“What’s the name of that mountain with the angel?” I asked.
“Cheam Mountain,” Slim said.
The men walked towards me. “That’s right,” Slim smiled. He was actually quite handsome. “We’ll show you.”
Yang came back out, and this time the containers were in two plastic bags. “Here’s your supper,” he nodded and handed Heavy two doggy bags. Oh that Salisbury steak smelled good.
I looked at Yang and he and his cook stood in the doorway to the kitchen. I knew the cook wanted to get another good look at me. Shit! I had almost forgotten to pay my bill. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet. The men looked away as I flipped it out. I had three twenties and left one on the table. “Keep it,” I said, at which Yang gave me an uncertain smile, nodding quickly, “Thank you. Thank you. Yuh. Yuh. Yuh.”
I glanced at the clock. I had an hour and forty-five minutes before the drop. This wouldn’t take long, I hoped. I made sure to walk behind both men in case things came to blows. I had to duck to get through the door. We walked out and where there was once a pitter-patter of smaller clouds they were now gathered in darkness. I rose to my full height again and stretched before flanking them. This was their territory and I was a guest, but I was also a trespasser who’d now deviated from my objective. I would be respectful but wary. If this was a trap I would kill the dog first before baptizing both of them and any others among them. The sky was gathering for something. Maybe rain was coming soon … or lightning?
There stood Chumps, a black dog of mixed breed. He was a medium sized dog: half wolf, maybe—you could see it in the snout—and his hair puffed out in all directions. Heavy and Slim laughed and walked with their suppers-to-go. Chumps had two little cinnamon dots above his eyes and a Chipewyan woman I knew once told me those were spirit eyes. Those dogs could see the spirit world more clearly than the others. Chumps came up to me and I held out my hand. He sniffed it once and raced ahead to catch up with the men. He ran circles around them as both men laughed.
I was nervous of thunder and, worse, of lighting. Lightning hunts my family to kill us. It killed seven of my ancestors. And that was one thing I hated about BC—the only thing really: storms of lightning, storms with reach. I glanced at my car sitting in the shade. It was armed with a disabler, an alarm, and a club. Pistol’s Taser and twelve gauge were in the trunk, but I just wanted to go, to be led to a miracle, by a holy way. The package was safe. It wasn’t going anywhere. I was sure I’d be fine, but where had this storm come from? I’d checked the forecast before leaving and it was supposed to be sunny and hot the whole weekend, and now I was being led to something—a miracle they said.
“We’ll take you up to the house,” Heavy said. “You can meet her there.”
“The light will hit in half an hour and her spirit will glow for you,” Slim added, pointing at the mountain. “You can meet Aunty.”
“You okay?” Slim asked, looking back at me.
I nodded but my eyes gave me away. I felt the air with my hands and I could feel it start to thicken with moisture as a warm wind picked up. Shit. A storm was coming. Maybe this campaign wasn’t a good idea. But the angel on the mountain was starting to glow pink against the darker clouds that filled the sky.
“Sometimes she turns to fire,” Heavy said. I looked at the angel in astonishment. Aunty or the angel? I wondered. Who turns to fire? Everything is leading me to something, and I suddenly wanted to be them. I don’t know. It seemed that they had something I’d never felt before—a quiet peace.
“Excuse me for asking,” I said, “but what kind of Indians are you?”
“We are the not-even-counted,” Slim said and looked away. He sounded sad.
“Did you ever hear that story in the Bible about Balaam and the angel?” Heavy asked.
I shook my head. Each time I tried reading the Bible it was only second-hand words of a man-religion, and men were victims of their own compulsions. It wasn’t my way. And I ended up not believing any of it. I always thought that God was a white fox watching the sunrise with you every day and to speak to him was to speak to a friend.
