The Silence
Page 14
As she flies with Raven, something tears and separates in her tiny black head; she knows the man is slamming into a shamed woman, but she soars on a wind far above trees, moss and house soaring in the silence. Knows, but does not feel pain with every ugly driving force of the man far below.
Does not hear Haywire in the distance, his faraway voice screaming, “You bastard, you bastard, Dale Post, I love her! Gramma treated you like a son!”
The woman below hears Haywire shouting, “Leah, no. Leah, I didn’t know. I can’t walk, my leg is broken, I can’t help you.” She is hit so hard now that just she succumbs to blackness.
But Leah is flying, free. She hears nothing but the wind in her ears, feels the currents of the cool air in her feathers, on her bird skin as she soars far above the trees. Far from the human sounds, into deep and perfect silence.
Now Leah dreams she is a witness. Doris comes home, Raven is sitting in the corner chair, motionless. Doris immediately demands to know who has been shooting up her house.
The raven woman wonders, How the hell can Doris see such a tiny hole above the door? How can she see the change in this old shack? How?
But she has. Haywire says nothing, hangs his head, crying silently. Doris is fierce. She already knows what has taken place.
Haywire, looking like a dog with his tail between his legs for the rest of the day. Despite a broken ankle, he hauls snow for water, cuts enough wood for two weeks, even dumps the reeking, heavy piss pail. Women’s work.
Haywire won’t look at Raven, who stays unmoving slumped in another corner.
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Leah woke terrified, stunned, lying in the corner, on the cot, alone. The thin light told her it was late afternoon. She was cold. She remembered she and Haywire had burned all the wood the night before. Careless!
At the chopping block outside, she sensed something dreadful, long before she heard the truck. She stood like stone, watched it run a crazy course down toward her, rising and falling on the bumpy track. It slammed to an abrupt stop. Dale Post. Coyote. He staggered a few steps and dropped. Leah was immobile, disbelieving, unfeeling. He got up, lurched toward her with a leer. She held the axe tightly across her body with two hands.
“Well, Miss Thunder and Lightning,” he drawled thickly. She saw and felt his ugliness shrouding her. His small, wild coyote eyes were on her; hard, wet black pebbles in the bottom of a stream.
“How about it if you show me how loud that bed can squeak in there one more time?”
Leah did not say a word, stared unblinking at him. He came toward her. She knew what he wanted.
As if his brain were crystal, she could see his thoughts. He wanted to tie her up. Again. He wanted to beat her. Again. He wanted to do unspeakable things. Again. This time, it would be for many days. Then he was going to slowly kill her. She could see where he had chosen to dump her body, to let the animals have her. High up on the Skagway Road. Down in a gulch. Under the blueberries in the thick moss.
Leah felt stirring in her womb. She raised the axe above her rounded belly as he lurched toward her. Still he did not stop. She turned the blade toward herself.
He was close enough now she could smell the alcohol; see the ugly, hunting, cruel Coyote look she knew only too well.
She hesitated, a dead calm fell over her. It was the only thing left for her to do. She raised the axe, it hung in the air at face level. It was time. She was ready. She swung, hard. She heard it strike but did not feel the blade. She waited for the sense of her blood leaking from her, the weakening. Soon, it would all be over.
She looked straight, fearless, into Coyote’s eyes. Saw the light slowly fade. Everything was black. Like a dream, a vision, she then saw herself in slow motion as she turned, buckled, fell like a tree, bouncing slightly. Blood. Her blood like a river, her blood. It was done.
She came to. Haywire’s voice.
“Leah, are you are okay? I saw you trying to hit yourself, but you tripped. The axe hit that son of a bitch when you passed out.”
She struggled up on her elbow. Saw Dale Post like a bloodied heap of laundry on the ground. The axe embedded in his skull, listing.
She heard an animal scream before she realized it was her voice.
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COURAGE IN MY EYES, Verse Two
I am walking on an ancient battleground
Asking Simon how can this be
And Simon says the Creator is All powerful All wise
I want to be a warrior with courage in my eyes
I want to be a warrior with courage in my eyes
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Leah woke; struggled for air. Haywire was gone. She was alone. This, then, was the truth. This terrible, ugly thing had happened. All these terrible things she now remembered.
There was more, but this was enough; she willed the other truths away.
A heat came up from her feet to the top of her scalp. She felt as if her blood would boil. Outside. She needed to throw up. Still in her pyjamas, barefoot, she bolted out the door. She vomited right outside in failing light.
She took off up the path in the cold air, heading for anywhere but this place. This place where this thing had happened. She could smell his rank breath. Could not erase the scene that played like a video loop her head.
Dale Post, gushing blood, slowly turning, eyes still looking into hers, bewilderment swallowed by death as his life drained from him. Slow-motion falling, crashing to the ground, bouncing like a tree. Her falling into shrouding darkness. It played over and over, and over.
She had to run; run from this dreadful sight.
Like a panicked animal, she bolted through the woods.
Leaving the path in the blinding dusk, crashing through then landing on something huge, warm, with a gamey smell she knew.
