R. J. HARLICK
A
Green
Place
For
Dying
A Meg Harris Mystery
To Jim
The Meg Harris Mysteries
Death’s Golden Whisper
Red Ice for a Shroud
The River Runs Orange
Arctic Blue Death
Grandmother Moon
You know all women from birth to death
We seek your knowledge
We seek your strength
Some are STARS up there with you
Some are STARS on Mother Earth
Grandmother, lighten our path in the dark
Creator, keep our sisters safe from harm
Maa duu? Mussi Cho
— Kukdookaa
Reprinted from the website of the Native Women’s Association of Canada
Chapter
One
A loon called from across the lake in the hushed still- ness of the rising moon. Its silvery path rippled across the water to where we sat on a grassy knoll. Skirting the ridge of the distant shore, the blinking lights of a passing plane wrenched me momentarily back to this century.
Above the rhythmic beating of a solitary drum, I could hear the uneasy breathing of the other women and the girls as we sat cross-legged, holding hands, waiting for the ceremony to begin. I glanced around the circle at their faces partially revealed in the pale glow of the crackling fire. Most had their eyes downcast, lost in their own thoughts. One or two met my gaze before dropping their eyes back to the ground. I dropped mine too.
On my right I felt the comforting warmth of Teht’aa’s hand in my own, while on my left, my neighbour’s hand seemed forebodingly cold. I tried to put life into it with a gentle squeeze, but the hand remained indifferent.
My feet were growing numb. I wanted to stretch out my legs but was afraid to disrupt the silence. I didn’t want to remind the others of my presence. After all, I, Meg Harris, an escapee from Toronto, was the outsider, the stranger in this sacred circle of Algonquin women. No, not entirely Algonquin.
The two women sitting across from me in the circle were Cree from a James Bay reserve a thousand kilometres or more due north from where we were sitting on the shore of Lake Nigig in the Migiskan Anishinabeg First Nations Reserve. The two women were sisters. The younger, prettier one in a blowsy sort of way, was Becky’s mother. She was gripping her sister’s hand as if her life depended on it. And perhaps it did.
The limp hand resting in mine belonged to the other outsider, although technically she wasn’t, since she was married to an Algonquin and lived on the reserve. In fact, she probably made more effort to follow the traditional ways than any other woman on the reserve, apart from the elders. She was Marie-Claude, the French-Canadian mother of Fleur.
I squeezed her lifeless hand again more as a show of support than anything else. She was obviously numb with worry. I certainly would be, given the situation.
A sudden spark of flame at the far end of the circle lit up the broad, wizened face of the elder leading tonight’s ceremony. Although her official name was Elizabeth Amik, she preferred to use her spirit name, Summer Grass Woman. Many, out of respect for her position as an esteemed elder, called her Kòkomis Elizabeth or Grandmother Elizabeth.
She bent over the almost flat ceramic bowl resting on the ground in front of her and ignited its contents, which judging by the scent was dried cedar. She fanned the flame with a slender white-tipped eagle feather until it disappeared, leaving a glimmer of burning embers.
With the smoke swirling upwards into the night, she raised the bowl heavenward. Chanting in Algonquin, she offered the smudge to the four directions of the medicine wheel; east, south, west, and north. She set it back down on the ground beside her medicine bundle, a disparate collection of items sacred to her, both natural and man-made. These were laid out on a piece of felt.
Apart from the red, yellow, white, and black flags marking the four corners of the felt, the predominant colour of her regalia was green. Like the items, this colour was sacred to her. This she’d explained to me on my first visit to her healing wigwam, a visit Teht’aa had suggested during one of my particularly low moments after breaking up with her father.
Summer Grass Woman had gone on to tell me that the smooth piece of jade had been found by her long dead husband near his family’s traditional trapline. The piece of lime green checked cotton came from the baptismal dress of her first granddaughter, and the palm leaf, she’d pointed out with a soft chuckle, had been brought back by a favourite niece from the land of the Maya in Mexico. She said it reminded her of her friend, a Mayan elder she’d met at one of the annual Circle of All Nations gatherings. And of course there was the sheath of dried summer grass kept in place by a leather tie intricately decorated with dark green beads. Even the felt was green, a rich emerald.
Pleading that the pain of her arthritis kept her from coming to us as tradition required, she asked instead that we come to her for our ritual cleansing. One by one, we unscrambled our cramped legs and stamped our feet to get the circulation moving. Then each of us in turn walked over to her in a clockwise direction, which she, as its elder, had established when we first entered the circle.
Since making my home at Three Deer Point, the wilderness property I’d inherited from my Great-aunt Agatha, I’d attended enough smudging ceremonies to become sufficiently familiar with the etiquette. During the first one I attended, I’d started walking in the wrong direction before Eric, its elder, hurriedly corrected me. It had been a dark, moonless night. The mood had been warlike and boastful, unlike tonight’s sombre tone. It had been a ceremony meant to embolden rather than to seek guidance, the intention of tonight’s ceremony.