Slim cradled his arm and spoke: “There was this old man named Balaam, and he and his donkey were going towards a city, when all of a sudden the donkey locked up and wouldn’t move. Balaam had all of his goods with him, like to sell? So he started yelling at his donkey to get a move on. He had to make the market or his family would starve. He had to sell everything on the donkey to make money, and he had to do it fast because he was already late. But the donkey didn’t move. It just stared straight ahead. Balaam had quite a temper on him so he pulled out his whip and started wailing on his donkey. Well, the donkey took it—all of it. ‘Come on!’ Balaam kept yelling, ‘Don’t do this to me! We’ve got to make that market!’ The donkey stayed still and Balaam went to go hit him again when someone grabbed his wrist. It was an angel. And behind him was an army of angels looking west. ‘We are destroying the cities,’ the angel told him. ‘Had you taken one more step, we would have destroyed you.’ The angels looked west. ‘Go home,’ the angel ordered and the angels moved on in the thousands. Those cities they destroyed were Sodom and Gomorrah.”
Both men looked down for a bit and we kept walking. I remember this story. The donkey had spoken the words of God to the man. I remember this but I have forgotten those words. Ghost Bear had once told me that west was the direction of death, and I wished I knew more about this. I had recently gone to Denman Island to find two foot-soldiers of the Night Crawlers. This was retribution for the executions here of two young brothers in the lower mainland. You see, the NCs were moving into BC and allies of ours—the Coalition—had hired us to let it be known they were not welcome. What happened was I found both men and threw one through a wall after punching the bigger of the two so hard his ribs caved.
“Look,” I said after I tied them up. I showed them the waterproof box I’d rigged up and said, “This is the box I am supposed to mail your hands, feet and braids in to your boss.” They were weeping as I showed them the label with their boss’s address. I then showed them my axe and let out a long, tired sigh. “I can either do this or you can leave BC. You’re bad people. What’s worse is you are Indians. Your mothers never raised you for this. Leave now and I’ll let you go. If I ever see you again three of the people you love the most will be mutilated in front of you and it will take days. Days and days and days,” I said. “Don’t let me do what they can order me to. Please don’t. I’m a doorman. I’m a good person. But I’m also an attack dog. We are all soldiers in the wrong war.” I tapped where my heart was twice before holding my hands above my head, grizzly style. “Don’t unleash me upon you.”
They promised to leave, begged to leave, swore on the Bible and on their children that they would never, ever come back to BC again. After, we sat and smudged. The one whose chest caved had pink guck coming out of his mouth, so we fanned the smoke over him. The one who could still speak promised me through the smoke of the sweet grass that they were out, that they would quit this life forever, so I left them like that in their room.
To wash the blood and smoke off, I’d gone for a swim in the ocean alone to baptize myself clean. When I dove in, the water caught fire around me in a holy light. It was phosphorescence. I never knew about it. No one told me. Even with my eyes closed I could see the water ignite around me. The fish I scared bolted, leaving trails of light behind them. Even though the ocean was freezing, I felt like God looking down on Baghdad with thousands of tracers firing below the sky. It was the closest I’d ever gotten to a quiet lightning or feeling like this was where I belonged, and the mighty weight of me knew grace.
The funny thing about the phosphorescence was when I talked about it to the ferry worker, he said he’d gone swimming the night before and watched a sea lion chase fish for an hour in the water, and it was like a comet roaming the earth. Oh I wish I could’ve seen that. How I wish I could tell my
children I saw that. How I wish Ghost Bear was with me. I would have loved to see his talon-pierced chest and the trails of light his braids would have left behind.
The storm was hours away, I was sure, but it wasn’t helping my mood. The wicked wicked man I was to meet would call Pistol as soon as we met to confirm the exchange. I looked at my watch. “I have a meeting at 8:30,” I said. “I can’t be late.”
“Don’t you want to hear the story of the angel you asked about?” Slim said.
I wanted to learn this story for my family, perhaps the daughter I see in my dreams sometimes. “I do.”
“Then who better to ask than Aunty?” Slim asked.
“I do know,” Heavy said, “that when the snow of the angel’s wings melt it will be the beginning of the end times. The snow in the wings was low in the sixties and that brought a flood they still talk about today. Every time her wings have been low, tragedy has struck this valley. Families were swept away.”
