“What band are you?” Gerald finally blurted, looking at Chief Thunderbolt.
“I prefer to think of myself as belonging to all tribes,” Chief Thunderbolt answered.
“How do you say hello in your language?” Sal Enosse asked.
“Well, today I say, ‘Dam doman,’ but normally I would say ‘¿Hola, como está?’” The children smiled at the strange words.
“Can you kick Kid Wikked’s bum?” Thomas asked.
“Thomas!” Miss Crane blurted, her face turning red.
“It’s OK,” Chief Thunderbolt said, raising his giant hand. “Actually, Kid Wikked and me, we’re partners. We represent what is good and honourable in our society.” He lifted his arms in a big circle for the children. “We are the alliance of the old ways and new, of cultures, of what made this country what it is today.”
The children stared at him some more. Noah didn’t know what to think. The words sounded big and good, but he really couldn’t figure out what they meant. Kid Wikked kind of looked left out to Noah.
“Are you an honorary member of the Spics?” Noah asked Kid Wikked.
“Noah!” Miss Crane squealed.
The two big wrestlers looked confused, like they’d been given back-to-back Atomic Drops.
“I think that’s quite enough,” Miss Crane announced sternly to the class. “Please accept my apologies, Chief, Mr. Wikked. The children don’t get many visitors.”
“That’s quite all right,” Chief Thunderbolt answered, touching her shoulder, making her blush. Noah wished he knew what he’d said wrong.
“Make sure you eat all your vegetables,” Kid Wikked growled to the kids, bending and making a crab with his arms so his huge muscles bulged from his T-shirt.
“And make sure to say your prayers to the Great Spirit,” Chief Thunderbolt bellowed, lifting his arms and making the muscles bounce like softballs under the skin.
Noah spent all of Wednesday trying to figure out how to get out of church. He could pretend to be sick. No, that was no good. His mother would stay back with him. He could pretend to have a big homework assignment and maybe his parents would let him stay home alone to complete it. That wouldn’t work either. They’d ask all kinds of questions he couldn’t answer. There was only one option.
As soon as they walked to their pew Wednesday night, Noah pulled his mom’s arm and whispered, “Gotta pee.” He walked slowly down the centre aisle, and when he reached the door, he bolted out and down the road to the community centre. His parents would be so caught up in their hallelujahs and tongue-talking that they wouldn’t even notice him gone.
Inside the community centre, all the seats were taken except for the first three rows around the ring. The first match was already going. Noah made his way to the very front row, his eyes glued to a tag-team match between the Orderlies and De Stubborn Headache and Giant Haystacks. The Orderlies were far outweighed, but Noah saw right away that they were much more agile, one of them jumping away to avoid Giant Haystacks’ clumsy swings and bouncing off the ropes, slingshotting himself into Haystacks’ soft mountain of a belly. When Haystacks could take no more punishment, he made the reach to a frantic Headache. The two men touched fingers and Headache was in the ring. The ref was trying to be a good one, Noah saw, but the Orderlies were so identical that he couldn’t keep them straight. When it seemed that one Orderly was out of gas, the other would trick the ref into looking elsewhere while they quickly switched places. The crowd whispered their praise of the Orderlies’ cunning, and agreed that it was just a matter of time until they had Giant Haystacks and De Stubborn Headache gasping for breath. In a daring two-man ricochet, one Orderly flung the other with such force that Noah winced at the slap of muscle on muscle as the Orderly careened into Headache, knocking him out. The ref gave the three count and the crowd clapped a little.
Noah whooped when Kid Wikked took his corner to face Beef Wellington. Miss Crane and Miss Reynolds and Miss Nelson had come up to the front row now and were cheering for the two men. The fight seemed to last forever. Both men growled and fell and hollered and, just when it seemed that one had the other in an impossible situation, he would break free. Suddenly, Diesel Machine appeared at ringside, making threatening gestures towards Kid Wikked. At one point he reached under the rope when the ref wasn’t looking and tripped the Kid up. Beef Wellington pounced.
