Brushing aside these potential difficulties, Billie concentrated on getting through this last day. He had to fill the time and his thoughts with something other than fried flat bread or berry soup or smoked meat. Sitting cross-legged on the ground, he picked up a stick and began scratching out images in the dirt. Doodling. Not paying much attention to what he drew. Ponoko-mitta, horses. Iniiksii, buffalo. Imitaa, dogs. Realizing his hand was actually producing something recognizable, Billie really got into it. He sketched whatever came to mind. The images tumbled out, telling a story if he’d had time to study them. They reminded him of the many legends he’d heard the Napi tell about the Indians and their ways; these stories poured out of him onto the earth. He recalled the art he’d seen at the Stampede and longed for paper and paints so he could add color to his scenes. Shadows and depth. Make them permanent.
Billie felt he’d touched on something unexpected. He still couldn’t see out of his right eye. And he hadn’t had a vision. Yet he felt nourished by these pictures that flooded him and now surrounded his rock. But when he looked them over, wanting to understand them better, the rain started. There was nothing he could do. The big drops came faster and faster, washing away his work.
He remembered his grandfather saying how fleeting the things of the earth were. This explained why the Indians relied upon oral history rather than writing to pass on their culture. As long as humans could transmit the stories and the art, little else mattered. If humans no longer existed, then writing and art were useless. Who would see them?
That night, curled up in his nest, feeling lightheaded from the lack of food, his body seemed as buoyant as a bird’s. Billie was sure he could fly without much effort, expecting the next waft of wind to carry him away. Instead, it separated the clouds, exposing Kokomi-kosomm, which was gradually being eaten away to a quarter of its size. He thought he must be hallucinating or finally having a vision. The moon had been perfectly full earlier when it first came out, casting a milky glow over everything. He felt like a cat, so thirsty he wanted to lap up every milky pool in sight.
Now the great-globe-of-milk-in-the-sky gradually disappeared until everything was cast in darkness. He was too dulled by hunger to feel much fear. Still, the sight gave Billie goose bumps, but then that made him think of plucked turkey skin, roasted until it was brown and crisp, making him salivate.
Billie took the moon’s disappearance as a sign: Since the moon was fading away, he decided something familiar in his life was also about to vanish, replaced by something else. At that moment, buoyant and somewhat delirious, he feared it was himself.
Huddled in his nest of branches, he felt like a speck in the universe. Out of tobacco, he couldn’t console himself with a puff on his pipe. Lying on his side, Billie curled into a ball and sucked on the pipe stem. From the north, a sheet of rose- and green-colored light fell from the sky, a huge waterfall of light descending to the earth—the northern lights. Later, the moon, a stealthy cat, gradually crept back to its rightful place in the heavens.
Billie woke suddenly to hot breath on his face and slobber. Afraid to open his eyes, he lay there, still curled up, clinging to the pipe, wondering where his knife was. He’d forgotten to tuck it into his waistband before crawling into his nest. Defenseless, he felt his heart rattle his rib cage, attempting to escape. Billie tried to ignore his visitor by thinking about food, but he couldn’t. Something brushed against his arm, and he opened his one good eye. A dark shape loomed above him, blocking out the moon. Billie was certain that any minute he’d become some animal’s midnight snack. The shape moved away, into the clearing. Even in the dim moonlight, Billie could make out a horse’s body. Rope still dangling from its halter, the mare he’d borrowed had returned.
When Billie left for home the next day, though he’d managed to create his own medicine bundle and had survived in the wilds on his own, he felt he’d failed his vision quest. He believed he returned with no vision to brag about. No voices. He also didn’t think he’d found a guardian spirit. But worst of all, he still was blind in one eye.
The Coast
Not long after returning from his vision quest, Billie made friends with Henry, a white kid, at a local swimming hole. They hit it off and hung out together for a while. But Henry couldn’t take Billie home with him (his parents didn’t want any “injuns” in their house), and the Blackfoot weren’t keen on having a white kid on their land. So they met in the fields outside of Weed or at the Bow River. Billie taught Henry how to cast arrows. Henry quickly caught onto the game and excelled at it.