I looked at the snow: there was miles and miles of it, but how deep, I wondered. In Penticton, the Okanagans believe that when the snakes come down and speak to the people, that’s it—the world is over. The white raven already flew to the people of Haida Gwaii and now Langley; the Crees believe those who see the white raven will be shown that the Big Wind is on its way. Those were the same ones to tell me to never wear red in the summer or I would call lightning to me, so this is why I wear black, black and black.
“Come on,” Slim urged. “We’re having a feast. Aunty’ll
tell you.”
The only ancestor I had who survived a lighting strike was my great-grandfather and they say that was when he became a medicine man. He lived four years to the day after being hit and what he did during that time was terrifying. Lightning created him. They said he could talk with the animals, mend spirits and bones. They even said he could almost bring the dead back to life. Almost.
The grass to my left started to sway with the breeze and the sky continued to darken. I hope wherever we were going was insulated. Lightning can arc and kill you through your plug-ins or windows. It just about got me four summers ago.
We walked down the railroad tracks and made our way towards an older-looking house. There was a sandbox in the front yard filled with toys and a gorgeous Indian woman sitting on the steps having a smoke. She wore a black dress and sat barefoot. Oh her hair was nice and long and her features were sharp and fine. She looked fierce. Her hands and feet were delicate, unpainted. I needed to see her smile. I had to.
There was a bonfire in the distance. Three Indians and a boy stood facing it. One turned our way and nodded. His hair was long, jet black, free. He touched his wrist twice and raised the back of his hand to his forehead. This was a signal to me but I did not understand. Was he deaf or a mute? He nodded to the two men beside him and they approached. The brown boy who walked towards me only had jeans on. His little brown belly looked so cute and his eyes sparkled with a light of their own. He whispered something to the older man who took his hand. The child waved excitedly at me, like he knew me already. I smiled and waved back. What a handsome boy, I thought. The Indian who passed by glanced up to me and nodded. There was something wrong with his right eye. It looked like it was made of glass and was smaller than the other. I returned a nod and smiled at the child. As the boy passed he watched me for as long as he could before the Indian beside him scooped him up to sit on his shoulders in one go. The boy waved with both hands and grinned, blowing me kiss after kiss with a smile.
There I stood, hand mid-air, completely humbled by
his beauty.
Chumps stopped and listened for something beside me. The woman’s face hardened as she spoke to my hosts. “You’re late.”
Heavy held out the goody bag and said, “Brought you some hot food, Sister.” She appraised me, not surprised or fascinated by my height. Her eyes, her features and her voice softened as I moved close. It was like she’d been waiting to meet me, somehow. “They’re praying downstairs,” she said to the men.
The men walked ahead and I followed, eager to meet Aunty. As I walked by the gorgeous Indian woman, I smiled. She looked at me and gave me a nod. Her face sparkled with freckles like cinnamon, and her nipples betrayed her. They hardened as I passed by. “Hi,” she said. I saw her eyes brighten, like she was relieved to know I was here now, to protect her, to learn from her. “Hey,” I nodded, playing ’er cool. I had to see her smile. I just had to. She was traditional. I could tell. There was a dignity to her, a way of knowing that I wanted to learn more about. And I would. I would give myself to her after I met this Aunty and learned more about this people’s holy way. Her hands were so dark. Her beautiful skin. She had three hair ties with her, wrapped around her wrist: one red, one blue,
one green.
I followed the men into the house and ducked under the door frame before a waft of hot dogs and corn cooking in the kitchen made me hungry again. A large TV dominated the front room; cartoons were on and the kids were laughing. Mattresses had been pulled out as couches for six kids. Paper plates littered the place, filled with half-finished hot dogs and potato chips scattered on the carpet. The boys were watching TV and didn’t look to see who we were. Two beautiful girls turned to look at me and they started waving, like they were happy to see me. I smiled, waved back. The girls were adorable. Perhaps when we were done here I could speak with them, make them giggle. Oh my arms suddenly ached to hug them.
Slim stopped and pointed to two of them. “Beautiful, hey?” he beamed and winked. “Twins.”
“Really?” I nodded. I did not want to leave them. Oh they stole my heart!
