A Short History of Indians in Canada (5 page)

Ho! That your new slogan?

Ian Alistair Mackenzie, says Coyote. It’s Ian Alistair Mackenzie’s slogan.

He must be important, I tell Coyote. All Whitemen with three names are important.

He’s the Whiteman in charge of making up slogans, says Coyote. But that one is not a good poet. If he was a good poet, he would have said, “Let our slogan for British Columbia be, ‘No Japs from the Rockies to the sea.’”

Look at that, I says. Now that slogan rhymes.

Be, sea, says that slogan. Be, sea.

Oh, yes, says Coyote, all good slogans rhyme. You want to hear some of Ian Alistair Mackenzie’s other slogans?

Is that your new job? I says. Making those Ian Alistair Mackenzie slogans rhyme?

Oh no, says Coyote, my new job is to Disperse Enemy Aliens.

No, I don’t know what “disperse” means. Lots of those words begin with “dis.” Disdain, Disappear, Distress, Disaster, Disillusioned, Disappointed, Disingenuous, Distrust.

Disperse.

No, I don’t think we should ask Coyote. Okay, but don’t blame me if things get messed up.

Come on, says Coyote, we got to get those Enemy Aliens dispersed.

So Coyote gets all the Women Enemy Aliens and the Children Enemy Aliens out of that Livestock Building smells like horses and cows and sheep, and that one gets those Men Enemy Aliens with those targets painted on their backs from that other place, and that Coyote puts all the Enemy Aliens into the back of his pretty good truck that says “Okada General Store” on the door.

It’s pretty crowded, I can tell you that.

Okay, says the Coyote, let’s start dispersing.

So that Coyote drives that truck into the valley, and then that one drives that truck into those mountains, and then that one drives that truck onto those prairies, and that one doesn’t stop driving until he gets to my place.

My good place. My good place by the river.

Holy, I says, there is my good place.

Yes, says Coyote, this is a good place, all right. Maybe this is a good place to disperse the Enemy Aliens.

Sure, I says, we got lots of room.

So Coyote gets all of the Enemy Aliens out of the truck, and I call my friend Napioa and my friend Billy Frank. Ho, I tell my friends, we got guests.

Okay, my friend Napioa and my friend Billy Frank tell me. We’ll call the rest of the People. Maybe we’ll eat
some food. Maybe we’ll drink some tea. Maybe we’ll sing a welcoming song.

A party? says Coyote. I love parties!

But you know what? Some of those Enemy Aliens look pretty sad. Some of those Enemy Aliens look pretty scared. And some of those Enemy Aliens with the targets on their backs look pretty angry.

Boy, I tell Coyote, those Enemy Aliens don’t look too happy.

And after everything I’ve done for them, says Coyote. And just as that Coyote says this, a big car comes along.

Ho, I says, that is one important-looking car.

Yes, I am, says that important-looking car.

Did you come for the Enemy Alien party? I ask that important-looking car.

No, says that important-looking car, I am looking for Coyote.

Did I get a promotion? says that Coyote. And that one polishes his teeth with his tongue.

Get in, says that important-looking car. We got some secret stuff to talk about.

So Coyote gets in that important-looking car, and I go find the food, and now some of the Enemy Aliens are feeling a little better.

You know, that Billy Frank tells me, this story about the Enemy Aliens have their property taken away by Coyote and the Whitemen and get moved from their homes to someplace else reminds me of another story.

Yes, I tell Billy Frank, me, too.

You remember how that story goes, says Billy Frank.

No, I says, but maybe we think about it, that story will come back.

So we eat some food, and we drink some tea, and Billy Frank and Napioa warm up that drum, and we have a couple of songs.

So pretty soon, that Coyote gets out of that important-looking car. And those RCMPs get out of that important-looking car. And those Politician guys get out of that important-looking car, singing “O Canada.” But they don’t sing so good.

Holy, says Billy Frank. We’re going to have to get more food.

Okay, says Coyote, all the Enemy Aliens back in the truck!

Let’s not be hasty, I tell Coyote. The party is just starting.

No time to party with Enemy Aliens, says Coyote. I got a new job.

Another job? Boy, that Coyote is one busy Coyote.

What is your new job? I ask Coyote.

I got to take the Enemy Aliens to their new homes, says Coyote.

They can stay here, I says. We got lots of room.

