Crow winter, p.10
Crow Winter, page 10
—Make sure that you tell the story instead of writing it down. From what I’ve seen, people tend to take the written word too seriously. Truth and lies and stories have a hard time working together.
It’s clear that Nanabush is pleased. Something about him brightens as he straightens up. He’s eager now. Eager to talk with me. I’m not sure if I’m sold on it yet. But this is better than going home. Better than talking to a headstone that won’t answer back. I shift my weight and lean into my hip. Whatever sweat I had worked up on my run here has now completely cooled.
—We had better give you a good story to tell then, eh, nishîmej?
“How did you know about what my mom said to me? And what’s it matter to you? Is this all part of the grieving process?” When I get worked up like this, I can’t control how quickly I talk. Poor Nanabush. It’s a firing squad of questions and he isn’t wearing any armour.
—I know because you were there . . . because we have this . . .
He falters. The feathers of his brow come together.
—I think we’re connected. Sewn together like a fishing net. We’re knotted together in so many places, I can’t tell where they begin and where they end. I only know that we need to move together—one motion, one swoop—if we want to succeed.
“Succeed at what?”
—I don’t . . . He sighs. —Tell me about the quarry.
“Dad’s quarry? What’s there to tell? It’s a quarry. I don’t know what it was used for. I mean, I know it was mining, but that was something like a hundred years ago. It’s all water and rock now.”
—How did it close?
“People died or something.”
—And why would it bother you now?
“Because I heard something. At the Band Office. There were people talking. Saying things that . . . that mean that . . .”
—They said your father’s name.
No. Not answering that.
The old crow’s eyes slowly turn milky. He stays that way for a long time, leaving me standing alone in the cemetery. I move closer to my father’s headstone. The grass shifts and bends with each step I take, but Nanabush is motionless, perched on the monument, watching me with his cloudy white eyes. A heavy feeling of dread settles in my bones. My hands shake as I reach, fingers outstretched, to touch the silken blackness of his wings. That same anticipation I felt the day he spoke to me outside my home—the day I could feel myself starting to go crazy—moves along my arms. There’s something different about it this time. Maybe it’s the startling closeness of the bird in front of me, or that acknowledging him has opened me up to feeling his power. The air around him, between us, thrums with energy. As I inch closer to him, my vision starts to blur and brighten.
My breath catches as I feel like I’m stumbling through grass and water, grasping for anything to ground me, something to help me find my feet. Voices, voices. So many voices. I can’t see. Too bright. Like sunlight on glass. Bouncing, burning in my eyes.
Faded images come back to me. It’s like looking at an old photograph that’s been left out to age in the sun. I blink, squeezing my eyes shut to let the water back in. I smell cedar, sweetgrass. Everything around me is familiar, distant. It takes me a moment, but I recognize where I am. The Band Office, the hall directly in front of the office of the vice-chief. Only, the art, the books, the dents in the walls, they’re all so new. This can’t be the building I was in just a few hours before now. This is something else.
People are speaking. Clearer than earlier, but still far off, like I’m hearing them across time. Everything around me looks drained of colour. Not because it is old, but because it has already happened. Soft, blurred focus. These are memories. But whom do they belong to?
“Hazel?”
That voice I would know anywhere. My stomach drops. Emotion floods my eyes and my throat. I want to answer, but I can’t. The sight of something—someone—stops me.
She’s not quite up to my waist. Her dark hair is long, halfway down her back. She’s wearing a corduroy dress. There’s a small rip along the seam where the shoulder meets the sleeve, but it’s been mended. The dress used to belong to her older cousin. It’s her favourite.
“It’s me,” I whisper.
Hazel runs right through me. She’s grinning. She pushes open the door to the office and I follow her, completely transfixed. She keeps running until she’s around the desk and scooped up into his arms. I stop in the doorway.
