Frankly, I didn't know if we would be telling anyone, ever, if it were not for the impending court proceedings. At least we were being thoroughly honest now. Even if it meant a wedge would be driven between some of our friends and us. When they heard everything, both Langford and I were hoping they would understand, in particular Frances and Edgar, but there was no guarantee of that.
Jacob and Kristen Finch were next, with Jacob's daughter Adrienne and son Jordan. Their nanny Helen Lake rounded out the little family.
Jacob Finch had moved to our small town from Toronto. His first wife, deeply depressed, had committed suicide and almost drowned their son Jordan. Jacob had left the city with almost the same alacrity as Langford and I had left Vancouver. Hired as Oona Nabigon's exclusive lawyer, Jacob handled the negotiations with the mining company and the myriad of tasks so much money involved.
He was happy in Burchill, content with our community's close-knit atmosphere, ecstatic with the job and May's leadership in the company. Then miraculously, Jacob had found love again. Or perhaps, he'd found real love for the first time.
He and Kristen, a teacher at Burchill Public, were definite soul mates. They handled Jordan's emotional and mental problems, a result of his near drowning, with intelligence and devotion. Adrienne, who had been almost too mature for her age, blossomed under the touch of two wonderful natural "mothers."
Helen Lake, our shaman's niece, was a kind, nurturing caregiver who deeply loved Jacob and his children. The addition of Kristen simply completed the circle. Since the beautiful wedding this past August, their relationships had blossomed even further.
Today, Shaman Agnes Lake was one of our guests of honour. She had agreed to lead the ceremony of declaration. She arrived with Chief Dan Mahdahbee.
Chief Dan was leader of the Sahsejewon Reserve, the First Nations district at the edge of Burchill. With his highly successful, lucrative business acumen, his keen sense of politics and community, this man who stood only five feet tall was a towering presence in our town. He had been a friend and supporter through many crises and was especially tuned into Agnes and her spiritual power.
Dressed today in traditional costume, his colourful shirt, his leggings and moccasins, were pure Ojibwa. If you didn't notice the Gucci watch and the sparkling rings, you would assume he was an ordinary citizen of the reserve. With his brown pudgy face alit with his typical smile and his eyes pooling with deep awareness, Dan embraced me. He knew this was a difficult, yet liberating day for us.
Agnes Lake was the most beautiful person I had ever met. Perhaps not physically. Short and stocky, her face was embedded with age lines. But the loveliness of her eyes, her long grey hair and the delicate touch of her hands added up to the impression of beauty. She was wise, calm, sensitive and strong. In her embrace, I was strengthened and had faith once more in this path of truth.
Several more invitees bustled in the door at different times. Teddy Lavalle, owner and chef of The Burchill Inn, supplied the food. Soon the house was crammed with adults and children, all talking and laughing and helping themselves to delicious treats from Teddy's magical stores.
By the time dinner was over and everything clean again, it was well and truly dark. The sky was a deep cold blue and stars blinked in the brightness of the unclouded half moon.
The children went upstairs to watch a movie, except for Faith, of course. She was asleep on Edgar's shoulder, exhausted from a day of attention from all the children. The adults gathered in the living room, most of us with liqueurs cradled in our hands.
Chief Dan began with his signature opening. A soft roll of the drum, the beat in sync with our hearts. A silence fell over us. We were drawn into the meditation offered by the traditional rituals Agnes had taught us.
It suddenly occurred to me that this scene was more than surreal. It was almost unbelievable. All those years ago, I could never have envisioned sitting in my own living room, participating in a native ceremony, having a Shaman introduce my dishonourable, horrific past. Though I'd been taught by my parents to accept people as they were, I'd suffered from the same prejudices as many residents of Vancouver had. Until I came to live in Burchill, I'd never had the opportunity to really get to know a Native person. Or perhaps I'd never bothered.
I certainly never imagined that my best friend, the woman to whom I am closest on this planet, would be a Native Canadian whose roots and sensibilities were so much deeper than mine. I was enormously fortunate to have been drawn into this spirituality, a philosophy that intertwined with the earth and united mind with body, thought with feeling.
Soon Agnes's flat, deep voice began to lead our thoughts, to introduce the story Langford and I had to tell.
"We as a community have suffered so much."
Agnes's speech pattern was an amalgam of singsong and monotone, relaxing and mesmerizing.
"The Anishinaabe would say that we have been through the fires. When the evil of the Church of Leviticus was visited upon us, that fire was real and consuming."
Though I hadn't been there, I imagined Carly's burning feet, the screams of the poor children who died, the suffering of the misguided adults who'd believed they'd found religious guidance and instead found madness and death. I remembered the smell of smoke on Langford and the odour of his horror and sorrow.
"But there have been many fires for the twin communities of Burchill and Sahsejewon, in the Ojibwa way of thinking. We fought to build our town and our reserve into a cohesive group. In those struggles, many of us here lost our loved ones, our soul mates, our children. We were almost derailed by the evil of animal abuse. Our citizens had to fight those who would have taken money from our land and ravaged it at the same time.
