by Janette Oke
I stopped sharing my experiences with Wynn. It only pained him to hear of my loneliness. Instead I asked him all about his day. For the most part it was simply routine. He inspected boundaries, checked on trappers, distributed a small amount of medicine, settled a few local disputes, pulled a few teeth, delivered a few babies, and bandaged ever so many knife wounds, axe cuts, accidentally fish-hooked fingers, and sprained ankles.
I went to the trading post only when it was absolutely necessary. I did not feel comfortable with the dark-eyed trader, who watched me so closely as I looked around his crowded quarters trying to find the item I wanted.
He never moved from his spot behind his makeshift counter to assist me in any way. Squinting his eyes, puffing on his ever-present cigarette, he scowled at me as though I were an intruder rather than a customer.
Matches—or rather the lack of them—one day drove me from the safe confines of my cabin to the trading post. Wynn had asked me to get them, as our supply was low, and he would not be back from his patrol in time to visit the store.
I certainly couldn’t tell Wynn I’d rather not go to the post simply because I did not like the man, so I said nothing. Midmorning, I freshened up, closed the door on Kip and ventured forth.
On the path I again met women from the village. I smiled and nodded, giving the customary greeting. They would not look at me anyway.
I found the trading post the same as always, dark, stale and clouded with cigarette smoke. The trader stood behind his little barrier and scowled as two Indian women made their selections. I did not merit even a nod from any of them.
I stood back, patiently waiting until the women had finished their business and left by the low door. Then I quickly purchased the matches and left the store.
As I ducked out the door I heard voices just around the corner. The two Indian ladies were chatting. Surprised they had not already left the area, I stopped short. I knew they were right there on the path. I would need to pass by them. Would they answer me if I stopped and greeted them? I took a deep breath and determined to try it. And then some of their discussion reached me.
“Why she go there?”
“Don’t know.”
“Who?” A third woman must have joined them.
“The pale-faced one with the dog child.”
The “dog child”? Why would they say that? Pale face, I could understand. It did not bother me to be referred to in such a way. But dog child? What did they ever mean by that?
And then I remembered Kip. The Indian women saw me often with Kip. They saw Kip fluffed and brushed. They had watched me bathe him and dry him with an old towel. They had seen me take him with me while others left their dogs tethered at home. They saw Kip enter our small cabin, while their dogs spent the days and nights, rain or shine, out-of-doors. They knew me to be a married woman, but they had never seen children at our home. The conclusion was that I had substituted a dog for the child I did not have.
Had I? Could the Indian women actually think that Kip, as much as I loved him, could take the place of the child I longed for? Never! If only they knew, I thought. If only they could understand my pain.
I turned and went around the trading post in the opposite direction so I would not need to confront the Indian women. It was a long detour, but I needed the long walk. I had to have time to think, to sort things out, to recover from the hurt.
I walked briskly while the tears streamed down my cheeks, praying as I walked. I had never thought it possible to be so lonely, so shut off from one’s world.
At length I was able to get a firm hold on my emotions. I decided I would not engage in self-pity even though the days ahead did look bleak. I have my Lord, I told myself. He has promised to be with me even to the end of the world. For a few moments I felt that I must indeed be very near to the end of the world, my world, but I jacked up my courage and lifted my chin a little higher. God had promised He would never leave me nor forsake me. That held true on a city street, in a rural teacherage, or in a remote part of the North.
Besides, I had Wynn. Though his job took him away during the day and often into the night, still it was a comfort to know that he would be back and that he loved me and understood my needs and my longings.
And I had my “dog child.” I smiled to myself. Kip might not be the companion I desired, but at least he was someone. I could talk to him, walk with him, and appreciate the fact that I was not entirely alone. Yes, I was thankful for Kip. It seemed he might be the only friend I would have in this settlement.
When I reached home, Kip met me at the door. His tongue teased at my hand and his curly tail waved a welcome flag. I patted his soft head.
“You won’t understand a word of this,” I said softly, “but in the village they think that you are my pampered ‘child.’ Well, you’re not the child that I wanted, but at least you are a friend. Thanks for that. It looks like it might be just you and me here.” I stopped to brush away some unbidden tears. “So—somehow we’ve got to make it on our own. It’s not going to be easy—but I think we can do it.”
Kip looked into my face and whined. He seemed to sense that I was troubled.
Then I made conscious effort to push the hurt from me so that I would be able to have a cheerful face for Wynn’s return. I did not want him to be burdened with the pain I was feeling. When Wynn entered our cabin I nodded toward the new supply of matches.
“Good,” he said. “I was hoping you wouldn’t forget. My supply pack is getting low, and I have a feeling that winter might be arriving any day now.”
Wynn was right. In just two days’ time, a north wind blew in a storm. It came howling around us with the wrath of the Indians’ storm gods. In a few short hours, our settlement was covered with ten inches of snow.
From then on we lived with the cold and the wind. Each day more snow seemed to add to our discomfort. I kept busier now, and I guess that it was good for me. Bundled against the elements, I was constantly working just to keep our water supplied, our fires fed, and our clothes clean.