Dad lifts little Hazel high into the air before pulling her close to him, kissing her cheek. Even though the colours are faint, Abe’s grey eyes are alight with life and love. The way he looks at her tears at my heart. Jealousy of my past self leaves a taste of chalk in my mouth. It hurts knowing that they only have a handful of years left together. But here, they’re carefree. There is only this moment and the next. Neither thinks of the one that will be the last. I’m more removed than ever, being so close to the past. To something I can never have again. I feel cold in my bones.
—We’re too far back.
Nanabush’s voice doesn’t surprise me. I look his way. He makes a stifled croaking noise, blinks, and twitches his head to the right.
“It’s been so long since I’ve seen Dad with his hair braided. It makes him look young. He’s so happy. We’re so happy.” My eyes get moist. I try to blink away the tears, but they roll down my cheeks anyway.
—You got lucky with parents like yours. Not everyone gets to be the light of their father’s life. Gus must hate you for that.
Parents don’t pick favourites. At least, mine didn’t. I’m not answering that.
“I remember this day now, I do. It was after picture day at school.”
Dad adjusts the bolo tie around his neck, loosening it as he sits down. He pulls Hazel up onto his lap and gently spins the chair so they both face the window. I watch them—us—looking out onto the river. There is sunlight along the water. Waves slowly and quickly tumble over the rocks and sand of the riverbed. He points to the water’s edge.
“He’s telling me the story of how the pickerel got his scales.”
Nanabush is quiet, but I know he’s listening.
Dad’s baritone is soft, but it still fills the room. “The sunlight and the colours of the leaves of the trees used to love dancing along the water. It was the most beautiful sight to watch light and leaf as they twirled with the river. They fell in love with their reflections along the glassy surface. They wanted so badly to look like that always, so one day, together, they leapt from their places in the sky and the earth and dove into the water. But sunlight and leaf could not live in the water. They could not swim. It was then that the pickerel—not a pretty fish to look at, but one who was hearty, proud, and an excellent swimmer—hurried to rescue them. He swam, his back fin moving back and forth with power and grace, and he caught sunlight and leaf just as they had given up. He told them that he would carry them for as long as they wished to live in the water. So happy were sunlight and leaf that they stayed with pickerel for days ever after.”
I say the last words with him. “And to this day, pickerel wears the beauty of sun and leaf and river on his back.”
Hazel beams up at her father. And Abe looks down at her lovingly. He brushes the long hair from her face, then looks back out the window.
“I used to love that story,” I say. “I’d make him tell it over and over. Not because I liked the words or the images, but because I loved the way he told it. Even when he was just speaking, his voice sounded like a song.”
—We have to go.
“I know.” I turn away, squeezing my eyes closed, shutting Hazel and her father out. But I can’t seem to get rid of them. Their images stay burned into my vision. I want to hold on to them until it stops hurting. But it does hurt. Will always hurt.
When I open my eyes, we’re back in the cemetery. The colours here seem vivid, as if what I experienced wasn’t real—couldn’t be real. Sounds from the main road seep through the surrounding trees. Cars and trucks go by. Life continues as usual. Nanabush is looking at me from his perch on my father’s headstone. My hand is still resting on his feathers. I move it, bring it up to my face, wipe my cheeks.
“I, uh, I heard someone say that my dad left them with a problem. Something unsigned that has to do with the quarry.”
—Anything else?
“Yeah, another name. Someone called Gagnon.”
—All right. Good.
Nanabush readjusts. He stretches his talons. He’s getting ready for flight.
—Go home, Hazel. You should talk to your mother.
I nod and turn away from him. “All right.”
He spreads his wings. I hear them, feel the rush of air as he takes flight. The feathers sound like silk against the sky. I go to move, but my legs give out and I’m on the ground, on my hands and knees. I dig my fingers into the grass, dirt quickly settling underneath my nails. I close out the world and shut my eyes. What I see are the silvery scales of a river fish.