That’s when Noah saw Chief Thunderbolt dash down the aisle, diving and sliding into the ring to come to Kid Wikked’s aid. The ref tried to pull the three men apart and, when he threatened to disqualify Kid Wikked, Chief Thunderbolt stood up and argued loudly with him in the corner. Noah watched in horror as Diesel grabbed a folding chair behind the ref’s back and climbed into the ring. Beef Wellington held a dazed Kid Wikked. Diesel Machine raised the chair and brought it down with a metallic bong onto the Kid’s back, then threw it out of the ring and dove out. It all happened so quickly. By the time the ref turned from arguing with the Chief, Beef Wellington lay with Kid Wikked unconscious beneath him. The ref jumped to the floor and slapped out a three count. Noah wanted to shout to him that the bad men had cheated, but couldn’t find the words. Kid Wikked opened his eyes for a second and stared straight at Noah. Noah waved, but the Kid closed his eyes quickly and went back to sleep.
“Stupid ref,” Noah whispered under his breath. He watched the Chief help a woozy Kid out of the ring. Noah gave the Chief a thumbs-up, and the Chief gave him one back with sad eyes. It was clear now. The Chief and Kid were better than good guys. Beef and Diesel had chosen the dark side.
When the hall had cleared, Noah again went to the change room. The men who had battled were sitting tired with towels over their shoulders. Noah was surprised to see that all these enemies sat and laughed with one another. It was good that they didn’t hold grudges. He walked in proudly and made the biggest muscle he could with each arm. The men ignored him.
“I want to join you,” Noah said quietly. The men laughed at him.
“You ain’t old enough, kid,” Kid Wikked finally said. “It’s a shitty life anyway. You don’t want this.”
I do, Noah wanted to say. The men went back to talking with each other. Noah walked out and down the road to face his parents.
Noah’s face still stung from where his father had slapped him. Hitting Noah was something his father had learned when he became a Pentecostal, Noah figured out. He walked along the river and turned this over in his head. It was Thursday morning, and Noah figured that if he walked fast, he could make the highway in a few days. The morning was warm and bright. His friends would just be getting to school. Noah’s parents wouldn’t even notice him missing until dinnertime, when he didn’t turn up. He would show all of them — his parents, his friends, the wrestlers. He’d make his way to some big city where they were sure to have a wrestling school. Noah would work hard, grow strong and become great.
Last night his father had said, “No more wrestling for you,” and by the time he finished that sentence Noah’d made his decision to run away. He’d filled his knapsack with crackers and pork and beans and a can opener this morning without his mother seeing. Those wrestlers would be sorry they hadn’t taken Noah, especially on that day in the future when he held up the championship belt. Noah walked along the frozen river and formed and re-formed his plans.
By lunchtime, Noah’s pack felt heavy. He sat by the river, on a large flat boulder that was warmed by the sun. He opened a can of pork and beans and realized he’d forgotten to pack a spoon. He scooped the beans out with his fingers and looked at the ice and water. The first clouds of doubt skittered across the horizon. The nights were still cold and they were very dark. Noah lay on the rock and let its warmth sink into his skin.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d slept. Something tickling his face woke him. He opened his eyes to a great swarm of butterflies above and around him. Many had landed on the rock and on his body, their wings beating slowly. The ones that still hovered were so great in number that their wings made a low whirring soun
d. Noah’s heart quickened at the sight. Some of the butterflies were as big as his hand. Their colours were amazing in the sunlight, orange and glistening black and deep red. Their wings made such a sound that it seemed to Noah that they were whispering to him in some strange language. He watched and listened to these tiny tongues of fire. Hundreds of butterflies. Thousands. They continued their whispering until Noah began to make out a pattern, began to understand them, began to grasp the meaning of this event.
It could have been minutes, it could have been hours. Slowly the butterflies dispersed until Noah was left alone again. He thought of Grandfather. Grandfather called these little creatures by their Western Cree name. Kumamuk. Grandfather admired them for their beauty and grace, for the strength that enabled them to fly thousands of kilometres. Noah knew now what he had to do. He’d experienced his vision.