Kip and I still found time for walks—by the frozen stream to the frozen lake over frozen ground. I took the snowshoes and he plunged ahead breaking trail. We always came home refreshed from our outing and ready to stretch out before the open fire and let its warmth thaw our frost-stung bodies.
At night, when the supper was cleared away and Wynn sat at the crowded little table to do reports, I pestered him with all of the details of his day. He never rebuked me for my chatter—indeed, he encouraged it. Perhaps he knew he was the only one I had to talk to. At any rate, I enjoyed hearing each detail and felt that at least in a secondhand way I was getting acquainted with some of the area residents through Wynn.
Christmas came and went. I determined that I would not be lonely—well, lonely maybe, but not homesick. Homesickness was a miserable feeling and profited nothing.
And so, by taking one day at a time, I was managing to get through the long winter days. With the spring would come new activities. I would find some way to have a small garden and Kip and I would continue our exploration of the countryside. Perhaps I would even be able to take a trip or two with Wynn. Until then I would be patient, keep myself as busy as possible, and endeavor to keep my spirits up. As I had it figured, there would be only three more such years—at the most.
EIGHT
Neighbors
Our Indian neighbors enjoyed much more social life than the people in Beaver River had. Though we were never asked to participate, we often heard the beating of the drums as one ceremony or another was conducted. Toward the east end of the settlement there was a long, low building known as the council house where most of the ceremonies took place. The rest of them were held in the village “open.”
At first the strange drumbeats and the rising and falling chants wafting over the night stillness seemed eery. The sounds reminded me that we were the outsiders here. We were in the midst of a different culture from our own. To us, the chants and drumbeats were distracting noise
, but to the Indians these symbolized their religion, their very being. They believed in the “magic” and supernatural power of the chants and dances.
As far as we knew, the Indians in this remote yet rather large village had never seen a Christian missionary nor been introduced to his God. The old ways were never questioned and were held to with strict rigidity. The rain fell or the killing frost descended in accordance with the pleasure of the spirits, so it behooved the people to do all in their power to keep those gods happy with age-old ritual and age-old worship.
The drum beating and the dancing were performed to welcome the spring rain, to strengthen the spring calves of the moose and deer, to make quick and strong the trap, to thicken the pelts, to send the schools of fish, to make healthy the newborn, to safeguard the hunter, to protect the women, to give an easy “departure” to the elderly, and on and on.
It was no wonder, as the Indians felt obligated to perform all the rituals, that it seemed as if the drums were always beating, the rhythm of dancing feet always thrumming on the ground, the drone of chanting voices always rippling out over the frosty night air.
A death was a very important event to the villagers. Day and night they beat their drums and chanted as mourners wailed before their gods, impressing them with the fact that the soul departed would be greatly missed here on earth and thus should be equally welcomed into the new land.
The higher one was in the tribal caste system, the longer they would beat the drums. When the next-in-line as chieftain, the chief’s eldest son, died in a drowning accident, the drumbeat continued for a total of seven days. For the chief himself, it would be just seven days plus one.
By the time the seven days had passed, my whole body was protesting. Kip and I took to the woods whenever we could, but even many miles from the village the drumming could still be heard in the cool, clear fall air.
When the ceremony finally did cease, I felt I had suddenly gone deaf. The world seemed a little shaky without the vibration of the shuffling feet. It was two days before I felt normal again.
The tribe had many superstitions and they held to them rigidly. It was not unusual to see a woman suddenly drop what she was carrying and run shrieking to her cabin to shut herself in behind closed doors because she had seen something “taboo.”
Children, too, were very conscious of tribal customs and teachings. You could see them watching the sky, the woods, the ground for “signs” to live by.
So I should not have been surprised when word filtered back to me of the Indian women’s fear that association with the “pale-faced” woman might somehow bring down the wrath of the gods. There didn’t seem to be any consensus as to why the spirits might object, but the elders informed the younger, and the younger warned their children, and the villagers, with one accord, were afraid to test the conviction.
I could think of nothing I could do to break the barrier—except wait. Surely if I continued to live among them, greet them in a friendly manner and not push in where I was not invited, in time they would see and understand that I did not invoke the anger of their gods.
The Indian people of this tribe had a strange conception concerning the rule of the Mountie. To them he represented the enforcement of the law. Law was closely tied to payment for sins committed. The gods frowned upon wrongdoing and reacted with a vengeance when one stepped out of line. Therefore, in some strange, invisible way, the white lawman might have some connections with the super powers. They treated Wynn with both deference and fear.
As Wynn’s wife, I was suspect. Perhaps I had been brought to the village for the sole purpose of spying on the villagers, and as such I would report any misdeed to Wynn the moment he returned at the end of the day. Therefore no one wished to take any chances by having communication with the “pale-face.”
The fact that I had no children and was often seen walking a dog made me even more suspect, and set me even further apart from the women of the village. I did wish I could do something about my circumstances, but I had no idea how I might break through the superstitions.
