A Short History of Indians in Canada (7 page)

Jesus takes the bus as far as the Rolling Rock Café in Testament, Alberta, and walks the forty miles to the Garden River Indian Reserve.

Hide me, he begs the secretary at the band office, for the love of God, hide me.

You know how to run a copier? Mary hands Jesus the agenda for the band council meeting. Either lend a hand, she tells him, or get out of the way.

Jesus stands at the copier, stacking paper in the cradle and watching the machine collate and staple, collate and staple, collate and staple.

I think I lost them in Medicine Hat, he shouts over the noise. But they could be here any time.

I’ve put you on the agenda, says Mary, under new business.

I hope it’s a luncheon meeting, says Jesus. I’m starved.

Mary arranges the sandwiches and the soft drinks on the table. No peanut butter and jelly this week, she tells the council. Just tuna.

I hate tuna, says Simon who is called Peter.

Can I have his? says Jesus.

Doesn’t look like we have enough, says Andrew, brother of Simon who is called Peter.

Who wants brown bread? says James.

Any pita? says Jesus.

You look familiar, John, brother of James, says to Jesus.

It’s Jesus, says Philip. He was just on
America’s Most Wanted.

Holy! says Bartholomew. That must have been exciting.

The council votes to buy a new single-wide for Mary, mother of James and John, whose trailer was destroyed when the propane tank exploded, and approves a request for roof repair from Mary who used to work in the sex trade in Calgary before she returned to the reserve and got her status back.

You sure have a lot of Marys around here, says Jesus.

The council also agrees to grade and oil the lease road and to ask for bids on painting the water tower.

What about me? says Jesus. I’ve always been a friend to the Indians.

I don’t know, says Thomas. What about that “civilizing the savage” business?

Yeah, says Matthew, and all those missionaries.

That wasn’t my fault, says Jesus. I didn’t tell them to do that.

They used your name, says Thomas.

Everybody uses my name, says Jesus.

Mary opens the door to the meeting room. Martha just called, she says. There are a dozen guys at the Petro-Can in Testament, singing and beating their swords against the side of their van.

See? says Jesus. I wasn’t making it up.

Martha says they’re headed our way, says Mary.

Great, says Simon the Canaanite who is not called Peter. We’ve hardly enough food to feed ourselves.

You know, says Judas, I’m getting a little tired of sharing.

This is good tuna, says Jesus. Is there any root beer?

The band council walks to the edge of the reserve and they all watch as the evening light shifts and stretches out across the prairies.

If you move fast, says James, son of Alphaeus, you can be in the mountains in a couple of days.

We’ll try to slow them down, says Judas. What’d you say to get them so excited?

If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast and give it to the poor, says Jesus. Something like that.

Oh yeah, says Philip, that would do it.

Any of you guys interested in following me? says Jesus. I could make you fishers of men.

Thanks anyway, says Matthew, but it screws up our tax status if we work off-reserve.

It’s dark by the time the band council gets back to the town site.

So, what did you think? says Simon who is called Peter. You figure they’ll find him?

Lots of wilderness out there, says Bartholomew. He should be safe.

I don’t know, says Thomas, looking up at the stars in the heavens. They found him once. Maybe they’ll get lucky and find him again.

The Fernhill Senior Game Preserve was alive with activity. All morning, the trucks had been bringing in the racks of camouflage clothing, tins of candle black, and hundreds of pairs of high-top boots, running shoes, and woolen gloves.

Mason Walthers leaned on his cane. The arthritis was getting worse. He could feel it in his knees and hips now. It would be sheer luck if he got through another season.

“Next!” said the blond man in the blue suit. Mason couldn’t keep track of them anymore. They all looked alike. There was a silver badge on his blazer: “Henry Culler, Assistant Director of Sport.”

Mason shuffled to the counter and handed in his card. The Assistant Director of Sport smiled at Mason and looked at the card. “Mason Walthers, seventy-two, male, six-foot-one-inch, one hundred and sixty pounds.”

