Take Us to Your Chief (12 page)

I tried to stop myself from hyperventilating. He was telling me everything, but why? Because I was trapped and he was amusing himself. If I could have remembered the Lord's Prayer, I would have been saying i
t then.

“You'll notice that since Oka and Ipperwash, other than a few flare-ups here and there, things have been relatively quiet. The Idle No More movement was reasonably calm and non-invasive. The Native population, though still vocal and opinionated, has become largely non-violent. Add to that a few apologies here, a royal commission there… and the Canadian government and public shuffle along, dealing with the more important issues of the day. See, a much better, regulated society. And the real beauty of the plan is, for the most part, only those within the target population would want or have dream catchers, and they then voluntarily pass them on to those outside their immediate cultural environments who share similar political and social views. Meaning, of course, that non-Native sympathizers who would be likely to march or protest alongside their Indigenous brothers and sisters are frequently given dream catchers by their Native friends, thus completing the saturation. Brilliant, wouldn't you say? We're ver
y proud.”

I looked at the docile Sally and wondered if that was m
y fate.

“Obviously, your friend needed a rather large dose to ensure her immediate compliance. But as I am sure you would agree, the general Aboriginal population is not even aware that they are being socially massaged. Well, that's how I like to refer t
o it.”

“Socially massaged… How long do
I have?”

“Fo
r what?”

“Until you socially massage the hell out of me? Or you kil
l me?”

The man at the other end of the conversation laughed. “My dear Ms. Wanishin, we are not going to kill you. That would be too… American.”

“So what are you going to do with me, then? This is not an ‘agree to disagree' situation.”

He laughed again. “Quite right. You will simply be… removed. To a more secure location for containment. To ensure the continuing calm of Canadian society, you understand. We have a wonderful facility located on Ellesmere Island. You will love i
t there.”

“And Sally? What will happen t
o her?”

That's when I learned about the decision made by Otter Lake's resident proud Mohawk to move to the other side of the world and humbly embrace a violently patriarcha
l system.

“I love the irony,” the voice commented. “I'm big on irony.” Almost gleefully, he told me about his plans for the others at the paper and for the
West Wind
itself. “It's called ‘containment and cleanup.' It will be a bit messy, but we can make it work. We have before. These little scenarios are how I exercise my creativity. I know you're not really in a position to appreciate the solution, but maybe someday you'll grow to b
e amused.”

My mind was tap dancing. I have always believed that every problem has a solution. Somewhere in the back of my overtaxed mind, a dim but possible plan was beginning to form. But would I hav
e time?

“I assume you've already got Sally's house surrounded and are ready to mov
e in.”

“I wouldn't be very efficient at my job if my people weren't in plac
e already.”

“Will you give me a chance to sing my deat
h song?”

Silence. In the quietness, I could almost hear the man's puzzlement. It only lasted
a second.

“Death song? The Ojibway don't have a death song. And as I said, you aren't going to b
e killed.”

“I misspoke. I meant my remova
l song.”

I don't know where that idea came from, but I assumed that somebody who was used to being in control, and arrogant, probably had a shallow understanding of Native culture and thought of himself as sympathetic and respectful—in his own way. Also, it might appeal to his penchant fo
r irony.

This time, there were two seconds of silence. I could sense the man's control of the situation flickering, just a bit. “Removal song? Again, th
e Ojibway—”

Now was m
y chance.

“Yes, we do. Reserves, residential schools, the Sixties Scoop, prison—we are being removed all the time. It's become part of our contemporary culture. Necessity and tradition dictated that we develop a removal song. Please allow me the cultural consideratio
n to—”

“I am sorry, but w
e cannot—”

“Then I will burn this house down, thereby causing as much chaos and drawing as much attention as possible, a condition I am sure people in your position hate. I've burned an island to the ground; a house would be a lot easier. What do you say to that, mysterious white guy? All I need is ten minutes. Oh look, lighte
r fluid…”

If silence could be angry, I thought, his would be screaming. Each second passed with agonizing slowness. I looked out Sally's window and couldn't see anything, but I knew, sure as my ex-boyfriend owes me
$1
,400, they wer
e there.

“Ten minutes… for your remova
l song.”

I grabbed the iPad on the table and quickly disabled the internet. Then I made sure Sally's cellphone was turned off. To be safe, I took the batter
y out.

