The other matches came just as quickly and as furiously.
Giant Haystacks battled Bulba, two mountains of flesh colliding and falling with such a shaking crash that Noah was worried the ring would collapse. Bulba was disqualified for gouging Haystacks’ eyes. That bothered Noah. Haystacks seemed like such a friendly man.
By the third fight, Noah was keeping a tally of the good guys versus the bad. The Pink Panther was funny. Therefore he was clearly good. Fritz Von Schnitzel reminded Noah of Mr. Daguerre, his French teacher, who had moved up here from Montreal and was mean and spoke with a thick accent. Von Schnitzel clearly fell into the bad category. Giant Haystacks was very friendly, calling out, “Howdy, y’all!” to the crowd and waving his straw hat. He was good. Bulba was ugly and a cheater. There was no question where he belonged.
The last fight of the afternoon was not so easy to weigh. Although the Diesel Machine had greasy long hair and black makeup that made him look evil, Beef Wellington, whose hair shone like the sun and skin glowed, strutted around, shouting to the crowd and bragging about himself. Noah didn’t want to judge these two too quickly.
They were by far the strongest and most athletic, climbing to the top of the ropes and soaring off them like birds. And they were well-matched. As soon as it appeared that one was doomed, on the verge of a three count, he would arch his full body and throw the one on top into the air. The momentum of the battle switched many times. As the match neared its time limit, there seemed no clear winner to Noah. Beef Wellington grabbed the Machine’s arm and whipped him incredibly fast into the ropes, but he came slingshotting back, running full force into Beef with a slap and the two would go crashing down.
Noah saw that by now the crowd was captivated, and in watching intently they remained very quiet. Grandmothers leaned to one another and whispered in Cree, the children covered their eyes when the action became too fierce, the older hunters watched and nodded among themselves when an especially athletic move was made. But everyone remained respectfully quiet with the final bell. The ref announced a draw, and both men shouted and made menacing movements towards each other before stalking off to their rooms.
“The second of the three matches this week will be Wednesday evening,” the announcer called as the Indians stood in the rows of chairs, wondering whether it was time to leave. The announcer climbed from the ring.
As the crowd filtered out, Noah tried to build up his nerve. Gerald and Thomas ran up to where he stood, close to the ring.
“Ever brave, you,” Gerald said.
“Ever crazy! Did they get their sweat on you?” Thomas asked. Noah shook his head proudly.
“No. It was real loud, though,” he answered.
“Come on, you,” Gerald said. “We’re going to the river. Breakup’s any time now.”
“We can play wrestling there,” Thomas continued.
Noah just shook his head again. “I’ll meet you later,” he told them. “I got to do something right now.”
The other two shrugged and ran off, excited from the action they’d just seen. The long winter was finally gone and the air was warm enough for sweaters or long-sleeved shirts. Winter’s only reminder was the river, wide and white, still a couple of feet of solid ice but threatening to bust open any time now, as it did every May.
Noah walked around the foot of the ring, running his hand along its canvas floor that stood to his chin. He saw himself pacing like a wolf in its centre, waiting for the foolish opponent who would challenge him; saw himself launching on Bulba or Von Schnitzel and staring into their scared eyes as he sunk his claws in. Noah broke from the ring and headed to the wrestlers’ dressing rooms.
“What’s with the quiet crowd?” he heard Diesel Machine ask from behind a half-open door.
“That’s the spookiest fucking thing I ever witnessed,” another voice spoke out, one that Noah didn’t recognize.
“Must be an Indian thing,” someone else added. “They ain’t never seen anything like this before. Half of them have never even been to a city.”
Noah walked in. The men stared down at him. Most of the ones who’d been introduced were here in the big room. Almost all of them stood around in normal clothes now, but they still looked gigantic.
“Hey,” Bulba said. His voice was high-pitched, almost like a woman’s.
“Hey kid,” Beef Wellington said, followed by the others. Noah just stood and stared up at them.