* * *
There’s still light in the sky when I make it home. The sun is already beyond the horizon, leaving oranges and pinks painted across the clouds that hang in the air. It’s distracting and beautiful. The light puts the trees and sloping, shingled rooftops in silhouette, their soft, angled lines marking their place against the sky. Our house is lit from the inside. The curtains are open, so I can see inside the living room as I walk up the long drive. I can see Mom amidst the forest of plants in the sitting room. She’s got her eyes fixed on the book she’s reading. I take a moment to look at her while I’m far away and unseen. Is she upset from our talk earlier? Did my outburst hurt her feelings? I can’t be sure. Mom’s face is unreadable beyond her clear investment in what she’s reading.
I stand there as the sky gets progressively darker and the shadows start to take me. This must be what it’s like for Nanabush. Observing without being seen. I can see why he likes shadows. The street lights flicker to life, spilling an almost antiseptic fluorescent light onto the highway and the end of the drive. It feels like the searchlight of a prison on my back. I march, reluctantly, expectantly, up to the house.
It’s unlocked, as always, and the light’s on in the hallway. I shut the front door as noiselessly as possible to try to keep the space between Mom and me a moment longer. It makes noise all the same. I take off my shoes, leave them at the door. I take off my jacket, hang it on the clothes tree. I take a deep breath to get my bearings and calm myself down. Even if everything is fine, I can’t help but be worried. Two steps and I’m in the doorway of the living room, standing at the bottom of the stairs. Easily, I could turn and hurry up to my bedroom, avoid speaking to her altogether. My weight shifts, my foot angles, I start to pivot.
“Hazel.”
Exhale. Walk into the room.
Her arms are open and I easily move into her embrace. I lie on the couch beside her, cradled in her arms. She rocks me back and forth. She sings a lullaby. I don’t cry. I don’t apologize. I don’t say anything at all.
And somehow, we’re okay.
10
“I Remain, Sir, Your Obedient Servant . . .
Joni pushes open the door to the conference room and I stop in my tracks. My jaw drops—which feels like something out of a movie, but it’s my honest-to-god reaction. Spread across the extra-long table is a terrifyingly large assortment of banker’s boxes, each of them labelled in their own unique way. The one consistency I can spot is that each box is still in decent-enough shape to be classified as a box, although a few are bulging out from severe overcrowding.
“It’ll be good for a little bit, I tink, me. You just let me know when you need more space, eh?” Joni says, placing her hands on her hips as she surveys the room before looking at me.
“You mean I’ve got the whole room to myself to sort through boxes?” I reply.
Joni laughs and rubs her chin with the back of her hand. “If you get chrew more dan one box today, I’ll be real impressed.”
Confusion must be plain on my face because Joni claps me on the shoulder.
“Don’t look so scared! You’ll be fine.”
“Should I have brought some luggage? A pillow? Maybe a blanket? By the looks of things, I’ll be living here now.”
Waving away my questions, Joni walks into the room and reaches for the lone box-less folder sitting on the table. She motions for me to stand next to her as she flicks it open. “Okay, so! This here’s a list of all dem terms and tings you need to know to understand dem letters.”
I put down my coffee Thermos and bring the paper closer to look it over. “What does ultimo mean?”
“It’s an old-timey way of saying ‘last month.’ And instant is their way of saying ‘this month.’ You’ll see dat all de time.” When she places her hand on my shoulder again, it feels less like a gesture of confidence and more like it might be pity. “You good now? I tink you are.”
I give her a small smile and shrug. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Dat’s de spirit. Give me a shout if you need anyting,” she says as she turns to walk out of the room.
I’m already studying the page of definitions as her footsteps fade. I pause when I realize I need some clarification. “Wait, you mean, like, literally?”
“Yeah, I’m just down the hall, me,” she calls.
“Oh, okay.” I resolve to walk down to her office if I need her. Shouting feels like pushing the limits of a proper work environment.
