The Cast Stone (6 page)

Ben recited Monica's instructions to himself, “Four miles south of Aberdeen, go east at the alkali lake, a little ways up the road the house is behind a row of spruce on the right,” and finally turned the truck onto a lane that led up a hill. Behind the row of spruce that stood bough to bough, out of place on the prairie, a two-story farmhouse, swallowed in their shade, spoke of neatness and care. The entire farmyard was an example of the owner's personality of part thrift and part perfectionist. The grain bins to the south of the yard stood aluminum sentinels in parade, rank laser straight. The west of the yard was taken by an over-large brilliant-white barn with red trim, its doors open to the light and air.

A man in blue jeans and short-sleeved shirt that ended above tanned, muscled arms walked out in front of the truck and waved Ben toward the Quonset.

“Park her in there.” He pointed.

“Abe Friesen.” He put his hand out as Ben climbed from the truck inside the galvanized metal half-cylinder building. “Best to keep the vehicles out of sight.” He shook Ben's hand, two strong pumps. “You must be Ben Robe. Monica said I wouldn't mistake you. Well come along, everyone is staying up at the barn; there's beds up there and we'll do our business there or in the shop.”

Ben looked around the Quonset as they walked toward the sunlight of the open sliding doors. He recognized Monica's car near the end of the row, dwarfed beside the out-of-place Chevy suburban truck. Someone has money for gas, Ben thought, as he followed Abe past the other smaller vehicles toward the light.

“Hey, Ben, glad you made it.” Monica wrapped her thin arms around him and kissed his cheek. “Let me introduce you around. You've obviously met Abe. This is his place. He's our Amnesty connection. This is Ruben.” She led Ben to a stout, reddish-coloured man whose face was offset by his bright green John Deere hat.

Ben let Monica lead him around the loft of the barn and introduce him to Roger Cardinal, Stan Jolly with a pony tail, Philip Maurice, Joan Lightning, pretty, with a gentle hand shake, Billy Two Horses, the very elderly Rose Bishop who sat in the comfort of a stuffed arm chair befitting her age, Leslie Iron . . . the names and faces blurred as Monica continued introductions to the thirty-odd people in the loft of the cleanly-swept barn.

“Make sure you help yourself to the food. Coffee is Brazilian dark roast thanks to Faye. She'll be on later today with updates from South America.”

“You might not remember me, I was in your class in '06.” Ben tried to remember, but the face in front of him did not register. Neither did the name, Roland Nataways. Ben did his best not to offend, with a smile and a shake of his head. “Don't matter,” Roland continued. “I did learn a lot in that class. Looking forward to your talk this afternoon.” Roland's tanned face framed by long black hair smiled back. But the smile was strained, forced as though through a history of pain.

“
Everybody.
” Abe's voice reverberated through the loft. “
Everybody
, were going to be starting in a few minutes, if we can get you to start taking your seats. Are you ready Joyce? You're up first.” He turned slightly toward the grey blonde woman to his left. “Ready Abe.” She brushed her cotton dress with a quick motion to remove a stray crumb of zucchini bread as she stood, gathered a thin bundle of notes from a packsack and headed toward the end of the loft where the large wooden doors stood open to the morning sun and the prairie sloped away to the horizon.

“Welcome to the first gathering of the coalition of thinkers.” Joyce began as soon as most people were seated. The remainder quickly filled their coffee mugs, grabbed fruit or biscuits, or breads from the table at the back and hustled to the rows of mostly metal folding chairs interspersed with wooden kitchen or an assortment of plastic lawn chairs. The few cushioned arm chairs were all taken.

“First up, I'd like to thank Abe Friesen for risking his home for this gathering, and to remind people not to be outside in groups of more than four or five. If you are outside during a break, remember to come back in and allow someone else to enjoy the sunshine and air.”

A chair scraped beside Ben and he did not hear Joyce's next words. He glimpsed the stylized NS tattoo on the smooth-dressed man's right hand as he manipulated a full coffee mug, trying not to spill. He nodded to Ben as Joyce continued. “The food at the back is courtesy of the Mennonite Central Committee. Who would ever have thought that MCC would make the list.”

Ben turned at the sound of a woman loudly clearing her throat coming away from the food table. She smiled broadly, raised one hand in the air and balanced a bottle of juice and small plate of pastries.

Joyce continued: “Two weeks ago Wright added them to the list of dangerous organizations. Not the Evil list, they're not full-fledged terrorists, but they are on the watch list. Congratulations MCC. You must be doing things right. I would also like to thank Native Syndicate for the security. So very important. They've assured me that the buildings have been swept and it was their workers who put up the screen.” Ben glanced up at the mesh wire tacked to the ceiling. Someone hoped that it would interfere with surveillance. “Everyone should know not to have brought cell phones or platforms. If you have, please remove the batteries. Abe has put his property at risk by allowing us here, let's not put him at any greater risk.”

Joyce looked down at the notepad in her hand. The yellow lined paper matched the sunny dress she wore, matched her brightness, a compliment to the youth of her spirit despite the age lines that crossed a face devoid of makeup. “Stan Rediron is here, he'll be up this afternoon, along with Ben Robe as we hear from the academics. This morning is dedicated to reports. Native Syndicate's own Richard Ross is here personally with updates. And a very special guest, we finally get to see the face behind the words. ‘That Jack' is here.” The screen on the ceiling vibrated with the sound of applause and foot stamping.

“
Easy, easy!
” Joyce raised her voice to cut through echoing din, used both her hands, the notepad in her left flapped pages as she waved down the volume. The applause cut itself short as people realized the risk.

