Red Wolf

by Jennifer Dance

George gasped.

  The priest placed his hand compassionately on the boy’s shoulder. “I am your only father now. You’ll stay here over the summer vacation and work for local farmers who need extra help.”

  Father Thomas’s voice droned on, his hand heavy on the boy’s shoulder. George felt it weighing him down, as if he were being crushed into the ground. The priest pulled away and rustled through the papers on his desk until he found what he was looking for.

  “It says here that your mother has turned to alcohol and that nothing can be done for her.” He tutted disparagingly. “It’s the devil’s firewater for sure. You will not be allowed to return to her. It’s for your own protection, George. She could hurt you.”

  The child watched the priest’s mouth open and close like a fish left on the rocks. “Your sister has been taken away from her, too. She’s been put up for adoption. Oh, that’s excellent news. She’ll have a much better life that way. ”

  The boy’s throat went dry and he watched Father Thomas recede into a long, dark tunnel lit by twinkling stars. White light bounced off the two circles of glass that balanced in front of the priest’s eyes. The child swayed. And everything went black.

  When he regained consciousness, he was a changed person. Until then, he had fleetingly and intermittently believed that he was still Mishqua Ma’een’gun. Despite the shocking things he had learned about The People, their powerlessness to stand firm against the white man, and his anger toward his family for abandoning him, he still sometimes thought of himself as Red Wolf. He thought of himself as George, too, but never as 366. But when he learned that his father was dead and his mother cared more for the devil’s firewater than for him, he became George, 366. It brought stillness to his spirit. There was no more inner conflict, no turmoil. He was numb. He was dumb. He was George.

  George was never told the whole story surrounding his father’s violent death. He thought once again that the teachers were right. Indians were savages, drunks, good-for-nothings.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Crooked Ear’s bond to the boy was strong. Each summer he passed through the place where meadow had once met forest. He lingered briefly, his powerful nose searching through the man smells for any scent of the boy, but there was none.

  Much had changed since his first visit. The wild flowers that had randomly poked their delicate heads above meadow grasses were gone, replaced by straight rows of corn. Rails of cedar zigzagged around pastures dotted with stumps of forest giants.

  He watched four-leggeds standing in the enclosures with their young ones. The creatures were not elk, deer, or moose on which wolves normally preyed, but Crooked Ear’s keen sense of smell told him that the young ones would make a tasty meal. Saliva dripped from his mouth. He lowered his body to the ground and started to advance. But as he got closer, the rank odour of Uprights alerted him and he moved on.

  He visited the reserve where his Upright had once lived. The boy was not there. There were dogs for companionship, but The People were not keen to have him in their midst, so he slunk away, moving south toward Clear Lake. The landmarks of old trees were gone and he became disoriented. He sniffed at the stumps, rubbing his neck against the rough-sawn fibres and lifting his leg to leave his mark. He moved on, reaching what he knew to be a wide river, but it was so full of logs that it looked as solid as land. On the opposite bank a team of heavy horses fussed while Uprights struggled to roll the logs into the flow.

  Crooked Ear ran on in panic, slithering to a stop when he saw two Uprights ahead. They were pushing and pulling a huge double saw across the trunk of a massive tree. Crooked Ear backed up on silent pads.

  A sound of creaking came from the treetops. The Uprights stopped grunting and turned their eyes upward. For a moment all was still and silent. Then they ran.

  “Timber!”

  The big tree moved, almost imperceptibly at first. The strong trunk fibres that had not been severed by the saw twisted, popped, and ripped, losing their battle to hold the tree upright. It crashed to the ground, shaking the earth beneath Crooked Ear’s pads. He fled and didn’t look back.

  After the initial burst of speed, the wolf settled into a lope that took him north, well away from human habitation, into territory he had never crossed before. For the duration of the waxing moon he ran. When he finally came upon fresh lupine odour, he threw back his head and yipped in elation.

  The following night his howls were answered. The replies were mostly deep in tone, warning him that he was inside the territory of others, but Crooked Ear so craved lupine contact that he was more than prepared to risk the pack’s rejection. Within minutes he galloped the final mile and slithered to a stop in front of a wall of wolves. They stood aloof, tails high but still, their body language saying that the newcomer was not welcome.

  The alpha male raised his hackles and growled. Instantly Crooked Ear bowed to the ground. With his haunches pointed to the sky, he wagged his tail and whined like a pup. The wolves did not react, so Crooked Ear advanced a few paces, keeping his front legs and chest low to the ground. Again there was no reaction. Finally he rolled onto his back and lay perfectly still. The alpha male decided that Crooked Ear was harmless and allowed him into the pack.

  Over the summer moons Crooked Ear hunted with the Great Northern Wolf Pack, learning skills that Tall-Legs and Tika had not had time to teach him and refining those that he had picked up from Seraph and the pack at Clear Lake. He was a brave and intelligent hunter. As a result he quickly moved up the hierarchy of the pack and was allowed to feed alongside the others at the kill. He had also filled out. He now had the height that came from Tall-Legs and the girth that came from Tika. He was striking in appearance, his burnished red coat so different from the mottled shades of grey, brown, and black of the other wolves. He was in his prime but had no desire to challenge the alpha for the leadership of the pack. Because of this, Crooked Ear was forced to remain without a mate, as pack rules dictated.

