The next day when I awoke, Papa was already gone. Alex was sleeping and Mama was cooking on our woodstove.
“Wake your brother,” Mama said. “Put on your best clothing. We have to see Father Lavois.” I wanted to ask why, but Mama had one of those don’t-answer-back-do-as-I-say looks. We left before I had finished my tea.
We arrived at the church and Mama told us to wait by the wooden seats. I looked around. I had been to church once last summer and had seen the painting of the bird-men. This time I looked around for the same painting but couldn’t find it. There was another drawing framed with a golden square: a man wearing a prickly tuque who was bleeding everywhere. He seemed to be calling out in pain. A group of men was around him, but no one was helping. I wondered what it meant.
A man came toward us, dressed all in black.
“Is this him?” the man asked Mama in Cree. He was looking at me.
“Yes, Father.”
“You are doing the right thing,” he said.
Then Mama drew some marks on a piece of paper and we went home.
Mama said she would make us all new cups of tea. She kept fussing around us while we were drinking. She asked if Alex and I were hungry, then got up and sat back down. Then she asked us all if we were warm or cold, and I said that I was fine, and Alex did too. I asked her if anything was wrong and she said, “Nothing, nothing.” She opened the door, I guess to look for Papa.
When he came home a few hours later, he opened the door wide, rushed in and gave us hugs.
“We have been blessed,” he said.
“What are you taking about?” Mama said.
“Alex and Ed, get your shoes and coats!” he said.
“Where are you going?” Mama said.
“I had a vision last night in the fire. A caribou manitou. She led me along the river into the forest.”
“You know I don’t believe in that stuff,” Mama said.
“Let me finish. So this morning when I got up, I retraced the footsteps of my vision. When I got to the forest, I looked down. I didn’t see anything. So I shut my eyes and smelled. It was that heavy muskiness that you never forget. I could tell she was near. I opened my eyes, and I began to walk forward. I couldn’t see anything at first, but I knew that it would happen. Through the trees was a patch of fur. She was pretty far away, but she had spotted me, so I couldn’t get nearer without her bolting. I raised my gun and she didn’t even move. Like she knew her fate. She fell with a single shot.”
“A caribou around here?” Mama said. Caribou tended to stay away from the reserves and other settlements.
“I know. It’s a sign, right?”
“It’s … I’m not sure. A sign from who?”
“Oh you know, whoever, does it matter? I have something for you,” Papa said. “Wait here.”
He left the house and came back a few moments later with a metal pail. Inside was something red and wobbly—a caribou heart.
“Netchi. This is for you.” He offered it to Mama.
“My favourite. Thank you, Keshayno.”
“I told Charles Tomikatick, and he is there now, skinning the animal. I came home so Ed and Alex could see the caribou preparation. I want to show them how to remove the fur and how to extract the tendons for thread. Then we can go to the store manager and—”
Mama interrupted. “Keshayno. I have something to tell you.”
“Okay,” he said dismissively, turning to Alex and me. “You ready? Let’s go.”
“Abraham!” Mama said.
“What?”
“Today I went to see Father Lavois.”
“What?” he said, focusing on Mama.
“I signed Ed up for residential school.”
Papa muffled a cry. “For school? Why, Mary?”
“This life is over. They have to get an education to have a better life. That’s what Father Lavois says too.”
“What are you talking about? Look!” he said, gesturing at the caribou heart.
“It’s just a matter of time.”
“We’re getting by.”
“No, we’re hungry and in debt.”
“Everyone’s in debt,” Papa said.
“Exactly.”
“Is that what Father Lavois said?”
“Yes,” Mama said. “Other stuff too.”
“I should never have let you go to church!”
“Abraham, you are not the boss of me!”
“But …”
“And it’s not just Father Lavois who says the kids must go,” Mama said. “It’s the Hudson’s Bay store manager. It’s the nuns. It’s everyone.”
We walked north across the Albany to where Charles was skinning the caribou. By the time Papa, Alex and I got there, the animal lay on its side in a pool of blood, its brown fur skinned from its belly and hanging like a cape from its neck.
“She’s all yours,” Charles said. He gave the knife to Papa.
“No thanks,” Papa said. Charles raised his eyebrows.
“What’s wrong?” he said.
“Nothing.”
“Something’s up.”
“Ed is going to St. Anne’s next year.”
“Yeah, Bernadette says we have to do the same for Madeline and the boys.”
“Women!” Papa said, clenching his fists. Charles waited for him to go on, and after a pause, Papa began speaking in a low voice. “What are you going to do?”
“Dunno. Not much choice. What about you?”
“Too late. Mary already signed the papers with Father Lavois,” Papa said.
“I’m sorry,” Charles said.
“Me too,” Papa said.
“Why are you sorry?” I asked.
Charles said nothing.
“Because you’re growing up,” Papa said. He turned away from me and began cutting the caribou skin. I knew that wasn’t the truth, but since no one was paying attention to me, I squatted down in the grass and watched how the knife divided fur from flesh.
A few days later I awoke before everyone else was up. I brought the goose fat and Papa’s gun to his mattress, then lay next to him.
