Our Story: Aboriginal Voices on Canada's Past (20 page)

“This very night, our children, our young people, will celebrate the Solstice in a secret place,” says Kateri's grandmother. “Little Anaië confided that to me.”

At day's end, all is ready in the clearing. The children, the young people, have piled up more than enough branches and small logs for a great bonfire that night. Seated on old stumps, clasping one another tightly, they wait for David, who is late … But here he is, and he is not alone: someone is walking behind him, his hand resting on David's shoulder …

“It is Brother Léon!” Kateri exclaims joyously.

“Look at that sky!” David cries. “It is the Archangel Gabriel spreading his evening wings. His wings are broad enough to mount to the sky—with one, he fashions the deep crimson of dusk, with the other, the rosy wreath of dawn. Brother Léon taught me that.”

Rapt, enchanted, the children, the young people, behold the faintly crimson light of this one moment, and the blossoming Moon beholds it too. At last Tobie lights the fire, which crackles, speaks up, while the smoke, perfumed with the incense of pines and fir trees, rises toward the stars. With the help of the blaze, the atmosphere of trust between Brother Léon and the children, the young people, has increased. Each one
there decides to reveal to the rest something he treasures. Tobie displays thick buffalo-hide gloves. “For the Lakotas, the bison is the animal that gives the greatest part of itself so that the people may live. When they need food, the bison offers its flesh, and when they need shelter, the bison provides its hide to make garments and tepees.” When he left his father's house, Jérémie took with him his treasure—two rattles, one made of insect cocoons containing grains of sand, the other a turtle shell with small pebbles. As for David, he pulls six little buckskin pouches filled with birdseed from his backpack, giving one to each in turn.

“In anticipation of the next time we walk on the Blessing Path,” he says, his voice filled with emotion.

Kateri shows her empty hands … She has brought nothing with her. Little Anaië, with a peculiar smile, decides to skip her turn: “Brother Léon, you go first,” she says.

From under his cape, he brings forth an icon of the Theotokos, or the Mother of God, painted on a wooden board small enough that he can hold it in his large hand.

“I brought this for you,” he says, giving the icon to Kateri. “She was painted in Russia, where I was born.”

By the light of the flames, Kateri can be seen to blush.

“She is very beautiful. Thank you,” she says simply.

“And you, little Anaië,” Brother Léon says seriously, his voice lightly accented. “Have you a surprise in store for us?”

Anaië's treasure is wrapped in a beaded buckskin. She unwraps something that looks like a bow from which a piece of string dangles. There is also a long arrow.

“This is my father's musical bow,” she says. “He taught me how to play it.”

Grasping the dangling string between her teeth, she draws it tight and then strikes it with the arrow, causing it to vibrate. With her mouth acting as a resonating chamber, she produces sounds as old as the world itself. Standing erect, she plays and plays. The creature Moon in the sky lights the creature Earth, and the children, the young people, listen only
to this music that has the power to make the whole world dance! Jérémie shakes his rattles and clear waves, solemn waves, pulse through the palpable expanse of night. They dance, circling the fire. As he leaps into the air, Tobie thinks he sees his mother, as beautiful as a young bride, smiling radiantly at him. Jérémie sees his father welcoming him with open arms … Kateri sees her father and her mother both sending her a thousand kisses.

Hidden in the forest at the edge of the clearing, the Elders witness the children, the young people, dancing. Tobie's mother is there—she is wrapped up in furs to keep her from the cold and comfortably tucked up in a sleigh that Kateri's father and Jérémie's father have taken turns to draw to this spot. As they promised Kateri's grandmother, the people of the reserve remain perfectly still, without making the slightest movement to disturb the air—on this night, only the Moon of the Long Snows and the children, the young people, are allowed to move. Watching their dance, Tobie's mother thinks deep inside herself, “It is as if the suns are dancing.”

At the instant of the Solstice, Kateri is absolutely still. Quivering like a winged creature clad in a golden beam of light, she begins to sing the dirge “Death of a Warrior.” The musical bow and the rattles accompany her as she intones the sad lamentation. All those present think they hear very clearly the beat of the drums along with the plainsong of the dead souls coming from the heart of the earth. When Kateri finishes her song, another voice arises … Appearing as a white shape, it descends from the Moon.

The grandmothers think, “It is the magnificent Daughter of Heaven.”

The grandfathers think, “It is White Bison Woman, who taught us the seven sacred ceremonies.”

Kateri's grandmother thinks, “It is the Great White Star, come from the Land of the Dead, to be a guide to our daughters and our sons.”

Brother Léon thinks, “It is Gabriel, the Angel of the Moon, the guardian of human and animal mothers and new-borns, who is beginning his task of tenderness and love. How the blessings enlarge and spread!”

