Take Us to Your Chief (21 page)

The Kaaw Wiyaa seemed to be doing the Kaaw Wiyaa equivalent of a bow. “We come from 734 light-years away. We have travelled far to bring greetings to your people. You are not alone in th
e universe.”

Chief Angus wasn't sure how to respond to that. This particular situation had not been part of any of his briefings at the Assembly of First Nations. He knew light-years were a good-sized distance to travel because he had watched a lot of
Star Trek
as a kid. Unlike Cheemo, he had always appreciated it more than
Star Wars
. He marvelled at the kind of travel allowance and per diem a trip in light-years must pull in. Seeing the gills on the Kaaw Wiyaa quiver as it spoke reminded the chief that he had a fairly large and tasty muskie fish back home in his freezer. He'd have to run home to defrost it in time fo
r dinner.

Teddy, who was standing closest to the creature, could feel the alien's body heat coming off it in waves. Evidently, wherever it came from was a lot hotter than here. Add that to the smell of the Kaaw Wiyaa, the tightness of the room, and the fact they'd forgotten to bring the rest of the beer with them, and Teddy was feeling a bi
t woozy.

Tarzan had never been in the chief's office before. Surreptitiously, he pocketed two pens from hi
s desk.

“We would like to open diplomatic relations with the people and government of Earth. That is why I a
m here.”

The chief wondered if this was how the Beothuk and Mi'kmaq chiefs felt five hundred years ago. Wow, life is truly cyclical, he thought. The remnants of his activist youth (he'd gone to a protest once) resurfaced, and he restrained the urge to tell the large glowing, quivering, slimy thing in front of him to go home and leave his people alone. The reserve and the planet were all full up. But the pragmatic and diplomatic politician quickly reasserted itself. You don't get to be the former vice-chief for Central Ontario for the Assembly of First Nations without knowing a few things. Still, the man was at a loss as to how t
o proceed.

Outside his office door, the chief thought he heard Laurie, head of membership and lands, slip and fall with a loud and painful thud, probably on the trail of slime left by the problem standing in front of him. He'd better do something to get this thing out of the building before it triggered an
y lawsuits.

“As is protocol, our Grand Council has instructed me to request that you, as leader of this great planet, designate an ambassador to return with us to Kaaw Wiyaa to facilitate a cultural exchange and begin negotiations. As a goodwill gesture, we would be willing to construct sizable stone pyramids, or assist in the erection of enormous rock heads, or create giant stone circular calendars, as per your customs. We humbly await you
r decision.”

Chief Angus was in a pickle, and he hated being in a pickle. None of those things would be of any use to Otter Lake. A decent water filtration system would be welcome, but he doubted this traveller from Kaaw Wiyaa would have the patience or the know-how to tackle the necessary forms and applications to navigate all the bureaucratic levels. Just the smell of the creature would probably fail the environmenta
l assessment.

Ambassador… hmmm, thought the chief. In the corner, on the table, Tarzan sneezed. In the closed room, the smell was beginning to get to him. He smiled sheepishly. The chief had an idea—three of them, i
n fact.

***

Passing the orbit of Earth's moon, the Kaaw Wiyaa craft picked up speed as the quantum drive became fully operational. Soon, the Kaaw Wiyaa equivalent of a computer, buried somewhere deep in the ship, would calculate the best opportunity to open a space-time portal, taking the vessel back to its home. Behind the ship, the planet Earth was already fading into the distance, rapidly becoming just another speck of light in the spectacular backdrop of the universe. Tarzan, Cheemo and Teddy watched their home get smaller and smaller. Needless to say, they had mixed emotions about their recent appointment as ambassadors from Earth to the Kaaw Wiyaa Galactic Confederation. This was not how they had expected their day t
o end.

From the beginning, all three had doubts about Chief Angus's so-called “brilliant solution.” Cheemo had never been out of the county or country, let alone the planet. Teddy got seasick, which is embarrassing enough when you come from a family of fishermen. There was no telling how space travel would affect him. And Tarzan needed the sound of purring from at least one of his three cats in order to fall asleep. They'd been on the ship for a little more than an hour, and there didn't seem to be any cats. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, he thought. The other two were thinking the same thing, but ever since they were young, Chief Angus had been able to talk them into anything. Case i
n point.

