by Lisa Smedman
They have become human beings once more, Big Bear reminded me. They cannot be changed into buffalo again.
“That’s true — but with Chambers dead, I’m the only white man who knows it.”
Big Bear looked startled for a moment, then narrowed his eyes and stared at me thoughtfully. He glanced over his shoulder at Steele, then nodded and moved closer. Even though his voice sounded only in my mind and could not be heard by Steele or Stone Keeper, Big Bear dropped it to a whisper.
You have powerful medicine. You learned the secrets of the Manitou Stone. Your leaders will believe whatever you tell them about it. The words you speak to Government will be believed.
I coughed, and spat as bloody bile rose in my throat. “I won’t live long enough to tell the government anything,” I said. “I’m dying.”
Would you like to live?
I looked up at him warily.
Big Bear touched a hand to the bear’s paw that hung against his chest. You do not need to die. My medicine could help you.
“Why would you want to help me?” I asked. “I reversed the Day of Changes and thwarted all of your plans.” Even as I protested, however, a spark of hope flickered to life inside me.
The apparition leaned closer. For many winters now, I have been searching for a man who would carry my words to Government. I see now that I dreamed true when I saw that you would be a friend to our people. I will heal you, if you promise to tell one great lie. Tell Government that we could use our magic at any time to change your people back into buffalo again. If you will do that — if you will speak for us — I will use my medicine to help you to live.
I could feel my heart pounding with excitement at his promise. I would live! Yet it would mean going against my sworn duty and telling my superiors a lie. Or would it? Perhaps I could simply neglect to mention that the settlers were already inoculated — and let my superiors and the politicians draw their own conclusions.
I glanced at Iniskim, cradled in her mother’s arms. She was safe enough — but if Big Bear’s premonition about the severity of the coming winter were true, hundreds of other children and adults would die. I didn’t want the weight of their destruction upon my soul.
I noticed that Big Bear was also looking at Iniskim. His face was creased with lines of sorrow. He tried to touch her, but his ghostly hand passed through her. Iniskim shivered in Stone Keeper’s arms, but, to her credit, did not cry. Instead, she stared fixedly at Big Bear with round dark eyes.
I never meant for the girl to die.
I could see by the sadness in the chief’s eye that he meant it. “I believe you,” I said.
My own children….
I spoke before he could finish: “I’ll do it. I’ll keep your secret.”
Big Bear nodded, then grunted his satisfaction. He touched his bear’s paw amulet and laid his other hand to my chest — gently at first, but then he pressed down. As its weight bore down, forcing the air out of my lungs, the words of the song Strikes Back had taught me rushed from my lips.
In some distant corner of my mind I heard Stone Keeper’s gasp and Steele’s surprised oath. The words came stronger now; I sang them in a steady stream, without needing to stop to take a breath. My vision blurred and sparkles of colour danced behind my eyes, but still I sang. In a moment more, I was sitting up, my entire body vibrating with my song. My flesh seemed thin and translucent to me now, and when I tore open my jacket and looked down, I saw the angry red-and-brown lump that was my cancerous tumour, just beneath my skin.
When I reached the final note of my song, I hooked the fingers of my right hand into the shape of talons and plunged them into my stomach. My insides were wet and hot, and as my fingers slid in past my intestines, a large lump slithered away from them, not wanting to be touched. I used my owl’s claws to hook it, and with a mighty tug wrenched it out of my stomach.
I held it up, and with a shock saw that it was a knot of bloody brown feathers. The ball of gore hung wet and dripping in my hand. I have a vague memory of holding it up to show Steele as he ran toward me.
Stone Keeper backed away from me in horror, then let out a shrill scream. After a moment more, blackness claimed me.
I didn’t see Big Bear again until nearly one month later. I was part of a treaty commission that had been hastily assembled in the wake of the Day of Changes, and Big Bear was the head of a council of dozens of chiefs who had gathered to redraft Treaties Four, Six and Seven — the treaties that covered the area enclosed by the ley line.
