by Jeff Pinkney
Powder and Bits:
A Fall Journey
The clay skeets send white dust flying against the blue of the sky. It’s like fireworks, but in the daytime. Three in a row fall, powder and bits, onto the snow and mud.
Skeets are like Frisbees made of clay. They get spun into the air and then you shoot them. It’s how hunters can practice their aim. My face burns hot and cold all at once, especially the part that presses against the stock. Gunpowder smell is in the air.
The other skeet shooters are making a big deal of my shots. Chief Stan starts calling me Hat-Trick. I swallow a smile way too big for my face because I know those shots weren’t just luck.
Dad is looking very proud. My brother is glaring at me, and I can tell he’s jealous. He’s had his gun for two seasons now, but his skeets still thump to the ground whole.
The fall goose hunt starts after one more sleep, and this time I’m big enough to go. It will be my first time using a shotgun for grown-ups, but I’ve practiced thousands of times in the bush with a toy one.
I am excited about being part of the fall hunt.
Freighter canoes float against the dark of the early-morning sky. They look black now, but they’ll be green in the daylight. People move like shadows as the boats are loaded for the hunt. Stan has invited Dad, me and my brother to join him. We are hunting for the community feast that celebrates the fall harvest.
Stan is Mom’s cousin. He is also chief of our band council, and we are very proud of him. He and Dad like to go hunting and fishing together. Lots of people call him Chief, but to my family, he’s always just been Stan.
Dad has a big blanket wrapped around my brother and me. We sit on either side of him facing the back bench, where Stan drives the outboard. It is warm beside Dad, and he smells like home. The blanket is cozy, but I am way too excited to sleep.
Spruce, alder and tamarack trees reach from the shadows of shore. They are thin and very old. Stars twinkle through their tops. Behind us, the boat’s wake swooshes white against the moonlight, then disappears into the dark purple water.
The tide is out when we arrive at the hunting grounds. The mud sucks hard against our rubber boots as we make our way to shore. I look back at our canoe and know that it will be safe. Anchors are set a special way because of the tides. Our freighter canoe will be bobbing by the grassy shore when we return.
Onshore, there are some fresh patches of snow but mostly sedge grass and hard-packed dirt. Rocks form circles where campfires have been. The charcoal smell hangs in the air when we walk by. The trail to our hunting blind is completely hidden from view, but Stan has walked it many times. He goes right to it.
Dad tells my brother and me to watch the trail. He says we might see footprints from our grandfather’s grandfathers. I do not see them, but somehow I can feel them. We walk from the boats to the blind, which is way in on the marshy flatlands. A gentle hand rests on my shoulder. I look up and Stan is smiling at me.
“Hi, Stan,” I say.
Stan has a way of being silent.
“What if the geese don’t come this morning?” I ask him.
“Then we go to plan B.”
“What’s plan B?”
“Kentucky Fried Chicken.”
“Okay, Stan.” We both start to laugh.
He slaps me on the back like I’ve seen him do to Dad. When I look back down to my shotgun, I feel taller.
The blind is like a little tent made of tree branches and covered in dried grasses. Built to hide hunters from the geese, it is open at the top for shooting. All four of us fit inside, but just barely. Decoy geese made of tamarack are set up in front of the blind. One of the hunters will make noises like a goose. Real geese are tricked by the decoys into flying down to have some food.
Time passes in a special way when you are hunting. No one speaks and we hardly move. We all just sit and watch the sky turn from purple to light blue. Stan gives the signal and then shoulders his gun. We have agreed that he will shoot first.
Dad’s call sounds just like a snow goose. It was the birds that brought him here, but Mom who made him want to stay. At least, that’s what he tells almost every guest who comes to our lodge. He doesn’t get to shoot, because hunting season for white folks starts later in the fall. White folks also have to be sixteen to start hunting, so Dad says the Cree side of me better do the hunting for a few years.
Geese appear like specks against the morning sky. Then wings, bodies and necks start to take shape. One swoops down, and Stan does not miss. Three more times he does not miss.
My brother and I are sent to collect the downed geese. We have to be fast and quiet. The geese are big, heavy and still warm as we try to gather them in our arms. Some blood trickles down my arm as I hurry back, and I have to look away.
Next, my brother takes his turn. Dad calls and a goose comes circling down. My brother shoots—but too soon. The bird ruffles its feathers and swoops back up and out of sight.
