Dedication
For the Boy, Jay Daniel Good.
My devoted son,
the reflection of the self I saw in your eyes was,
and is, my lifeline.
and
For every terrified child taken.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
1. Kenny
2. Lucy
3. Maisie
4. Kenny
5. Lucy
6. Clara
7. Lucy
8. Clara
9. Howie
10. Mariah
11. Kenny
12. Clara
13. Howie
14. Kenny
15. Lucy
16. Howie
17. Clara
18. Howie
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Clara stood behind Mariah’s cabin, the late summer warmth rising from the soil. She looked down the hill and watched Mariah’s helpers readying the sweat lodge. She turned and headed toward the cabin door, a silvery glimmer distracting her. She looked east and saw the beginnings of the many trails she and Mariah had walked so many years ago. She thought she saw her dog, now long dead, a ghostly image running ahead of her as he had done then. She made her way toward the beginning of the trail she and Mariah had often walked to set snares, a faint tinkling rising on the breeze from the grove around the lodge. She walked, oblivious to time, only turning back when the sun was high and the birch leaves shimmered all around her.
It was just after noon when she got back to the cabin. Kendra stood in the doorway, looking this way and that, smiling, when her eyes fell on Clara.
“I was wondering where you went. You okay?”
“Lot of memories out there.” Clara reached out and hugged the young woman. Kendra was as close as she came to having a child, the daughter of her closest and oldest friend. The women entered the cabin to find Mariah preparing her smudge bowl.
“Come here, you two.”
Clara and Kendra sat with Mariah as she lit her smudge, a special combination of many different medicines. As she prayed in her soft Cree, Clara leaned over and took Kendra’s hand. They prayed in silence as Mariah prepared an offering for the ancients. They opened their eyes, relaxed, an air of peace beautifying the simple cabin. The truck would be here soon. Clara leaned over to Mariah.
“Kendra’s a doctor, you know. First Indian doctor in Canada.”
Kendra corrected her. “Aboriginal.”
Clara rolled her eyes. “Native. Aboriginal. Whatever. Call me Indian till they get it right in the Indian Act.”
Mariah put her hand over Clara’s. “Now. No politics here.”
“Mariah’s a doctor too.” Clara nodded, looking at Kendra. “She sure fixed me up.”
Kendra shrugged, her discomfort plain.
Clara laughed and squeezed the young woman’s hand. “Mariah’s got a whole different kind of science. She learned it here. Didn’t need no fancy school.”
The three women fell silent, waiting. Before too long the truck pulled up. The driver climbed out, waving at the women as they walked out to meet him.
Mariah nodded and pointed. “There’s some helpers by the lodge. You’ll need them.” The driver headed around back of the cabin and the women went inside, Clara making tea for the newly arrived.
Vera, the driver’s wife, pulled up a chair to the kitchen table. “Did you find a place?”
Mariah nodded. “Not too far from the lodge.”
Clara had just poured the tea when Mariah nodded toward the window. “Here come the helpers.” She rose as the men joined them in the cabin.
One of them turned to Mariah. “You ready?”
She nodded, gathering up her bundle. “You men carry her down. We’ll follow.”
They all gathered around the pickup. The men pulled the casket from the truck bed. They walked round the cabin in the direction of the sun before making their way down the hill to the open place in the earth prepared for her.
They gathered in a circle around the open grave. The men gently placed the casket in the raw earth. Clara wept.
It had taken a dedicated researcher to find Lily’s remains, and even then it was almost impossible to get the Church to give her up. “We found you, Lily. We brought you home,” Clara whispered. Kendra put an arm around her. “I couldn’t leave you there after what they did to you. We finally got to go home. You and me both.”
Mariah prayed and the helpers followed with their deep voices, the hand drums filling the air around them with a deep sense of both peace and anticipation. When they finished their honour song, Mariah led the group to the sweat lodge, entering first and then inviting them all in, Kendra first to sit beside her and Clara next to Kendra. They all sat in a circle as the helpers brought in the white-hot rocks, filling the pit before them. Mariah began her prayers, placing the sage and cedar on the stones, the magical scent of the medicines rising, filling the lodge.
