Wren can still hear the joyful sound of her mother’s laughter every time she got to this part of the story. Lancaster is a football player who led the Saskatchewan Roughriders to their first Grey Cup win in 1966. Edna remembers that Grey Cup clearly, as it was the same day as her first official date with her soon-to-be husband, the girls’ father. As the years passed, Edna learned to love the precision of the game of football. She said it taught lessons on perseverance and a belief that all things are possible. Edna would continue her bedtime story, in the exact same wording each and every telling.
“That’s when Kohkum picked up a rock.” Edna always smiled at this point while continuing to describe. “And threw it with precision at Muskwa’s third eye.” Muskwa is the Cree word for bear. Edna used her stories to teach the young girls the basics of the Cree language.
“That third eye,” she’d continue, “is like a baby’s soft spot. And that bear falls hard. Coyotes watch from the bush. They are always watching, and they spread the word quickly: ‘Don’t mess with Kohkum. She’s got a gift.’ After that day, Kohkum was never stalked again while out picking berries.” It was a story about believing in yourself—believing in magic and the spirit that surrounds.
Edna would tell the twins that she named them after birds because they were always meant to fly. Wren is the bird of vibrancy, alertness, efficiency; a pledge to make each day have meaning. Raven is steadfast and symbolic of change and transformation. Edna also started teaching the girls how to do beadwork before their sixth birthday. That’s when she began learning, too.
“Other than creating beautiful designs,” Edna would tell her girls, “it teaches patience and calls for attention to detail. Things that’ll help you along the way as you grow.”
This is how Wren embraced her love for expression through the arts. An early start. Now Wren creates designs with materials supplied by Mother Earth. Clay and pottery. Each time she throws some clay, it is a lesson in gratitude, because Edna passed only a couple of years later when the twins had just started grade three. The cause of death was cited as a heart attack, but Wren always figured her mother died from a broken heart. She remembers hearing her mom cry herself to sleep in the next room.
It’s the reason the twins were raised by their grandmother.
“Rest in peace, Nikawiy. I love you—kisakihitin,” she repeats in the Cree language, wiping away a tear lingering in the corner of her eye. Her musings have travelled with her all the way home. Wren unloads the groceries, loving the sound her heels make on the cobblestone pathway leading to the front door of the farmhouse. To Wren, it’s a magical pathway built by Mooshum, her grandfather.
She and Raven collected the pathway stones themselves when they were girls. Their grandfather sent them down by the creek, instructing them to gather as many stones shaped like pancakes as they could find. It took days for them to find enough. They walked along the creek bed all the way to the rail line, and then back in the other direction right up to the outskirts of town. Good exercise, for sure. Wren can’t remember a time in her life that she had more restful sleeps than when she, her sister and Mooshum worked on this project.
Once there was a substantial pile, Mooshum started digging ruts into the soil, little indentations big enough for each rock to poke its face up, just above the crust of the earth. He arranged the rocks strategically while the girls planted lollipops along the loose soil at the outer edges of the pathway. Mooshum joked that big lollipop trees would grow there in the future. Giant trees covered with lollies did not grow, but warm memories most surely did.
* * *
Now in her kitchen, it was time for Wren to start creating more memories. She went to the pantry to retrieve flour, lard and baking soda. Raven will love this pie I am making for her with the berries I picked last week, Wren thought. After she placed the top crust on the pie, she carved a smiley face into the dough the same way their mom always did when the girls were little.
“Someday soon you will be a kohkum too, Nikawiy,” Wren said and raised the palms of her flour-covered hands to the sky. She was speaking with her mother, now in the spirit world. “And I will tell stories about you. Lots of them, but I will change that bear story a bit, and tell this child that you killed a bear using only a river rock. Kisakihitin. I love you, Mama.”