There was a poster of an old Indian standing in a bearskin looking at us as well as a Canadian flag tacked upside down on the wall. There was a huge aquarium in the hallway to my left and the lights were on. The aquarium was filled with hundreds of little lobsters. “Crayfish?” I asked.
“We’re having a feast after,” the lady said behind me, and she gently touched the small of my back to guide me forward.
We walked into the kitchen and corn bubbled in a giant pot. A few bloated hot dogs sat in the wiener water on the stove. A fresh pot of coffee was brewing. That’s what I needed. I’d have a cup after meeting Aunty and make my way to the meeting, before doubling back later to ask this woman for a date. It would be fun to kiss every little freckle she had good night and good morning. Ho Ho!
Heavy and Slim put their doggy bags on the counter and invited me to follow them into the basement of the house. I hesitated but when I heard singing I just had to see what was going on.
That’s when I heard the drum. In the basement. “Oooooo,” a man’s voice sang before again striking a hollow boom out with a drum—deerskin it sounded like. People were singing Indian songs in the basement. My skin rippled with excitement. What I was about to see I could tell my kids one day. I just knew it.
Heavy and Slim made their way into the basement. The woman was right behind me. I ducked as I made my way down the stairs and a smell hit me: wet rust? Sage? Something heavy and human. And what I saw next was beyond belief.
Thirty Indians at least, young and old, woman, man and child, stood around an old steel bed in the middle of a huge room. They were praying for an elder. All the Indians were holding long reeds of some kind in front of them, in front of their faces, the same way one who leads a funeral procession carries a cross. Their eyes were closed and it looked like ash had been smeared across the elder’s face. The women wore long skirts, the men deer hide vests and dark pants. Two elders twirled long stalks of a plant I’d never seen before, smoking the room with a thick smell—buffalo sage? Burnt sweet grass?
Something felt wrong with this. They called themselves the not-even-counted and something felt wrong with all of this. “Oh.” I stopped.
The woman put her hand gently at the small of my back and motioned for me to continue, so I did. Heavy and Slim made their way
to the circle around the elder’s bed and I joined them. The people around the elder kept their heads bowed and were all singing a song that went, “Oooo Ooo Oh Oh Ooooo” over and over. A huge man with a drum looked at us and nodded to me before closing his eyes and bringing his drum up into the air and hitting it with a padded drumstick that had everyone singing again. The design on the drum was a black wolf looking up with light shooting out of its mouth and eyes.
Heavy and Slim started singing along. They had taken their glasses and hoodies off and stood like little boys with the crowd. Slim pulled his cast and sling off, and his arm looked fine. Had this been a trick to fool me?
I snuck a peak at the elder in the room and she did not look good: she was just bones and her skin was yellow. Someone had combed her whispery hair out and it was as long as her legs. Around the bed were hundreds of tobacco ties all wrapped in red, black, yellow and green. And there was a blanket of reeds braided like sweet grass to make an altar under her and what was on her face was not ash at all, but a tattoo. I made sure no one could see me and I studied it. Her face was covered with a huge tattoo of a dragonfly, as if it had landed on her face and was laying eggs in her mouth.
“Holy,” I said. What society and ceremony is this?
The woman nudged me and made a motion for me to bow my head. It took me a few lines to learn the song but I caught on and sang, too: “Ooo ooooo oh oh ooooooo.”
At that, the drummer stopped and pointed his drumstick in my direction. I looked around. It was for me. He smiled and invited me forward. Heavy and Slim smiled back at me and motioned for me to follow. I did. I was a bit worried as I did not know the protocol here, but I was calmed, filled with a peace I have only known twice: that swim in the ocean and when I was a doorman and I knew everyone was safe inside the sweat.
I walked ahead and I smiled at all the people I passed, and they all nodded, tipping the reeds they held out towards me. Every single one. I was royalty, an honoured guest. How I wished Ghost Bear was with me, to share this, to see how my life was leading me to good places and good people. He told me that the doorman was the most honoured of all in a sweat, that because I was a protector the spirits honoured me more than anyone. I approached the drummer, cursing myself that I did not bring any gifts to honour the hosts.
The Moon of Letting Go Page 13