Motorcycles & Sweetgrass

by Drew Hayden Taylor

  Virgil picked up the story. “They danced all day and night, and the next day, forever it seemed, until they both fell down on the ground, exhausted. Because neither won. It was a stalemate. It was a contest neither could ever win. It’s been so long since I heard that one, it used to be one of my favourite stories, but she told it so much better.”

  “I know,” acknowledged Wayne. “It was almost like she knew Nanabush. She had so many Nanabush stories.”

  “Yeah, the way she told them, you could see everything that happened to him. And that’s exactly how I saw him dance, on that dock. I could hear Grandma’s voice in my head telling that story.”

  Wayne and Virgil were both silent as they remembered their mother and grandmother respectively. Once more Wayne regretted not going to his mother’s funeral. But that was in the past.

  Now he had a nephew on his hands, with unusual expectations of him, and an even more crazy reason for expecting them.

  “So he can dance pretty good. I think the bizarre thing about that is you don’t find that in a White boy very often,” Wayne postulated.

  “It’s not that, it’s how he dances. I’m telling you it has something to do with the moon. Clouds would come across the moon and he would stop dancing. I need you to see it for yourself. And… and… not only that!”

  “Oh god, there’s more?”

  “Oh yes. Then there’s the petroglyphs.”

  “The what?”

  “He carves pictures into rocks. But that’s not the weird part. On my favourite rock…”

  “You have a favourite… rock? That’s so sad.”

  “Listen please, Uncle Wayne. He carved this image of what I think is a woman and a man, on a motorcycle. Together. That’s gotta be him and Mom. I think he plans to ride off with her. Away. I really do.”

  “Virgil…”

  “And I think they’re going to be heading west, for some reason.”

  Wayne’s face froze as he gazed at his nephew. “What makes you say west?”

  “To the left of the motorcycle, there was a setting sun.”

  “How do you know it was setting?”

  “First of all, as I said, the petroglyph on the rock was on the west side. And secondly, who picks up women and goes for motorcycle rides at dawn?”

  “Good point,” said Wayne. “You said he visited my mother too, before she passed away. How long before?”

  “That day. That afternoon, in fact. She, um, died that night.”

  Now Wayne’s mind seemed somewhere off in the distance.

  “Is something wrong, Uncle Wayne? Are you going to help?”

  Wayne kept looking to his left, toward the west, as his eyes betrayed puzzled thoughts. Virgil didn’t have to be a genius to figure out he’d hit some kind of nerve with the comment about heading west, though what exactly he couldn’t say.

  Virgil decided to just charge forward, hoping his uncle would be swept along with his enthusiasm. “Look, Uncle Wayne, I know how this sounds. I’ve been wrestling with how to tell you all night and all the way over here. I need help in figuring this out. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t… I don’t know… necessary. Please!”

  Wayne silently weighed all the information the boy had given him, and how this little adventure to the mainland might interrupt his training. But there was another matter to take into consideration. He had not yet made a visit to his mother’s grave. He’d been putting it off because he was a private mourner, not a public one. Wayne knew his family was mad at him for not coming to the funeral, and whether they were right or wrong was irrelevant. This was still something he should do. He knew that much. And, he surmised, this was as good a time as any.

  Wayne nodded. “Do we have to take your canoe or can we take my motorboat? It’s faster.”

  “Thank god,” said Virgil, on both counts.

  As they walked to the boat, Virgil noticed several more branches along the way that were snapped in a strange manner. “Uncle Wayne, I’ve noticed these all over the island. What’s with all these broken branches?”

  “Training,” Wayne said simply.

  “Your martial artist thing? What is that anyway?”

  Wayne stopped at a sizable cedar tree that leaned slightly away from the path. Reaching up with his right hand, he carefully grabbed a branch, one about four or five centimetres thick. Turning his head to Virgil, he said, “Pay attention!” Instantly, he twisted his wrist to the right, and Virgil heard a sharp crack. The branch was now attached to the tree only by the bark. Wayne let go and the branch flopped down, hanging parallel to the tree.

