Nish, p.3
Nish, page 3
“The thing is, there’s never been any sports here. We’ve talked about this before. Hockey for the guys, and a little skating for us when we could. But with the arena we had, we got stuck in the holes most of the time.”
“Yeah, we know. Your sport is snowmobiling.”
Ati giggles as she always does about everything. She has the laugh of our Kukum Francine, only louder. She has the gift of bringing joy wherever she goes. Meli smiles immediately.
“Ladies, you’re talking about the play, I presume?” intervenes Mr. Fred when he hears us chatting.
“But for sure,” answers Meli, in English, all smiles.
I always say that Meli brought the southern wind in her luggage with her dozens of ideas for activities and her contagious energy.
“Maybe we should make a little progress. Should we write the script?” I say, loud enough for Mr. Fred to hear me.
“Yeah, maybe it would be better to write it in French and then translate it,” says Meli.
“There’s Google Translate for that!” whispers Ati.
“Ati …”
“What?”
“We’re good enough to do it on our own. Google Translate is for emergencies,” I almost shout as I turn to Mr. Fred, not without winking at my friends.
Ati pushes back her long, jet-black hair with a look of both defiance and satisfaction. Then she adjusts her dark-blue glasses as if to say “Let’s get to work!” But Meli is elsewhere. For once, it’s not Elliott she’s looking at, but the window, or rather what’s beyond the window. Ati and I do most of the work by ourselves.
“Okay, so now can you tell me the story of Wolverine?” Meli asks us again as we leave the classroom.
“You won’t let it go, will you? We’ll tell you about it on Saturday when you two come to work on the play. Then maybe you’ll be able to help us, right?” I say with a little elbow movement to the ribs. “I’ll ask my mom if you can stay over.”
“Oh, because we’re going to your house on Saturday?” asks Ati.
“As if that surprises you!”
LEON
The school seems a little empty these days. Everyone has gone on the February hunt. At least half the student body is missing. Joce is also absent more and more. But today he’s here. I’m glad to see him. I sense that he’s preoccupied, a little elsewhere. He drops the contents of his bag on the floor in front of his locker, then piles up the books haphazardly, as if to get rid of them.
“Joce, are you coming to practice or not?”
“I can’t, I have to babysit my sisters. My father is away hunting caribou, and it’s too much for my mom with John missing. He was always the one who came to help when my father went out into the woods for a long time or when he went to sell his pelts.”
“There’s a void, isn’t there?” I say, seeing that he’s a little sad. “How are your sisters doing? Does Elizabeth still throw tantrums?”
“All the time. I help her with her homework. When she’s happy, she’s really good. She laughs so hard. The problem is when she doesn’t understand or doesn’t like something. But I’m starting to get the hang of it with her. She likes my jokes.”
“I understand that your family needs you, but Coach won’t be happy.”
“I know, but it’s not like I have a choice. Will you tell him? I’m sure he’ll understand. He’s also sad about John. He was his friend, not just my mom’s cousin. Since he left, when my dad goes hunting, I’m the man of the house.”
“Yeah, the whole village misses him.”
It’s been three weeks since John disappeared. Despite intense searches by the Rangers, the police and even by air, there is no clue as to what happened to him. Even though neither the body nor the snowmobile were found, there are rumours that he died in a snowmobile accident. All we have are a few wolverine tracks here and there. A real mystery! Meanwhile, Joce has ended up with a lot of family responsibilities. He’s the man, in a way, when his father isn’t there.
Joce’s older brother, Noem, is studying in Sept-Îles and his sister Alice, who had a big baby boy when she finished high school, went to live with her boyfriend, making Joce the eldest of the family. After Joce, there’s Elizabeth and their five-year-old sister, Mimi. Elizabeth is not his real sister, but rather his cousin. His mother took her in not too long ago, after years of living in a foster home farther south. My mother says Elizabeth’s mother drank too much alcohol when she was pregnant and it took its toll on her daughter. She’s only in fourth grade when she should be in sixth grade or her first year of high school. Next year she won’t be able to go to elementary school because she’ll be too old, and Joce’s mother wonders what will happen to her.
