7
SMALL
AUGUST 2004
THE CHIRPING of both children and birds wakes me from the sleep I’ve lingered in for some time now, a prisoner to the sleeping bag’s warmth. Daniel is gone. I crawl out of the tent, pleasantly drowsy still, my eyelids heavy. My husband sits at the picnic table reading a novel. Our neighbours at the next campsite, a man and his two children, are busy making breakfast. I catch a whiff of pancakes and bliss. Daniel smiles. “Hello, sleepyhead. Like some coffee?”
There are occasional moments of pure joy.…
Carrying fishing rods, the man and his children climb into a small motorboat. Once they’ve sped off, I spread my sacred objects out on the shore. Facing east, accompanied by my rattle, I chant a song to the earth, the water, the sun, the wind. I give thanks. Again and again. Thank you, Life. My body expands to vast proportions. I’m inhabited by the elements dancing in a white light intersected by colourful flashes. I see the earth far below and deep inside me. I am. I exist. I dance with my brothers the animals, the plants, the stones, the Spirit of all creation. I chant because, within me, surrounding me, my Cree ancestors are also dancing. They will come to the rescue of George’s spirit.
Emerging from my meditation, my eyes meet Daniel’s emotional gaze. He gives himself a shake. Soon we’ll be off.
A friend suggested we visit the village of Wemindji for its location and friendly inhabitants. We arrive well before lunch. Its houses, built on sand, look unlived in. We leave our car on the huge beach that surrounds the community. I take off my sandals to feel fine sand gently massaging the soles of my feet.
Old Factory … the name keeps running through my mind like one of Koukoum Kawap Ka Oot’s tales. She told us of gatherings of our people, of clan reunions to share the happenings of the winter just past, and for match-making. From behind her hand, she giggled, remembering trysts with her Noah. Because of her advanced age, it was hard for me to imagine her young and burning with passion. Yet she flew with a wild goose’s grace to the man who would become her husband.
In the rustling of leaves, I hear palaver’s echo during moukoushans, the voices of grandparents telling tales, the excitement of young people sharing moments of pleasure. Wind gallops over the dunes and its turbulent, unbridled cavalcade drives away the mosquitoes bent on tormenting us. The location is magnificent. Did Koukoum Louisa and Noumoushoum George run and play behind their elders’ back on the distant islands across the way? And Louisa, adolescent, was it here by the river that she smiled shyly at good-looking John Peesum Mapio for the first time?
Wooden picnic tables surround a tipi. A murmur rises from the tent, women’s laughter. Tactfully, we give it a wide berth. Having noticed a restaurant on our arrival, we decide to head there for coffee to meet the locals and take Wemindji’s pulse. I’d swear the town’s whole population is seated within its walls smelling of fried eggs, toast, and sizzling bacon. We make our way to an empty table in the middle of the room, brushing past chairs occupied by happy, chattering Cree. Daniel notices several young white girls and a man seated. They’re speaking in French.
We sit there for quite some time without being waited on. Strangely, the servers seem to be ignoring us. Deliberately looking anywhere else, but at us. We had more or less the same experience in Waskaganish at the inn. We were hoping to order dinner, but for some reason the staff thought we were invisible.
This morning I finally grasp the principle. It’s a self-serve restaurant. We almost forget to pay for our coffee on the way out. The owner takes our word for it, “Just a coffee? It’s my treat! Have a good day!” His eyes sparkle with the pleasure of hosting people in his restaurant.
As we make our way back to our car, I remember the caribou-hide moccasins I’ve been wanting to find. A white man and a Cree man are busy talking in the middle of the path under the shade of jack pines. I ask the Indigenous fellow whether the village has a handicraft shop. He responds with a question of his own. “D’you speak Cree? What’s your name? Mine’s Small!” He gives my hand a vigorous shake.
“Capississit, egoudeh haw? N’wakoumacht’ nedeh Waswanipitch’ Ka out’chee daw.…”
Surprised and somewhat embarrassed, Mr. Small replies, “Actually, my real name is Capississit.”
