Chasing Painted Horses

by Drew Hayden Taylor

  “Oh, oh. That police guy found the Horse,” Harry muttered to himself. Still carrying the tattered remnants of a Catholic upbringing, he crossed himself. In a brief second, the old man saw what could only be the glow of self-confidence inside the man replaced by something akin to regret, flavoured with guilt, peppered with a growing sense of fear. A veritable potpourri of dark emotions. He’d seen it all happen before. A lot of people who looked at that Horse knew badness was somehow attached to it. Yeah, it was made of a few layers of spray paint, but that didn’t mean anything. It’s never what it is that’s dangerous, it’s where it came from and what it means that can be the problem. Viruses can’t be seen. They’re smaller than those few layers of spray paint but can cause a lot of damage.

  That was understandable. Harry remembered the night he’d come upon the girl — she was a woman, but in so many ways she appeared to be just a young girl, barely taller than his waist — painting the Horse, a number of spray paint cans at her feet. Instinctively he didn’t like the Horse, and the Horse didn’t like him. And it had taken him a moment to realize that in actuality, there was no woman-girl standing there, glaring at him from in front of the wall, there was only the Horse, disguised as a little girl. And something about that wasn’t right to Harry. Giving the girl and the Horse a wide birth, Harry had turned and left, very anxious to relocate to a safe distance. There were other grates in this city with less provocative neighbours. Toronto was a city of grates. Eventually, though, the grate he still operated from was like his own patch of home. No other hole in the sidewalk felt right, and slowly he gravitated back to his corner. An unspoken detente had developed between him and the creature on the wall, so he resumed occupying his small patch of home, continuing to sit here, observing but never crossing the street. This was the agreement.

  He wondered only briefly if he should warn the man, because it seemed to Harry the man was taking far too much interest in the Horse, more than a casual glance or appreciation might warrant. Harry feared for the policeman because of the Horse. Yes, Harry could see the man had a gun, a bulletproof vest, a baton, all the usual accoutrements for aggression and self-defence. But what could they do against the Horse?

  Crossing himself once more for reasons he could barely remember, he declined to warn the man, as that would require him to venture near the Horse, which was against the agreement. We all choose our own paths, Harry thought. We can’t choose them for other people. Instead, Harry shuffled off to the nearest Tim Hortons, where life and problems were much simpler. He planned to take two crullers and call it a morning.

  The less Horse in his life, the better, he thought. A double-double in addition to the crullers, on a cold day like today, would solve most of his problems for the moment.

  As he walked to the Tim Hortons, the always-smiling Harry realized that he wasn’t smiling anymore.

  CHAPTER TWO

  RALPH THOMAS WAS about to turn eleven in a month and was fairly typical, as far as any ten-year-and-eleven-month-old kid on the Otter Lake reserve. He ran. He played. He watched television. He longed to be older. And he fought with his sister. As indicated, a fairly normal existence familiar to most kids, despite their culture.

  His sister, Shelley, was seven months into her thirteenth year. And, as is frequently the case between siblings in different grades, the two didn’t spend a lot of time together at the reserve school. In fact, she barely acknowledged her younger brother’s existence. The priorities of teenage girls frequently conflict with those of younger brothers.

  Luckily, this did not trouble the smaller boy, for he had his best friend, William James Williams. William was a bit bigger and rougher than Ralph, and he came from a much larger family. Somewhere in the middle, William was one of the eight kids of Justine and Floyd Williams. More importantly, you never called him Willie, or Billy, or any variation on the name. He would answer only to William.

  The two boys had little in common, but, being ten, that didn’t matter much. Friends during the summer, winter, and all seasons in between, they did everything together. William practically lived over at the Thomas house and took great delight in being an honorary member of their family. All except for Shelley. It would be polite to say they did not like each other. While it could be said brother and sister tolerated each other, that could not be said about the arrangement between Shelley and William. “Grubby little kiss-up” was Shelley’s opinion of her brother’s best friend. And “know-it-all bookworm” expressed William’s attitude towards his friend’s sister quite succinctly. Hate is too strong a word to use for such young minds, but it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that if one never saw the other ever again, few tears would be shed. Alien abductions were frequently hoped for by both parties.

