THE TRICKSTER

by Muriel Gray

  The long black box spoke back. “This is patrol. Mike here. That you, Sam? Are you OK, man? We wondered where you were. Karen’s on her way already. Thought you’d deserted your post. Over.”

  All Sam could manage was a light press on “talk” and a weak, “Thanks, Mike.”

  He sat quietly in the hut as some customers skidded to a halt at the pylon. They looked expectantly at the manual groomer in his wooden shell. A haunted, black pair of eyes gazed back at them. They slid forward and got on the chair themselves.

  19

  Alberta 1907

  Siding Twenty-three

  The dark figures standing only a few hundred yards away from the graves were disconcerting. Today, however, the men seemed unmoved by the watching Indian presence that was never far from any of their activities. Three rectangular pits in the ground were in danger of filling with snow as the railway workers stood over them, hatless heads bowed and gloved hands clasped.

  The makeshift crosses were rustic and three wooden coffins sat tidily at the mouths of the graves, waiting to be lowered and covered, as Henderson brought the service to a close. Muir was watching him hopefully, his eyes, unlike the rest of the men’s, raised to Henderson’s face instead of gazing at his feet. The only other face turned from the ground was McEwan’s. He was watching the watchers.

  The group of Indians was framed by a copse of delicate aspens bending into graceful arcs under the weight of the snow, their balletic posture often resulting in a sudden snapping in the night as a trunk gave up its fight against gravity. It was a dramatic graveyard but the graves had been almost impossible to dig in the iron-hard ground. The men had stabbed at the earth for hours with pickaxes and now stood unhappily, ringing their handiwork as the minister spoke.

  “… and as we commit their bodies to the ground, we trust in the everlasting life granted to us by the love of our Lord Jesus.”

  Twelve fur-clad pallbearers heaved the boxes up on their ropes and lowered them into their rough-hewn holes.

  “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…”

  Into the middle grave Henderson tossed a ball of frozen earth, which bounced comically off the wooden lid and clattered down the side of the pit. He carried on regardless, looking up at the grim, snow-flecked faces surrounding him.

  “Our colleagues will know the mercy and grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, for they were, as you all are, true believers in the risen Christ.”

  Muir looked relieved.

  “It was Jesus who taught us that there is but one God. It was Jesus who warned us against the sin of idolatry and false gods, false beliefs. It was Jesus who reassured us that though we walk through the valley of death, we need fear no evil, for He is with us. He told us, brothers, that so long as we shall believe in Him, and believe in no other, we will have everlasting life in the presence of our Father.”

  The men looked dolefully at Henderson. From the corner of his eye he saw a small, quick movement through the snow that made him flick his eyes left. A whiskeyjack, a still, watching bird, was standing in the snow a few feet from Henderson and the graves. He looked back at the men and continued.

  “To believe in other gods, other spirits, is a sin, as taught to us by Jesus. Our brothers here, the Kinchuinicks, have their gods. But we as Christians know they are false and that in time Jesus will bring these men and women to His bosom to renounce their false spirits and worship with us with one true God, who through love sent us His only son. That knowledge is our greatest gift as educated, civilized, Christian men.”

  The bird, curiously in the presence of such a crowd, hopped twice toward Henderson, its head cocked to one side.

  “So I say to you, do not concern yourself with the false gods of less fortunate, less civilized men. Concern yourself instead with the message of Christ, who…”

  There was a thin, whistling sound in the air and a dull thud as an arrow speared the whiskeyjack cleanly through the breast. Henderson stopped midsentence, looking on in horror with the rest of the mourners. He looked open-mouthed toward the Indians. How could they do such a thing? He felt insulted and betrayed. Then, it became worse.

  Henderson and the men watched, appalled, as something happened to the snow around the doomed bird. From the dying creature’s yawning beak came a deep, guttural groan so loud one would not even expect it to emanate from a bear in pain, and the snow for at least three feet around its body thrashed as though churned by paddles.

