Motorcycles & Sweetgrass (36 page)

“That’s it. That’s all I got. Looks like Sammy ain’t eating for a week. So what do you want to do now? Huh? Tell me!” John yelled into the forest. “Is it over or does the cold war get hot?” To illustrate his point, John flicked his lighter and a small flame appeared.

The head raccoon surveyed the scene of his victory, happily munching on a Fig Newton. Then, with a satisfied final gulp, it turned and disappeared down the trunk of the tree. As if by magic,
all the other creatures began to melt into the forest background, their hands, tummies and mouths full of man-made booty.

“It’s over. Finally,” they heard him say, as the man stood there on the empty lawn. It was as if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. No longer would he have to look over his shoulder or wonder what trouble waited just beyond the next tree. Wiping his crumb-and food-smeared hands on the grass, John walked toward the house, a look of accomplishment on his face.

“Of all the animals on this continent to be made extinct by the White man, why couldn’t it have been those things? Oh well, I’ll have to tell Sammy… Puck was hungry.” That thought made the man laugh. That had gone better than he had expected. It was a good sign. Now for the next adventure.

As John entered the house, Wayne nudged his nephew, still crouched down beside him. “Still not convinced he’s Nanabush?”

Virgil struggled to speak. “He… um… Uncle Wayne? Uh, what was that you said about Nanabush legends saying he only dealt with things one on one or one on two? Huh? That was a little more than one on two. I thought you knew this stuff.”

“Virgil, tikwamshin.”

“Well, Mr. Nanabush Fighter, what do we do now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Boy, you just know how to inspire confidence, don’t you?”

Wayne gave him a sour look. “Virgil, you are getting on my nerves.”

“And what about Dakota? Aren’t we supposed to be out here looking for her?”

Wayne nodded. “Yeah, we will but the safest place in Otter Lake for her to be right now is anyplace but here. One mystery at a time, little nephew.”

Virgil was not convinced. His uncle was not being as helpful as he had expected. “So what are we going to do now? Do you want to break another tree branch?”

For that, the young boy received an annoyed scowl from his uncle.

“Fine, you want me to do something, I’ll do it.” Wayne stood up behind the bushes and walked toward Sammy’s house.

“Uncle Wayne, what are you doing?”

“Something. Don’t get in the way.”

He stopped near the kitchen window, then seemed to change his mind. Virgil saw him look at the motorcycle and trot over to it. Pulling a jackknife from his back pocket, his uncle leaned over the front end of the machine for a minute, then lifted the now-disconnected headlight over his head and gestured triumphantly to Virgil. He wrapped it in his jean jacket and returned to the kitchen window.

Placing the wrapped-up headlight on the ground behind him, he took a defensive pose and yelled, “Yo, you in the house. Come out now.”

Hesitantly, Virgil too emerged from the bush, amazed at his uncle’s confidence. He stood discreetly two metres behind Wayne. There was an uncomfortable silence as they both waited for a response. It came when John emerged from the back door, onto the lawn, locking eyes with Wayne.

“Ah, more guests. What a busy morning. Good morning, Virgil. And who is your friend? Let me guess… Maggie’s fabled weird brother. Dwayne.”

“Wayne. My name is Wayne.”

John smiled. “Wayne it is. I assume you are here for a reason?”

“I…”

Virgil tugged on his uncle’s jacket, reminding him he was there. “Uh, we want you to leave my mother alone. That’s all.” Virgil noticed the man’s eyes. “Jesus! Your eyes… they’re yellow!”

“I prefer to call them amber. You should see them at sunset. And is that what your mother wants too, for me to leave her alone?”

“Maggie doesn’t know who you are,” Wayne said.

“Who am I?” John said tauntingly.

“Nanabush,” said Wayne.

For a second John didn’t respond; he just stared at Wayne with quiet amusement. “Nanabush. The Trickster? The central character of Anishnawbe mythology, the paramount metaphor in their cosmology? The demigod? The amazing, handsome, intelligent and fabulous Nanabush? That Nanabush?” John noticed Virgil was nodding behind Wayne.

“Well, that’s a little egocentric, but essentially, yes,” said Wayne.

“What about you, Virgil? What do you say?”

Virgil didn’t say anything. In fact, his uncle answered for him. “He knows you’re trouble. And definitely not good for his mother. We both want you to get out of town.”