  It was a Tuesday in the dark days of late January. Snow had come early and hard two months before, and the land was blanketed by millions of snowflakes. As a result, the roads were liberally sprinkled with salt and sand. Near the school, a snowplough had generously pushed all the snow from the parking lot up into one gigantic hill, perfect for the ancient and honoured contest known to children around the world as “King of the Mountain,” proving once again that Darwinism was still practised and embraced on this little patch of the Canadian Shield. The snow mountain in question must have been a good three or four metres high, perfect for battles of altitude and advantage. On the other side of the school was a shallow hill where students, though it was forbidden, occasionally took sliding trips down to the bottom. Somehow, flat pieces of cardboard would find their way to the top of the hill for use as impromptu toboggans. With this being an Anishnaabe school, all the students were well aware the word toboggan was actually an Anishnaabe word, so they took to the task of hurling themselves down that little hill like fish to water, teachers be damned (though they would never ever say that to their faces), telling themselves they were celebrating their linguistic and cultural heritage.

  Both Ralph and William loved tobogganing, but not today. Today’s recess was definitely a King of the Mountain day, and, as usual, William was winning. Since he was always willing to push a little harder and shove further, few liked to play with him at that particular game. Except for Ralph. Trusting his friend would never really hurt him, and believing that all things are possible, Ralph took a running start up the side of the snow mountain. He reached the top for less than two seconds before William sent him tumbling down to the bottom. Years of experience and a do-or-die attitude in life had made William a martial artist of piled snow.

  “Anybody else wanna take a shot?” William shouted victoriously. As usual, nobody else did.

  Ralph rolled over onto his hands and knees slowly, a little bruised here and there, covered in snow but still determined one of these days to survey the world from the top of that frozen mountain. Someday, somehow, William would be defeated. If there was one thing his brief academic study of history had taught Ralph, it was that eventually, all rulers, tyrants, despots, and kings — snow mountain or otherwise — were defeated. Sometimes it just took a little longer. And maybe a better set of boots.

  It was while in that position that he noticed a pair of boots standing next to his head, about a foot or so from his shoulder. He knew those boots well. Light brown and white, rubber soles but kind of a fake suede top. “Hey, Shelley, whatcha doin’ over here? Wanna play?” Looking up, the prone boy saw a disapproving look on his disapproving sister.

  “Yeah. Like I would. Look at It up there. What a jerk.”

  “Is that why you’re over here? To tell me he’s a jerk?”

  “I think you know that already. Everybody does except … It.” Shelley always referred to William as “It”, if an It can be a person. And there was always a little dramatic pause before uttering the word, like it was an unpleasant effort to even mention his existence. “Listen, I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to … do you need help getting up or something?”

  Ralph managed to g
et to his feet. The last thing he needed was other kids seeing his sister help him stand up after his best friend threw him down a snow mountain. Upright and facing his sister, he asked her, “What?”

  She was looking at the pile of snow. “What a stupid game. So boyish. Anyway, I went home for lunch, and Mom … well, she has this idea.”

  Ralph rolled his eyes. “A ‘Mom’ idea?”

  Shelley grimly nodded. “Yeah, a ‘Mom’ idea.”

  Liz Thomas, to put it politely, was a bit more free-spirited than most Otter Lake residents. If she were white and living in the 1960s, hippie-ish might be the best adjective. She was the first to introduce tofu to the reserve, with limited success. Most community members believed Indian tacos were not created with tofu in mind. In her philosophy, the world was an open book, and she wanted to read every page, as well as making her children and husband do so. Tye Thomas had long ago accepted his wife’s unique interests. When things got bad, there was usually a hockey game to lose himself in. Actually, sometimes there didn’t seem to be enough hockey games.

