Taken by the Muse

by Anne Wheeler

  Downing his food, Keith helps himself to more curry. “I should take a look ... I’m looking for a spot. In fact ... I could make this house into something really special ... that porch should be closed in — the heat is just pouring out of this place....” I don’t want to live with him! Just as I am about to be rude, the phone rings and I scramble to get it.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Wheeler!”

  “Taylor!” I immediately recognize the drawl. He always talks like a cowboy and loves country music, but he’s a city boy and lives in Vancouver where he runs the National Film Board studio.

  “How are you, Wheeler? Haven’t heard from you for a long time!”

  I stretch the coiled cord down the hall so I can sit on the steps — away from the chatter. Keith is still going on and on. In fact, he’s leading a parade down to the basement now. Oy-yoy-yoy!

  “Well,” I continue, “you haven’t heard from me cause I’ve been travelling. I was in the East ... mostly in India ... I call myself Mugdha now.”

  He guffaws, “Oh ya. Someone told me that. Still happening, eh? Don’t expect me to call you Moo-cow or whatever the hell it is ... what are you doing with yourself these days? Meditating?”

  “Ya ... sometimes. But, I’m — you know — I’m working. I’m very busy.” It’s the truth — I’m busy shovelling the sidewalks, putting plastic over the windows, and trying to sustain some sense of “godliness” in my life. I’m thinking I might go back to being a music teacher.

  “Busy, eh? Oh ya.” He can see right through me. “Well, here’s the deal ... I am sending five or six filmmakers out to places in the West that have not been documented in any way by the National Film Board. We don’t get our share of the federal tax dollar out here, to tell our own stories, so I’m going to fight for this ... we need filmmakers like you and Radford. We need to tell stories that will illuminate just who we are.”

  Is he putting me on here? It sounds too perfect to be true. “You are speaking to the converted here, Taylor. We singing the same mantra —”

  “Ya sure ... whatever that is. Come on, Wheeler. I’m being serious now.”

  “I’m serious too. You’re right — we have our own stories to tell. Alberta contributes substantially to the federal tax pool — we should get our fair share of it out here.”

  “Exactly. But here’s the thing ... I can only cover the expenses. That’s all. If you come up with a good idea, then we’ll present it to the national committee in April, and if they like it, then great. I’m fighting for a bigger budget next year so we can make three or four short films, and you will be in the running. No guarantees, of course.”

  I think I understand. “So you’ll pay for gas, the hotels, and a per diem, so that I can scout out some stories, and then write them up with the hope that you and the guys in Montréal will like them?”

  “Well, ya, you could put it that way ... that’s the idea.”

  “I just have to invest my time?”

  “You got it. But if you’re too busy ...” I can hear him smirking. “I thought it would get you back into the real world here. You should be making movies, Wheeler, get back at it!”

  It would take a couple of months out of my life but he’s trying to make it happen out here when no one else is. If he’s got Tom and others to play along, what’s to lose? We’re all on the same team.

  “Okay. I’ll do it. Where are you going to send me?”

  “Northern BC — Prince George, Williams Lake — along the mighty Fraser River. Ever been up there?”

  “Ah no.” Very few people I know have been “up there,” or want to be in the winter. “It could be interesting....”

  “It could be fantastic!” He’s hard-selling me now.

  “When do you want me to go?”

  “I have to spend this money in the next two weeks.”

  “Really! I mean.... So it’s year-end money, I’m guessing.” I know how the government works. If he doesn’t spend his allotted dollars by April 1st, he’ll have to send the unspent dollars back, and that could affect how much he gets next year. It’s a crazy system!

  “Exactly,” he admits. “I thought, well, why not spend what we have and plan for the future, get some ideas brewing? Be ready to roll camera as soon as the new money comes in.”

  It’s a good idea, very smart. “Okay. Sure. I’ll go day after tomorrow. But I’ll have to rent a car. Mine won’t make it.”

  “Oh. Damn. Really?”

