Blue Bear Woman

by Virginia Pésémapéo Bordeleau

  The story enlivened their evenings all that following winter. Miming a stomachache, Grandmother Louisa would exaggerate all the moaning and groaning to cut short the clan’s teasing.

  3

  STANLEY AND JUDAH

  AUGUST 2004

  RAIN TODAY. The sun shines through a curtain of drops. I drive slowly along the gravel road. We encounter vans coming toward us with Cree drivers at the wheel. They slow as we approach and stare. I recognize this attitude to strangers. We drive through a territory ravaged by fire. From their grey, naked branches, dead trees, still standing, watch their skinny offspring’s struggle to climb hills of rock worn down by ancient glaciers.

  In the distance, a radiant mist rises, illuminated by a half rainbow. We’re nearing Waskaganish—a damp, full-bodied scent reaches our nostrils. It’s as though nature is welcoming us. My Cree grandfather’s name was, after all, Cord of the Sun.… I like to think that my ancestors, their emblem the bear, guide our journey north. We emerge onto a vast prairie of wild golden grasses leading to the village’s first houses.

  We book a room in an inn built of huge logs that faces the Rupert River. A man is busy vacuuming the lobby. Sand has infiltrated everywhere. The clerk at the reception desk asks if I’m Cree. I say, “Egoudeh!” and show her my Department of Indian Affairs card. She gives me a rebate equal to the amount of the tax. The smell of fried food wafts through the hallways. We pass laughing guests on their way to the restaurant.

  I don’t want to see anyone tonight. Instead, I want to walk along the riverbank, feel and encounter the spirit of Koukoum Louisa’s birthplace. Splintered boats lie abandoned on the shore, overrun with wild grasses and shrubs. We head back to the village and stroll through the streets. Rain has dug deep furrows in the sandy soil. Tire tracks have swerved through people’s yards to avoid certain ruts. Built in a row like urban suburbs down south, bungalows have taken over where log cabins and tents used to stand. In alleys, tipis serve as smokehouses for small game.

  Children play, race up to us on bikes, screech to a stop, and ask who we are. Surprised to hear me answer them in their language, their eyes crinkle in mirth and they wave good-bye before tearing downhill.

  After a shower, we finish the bottle of wine from lunch with the cheese Daniel thought to put in the picnic basket. Using his left hand, he’s clumsy unbuttoning my pyjama top. We laugh at a stubborn button then fall, legs and arms entwined, onto the double bed. Tomorrow we’ll stop by the Band Council office to ask after my friend Brad and visit some must-see sights with him. I hope he’s in the vicinity.

  Our neighbours open and slam doors. We can hear them laughing, talking in loud voices or shushing each other just as loudly. They come and go from one room to the next. I recognize the Cree exuberance. We clearly don’t live on the same schedule.

  My thoughts break away to my early childhood. In the summer months, several Cree and Algonquin families would pitch their tents on a point of land not far from where we lived. Pointe-aux-Vents. We squatted there year-round. That summer my father, hired to help build the new National Defence base on a neighbouring hill, felt the desire to settle down in one place. A shady path led to the camp. Every summer, we loved being reunited with my grandmother and her second husband, our cousins and friends. My mother was strict about my sticking close to home, unless friends came to fetch me. Knowing I’d want to sleep over in their tents, her greatest fear was the lice I might—and did at times—catch at certain friends’ places. Her cousins liked us children, proud to have Métis relatives. They saw another kind of beauty in our mixed skin tone and curly hair.

  One day, having escaped my mother’s vigilance, I headed for Jos and Allaisy’s tent. The stove was lit because of a chill in the air. I had come to play with Alice, a second cousin my age. Lying down, a hand on his wife’s knee, Jos whispered to her, “Hey, here’s La Toute Petite—the Little Little One—Tititèche.” The tenderness in his voice had a quality that reminds me of my shyness back then: he spoke softly, as though not to spook a young animal.

  I perched on the stump at the entrance to their tent. “Tan’te Alisse…? “ Where’s Alice? As with every other time I spoke to an adult, both Jos and Allaisy burst out laughing. What mistake had I made this time?

