Born With a Tooth

  “He spoke,” she said. Nothing new. He’d been putting his mouth around certain words in Cree and English for a whole year. “No,” she said. “He spoke whole sentences. He spoke like that priest does, about water covering the land.” At the time I didn’t think much of it. I brought Remi to church since he was born. Had him pray right along with me to keep winning bingo. Maybe he had a gift for repeating. But mother — old school. From then on she had Remi to every medicine man, every circle, every feast, every sweat when his lungs got strong enough. It got so that I teased him, though he couldn’t grasp that. Called him aneegishush dekonun. Little frog medicine man. He smiles and shows his crooked teeth when I call him this, even now. I like that he likes it.

  He spoke strange words for a while, talking like a slow minister on a roll. I remember the first time I myself heard him speak like that. He was six. We’d just fitted him for glasses. Black, thick-rimmed things. He was angry and hated them. “The Lord says, Repent!” he shouted at Patrick and me when we got him home. “Heed my word and be saved!” Then he went back to talking like he always did. Slurred words and lots of smiling. I was never quite sure if he was acting or not, wasn’t sure where it came from, but I got used to it. You get used to anything after a while. Right about the time he turned twelve, he quit talking like a minister. We don’t know why. He just went back to being a handicapped kid, his tongue thick when he talked, his mind searching hard for the words.

  Mary and Shirley and Suzanne are the three others with anigeeshe awasheeshuk. None of those kids ever talked like prophets, though. They are all younger than Remi. All born in the Abitibi Canyon. All of us lived in Abitibi Canyon when our husbands worked on the railroad crew. All of us who had frog children conceived them while we were living there. Doesn’t take a genius. Again, government men came in to investigate. These ones had green parkas. Lots of needles. Lots of questions that made the other girls blush. Lots of prodding. Lots more blushing. Results are inconclusive, the government men finally said. Possible coincidence. Possibly eating the same fish poisoned by a sunken Soviet nuclear sub thirty-five hundred kilometres away. Lots of possibilities.

  “What about the possibility that these children are gifts from manitous?” Mother says. “Lots of possibilities,” I say like a government man. “Results are inconclusive.”

  When Remi started growing, he didn’t stop. At eight, his frame curved like a bow, he was still a head taller than the others his age. At twelve he could carry twenty-five geese for kilometres, on a pole slung across his arched back. At fifteen he was as big as his father, one of the biggest men on the reserve. This in a band of big people. To top it off, Remi will always have to wear those thick black glasses that magnify his eyes. He breaks all the others. There’s no getting past the fact he looks like a big, crazy Cree.

  Remi’s father is what they call an activist. He’s always filled Remi’s head with stories of how we’re an Unceded First Nation, how our particular band never signed a treaty. I thought Remi didn’t understand any of it till one night, just before all hell broke loose on the reserve, I told him to help me with dinner and he shot right back, “No. I’m not seeded.” I sent him out hunting with his father. That trip changed things for good.

  When they came back, my husband told the reserve of bulldozers being unloaded and work crews scurrying around like ants upriver of the canyon. Most were shocked that we hadn’t been told of this latest venture on what everyone considers tribal land. But I wasn’t. I’ve known Jonah Koosees for a long time. I knew as soon as my husband told me about new work crews up there that the OK had been given by Jonah, without council even knowing about it. Rumour is Jonah’s got a bank account down south that would make the Pope jealous. It’s obvious by his clothes mail-ordered from Toronto and his car that he lives by other means.

  Jonah might as well have admitted his guilt when the next day he didn’t show when half the band boated upriver to see for themselves and make a plan of action. My man was there, Remi beside him, grinning and drooling. Didn’t fit the mood. I came too, sad to see my special place with so many people on it, white and Indian alike.

  We set up camp and started cook-fires along the riverbank. Just like the old days. The workers watched nervously from their camp downriver, images of scalpings and savages dancing around campfires all night, I’m sure. Just like the old days. I make sure that Mary and Shirley and young Suzanne, the newest Abitibi club member, have their tents right by mine. Maybe if the four of us try hard enough, we can pretend there isn’t anybody else around. Nobody’s really got a plan at this point. The young warriors want to force a standoff and stop construction, with violence if necessary. Patrick heads back to the reserve, to a phone, so he can call lawyers and get an injunction until we can sort out exactly what’s happening.