  “Really. It’s frozen up like a block of ice.”

  “Well, I’ll have to cut the time down to —” He does the math. “— ten days. I can give you ten days of expenses.”

  “That’s really only eight days, with two days of travel,” I argue.

  “Sorry, Wheeler. That’s all I got. My office will call you in the morning. They’ll send you some reimbursement forms to use. Fill them out when you get back. Save your receipts, eh?”

  “Yes, of course.” I have some questions, but he’s in a hurry.

  “This is good, Wheeler ... this is really good. Take lots of pictures.”

  And he hangs up!

  Why Taylor thinks I have money on hand to rent a car and tour around for ten days taking pictures, I don’t know, but my housemates manage to cough up their rent in advance and, gulp, Keith moves in downstairs, paying enough to cover the utilities. You don’t always get what you want.

  I go to the Army and Navy Store and buy some long woollen underwear, then go rent a small truck. I am stoked with the possibility of making my own little movie, even if the odds are not in my favour. I wonder who else he is sending out there. Who is my competition? No matter. After several months of hibernating in my metaphorical cave, it’s time for me to re-enter the marketplace.

  It takes a long day to drive the five hundred miles on a two-lane highway over the Rocky Mountains into the heart of British Columbia. With my heater turned up full, I cruise into Prince George, or PG as the locals call it, and find a motel. This is a pulp and paper town and can smell like rotten eggs. Tonight, it’s in a dead fog. I can hear music playing at the pub across the highway from my new digs.

  This is extraordinary luck. A hip new band, Chilliwack, is touring the North and they are terrific. If I had a film camera with me I’d shoot them right now, because they’d be a great hook for any film about the North. But they won’t be back in the near future, so realistically that idea is just pie in the sky. But they do provide me with an opportunity to dance and party with a wild group of hard-working people, and to get personal over a couple of drinks.

  Working at the pulp and paper mills at forty below sounds really tough, but obviously it pays well, and when they have time off, these people like to live it up. I am surprised to see so many East Indians in the crowd — that peaks my curiosity.

  One guy with a few drinks under his rodeo belt buckle tells me, “Oh ya ... there are lots of them Pakis up here. They work at the mill. Takin’ the jobs, eh? I don’t know what kinda deals they’re makin’ — but people are none too happy about it, I can tell you that!”

  I ask the big woman behind the bar, “Are there a lot of ranches up this way? Beef cattle? Farms? Anything besides lumber?”

  “Oh ya,” she says. “We got everything. A real variety of folks. There’s a new community college, just opened. I’m taking a heavy equipment course; going to move to Fort McMurray.”

  “Oh ya! I’ve been there,” I tell her, trying to sound tough — like her — hoping she’ll open up to me. “Are there many women drivin’ heavy equipment these days? I mean, that’s pretty impressive.”

  She looks at me sideways. “Ya, a few. Why do you ask?”

  Does she think I’m coming on to her? Or maybe I sound like an idiot, putting on the tough babe thing. I’ll just be honest.

  “I’m just interested. I’m looking for ideas. I’m working for the National Film Board. They make documentary films, and they’ve sent me here to see what’s happening. I’m mostly interested in stories
about women and what they do up here.”

  She nods, wondering if I’m for real of not. It does sound far-fetched. “There’s a shelter for battered women, you know. It opened a couple months ago. That’s where you’ll find some stories about what it’s like for women up here.”

  “Thanks! Wow. That’s amazing. There are not many shelters around, even in the big cities. I will check that out. Thanks.”

  “Good!” she says, sincerely. “About time someone from the outside took an interest.” She writes down the address by heart, so clearly she is connected in some way, though she does not look like she needs a place of refuge.

  The shelter is run by a circle of churchwomen who have secured a humble house that is full right now, with two families. They welcome me warmly and introduce me to a mother with two children, who tells me that her husband lost his job at the mill and took it out on her. “I was afraid for my kids ... he beat me up ... a bunch of times ... and my boy was starting to challenge him.”

