Apparition Trail, The

by Lisa Smedman

  The large boulder….

  I suddenly realized what else the Indians needed to enact the Day of Changes: something much more powerful than the small, spiral-shaped stone that had been used to transform the McDougalls into buffalo, which worked only if it were touched. The Indians also needed the Manitou Stone.

  They’d already admitted that Iniskim was lost. She must have been the flash of white I’d seen after following the tunnel from Victoria Mission. According to Big Bear, Iniskim had fled back into the tunnel when I’d startled her.

  I thought back to my dream of three nights ago, and the overpowering sensation I had of being lost and alone on the prairie. Iniskim must have turned down one of the many side tunnels and emerged from the earth somewhere else — at some distant point where the Indians couldn’t find her.

  I wondered if she were the only thing that was missing.

  Where is the Manitou Stone? I hooted.

  The animals looked at one another, not answering my question. The mouse nervously groomed its whiskers, the lynx flattened its ears again, and the other animals’ sidelong glances at one another confirmed my guess. The Manitou Stone hadn’t been hauled away from the churchyard at Victoria Mission: it had disappeared.

  The Indians had probably intended to transport the Manitou Stone back to its original resting place, and had presumably used magic to move it. That magic, however, had gone awry. According to the briefing Steele had given me, the stone had been taken by the McDougalls from a hill near the Battle River. If it had returned to its original place on the hilltop, the Indians could have found it easily enough — but like Iniskim, the Manitou Stone hadn’t gone where it was supposed to.

  The bear confirmed my guess. We do not know where the Manitou Stone is now.

  The lynx growled, but the bear waved a paw, silencing it. Where is Iniskim? the bear repeated.

  The other animals stared at me, waiting for my answer. I opened and closed my beak, as if searching for the right words, while my mind raced.

  I understood now why Big Bear had prevented Wandering Spirit from killing me on that day beside the buffalo-jump cliffs, and why he had forced me to accompany him here to the council of chiefs after our paths had crossed a second time. He’d misunderstood what I’d said when I first spoke about trying to help Emily and Iniskim, when I’d asked their whereabouts. He’d thought, with his limited grasp of English, that I was telling him that I knew where they were. The Indians were desperate to find Iniskim so they could work their magic, so my life had been spared.

  One thing didn’t make sense, however. I knew that the Indians could transform people into buffalos without Iniskim being present. When the McDougalls were transformed, the girl had been nowhere near Victoria Mission. During our poker game on the North West, Four Finger Pete had said that he’d come from Fort Garry, a journey of several weeks. Emily and Iniskim would have been traveling with him at the time the McDougalls disappeared. Nor could Iniskim have been at all of the widely scattered disappearances Steele had mentioned in his telegram.

  If the Indians had worked their magic without Iniskim on these occasions, why did they need her to be present at the Manitou Stone?

  Something occurred to me: perhaps they didn’t. Perhaps they only needed Iniskim to lead them to the Manitou Stone. That was why they wanted to find her, and desperately enough that they were willing to let a policeman — a white man — witness their council — and their magic.

  A chill ran through me as I realized that I was doomed, no matter what I said. If I told the truth, I would demonstrate that I was of no use in finding Iniskim and I would be killed. If I told them I knew where Iniskim was, they would drag me to whatever spot I named, then kill me when they realized I had lied. I steeled myself; betraying fear to the Indians would be a fatal mistake. I even managed a smile, as I imagined what Jerry Potts would have done, if he had been the one captured. He’d probably spit in their faces like an angry cat.

  My time was running out. I decided to spend the moments that remained wisely. I would do all I could to dissuade the Indians from using their magic. I would plead for mercy — not for myself, but for the innocent settlers who would be transformed into buffalo and slaughtered.

  I know about the magic you intend to work with the Manitou Stone, I told the animal-chiefs. I am asking you not to do it — to put a stop to the Day of Changes.

  The mink shook its head. It must be done. On the Day of Changes, the buffalo will return and the Indians will live the life that the Creator intended them to live.