The cool thing about Sally is she did triple duty at the paper—receptionist,
IT
person and reporter. First thing I did, on the off chance the house was bugged, was start chanting. Random noises and vocalizations. Second thing was I grabbed Sally's voice recorder and turned it on. As accurately as possible, I have recounted everything that has happened to me since hell arrived in a small paper package. Luckily, she also had one of those programs that converts voice to text. Hopefully, that is what you are readin
g now.

As a small business operating out in the country, the paper often had its own unique difficulties to deal with. Power surges, thunderstorms, spontaneous blackouts that could severely affect internet and phone reception. So Sally, in all her wisdom, saw fit to connect the
West Wind
office to her own house about forty metres down the road with a hard line to ensure none of these problems would interfere with getting the paper out. Being the smart woman she is… or was, Sally even got a grant to pay for it. This meant her server was connected to the server at the paper, with no way for the mysterious white guy to listen in or monitor, unless he physically tapped into the actual cable. He was working on the fly just as much as
I was.

The beauty of the situation is I will upload my story and the thumb drive files onto Sally's server, which will immediately send them to the server at the office—with its huge mailing list, website and contact files. As Sally, who is still sitting at the kitchen table looking blankly down at her now-empty hand, explained to me once, if there is a break in power or connection at her end, whatever is loaded on the office's server will automatically be emailed wherever it has been pre-programmed to go. Or from here, if necessary, as a backup. The second they storm this house, I assume they will grab Sally's hard drive in an attempt to secure the evidence. And the minute they disconnect the server I am about to plug the thumb drive into, everything I have just recorded will go international and they'll be fucked. I, too, lov
e irony.

So this is my story. Tell everybody. Do not trust dream catchers, especially ones made from metal hoops, wire and plastic string and beads. They are evil. They are destroying the Native people. Rip them from cars, windows and walls, necklaces and earrings, crush or burn them, wherever you see them. This is the only warning you will get. Fight the drea
m catcher!

What will happen to me, I don't know… I've always wanted to go to Nunavut, bu
t not—

Oh shit, gott
a go…

Mr. Gizmo

In a small community, on a tiny island on the edge of a huge ocean, sat a boy. He was not a small boy, nor was he a large boy. He was a medium-sized teenager, fast approaching the beginning of his third decade on Turtle Island but feeling the weight of a thousand years upon his shoulders. In his unremarkable room, he sat on the edge of his unmade bed. Around him was the detritus he had so far acquired in his unmemorable life—a mishmash of outgrown toys, casually read graphic novels, rudely piled clothes—and he held a small .38 snub-nosed revolver firmly in hi
s hand.

The house was empty and quiet. Only the sounds of the island's animal citizens could occasionally be heard filtering into the room from the world outside. Squeezing the wooden handle, the boy could feel the criss-crossed texture of the gun's grip. Lying dead centre in his palm, it felt heavy. Heavier than he had expected, but then it was a sizable chunk of forged steel. It should be heavy. Why he had thought it would be less substantial he wasn't sure. Maybe it was the way it was whipped out and waved about so casually on television and in films that made it seem less formidable. Whatever. Make no mistake, the sheer ominous heft of the six-chambered firearm told him it was an instrument of violent death. He squeezed the handle again, making sure his index finger stayed distant from the trigger. For the moment, anyway.

Seventeen years of walking the planet had landed him here, at this very moment, at this unique juncture of his life. Half of it lived in the big city of Vancouver, the other half a little ways away in this isolated First Nations community bordering the edges of both a continent and an ocean. Today his thoughts ran dark and bleak. You see, the boy was rapidly running out of family to rely on, and as a result, his sense of self-worth was also depleting. His father… dead from what was described as an “incident” in prison. What was it… eleven years ago already? He could barely remember the man who had called him son. The boy was now probably as tall as his father had been when he'd last seen him. But the man whose
DNA
he shared had become a mere number, one of the thousands of Aboriginal men who disproportionately “enjoyed” the hospitality of Canada's correctional services. And whether he had been guilty or unfairly caged by the dominant culture's so-called “justice system,” somewhere in his journey he had become just a memory for the boy and a statistic for some future roya
l commission.

The boy's mother had disappeared one night while out in the city. Pleas to the police and the media proved ineffective, and the woman stayed missing and was quite likely dead. Now just another name in a much larger tragedy of murdered and missing women. That was when the boy was sent home, to live with his grandparents. In this house. On this island so far away from everything h
e knew.