This time, the meeting was held at a time and place of the Indians’ choosing. The site chosen was a hill near Duck Lake — a spot that Beardy had seen in a prophetic dream. Back in 1876, when the Cree agreed to sign Treaty Six, Beardy had tried to get the commissioners to hold the meeting in this place. They had thought him an ignorant savage, and had ignored his “superstitious” notion.
They weren’t ignoring him now.
Tepees were spread out around the hill in all directions, rising up in a colourful display from the snowy ground. Cree, Assinaboine, Salteaux, Blackfoot, Blood, and Peigan had all assembled here in this one place, under the single greatest peace treaty ever forged. Off to one side was a cluster of police and commission tents; beside them were the sausage-shaped bulks of the air bicycles that had conveyed us to this spot. A picquet of police surrounded these conveyances, keeping curious Indians at bay.
The chiefs waited for us at the top of the hill in an immense structure that resembled the lodges that the Indians build for the thirst dance. A circular roof thatched with evergreen branches had been erected around a massive centre pole, and the whole structure smelled of fresh sap. Around its perimeter danced dozens of Indian braves, beating drums and chanting. Daubed in gaudy war paint, they were bedecked with feathers and fringed buckskin. Their dance seemed to be summoning up a magical energy that pulsed in time with their stamping feet; it crackled in a faint nimbus around each dancer. As we drew nearer, I could feel the hair rise on the back of my neck, and a shiver passed through me. The Indians were demonstrating their magical might, reminding us of the powers they had at their command.
Seated inside the structure, row upon row, were the chiefs of the many tribes, all decked out in their finest clothes. As we entered, my eye was caught by Crowfoot, who wore two brightly polished treaty medals pinned to the front of his dark blue shirt. He was seated in a place of prominence, as were the other chiefs I had met inside the shaking tepee.
The members of the treaty commission walked one by one to the places where they would be seated. The Indians had insisted on talking to our “great chief, the man called Government,” and so no less a personage than Sir John A. Macdonald led our entourage. It was the first time I had seen in person the man who had been Prime Minister of our country for so many years — the politician who had founded the North-West Mounted Police. Macdonald had thick curly hair that had long since retreated from his forehead, and an oversized nose whose veins hinted at long use of the whisky I could smell on his breath. He seemed an intelligent fellow, though, and had a rich, gravelly voice that would serve a politician well. If he had any hard feelings for the Indians, he hid them well under a mask of joviality.
Lieutenant Governor Edgar Dewdney followed close behind the Prime Minister. Dewdney was a large man with a white moustache and mutton-chop sideburns that hung like jowls from either cheek. He was dressed for the occasion in a suit and bowler hat, but had a scowl on his face like that of a boy forced to attend a formal occasion against his will.
Dewdney also served as Indian Commissioner for the Territories, and had been responsible for overseeing the Indians’ transition to farming. He’d provided them with a fraction of the equipment needed to do the job, and instructors who didn’t speak the Indians’ languages and who had no knowledge of dry farming. Naturally enough, the crops failed. Now Dewdney was reaping the bitter harvest he had sown.
Behind him was Assistant Indian Commissioner Hayter Reed, a man with sharp eyes, a pointed
moustache, and thin hair parted in the middle and combed flat behind a high, balding forehead. He walked with his hands folded against his chest, an unlit cigar clenched in his teeth. Every Indian he passed gave him a hard look. Reed was the man who had cut their rations at the time they were starving. The Indians called him “Iron Heart,” and said he had the blood of their children and old people on his hands.
Flanking these officials were a dozen men from Q Division, turned out in full dress uniform and commanded by Superintendent Steele. A host of lesser dignitaries were also in attendance, as well as a handful of journalists. Only one photographer had come to record the scene for posterity — I suspected this moment was something the Canadian public would rather not be reminded of, in years to come.