Mason smiled back. “That’s right. I think I get complete camouflage this year.”

The Assistant Director of Sport looked at the card
again. “Yes,” he said, “that’s right, Mr. Walthers. How are the legs?”

“Not what they used to be.”

“Do you want boots or shoes?”

“Shoes, I think. The feet swell too much for boots anymore.”

“Candle black?”

“Wouldn’t be without it.”

“Cap and gloves?”

“Are they camouflage, too?”

“The gloves are grey, but there was a foul-up and the only caps we got were the orange ones. I wouldn’t recommend them.”

“The gloves will be fine.”

The Assistant Director of Sport handed Mason a neat pile of clothing. On top was a bright, green circle of plastic with a number on it. “You’re number two hundred and fifty-six. We may get you up into the three hundreds yet.”

“I’d like that,” said Mason.

“Have a good season,” said the Assistant Director. “Next!”

Mason took his clothes to his room and put them on the bed. Sarah’s picture was on the nightstand. Bob had brought her by for Christmas.

“She’s only seven, Dad,” his son had said, when they arrived at the preserve. “She doesn’t understand. Maybe you could explain it to her.”

Well, he had tried.

“It’s complicated, honey,” he had begun. “It has to do with nature. You see, a long time ago, there were a great many animals. Like the kind you see in your picture books. People used to hunt these animals for food, but, after a while, they just hunted them for sport.”

“Well, the animals began dying off. There were many reasons. Pollutants killed quite a few. Diseases killed some, too. But most of the animals were hunted until there just weren’t any more.”

“Human beings are natural hunters, you see. We didn’t mean to kill all the animals. It just happened.”

And that was as far as he got. Sarah had closed her eyes and curled up in his arms and told him he was being silly. She wanted him to read her the book with all the pictures of horses. “Grandpa, were all the horses beautiful?”

“Yes, honey,” he had said. “They were wonderful to see.”

“The horse book is my favourite book.”

It was Mason’s favourite book, too.

What else was he supposed to say? Mason wasn’t sure he could explain it anyway. How would he tell a seven-year-old about human psychology and destructive urges, about the wars that had almost destroyed the race and the competitive killing that had begun when there was nothing left to hunt?

There was a knock on the door. Joe Beretta stuck his head around the corner. “Hey, Mason. Come on. They’ve posted the times.”

When Mason got to the recreation room, everyone
was crowded around the bulletin board. Mrs. Winchester was standing at the back, leaning on her walker.

“Don’t think it’s going to matter much this year,” she said, as Mason came up beside her. “Can’t push this contraption through the trees without making one hell of a noise. How’s that granddaughter of yours?”

“Saw her at Christmas,” said Mason. “She’ll be eight in July.”

“Hey, Mason!” Joe was waving at him from the front of the crowd. “We got an early start. Six-thirty.”

“If you’re in our group, Mrs. Winchester, we’ll give you a hand to the trees. You can hide the walker in the brush near the ravine.”

Mrs. Winchester shook her head. “Myrtle Smith and Liz Wesson tried to help old Howard Luger last year. They actually carried him across the meadow. Never saw the like. Got as far as the third post before some smartass got them both with one shot. Broke Howard’s hip, too.”

“I remember that. The guy won some kind of prize.”

“I’ll be okay. A lot of folk don’t want to waste their shot on me. Too slow. No sport in that. They’d rather take a crack at you fast boys.”

Last year, Mason had watched Wilma Remington hobble across the meadow. She was using two canes, and when she got to the sixth post, she had to stop. She stood there for a long time bent over those canes. Her whole body heaving from the exertion. And then she started walking again. She got as far as the first tree. Someone had waited all that time, had waited until she was almost safe before trying a long and difficult shot.

“Thank God for the kids, Mason. They’re the only thing that makes all this worthwhile.”

Joe caught up to Mason and pulled him off to one side. “Mason, this is the year. We got to do it this time.”

