A CD plays Bach concertos in the background. The music takes me back to the mornings of our childhood and youth. When my father was away, we’d listen to Elvis Presley and country music with Maman, but on weekend mornings, Papa introduced us to classical music as he flipped buckwheat crêpes on the wood stove heated to a perfect temperature. We’d finish breakfast around ten, then, on sunny winter days, would put on warm clothes and follow my father on snowshoes along his trapline all the way to Christmas River. He carried little Makwa in his backpack. I brought up the rear behind Maikan whose short legs had trouble keeping up with his older siblings. Papa scheduled frequent stops to let him make his way to the front. Demsy and Philou would take advantage of the lull to pass their father, but were quickly put off by the arduous task of breaking trail through the thick snow.
One day, having left his rifle behind, Papa had to use a brass wire to string up a lynx, still alive, its paw broken by one of his traps, by the neck. My brothers were mesmerized by the lessons on trapping. I suffered with the magnificent creature and accompanied the thrashing of its death throes. Seated on a log with my back to the scene, I could hear my younger siblings’ excited cries. I moved further away, claiming I had to build a fire for tea.
“We’re here!” Maikan’s cry pulls me from my thoughts. Ahead of us lies a long stretch of sand between two bodies of water. We can see a tipi-shaped structure. Nemaska’s roads are made of fine sand. We head for the Band Council’s buildings, easy to find thanks to signs pointing the way. The secretary leads us to Sydney Voyageur’s office. He’s a man in his twenties whose eyes sparkle with devilment.
“So you’ve come to dig with David? Before long, the banks of the Eastmain’ll look like Swiss cheese and it’ll be his fault!”
He suggests we go together to the restaurant to meet Noah Wapachee, the guide responsible for taking us to the archeological dig. We will be able to leave right away, everything is ready. That way we’ll reach the research scientists by twilight. He checks that we each have a sleeping bag, the only thing lacking onsite for our comfort. My brothers nod their approval. Let the expedition begin!
After over an hour’s drive, we reach the future power station worksite. Despite Sydney’s warning, we’re still shocked by the devastated forest and the huge piles of rock and sand next to craters dug by giants.
Noah, our silent guide, has a sullen expression that makes him look like a large, grumpy bear. His attitude conveys his view of the plan to flood his ancestors’ trapping and hunting territory. Still not speaking, he heads toward a bay of the Eastmain River where the motorboat waits that will take us to camp.
Our great-aunt Carolynn, our biological grandfather’s sister, married a man whose last name was Wapachee. I ask if she and the guide are related. “Nokomis ouskwèm,” he says. His uncle’s wife!
So thanks to life and its coincidences, we learn more about our elderly aunt, the last keeper of Grandfather Johnny’s memory.
33
THE DIG
OCTOBER 2004
WE’VE BEEN PART of the camp’s activities for several days now. The research team is led by an American anthropologist, Nathan Anderson, and by David. They lead two young Québécois archeologists and two Cree students. We set out every morning by motorboat to a promising dig site. Beneath layers of golden sand, they discover artefacts dating back hundreds of years. A square hole excavated in the ground reveals multiple strata, traces of ash from forest fires and cooking hearths. The evidence points to the site having been occupied by the Cree and their ancestors at least as long ago as five thousand years. David reckons that they camped here for centuries and even millennia before then.
While my brothers split their time between the dig and fishing, I walk along the shore or down mossy paths in the spruce forest with Mouski at my heels. The thought of Daniel brushes past me like a precious, faint perfume. The pain is gone, replaced by muted sorrow. I know he will always be etched in my memory. I take notes and draw in my red notebook. My favourite person is still Noah. I thirst for his silence, his ancestral memory of the river. When the rain comes, we find shelter under canvas sheets slung above the worksite. On days that are too cold and damp, we stay behind at the main camp reading in our woodstove-heated tents, or talking and drinking coffee or tea in the communal tent. We listen to the scientists discuss their discoveries and hypotheses. Mouski helps to liven up too-long days. Behind my back, the young archeologists amuse themselves offering him biscuit after biscuit. In cahoots with them, my dog stops chewing whenever I join the group. But once their laughter gives them away, a slightly shamefaced Mouski starts chewing again.
