A Short History of Indians in Canada

by Thomas King

  Mason showered, stood in the hot, streaming water and the steam, slowly working the leg to life. The hunters would come in through the turnstiles at six o’clock, but they had to walk through three miles of forest before they got to the meadow. Others would take blinds closer to the fence and wait for the seniors to come to them. It was five hundred yards from the first post to the trees, and, with any luck, Mason could make the sanctuary of the woods before the hunters got settled.

  The first hundred yards was always the hardest, trying to run, trying to stay low, waiting for the crack of the first shot.

  Joe was waiting for him at breakfast. “Mason. I’m going to get out,” he said. “I’ve figured out a way.”

  “Joe, you’ve always got a way.”

  Joe leaned across the table. “We get out the same way the hunters get out.”

  “It’s been tried.”

  “Sure, Benny Ruger tried it with a hunting pass that wouldn’t have fooled a blind man. Tried to walk out wearing regulation clothing. They spotted him coming. No, not that way. Not exactly. Look, the first thing we got to do is spot the blinds. Hell, we’re good at that.”

  It was one of the tricks of staying alive during the season. The first day out, you tried to find as many of the blinds as you could. Those who survived the first day shared the information with one another. Halfway through the season the Director of Sport changed the location of the blinds, and you had to start all over again.

  Joe leaned even closer. “Here’s what we do. We find two blinds that are close to the main gate and we kill the hunters.”

  “What!”

  “Listen to me. They’re trying to kill us, aren’t they? And don’t give me that crap about it all being part of some damn system. We kill them. Then we change clothes with them, take their passes, and their rifles. We stay in the blind until six and then just leave with the rest of the hunters.”

  Mason wanted to laugh. “Just what do we kill them with, Joe? Our bare hands? I can hardly wipe my ass. There are pictures on those passes. What happens when the guard looks at the picture?”

  “They’re going to shoot us, Mason. Unless we get out of here, they’re going to shoot us dead. Use a rock. Use a tree limb. Use your imagination. Christ, probably no one is going to check the picture.”

  The warning bell sounded. People began moving toward the porch. “Meet you back here at six,” said Joe.

  The meadow was beautiful this time of year, a huge mosaic of greens. Even the posts that marked the distances for the hunters were nicely painted. Later, the flowers would come. Mason especially liked the Ruby Hearts, a tiny, bright-red perennial that appeared suddenly in splashes and pools in the tall grass.

  The Director of Sport stood on the platform and looked at his watch. “First group,” he shouted. “Go!”

  Mason limped down the steps into the grass, willing the leg to move. The trees seemed miles away, and, as he ran, the sweat beaded up on his face and tumbled into his eyes, blinding him. But he kept running, feeling the ground as he went, staying as low and inconspicuous as his tortured body would let him.

  Joe found him at dinner. “I’ve got two blinds near the gate. Couple of old guys. Another year or two and they’ll be in here instead of out there.”

  “I don’t know, Joe. Couldn’t we just knock them out?”

  Joe shook his head. “Mason, we’re killers. Man’s a killer. How do you think we got ourselves into this crazy mess in the first place. Besides, we got to make them look like they’re seniors.”

  “I don’t know, Joe.”

  “You can have the first blind ‘cause of your bad leg. I’ll take the second one. We kill them, change clothes, drag the bodies into the woods, and stay in the blind until six.”

  “Maybe we could cut through the wire.”

  “Canada, Mason. They don’t hunt seniors in Canada.”

  “Maybe there’s a way to get over the fence.”

  Joe grabbed Mason’s hands. “I won’t wait for you, Mason. You can stay here and have your head blown all over the meadow if you want, but I’m going.”

  The backs of Joe’s hands were covered with brown splotches. Mason looked at his own. “You think they still have a few horses in Canada, Joe?”

  “Horses? Come on, Mason! You with me or not?”

  There was fog in the meadow the next morning, which raised Mason’s spirits immensely. He wouldn’t have to move so fast. Each hunter was only allowed one bullet, and they wouldn’t waste it in the fog. They would wait for the fog to lift, and, by then, he would be deep in the woods.