Joe always had grand ideas of escaping and heading for Canada. Canada didn’t have a seniors law. There had always been rumours of some families smuggling their parents and grandparents across the line. But they were only rumours.

“Look at us, Mason. We’re not going to make it through another season. Your legs are all but gone. My back’s so bad I can hardly move. I’ve run out of places to hide.”

Every year since Mason had known him, Joe had talked about escape. One year, he was going to dig under the fence. Another time he was going to climb one of the large trees near the perimeter and swing across. The last few years, he had worked up several plans to hide in a delivery van.

Mason liked Joe, but Joe didn’t understand the larger picture. “Joe, even if you did get to Canada, it wouldn’t change a thing. People die. It’s a natural process. What does it matter if you get run down by a drunk driver or shot by someone having a good time? At least here you’re part of a delicate balance that keeps human beings from blowing themselves up. You ought to read your history.”

“Something’s gone wrong, Mason. Can’t you see it? It’s all wrong.”

“What about your friends, Joe?”

“Most of them are dead. Remember. Every season we watch them get shot.”

“What about your family? If I went to Canada, I wouldn’t be able to see my granddaughter.”

“You won’t be able to see her if you’re dead, either.”

Mason went back to his room and lay on the bed. He had been at Fernhill now for seventeen years and, aside from the six weeks of hunting season each spring, they had been good years. He had his own room with a bath, a remote-control television, books, all his meals pre-pared. Sarah could visit him whenever Bob had the time to bring her by. He didn’t like being shot at any more than Joe did, but that was what happened when you turned fifty-five. That was life.

At four o’clock, Mason was awake. The alarm was set for five o’clock and breakfast wouldn’t be for another half an hour after that. But he was awake. The leg was throbbing, and, as he shifted around to get out of bed, the pain increased until he had to stop and catch his breath.

He was going to die. Perhaps today. Certainly before the week was out. He could stay in bed and put it off. But you were only allowed three sick days during the season, and, after that, they carried you out to the first post and left you there. His heart was racing as he swung his legs over the edge, and the pain came back, hard and raw, a grinding, breaking pain that Mason imagined was very much like the pain of a bullet smashing into bone.

Mason showered, stood in the hot, streaming water and the steam, slowly working the leg to life. The
hunters would come in through the turnstiles at six o’clock, but they had to walk through three miles of forest before they got to the meadow. Others would take blinds closer to the fence and wait for the seniors to come to them. It was five hundred yards from the first post to the trees, and, with any luck, Mason could make the sanctuary of the woods before the hunters got settled.

The first hundred yards was always the hardest, trying to run, trying to stay low, waiting for the crack of the first shot.

Joe was waiting for him at breakfast. “Mason. I’m going to get out,” he said. “I’ve figured out a way.”

“Joe, you’ve always got a way.”

Joe leaned across the table. “We get out the same way the hunters get out.”

“It’s been tried.”

“Sure, Benny Ruger tried it with a hunting pass that wouldn’t have fooled a blind man. Tried to walk out wearing regulation clothing. They spotted him coming. No, not that way. Not exactly. Look, the first thing we got to do is spot the blinds. Hell, we’re good at that.”

It was one of the tricks of staying alive during the season. The first day out, you tried to find as many of the blinds as you could. Those who survived the first day shared the information with one another. Halfway through the season the Director of Sport changed the location of the blinds, and you had to start all over again.

Joe leaned even closer. “Here’s what we do. We find
two blinds that are close to the main gate and we kill the hunters.”

“What!”

“Listen to me. They’re trying to kill us, aren’t they? And don’t give me that crap about it all being part of some damn system. We kill them. Then we change clothes with them, take their passes, and their rifles. We stay in the blind until six and then just leave with the rest of the hunters.”

Mason wanted to laugh. “Just what do we kill them with, Joe? Our bare hands? I can hardly wipe my ass. There are pictures on those passes. What happens when the guard looks at the picture?”