I’ve known Jocelyn since daycare. He is and has always been the class clown, the one who makes you laugh no matter what the circumstances. We’ve gotten into all kinds of trouble together, and when the arena was finally renovated in 2015, our parents, who weren’t sure what to do with us anymore, decided by mutual agreement to enroll us in hockey.
With a village of eight hundred people, and about the same number in Kawawachikamach, the neighbouring Naskapi community, there aren’t enough people to form leagues like in the South. So players who can barely skate are with us. At least, by creating a league of eleven- to thirteen-year-olds, we’ve been able, for a couple of years, to make two real teams: one of seven players and the other of eight. Both teams always train at the same time, or at least as often as possible.
Since Joce and I both managed to be on the North Stars this year, we dominated the White Foxes almost all season. The name of that team makes me laugh. A fox is not very warrior-like. But I know it can be cunning.
In the past month, my friend has missed three games, which we lost, much to the delight of the Foxes, who finally took their revenge.
The games aren’t the same without Joce. I’m a good passer, but he scores.
Hockey is my passion. I started skating when I was about five years old, when my mother brought Elo and me new skates from Quebec City. I know all the statistics of the best players in the NHL, the rank of the teams, even the junior teams in Quebec.
At home, we often watch the Montreal games on TV, although my mother is still a fan of the Quebec Nordiques, the old team from her hometown. They may have been sold to become the Colorado Avalanche in the mid-90s, but my mother still talks about them.
“With all the players we had in Quebec City before they left for Denver, we would have easily won that game.”
To which my father always replies, “Yeah, and that’s why they won the Stanley Cup the following year, in D-E-N-V-E-R,” winking at me in passing. When my father taunts my mother like that, she just gives him her usual pout.
I love my parents. They’re beautiful together. They love each other, and it shows. My mother is a bit strict and a bit of a hippie at times, but she is also smart, loving and important in the community. My father’s a good guy. That’s what everybody says about him. He’s always ready to help, to repair this or that, to get a snowmobile out of a jam, even in the woods. He really went out of his way to find John. He still goes out two or three times a week on his snowmobile, supposedly for a ride, but I know it’s to try to find him. Saturday night games are not the same since John disappeared. Joce doesn’t come over as regularly anymore, too busy with his family, and my father often goes for a walk. At least he always comes back before the third period. So I watch the game with Elo and my mother in silence. Let’s hope we find John soon!
ELOISE
The village is quiet tonight — at home, not so much. My father went to Sept-Îles for a few days for a contract, but he’ll be back tomorrow. You can hear the corn popping in the microwave in the basement, where my friends, my brother, Joce and I have taken refuge. Joce was able to free himself, much to the delight of my brother (and maybe mine too). My mother is keeping us all here overnight. She often does this when my father isn’t around, especially in the winter. I suspect that she has yet to fully master our winters, let alone the wolverines, which she seems to fear. I tell myself that’s the reason why she keeps us all inside.
“So, are you going to tell me the story of Wolverine?” Meli asks for the thousandth time. “You’ve made me wait long enough. I’ve been waiting three weeks. And it better be good!”
“You don’t know the story of Wolverine?”
“There aren’t too many wolverines in Sept-Îles, you know, Joce.”
“There are a few different versions of this story, but my favourite is the one about the hunt,” my brother says, raising his eyebrows mysteriously.
“There’s the one where they blow into its anus, too,” Joce adds, with a mocking smile on his face.
“Ewww! I would prefer the one about the hunt,” replies Meli.
“Well, okay. If you insist. Who’s telling the story?”
I turn slightly to Joce, knowing full well that he will be the one to volunteer. He leans forward on the couch.
“I have a pretty solid version.”
“This is taking too long,” complains Meli, stomping her foot on the floor.
“A story like this, Meli, needs the right moment, you know.” Joce sighs to make her wait even longer.