  I looked up at the bear, hoping for a more sympathetic response. They aren’t buffalo! They’re human beings. They have the bodies of beasts, but the minds of men. I thought of Chambers and the plea for help he had scratched in the riverbank — of the frightened look in his eye. Think how terrified they must have felt as they plunged over the cliff to their deaths at Head Smashed In. Some of them were children — mere babes.

  The bear dropped to all fours and roared in my face, its hot breath flattening my feathers. What do your people care about children dying? For many winters, ever since the buffalo began to disappear, our people have gone hungry. In the worst winters we hunted and ate anything that remained — even gophers and mice — but it was not enough. Our people starved. Those chiefs who had taken reserves turned to your Great White Mother for help. Even though our children and elders were dying, when we asked for the food that had been promised in the treaties — promised in return for our land! — your people said no. They said that if we did not work, we would not be fed. Yet, how can a man work when he is so weak that he cannot even carry his rifle?

  The lynx growled its agreement. Quinn was the worst. He always said no.

  So you killed him? I asked.

  The lynx nodded, and bared its fangs in a smile.

  I shook my own head in dismay. Wandering Spirit had just confessed to Quinn’s murder, but even if I lived to testify, no jury would ever believe me unless they themselves had witnessed this Indian magic first hand — and by then it would be too late.

  We could kill all of the white men, if we chose to, the lynx growled. Even though you have built iron horses and metal birds that fly, our magic is stronger than yours.

  The eagle nodded. Both the Indians and the white man can hear the Creator’s voice, but the Indians are the best listeners.

  War is something I counselled against, the bear rumbled. It will only bring sorrow and death to both sides. I know this, because many years ago, when I traveled below the medicine line, I had an ugly dream. I saw a spring shooting up out of the ground. I covered it with my hand, trying to smother it, but it spurted up between my fingers and it ran over the back of my hand. It was a spring of blood. Indian blood.

  My eyes widened in realization. It seemed I wasn’t the only one who had prophetic dreams. Big Bear was right: if there were an Indian uprising, his people would lose the battle. The Canadian militia outnumbered and outgunned them. Yet, now that the Indians had magic on their side, they outgunned us. All of the bullets and canon shells in the Dominion wouldn’t stop the Day of Changes.

  I have heard stories from those who have traveled beyond the prairie in the direction of the morning sun, the crow said. The whites there are as thick as flies in summer. Mistihaimuskwa dreams true. As men, the whites would eventually defeat us, no matter how brave our warriors were, but as buffalo, they will not be able to use their thunder sticks against us.

  The Day of Changes will be much kinder to your people, the bear added. Not all of those reborn as buffalo will be needed for food and hides. Some will be free to roam the plains. It will be a different life than they have been used to, but not a cruel one. It is a better way than war. And it will mean that we will not have to go hungry through another winter.

  The McDougalls are dead, aren’t they? I asked. You transformed them into buffalo, stampeded them through the tunnel in the earth, and drove them over a cliff. You gave them no warning.

  The mouse peeped out from b
ehind the fox. What warnings were we given? it squeaked. The spotted disease came and killed us without warning. The traders we extended a hand of friendship to did not warn us that they would kill all of the buffalo. The Long Knives south of the Medicine Line give us no warning when they slaughter our people, and you red coats are no better!

  The eagle screeched its agreement. You, yourself, helped the men who bring the iron horse to steal our land.

  I felt my feathers bristle. The Mounted Police are not like the American soldiers, I said. We treat you fairly. The Queen’s law is the same for Indian and white man alike.

  When a white man and an Indian quarrel and come to blows, it is the Indian who finds himself with shackles on his feet, the deer said quietly.

