Joe promises that he’ll keep an eye out for Gordon.
I sit and watch for what feels like hours.“It’s okay, Uncle, they’re all gone now,” I say once in a while. “You can wake up. We can chat.” I’ve not spoken so much for so many days my whole life. I feel drained of words.
Spring goose hunt is not too far away. Despite all the snow and the frozen river, the world’s beginning to thaw. Here. Here’s one more story for you, then. It’s a short one, and I don’t think I have anything left for you after this.
You’re the one who took me to the bay every year since I was a baby, drove me the miles by river in your freighter canoe to where the river ends. I guess we all have our favourite childhood memories. Mine burn inside me like red coals. A cold autumn evening there on the shores of the big water, our canvas prospector’s tent glowing by lantern light against the night, the air cold on my cheeks as my moshum, your father, sits with me on a boulder overlooking the water. I know you’re somewhere close, fishing with Uncle Antoine. My mother and Suzanne are in the tent, having finished plucking a goose for supper, one just taken an hour before at dusk.
Moshum sits with me and points out how the bay has absorbed the light. He gives names to the stars that appear. North Star. Hunter’s Star. Going Home Star. He speaks slow in Cree, the words magic and long, a part of me.
“They are the same stars you see anywhere you go in the world, little Niska,” he says. This name, Niska, Little Goose, has always been his pet name for me. “My own auntie told me that,” Moshum says, “but I didn’t learn it until I travelled far away. And now I teach it to you.” I remembered those words. Remember them to this day.
My mother was always surprised, a little envious, even, at how much my grandfather spoke to me. He wasn’t a talker. Do you remember how he could go for days, sitting in an old armchair by the wood stove, leaning on his cane and gazing into the open door, startling a little when a log popped? He was already ancient when I was still a small child.
When it gets too cold to sit on the boulder any longer, Moshum and I go into the big canvas tent and join Suzanne and my mother. Suzanne is just big enough to be walking on her own now, is stubborn and becomes angry when she doesn’t get her way. But tonight she’s happy, plays with a large black-and-white wing feather, drawing pictures in the air with it that only she can see. I sit with her and tickle her face with another feather. I try to stick the point up her nose. At first she feigns anger, but then breaks into peals of laughter.
You and Uncle Antoine come into the tent soon after, smelling of cold air and tobacco and goose.
I remember how you’d plucked the first goose of the season earlier that day, how you sharpened a long stick and speared it through the bird, how you tied each end of the stick with a thin rope and dangled it over a fire in our canvas tent, the goose hanging from a crosspiece in the roof, turning all day in the heat and smoke, slowly cooking, its juices dripping into the fire in tiny hisses. Sagabun style.
I remember how Moshum is the one to cut it down from its ropes and carve pieces of it for all of us, how we sit in a circle in the tent and dip bannock cooked over the fire into gravy, eat the goose until our mouths are smeared with grease. Suzanne’s smile is shiny, and it makes me laugh. Night’s come completely and the wind picks up a little. You and Uncle Antoine and Moshum listen to that wind and predict a clear morning.
We have to be up early for my first goose hunt. We’ll be in the blinds before dawn breaks, watching the skies to the north, waiting for the geese that will spot our decoys. But before bed, once dinner’s finished and our plates and cups are rinsed in the bay and put away to dry, we sit by the fire and listen to the sounds of the water and bush outside our thin walls.
Moshum sews in the dim light of the fire and listens to us talk. I don’t know how he manages to see what he stitches in that lack of light. You tell me he can see in the dark, something he learned when he was in the war. My mother says he’s sewn for so long he doesn’t need to see anymore where the next stitch goes. He stitches pieces of moosehide together, hide that he home-tanned over a rottenwood fire. He makes moccasins for Suzanne and me, has just finished a hat for you, of moose and beaver fur, for the coming winter. I think it’s funny watching him sew. Only old ladies do that. Watching him makes my eyes sleepy.