“We’ll try again,” Stan whispers.
On his second try, my brother misses again. He wants one so bad. He glares at me like he wishes I had a beak and feathers. Then, on his third try, he brings one down. My brother whoops so loud that Dad has to shush him, but the tension is gone and everyone is happy in the blind.
My turn comes, and I shoulder my gun. I hear Dad call. A far-off answer comes from the sky, and a speck turns to wings circling downward. I trace the bird and wait. The shot feels sure, just like the skeets did yesterday. I have butterflies in my stomach, but it’s as if they are flying in formation.
I watch the beautiful snow goose, thinking about its long journey across the world and back again. If I went all the way across the world, I would long to come home as well. I think about how it’s just seeking food and safety before winter comes. And I think about how in springtime, when the snow goose flies back home, it will be a sign that Lindy will soon be here.
Something in me moves the gun barrel as I squeeze the trigger. The goose shifts in the air and flies up and away. I look behind me to where Stan is sitting. His face is lined up along my gun barrel, his head slightly tilted. His eyes meet mine in a questioning way. He knows I missed on purpose. I look away quickly. After that I reload, and Dad continues to make his calls. No more geese come down, which means the hunt is over for the day.
We return from the hunt. There will be no need to order fried chicken for tomorrow’s community feast.
The next evening, geese and bannock cook slowly on sticks that lean over large fires. The air smells delicious and is full of laughter. Everyone is happy. It’s the kind of happiness you feel when you have saved up your hunger on purpose.
On winter hunting grounds, the hunters eat first and the elders eat last, in case there is not enough food. At community feasts, the elders eat first and then the children. The hunters and cooks who provided the feast eat last. Everyone eats as much as they want.
The elders are served, and the children are called to line up for food. I start toward the line and feel a familiar hand, strong but gentle, on my shoulder. It is Chief Stan, wearing his eagle feather. He says that I will be served with the hunters today.
“Okay, Stan,” I say—but my voice is very small. I have not looked him in the eye since the hunt.
I stand with my dad, brother and all the other hunters while people line up to fill their plates. We stand proudly. Stan motions for me to be the first hunter to go to the serving tables, and the community claps and cheers. I have so many feelings fighting inside me that I do not want to look up. I do not feel very hungry.
One of the soapstone pieces that Lindy gave me is in my pocket, along with my rasp file. He won’t be back until spring, but I have been wishing he was here. I want to ask him about when my signs and whispers tell me to do opposite things. After the feast I will walk down to the riverbank, where I can be by myself and begin to carve. Inside the stone, there is a snow goose in flight.
River Weasels:
A Winter Discovery
> So far I have carved a bear cub, a beluga whale and a snow goose, and I am getting better at it. I have one more piece to carve before spring, when Lindy comes back to visit my family. I am excited to show him my carvings. I am open to signs so I can learn what is waiting for me inside the very last piece of soapstone.
Right now it is wintertime. We have lots of wintertime where I live. The ice on the river gets thick enough to skate on safely. Sometimes the wind clears off the snow and we can skate for just about forever. And around here, if it’s winter, it’s also hockey season.
Mom is a hockey nut, and she comes out to practice with us. She has this move she calls the “ol’ dipsy-doodle,” where she pretends to pass but keeps the puck on her stick. She laughs every time she does it, and when we get tricked, we laugh too. But I am getting wise to it and even try it on my brother sometimes.
My brother and I play in the kids’ league at the arena on Saturday mornings. This is our first year. We are rookies together.
Between shifts on the ice, the players sit on a long bench. Everyone comes in one door, sits on the bench and slides down toward the other door. That’s how you know it’s getting close to your turn on the ice again.
My brother and I stick together so we can be on the ice at the same time. We are almost the whole way down the bench when these two other bigger brothers come and push us. Then they take our turns. Some other kids on the bench laugh, and one says that river weasels like us don’t belong there.
The coach doesn’t notice right away. Then we get our turns again. My brother is so upset that he smashes his stick on the ice, and he gets put in the penalty box for doing it. When I am back on the bench without him, the same kids tease me, saying, “Aww, do you miss your big brother?”
I do miss him. But I will not show it. I try not to let the teasing take all the fun out of the hockey. I am learning that not all signs feel good—some are signs of danger.