Sighing, I let my arms flap to my sides as I look back at the enormous wall of work in front of me. I move to the far end of the table and pull over the box marked “1.” I take off the top and reach for a folder. The first document I pull out, ink-splotched and water-stained, is covered in the worst handwriting I’ve ever seen. It’s like a doctor wrote the whole thing and assumed they’d be the only one looking at it. I can hardly make out the words. It might as well have been written in another alphabet. For all I know, it probably is.
If my job is to organize these boxes of documents into an easily accessible system, then what category am I supposed to put this illegible mess into?
Miscellaneous. That’s a good choice.
I set the letter aside and gingerly pull out the next one. Right away, I deflate. Same mess, different handwriting. This is going to be the longest few weeks ever.
I should have brought more coffee.
* * *
The clock above the door doesn’t tick; the second hand just swoops around the face smoothly. It’s practically noiseless. I’ve been watching it for nearly five minutes now. In one more minute, it’ll be 2:00 p.m. My head feels heavy as it rests on my hand. I’ve got my elbow propped up on the table and I’m slumped forward. My chair is pushed back far enough so that my body is nearly horizontal against the tabletop. Looking at these letters, maps, and treaties has left me exhausted. And it’s only been an hour since I came back from lunch.
I’ve organized documents across the long table in a haphazard chronology. I think I’ve sifted through about four dozen different sets of papers since I started this morning. Sometimes, the dates can span close to a hundred years from the same box. Not that that means anything. From what I’ve seen so far, certain correspondence spent decades trying to sort out one issue. I found a stack of letters about the misplacement of a fence that went on so long, the original property owner died before it was resolved.
When I agreed to this job, I assumed that the problem was with abundance. But it isn’t just the amount of backlog, it’s everything. It’s all a complete mess. Joni wasn’t kidding when she said she needed someone to do her busy work. I know that she and Mom meant well when they decided this would be a good way for me to spend my time instead of moping around the house, but this is, well, it’s something else.
Usually a first day of work is simple and straightforward. A day that plants a seed of motivation in a person, so they feel excited, ready to come back tomorrow and the day after. But today? Oof. I feel like I’ve been hit over the head by one of these boxes and then beaten senseless with a bunch of letters from 1867. Probably a complaint about property or dogs or corn. There’s no end to what people write in to Indian Affairs about. Indian Affairs, on the other hand, sends back pretty much the same set of replies. Usually along the lines of “Tell the Indians no and resurvey their land to make it smaller. Sell their lumber and set up a church. xoxo Indian Affairs.”
The throbbing between my eyes that’s been going on for the past hour is making it hard for me to see. I’ve read the same letter over about five times and I am still confused if it should be filed under “land disputes” or “petty-fence-building.”
I reach out and tug the banker’s box I’m working through closer to me, tilting it so I can see inside. Most of its contents are spread out on the table in front of me, save for the two folders taking up space at the bottom of the box. With a tired sigh, I pull out one of the folders and peel back the cover. I grab the first letter and start reading out loud in a last-ditch attempt to keep my eyes from falling shut.
“Date says, March 12, 1910. Ste-Marie des Oblats. Dear sir, I write to you in reply of your letter from 24 ultimo wherein following the survey completed by the Ferguson Group, the potential of a mining development within the boundaries of the Spirit Bear Point Indian Reserve was presented.”
My interest spikes for the first time all day, the paper in my hands gaining a sudden weight. I scoot forward, using my feet to wheel my chair closer to the table. I get so excited that I end up staring at the words in their swirling script for a few moments before I can pull myself together.
The letter is from the Indian agent assigned to our region, Joseph Côté. I’ve already come across so many letters by him that I don’t even need to see his signature to know it’s his work. His penmanship is of the elegantly atrocious variety—so pretty that it’s practically illegible. Thankfully, the earlier hours I spent trudging through documents like this one have trained my eye enough to be able to read it without too much trouble. If I squint, somehow that makes it easier.