Clara leaned over and took Kendra’s hand. “Doc.” She smiled. “Get ready for some doctoring.”
The helpers closed the door.
1
Kenny
Kenny took one backward glance, the tiller firm in his hand. Today, the clouds swirled at sea level, the shifting mists like a painter’s brush, all but obliterating the island. The Mission School might not have been there at all, a bad dream, it was lost so completely in the deep coastal fog. The first time he’d seen the Mission, he was six years old, crammed into a boat with a dozen or so little kids, the steeple piercing the clouds as though it floated above them all, unhinged from the earth. Back then, he’d sat there, numb, as the boat docked, overcome with a feeling he didn’t understand. Now, he was too familiar with that feeling. Being totally helpless was his daily fare at the Mission. Being used to the feeling made it no easier.
He reached into his pocket, double-checking, and pulled out a small piece of paper. It had been folded and folded again into a small, dusty square. He thought of Lucy, risking a beating to pass him that note, that day in the dining hall. He read it again, as he had over and over in the past weeks. Yor brave. His determination rose every time he read it, as did his humiliation, remembering he had been wearing a purple-flowered dress, his head shaved, with a sign around his neck, I am a runaway, in bold red letters, when she’d slipped him the note. Brother had just exposed his bare ass to all the kids gathered in the dining hall and beat him and beat him with his paddle, determined to make him cry, furious when he couldn’t.
A chill overtook him even though the sun had burned through the morning mist. He reached up and touched his still-shorn head, his hair barely starting to grow back. Brother was none too gentle with the electric shears, the scars like raised rivulets across his scalp from being shorn the last time he’d run away. That time, the RCMP had intercepted him, not three miles off the school’s dock, the engine on the punt dying and leaving him afloat. Easy pickings. He couldn’t stop thinking of Howie, no matter how hard he tried, the boy lying there in his bed, bleeding and beaten. Even as he filled his mind with images of his mom, home, the smokehouse, he could not. Images of Howie followed him like a cold wind as the punt skimmed easily across the quiet sea.
Just that morning, a brilliant morning, Kenny had opened his eyes astonished that, once again, Brother hadn’t come for him in the night. He got out of bed with the rest of the boys and washed and dressed in preparation for the morning prayer. Looking to the next bed, he noticed Howie still sleeping. Kenny stood between the door and Howie’s bed, trying to hide him from Sister, who was busy at the e
nd of the dorm with a bedwetter.
“Psst, Wilfred, wake Howie up before Sister sees him.”
Wilfred nudged him, urging him to wake up. Howie remained motionless in his bed. Wilfred looked at Kenny and shrugged. He poked a little harder at Howie. Still nothing.
Kenny leaned over the boy. “Howie, wake up. Sister is going to see you.”
Wilfred nudged Kenny. “Too late.”
Sister came striding through the rows of beds, her robes rustling, veil flying behind her like some menacing black bird. She ripped Howie’s covers off, grabbed his mattress and rolled him out of bed onto the floor. Howie lay there motionless, the bloodstained pillow and sheets on top of his still body. Sister shrieked and ran out to the hallway, calling for Brother. Brother John came running, picked up the small boy and, with long strides, was out of the dorm in seconds. Sister scooped up the bloodied linens. Howie had not moved once, his head lolling over Brother’s arm. The boys looked at each other and congregated at the window.
Wilfred came up beside Kenny at the window. “He had a big black eye. Brother came for him last night.”
The boys stayed at the window, watching. Finally, Brother John and Sister appeared below the window. Sister stayed on the steps as Brother carried Howie down to the dock.
“They will take him to the hospital.” Wilfred didn’t sound too sure.
“Will they?” Kenny and Wilfred were the last two boys at the window. “It should have been me.” Kenny choked out the words, struggling not to cry.
