word. Last week it was a meeting of chiefs in Halifax, tomorrow it would be a conference with the Grand Chief of the Assembly of First Nations in Ottawa, and next week something about those negotiations with local municipal governments over that boring land thing. It was always something, and usually it had nothing to do with him. He was a latch-key kid with no latch. Or key, as most homes in the village were kept unlocked.
“I’m bored,” he said in a monotone voice as he fit his empty plastic bowl neatly into Dakota’s.
Somewhere far to the south, other people were bored too. On the side of a lonely country highway north of a great lake and south of the Canadian Shield, Bruce Scott sat patiently, surrounded by his economic bread-and-butter: about a half-dozen handmade birdfeeders and bird baths. His car was neatly parked on a little driveway entrance to a field. He’d been here every weekend, and a few days midweek when the weather permitted, for the past month, same as with the year before. His wife made the feeders and baths, and she couldn’t find anybody else to sell them, so he did this himself, half out of love and half out of necessity. Bruce would sit there in a lawn chair for about eight hours or so at a stretch, reading book after book, listening to his oldies radio station, generally feeling at peace with the world. On a good weekend he’d sell maybe three, making a cool tax-free ninety dollars.
It was a hot day, for May, and though he wore a hat and sometimes brought a large umbrella for shade, he was tanned a nice dark roast-turkey brown, which was odd for somebody of Scottish descent. Today was no different than yesterday, or the day before. Around him, the spring insects buzzed the way they only buzz on really hot days. Bruce took his final Diet Pepsi from the cooler and opened it, enjoying the satisfying hiss of released carbonated air. Holding its cool surface to his forehead, he gazed down the road. About two hundred kilometres in that southerly direction was the big city. That’s where all the tourists came from—good or bad. On a day like this, all their windows would be rolled up, air conditioning going strong, and they’d be reluctant to pull over and exit the artificial environment of their cars into this sweltering atmosphere.
The pavement of the highway shimmered in the unusual spring heat, waves rising from it and creating what appeared to be either wet spots or black ice on top. A mirage, he knew. He kept watching, especially the part where the road dropped about twenty-five feet into a bit of a valley and then rose again.
“What the hell…”
Rising suddenly from the little valley in the road was a vague figure. It was difficult to see properly, with the heat radiating off asphalt. What was surprising was that although Bruce had been watching, he hadn’t seen the figure coming. It was as if it had just appeared on this side of the little valley.
Maybe, Bruce Scott thought, I’ve been sitting out here too long.
As the figure drew closer, gradually emerging from the wavy lines, Bruce was able to make out more details. The figure was riding a large red motorcycle. An old one too, it appeared. And it was wearing black leather and a dark helmet with an equally dark visor. Now Bruce could hear the distinctive sound of the engine. As it approached him, it slowed down, and Bruce got a good look at what was moving north. It looked back.
This wasn’t something you saw every day.
“Nice bike,” Bruce Scott muttered to himself, but his voice was lost in the sound of the already departing vehicle.
Elizabeth and Ann Kappele were twins. They lived with their parents in a small nesting of houses and businesses just outside the Otter Lake Reserve. Most people in the county called the smattering of homes Roadside. Barely seven years of age, Elizabeth and Ann were happy to be out of school and were enjoying the spring day. That consisted of throwing a big blue ball back and forth, singing “Ring of Fire” at the top of their lungs. Johnny Cash was practically the only music their father let in the house. Maybe some Randy Travis, the occasional Garth Brooks, but deep in his heart, Daniel Kappele felt there was no music like the old music.
“Higher!” squealed Ann, caught up in the moment of ball frenzy.
Elizabeth threw the blue ball high over Ann’s head, half by accident and half on purpose. Twins are like that. Ann turned and chased after the ball that bounced along the driveway and was rapidly rolling toward the highway and, across the road, the Setting Sun Motel. It was the Kappele family’s financially dubious business. Both Ann and Elizabeth had long ago been taught the dangers of living so close to a busy road, so Ann instinctively slowed to a walk and looked both ways as she prepared to cross the road in search of her ball. It had come to a rest halfway across the pavement, just past the parallel yellow lines.
Darting out, Ann grabbed the ball and was about to turn back when she noticed something hazy in the distance. And she heard something too. A far-off buzz that grew into a deep growling coming from somewhere up the road. Puzzled, she watched for a few seconds, her eyes squinting in effort.
“Ann, get off the road. You know what daddy says! You shouldn’t be standing there! Throw me the ball.” Elizabeth, even at her age, felt waiting was for people who had nothing more important to do. Frustrated and worried, she ran to Ann’s side and grabbed the ball roughly. “If you’re not gonna throw it, then I will!” she shouted.