As Otter Lake and Earth seemed to wink out in the distance, Tarzan had an afterthought. They should have brought som
e beer.

There were now four other members of the ship's crew standing—or whatever the Kaaw Wiyaa equivalent was—in the large pale-green room. There seemed to be more area on the inside of the ship than the three men had thought possible, based on what they saw of the exterior as they entered. Oh well, they decided to add this to the list of mysteries. Tricks like this would sure help with the housing shortage in thei
r community.

“We are very honoured that you have accepted our offer to join us as representatives of your people. The citizens of Planet Earth must be very proud o
f you.”

Teddy gave them his best ‘ah shucks' shrug. Tarzan was barely conscious of the conversation. He was still looking out the window, wondering if it was too late to… literally… jum
p ship.

“If I may speak freely, what truly impressed us were your methods of communication. Metacommunication. Your ability to communicate without interacting verbally. Almost a form of telepathy. It was that ability that convinced us of your planet'
s sophistication.”

All three men smiled, looking down at the mauve floor shyly, not really understanding what they were being complimente
d on.

“Please forgive us, we have misplaced our manners. Perhaps you would like something t
o drink?”

Tarzan nodde
d enthusiastically.

“We have something from our planet that you might find mildly intoxicating, based on what we know about human physiology. Would that b
e acceptable?”

The head Kaaw Wiyaa turned to one of the subordinate crew members and flopped
a tentacle.

Once again, Tarzan nodde
d enthusiastically.

The crew member produced three two-foot tall containers that it delicately handed over to the beings from Earth. Each took one, noting how heavy it was. Tarzan examined his closely for any type of opening while Cheemo sniffed at his. The aroma was not unpleasant, a cross between freshly cut grass and new-ca
r smell.

Suddenly, Teddy's container jerked rather dramatically, as if something inside was trying to escape. Almost immediately, the same happened with the other two—a violent and agitated shift of weight. It reminded Tarzan of one of his cats trying to get out of its carrier. Teddy was just about to drop his when their host quickly cautione
d them.

“Do not let it out. If it escapes, that will ruin the taste. Just hold it firmly, like this.” Then the Kaaw Wiyaa lifted his up and quickly thudded it against the wall. The container stopped moving. “This stuns the main ingredient and enhances th
e flavour.”

Cheemo, feeling almost adventurous in his new environment, gripped it fiercely and rammed his surprisingly sturdy container against the bulkhead. Not wanting to be outdone, the other two quickly copied. Now, all of them had ceased their franti
c tremoring.

“Now drink,” their host said, and raised its container to what all three Ojibway earthlings assumed was its mouth. At the top of the container, they noticed, was a small pyramid-shaped aperture. Then it tilted the drink back and seemed t
o swallow.

Encouraged, Teddy decided it would be rude not to at least sample their host's beverage. Conscious something was alive inside it, he tentatively tipped it back. The other two followe
d suit.

It was hard to describe the taste—peanut butter mixed with apple pie mixed with moose—but each felt he could definitely get used to it. It certainly wasn't beer, but there was an agreeable… what could only be described as
twinkling
in their nerve endings that came a few seconds after ingestion. All silently agreed they'd drun
k worse.

Once more, whatever was inside Teddy's container gave a violent reaction, but by now, the experienced Teddy just held his drink firmly, thwacked it against the wall and the forceful shakin
g subsided.

Tarzan had already drained his and was holding it up, indicating he wouldn't mind a second. Before he could speak, he was presented with another one, already quivering with flavour. I could get used to this, h
e thought.

“We hope you will feel at hom
e here.”

Suddenly, the familiar couches they had been so comfortably ensconced on that morning were waiting behind them. They were sure they could smell the familiar breeze coming off the lake. The sound of the cicadas was back. And, by golly, there were even a few bushes scattered around the couches, with the old firepit in the middle. It was like they were back at Old Man's Point. “We have tried to replicate the environment we originally approached you in. We hope it is satisfactory, ambassadors fro
m Earth.”

