by Anna Krien
*
‘TIGHTEN UP!’ yelled one of the marchers. ‘TIGHTEN UP!’ Everyone drew close, linking arms as they walked along the bitumen towards a bridge. A pounding of hooves came down the line, and Gerry turned to watch the spirit riders go past. The sleek black hair of the men lashed the air as the horses thrust forward, galloping in tune to the tightness of the legs slung over their backs. A chorus of trilling rang in the riders’ wake. ‘Stay strong!’ people sang out. ‘Stay strong, water protectors!’ Up ahead, past the burnt-out cars wedged on the bridge, three rows of riot police stiffened, the sun catching the plastic windows of their helmets. Everyone could see how the cops paused as the riders came close, uncertain, glancing at their commander. Perhaps they were just being shrewd, knowing they could not beat such an image should it run in the press. Spirit rider against machine. ‘Poor bastards,’ Eva often said of the cops. ‘I bet some of them don’t want to be here.’
Amos hated it when she said that. He didn’t think they deserved sympathy. ‘No one’s fucking forcing them,’ he retorted.
‘CLOSER! GET TIGHTER!’ The linked arms tightened. Gerry twisted his neck until he spotted Eva, two rows from the front. She was wearing a red bandana over her face, only her eyes visible. Her backpack was bulky. In it, Gerry knew, was a first-aid kit and a few plastic bottles of milk to squirt into people’s eyes. He looked behind him. The vast highway was gone, a river of people in its place. A lump swelled in Gerry’s throat at their unexpected magnificence. There were six hundred at least, most of them were wearing red – red shawls and shirts; red beanies and bandanas over their faces. ‘Water is life!’ people yelled.
Gerry swung back to face the front. They were close now, the sour smell of burnt rubber filling his nostrils. He could just see the metal wires fanning off the tyres of an overturned wreck. Behind it, the police had put up slabs of concrete and coils of barbed wire, and behind that they were lined up. Beyond them were four army tanks, the hatches open and enforcement poking out, clad in black and homing in on the marchers through eye-pieces.
‘STAY THERE,’ a voice ordered over a megaphone. ‘DO NOT COME ANY CLOSER.’
Adrenaline coursed down the line. ‘Stay strong!’ someone yelled, and the marchers pushed up against the wrecks.
‘I REPEAT, DO NOT COME ANY CLOSER.’ Gerry could see the speaker now, a large man with a sheriff’s hat. ‘STAY WHERE YOU ARE,’ he ordered, and there it was, the line between violence and nonviolence.
Eva had taken to it easily, this nonviolent direct action. Amos and Gerry, less so. ‘Is it even possible?’ Gerry had asked one evening, after the three of them spent the day in a training session. ‘Confrontation without violence?’
‘Of course it is,’ Eva had replied impatiently. ‘How else can you have civilised debate?’
Amos shook his head. ‘I don’t think confrontation and debate are the same thing, Eva,’ he said, and Gerry smiled, knowing she’d take his opinion more seriously now.
‘Exactly,’ Gerry continued, enjoying the new certainty in his voice. ‘Surely,’ he added, just a little pompously, ‘the very act of confrontation is violent.’
But Eva was sharp, choosing her words like a seasoned debater. ‘Well, it depends on which definition of violence you are thinking of. In this case, the correct version would be the legal definition of violence and nonviolence.’ Gerry narrowed his eyes at Eva for a second before breaking into a sheepish grin. Eva smiled back. They looked at Amos, who was quiet. ‘What do you think, Amos?’ Eva asked.
He didn’t answer immediately, pressing his finger to scattered grains of salt on the table and making a pile. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It’s clever, I’ll give it that.’ He listed the things they had been taught, how they could all play a role: be a PRA (person risking arrest), support crew or a jail contact, a police liaison, get trained in deployment, diversion, maybe become a media spokesperson. How he’d felt a thrill, just as they had, when they saw the nerve centre of the campaign, a busy hub set up almost like an army tent, with maps and laptops, the seesaw of red and green lights of various chargers and the static of multiple UV channels. ‘But,’ Amos began, then shook his head. ‘No, nothing.’ He tried to smile. ‘I’ve just gotten so used to losing that I’ve forgotten how to win, that’s all.’
