CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Bill Clark didn’t much like the idea of hiring an Indian, but he’d been unable to shake off the cough that had plagued him since the previous winter, and he was feeling low. He needed help and the Indian was the cheapest labourer he could find. George planted, weeded, harvested, hayed, mended fences, and shovelled manure, and he did it all without complaint. What’s more, the old farmer noticed that his Clydesdale liked George. Her affection toward the boy was a good recommendation.
Daisy was the biggest animal George had ever seen. Her withers were higher than his head, and he couldn’t see the top of her back. But once he got over the shock of her immense size and strength, he realized that she was a gentle and sweet-natured creature with no trace of malice. He felt safer around her than he did around white folk because he sensed she wouldn’t try to hurt him. Most white folk, on the other hand, made his heart beat fast, his stomach churn, and sweat break out on the palms of his hands.
Bill Clark had not intended to let George work with Daisy. He never let the hired hands touch his precious horse. George was to do everything else, leaving Bill the time and energy to see to Daisy, but when the farmer brought the Clydesdale back to the barn after a hard morning in the field, George pumped water from the well so that the horse could drink. That pleased Bill. It showed him that the boy cared about the horse. He reasoned that if he taught the boy how to unharness Daisy, brush her down, and feed her, he could take his weary self to the farmhouse and lie down for a bit.
The farmer set about teaching his young protégé how to care for Daisy. “There’s no point in trying to force your will on her,” he said. “If it comes to strength she’ll win. She’s got to trust you enough to let you be the boss. Once she knows what you want, she’ll be happy to oblige. She’ll do just about anything to please you.”
George was a quick learner and soon Daisy was willingly dropping her head into the bridle to take the iron bit from his hand, and picking up her enormous feathered feet so that he could clean the dirt from her hooves.
The first time George led Daisy out of the barn alone, when she clopped alongside him to the drive-shed and backed into the traces of the plough, he felt something warm in his chest. He was disappointed when the farmer refused to teach him to drive the horse. George had to be content with watching the rapport between the old man and his horse, spotting the barely perceptible touch of the long reins that controlled the mare’s every footfall. He watched the pair cultivate the soil, working together as a team, and he imagined himself behind the horse, steadying the ploughshare, feeling the reins, encouraging Daisy forward with the cluck of his tongue.
When the day’s work was done and the horse was standing knee-deep in a bed of fresh straw, George would unlatch the stall door and go in with her. He didn’t talk to her aloud in the English words that were his only language. He talked to her with his thoughts. And sometimes he felt that she talked back.
“Boss, you don’t look too good today,” George said, noticing the sallow hue to the old man’s weathered skin.
“I’m fine,” Bill Clark replied with a cough and a wheeze. “I aim to plough the south field today and tomorrow, then get it harrowed —”
“I can do it, boss,” George interrupted.
Bill Clark guffawed, which brought on a fresh spell of coughing. “Lad, it takes years to learn to plough a field,” he said once the spasm had passed.
“I know how, boss! I’ve been watching you good. Me and Daisy could plough a straight line, for sure.”
“It’s not as easy as it looks, boy. But you’re right. I don’t feel too good today, so go harness the horse and let’s see what you can do. If you make a right mess of it, no harm done. I’ll just do it over.”
Almost by instinct, it seemed, George was able to guide Daisy down the edge of the furrow, angling the plough, its sharp edge cutting deep into the soil. He quickly learned to balance the speed of the horse with the tilt of the ploughshare so that a wave of fresh, damp earth ran continuously from the blade, settling behind him in an almost straight line. Within a day he was a master. Within three days the job was done. He took satisfaction from the symmetry of the ploughed field, and he could have stared at its beauty forever. It hurt him a little when the farmer told him to harness the horse to the drag harrow and make that first pass over the immaculately ploughed field. His thoughts wandered to the intricate frosty designs on the dormitory windows and to Mother Hall, who always made them scrape it off. He hated destroying a thing of beauty then, and he hated it now.
But to his surprise, harrowing the field brought fresh satisfaction. With his job complete, he leaned his head against Daisy’s shoulder and gazed over the tilled field, inhaling the earthy smell that mingled with horse sweat. He stooped to pick up a handful of crumbly soil and let it run though his fingers. It gave him a sense of well-being that was normally absent from his life. He remembered how he felt at school when he milked the cows, and deep down inside he knew that he could be more than a hired hand. He knew he could be a farmer. Desire rose in his throat, the yearning for his own land, a horse like Daisy, perhaps a few cows, some pigs, and chickens. But how could he be a farmer when he had no land and when he had no money to buy machinery or livestock? He pushed the longing back down. It could never happen. It was a crazy thought. No, he would stay here on Mr. Clark’s farm. The job suited him. Life was good.
