Margarite hears the echo of his cough as she walks away from Bishop LaFlamme’s office. She thinks perhaps she should have offered the old man a hug or at least a handshake, but she does not want to touch him. She has seen the blood balled up in his handkerchief. He does not have long left. That means she does not have long left in this place. Like the wolverine, Margarite forms a plan in her mind. She must. She knows that once her Papa LaFlamme is gone she will be returned to the horror of Father LePage.
16
Saturday, our one full day in the woods. No half day at school like the other five mornings. Sometimes it feels like the longest day in the calendar but at least we are not scrubbing toilets. Joshua’s song has become our song. It has become our anthem. The song we sing as we chop the trees to the ground. Sometimes we change the words, trying to make each other laugh.
“My sister and I remember still,” I bellow in my best baritone voice.
“A tulip garden at an old Dutch mill,” responds Suzanne in a high, squeaky soprano.
“Or, should that be…” I sing low and slow, “A penis in a windowsill.” Dragging out the word “penis,” I sing once more, “a peeeennnniiiisssss in a windowsill.” We laugh again and continue our work on the tree. Sister and I no longer work separately. In the winter cold we have joined forces cutting each tree down together. Some days we work without speaking or singing but today Suzanne is in a good mood. We are singing together.
“And a home that was all our own until,” Suzanne continues the song.
“We were picked up and shipped to hhhhelllll” I sing as loudly and in as manly a voice as I can manage. We continue our laughter and chopping.
I stop mid-swing. “Hey, I hear Joshua’s truck. Is it time for break already?” I know Suzanne. She will take a break at any time of any day. She no longer uses the sun to know the time of day.
“Fine by me,” says Suzanne, throwing her axe down into the snow. She never leaves it hanging from a tree the way I do. We have spent hours looking for her axe. I bend over and slice it into the bark beside mine. I don’t want to have to look for it again today.
“I didn’t even start a fire yet. Didn’t even fill the pot with snow for tea. Maybe he isn’t feeling well,” I say to Suzanne as I reach inside my cloth coat for my half of a cigarette. I flick a match against a tree trunk. The tips of my fingers are red like the match tip in my fingerless gloves. Together we walk towards the clearing. I am puffing on my smoke. Suzanne continues to hum our song.
Getting closer to the truck we see there is someone inside the cab with Joshua. In slow motion the head turns towards the back window. The fierce face of Father LePage is frowning at both of us. We stop dead in our tracks. Snow is up to our knees and our long cold breath hangs in the air like blocks of ice between us and the truck.
“Run!” I scream. “Run, Angavidiak, aqpasuajuq!” Suzanne is standing in the same position as a statue of the Virgin Mother. I grab her hand tightly. Turning her around. Together we try to run as quickly as possible through the snow that is pulling onto our thighs, dropping us down into swirling swallows.
I can hear the shouts of Father LePage sounding closer to us. “Stop! You animals! Stop! You heathen bitches!”
His words are gaining ground but I continue to pull on Suzanne. We run back into the woods. Suzanne drops to her knees at the last tree that we were working on together. She heaves between deep breaths, “Stop. Iq. Puhuliak. We must stop.” I know she cannot move any further. Our small attempt at escape is over.
“Les chiens!” screams Father LePage. His own breath coming in short gasps. Short gasps that seem to spur his rage.
“I knew you were up to no good. I knew it! Look at you smoking cigarettes and taking breaks early in the morning. Shame! Shame on you both!”
He lifts his arms into the air. Joining his fists, he drives them both onto the top of Suzanne’s head with all his strength. Suzanne’s body slumps onto the snow soundless as a hare. I reach over to the tree we were both working on, taking an axe into each hand.
“Fuck off, you fuckin’ freak! I’m gonna chop you to pieces! You fucker!”
I swing my arms into the air and charge towards Father LePage, axes flailing and flying side to side. I have steel-tipped wings. In my rage I see nothing but the black wall of his robes. I know only that I am going to slice the wall open.
Joshua bolts between us. He snatches my wrists and twists them until I drop the axes.
