Motorcycles & Sweetgrass

by Drew Hayden Taylor

  “What about you, Virgil? What do you say?”

  Virgil didn’t say anything. In fact, his uncle answered for him. “He knows you’re trouble. And definitely not good for his mother. We both want you to get out of town.”

  “Or what?”

  “You are dangerous. So am I.”

  Virgil had never heard his uncle sound so cold.

  “If I am this… Nanabush, what makes you think you can fight me, let alone beat me? And why should I fight you? I just have to tell Maggie about this and I’m fairly sure she will take you apart herself, saving me the problem. So I see no advantage in discussing this any further. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a press conference to attend. As an Italian I once knew used to say, Arrivederci!”

  John nodded with mock politeness and was about to stride victoriously to the press conference when Wayne pulled the headlight of a fine, familiar vintage motorcycle from underneath his jean jacket. John stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening at the sight.

  Casually, Wayne tossed the headlight at John’s feet. “Just to let you know, we mean business.”

  Carefully, John picked it up, brushing off the dirt and pine needles, and cradled it. He sighed, then gently put the headlight back down on the ground beside the injured motorcycle. “My poor, poor baby. You bastard. That motorcycle never did a thing to you.”

  Wayne shrugged. “It got your attention. Virgil, step back, over to that tree.”

  The boy did as he was told.

  “You are right about something. We don’t have to do this. If you just jump on that machine of yours and get the hell out of town, we can all go our separate ways. What do you say?”

  “How do I even know if my Indian will run? If you did this to it, you could have done worse.”

  “Oh, it works. I’m not stupid. Damaging your engine would force you to remain here. So, gonna take the smart road or does this have to get messy?”

  Virgil watched the two men, aware of the tension in the air. His uncle was going to fight this guy—this guy his mother really liked, who might possibly be a creature from Anishnawbe history. He wondered absurdly how the school’s guidance counsellor would advise him to handle the situation.

  John’s face had a grim set to it. “You see, the problem is, you defiled my little bike. That machine is very important to me, so I can’t allow that. It’s a matter of pride. I didn’t have my pride for a while, but I got it back. And now I’m not going to lose it again. You, Dwayne…”

  “Wayne!”

  “… kick over a beehive, and you can’t expect the bees not to get angry. You run naked through poison ivy, you’re going to get a little itchy. You poke a stick at a—”

  “Enough with the metaphors. I get the point.” Wayne took off his sneakers and socks, flexing his toes.

  Looking mildly amused, John asked, “So what are you gonna do now?”

  “Whatever I have to. Virgil, just stay where you are. Don’t get involved.”

  “You should listen to your uncle, and not get involved in things that aren’t your business.”

  “John, Nanabush, or whatever your name is…”

  John cocked an eyebrow. “Yes?”

  Wayne stepped forward, until just a metre or so separated the two men. “Normally I train purely for defensive purposes. However, the world is a complicated place and you can’t always do what is planned. Sometimes you have to do what is necessary.”

  John’s brow furrowed. “What the hell does that mean? What exactly do you consider necessary?”

  “This!” Wayne fell to the ground, landing on his butt with his legs stretching directly in front of him, between John’s legs. Spreading his legs, he forced John’s apart a fair distance, causing him to fall backward, his hands grabbing his groin. Surprised and stunned, Virgil stepped back to relative safety behind a low-hanging pine branch.

  Both men jumped to their feet, though John was a little slower. Without warning, he kicked forward and his cowboy boot went flying off and hit Wayne in the forehead, making him fall back. Taking off his other boot, John limped around, his groin still clearly troubling him.

  “You wanna get tough? I’ll get tough. I’ve fought more battles than you’ve had days in your stupid life. Come on, I need the cardio.” He leaped toward his opponent, who was scrambling to his feet. Wayne managed to dodge John and, using his leg as a wedge, tripped him and sent him falling against a tree. But only for a second. John coiled his legs low to the ground and jumped straight backward, hitting Wayne and sending them both into the bushes. There was some rolling around, but Virgil’s view was obscured by the shaking branches.