“You want an autograph or something?” Diesel Machine asked finally, the other men laughing.
“Maybe he doesn’t speak English,” Beef said.
“I want to join you,” Noah blurted. The men looked at him and laughed louder.
“You might want to gain a little weight first,” Giant Haystacks rumbled. He was still in his overalls, but with a shirt on underneath.
“How much you weigh?” asked Beef Wellington. “Seventy, seventy-five pounds?”
“Almost eighty,” Noah lied. The men looked to one another.
“Let’s see your muscles,” Bulba said.
“Yeah, make a muscle for us,” Von Schnitzel said. His accent didn’t seem so strong up close. Noah took off his jacket, pulled up his sleeves and made a muscle with each arm, shaking from the effort. The men whistled.
“Not bad, not bad,” Diesel Machine said.
“You look like a strong young brave,” Chief Thunderbolt spoke. He had been sitting behind the other men, but now stood up. Noah stared at the big brown man, his war paint gone and his black hair slicked back. Noah had never been called that before, but he remembered someone saying it in a cowboy movie once.
“I’m pretty brave,” he answered.
The Pink Panther walked in from behind, asking, “Who’s the punk?”
“A kid from here. Says he wants to become a wrestler,” Diesel Machine answered. The two men walked to one another and briefly touched hands.
“That’s real cute,” the Pink Panther said. “You’re not big enough yet,” he continued, squatting down on his massive legs to look at Noah. “Just eat a healthy diet and in a couple years you get back in touch with us.”
“You got a restaurant on the reserve?” Bulba asked. “I’ve got to feed the beast.” He patted his gigantic stomach. Noah nodded, staring at it.
“Yeah, we do. It’s in the council building. I’ll show you where it is.” The men all stood and Noah led them out of the gym and down the gravel road to the restaurant. As he walked in front, leading this procession of giants past the little houses and the cemetery along the river, he felt as proud and important as he ever had.
Sunday morning before church, Noah’s grandfather took him on their walk. They walked where they always did: along the Attawapiskat River; south along a path that Grandfather told him stretched 600 kilometres to the nearest highway, which in turn supposedly ran the whole length of Canada. Noah had traced the route on an atlas in school, from his little dot of a reserve on James Bay down to Moosonee and then farther south to Cochrane and the fabled highway. It really did stretch in either direction from Cochrane, like Grandfather said. Going east, Noah followed it as it dipped down to Toronto, then Montreal to New Brunswick to Halifax and the ocean. Going west, the highway stretched out to Thunder Bay, then Winnipeg, where an uncle lived. The highway’s red line ran on through the prairies, then the mountains, before disappearing at Vancouver and the other ocean.
On today’s walk, he and Grandfather watched the ice’s movement on the river. Although the weather was warm, the ice refused to give up its hold over the water. “Any day now,” his grandfather said, “you’ll hear the cracking from kilometres away and think it’s thunder, and if you don’t run, you will miss saying goodbye to the ice for another year.”
Grandfather pointed out some early geese arriving at their summer grounds, a small v that looked tiny so far up in the air. “We’ll go to goose camp soon,” he said, and Noah thought about the white canvas tent the family would live in for a week and the goose blinds he would help to repair and the
n sit quietly with Grandfather, waiting for geese to see the decoys set out in the water a few yards from the blinds.
They walked farther down the river without saying much, and Noah wanted to tell his grandfather about these wrestlers who were on the reserve for a full week and about the excitement of that first show and how Noah wanted so bad to become one of them. But Grandfather wouldn’t understand. Maybe he could get Grandfather to come to Wednesday night’s show to see for himself. After all, this was such a rare thing, such a special event, that people from other reserves had flown in to witness it, and every house, practically, was keeping a visitor.