By the second week of October, we can feel Indian summer on its way. The first part of my job will soon be over; the time to create and write will come later. With David’s consent, we head back to Nemaska with Noah. I take in the Eastmain’s banks crowned with forests soon to be flooded by millions of cubic metres of water. I’m overcome with sorrow. Upon our arrival, only my brothers and I will stay behind since Noah has to return to camp, but before he does Maikan takes a picture of us all with Mouski. A rare occasion, Noah smiles. He gives me the address for Carolynn, his aunt by marriage.
We arrive in Nemaska around four in the afternoon. I suggest we visit our great-aunt. The starkness of the landscape around the homes in the village is striking. Carolynn’s condo seems to surge out of nowhere, set as it is in the middle of a huge circle of sand. We knock. An elderly woman’s frail voice responds, “Pitcheg’, ap’ihiguinou!” After a few steps up, we’re in the kitchen. A slight woman with grey hair, her back turned to us, stands at the kitchen sink. Maikan greets her. She turns around, not the least bit disconcerted, and asks, “Awan tchi ah?” Who are you?
She’s wearing a powder-blue track suit. The contrast between her wrinkled features and the girlish pastel colour makes us smile. I introduce us in Cree since it seems to me she probably doesn’t speak another language. She exclaims, surprised, “Johnny osisimch! Te boueh ha? Planchish outwashimch?”
The closer I look, the more I see a resemblance to Jimmy. He wasn’t tall, his body slender and his features snub and round, like this great-aunt.
She has just made a rabbit stew that she invites us to share. Édouard asks if he can pick up anything for her at the market. “Hey, hey!” she says, “N’tapimin poukechagan.” She sends him off for bread. On his return, he brings in two walleye from the morning’s catch and offers them to Carolynn. She thanks him effusively. It’s obvious that he has just become her favourite nephew. We bid her good-bye early that evening to make our way to the inn where Sydney Voyageur has booked us two rooms.
Solitude will do me good after a week spent sharing a tent with my brothers. I phone William Domind, Stanley’s brother. A man’s husky voice answers in English, “I’m expecting him tonight. He should be here soon.” I ask him to tell Stanley we’ll be in the inn’s restaurant the next morning.
After patting Mouski one last time, I leave him in the jeep parked outside my room.
34
THE BONES
OCTOBER 2004
STANLEY INTRODUCES HIMSELF as we’re drinking our first coffee of the day. He is accompanied by a man in a red ballcap. The man is the Cree trapper who owns the land we’re interested in. His name is Eddy Métamescum. He looks down his nose at me, skeptical and curious. My cousin must have told him about our plan.… Seeing my embarrassment, Stanley rummages through a big front pocket in his pants to pull out a map.
“I checked the whole section of the Rupert River that winds through my grandfather’s territory, there’s no banana-shaped island. But look what I found on this detailed map of the north-east section.” He spreads the map out on the table in the middle of all the coffee cups. He points at a spot much farther east of Weetigo Lake, the Dominds’ former territory. The river looks quite wide at this spot, but the island definitely has an elongated shape.
“I don’t know why my gr
andfather went that far, it’s a two-day walk from his territory, maybe more. But I asked Eddy to come tell us about the site and explain how to get there.”
His eyes mocking beneath his cap, Eddy can’t decide what tack to take. He seems more interested in the curve of my breasts than in any information we’d like to get from him. I pull my notebook from my backpack. On one page, I draw from memory the shape of the island, the shattered rock to the west and the three islets to the east, particulars that don’t show on the map. I add the birch tree for effect. Eddy has stopped smirking, astonished. In English, he says, “Yes, like that! How do you know all those details?”
Vexed, I reply, “I just know, Red Cap!”
Amused by the exchange, my brothers smile at me with affectionate eyes. Stanley gives me a conspiratorial wink. I can’t stomach machos and Eddy gives me the creeps. Something in his air reminds me of an ex-lover, a European, who couldn’t stop trumpeting that he’d got himself “an Indian,” as though I was one of the porcelain dogs people collected at the time.
