THE SILENCE
A NOVEL
Karen Lee White
Publishers of Singular Fiction, Poetry, Nonfiction, Translation, Drama and Graphic Books
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
White, Karen Lee, 1956-, author
The silence : a novel / Karen Lee White.
Accompanied by 1 CD-ROM of music attached to inside cover.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-55096-794-4 (softcover).--ISBN 978-1-55096-795-1
(EPUB).--ISBN 978-1-55096-796-8 (Kindle).--ISBN 978-1-55096-797-5 (PDF).
I. Title.
PS8645.H5425S55 2018 C813'.6 C2018-905734-3 / C2018-905735-1
Text and music copyright © Karen Lee White, 2018
Book design by Michael Callaghan
Cover and CD artwork by Mark Preston
ePUB, Kindle and PDF versions by Melissa Campos Mendivil.
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We gratefully acknowledge the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation for their support toward our publishing activities.
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
When I am silent, I have thunder hidden inside.
— RUMI
I yearn for silence as some might hunger after wine; ache for a lover’s touch. An early explorer, I happened one August upon my first silence in the far North. Stepping onto the gravel of the Alaska Highway in sunburned air one early morning in a wild place, in the dry. A strange stillness not heard before, a ceaseless buzzing, humming. Willing myself to hear the deep quiet, the nothingness, I could not. The first perfect hush I did hear seduced my being. It was disquieting, holy.
In time I learned to surrender without fear. Allow quiet to seep, seek into my deep. To be perfectly still within silence, embrace it, cherish it.
I seek silence, discover it rarely, and always unforeseen. It is almost extinct.
It lives between a raven’s calls that echo through cedar-fragrant rain forest. By a still lake on Kwakwaka’wakw lands – Before, then After – the logging trucks growl and mutter by. In the smothering of a Coastal fog. In the middle of the night, between dog barks. Silence lives in the between. This is where the Old Ones speak, and I can hear. In the silence. In the space between.
MOON OF THE WITCH
Someone talkin’ in my head quiet with a kick like rhyme
And I know it’s you
And feeling half-crazy I smile in the dark
Can’t deny you got me good ’cause I know it’s true
Chorus:
And it’s not really fair, no it’s not really fair, oh it’s hardly fair
You’re not really there…
CHAPTER ONE
In a way, dead Indians are just like live ones. They have senses of humour, they like to tease. Even get a person in hot water. They steal my stuff. Like yesterday. I was late, searching for my phone. It vanished from where I knew I’d just left it. I made a frantic search of the house. In case I was mistaken, which I knew damned well I wasn’t. Nothing. Then, there it was in the same spot, in plain sight, placed exactly as I thought I had left it. They always do that, it’s like their punchline. Be so frustrating. They ask for things like tea with sugar, and weird food – Kentucky Fried Chicken, Pepsi and jelly beans.
I’m Leah.
I grew up thinking I was poor white trash. When I was fifteen, I cornered my father who confessed that we were Indian, like it was a crime. So, if I was a poor Indian, at least that was a reason for being poor.
I went to Whitehorse at nineteen and hooked up with “Haywire.” My first boyfriend. He was one of the first real Indians I’d ever met. You know, the ones that always knew they were Indians. That didn’t know hiding it or being ashamed were options. I sure let Dad know. And, he wasn’t happy. Bonus Bingo!
Haywire’s mother, Doris, was the only person that called him “Arthur.” All the Charlies in the family lived at Little Annie Lake. It’s a ways out of Whitehorse, off the highway.
The first winter, Haywire and I stayed out in the bush to trap. I started having visits from the dead folks.
Don’t be impressed that I trapped. The only thing we got all winter was a squirrel’s foot. The squirrel left his foot behind. Chewed off his own foot to get away. Either that or the rest of him was eaten by a coyote. That’s what Uncle Angus said. I feel awful about it to this day. Uncle Angus taught us to trap. He said it wasn’t our fault we didn’t get anything because that winter was one big Chinook and the animals didn’t need our trap bait.
We got no fur, but I learned a lot – to listen the instant I heard an unexpected gunshot off in the distance, for a “doof” at the end to know a bullet had hit an animal. And I could tell how many guns were going off. Like people, each gun has its own voice. I discovered the “Indian phone.” It’s when you put out that you want to see someone, and not long later they show up. And if you ask if they “got your Indian phone call,” they always say “Yes.”
Bush people are good at that.
When you show up they already have tea made and fresh bannock ready.
They say, “Oh, so that was you that was coming.” You can’t surprise them; they just know someone is going to show up.