  The men watched with horror until the phenomenon stopped and the bird’s body lay still, skewered on the arrow like a chicken ready for roasting. Henderson denied himself the truth of what he had just seen. He stood wide-eyed, breathing hard, as the men milled around, shouting in panic.

  Then he held up his hand and bellowed above them, “Be still! You see how you are? The Indians who know nothing about the sanctity of a funeral service interrupt it to hunt for food, and you panic for no reason, your heads filled with nonsense. Be still, I say.”

  They looked back at him doubtfully, but his authority and the power of his voice stayed their panic, and they were silenced. Henderson continued, watching the men keenly, praying silently that his voice would not break with emotion. “The message of Christ is what you must think of. To love one another and worship no other but God.” He was trembling. Chief Hunting Wolf was walking toward the dead bird, his bow in his hand. What now, God? What now? “And so we bid farewell to our companions in the knowledge that we will meet again. Let us pray.”

  Some men bowed their heads, but most looked in fright at the disturbed snow around the dead whiskeyjack. Henderson raised his voice again, almost shouting in real anger, “Let us pray!”

  They complied, reluctantly.

  “Our Father, which art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name.”

  Hunting Wolf was nearly there.

  “Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on Earth, as it is in Heaven.”

  He was at the bird. McEwan was glaring at Henderson as though this were all some elaborate and disgusting charade he and the Indians had plotted together.

  “Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive our debts as we forgive our debtors.”

  Hunting Wolf stood over the corpse and sprinkled a ring of what looked like herbs around the body. There were two funerals going on now.

  “And deliver us from temptation. For Thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, forever and ever. Amen.”

  The men muttered, “Amen,” and instantly turned their attention back toward the Indian and the bird. The body lay prettily in its new dark circle, the snow already coating its lifeless feathers.

  Chief Hunting Wolf looked at Henderson.

  The white-faced minister thanked God that the Indian could not speak English, when the chief pointed down at the poor broken creature and said softly, in Siouan, “It has begun.”

  20

  “Quit that, Jess, would ya!”

  Billy pulled Jess’s tiny fists out of Bart’s substantial fur, where she had buried them up to her chubby wrists. It was her second attempt to pull out handfuls of the coarse gray coat, and she went at it as though it was her job. She chuckled as Billy held her arms, but her brother was annoyed.

  “Leave him alone.”

  Bart was unmoved. His pale blue eyes watched brother and sister wrestle while he sat sphinxlike on the rug, mouth shut and head erect.

  Billy loved Bart, and although he loved Jess too—well, kind of—he wasn’t going to let her bug him. Sam had bought Billy the dog for his seventh birthday and it was the best birthday present in the whole world. A guy at Sam’s work bred huskies and Billy was allowed to go and choose from a litter of four pups squalling and mewling under their mother, their eyes barely open. He saw Bart right away. Bart, because he was just like Bart Simpson in the cartoon, the way his hair stuck straight up like that from his head.

  Sam and Katie had laughed.

  “Yeah, cool, Billy,” said Sam, balancing Jess on his hip. “Don’t call one of nature’s majestic miracles anythin
g noble like Prince or Nanook. Just go right ahead and name him after a drawing that says, ‘Eat my shorts.’”

  But it was his dog and he could call him what he wanted. So Bart he was and Bart he stayed. Billy was amazed, almost to the point of ecstasy, that Sam had said he could have a husky. How could Sam have known that his son had been dreaming about a friendly wolf who looked just like Bart?

  The wolf was stringier and meaner-looking than the cuddly dog, but it seemed to have the same sort of kindness behind its eyes, animal eyes that seemed to know more than they should. And it could take Billy places. At night when he was asleep he would run alongside the wolf and they would go fast, and real far. It felt like Billy almost became the wolf, had the same power in his legs and jaws, the same senses, open to scents that could tell you almost anything, tell you if someone was lying, or if they were sick, or if they were bad. He was never sure if he became the wolf or if they were two wolves running alongside each other. He just knew they were joined in some way and it seemed as natural as sleep itself.