The moose bolted up, throwing her to the side, thundered off into the woods. The breath knocked out of her, Leah lay until she could breathe, panting, whimpering.
She made it to her feet, ran again. The road. Doris’s old house. Empty, dark. She slowed, confused at the sight of snow. It was too warm for snow. But snow was falling, swirling, huge flakes dancing and resting gently all around, mesmerizing her. In moments, it covered the ground.
She did not feel the cold, kept moving toward a place she had always felt safe. The meadow.
A flash, radiation of light for miles and miles around. The mountains thrust out of the gloom, showing themselves. Eerie. Leah felt all the hair on her body rise.
Energy vibrated within her at every white jolt. Lightning and snow? The sound of silence, so loud it hurt her ears.
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Terror, no place to hide now. She tries to remember something, anything that anyone may have taught her about being in the flats at a time like this.
“The trees,” voice strangled, her breathing ragged.
The silence was alive all around her, terrifying her more than the sickening blue-white flashes.
It’s like an awful dream.
Tripping, she almost falls into a blind dip in the muskeg. She curses herself for ending up in buckbrush, which she never must do.
The treeline. A flash. She reaches the trees. Huddling beneath the tallest. Alone and tiny. On this land she loves that is not hers.
A little wooden cross, leaning to the ground, shows in the next flash of light. The babies! She, Haywire. This is where they buried her babies! Dale Post’s babies!
She feels the moss on her hands as she waters the tiny graves with tears. Haywire placing the cross, saying “Sorry” over and over.
She begins to cry now, then to pray. She uses every word of the language of this land she knows. She sings.
She feels the snowflakes in the silence, falling down on her. But they are not cold.
Smoke! Fire! Not snow, ash! The silence growing louder and louder still. Leah raises her head. Flash. The land is lit again.
Dead Indians! Mother! Why is she with them?
They stand, looking. Leah feels as though she has been stru
ck by the next bolt. Energy shoots up her spine, and back down. She begins to call to them.
“Mother! Uncle Angus! Doris! Gramma!”
There are more dead Indians coming towards her. Mother holding Leah’s baby in her arms. The buried child. It’s cooing. Whose is the other baby that Uncle holds?
This was it. They were taking her with them. She is consumed by the unbearable longing to go.
Uncle Angus motions – Come – holds the baby out to her. Without hesitating, she stands, takes a first step toward them.
A memory flashes between lightning, plays like a film; she cannot stop it.
Haywire. Blood. The body.
Haywire speaking gently, as if to a child. “Leah, go inside, I’ll take care of this.”
Haywire coming to her later. She feeling as if her face is stone, staring out at the lake, blood still running all over her face, all down her front, pooling on the floor. He sits looking the floor for a long time.
“Listen – you have to listen to me. He’s dead, Leah.”
She is silent, still cannot move.
“Leah, he’s a cop – and I know you didn’t mean to, but you killed him. Nobody can know what happened here. Everyone knows you hated him.
“There’s a lot of places here a man will never be found. A lot of places where a truck can disappear. We can’t ever talk about this again, Leah. We can’t ever tell anyone. Ever.
“Now come with me, I’ll need your help.”
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Here in the flats, now a final flash. Explosion. Burning wood. Blinding in the black. She falls, allows a slow and peaceful darkness to envelop her.
Leah sees the light through her eyelids. Feels the frigid white morning air on her skin. Confused, asks herself what is she doing out here? She sits up, hand to her head to still the thundering.
Feels an old scar on her scalp. The kiss of the axe. Charcoal is all over her. The tree she had been standing under blown to bits all over the ground – now small black pieces all around her.
She is covered by a familiar old blanket. Ash covers it. She sees the canteen of water beside her. She drinks deeply. Cool on cracked lips. The slush soothing on a burning throat.
The pain in her head has receded a little. She coughs, stands staggering at first. Medicine. She gathers that which is holy, speaking her gratitude in the language of the land.
“Ah, Gunałchîsh, Gunałchîsh Du xhùní!
From a very old, glacial place deep within her core, tears of old, frigid pain melt. Drip down her face. A little girl place. A place high in alpine mountains where a tiny girl stands, looking down on what has been, what is, what will be.
“My medicine, Mother, Uncle, Gramma. It is all my medicine.”
Her past, distilled from deep sadness, merges with her present here on this land, now. The Old Ones whisper within. The land speaks. The medicine sings its medicine song deep within her. The mountains witness. The earth holds her, gently. The water in the creek sings her name; the wind carries it far, wide.
Ravens catch it, fly across the meadows, calling it out.
She stands, breathing deeply, holds some of the lightning-fired medicine high in her hands.
Her life, with all its joy and ugliness, within her now. Before her eyes. She is now ready to see. She calls her name.
“Lightning Medicine Woman!”
Alive within her now, she feels all the power of lightning.
A nearby, and much loved voice says gently, “Are you ready now?”
She turns, sees her beloved Haywire, standing, looking at her, serious.
“Yes.”