  As I hurried off, Allaisy called me back, “Astum, Iskwech…!” Come back, my girl.… Eventually, I’d learn they couldn’t wrap their heads around the fact that I could speak two Indigenous languages, yet knew nothing of either French or English. In their eyes, I was neither Cree, nor Algonquin, or white.

  Suddenly, I’m aware of a sorrow that has lain dormant. I miss those people. I could never get enough of their friendly presence. In spite of myself, silent tears fall onto the pillow. Daniel snores through the hubbub in the inn. I wait for silence to reign before falling asleep. Around midnight, I hear a dog yapping then howling. Exhausted, I close my eyes and dive into a deep sleep.

  A dream. A man struggles to free himself from bushes imprisoning him like real arms. A soft glow forms a huge cone hovering above him, never quite touching him. He seems to want to reach out to the light, but he’s paralyzed. I can feel his anguish and want to help but am incapable of moving. Then I hear him say, “Your name is Humbert, you are a king of the nomads, and I am George.” Even in my dream, I know that I’m dreaming and try—desperately—to make sense of it all. Just then, Daniel gets up and opens the curtains. Faint grey light penetrates the room. It’s early yet. The dog is still yapping. Daniel tells me the creature kept him up for part of the night. Thanks to the dog, the dream will be etched in my memory.

  We leave the silent inn to get some fresh air and make coffee with our camping gear. We’ll have breakfast in the restaurant later on this morning. Suddenly, Daniel squeezes my arm and points at a magnificent golden eagle straight overhead. Hunting. Soaring on the wind, guided by currents of air. I shout out, “The symbol of the Great Spirit himself, wow—hold onto your tuque, hon!”

  At the reception desk in the Band Council office, I learn with surprise that Brad actually works there. The young employee in blue jeans and an embroidered white blouse butchers my name over the phone. She hands the receiver to me. My friend’s warm voice reassures me.

  He shows up immediately. He’s put on weight. We laugh over that. I introduce him to my husband. Brad knows three languages, but speaks to us in French. He announces that he’ll soon be a first-time father. He’s so thrilled his round face lights up and his black eyes sparkle. Although he’s happy that we’ve dropped by, he can’t get away right now to show us around. He suggests we meet with the village’s genealogists. Turning to me, he asks in Cree, “Wouldn’t you like to know the names of your great-great-grandparents?” I’m taken off guard. Brad asks the receptionist to tell Tom and Stanley that we’re on our way.

  He invites us to follow him over to some buildings that look more like an airport hangar than a museum. Yet it is a museum according to a sign hanging on the wall inside the entrance. The door swings in the wind. Brad pulls back a thick cotton curtain hanging from shower rings attached to hooks in the ceiling. At the back of the room are two similar curtains making it look as though we’re standing in a huge tent.

  We cross another space inhabited by the past. Objects on the walls call to mind images of Vikings. Ship anchors. Whale harpoons. Others bear witness to the long association between the Hudson’s Bay Company’s factors and the Cree. Someone has gone to the trouble of collecting these relics.

  Brad peers over a low wall behind which a high-pitched voice sounds. A slim man with white hair and cheerful eyes emerges. He’s wearing a bright red sweater. Tom, the museum’s head curator, is an American. Brad asks him if I could be given access to documents pertaining to my family.

  Just then, the double curtains are pulled back and a Cree man, who wears his hair long, and a boy enter. The man is in charge of the genealogical portion of the museum. His name tells me we could very well be distant co
usins. Stanley Domind. He can’t place my grandmother in his family lineage because Louisa is such a common name among the Cree.

  “She had a brother, George.…”

  Stanley stares intently, suddenly serious. His brown hands sweep the air around him. “So we’re cousins then,” he says in Cree, “George was my grandfather.”

  I’m flooded with emotion. I don’t dare ask him what he knows of his ancestor, so familiar for so long. Without a word, he pulls a thick document from a metal filing cabinet. Coloured bookmarks stick out from the pages. He snaps the volume open and points at our family tree. The first ancestor at the top of the page bears the name Judah Ntayumin. My understanding is that the surname stands for N’dai min, the heart berry—strawberry in Cree—a name later deformed into Domind by Scottish and English missionaries and traders. Stanley corrects me. He pronounces the name slowly through full lips to allow me to read and listen at the same time. “Nede ni yu min or it is as I speak.…” It takes me a few seconds to recognize it as our family’s surname, “It Is As I Speak,” namely, “I Walk My Words.”