  “Tag, you’re it.” Like a squirrel chased by a dog, Wayne broke from the bushes and ran a short distance to a tall pine tree, and with barely any effort, he raced up the trunk, his toes digging into the uneven bark and his hands skimming the branches. The blond man’s eyes widened.

  “Okay, so you can climb like a marten. Kid, I’ve been doing this kind of thing since long before anything you could possibly remember existed. You want to play games, just remember, I invented those games.” John looked at Virgil. “This is going to be more fun than I thought.” John leaped up the side of the tree just as quickly as Wayne had, and disappeared into the leafy canopy.

  Virgil scanned the treetops but could see nothing in the dense foliage. The branches of a dozen different trees laced together blocked out the blue sky. Occasionally a twig or leaf would drift down, and a muffled grunt or hidden yell could be heard, indicating the fight was still going on. Virgil wondered what was happening up there in the forest top. “H-h-hello? Uncle Wayne? Uncle Wayne? John…”

  Like a wave breaking on shore, hell descended from the trees. The first thing Virgil heard was the thud of two bodies meeting, and a flurry of noise. An avalanche of twigs, branches, leaves and ancient bird’s nests pelted the boy and the forest floor, followed by last year’s tent caterpillar silk. Cedar, maple, willow, elm, oak, apple, leaves of all kinds fell and blanketed the area like a green snowfall. Ancient kites, deflated balloons and the remnants of a long-forgotten tree fort were forcibly dislodged. An abandoned beehive nearly hit the boy but instead bounced off a limb of the pine tree.

  The battle seemed to be moving. Just a minute ago he could have sworn it raged directly above him in the pine tree, but now it was a dozen metres north, where there stood an aged outcropping of oak. And now he was sure the damaged limbs and leaves were falling from a huge weeping willow that stood next to a clearing.

  It was a matter of time before the animals that called the trees home became collateral damage. A porcupine landed not a metre away from Virgil. Confused and having notoriously poor eyesight, the porcupine thought that the young Native blob crouching next to the tree was at fault. Luckily Virgil had access to a large stick and managed to poke the disgruntled animal away.

  Occasionally, the boy caught a glimpse of his uncle’s denim jacket or John’s black pants against the blue sky or green leaves or brown bark. As best he could, he tried to follow their progress. Virgil just followed falling things, and the sound of grunts, thuds and curses, the constant rustle of leaves and branches being shaken.

  Out of nowhere, there was a movement to his left. “Virgil, what’s going on?” It was Dakota, crouched a few metres away, looking dazed.

  “Dakota? There you are!” Virgil grabbed her and sheltered her under the branches of a long-fallen tree. “Are you okay? I was worried.”

  “I… I came looking for John. Did you see what he did back there? John Clayton. He… those raccoons… what…? Virgil, I don’t understand. I just wanted to make sure he hadn’t left. John… he told me he was staying here. I thought I should tell him what you said about him. How… how mean you were.” Something crashed above them. “That’s your Uncle Wayne up there, with him, isn’t it? Virgil, what’s going on?”

  So, she had seen the whole thing, raccoons and all. Virgil wasn’t sure he could clarify it himself. “It’s hard to explain, Dakota. I told you J
ohn wasn’t who he appeared to be.”

  “Then who is he?”

  Virgil took a deep breath. “My Uncle Wayne thinks he’s Nanabush.”

  “Oh” was all she said.

  Now Virgil was getting really worried.

  “How can they do that? I mean, fighting up there? In the trees. I… I don’t think that’s possible.”

  Virgil didn’t know how to respond to that.

  “Virgil, who’s Nanabush?” she asked.

  Virgil remembered Dakota’s parents had strongly embraced the Canadian lifestyle. They probably hadn’t seen fit to fill her head with stories of Anishnawbe history or culture. Their daughter should have her feet firmly planted in the here and now, they thought. Their only nods to any form of Aboriginal history were the names of their children, primarily because they thought the names sounded cool and might jump out on a job application. Dakota knew more French than Anishnawbe, and more English history than Anishnawbe history. Her only connection to the past had been Lillian. But now wasn’t exactly the time to fill her in on the details. It would have to wait.