We still have our hockey stuff on when we Ski-Doo home, so we head right out onto the river rink for more. We pass the puck back and forth. I’m not sure if I want to go back to the arena. I think my brother feels the same way, because his passes are too hard and he keeps staring down at the ice. Trouble is, I really like hockey. And my brother is getting really good at it.
Mom and Dad are out skating with us. Dad has a stick, and he gets the puck and carries it way down the ice. We race after him in a mad scramble. Dad fires the puck and it goes whipping around the bend of the shore and out of sight.
We hustle around the bend and then come to a screeching halt. A romp of otters has made a slide on the snowy riverbank. When they see us come around the corner, they stop and look startled, just like we did. Then they start right back up with their fun.
The otters slide on their bellies, head first with their legs tucked under their bodies. They go whooshing out onto the ice, where they roll and wrestle. Their squeaky chitter-chatter noises sound like laughter. When they stop, they untangle themselves and race back up the bank.
Mom and Dad catch up to us and watch. Even when you’re sad, it’s hard to watch otters and not smile and laugh along. There are four of them in their family too.
The otters push their way into a spot near the bottom of the snow slide and disappear under the ice. I guess it must be their suppertime, like it is for us.
My brother and I skate up closer to where the otters were. There is a mess of crayfish shells on the ice and lots of otter footprints. There’s also an icy line down the snow hill that their bodies made when sliding.
Our hockey puck is nowhere to be found.
At dinner, we talk about the otters and the teasing.
Mom tells us that the thing she likes most about otters is that they see all other living creatures as likeable and friendly. She says an otter will never be the first to start a fight and only fights back if really pushed. Some might think this is a sign of weakness, but Mom says it’s a sign of real smarts.
When it is Saturday again, Mom and Dad take us back to hockey. I’m kind of scared but keep the otters’ example in my heart. When my brother and I are out on the ice together, I stop a shot that is getting close to our own goalie. We both start skating as fast as we can toward the other team’s net. We even get to do the passing-back-and-forth thing Mom taught us—but in the real arena! We get all the way to the other team’s blue line, and a defense player skates toward me. I decide I’ll try the “ol’ dipsy-doodle” trick on him. I pretend to pass but keep the puck and deke past him. I pass it over to where I know my brother is going to be. He takes the pass and tries a snap shot, and it flies right over the stretched-out goalie and gets mesh! We put our sticks in the air, then tear off to the bench. All the hands are out for high fives, even the teasers!
After the game, we head back to our river rink. We still haven’t had enough hockey. My brother can’t stop smiling. It’s another one of those days where you can skate forever. Mom and Dad join us, and we all decide to go check on the romp of otters. We find the spot, but they are not out playing today.
We do find something though. Right at the spot where the otters swooshed out onto the ice, we find the missing puck from last week. My brother picks it up and tosses it to me. I put it in my pocket.
I am ready to start carving the last piece of soapstone that Lindy gave me. My signs have shown me that there is a river otter inside. Tonight when I am warm by the fire, I will begin. My otter will be sliding on the hockey puck, having fun. But he will have a brave face too.
Acknowledgments
The author offers his special thanks to editor Amy Collins for patiently refining and polishing the story, to Greg Spence for advising on usage of Moose Factory Cree (or the L dialect), to Joanne Findon and Orm Mitchell, who taught the writing classes at Trent U where it all began, to a wonderful network of friends and family who helped guide the story and its route to publication, and to Darlene Gait, for capturing such magic in her incredible illustrations.
Jeff Pinkney holds an English degree from Trent University, is a former newspaper columnist, and currently works as a business advisor. Soapstone Signs, his first work of fiction, draws on Jeff ’s experiences while traveling as a development consultant in Canada’s James Bay Frontier, where he acquired a deep appreciation for the people and the landscape. Jeff is an emerging poet, writer and an amateur stone carver. He and his wife Leslie share a brood of three story-loving daughters. They are surrounded by soapstone carvings in their Peterborough, Ontario home. Learn more at www.jeffpinkney.com.
Darlene Gait is a Native American artist from the Coast Salish Esquimalt Nation. Her work captivates Native and non-Native people alike through its expression of unity between people and with nature. Known for her work on Victoria’s Unity Wall, her coin designs for the Royal Canadian Mint, and her art gallery, One Moon Gallery, Darlene continues to inspire, create and take her work in many different directions. She currently resides in Victoria, British Columbia.
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