From somewhere behind Agnes, Soaring Bird appeared. He was dressed in a modern Ojibwa shirt, its colours fiery and bright in the waning daylight. Reds and blues and stark whites mingled to make his movements a series of flashes, in and out of the sunset, like lightning darting from cloud to cloud.
Traditional deerskin leggings and moccasins adorned his lower limbs. His hair was braided and bounced in rhythmic slaps on his back. He moved with such grace that there was a collective intake of breath as he danced into the horseshoe and around the fire. Twisting, turning, his feet moving in small delicate circles, he glided around the stone fireplace in a ballet that matched the rhythm of the music.
At first, I was uncomfortable, thinking of the children and Alain and Frances, who had witnessed a very different kind of dance within the church. But they were relaxed and smiling. This atmosphere banished the horror of the past.
The smoke was now a straight gray column that reached to the treetops and dispersed into the sky, leaving a fresh evergreen scent behind it.
Agnes stood and signalled all of us to watch her, asking in a loud and clear voice that we follow her, copy her movements. Then she bent forward and performed a simple, ordinary task. She plucked a fresh piece of the lush green grass at her feet. Filled with curiosity, we all did the same.
The Shaman reached above her and slowly tore it in half, allowing the pieces to fly from her hands and twirl to the ground. For a moment we stood still, unresponsive, as though surprised that she was asking us to destroy our little treasure.
She clapped her hands and gestured for us to follow her action and we obeyed. A soft green veil floated in the air and landed on our shoulders, in our hair, at our feet.
Next, Agnes jumped gracefully down from the dais and repeated her action. She bent and picked a new blade of grass, signifying that we should all do the same. This time, however, the small green stems were held aloft, kept treasured.
The Native woman began to dance elegantly around in a circle, following Bird as he reprised his flowing movements ahead of her.
Soon we all filed in behind the Shaman. Man, woman, child, wheelchair, cane, white, brown, black—all moving to the beat of the drum and the cadence of the flute, all becoming lost in the ritual of dance, allowing our bodies to respond without censor to the primal rhythms and the example of tradition.
We wound our way around twice and then Agnes sat on the dais, encouraging us to continue once more around without her, but signalling that we must place our little green shoots like gifts into her ample lap, her flowing gown becoming a repository for a large mound of grass.
Rapidly, her sturdy brown hands working so fast that her fingers appeared to merge, she began to weave the grass. Small bits, long strands, curled or straight, were woven in and out and around one another.
The circle began to unravel into small lines as, one by one, the group returned to their seats, energized by the freedom of movement, spellbound as the Shaman began to speak.
Agnes's strong, commanding voice, the vowels flat and throaty, was one note yet singsong and captivating, the emotional speech of the Anishinabe, The People.
"Consider the four directions in which we have just traveled," she said. "Our circle of community has danced in the south, the north, the east and the west. We have traced one another's footsteps, reached out hands to steady one another, raised our voices in prayer together. We are part of the universal circle, with each one here and with all spirits. Whether your Source is called God or Manitou or by any other name, we are all related. All life is related. As our ancestors have taught us, we are keepers of spirituality, of truth, of self-knowledge, health and wisdom. Our life is a process of learning during which all people seek harmony and balance."
Each sentence was spoken slowly and clearly, giving us time to absorb the expressions and layers of meaning.
Instead of devouring the words like fast food, I thought of the sensation as akin to savouring a meal, taking each bite and pausing to allow the flavours to languish on my tongue.
All around me, the silence was alive. It was an act of listening rather than a passive deed. We were each of us a part of the energy flowing from the Shaman's message. We were nourished by it and gave it back to one another.
"We are mind and spirit in this circle and we have invoked our guardians through dance. All Spirit does is give you the strength and the insight to discover your purpose for being in the world. Listen to your dreams and your visions. They will give you your purpose, your power."
She paused for a long moment to allow the music to waft over us. As she continued to weave and speak, the sun began to finger the horizon, sending out spines of orange and pink and yellow light over the park.
"I want you to remember, dear people, dear Anishinabe, that destiny governs only part of our lives. Fate does permit certain events. We are born of particular parents, we are destined to receive tragedy or joy over which we have no control."
Involuntarily, I tightened my embrace around Cate and Carly and so did Langford. We turned and drank in the strength from one another's eyes.
"But Kitche-Manitou, your Source or Spirit, gave Anishinabe imagination and foresight. We are blessed with the capacity to create a future that is not inevitable. This gift can be strengthened through your visions and your dreams. Creating your own meaning is a journey, a task that requires patience and time. And with your vision will come the responsibility to live out your purpose for being. It will also require you to care for one another."
Agnes's fingers stopped moving. She now held a long green rope above her head. Fat and misshapen, little strands stuck out from its thick sides.
The Shaman tried to pull it apart in a similar fashion to the single blades that we had torn and thrown to the wind. But it would not be ripped apart. Next, she handed it to Bird, who attempted to tear it in half as well, but he could not. Slowly, the twine was passed from person to person, yet no one was able to weaken it.