  For the space of an instant, I dimly hear my heart pounding, a drum. I gather into every fibre of my being the true name that my grandmother bore. As did Great-Uncle George. Aware of a sacred moment, Stanley adds softly, “Our ancestors were a people of the word. Wise men and women.”

  After many minutes during which I hear Daniel and Tom murmuring behind us, I ask, “Do you realize that the first known ancestor’s name was Judah. That sounds like Judas. His full name was Judah I Walk My Words. How telling! The traitor who keeps his word! Quite the contract!”

  My second cousin smiles, amused, and scoffs gently at my surprise. “It is, in fact, quite a droll … and limiting surname. Hah! But what about you, other than being my cousin, who are you, what do you do?”

  We talk at length about different branches of the family. The numerous Nedeniyumin-become-Domind offspring, whose daughters followed their spouses to other communities—Nemaska, Waswanipi, Mistissini.… Bonds grown distant over time but kept alive through the oral tradition and syllabics.

  4

  KOUKOUM KA WAPKA OOT

  JULY 1961

  TODAY WE’RE CELEBRATING Demsy’s sixth birthday. His name is actually George. Maman made a cake from scratch with chocolate icing. We can’t wait to dig into the only cake we’ll have all summer, other than mine in August, because the stove heats our poorly insulated log house way too much. My little brother cuts us tiny portions, giving rise to loud cries of protest on our part. Maman urges him to be more generous. He says, “I want to keep some for Koukoum; she’s on the train.”

  Just then, we hear the far-off whistle of the locomotive warning of its arrival at a crossing. Angry at what she sees as a lie, Maman scolds him, “Stop talking nonsense, you know your grandmother’s dead!” An offended Demsy picks up the miniature cars he received as gifts and heads out to line them up in the sandbox, leaving his piece of cake untouched.

  Soon after, a taxi climbs the hill to our house. Like a flock of birds propelled by curiosity, we rush out to greet our visitors. There is only one. Fuelled by the same delight, we cry, “Koukoum Ka Wapka Oot!” Philou is the first to race inside and tell our mother. Sensitive Demsy stands in the sandbox, a toy car in each hand, and stares in our direction, frowning at how unfairly he’s been treated. Grandmother Who Wears Glasses digs happily into a large piece of his birthday cake.

  Koukoum Ka Wapka Oot’s first name is the same as her sister-in-law’s, our grandmother Louisa Domind. She married Noah, Koukoum’s older brother. Since her husband’s death, she has lived with the family founded by her son Willy, who married an Algonquin woman and traps in the Oskalaneo region only accessible by train. She’d visit us, unannounced at times, and set up her tent in the shade of the trees around the perimeter of our land. We loved her stays. Our grandmother meant an adult presence, something we could be deprived of for days at a time because of our parents’ sporadic disappearances.

  Koukoum Ka Wapka Oot’s face, like leather weathered by use, radiated joy. Short, skinny and straight-backed, she walked with the help of a stick. She invariably wore a large flowered scarf on her head, summer and winter alike, so we had never seen the colour of her hair. Her skin colour, verging on black, had earned her the nickname Koukoum Ka Maktesitt, Grandmother Who is Black. Gifted with an unbelievable storyteller’s talent—using the ideal tone, dramatic pauses, appropriate sound effects—her voice pulled us along in her wake until well after dark, like ducklings paddling in single file behind their mother. Seated around her mattress, we waited quietly and patiently for a story she’d made up or a traditional one from our culture. Sometimes she told a true story become a fable, like the one about the man who, in a time of famine, killed and ate his whole family. He turned into an ogre, a koukoudji, and Grandmother Domind made him so real that we could sense him outside prowling around her tent.