  “You remember those stories about the trickster, the ones that Grandma told us? Him,” Virgil said.

  Dakota tried to focus on what Virgil was saying “That’s Nanabush? That guy from those kids’ stories? My parents didn’t like me listening to them.”

  “No,” Virgil said, “Not the Nanabush from kids’ stories. Grandma’s Nanabush.”

  Then, almost as quickly as it had begun, the war in the tree-tops ended. The odd leaf floated down, but peace had returned to the forest of Otter Lake.

  “I think it’s over,” Virgil said to Dakota. “Uncle Wayne?” he yelled. There was no sign of Maggie’s youngest brother. Or of John, for that matter. All was oddly quiet. Virgil called louder. “Uncle Wayne!” Only the echo of his own voice responded.

  Oh shit, thought Virgil. His uncle had recommended a direct approach to dealing with the stranger, but the boy had not expected an old-fashioned, down-and-dirty, drag-out, bar-room fight. That had taken him by surprise. Now Wayne was missing, and that was not a good thing.

  “Virgil, how do people fight in the trees?” Dakota still seemed a little confused.

  “I don’t know…” Then, “Uncle Wayne!” he yelled again to the silent woods.

  Almost directly above him a supple and pliant weeping willow branch groaned softly. Virgil looked up to see Wayne floating down to the ground, both hands gripping one of the tree’s whip-like extremities. He landed not ten paces away from his nephew. Virgil and Dakota rushed to his side.

  “Well, that didn’t go exactly how I’d expected,” said Wayne. “Wow. That guy’s pretty good. Man, I could use some aspirin,” he said, trying to smile through a fat lip.

  Neither Virgil nor Dakota had ever seen somebody who’d been in a real knock-down, drag-out fight before. Well, now they had, and it wasn’t pleasant. Most of his hair had slipped from the neat ponytail he normally wore, and morphed into a twig-infested, leaf-inhabited shambles. Both hands and feet looked cut and bruised, as did his right cheek, and he was developing a black eye. There was also a large budding bump along his hairline. The right knee of his pants had been torn, revealing a nasty scrape. He was favouring his left leg, and one finger on his right hand looked like it might be broken. Add to that the plethora of scratches, cuts and blood spatters across most of his visible skin.

  His clothes didn’t look much better. His jacket was ripped along the left shoulder seam, and the sleeve was completely missing. There was a tear along the middle of the jacket’s back.

  “But, all in all, all things considered, when you take everything into consideration, under the circumstances, I feel great!” Wayne grinned, showing some blood on his teeth.

  “Uncle Wayne, are you really okay?”

  Wayne took a deep breath before answering. “You know, they always say there’s a world of difference between training and the actual thing. I think I get the point now. He threw a raccoon at me. He actually threw one at me. How do you train for that? Oh, hi, Dakota… glad we found you. You look good. By the way, have you seen the sleeve of my jacket?”

  Virgil, too stunned to reply, just shook his head.

  “Hmm, I had it on this morning. It must be around here somewhere.”

  To the boy, Wayne’s voice sounded oddly detached.

  “Uncle Wayne, what happened up there? Where’s… you know… John?”

  Absentmindedly, Wayne looked up into the trees whence he’d just dropped.

  “Did you win? Did he? What happened?” prodded Virgil.

  “I think…” Wayne found himself sitting on the ground before he could summon the energy to finish his sentence. “… it was a tie. I think. I’m… just going to take a little nap now. Okay, Virgil? Wake me up before dinner.” Curling up into a fetal position amid the fallen debris, Wayne went to sleep. Almost instantly he started snoring, his right leg twitching.

  “Maybe we should get some help, Virgil. He doesn’t look so good.”

  “Uncle Wayne? Uncle Wayne, what should I do?” His uncle didn’t respond. Dakota was right. He didn’t look good. Now Virgil truly felt he was in a pickle. Everything was out of his control. “John!” Virgil called his name a few times before accepting that the man was no longer around. At least he wasn’t here to gloat. Maybe his uncle had given as good as he got, and the man with the motorcycle was licking his wounds somewhere.