  The fog was heavier in the trees, and Mason almost missed the blind. The sound of a lighter and the smell of a cigarette gave it away. Mason came up behind the blind. The hunter was dressed in a red plaid jacket. He had on a black wool cap and was sitting on a folding chair with a thick purple cushion, smoking a cigarette, his rifle across his lap.

  As Mason watched, the hunter suddenly dropped the cigarette and grabbed the rifle. He thrust the barrel through the blind and looked into the telescopic sight.

  The blast rocked the hunter back in his chair, and Mason heard him curse as he lit another cigarette. He had missed. Mason smiled and wondered who had been the beneficiary of the man’s poor aim.

  The hunter settled back in, and Mason saw his chance. He moved to his left and picked up a large rock. There was perhaps ten yards of open space, and, if he could get across that without being seen, he would have a chance. The hunter had used up his only bullet, but he was large and Mason was certain he couldn’t kill the man with only his hands.

  Mason had taken several steps toward the blind when the hunter reached into his pocket and took out a large box of shells. He opened the box and put a cartridge in the rifle.

  Mason couldn’t catch himself in time. “That’s not fair,” he shouted. “One shell, God damn it. One fucking shell is all you’re supposed to get.”

  The hunter spun around, falling off the cushion as he did.

  Mason came forward with the rock in his hand. “You son of a bitch.”

  The hunter’s hands were out in front of him, the palms pink and trembling. His voice was a hoarse whisper. “Don’t…”

  “One shell,” Mason hissed. “One shell!”

  The hunter began crawling deeper into the blind. He was sweating now, his face pulled white and contorted. “No,” he said, pleading. “We all get a box.” There was a bubbling sound to his speech as though he were being strangled. “Everybody gets a box.”

  Mason watched the hunter’s face turn pale and translucent. The rock slipped from his hand. The pain in his leg was back. The hunter opened his mouth to say something more, but there was no sound. He stared at Mason for a moment, his mouth fluttering, as though he were on the verge of a great surprise. Then he grabbed his chest and arched backwards, his legs jerking out in front of him as he collapsed against the side of the blind. Mason stood there for a long time, rubbing the leg and looking down at the hunter.

  It was Joe’s voice that shook him out of his stupor. “Mason, Mason!” Joe was waving to him from the second blind. Mason nodded and waved back. His leg was aching now, the pain full of brilliant crystals. He moved the chair out of the way of the body and sat down.

  From the blind, Mason could see down into the meadow. The fog was gone, and a fresh breeze was moving the grass. It was the same kind of meadow as was in the book. A meadow filled with brown and red and black horses, their shining bodies shimmering in the sun as they raced around and around. One bullet, damn it!

  Across the meadow, Mason thought he saw something move in the woods. He strained to see, but the distance was too great. The hunter’s rifle lay on the ground, and Mason picked it up and looked through the scope.

  It was Mrs. Winchester. Mason could see her. She was trying to manoeuvre that walker of hers through the undergrowth. The metal leg of the walker appeared to be hooked on a vine, and she was trying to free it. Mason laid his face against the rifle and ran a hand along the st
ock. Mrs. Winchester was slightly out of focus, and he reached up and adjusted the sight. He could smell the soft gun oil and the stronger and more pungent smell of cordite. The metal trigger guard felt cool.

  Mason smiled. Mrs Winchester had worked the leg loose and was shuffling off toward the ravine. Damn, he thought, she is a tough one. He put the crosshairs on her chest, let out half his breath, and squeezed the trigger. The bullet caught her in the spine, and the force of the shot carried her over the walker and down a slight embankment.

  Mason watched her through the scope for a while. She lay face down in the trees, her bright pink dress looking for the world like a patch of wildflowers. Mason worked the bolt, ejecting the spent cartridge and driving in a fresh one. Ben Ingersoll was hiding in a hole under a large tree root, and all you could see was his head. It was a hard shot, Mason concluded, and he laid the rifle on the ledge to steady it. The top of Ben’s head skipped off the root like a stone on a pond.