  “Why did he lose his job? Can you tell me?”

  Her answer is quick. “He was lazy. Drank too much. Wasn’t worth his wage ... a slacker. His dad and his uncles all worked at the mill — he thought it was his birthright.”

  “Did the loss of his job have anything to do with the East Indians who have moved up here?”

  She smiles. Something about the question amuses her. “Oh yes, it has a lot to do with that. Those Indians ... they work hard and long, eh? They never complain. Some of them are moving up into management, too. That really bugged him.” She almost laughs out loud. “He didn’t like working for them.”

  “I guess!” I murmur. “But if they were worth more as employees....”

  “Yup. Exactly. He was such an idiot. Still is.” She shifts in mood, getting suddenly serious. “Their women, the ones that are brought in from India, have it hard, eh?”

  “Really?” I say, probing, like I’ve never met an Indian woman. “How’s that?”

  She looks around to see if anyone is listening. “Well, last week, one of them came here. She was so beautiful. She had a daughter. A baby. And she was pregnant with a second. I don’t know how she heard of this place, but she did, and she came here, wanting to get away from her husband, who beat on her all the time. She wanted to go home to India.”

  “Oh my God! She was taking a big risk! Was it an arranged marriage?”

  “Yes!” She looks amazed. “Can you believe it? She had never met him until she arrived in PG, and right away they were married. Two years later, she’s here, looking for help. Desperate. I cried for her.”

  “What happened to her? Where is she now?” I ask.

  “It was intense. The husband came looking for her, but they —” she refers to the older women who run the place, — “wouldn’t let him in. They were awesome. Strong — calm.... The guy was outside yelling for his wife to come out. But the woman just stayed out of sight. We didn’t know what he was saying, of course, but she was terrified. Then more Indian men came and they tried to take him away, but he refused. Then more men came, and it got scary. A couple of the older women here went outside but the men wouldn’t talk to them, told them it was not their business. They wanted to take this poor young woman away. I think she was maybe eighteen years old. At the most.”

  “What a scene,” I mutter. “She was afraid for her life, I bet.”

  “Ya. Then some other women drove up in a big truck ... they were from the college. I think they volunteer here sometimes ... and they were brave ... they didn’t take any shit from these guys.”

  “Was one of them ... a big girl covered with tattoos?” I ask.

  “Winnie, ya. She’s something. She’s going to drive one of them big trucks. Have you seen them — monster trucks they use to build dams and like that? She was ready to fight — she has arms like ... huge.”

  “Ya ... I know. I met her. So then?”

  “Wouldn’t you know?” she shakes her head, disgusted, disappointed, “The holy-moly men got together and worked things out. That’s the way it is, eh?”

  “What happened exactly?”

  “A minister, I don’t know what church he was from but you know, he had a collar on, right? Christian minister, old guy — and a what? Hindu priest? Wore a turban — came in here and talked it over and worked things out.”

  “What do you mean, ‘worked things out?’”

  “Well, the husband was allowed in, and he was ... like you know ... sorry. He said he was sorry. I know she didn’t believe him. But ... what could she do?”

  “She went back?!” I am appalled. “She went back to him, after this ... big scene...?! He would have been outraged, humiliated —”

  “She said he’d kill her.”

  We look at each other. Thinking. What can one do in such a situation? “The women here go and visit her twice a week,” she offers. “They are not going to let anything really bad happen to her.”

  “Good ... that’s good,” I stutter, “but —”

  “I know,” she concurs.

  What a story, I think, but a hard one to document. I spend a couple of days talking to different women, writing down the facts and contacts for future reference. In two or three months, though, this situation will be different — it is impossible to predict. But it’s on my list because more stories will emerge, some of them similar. This little city is an unexpected vortex where east meets west.

  I give Prince George three days, and then move on with only five days left to come up with something I can pitch with confidence.