  I started to hoot my indignation, but a part of me recognized the truth in his words. In my years with the North-West Mounted Police, I’d met more than one magistrate who refused to believe the testimony of an Indian, especially when it came in halting English or was garbled by a translator. I wanted with all my heart to believe that justice was being served, but in truth I had seen it falter many times. The solution, however, was neither war, nor magical transformation. All that was needed was for the Indians to settle down and become respectable farmers — the testimony of a productive citizen is always given more weight — and to learn to speak English. I could never before see why this had been so difficult for them, but I was beginning to understand. Why adopt the white man’s language and ways if you believe the Day of Changes is coming? I needed to put a stop to their magic, but what could I do? I had been transformed into an owl and was trapped inside a tepee with creatures larger and fiercer than myself.

  I felt the tips of my wings clench in frustration — and suddenly realized that this was something that wings did not normally do. Were those fingers I felt, instead of feathers? I turned my head slowly from side to side, looking around the tepee. Given the fact that we had been transformed into beasts, I expected to see piles of torn clothing at our feet, but the ground was covered only by robes and blankets.

  I began to wonder if I had truly been turned into an owl, or whether Poundmaker’s magic had altered only my senses and not my physical form. My arms certainly felt like wings, and when I brushed them against my sides they seemed to touch downy feathers, rather than the rough serge of my jacket. My feet felt bare, even though they must still be clad in woollen socks.

  I glanced around, looking for a weapon I could use to fight my way out of the tepee. Poundmaker’s war club lay on the ground beside the drum, but it was too far away for me to reach. Even had it been within my grasp, I couldn’t be certain that I could grip it; my fingers were as stiff and splayed as wing feathers. Then I spotted a soft leather pouch near Big Bear’s feet and recognized it as my tobacco pouch. I suddenly realized that it held the best weapon of all.

  The animals were talking again, the lynx insisting that I did not know Iniskim’s whereabouts and should be killed, the bear equally insistent that I could lead them to her. Even the grey-furred mouse was squeaking; it stood beneath the deer on its two hind legs, trying to get the larger animal’s attention. Soon all of the animals were talking at once. I hopped closer to the bear, flapping my wings as if I wanted its attention. To my surprise, I actually rose into the air. My perceptions were still very much in the spirit world — and if the same were true of the others, they would not be able to see through my feathers. When I settled to the ground, I let one wing droop over the tobacco pouch. I felt a familiar, hard lump inside.

  Now I needed a distraction. I turned my head back over my shoulder to look at the deer, which I guessed was Mountain, the chief who had carried a shield painted with a deer design. He had a personal stake in all of this — the Peigan chief had called Iniskim his granddaughter, and whether he had intended the term literally or not, he was probably related to Emily. That was probably why he’d agreed to meet with his enemies, the hated Cree. I’d noticed his dislike for Big Bear earlier, and now I intended to use it to my advantage.

  Once I had the deer’s attention, I turned back to the bear. I’ll tell you where Iniskim is — but only you. That way, I’ll know I won’t be killed. Tell the others to leave. I do not trust them, and nor should you.

  The bear pondered this a moment, then glanced at the other animals. The mink and crow nodded, but the deer protested, as I had expected.

  I’m staying, it said. It folded its legs beneath it, flopping down on the ground.

  A muffled squeaking came from beneath the deer. My attempt at a distraction had worked even better than I’d planned — the deer had accidentally sat on the mouse. In the ensuing commotion as the mouse extricated itself, I wrapped my talons around the buffalo stone. Then I leaped backward.

  The lynx growled and lashed out at me with its claws, but missed. I held the spiral-shaped stone in front of me, menacing the lynx with it.

  Stay back! I told the animals. Or I’ll touch you with the stone and turn you all into buffalo.

  I was gambling that this was true — that our current transformation was illusional, and that they would fear the more tangible and lasting transformation wrought by the buffalo stone. I wondered if I should try to turn them all into buffalo and put a stop to the Day of Changes, here and now, by using the stone, but there were too many of them. I’d never be able to touch them all with it.

  Anger flared in the lynx’s eyes. Although the other animals were hesitating, it was clear from the flexing of its claws that it was about to attack.