But then, she too saw what was coming. It was a motorcycle. Both had seen plenty in their day, their father had even owned one a few years ago, but this one seemed different. It had a different design to it, sounded different and had a rider who was definitely different in the way the helmet was designed, and the way the motor cyclist’s head cocked like a bird when the machine slowed to a stop a few feet from the girls. One black boot slid off the pedal and touched the ground, a bright blue handkerchief tied just above the knee.
The Kappele twins could see themselves reflected in the dark visor with the odd markings on the side. For a moment, neither party moved, and then Elizabeth dropped the ball. It bounced once and rolled forward, coming to rest at the rider’s boot.
Slowly, the rider reached down, picked it up and tossed it back to the girls. As the ball arced in the air, the rider suddenly gunned the throttle of the bike, making it roar loudly. Scared, the girls turned and ran, disappearing up the driveway, leaving little trails of dust and a bouncing blue ball in their wake.
Just as quickly, the rider and the motorcycle were gone, leaving a trail of burning rubber and exhaust that drifted across the driveway
of the Setting Sun Motel.
The sign at the side of the road said, WELCOME TO OTTER LAKE: HOME OF THE ANISHNAWBE—PEOPLE OF THE LAND, and on top of it, to the left, sat a large black crow. The crow was not perched there as a political statement or social commentary, since it was a creature of the air. It too was just bored. The roadkill had been good this week and his tummy was full. So it sat there, watching the world go by…
On any given day, dozens of cars would zoom past, along with a lot of trucks, several minivans and the occasional RV. The crow had seen them all. He wasn’t expecting anything much different today. Then, from around the bend, came a motorcycle. And a figure on top of it, his outfit as black as the crow himself. The vehicle slowed, and finally stopped directly in front of the sign. Though it was impossible to tell what was happening beneath the helmet, the rider seemed to be reading the sign. There was even a slight nod. The crow couldn’t help feeling there was something very different about this creature, especially when it finished reading the sign and looked up at him.
The crow had seen lots of these two-legged creatures look at him, usually when he was ripping through their garbage, or cawing loudly early in the morning. But this time it was different. Even though the rider’s eyes were hidden, the crow could feel its piercing gaze. The rider lifted its helmet a few inches until only its mouth was visible. And from that mouth came a loud caw. Not a human imitating a crow, but what seemed to the crow an authentic crow caw. The crow had been around for a few years and knew the difference. Crows do communicate, in their own way, and “I’m back” is what the crow heard.
The crow, having had enough of this weird business, decided to put a few treetops between himself and this creature. So it took to the air. Whoever or whatever it was that might be “back,” the crow didn’t want to stick around to watch.
The rider returned the helmet to its shoulders, and watched the bird disappear over the deciduous forest next to the highway. Crows never had much intestinal fortitude, the rider thought. Must be all that roadkill they eat.
The rider revved the engine and continued on the journey. Its destination was fast approaching.
Across most of the world—except those urban centres where they are more reviled than rats—raccoons are known as cute and clever creatures. Less well known is the fact they possess long memories. Memories of a multi-generational length. The woods around Otter Lake held many raccoons. On that bright Saturday afternoon, at least a dozen or so were casually foraging along the side of the road. Most should have been sleeping in a hollow log or hole in the ground because they were nocturnal animals, but today was different. Something special was happening. Though it was hard to say how or why, it’s safe to say they were waiting, as they had been waiting for a very long time. And rumour had it, their waiting was soon to be over.
Under most circumstances, the roar of a motorcycle would have startled them and made them scatter. But not this time. It was like they were expecting it, and its rider. One by one, they watched the figure on the motorcycle whiz pass. Their little fingers twitched, their eyes sparkled.
It was him. And he was back.
This was good. In this part of the country, revenge was furry and wore a bandit’s mask.
They were affectionately called the Otter Lake Debating Society. They met practically every day on Judas James’s front porch. There, Judas James, Marty Yaahah, Gene Macdougal and Michael Mukwa held court, along with a case or two of beer, discussing the events of the day or week. Great philosophical issues were bandied about with enthusiasm. There were frequent associate members that occasionally joined in the discussions, but these four individuals were the core members of the society. They were a mainstay of the community, seldom moving from the porch, seldom without a beer in their hands, debating late into the night. All were well into their forties in both age and belt size. As the society members spent their days in debate, village cars would drive by, honking their encouragement of such cerebral endeavours.
Today, the heated topic revolved around which of the Gilligan’s Island girls was the sexiest: Mary Ann or Ginger. They were almost coming to blows over this one. Judas and Marty were definitely Mary Ann fans. In their own lives both had married the “pretty girl next door,” while Michael Mukwa was waiting for a Movie Star to enter his life. Faith has often been described as belief without proof, and Michael had a lot of faith this would happen eventually. Gene, as usual, bucked the trend and voted for Mrs. Howell. The discussion moved into its fourth hour and second case of beer with little hope that a consensus would be achieved, and the debate expanded to include similar comparisons, like the blonde chick from I Dream of Jeannie versus the blonde chick from Bewitched: who was cuter and who was more powerful? Suddenly finger-pointing and yelling had to cease because of another noise.