No Union Jack flew above the proceedings, this time, and no military band played. Instead, when all were settled, the Indians unwrapped a sacred pipe, and passed it around the circle while drums pounded. The Prime Minister puffed it gravely, then passed it on to the Lieutenant Governor. He passed it to Hayter Reed — who looked as though he’d rather be smoking the cigar he’d shoved in his breast pocket — and then the pipe passed on to Steele. The Superintendent took a puff, then passed the pipe to me.
I held up the pipe to the four directions, as was the Indian custom, then took a draw. As I exhaled, Big Bear’s eyes met mine. A smile creased his wrinkled face, and then he nodded. I had kept my promise, not telling anyone — not even Steele — that the white settlers were immune to further transformations. Yet even if I had told the truth, it would have made little difference. Those who had been transformed on the Day of Changes had eventually been returned to human form, but in the chaos that resulted in those first few moments there had been dozens of deaths and hundreds of injuries. Lanterns crashed over and untended cooking stoves had sparked fires, causing entire towns to burn to the ground. Trains and riverboats that were suddenly crewed by buffalo, rather than by men, had crashed or run aground. Unable to swim in their new forms, dozens had drowned when they had leaped overboard.
The transformations wrought by the Day of Changes had lasted no more than five hours, but the day’s effects were still being felt. In its wake, a panic had gripped the North-West Territories, and there had been a mass exodus for points east and west. Few whites wanted to settle here any more.
When the preliminaries were over, the chiefs got down to business. Piapot was among the first to speak. He pointed an accusing finger at Macdonald, and delivered a speech in Cree that started thus: “When we took our reservations, you made promises as long as my arm, but the next year the promises were shorter, and got shorter every year until now they are about the length of my finger — and you keep only half of that.”
When he was finished, it was Poundmaker’s turn. His speech was long and flowery, and as he concluded, he hinted at the Day of Changes that was yet to come. “We have returned to the god that we know. The buffalo will come back, and the Indian will return to the life that the creator intended him to live.”
I saw Dewdney shudder at the mention of buffalo. I didn’t think that he had been in the North-West Territories on the Day of Changes — but he knew full well that he was within the area the magic had affected, even now.
Big Bear did much of the talking after that, but there were several long speeches from other chiefs, as well. They wanted the terms of the original treaties honoured — especially those dealing with the provision of cattle and flour, to stave off winter famine. They wanted their traditional hunting lands kept clear of settlers. Instead of being confined to reserves, they wanted free range over all of the land except that which had already been settled by whites: a narrow strip along the North Saskatchewan River, and along the CPR railway line. The North-West Mounted Police detachments and trading posts that had already been erected in their lands could remain, but all new settlement had to be approved by the Indians.
All of this the treaty commission agreed to. They had little choice — hanging over their heads was the possibility that every man, woman and child in the North-West Territories would be the victim of Indian magic of the most diabolical description. If Sir John A. Macdonald was ever to live up to his promise of joining our fledgling nation with a railway that stretched from coast to coast, he had to accept these terms. He’d promised in 1871 that the CPR would reach British Columbia within ten years, and already the railway was three years overdue. If he didn’t want to lose his newest province, he had to keep the North-West Territories open. As long as a strip of land was available for the railway, he would agree to almost any terms.
Unlike the original treaties, upon which the chiefs had made their X marks, this treaty was not written down. All the Indians asked for was Macdonald’s solemn promise that its conditions would be upheld. The Indians didn’t need paper to hold the white men to their vows — not when they had the threat of magic.
I had thought that the treaty was concluded at that point, but Big Bear had one last demand. He drew our attention to the fact that, when the Hudson’s Bay Company had sold the North-West Territories over to Canada in 1869, they had paid the Dominion a sum of 300,000 pounds sterling. This money, he said, should have gone to the Indians, since it was their land. Unless it was paid posthaste, the Indians would have no recourse but to unleash their magic a second time.
