The MP smiled at the chief ’s naïveté. “Because, my friend, it’s human nature. If I had… I don’t know… say, a daughter that I ignored all the time, and I was pestered to marry her off to somebody, and I subsequently noticed that her husband was ignoring her…? Well, I, as a normal person, wouldn’t stand for it. Do you understand where I’m coming from?”
Slowly, Maggie nodded. She knew the MP was right. Her secret wish was to let the land remain semi-wild, but she knew few others held her hope. The others had their own dreams about it.
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned in office it’s that the press hates vague answers. Make something up if you have to. You can always change it later and blame it on a shift in policy—or climate, if you want to be trendy.”
Kait, meanwhile, sat there, making notes on her clipboard, wishing her mother would stop using her in her allegories.
“I will put that in the microwave and see what bubbles up. But I suppose we should get going,” Maggie said as she rose.
For such a sunny day, there seemed to be a dark cloud over her. “I’ll give you a quick tour of the administration office, and then maybe we’ll grab some lunch.”
The sound of one of the three great inventions of White people could be heard flushing as Wayne entered the living room. Virgil, home for lunch, sat waiting on the big brown overstuffed chair his mother had bought two years ago. He seemed nervous.
“So, what are we going to do?” he asked.
“Not we—I. I will find him. Face him. Tell him to fuck off. You got that school thing to deal with and this could get dangerous. Does that sound like a plan?”
“I don’t know. What can happen when you tell Nanabush to fuck off? If he is Nanabush.”
Wayne put on his worn jean jacket. “You still don’t believe it?”
“I heard them say on Star Trek that the simplest explanation is usually the correct one. Nanabush is not a simple explanation. I admit it’s possible, only because anything is possible, but I…”
Now Wayne was putting his shoes on, tying the laces aggressively. “Well, if he isn’t Nanabush, we have nothing to worry about. We just tell him to hit the road, and that’s that. That would make life a lot easier.”
“And if he is Nanabush?”
“Then things get more complicated. A lot more complicated.” He stood up. “So I am out of here. I will let you know what happens.”
Virgil nodded. “Where are you going first?”
“I am going to take the battle to him. At Sammy Aandeg’s.”
“And then…”
Wayne stretched, first up to the sky, then down to the ground, then in each of the four cardinal directions, before answering. “Virgil, I don’t know. I am flying blind on this, just as you are. I do know one thing. According to everything I’ve ever read about him, Nanabush can be hurt. He can feel pain. And if it comes to that… it comes to that.”
“You’d fight him? Nanabush… if it is Nanabush?”
“As you said, this is about your mother, my sister. Most people think Nanabush is a lovable goof, a children’s character. But he is more human than most humans, he has all their nobility, and all their faults—magnified. He’s a wild card, Virgil. I am going to have to be as wild as him. What that means… ask me tomorrow. I’ll know then. And if I need help, I’ll let you know.”
Grimly, the boy nodded. “Okay, Uncle Wayne. But don’t forget, I told my mother I would be at the press conference. That’s in a little over two hours.”
“Good, you’ll be around people. Most of the legends of Nanabush deal with him going one on one, or one on two, with people or animals. Not a lot of crowd stories. Wish me luck.”
Wayne started walking briskly in the direction of Sammy Aandeg’s house, while Virgil began his journey back to academic salvation.
Salvation was short lived. As soon as he arrived, Ms. Weatherford found him putting his backpack in his locker.
“Mr. Second, have you seen Dakota?”
“No, ma’am, not since this morning. She’s usually the first one here after lunch.”
“It seems she didn’t report to her last class. Do you have any idea where she might be?”
Suddenly his last conversation in the library with his cousin came back to him, as did thoughts of her growing fascination with John-of-a-thousand-last-names. She had said, I’ll find him myself later. Maybe now was later. If so, then he knew where Dakota might be. But to inform Ms. Weatherford of all of this would take a long and potentially embarrassing explanation of the relationship among Virgil’s grandmother, a motorcyclist, the moon, binoculars and a thirteen-year-old Anishnawbe girl. Way too unbelievable.