A hand shakes me. I open my eyes. I’ve been sleeping on spruce boughs in the tent. It’s still dark outside. I don’t know whose hand woke me. I see you, Uncle, stirring the fire back to life and brewing coffee over it. I dress quickly when I realize I am going outside for goose soon.
You and Uncle Antoine and Moshum eat your porridge slowly, pretending not to see me, stopping every once in a while to say, “Is that a goose I hear coming?” sending me to the entrance of our tent to search. Mum tells us to be quiet so that we don’t wake Suzanne yet. Finally, when you’re all finished with your breakfast and coffee, you light your cigarettes and smoke. I want to drag you all outside right now.
We pull our muddy boots on, our hats and heavy coats. We head out into the cold air of early morning, the sky still black but tinged with pink on the eastern horizon over the huge stretch of water. Moshum carries two shotguns, his own big one, and a small one, a double-barrel 20 gauge for me. He walks slowly, carefully, dragging his fake leg over fallen driftwood.
In the blind, Moshum directs while you rearrange our decoys, all of them homemade. Once settled, we crouch in our blind made of sticks and marsh grass, a few yards from the water.
I watch as you three load your shotguns. Moshum shows me how to put a round in each barrel of mine, how to always point it at the water, where the safety is and how the two triggers work. “Keep it tucked tight in your shoulder when you shoot it,” he says.
Geese already appear, far too high in the lightening sky to shoot at, but close enough to quicken my breath. The next flocks come in lower, and when Moshum sees one that’s close enough to him, he cups his hands over his mouth and calls out, his throat tight so that he sounds like a goose. Awuk. Awuk awuk.
Moshum calls the geese in. They come closer, seeing our decoys, and set their wings to land, their feet splayed out below them. This moment slows so much I swear I stare my goose in its black eyes. Moshum has stopped calling now and crouches behind me. I stand, my head barely above the blind, the shotgun steadied by his hands on my shoulder. He pushes the safety off. He tells me to wait until he says before I pull the trigger.
My goose glides in straight to me. My heart pounds so loud I’m worried the goose will hear. I can feel Moshum’s hands help to steady my gun. I don’t think I want to kill it. It’s beautiful.
“Now,” he says, and my finger tenses. The shotgun roars and hurts my shoulder. The world goes almost quiet. Just a buzzing in my ears. The goose drops from the air in slow motion. It splashes into the water close to me. I want the time to return to its normal tick, tick, tick. Time, my world after that, never seems the same again.
Moshum and I leave the blind and walk to the goose. I hear you, Uncle, say, “Good shot,” in my muffled ears.
I’m surprised to see the goose flap a wing lamely, its eyes focused on the ground in front of it, waiting for us. I was sure I killed it. Maybe we can help it get better. I can’t take my eyes off the bird as we approach, watch as Moshum leans and grasps it by the neck, whispering something to it, then kneels on its chest till the animal goes still. My stomach sinks with the finality of this. From that moment, the light in the sky changes just a tiny bit, the light more intense.
I know you watch as Moshum strokes the bird as if it’s a pet. He whispers words to it and takes some tobacco from his pocket and places it in the bird’s beak. He plucks a large flight feather from it and places it in my hair.
“There, little Niska,” he says to me in English, smiling. “Now you look like an Indian.” The word Indian comes out of his mouth in two syllables. Ind-yun. I like it when he speaks English, how he pronounces the words so oddly. It makes me feel a little bit better.
&n
bsp; “I dreamed I killed a goose last night,” I say, looking up at him. “I dreamed exactly what happened just now.”
He smiles. “I know,” he says.
Weeks later, when he has cured the goose’s head, Moshum patiently and intricately beads it so that it becomes a dazzling jewel, a gift for me to keep and to show my children one day. I think it was the last sewing he ever did. Do you remember? He died not so long after that.
I’m so tired. I lean forward in my chair and rest my head on the bed beside you. I’ll take a short nap now. It’s late. With my eyes closed, the hum of the machines that plug into you are almost peaceful. So easy right now to slip into the black.