Oh no, says Coyote, that would be too dangerous. We got to take the Enemy Aliens who look sad and the Enemy Aliens who look scared to that Sugar Beet Farms. We going to give them jobs.

Okay, I says, working on the Sugar Beet Farms is pretty good money.

We’re not going to pay them, says Coyote. These
Enemy Aliens have to work for free, so they can show us that they are loyal citizens.

Boy, I tell Billy Frank, those citizenship tests are tough.

What’s a citizen? says Billy Frank.

What about those Enemy Aliens with the targets painted on their backs, who look pretty angry?

Oh, says Coyote, those are the dangerous Enemy Aliens. Those dangerous Enemy Aliens are going to Angler, Ontario.

Holy, I says, those Enemy Aliens must be real dangerous to have to go to Ontario. Have any of the Enemy Aliens caused any troubles?

Not yet, says Coyote, but you can’t be too careful.

So that Coyote goes to the centre of the party and stands by the drum, and that one holds up his hands.

Okay, says Coyote, all the Enemy Aliens back in the truck.

Maybe they didn’t hear me, says Coyote. And this time he says it really loud. All the Enemy Aliens back in the truck!

But nobody gets back in the truck.

Okay, says Coyote, we going to have to do this the hard way. And Coyote and the RCMPs grab Billy Frank.

Enemy Alien, says that Coyote and those RCMPs.

Silly Coyote, I says, that’s not an Enemy Alien. That’s Billy Frank.

Are you sure? says Coyote. He certainly looks like an Enemy Alien.

I’m Billy Frank, says Billy Frank.

So that Coyote and the RCMPs grab another Enemy Alien.

No, I says, that’s not an Enemy Alien, either. That’s my friend Napioa.

Nonsense, says Coyote, I know an Enemy Alien when I see one, and Coyote and the RCMPs grab every one they see. Those Politicians stand behind that important looking car singing “O Canada” and waving flags.

Enemy Alien.

No, I says, that’s Leroy Jumping Bull’s cousin Cecil.

Enemy Alien.

No, I says, that’s Martha Redcrow. She’s married to Cecil Jumping Bull’s nephew, Wilfred.

I wouldn’t stand too close to this story if I were you. Coyote and the RCMPs might grab you. Yes, I’d sit in the corner where those ones can’t see you.

Enemy Alien.

No, I says, that’s Maurice Moses. He’s Leroy Jumping Bull’s grandson. Leroy’s daughter, Celeste, had twins.

Enemy Alien.

No, I says, that’s Arnold Standing Horse. He takes those tourists into those mountains to go hunting.

That silly Coyote even grabs me.

Hey, I says, let me go.

Oops, says Coyote, oops.

You got to stop grabbing everybody, I says.

But Coyote and the RCMPs don’t do that. And pretty soon that Coyote has that pretty good truck filled with Enemy Aliens, and that one has that pretty good truck filled with Indians.

I have more Enemy Aliens than when I started, says Coyote. I must be better than I thought.

You got to keep the Indians and the Enemy Aliens straight, I tell Coyote. Otherwise you’re going to mess up this story.

And just then the RCMPs grab that Coyote.

Enemy Alien.

No, no, says Coyote. I’m Coyote.

Enemy Alien, shout those RCMPs. O Canada, sings those politicians. And everybody drives off in that important-looking car and Coyote’s pretty good truck says “Okada General Store” on the door.

And I don’t see that Coyote again.

So that Coyote comes by my place. My good place by the river.

Yes, this is still the same story. Yes, that Coyote has been gone awhile, but now that one is coming back. Sure, I know where Coyote and the Indians and the Enemy Aliens go. No, they don’t go to Florida to play that golf, wrestle that alligator. No, they don’t go on that cruise to those islands, everybody sits in the sun and drinks out of
big nuts. No, they don’t give those Enemy Aliens them back their Enemy Alien Property either.

Hello, says that Coyote. Maybe you have some tea. Maybe you have some food. Maybe you have a newspaper for me to read.

Sure, I says. Sit down. Where’s that pretty good truck says “Okada General Store” on the door?

The Whitemen took my pretty good truck, says Coyote. And they took all my Enemy Alien Property. And they took all my Enemy Aliens.

Holy, I says, those Whitemen like to take everything.