  “Training,” Wayne said once more, and continued walking toward his motorboat.

  Virgil reached out and touched the broken branch. He gave it a slight yank, and it came off the tree completely. The boy was sure it would have taken all his weight and quite a bit of manoeuvring to have snapped the branch so effectively. He could only imagine what effect a similar move would have on someone’s wrist. “Wow” was his reaction.

  After tying the canoe to the motorboat, they began their journey to Otter Lake. On the way across the water, Virgil spoke again. “Oh, and Uncle Wayne, what does tikwamshin mean?”

  “Tikwamshin? Let’s see. The way you’re saying it is a little off but basically, it means ‘bite me.’ Why?”

  The glum Virgil sank to a new level of glumness.

  FIFTEEN

  The sun was an hour from setting when Maggie showed up at Sammy Aandeg’s house. As she pulled into the driveway, a small raccoon scuttled across the driveway and Maggie had to swerve to avoid hitting it. She’d never actually been to the Aandeg place before. Oh, she’d driven by it all of her life, but most village members tended to give the place a wide berth. Sammy Aandeg was more than strange, definitely on the crazy side, not to mention a raging alcoholic. Her brother Wayne might be considered weird but Sammy was definitely textbook crazy in most local people’s opinion. Luckily, he was not violent, but just different enough to grant him the peace and serenity that allowed him to live in his own reality, his own universe.

  For some reason, John Richardson had decided to stay here.

  The house itself had long since passed its days of glory. The paint seemed to have been applied a thousand years ago, possibly just after it had been invented. Dried brown paint was scattered on the ground surrounding the house, where it had fallen or been blown off by the unforgiving elements. Several windowpanes were broken and stuffed with either newspaper or rags. Emerging from the roof was a stovepipe, indicating Sammy still heated his house and cooked with an old-fashioned wood stove. It was probably older than Maggie was.

  As she got out of her car, she wondered what to do. Should she go and knock on the door and risk running into Sammy? Or should she wait patiently in her car? With the doors locked. She could see the parked Indian Chief motorcycle nestled in the shade near the back shed. So he was likely here. She stood there, her fingers drumming on the hood of her car, weighing her options. Luckily Sammy Aandeg had no dogs, or that would have been an added difficulty. One of the few concessions Maggie had made to the dominant culture was her obsessive reliance on time. As chief she had to play ball in the White man’s court and by their rules. Now she found herself repeatedly glancing at her watch as the minutes ticked by.

  A little nervous, she fiddled with her right front windshield wiper, working up the nerve to knock on the bogeyman’s (and John’s) door. She also unconsciously surveyed the land, just for something to occupy her mind. To her right was a fringe of trees hiding the house and land from the highway she’d just driven in on. It no doubt provided a sound barrier against traffic. Running alongside it was a row of telephone and hydro poles, carrying communications and electricity to Otter Lake. One particular pole caught her attention, and she approached it, walking over a bed of wood chips. The closer Maggie got, the more obvious it became. Somebody had carved a totem pole out of the telephone pole. It appeared to be an authentic West Coast totem pole, possibly of the Haida variety, facing
the Aandeg house. She could see all the intricate designs expertly carved into the surface of the wood. She’d been to British Columbia many times for various conferences, and had seen the real deal. She was amazed at the authenticity and talent staring her in the face.

  Who would do such a thing, and why? She was quite positive, too, that it was illegal. Defacing public property or something like that. Still, it was amazing. She could make out elaborate images of a frog, a bear, and a large raven at the very top, near the telephone wires. She doubted this was Sammy’s work. But John… would he do something like this? she wondered.

  Just then, her chief suspect came walking out from behind the house. John, stripped to the waist. My goodness, she thought, he was indeed a fine specimen of a man, almost like those models on the covers of novels she’d seen in bookstores. Those historical romances where incredibly good-looking Indian men with chiselled (though oddly European-looking) features, washboard stomachs and long black hair blowing in the wind would sweep beautiful, defenceless-but-plucky White women off their feet and into their bearskin-covered beds.

