“It was hard to make out entirely. This guy of yours told Sammy his name was John Matus, not Tanner, but Sammy decided to call him Caliban. Suited him better, he says. So what do we do now, genius nephew of mine? Where else would they be?”
Virgil had an idea. “I know. I bet you it’s where I saw him dancing. He seems drawn to that place. It’s down by Beer Bay.”
“Beer Bay? All the way back down there? We just came from there.” Now it was Wayne’s turn to let loose with a flurry of Anishnawbe epithets, because from the moment they had left Wayne’s Island, they had been on foot. Wayne lived most of the time on the small island and therefore didn’t need a car. Virgil was thirteen and had only toy cars. So they had had no choice but to hike to Virgil’s house, then over to Sammy’s, which altogether was over four kilometres. Now they had to walk back to Beer Bay, which was another good two and a half kilometres. Wayne was not a happy uncle. And the night was growing very dark.
“I should have stayed home, nephew or no nephew,” he muttered.
On the way to Beer Bay, they didn’t talk much. At one point, in the sheer darkness, Virgil slipped off the gravel shoulder and fell into the ditch. Luckily it had not rained recently so the only thing to suffer was his pride. Wayne was the one who broke the silence. “All this because John ‘Caliban’ Matus can make good animal calls. I must be crazy.”
“Don’t forget he also goes by Tanner and Richardson. That should tell you something is wrong. But it’s more than that,” Virgil said.
“Uh-huh.”
“I know he’s been carving pictures on my rock. And there’s that thing with his eye colour. And I—”
“Enough,” said Wayne. “You’re not on drugs, are you? Have you listened to yourself?”
“Just wait ’til you meet him. You’ll see.” Now grumpy, Virgil crossed his arms over his chest and walked faster. Silence hovered over them like a bad smell.
It would be about another fifteen minutes before they came upon the first house in this part of the village, and Virgil decided to start a conversation if possible. “Uncle Wayne? Back on the island. How did you break that branch?”
Wayne was walking a couple of metres ahead of Virgil, and they couldn’t really see each other clearly in the night; they were just black lumps moving against other black lumps. Most of the light from the moon was hidden by the tall trees that lined the road.
“Focus. Training. And belief. With that, you can do anything,” answered the voice in the darkness.
“Focus, training and belief. Okay. I’ll try and remember that,” said the boy.
They walked a little farther until Wayne suddenly stopped.
“What?” said Virgil. Then he heard it too. There was the distinctive sound of an approaching motorcycle. “It’s gotta be him…” Virgil looked up and saw one of the community’s few street lamps almost directly overhead. “Shit, they’ll see us.”
“Into the bushes,” commanded Wayne, and they both dove into the undergrowth.
Peering through some tall grass, they first saw the headlight turning the corner, and then could make out the motorcycle Virgil knew so well emerging into the light and whizzing by. Maggie was a passenger. She seemed very comfortable sitting atop the man’s gas tank.
“I do believe that’s your mother?”
Virgil nodded, not realizing that head movements went practically unseen in tall grass, but Wayne wasn’t really expecting an answer.
“Nice bike,” commented Wayne.
“Everybody says that!”
“Well, it is,” said Wayne. “So, what do we do now, since you seem to know everything?”
Virgil thought for a moment. “Let’s go see him. He’s the one who I think you should really see. So, I guess back to Sammy’s place.”
Once more, Wayne muttered unspeakable words under his breath. “Fine,” he said finally, turning and walking in the opposite direction. “You do realize that on my island, there’s only so far I can walk. Ten minutes side to side and you’re in water.”
“What happened to all that training you were talking about? You should be in great shape,” said Virgil.
“It’s like asking a champion volleyball player to run a marathon. I’m in great shape, but my feet aren’t used to walking. I’m getting blisters. At least hurry up!”
Virgil ran up to catch him.
They had walked about ten minutes when they saw, in the distance, a car approaching from the direction of Sammy’s house.
