Blue Bear Woman

by Virginia Pésémapéo Bordeleau

  An account written by a missionary who worked with the Cree describes the Cree people as tall, of good build, and lovers of palaver. Palaver as in “an idle, never-ending discussion.” Most likely, the missionary was describing an exercise in democracy that still takes place today in our communities, where each member takes all the time needed to illustrate his or her viewpoint. Koukoum initiated us into the world of palaver. With limited success.

  She does, however, return to the subject of her brother-in-law George, gone one winter day to check his traps during a harsh period of starvation. He hoped to bring home a few beaver, grown scarce because of overhunting. Their fur, sought after at the time, allowed the family to survive by trading with the Hudson’s Bay Company. For flour, sugar, salt, bullets, fabric. The fatty, nourishing beaver meat added protein to the Crees’ frugal diet.

  George never returned.

  After an absence that lasted several days, his worried family sent men out to follow his tracks. They came back empty-handed with strange stories to tell.…

  Thrilled at our expectant gaze as we listen, Koukoum begins to speak more and more slowly. We listen with bated breath, straining toward her, anxious.

  Her brother Andrew was part of the search party. By following beaver dams, they came upon signs of George’s earlier presence. Recently broken ice that had frozen over again with slivers like shards of broken glass pointing to the sky. Snow melted from the heat of a fire. Based on the clues, George had been able to check all his traps. Then, all of a sudden, his snowshoe tracks vanished. In that spot, the spruce were twisted, and birch and aspen branches had been broken or torn from their trunks. As though a giant had shaken the trees with his huge hands, mangling them, tugging on their limbs.…

  Overcome with fear, the men retraced their steps as quickly as they could.

  Koukoum pauses and takes a sip of tea. In a frightened, subdued voice, Maikanshish asks feebly, “Koukoum, do you think it was Koukoujdi the ogre who took Noumoushom George?”

  Grandmother Who Wears Glasses laughs heartily to reassure him. “What do you think, Maikanshish?”

  We all cry, “Oh! Oh! It must be the Koukoudji! Koukoudji ate our Noumoushoum. Yes, it’s him!”

  We shout out all kinds of theories till Maman pipes up, “Some claim he was taken by aliens from outer space.” She tells her aunt about Josep’s books that speak of flying saucers encountered by pilots in mid-air, of abductions, and the traces left of their passing such as twisted, broken trees. “Josep says they’re nothing but tall tales, but then again, he says Miste Man’tou is only another superstition, too.”

  Our mother looks angry. However, Koukoum Who Is Black looks worried. The story told in books of flying saucers troubles her. She asks Maman if any witnesses saw these beings, the aliens.

  “According to Josep, they look like bug-eyed grey or green grasshoppers. And not a single whisker or hair.”

  Reassured, Koukoum bursts into laughter. “Iskwe, your husband’s pulling your leg! Grasshoppers in space! For a second, I thought our Great Fathers from the Wolf Star had returned to earth.”

  She laughs so hard our mother takes offense.

  5

  GEORGE

  AUGUST 2004

  ONCE AGAIN, the road winds on, this time without kilometre after kilometre of poles strung with wire. The sun is still shining. The extent of this uninhabited landscape of rocks, lichen, and burnt pine is mesmerizing. Nothing but the occasional car. The two of us silent, lost in thought, both remembering our trip to the Waskaganish museum while my cousin’s revelations about his grandfather George trouble me.

  Ahead of us, the road carved between two walls of stone climbs a hill. There’s a vehicle driving on the shoulder. On its roof, a big handwritten sign reads: Save the Rupert River. To the left of the car a man in a blue tracksuit walks. He’s from hereabouts. Alone but for the person at the wheel, perhaps his spouse, who keeps pace, he marches on, head down, eyes glued to the ground, shoulders tense with fatigue or anger. Daniel honks in support. Without looking up from the pavement, the man raises an arm, fist clenched.

  We eat on the banks of the Rupert River. Its turbulent waters crash against the riverbed’s massive rocks that have blocked the river’s forward motion for centuries. That power soon to be tamed, harnessed, converted into comfort for people’s homes.