"One blade of grass, as we have seen, is not strong," the Shaman said. "But weave all of the blades together and here is a rope that cannot be torn apart. So too as a community, we will not be broken as long as we have one another."
She invited us to join hands and we stood up, connected, tears streaming down our faces, the joy and tragedy of our combined destinies etched clearly on every face. Into the circle, a group of men brought the hidden structure, and quickly uncovered it to reveal a beautiful wooden wishing well. Carved into the wooden arch above the well was the word Faith.
No words were necessary. Our beliefs and our spirits co-mingled and were as deep as any well. We knew we had our community, our friendships and our families, to guide us and lead us to our own sense of purpose. We also had a memorial to a little girl whose life was tragically short but whose legacy would be one of love.
Frances and Alain moved forward to help place the well on its permanent spot. Then they dropped the first shining stones into the hole. The Sandersons followed, filling the space with pebbles for each of their siblings.
Most of the other community members come forward then too, dropping a stone for all their beloved children, siblings, friends, parents and other family members who had died.
Cate, in a gesture of healing and perhaps the beginning of forgiveness, even dropped a stone for each of her parents.
The little well would always be sturdy and strong from the rocks that held it in place. Someone entwined the grass rope in the side arch. We were all silent for a moment as the sun sank below the edge of the earth.
Suddenly, a small group of villagers with guitars slung around their shoulders joined Chief Dan and Basil. Music burst into life. With a cry of celebration, the people began to dance and sing.
Someone gave out drinks—cold beer for the adults and cold pop for the kids. The party began.
Later, when Langford and I had tucked two very tired little girls into bed, one in her room at the rehab centre and the other at home with a little dog at her side, we held each oth
er tightly under soft sheets.
We knew that tomorrow would be difficult. We realized that our quest would take us into a past that we had tried to leave behind. But we also knew that, as Agnes taught us, we must face this life process in order to create a different future, to change our destiny. The journey would take a lot of strength and determination, but most of all it would require love. And that, we had in spades.
Suddenly, Langford sprang upright in the bed, pulling me with him in instant tension.
"What is it?"
"I forgot to show you, Emily. With all of the stuff that's going on…"
He threw back the covers, confusing and frightening me. When he finally looked at my face, he grabbed my chin in his hand and smiled.
"It's okay, honey, sorry. It's just that I forgot to show you something and I have to do it."
"Now?" I asked, but follow nevertheless, sliding into my slippers.
"Yes, absolutely. Now."
He was almost giddy with excitement as he took my hand and opened the bedroom door.
We tiptoed quietly down the hall to the stairs, barely disturbing Angel, who simply looked up at us, blinked and went back to snuggling Cate.
The air was fresh and cool as we waded through the dewy grass to Langford's studio.
Now I was caught up in his exhilaration, aware that something unusual was about to happen.
Upon opening the door, he almost raced to the easel, continuing to draw me along, both by the hand and in the wake of his enthusiasm. He tossed back the oilcloth covering his latest portrait, the picture he had been keeping hidden.
I gasped in pleasure and astonishment.
Until this painting, Langford had never used our likenesses nor portrayed our home. But here, in this portrait, he had used my image and our own backyard as subjects. It was my body, my hair, the profile of my face.
On the soft green of our lawn, I sat with a little girl, turned sideways to the artist, facing our serene Lake Ogeechee. The soft lines of the two females curved together, forming an inseparable bond, as between mother and child.
Filled with layers of pink and aqua, the sky shimmered. Trees, bent over with flourishing leaves, cupped the two figures like hands. Blues, greens, browns and bright yellows blended to embody a perfect moment of love and contentment.
It was as though he had predicted the arrival of Cate and Carly. The gift of parenthood that we thought lost to us, and which we had received with such joy and such trepidation.
My heart burst with fear, with resolve, with hope for our future.
I began to cry.
~ * ~
If you enjoyed this book, please consider writing a short review and posting it on Amazon, Goodreads and/or Barnes and Noble. Reviews are very helpful to other readers and are greatly appreciated by authors, especially me. When you post a review, drop me an email and let me know and I may feature part of it on my blog/site. Thank you. ~ Cathy
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Message from the Author
Dear reader:
Although the little town of Burchill is fictional, it is based on Merrickville, a gorgeous enclave near Ottawa, Ontario. Some of the streets are the same, though I've taken total liberty with who lives there, and added a lake and a First Nations Reserve. I hope you love Burchill as much as I do. If you live anywhere near Merrickville, go visit and see what I mean about its beauty and friendliness.
I am fortunate to have a close bond with an Ojibwa clan whose mother was the real Agnes Lake. I have taken the philosophies and legends and made them my own in this book. My children are part Native, too, which may help explain my love of the culture.
I want to assure anyone who is an avid reader of the Bible that no disrespect is meant by my portrayal of the fanatics in this novel. In fact, I hope I made it clear that their misuse of the messages within that book was neither approved of by the other characters nor was the interpretation a reasoned response.