As I became more involved in the neighbouring Migiskan community, initially because of Eric, who in addition to being my then friend and lover was the reserve’s band chief, and since because many community members had become my friends, I’d had the honour of attending many more. But even though I enjoyed the ceremonies and found they imbued me with a sense of inner peace, no matter how fleeting, I couldn’t quite rid myself of the feeling that I would always be an outsider wistfully watching from the sidelines.
Summer Grass Woman smiled as I approached her. “Good. You come. Grandmother Moon help you,” she said in her soft, measured old woman’s voice.
Although I didn’t believe it, I did what politeness dictated and smiled in return.
She gently fanned the smoke around me with her feather while I performed the hand motions of the ritual washing. My nostrils twitched with the cleansing scent of the smouldering cedar. And as was often the case, I felt the beginnings of an inner quietness, a settling of my jittery nerves. I wondered if the smudge was having the same effect on the two mothers, for surely their nerves were jangling.
Although Teht’aa occasionally attended these monthly ceremonies to honour Grandmother Moon, this was the first one I’d been invited to. Grandmother Moon was considered a powerful teacher for women, since she controlled many aspects of a woman’s life. It was believed that she provided women with a special connection to the grandmothers who had passed into the spirit world. Her teachings would help them become better mothers in their sacred role as life-givers.
But being better mothers wasn’t the purpose of tonight’s ceremony. It was to seek Grandmother Moon’s guidance and insight on quite a different matter.
Fleur and Becky, the daughters of Marie-Claude and the woman from James Bay, were missing. They had vanished without a trace sometime in mid-July, a little over a month and a half ago. Nothing had been heard or seen of them since. Tonight the two mothers were seeking a sign from Grandmother Moon that their daughters
were safe and would return home soon.
Chapter
Two
After we resumed our places in the ceremonial circle, Summer Grass Woman began chanting. Teht’aa had told me little other than to bring a red tie of tobacco and a small bottle of water. They rested on the ground at my feet where I’d seen the others place theirs.
I felt the coolness of the rising breeze on my face, a welcome respite from the late summer heat we’d been experiencing. The trees behind me rustled with its energy. The moon had risen higher. Its stark silvery light now completely flooded the circle.
A girl threw some branches onto the fire. The faces of the women and girls glowed with its renewed energy. Most kept their eyes closed, but the old woman sitting next to the elder noticed my gaze and smiled and nodded as if welcoming me to their special ceremony. I smiled back, closed my eyes and tried to relax.
The elder’s chanting was soft and strangely hypnotic against the steady beat of the drum. I found myself swaying with its rhythm as it reverberated through my body and into my mind. And from the way Teht’aa’s hand moved with mine, it seemed she was also swaying. So too was Marie-Claude. Her hand had taken on life, warmth. Perhaps the ceremony was already achieving its purpose.
I thought of the two missing girls. I knew Fleur,
but I didn’t know Becky. In fact, I’d never heard her name mentioned until it was linked to Fleur’s. It had cropped up a good month after word started spreading around the reserve that Marie-Claude had been unable to reach her eldest daughter at her brother’s Ottawa apartment, where the eighteen-year-old was supposed to be staying. Apparently at the end of the school year in June, Fleur had gone to the nation’s capital to look for a summer job.
Her parents had waited a week, hoping their daughter had been sidetracked by a visit to friends and would eventually show up at her uncle’s. But when the girl didn’t appear, her father contacted the Ottawa police. In the month and a half since, the police had discovered nothing other than she’d been last seen with this girl Becky, who had also disappeared.
The community was in a heightened state of worry, afraid this girl with the shining eyes would never be seen in their community again. One of the top graduating students this year from the Migiskan High School, she’d been crowned Miss Algonquin at the annual pow-wow, not only for her ripening beauty but also for her scholastic achievements. With her easy, friendly manner, her quick wit and intelligence, many felt she was one of the most promising teenagers to graduate in a number of years. The question on everyone’s lips was why had she run away?
A sudden edginess in the drumming brought me back to the moment. I felt a blackness, an uneasiness as goosebumps crawled over my skin. Something’s wrong… I opened my eyes.
But no one else acted as if they’d felt the chill. Their eyes remain closed, their swaying calm as the elder’s chants continued to float on the breeze. Then I realized the moon was gone. A cloud had extinguished its light. But even as I took note of this, the cloud drifted onward and the moon’s brilliance returned to bathe our circle.
I closed my eyes and immersed myself back in the chanting. Switching to English, Summer Grass Woman spoke of the moon-cycle and every woman’s destiny to be a sacred life-giver. She spoke of how the moon time was a time of power, a time to give life. It was not only a time for renewal but also a time to relax and take it easy. And it was a time of reflection.
“It also time for cleansing,” she said. “But first we make a path to the spirits.”
With help from the girl sitting beside her, who I now realized was Marie-Claude’s middle daughter, Moineau, the old woman painfully raised herself from the ground, smoothed out the creases in her skirt and slowly limped to the fire. Chanting once again in Algonquin, she loosened a small deerskin pouch, extracted some tobacco, and threw it onto the fire. It flared with renewed life.
When she resumed her place, the rest of the circle one by one approached the fire with their offering. Some sang quietly to themselves, others muttered prayers. While I emptied my red tie of tobacco into the flames, I offered my own silent prayer for a safe and healthy return for the two girls.