“They’re going to shoot us, Mason. Unless we get out of here, they’re going to shoot us dead. Use a rock. Use a tree limb. Use your imagination. Christ, probably no one is going to check the picture.”

The warning bell sounded. People began moving toward the porch. “Meet you back here at six,” said Joe.

The meadow was beautiful this time of year, a huge mosaic of greens. Even the posts that marked the distances for the hunters were nicely painted. Later, the flowers would come. Mason especially liked the Ruby Hearts, a tiny, bright-red perennial that appeared suddenly in splashes and pools in the tall grass.

The Director of Sport stood on the platform and looked at his watch. “First group,” he shouted. “Go!”

Mason limped down the steps into the grass, willing the leg to move. The trees seemed miles away, and, as he
ran, the sweat beaded up on his face and tumbled into his eyes, blinding him. But he kept running, feeling the ground as he went, staying as low and inconspicuous as his tortured body would let him.

Joe found him at dinner. “I’ve got two blinds near the gate. Couple of old guys. Another year or two and they’ll be in here instead of out there.”

“I don’t know, Joe. Couldn’t we just knock them out?”

Joe shook his head. “Mason, we’re killers. Man’s a killer. How do you think we got ourselves into this crazy mess in the first place. Besides, we got to make them look like they’re seniors.”

“I don’t know, Joe.”

“You can have the first blind ‘cause of your bad leg. I’ll take the second one. We kill them, change clothes, drag the bodies into the woods, and stay in the blind until six.”

“Maybe we could cut through the wire.”

“Canada, Mason. They don’t hunt seniors in Canada.”

“Maybe there’s a way to get over the fence.”

Joe grabbed Mason’s hands. “I won’t wait for you, Mason. You can stay here and have your head blown all over the meadow if you want, but I’m going.”

The backs of Joe’s hands were covered with brown splotches. Mason looked at his own. “You think they still have a few horses in Canada, Joe?”

“Horses? Come on, Mason! You with me or not?”

There was fog in the meadow the next morning, which raised Mason’s spirits immensely. He wouldn’t
have to move so fast. Each hunter was only allowed one bullet, and they wouldn’t waste it in the fog. They would wait for the fog to lift, and, by then, he would be deep in the woods.

The fog was heavier in the trees, and Mason almost missed the blind. The sound of a lighter and the smell of a cigarette gave it away. Mason came up behind the blind. The hunter was dressed in a red plaid jacket. He had on a black wool cap and was sitting on a folding chair with a thick purple cushion, smoking a cigarette, his rifle across his lap.

As Mason watched, the hunter suddenly dropped the cigarette and grabbed the rifle. He thrust the barrel through the blind and looked into the telescopic sight.

The blast rocked the hunter back in his chair, and Mason heard him curse as he lit another cigarette. He had missed. Mason smiled and wondered who had been the beneficiary of the man’s poor aim.

The hunter settled back in, and Mason saw his chance. He moved to his left and picked up a large rock. There was perhaps ten yards of open space, and, if he could get across that without being seen, he would have a chance. The hunter had used up his only bullet, but he was large and Mason was certain he couldn’t kill the man with only his hands.

Mason had taken several steps toward the blind when the hunter reached into his pocket and took out a large box of shells. He opened the box and put a cartridge in the rifle.

Mason couldn’t catch himself in time. “That’s not
fair,” he shouted. “One shell, God damn it. One fucking shell is all you’re supposed to get.”

The hunter spun around, falling off the cushion as he did.

Mason came forward with the rock in his hand. “You son of a bitch.”

The hunter’s hands were out in front of him, the palms pink and trembling. His voice was a hoarse whisper. “Don’t…”

“One shell,” Mason hissed. “One shell!”

The hunter began crawling deeper into the blind. He was sweating now, his face pulled white and contorted. “No,” he said, pleading. “We all get a box.” There was a bubbling sound to his speech as though he were being strangled. “Everybody gets a box.”