He pulled back the hammer of the gun. “Cocked it” was the term he said silently to himself. The boy was dressed in black, having just come back from his grandmother's funeral. Another branch broken off his heavily pruned family tree. He'd read somewhere that cocking it reduced the amount of pressure needed to pull the trigger from five pounds per square inch to two pounds per square inch, making it easier to fire. He could feel the satisfying click as the hammer locked int
o place.

This island had been home for a little more than seven years. It sure wasn't like Vancouver. And even though he was probably broadly related to everybody in the village, he still somehow felt alone. And his peers let him know it. That he talked with a city accent. That he knew practically nothing about fishing or his people or anything everybody else found interesting. There were girls he liked who didn't like him. It had been a difficult and lonely seven years. Especially now, with his grandmother buried and his rigorously sober grandfather… now not so sober. The old man had passed out in his room, awash in a rye-and-beer-induced coma. The death of a partner he had shared his life with for more decades than most people live had taken it
s toll.

So there sat the boy, cradling the gun owned by his grandfather, a gift from an American he had been a fishing guide for a long time ago. Neither he nor his grandfather knew if it had ever bee
n fired.

His grandparents had taught the boy that life was a gift to be treasured. It was now a philosophy the boy had difficulty accepting. In fact, the gun in his hand demonstrated his curiosity about returning that precious gift. He was finishing high school in two months… perhaps a better way of saying it was barely finishing high school, or that high school would be finished with him. What next? University? The thought almost made him laugh. His teachers, though supportive, gave him the impression that would be a waste of time. The fishing industry that abounded in the area? That seemed equally unlikely. It was backbreaking work that required a certain amount of commitment and endurance, neither of which he felt he possessed. Also, embarrassingly, long hours on the open sea made him seasick. Some Kwakwaka'wakw man h
e was.

All of that added up to a bleak past and an equally bleak future. As the poets would say, it was a shitty life that was seemingly getting shittier. That was the realization that had sent him to the top shelf of his grandfather's closet a little less than half an hour ago. Now in his room, the revolver sat comfortably in his left hand. Slowly, he transferred it to his righ
t hand.

Impulsively, he lifted the gun, extending his arm and looking down the sights of the short, stubby barrel. Aiming. At everything. First, at the poster of some video game his grandparents couldn't afford and whose ancient television probably couldn't process the twenty-first-century technology necessary for him to play it. Still, it was a cool poster. Then, over at the window and the mountain that stood far off in the distance. It was beautiful, dark and distant. Next, on the wall across the room was a mirror with a sullen teenage boy in the middle of its frame. His arm hovered as he looked across the expanse of his room, trying to recognize the person at the other end. The boy was pointing a gun at him, too. Probably as pissed off as he was. Their eyes locked for a moment before both boys slowly lowered thei
r guns.

Finally, on a shelf beside the window, he targeted the centre of his last victim. A toy robot, given to him by his father before he went away. It was an old-fashioned kind of thing, about a foot high, with moving arms and flashing lights. At least, it once had these things. It used to move eagerly across the floor with lights flashing, filling up the world with excited beeps and sirens. Mr. Gizmo—that was what he had once called it. Now it just sat there, gatherin
g dust.

The boy imagined pulling the trigger. The gunpowder igniting, gases instantly expanding. The bullet pushing down the barrel, spiralling slightly, flying across the floor and into the cheap plastic figure. Bits of department store robot parts and made-in-China electronic guts exploding across th
e room.

“Hey, don't point that thing at me. What did
I do?”

Everything in the room stopped. There had been a voice. Definitely a voice. His hand with the gun fell to his lap as he quickly scanned the room. He was alone, as always. He almost dropped the handgun, but when odd and unexpected things happen, perhaps that's an even better time to have a weapon. Door was closed. Cellphone turned off. The only thing the boy could hear now was his ow
n heartbeat.

He did the only logical thing he could think of and asked, “Where…? Who sai
d that?”

No answer. Silence, except for the creaking of the bed as he stood up, turning a full 360 in a second attempt to locate who, or what, ha
d spoken.

Eyeing his old friend warily, the boy approached the toy robot slowly. He leaned in toward the familiar object, studying its worn plastic face and body. The boy hadn't paid this much attention to Mr. Gizmo in a long time. He reached up to his old childhood acquaintance, taking it firmly in his free hand. It wasn't talking. It wasn't doing anything. Just staring back at him, if inanimate objects can indeed star
e back.

Not knowing what else to do, he knocked the side of the robot's head with the barrel of the gun—twice. You know, just to b
e sure.

“You know I can't feel anything. However, I would appreciate it if you wouldn't do tha
t again.”