“I have to get you back home so you’re not late for church,” Grandfather said. Noah hated church as much as Grandfather, but both of Noah’s parents were members of the Pentecostal mission now. The only thing Noah liked about church was when someone got touched by the Holy Spirit and began speaking in tongues. Whoever it happened to either stood straight as a board and babbled, or shook and sweated and spat with every strange word. This didn’t happen often, though. One man who came to speak at the church from somewhere down south spoke of a snakepit where the preacher would stand and never be bitten by the writhing, poisonous creatures. If his preacher would do that, then Noah would have no problems going.
Grandfather told Noah that he didn’t like the church because it didn’t seem to be doing them any good. There was hardly anyone anymore who did the sweat lodge or knew of the shaking tent or feared windigos. Grandfather said he had probably been the last one on reserve to go on a vision quest in order to become a man. He had gone out for six days without eating or drinking anything. A lynx had come to him on the next day and told him everything he would need to live life properly. The lynx had just sat down and begun talking to him with a human voice. Grandfather had wanted Noah’s father to do a vision quest, but the residential school had forbidden it. Grandfather talked to Noah now of the same thing. He was trying to prepare him, Noah knew, and Noah waited anxiously for the time when he would be ready.
All of the boys at school on Monday played wrestling during afternoon recess. Everyone wanted to be either Diesel Machine or Chief Thunderbolt. Noah worked hard on his Strong Bow and got so good at it that he made Gerald cry.
“I saw you with the wrestlers on Saturday,” Thomas said to Noah. “Ever crazy, you! You look like a midget beside them!” Gerald and Thomas laughed at that. It didn’t bother Noah. He was growing. Last night after church he had eaten so much dinner that his mother told him to stop.
At the end of recess, one of the older boys pile-drove one of the smaller ones, so the principal banned wrestling in the schoolyard. He came on the intercom just before school let out. “An important announcement to students,” he said. “Nick Lazarus was hurt in the yard today when another student attempted a wrestling move on him. Keep in mind, students, you are not professionals. From here on in, you will face suspension if you are caught wrestling on school grounds. Tomorrow we will have professional wrestlers currently staying on reserve come to our classrooms to discuss the dangers of their job.”
Gerald and Thomas and Noah turned in their desks and looked at one another. Noah gave the other two a thumbs-up.
At dinner, Noah told his parents of the upcoming visit. “They’re going to come to our class and talk to us,” he told his mother between forkfuls of baked beans. “Maybe they’ll show us how to properly do some moves.”
“You’re not allowed no wrestling moves at school anymore,” his mother said.
“John Goodwin pile-drived Nick Lazarus and gave him De Stubborn Headache,” Noah said. He looked at his parents but they didn’t get it. “Are you going to come with me to wrestling on Wednesday night?” he asked after a while. His father looked up at Noah from his food.
“We got church on Wednesday night,” his mother answered. “A preacher’s come all the way from Toronto to preach the Lord’s word.”
“Oh,” Noah answered. “You’ll miss the wrestling match.”
“You’re coming to church too,” his father said with the tone dangerous to argue with. Noah felt his heart sink.
The days were already longer. Noah got out of his house as soon as he could. He wanted to sneak around, see if he could spot any of the wrestlers wandering about. Some of the men had taken the wrestlers out all day Sunday to ice fish for pickerel. Although they were staying at the trailers by the council office that the chief called a hotel, Noah hadn’t spotted them around. Word was that they were working out at the school gymnasium. Noah rode his bicycle that way, but as he passed the restaurant he saw a glimpse of Chief Thunderbolt. Noah got off his bike and quietly walked in the door. There at tables were Chief Thunderbolt, Kid Wikked, Beef Wellington and the Orderlies.
Noah couldn’t believe who was sitting there with them. His teacher, Miss Crane, the grade five teacher, Miss Nelson, and the grade eight teacher, Miss Reynolds, sat laughing and smiling, looking like three dwarves surrounded by the five big men. Noah took a seat by the counter and watched them. The teachers giggled like the little girls did at recess, then stared up with big eyes at the men. Noah strained to hear what they were saying, but could hear only the laughing clearly. After a while, the Orderlies got up and left. “We gotta quit hanging out together,” one said to the other. “Together we creep them out. We’re never gonna score this way.”
