Celia's Song (23 page)

MOMMA'S POPPA COMES INTO
view, she sees him standing on a cliff edge, tying her off, complaining about her. She insists on trying
to dip into the river to catch a fish. He complains about how precious she has become to him. He complains about seeing her being born, coming through that sweetness of her momma, squealing before her body was all the way through. He saw her tiny face; her small hands all covered in blood and knew his love for her could kill him. Sam is cut from the same cloth.

MOMMA'S FATIGUE NEVER LEFT
her after that damn epidemic. She looks over at Celia. As the tired in her dies and her strength returns, she comes to see that she had betrayed her father's love. She had not bothered to bring Celia home. “Poppa spoiled me,” she says out loud. “He loved me like you love Stella, Sam.”

Sam winces. “Don't you try weaselin' me, Momma.”

“I'm not trying to weasel you, Sam. I am just remembering my own poppa.”

Celia keeps her eyes on her mother. She sees the lines around her eyes disappear. Her shoulders, always so slender and sloped, square and drop gently in a nearly sexy posture. The skin on her face loosens and looks brighter. Celia tries to remember the last time her mother looked this good. “You look good, Momma.” Stacey and Rena share a confused look, and then they both shrug.

“SHUT UP!” Steve hollers.

“Relax,” says Judy.

This night will change them all. Momma has no idea how, but she knows it will. Sam has found himself a way to win. She wants to find a way to win too. She will pick her battle more carefully than Sam has. He has been dropped into this battle against his will. She will choose a battle, calmly and coolly, then she will plot
her victory. Sam's battle made him a victim of his love and that renders his attempt a loss. She vows that she will never be a victim; her win will be a triumph.

Her calmness agitates Sam. Sweat appears on his brow. The sweat beads. The old man shifts and a little river of sweat slides from the top of his forehead toward his brow, just above his good eye. Jim sees it; just leak down into that one good eye, he prays, his fingers twitching. Jim gets ready. The sweat slides down and lands in Sam's good eye, blinding him for just a second. The old man blinks and shakes off the sweat obstructing his vision. The gun in his hand shifts and loses its focus on Momma. Jim leaps. The sight of Jim coming at him through this moving blur confuses the old man. He shifts the gun back and forth, not sure if he wants to re-aim it at Momma or aim it at the blur, but it's too late. Jim whacks the barrel upward, the gun goes off and, for just a second, the room freezes. Momma is still standing when the screams erupt. The child cries. Ned's leap followed Jim's by a half second. They rise. Jim has the gun in hand. Ned is about to hit Sam, but Momma smiles. “Don't, Ned. He didn't mean me any harm. He's just tired of losing.”

Everyone stares at Momma; she has lost her mind. Judy starts to say, “Ain't this some shit.” Rena shouts, “Shut up with that shit business.” Steve looks like he feels he must be the one who is out of his mind committing himself to these people, this family, and this village. Stacey faints. Rena catches her. Celia clears the room of everyone but Steve, herself, and Judy.

Stacey's faint shocks me; I have not realized how like Momma she is. I lick my paws and pray.

Without song wind cannot play inside our bodies. The spirit of our co-creators cannot adore us unless we sing. We cannot feel foreverness without passing air over carefully controlled impassioned vocal cords, uttering sounds that are so beautiful they articulate the soul. Songs are about light. They teach our children to adore the light inside. They tantalize the musculature and restore
cellular movement in that easy way that the breath of the four winds has of tantalizing the earth, dragging sound through trees, and haunting the world with the beauty of breath's power. Breath on vocal cords, rendered melodic and rhythmic, can inspire humans to resist the most terrible tyranny. Breath across vocal cords, uttered
softly, can settle the fears of a child. Song's breath across vocal cords
can excite the love of a woman for a man. Song's breath across vocal cords can restore the peace of the body after the agony
of divorce
.
Song's breath across vocal cords can urge men to rise to
fight, to kill for vague concepts like freedom, nationhood, or revolution, but they can't always live for them. Song's breath across
vocal cords can heal the sick, raise the dead, and encourage the living
to go on in the face of terror.

Without song, the body cannot rest, cannot rise again, cannot face tyranny, cannot look at itself, cannot see, think, or feel. Without song, the body cannot grieve the dead, send them off to another dimension, cannot work or love. Without song, the body cannot recover from loss, from divorce, cannot express its yearning, and cannot dream. Four generations of men and women have not been allowed to sing. Without song, all that is left is the thinnest sense of survival. This spiderweb of survival has snapped from whatever mooring it attached itself to and the silk threads lie all withered and
tangled in a heap on the floor of a burned-down longhouse that has
not been rebuilt.

Jacob sees the longhouse on that mountain, the one that had fallen face forward, exposing the moulded blankets and the bones — so many of them. He sees a tangled spider's web and in each silk strand he sees some aspect of the crisis everyone in this village is bound to. He intends to pull at this silk and unravel the whole damned mess. The mountain has brought him a song and the dream of rebuilding the longhouse. This longhouse appeared as the old man who fired a useless shot into the house where Stella lies wounded by the same gun. Suicide is a beast, Jacob decides, and it must be laid to rest. It is one head of sea serpent consuming the other. He means to kill the beast inside him as well, the one that drew him toward the old snake's shack. He will find the people he needs to make this dream come true. This longhouse will be born again.

From the mountain, Jacob belts out a song. He eats some more, finishes the last of his tobacco, and heads down. Alice and Jacob had sat on that mountain, plotting a response to the snake running rampant through the village. Alice cautions Jacob on the state of cleanliness he has to achieve before he can do this. “You have to be awake, Jacob. So awake that you need only hear this once. You know?” He does. She walks him around the mountain, pointing
out the foods he needs to eat. She talks about the medicines too. With every instruction, Jacob swallows. He floats behind Alice, glad to be there on that mountain at that moment.

