He sat silent for a long time after, staring into the fire, his back to me. “I allowed you to watch, Little One,” he said when he finally spoke, “because one day I will be gone and you might have to do the same.” The ache in my stomach was gone. When he went outside I placed my hand between my legs and then brought it to my face, stared at the little smear of blood on my fingers, hoping to see some sign of what awaited me.
Within days, our hunters returned with as much moosemeat as each of them could carry. They’d found a large bull where my father had told them to look. Something unwanted had left us. A thaw settled in the very morning we prepared the feast. Winter’s back had been broken. Colour came into the children’s faces. The adults once again walked with purpose.
More than ever I kept to myself now, too old to play with the children, too young to be accepted by the adults. From that time on, I realized long after, the rumours about me began, talk fuelled by full stomachs, whispers of half-truths that grow wings as they leave the speaker’s mouth and flit around like sparrows, landing where they please. I had been witness to brutal deeds that no child should see, I’d been struck mute by shock, my womanhood had come to me like a tainted thing, a sick animal, at the moment it should not have. I heard all of this and it pushed me deeper into my shy silence. My fourteenth year had come, that time when the wisdom of the world begins to show itself but cannot be expressed in childish words. So I chose not to speak, always watching. What the gossips did not realize was that I wasn’t afraid of my father’s actions, his gifts. I desperately wanted to possess them for myself.
WHEN THE SNOWS RECEDED, the clans came together at the mouth of the Albany River not far from where the wemistikoshiw, the pale ones of the Hudson’s Bay Company, had built a post. It had been a poor winter for furs, the bad side of the seven-year cycle, which did not make the company men very happy. Those Cree who did have furs were treated well, given flour and sugar for their bellies, rum that loosened their tongues. Some began to talk.
All the clans that had gathered already seemed to know the others’ winter hardships and triumphs. Unspoken law said Cree business remained Cree business and was not to be discussed with the wemistikoshiw. But rum is a sly and powerful weapon. I’ve watched it drown our people all of my life. In the month of the frog moon when the fishing is at its best, the rum drinker George Netmaker, father of Joseph, brought an important message to my father. What my father had done over the winter seemed to have angered the Hudson’s Bay Company men, and they demanded he come to them to discuss his actions so that they might decide whether or not he should be considered a murderer. We laughed at this. Wasn’t it the wemistikoshiw who were on our land? Was it not they who relied on us? My father ignored the news.
For the most part, our lives continued as they always had. Hunting, fishing, trapping, socializing late into nights that stayed bright, storing up on food and laughter, preparing as best we could through the brief summer for winter’s return. This was my summer of bitter happiness, moods sweeping over me like summer thunderstorms. I hated the changes, the monthly blood, the sprouting of breasts. I was appalled and mesmerized by what I was becoming.
As we prepared that autumn for the path of the geese to cross ours, the wemistikoshiw came with many rifles. They were North-West Mounted Police, and their uniform buttons shone brightly in the sun. Their leather boots squeaked with each step, and their strange words broke harshly from thin, tight lips. George Netmaker translated. They had come for my father. He was to sit in their circle to discuss if what he’d done last winter violated their laws. He was to go with them now and wait in one of their jails because we were a people who would not sit still, and who knew if we might run away and never return?
My father was led away with his big hands bound behind him as our women wailed for the future. To take the hookimaw who was to lead us into the bush for the long winter was unimaginable. Ignorance. Malice. I cursed them with everything I had as they receded with my father into their own world.
Most of us survived the winter and returned in spring to the Albany River where news awaited that my father was dead. But I had already known this. The convulsions had come back to me in our winter camp, convulsions that I thought had left with my childhood. I saw it all. The tiny room with no windows that they locked him in, no natural light or fresh air or game. I saw how within a week he’d stopped talking, how within a month he’d stopped eating. I saw how they kept his body from us, how they buried it underground, a place where he’d surely be unhappy.
My mother carried on with my education, teaching which roots and leaves could heal and which could kill. Rabbit never seemed interested. What my mother could not teach me was something that I already had. The vision to see little parts of the near and far future, have moments to come wash over me, left me drained and shaken so that I could not stand. Once I considered this a gift. I no longer feel so sure.