Tarzan, Cheemo and Teddy each took another sip as they sat in their familiar seats. Getting comfortable on their favourite couches, all three nodded their heads in contentment. This ambassador thing might actually turn out okay. After all, they'd had wors
e jobs.

“We should have done this years ago,” sai
d Cheemo.

Acknowledgements

This book has had a long and exasperating gestation period. Ever since my first foray into writing occurred a thousand years ago, speculative fiction has held a special interest for me. Several times I have endeavoured to compile an anthology of Native sci-fi from Canada's best First Nations writers, but I was stymied repeatedly. The writers were more than willing to expand the boundaries of what was considered Aboriginal literature. But because of the annoying fact that writers want to get paid, and as a writer/anthologist myself I wanted to damn well pay them, it proved financially difficult to get a book like that off the ground. Add to that the novelty aspect of something called Native science fiction and the grey area it had sprung from, and it was too much of an unknown commodity for some publishers. At least twice my dream fell by the wayside. But, to quote a saying, resistance i
s futile.

So, partially out of frustration, “Well, screw it. I'll do it myself,” I found myself saying. Here stands the final product. In a blitz of enthusiasm and creativity, I wrote six of the stories in a two-month period during a lazy fall. The rest followed at a more relaxed pace over th
e winter.

There are many people who have been there to encourage me during this drawn-out phase of creation. First and foremost, to all the Aboriginal writers out there who I have contacted several times over the last ten years trying to put this together and whom, in the end, I had to disappoint. This common interest we shared gave me the impetus to actually put this together myself. Live long and prosper, yo
u all.

To Dan David—my Mohawk adviser, whom I secretly believe to be a Morlock; Trish Rody—my medical adviser, who just may be an Eloi; Marianne Nicolson, who “phoned home” for me; and finally, Alvin Chacko—my computer Jedi. Thank you for sharing you
r wisdom.

Institutionally, this book could not have happened without a writing grant from the Ontario Arts Council. Also, a stint as a writer-in-residence for Wilfrid Laurier University provided me with the time and resources to finish this book. Both organizations kept me in Soma and Soylent Green while I wrot
e this.

You would not be reading this if it wasn't for the crew at Douglas
&
McIntyre and my editor, Shirarose Wilensky, who all believed that Indians could fly (metaphorically speaking, of course). Thank you for seeing the possibilities. May the Force be wit
h you.

And of course, my biggest thank you to my inspiration, Janine Willie, upon whose resources, love and patience I have relied extensively. I gro
k you.

Meegwetch, and always remember—in a writer's office, no one can hear yo
u scream.

Drew Hayde
n Taylor

Note:
To members of the Kwakwaka'wakw Nation and any academics who might want to Google the stories of the Impatient One and others I mentioned in Mr. Gizmo, you needn't bother. They don't exist. I made them up. It's not my usual practice to make up another nation's cultural stories. In fact, it goes against my Indigenous nature and under normal circumstances could be considered very bad manners. However, this situation, heavily flavoured with irony, require
d it.

In writing the story, I wanted to be truthful and accurate to the Kwakwaka'wakw people. My partner is Kwakwaka'wakw. Therefore, I sought direction from her cousin regarding traditional stories about inanimate objects that come to life or speak. After receiving several emails full of information, I incorporated much of what was relayed to me into th
e story.

Still wanting to be respectful and accurate, I sent my cultural contact the completed short story to make sure I hadn't committed any cultural faux pas. Evidently I had. A major one. I was promptly told, on the very day I had to send my completed manuscript to my publisher, that all the stories I had been told were not to be used by me in any fashion. In Kwakwaka'wakw culture, many stories are considered “cultural property,” owned by a particular family or community. The information I was sent had been meant only as an example for personal reference and could not be included in my story under any circumstances. A rather uniqu
e dilemma.

So, in the end, I was forced to create legends of my own to fill out the context of Mr. Gizmo and not be disrespectful to my girlfriend's people by using particulars. If I have offended anybody, m
y apologies.

Sometimes being a respectful Native writer can b
e peculiar.