He smiles as he makes his way down the mountain.

THEY ARE FINISHING HOOKING
Stella up to the IV. Martha lies on a cot drained of a pint of blood and fatigued by her vigil. Sam and Momma are outside on the porch. Jim has gone outside with them; he is not about to leave his mother's side. Stacey has come round and is sitting next to Steve, who is standing in the corner, rubbing his chin and doubting himself and his sanity as well as the sanity of everyone in the room. Rena and Judy are resting. They have had enough for one night. Shelley is awake and moaning. Celia changes the bandages. The child quivers every time Celia touches her body; Celia murmurs, “I am not fit for this child,” her voice full of apology.
“I don't know how to do this without feeling like I am your torturer. I hardly know any encouraging words at all. I spend most of my time imagining life, instead of living it. I am just a very large child.”

The little girl's lips move. Celia bends down to hear her say it's all right. She thinks her knees are going to give out and then she hears it, clear as a bell. It's Jacob, singing his own song.

“You hear that, Shelley?” Celia smiles. Her fingers deftly dress the open wound. Of course, she does not, Celia chuckles; I am the only one who hears things. I hear things. Celia looks at the little girl and tells her, “I hear things.” The little girl smiles and Celia accepts that the simple truth is that she hears things. Steve comes in to examine Shelley before finishing up for the night.

Out on the porch, Momma sings. Stacey goes out to join her. Shortly after, Rena and Judy follow the sound of the singing. Sam moves over, next to Momma. He curls his pudgy fingers into hers and sings as the water rolls from his eyes. Momma places her other hand over the one he's holding on to. Jim shrugs and joins the singers. They continue to sing while Steve and Celia finish ministering to Shelley. Finished, Steve joins the family on the porch. Celia stays with Shelley. “You hear that, baby? When everyone sings like that it sounds to me like the voice of divinity itself.” Celia is humming what the others are singing. Shelley stops quivering and goes to sleep.

SO MUCH OF THIS
night has brought back memories of the epidemic of
1954
. The healing circle Celia belongs to are all convinced that suicide and violence were part of a new epidemic. “We just won't come out of our house,” an old woman visiting from Vancouver Island had said years ago. Celia remembers the days following the battle with the flu. The fatigue on her momma's face scared her when she was a child. She remembers how she lay awake at night picturing the tall ships, Momma's fatigue, her gramma's unrelenting sense of panic, and how she wished she were born in some other time, to some other family.

She and her gramma visited Momma almost daily. Stacey was gone, Jim was busy with Ned, and the house had grown bigger. New windows and curtains had appeared like magic. The driveway was paved, the house painted. Momma had a garden. It was pretty, but so empty that Celia couldn't be there unless she escaped into her dream world. Momma didn't seem to see her. Celia would come and go from the house without Momma saying much to her. When the pavers were working on the driveway, Celia had asked her momma if they could build her a swing.

“Honey, don't sit on Momma's new cloth. That's going to pretty up my new windows soon.” Celia had gone outside and plunked herself down on one of the stones edging the new garden, where she watched the men. Her body warmed the stone underneath her. She slipped into hearing an old song full of punch and vigour. After the song ended, she asked the men if they knew how to build a swing.

“I'd build a pretty little girl like you anything,” one of the men said. The other laughed. They scared her. She wanted something cleaner than that. She wanted them to build her a swing because she wanted it, not because they thought she was pretty. She stopped interacting with people after that. She coasted from dream space to dream space until her son was born. She made him her anchor and now she wanted to cut him adrift, not so she could return to her dream world but so she could enter the world of humans again.
But she needed something and she could not figure out what it was. Shelley inspired her re-entry, but she does not want Shelley to become a new reason for her to be.

On her way home, Celia stops at Alice's.

“Did you see the lights?” Alice pours her a familiar cup of tea.

“Yeah. Did you write something?”

“Yeah.” Alice swings into her chair and begins to read:

Gramma Alice hums a berry-picking song,

Drumming up pictures of white snow, blue snow,

Diamond-backed, glinting, hard, house-building snow

powder snowshoeing snow.

From across the berry bush

while her blue scarf and green-pink-purple-blue paisley dress

bobs up and down, looking like northern relatives dancing

filling the sky with their sound, as Gramma Alice makes love

to sky, to night, to day, to berries, to us.

Memories stretch out over hot days

Of picking at bushes whose fruit becomes a berry pie

declaring Gramma's love.

“Momma sang too, Alice. Write one about Momma singing.”

“I can't, Celia. I didn't hear it. You did. You could. Let me show you.” Alice draws a circle, writes “Momma sang” in the middle, and draws spokes out from the circle. She asks Celia to close her eyes and tell her what she saw when she heard Momma sing.

Dark lines on Momma's face melt into song

Filtered through her daughters'

nighttime reverence for Northern Lights,

Momma's song a power breath.

Gathering the weight of the women into a purple ball

that floats on the back of Momma's song

Rising to the ceiling to be swallowed by the beams.

“Lovely,” Alice says. “That is so lovely.”

“How do you know it's poetry?” Celia asks, staring in awe at the words her voice made.

“'Cause it's written on the page different from a story.” Alice leans back and laughs. “I don't know. Stacey told me that's how poetry is written.” Alice, still laughing, reaches out to tap Celia's hand.

“Then how do you know that what I wrote is poetry?”

“'Cause you did it the same way as me.” She pauses. “You remember Stacey talking to us little ones after the epidemic?”