“Ed,” he said, waking and rubbing his eyes. “What are you doing?”
“I brought you these,” I whispered. “So you can teach me.” He looked at me. We both knew that I could clean his gun before I even knew how to build a fire. He sat up and got dressed, then helped me button my shirt and pants. He motioned for me to follow him outside.
The leaves had started to turn, layers of amber masking the dirt roads. We began to walk to the edge of town.
“You’re going to school,” he said.
“I know,” I said. “Why did Charles say he was sorry when you told him?”
“Because he knows that I’m going to miss you.” Papa stroked my hair. We were both quiet. “I won’t see you for a while.”
“How long?”
“You will have to be there all winter.”
“Can I come back and visit?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because we will be at the family camp.”
“Who will look after me?”
“The nuns will be looking after you now.”
“I don’t want them to look after me. I don’t like them.”
“You don’t even know them.”
“They are mean.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do. Joseph told me.”
“Well, he doesn’t know them either.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You need to learn to read and write.”
“What if something happens?”
“Nothing will happen,” he said.
“I don’t believe you,” I said.
THREE
The day I was scheduled to leave for St. Anne’s, Papa rose early to fetch river water. Normally he scrubbed my hair. This time he wanted me to do it. He showed me how to lather the hard-to-reach parts behind my ears.
We came inside and Mama gave
me a plate of dried fish. I nibbled at it but my tummy was too upset to eat all of it. Normally Mama and Papa told me off if I wasted anything but Papa just took my plate and finished it. After breakfast, he and Mama stood around their bed and spoke in hushed tones about what I should pack. Mama wanted me to take the family photo of us all. It was an old one, taken the summer before Rita got sick, so she was there too. I knew it was really special because there were only three photos of Rita, and they were all worn until the paper was soft. But Papa said, “No point, they’re just gonna take it from him anyway.” They left the photos on their bed and I stood there and looked at them as Papa got dressed.
Alex was already up and dressed. He asked, “Where’s he going? Where’s he going?” Mama told him that I was going to residential school, but he kept asking, like he didn’t understand. When I was packed, I put my hand on Alex’s heart and looked him in the eyes, as Papa did when saying goodbye to Mama. Then Mama grabbed me and pulled me into her, and I could smell her scent of bannock and tea.
Papa and I went outside. The sun had broken through the clouds, and I saw that our firewood was wet, so it must have rained in the night. Strange, I hadn’t heard it. Papa took my hand and I looked back and saw our chimney spurting smoke. I realized that I wouldn’t be there for the final fire before they left for a winter in the bush. It struck me that I wouldn’t go with them at all, and I squeezed his hand tighter as we walked to school.
The three-storey school building had always been there, just across the river channel, and I studied its square windows as we approached, wishing I could see inside. For a split second I saw a man through the window. He was wearing a black cloak like Father Lavois, and grabbing the sides of a boy’s head. There was a prickly feeling in my chest as I realized he had the boy’s ears. The boy had lost his balance, stunned, and then I realized that my imagination was playing tricks on me. This was just a story that Joseph Tomikatick had told me—there was no boy in the window.
We were at the concrete steps. I was trying to hold on to our time together but it was slipping by so fast. Papa was at the top of the steps and knocking on the wooden door.
“Good morning,” a nun said to us in Cree. “Come in.” We walked into a wide lobby that was nothing like our house. The hall was so bright, with lights shining down from on high and tall windows, and everywhere was white: walls, tablecloths and clocks. No furs or grass on the floor. Instead, hard things—a see-yourself glass, grey stone stairs, and leather-like floors. I saw lots of squares—photo frames, side tables, chair seats—and surfaces that must have taken many hours’ scraping to be so smooth. The air was different here, too, and it was not just the smell, which I later discovered was bleach, but the way it moved, like there were lots of invisible things in it, and all the things were too close together.
“I’m Sister Wesley,” said the nun. “What’s his name?” she said to my father, speaking her mother tongue.
“Edmund Metatawabin.”
“And you are Mr. Metatawabin?”
“Uh huh.”
She led us to a bench in front of two full coat racks, where two other boys were sitting. One of them was smaller than me, and the other was tall and built. “It’s good you came. Sit there, Ed,” she said, pointing to a spot next to the slender boy, who was fidgeting with a piece of paper. “Mr. Metatawabin, I’ll be right back.” She disappeared through a wooden door at the end of the lobby. Papa waited until she was out of earshot before speaking.
“What are your names, boys?”
“Tony,” said the taller boy.
“Amocheesh,” said the other.
“You boys are a long way from home.”
“I’m from Peawanuck,” the boy named Amocheesh said.
“I’m from Moosonee,” Tony said.
“Hmm … your face looks familiar,” Papa said to Tony. “Your family traps on the Moose River, right?”
“Yeah, but they are thinking of going farther north, following the caribou.”
“That’s good. I heard the animals are now near Peawanuck.”
“Yeah …” Seeing Sister Wesley returning, Tony stopped talking.
“Mr. Metatawabin. You can go.”
Papa frowned, glancing at her. I could tell he thought she was rude. He paused, irritated. She waited. When no one said anything, he scooped me up into his arms so I could smell wood smoke and the scents of fall. He gave me a long hug.
