Hundreds of people? There are only about twenty right now.
Every day the protest grows. People are being drawn to the power of the ancient spirits, to the sanctity of the old growth forest that has existed beside the mighty Wississauga River from time immemorial. They feel the presence here. Susan puts a hand on her heart as she speaks. Hal zooms in.
What do you mean, the presence?
You just feel it. Everyone can feel it. The whole community knows that an injustice is in progress and that we all have to come together to stop it.
What do you mean you can feel their presence?
The Indigenous people believe that the spirits of their ancestors continue to live on in sacred grounds, providing guidance and assistance to the next generations. It is possible to feel their presence. That’s why it’s so important not to disturb these sacred graves. We demand the bones be repatriated to the Wississauga nation and that all plans for construction of a new road be immediately halted.
Have you actually seen any of these…spirits?
Can’t you feel it, Hal? I’ve been down to the sacred sites. The presence there is so powerful. Hal, I think you should join me there. Come with me. You’ll feel it. I know you will.
The car is ready, announces Proudfeather’s young subordinate.
Hal startles, the camera jerks. He’d been in a kind of reverie with Proudfeather. On automatic pilot. He was doing the interview, asking the questions, but now he isn’t even sure what they talked about. The sun makes a brief appearance through a thin layer of spring cloud. Hal shivers.
Coming with us, Hal? Proudfeather smiles enigmatically.
What, now?
SUSAN
Monday, April 21
THEY PILE INTO THE RUSTED Ford station wagon belching smoke and burning oil. Jared drives and Susan sits beside him, deliberately not speaking. She wants Hal to feel it. She wants him to feel the way the air and the sky get brighter, more intense, the closer you are to the river valley. There’s something about the young reporter. Despite his typical J-school pseudo-objectivity—in service, of course, of bludgeoning away at any idea not endorsed by the capitalist industrial complex—she senses something in him. A hesitation. Or more than that. A desire, Susan thinks.
They drive along Hurontarion past the Middle Mall, past the Hero Burger, the Starbucks, the Walmart, and the gas station. They pull off into one of the back roads, end up on a delivery alley behind the Save-A-Centre. It looks like a dead end.
So, uh, where are we going exactly? Hal says. His voice is higher than when he’s talking on TV. Susan doesn’t turn around. She touches a finger to her lips, a signal to Jared to keep silent. She likes the idea of Hal nervously pointing his camera through the dirty windshield, wondering what’s coming next. Uh—are we—going the right way?
Right before the dead end, the car makes a fast turn into the scraggly bushes. It’s like they’re driving into a marshy wood, but they come out onto a narrow track. The car jerks along, then finally lurches to a sudden stop in a little clearing overhung with pressing brush. The small space is littered with beer cans and chip bags and Big Mac containers.
Desecrated, Susan announces, lithely springing from the front seat. Go ahead, Susan says, waving her arms theatrically. Film it. Show everyone the way these Indigenous lands are being treated.
Hal gives her a look, like he wants to say something. But instead he hoists the camera to his shoulder. Susan considers him, taking in the way the reporter’s whole body is hunched into itself. What are you worried about, Hal Talbot? What are you hiding from? She’s sure of it now. The reporter does feel it; something about to reveal itself, something he dreads and desperately wants to see.
Hal Talbot films the filthy clearing. It’s getting on 3:30. Mixed sun and cloud, temperature dropping quickly. Susan sees her breath in the air.
Is it really your belief, Hal finally says, pointing his camera at her, that the spirits of Native people…continue to…occupy this area?
People have been drawn here for thousands of years, pulled by the spirit of their ancient ancestors.
Yes, but what I think our viewers would like to know is—
Susan impatiently turns away from him. Wait here, she mouths at Jared. She parts a tangle of tawny vines hanging off a desiccated bush and reveals a rough path down a steep incline splattered with shopping strip detritus. Without saying a word, Susan steps through, her feet pressing a ketchup-smeared white napkin into leaves and humus. Her boots tromp the moist ground, leave heavy impressions on the muddy partial path. The clouds part for an instant, the sun catching clotted grey earth and broken scattered glass. She hears Hal hesitate, and then the slap of loafers in mud as he reluctantly follows.