  I follow the Fraser River, which snakes its way south like a dazzling ribbon of fresh snow. There is little traffic on the highway, mostly huge trucks. The vast expanses of frozen wilderness make me revere the people who survived here before the world discovered its riches.

  I pull in at Quesnel for gas and have an early lunch. Several 18-wheelers are clustered around a small café. Chances are good that this is the best place on the highway to eat.

  I sit at the counter between two smokers wearing cowboy hats. They acknowledge me politely, glancing briefly at my attire. I’m wearing a long orange cape, with an orange Tibetan wool cap, fully aware that I am surrounded by men in blue jeans and ski jackets.

  “What’s good here?” I ask the man to my right.

  He’s friendly. “Chili con carne, if you’re driving by yourself.” He laughs. So does the guy beside him. “Otherwise, I’d order the double-Denver.”

  By the time I finish my bowl of chili, we’re good buddies, and I’ve discovered he’s Shuswap from Williams Lake. He knows everyone in this neck of the woods. “I’m looking for stories,” I explain to him, “stories that people in Vancouver, or Toronto, would not have heard. Stories about this part of the country.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the people in Vancouver or Toronto, but if you want a good story, go see Augusta Evans. I don’t know where she is this winter, but my auntie will know.”

  He draws an intricate map on a napkin so I can find his auntie, who lives in Soda Creek, which is a reserve. “She lives down river from the old mission,” he explains.

  I thank him for the tip and promise to say hello from him. He suddenly tears up. “Augusta knew my great-grandmother, eh? She is one of the old ones. She can still speak the language and knows everyone. Say hi from Tommy for me.”

  I drive into Soda Creek and easily find Aunt Edna. She doesn’t question my intentions and tells me a little about Augusta. “Yes, well, she’s going to be ninety years old next fall or maybe she is already! She was the daughter of the chief and the smartest girl in class. Ya. She is older than me, but she is like my sister. Ya. And she plays the harmonica, knows all kinds of songs, eh? Ask her to sing for you!”

  She draws me another map. This one leads me deeper into the wild, following a narrow road that climbs up through the forest to a plateau. The road has recently been cleared, and a snowplow is parked close to an old abandoned hall. I pull in beside it and get out to walk over to the lip of the gorg
e. From here, I can look down over the forest and see the river that has always been the source of life for the Indigenous people. The valley looks beautiful, untouched by modern highways and industry. It is so quiet and still up here; I feel alone on the planet.

  Grabbing my camera and my purse, I lock up, though I have not seen anyone since I left Edna’s. I find the path beyond the hall where the clearing narrows into a white line that disappears into the trees. The surface of light snow remains unbroken by footsteps. No one has walked here for weeks, maybe months.

  The snow is two- or three-feet deep in places, with a hard crust of ice hiding beneath the surface. I take a couple of falls and learn to go slow. Edna remembered coming here with her father when she was a little girl. They used the cabin Augusta is in this winter for hunting.

  I cross several clearings where the snow has drifted into dunes. Plunging through them, I get wet right up to my chest. I stop occasionally to brush myself off and look around. The angle of the light shining through the trees in long shafts reminds me that the day is short and it will be dark soon. It feels like a cathedral in this old forest, sanctified and wondrous, but I don’t want to be here alone when the lights go out.

  It intrigues me that this ancient woman has chosen to live out her last days alone, with no electricity, no well, no phone, and clearly no visitors.

  By the time I see the little shack nestled perfectly beneath the cedars, I am weak in the knees. There is no apparent smoke coming out of the chimney, no footprints around the place. Temperatures can plummet from ten above to fifty below overnight, and I can already feel the change happening. She must make her own fires, cook her own food. Heaven help her if she has an accident. Perhaps she’s not here at all. Perhaps she’s sick or, worse yet, dead!

  The door has not been opened recently and is held shut by the hard-packed snow. I stop and listen, but hear nothing. Even the chickadees have fallen silent as I stand there, readying myself for whatever I might find.

  I knock on the door and wait. Hearing nothing, I start to dig away at the snow with my hands.