Scattered Bones (25 page)

My relatives had been baptised into the Catholic faith two decades before, so I assumed that their beliefs would be much like my own. Before every meal, Uncle Harold Charboyer mumbled the same prayer as Father Bonnald: “Bless us, O Lord and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen.” But gradually it became clear to me that their Christianity was paper thin. What controlled their lives was a parallel, shadowy universe, inhabited by strange spirits and ruled by weird ceremonies. And in this world I was at a total loss.

One afternoon, as we were travelling on Lake Deschambault, we heard a moose call echoing through the bush. Not far was a place where the animals often came to drink and nibble on lily pads and skunk cabbages and, since there’d been a forest fire a few years before, forage on new grass and berry bushes. There we camped for the night.

After the evening meal, rattles and drums suddenly appeared, from where I had no idea. While I stood watching, trying not to laugh out loud, the men sang together in gruff voices. “This is the land which is the home of the moose. I am going to live with the moose. This is the land where the caribou dwell. I will accompany the caribou home.”

Everybody said Uncle Raymond was the best moose caller in the entire world. He’d cup his hands over his mouth and let go with loud grunt which sounded like a cross between a burp and the hoot of a tuba. “That oughtta get the attention of Mr. Bull, if he’s anywhere around,” he insisted. Then we all went to sleep.

The next morning during breakfast a container of moose piss – where he got this was his secret, and he refused to tell a soul – was passed round and each of us dabbed a few drops over our hat or scarf. “Those young ones, they go crazy for this smell,” said Uncle Raymond. Then he let go with another series of what sounded like loud farts. “To wake these beauties from their beds.”

We hunters were divided into three teams. Each would follow a different path through the bush. To my dismay I was assigned to Grandfather’s group.

“Those animals, they can smell your dirty socks a mile away, so remember, wind in the face, sun at the back. And these moose, when they finish eating, they turn back. To rest, I guess. So when their trail ends, you can be pretty sure they’re about somewhere,” Grandfather explained.

I was told to beat the willows with a club, to lure the animals from the bush. This was to imitate the sound of the moose thrashing with their antlers to let their rivals know they were around. During the rut, the bulls, old and young, are always ready for a fight. I could feel my heart beating – now
this
was exciting.

After about a half hour, a shot rang out. The first moose of the season was down! It was a big bull, a two-year-old, so that the meat would be especially tender. I was glad it was Charlie who had executed the kill, neatly with one bullet between the eyes, and not one of the bad-tempered Blackfishes.

Immediately, a complicated, mystifying set of rules came into play. These were entirely foreign to me, and I prayed that in my ignorance I wouldn’t do something too stupid.

While all of us hunters helped with the butchering, it was Charlie’s privilege to cut the head off. He did so with several blows of his axe, the blood squirting upwards in a great gush like one of the grand fountains of Rome. I laughed out loud until I saw Grandfather staring at me with daggers in his eyes.

After the quarry was quartered and skinned, the meat and carcass were hidden in the bush and covered with spruce bows. Leon and Cornelius were left behind to fend off scavengers, while the rest of us returned to the camp, bringing along mementos of our success – the heart, the lower intestine, and two kinds of fat. These were handed over to the women who laid them out on a cloth on the ground so lovingly the organs could have been newborn babes. Everyone crowded around to admire them. I was about to yell out, “Charlie, the magnificent hunter!” when, thank the Lord, I became aware of the silence around me. No one was saying a word, no one was excited. Even the children were quiet. Only Charlie was allowed to speak. Slowly and calmly, with not a hint of bragging, he described how the moose had been hunted down.

“We give thanks to this animal for giving his life that our stomachs may be full,” he prayed.

The next day, all the men helped transport the butchered parts back to camp. As the bloody remains were piled at the back of Charlie’s wigwam, Grandfather explained that the animal’s head must face the door, “so he can see out into the world.” Then everyone crowded in to admire the rewards of the hunt. Old lady Morin, Charlotte Charboyer’s mother, whistled at me and, taking her by the arm, I helped her hobble over. She stroked a little hair that had been left on the moose’s left leg.