“Get in the truck! Both of you! Get in the fuckin’ truck!”
Joshua scoops Suzanne into his arms. I jump into the bed of the truck, laying Suzanne’s head on my lap. I pull her touque off and place it under her head. I spit into the palm of each of my hands and rub circles of healing onto the bump at the top of Suzanne’s head. I softly sing, “We are learning to forget the fear / That came from a troubled sky…” Suzanne’s eyes flutter open.
17
The horse and sledge trudge through the whiteness that is winter. It is slow going for Bishop LaFlamme and he keeps a thick scarf around his mouth. The reins dangle between his knees. These horses have taken this route so often they do not need to be reminded of what direction to travel.
Margarite does not feel the cold the way he does. She feels the tingle of excitement as she sits perched on their bench, looking at the land. The forms. The shapes. The way the sun is making shadows fall onto the earth. The wind is north-northeast. They have travelled for about three hours. They have passed through two small villages. One has a small lumber mill. The other a large church. She has seen white people only. No Indians yet. They must be nearing their land, she thinks. She remembers the maps she studied at school. They must be nearing the place called Pine Falls.
She knows the trip will take five hours. She has studied the maps over and over again. She knows exactly what kind of land they are on. She knows where every creek and tiny lake exists. Every night for the past week she has hidden bread, cheese, and dry meat in the apron she wears at dinner time. She has also hidden her steak knife. Every morsel she has taken is in the pouch that lies hidden under the bench of the sledge. She is ready. She has to be.
Bishop LaFlamme is unable to speak very much. The cold air feels like tiny daggers piercing his lungs each time he takes a breath. He pushes his elbow into her side and points his head towards something he wants her to see. Something he thinks is of value.
Looking in the direction of where he is pointing, Margarite nods and says each time, “Yes, a big church. Not as big as ours though.”
Her slanted eyes shine back at his. She is doing all she can to entertain him during their travels. She sings all the hymns that she knows by heart and repeats the “Hail Mary” in several different languages. Excluding her own.
They are nearing the last leg of their journey. She knows she has about one hour before she has to put her plan into action.
18
As we bump along in the back of truck, I can hear everything that they are saying in the cab. I look through the back window and watch them.
“You’re a spineless little bastard aren’t ya, Father? I was raised to respect the clergy. My dad used to say that men of the cloth were educated. That they did a job that no one else wanted to do. They carry the weight of all their parishioners on their shoulders. But you, you ain’t nothin’ but a spineless little bastard.” Joshua leans over the steering wheel of the old truck and lights a cigarette.
“You’re goin’ to hell for what you did back there. To hell, Mister!”
Joshua continues to look straight ahead. His cigarette smoke fills the truck cab with a hazy fog. He glances back at Suzanne and me. We must look like a Christmas picture from school. The one with Mary and her baby cradled in her lap. Suzanne and I are the girls of his crèche.
“Your father was correct,” I hear Father LePage sigh. “He’s…how is it young people say now, ‘Spot on!’ I do carry the weight of the world on these shoulders. You have no idea what you’re talking about. These heathens that I ha
ve to deal with at school each day. They are like dogs, they only understand physical punishment.”
“Dogs? You’re saying those girls back there are nothin’ but dogs?”
“Exactly, that’s why I call them bitches.” Father LePage laughs. His robe jiggles. I can see the beads of his long cross rubbing together.
“You’re one sick, sorry bastard!” Joshua shouts. He slams the brakes hard. Our bodies thud into the back window of the truck cab. He jumps out of the truck, “Sorry ladies,” he whispers to us. He stomps his way to Father LePage’s door and swings it open. In one quick move, he pulls Father LePage from the cab.
“Here’s one from the girls!” he yells as his fist drives into the priest’s nose.
“And here’s one from me!” he roars as he plants his fist into Father LePage’s ribs.
I laugh. The air in Father LePage’s lungs splatters onto the heavy snow.
“Imaa!” I scream, clapping my hands high above my head. Suzanne wrestles herself into a sitting position but I gently place her head back into my lap.