  That was it, she realized! That was what he reminded her of. It was like he’d walked off the cover of one of those books. Except he had blond hair, a fair complexion and green… no, hazel eyes.

  He smiled as he got closer to her. “Hey, you! What are you doing here? I thought I was going to pick you up.” He was sweaty, with little bits of sawdust stuck to his lean body. “Sorry for the way I look. I was out back chopping some wood for Sammy.”

  “You know how to chop wood?”

  “Yep. Lift axe. Drop axe. Don’t exactly need a master’s degree to manage that. Sammy still tries to do it but he’s getting kind of up there. Elder and all. Thought I’d help out. Sort of like paying rent.”

  Maggie was impressed. “Wow. How nice. Chopping wood is a vanishing art.”

  “You caught me before I could wash up. I must smell horrible.”

  “Uh, no, not really. John, do you know anything about this?” She pointed to the telephone-totem pole. He glanced at it quickly.

  “Yeah, I got bored. I don’t think I captured the frog just right.”

  “Really? It’s amazing. I didn’t know you were an artist.”

  “I do whatever needs to be done. It’s not my best work anyway. Don’t tell me you’re here to cancel?”

  “Uh, no. No problem. I was… I mean… I was looking over some of the property that we’ve just bought. It runs parallel to Sammy’s place and I thought I’d drop in. Save you the trouble of driving all the way over to my place. If I’m too early, I can leave.”

  “Absolutely no problem. Smart thinking. Well, come on in. I think Sammy made some coffee earlier. I can fix you a cup before I get cleaned up.”

  “Are you sure it’s okay?”

  John had already turned and was heading into the house. “I wouldn’t invite you if it wasn’t. Come along now. Sammy might even be waiting for us.”

  She followed close behind, taking one last peek over her shoulder at the totem pole. John led Maggie around the side of the house to the back entrance. It was there she saw something else—something almost as interesting as the pole out front. She wasn’t sure but…

  “Is… is that an inukshuk?”

  John nodded. “Yeah, but a more modernist version. It makes a bold statement, don’t you think?”

  It was indeed an inukshuk of sorts, but made from cases of beer. Piled one atop the other, it towered over Maggie, standing at least four metres high. Cases of Labatt 50 stacked in the rudimentary shape of a human body, very reminiscent of the well-known Inuit stone figure.

  It was certainly creative, thought Maggie.

  “In case you’re wondering, those belong to Sammy. Again, just fooling around, killing time. Making do with what was at hand.”

  “Wow, you’re pretty good. I didn’t think it was possible to make an ordinary telephone pole or cases of beer look so… imposing.”

  “One thing I have always believed: Anything is possible. After you, young lady.” John opened the door and politely held it, waiting for Maggie to enter the domicile of Mr. Sammy Aandeg. The invitation had been issued and Maggie thought it would be rude to decline.

  As kids they’d had contests about who had enough courage to run up and actually lay a hand on Sammy Aandeg’s house. But she’d never been brave enough to do it, preferring to watch the other kids from the bushes.

  And now she was inside. The furniture looked older than her, and well worn. The ceiling consisted of pressed tin with a sort of starburst pattern, similar to the one her grandmother had had years ago. Still, all the plates were stacked neatly in the doorless cupboards. The ancient refrigerator hummed loudly and the wood stove looked polished. Curtains hid the cracked or chipped windows, and the floor looked freshly swept. She was shocked to realize Sammy’s place was almost cleaner than her house. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting but this wasn’t it. Maybe Sammy wasn’t as crazy as everybody thought.

  “Is Sammy around?” she asked nervously.

  “Nah, it’s still a little early. I guess he’s out wandering the woods looking for Puck and Ariel. He does that every day about this time.”

  “Who?”

  “That, my dear, is a very long and interesting tale. I’ll tell you later. How do you like your coffee?” asked the attractive, shirtless, sweaty man.

  “Um, just milk, please.”