When the chunks of meat were finally distrib
uted, I was amazed at how precisely they were divided; each family received exactly the same portion.

When Grandfather announced that a feast would be held to celebrate the first kill of the season, the children went wild with excitement. For me it meant more mysterious, maddening rituals. And it was made clear that if I didn’t precisely follow the rules, the consequences would be dire, not just for me, but the entire group. Sickness, quarrels, starvation would threaten us all winter.

The first step was to set up the special tent in the bush some distance from the main camp. As usual, I found myself in a dilemma – how could I lend a hand without breaking the rules? Perhaps I should collect the balsam bows that would cover the ground. “No,” said Grandfather, “that’s not your job; it’s the little children who do that.” He assigned me to make the fire pit in the centre. “It’s usually women’s work, but it’ll give you something to do.”

Grandmother inspected me carefully. Had I washed properly? Did I stink? Were my clothes clean and mended? After she was satisfied that I wouldn’t cause her embarrassment, she gave me a cup and a plate carefully covered by a clean cloth and I was allowed to follow the others, all carrying the same thing, to the sacred tent.

Our seating position was determined by our age, sex, and hunting ability. I was placed between my two teenage cousins, which meant I was still considered a youngster. Well, I didn’t give a damn what they thought. I plunked myself down, a scowl on my face.

The moose head, now boiled and ready to carve, sat in the centre of the circle. Around it were placed little birch bark bowls of fat and the animal’s intestines, as well as plugs of tobacco. Every now and then, someone would throw bits of this material into the fire. “In honour of the spirits who will help our hunters this winter,” Cornelius whispered to me.

More food was carried in, steaming heaps of roasted, grilled and boiled beaver, goose and fish that were to accompany the most important dish – the moose meat. Because it was a special occasion, the men had prepared the main course – the entire day was spent at this – but the women also contributed with puddings, pies and doughnuts, cooked in a makeshift oven over a fire.

My mother had always made native dishes, but in a way that pleased Father Bonnald –walleye baked with the green onions from his garden, bannock served with maple syrup shipped from Quebec, roast grouse made with dried prunes. Despite this, or maybe because of it, I’ve always been a finicky eater. This infuriated Mother and was one of the reasons she had decided I needed to be toughened up in the bush. Whenever he saw me picking at my food, Grandfather would scowl, “Eat what’s put before you, you spoiled, ungrateful white trash.” Now I was to be truly tested.

While the first course – cold moose soup, a broth in which the head had been boiled – was passed around, he eyed me like a hawk. I have to do this, I said to myself. Trying hard to stop my hand from shaking, I picked up the birchbark bowl and poured the entire greasy lot down my throat. I sat there not saying a word, not moving, until grandfather turned to chat with someone nearby. I got up, and, as calmly as I could, walked out the tent opening. Over a nearby wild rose bush, I barfed up the entire mess.

After the so-called feast was over, we were allowed to return to our tents. I tried to sleep but my stomach was still roiling. I badly needed fresh air. As I walked along the path towards the lake, I spotted a large bonfire. As I approached it, I could see five men, Uncle Raymond, Uncle Harold, cousin Harold Junior, Charlie Laliberté and Grandfather sitting in a circle, smoking pipes. I didn’t want to be seen so I hid in the bush, but this made it difficult to hear what was being said. I could see that Grandfather was very agitated, shouting, waving his pipe about, jumping up, and then sitting down again. Uncle Harold finally interjected, saying something that obviously infuriated the old man. He began shouting, and I caught a phrase or two. “What are we, pathetic flunkeys, forever offering our arses to the white man? We must avenge the souls of our ancestors, or we die.”

Grandfather moved as though to walk away from the circle. Afraid he’d get to the wigwam before me, I scurried back as fast as I could. I would ask Charlie what it was all about in the morning.

Chapter Thirty-One

Someone is thrashing about
in the bushes nearby.
Joe grumbles, “I knew I’d be interrupted. No way a person can find peace around here.”