“Or what?”

“You are dangerous. So am I.”

Virgil had never heard his uncle sound so cold.

“If I am this… Nanabush, what makes you think you can fight me, let alone beat me? And why should I fight you? I just have to tell Maggie about this and I’m fairly sure she will take you apart herself, saving me the problem. So I see no advantage in discussing this any further. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a press conference to attend. As an Italian I once knew used to say,
Arrivederci!
”

John nodded with mock politeness and was about to stride victoriously to the press conference when Wayne pulled the headlight
of a fine, familiar vintage motorcycle from underneath his jean jacket. John stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening at the sight.

Casually, Wayne tossed the headlight at John’s feet. “Just to let you know, we mean business.”

Carefully, John picked it up, brushing off the dirt and pine needles, and cradled it. He sighed, then gently put the headlight back down on the ground beside the injured motorcycle. “My poor, poor baby. You bastard. That motorcycle never did a thing to you.”

Wayne shrugged. “It got your attention. Virgil, step back, over to that tree.”

The boy did as he was told.

“You are right about something. We don’t have to do this. If you just jump on that machine of yours and get the hell out of town, we can all go our separate ways. What do you say?”

“How do I even know if my Indian will run? If you did this to it, you could have done worse.”

“Oh, it works. I’m not stupid. Damaging your engine would force you to remain here. So, gonna take the smart road or does this have to get messy?”

Virgil watched the two men, aware of the tension in the air. His uncle was going to fight this guy—this guy his mother really liked, who might possibly be a creature from Anishnawbe history. He wondered absurdly how the school’s guidance counsellor would advise him to handle the situation.

John’s face had a grim set to it. “You see, the problem is, you defiled my little bike. That machine is very important to me, so I can’t allow that. It’s a matter of pride. I didn’t have my pride for a while, but I got it back. And now I’m not going to lose it again. You, Dwayne…”

“Wayne!”

“… kick over a beehive, and you can’t expect the bees not to get angry. You run naked through poison ivy, you’re going to get a little itchy. You poke a stick at a—”

“Enough with the metaphors. I get the point.” Wayne took off his sneakers and socks, flexing his toes.

Looking mildly amused, John asked, “So what are you gonna do now?”

“Whatever I have to. Virgil, just stay where you are. Don’t get involved.”

“You should listen to your uncle, and not get involved in things that aren’t your business.”

“John, Nanabush, or whatever your name is…”

John cocked an eyebrow. “Yes?”

Wayne stepped forward, until just a metre or so separated the two men. “Normally I train purely for defensive purposes. However, the world is a complicated place and you can’t always do what is planned. Sometimes you have to do what is necessary.”

John’s brow furrowed. “What the hell does that mean? What exactly do you consider necessary?”

“This!” Wayne fell to the ground, landing on his butt with his legs stretching directly in front of him, between John’s legs. Spreading his legs, he forced John’s apart a fair distance, causing him to fall backward, his hands grabbing his groin. Surprised and stunned, Virgil stepped back to relative safety behind a low-hanging pine branch.

Both men jumped to their feet, though John was a little slower. Without warning, he kicked forward and his cowboy boot went flying off and hit Wayne in the forehead, making him fall back. Taking off his other boot, John limped around, his groin still clearly troubling him.

“You wanna get tough? I’ll get tough. I’ve fought more battles than you’ve had days in your stupid life. Come on, I need the cardio.” He leaped toward his opponent, who was scrambling to his feet. Wayne managed to dodge John and, using his leg as a wedge, tripped him and sent him falling against a tree. But only for a second. John coiled his legs low to the ground and jumped straight backward, hitting Wayne and sending them both into the bushes. There was some rolling around, but Virgil’s view was obscured by the shaking branches.

“Tag, you’re it.” Like a squirrel chased by a dog, Wayne broke from the bushes and ran a short distance to a tall pine tree, and with barely any effort, he raced up the trunk, his toes digging into the uneven bark and his hands skimming the branches. The blond man’s eyes widened.

“Okay, so you can climb like a marten. Kid, I’ve been doing this kind of thing since long before anything you could possibly remember existed. You want to play games, just remember, I
invented
those games.” John looked at Virgil. “This is going to be more fun than I thought.” John leaped up the side of the tree just as quickly as Wayne had, and disappeared into the leafy canopy.