This time, the robot moved. Thanks to a hand opening in surprise and the power of gravity, it plummeted about four feet straight down and then bounced twice on the thick rug. Backing into his dresser, the boy raised his gun, aiming directly at the thing on th
e floor.

“Who… what the fuck ar
e you?”

There was a very pregnant pause before the boy received a
n answer.

“If I remember correctly, you used to call me Mr. Gizmo. Never liked that name but also never liked the cheap plastic they made me with. Will you please put that gun down? I know I'm obsolete, but I also know I was not put on Turtle Island to become target practice. I would like my end as a robot to be a little les
s violent.”

Lying face down on the rug, the robot was still. Even if it was indeed talking, it was not moving. None of this made sense. As if to prove his point, the boy continued to point his gun at the toy. At the moment, he was out of othe
r options.

“You! Why… why are you talking? You never talke
d before.”

Sluggishly, as if mired in a dream, the white-and-silver toy managed to roll over onto its back. Its eyes—plastic nodules, actually—were now facing upwards, looking toward the boy and glowin
g faintly.

“I will tell you if you put the damn gu
n down.”

Although it seemed to the boy that the whole world was spinning around him, he elected not to do a
s requested.

“Do I look like I'm dangerous? Is this what dangerous looks like t
o you?”

The boy had to give the robot that. Unless it was one of those Transformer-type things, this toy would have a serious problem overpowering or even hurting him. Almost reluctantly, the boy lowered the gun to his side. But like a jack-in-the-box, it could and would spring forth i
f needed.

“Now, if you don't mind, can you pick me up and put me back on the shelf? Lying here on the ground gives me a far better view of your crotch than I would like. I would prefer to look you in the eye. Man to man… or robot to teenager, as the case ma
y be.”

For a few seconds, neither moved. It seemed Mr. Gizmo was waiting patiently, and the boy was assessing the situation. To the best of the boy's knowledge, things like this didn't happen after the funeral of mos
t grandparents.

Suddenly, the robot moved again. Left to right, then right to left, as it struggled against both gravity and a discarded
T
-shirt that was restricting movement on its right side. “You realize you are making this difficult. Even if I can manage to get upright, there's not a lot I can do from down here.” Mr. Gizmo stopped moving. “Well?”

Taking the gun from his grandfather's closet had been the boldest and pluckiest of the boy's limited repertoire of actions. Until now. He could see Mr. Gizmo staring at him, expectantly it seemed. Not knowing what else to do, he grasped his childhood toy in his trembling fingers, ready to drop it, throw it or shoot it if the need arose. But all that was required was to return Mr. Gizmo to his time-honoured location on the shelf. The boy couldn't help noticing how normal the robot's body felt. Not unusually hot or even cold. It wasn't vibrating or tingling. All the boy could conclude was that it felt like any twelve-year-old plastic to
y should.

“Thank you. Now, let'
s talk.”

It wanted to talk. It wanted to talk more. It wanted to talk more to him. This couldn't be good. “About… about… what? Talk… abou
t what?”

“Nuclear physics. What do you think? You are standing here, alone in your room, I guess very depressed, with a loaded gun. There aren't a lot of dots t
o connect.”

The gun… The boy had forgotten about the gun still in his hand. Under the circumstances, though, that could be expected. Realizing the situation had changed substantially, he could revisit the need for the gun later perhaps. At the moment, there were other things to consider. He gingerly released the gun, and it landed with a slight thud on a shelf about a foot to the left and just below Mr. Gizmo. Pivoting its head slightly, the robot watched the boy release th
e weapon.

“Excellent. I think that's progress. Remember that ray gun I used to have? I think you lost that within the first month. Too bad. I always liked that ray gun. But kids, right? They wouldn't be kids if they didn't los
e things.”

“
WHO
THE
FUCK
AR
E
YOU
?”

“I'm Mr. Gizmo, remember? From th
e planet—”

“Mr. Gizmo never talked. At least, not like this. And not for a lon
g time.”

“I've never needed to. Communication is ver
y overrated.”

Breathing heavily, his knees dangerously close to buckling, the boy didn't respond. Reality for him was usually constant. Boringly constant, like waves on a beach. Mosquitos in summer. Trips to the bathroom. The only thing in his community that happened on a regular basis was people leaving his life. Not insane incidents lik
e this.

The boy blurted out the words, almost too quickly to be understood. “Then why now? Why… why… why…?” But his confusion seemed to be of no interest to Mr. Gizmo.