Mr. Small, like others before him, changed his Indigenous name to the European equivalent. It turns out he’s related to me through my great-aunt Maria Peesum Mapio, who married a Capississit, He Who Is Small, from Waswanipi.
We talk about cousins we have in common including Emily, a childhood friend. He remembers his great-uncle John and his wife Louisa, my grandparents. Through him, I learn that my grandfather, a tuberculosis carrier, died a few short years after marrying Louisa, leaving her with two young children, their youngest Maggy having died at birth. So Koukoum’s life had been riddled with sadness and loss.
8
LOUISA
JULY 1962
WE HAVEN’T LIVED near the Pointe-aux-Vents camp for five years now. For a reasonable sum, my father bought a partial plot of land with a cove on one side and a creek leading to the river. Koukoum Louisa and the members of her family took over our old cabin after we moved out. Memories come back to me. Today my thoughts have turned to my grandmother because I miss her. Maman’s gone, who knows where.… My hands are deep in the water I had to haul up the hill before I could do the laundry. My brothers’ mud-spattered clothes will dry in today’s sun and wind.
Born of Louisa’s marriage to Samuel, an Algonquin, my uncle Jerry, only a few years older than my brother Jimmy, had entered adulthood. Maman told us that, following his father’s example, he was unkind to Koukoum. Sometimes grandmother Louisa showed up alone at our last house by way of the new trail, longer by two kilometres. Her face sported bruises. Without saying a word, Maman would serve her a meal. We could sense that a disaster had taken place. I stood nearby, racked by a new-to-me sorrow. At six years old, I was helpless in the face of her misfortune and hunger.
That summer, I sometimes followed my brother and his new friends, our neighbours’ sons, to the public dump. The boys played with primitive slingshots, aiming at crows and seagulls. Particularly good at it, Jimmy wanted to impress his friends. One day, someone else had gotten there first. We saw the crouching silhouette of a woman in a red-and-green plaid dress, her back turned to us. A huge wave of sadness and dreadful shame flooded over me. Grandmother Louisa sat wolfing down whatever meat she could find on a chicken carcass that must have come from some restaurant kitchen in the village. Ever thoughtful, she hadn’t wanted to disturb our family by turning up to eat at our place. Her husband spent their meagre funds on alcohol.
Our neighbours, not knowing she was our grandmother but being well brought-up children, averted their gaze, as though looking for potential winged victims. Jimmy and I were dumbfounded. After a quick glance in our direction, Koukoum pretended she was on the lookout for things that could still be of use. She slowly walked away, as though she hadn’t noticed our presence. She spared us any embarrassment in front of our friends by pretending she was in total control. A ball of acid formed in my belly and bile rose in my throat. I vomited.
Koukoum rushed over and wiped my lips with a cloth she pulled from the sleeve of her dress. In silence, our eyes locked. The boys, curious, surrounded us. Pulling myself to my full height, smaller than them all, I said in Cree, “Ni n’koukoum!” pointing at myself then my grandmother. I didn’t speak French yet. Jimmy translated for me.
Back home, I asked my mother if Koukoum could live with us. We could protect her from her husband’s and son’s fists the way we used to.… That time Maman had tears in her eyes.
From then on, instead of following the boys, I took the trail along the river to Koukoum’s carrying a hide bag full of fruit and a tin of food. Often I’d return with the bag still full; if my grandmother was away, I didn’t want anyone else to eat my reserves. One day, however, Koukoum opened th
e door. Alone as usual, she took the canned meat and bananas with a distracted air, saying, “Migwech’t, Tititetch’. K’teemyeteem n’gooshish.…” Thank you, Little Little One, my son will be very happy.…
I don’t remember what came next. A wave of sadness, I think, flooding a little girl’s heart as she ran down a trail obstructed by roots like the small spruces’ big toes that kept tripping her, blinded as she was.
Late that fall, Koukoum, who would occasionally come and stay with us for a few days, tells us she doesn’t feel well. My father takes her to see the village doctor. Despite our concern, we all manage to laugh when she gets stuck in the rocking chair too narrow for her bottom. Maman holds onto the chair as Papa helps her out. She chuckles softly. Koukoum has to go to the Amos hospital. Her body, too often deprived of nourishment and proper care, loses its grip on a love for life. She gestures vacantly now as though her spirit were travelling elsewhere.