As winter settled in, George shivered under his blanket in the hayloft. Bill Clark gave him some winter clothes that had once belonged to his son, and a pile of old blankets, and told him to come up to the farmhouse and warm himself by the wood stove. “You chopped the wood, lad, you may as well warm yourself with it.” But George never went. He was not accustomed to being toasty warm in winter. He preferred to go into Daisy’s stall. The heat from her enormous body kept him warm enough.
The morning that Bill found Daisy and George asleep together in the straw, the old farmer made a decision that was surprising even to him.
“George,” he said when the young man stirred, “I’m going to leave that horse to you in my will.”
George had no understanding of what a will was, and Bill had to explain. George was speechless.
The old man then spoke the longest sentence of his life. “Sometimes I lay awake at night thinking that I ain’t got too much time left on this earth, but I’ve had a good life and I don’t mind it coming to an end, ’cause I’m tired, and the wife died years ago, and my boy went to the city of York and hasn’t been back here for years.”
A spasm of coughing interrupted his words. He pulled a dirty grey handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the spittle from his face.
“He never had any interest in the farm, anyways, only the money it will sell for when I’m dead and gone … money that will line his pockets. He don’t care about the farm or about Daisy, and I worry what will happen to her. The way things stand right now she’ll be sold off with the farm, and who knows where she’ll end up. She might go to someone who doesn’t treat her right. I’d roll over in my grave if I thought she was being mistreated, or overworked.
“Next time I go to town, I’m gonna take myself to the lawyer’s office and change my will. I can’t think of a better person to leave my Daisy to than you. You and her are made for each other.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“Anyone here?” hollered the stranger, holding a white kerchief over his mouth and nose and peering tentatively into the barn, his eyes registering disgust at finding himself in such a place.
George climbed down the loft ladder.
“Who are you?” the stranger asked, taking a step back in alarm.
“I’m George, sir.”
“What are you doing here?”
George took off his cap and kneaded it in his damp hands, his eyes focused on his moving knuckles. “I’ve been working for Mr. Clark goin’ on a year. I do pretty much everything ’round here.”
“Pack your things and be out by morning. The farm is bein
g sold.”
“Yes, sir. Me and Daisy will be on our way at first light.”
“Who’s Daisy? Your woman? Yes, take her, too. Both of you have to get out.”
“Daisy’s my horse. Mr. Clark said she’d be mine when he was gone, said he left her to me in his will.”
The man consulted his notebook, adjusting wire-rimmed eyeglasses back and forth on his nose. “You mean the Clydesdale?”
George nodded.
“There’s nothing in the will about leaving the horse to you.”
“Mr. Clark said he was going to change the will and leave her to me, said he’d turn over in his grave if she gets sold to someone else.”
“Well, he’s rolling over now.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s nothing in this will about leaving the horse to you. How long ago did he say he was going to change the will?”
“A month back, maybe more.”
“This will is dated three years ago.”
“But he changed it. He said the lawman would write it down.”
The stranger unhooked the glasses from his ears. “I guess he never got around to it.”
“He never wrote it down like he said he would?”
“No.”
“But he gave me his word —”
“A man’s word doesn’t mean anything in this situation. It’s not legal unless it’s written down on paper, signed, and witnessed.”
A memory flooded George’s mind; he was a young boy again and a man with long hair talked to him in a language he did not understand and yet George knew exactly what the man was saying.
“Did you learn the scratchy lines?”
“Yes,” George found himself saying aloud.
“Then, son, you will make sure we are not deceived again.”
Anger blasted though George. He seethed with frustration. He knew how to read and write the white man’s words, yet he had been deceived. He had failed! He wrung his cap in his hands, the only indication of the inner turmoil.
It’s true, his inner voice screamed, white men are not to be trusted. They are greedy and want everything for themselves.
But even as he thought these things, he knew that Mr. Clark had not intended to trick him. The old man had wanted to write it down so there would be no dispute. He had wanted George to look after Daisy for the rest of her days. But time had run out for him. And now there was nothing George could do. He hung his head in despair.
“She’s my family. What will happen to her?”
“She’ll be auctioned off along with all the farm equipment.”
“Sold?”
The man rolled his eyes. “That’s generally what happens at an auction.”
“How much?” George asked, excitedly. “I have money. I can buy her.”
“Sure you can buy her. How much do you have?”
George rushed up the loft ladder and got a small leather pouch from under his mattress. All the coins he had been able to save since he had left school were in the bag. He loosened the drawstring and tipped the money into the man’s hands.
“That’s not enough to buy one leg,” he scoffed. “She’s a valuable animal. A champion. A good plough horse is hard to come by.”
“Please, mister. I’ll work to pay for her. I’ll —”
The man tossed the money on the barn floor, the coins rolling away into dusty corners.
“I’ll go with her,” George continued, his voice taking on a tone of desperation. “The new owners will want someone to look after her and work her. I can handle the plough real good and the harrow and the hay wagon. I know how she likes her oats. Her tummy is real ticklish. You have to be careful when you brush her there or she’ll kick. See, I know all these things —”
The man in the suit laughed. “You want to be sold with the horse?” He guffawed derisively. “That would sure stop the bidding!”