"We almost lost our faith when people who held themselves up as messengers from God were proven to be false prophets. Murder and death have threatened to bring our community to ruin, to destroy our spirit, our faith, our hope."
She paused for a moment. Dan continued to drum, his large round fingers dancing intimately over the canvas.
I thought of my recent bouts of depression, of mistrust, and I felt both ashamed and uplifted. Perhaps I would be strong enough this time not to lose my faith or hope. I had learned so much. I was not the young, self-centred, naïve girl of my past.
This time, I would not falter. This time, I would be brave. I straightened my shoulders, touched my husband's strong, artistic hand, snuggled a little closer to May.
"Our people have a prophecy called the Seventh Fire. In this tale, we, the elders, lose our way. We are unable, in our darkness, to give the younger generation our support and guidance. Many of us have died, or lost our light, or are crippled physically and spiritually."
Agnes stopped speaking again and even Oona seemed to understand. Her head, shaky and heavy, nodded very slightly up and down.
"But most of you gathered here, you are our younger generation, and our young are strong and resilient. You will not let our own failings be your failings. You will listen to the spirits of our forefathers, as they speak to you of the truth of finding our way through hardship, of the rewards that will come to you if only you prevail."
The drumbeat continued softly, echoing in my chest, following the pulse of my heart as I thought of the journey ahead.
"Our dear friends Langford and Emily have a declaration to make. It is a story of tragedy and love, one of despair and hope, with both heroes and humans. It is a confession, a plea for forgiveness. They have prevailed, they have survived, and now they need our support and guidance as they complete the last part of their journey out of the darkness that once surrounded their lives."
"You, my people gathered here, and those outside these walls, will have to decide whether to embrace Langford and Emily or reject them in their plea. We elders cannot help you make this decision of the heart."
"We elders cannot, nor can any of you here, make the journey for Emily and Langford. We have not the knowledge. We have not the advice. They must make their own way. What we can give th
em is our love and forgiveness."
"Emily and Langford will be journeying through a kind of earthquake. They will be forced to go backwards in order to go forwards. Their whole landscape will be changed. Whether they will be able to traverse this new landscape will depend upon their own inner strength."
"From my own visioning, Emily and Langford, I must tell you that your Seventh Fire looks to be deep and cataclysmic. The experience will change you in some way. But I also foresee a love that will not be defeated."
My heart was beating so loudly in the silence, in the shock of Agnes's prediction, I could scarcely focus. My thoughts leapt to the future and back to the faces of our daughters.
"My people, we will all go through our own versions of the Seventh Fire. We can only hope each of us will discover the next level, the Eighth Fire, in which the world will be shifted, but ultimately, will be a better place. Langford, I believe you have elected to tell your story."
And in the depth of the silent anticipation that emanated from our circle of friends, my past roared out to meet me, crashed into me like a white-water wave, a brutal weighty fist.
Chapter 4
September 1980
Dawn brought dark grey and drizzle, the clouds sitting petulantly on the mountains, making the city feel trapped. From unseasonably warm, the air turned cold and damp, a clammy mood that caused shivers inside and out.
Emily Taylor laid in the bed under the twisted sheets, foetus-like, the tears flowing from a seemingly endless supply. Earlier, the door had slammed in the apartment and Will was gone.
Still, she could not force herself out of the bed in which she'd been lying for over twelve hours now. Emily could not yet grasp his reaction to her news. Yes, they'd agreed, made a promise, but things change don't they?
She sat up and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. The room was tiny, so the dresser almost touched the edge of the bed, affording a perfect view of her rumpled blonde hair, swollen eyes and flushed skin. She tried to shake the depression, but it flooded back over her in a fit of fresh tears. How could he have acted that way?
Everything that was happening seemed to be completely out of character for both of them. Emily felt as though she were being carried along a current she couldn't fight and couldn't define. She was inside a paper bag, not able to see the opening so she could get herself back out again. She sank back into the bed, covered her head with the duvet and thought back over the horrendous events of the night before.
Will worked all day Saturday again with his students. After her visit to the clinic Emily walked to the farmer's market. It was cloudy and windy, but not too cool, and she needed the exercise.
On the way back, though, laden down with all the supplies, she gave in and took a taxi. An unforgivable expense on their budget, but she was sure Will would understand.
Emily carefully constructed the dinner—steak marinated, then barbequed to medium rare, just enough red, the way he loved it. Caesar salad with her own, somewhat spicy dressing, real bacon and crunchy croutons. Twice-baked potatoes, rich with sour cream and green onion. A side plate of asparagus in olive oil.
She opened the red wine and the timing was exactly right. Will mounted the steps and flung open the door just as she poured him a big glass.
His smile was suffused with surprise.
He couldn't resist asking, "What's all this?"
She reached up to put her arms around his neck, her short lean figure childlike next to his tall, square stature.
"You've been working so hard. I figured you needed a special dinner."
"This looks amazing, Em," he said, really smiling now. "I'll go change into something a little more comfortable."