I had the power and watched it slowly recede. I am the second to last in a long line of windigo killers. There is still one more.
At the time of my birth the wemistikoshiw were still dependent on us. Like little children they came for handouts. When the winters grew too cold we gave them fur to wear against their skin and dried moosemeat for their empty stomachs. When the blackflies of spring threatened to drive them mad we taught them to use the green boughs of the black spruce on their fires. We showed them where in the rivers the fish hid when summer grew warm and how to trap the plentiful beaver without driving them away forever. The Cree are a generous people. Like forest ticks the wemistikoshiw grabbed onto us, growing fatter by the season, until the day came when suddenly it was we who answered to them.
Long past my father’s death I remember how they laughed at me, a woman living alone in the bush and trapping animals after all my relations had gone to the reserves. Their laughing came less often as season after season my furs continued to be the thickest, the most plentiful.
The world is a different place in this new century, Nephew. And we are a different people. My visions still come but no one listens any longer to what they tell us, what they warn us. I knew even as a young woman that destruction bred on the horizon. In my early visions, numbers of men, higher than any of us could count, were cut down. They lived in the mud like rats and lived only to think of new ways to kill one another. No one is safe in such times, not even the Cree of Mushkegowuk. War touches everyone, and windigos spring from the earth.
PASITEW
Fire
I AWAKE TO THE RHYTHMIC SCRATCH of Auntie’s paddle on the gunwale. The pain in my body is a long moan. Something tells me to sit up, so I force myself. This is the place. “Here,” I say to Auntie. My voice is hollow in my head. Auntie stops paddling.
On the bank, taller trees give way to the green shoots of new growth. This strange dividing line stretches off as far as we can see. A fire line. This is the place where the great fire tired out and stopped, the line of its death so sharp I can imagine the fire simply dropping into the earth. “Elijah and I found a dead moose not far from here,” I tell Auntie. She leans closer to hear me. “It had roasted in the fire. We were hungry and ate a part of it.” It’s strange to hear my own voice. “When we reached this place I thought we’d crossed into their world.”
I sit up for a time and look at how the bush has grown again. Baby black spruce no higher than my chest stretch out before me, and wildflowers sprinkle themselves across the damp ground. Fire is sometimes good for the bush, makes it come back more fully. But back there, back at Ypres and the Somme, I think the earth is so wrecked with shells and poison gas that nothing good will ever grow again.
I lie down, exhausted from the small effort of sitting. For a moment I think I feel the acrid scent of charred wood tickle my nose. The moment I close my eyes I am on the river again, but it is the one of years ago, before the war, when Elijah and I paddled it together.
I follow a lynx’s tracks early in the morning. They are near the river. A short trot into the bush, the t
racks suddenly double back toward the water, heading south to the shore. Near the ashes of last night’s campfire, we can see that the lynx made its way to the bank and casually headed south. Here on the riverbank its movements are easy to follow, the broad pads of its footprints perfect. Elijah and me, we follow them out onto a wide plain of river mud where the water has dropped over the last weeks. In the centre of the plain, the tracks end. Both of us look around to see if the lynx bounded, but in all directions the mud is unspoiled.
Elijah, he tries to make light of it, but I see in his eyes that even he is nervous. “Water came up last night and washed them away,” he says in English as we load the canoe and push off. He doesn’t say this in Cree. Their tongue is better for lies.
We stick close to the shore of the river, heading south against the strong north-flowing current, making good time. The August days are warm, the night’s coolness chased away by a campfire. I’ve never been this far south of Mushkegowuk before. When we come to rapids, I pole and Elijah pulls with a rope from shore. Both of us have lost the laziness and weight of the summer’s feasting.
This new country, it isn’t so bad. Not so different from home. I like the thought that each paddle stroke takes me farther into a new land. This is good, I say in my head as my paddle dips. I’m in new country.
Days after the lynx, with the river calm and the paddling easier, great grey clouds rise on the horizon. Flecks of ash dot the water. Soon the smell of smoke surrounds us.