“Judas, I think your furnace is acting up again.” Gene’s comment prompted more argument, this time about the noise, until the source of the growing racket stopped in front of the headquarters of the Otter Lake Debating Society.
The members stared at the figure on the motorcycle. The figure turned its head to look back at them. It was a stalemate.
“Judas, do you know him? Her? Is that a guy or a girl?” said Gene under his breath.
Judas just shook his head.
Then, as if finished taking stock of the group, the figure on the machine moved on. Everybody on the veranda that day was pretty sure nobody in the village had a motorcycle, let alone one like that. And nobody dressed like this newcomer, for sure. And there was something else… something they couldn’t really put their finger on. The rider was new here, yet in a way they couldn’t explain, he also wasn’t. Maybe it had something to do with that odd design on his helmet. From where they were sitting, it almost looked like some sort of bird. It was all so… complex.
The Otter Lake Debating Society, for the first time in a long time, was struck silent.
FOUR
Maggie’s 2002 Chrysler pulled up into her mother’s driveway. It had been a long day of work already, and it was only two-thirty, and it was a Saturday. There was still so much to do. The Otter Lake First Nation had recently bought a huge chunk of land adjacent to the Reserve, and this had introduced a whole whack of problems into Maggie’s political life, which far too often drifted into her personal life.
First of all, the paperwork involved with turning the newly acquired parcel of land into Reserve land was enough to make the most die-hard civil servant cringe. There were three levels of government—four if you included the Reserve—that had to sign off on it. And of course, the idea of Native people getting more land was an absurd concept to most non-Natives. Five hundred years of colonization had told them you took land away from Native people, you didn’t let them buy it back. As a result, the local municipality was fighting tooth and nail to block the purchase. If it was transferred over to Otter Lake, and therefore into federal jurisdiction, it would mean a loss of revenue on three hundred acres of taxable municipal land. This loss made the local municipal powers very uncomfortable. So this left Maggie juggling the local reeve, MPP and MP. She’d rather be juggling flaming chainsaws.
But ironically, that was the easy part. To her, as chief, White politicians, while having the potential to be devious, self-serving and a general pain in the ass, were less stressful than the over twelve hundred people she represented, most of whom she was related to, all tugging at her pant legs with suggestions about what to do with the new land. Three hundred acres was an almost twenty-percent increase in the size of the community. Every member of the band had an opinion on the purpose and destiny of that land. And they all had a very strong need to share their opinions with her, whether she wanted to hear them or not. Her husband had been chief, but ever since he passed away, Maggie had felt obligated to see to it that the things he had started were finished—so she ran and was acclaimed in a sympathy vote. They had fought a lot during the last few months of their marriage and occasionally, on days like this, she couldn’t help wonderin
g if this inherited responsibility had been her husband’s lasting revenge.
She was thirty-five years old. She had started out her money-making career babysitting, and twenty years later, little had changed. As sad as it was, her mother’s illness was a welcome respite from her duties. A love of the land, which had once united Aboriginal people, was now tearing them apart.
Add to that all the land analysis, economic assessments, viability studies and other assorted bureaucracy Maggie was forced to deal with and she now more than ever wished she’d finished that degree in forestry. Right now, she could be up on a fire watchtower, peacefully alone, wishing she could order a pizza.
On top of everything else, her mother was ill. It never rained but it poured. It never poured but it was a deluge. Maggie felt soaking wet. Noah never put up with this much rain, she thought. And at least he had a boat.
Sitting on the right side of the house, Maggie saw Virgil on the steps of the wraparound deck. “Hey, honey!” She waved. Virgil had been a lot quieter these days and she didn’t know if it was because she worked so much or because his grandmother was ill. At least he was here, not sitting by the train tracks that ran parallel to the western boundary of the Reserve. She knew that sometimes he would go there and wait for the trains to pass. And watch. She knew boys could be solitary creatures, especially at this age. Still, Maggie couldn’t help worrying.
“Hey, Mom” was his response, and he waved back.
Dakota was with him, and Maggie was pleased. She liked Dakota, and except for the fact they were first cousins, in a different reality they might have made a good pair. But in a year or two when the hormones really kicked into full gear, they would probably drift apart.
“You’re late. You said you were gonna be here an hour ago.”
“I know. Sorry. Work. How is your grandma?”
As usual, Virgil shrugged. He was very good at it.
“Hey, Dakota, your parents here?” asked Maggie.
Motorcycles & Sweetgrass Page 3