Wilfred moved closer to his friend. “It should have been no one.”
The boys, washed and dressed, milled about confused, not knowing what else to do. Finally, like homing pigeons, they formed the chapel lineup and waited. Sister Mary appeared at the door and for once the bedwetters got a reprieve. “You’re late for Mass. Move!” The boys headed for the chapel, quiet and tense.
Our Father.
In the dining hall, Kenny saw Lucy, still wearing her I am a liar sign. He ignored Sister and walked straight over to the girls’ side. He whispered to Lucy, “You are strong too.” He noticed the scrapes on her head, now healed to little scab trails.
The girls giggled. Lucy looked up at him and took hold of one of his hands. It seemed forever they stood there, motionless and quiet, the other kids wide-eyed, waiting for Sister to notice and give them both a licking. But she didn’t, by some miracle.
Kenny pulled his hand away and nodded at Lucy. “Remember that.”
After chores, during free time, Kenny put on an extra pair of socks and pulled his only sweater on over his shirt, grabbed his jacket and headed to the playground. There was no one around but kids. He slipped through the salmonberry bushes to the dock trail. The punt, its new motor shining and bigger than the old one, bobbed in the lapping waves. He figured they must be right tired of chasing after him since, this time, the punt was tethered to the dock with a length of chain and a shiny new lock. The sky was a thin blue, the last days of summer. Maybe the sockeye are running. He thought of his uncle gearing up to sail to the fishing grounds. Maybe if I could make it to Port McNeill, someone would take me home. He sat at the end of the wharf, feet dangling inches above the water. He thought of Howie, small and bloodied. He thought of Lucy, shorn and scabby. He thought of Wilfred, alone in the dorm without him. He thought of that big cop who’d dragged him back to the school the last time—the one who wouldn’t believe him about what Brother was doing. He thought of his mom. A long, low sob fell out of him and the tears flowed. He felt like he was crumbling. He steadied himself, placing his hands on his knees.
With no tears left, he stood slowly, walked back up the dock and down to the beach. He chose a rock so big he had to carry it with both hands, smashed the lock off the chain, then tossed the lock and chain into the quiet water, watching it sink like some weird shimmering snake. Kenny knew he was the last thing on anyone’s mind. He jumped into the punt, gunned the new engine, and the punt bounce-skimmed across the quiet bay.
The tide and the weather favoured him. For hours he chugged along, trusting his sense of due north. When the sun was high at midday, an orca breached not twenty feet from the punt. He gasped, both terrified and astonished at its sleek white-and-black beauty. Not long after, he could see the shoreline and prayed it was Port McNeill. He guided the punt in close, passing a large dock with at least a dozen commercial fishing boats tethered in their slips.
He cut the engine and the punt rode the waves effortlessly to shore. Kenny gauged the depth of the sea water and jumped over the side. The cold water dragged on his jeans as he hauled the punt ashore and secured it tightly to a waterlogged cedar long dead and errant from some logger’s boom. Chilled almost numb from his long day on the water, he gathered shards of driftwood for a small fire, water squeaking with every step of his soaked sneakers. Just as he didn’t dare dock the punt at the main harbour, knowing the Port McNeill detachment would be watching for him, he now decided against a fire. He pressed his hands under his armpits, craving what heat was left in his body. His body warmed a little as he climbed the sandy bank, anxious to get back to the docks. When he was little, his uncle talked about Port McNeill. He just might be here.
With less than a hundred yards behind him, Kenny ran back, untied the punt and pushed it back into the water. Let them think I drowned. Once again, he reached the crest of the hill. Not far off, the main road, a grey-black ribbon, wound toward the harbour. He thought of that cop who didn’t believe him, and rather than risk capture again, he walked along the craggy shoreline. Just as the last light of dusk seeped into the blackening sea, he stepped onto the docks and made his way to the far end, away from junctures, searching out areas where the fewest people might be. The throaty calls of the owls warming up for the nightly hunt got him thinking of bears and coyotes hungry for the day’s remains from the boats, and he wandered back in the direction he’d come from, craving some kind of shelter. He saw a skiff moored to a large fishing boat, rolling gently in the water. He loosened the ropes that lashed its cover in place, pulled the skiff parallel to the dock and tumbled in. He tightened the ropes as best he could from the inside, hoping no one would be looking too closely. He thought for sure he would never sleep. The chill and his chattering teeth would keep him awake. Eventually, though, the toll of the day won out and sleep overtook him.