Virgil scanned the treetops but could see nothing in the dense foliage. The branches of a dozen different trees laced together blocked out the blue sky. Occasionally a twig or leaf would drift down, and a muffled grunt or hidden yell could be heard, indicating the fight was still going on. Virgil wondered what was happening up there in the forest top. “H-h-hello? Uncle Wayne? Uncle Wayne? John…”

Like a wave breaking on shore, hell descended from the trees. The first thing Virgil heard was the thud of two bodies meeting, and a flurry of noise. An avalanche of twigs, branches, leaves and ancient bird’s nests pelted the boy and the forest floor, followed by
last year’s tent caterpillar silk. Cedar, maple, willow, elm, oak, apple, leaves of all kinds fell and blanketed the area like a green snowfall. Ancient kites, deflated balloons and the remnants of a long-forgotten tree fort were forcibly dislodged. An abandoned beehive nearly hit the boy but instead bounced off a limb of the pine tree.

The battle seemed to be moving. Just a minute ago he could have sworn it raged directly above him in the pine tree, but now it was a dozen metres north, where there stood an aged outcropping of oak. And now he was sure the damaged limbs and leaves were falling from a huge weeping willow that stood next to a clearing.

It was a matter of time before the animals that called the trees home became collateral damage. A porcupine landed not a metre away from Virgil. Confused and having notoriously poor eyesight, the porcupine thought that the young Native blob crouching next to the tree was at fault. Luckily Virgil had access to a large stick and managed to poke the disgruntled animal away.

Occasionally, the boy caught a glimpse of his uncle’s denim jacket or John’s black pants against the blue sky or green leaves or brown bark. As best he could, he tried to follow their progress. Virgil just followed falling things, and the sound of grunts, thuds and curses, the constant rustle of leaves and branches being shaken.

Out of nowhere, there was a movement to his left. “Virgil, what’s going on?” It was Dakota, crouched a few metres away, looking dazed.

“Dakota? There you are!” Virgil grabbed her and sheltered her under the branches of a long-fallen tree. “Are you okay? I was worried.”

“I… I came looking for John. Did you see what he did back there? John Clayton. He… those raccoons… what…? Virgil, I don’t understand. I just wanted to make sure he hadn’t left.
John… he told me he was staying here. I thought I should tell him what you said about him. How… how mean you were.” Something crashed above them. “That’s your Uncle Wayne up there, with him, isn’t it? Virgil, what’s going on?”

So, she had seen the whole thing, raccoons and all. Virgil wasn’t sure he could clarify it himself. “It’s hard to explain, Dakota. I told you John wasn’t who he appeared to be.”

“Then who is he?”

Virgil took a deep breath. “My Uncle Wayne thinks he’s Nanabush.”

“Oh” was all she said.

Now Virgil was getting really worried.

“How can they do that? I mean, fighting up there? In the trees. I… I don’t think that’s possible.”

Virgil didn’t know how to respond to that.

“Virgil, who’s Nanabush?” she asked.

Virgil remembered Dakota’s parents had strongly embraced the Canadian lifestyle. They probably hadn’t seen fit to fill her head with stories of Anishnawbe history or culture. Their daughter should have her feet firmly planted in the here and now, they thought. Their only nods to any form of Aboriginal history were the names of their children, primarily because they thought the names sounded cool and might jump out on a job application. Dakota knew more French than Anishnawbe, and more English history than Anishnawbe history. Her only connection to the past had been Lillian. But now wasn’t exactly the time to fill her in on the details. It would have to wait.

“You remember those stories about the trickster, the ones that Grandma told us? Him,” Virgil said.

Dakota tried to focus on what Virgil was saying “That’s
Nanabush? That guy from those kids’ stories? My parents didn’t like me listening to them.”

“No,” Virgil said, “Not the Nanabush from kids’ stories. Grandma’s Nanabush.”

Then, almost as quickly as it had begun, the war in the tree-tops ended. The odd leaf floated down, but peace had returned to the forest of Otter Lake.

“I think it’s over,” Virgil said to Dakota. “Uncle Wayne?” he yelled. There was no sign of Maggie’s youngest brother. Or of John, for that matter. All was oddly quiet. Virgil called louder. “Uncle Wayne!” Only the echo of his own voice responded.