I dream of a hand stroking my head. It feels good, like I am a child again. I open my eyes. It’s still night outside. The room is lit low, cast in a green light. The hand continues to stroke my hair.
I want to turn my head, to lift it from the bed, but I’m petrified. For those first few seconds of consciousness, I don’t know where I am. But I know now that I’m in the hospital room, my head on Uncle’s bed, and a hand is patting my hair.
“Ever hungry, me.” The words come out slow, straight from sleep. “I was dreaming of roasting a goose.”
I lift my head slowly. The hand stops its movement. I look at Uncle. He’s looking down at me.
“Is that you, Suzanne?” he asks. “Can you get me a drink of water?”
“It’s me, Annie.” Am I dreaming?
“Oh. Hi, Annie. I miss you. Suzanne will be home soon.”
I watch him close his eyes again. I stand up from the bed and stare down at him. I reach out and gently shake him. He doesn’t respond.
I rush out of the room, shouting for Sylvina.
39
I THINK YOU UNDERSTAND
I ask Dorothy to help me talk Joe into driving us in his freighter canoe from the hospital to Moosonee. Chunks of ice still dot the dark water, and something in this makes me think of a giant rye and Pepsi. Joe drives slow as a kookum through the channel and across the river. He’s even built a plywood cabin on top to keep the wind off of me. He placed blankets on the seats for us to cover up. My old buddy, he’s become a sap.
At the Moosonee docks, my war pony waits for us. Joe and Gregor tried to tune up the engine. The truck sits there, chugging and coughing black smoke. Now this makes me think of a cigarette. Dr. Lam says the severe trauma to my head is an excellent cure for smoking. I guess he’s right. I don’t think of it much at all. Maybe I’ll try to sell this idea on late-night TV. I’ll hold a golf club in the ad.
I’m told I won’t be able to go out in the bush to make a living anymore. The right side of my body doesn’t work too good. I might be prone to fits.
Joe continues acting like a granny, setting up my wheelchair and helping me out of his boat, almost sending both of us into the water. Since I’ve woken up, my vision’s sometimes wonky. I sometimes see double, and this throws me off. My world’s off kilter, and it scares me. Right now, I see two of my friend. That’s a lot of Joe. He helps Dorothy push me up the short, steep bank to my truck and lifts me in. It is kind of nice, though, to see two of Dorothy.
“We won’t be long,” I tell him. I hope I’m looking at the right one. A few people waiting for water taxis nod to me. Some smile and give a wave.
Dorothy climbs in the driver side. “Where we going, Will?” she asks. I’ve not told her yet. We only have another hour before I have to be back to the hospital or Dr. Lam says he’s ordering me down to Kingston. Dorothy has already reminded me of this. My short-term memory needs some fine tuning.
“Head down Quarry Road, okay?” I ask.
I must have fallen asleep. Dorothy has pulled over to the side of the road and shakes me. “Tell me where we’re going, Sleepy,” she says.
I rub my eyes and get my bearings. “A quarter mile up,” I say.
When we get to the overgrown rut of a side road, I ask her to turn to the river. She’s figured it out, I think. Her hands grip the wheel.
At the end of the road, she stops by the overgrown foundation. Trees these last twenty years have sprung tall enough along the bank to hide the river. It was once a fine view.
I want to get out of the truck, but I’m too tired. Dorothy and I sit in the cab and stare. I can still make out the foundation in the mud and grass. Just one simple house. No company store. No church in these ruins.
I can still tell which room lay where. It’s my first house, the house I built, with my old father’s help, so long ago. Drifts of snow stubbornly show their backs in the shade of trees. Me, I want to believe wildflowers bloom in this place each summer. Although I only live a mile away, I’ve not ever come back to visit.
“Why here?” Dorothy asks. Her voice shakes, holding back the crying.
I try to find the words. I lift my fingers to my mouth and breathe in. It takes me a moment to realize my body still acts like I smoke. I must look crazy.
“This is where I lost my family,” I finally say. I want the words to say more.
Dorothy’s crying now. “I know,” she says.