Kenny awoke, slightly nauseous and sweltering in the small space of the skiff. He punched open the edge of the canvas and the morning air rushed in, cool, like a fast-running stream. As his stomach growled, he lay there, wishing he’d brought his only other pair of pants. The long, damp cruise had left his clothes clammy and ripe with the smell of the sea. Involuntary shivering had awoken him throughout the night, but the morning sun soon turned the damp interior of the skiff into a stuffy, steamy hot box. He took in another deep breath of the cool fresh air.
His thoughts of dry clothes and something to eat left him as soon as he heard the sound of boots on the dock’s wooden walkway, signalling someone’s approach. He closed his eyes, hoping whoever it was would just carry on by, but the footsteps stopped. Expert hands loosened the knots securing the canvas cover. Kenny curled up, waiting for the fisherman to throw off the canvas, poised, ready to jump and run. When he did, the sunlight was surprisingly blinding.
“What the hell?” The startled fisherman dropped the canvas and took a step backwards, staggering just a little.
Kenny jumped out of the boat half-blinded by the sun, and if he hadn’t tripped, he’d have made it. As he tried to recover his footing, the fisherman grabbed him by the shoulder.
“Kid! What the hell are you doing in my skiff?” He held Kenny firmly by the shoulder.
Kenny struggled for a moment then sighed and stood still. “I just fell asleep.”
“Where’s your family?”
Kenny shrugged.
“Well, I better take you to the detachment.”
“No, no! I’m looking for my uncle. He said I could work on his boat. He’s supposed to
be here.”
The fisherman loosened his grip on Kenny’s shoulder but stood between him and the town side of the dock. Kenny looked up at him for the first time, surprised. This guy could even be his uncle, with that shining black, rod-straight hair, gumboots, fisherman’s sweater and suspenders.
“Work on his boat?” He shook his head and laughed. “How old are you? Twelve?”
Kenny squared his shoulders and tried to seem tall. “What? Twelve? Heck no, I just turned sixteen. I can work.”
“Sixteen?” He laughed again. “You sure as hell ain’t no sixteen. What’s your uncle’s name? Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“Clifford. Clifford Bart. He has a big purse seiner.” Kenny stood a little taller, trying not to look scared at the thought of being sent back to the school.
“I know Clifford.” The fisherman looked at Kenny, as if for the first time taking in the clothes, the immediately identifiable Indian School issue. “Just saw him yesterday. Didn’t say a word about you.”
“Musta forgot.”
“Let’s go find him. See what he has to say about all this.”
“Oh, umm, all right.” Kenny smiled up at the fisherman, his heart pounding.
“He’s probably on his boat.”
“You could just point the way.” Kenny smiled as though his pants were dry and he had real leather shoes or even gumboots. “I can find him.”
“No trouble.” The fisherman placed a hand, softly this time, on Kenny’s shoulder and steered him toward the far end of the dock. “This way.”
Kenny hadn’t seen so many grown-up Indians since he was taken to the Mission. Both men and women worked the boats, checking the rigging, readying their nets. The sun shone off their slick black hair, tied back or cut short, as they greeted the fisherman and looked curiously at Kenny. A tall, muscular woman straightened, removed one work glove and wiped wisps of hair from her face.
“Who you got there, Mack? Long-lost love child?” She pulled her glove back on, laughing and elbowing her crew mate.
Mack the fisherman looked up at her, shielding his eyes from the sun. “You seen Clifford this morning?”
Five Little Indians Page 1