  Just as the lynx sprang at me, I flapped my wings and rose into the air. I aimed for the tear in the tepee wall, folding my wings tight against my sides only at the last moment and squeezing through the hole. Bursting out into the night air, I beat my wings for all they were worth.

  They didn’t carry me any further. Instead of flying, I landed in a sprawled heap on the ground, knocking the wind from my lungs. It seemed I had found my way out of the spirit world on my own. I was a man again. A lump lay under me: the buffalo stone. As the warriors who had remained outside the tepee leaped to their feet, I grabbed the stone and scrambled upright, holding it out in front of me like a weapon.

  “Stay back!” I yelled, repeating the warning I’d given inside the tepee. “Stay back or I’ll turn you into buffalo!”

  The tepee had stopped shaking, but the door flap rustled. The Indians outside had tied it shut again. Fingers fumbled at its edges, clumsily untying the flap from within. I didn’t want to be here when the chiefs — or animals, or whatever was inside that tepee now — emerged.

  I turned and ran.

  It was dark, and my human eyesight seemed poor, indeed, compared to the owl-vision I had just moments ago. I ran in the worst possible direction: toward the bluffs. Only when I suddenly felt nothing but air beneath my feet did I realize my mistake.

  Fortunately, the fall was a short one. I hit a patch of sandy ground, bounced, and rolled. Rocks clattered around me, and dust filled my mouth and nostrils. I tried to stop myself from tumbling, but the slope and the loose ground prevented me from getting a grip. Suddenly I was in the air again. I twisted around like a cat, trying to get my feet under me, and saw a patch of something darker below: trees. Then I was among them. Branches tore at my jacket and breeches and leaves whipped across my face. For a moment my fall was arrested as my jacket caught on something — and then the jacket tore free. I landed in a heap, knocking the wind from my lungs. Sparkles of light danced before my eyes, and something painful was under my chest. I turned my head, spat dust from my dry mouth, and feebly wiped away the spittle. That was when I realized that my hand was still clenched tight around the buffalo stone.

  The world was still spinning. Up above and to my left, I heard shouts and excited voices. I tried to rise, but my body was as limp as a rag doll. My jacket and undershirt had been torn from my body in my descent through the trees, and my upper body now was naked. Whatever was causing the pain under my chest seemed sticky; it held me to the ground. I hoped the sti
ckiness wasn’t my own blood. I managed to roll over onto my back, and felt a tearing in my skin. I turned my head, and saw a clump of prickly pear. The cactus was smashed flat and several of its pads were torn away; I could feel their spines sticking into my flesh, holding them to my chest. I lowered my head again, resting the back of it against the ground. Something white drifted down from the trees above. At first I thought it was snowing, but then I realized I’d fallen into a grove of cottonwood.

  I lay on my back for some time, unable to rise. At any moment I expected the Indians to descend the slope and come for me — either to kill me or to recapture me, depending upon who found me first — but although I heard voices coming from the darkness above for some time, they never came any closer.

  I am not sure if minutes or hours passed by. Eventually my strength returned. I sat up and pulled the cactus pads from my chest, grimacing as the spines tore free. The tiny puncture marks burned like the points of hot matches. A number of spines remained deeply embedded in my chest; but I didn’t want to waste precious time pulling them out. Not with the Indians looking for me.

  I rose to my feet and glanced up the slope. I’d fallen a good thirty feet in that final tumble through the trees, and the bluffs rose even higher beyond that. All was quiet above. The Indians could be anywhere, however. I peered around at the shadows under the trees, imagining Wandering Spirit lurking there. If the warrior was the first to find me, I was a dead man.

  The river wasn’t far away, but I didn’t relish the thought of crossing it. I would be too exposed to the eyes of those above on the flat, grassy plain that led to the river, and would be a perfect target as I slowly forded the water. I decided instead to make my way west, parallel with the bluffs. There were one or two small detachments along the U. S. boundary line; if I could reach them I would be safe.