Susan marches with her head up, her long legs stepping smartly. She knows Hal has to hurry to keep up, his occasional slip and muttered swear a constant reminder that he’s struggling to match her pace. But she doesn’t break her gait or look back. Out west, Shane led her on regular treks, and her body still remembers the imprint of those walks, the ambulatory physicality that, Susan knows, people like Hal aren’t used to anymore, no matter how much time they spend on treadmills and ellipticals.
Gradually, it goes darker. The cliff grows higher over them. Now the trees are taller, wider, thicker. The wind far above blows hard enough to shiver bony branches. Hal pants ragged breaths. Not yet, Susan thinks. She’s waiting for him to realize, to come to sudden awareness that the constant thrum he thought was Hurontarion traffic is actually the river. The great Wississauga River. Has he ever seen it before? She somehow doubts it. Up above, they picture it as a trickle, its path impeded by old socks, discarded lawn chairs, and toilet paper lily pads. But down below, it’s different. The river pulls at you, makes you want to see it, makes you want to stand on its bank and lean in and let the cool flowing water rush through your fingers.
Then it happens:
The river, Hal says out loud.
Susan stops. You can feel it, can’t you? She smiles back at Hal. Abruptly, she starts moving again, even faster now, her heart jarring against her chest.
They stop where the river, bending, leans into the cliff side, flows past the gorge and feeds the handful of giant trees that crest the cliff and reach toward the houses above. Do you see that house up there? Susan says. Hal hits record and Susan waits while he films her with her big pale palm on the biggest of the trees, the one defaced by the crude steps nailed into its trunk. She repeats herself then, complete with a slow-motion pointing gesture. Do you see that house? It’s the house belonging to June Littlewell. She pauses dramatically to make sure that sinks in. That’s the house where the ancient remains have been found. And right here, right beneath, is where the city is planning to build its road. They want to cut down not just the forest, but the trees. This tree, which has been alive for hundreds of years. Susan pats the trunk affectionately. This is a tree of life. All around us are the remains of the Wississaugan people. Is it not enough that the Indigenous peoples have been driven off their land? Must we also destroy their sacred sites? We invite you to join us in the days to come. Join our prayer vigil, our powwow for peace, add your voice to ours, and together we can speak as one and be heard.
Susan keeps her hand on the tree, caresses the trunk. Hal zooms in. She feels the power of her words, the way they’re pulling at Hal. He’s the portal. Let the light in, she thinks. All it takes is one magical moment. Put it on TV. And they’ll see. She watches as he shuffles around. He’s lost now, out of his element, pointing his camera at the river flowing past with an urgency he could never have imagined; at the great trees so much bigger than they look from up above; at Susan, implacable, patient, willing to wait for as long as it takes. What is he seeing? What is he thinking as the chill seeps in and the sweat dries on his skin? What if I’m right, Hal Talbot? What if this really is a sacred place? Up above them, a black bird circles, circles, caws. Raven? Crow? Hal, hiding behind the camera. What to point at? Nothing to see, Hal Talbot. You j
ust have to…feel.
Hey! Hal exclaims. His excited call echoes up the cliffside and over. Someone’s living here or something!
Susan drops her hand from the tree. She opens her mouth to speak, but Hal’s already stepping around the tree, camera cocked. He films a small fire pit and a threadbare army rucksack slumped against a big rock.
Quiet, Susan hisses. She makes a sign toward the bushes. The wind blows and the scraggly range of bush rustles. Hal aims the camera at the crisscrossing web of grey-brown branches dotted with budding leaves.
A girl pops out of the thicket, doubled over. She stumbles awkwardly as she straightens. She’s wearing a zipped-up bright red parka, the jacket dotted with bits of bark and branch.