  We sit and drink hot tea and cook bannock for our children over the cook-fires. The smell of the raisins and fresh dough makes me hungry. I watch Remi play with the other women’s children, his big, awkward body hulking over the two little ones, his paw hands gently picking them up and dipping them, giggling, into the river like something I might have read in the Bible once. Remi does this over and over. Picks up Mary’s little boy, Jacques, who’s only six and round like a black-haired piglet, under the arms and raises him over his head until Jacques squeals. Then Remi, with a look of deep concentration and his tongue sticking a bit out of his mouth, dips Jacques into the cold stream of brown river up to his waist, Jacques’ face contorting from a grin to the surprised O of shock, a whine like a fire truck coming from his mouth.

  Remi then picks up Albert, who’s thirteen and much bigger, and Remi must strain to do this. Albert is thick-limbed and stronger than he knows. Shirley is always complaining of bruised arms and strained muscles. Remi knits his brows, squats like a weightlifter, heaves Albert into the air, holding him there like a prize or an offering, then splashes him down into the cold water, where Albert moans with a child’s happiness.

  This is when Jacques runs up and Remi begins the whole process again. He would continue this cycle until he dropped from exhaustion if I didn’t interrupt him. Remi needs these cycles, lives for the repetition of events and daily grind. Mother says he is the old Cree epitomized, his desire for cycles and seasons and the healing circle.

  I see that there are a couple of white workers standing by a pickup truck on the new little gravel road that’s been carved out of the bush in the last few weeks. They lean against the truck and watch what’s becoming most of the reserve set up camp.

  Suzanne’s little boy, he’s still just a tiny thing. Suzanne breastfeeds him discreetly and watches the boys play. She is scared of the intensity, the complete focus that Remi exhibits in his actions. He’s like a machine. Or an alien, she thinks — I can see it in her eyes. Suzanne will get used to it. Maybe one day it will even become a calming thing for her.

  I watch the two workers’ eyes glide to Remi and the boys. First one man stares, then he nudges his friend in astonishment. Both talk and laugh, pointing like they are the only ones who exist here. I hope Mary doesn’t notice this. She will stomp over, and then stomp over them. Mary’s a hothead. Although one of the workers looks Swampy Cree, I don’t think he is. He would never be so obvious in his rudeness. Suddenly I see that Mary does notice. My stomach tightens.

  “What’s this all about?” she growls, looking at the men. Mary stands up. The men see her. They stop laughing. She walks over to them and I can see her exchanging words. The two men look down at their workboots, hands in pockets. They nod and the Indian-looking one answers. He looks up into Mary’s eyes briefly, then down again. She walks back, the two men following.

  “Rather than them making fun, I told them to come meet the kids,” she says, dropping her weight onto her haunches. The two are nervous. Scolded schoolboys. We women sit and look up, wait for them to introduce themselves.

  “I’m Matthew,” the skinny white one says.

  “I’m Darren,” the other says.

  “You
Anishnaabe?” I ask Darren. He just looks at me. That answers it. “Are you Indian?” I ask.

  “Oh,” he answers. “No. My parents were born in Japan, but I’m Canadian.”

  “I’m not an Indian either,” the skinny one says. No shit, kemo sabe.

  “These are our children,” Mary says. “Funny, eh?” The two men look down at their boots again.

  “It’s just that I’ve never seen retarded Indians before,” Darren says. Mary stares at him.

  “We don’t call them retarded,” I say. “We call their condition an environmentally induced mental handicap. The doctors came up with a name for this particular condition. Abitibi Canyon Syndrome.”

  “Yeah,” Shirley says. “You work here long enough, your kids might turn out the same.” Darren and Matthew stare at one another.

  “Go play with them,” Mary says, shooting her thumb towards our children. Suzanne looks up, panicked. Quiet girl isn’t used to Mary’s strong personality. Shirley laughs.