Joshua lifts his boot into the air and stomps a solid crack onto Father LePage’s left knee. “And that one is from all the other kids at the school!” Joshua picks up Father LePage’s body and slams it back into the passenger side of the cab.
“And you’ll never, I mean never, lay a hand on a girl again! You sick, sorry bastard.”
The hot spit from Joshua’s mouth sprays against Father LePage’s beard and his eyes and what used to be his nose. He nods and slumps to the floor of the truck.
19
Bishop LaFlamme pulls the sledge up to the front of the school. There is no welcoming committee this time. He has not given advance warning of his visit.
Hikwa hops down from the sledge and raises both her hands to help him down. His body moves slowly and carefully, afraid to slip. Hikwa and Bishop LaFlamme walk up the snow-laden steps of the school living quarters. They pass by a brass bell dangling from the eavestrough of the roof. Hikwa snaps the rope suspended from its core. One quick, sudden bong punctures the cold air. The sound slides into the air for miles. Hikwa shivers from the memory this sound triggers. Sister Mary Rose heaves the heavy door open.
“Bishop! Dear God! Your Excellency! Come inside!” Sister Mary Rose’s face is flushed with nervousness.
“No one told us you were coming, Your Grace!” Sister Mary Rose leans in to clutch onto one of Bishop LaFlamme’s arms. “Here, let me help.”
Bishop LaFlamme yanks his body up one step at a time, flanked on one side by Hikwa and Sister Mary Rose on the other. Hikwa steps back suddenly. Her head faces south. Her lips tighten. Her ears prickling from the sound of a vehicle in the distance.
“What’s that?” she snaps.
“What?” Sister Mary Rose asks.
“That noise! What is it?” Hikwa loosens her grip on Bishop LaFlamme’s arm.
Hikwa steps down and walks to the middle of the road. She stands ready to pounce behind the horse and sledge that brought her here.
Sister Mary Rose pushes against Bishop LaFlamme. He leans forward, almost squatting to grasp the step in front of him. She moves in front of him and takes his hands. “Come, Your Excellency,” she coaxes. “Carefully.”
“Margarite?” he asks as he looks into Sister Mary Rose’s relieved eyes.
“Margarite!” yells Sister Mary Rose, “Bishop wants you. Please come.”
Sister Mary Rose stares at the rigid profile of Hikwa. Her. She remembers her now. The other sister. You would never know she was one of them, Sister Mary Rose thinks. The sheen in her hair is almost blinding. Her fine city clothes. Mitts that keep her hands warm. She doesn’t look like one of them at all. From a distance she could pass for a white woman, thinks Sister Mary Rose. Inside of herself she feels a small amount of jealousy.
The truck takes shape from the distance, and every muscle in Hikwa’s body stands stiff. Ready to act. Ready for the contents of this machine. She knows what is in front of her, behind her and on either side. Winds at south-southeast. Sun to her left. Approximately 1 PM. Nearest town about seventeen miles away. Hikwa is ready. She doesn’t move or cringe as the truck pulls to a stop six feet from her boots. She walks towards the driver door. Her eyes stare straight into Joshua’s. There is no smile. There is no wave of a hand. There is only Hikwa ready to take down her prey.
Joshua rolls down his window and smoke from his cigarette escapes into the winter sky.
“Who the hell are you?” he asks in a gruff voice. Hikwa is not the only person who knows how to stand on guard.
“No, Mister, who the hell are you?” asks Hikwa, her hand sliding over the steak knife in her left pocket. Her fingers itch to have the blade within her grasp.
“Listen, lady, I’m just askin’ a question. Bottom line, I’m just here to drop off some trash and then I’m turning this truck around and never coming back to this hell hole again.” Joshua leans into the handle of the driver door and steps out from the truck. Turning his back to slap the door shut, he feels a sharp blade sticking hard into his ribs.
Joshua turns around. He looks into the eyes of someone he knows would kill. He raises both his arms. Angavidiak pops her head out from the truck bed.