Some of the legal and medical facts as presented by Doc and Jacob are probably incorrect, because I used them to fit my own purposes.
Honest, you'll find out what happened to Langford in Vancouver in the next book!
Cathy
SEVENTH FIRE
An Emily Taylor Mystery
Catherine Astolfo
Dedication
For my best friend, my love, my husband Vince.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to:
Bob Cooper, retired from the Vancouver Police Department, and Vicki Delany, Canadian mystery writer and friend, for their assistance with police procedures now and in 1980.
Helen Duplassie, for her information on art and so many other reasons too.
My first editors, Maire, Merci, Michelle, Sarah, Mary Jo and Frances.
My family and friends: could never do without a single one of you.
My publisher, Cheryl Tardif, and her team at Imajin Books have my admiration, loyalty and gratitude forever.
Chapter 1
September 1980
The Artist
The Artist stood back and admired his masterpiece. At first he did not feel the rush of inspiration that most often accompanied his best work. Perhaps he was tired from all the activity in which he'd indulged before beginning the composition, but a second spurt of energy surprised him.
Flinging the oils against the backdrop, the muse overtook him at last. The rush, the thrill of creation flooded his head, puppetting his hands. Suddenly he was in total control and yet completely out of control. He watched himself as the pattern flourished, the globules became design, the colours burgeoned.
Pinks and yellows and blues blended with the pale background to create a predawn sky that pleased him immensely. The palette spewed out all over the canvas with wild abandon like an English garden, seemingly disparate pieces and colours coming together in an exquisite array.
Fascinated by the way the liquids combined, he spent a long time watching the paint, mixed with those other fluids, as it seeped slowly downward. As though pulled by an unseen hand, the liquid would bounce back up, leaving just a little bit behind at a time, a bungee cord of ooze.
He was exhausted, satiated. Now he could compose himself enough to stand back, to marvel at what he had done. Not only did the composition itself warrant reverence, but his action was also worthy of respect. The moment, the life-changing event that he alone had put into motion, was beyond his wildest expectations.
With a renewed sense of purpose, he began to pack up his precious brushes and palette. Only then did he clean up the blood.
Chapter 2
September 1980
After years of patrolling the infamous Hastings Street and environs, Constable Charles Haynes thought he had seen it all as a police officer in Vancouver, British Columbia. Junkies lying in piss and shit. Women shrivelled up into old derelicts, slicing open veins that seemed to leak far more fluid than their bodies could hold. Little kids moaning over a mother—if she could be called that—who had been strangled to death by a 'partner'.
Yet that morning he was struck by this murder in a way he had never been affected before. Perhaps it was the incongruously sunny day, a rarity for autumn in this city. Maybe it was the juxtaposition of apparent innocence with a demented touch that drove home the hideousness of the crime. Maybe he simply didn't expect it any more. Most likely, he admitted years later, it was the twisted use of his beloved art that awakened an uncontrollable, seething anger.
Charlie had long been generally discontent with his career. He'd spent many years scanning the classifieds to see if he could find another job that would be as stable, with decent pay and benefits, but found none that could compare. Recently, he had acquired a plum assignment by way of seniority and some minor health problems that required his taking it easier.
Charlie's territory now exclusively covered the more beautiful, placid areas of the city. Even though the position involved working shifts, Charlie was thrilled that one of his patrols included Granville Islan
d.
Surrounded by the water, the mountains shimmering in the distance, Charlie would take his time walking from one end to the other, enjoying the ambience in rain or shine. By day the island was a feast of galleries and boutiques. By night it was a carnival, crammed with pub crawlers enjoying the fresh air.
Over the months he had gotten to know many of the storeowners, who kept him comfortable with coffee or healthy treats. One of his shifts covered from three in the afternoon until eleven at night, so he enjoyed both the bustle of the shoppers and the enthusiasm of the evening revellers.
The other shift, his early-morning-to-afternoon day patrol, gave him the sense of the island as both a shoppers' paradise and a picnic pleasure front. He felt like an old-fashioned flatfoot and enjoyed it immensely.
Slowly, Charlie became aware of an underlying depression, similar to the hum of a motor, dismissed as white noise until it begins to misfire. The source of his dissatisfaction was both cause and obsession. Art.
Charlie Haynes had only one regret. He had chosen stability over his true calling. Until now, the regret had been a small, nagging feeling he rarely allowed himself to consider.
He had adored his wife, Joan, from the moment they met in grade nine. When she became pregnant, Charlie happily got married, although they were both only nineteen years old. Charlie still considered her his true better half. Policing, at that time, was a career he could enter without postsecondary education. Yet it offered both job security and advancement opportunity.
Their two daughters and a vigorous yet comfortable life in a nice part of Vancouver were a constant source of delight. The loving partnership with Joan became Charlie's focus. Lately, with the girls grown and his career trudging toward retirement, Charlie had begun to regret more fiercely the fact that he hadn't pursued his desire to be an artist.
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