Billie also showed Henry where he’d gone for his vision quest, pointing out the dam where the beaver lived and the large, flat rock where he’d hung out. They fished together in the river, using Henry’s fancy pole and the flashy lures he used, taking home brown and rainbow trout. Billie believed he was the better fisherman, though Henry didn’t think so.
Henry claimed that more than half of the fish they caught one Saturday were his. Look, he said, it’s my pole!
Billie said, Hell they are. They went for my worms, not what you bought at a store.
The boys took a few half-hearted punches at each other, none of them doing much damage, before Henry stomped off, flinging cuss words over his shoulder.
It wasn’t long after this encounter when Billie took off for the Coast.
At fifteen, eager to see the world, Billie dropped out of high school and walked most of the way to the nearest city, Calgary, hitching the occasional ride. He carried a backpack that held most of his worldly goods—a change of clothes; $50 he’d taken from the stash his father kept inside an empty Players’ tobacco can; his medicine bundle; colored pencils; a pad of paper; tobacco and cigarette papers; a rabbit’s tail that guaranteed good luck and sexual potency; his father’s Swiss army knife; and a tattered packet of letters from his mother Sighing Turtle.
Sighing Turtle had written to Billie and his three younger sisters over the years, describing her new life on the Coast. She lived with a bunch of artists and had taken up weaving and quilt making. Billie had kept the letters, but the correspondence stopped when Billie was twelve, and he had never learned why.
He had slept with the letters under his pillow, next to his medicine bundle, and now he hoped to track down the woman who had sent them. He wanted to learn why she had taken off without any explanation. But he also wanted to see her again, the parent to whom he felt a deep connection. No wonder, then, that Billie left behind his father and his siblings without a word of explanation.
In Calgary, Billie found the railroad station and hid in one of the freight cars carrying grain that was heading for Vancouver. Feeling like a fugitive, he concealed himself among the kernels, grateful for the hypnotic whirring of wheels that lulled him to sleep. He awoke when the train pulled into the Canadian National Railway Station, hungry but excited to see his first big city.
Vancouver overwhelmed him. All the people swarming the sidewalks. The towering buildings. The concrete. Everything seemed crunched together. But what affected him most was the nearby ocean. He’d never seen it before except in pictures, and they hadn’t prepared him for the sea’s power. Forgetting his hunger, he sat mesmerized for hours and watched brazen waves break over the rocks, sending frothy spray high into the air. Water landed on Billie and penetrated his jacket. This was more impressive than Natosi, the sun, or at least its equal.
Overcome by all these new things, Billie could hardly talk. He left the ocean, but when he tried to ask directions for a place to stay, the English words refused to form in his mouth. He found himself reverting to his native language. Eventually a Mountie took pity on him and brought Billie to a homeless shelter where he had dinner with other lost souls lined up with their tin plates. The bedraggled male servers filled them with stew, tossing a slice of white bread on top to soak up the juices. Later, Billie flopped among the bedbugs and readied himself to search for his mother.
But
where to begin? Billie could barely read the well-worn address on the last letter—some place in Kitsilano. He was sure the word had an indigenous reference, and at first he thought his mother was living on another reserve. In a way he was right. One of the shelter workers told Billie there had once been a reserve south of the beach called Kitsilano, but it was currently home to old estates and single-family structures that had been converted to rooming houses. And the Coast Salish village of Snauq had been located on the shore of False Creek, now taken over by office and apartment buildings.
While wandering Vancouver’s streets, Billie found a map of the city in a trashcan and plotted his route to the address on the envelope, which took him across the Burrard Street Bridge. He hugged the rail, afraid of falling off and into the water below or of being hit by a car speeding by. He’d seen cars before, but at home they poked along. Everyone and everything here seemed in a rush, racing into some future he wasn’t part of. Horns blared. Metal and concrete dominated. He felt totally out of his depth.