We receive letters from the hospital that only Maman can read. She writes to Koukoum in Cree syllabics, never forgetting to slip a stamp inside her return envelope. Our grandmother writes that she is well-looked after and well-fed despite her lack of appetite, that she’s resting, that she’s keeping warm. Convinced she’ll be back soon, my worries vanish.
But Koukoum doesn’t return.
Winter marches on. Slow. Long. Grey. Only the birth of a little brother in November breaks up the days’ unchanging nature. Over Easter, Maman dresses us in our finest. The promise of spring is in the air. We’re to take the train to visit Koukoum. We’re excited to be travelling for the first time on the smoke-belching engine. For once we’re calm, given over to the overwhelming joy of seeing our grandmother again. We miss her so much!
She greets us sitting up in bed under white sheets. She smiles. My brothers scatter around her, planting snot-nosed kisses on her. She welcomes their affection, her shoulders shaking in silent laughter. It’s my turn to kiss her cheek. Koukoum smells of soap. A long braid of her luxuriant hair, as black as ever, crowns her head.
She is beautiful, looks at peace, happy even. We talk to her for hours as we wait for the next train home. She holds her newest grandson in her arms until it’s time for us to leave. At the station, Maman treats us to hot dogs to reward us for our good behaviour. Our happiness is complete.
Our parents hide the real state of Koukoum’s health from us. It does feel like she’s spent a long time in hospital, but she’s doing so much better.…
It was after this visit to see our grandmother that a well-dressed man sporting a tie drove up to the house. He brought a briefcase full of papers with him. He tried to communicate with Maman, but other than Jimmy who knew a bit of French, no one could answer him in our father’s absence. The man gestured toward Jimmy and me with his free hand. One word worried us because we’d often heard it used by our neighbour friends—school. In fact, neither Jimmy or I went to school, unlike the others who headed off to residential school or the village school in the red-and-white milk truck.
The man left papers on the table for our father. Back from work, Papa read the documents that saddened him. He told Maman they had to add us to the list of schoolchildren on the concession road. I was in turmoil hearing Papa say, “The law gives us no choice!” Should we be happy that at least Jimmy had been able to stay with us until he was ten? Jimmy wasn’t just my big brother, he’d been my only friend since our move. The thought of not seeing him for a whole ten months paralyzed me. My life was changing. At the age of seven, I saw my parents forced to send me to the village school come September on the red-and-white truck that smelled of cows and rancid milk.
The night before Jimmy left for residential school, I woke from a nightmare. I was crying so hard my parents knelt by my bed to comfort me.
Papa said, “You’ll see, Ikwesish, you’ll like school.”
Maman said, “You’ll come home every day after school.”
Ashamed, despite my sadness, I didn’t reveal the reason for my tears. I was losing my brother. My playmate.
One radiant October day, I come home from school wearing my blue uniform and white blouse, my bag slung across my shoulder, my lunch box in my hand. Maman smells of alcohol. She says, “Koukoum died this morning. Don’t cry. Look, I’m not crying.”
Then she heads for the path that leads to our old cabin where her stepfather and his half-sister Maryann must be waiting for her return with their gallon of cheap St-Georges wine. I collapse onto my parents’ queen bed, my face buried in the duckdown quilt, my bag and lunch box at the end of my splayed arms. I sink into a deep, dark hole, gasping for air.
Later, once supper’s over, Papa puts us in the canoe, the youngest crouched between his legs. Maikanshish is almost eleven months old. No one says a word. We land below the hill on which our abandoned cabin stands. I hear Koukoum’s husband wailing in a slurred voice, a few English words mixed in with the Algonquin.
Papa says, “Look after your little brothers, I’ll be right back.” He jumps nimbly from the boat and climbs easily and quickly in the direction of the voice.