Elijah is the first to put words to it. “The world is burning.” We both stare. This part of the river is a long, straight stretch. To the south, grey columns billow, heavy like they’re full of rain. “Let’s paddle closer,” he says.
I feel the warm breeze blowing to the west. I say the obvious. “The wind is in our favour.”
We push toward the smoke in the distance until it perches on our heads, in our clothes and hair. Elijah guesses out loud that the fire travels away from us.
I want to tell Elijah that even so, trying to get any closer seems foolish. But is there any point? Elijah, him, he lives for what the day will bring.
We canoe upriver for many more hours, and my hands grow sore from fighting the current. I’m happy when Elijah suggests it’s time to make camp. The smoke swallows the sun far to the west and a pall falls over the river. I think I can hear the fire, growling in the distance. A living thing.
“Which direction do you think it’s travelling now?” I ask. The wind has died and the night sky to the south is orange.
“I don’t know,” Elijah finally admits. “Your Auntie’s the conjurer. What would she do?” He laughs and slaps my arm. “Maybe you should sleep with your eyes open.”
The danger of the fire so close seems to do something to Elijah that I am not sure I like.
We sit on our blankets and watch the sky. To the north the black of night lies, a sleeping bear. But here, it’s as if the North Lights have gone south and soured, their cool blues and greens sickened to an orange that dances just loud enough to keep me awake. We talk. Elijah bounces his legs like a child having to pee.
“You say you don’t believe in signs,” I tell him.
“Hmm,” Elijah says, looking toward the south. “And just what is this fire trying to tell us?”
I don’t answer.
I must sleep soundly for some time. Distorted dreams come. Deep grey mud along the riverbank tries to pull me under. I hear whispering and mumblings in a strange tongue. A fog all around me rises, and when it is a man’s height off the ground it begins to shower down like a burning rain onto my face. I hear a booming in the distance like an elder’s drum. My body shakes with the noise.
Elijah shouts and kicks me. “Get up,” he says, as hot ash and cinders swirl around us.
I stand, confused, shading my eyes in the bright light of trees burning. My throat constricts in a gag.
Elijah scrambles with his blanket wrapped about him, grabbing our few belongings and our rifles. “We’ve got to get to the canoe,” Elijah shouts. “Ashtum! Come!”
I feel a burn like wasps stinging my scalp, and when I reach up to brush the annoyance away, the cinders that smoulder on my head burn my fingers as well. I run in the direction of the river just in time to remember that our food, the flour and lard and moosemeat, is tied in a tree away from animals. Too late to get it now.
Not able to breathe, I bend closer to the ground and continue on, listening for Elijah’s voice. We’d camped only ten yards from the river, but I can’t see the water. The smoke suffocates me, and a stand of trees to my left bursts into flame with a whoosh and crackle, hurting my ears deep inside. I drop to my knees and crawl, shouting out to Elijah. I cannot hear him answer.
The mud between the stones tells me that I’m close to the river. A few feet more and my hands find it. A line of trees close to the bank lights up, illuminating the surface of the water for a few seconds, burning my back. I dive, sure that I am on fire, but when I emerge I find that I’m all right. I lie there with just my nose and mouth and eyes above the surface. The sudden image of Elijah being burned alive forces me to move. I rise out of the water as much as I can, shouting out, “Elijah!” but my voice sounds tiny and weak in the smoke. The fire’s a continuous thunder in my ears.
The smooth pull of the river helps to orient me. Every time I can muster a deep enough breath, I call out for him. Panic slips itself inside my body. I am trying to brace myself for the frantic charge up the bank in search of Elijah when the weight of the canoe bumps into me. I grab for the gunwale and feel my way along it until the shock of a warm hand makes me jump.
Elijah bursts up from the water. He too has taken shelter in it. I shout, “It’s me. We’ve got to go.”
“Look at this!” Elijah hollers. “Incredible!” His eyes sparkle in the firelight. “Why didn’t you follow me?”
“I lost you.” I do not know if he hears me. I cannot hear myself.
“Drape your wet blanket over the canoe,” he yells at me. “The cinders are going to burn holes in the canvas.” He points to his own blanket stretched across the canoe. I follow his direction.