He gave her that grin, the one backlit by the deep brown of his eyes, the one that tingled down through her toes.
She waited until they were finished dinner before she told him. He'd been so engrossed in the delicious food he hadn't noticed she had been drinking grape juice instead of wine.
Sitting there in the cramped kitchen, the breeze cool and wet from the tiny balcony, the sounds of Vancouver rising from the street below, Emily delivered her news as though she were presenting him with a well-considered gift.
"Will, I'm pregnant."
He stared at her, the wine glass almost to his lips, frozen in action as though participating in a child's game of Pose.
"What?"
He returned the glass to the table. His eyes turned black in the dim light. His mouth curled in shock.
Emily could remember seeing that look on his face only once before.
"I confirmed it this morning. At the clinic. I thought I might be, but now it's for sure."
In the silence, Emily said peevishly, "So? What do you think?" as though she couldn't tell from his frowning, heated countenance.
"Emily, we said we wouldn't do this. I took out the lease on the studio. I have lined up a bunch of students. I'm studying for my degree, or I'll never get full professor. You are only in your third year of teaching. A pregnancy leave would never bring in enough money even if you could get unemployment insurance, which I don't think you can."
He spoke to her as though lecturing a particularly troublesome student. Standing up and pacing the length of their couch and back, which was about the extent of the living room, his shoulders were stiff and straight, flung back in anger. His voice shook with barely controlled rage.
Emily had a difficult time listening. The shock of his anger filled her with dread, sent her back to being a child confronted with something she's never before witnessed.
A kind of fear chilled her. She was afraid the life she celebrated with Will would cease to be.
They had met in high school. He was so tall and rangy, a born basketball player. He waltzed over the floor with such grace all the girls in her class suddenly became far more interested in the sport than they'd ever been before.
William Edward Thompson was not only tall. His dark brown hair was always slightly messy, falling in an endearing mop over his forehead. His eyes were pools of light and deeply interested in everything another person had to say. Bedroom eyes, Emily's friends commented.
Bill opened the door for the girls. He helped scoop up armfuls of books and carried them to the next class. He would actually compliment a girl on her new hairstyle. His laugh was loud and uninhibited. He was confident but not conceited, sensitive and kind but popular with the guys as well.
Smart and talented too, he worked on scenery for the school plays, won awards in English and Art. He played the bass guitar in the band.
His father had been a school board trustee, extremely well respected in the municipality, and when he was killed in a car accident the entire town came out to grieve.
Emily had not witnessed Bill Thompson's earlier ascendancy from popular elementary student to high school star, or the death of Edward Thompson.
Grant Taylor, her own father, an air force commander who was constantly transferred from city to city or province to province as an instructor of newly minted pilots, dragged his children from school to school.
Her mother Siobhan, born in Ireland with a penchant for adventure, was more than happy to pack up every year and move on to something different. Even her brother Sean inherited his parents' free natures, so only Emily longed for stability.
When her father was contracted on a four-year assignment to Langford, British Columbia, Emily was ecstatic. She looked forward to spending all of her secondary school education in one place. She cultivated a huge circle of friends, joined clubs and went to every dance.
At one of those events, in the darkened corner where the "wallflowers" stood, when Emily was in grade eleven and William in his last year, Bill stuck out his long, elegant hand and asked Emily to dance. A collective sigh rose and waved along the line of girlfriends whose dreams had just coalesced into Emily Taylor's reality.
Bill was immediately enraptured with Emily's witty intelligence, her natural confidence and independence.
At s
ixteen she was a classic beauty, blonde and blue eyed with the traditional Irish peaches and cream complexion. Not very tall and certainly not skinny, Emily felt solid and curvaceous in his arms. Though narrow at the waist, she had luscious breasts and Bill had a difficult time curbing his physical reaction to her warmth.
He spent the entire night dancing and talking, holding her slightly at arm's length so he could look into her eyes as she talked. She told him all about her travels, living in city after city until she was thirteen.
Bill told everyone he'd fallen in love with Emily at first sight, though she often reminded him he'd walked by her in the halls for three years before.
After that first night, however, they were constantly together. Picnics at Langford Lake, walking along the shore, paddling under moonlight, were their favourite activities. If anyone had not previously believed in soul mates, they began to believe once they witnessed Emily Taylor and Bill Thompson's relationship.
Best friends and eventually lovers, they inspired one another, admired each other's accomplishments, respected each other's independence, yet made their plans and decisions together.
The only shadow side to their relationship was that their circle of friends began to shrink, until it was a circle of only two.
The real, obvious difficulty they had was with Bill's mother.
Emily began calling him Will as an endearment, the name only she used, holding her apart from the crowds who followed him and knew him as Bill.
When he invited Emily over to dinner at his mother's one night, shortly after they'd made love for the first time, she was aghast her gentle, loving boyfriend had been borne by this woman.
Margaret Thompson was nearly as tall as her son, with the same colouring and bone structure, but none of his nature came through her eyes. She held herself stiff and aloof. She could have been a stand-in for the Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz.
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