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FIRE WITHIN, Verse Two
Forged am I in pain, cooled am I in weeping
Forged am I in pain, cooled am I in weeping
And here am I, here am I, here am I
I’m a universe inside
The universe inside of me is uncharted territory
Each star is unnamed
And the outer world I see
Is but a reflection of what lives in me, in me, in me, in me, in me
Fire inside, fire inside
Fire inside, fire inside
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Leah smiles at Haywire and then at her growing belly. She closes her eyes. She opens them and writes.
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I can’t believe it has been a year since I wrote in this. Maybe because too much has happened since Uncle’s memorial.
Trying to be all of who I should be has taken two years.
I piss people off by being who I am. I laugh a lot. I have a bad habit of stepping on people’s last nerve.
I also know this is a sacred medicine.
Rage and fear are also sacred. I inspire a lot of it in people when I accidentally ask them about the most painful secret of their existence.
On the upside, I can also break tension like a hot damn. Have a way of making people laugh without trying to, without meaning to. Another very sacred medicine,
The spirits who come to me now are very badly behaved. I wouldn’t have them any other way. The holy ones are too predictable. If spirits are meant all pious and spiritual, mine are like crows cawing their smartass comments.
I was in the hospital. After the North. The first time. Close to death. I knew this by the wildly increased number of spirit visits.
The first was my dead friend Rayne, who died in the early days of AIDS. He came running in from the West. This makes perfect sense now; but I didn’t know it back then. Here he comes, and he starts talking to me. I had no doubt it was him. His voice sounded like it was coming through water.
I said, “You sound different.”
“Of course, I sound different. I’m dead, stupid!”
I had no doubt it was Rayne; it’s exactly what he’d say.
Yeah, those badass spirits of mine. Love them. High entertainment. They don’t politely wait for food and drink offerings.
I get, “What does a dead guy gotta do around here to get a decent cup of coffee? Or “I’m STARVING! Go get me an A&W hamburger. No!! Not that burger, the Uncle Burger, go get another one. And leave off the mustard and ketchup, I only want mayo. And I don’t want Coke, I want Pepsi. And not that fountain stuff, it’s crap. And not that stuff in the plastic bottle, it’s never cold enough. Get it in a can. I like it better; and WHERE is the Fireball?” Fireball. Yup. My spirits like Fireball. You know. Cinnamon Whiskey.
There’s that one who occasionally shows up and plants a kiss right on my lips.
And when they give advice, it’s never just, “Do this, and all will be well.” I get, “You are what I like to call ‘wrong.’” Sarcastic spirits. They’re the best.
Those Old Ones can be subtle – not! Always loaded with attitude. Once, they told me my ceremonial structure was loose. They waited until I was in there and it was right over on its side. They said, “So yeah, the poles are loose; just so ya know.” It would have been nice to get a warning before I was in danger!
When those dead folks get wanting something and I haven’t been paying attention (Excuse me for having a life!), they do things like pull my covers down really slowly, just until I wake up. And then they’ll let me fall asleep again, and then down come the covers.
Last time, it was because I made Christmas candy and didn’t leave it out and unwrapped for them. My offerings are always on a plate, and the sweets and such unwrapped. I had spent hours single-wrapping each of those caramels as gifts, and the house was fragrant with warm candy. Because I forgot to gift them, they came and did the slow cover pull. I yelled right there the first time, “Stop it, right now! Leave me alone! Go in the dining room and get some candy!”
Scared the hell out of Haywire. All he said was “Holy,” and rolled back over.
Sometimes they’ll just go right ahead and whack hard on the heater to get me up in the middle of the night for nothing. God, I hate that!
They have made me burst out laughing right in the middle of something. Like when I was doing some doctoring on somebody
recently, they said, “Like we need your help.” They were rolling their eyes at me. Try looking all serious and medicine womany under those circumstances!
And they really have no class whatsoever. They hang around even when I am intimate with Haywire. Once, they said, “Yell really loud, that’s how you call your future children to you.”
I burst out laughing. Try explaining that to a man. “I mean, really, Grammas, how could you?” And they just sat giggling in the corner.
But you know what? They’ve never said no to doctoring anyone, even if the person is drunk, or stoned. These badasses will tend to anyone who truly wants the help.
They are only ever serious when they doctor. They speak to me clearly, letting the person know what’s at the heart of their sickness or trouble. They never joke when they’re giving this advice. They are full of love and kindness. Unfailing.
Sometimes I ask the people I’m helping if they understand a message. I say, “I don’t need to know why they’re telling you this, but I just want to know if it makes sense.” It always does.
I would only deal with these kind of spirits, if I had the choice. I didn’t; they chose me. But if I had the choice? They would be my chosen every time. My fabulous Raven, darling, crazy dead Indians.
HOME
It is said
sub-Arctic glacial ice
melts, drips
from mountain peak
through moss to treeline.
Droplets unite to small stream,
lower, a creek
swelling, a river.
In perfect silence
rivers fall
winding south,
down, down,
still down through lush green,
over rock,
gathering the flavours of the land.
Flowing
miles and miles
finally home
to the sea.
The sea mists.
(Seasmoke to the Saltwater people).
Blows inland to mountains
that stand
from out of
the sea.
The mist gathered
by the
air currents