In any case, Eddy told the men the island was easy to reach. We have to get back onto the northern road to Chibougamau. At about kilometre 246, we’ll cross the Rupert River. From there, we’ll switch to the boat and keep navigating to the right to reach the spot where the river widens. It should take about three hours to reach our destination in a boat with a medium horsepower engine.
Watching the man’s cocky self-assurance reminds me of the night I ferried the whole family home safe and sound, weaving fifty kilometres through the perils of Shabogama Lake and the Nottaway River. My parents, drunk, snored on the bottom of the barge. I’d just turned fourteen and had operated in survival mode for years already.
Everything moves quickly from then on. Stanley borrows his brother’s boat that Maikan tows on the trailer behind his jeep. I get into my second cousin’s van to have a moment alone with him to talk. Mouski settles down on the back seat like a good dog. We’ve brought food for several days, gardening tools, shovels, and a tent. Shirley sewed a big bag out of white canvas that she embroidered to carry the bones. Her gesture touches me. For the first time, I realize how much Stanley and his wife believe in this project. An inner voice warns me, “You’re only the instrument, don’t forget it!”
The Indian summer is alive with vibrant colours, an ideal time for an expedition. Given the heat, we’re bare-armed in our T-shirts. But inside I’m shaking. At one point, a golden eagle flies above our boat. Sitting up front with the bags and the dog, I call on the spirit of my shaman friends. Slowly, the deep breathing I use for meditation takes over. Soon we’ll be approaching the island whose silhouette is visible in the distance. I feel a gentle presence surrounding us. Noumoushoum George?
Stanley is cautious as he nears the bank. He steers the boat to a narrow sandy beach. My brothers and I keep a lookout for rocks underwater and guide our cousin, then we jump into the grasses and bulrushes to pull the boat ashore. Mouski paddles around, happy to be in the water.
As the men set up camp, I walk to the eastern tip of the island, anxious to locate the place where my great-uncle’s bones lie. Sweet gale shrubs slow my progress. We’ll have to cut them back or rip them out based on how deep their roots run. The bushes scratch my hands. How is it that I always forget to bring my work gloves! Reaching my destination after some twenty minutes, I recognize the spot. What a bizarre experience! A quick glance shows me where we’ll start digging once the sweet gale has been removed. The lone birch spreads its branches against the blue of the sky, surrounded by stunted spruce trees. Mouski sniffs the ground.
I remember an event buried deep inside, one that terrified my mother and pushed her to put a stop to my psychic abilites. One night in a dream, I took to the sky to visit the village’s general store. We were poor and I always wore pants. In my dream, I was rummaging through the newly arrived clothing for girls when I caught sight of a pretty dress on the model in the window. The next morning, I told Maman I wanted that dress from the store, blue and white with flowers embroidered on the top. She brushed me off, saying the winter clothing hadn’t been removed yet from the display window. A few days later when she went shopping with my father, she saw the dress I’d described in the general store and brought it home with her, staring at me, terrified. She gave me that present in exchange for my silence. I was six.
Back with the men, I note their efficiency. Not only have they cleared a space for the tent, all is ready for our mattresses and sleeping bags. Modern tents can be set up in no time at all. Stanley breaks a trail to the boat. Édouard builds a firepit, laying stones in a circle. I grab my gloves from my backpack, pick up an axe, and set off to find dry wood for the fire. Dusk will fall in about two hours. We’ll have lots of time to make a hot meal and settle in.
The makeshift campsite reminds me of our youth. Our parents would drop us off alone on a beach when Maman wanted a break. Papa rightly thought that we’d end up learning to get by in nature. I don’t think they ever considered the potential dangers of the practice. They had absolute faith in my teenaged judgment and my capacity to look after my brothers. Today I shudder at the thought that one of them could have drowned and at the horrible guilt I’d have been saddled with. But Papa would come back for us, safe and sound, a week later.
Sitting silently around the fire, we admire the sun’s last play of light on the horizon. Crouched at my side, Mouski begs for a biscuit. Our simple metal teapot shines in the flames. Maikan breaks the silence. “I tell ya’, our big sister sure gets us mixed up in some crazy stuff! But we keep followin’ and are happy to!”