He turned and walked away. “If you’re still here tomorrow I’ll send the police over.”
That night George tossed and turned, listening to Daisy in the stall beneath him. He thought about stealing her. He imagined climbing onto her back and riding away as fast and as far as possible, some place where nobody knew them, where nobody would follow them, where they could start a new life.
The spirit of hope made his heart race. We could go north, where there are no white men.
But despair rose up to crush hope almost as soon as it was born. What will Daisy eat in the land of darkness and cold? She will starve without grass and hay and oats.
Hope struggled to survive. If we leave now, under the night sky, we could get away before they realize we have gone, before they start searching for us.
The voice of reason spoke. Daisy is too big to hide. People will see us. The police will catch us before we get out of the county.
Hope refused to be trampled. Unless we go now, right now. Right now!
In the moonlight he led Daisy to the harness shed and bridled her, cutting the long driving reins to a more manageable length with his knife. He tied his blanket around his shoulders and Daisy’s lead rope around her neck. Standing on the rickety stepladder, he scrambled onto her back. She was warm beneath his legs, but he felt a little unsure of himself. He clucked and she moved forward with a surge that left him behind. He heaved on the reins. “Ho!”
Daisy stopped abruptly and they started over, this time more smoothly and they got to the end of the laneway without mishap. But doubt was speaking loudly in George’s head. The sun is already coming up. They will catch you. You’ll go to jail. A memory rose to the surface. He was imprisoned in a small wooden crate. He was cold and lonely and his limbs were cramped. He remembered a deer mouse that ran onto his lap to nibble the crumbs. He remembered how he had felt when the tiny creature scuttled away between the cracks and left him alone. He remembered hearing the lonely howl of a wolf. And then he remembered that his father had been hanged by the neck until he was dead.
Sitting on Daisy’s warm broad back, he uttered a cry of despair into the dawn sky.
He turned the big horse around and took her back to her stall.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
George walked away from the Clark farm and from Daisy. He had no idea where he should go. He fingered the wolf head pendant that nestled against his chest. As always, when he held the smooth piece of deer bone in his work-roughened hands, he felt something that bordered on sacred. He did not give thanks to Creator in the way of The People. Nor did he say the rote prayers he had learned in school. But he had a vague remembrance that once, a long time ago, the Spirit Wolves had helped him find his way home. He sent his thoughts through his fingertips. Help me find a way.
Gradually a seed of hope germinated in George’s mind. The government, he had heard, sold land to settlers for next to nothing. That was the answer! A piece of land could provide him with food, water, and shelter, and free him from working for the white man.
He put on his school clothes, surprised to find that his arms and legs had grown longer and his chest broader since he had left school, and he went to the government office. Land, he was told, could only be sold to settlers: white men.
Indians could not buy land.
He was shooed from the office as though he was a flea-ridden dog, but as he was leaving, another government official pulled him aside
“You know you’re entitled to treaty land, don’t you? No strings attached. No charge.”
George chuckled as he replied. “You mean the government is going to give me land of my own, and I don’t even have to pay for it?”
“It’s already yours.”
George couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I won’t have a boss telling me what to do or what to grow?”
The government official smiled. “That’s right. You can be your own boss. You can grow whatever pleases you. You can cut timber and build a house. You can do whatever your heart desires. You can sit and drink whisky all day, and watch the trees grow, if that’s what you want. I hear tha
t’s what most of them do up there.”
George couldn’t help but sense that there was some loophole or condition that he had not, as yet, understood. “Are you sure about this?”
“I’m sure. You’re a Status Indian —”
George had been called many names in his life, but this was new.
“— and it means you’re on the list.”
“List?”
“The status list.”
George’s face was blank.
“You were counted by the government and they put you on their list. The word Status means Legal Status. It means you’re legally an Indian.”
George had a fleeting thought of Mother Hall trying to make him an English boy. Even then he doubted they would ever let him be one! Here was the proof. He was legally an Indian.
“Being Status gives you rights,” the official continued.
“What rights?” George asked, shocked to hear that he had any.
“The right to live on the reserve, for one, and own your own plot of land.”
George’s spirits sank. That was the catch! He had to go back to the reserve.
“If you were Non-status you wouldn’t have those rights,” the man explained. “You’d have nothing!”
George mind raced.
Going back to the reserve is taking a step in the wrong direction! the educated George thought.
But I want my own land, more than anything in the world, his heart protested.
The people on the reserve are sinful. If you go back you’ll be no better than them. You’ll go back to their level.
George’s heart was not to be silenced. But I want the freedom that land will give me.
The reasoning part of George was quick to counter. You endured ten years in that school, to rise above the disadvantage of your birth, so that you could have a better life than the old Indians. You can’t go back! You are educated. You are better than the savages on the reserve.
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