Gramma Maisey used to motion to the stove and say “Tea deh” in her Tagish accent as sweet as her tea. When I first showed up at Little Annie, Haywire and I had gone to visit one or two of the Charlies at their houses for tea. I’m so light-skinned they thought I was white. “Bring that Kutchen over so we can check her out,” his aunties told him. He would grin. I guess he thought my long black hair would be a giveaway to who I really am. What I didn’t know then was that he’d never brought a girl home. So, it was a big deal.
Haywire’s Mom didn’t seem to like me. It wasn’t anything personal. No woman was good enough for her boy.
She did save my life once, though.
The first dead guys who came in a dream were Haywire’s two uncles. They were kind enough to introduce themselves, but I knew their names already. Alfred and Arthur Charlie. Almost every day Haywire said how much he missed them. We hung around and had tea. Just like the live relatives I had met one by one in the cabins that snugged up to Little Annie Lake.
Those uncles asked all kinds of questions about my family. About where I came from, how I grew up. I was confused. I’d always thought spirits knew everything already.
l []
ME AND NO ONE IN THE RAIN
I remember laughing, I remember talking
I r
emember running, slowing then and walking
Neon lights floating on puddle water
Shushing of the cars, the buzzing of the wires
Painted lady waiting on the corner
Shooting sentimental glances my way
I’m all alone but it really doesn’t matter
I could swear it doesn’t matter
Me and no one in the rain
Me and no one in the rain
l
Looking far past her reflection in the plane window, she recalled how Haywire looked back then and smiled. He had kept his hair short; his hands seemed separate from him. He was always tidying the front of his hair, using his fingers as a comb – that lock forever dropping into his face, the softer black of half-breed hair. He was neither dark-skinned nor light. Indians knew he was Native, but white people couldn’t tell until he opened his mouth. The Tagish accent, the dropping of letters at the end of words, was a dead giveaway. It was one of the many things that she had fallen in love with.
A bush Indian who knew everything about that land. With a gentle, slow, sweet smile that lit up those dark eyes. But, as the Tagish would say, he could really “hold a mean.” His temper was something else. Leah wondered how he looked now that he was older. If that fire between them would still smoulder? That kind of passion between two people was a once in a lifetime gift. She grinned about them making love in the bush when they were supposed to be hunting. After, he would say how dangerous that was in bear country, that bears were attracted by the smell of lovemaking. Neither had cared. What would he be like now, and what would the North be like to her after all these years? She had met him at nineteen. The blush of youth was gone after two decades.
That winter they had trapped was hard, but how she had loved it! The first and only time she had felt alive. Not like now. These days she existed. Her thoughts turned to Phillip. She loved him but knew without having to be told that it was over. They just hadn’t said the words. Something had prevented her from marrying him, but she had committed herself for five gruelling years. It was exhausting. The condo with white-on-white everything down to the couch. His inability to relax around her Indigenous friends, family. It was worse that she had to be a civil servant and a professional Indian offering counsel on everything that others should learn themselves. What kind of gift was it appropriate to give to a Nation? How should they acknowledge traditional territory in meetings? What was a good frybread recipe? Could they go to a powwow? Could they attend a big house ceremony? She longed for the music she had long left behind. But Phillip was kind, treated her respectfully. It was clear he would never grasp the culture, but she felt cared for. He wasn’t affectionate but was a great lover in that he tried. He was white and uptight, after all. She grinned at herself in the window, took a sip and allowed the cool water to trickle slowly down her throat.
Ah, being held by Native men. Man, when they held you it was as if their heart and soul were in their arms, hands, and bodies. With a touch they could melt your defences like cold butter on hot bannock. Haywire was the best lover she’d ever had. He had stroked her all over her body each time, as if he were a musician playing a beautiful instrument. She had never tired of the music his hands spoke to her skin, eloquent erotic poetry beyond words. She had thought of his touch a thousand times since. How he had somehow known what her skin longed for. That yearning never left her. A deeper sensual heat arose at the thought of his hands wandering the open terrain of her body.
Damn, she thought, that’s just wrong that he was the first. Why couldn’t my last lover be the most intimate?
l
DANCE AWAY
Longing has new meaning, yearning has new meaning
I long and I yearn and yet as you asked
as I promised I have kept you with me
while you dance away
I swear to you I saw us take a tear from each other’s eyes
and put it in our mouths
and the tears became diamonds
and then many diamonds that fell from our mouths
and you danced away
I see you and you see me
I hear you and you hear me
You know me and you cause me
to be a witness to my beauty
without fear and without shame
And I hold this all within me,
tenderly knowing
that you will dance away
CHAPTER TWO
“Haywire!” she yelled, dropping her carry-on bags, running out of the heat into icy air. She was full of the heady excitement of a longed-for reunion. She almost knocked him off his feet, embracing and kissing him on a cold cheek.
“Holeeee, woman, you tryin’ out for the B.C. Lions?” She heard the laughter fill his voice. “Easy, easy.”