Shortly afterwards, we see our father reappear, profiled against the evening sky. He peers over our mother in his arms, careful to keep his footing on the clay slope as he carries her down. He lays Maman on the bottom of the canoe, gently, making sure not to bump her against anything. His face grimaces with the strain and his eyes, behind their round glasses, speak of untold hurt. Immense worry invades my chest. Grim, raw, rough. It sinks its claws into my belly and shakes me sick.
9
CHEVALIER
AUGUST 2004
WE LEAVE WEMINDJI. At the turn-off for the James Bay road, we stop for lunch at a picnic table. En route, we passed several cars going the other way, including Tom’s, the genealogist from the Waskaganish museum. He neither saw nor recognized us. What’s going on in Wemindji?
A van stops as we’re getting lunch ready. Several Cree climb down and head for the outhouses. I call to one of the young women as she walks by, “Is there something special on in Wemindji today?”
It turns out that an annual gathering of the communities is about to take place, hosted by Wemindji. Damn! My disappointment doesn’t go unnoticed by Daniel. He stirs the pasta sauce. Without saying a word, he waits to see what I’ll do. There’s something I need to pick up at the drugstore, plus we don’t have enough fresh fruit. We need a hot shower. Our plan was to go to Radisson to run our errands. Neither of us can make up our mind. A coin toss will make the decision for us. Heads, we retrace our steps, tails we keep going. Tails! Oh well, too bad!
A few indomitable Québécois have put down roots in Radisson. I’m surprised to see rose bushes blooming at this latitude. In front of the hotel lobby, I notice beds of blue flowers—monk’s hood! We walk into a craft store that has quite the collection: African masks, Inuit sculptures, jewellery, smoked caribou-hide mitts and moccasins. But none in the size I’m looking for. We find a display featuring regional products. We choose some caribou pâté and a large trout that I’ll serve with rice and chanterelles.
Our shopping over, we visit the campground. It has a self-service laundromat inside a long motor home. So we’ll camp here. Since it’s still early afternoon, we stroll down Radisson’s sidewalks. A warm breeze keeps the mosquitoes at bay. I consider the human capacity to adapt to any environment. I’m not surprised the Cree love this land, its landscape is in their blood and soul. But even European descendants have grown so attached that they don’t want to leave once the power stations are built! They’re like their rosebushes, their monk’s hood growing in a hostile climate, whose flowers boldly emerge with the first warm rays of a short summer season. Stubborn.
The next day, we head for Chisasibi. It’s a Sunday so we take our time driving, sure there won’t be much going on in the morning. Halfway there, we’re stopped by a barrier. The guard, a young Cree man, jots down our licence plate number, our names and addresses. He tells
us the Cree are strictly prohibited from bringing alcohol into the community. A decision made by the band council after too many accidents and suicides caused by substance use. Alcohol, a poison to the system, does not alleviate the community’s suffering.
We drive slowly through quiet streets. We note with interest a pretty white and blue chapel surrounded by greenery. Originally built by Catholic missionaries offshore, on the island where the Cree used to live, it was towed on a huge raft and transplanted to the new village of Chisasibi.
We park our car in the chapel’s yard. There’s more going on here. A game played by three girls attracts our attention. Poorly shod, one even in high heels, they run down the gravel road ahead of moving cars. They laugh hysterically, excited by the danger. Drivers come to a full stop, afraid they’ll hit the girls as they drive by. I lose my desire to give them a scolding when one of the girls falls, bloodying her knees and the palms of her hands. She shrieks in pain while her friends help her to her feet. The dangerous game is over and we can breathe again.
The bustle across from the chapel awakens our curiosity. Dozens of cars are busy parking around a brick building. A Pentecostal temple. In no time, a hundred or so cars have gathered there; not one of them comes our way. Then a young woman, either Japanese or Chinese, walks over and climbs the steps to the chapel. We greet her. Daniel asks if we can visit the inside of the church. “Yes, sure,” she says in English.
We aren’t alone. Four men are busy discussing the ceremony they’re about to perform. A Catholic priest is no longer available at all times, so they pray without benefit of the sacrament of the Eucharist. Feeling somewhat uncomfortable since I’m no longer a follower of Christian religions, I wander off to look at the decor and photographs on the walls.
Blue Bear Woman Page 4