  Sometimes during fall visits, she’d sleep at the foot of my bed. With her old body accustomed to hard surfaces, she refused with a laugh the bed offered out of concern for her. Despite her age, her teeth, sharp and pointed like a weasel’s, were still healthy and white.

  During this particular stay, my mother and her aunt told us about our great-uncle George, Ka Wapka Oot’s brother-in-law. In their telling, his disappearance during a trapping expedition took on mythic proportions. The only proof of our mother’s uncle’s existence is one black-and-white photograph. A dozen Cree and Algonquin look out at us—pretty women, young and old, a few men. My grandmother, her brother George, my mother. A plaid tikinagan leans against my mother’s legs, a fair-skinned child inside swaddled in pale cloth. Maman kept me protected from the sun so my skin would stay pale.

  Grandmother Who Is Black unpacks large cotton bags of provisions and unwraps dried moose meat from butcher’s paper. The tough jerky serves as a snack for nomads on the move. Each morsel has to be chewed at length before it can be swallowed. Since our mother has quit preserving game the old way, Koukoum gives us an opportunity to taste traditional food. She’s amused by the little ones’ reluctance to try what they call mistik wass. Wood meat.

  Our mother cooks hare stew on her summer campfire. She talks to Koukoum, who mentions Demsy’s birthday. “Was it your uncle’s first name you gave him?”

  Maman answers, “Yes and no. You know young Queen Elizabeth? Josep is fond of her. We called our first son Charlie in honour of Elizabeth’s eldest, Charles. There was also my brother Charly, you knew him, he died of tuberculosis. The name is bad luck.…”

  A moment’s silence. Koukoum waits. She clears her throat.

  My mother continues, “Our second son is named after Prince Philip, and George after Elizabeth’s father.…”

  Koukoum laughs, “A real family of Mista Okimatch.” Great Chiefs.

  Flattered, Maman smiles. She adores her sons, the four still living from her marriage to my father and the eldest, Jimmy, who never knew his father. As soon as our summer holidays are over, Jimmy will leave for the Indian residential school in Saint-Marc-de-Figuery. As for us, we’ll go to the village school on a yellow bus every morning as fall approaches.

  Suddenly intense, Koukoum says in a husky voice, “He was never found.…” The two women look sad, lost in thought.

  Always eager for a story, I forget my manners and interrupt the grown-ups. “Who’re you talking about?”

  Maman glances at her aunt, a question in her eyes. Her aunt nods.

  Grandmother realizes she has a new story to tell and a glimmer of contentment crosses her wrinkled features. She darts her small pink tongue back and forth over her lips. Her tongue contrasts with the dark of her skin and reminds me of our cat Pishou. Koukoum ponders how best to broach the disappearance of her brother-in-law George. We’ll soon learn that the tragedy still lives on in their hearts and memories.

  An impatient Philou snatches a toy car out of Demsy’s hand. Dem
sy immediately reacts, punching him on the shoulder. They both start hollering. Annoyed, Koukoum threatens to stop talking if they don’t quit fighting. Fed up, Maman pulls Philou to her, keeping a firm grip on him. Demsy huddles next to Ka Wapka Oot, protecting himself from any other attacks his brother might launch. Maikanshish or Ti-Loup—Little Wolf—four years old, always the mediator, walks over to Philou and holds out his hand. Philou doesn’t understand at first, then realizes his brother wants him to hand over the car for Demsy. He gives him the toy, but promises himself to settle his score with his brother later on.

  “George, your great-uncle, was the youngest in his family. His father Mathew and mother Mary separated for five years. When they got back together, they had two other children—Louisa and George. In all, eight of their children survived. So fortunate.… Children are gifts from Miste Man’tou. When they’re in good health, they provide support to their parents and clan. Mathew died before his wife, Mary. George was sixteen. Already a good hunter, he provided for his mother over her remaining years. When he married, his wife, a generous woman, soon grew fond of her mother-in-law.”

  So began our encounter with our great-uncle. Today I can see that my mother, hurt by the recent, successive losses of her brother, her son, her uncle, and her mother, had avoided speaking to us of their deaths. But anything was possible when Koukoum Who Is Black opened her imaginary box. Even our mother let herself be won over.