When I eventually had come to understand the reason for the shunning, I believe it did help my peace of mind. At least I did not feel rejected on a personal level. I prayed about it and left the entire matter in God’s hands, in the meantime asking Him for patience and understanding.
I had to recognize also that my position as a white woman contrasted greatly with that of the Indian women. In their culture the women did most of the manual labor. The men hunted for the food, trapped the animals for fur and went to war if necessary. The woman, a laborer, was also in total subjection to the man, and her very posture showed her position. Never was she to stand before a man in the same way that another man would. Always her eyes were to be downcast and her attitude one of humility and respect.
Though very deeply committed to their religion, the Indian tribe was also dedicated to fun. They loved their ceremonies simply because they brought pleasure to an otherwise rather drab and difficult life. They celebrated births and weddings with gay abandon. They loved sporting events as well, wrestling and running and hunting, and the young men were very serious in their desire to better their opponents.
The young women loved the contests too. They stayed apart in shy, clustering groups, hiding their downcast dark eyes discretely behind slim, brown hands, but they never missed a thing. And though the young braves pretended that their skills were displayed for the eyes of the other men only, no one was fooled for a moment.
Many a marriage took place soon after one of their sporting events, with the winner making his intentions known to some young maiden of his choice by presenting her with gifts. If she accepted the gifts, it was understood that she accepted his proposal too.
The Indians were great practical jokers as well—particularly the young men, though the children too enjoyed playing pranks on one another. A young brave seemed to enjoy nothing better than to “bring down” another young fellow in the eyes of many witnesses. The laughter and teasing made the unfortunate hide his scarlet face in embarrassment. However, he usually got even at some future time when the prankster was least expecting it.
So we lived with our new neighbors—together, yet apart; inhabiting the same village, but feeling ourselves to be of another time and another world. It was so different from Beaver River, where we had been not only neighbors but true friends, sharing totally in the village life. Daily I prayed that somehow the reserve might be broken; that we would be seen as more than a “law-enforcer” and his “spying” wife; that the Indians might realize we had come as friends as well.
NINE
Spring
We dared to hope that spring was on the way when the sun began to spend more time in the sky and the days began to grow longer and warmer.
For Wynn, the winter had been uneventful. There were no major epidemics within the village, no disasters, and very few troublesome incidents.
For this we were truly thankful, for we weren’t sure what the response of the people would have been if some calamity had fallen on the tribe soon after our arrival. Perhaps with their superstitious leanings they would have felt that the disaster had come because of us.
On one of the first warm days, Wynn suggested that I might like to go on an outing with him. I wholeheartedly agreed. It seemed forever since I had been beyond the exercise trails where I walked Kip.
I bundled up, for the temperature was still cool, and put the leash on Kip until we got beyond the settlement. The trip would not be long, so Wynn decided to dispense with the sled dogs. That way we could walk together and enjoy the signs of spring.
“If you want to pack a lunch, we’ll celebrate the departure of another long winter,” Wynn had said, so I prepared a picnic. Like the Indians, I was ready to celebrate almost anything.
There was enough winter snow left for us to lace on our snowshoes.
Kip was excited. He could sense this was a special outing when we were being joined by Wynn.
Wynn walked
slower than his normal pace in order to accommodate me. I still had not become truly adept on snowshoes. Besides, I wished to enjoy every minute of the day. As we walked, I was full of my usual questions about everything from squirrels to ferns. Wynn pointed out trappers’ boundaries and told me the names of some of our neighbors.
“Do you think they’ll ever accept us?” I asked him. “I mean, as part of them, not as the ‘Force’?”
“I don’t know, Elizabeth. They don’t seem to know much about the white man here. They don’t have anything to base their trust on, as yet.”
“But wasn’t there a Mountie here before us?”
“Yes ...” Wynn hesitated. “That might be some of the problem.”
I looked at Wynn, concern showing in my eyes. “You mean they had a ‘bad’ officer?”
“No, not bad. He did his duty as the King’s representative honestly enough. But he held himself apart from the people. From what I have heard, he might have even taken advantage of their belief that he might be ... ah ... different. If they wanted to think he was in cahoots with the spirits, then that was fine with him.”
“Oh, Wynn! Surely he wouldn’t—”
“Oh, he didn’t foster it, I don’t mean that, but he didn’t mind if the Indian people thought him a little different—a little above them.”
“But why?”
“It’s hard to say. Some men just like having authority. He was a loner and didn’t like to be bothered. One way to keep the villagers at a distance was to keep them believing that there was a ‘great gulf’ between them and the lawman, so to speak.”
“I think that’s terrible!” I blurted out. “And now we, who would like to befriend them and help them, have to bear the brunt of it all.”
“We’ll just have to keep chipping away at it. I think I am feeling a little less tension on the part of some of the men.”
“I’m glad someone is making headway.” I shook my head. “I sure haven’t. This has been about the longest winter I ever remember—at least since the one when I had both the measles and the chicken pox as a child.”