Amos did a lot of healing sessions over the next few weeks. He did smoking ceremonies with elders and stayed close to his old friends, speaking in dialect. He seemed quieter, less angry, lighter. Eva thought it was great. It was like watching her brother bloom, she said, and she sat close as he repeated stories he’d been told.
Gerry was wary. ‘I don’t know if it’s all good,’ he said carefully to Eva one day, and for the first time she got properly angry with him.
‘What would you know?’ she snapped, those shark eyes of hers going cold. Gerry lifted his shoulders. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied a little shrilly. ‘But.’ He took a deep breath. ‘It’s not as if he can stay here. It’s temporary, right? He can’t . . .’ He struggled to find the word.
‘Can’t what?’ Eva was bristling.
‘I don’t know,’ Gerry muttered. ‘Forget it.’
But Eva wouldn’t. ‘Well, it’s not as if you can stay here either,’ she said nastily. ‘Have you thought about that?’
Gerry bit his lip. He looked away, hurt. He had thought about it, and he tried not to think about it. His visa had already expired. He hadn’t told Eva this.
Eva softened and rushed to him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, kissing his mouth and eyelids and neck. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. It’s just so nice to see Amos happy. At peace.’ Gerry nodded. Let her kiss him, wrapping his arms around her. But he wasn’t so sure it was peace Amos had found.
*
The protesters in the front row held up homemade shields: garbage-bin lids and chipboard. Two elders stepped forward and positioned themselves between the car wrecks. One produced two bundles of sage, and all down the line, at least a kilometre in, a singing started up – a low, deep humming at first, then words Gerry didn’t understand. People beat on skin drums. The elders lit the sage, waving the bundles so the scented smoke lifted and swirled over the bridge, towards the police. The spirit riders came back, making a wide arc over the field, the hooves digging up clods of mud and ice, the riders trilling. The police flexed behind their shields, metal canisters and shotguns like sashes over their chests.
‘Remember, this is peaceful!’ a voice called. Gerry nodded as if it had been directed at him only. He loosened his grip, realising that he had been clenching the wrists of the people on either side of him. He strained a little, trying to find Amos. They’d seen him before they’d started on the march. He was tense, drenched in red. ‘He’s focused,’ Eva said when Gerry commented on it. He didn’t say, but he knew something was wrong. He knew because he could feel it himself, a jittery sensation like a pinball in his chest.
It wasn’t going well.
Three weeks ago, they’d tried to stop a raid on the Treaty camp. There were armoured vehicles and Humvees and three hundred riot police on foot. They started slashing the tents and tepees and a group of protesters was cornered. People were yelling to get out, that they needed to move quickly to stop police sweeping south to the other camps, but Gerry had seen Amos stuck in that corner, and he ran through the protesters towards him.
‘Shut up!’ a cop was shouting at a woman, the group pulling her back. ‘You bastards!’ she hollered. ‘You bastards. This is OUR land!’ Her face was streaked with tears, and a few people tried to talk softly to her. ‘No! No, no, no,’ she screamed.
Amos was standing a little apart, his face blank. ‘Now, now,’ another cop said, wagging his finger, ‘listen here, no bows and arrows.’ At this, a current of fury went through Amos; Gerry could see it. He moved quickly through the group and put his hand on Amos’s shoulder. At first, Amos couldn’t even see him – there was no recognition – and then his face shifted.
‘Now, now,’ Gerry whispered, wagg
ing his finger. Amos smiled.
Then, close behind them, a boy on a horse appeared from between two tents, just a kid walking the animal slowly, and the cops shot at him. Pop, pop, pop. The horse reared up; the kid came off and landed, his arm bent the wrong way, as the horse tap-danced beside him, hooves jumping as the dirt kept popping with rubber bullets. Its legs seem so fragile, Gerry found himself thinking. It began to trot backwards and Gerry could see it twitching, burrs matted in its coat.
‘Stop it!’ the woman screamed at the cops. Amos caught the horse’s reins so the kid could roll out. Whoa, whoa, Amos said softly in all the noise, calming the scared animal. That day, at the Treaty camp, the police used pepper spray and stun grenades; sound cannons perforated eardrums, the barbed hooks of tasers snared skin like fish, and rubber bullets rained.