  At the intersection for Nemaska, the gauge shows we need more gas. I don’t want to run any risks. We’ll head straight for the next truck stop. And visit my great-aunt Caroline in Nemaska on our way back.

  A dream. A man snowshoeing. He’s having a rough go of it. Not because of the crusted snow, but because of the condition he’s in. Day is drawing to an end. It’s an unusual dream, as though confused with reality. Suddenly, I’m the man. I’m aching and afraid, my fear tinged with panic. I feel hunted. My skin bristles with pain. An animal’s fangs lodge in my right leg and drag me down. I cry out in my sleep. Daniel shakes me awake. I sit up abruptly and take in my surroundings. We’re in the tent; tears of relief and sorrow trickle from my eyes.

  Daniel listens to me in the dark of night.…

  While the American, Tom, kept Daniel spellbound with tales from his well-stocked library on the history of the Hudson’s Bay Company, my second cousin Stanley continued to share details with me about his grandfather George’s disappearance. He dug through maps of Cree territory, unfurled an old map with great care and laid it out on the huge table that sat imposingly in the middle of the room. He pointed at one section circled in red. “Those are George’s trapping grounds,” he said.

  Thinking out loud, I asked, “Where on earth could his body be in all that?”

  “Ah-ha! What you don’t know is that bones were found…”

  With rising excitement, my breathing quickened. “Tell me, Stanley, I didn’t know Great-Uncle was found!”

  One day in the spring of 1970, during a dig, white prospectors looking for ore unearthed some bones. With surprise tinged with horror, they realized they had come upon a human foot and tibia. The rest of the body was missing. They reported their discovery to authorities, who had the bones analyzed to determine the deceased’s age and gender. Since George’s family had reported him missing in 1953 and the bones were those of a man of his age, his remains were handed over to the family. Strangely, however, those bones lay far from George’s territory. In vain, people from his clan excavated the soil around where the discovery had been made, but the rest of his skeleton never surfaced.

  Daniel says nothing. At one point, I think he’s fallen asleep, but his hand comes to rest on my belly. A tender, comforting gesture.

  “That’s not all,” I say. “Stanley mentioned fang marks on the bones. Daniel, my great-uncle was devoured, either alive or dead, most likely by a pack of starving wolves. I remember Koukoum Ka Wapka Oot talking about a period of famine. If there wasn’t enough game for humans, there wouldn’t have been enough for wolves either.…”

  I can picture the scene. Once again, I feel rising terror. This has got to stop. I fear for my sanity now that this is no longer a dream. It comes to me that George must have run on and on, fleeing the predators, losing his bearings and his last shred of courage.

  “My dreams,” I say, “My latest dreams warned me. George hasn’t left. His spirit is still roaming there, he’s begging for help! I have to find a way to appease his spirit.”

  Like the sudden lull after a storm, a stillness enters my belly and heart. I will be the instrument; I will follow the signs and we will see.

  Accustomed to the odd phenomena that punctuate our life à deux, Daniel says in a sleepy voice, “Sweetheart, just say the word and off we’ll go.” After a few minutes, his regular breathing tells me he’s fallen asleep.

  I stare at the stars through our tent’s mosquito netting, my mind churning with thoughts, memories, impressions. In memory, I follow scents, colours, and emotions, diffuse but so
real. For instance, of all the adults who held me as a child, the strong odour that emanated only from my father’s underarms. One my mother called his “white man scent….” People from our clan smelled of resin, smoked or roasted meat. Although his particular smell was overpowering, I grew to find it reassuring over the days during which happiness fled the family, and my father would gather me in his arms to keep my nightmares at bay.

  Tonight, one impression in particular makes its way into my feverish mind. Difficult to grasp because it doesn’t involve physical touch. I recognize my mother’s, my grandmother’s hands. My adoptive grandfather has gotten into the habit of shaking me, whether or not I’m crying. It’s like a nervous tic, an inability to rock a child. As for the young girls in our clan, I soon lose patience with them too, feeling unsafe given the way they handle me. I cry, calling my mother to the rescue.