Then comes a familiar whine, plaintive and irritating – Izzy thinks of an angry crow. “Oh darn,” she sighs.

“Izzy, where are you? I know you’re around somewhere. Come here at once! Isabelle, I must speak to you!”

Izzy puts a finger to her lips. “Shush!”

Joe is amazed. Hiding like that – he’d never dare do such a thing to his mother or any other elder for that matter.

“Not now,” she whispers. “I’ll see to him later.”

They sit in silence, holding their breath, until Reverend Wentworth is heard charging in another direction.

“Sorry about that, Joe,” Izzy murmurs, and cuddles a little closer. “I know what he wants. Can’t deal with it now. So did you find out what the gathering was all about? I’m dying to know more.”

“I did eventually. But you have to let me tell the story in order so I don’t miss anything.”

~•~

By November snow had fallen
and the small lakes and bays were frozen over so travel by canoe was no longer possible. Anyway, by this time we had arrived at our winter camp located north of Lake Deschambault. It was ideal – a river nearby would provide fresh water, rabbits and other small game were plentiful, and there was plenty of dry, dead wood around. The women were particularly busy readying the wigwams for the freeze-up, the birch bark outer covering replaced with caribou hides and chinked with moss.

The men’s first, and most important, task was to set up the camp’s holy place, and I was assigned to help my uncles in this.

First off, my cousins and I were sent to fetch a large canvas bag that had been stored in a crevice a mile away. When this was tipped over dozens of skulls – beaver, otter, rabbit – clattered to the ground. We couldn’t help giggle, but when we saw Grandfather frowning at us – he had the thickest, most threatening eyebrows I’ve ever seen – we immediately shut up. We strung the animal parts onto ropes and tied them to the branches of a tall jack pine. “You must make sure the bones are facing in the direction of sunrise,” Grandfather instructed. “Otherwise the spirits will not be pleased.”

While this was going on, Marguerite, the orphan girl, was painting the antlers of Charlie’s moose a bright purple, using a dye she had made from crushed plants. On the horns, she tied red ribbons. I helped her place this creation in the crotch of a white birch tree. We both stood back and laughed. To me the place looked more like a dance hall than a sacred shrine. But sacred it was. Several times I spotted my grandfather or one of my uncles sitting there, very still, very quiet, as though they were praying. But to whom or what I hadn’t a clue.

Gradually, thanks to Charlie who had taken on the job as my tutor, these strange rituals began to make more sense. He explained, “You gotta love the animals. You gotta be grateful that they are giving up their life for us. That’s why you shoot ‘em real quick so they don’t suffer. Why you don’t leave their bones out for the dogs to get. You put their remains up in the tree like that, and they say, ‘Yes, we see you respect us. We will come back.’ And next year your belly is full again.”

“Why would any creature agree to self-sacrifice?” I asked.

His voice full of impatience, he answered, “Because they know they’re going to be reborn.”

This did nothing to clear up my confusion.

I had become good friends with Charlie so one day I got up enough nerve to ask him about the discussion that had gone on around the bonfire. Why was Grandfather so upset? He brushed aside my question, but I guess I pestered him so much, he finally gave in. “I’m telling you this bit, but you must not ask me any more questions. Your grandfather would skin me alive. Do you know about the massacre that happened a long time ago at Pelican Narrows?”

“I’ve been told something about it,” I replied.

“I guess it’s not talked about much any more, never mind that hundreds of our elders, women and children were butchered like so many moose. The Sioux did it. Our people hunted them down, tortured and killed them, and still the tragedy festers. Your grandfather, for example. He thinks of little else. And, you see, he lays the blame entirely on the white man.”

“Why? What did they have to do with it?”

“Moses Blackfish knows a lot more about history than you might think. The Sioux were in the pocket of the French fur traders who paid them very well to get rid of anyone doing business with their enemy – the British. The Cree sold their furs to the Hudson’s Bay Company, which meant they were allies of the English. So, according to your grandfather, those poor women and children were doomed. And the fault lies not with Indians, but with the white man.”