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Authors: Janette Oke

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BOOK: CAN West 04 - When Hope Springs New

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EIGHT

Neighbors

Our Indian neighbors enjoyed much more social life than the people in Beaver River had. Though we were never asked to participate, we often heard the beating of the drums as one ceremony or another was conducted. Toward the east end of the settlement there was a long, low building known as the council house where most of the ceremonies took place. The rest of them were held in the village “open.”

At first the strange drumbeats and the rising and falling chants wafting over the night stillness seemed eery. The sounds reminded me that we were the outsiders here. We were in the midst of a different culture from our own. To us, the chants and drumbeats were distracting noise, but to the Indians these symbolized their religion, their very being. They believed in the “magic” and supernatural power of the chants and dances.

As far as we knew, the Indians in this remote yet rather large village had never seen a Christian missionary nor been introduced to his God. The old ways were never questioned and were held to with strict rigidity. The rain fell or the killing frost descended in accordance with the pleasure of the spirits, so it behooved the people to do all in their power to keep those gods happy with age-old ritual and age-old worship.

The drum beating and the dancing were performed to welcome the spring rain, to strengthen the spring calves of the moose and deer, to make quick and strong the trap, to thicken the pelts, to send the schools of fish, to make healthy the newborn, to safeguard the hunter, to protect the women, to give an easy “departure” to the elderly, and on and on.

It was no wonder, as the Indians felt obligated to perform all the rituals, that it seemed as if the drums were always beating, the rhythm of dancing feet always thrumming on the ground, the drone of chanting voices always rippling out over the frosty night air.

A death was a very important event to the villagers. Day and night they beat their drums and chanted as mourners wailed before their gods, impressing them with the fact that the soul departed would be greatly missed here on earth and thus should be equally welcomed into the new land.

The higher one was in the tribal caste system, the longer they would beat the drums. When the next-in-line as chieftain, the chief’s eldest son, died in a drowning accident, the drumbeat continued for a total of seven days. For the chief himself, it would be just seven days plus one.

By the time the seven days had passed, my whole body was protesting. Kip and I took to the woods whenever we could, but even many miles from the village the drumming could still be heard in the cool, clear fall air.

When the ceremony finally did cease, I felt I had suddenly gone deaf. The world seemed a little shaky without the vibration of the shuffling feet. It was two days before I felt normal again.

The tribe had many superstitions and they held to them rigidly. It was not unusual to see a woman suddenly drop what she was carrying and run shrieking to her cabin to shut herself in behind closed doors because she had seen something “taboo.”

Children, too, were very conscious of tribal customs and teachings. You could see them watching the sky, the woods, the ground for “signs” to live by.

So I should not have been surprised when word filtered back to me of the Indian women’s fear that association with the “pale-faced” woman might somehow bring down the wrath of the gods. There didn’t seem to be any consensus as to why the spirits might object, but the elders informed the younger, and the younger warned their children, and the villagers, with one accord, were afraid to test the conviction.

I could think of nothing I could do to break the barrier—except wait. Surely if I continued to live among them, greet them in a friendly manner and not push in where I was not invited, in time they would see and understand that I did not invoke the anger of their gods.

The Indian people of this tribe had a strange conception concerning the rule of the Mountie. To them he represented the enforcement of the law. Law was closely tied to payment for sins committed. The gods frowned upon wrongdoing and reacted with a vengeance when one stepped out of line. Therefore, in some strange, invisible way, the white lawman might have some connections with the super powers. They treated Wynn with both deference and fear.

As Wynn’s wife, I was suspect. Perhaps I had been brought to the village for the sole purpose of spying on the villagers, and as such I would report any misdeed to Wynn the moment he returned at the end of the day. Therefore no one wished to take any chances by having communication with the “pale-face.”

The fact that I had no children and was often seen walking a dog made me even more suspect, and set me even further apart from the women of the village. I did wish I could do something about my circumstances, but I had no idea how I might break through the superstitions.

When I eventually had come to understand the reason for the shunning, I believe it did help my peace of mind. At least I did not feel rejected on a personal level. I prayed about it and left the entire matter in God’s hands, in the meantime asking Him for patience and understanding.

I had to recognize also that my position as a white woman contrasted greatly with that of the Indian women. In their culture the women did most of the manual labor. The men hunted for the food, trapped the animals for fur and went to war if necessary. The woman, a laborer, was also in total subjection to the man, and her very posture showed her position. Never was she to stand before a man in the same way that another man would. Always her eyes were to be downcast and her attitude one of humility and respect.

Though very deeply committed to their religion, the Indian tribe was also dedicated to fun. They loved their ceremonies simply because they brought pleasure to an otherwise rather drab and difficult life. They celebrated births and weddings with gay abandon. They loved sporting events as well, wrestling and running and hunting, and the young men were very serious in their desire to better their opponents.

The young women loved the contests too. They stayed apart in shy, clustering groups, hiding their downcast dark eyes discretely behind slim, brown hands, but they never missed a thing. And though the young braves pretended that their skills were displayed for the eyes of the other men only, no one was fooled for a moment.

Many a marriage took place soon after one of their sporting events, with the winner making his intentions known to some young maiden of his choice by presenting her with gifts. If she accepted the gifts, it was understood that she accepted his proposal too.