  As the days grew shorter, Crooked Ear became restless. He had searched long and hard to find a pack that would accept him, and yet he yearned to leave. Something was missing in his life. It could have been a mate, it could have been the little Upright, or merely a homing instinct, but whatever it was his pads led the way, and without conscious thought, Crooked Ear found himself on the long journey back to Clear Lake, to the den sheltered under the ridge where he was born.

  He repeated this journey year after year, but when the sun was highest in the sky he always waited at the place where the forest had once met the meadow — until the time he crested the ridge at Clear Lake and saw man-dens at the edge of the water. The scent of Seraph and the others lingered on the trees and boulders and in the soil, but none of the smells was recent. Crooked Ear knew that the pack had moved far away. He had no strength left in his tired limbs to follow. He turned and with head and tail low wandered back into the forest.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  George’s formal education ended with Grade Eight graduation. The ceremony was held in the school dining room and officiated by Father Thomas. The whole student body was there, as well as the staff, but no family or friends. The graduating boys didn’t mind. Most of them had lost touch with their families.

  Father Thomas thanked God profusely for bringing so many heathen children into the Christian family and for eliminating the Indian problem by assimilating them into civilized society. He prayed for the souls of the little ones who had been lost along the way, those who had not made it to graduation. George remembered Turtle. He hadn’t thought of his friend for a long time. He tried to see an image of the boy in his mind’s eye, or hear his voice, but when he squeezed his eyes shut all he saw was bursts of bright light, like flashing stars in a deep purple sky. Turtle was gone. George could remember no more than his name and the fact that once, a very long time ago, they were friends, best friends; in fact, Turtle was his one and only friend.

  Father Thomas droned on while George contemplated that only eight boys from the o
riginal thirty in his Grade One class were graduating. Most of the missing boys were in the cemetery behind the school. George remembered that he used to fantasize that the dead boys had escaped and were once again living with their mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, and extended families. He was seven or eight when he put such childish thoughts behind him.

  He was jolted from his reverie by a chorus of monotone voices chanting Aaah-men. And then Father Thomas, with a broad smile on his face, led the students in a round of applause to congratulate the graduates. Applause was not part of regular school life. It was even rarer than the smile on Father Thomas’s face, so the boys clapped until their palms were red and tingling. With this, George officially moved on to the next stage of his life: two more years at Bruce County Indian Residential School, the only difference being that instead of classes in the morning and farm work in the afternoon, it would now be farm work all day long. But it suited George well. He worked mostly without supervision. As long as he did his job well, there was no punishment.

  Dawn milking was George’s favourite chore. It was quiet in the barn, no angry voices or shouted commands, no whacks of the cane, just the cows chewing the cud. He leaned his forehead against the flank of the cow, watching each squirt of milk turn to froth, making music by aiming the flow to the side of the pail. The repetitive sound calmed him, resonating with a rhythm that seemed to be part of his soul; a drumming, reminiscent of a heartbeat.

  Henry and George had come to an understanding, too. Henry had changed, softened. The transformation had happened soon after Master Evans left the school. At the time George did not see the connection. He had always felt uncomfortable around Master Evans, despite the fact that the Grade One teacher was kinder than most of the staff. But a day came when suddenly George knew the truth. He remembered the look on Top Boy Frank’s face when Henry had come across the field all those years ago. Back then George couldn’t understand why Frank would feel sorry for Henry. But now he found himself looking at Henry with that same expression, and he was astounded that he had been so blind.

  George never raised the subject of abuse with Henry, and Henry never volunteered any information, but now George understood what Henry had endured. And Henry knew that George knew. The shared secret was enough to bring peace to the previously turbulent relationship between the two boys.

  There was no doubt that Henry was the best chicken killer in the school. He would hold the bird by its feet, slam it onto the old maple stump, anchor it with his boot, and wait until all the senior boys were watching him. Then he would raise the axe and with one swift movement lop the squawking head clean off.

  Then came the moment the boys had been waiting for; Henry moved his boot. The headless chicken flapped its wings, leapt upwards from the maple stump, landed on its yellow feet, and high-stepped around the yard. The boys shrieked and shoved each other to get the best possible view while dodging the hapless chicken and the gushing blood. In unison they counted.

  “One … and … two … and … three … and …”

  George never wanted to take part in the ritual, but he did, his eyes drawn to the macabre sight as though he had no control of them. Despite his aversion, he behaved as enthusiastically as the others, pushing, betting, fitting in, surviving.

  “Look, the stupid bird doesn’t know it’s dead,” Henry often shrieked, doubling over in gales of laughter.

  Words of The People would form in George’s head. He didn’t recognize the male voice that spoke them. And he had retained no understanding of Anishnaabemowin, but as the headless chickens ran around the farmyard, the strange phrase echoed through his head, and stranger still, he knew what the words meant.

  I am not yet dead, but already I am in hell!

  George knew that it applied to more than the headless chicken.