“Finally.” NS tattoo grinned at Ben. Ben shrugged. “That Jack,” NS tattoo nodded toward Joyce. Ben shrugged again.

“You don't know That Jack?”

“No”

“Wait. You, sir, are in for an awakening.”

NS tattoo stood to speak when Joyce introduced him as Richard Ross, president of Native Syndicate.

“I know a lot of you. I know a lot of faces here and I'm looking for That Jack.” Richard stood in the spot vacated by Joyce and exaggeratedly twisted his head back and forth. “Patience, I guess, patience. The Elders say to be patient. I'll have to wait like everyone one else to find out. Whoever you are, Native Syndicate thanks you. If it weren't for you we would never know what was going on.” Richard stood with his hands behind his back, his feet firmly flat on the floor, a military stance, straight. It was a stance that suited his long arms and lean build. “Native Syndicate knows business. That's where we started and that's where we are. The new world order is the old world order. Was a time NS was just another street gang, on the margins, doing business, taking care of our own. Today nobody can call us a street gang. We are more than the streets; we are more than the jail house. We are the first line of defence. The machine needs grease and NS knows about grease. If we stop the grease, the wheels will stop turning. To that end we have hit targets in Alberta, and recently took a truck of yellowcake. Now that is terror. That is absolute terror. It doesn't matter that we ever use it. We don't have to use it. We just have to have it and they know we have it, and they are terrified.”

Ben cringed. A thought rushed at him:
An angry dog is
never as dangerous as a dog that is afraid. Cornered animals
fight the hardest. Even a spruce grouse will attack if it is afraid.

Ben looked around the loft. It was unpainted, bare wood angled rafters held what looked to be tongue-and-groove planks faded uniformly with age. The loft had appeared neat when Ben entered up the stairway, now he noticed it was more than that, it was immaculate. He looked back to the stairway landing where the floor should be worn. It was, but not to any depth. Someone had used a polishing stone to smooth the floor to an even depth. This was not a barn loft, a place to store bales of feed for the animals below, it was a meeting room. There were no stories left, nothing hanging from the rafters that would tell of usage; a bit of horse tackle that would tell of a day's ride, a pitch fork or a set of tongs that would tell of a day's work, the stories had been erased. Even the nails that might have held the stories had been removed from the wood of the rafters that longed to tell their own unedited version of events.

There was some applause at the end of Richard's talk. Ben did not clap; he couldn't bring himself to endorse that level of violence and anger. The tall, straight woman who Joyce introduced as Mary Wiens, co-chair of the Mennonite Central Committee was another who had not applauded, who tried to keep a neutral face, but the pain had seeped through the pores of her very scrubbed forehead and deepened the shallow lines around her blue-green eyes.

“And it's thanks to Mary and her team that we have the wonderful food.” Joyce stepped easily away, leaving Mary at the front of the loft waiting for the gentle applause to subside.

“Thank you,” she unconsciously brushed the lapels of her short jacket, let her hands fall to the folds of her matching long skirt. “Thank you.” There was no hint of nervousness in her strong voice. “Mennonite Central Committee is dedicated to peace. To that end we have spoken against Wright's agenda. If peace is counter to the principles of freedom and righteousness, then MCC and its members belong on the list. We have been accused of assisting listed people and organizations. If giving food to the hungry and shelter to the homeless is a crime, then MCC is happily a criminal organization.

The room stirred.

“But, I don't believe that it was those activities that resulted in the listing of MCC. We had among our membership and on the executive, people who believed that living in a free and righteous society was a worthwhile objective. I was among them. As things changed, MCC participated with Homeland Security's Freedom and Righteousness Division. We were at the table, we prayed with them, we actively participated in planning for a new democracy. The ideals were high — an end to corruption, efficient government, clean streets, a strong stand against crime, and an end to drugs and dependencies — all worthwhile objectives. We even closed our eyes to some of the means employed to achieve those objectives believing that they were intermediate and immediately necessary means.

Mary paused, not for affect. It was just a good place to take a breath. Someone cleared their throat in the otherwise silent loft, breaking the tension that had begun to build. Mary continued, “The listing of MCC had nothing to do with our activities. We were applauded at Freedom and Righteousness meetings for our humanitarianism. We were listed one day after MCC made a presentation advocating the return of control over education to our communities. It has been the goal of Mennonites since before the first immigrations in the last century to live in our own communities and to have our own schools.

“In fact it was the promise of control over education that enticed Mennonites to immigrate in the first place. When we were betrayed, when the government took education away from us, many of our brothers and sisters left Saskatchewan for Mexico.

“We now have communities in all three American Divisions.” A movement of feet and straightening of bodies rustled the loft. “I mean countries, sorry for the slip. I might have spent too much time at Freedom and Righteousness, I am beginning to sound like them.

“But the point is, it wasn't until we began to demand our own schools, our own historical demand, that we were listed.”

Be glad you didn't have to go to residential school
. The thought surprised Ben as he leaned into a rafter.

Mary recovered from her slip and launched into a strong denunciation of the shift in government policy. “Freedom and Righteousness has an education agenda, an agenda that includes God, uniforms, bright shiny silent children, and no teachers' unions.”

Monica offered, “Do you want to get some air? Let's go outside for a minute.”

Ben wasn't comfortable walking out in the middle of a talk, but followed her anyway.

The sun stood a little before noon, high in the large blue prairie sky; its heat held a bit of sting to it as Ben and Monica stepped from the barn shadow into its direct blast.

“How about over there?” Monica pointed toward a yard swing; wooden, freshly painted, white, bright white, even though it stood in the shade of large Manitoba maples.

“That caustic sun is another reason to never stand out in the open.”