The Indians were great practical jokers as well—particularly the young men, though the children too enjoyed playing pranks on one another. A young brave seemed to enjoy nothing better than to “bring down” another young fellow in the eyes of many witnesses. The laughter and teasing made the unfortunate hide his scarlet face in embarrassment. However, he usually got even at some future time when the prankster was least expecting it.

So we lived with our new neighbors—together, yet apart; inhabiting the same village, but feeling ourselves to be of another time and another world. It was so different from Beaver River, where we had been not only neighbors but true friends, sharing totally in the village life. Daily I prayed that somehow the reserve might be broken; that we would be seen as more than a “law-enforcer” and his “spying” wife; that the Indians might realize we had come as friends as well.

NINE

Spring

We dared to hope that spring was on the way when the sun began to spend more time in the sky and the days began to grow longer and warmer.

For Wynn, the winter had been uneventful. There were no major epidemics within the village, no disasters, and very few troublesome incidents.

For this we were truly thankful, for we weren’t sure what the response of the people would have been if some calamity had fallen on the tribe soon after our arrival. Perhaps with their superstitious leanings they would have felt that the disaster had come because of us.

On one of the first warm days, Wynn suggested that I might like to go on an outing with him. I wholeheartedly agreed. It seemed forever since I had been beyond the exercise trails where I walked Kip.

I bundled up, for the temperature was still cool, and put the leash on Kip until we got beyond the settlement. The trip would not be long, so Wynn decided to dispense with the sled dogs. That way we could walk together and enjoy the signs of spring.

“If you want to pack a lunch, we’ll celebrate the departure of another long winter,” Wynn had said, so I prepared a picnic. Like the Indians, I was ready to celebrate almost anything.

There was enough winter snow left for us to lace on our snowshoes.

Kip was excited. He could sense this was a special outing when we were being joined by Wynn.

Wynn walked slower than his normal pace in order to accommodate me. I still had not become truly adept on snowshoes. Besides, I wished to enjoy every minute of the day. As we walked, I was full of my usual questions about everything from squirrels to ferns. Wynn pointed out trappers’ boundaries and told me the names of some of our neighbors.

“Do you think they’ll ever accept us?” I asked him. “I mean, as part of them, not as the ‘Force’?”

“I don’t know, Elizabeth. They don’t seem to know much about the white man here. They don’t have anything to base their trust on, as yet.”

“But wasn’t there a Mountie here before us?”

“Yes ...” Wynn hesitated. “That might be some of the problem.”

I looked at Wynn, concern showing in my eyes. “You mean they had a ‘bad’ officer?”

“No, not bad. He did his duty as the King’s representative honestly enough. But he held himself apart from the people. From what I have heard, he might have even taken advantage of their belief that he might be ... ah ... different. If they wanted to think he was in cahoots with the spirits, then that was fine with him.”

“Oh, Wynn! Surely he wouldn’t—”

“Oh, he didn’t foster it, I don’t mean that, but he didn’t mind if the Indian people thought him a little different—a little above them.”

“But why?”

“It’s hard to say. Some men just like having authority. He was a loner and didn’t like to be bothered. One way to keep the villagers at a distance was to keep them believing that there was a ‘great gulf’ between them and the lawman, so to speak.”

“I think that’s terrible!” I blurted out. “And now we, who would like to befriend them and help them, have to bear the brunt of it all.”

“We’ll just have to keep chipping away at it. I think I am feeling a little less tension on the part of some of the men.”

“I’m glad
someone
is making headway.” I shook my head. “I sure haven’t. This has been about the longest winter I ever remember—at least since the one when I had both the measles and the chicken pox as a child.”

Wynn chuckled and hugged me.

We trudged on for a few moments in silence, both busy with our own thoughts. The brightness made me squint against the morning glare, and the snow squeaked with a delightful, clean sound as our snowshoes made crisscross tracks across the unbroken whiteness.

A bush rabbit streaked across the hill in front of us, and Kip was off on the chase. I could have told him not to bother. There was no way he was going to catch that rabbit. But I said nothing. Let him have his fun!

“You didn’t tell me where we are going,” I commented to Wynn.

“Oh, didn’t I? There’s a trapper out here who was burned when some of his clothing caught on fire—he fell asleep too close to his campfire coals. I thought I’d better check him out to see if he needs any attention.”

“Was he badly burned?”

“I don’t think so, but best not to take chances with infection. Some of these wounds aren’t cleansed too carefully. An infection could give him more trouble than the original burn.”

We found the cabin with no difficulty. I sat on a tree stump and waited while Wynn went to check on the man. When he came out, he said the injury fortunately wasn’t deep, and the man had seemed to care for it properly. The burn was on his left leg, from his knee nearly down to the ankle. Wynn left him some medicated ointment and promised to stop by to see him in a couple days.

We retraced our steps to the brow of a hill and sat down on a log to eat our sandwiches. How good they tasted in the fresh air, especially after our exercise of the morning.

The sun climbed into the sky and sent down such warm rays that we both removed our heavy jackets.

“Do you think it is
really
spring?” I asked with great longing.

“Why not?” responded Wynn. “It’s that time of year.”

“I’m always afraid to hope for fear it will storm again,” I confided.

“It might,” Wynn replied, “but even that won’t keep spring from coming. Slow it down a bit maybe, but spring will still come.”

It was a good thought. Springtime and harvest, God had promised, will always come to the earth.

I breathed more deeply.