Again, it takes a long time to speak. “This is where I want to start a new life with you.” The words are still not right, but they’re a little better. I have to say more. “I don’t mean live here,” I say. “I want to live with you on the island.”
Dorothy looks out the broken windshield.
“I need to say goodbye in the right way,” I say. This is hard, making words with my mouth. When I can continue, I say, “I want to make sure she understands. I want her to know that life isn’t long.”
No more words come to me right away. Dorothy and I sit and consider this field by the river. Wind blows through the alders on the bank, making them bend and nod.
Dorothy takes my hand in hers and I hold it tight. We sit for a long time and stare out. An osprey hangs high up on the currents, making slow circles around us.
“I don’t feel bad here,” I say.
Dorothy leans over and we kiss.
It’s not really what I meant to say. I wanted to say something else, but my mouth can’t make the words. I wanted to say, simply, that my wife, I think she understands. She is that osprey above us, blurring now in my strained vision, drawing circles over our heads. She’s protecting and will always feed our two boys.
Dorothy, my woman, I think you understand.
A few days ago, I returned home. It’s still cold out in the mornings and at night. The blackflies and mosquitoes are now waking up, but I mostly stay inside with a small fire in my stove to keep me warm. No one wants me to be alone at my old house, but I need to prove something to them, to myself, before I travel across the river to live on the reserve with Dorothy.
Just before I came back home, I kicked Annie and her tough-looking skinny boyfriend out of my house for a while to go live with Lisette. Lisette will make an honest couple out of them. Lisette will make them squirm for their freedom.
Before Annie left, I gave her this house. She cried when I told her, and it was with happiness, I think. I never saw that before. I told her I just need a couple weeks back by myself to try and feel normal again. Then this good house, this house you’ve cleaned far too well, it’s yours. All yours.
I’m lying on my couch, half napping, the sun warm on my face, when I hear something that startles me, something I’d forgotten the sound of. At first, I can’t place it. I open my eyes to its shrill call, try hard to search inside my head for where this sound comes from, what, exactly, it is. It calls out again. I sit up best I can, my head pounding from the motion. It’s my phone.
While I struggle to sit up fully, to place my feet on the ground, the phone rings again. The right side of my body feels as if it’s fallen asleep. It won’t wake up. A cane they gave me at the hospital sits across the room, leaning on the kitchen table. I’m trying not to use it. When I go to stand, I collapse on the floor. The phone rings again, as if to mock me. I crawl to it beside my cane in the kitchen, the hip I fell on feeling bruised. I fe
el like an old, old man.
“Yello,” I say when I pick it up, trying to sound casual, but I’m out of breath. A recorded voice on the other end informs me I have a collect call from Timmins courthouse. I agree to take it. Annie can pay the bill when it arrives.
When the line clicks over, I hear breathing on the other end. A dull panic blossoms just above my intestines, pushing down. “Who’s there?” I ask, ready to hang up out of fear.
“Will?” I recognize the voice. “Me, Will.” Antoine’s voice lets out a laugh.
“You drunk or something?” I ask him.
“Mona,” he says. “No. Me, I’m not drunk.” He laughs again. “No booze in jail.”
I ask him if there’s any word on when they’ll let him out.
Antoine just answers with a simple, “Mona. No word.” He laughs again, a quiet, good laugh.
“If you’re not drunk, why you acting so funny, then? Why are you laughing?”
“These policemen down here,” he says in English. “Ever funny, them. They treat me good. I’m eating good, me, in jail.”
I tell Antoine that if they don’t let him out soon, I’ll figure a way to bust him out.
“When I get home to Peawanuck,” he says, “I’m going to build a new house.” I listen to my old half-brother’s voice, his voice that has spoken, even if rarely, for more than eighty years in this world. He’ll do it. Maybe I’ll get good enough to help.
“These policemen and me, we talk about hunting,” he says. “These white guys, they like to kill moose. They like me to tell them how I do it. Some even take notes.”
“Don’t tell them too many of our secrets,” I say.
Through Black Spruce Page 37