“Uh, no, sorry. I can’t help you. Maybe she’s at home sick or something.” He hoped that himself.
“No, her mother hasn’t seen her. Maybe she’s on the playground. Thank you for your help, Virgil.” Turning and walking away, Ms. Weatherford left the young man to ponder.
Dakota might be in trouble, thought Virgil. With John, since nobody really knew his game, that was a strong possibility. Virgil weighed his options and decided Dakota’s situation was the most important. Looking around to be sure no one saw him, he quietly closed his locker door, locked it, and then snuck out of the school’s side entrance. He knew this was practically committing suicide, with Ms. Weatherford and his mother on his case, but some things and people were worth that risk.
Running as fast as he could, he caught up with his uncle about halfway to Sammy’s, and filled him in.
“Oh great, another wrinkle…” was Wayne’s sober comment.
“This isn’t like her, Uncle Wayne. She loves school.”
“Well, what exactly happened between you two this morning?”
“Nothing much. I told her to stay away from John. That he was bad news.”
“Virgil, you’re an idiot. But then again, so am I. Remember when we told your mother the same thing? How did she react?”
“She got mad.”
Wayne nodded. “She got mad. Just about pushed me out of the house and out of her life. Nobody likes to be told what to do and who they can be friends with.”
“But I’m in school. They tell me what to do all the time.”
“Do you like it?”
“No.”
“I rest my case. I’ll keep my eyes open for her. Better get back to school.”
“No. I want to come.”
“What about all that trouble you got into about skipping?”
“I’ll write a four-thousand-word essay. Use lots of adverbs too. Let’s go. I’m worried.”
Virgil trotted ahead determinedly, and Wayne increased his speed. About an hour later they arrived at Sammy’s secluded abode, moving clandestinely through the sumacs that lined the driveway. Unfortunately, Virgil and Wayne were disappointed.
“His motorcycle isn’t here,” said Virgil. “Neither is Dakota.” The whole lot seemed quiet and deserted, and an odd, unpleasant odour hung in the air. “What is that smell?”
“Raccoon, I think,” answered Wayne.
“How can you tell?”
Wayne shook his head. “You really have to stop watching so much Star Trek and get out into the woods more. You’re embarrassing.”
Taking refuge behind a large bush, they scanned the immediate area. “And FYI, a family of them got stuck on my island once. Took forever to get them off.”
“I’ve seen raccoons. Josie, over near the cottages, used to have a pet one. It didn’t smell like this.”
Sniffing the air, Wayne said, “Yeah, this smell is real strong. There must have been a lot of them. An army of them. But why?”
Their minds flashed to the argument they’d witnessed between John and the raccoon.
Wayne whispered to the boy, “I think something is definitely up.”
Virgil was about to respond when he and his uncle heard the now-familiar growl of the vintage motorcycle. Crouching down farther behind the bush, they peeked through the large tear-shaped leaves. Th
e red-and-white machine roared into the driveway, a multitude of plastic bags hanging from each handle bar, each heavy with its contents. Once the bike stopped, the bags swayed back and forth like pendulums, almost knocking John and the bike over.
“Nanabush grocery shops?” Wayne said, more to himself than to Virgil. They watched John push the kickstand down, and gather up the six plastic bags. Carrying them, he walked over to the edge of the lawn, where the forest began, and dropped all of the bags contemptuously. The two in the bush heard John call out: “All right, you overgrown mangy rats. I’m here and I brought the stuff. Do you want it or not?” Then John started mumbling under his breath.
Suddenly they heard chattering, twigs breaking, leaves rustling… it sounded like the woods themselves had come alive.
“Look! Oh my God…” Wayne pointed at the trees. At the top of an ancient cedar, a lone raccoon sat, looking down at the blond man as if in judgment. It waved its arms around. At any other time it might have seemed cute, but today, it seemed decidedly uncute, more in the eerie category. Another raccoon appeared in a nearby tree. Then another. Then four more in the pine tree next to the cedar. The maple tree that bordered the lawn suddenly held a dozen. The trees around Virgil and Wayne were now peopled (or raccooned) with dozens and dozens of grey, masked mammals, crying out in victory. Like their leader, the rest stood up on their hind legs and waved their arms. More appeared along the ground bordering the forest.