Yes, says Coyote, that’s true. And that one drinks my tea. And that one eats my food. And that one reads my newspaper.

Hooray, says that Coyote. I have found another job.

Boy, I says, it is dangerous to read newspapers.

This job is better than the other one, says Coyote.

You going to round up more Enemy Aliens? I says.

No, says Coyote. I’m going to that New Mexico. I’m going to that Los Alamos place in New Mexico, help those Whitemen want to make the world safe for freedom.

Okay, I says, that sounds pretty good. That New Mexico is mostly that desert and those mountains. Nothing much in that Los Alamos place that Coyote can mess up.

Yes, now Coyote is gone. Yes, now those toes are safe. Yes, that’s the end of the story. Well, you should have asked Coyote that while he was here. Maybe if you hurry, you can catch him before he gets to that New Mexico.

No, I’m going to stay here. That Coyote will come back. That one always comes back. Somebody’s got to be here make sure he doesn’t do something foolish.

I can tell you that.

He hit an eagle.

The phone rings. I wake up. An eagle, Steven says. Would you believe it? At Queen and Yonge. Making a right turn.

What time is it?

You’re Native, he whispers into the phone. Do something.

I squeeze the pillow against my breasts. There are no eagles in Toronto, I tell him. It’s a seagull, they don’t mind being hit.

A friend in Alberta once showed me an eagle hung on a fence, its head blown away by a farmer from Fort Macleod who feared the bird might want something he owned. Might swoop down and pick his pocket when his back was turned. Steal his truck. Sleep with his wife. Occupy his home.

The buzzer rings. I stand in front of the door and practise breathing. Steven is in the hall with a brown grocery bag. He waits there, smiling, expecting that I’ll ask him to come in. My mouth is thick and sticky. My
hair is bent to one side. The stubble on my legs catches at my robe.

What do you want?

Here, he says, it’s in the bag, and he slides by me, smoothly, rippling into the room, flooding the apartment as he goes.

Nice place.

There are newspapers on the floor. Dishes in the sink. A pile of dirty clothes near the stove. These days I have little to interest eagles. A few books. My mother’s sofa. A television with a built-in VCR. A deaf cat.

I have to see a man about a horse, he says.

The bag is heavy. The bottom is dark and wet. I set it on the table and listen to see if he raises the toilet seat. Or if he lowers it. Or if he washes his hands when he’s done.

When we were in love and in Haida Gwaii, we stood on the rocks and watched eagles tumble out of the trees each evening to take fish off the water. This is where Raven put Eagle’s body in a tree, I told him, and this is where Sun brought her back to life.

So this is where you were born. Far out.

In this particular memory, Steven runs down the beach, his arms thrown out, his clothes catching the wind.

I’m an eagle! His body dips from side to side, weaving in and out of the water, turning and coming back to me on the fly, like a rock thrown at a wall. You’re a fish, he
says, and pulls me down onto the sand.

Overhead, the seagulls float and search the foam for food. Further out, dark clouds sit on the water. The sand is heavy and damp. Steven pulls his shirt up over his head and kicks off his shoes. He unbuttons my blouse and tosses it into the air. It hovers above us for a moment like a bird.

The eagles do not follow us. They drift back into the tree. They know trouble when they see it.

Afterwards, we walk to where the land and sea turn north and run out to Rose Spit. It is the westernmost point in Canada, a low promontory of sand and storm-thrown grass. Near the end of the spit is a weather tower, a thin-legged platform caught in a web of guy wires. I climb to the top and watch Steven below me, picking his way through the tangle of driftwood and logs at the water’s edge. He stands on top of a dead tree and smiles and waves his arms and shouts at me, but all I can hear is the ocean and the sound of the wind. Perhaps it’s an apology. Perhaps it isn’t.

Steven flushes the toilet and comes back into the room. I didn’t mean to hit it, he says. It just flew in front of the car. There was nothing I could do.

Steven smiles at me. He tilts his head to one side the way he used to tilt his head when he wanted me to kiss him or put my head in his lap or make him a cup of coffee.

You with anyone? he says

I want to clean the apartment. Sweep the floor. Make the bed. Organize the refrigerator.

Wash my hair.

Shave my legs.

Take out the trash.