*
‘It’s naive,’ Gerry had said to Eva after that day. A bunch of protesters had split from the chain of command and driven two vehicles onto the bridge, setting them alight to stop the police raids going any further. There was division after that – the NVDA people condemned the act while others got angrier, agitating. Thing was, they could all see it. Winter was near. It was going to get harder to hold the line. Then news broke about the Oregon mob, white ranchers who’d holed up in a declared wildlife refuge, armed to the hilt. The main guy, it was said, had trained an assault rifle on police, but the cops just let him come and go as he pleased.
‘It’s not the same,’ Eva said to Gerry. ‘First of all, they’re white, and they’re protesting against environment legislation. This is about oil, Gerry. Oil.’
*
‘Stay strong!’ a voice yelled. Gerry closed his eyes, nodding again. ‘Pray!’ another intoned. ‘Stay peaceful!’ No violence, no violence. The urgent, almost pleading message went up and down the line, and Gerry tried. But honestly, it was difficult. It was like being told to dance but to resist the beats of a song and move your body to the silent parts.
‘Water is life!’ the woman beside Gerry yelled. He opened his eyes. She smiled at him. ‘Water is life!’ Gerry joined in, his voice trembling at first, getting stronger. ‘Water is life!’ For six hours they stood like that, dancing and jumping to stay warm. More bundles of sage came out, elders using convenience-store lighters to ignite them while others fanned the smoke with bits of cardboard, sending it over the barricade. Pray, went the signal down the line. Pray. Remember, this is peaceful.
*
‘Business or holiday, sir?’ The officer held Toohey’s passport open at his photo, eyes efficiently moving back and forth between subject and image.
Toohey straightened and cleared his throat. ‘Business,’ he said.
*
‘Fuck!’ A man swung out, clutching his wrist, his red bandana loose around his neck. ‘My hand!’ His eyes were wild. His hand was bleeding, fingers sticking out at odd angles.
A woman ran through the crowd and crouched beside him. ‘Move,’ she ordered the others, ‘make some room!’
Another man spun backwards, gurgling as he ground his palms in his eye sockets. ‘My eyes,’ he screamed. ‘Ow, my fucking eyes.’
The woman helping the first man looked over at him. ‘Don’t touch your eyes,’ she hollered. ‘Help! Someone stop him rubbing his eyes!’
Gerry stepped forward, pulling the man’s hands away. ‘Blink,’ he commanded.
The man was thrashing, trying to free his hands. ‘It’s fucking burning!’ he screamed. ‘Oh god, make it stop!’
Gerry grabbed hold of the man’s hands and looked around for help. The man started coughing, a rasping sound. He toppled over, bringing Gerry with him. Gerry saw blood leaking from a gash on the back of the man’s head. ‘Shit,’ he said, kneeling. ‘Okay, mate, you’ve got to breathe, you’ve got to get some air in.’
The man started to suck in short, shallow breaths. Gerry scanned the crowd over his bloody head. It was chaos. The plains were dark, while the road was bright as a supermarket from floodlights the cops had set up, halogen heads like Arabic amulets. The march that had been ordered and united was in disarray, protesters bent over, huddling, a few loners straying onto the grass, yelling into the darkness, dancing like unhinged marionettes near the wire. A helicopter was roaring over them. It was freezing.
‘Eva!’ Gerry yelled, seeing her at last with another medic off to the side, both squatting next to a woman on the ground, her head between her knees. ‘Eva!’ he yelled again, and she looked up at the sound. ‘Over here!’ She spied him, and he pointed to the man he was holding up.
Eva said something to the other medic and started weaving her way to Gerry.
‘Tear gas,’ he said, when she got near, ‘and this.’ He pointed to the blood on the man’s head.
Eva took a bottle out of her bag. ‘Okay,’ she said to the man. ‘I need you to tilt your head back. I’m going to pour this onto your eyes. It’ll stop the burning.’ Trembling, the man arched his neck, his face caught in a grimace as Eva poured the milk over his eyes. ‘You need to open your eyes,’ she commanded.