Billie finally found the address on the envelope. It was a three-story house with only a hint of paint left on the weathered exterior. He climbed the porch steps, took a deep breath, and rang the doorbell. No answer, though he could hear someone clomping around inside. He pushed the buzzer again. The door flew open, and Billie almost fell across the threshold. No vacancies, the guy said. He resembled a wrestler, his biceps bulging out of his t-shirt, his head bald.
Billie stared at the wooden floorboards. I’m not looking for a room. I’m looking for my mother. He shoved the envelope into the man’s hands. It read Fiona, Sighing Turtle’s English name, and it had the Kitsilano return address on it. Billie said, See? She lived here.
Well, she don’t any more, buster. No sighing turtles here. Just a bunch of frogs! Parlez-vous francais? He laughed at his own joke, and tossed the envelope at Billie, shutting the door in his face. Billie could hear him telling someone inside the house JUST FROGS, and another voice joined in the laughter. Billie didn’t get the joke.
He knocked again. This time a woman answered the door. She wore a muumuu that made her look even larger. Yeah, she said. You looking for a frog? She glanced behind her and laughed.
Do you know someone named Fiona MacLeod?
Sure it’s Fiona and not Frog? Only Fiona I know is long dead.
Billie felt a little lightheaded. She knew a dead Fiona? Maybe it was his mother. He hadn’t considered she might be dead. He asked, How long ago?
No sense getting all concerned about a dumb dog, the woman said, waving at some flies that zipped past her. The beggars. Get away, you. It was a stray. The dog tag said Fiona. So we just called him that.
Him?
Can you beat it? A male dog with a female name.
Relieved, Billie thanked her and backed away, clutching the envelope in his hand, almost tumbling backwards down the steps. He caught himself just in time and trod down the street, feeling he was on a fool’s mission. He’d never find his mother here. About to cross the street and find his way back to the shelter, he spotted a phone booth. Maybe his mum was listed in the telephone book. He entered the cubicle and looked through the directory, not sure how to use it. He searched first under Sighing Turtle, but that didn’t produce anything. Then he looked under Fiona. Nothing. Finally he found MacLeod. Hundreds were listed and none had Fiona for a first name. He felt defeated. He didn’t have the money to call all of the MacLeods. It was hopeless.
Tired of Vancouver and depressed about not finding his mother, Billie just wanted to leave that urban hell. He asked a friendly shelter worker if he would drop him off at the city limits. After hemming and hawing about it being out of his way, the guy finally said okay, and the two set off. Once there, the worker stopped the car, and Billie climbed out, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. Billie thanked him for the ride and started hitchhiking up the coast.
Eventually an older man driving a rusty station wagon stopped and called out, I’m heading for the Squamish reserve. Want a lift?
Billie grabbed his bag and climbed into the front seat. Two grungy mutts prowled the back seat and yapped at him. The man said, I’m Joe, and stuck out a gnarled hand. Billie shook it and said, Billie.
Don’t mind the dogs, Joe said. They think this is their car. I’m their driver.
Billie laughed. I get it. Joe made him feel at ease immediately, as if they had known each other for years.
Joe said, You going far?
I don’t know where I’m going, Billie said. Then he told the man where he was from and what he’d been doing in Vancouver: I thought sure I’d find my mother, but she must be dead. Saying the words made the possibility real, and he felt even more alone in the world.
Joe cleared his throat: You’re welcome to stay on the Squamish reserve with me and my wife. You remind me of myself at your age. A fire destroyed our place. Both parents died. I was on my own.
And that began Billie’s education. Joe had a house painting and handyman business. The white townsfolk hired him when they had jobs. Joe took Billie on as an apprentice, teaching him carpentry—how to work with his hands. But in the evenings and on weekends, Joe did traditional art and taught the boy everything he knew about making sculptures, masks, totem poles, and paintings.