Oh! she says. She takes a step back even as Susan moves eagerly forward. Sorry. I…thought you were…She stands there, watching them with brown baleful eyes.
Who did you think we were? Susan asks gently, her voice imbued with meaning, as in: You see, Hal, the way people are drawn here.
The girl looks from Susan to the camera and back again. Are you guys making a movie or something?
Kinda, Hal says. Shouldn’t you be in school?
The girl stares at them fiercely.
Do you come here sometimes? Susan asks understandingly. The girl licks her lips, her eyes darting from them to the fire and the slumping rucksack.
Maybe, she says.
Who do you meet here? Hal asks.
Nobody, the girl says quietly.
I used to come down here when I was a kid, Susan says, to Hal, to herself. And then, louder: What’s your name?
Charlie, the girl whispers uncertainly.
Charlie, Susan says, trying to conjure up an inviting smile. Would you like to sit down with us? We were just going to…
I’ve gotta go home, she says. She turns and quickly burrows back into the bramble bush.
Hal catches her retreat in the viewfinder, the back of her legs, a flash of white and blue combat-patterned khaki.
Wait! Susan calls weakly. The forest goes quiet. The river pushes past, buoying up an empty milk jug.
Well that was weird, Hal says.
Susan tries to smile. Something drew her here, she hears herself intone. Something brought her to this place just as we’ve all been drawn to this spot for thousands of years.
She’s probably meeting some boyfriend or something. His camera, pointed down at the ground, is no longer recording. I need to get back, Hal says.
JUNE
Monday, April 21–Tuesday, April 22
LYING IN BED.
Lying.
June can’t sleep. Norm slumbers, a heavy arm thrown over her. June doesn’t squirm away. Let him. Let him hold her. He keeps telling her, promising her, that everything’s going to be fine, everything will be okay. Will everything be okay? Sure, June thinks dreamily—
the bones are
there weren’t any
—gone.
Outside the mock Wississaugans dance in feathers and jeans around their steel drum fire. The chanting is rhythmic, calming. It reminds June of the days she spent in the backyard, at the bottom. The beat in her head, totem soundtrack to a dream. For a moment, June wishes she were with them. Dancing. Chanting. Believing. But it all seems so long ago now.
Norm? June says, pressing into his heat. Are you asleep?
Huh?
What if they—find something?
Huh?
Tomorrow? When they search the backyard? What if they—? Chris says they think I’m…June can’t finish the sentence. What do they think she is? A liar? A mental case? A grave robber? All of the above, really.
It’s okay, baby, he mutters. It’s all gonna…
Norm?
Go back to sleep.
June closes her eyes. It’s all gonna blow over. She believes it, too. Feels it, a wind sweeping up from the great lake blowing the spring reek from the river valley up up and away. Already it feels like a dream she had—a diminishing dizzy night sweat vision.
Norm?
His legs are pink and hairy. He loves to floss and has a tendency to rearrange the shoes on her shoe rack, organizing them in categories: casual, business, cocktail.
Uh huh?
What are you…hoping for?
What am I…hoping for?
June holds her breath. Waits. She can wait. That’s what she’s been doing, isn’t it? You know, she whispers. A boy? Or a…girl?
Norm turns to face her.
June, are you saying you’re…?
It’s early yet. I mean, we should…do a test and—but I think I might be…
They come in the morning. Inspector McLintock haltingly, formally, introduces everyone in turn. There’s Chris, of course, and a lawyer from the provincial department of something-something-somewhere. The official court-ordered delegation is trailed by two pasty looking ladies in white lab coats, each one flanked by a young male police officer carrying an oversized black case.