‘Argh,’ he moaned. ‘It stings.’ But after thirty seconds or so his breathing began to ease, his body relaxing.
Gerry loosened his hold. He searched through Eva’s bag and took out the wipes, patting the back of the man’s head, trying to locate the cut.
There was a rise of cries, a flare of fire to their left. The tear-gas canisters were igniting patches of the prairie. Protesters rushed to stamp out the spot fires.
‘Where’s Amos?’ Gerry yelled.
Eva looked around, worried. ‘I don’t know.’
A burst canister smashed on the ground nearby, and they jumped. Gas began to seep out. A woman ran over and kicked it away. It skidded off the road and into the dark. ‘The cops are fucking aggro!’ Gerry shouted.
Eva nodded, her eyes searching the back of the man’s head. ‘Let’s do this, then move him,’ she said. She found the cut and dabbed at it. Gerry moved to shield her and the man so people wouldn’t trip over them. Eva put a wad of cloth over the gash and it soaked through almost immediately. Gerry got a fresh wad out of the kit for her and peered at the man’s face. ‘You okay?’
The guy took a shivery breath, his eyes shut. ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m okay.’
‘Your eyes?’
‘Yeah, they feel better.’
‘Can you open them?’
The man sucked in his cheeks and carefully opened them.
‘Can you see?’ asked Gerry.
‘I think so. Fuck, they sting.’
‘We’ll move you after Eva does the bandage, okay? Then we’ll put more milk in your eyes. Okay?’ The man nodded, clamping his eyes shut again.
‘Gerry?’ Eva asked. ‘Gerry, can you put two fingers here?’
He straightened, and kept the end of a bandage firm against the man’s head as she wound it around a few times like a headband, then looped it under the man’s chin. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Let’s move him.’
They got on either side of the man, slinging his arms over their shoulders, and half-dragged, half-walked him away from the frontline. ‘There,’ Eva yelled, pointing ahead at a van.
A massive force punched the three of them in the back, lifting them off the ground, skittling them forward a few metres. ‘Water cannons!’ a man screamed, and everyone began to run. Gerry and Eva tried to get up, Gerry bending to help the man, and the stream of water came back, the force of it slamming Eva in the face, yanking her neck back in whiplash.
‘Eva!’ Gerry scrambled past the man to where she’d fallen. ‘Fuck! Eva! You okay?’ She had her head down and her elbows tucked in under her. He could see her back rising and falling. After a moment she eased herself up, looking dazed. Gerry was beginning to panic.
‘It’s coming back!’ someone yelled, and he looked, the thick jet of water heading towards them, like the cop was watering his garden. Gerry pulled Eva up by the hand and clutched at the man. He legged it, dragging them both. Water whipped the backs of his legs, the pu
sh of it propelling him. Arms grabbed him and the three were hurried out of the maelstrom to a group of people building up a fire, two women trying to protect it with tarp. Everyone was soaked. Teeth started chattering. Eva looked at Gerry, wide-eyed.
‘This is dangerous,’ she said. ‘This is bad.’ He tried to warm her, willing the fire to take. Her hair iced over under his lips. She shook him away and shrugged her backpack off. ‘We need to do the milk again,’ she said, gesturing to the man she’d bandaged up.
He was huddled in close to the fire and another man was swearing, piling on things to burn with superhuman strength. ‘They’re using water!’ he kept saying. ‘They’re using water against us!’
His words sank in as they watched the flame tentatively lick the fuel and grow. A woman started to cry. ‘What water are they using?’ she asked between gasps. ‘Is it from the river?’ She looked around at everyone. ‘Is it from the river?’ No one answered her. They watched the fire. In front of them the barricade was misty with frost and tear gas. They could hear the pop, pop, pop of rubber bullets and the whistling of concussion grenades.
‘Amos?’ Eva asked softly, looking at Gerry. He looked back at her grimly. He took off her fingerless gloves and squeezed the water from them. His jacket crunched as he moved.
A few more fires had been lit and people were huddling around them, trying to get warm. ‘You bastards!’ someone would suddenly yell, peeling off from the fire and running at the barricade, and then pop, down they’d go. Still, near the wire, some protesters hopped and spun like dancing bears.