  Some theorize that’s why he took up golf.

  “What now?” said Ralph.

  “She’s painted the bottom half of the wall next to the refrigerator black.”

  “She did? Black? Why did she do that?” Damn it. Ralph could feel snow deep in his boot. It was melting.

  “It seems we now have our own kind of chalkboard.” Shelley waited for her brother to react.

  “Oh.” He paused for a moment, contemplating what his sister had just said.

  “Why do we have our own kind of chalkboard?”

  “Because she wants us to draw pictures.” This succeeded in getting a furrowed brow from Ralph, the snow water in his boot now forgotten.

  “Pictures? Of what?”

  Looking over her shoulder to make sure Vanessa was still talking to Julia and hadn’t wandered away, Shelley was already bored with talking to her brother. It seemed she always had to explain stuff to him. “Of whatever. I don’t know. Our mother, for whatever reason, wants us and some other kids to draw pictures to let out our inner artist. She now calls it the Everything Wall.”

  There was a moment of silence as Ralph processed this information. “The Everything Wall. What the heck is that? I don’t think I got an inner artist. Or an outer one. Oh, god. Shelley, do something!”

  “Can’t. Already tried. It’s done. You know Mom. So you and I have been told to invite people over after school to draw pictures.”

  “Pictures? That’s embarrassing.”

  “Yes. I am aware of that, but there’s more. I think she knew we’d feel this way, so as some kind of lure, there will be a weekly prize for the best picture.”

  “Prize? What kind of prize?”

  “Again, I don’t know. Ask her.” Shelley could tell William was watching them, but glancing up at him high atop the snow might indicate she was aware of his existence in this universe. “I’m going now.”

  She turned to leave. Ralph followed her for two steps. “Shelley.”

  “Nothing I can do, Ralph. But just do me a favour.” She stopped, taking a deep breath. “For God’s sake, don’t invite … It.” She visibly shuddered. “I see enough of … It as it is.” With that, Shelley walked away in the direction of her own friends, most of whom would not be seen dead standing atop a pile of dirty snow.

  Ralph stood a moment, pondering the repercussions of Shelley’s message. Drawing? Chalkboards? Prizes? Obviously he loved their mother, but he frequently wondered if all parents worked at embarrassing their children. Some, like William’s, had raging fights in public. The one they’d had in church had become a local legend, repeated frequently by adults over cans of beer. But most parents, he thought, had a much lower embarrassment rating than his and Shelley’s.

  He remembered the time his mother had gone out and bought a cow, hoping to have their own milk and, who knows, down the road maybe make some cheese and butter. There were two additional acres of land behind their house, and it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Liz had been in a holistic, organic state of mind. It all made perfect sense to her. Again, at the time. Unfortunately, she bought the wrong kind of cow. The bovine wholesaler had misunderstood her missives about providing for her family and had delivered a cow fattened for slaughtering, not milking. Though the whole family ate and adored beef, the idea of taking the life of Angus, both the cow’s name and breed, seemed tantamount to harvesting a pet for appetizers. After much embarrassment, it was decided the cow would go to a nearby petting zoo; thus ended a very expensive experiment, but the legend continued for months and years after.

  “Hey, whatcha thinking about?” With nobody to challenge him, William had come down the mountain in search of something interesting.

  Ralph sighed. “My mom again.”

  “I like your mom.” William shoved his hands deep into his jacket. Being the middle child — actually the fifth in a line of eight — he lived in a house of perpetual hand-me-downs. And somehow, gloves never made it past the third or fourth brother.

  “You like anybody who will feed you. You’re like a stray dog.”

  “Woof!” William smiled at his own joke.

  The snow deep in his right boot had officially melted completely. Ralph would spend the rest of the day with a wet sock as well as having to look forward to whatever his mother had concocted when he got home. Supposedly there was a test or something next period in geography, about places he quite probably would never have the chance to visit in person. “William, you can draw, right?”