“Oh, my God, Haywire – look at you – you’re a sexy old man,” she laughed, punching him on the arm. “Why is it?”
“Why is what?”
“That men with grey hair look so damned sexy – women just look…old.”
Haywire grinned. She was almost the old Leah. Almost. More beautiful than ever. But there was that lost look deep in her eyes. He busied himself with her luggage.
“Come on, Chaos. Uncle won’t wait forever.”
She laughed at her forgotten nickname from the days of Haywire and Chaos. It was a slow sweet embrace. She flushed despite the frigid air. He led her to a light blue and white ’56 Chevy truck.
“Hooooooleh! Still have this ole wreck? Ever fix the bullet holes?”
“Nope, kept ’em for souvenirs.”
“Some souvenirs. The RCMP trying to kill you?”
“Somethin’ to tell the grandkids.” He glanced at her as he hefted her suitcase.
“Lord Geezus, woman, you got rocks in this case?”
The truck had that old-vehicle smell she loved. Old leather. And the faint smell of oil.
“Gonna stop for smokes before we go to the hospital.” He fired up the engine. Leah smiled enjoying the familiar deep-throated growl. The tires squeaked as they moved through the snow.
“You’re still sucking on those coffin nails?”
“No,” he said “the smokes’d be for you. You’re kinda tense.” She gave him another gentle slap, knowing he was teasing her. “How long has Uncle been sick?”
“Dunno, never said nothing. I had the dream four months back.”
She waited for him to explain. He didn’t need to. He stopped and said, “I’ll be back.”
“Consider me placated,” she replied.
“What lingo is that? He looked annoyed as he slammed the door. She knew it was a dig about using “city words.” With a grade seven mission school education, he thought she was flaunting.
They crossed the bridge spanning the Yukon River. Their ability to hold a comfortable silence made it seem as though no time had passed at all. Under streetlights the snow was tinged a pathetic pink-yellow. Leah recognized the parking lot, the low building. Nothing had changed in twenty-five years.
“Truck, truck, car, truck, truck, truck,” she said, trying to be light.
“What?”
“Obviously the North – all the trucks.”
He gave her a quick glance but didn’t respond. He was gathering himself. She remembered this about him, how at home he was in the bush, awkward in town. He slammed the door. Squared up. Lit a smoke. Took a few hard drags, threw it down. Stepped on it hard.
“Let’s make tracks,” he said.
Sliding doors, the warm blast of hospital air. That odour she could not bear. Infirm humans and disinfectant. She trembled. Emotions swam like circling sharks. What was wrong with her? It wasn’t about Uncle Angus, it was that hospital stink. Haywire stopped short at Uncle’s door.
“He’s gone,” was all he said.
“He’s sleeping,” not believing her own words.
“Yes, he is, but he isn’t ever going to wake up.”
Haywire stood motionless looking down. The brown face, lined, the colour
of smoked moose hide, hair all shades of grey. The lean body looked tiny. The spirit gone from the shell left behind in the bed. Haywire felt his presence and knew that he had not gone yet. His chest painfully tight, he could barely breathe. Unshed tears locked behind his eyes.
Leah wailed as Haywire stood silent. She had no sense of how long they stayed, but Leah knew she was crying Haywire’s tears.
l
Angus Charlie is walking soundlessly though the meadows on moccasin-covered feet. He has just turned ten years old, is finally allowed to hunt alone. Happy to be out on this shimmering fall day, raven wings whoh, whoh, and whoh just above his head. Smiling at the wing beats, he imitates them perfectly. The golden light and long shadows of late afternoon. The brilliant blue of the sky intensified by white clouds, slowly travelling to the south on a steady breeze.
All signs point to the moose having come down from the hills for the rut. He has seen the branches where they have scraped velvet from antlers. The larger game will be moving this time of day. This is his first hunt alone and everything is alive to him. His hearing is sharp, his eyes picking up all colours, shape, movement. He will intuit energy before seeing or hearing animals. He carefully carries his father’s .22 in his hand, the .30-30 over his left shoulder.
The path he follows is an old one his family has always walked, to the meadows. The huge flat in this valley has been part of the family trapline for generations. A squirrel whirrs alarm at his approach. He stands still until silence falls once more. Until there is only the sshhhhh of drying leaves rising with the breeze, all the gold leaves in that great meadow speaking to one another, the grass answering. The sound rises and falls, rises and falls in slow waves, north to south.
Angus stands straight like any of the trees. He has no fear, this is his home. He knows where the bears will be, the wolverines. How to respectfully address them if they cross paths. Passing a grove of pine his eyes go to the tree where his sister birthed her first child. The trees share one root among them, like a family. His family. He looks to the place where he will set rabbit snares with Father when the snow comes. He sniffs the air. He smells the sun-bleached grass, the alders, the tang of spruce pitch.
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