Steven sits down on the sofa, spreads himself out generously, and, in that moment, I realize that the bag might not contain an eagle at all, that it might be filled with doughnuts. Bagels. Fruit. Chocolate. A peace offering. An intention. Perhaps something more. Perhaps something less.

I thought there might be a ceremony, he says, like the one in the story.

I make coffee. Steven stays on the sofa and watches me as I move from the stove to the refrigerator. You’re looking great, he tells me. You lose some weight?

In that memory of Haida Gwaii, there is a car on the beach. Stuck sideways in the sand. A car driven too far. A man stands by the rear wheels, a piece of driftwood in his hand. A woman stands near the hood, her arms wrapped around her body. From my tower, I imagine that they are lovers on their honeymoon. The man from Alberta. The woman from Ontario. Perhaps the trip hasn’t gone too well so far. A minor accident in Swift Current. A burst radiator hose in Medicine Hat. An argument in Prince Rupert. And, now, at last, this.

The sky above the car is alive with ravens and gulls. They lie on the wind pretending not to listen. I love you,
honey, the ravens chant at the gulls. Lot of good that’s going to do now, the gulls sing back.

When we take pictures, we tend to take pictures of resting moments. With scenery. But what we remember are the disasters. These are the memories that bind us. These are the memories we share with friends. Standing on the tower I can see the couple in the distance shaping their memories. The car is a rental. Or it was purchased just before the wedding. Or given to them by parents. They are in love and too young to know anything about sand and water. Too young to know to stay on maintained roads. Too young to know how quickly tides shift.

Don’t worry, the ravens shout, I know what I’m doing, and the gulls rise up on the gusts and fall away, laughing.

The man digs powerfully with his stick, clearing the tire and the axle so the car can settle deeper into the sand. The woman had already seen the danger long before they made it this far but realized that, even with the protection that passion provides, she could not hope to slow his enthusiasms. While the man works, the woman opens the trunk. Inside, between the suitcases, are brightly coloured shopping bags with twisted paper handles, each overflowing with presents and souvenirs. She looks through each bag, carefully considering each item, finally leaving everything behind and walking across the rocks and the logs, up to where the grass begins.

I watch the ravens and the gulls. They are delighted. The tide is on its way. They know it won’t be long now.

That day at Haida Gwaii, I wait on the tower until
Steven finds me. We lean into the wind and watch the man and the woman and the car. Should we help? I ask. The water has almost surrounded the car now.

No point, says Steven. There’s nothing worth saving.

What about us?

Steven raises his arms. He pushes me against the guy wires and buries his face in my hair. I’ll save you, he says.

At Queen’s Quay, Steven takes the bird out of the bag. It is a sorry sight. The body is crushed. Someone has cut off the head and the feet.

Did you do this?

I haven’t been with anyone for a long time, he says. What about you?

It’s not an eagle, I say, it’s a goose, but I can see Steven knows this already.

I’ve missed you, he tells me.

I stand by the railing and look out over the lake. The wind off the water is cold and quick. Steven hangs the goose in a thin ornamental tree that grows out of an iron grating and interlocking bricks. The branches are too weak to hold the bird, so he wedges it deep in the crotch of the trunk.

And I’m betting you’ve missed me.

Steven brings back a wing feather. Something for your war bonnet, he says. And he opens my coat and slides the feather inside my blouse.

We should go, I say.

Don’t you want to see if the Sun is going to save Eagle? He herds me along the railing with his hands. I still love you, you know.

You’re not an eagle, I tell him.

He presses against me gently, and for a moment, over his shoulder, I can see the sky over Haida Gwaii.

I’m not a fish.

The sun comes up and lights the tree and the goose. Steven moves against me, roughly now, his chest rolling against my breasts, his hands pulling my hips into place. I twist and slip away, leaving him hung on the railing, staring at the lake.

Didn’t work, he shouts. And when I turn, I see he is holding the goose by a wing. First light glances off its body, and it swings gently from side to side in the breeze, as if it’s working up the strength to fly away.

You’re Native, Steven says, smiling now, tilting his head to one side. Do something. And he spins the bird around above his head and flings it into the lake.

I walk back to my apartment and lock the door. I pull the curtains and turn off the lights. Later, I lower myself into the bath and watch the water rise around my body. And when I close my eyes, I see the couple on the beach in Haida Gwaii, the man bent on saving the car and the presents, the woman content to have reached high ground.