He made it back to the reserve before dinner. No one seemed to know he’d been gone all day. Miss Crane wasn’t her usual self with Chief Thunderbolt around, and she’d not even reported Noah’s absence to the principal. His butterflies were already protecting him. That night he began his preparation for Friday evening and the last match. He raided his mother’s old box of powwow materials which she hadn’t touched since becoming a Pentecostal. He also swiped two of her old pairs of pantyhose. If he worked hard, he’d have it complete in time.
Grandfather came for dinner that night. Noah wanted to tell him about the butterflies, but knew that would have to wait. Tonight’s match was on his mind, and Noah was ready to sneak out and get in trouble later if he had to in order to see it.
“I got some plans with Noah tonight,” Grandfather said to Noah’s parents. They looked mad that Grandfather wanted to take him and do something. He was supposed to be grounded.
“All right,” Noah’s father said, then got up and helped Noah’s mom with the dishes. Grandfather leaned close to Noah and whispered that he’d better get ready for the wrestling match or he’d be late. Noah ran to his room and changed. Even though it wasn’t cold out, he pulled his coat on. He met Grandfather outside.
“Me, I’m too old for the crowds,” Grandfather said. “Get going.”
Noah ran into Thomas and Gerald at the hall. “Ever dumb you,” Gerald said. “You’re going to melt in your coat.”
“Are you going up front?” Thomas asked.
“Yeah. You come too,” Noah said. “You don’t want to miss this tonight.” The boys followed him to the nearly empty front row. The card tonight was excellent. Bulba was fighting De Stubborn Headache to get things rolling. Then there was a rematch between Pink Panther and Fritz Von Schnitzel. But the highlight was the final bout. Diesel Machine, in what the announcer called an unholy alliance with Beef Wellington, was scheduled to battle Kid Wikked and Chief Thunderbolt. Noah fingered part of the creation he’d carefully placed in his coat pocket.
He had a hard time concentrating on the first match. De Stubborn Headache attempted to lift Bulba off the ground but collapsed under his immense weight. Bulba lucked out and got an easy three count. Noah looked around him. The crowd had become braver. Kids and adults alike had filled up the third and second rows, and even part of the first. They’d also started making a little noise, but not much. Pink Panther laid out Fritz Von Schnitzel with rapid machine-gun punches, then climbed to the top turnbuckle and flew off, landing with a slap on the convulsing Schnitzel. Victory once again was the Panther’s, and Noah was happy to see the good side winning.
Noah watched his hero climb into the ring alongside Kid Wikked. They faced off with Beef and Diesel. Noah’s heart pounded. The bad guys dominated the first part of the match. Every time the ref wasn’t paying attention, one of the bad men did something dirty. One time it was an eye gouge, another time a kick below the belt. But then Kid Wikked came back from a near tap-out, picking Beef high up into the air, then dropping him straight onto his own back, slamming Beef onto the canvas with a great boom. The crowd actually shouted out at that one.
The Kid tenderized Beef with foot stomps to the stomach, then tagged Chief Thunderbolt. Noah had never seen such a sight as Chief Thunderbolt dashing into the ring, landing furious blows and tossing Wellington around like a doll. It was obvious that Beef was cooked. He had nothing left. But in the bad guy’s corner, with the Chief’s back to Diesel Machine, Diesel crashed his forearm onto the back of Chief’s neck, a totally illegal move. Chief Thunderbolt dropped stunned to his knees, and Beef tagged out to Diesel. Diesel entered the ring and paced around Chief Thunderbolt like a lion, making faces at a frantic Kid Wikked. Then he began kicking Chief with loud stomps. The Chief fell onto his back, hurt bad. Noah’s heart pounded. He could hear the butterflies in his ears. Diesel knelt on Chief’s chest, his back to Noah, and raised his arms to the crowd.
This was Noah’s chance. He pulled the stocking he’d carefully painted in the bright colours of the butterfly from his coat pocket and pulled it over his head, adjusting it so he could see through the little holes he’d cut for his eyes. He tore off his coat and kicked off his jeans to reveal the costume he’d created, ran from his seat and pulled himself onto the side of the ring. He quickly scrambled up the ropes and balanced himself on the top turnbuckle, lifting his arms wide to reveal the cape he’d painted orange and red and green, the wings of the butterfly. His wings. “I’m doing it” was all he could think. His ears were filled with the roar and rush of his blood, with the butterflies whispering to him, “You’re doing it!” Beneath his cape Noah wore another pair of his mother’s pantyhose, these ones black like a butterfly’s body, and pulled up to his chest.