  He never told his mom or dad about the wolf. It was private. Once he’d nearly said something, but he knew they’d think he was lying. His grandpappy in Vancouver was ill. Billy had put his head through the banisters at the top of the stairs as Katie took the call from Grandma. He’d watched her hunch over the phone and knew she was worried. He had heard her say that there was nothing they could do that night, that they would all drive out there tomorrow, and he could tell by her two hands holding the phone, and the low voices of her and Dad talking later, that it had been something serious.

  That night Billy went running with the wolf. They ran and ran through the mountains, out into the rocky foothills leading to the coastal range and the sea, splashing through rivers, picking their way through the trees and into the big city of Vancouver. He could smell the ocean, feel the salt in his lungs. And although the child in Billy could never have found his grandparents’ house in that concrete maze and endless patchwork of suburbs, the wolf in him found it with ease. He padded up the big, creaky wooden stairs, past the framed butterflies and the big droopy palm in its copper bucket, and went into his grandpappy’s bedroom. His grandma was sitting by his bed holding his hand. She looked terribly old, and her arms were scrawny beneath the thin satin nightgown she wore.

  She didn’t see Billy or the wolf, but they were right beside her.

  And Billy sniffed. Sniffed the air around the sweet bald pink head of his grandpappy and knew that he was OK. He knew his mom and dad would get a call tomorrow to say, “Don’t come, he’s better, it’s all OK.” Billy put a hand that felt like a hand but looked like a paw on his grandma’s shoulder and left it there for a few minutes, hoping to comfort her, the way she so often comforted him after a fall or a disappointment. And then it had been time to go. They had run back to Silver, and when Billy woke up with the phone ringing, he had known it was true.

  His mom had come into the bedroom and sat on the edge of his bed. “Grandpappy’s better, sweetpie. He’s sitting up and moaning about Grandma’s coffee right now.”

  He loved to see his mom all smiles and joy like that, and he had snuggled back into his pillow with satisfaction as she’d kissed him on the cheek. He had wanted to tell her what he’d seen, tell her what Grandma had been wearing, that he knew all along. But he hadn’t. The wolf was a good friend. But he was a private, nighttime friend.

  His daytime friend was Bart. But even Bart wasn’t helping right now. Billy Hunt was on edge. Lately the wolf hadn’t been coming. Not since it had said something bad was going to happen and Bart would be Billy’s only friend. It frightened him. Especially since his dad had been acting strange too.

  Billy thought his dad was excellent. He was a gas. Sometimes he would make Billy laugh so much that tears rolled down his cheeks and his sides would ache like he had a charley horse. And he was tough too, even when Billy didn’t really understand what was going on.

  But his dad was cranky right now. Every night he’d come home looking like he’d seen a ghost, and Mom would try and cheer him up with her stories about funny museum visitors. But he was looking ill and it was making Billy sad.

  Jess tottered off to the TV table to stick her hands into the video recorder as Katie came into the room wiping her hands on a dishcloth.

  “Aw, come on, Billy. Keep an eye on her, would you?” She swept her daughter up just before the saliva-covered hand could enter the inviting letter-box slit in the VCR.

  “I was. She was bugging Bart.”

  “Yeah? Well, you’re bugging me lying around doing nothing. If you won’t keep an eye on Jess for me, why don’t you go out and bring in some logs? Your dad’ll be home in a minute and there’s no fire.”

  Billy hated bringing in the logs. The woodpile was on the other side of the yard and it seemed miles away in the thick snow. But he knew his dad liked a fire in the hearth and he got up and went to put his Sorels on.

  The snow was coming down hard, and although it was dark the white blanket was so reflective that the small kitchen light illuminated the whole yard like a floodlight. Billy ducked his head and ran for the logs. They were piled under the two big lodgepole pines, kept dry by the canopy of branches that hung over them. Great system, his father bragged, for seasoning wood, letting the wind dry it quicker than if it were in a shed, and keeping the rain and snow at bay. But those long, springy, swaying branches made it real spooky. The heavy wooden limbs cast deep shadows over the pile, and Billy sometimes thought he saw things moving in there as the branches swayed, but it was just shadows on the gnarly logs. He scooped up an armful of dry wood, balancing as many as he could in the crook of his arm before turning to make the dash back to the warm kitchen.