“Holy shit!” said Virgil.
From their hiding place, they heard John grumbling as he lifted up the first grocery bag and took out six packets of bacon. Flicking out his hunting knife, John sliced open each package, grabbed handfuls of the meat and started throwing handfuls of thin strips into the forest. It was raining bacon. The forest pulsed with the rapid movement of raccoons. Bacon was hanging from branches, draped over rocks, wedged in the crooks of trees, lying on the leafed forest floor—and the raccoons feasted on it. Virgil and Wayne could smell the maple-smoked aroma.
“Enjoy the bacon. I hope you all get heart attacks and die,” muttered John as he reached for more food.
From the next bag he took out five boxes of half-frozen shrimp. He grabbed handfuls of the pink seafood and tossed it as hard as he could. Again a cry of victory rose up from the furry army as they scrambled to grab the delicacies that rained down.
Wayne and Virgil knew they were witnessing something their grandchildren in the far future would never believe. At one point, an errant shrimp struck Wayne’s baseball cap and bounced to the ground beside him. A raccoon darted out of nowhere and grabbed it. It looked up at Wayne briefly before popping the shrimp in its mouth and running off.
The third bag contained various fruits and nuts. Handfuls of cherries, walnuts, strawberries, cherry tomatoes, peanuts and dried banana slices were tossed to the waiting forest denizens. Like little furry vacuum cleaners, the raccoons hoovered up the treats, which lasted barely two minutes on the forest floor.
Next came the contents of bag number four, a mixture of bagged popcorn, potato chips, cheeses, Fritos and pork rinds. Once more John opened the bags and pelted the woods around him with their contents.
Virgil leaned over and whispered to his uncle, “All of this must have cost a fortune. Where does Nanabush get money?”
Wayne shook his head to indicate he had no answer.
From the next bag, John took out half a dozen cartons of eggs. Taking care not to break them, he gently let them tumble out onto the soft grassy lawn. One by one, raccoon after raccoon came waddling out of the brush, eager to grab and devour the white and brown orbs of gooey goodness. There were not nearly enough to satisfy all the creatures but it was all he had been able to hang from his handlebars.
That left one bag. The dessert bag. Inside it were bags of jujubes, Smarties, butter tarts, Maltesers, gummi bears, Twizzlers and chocolate-covered almonds—a dentist’s nightmare. But raccoons didn’t have dentists, so it was a moot point.
It was a food orgy of Roman proportions. But clearly it was not enough. High atop the cedar tree, the chief raccoon chattered loudly, silencing all the rest.
“More?” exclaimed John. “You want more? That’s all I got.”
Again, the raccoon scolded the man, and for the first time the man responded in kind, sounding exactly like a raccoon. This did not sway the aged raccoon, which scolded again.
Frustrated, John held up all the empty bags. “Do you see any more, you miserable…?” He looked around him, and saw Sammy’s house. Specifically, his kitchen window and all that existed behind it. With realization came a smile. He held up two fingers.
“Give me two minutes!”
The two Otter Lake residents, still well hidden, watched John run into the house, wondering what would happen next. All around them they could hear raccoon mastication and the raccoon equivalent of satisfied purring.
A few minutes later, John emerged from the house carrying an old cardboard box. Now it was John’s turn to dictate terms. “Okay, this is everything in the house. Everything. It’s either this, or we go back to the way things were. Now eat this, shut up and leave me alone. I got a lighter, you know. Better stick to the deal before I set fire to the forest.”
He grabbed a loaf of white bread, savagely ripped the plastic bag open and threw the slices high into the forest. Next came a large jar of pickles that he didn’t bother to open. Tossing it, it broke on landing, releasing its contents. Then came a sealed box of Cheerios, followed by a half-empty package of Fig Newtons and finally a box of fish sticks. All soon disappeared into the shadows of the vegetation.