For the first time he could hear the crowd. He could make out Thomas’ and Gerald’s voices in the shouting. Some of the women screamed. Others were laughing with excitement. Noah looked across the ring at the awestruck face of Kid Wikked. He raised his arms higher for the crowd to drink in his costume and shouted, “I am Butterfly Warrior!”
With his back still to Noah, Diesel Machine was completely unaware of his presence. Noah looked down at Chief Thunderbolt. The Chief looked surprised. He slowly, haltingly raised his arm from the mat and gave Noah a thumbs-up. Noah tensed, then leapt. It felt like he was in the air for ever. The orange and red and green cape made of his father’s old dress shirt flapped behind him. He had just enough time to watch Diesel’s head turn up to him. Diesel barely had time to shout, “Whoa!” before Noah landed on him, Noah’s knee sharply striking Diesel’s forehead and sending him off Chief Thunderbolt.
Noah landed with a whomp on the mat, and it was much harder and hurt much more than he had imagined. The crowd roared now. He rolled over, the wind knocked out of him, and stared at the lights above him. His knee ached bad, but his friends shouting his name excitedly helped ease the pain a little. Noah sat up just in time to watch Chief Thunderbolt put Diesel Machine in the Strong Bow before pinning him. An egg had risen already on Diesel’s forehead and his eyes were closed. Noah raised his arms up in victory. They had won. The Indians had won.
LEGEND OF THE SUGAR GIRL
White men gave Indians a lot of gifts. Guns and outboard motors. Television. Coffee. Kentucky Fried Chicken. Road hockey. Baggy jeans and baseball caps. Rock-and-roll music and cocaine. But there is one gift that no one ever really talks about.
Once there was a young girl. She lived far up in the bush, past the Canadian Shield, so far up that deer could not survive in that harsh place. Her father was a hunter and trapper. Her mother made her family’s clothing and cleaned the game that the father brought home, and she stretched and tanned the hides. They traded these pelts at the Hudson’s Bay Company post for some of the wemestikushu’s, the white man’s, goods — goods that the Anishnaabe, the Indians, found made life a little easier in that cold place. They traded lynx and beaver, moose and marten and snowshoe hare and mink for flour and bright cloth, bullets, simple tools and thread.
The young girl had many brothers and sisters, and all of them helped their parents with cooking and sewing, hunting and trapping. In the w
inter they kept their home in the bush by the father’s traplines, and in summer they moved camp to the edge of a lake where fish were plentiful. This young girl
wasn’t so different from other young girls. She had a doll and her brothers and sisters to play with. Sometimes they would argue, but most of the time they got along. The young girl had a good life, especially in the summer, when it stayed light until late in the evening and the family would stay up with the light, playing games and telling stories.
But as all things must, this good life would soon come to an end. One day, after a visit to the Hudson’s Bay Company post, the father came back with an ashen face. He sat with his wife and explained to her what he’d been told by the white traders at the post. A residential school had been built near the post, and the government had made it law that all Anishnaabe children must leave their families’ camps and live at this school. “It won’t be so bad,” the white traders told the young girl’s father. “Your children can come back and live with you for two months every summer. Think of it this way,” the white traders said. “They will live in our world and learn our ways.”
“And what if I do not send them to your residential school?” the father said.
“Then we are no longer permitted to trade with you, and the government will send the Mounties and they will take your children anyways,” the white traders answered.
The young girl’s father told his wife all this, and she cried. She knew they had to do what the government told them.
“We will go deep in the bush where they cannot find us,” the father said. “We will live the way the grandfathers did, and forget about these white men.”
“Even this country is not big enough that we can run away from them,” his wife said. “They have airplanes that will spot our fire smoke. You won’t have bullets for your gun. You can no longer shoot a bow well enough to feed all of us. What kind of life would that be for our children? Running and hiding the rest of our lives like rabbits.”
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