  He spun around and then yelped. There was a figure standing right behind him in the yard. Billy dropped the logs in fright. False alarm. It was his dad. Sam looked at his son as if seeing him for the first time.

  “Dad? Are you OK?”

  Sam looked down at the fallen logs, then back up at Billy. “Yeah. Yeah. I’m OK.”

  He seemed far away, his eyes glittering like spangles in the freezing blanket of snow. But he was coming back from wherever he’d been and he was starting to see his startled son in front of him. “Here. Let’s get these guys picked up.”

  He stopped to pick up the logs embedded in the white where they fell, their location visible only by the log-shaped holes left in the snow like a cartoon character’s body outlined in the dirt after a cliff fall. Billy bent and joined him.

  “You scared me, Dad.”

  “Sorry, Billy.”

  They shared the cold logs between them and went into the house, Sam walking slowly in front like an old man. This was the same man who would normally throw a snowball at the back of his son’s head to announce his arrival, would probably have wrestled Billy into the snow and made him shout surrender! Now he seemed to be making a habit of standing alone outside his own house in the dark, his eyes reflecting the lights from the window as he looked at Billy but radiating none of the warmth that used to flood out of those two dark pools into his son’s heart.

  Billy decided that tonight, whether it wanted to or not, he would make the wolf come. He and the wolf would have to pad into Sam’s room and check out if his dad was OK. Sniff around for the scent of what was wrong. Tonight. No more delay. Tonight.

  Walking was warmer than standing still. That was for sure. But Calvin Bitterhand’s legs were swollen and aching, throbbing behind the knees like they were going to explode. The cowboy boots that he’d worn for eighteen months, through every season, then the same again, slipped in the snow as though they were skates. Nothing was left of the sole on the left boot except a thin piece of split leather, and that had come away from the seam around the heel. It slapped loose and then snapped shut again with every step, shoveling snow into the boot as if it were meant to. His feet were in worse shape than his legs.

  Only fifteen miles west out of Calgary and his old ruined body was yelling at hi
m to stop. Getting this far in the storm had taken him a ridiculous fourteen hours, twelve of those through the night, and three times now since dawn, when he’d seen a pickup or car driven by Indians, he’d been tempted to thumb a ride. But his heart and his knowledge told him that he needed to be pure, to atone for his sins. And walking was the only way.

  His food was gone now. The stomach that hadn’t been fed properly for two days had at first rejected the sandwiches the girl on First Street had given him, making him puke up shrimp outside a motel on Sixteenth Avenue. But gradually he packed away the rest, devouring the dainty deli sandwiches like an animal, ripping at them, cramming handfuls into his gap-toothed mouth as he walked, caring little if people saw him and turned away in disgust. But now the sandwiches were gone and he was hungry again. Hungry, cold and tired enough to lie in a grave.

  He bent against the wind and kept walking, cars throwing up slush as they cruised past him on the country road. He’d long since left behind sidewalks and was now in the commuter belt, the land of ranches that weren’t really ranches at all. Through the driving snow he could make out the elegant proportions of those big houses, their arched foyer windows, the wide stone chimneys and porches you could park a pickup in. The big white one he was passing now had those chime things hanging above the porch seat. The noise was eerie but beautiful as they tinkled in the snowstorm, and Calvin stopped to look over the white fence at them as they swung in the wind. Milligan, said the mailbox. Pretty lucky Milligans, thought Calvin. He would have liked a porch with chimes on it. One where he could sit in the summer and smoke, with grandchildren scrambling at his feet, where he could greet people who’d come to buy his magic. They would have stood respectfully at the bottom of the stairs like they used to do for Eden Hunting Wolf, and ask him if he would use his good medicine to save their baby, make a baby, bring back a lover, heal a foot, find a lost calf, make a win at bingo, stop a toothache. He’d have liked some chimes like that to tinkle as he weighed up the customer and decided whether he would help or not. But there was no porch now, and there would never be any chimes tinkling for Calvin Bitterhand.