As the translator repeated these words, Macdonald’s hands began to tremble. I stared at the Prime Minister wondering what he would say. The fee was an enormous one, a far cry from the five dollars per person — and twenty-five dollars per chief — the Indians had been promised under the original treaties. To my amazement, however, the Prime Minister nodded.
“It’s a great deal for our government to bear, all in one go,” Macdonald told the Indians. “We’ll agree to it — but only if we can make it in installments. Will equal payments over the next ten years suit you?”
The translator conveyed the Prime Minister’s words, and after only the briefest of murmurs from the chiefs behind him, Big Bear answered. Knowing how the Indians love to debate, I realized they must have anticipated an offer like this, and already decided upon what they would or would not accept.
“Four years,” Big Bear said. “No more. My pawakan has said it must be so.”
I coughed gently, and caught the Prime Minister’s eye. “Excuse me, sir, but I think you’ll find that Big Bear won’t budge on that point. Four is a sacred number to these people, and if his guardian spirit has told him that this is the way it must be, he’ll insist on those terms.”
Macdonald’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Big Bear, and then he sighed. “At least the wee rascal isn’t charging interest,” he said grimly.
He turned back to the chiefs. “Very well. The government agrees.”
The proceedings went on much longer, well into the night. They concluded with Poundmaker, an eloquent orator, repeating the words that the Lieutenant Governor had used himself, a decade ago: “So you have promised, and so it shall be. For as long as the sun shines and the rivers flow.”
By the time the negotiations concluded, the moon was up, painting the snow-covered prairie with a ghostly white light. It was nearly full once more — a celestial reminder of the Day of Changes, and the strength of the Indians’ magic.
I was stiff from sitting on the cold ground. I rose from the buffalo robe I had been seated upon and repaired to my lodging for the night: a standard white canvas tent of police issue. I entered it and lit the lantern that sat on the rough wooden table beside my bed. I hung my helmet on the centre post and sat on my palliasse to pull off my boots. Outside the tent, the sound of drums and Indian voices raised in celebratory song filled the night. Already the Indians had slaughtered several of the cattle from the herd the treaty commissioners had brought as a sign of good faith. There would be full bellies and much joviality tonight. The children conceived on this night — and on all the nights hereafter — would never have to go hungry again.
My thoughts turned to Stone Keeper. I had traveled to
the treaty negotiations alone; she and our daughter Iniskim were waiting for me back in Medicine Hat. Stone Keeper still hadn’t decided whether or not to accept my proposal of marriage, but I had high hopes.
I stripped off my jacket and riding breeches and folded them carefully. The brightly polished buttons on the front of my jacket gleamed gold in the lantern light, as did the sergeant’s stripes on my sleeves. Steele had promoted me — even after my confession that I had been serving under an assumed name. He’d merely said that one name was as good as another, and that it was the man that counted.
As I stood in my long underwear and stocking feet, staring at the new stripes on my red serge jacket, I thought of the uniform they’d buried Chambers in. He’d been promoted too — albeit posthumously. They’d buried Chambers in red serge, in full dress uniform. My last act of kindness to him was seeing to it that the uniform was properly tailored and turned out. I’d burnished the buttons myself, and ensured that his helmet was pipeclayed white and his boots were gleaming.
I sat back upon my palliasse, settling myself comfortably upon its straw stuffing, and pulled the blanket up over my knees. I was sleeping comfortably now — the claw wounds that Wandering Spirit had inflicted upon me had healed, as had the knife wound in my palm. My dreams, although sometimes troubled, seemed to contain no more prophetic messages. Strikes Back had spoken the truth: when I’d healed my cancer, my powers of precognition had disappeared.
I pulled open my long johns, and stared at my stomach — something I’d done more than once in the weeks since the Day of Changes. Despite the fact that Steele and Stone Keeper both witnessed me pulling out the bloody bundle of feathers from my abdomen, there was not a mark to be seen on my stomach. It was as if it had never happened. Yet my cancer was completely healed — the police surgeon who had treated my wounds at Medicine Hat had felt no tumour, and the pains had troubled me no more.