“That’s Mom! Those are her headlights. He must have just taken her back to Sammy’s to pick up her car!”
Again they dove into the underbrush, hiding as the car passed. This time, they were at the edge of a large marsh full of cattails, and their feet sank to just above ankle level. More unspeakable words issued forth, this time from both Virgil and Wayne.
“This is ridiculous, you realize!” Wayne growled. “You’re positive you’re not on drugs?”
“No, I’m not. And this is good. It’s what we want. He’s alone now. We can confront him without my mother being there. It’s perfect.” Virgil’s voice betrayed his excitement.
“Confront him? Confront him about what? Virgil, I don’t like all this skulking around.” Wayne’s voice betrayed a noticeable lack of excitement. Wet feet did that to him. Granted, the man having three different names did strike him as being unusual, as did the dancing, but Wayne was pretty sure Virgil was just going through some puberty/protective/Oedipus-complex thing. At some point in the future Wayne would have to rethink his familial obligations.
This time, Virgil emerged first from the ditch and started walking ahead of his uncle, his feet making squishy noises. They had been trudging for another five minutes when they heard, yet again, the sound of an approaching two-wheeled motorized vehicle.
“What now!” said Wayne, as they plunged into hiding for the third time that night, into the thicket that bordered the road. Luckily there was no marsh this time, only thorn bushes.
While they huddled there, Wayne whispered, “You know, the more time I spend with you, the more I really appreciate having never really spent much time with you.”
Virgil ignored him. “He must be heading back to my mother’s. Or maybe to Beer Bay.”
“Back to Beer Bay?”
Reluctantly, Virgil nodded, for even he was getting tired, and mosquito bitten, and his feet were wet and hurting, and his uncle was slowly beginning to hate him. “Back to Beer Bay,” he said.
Feeling that this night would never end, they started walking toward Beer Bay, hoping against hope that they might actually make it this time.
“It’s all coming back to me, why I live alone and don’t have kids; though, the two might be related.”
They continued on in the darkness, leaving a trail of muddy footprints.
The moon finally peeked over the stand of trees ahead of them, lighting their way.
“Hey, Virgil, cool, look. A raccoon in the middle of the road! Two!”
It had truly been an interesting night. The motorcyclist was happy and he naturally assumed Maggie was contented. Their first kiss of the night had been quite wonderful, and the goodbye kiss when he dropped her off at her car had been even better. Everything in between had been equally stupendous. He was quite proud of himself.
It had been a long time since he had enjoyed the physical pleasure of a woman. His most recent existence had not made him the most attractive bundle of male flesh. Often women’s reaction to such a proposal had been a physical one, though not of the pleasurable kind. John had worried that perhaps he had lost the touch, for gotten what goes where, and when. But like riding a bike, it all came back to him. He could still smell her hair, her scent, even the perfume she wore that they had quickly sweated off.
Maggie herself had mentioned how out of practice she was, but he hadn’t complained. The only thing that had put a damper on the night was the knowledge that those damn raccoons were probably watching them.
Maggie had a lot of her
mother in her, John had to admit. Maybe there was something about that particular lineage. In any case, he was just happy to reap the benefits.
Once she’d left, John sneaked into Sammy’s room and opened the window like he’d promised the mosquitoes, while the man snored away. Luckily the old guy was a fiercely sound sleeper. The case of beer a day helped. Ever since those days at residential school, there was something in him that was afraid to wake up. Except for those crying fits that would occur deep in the night, but even those Sammy managed to sleep through.
With that done, John retired to his bedroom. There he lay back on his bed, his feet crossed and his arms outstretched, his head to the side, trying to figure things out. The mission had been accomplished. Now what was his next step going to be? After much restlessness, he decided to go back down to Beer Bay. It was a place of wonderful memories for him, and who knows, maybe the moon would grace him with its presence. There could be dancing tonight, on top of everything, he thought, though that might be stretching his luck. He knew people had heard him the last time at Beer Bay, and if he tried it there again people, or more specifically the police, might investigate. A new location might have to be scouted first. But that would take time, and he had the urge now. Besides, he had his iPod with him. That would surely work. It wasn’t as dramatic as a big-ass ghetto blaster, but it was much more versatile.