  “Yeah, get yourselves acquainted,” she says. The two really look nervous now, but they follow her command, not strong enough to resist her will.

  For the first long while, the two men stand behind the children, not sure how to enter their circle of play. The children know they are there. I can see their sidelong glances. If you want in, they seem to say, we’re not going to make it easy. Good boys. Eventually, Matthew sits and removes his boots and socks and rolls up his pants. He walks into the river carefully and says, “Hi,” to the children. They ignore him. Matthew walks out a little deeper, then suddenly slips, disappearing into the water. Remi and Albert stare, concerned, but when Matthew’s head pops up from the water, grinning, they begin to laugh, their laughing turning to howls, eyes squinting, mouths wide open. Makes the rest of us on the bank laugh too. Jacques looks at all of us, not sure what’s so funny, but then joins in, not wanting to be left out. Matthew stands up and bows to us.

  It isn’t long before Darren is sitting with the boys, carefully explaining to them how the dam is going to be built. He used the sand to construct a model, and the boys watch, transfixed. Remi looks from the sand model to Darren’s face. He’s completely mesmerized by the talk, by Darren. After a while, Remi grabs Darren’s hand and holds it in his. Darren looks surprised, but continues talking. Remi’s never taken so quick to a stranger before. Darren will say something, and Remi repeats the last word or two, squinting behind his glasses and smiling. “Dam,” he repeats, and “construction,” and “dynamite.”

  “Oh shit,” Matthew says, tapping Darren’s shoulder. “Here comes the asshole.” They both turn their heads and watch a large man with blond hair stomp through the sand towards them. He carries a hard hat, wears a white T-shirt under a long-sleeved shirt. Looks important.

  “What the hell are you two dipshits doing here playing with kids? You asking me to dock your pay?” Darren and Matthew turn their heads from him like it isn’t important what he’s saying. “Better yet,” the hard hat says, “I’ll stick you on that train and you can crawl back to wherever it is you crawled from.” Matthew’s eyes sparkle with hate. Darren continues to stare calmly out at the river. “Don’t dare give me that look, son,” the hard hat says.

  “I ain’t your son,” Matthew spits back. Darren stands up and pats Matthew’s shoulder to calm him before things go too far. They get up and follow the man back to work. Remi waves to Darren’s back.

  For the next days we all camp and burn great fires at night. We send sparks and smoke into the sky high as we can. My man remains away, working on an injunction. Small stones to stop a river. Rumours fly through the camp, worse when it turns dark. The government will flood our reserve and move us to a barren place down south. The army is being called in, fearful of another Oka. The dynamite will blast soon and the construction crews don’t care whether we’re in the way or not. The worst of it is that we all know these are real possibilities. The great fires at night, tree trunks stacked in teepees ten metres high, are our sign to the crew and the manitous watching that we are still out here in Abitibi Canyon, in the same bush by the same river we’ve lived by mawache oshkach, from the beginning.

  Patrick visits on the third day to bring news and some supplies. He calls us all to a meeting on the riverside and tells us it’s important to stay. “We have to slow down work in any way we can,” he says. “In any lawful way we can.” The warriors grumble. “It could be a week before we have an injunction,” he shouts to our crowd. “Historically, the more work the crew does before an injunction, the smaller our chance of stopping the dam being built. If the court sees not much was built, they are much more likely to rule against more building.”

  “And what of Jonah Koosees?” one of the women calls out in Cree.

  “He’s still disappeared,” my husband answers back in Cree. The crowd talk among themselves. “That is the best news we can have,” Patrick shouts. “It will be a damning thing to see that the chief who secretly made this deal has run away. Just focus on ways to legally slow down their work. We can win this court battle.”

  So we devise ways to slow things down. One morning a barricade of trees appears on the work road leading to the river. Every evening we stay up late into the night, playing loud music and screaming and laughing like drunken Injuns until dawn to keep the workers awake and nervous in their beds. We are good actors, having outlawed liquor on our site. From what I can tell, everyone obeys. We invite workers who are brave enough to come for tea and bannock during their breaks, and keep them talking with us as long as we can. From what I can see, our plan is working. It is hard to tell of any progress, other than the work road that leads to the river and the litter lying around.