  One day after being treated like a living doll all day, back home again, I crawl into a square of sunlight beneath the window. There I curl into a ball and fall fast asleep. Exhausted. It’s then that the diffuse feeling rises, like a tenuous breath, but of total serenity and implicit trust in the person who discovers and gathers up the baby lying on the floor. His emotion, a blend of tenderness and infinite compassion, reaches my unconscious. Great-Uncle George. And his pact with me: the offer of gentle, comforting love that sees nothing but the human being hidden inside my tiny body.

  The recollection of my great-uncle’s presence brings me peace. Unhampered by the years or his death, I can feel the warmth of his affection and I slip into a deep sleep.

  6

  MATHEW AND MARY

  JULY 1961

  AFTER THE DEPARTURE of our grandmother Ka Wapka Oot, Maman packs up food and belongings enough for a week. July is scorching and hard to bear. The lack of sleep makes the boys turbulent and their scuffles have gotten the better of our mother’s patience. We will travel to the tip of Shabogama Lake and camp on a beach of sand and wind. Our father will ferry us there in the barge he ended up building with the help of our neighbour, Mr. Plamondon. The barge makes it possible for us to travel together as a family. Papa will come for us after his week at work. He’ll sleep with us tonight and leave early tomorrow.

  Excited at the prospect of swimming in the lake and racing along the shore, the children help as best they can to ready our departure. Makwashish loads onto the boat the simple fishing rods my father makes to amuse his sons. At the age of three, Makwashish still inhabits the fantasy world of childhood. He tells Maman he’ll keep us supplied with fish during our stay. Just in case, Maman brings her fishing net and the wooden floats she nearly forgot, and gently strokes my little brother’s thick head of hair. Our family outings are true adventures. Already the breeze created by our motor-propelled speed cools us down. Our baby Sibi, swaddled to her underarms in the tikinigan, claps to show her pleasure. Her wooden cradleboard keeps her upright, propped against the side of the barge. She is my first sister. The sister I’ve longed for, for years.

  We make shore after several hours on the water. The canoe we’ve towed behind will help us haul in the net. I unpack the prospector’s tent on the spot Maman has chosen while my father and Jimmy look for a few small straight trees to cut down for the frame. The children squawk like a flight of birds in spring, splashing each other with cold water. Once our camp is set up, the big kids will go swimming. Our parents deploy the fishing net at the mouth of a river. Jimmy and I gather dead branches to cook our next meal with. We find dead trees to be felled over the coming days. Jimmy sets a brass snare on a trail well travelled by hare.

  Maman never goes in swimming. She finds a flat rock to sit on, moistens a cloth, rubs in some soap and washes her body. Then she wades into the water up to her belly to rinse off. She’s never completely naked; a skirt hides her crotch and buttocks. She does, however, bare her breasts, generous now after successive pregnancies. She nurses each of her babies until the next one’s arrival.

  Papa plays at picking up his sons and throwing them as far as he can into the lake. Careful with Maikanshish and Makwashish too, still little, he swings Demsy and Philou wildly. They scream, torn between pleasure and fear. Our mother cautions him to go easy. The game invariably ends in tears; one swallows a mouthful of water or the other collides with his brother in mid-air. I know my father’s medicine and am careful to stay well back.

  Not that I get off any more lightly when my turn comes. Today, my father plans to teach me how get back in the canoe if necessary. We never wear life jackets, they’re not yet mandatory. He’d rather we know how to swim and climb back into the boat. So as not to make it any easier for me, he doesn’t say a word—just sits in the middle of the canoe, keeping it steady with one of the paddles. In silence. For the longest time, I try to figure out how to climb in without tipping out my father, who’s having a grand old time. I’m getting tired. Finally, my mother calls from shore, “Try from the end, my girl!”

  My father was a taskmaster. Orphaned at a young age, his grandmother didn’t spare the rod raising him. The way he brought us up was affected by what he’d experienced. He never thrashed us with an object, his broad hands were enough. But since his method never led to the desired result, he stopped using force after Maikanshish was born. Maikanshish was a good, calm boy who walked and talked at a very young age. Perhaps Papa realized that the little one had command of his world and held a poor view of his father, the grown-up. Our mother protected us as much as she could from our father’s harsh ways. In her culture, children weren’t punished.