  The motorcycle headlight! Virgil’s head jerked toward where John had put down the light. It was gone. So John had been here on the ground too, collecting his prize. But where had he gone? And what should Virgil do now, with his unconscious uncle a few metres away?

  “Come on, give me a hand.” Somehow, Virgil and Dakota managed to lift the sleeping Wayne, each of his arms over their much smaller shoulders. “We’d better take him to some help. Maybe the clinic.”

  “Virgil, what happened to John?”

  “I don’t really know, Dakota.” Slowly, they dragged the unconscious man through the woods.

  “Can you tell me more about this Nanabush now?” asked Dakota.

  If there was one thing history had taught the stranger, it was that he should never plan for victory until it was fully achieved. Stories from many different cultures, including the Anishnawbe, told of fools who anticipated one thing, and through their own hubris, achieved the exact opposite. Now here he was, hiding on top of Sammy’s roof with a detached headlight in one hand, and cradling a sore, perhaps cracked, rib in the other. His nose was bleeding, and his elbow was swelling up. Whoever that Dwayne guy was, he was tougher than he had anticipated. The Indian fought like an animal. Regrouping, John opted to hide from the two kids and his unconscious opponent on the other side of the roof until things settled. He couldn’t hide, though, from the pain in his left shoulder. Somehow, he thought, fighting a great battle used to be a lot easier. And less painful. Maybe he was getting old.

  But at the moment he had more important things to worry about than this little tussle. Besides, he was a fast healer. At least he used to be. John knew the press conference would be starting any minute. He wanted to be there when all the fun began and, internal injuries or no internal injuries, he couldn’t miss it for the world. Luckily, all three of his uninvited guests were leaving. The two youngest seemed to be supporting Dwayne as they half carried him away. And there, just below the sore and impatient John, waited his precious Indian Chief.

  A few minutes after the sound of the Chief faded into the distance, Sammy came running into his house, out of breath and in a panic. As always, the first thing he did was grab a beer. This time it was two, then he hustled his aging and damaged body into his room, slamming the door behind him. Huddled in the corner, on the floor, he drained the first beer without tasting it. Things were happening. If the teachings of the residential school had stuck in him, he would have called it the End of Days—for just half an hour ago, he was sure, positive, one hundred percent convinced that he’d seen the marching of Bi
rnam Wood. What else could it have been?

  Out wandering, he’d been up on a grassy rise when Sammy saw what he saw. There, down below him, the trees were moving. Bushes were waving, leaves were scattering, the forest (a small part of it anyway) was swaying, no doubt getting ready to march. He could even hear the trees shout out in anger, scream in rage and yell in pain.

  He stood there, wondering if after all these years the gods had indeed intended to destroy him by making him mad. After twenty seconds Sammy could take it no more, and with a small scream, he went running back to the relative sanctuary of his home. The night before had been the tempest.

  What was happening? The only answers Sammy knew involved five-percent alcohol, and he planned to ask a lot of questions that day.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  It was showtime. The media, which consisted of one local television station and one cable station, the official city newspaper, the weekly supermarket coupon paper and two radio stations, were ready and waiting. Some were thinking, This is what my career has come to, covering a minor Native land shuffle in the middle of nowhere. They had been milling about for half an hour, waiting for the show to begin and carefully avoiding the water-filled potholes that dotted the landscape.

  Crystal and Maggie were off by the MP’s Saturn, discussing this afternoon’s protocol and the need for arranging a meeting with the local reeve and MPP once the dust settled. Kait was busy handing out the official press release to all interested members of the fifth estate. All in all, it was a boring, typical press conference that would be lucky to make the tail end of tonight’s newscast.

  Already in town that day there had been an attempted bank robbery by a meth addict that had been foiled easily by the local police—the man had locked himself out of his car. In the north end, a pine tree had been blown over by last night’s thunderstorm, trashing the mayor’s brother’s RV. So the line-up for tonight’s news was pretty much already set, and a news story about Native land claims just didn’t compare in excitement. Still, everybody had to go through the motions.