  Maggie watched John move around the kitchen, preparing her coffee, and noticed the light from the kitchen window highlighting the definition of his muscles in his arms, shoulders and across his back. Everything about the man was impressive, she thought, whether it was his motorcycle or his muscles. Maybe a little too impressive. Maggie had seen her husband sweaty many times, but for some reason it had never had this effect on her. If she were of a more cynical nature, she would be sure God was somewhere up above, laughing at her schoolgirl infatuation. At some point, John opened the refrigerator looking for milk, and Maggie was shocked to see all the shelves in the door lined with dark bottles of beer.

  “I take it that’s all Sammy’s?”

  John nodded. “Well, you can’t be much of an alcoholic unless you have some alcohol to drink. It’s one of the rules.” Then he changed the subject. “I understand that the newly purchased land you spoke of is becoming quite the bother.” John placed the coffee down in front of her on a coaster. “Giving you a headache?”

  Maggie nodded as she sipped her coffee. It wasn’t bad at all. “Oh yeah, I’m almost sorry we bought the land. You would not believe the bizarre suggestions I’ve been getting for the last five months. Outrageous stuff. Who says Native people don’t have any imagination. Some days I think ‘the hell with it, it would make an excellent depository for nuclear waste.’ Hey, they’ve got to put it somewhere. And I bet they’ve even thought of Indian land. We’ll just charge them more.”

  Laughing, John turned on the tap. “Do you mind if I clean up a bit while we talk? Sammy doesn’t have a shower so I have to do it manually in the sink.”

  “Okay…”

  John wet the washcloth, then began to wash the sweat and sawdust off his body. Maggie watched.

  “Anyway, you were saying? About the land?”

  “Yes, the land. It’s bothering me. Don’t really know what to do. But I…” She knew she was looking at him much too intently as he washed. It was then she noticed there were a lot of scars on his body.

  “Oh my God, what happened to you?”

  He looked down at himself, then traced a two-inch scar on his left shoulder. “In my younger days, I used to get into the odd fight. Nothing serious. Just fun stuff. Well, sometimes fun can leave a mark. But that was a long time ago. I’m all grown up now.” Again he changed the subject. “So, what do you think would be the best alternative for the land?”

  Maggie was finding it hard to focus. Regardless of the scars, this man had way too many muscles, and in all the right places. If anything, the scars added to his appea
l. “Me? Um, I think it should just be left there in its natural state. It’s beautiful back there. Like creation intended. Be a shame to tear it up. I guess eventually, down the road, we’ll need the land for housing or something. But we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. That’s… that’s what I think. Yeah, that’s what I think all right. What… what do you think?” She winced at her own awkwardness.

  “Leave it in its natural state, huh? Sounds good to me. Au naturel, you could say. There, done.” And with that he began drying himself with a worn, peach towel. “Oh, that feels so much better. I probably smell a lot better too. Anyway, I think you should go with your instincts. Down the road a good home usually beats a casino or a theme park.”

  Casino? Theme park? How did John know about those? Submissions to the chief and council weren’t discussed outside of the council meetings. It was possible that somebody in the community had told him, but most kept their thoughts to themselves, for fear of somebody stealing the idea or taking the credit.

  “John, how did you hear about the casino and theme park?”

  John turned around and smiled at her. He always seemed to be smiling, like it was his most dangerous weapon. Granted, it was a beautiful, glowing smile, but he seemed to use it a little too frequently, like it was a get-out-of-jail-free card. Though Maggie supposed there were worst things a man could do than smile a lot.

  “Those ideas aren’t open to the general public,” Maggie emphasized.

  “I am not the general public.”

  “Don’t try to smile your way out of this, John. That stuff is supposed to be confidential. So where—”

  “Relax. It’s surprising what you can learn at Betty Lou’s Take-Out. You can pick up more than food poisoning there. You’re a politician, Maggie. You more than anybody else should know people like to talk. Especially when they think they have the best idea in the world. I don’t spend all my time chopping wood or riding my bike.”