“That’s it. That’s all I got. Looks like Sammy ain’t eating for a week. So what do you want to do now? Huh? Tell me!” John yelled into the forest. “Is it over or does the cold war get hot?” To illustrate his point, John flicked his lighter and a small flame appeared.
The head raccoon surveyed the scene of his victory, happily munching on a Fig Newton. Then, with a satisfied final gulp, it turned and disappeared down the trunk of the tree. As if by magic, all the other creatures began to melt into the forest background, their hands, tummies and mouths full of man-made booty.
“It’s over. Finally,” they heard him say, as the man stood there on the empty lawn. It was as if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. No longer would he have to look over his shoulder or wonder what trouble waited just beyond the next tree. Wiping his crumb-and food-smeared hands on the grass, John walked toward the house, a look of accomplishment on his face.
“Of all the animals on this continent to be made extinct by the White man, why couldn’t it have been those things? Oh well, I’ll have to tell Sammy… Puck was hungry.” That thought made the man laugh. That had gone better than he had expected. It was a good sign. Now for the next adventure.
As John entered the house, Wayne nudged his nephew, still crouched down beside him. “Still not convinced he’s Nanabush?”
Virgil struggled to speak. “He… um… Uncle Wayne? Uh, what was that you said about Nanabush legends saying he only dealt with things one on one or one on two? Huh? That was a little more than one on two. I thought you knew this stuff.”
“Virgil, tikwamshin.”
“Well, Mr. Nanabush Fighter, what do we do now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Boy, you just know how to inspire confidence, don’t you?”
Wayne gave him a sour look. “Virgil, you are getting on my nerves.”
“And what about Dakota? Aren’t we supposed to be out here looking for her?”
Wayne nodded. “Yeah, we will but the safest place in Otter Lake for her to be right now is anyplace but here. One mystery at a time, little nephew.”
Virgil was not convinced. His uncle was not being as helpful as he had expected. “So what are we going to do now? Do you want to break another tree branch?”
For that, the young boy received an annoyed scowl from his uncle.
“Fine, you want me to do something, I’ll do it.” Wayne s
tood up behind the bushes and walked toward Sammy’s house.
“Uncle Wayne, what are you doing?”
“Something. Don’t get in the way.”
He stopped near the kitchen window, then seemed to change his mind. Virgil saw him look at the motorcycle and trot over to it. Pulling a jackknife from his back pocket, his uncle leaned over the front end of the machine for a minute, then lifted the now-disconnected headlight over his head and gestured triumphantly to Virgil. He wrapped it in his jean jacket and returned to the kitchen window.
Placing the wrapped-up headlight on the ground behind him, he took a defensive pose and yelled, “Yo, you in the house. Come out now.”
Hesitantly, Virgil too emerged from the bush, amazed at his uncle’s confidence. He stood discreetly two metres behind Wayne. There was an uncomfortable silence as they both waited for a response. It came when John emerged from the back door, onto the lawn, locking eyes with Wayne.
“Ah, more guests. What a busy morning. Good morning, Virgil. And who is your friend? Let me guess… Maggie’s fabled weird brother. Dwayne.”
“Wayne. My name is Wayne.”
John smiled. “Wayne it is. I assume you are here for a reason?”
“I…”
Virgil tugged on his uncle’s jacket, reminding him he was there. “Uh, we want you to leave my mother alone. That’s all.” Virgil noticed the man’s eyes. “Jesus! Your eyes… they’re yellow!”
“I prefer to call them amber. You should see them at sunset. And is that what your mother wants too, for me to leave her alone?”
“Maggie doesn’t know who you are,” Wayne said.
“Who am I?” John said tauntingly.
“Nanabush,” said Wayne.
For a second John didn’t respond; he just stared at Wayne with quiet amusement. “Nanabush. The Trickster? The central character of Anishnawbe mythology, the paramount metaphor in their cosmology? The demigod? The amazing, handsome, intelligent and fabulous Nanabush? That Nanabush?” John noticed Virgil was nodding behind Wayne.
“Well, that’s a little egocentric, but essentially, yes,” said Wayne.
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