For the evidence, June thinks. Norm shifts protectively closer to her. June’s gaze roves from one face to another. Christine had told her that the official group might include a Native Elder to oversee proper handling of any remains that might be found. June felt weirdly drawn to the prospect of meeting him—an Indian—a Native. She pictured someone impassively handsome despite his obviously advanced age, a man who, with his tousled shock of white hair and weathered face set off by a faded red button-down open at the throat, wouldn’t look out of place at the Wississauga Country Club buffet. The group moves past her into the living room and through the sliding doors into the back. There is no Elder. There’s nobody to demonstrate her tolerance to with a simple sympathetic nod: sorry to say that there’s nothing here for you, nothing to find, or see, or bury or…whatever. But she’s sorry anyway. For what? I didn’t—
Norm and Chris trail along, leaving June alone in the foyer. June doesn’t follow them. Instead she moves into the front room. She peeks through the bay window. A squad of police are rousting the powwowers. The request for an injunction Christine submitted must have been approved. June watches the head cop blurt commands through a megaphone. Disperse. If you do not disperse…
Red-haired lady—Proudfeather—and several of her ardent cohorts are not dispersing. They seem to be chaining themselves to a recently constructed teepee. Even through the window and under the harsh bleat of the megaphone, June can just catch the waft of their chanting: Give back the bones…Give back the bones… The plaintive bleat of their voices makes June feel a sense of—not guilt, exactly, more like remorse, a complicity in acts nevertheless beyond her control. Surrounding the ardent few chained to their teepee are the rest of the protestors, who lie on the front lawn and wait their turn to be dragged to the idling paddy wagon, their bodies limply resisting, scrawny white limbs drooping as they’re lifted. June can’t but feel sorry for them; they seem so…pointless.
She stands there, watching, hands folded over her stomach. Though separated by the curtained window from her fellow friendly neighbourhood gawkers—octogenarians, couriers, pest management professionals, and ethnic nanny ladies with their twin and triplet monster strollers—she feels one with them, alone in the crowd, just another gawker. The police use bolt cutters to free I’m-Very-Disturbed, who tosses her ringed red hair like a wild animal as they cuff her and stuff her in a squad car. June slides her palms under her sweatshirt and over the naked swell of her still-flat belly. The police drive off, the onlookers proceed with their day, and suddenly June is staring at an empty scuffed patch of across-the-street lawn.
June climbs the stairs. She stops at the second floor landing. She considers getting back to the project of cleaning out the spare room—the baby’s room—a room she previously had to force herself to go into, but now frequently finds herself just standing in, looking around moonily, pretending to herself that she’s contemplating soothing colour combinations though she knows she’s really just—
what?
Dreaming.
&nb
sp; Instead, June finds herself slipping into Norm’s study. She grabs the drapes to pull them aside, but doesn’t. June’s hand on the curtain. Fingers clutching fabric. Phalanges, metacarpals, carpals. There are bones everywhere, hard foundations under every flimsy surface. Where is he? Where did he go? June feels the numbness she’s been harbouring over the last few days leaking out of her, replaced by a great sinking misery. She thinks she might cry, but pushes the feeling back, a swallowed lump. Defiantly, she rips open the curtain.
The science ladies are on the grass beside the pit. They appear to be sifting dirt. They’ve spread a white tarp. June squints, sees that they’ve lined up bits and pieces on the white plastic. Small grey objects resembling fragments of rock. Christine and the government lawyer crane their necks like greyhounds eagerly awaiting an opportunity to chase the rabbit. They stand as near as the young cops will let them while Inspector McLintock aggressively snaps photos. June blinks as if blinded by the strobe of the flash. Sunny morning. There isn’t a flash. Still the scene seems over-lit, psychedelic. June imagines that if the Wississaugan Elder were here he’d be ignoring the ridiculous proceedings altogether. He’d be kneeling near the hole, his eyes closed and his lips moving silently. He’d gently wave something above his head—wad of burning green sweetgrass, smoke rising up to the sky in languid curls, thick haze blowing in June’s face, her eyes tearing, vision clouding—
Doesn’t realize she’s—where she’s going until—
Miss! You can’t! Miss!
June shoves someone—a policeman—aside as she hurtles out into the backyard. She pauses, blinking through sunlight at the startled group.
Then she runs for the pit. The crumbling edge. Earth spilling. June stumbles, lets herself fall.
The Archaeologists Page 24