“It didn’t look like you were too concerned about me,” I shout, but Elijah doesn’t seem to hear. A large tree cracks and crashes close by and a moment later a red rain of embers falls on us. “We’ve got to go with the current.” I point. “It will be easier. Just hold on and float out.”
“No! The fire’s running north faster than we could.” We look around at the exploding world, the flames lighting up the night. “If we head back north, all we’ll do is keep pace with the worst of it. It will eat us up.”
I am not sure. I ask, “How far south will we have to travel to get out of this?”
“It burned along the river already, burned up all the bush,” he says, and I think I see Elijah grin, his teeth glinting. Why? “I’m sure that a couple miles upriver it will be clear. Smoky, but clear.”
Around us, there is fire on all sides, bright walls of it. I hear a building roar and the hiss of embers falling into water. I breathe in and cough. “Let’s go then,” I shout. “For a little while. If there’s no let-up, we try floating out.” I look. Yes, Elijah, he is smiling.
I hold onto the stern and push while Elijah pulls on the bow. When our hands are on the gunwales, the falling embers burn them, so we both place our hands closer to the water’s surface. I feel the embers hit and sizzle on my wet head. We wade forward clumsily in the dark, feel our way over the rocks and sinking mud. Elijah tries to keep us chest deep, but often he loses his footing completely in the depths and is forced to float, holding onto the canoe. I can feel the both of us, at these times, drifting backwards.
“Let’s work our way shallower,” I shout up to Elijah, but when we’re waist deep we soon learn that the smoke’s too thick to breathe and the heat burns through our wet shirts. Sometimes, though, we find the right depth on a flat stretch where just our noses and half-closed eyes remain above water.
A long time pass
es and the burning world around us doesn’t let up. On a smooth stretch I bang on the canoe’s side to signal Elijah. We meet in the middle. “It’s not easing up,” I say.
“It will,” Elijah answers.
“Let’s rest here awhile.”
Elijah doesn’t answer.
We wait, not speaking, leaning into the current’s pull with lolling heads. Just as I motion to Elijah that we should move forward, Elijah points above, then ducks underwater. I look up as an arc of yellow fire shoots across the river. Carried on the wind’s back, it swoops over the wide stretch of water, a bridge of flame. Just as quickly as it appears, it’s gone.
Time moves slowly. We push the canoe against the current in the fire rain, stopping often to splash the blankets and our hair. A film of grey covers the water’s surface. “Maybe it’s coming time where we should go back the way we came,” I shout out finally, but if Elijah hears me, he doesn’t respond.
Many fires onshore flare up at once, and I notice that the wet blankets on the canoe are smoking. Soon after, the stink of burning wool fills my nostrils. I pound on the canoe again and shout, “I think the blankets are on fire. The canoe might be too.”
We pull the canoe in as close to the shore as the heat will allow and fill it with water so that it sinks. We load it with all the rocks we can find. Keeping our legs and bodies in the canoe, we sit again with our noses and eyes above water and wait.
“We’re only a few days’ paddle away once we get through this,” Elijah says. “Just keep focused on that.”
My eyes are closed later when Elijah’s foot pushes at me. “It’s getting lighter out,” he says.
I peer through the thick haze. To my left I see some light, greater than the fire’s. This little change boosts me. “Maybe the smoke is thinning out too,” I say.
We wait. My nose keeps going underwater, and the shock of breathing it in causes me to jolt awake, coughing. I can tell that Elijah’s tired too. I slip into half dreams, go back to my short time in the residential school, old Sister Magdalene and her stinking breath like burnt wool. I see her mouth moving as we boys sit frightened at our desks, her words pouring out like the river. “The old Cree are heathen and anger God,” she says. “The Cree are a backwards people and God’s displeasure is shown in that He makes your rivers run backwards, to the north instead of to the south like in the civilized world.” She smacks my desk with her ruler and sparks fly from it, a thin tree on fire. “When you accept Him He will perform a great miracle. He will cause the rivers in this barren place to run in the right direction.” I gasp awake when my head sinks into ashy water.