  Papa’s absence allowed for a different family dynamic. We felt at ease, like soldiers out of sight of their general.

  We’ve been at the beach for two days now. The good weather holds. The boys break trail through the woods tracking imaginary animals. Jimmy and I sit in the tent with Maman. Sibi lies under a light cotton sheet, fast asleep. From where we’re positioned, we can keep an eye on our brothers. We don’t often have an opportunity to speak to our mother; the boys demand all our attention.

  I want to know the truth about her uncle George and his disappearance in the forest. His story fascinates me. At eleven, I no longer believe in Koukoum Who Is Black’s ogres, or in Maman’s aliens. Maman turns my question over in her mind, then responds. “Actually, I don’t know. What saddens me is imagining his spirit roaming lost through the forest. No ceremony to guide him to Miste Man’tou.… It happened eight years ago already. The year Josep and I stopped travelling to the territory with the family. Back when we used to go, George never went out hunting alone, Josep was always with him.”

  Maman’s mention of the Great Spirit has touched me; a secret cord vibrates deep inside. I don’t understand what’s just happened. I feel shaken and what seems like a thousand drums resound in my chest. My mother’s voice comes to me from a great distance. “On my mother’s side, strange things have happened in our family. Don’t mention it to your brothers, they’re too young. They wouldn’t understand.”

  I listen, once again all ears. I love hearing real stories.

  “When Koukoum Ka Wapka Oot mentioned that grandfather Mathew and my grandmother Mary were separated, the separation actually came about because Mathew spent five years in prison. For having got one of his own daughters with child.…”

  I catch my breath. What a hard thing to get my head around. How can a man be in love with his own daughter? Maman tells me that love has nothing to do with it; men ruin girls for their own gratification. For themselves. For their own pleasure. I glance over at my brother. Flustered, Jimmy looks away.

  My mother tells us that, being ill, her grandmother Mary no longer took her husband into her bed. Her fifteen-year-old daughter Judy ran the household. Some gossips said she took her role as her mother’s stand-in too seriously. The truth is her father raped her. When her pregnancy began to show, that truth became glaringly obvious to her mother, her brothers, and her sisters. They lived alone on their trapping grounds. Mary
knew the fire in her husband’s belly. Judy gave birth to a girl in disgrace and died soon after. Her brothers dug her grave, seething with rage. Mary looked after the frail baby who wasted away till she too followed her young mother to the other side. Her uncles laid her in a hollow they dug next to Judy’s grave.

  The story reached the ears of the RCMP and officers were sent to arrest Mathew. For incest, a crime punishable by law. Mathew confessed and was sentenced to five years in prison. Rumour reached the Company’s trading posts that federal prison authorities were unable to keep Mathew under lock and key. It was said that the door would automatically unlock for him. They moved him to another cell. After a number of failed attempts, they hired Mathew as a janitor. According to Maman, he developed his uncanny gift from being a free man who was simply incapable of living in a cage.… With his wages, Mathew bought himself a canoe, a tent, and traps, and paddled from Cochrane, Ontario, to his territory in north-western Quebec.

  Upon his return, he spoke a new language—English. Fearful, his family refused to open the tent flaps to him. They were afraid of this new man capable of works of wonder and evil. He was thought to be a trickster. But all Noumoushoum Mathew wanted was to live in the forest as he had done before. He pitched his tent close to his wife’s camp so his sons could see and monitor him. He made no attempt to return to the clan. Several weeks later, his children began to pay him visits. After a few months, Abel, the eldest, counselled his mother to welcome her husband back into her tent. Grandmother Mary says she felt “unmarried” from Mathew, not only because of the rape and death of her daughter, but because of his lengthy absence as well. Abel offered to re-unite them during a traditional ceremony. Eventually, Mary agreed. The following year our grandmother Louisa was born, then George.… Mathew proved himself to be a good father and good husband to Koukoum Mary.