  “Mason! Mason! What’s the matter? What are you doing?”

  Joe was halfway to the blind, running, waving his arms. “Canada, Mason, Canada! What the hell are you doing?”

  Mason waved back and swung the muzzle of the rifle around and blew Joe’s chest apart with a single shot.

  Later that morning, Mason was able to locate Freddy Sharp, Amy Browning, and George Savage, and, for the rest of the day, he sat on the thick cushion, his bad leg stretched out in the green grass, working the bolt on the rifle until all the shells were gone, and the meadow ran with colour, as though the Ruby Hearts had come early.

  Not Enough Horses

  When Clinton Merasty showed up at Sarah Heavyman’s place with the box, Sarah’s father, Houston, was not particularly impressed.

  “Kittens?”

  “Kittens,” said Clinton. “I want to marry your daughter.”

  “That’s the way we used to do it in the old days, all right,” said Houston.

  “Yeah,” said Clinton, “I know.”

  “Times change, I suppose,” said Houston. “In the old days, when a man wanted to marry a woman, he’d bring horses.”

  When Clinton rang the doorbell on Saturday, he was carrying four boxes of honey-garlic sausages in his arms.

  “Happy Canada Day,” Clinton told Houston.

  “Holy,” said Houston, when he saw the sausages. “These are my favourite.”

  “They’re from Rowe Meats.”

  “They’re the best,” said Houston. “You still want to marry my daughter?”

  “You bet.”

  The following week, Clinton drove up with a brown, Naugahyde recliner. Clinton and Houston set it on the sidewalk in front of the house.

  “This looks just like the chair your father has in his den.”

  “That’s the one,” said Clinton. “Dad said I could have it, if I thought it would help.”

  “What’s your father going to sit on?”

  “He bought a leather recliner at the Brick’s half-price sale.”

  Houston eased himself into the chair and leaned back so he could catch the sun on his face.

  “It’s got this lever,” said Clinton. “When you pull it, a footrest pops out and holds your feet up.”

  “It’s comfortable, for sure,” said Houston. “But your father’s right. There’s nothing like leather.”

  A few days later, Clinton came by with a snow blower in the back of his truck.

  “It’s July,” said Houston. “You know something I don’t?”

  “Hard to find a snow blower once winter sets in,” said Clinton.

  “Is it new or used?”

  “Used,” said Clinton, “but it’s got an eight-horse-power engine, six forward gears, and a twenty-six-inch clearing path.”

  “Eight horses, eh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “She’s a good cook,” said Houston. “I guess you know that.”

  “I do,” said Clinton.

  “And she’s got a university degree in biology.” Houston rolled the snow blower back and forth to check the balance. “Those things don’t come cheap.”

  “I had the blades sharpened and the spark plug replaced.”

  “You love her?”

  “Absolutely,” said Clinton.

  “You know,” said Houston, “you’ve been by four times now.”

  “Yes sir,” said Clinton.

  “And four’s an important number to Native people.”

  “Like the four directions?” said Clinton.

  “That’s right,” said Houston. “A lot of the songs we sing are sung four times through, and a lot of the dances are done four times. Sometimes when we pray for something, we say the prayer four times.”

  “So, can I marry Sarah?”

  “You should probably ask her.”

  “I have.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “She keeps saying no,” said Clinton. “I thought maybe you could talk to her.”

  “Yeah,” said Houston, “that’s what I would have said, too.”

  Clinton and Sarah were married in September. Houston would have preferred a traditional wedding on the reserve, but Clinton’s parents were Catholic and insisted that the ceremony be held at the church in town.

  Afterwards, Houston took Clinton off to one side. “I’m curious,” he said. “How’d you get my daughter to marry you?”

  “It wasn’t easy,” said Clinton. “I can tell you that.”

  “She ask about horses?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “What’d you tell her?”