“Please not yet,” I said. I wanted to cry.
“You will be fine.”
“Don’t leave me.”
“Be strong, Nkosis.” I wondered when I would next hear Papa calling me “my son.”
Then he left, and I watched my tears dripping onto the floor. I tried not to make much noise, and the droplets seemed small for the river of sadness that was in me. Tony saw me and looked away.
A priest in black came out of the office and stood next to the Cree sister.
“Stop crying,” said Sister Wesley. “Let’s go.” The other boys and I stood. Then we all went up some stairs and the sound of our footsteps bounced off the hard walls. I thought about how the sounds here were different from the bush. There, you can always hear lots of animals breathing, eating and mating; singing and crying; grunting and bellowing; whereas here were the same noises again and again. Step after step, no talking. At the top, I saw metal beds in rows, and a lot of boys, sitting and standing. There were more children than I could count.
“Thisissdalastofdem,” said Sister Wesley to the white man. He pointed to us. “Kipkwayettverywonn.”
I looked at her, panicked, wondering what she had said. The other boys had been murmuring to each other, but they too froze and stared at her. Then the white man began to speak, with the Cree nun translating.
“Welcome to St. Anne’s Residential School,” he said. “I am Father Gagnon, the bishop for the region, and your principal. This is Sister Wesley. She will translate for me until you understand English. She is your supervisor. She will care for you before and after the school lessons.
“St. Anne’s is the main girls’ and boys’ school for this region. We take our mission here very seriously. We are here to make you into good Christians and honourable members of Her Majesty’s Kingdom. This is a learning environment. That means we expect silence at all times. God speaks to those who listen. Now, the first order of business is the numbering system. For that I need you to get in line from shortest to tallest.”
I was not used to lining up or being ranked, so I walked to the back. She grabbed me from where I had placed myself and roughly pulled me toward the front. “Do you think you are that tall?” she said loudly. “You belong here!” Once we were lined up to her satisfaction, she began speaking.
“When I clap twice, it means line up in order of height, just like you are now,” she said. Then she walked the line’s length, counting. I was small for my age, so was number 4 out of 127.
“These numbers are your new names, so remember them well,” she said. I tried the number out silently in my mouth. It felt flat and far away. This is unfair, I thought, even dogs have real names.
“Many of you have come from homes where the hygiene standards are, how can I put this, a little lax.” Sister Wesley was translating for Father Gagnon and as she spoke, she suppressed a smile. “Let’s start as we mean to continue. Clean. Everyone take off your clothes. Put them in a pile in the middle of the floor. Then return to the line.”
We didn’t move. Father Gagnon motioned like he was going to take off Tony’s sweater. “Clothes!” Sister Wesley shouted in Cree. “Off!” I didn’t want to give up my beaded moosehide moccasins—Mama had made them for me—so I picked at the beads until Sister Wesley pulled them from my hands and tossed them in the pile.
When we were naked, Father Gagnon left the room and Sister Wesley began to walk the length of the line. She shook white powder on our heads and privates if we had hair there. Some of the boys got it into their eyes, and they started to rub them and cry. It smelled bad, like a
stinging in my nose. We left the line and hurried one-by-one to the three showers next door, dousing our hair under the warm water. Then we came back to the line, and Sister Wesley handed us each a towel. When everyone was finished, we returned quickly to the dormitory.
“We will now give you the clothes to use for the whole year,” Sister Wesley said. “You will be given two sets. If you tear them on purpose you will sew them yourself.”
Sister Wesley walked to the cupboard by the wall and began pulling out neatly folded piles of clothes, some denim and some black and white. Each was embroidered with our numbers, according to our height. She also pulled out an undershirt, shorts, bathing trunks, pyjamas and running shoes for each boy. She clapped twice and we got in line again according to height. Then one by one we came forward. My pants didn’t quite fit, but I dared not say anything.
It was time for our medical exam. Sister Wesley told us to stay in line, then left the room. In walked a man in a black cassock who introduced himself as Brother Jutras. He sat in a chair and told us to line up in front of him, the smallest boy stopping about four feet from him. I stared at Number Three’s back.
“Step forward and pull down your pants,” Brother Jutras said when it was my turn. He reached forward and cradled my penis, touching it, examining it carefully, then eventually pulled at the skin to examine the tip. He also felt my balls; his touch immediately made me hard. Somehow I knew it was wrong, and I tried to pull myself away but he held firm. I looked away and waited for him to stop touching me. It took a while. Then he told me to pull up my pants.
Sister Wesley entered. “Time for haircuts,” she announced, as she tied on a blue striped apron.
There was silence. Then Tony said, almost inaudibly, “We don’t cut our hair.”
“Don’t you have Indian Agents in Moosonee, Number Twenty-Three?” Long hair had been illegal since before I was born. When I was out in the bush, I saw that a few people still had braids. I asked Papa about it and he said that these people didn’t go near the settlements and so they did their best to ignore the white man and the wemistikoshiw ways. I remembered my grandmother saying our hair is a sign of our strength.
Up Ghost River Page 4