When this singer of a hundred names raises her ethereal voice, a matchless silence reigns. Hearing this
solestial
voice, surrounded by her divine song, every voice is silent and the demons seem to retreat into their caves.

“At last, those who have died on the field of battle are walking on the Blessing Path,” say the Elders, who do not expect to see more winters.

Withdrawing in silence, they return to the reserve.

At dawn, under a pink sky and a pale moon, the children, the young people, part, each setting off along the path while feeding the birds. It will be a beautiful day.

Neither Tobies nor Anaië's father ever returned. Like so many other Natives, they were buried in the lovely Canadian military cemeteries somewhere in Europe.

“Kahgee pohn noten took,” the Crees say. This means “The battle is over.”

IMAGE CREDIT: SEATTLE MUSEUM OF HISTORY AND INDUSTRY

I
T'S NEVER A GOOD IDEA
to ask writers why they wrote something. We're such great liars. When anyone asks me that question, I have three answers I generally haul out.

One, I did it for the money.

Two, I wrote it because the topic moved me.

And three (my favourite), I wrote it to change the world.

It's not that these are bullshit answers, though, in part, they are. It's just that I have absolutely no interest in trying to figure out my reasons. I'm not even sure why I write, though I can't imagine giving it up. I suspect it was never my choice in the first place, which makes the question of why I write and what I write sound deliciously mysterious. Perhaps even mystical.

And, of course, that's bullshit, too.

But there is a moment in the creative process (in my creative process, at least) when something falls into my lap.

As it were.

Sometimes it's a phrase that I can use for a title. Sometimes it's a story I've heard. Sometimes it's an injustice (God knows there are enough of those). Sometimes it's a joke. Sometimes it's a recipe. Sometimes it's a
personal demon that's gotten loose (I hate it when that happens). Sometimes its little more than a sad thought or a vague gesture.

Who cares? I don't. I'm just happy that whatever comes along comes my way.

I know the story of the Japanese internment in Canada. I know it as most Canadians know it.

In pieces.

From a distance.

But whenever I hear the story, I think about Indians, for the treatment the Canadian government afforded Japanese people during the Second World War is strikingly similar to the treatment that the Canadian government has always afforded Native people, and whenever I hear either of these stories, a strange thing happens.

I think of the other.

I'm not suggesting that Native people have suffered the way the Japanese suffered or that the Japanese suffered the way Native people have. I'm simply suggesting that hatred and greed produce much the same sort of results, no matter who we practise on.

So never ask a writer why he wrote something.

You've been warned.

Coyote and the Enemy Aliens

You know, everyone likes a good story. Yes, that's true. My friend Napioa comes by my place. My good place. My good place by the river. Sometimes that Napioa comes by my good place and says, Tell us a good story. So I do. Sometimes I tell those good stories from the Indian time. And sometimes I tell those good stories from the European time. Grown-up stories. Baby stories.

Sometimes I take a nap.

Sometimes I tell Coyote stories. Boy, you got to be careful with those Coyote stories. When I tell those Coyote stories, you got to stay awake. You got to keep those toes under that chair. I can tell you that.

You better do that now. Those toes. No, later is no good.

OK, so I'm going to tell a Coyote story. Maybe you heard that story before. Maybe not.

Coyote was going west. That's how I like to start that story. Coyote story. Coyote was going west, and when he gets to my place, he stops. My good place. By the river.

That was in the European time. In 1940. Maybe it was 1944. No, it was 1942.

Coyote comes to my house in 1941. Hello, says that Coyote. Maybe you have some tea for me. Maybe you have some food for me. Maybe you have a newspaper for me to read.

Sure, I says. I have all those things.

So Coyote drinks my tea. And that one eats my food. And that one reads my newspaper.

Hooray, says that Coyote. I have found a job in the newspaper.

Maybe you're wondering who would hire Coyote.

I thought so.

OK. I'll ask.

Who would hire Coyote. I says.

The Whitemen, says Coyote. The Whitemen are looking for a Coyote.

Oh boy. Coyote and the Whitemen. That's pretty scary.

It's over on that coast, says Coyote. In that west. That's where my job is.

Good, I says. Then I won't have to move.

But I am so hungry, says Coyote. I don't know if I can get to that coast, unless I get something good to eat.

OK, I says, I will feed you so you can get to that coast.

And I don't have a good shirt, says Coyote. I really need a good shirt, so the Whitemen will see that I'm a good worker.

OK, I says, I will give you my good shirt.

Oh, oh, oh, says Coyote, how will I get there? It's a very long ways, and my feet are quite sensitive.