  But on the sixth day all of us are shocked to see great mounds of dirt being bulldozed into the river from either side. At first we think the fools are making a dam of mud, like children do in small streams, but we quickly find out that this is simply the first of many foundations to slow the river’s course. One old fellow who’s worked on dams before says that men would actually slow the great Abitibi to a trickle for a time by shutting dams farther up the river, and from these mounds of dirt that we now see built up and falling into the river they can build further foundations, and pour tons and tons of concrete. So this dirt is how it all starts. I can’t picture my stretch of river here running dry. I push from my mind the image of a concrete monster lying in our river and controlling it like some greedy giant.

  I sit with Mary and we debate how much slower the river runs now due to the mounds of dirt that stand like giant breasts on each side. “It isn’t important that the river is slower right now,” she says. “Just look at it.” We both stare at the once pure water, running so muddy now that our children can no longer swim in it. “The silt by the reserve will continue to build up until all we are left with are shallows and sandbars,” she says. “Not to mention no more place upriver for us girls to get away to.”

  Darren and Matthew continue visiting us when they can, playing with the children and talking with us. At first, we don’t trust them — we never fully do in those days of camping — but they become a regular enough sight, and try to learn everything they can about how the dam is going to change things in big ways for us. We rely on the river for everything from transportation to food to drinking water. Now it is going to end up in someone else’s control, its volume and even its course changed by the flick of some stranger’s fingers on a couple of buttons. We’ve been cheated out of any say by one of our own and by strangers who don’t care.

  By the eighth day, I can see our camp is losing its focus. Some have packed up and left, and the ones who remain grumble more and more about what good we can possibly be doing. I admit that the shine of an unexpected camp-out is beginning to dull for me too. The ground is hard at night and there is little shade during the days. Unlike our autumn and spring outings, there is no anticipation of the arrival of geese and the happy work they bring, the gossip and laughter while plucking and cleaning and smoking. The
one positive thing that remains is that Remi has made a new friend in Darren, and actually speaks to him. After Remi’s brief stint as reserve prophet when he was young, it was like his tongue had thickened; he grunted more than he spoke as he grew older. But sitting near him and Darren as they lounge by the river, I hear him say words like “construction” and “Darren” and “Abitibi” as clearly as if he was never born a frog child. And I am happy for it. If only I knew what I am exposing my boy to.

  We shout out on the tenth day when Patrick pulls up in his freighter canoe with the news that he’s gotten an injunction. Work stops. Even the crew looks happy. But not the foreman. He walks down to where Matthew and Darren sit by us, and fires them on the spot.

  “Don’t come back when work starts up again,” he spits at them. Remi looks as scared as I’ve ever seen him, staring up at that man.

  “Fuck you,” Matthew shouts at him, standing up and pushing him. The foreman snaps his arm out and drops Matthew with a solid punch in the mouth.

  “You want some too, nip?” he says to Darren. Darren just looks away. “Hanging out with goddamn Indian retards,” the foreman mutters, walking away. “We’ll be back and working soon enough,” he shouts at us. Mary stands to follow him, but I hold her back.

  “We won,” I told her. “All they got done in ten days are those stupid mounds.” I point to them and all our eyes follow. Darren helps Matthew up and they walk away without a word to Remi. Within hours we have broken camp and are on the river back to home.

  That night word began trickling down to us that the foundations of the dam have been blown up. Some actually claimed they had heard the explosion, like distant thunder in the middle of the night. At first, talk was that the crew had done it on purpose, on the orders of the government. They weren’t going to bother fighting a long battle with us in court. But then word spread that the explosion had actually been a horrible accident and that was when we learned that the foreman had been killed in it. We felt bad for him, for his family if he had any. But that did seem to put an end to any talk of a dam. The way I figured it, the manitous were protecting special land. They were the ones responsible for the explosion.