Shadows Past
Lord Magras is Wren’s new husband. Hell of a heavy burden to carry a name like that: Lord. It was often the source of scorn for Lord when he was a boy, and especially as he grew into adolescence. Lord always wondered why his parents would give him such a name. “You are above others,” his mother would tell him when he was young. “You won’t settle into the lower class. You are Lord, meaning superiority.”
When his class studied Lord of the Flies for a literature class in grade seven, Lord found his top-flip desk filled with dead flies one day. He left school and ran home crying to his mother. It upset him so much that she allowed him to stay home for two days. Lord was coddled to the point of suffocation. “I will always be here for you,” Lord’s mother would tell him. “No one can take care of you as I do.”
People he met would joke about the name for years later. The only person who didn’t was Wren. She didn’t care about his first name and instead commented on his last name, Magras. “Sounds like muskwa,” Wren said, glancing into his eyes for a moment before becoming shy and looking away.
“What does that mean? Muskwa?” Lord asked.
“Kohkum told me it means bear. A symbol of strength,” Wren replied, this time meeting his glance and offering a smile.
“I’m not familiar with that term. And what does kohkum mean?” Lord inquired.
“That’s the Cree word for grandmother. It’s nice to meet you. You a collector?” asked Wren, changing the topic. “I’m the artist for tonight’s exhibit. Thanks for coming.”
Wren’s new works were being exhibited at the Dunlop Art Gallery, located within the walls of Regina’s central public library. A committed library patron, Lord had stopped in to renew some materials he’d borrowed but hadn’t gotten around to finishing yet. As he strolled by the Dunlop Gallery, he was captivated by the beauty of the works in clay that he saw on display from the library’s main atrium.
Once inside, he was taken with the beauty of the artist herself. He couldn’t take his eyes off her full lips as she spoke about a piece she’d created. Portrait of a Woman, she called it. A large piece, abstract and twenty inches high, it swirled into many shapes capturing the feminine. A woman called by the wind. Lord purchased the piece that evening. Lord remembers her tossing her long black hair to one side as she nervously flattened a crease on her taffeta dress. And he remembers her talking about bears.
What happened after that first meeting was pure magic. The signs were everywhere. The day after meeting her, Lord came across a historical story about the lost grizzly bears of Saskatchewan in an ecology magazine. Then the movie The Life and Times of Grizzly Adams randomly appeared on a local television channel, and next a friend at work introduced him to something called a “grizzly” cocktail after a long week at work: bourbon, lemonade and an energy drink.
Only three days after they’d met, and there had been so many bear signs. Lord decided it was time to act. Even though it was after 9 p.m., and after more than a few grizzly cocktails, he dialled the phone with shaking hands, using the number from the business card that he’d picked up at the art exhibit. “As Lord of this manor,” he said into the receiver, “I invite you to dinner tomorrow.” After a pause he added, “Been thinking about you since we met.” He said all this without slurring.
Wren phoned back the next day and ended up talking to Lord about what her style of art represented to him. “Perseverance,” he proclaimed, “and always believing and never fitting into a box. Very bold. I love your lines.” He understands, she thought, and surprised herself by agreeing to the dinner invitation.
Less than twenty-four hours later, Wren found herself checking
out her reflection in the rear-view mirror of her vehicle and hoping that she hadn’t sprayed on too much perfume. She insisted that they meet at the popular Cathedral Village restaurant in Regina rather than having him pick her up at her home, just in case her first impression of him was inaccurate. By the time she entered, Wren noticed that Lord was already there, sitting near the end of the dining area with a clear view of the front door. He was holding flowers—not roses, but a brightly coloured bouquet, the kind anyone can buy at a local grocery store. Lord did not take his eyes off her as Wren walked toward him. “You look lovely tonight,” he said.