“All right, go ahead, Joce. It’s time now,” my brother says as he slumps down on the sofa.
Joce looks at us one by one, setting the tone for the story. He clears his throat and begins his story in a whisper, taking long pauses between sentences, much like my grandfather did when he told legends.
“About two hundred years ago, not too far from here, when they lived a little north of Lac-John, our ancestors faced the greatest famine they had ever known. It had been several weeks since they had caught anything in their traps, and the cold and snow prevented them from going too far from camp. All they had for food were dried roots and some tea leaves.
“The children cried, the babies screamed, and day after day they all prayed to Manitou to finally bring them some food. But nothing happened. The best hunters scanned the horizon, looking for caribou or bear tracks, but there was nothing. The hares had fled the territory, and no animals had been seen for almost a moon.
“Then one night, the best hunter in the village finally heard the howl of a wolf in the distance. He put on his high moccasins and emerged from his tent quietly with his bow, spear and arrow. The wolves, now many, were howling more and more.”
“Come on, Joce. The Innu don’t eat wolves!” interrupts Meli.
“When they’re hungry, humans will eat anything,” I retort defiantly. “Go on, Joce!”
“The night was finally windless and snowless, and the hunter walked in his snowshoes, following the howling of the wolves, guided only by the moon. A little before dawn, he sat down on a large rock to rest. That’s when the whole pack of wolves surrounded him.
“The leader of the pack introduced himself to the hunter in Innu-aimun: ‘You will not eat us. We will help you hunt and find food for your clan. However, you will have to share everything with us before returning to your own. If you accept, we will let you go. Otherwise, if you break your promise, we will curse you.’
“The hunter agreed and they hunted — he and the ten wolves — until the noon sun. The hunt had been extraordinary, and a dozen beasts of all kinds lay on the snow. The wolves, exhausted by so much hunting, fell asleep on the white ground. That’s when, without making any sound, the hunter took all the animals for his camp. He told himself that his clan needed them too much and that the wolves would get by on their own.
“When the hunter returned to his family, no one recognized him. Worse, the people of his clan tried to chase him away. The man then realized that he was walking on all fours and that huge claws were coming out of his hands. Caramel-brown fur covered his body, and the tracks he left in the snow were those of the wolverine he had become, transformed by the wolves who had warned him. He had to resign himself to exile and live alone in the depths of the woods.”
“And that’s why, since then, the wolverine lives alone,” adds Atikush, proud to add some information.
“Oh,” says Meli.
“Oh? That’s it?” says Joce, offended. He was obviously expecting applause.
“How dangerous is a wolverine? What do I do, Joce, if I come face to face with one?”
“You pray that he is not hungry! Ha, ha, ha!” replies the storyteller.
“Seriously! Stop fooling around, you little comedian,” Meli says, pushing his knee.
“Nah! My dad says they don’t attack humans, or rarely. The thing is, wolverines are good hunters. They eat all the animal carcasses they find and hunt all the time. For trappers, knowing that a wolverine is on the territory is not great. It steals our catch.”
“I would still be careful anyway,” says my brother.
I can’t help but add another layer. “It’s obvious that—” I blurt out, but then stop and purse my lips, which adds to Meli’s concern.
“That what? That what? Speak!” asks Meli, not very reassured.
A laugh that only the Innu possess erupts in the basement. While Joce and my brother do everything in their power to exaggerate the story and scare Meli, Ati makes big eyes at me. Since I don’t understand what she means, I respond by frowning and shaking my head. She then says, “Come on, Elo, let’s go get some Kool-Aid upstairs!”
“Kool-Aid? Here? You’re dreaming, Ati,” my brother replies.
Ati is already dragging me by the arm anyway.
“What’s the matter?” I ask her, going up the stairs two by two.
My cousin waits until we’re alone in the kitchen.
“Elo, don’t mess with me again!”
“Huh? What are you talking about? Apu nishtutaman.”4
“Didn’t you see yourself looking at Joce while he was telling the Wolverine story? You had your mouth open and everything. I even caught you smiling.”