Even the sound of the motorcycle outside his window failed to wake Sammy Aandeg. He merely rolled over, hugging his pillow close. Already the waiting mosquitoes were flying into the room, though Sammy’s personal aroma was as pungent as any can of mosquito repellent. John roared down the highway at top speed, unafraid of police or obstacles, for he was deep in thought.
Before long, he was back where the evening had begun.
He went to the end of the dock, looking expectantly up at the sky. But the moon tonight, though it had been playing hide-and-seek all evening, was hidden for the moment. So John just stood there, listening, thinking, breathing and waiting. Time came and went, and the man still stood there. Being from a different time and place, he had the patience of an ice age. Time had taught him that.
It was well after midnight when Wayne and Virgil hobbled down the hill to the dock area. Neither of them was in a good mood, or in good condition. They had put in almost ten kilometres of walking that night. They had stopped talking entirely a good twenty minutes ago.
It was Wayne who first saw John standing on the dock. Painfully, they hobbled toward the water, trying to be stealthy and using what foliage they could for camouflage.
“What’s he doing?” asked Wayne.
“I never know” was the boy’s answer. “That is why you are here.”
They took refuge near a sumac bush, close to the water. “Do you think…” began Virgil, but Wayne put his hand over the boy’s mouth.
Wayne had noticed that they and the motorcyclist weren’t the only visitors to the lake this night. One by one, raccoons began to emerge from the surrounding forest, approaching the dock. Before long, there were over a dozen masked, furry bodies standing around the man’s Indian Chief, with more emerging every second.
“I can hear you. I know you’re there.” The man on the dock turned.
Both Virgil and Wayne thought at first that he was talking to them. But it soon became apparent that the raccoons had his full attention. John’s boots making a distinctive clicking sound on the wooden planks, as he approached the furred audience.
“What the hell do you want?” he asked angrily.
One of the raccoons climbed atop a stump, stood on its hind legs, its paws outstretched, and began to chatter away. Occasionally one or several of the other animals would contribute something, but basically, this one raccoon was doing all the talking. Though it was dark and the moon was stubbornly refusing to reappear to witness this interchange, there was still enough secondary lighting from the stars, the houses on the far shore and a lone streetlight halfway up the hill for the hidden duo to see what was happening. John’s face registered his annoyance at being bothered here.
“Will you guys stop obsessing over this? It’s old news, and leave me alone!” This garnered a substantial reaction from several of the raccoons, resulting in a chattering chorus of disagreement. John rolled his eyes as he listened to their protest, obviously not impressed. “Yeah, so what do you want me to do about it?”
He seemed to be… talking to the raccoons. The rider’s stance, the eye contact, his attitude, the very tone of his voice conveyed a sense of familiar contempt for the miniature army that surrounded his vehicle.
The one raccoon, still standing on the stump, continued to chatter, bark and make raccoonlike noises.
Casually, the man crossed his arms and nodded in a patronizing manner. “Yeah, uh-huh, I’ve heard this all before. Get over it. That was a long time ago. I’ve moved on.”
The raccoons were not mollified by such an attitude.
“What the heck is going on?” asked Virgil.
“I… I think they’re arguing. Maybe I’m on drugs,” commented Wayne.
John yelled at the stump raccoon. “How do you know it was me? It could have been anybody. You have no proof. You know better than to listen to rumours.”
Virgil turned and looked at his uncle. “Arguing. Him and the raccoons. Do you know how that sounds?”
Wayne pointed at two parties. “Well, you tell me what’s going on, then.”
The raccoons’ chattering had grown louder and increasingly heated. More and more of the subordinate raccoons were contributing to the argument, and others were appearing out of the dark forest, ready to support their brothers.
“Fuck you” was John’s response to most of their remarks. Just a series of repeated fuck you’s to each individual raccoon.
“Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. And especially, fuck you!” That particular piece of nastiness was aimed directly at the stump animal. “I invented roadkill, remember that.”
For Virgil, it was like a scene from Narnia, The Wizard of Oz or the Road Warrior being acted out in some creepy play in his backyard. “Are we actually watching what we’re watching?”
Another raccoon, a smaller one, jumped up on the stump beside the other, and began chattering animatedly at the motorcycle man. It had an oddly shaped tail—seemingly shorter than the other raccoons’ tails, with a bald patch on its tip.
Wayne, his eyes never leaving the mysterious drama in front of them, nodded. “I do believe so.”
John rolled his eyes at what the second raccoon was implying.
“Do you have witnesses? This is slander, I tell you. Libel too.” Pretty soon, that raccoon finished and jumped down, and the other, larger animal continued its diatribe.
“Give it a break! I never even knew your great-great-great-great-grandfather. How do I know what he said was true? These are all lies. Lies, I tell you. I’m being framed.” John gestured wildly at the small raccoon, which was angrily gesturing back.
Realizing they were in another world, and completely over their heads, Wayne gently touched Virgil’s arm and gave a quick nod indicating they should go.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here. This isn’t our fight,” whispered Wayne.
Built with a boy’s curiosity, Virgil shook his head. This was definitely where he wanted to be. “Are you crazy? That’s…”
More insistently, Wayne took his arm and led him forcefully back through the woods and away from John and the raccoons. “No, we don’t know what’s going on here. We’re outnumbered…”
“By raccoons.”
“Have you ever come up against an irate raccoon? Trust me, I’d rather face a professional wrestler than a pissed-off raccoon. They know nothing of the Marquess of Queensberry rules. And their balls are hard to kick.”
“The what rules?”
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.” So once more, they hobbled painfully through the sparse brush until they were safely away. Wayne seemed to be deep in thought.
“What the heck was that?” Virgil blurted when they were out of earshot. “I told you he was strange.”
Looking cautiously over his shoulder, Wayne urged Virgil to walk faster, but he didn’t answer.
Hopped up on adrenaline, Virgil was all questions. “He was arguing with those raccoons, wasn’t he? I mean it couldn’t have been anything else. Who argues with raccoons?”
“I guess he does. Come on.”
They made their way farther up the road. Soon they came to a small footpath, which Wayne indicated to Virgil they should take. Virgil knew immediately where he was going. Though it was dark, the path was pretty well marked and broad. Soon they came to a grouping of cedar trees that had grown out of a single set of seeds, making the trunk look like a hand extending upward. And between these wooden fingers somebody had long ago placed wooden boards, providing seats. The tree trunks had grown around the edges of the boards in some cases. This little oasis must have been in existence for some time, due to the fact that two different generations, Wayne’s and Virgil’s, knew of it.
“Uncle Wayne, I’m afraid, for my mother,” Virgil said once they were sitting. “This raccoon shit isn’t normal, and I think she likes him… Doctor Doolittle back there. What should we do?”
Wayne didn’t respond. He started to count something on his fingers, his lips moving, pushing down one finger after another. He had just started on his second hand when he reached the end of whatever he was counting.
“Wayne?” said Virgil hesitantly.
Wayne’s expression was one of disbelief. “I hear you. Just thinking. It can’t be. He’s been gone a long time. If you believe in him, I mean.”
“What? What is it? You know something, Wayne. What’s happening here? Tell me.”
It was almost like Wayne was afraid to say what he was thinking. But, upon reflection, he did anyway.
“Momma always talked of him like he really existed. That’s what made her storytelling so special. Virgil, that… that guy just might… I know this sounds crazy… but he could be Nanabush.” As if realizing what he was actually saying, he looked away, his face becoming lost in the shadow of the trees. “Nah, couldn’t be. Could it?” Both were silent for a second as the words sunk in. “Virgil, did you hear what I said?” he asked.
Motorcycles & Sweetgrass Page 17