  He nodded eagerly. “Yeah, I can draw. Everybody can draw. Just some people like me do it better. Why?”

  “Well …” And Ralph told his friend about his mother’s latest escapade, despite his sister’s adamant request.

  Unlike Ralph and Shelley, William’s reaction was considerably more positive. “Cool. I like prizes. I’ll be over right after school.”

  Suddenly the school bell rang, indicating the end of recess, and all fun stopped within a twenty-metre radius of the building. Abruptly, Ralph felt William, his very competitive friend, slap his shoulder while running past him, almost knocking him over. “Race you to the school doors!” And then he was gone, sprinting across the parking lot. Years of being William’s friend had taught Ralph many things, including never to let a challenge go unchallenged. One of the things William admired about his buddy, though the bro code of that age would never allow him to admit it, was Ralph’s determination to somehow beat him at almost anything, or at the very least to try to keep up. It would never happen, of course, but he had to give Ralph an unvoiced, “I respect you for your attempts, and by all means, do keep trying.”

  Almost immediately, Ralph bolted after his friend, hot on his heels. William tried to dislodge and lose him as he slalomed between the teachers’ cars, but Ralph was determined, practically fixated on the back of William’s head. Staying directly on his friend’s tail, centimetre by centimetre he almost caught up to him near the last line of the teachers’ cars, but William quickly ducked behind a large van and suddenly doubled back.

  Ralph, instead, ran full blast around the van and directly into a little girl. An irresistible boy met an immovable girl, and both went down in a flurry of arms, legs, and toques, one young body bouncing off a Chrysler LeBaron. Ralph was first to get up, convinced he had caught ever-elusive William, and turned, ready to pounce. Instead, Danielle Gaadaw lay sprawled at his feet. Best described as small, thin, waifish, practically elf-like, Danielle was easy to miss in any crowd. But here, alone, her back against the LeBaron tire, surrounded by a now-ripped bag of potato chips spread liberally out on the ground in a semi-circle, she was quite obvious. Danielle blinked a few times, not quite sure what had happened.

  “Oh, geez, sorry … uh … Danielle. I didn’t mean to knock you down. I was running and …” Ralph ineffectively tried to pick up her soiled c
hips into something salvageable. Danielle was almost a year younger than him and almost four inches smaller. He knew her slightly from school. “Are you okay?” She nodded, managing a small smile, and slowly managed to crawl to her feet. Most of the clothes she was wearing seemed baggy and worn, except for her snow jacket, which was too small. They all looked like they were meant for anybody but her. Ralph could see she was shivering.

  That realization quickly evaporated as the final buzzer rang, giving the tardy kids a thirty-second warning. Off in the distance, he could see William standing by the door, looking around for him, grinning victoriously. “We’d better get inside. You’d better hurry up. Sorry again.” Quickly he thrust the mess of potato chips he’d collected at her and ran for the door. Most of the crushed potato chips dribbled through her fingers and down the front of her coat onto the damp, snowy ground. By the time Ralph got to the school door, Danielle had been forgotten.

  Back in the parking lot, the little girl stood quietly, so quietly that not even the snowflakes falling gently around her took notice. “That’s okay,” she said to the empty parking lot as more potato chip crumbs fell off her to the ground, along with the snowflakes. Then, putting one foot in front of the other, she made her way across the deserted playground, almost disappearing behind a variety of snowmen and forts. Casually brushing the bits and pieces of her meagre lunch off her faded dirty white jacket, she politely deposited the now useless chip bag into a big garbage bin. The young girl wasn’t worried about missing the bell. Danielle seldom got in trouble, because the teachers either felt sorry for her or didn’t think it was worth their time and effort. Sometimes being anonymous has its advantages. But not often.

  “SO, DID YOU invite some of your friends?” asked Liz Thomas, mother of Ralph and Shelley. She was cutting back and forth across the kitchen, like a yacht tacking to find the right wind. Stocky, but still possessing the energy that could fuel a thousand bingo games, Liz put away the groceries she had bought that day.