  When the headless bird finally crumpled to the ground, twitched and lay still, there was always an uproar, the boys arguing about who had won.

  The stronger boys pushed the weaker ones until a winner was declared. Then the losers pushed each other around some more, trying to decide how to divide the winner’s chores.

  George hated both killing and gutting chickens. The metallic smell of blood and the slick feel of guts in his hands turned his stomach. But he didn’t mind the time-consuming job of plucking feathers, so Henry killed and gutted, and George plucked. Henry, however, who was always so amused by the headless chickens, and who would unravel intestines with glee, would clutch his groin protectively at the prospect of castrating piglets. That job fell to George.

  Both boys understood that male piglets had to be castrated. The boar that was kept for breeding purposes was evidence that uncastrated piglets grew into dangerous, unmanageable animals. George knew that the strength and wildness that he took from a piglet had been taken from him too, albeit in a different manner. Like the pigs, he had become docile, domesticated, and tame.

  George had been called savage almost every day of his school life. With the help of the pigs he learned that the opposite of savage was not obedient, or well-behaved, or educated, as he had been led to believe. The opposite of savage was tame. George felt a stab in his chest when he realized that the word described him well.

  A year after graduation, Henry came out of Father Thomas’s office yelling that he was finally free to leave. George shared his excitement but was saddened by the news. He was going to miss Henry. Hurriedly, the two boys promised to look each other up in the outside world when they both had jobs and homes of their own. Then Henry was gone.

  George didn’t know how much longer he would have to wait for his day of freedom. He didn’t know when his fifteenth birthday was. He had been given an official birthdate for the school record, but neither this date nor his real birth date had ever been celebrated. The children marked the passage of time by grades, not birthdays, thinking of themselves as Grade One, or Grade Three, or Grade Eight. After graduation, George was gradeless. So it came as a surprise when, the year after Henry left, Father Thomas summoned George to the office and told him he could leave. He didn’t have to wait until the end of the year, the end of the term, or even the end of the day!

  George had longed for this day for ten years, but as Father Thomas unlocked the gate, he was filled with trepidation. The priest pressed a few coins into his hand and ushered him to the outside world.

  “This will help you get through the first few days, until you get on your feet.”

  George had never had money of his own and wondered what he might buy with it.

  “It won’t go far,” the priest warned. “You need to find a job. Soon. Understand?”

  The gate slammed behind him. Rust flakes rained down onto the small suitcase that contained all his worldly possessions. George looked up to the orange strand of barbed wire that coiled along the top of the gate and remembered that once he had tried to scale it. It had seemed so high then. Now he could stretch up and touch it if he wanted to.

  Father Thomas turned the key in the lock. The metallic clunk reminded George of something, although at first he couldn’t quite remember what it was. Then an image flashed across his inner eye: a man on his knees, clutching the gate, wailing. George didn’t like what he saw. He didn’t like the weakness that he perceived in the man’s tears. He didn’t like the turmoil that was stirring inside his chest. He wanted to be back on the other side of the gate, where he had no feelings, where he had a bed to sleep in, food to eat, and where he was told what to do and when to do it, where he didn’t have to look after himself. He almost pleaded with the Father to let him back in, but ten years had taught him not to speak unless spoken to. He remained mute and watched the priest walk away.

  George was alone.

  Accustomed to following orders, he did exactly what Father Thomas had suggested. He headed toward town to get a job. His confidence rose as he walked. He imagined working in the general store, stocking the shelves, loading supplies into horse-drawn wagons, maybe even steadying the horses, or serving the custo
mers. He saw himself living on Main Street in a house with curtains in the windows and paint on the door.

  The shopkeeper told George that he never hired Injuns. “Not that I object to your kind, myself,” he said. “It’s the customers, see. They won’t stand for it. They won’t tolerate your dirty hands touching the produce.”

  George looked at his hands. They were indeed a little dirty from the walk to town. “I can wash them, sir.”

  The shopkeeper laughed and escorted George from the store. “I’m sorry, boy, but I can’t afford to lose any customers.”

  The feed store owner shooed George away as though he was one of the flea-ridden cats that lived off mice in the mill. “Don’t come back unless you want to buy something.”

  And the blacksmith said he would never take on an Indian as an apprentice.

  George wanted to get out of town as fast as he could. He walked past the picket fences and painted front doors of Main Street, his head down, his eyes averted from the staring eyes of the townsfolk. During the years at Bruce County Indian Residential School, George had been repeatedly told that education and assimilation would secure his future, but in his heart he always suspected he would never be educated enough, never assimilated enough, never good enough, never white enough. Now he knew for sure.

  He headed into the countryside, following Father Thomas’s final instruction. It was almost dark and he had no place to sleep and no supper to eat, but he was optimistic, knowing that he would far rather milk cows on a farm than serve white folk in a store. He was more comfortable with animals than with people. Animals didn’t lie. Animals didn’t hurt you as long as you didn’t hurt them.

  That night George slept as an uninvited guest in a derelict barn, and the next day he worked at the only job he could get: shovelling manure. Acceptance of his low status came naturally. Working knee-deep in manure was what he had been trained for, what he deserved.