Wren had spent the entire afternoon primping and selecting an outfit, applying and reapplying makeup, and trying to figure out which accessories to wear. In the end, she was both stunning and elegant, wearing a simple black dress, long-sleeved but with an exaggerated neckline that subtly covered her cleavage, leaving room for the imagination. She wore simple jewellery, silver rhinestone-studded earrings and a choker-length silver chain that displayed a heart-shaped pendant. She decided not to wear lipstick that night, instead just dabbing on a clear gloss that outlined the shape of her lips. “Thank you,” she tittered. “So good to see you again.”
“I hope you don’t mind or think it is too forward, but I bought you some flowers,” Lord said, handing over the bouquet.
“Not too forward at all. Thank you.” Wren sniffed their sweet fragrance before adding, “I can’t remember the last time anyone gave me flowers. Oh, I mean, unless you count my sister who sends an arrangement each year on our birthday.”
Puzzled, Lord asked, “What you mean our birthday?”
Wren’s explanation led to much more conversation around getting to know more about each other. They talked about family, art, design and music before the waitress came to take their order.
“I will have your twelve-ounce filet mignon, medium-well, and a baked potato. Just butter as a garnish please, no side of vegetables,” said Lord. Wren ordered a medley of sides that included hummus, tzatziki, goat cheese and figs. Lord found it funny these were all things he’d never even tried. After the meal, Lord insisted on walking Wren back to her car in the parking lot at the back of the building and just off an alleyway. “Just want to make sure you’re safe,” he said as he led her to her car. Lord held Wren’s small hand and the two made plans to see each other again in a week’s time.
“I can’t wait for a week,” Lord complained over the phone at about eight o’clock the next morning. “I’m sitting here, alone in my apartment and drinking a nice, hot coffee and thinking wouldn’t it be so much nicer to be sitting here with you.”
“Me too,” said Wren. Lord suggested the two meet up again for dinner that night, but this time at Lord’s home, and Wren agreed. Lord lived in a comfortable highrise apartment at the corner of College Avenue and Broad Street in Regina. Lord explained with great affection that one point in history it was where the edge of the city began. His apartment had a great view looking to the west, including an impressive sunset each evening and nearby Wascana Park.
Earlier that day, he’d stopped at a deli on the way home to pick up a ready-made barbeque chicken, some fresh ciabatta bread, smoked gouda and soft brie cheeses, and a side of quinoa salad—foods he’d never imagined bringing home prior to seeing what Wren ordered the night before.
They embraced that night and shared their first kiss. Lord recognized something in Wren as he touched her hair. Holding her face in both his hands, his lips were drawn toward hers. She returned the gentle touch and put her arms around his shoulders, a warm intertwining that offered a promise of something sacred and timeless. Their next kiss held purpose and went deeper: an unspoken pledge that they’d take care of each other’s hearts with commitment that can carry and protect for eternity.
That’s the story of how they met, and how they ended up living at the historic farmhouse today. They married at city hall less than three months after their first meeting at Wren’s art show. Raven will be their first overnight visitor since becoming a married couple. There is magic when the twins are together, just as there is magic between Wren and her groom.
The farmhouse and its property had been bequeathed to both girls years ago—that sad day when Kohkum passed at the same time her granddaughters had been accepted to university. She wanted to ensure that love and tradition of the farmhouse would carry on, connection and pride of past and present, long after she’d gone to the spirit world. Kohkum’s wish.
The farmhouse sat empty for some time while the girls made their ways in the world. But the magic returned when the newlyweds decided to make it their home. It was like the very land smiled and applauded. The hollyhocks grew taller and the perennial purple irises grew in abundance, thick like ground cover. The creeping ivy extended all the way past the trellis and toward the second-floor master bedroom window.
* * *
Wren is so excited that Raven is visiting. Good medicine. She looks forward to the dim light of the fireflies as the twins watch from the veranda—fairies dancing, they would say when they were little. They’ll listen to the lowly sound of trains in the distance and coyotes singing, crickets chirping and frogs calling out in what Wren remembers as a sweet melody. They will eat bannock, and honey made from bees that had pollinated the several varieties of wildflowers the girls used to pick. They’d give a bouquet of those wildflowers to their kohkum, so many years ago. In leaving the property to her granddaughters, Kohkum’s wish was for love, a love that will fold its safety around new beginnings.