Noah looked back to the others, all paired off now: Miss Crane with Chief Thunderbolt, Miss Nelson with Kid Wikked and Miss Reynolds with Beef Wellington. He decided to chance it and moved behind a fake bush close to the couples.
“How about cocktails at my trailer?” Miss Reynolds spoke up. She whispered the words loudly. All the others seemed very happy with the idea.
“Don’t spread the word around,” Miss Crane said. “This is a dry reserve after all, and even if the chief throws the best parties around, we’d be in a world of trouble if anyone found out.” All of them laughed quietly. Noah wished he knew what cocktails were.
“Let’s go,” Beef Wellington said, slapping the table and standing up. Noah moved quickly back to his chair.
“What tribe are you?” Miss Crane asked Chief Thunderbolt as they all stood and moved to the door.
“I’m Puerto Rican, actually,” he answered.
“Yeah, he’s a spic,” Kid Wikked said, and they all laughed. Noah hadn’t heard of the Spic band before. As they passed by, Noah watched Miss Crane holding Chief Thunderbolt’s arm, staring up into his eyes. Chief Thunderbolt looked straight down at Noah and gave him a big thumbs-up; then he walked out the door with Noah’s teacher and the others into the night.
Gerald and Thomas and Noah sat by one another in class all day, passing notes about which wrestlers they wanted to come visit their room. Gerald was hoping Giant Haystacks and Bulba would show up because he wanted to see if they could fit through the door. Thomas wanted De Stubborn Headache to show up because he wanted to look up close at his black skin.
Noah had told him that Headache’s palms were light-coloured like theirs, but Thomas wouldn’t believe it. Noah sent a note saying that Chief Thunderbolt would show up because Miss Crane had a crush on him. He drew a picture of the two of them kissing, but Gerald said he couldn’t tell what it was of.
At recess, Noah and some of the other braver boys went down the hill by the fence where the teachers couldn’t see them and worked on their wrestling moves. Noah easily defeated the younger boys and with only a few minutes of recess left, found himself facing John Goodwin, who everyone called Pile-Drive King now. John tripped Noah and jumped on him, his weight easily holding Noah down. He placed his hands around Noah’s neck and squeezed.
“Say uncle,” John said, staring down. “Tap out or black out.” Noah struggled for air and, on the verge of panicking, tried to see in his head what Chief Thunderbolt would do. Then he lifted his legs high up and caught one over John’s head. With a sitting-up motion, Noah leveraged the Pile-Drive King down so that he was on his back with Noah’s legs snaked around his neck. Noah s
queezed and John tapped the ground frantically. The other boys cheered as the school bell rang, and Noah jumped to his feet. He’d beaten John — John who weighed much more and who all the younger children were scared of.
During math, Miss Crane interrupted the students. “Our special guests have arrived,” she said. Noah looked up to see Kid Wikked and Chief Thunderbolt walk in. All the kids stopped what they were doing and stared up with big eyes.
“How,” Chief Thunderbolt said to the kids, raising his hand to them. Everyone stared back.
“Howdy, y’all,” Kid Wikked shouted, making a six-gun with each thumb and forefinger, shooting the children with imaginary bullets.
“How do your people give greetings?” Chief Thunderbolt asked the class. The children stared back at him, too afraid to answer.
“We say, ‘Hiya, how are you?’” Annie finally said, looking to Miss Crane nervously, not sure if she should have raised her hand first.
Chief Thunderbolt looked at Kid Wikked. “No, he means in your language, in Cree,” Kid Wikked spoke up.
“They say, ‘Whachay, dannee dotamin,’” Miss Crane answered, smiling at Chief Thunderbolt. “It means ‘Hello, how are you?’”
“I am fine. And you?” the chief answered to Miss Crane. They both giggled.
“So what questions do you little redskins have for us today?” Kid Wikked asked, slapping his hands together and looking at the class. The children stared back at him.
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