Billie and the Ni-tsi-ta-pi-ksi
When he was thirty years old and still living on the Squamish reserve, Billie dreamed one night of a dark cloud passing over the sun. He awoke shivering. Then he broke out in a sweat, believing it foreshadowed his father’s death. Billie had thought he might take over as chief when his father died, hoping to pass on what he’d learned from Joe and others at the Squamish Nation. It was different from the Plains bands where he’d spent his youth. The Squamish regularly worked in nearby towns and were more involved in the world than the Blackfoot. Nor did they think of themselves as second-class citizens. For Billie, it had been like visiting another country with new customs, language, and beliefs.
But he hadn’t expected to become chief so soon. Could he plant these positive values in his own tribal members? He knew that people, even the Sitsika, needed to change with the times. They couldn’t remain in a rut of their own making. Yet he also knew that making changes would be an uphill struggle. Leading them out of their swamp might take more skill than he had. Still, he was willing to try. He felt if he could help them recognize their worth, then they wouldn’t need him or anyone else. They could save themselves.
It turned out his dream had predicted his father’s death. One of his siblings sent a telegram about the burial service that had been planned. During the intervening years, Billie had visited the rez several times to catch up with family and tribal members, sharing some of his Squamish Nation experiences. His three sisters now lived with their husbands, and each had a slew of kids. They called him Uncle Billie, and he liked being part of their lives. Now he was willing to take a leadership role, though his approach would be different from his father’s. Billie packed up, said his emotional goodbyes to Joe, Doris, and the many friends he’d made there, and returned to Alberta for good.
Robin Falling Star, Billie’s old foe, had other ideas about who would replace the chief. The person who had damaged Billie’s eye, Robin also wanted to be in charge. In Billie’s absence, he had hung around with Billie’s old man, gaining his favor. He oversaw the chief’s purification ceremony before his death and arranged the subsequent service—along with Billie’s sisters. So when Billie drove onto the reserve in a truck with B.C. license plates, pulling up to the former leader’s house, Robin stood on the porch. His eyes narrowed, and he spat tobacco in Billie’s direction. Assuming Billie had taken off for good, Robin didn’t anticipate what happened next.
Billie stepped into the chief’s house, carrying his suitcases. Many of his earlier insecurities had vanished, and he strode into the room with new confidence, not fearful any longer of what people thought of him. Robin followed. B
illie said, I’ll take over now, Robin, setting his bags on the floor. I want to spend some time alone with my father and give him a proper sendoff.
Robin stood there, his mouth hanging open, eying Billie from top to bottom. A black patch hid the eye Robin had blinded, but Billie’s other eye stared at him until Robin had to turn away. This wasn’t the same Billie who had run off at fifteen. This man had broad shoulders and muscular arms. He spread his legs wide, hands on his hips, and acted as if he already were chief, appearing determined to claim his father’s mantle, something Robin hadn’t expected.
Later, at the gravesite, Robin started a whispering campaign. While Billie gave offerings of tobacco, food, and his father’s medicine bag, placing them in the plain wooden box to help the corpse in its journey to the spirit world, Robin claimed to anyone willing to listen that Billie was not a full-blooded Blackfoot. His mother’s a Scot, Robin said, raising his shoulders and frowning in scorn, spitting on the ground, as if Scots were vermin. Robin also spread the word that Billie was not a real man. He’ll be after your sons, Robin said, nodding at Billie. He’s going to destroy our tribe.
Meanwhile, Billie addressed the crowd gathered there by quoting Chief Crowfoot. He reminded everyone that in the late 1800s, Crowfoot had been a much-admired leader. He went on: That great chief had said, What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night. It is the breath of the buffalo in the wintertime. It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.
Billie continued, expressing his own beliefs now: Life is fleeting, but while we’re here, we want to show the world we have something important to offer. We must interact with those outside the reserve and expand our knowledge of the world around us.
Curva Peligrosa Page 12