The night breeze brought the distinctive sound of a car from across the lake. I listened to it until it merged with the night rustlings.
“We make offering to Grandmother Moon,” Summer Grass Woman said.
She motioned to Neige, Marie-Claude’s youngest daughter, to walk a birchbark container around the circle. As the eleven-year-old passed by, each woman, including the older girls who’d reached puberty, emptied their bottle of water into the container. Many of the older women, some with their eyes glistening, patted the hesitant water carrier or gave her a sympathetic smile. When she reached her mother, the tears she’d been trying desperately to contain started flowing. Her hands shook so much, she almost spilled the water.
“Be strong, my little one,” her mother whispered in French as she added her portion to the others. “It is your duty to your sister.”
A younger, shyer version of Fleur, with the same satiny, dark mahogany hair and amber-brown eyes, Neige didn’t project the easy confidence of her eldest sister. Although she’d inherited her colouring from her father, she was slim like her mother, with the same dancer-like grace. Fleur, on the other hand, had all the right curves, some emphasized more than others, of a young, nubile female eager to experience what life had to offer.
“Oui, maman,” Neige whispered. Closing her eyes, she breathed in deeply, moved her shoulders back and lifted her head.
When she offered the container to me, its contents didn’t jiggle quite so much, and although her eyes still glistened, the tears had stopped. I patted her on the arm and tried to ease her worry by telling her that her sister was all right and would be home soon.
As Marie-Claude’s daughter continued along the circle, I heard the sound of a car again, this time closer. It was coming down the road towards us. I noticed others were also glancing in the direction of the sound.
Neige placed the birchbark bowl on the ground in front of Summer Grass Woman, who fanned the smudge over the water with her eagle feather. The speed of the drum picked up. She held the bowl up to the moon. The water glinted in the moonlight. She began chanting in a high-pitched voice. Many voices joined her, including Marie-Claude’s. Together the drum and her voice reached a crescendo. For a second they hovered then abruptly stopped. The silence was deafening.
I let out the breath I’d been holding and felt the tension drain. As one, we absorbed the stillness. I didn’t know how many minutes had passed before I felt a presence pass over me. I looked up in time to see an owl silently floating through the moonlight. It vanished into the trees.
I heard the crunch of tires as the car slowed to a stop. A door clicked open then closed. Annoyance creased the elder’s face as she turned her head towards the noise. I knew that a sacred ceremony was to be respected, that no one was allowed to interrupt it.
For several uneasy seconds Summer Grass Woman continued to stare in the car’s direction, as if trying to discern who lurked within the forest’s shadow. Then, grimly pursing her lips, she turned back to the ceremony.
“Grandmother Moon make the water clean. We give first water to Mother Earth.” She sprinkled some of it onto the ground. “Moon water is ready.”
She gave the container back to Neige, who walked once more around the circle. This time each woman dipped her bottle into the moon water and extracted some. As the girl brought it to me, I raised a questioning eyebrow to Teht’aa.
“It’s medicine water,” she whispered. “Suppose to make you strong.”
I filled my bottle, screwed the top back on tightly, and placed it by my feet.
As I did so, someone cleared their throat gruffly behind me. I tensed. This had to be a man. Surely they weren’t allowed to watch this sacred ceremony intended only for women. I could sense that I wasn’t the only one who’d grown nervous. The relaxed harmony was gone, replaced by a restless fidgeting.
>
“Come, Sarah,” Summer Grass Woman said. “Join the circle.”
The short, stocky figure of Patrolman Sarah Smith, a recent recruit to the Migiskan Police Department and its only female officer, strode into the moonlight. Out of respect for the elder, she’d removed her police cap to reveal her short-cropped dark hair. If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve thought she was a man from the way she held herself. But perhaps it was the Kevlar vest cinching in her breasts that gave her the barrel-like masculine look.
Embarrassed, the young policewoman, daughter of one of the band council members, started to apologize, but the elder hushed her, saying, “You late. But you come. It good.”
Summer Grass Woman fanned the smudge over the young woman as she performed the ritual washing. Then she ordered Sarah to sit.
A couple of women moved to create a space in the circle. Sarah sat down cross-legged and took a deep breath as if trying to calm her nerves.
Summer Grass Woman continued, “Harmony come back to the circle.”
The drumming, which had stopped, started up again and was joined by the old woman’s soft chanting. I closed my eyes and tried to recapture the lost peace, but it was difficult. I was too worried by the sudden presence of this police officer. Marie-Claude gripped my hand as if she were drowning.
Finally, after several long minutes, Summer Grass Woman, said, “Sarah, tell us message from Grandmother Moon.”
Marie-Claude sucked in her breath while her fingernails dug deeper into my hand.
The cop glanced nervously around then cleared her throat and in her husky voice said, “Sorry for the interruption, Kòkomis Elizabeth, but I … ah … I’m not sure if it’s a message from Grandmother Moon, but Chief Decontie wants to see Marie-Claude and Mrs. Wapachee.”
A Green Place for Dying Page 1