I smile, reading the message that lies beneath his teasing: he’s glad to spend this time with us. Stanley tells them what led him to be part of the quest. He talks about how I’d dreamt of Humbert Mistenapeo before I’d even met the man. Afterward, seeing the importance the shaman attached to the dream convinced him of its truth.
We’ll see tomorrow, I think to myself.
They talk late into the night.
Tired, I wrap myself in my sleeping bag with my dog at my feet. We’ll be a bit cramped and maybe too hot. To be on the safe side, I open a flap above my head. Before falling asleep, I hope that my cousin doesn’t snore as much as the other two.
I can still hear a voice murmuring, but I don’t recognize its Cree intonations. I open my eyes, but am no longer lying in my sleeping bag. No. I’m in a dream. I concentrate on the voice. Come from nowhere, it seems to be situated in my ear canal.
“I’ve been stumbling, exhausted, since daybreak. Fresh snow scattered fine and powdery across the crust hardened by an early spring leaves no trace of my footsteps, and my fatigue keeps me from seeing clearly. Dusk is already stealing over this unknown island. A bright light explodes overhead. Suddenly, for the second time today, I feel a pain in my heart as though it’s just been attacked by a ferocious wolverine. Inside me, the dark poison of fear. Behind me, the pack of wolves drawing ever closer. The keen impression that I won’t pull through. I, George, your great-uncle, a hunter and trapper since the dawn of my days, I know my road ends here. I kneel. I may have cried out, may have wept, but faintly. The pain in my chest tells me the effort is too great, radiating now down my arm and back. A prayer to Miste Man’dou on my lips, a chant that I picture strong and loud, my eyes raised to the strange light, I fall face first into the snow.… With our land emptied of game, the territory abandoned by animal spirits, our beaver traps empty. I had ventured out, walked for three more days to track signs of a herd of caribou.…”
In this space where the absence of time holds him forever in this moment, I say, “Noumoushoum George, I’ve come to you just as you asked. I’m not alone, the spirit of several shamans accompanies me, now you can leave.”
The star-dotted sky is rent by a dazzling light in the shape of an eagle, its wings spread wide. Its rays envelop our surroundings up to the banks of the Rupert River. A black shape ascends from the ground, he
sitates for an instant then, showered with light, vanishes.
“Victoria, wake up!” My brother Albert shakes me by the arms. His voice triggers my anxiety. We’re outside the tent, Stanley’s and Édouard’s flashlights shining on us. I must have been sleepwalking. A common occurrence when I was a teenager, this time I’m taken by surprise. I’d been walking with George’s spirit, watched by Mouski, who yapped to sound the alarm.
“I’m fine. I was dreaming of George; actually, he spoke to me. Or his spirit did. He’d hoped to find a herd of caribou. His heart gave out. He died of a heart attack … fatigue, fear, cold, and hunger. Wolves were tracking him, there was no game left anywhere. But now he’s gone.”
I spoke quickly, still reeling from the shock of my dream.
“That’s right,” Stanley says. “That winter, Cree families were found dying of cold and starvation in their winter camp. Most survived by ice-fishing.”
I’m shivering in the tracksuit I use as pyjamas. Stars shine overhead. Still dazzled by my vision, I murmur, “Sorry I woke you all, why don’t we go back to our sleeping bags?”
Already in the groove after our week on the archeological dig with David and his archeologist colleagues, by ten the next day we’re hard at work. Édouard strikes an object inside the perimeter staked out by Albert. Stanley rushes over and helps him unearth what looks like a rusted rifle. The soil is a mixture of black earth, clay, and sand. Nervous, our cousin says, “Grandfather must be nearby. Careful not to break his bones!”
We promise to do our best. I catch myself wondering what condition the skeleton will be in after more than fifty years. Maybe we’ll return with only bits and pieces so small, even his skull, that they’ll fit in our hands.
My brothers and our cousin resume working with a gentle touch. The dog keeps sniffing. Tugging on sweet gale, Édouard and Stanley uncover a long, yellowed shape striped with green mold that breaks when freed from the roots imprisoning it. Suspending all movement, our hearts pounding, we acknowledge this sacred moment with our wonder-tinged silence. Stanley falls to his knees before the mildewed bone, laughing through his tears. He whispers, “Noumoushoum … Noumoushoum.”
Blue Bear Woman Page 13