“No way, he’s just a good storyteller.”
“Yeah, right. And the drool that ran down the edge of your mouth?”
“You’re exaggerating!”
“I don’t think so! I know you. I don’t need you to draw me a picture.”
“That’s good, because I’m no good at drawing.”
“It’s not the first time I’ve seen you look at him like that. Even Meli says so.”
“You’re both talking nonsense!”
“Right, right, uh-huh,” Ati says as she roots through the canned goods in the cupboard to try to find some drink mix.
My cousin is not wrong. But the last thing I want is for her to know. Especially while Joce is in the house. Chances are she’ll let him know.
4 I don’t get it.
LEON
The school always has a little trouble waking up on Monday mornings. Everyone arrives late and it’s not uncommon for only four or five of us to be in the classroom in the morning. This morning the math teacher can’t continue his lesson with so many students absent. His solution is to put us in teams of two on the three computers in the classroom, supposedly to solve logic problems, while we wait for the others. No surprise, I’m with Joce, who’s here again today.
Joce, after having carefully studied where my sister and Meli are seated, chose the computer at the back, on the left, far from the girls. He looks like he wants to tell me something.
“Tshimish …”5
“What about my sister?”
“She’s starting to look beautiful, eh?”
“Ugh! Exactly. She is my sister. Don’t tell me you like her?”
“Well, I’m just saying she’s beautiful.”
“Yeah, well, we have a game this afternoon. Remember? Or are you too focused on my sister?” I tease him.
For once I can give Joce a run for his money.
“So … my sister? Come on!”
“Yeah, I know,” says Joce, rolling his eyes. “But the real question is will your sister be there?” he adds, rolling his chair farther away to avoid the jab I’m about to give him.
“Is it Valentine’s Day that drives you all crazy? Meli and Elliott, who made out yesterday, you and my sister … But then again, she’d have to be into you, right? Not an easy task! Ha, ha!”
“Don’t worry, I’ll work on it,” Joce chuckles, casting a glance at my sister from the corner of his eye.
“Come on, stop it!”
“Is she coming to the Valentine’s dance on Wednesday? I have a plan.”
“Your plans, your plans … Make plans to win the game first.”
I’m a little confused by what I just heard. What is this idea of my sister and my best friend?
5 Your sister …
Chapter 3
The News
ELOISE
Spring is just around the corner, and when I get home from school, my father is already home, which is a bit unusual for him. My parents are sitting at the round table in the centre of the kitchen. It’s clear my mother has been crying. Her reddened eyes and the traces of black mascara running down her right cheek betray her. She watches me with a forced smile as I put down my backpack, looking like she’s saying “I love you,” but in silence.
My parents have always loved each other very much. For as long as I can remember, they’ve been dancing in the living room late on Saturday nights to the Scorpions’ “Still Loving You” or Kashtin’s “Ishkuess” when we were in bed, or rather, when they thought we were.
“Ishkuess” is also the song that our father used to sing us to sleep, probably because it talks about children, about stopping time to see them grow up, about seeing life through their eyes. Today, given their crestfallen looks, I want to sing it to my parents.
“What’s going on? Why are you here so early, Dad? Did you lose your job?”
“No, it’s not that. Let’s wait for your brother, okay? Do you want some cookies?” my mother answers, my father seemingly unable to say anything.
My mother is offering me cookies when I get home from school — something is wrong. Usually we have to wait until my parents’ backs are turned to sneak one or two from the box they hide at the top of a cupboard where we can’t reach them. But now my brother is taller than my mother, and I can also reach them easily when I stand on my toes. That’s when there are cookies, which is rarely. As a nurse, my mother doesn’t like what sugar does to people, especially Indigenous people. She stopped counting the number of diabetes cases in our community. She says that when they’re full of sugar, children are out of control. So she saves the sweet cookies for special events, parties or hard times. Instead she bakes her wonderful pear and vanilla cookies to satisfy us on weekends when the house is full of cousins. She says it’s better for our health.