Reconciling the Past
Lord carries a curse. Or at least he’s been told he carries a curse. He cannot bring himself to tell Wren that he feels an unease with Raven coming to stay the weekend in their home, their sacred space. He thinks, It’s amazing I invited Wren for dinner at my home at all. That I invited someone in. Lord keeps remembering voices from the past. His mother’s voice, and how she raised him to be afraid of anyone visiting. “They carry germs,” she’d tell him. “You never know where their hands have been. Best not to take a chance.”
Lord was never allowed to have friends come to his home for sleepovers or visits when he was a kid, nor was he allowed to play with classmates after school. A lonely upbringing. No colour, no magic, no memories like Wren’s. No one but family was allowed to cross the threshold of the front door. Lord can still hear his mother’s decree: “Strangers carry sickness. It’s what killed your granddad. It’s what killed your father.” Lord has no memory of living life without fear of the unknown. It has become so thoroughly ingrained, it’s more like a bad habit than anything logical.
But now he has Wren. And soon, her sister will arrive. Lord decides the time has come to tear down these old and imaginary walls and start building something that is real. He decides it’s time to stop living two lives: one where he pretends everything is alright, and the other where his heart silently screams in pain.
Lord’s familial roots come from old England. His grandparents were first generation Canadians. They brought with them hope and Victorian virtues, ways of doing things that were adopted, ingested and followed as rules to live by. The Magras clan moved to Canada in the late 1800s, settling in the Maritime provinces, an area where many families came from England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland. They settled in eastern Canada and called the powerful Atlantic shoreline their new home, bringing with them fresh dreams and old ideas, architecture being one of them.
There were no grand castles in this new land like there were in the British Isles, so new residents started building grand homes from stone. The statues of promise they built, old stone houses, could still be seen in Maritime provinces centuries later.
That is the kind of home in which Lord spent his childhood. It was a spacious two-storey dwelling complete with an oversized stone fireplace that caught the eye upon entering. That stone house, built by Lord’s granddad, was tucked deep within the silence of a woodlot in rural New Brunswick. Lord’s fondest memory of his childhood was
launching origami boats in a stream nearby the home.
How did he know origami? It was some after-school class in which his mom had enrolled him. Didn’t matter to him that all the other students were girls. It’s there he found his love for design. Lord constructed the paper boats with care. Later, at home, he kept up construction and practice. It was a solitary way of life for a young boy who was not allowed to play team sports. “This origami, it is a practice of precision,” he remembers his mother telling him when he was a boy. “Good for learning discipline and paying attention to detail.”
As a boy, Lord would spend hours measuring and folding heavy paper until it resembled what, in his mind, was a miniature tugboat. That’s when his imagination would take over. He’d sail across the Atlantic back to his grandparents’ homeland, landing at a port and unloading the multitude of fish he’d caught.
When he was young, Lord returned to England often, but only in his imagination. His made-up life included many relatives that he hadn’t met at all. In reality he’d had a lonely childhood, as an only child with a single mom and no relatives his age. His mother’s aversion to visitors only compounded his isolation. She would routinely remind Lord of the death curse that followed them: his grandfather had caught cholera from the neighbour who had helped build their house, and Lord’s own father, a paramedic, had contracted HIV after attending to a bleeding woman in a car crash. The HIV worsened a condition he’d already been unknowingly living with, and a year later he officially died of bone cancer.
Lord’s mother and father had hoped to raise a dozen children, but the family curse was like a creeping, dark plan from the universe, attaching itself to yet another generation. Because of his father’s disease and death, the couple would have no other children except for Lord. Two generations had succumbed to illness brought in from the outside.
Bone Black Page 2