  “I told her that there weren’t enough horses in the world, but that I’d keep trying.”

  “Welcome to the family,” said Houston. “You’re smarter than you look.”

  That evening Houston relaxed on the recliner in front of the television with a plate of sausages on his lap, while the kittens fought over a twist-tie. He wasn’t sure about the Catholic ceremony. A little too long, perhaps. A little too pretentious. The priest a little too pleased with himself. But all in all, it had been a fine wedding. Enough to eat, enough to drink. Plenty of cameras.

  It was too bad about the horses, though. As Houston watched Tiger Woods sink a forty-five-foot putt, he wondered what it must have been like for his grandfather to stand in front of his lodge and feel the land tremble, as young men, wild for his approval, galloped by, driving strings of ponies through the prairie grass.

  A snow blower was a fine thing, to be sure, but where was the romance, where was the tradition? Still, Houston had to admit, it did have an eight-horse motor, six forward gears, and a twenty-six-inch clearing path. And maybe tomorrow, if the weather took a turn for the worse, he’d run it to the backyard and start it up. Just to hear the motor rumble. Just to feel the earth move under his feet.

  Noah’s Ark

  After Papa and William and Mary died, Mum took me and Luke to live with Granny. She had a squat, white stucco house hedged in by white and pink hydrangea bushes that leaned on the windows and blocked the light. There was a pasture behind the house and a creek, and, beyond the creek, Mr. Noah and the zoo. At night, you could hear the screaming, far away and in the dark.

  On weekends, before Granny and Mum got up, Luke and I would slip out of the house and climb the fence into Mr. Thompson’s pasture. There were cows in the field, brown ones with curly hair, and they would watch us, their big, stupid eyes rolled up and white, their heavy bodies leaning, ready to scuttle sideways or lurch off with their tails in the air down into the scrub and willow along the creek. They kept an instinctual distance, these cows. Most of the time, I ignored them.

  The creek was brown and thick with oily weeds, and the high bank fell away to the bottom. The only place to cross was at the tree cut down by the spring floods. It lay completely on its side, but it hadn’t died. Its roots were still buried deep in the earth, and the trunk bristled and twisted with new branches and soft layers of green sticky leaves. The zoo was on the flat above the creek, and we would scramble up to th
e grove of cottonwoods that stood near the bear pen and hang on the cyclone fence and watch the animals get fed.

  Mr. Noah’s red beard crackled and smoked in the morning frost, and his bald head glistened with sweat as he strode up and down between the cages, a metal bucket swinging from each arm. Back and forth between the iron cages and the zookeeper’s house he went, the buckets filled to the top with chunks of bleeding meat or vegetables or grain or the dark, black-brown, foaming sludge that slopped over the lips of the buckets and fell in trailing pools behind him.

  In the morning, the zoo was a riot of noise. The bears swayed and growled. The macaques stuck to the wire and then exploded, ricocheting around and around their cages. The geese and the ducks stampeded to the corner of their pen, honking and quacking, their necks craned in anticipation. The gibbons whistled, and the wild pigs howled and banged their teeth together.

  “You think he’d kill us if he caught us looking?” Luke wanted to know.

  I was older. “No, silly. They don’t kill people for looking.”

  “Papa said they killed people in the war for looking.”

  “Those were spies.”

  “So?”

  “We’re not spying. We’re just looking.”

  “They could still put you in jail or something,” said Luke.

  “Are you scared?”

  It was a mysterious place, the zoo. “You know,” I told Luke, “if any of those animals escaped, they would kill you. Every one of them is a dangerous killer. Mr. Noah is lucky to be alive.”

  “They like Mr. Noah. He feeds them.”

  “The bears would eat him so fast.”

  “What about the ducks? What about the monkeys? Monkeys don’t eat people.”

  “Some do,” I said.

  “You know what Papa said about liars, Caroline.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “They go straight to hell and rot.”

  Luke liked the cows. “The cows are nice. They don’t eat anyone. They just eat grass.”