“Hikwa?” She jumps from the truck bed. “Hikwa! Hikwa! Hikwa!” They are once again two little girls flying into each other’s arms. The noise of their reunion crowds the winter air. They hold each other so tight neither one of them can breathe. Angavidiak steps back and motions for Hikwa to come.
“Angavidiak, takusaqpaa!”
Puhuliak cautiously raises her eyes only above the truck bed. “Ai-nukaq!” She flops one leg over the edge of the truck box. Sliding her second leg over the truck box, she loses balance and falls into the arms of her two sisters. They roll together on the winter ground. Laughing. Crying. Making the happy sounds of early springtime. The sisters become one giant snow angel.
“Hey, what’s all this about?” asks Joshua. “That woman was ready to kill me and you girls are hugging her?”
“This is our sister, Hikwa. She was taken from us by that gold robe over there.”
I point to the small veranda of the residence where Sister Mary Rose and Bishop LaFlamme stand. One mouth is hanging open wide, and the other is half-smiling.
“We thought we would never see her again. Never. Hikwa, this is our good friend Joshua. He’s our driver for our wood-cutting job.”
“Wood-cutting job?” Hikwa clutches a hand from each sister and pulls off their tattered gloves. She stares at their calloused hands.
“He makes you cut wood here?” Hikwa scowls. She lowers her voice, “You’re not staying here. Go. Get your things both of you. I’ve brought stuff. This time we run. Far and fast. I have a plan. Go!”
“Listen,” says Joshua, “I have a plan too.”
He opens the passenger door. Out slithers Father LePage. His body lands on the earth with a dull thump. Sister Mary Rose screams and races towards him.
“My God, what is this? What have you done to him?”
Joshua doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns to the three girls. “Get inside and pack whatever stuff you have. I’ll wait out here to make sure nothing goes wrong.”
Phuuliak and Angavidiak run inside.
Sister Mary Rose wraps her hands under Father LePage’s armpits, dragging him towards the steps.
Hikwa walks up the stairs to Bishop LaFlamme. He smiles his kindly smile. “You go with my blessing, ma petite. My heart will die soon but it will die with the love you have filled it with in these last five years. I will say this to you only once. Je t’aime.”
Margarite feels the tears rolling down her high cheekbones. She wraps her arms around Bishop LaFlamme’s sagging neck and whispers into his ear, “Je t’aime, Papa.”
She kisses him lightly on the lips and steps back as Puhuliak and Angavidiak walk out onto the porch.
Joshua leans over and opens the passenger door of his truck, “Hop in, little ladies!”
Th
e girls climb into the front seat and as they drive away, Hikwa turns and takes one last look. Bishop LaFlamme raises his old hand to his lips and blows her the kiss that will carry her home. Hikwa raises her hand and blows back the kiss that will carry him to heaven.
Acknowledgements
FOR MANY YEARS, I have written stories and put them away into a drawer. I would tell myself that I had “had a good write,” smile and lock things away. One of the bravest things I have ever done, next to giving birth to and raising my sons, is to put a stack of stories into a large envelope. I kissed the envelope and whispered, “Have fun, girls.” The envelope was addressed to Peter Midgley.
I thank you first Peter, for keeping my words safe and for seeing them in a way that I could not. Your protectiveness and deep care for these stories is what kept them out of the drawer. I thank Kimmy Beach for having copyedited this work with the expertise that only belongs to her.
To the University of Alberta Press, thank you for taking a chance with me.
Glossary
aanauniq: beauty
aggaituq: one who has no hands
ajujuq: run away
amaq: carry baby on back, in hood
amauti: woman’s coat
anaana: mother
anaanatsiaq: grandmother
angajuk: older sibling
angakkug: shaman
aniguititsijuq: help through difficulty
annituqtuq: he survives destitution
aqpasuajuq: run
aqqaqpuq: eat rapidly
arnaluk: naughty woman
anirniq: spirit
ataata: daddy, father
ataatatsiaq: grandfather
ataatavut qilangmitutit, atiit isumagitiartauli: beginnings of the Lord’s Prayer, “Our Father who art in heaven…”
Annie Muktuk and Other Stories Page 16