Keeper'n Me Page 7

  “Jane?”

  “Yeah, bro’?”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Only we say meegwetch.”

  “Say what?”

  “Meegwetch. In English it means thank you, but in our language it means more. Means … I hold what you’ve given me with honor. Think about it. Now, we gotta be up early to meet the bus in Kenora. You gonna be okay out here?”

  “Yeah. Just wanna sit and think about things awhile.”

  When she’d gone off to bed I sat there in the darkness of my brother’s cabin looking out at the pure velvet of that northern night. I’d remembered nothing of my childhood. It was like blank pages in a photo album. The things I’d seen that day and the things I’d been told about my early life and the lives of my family were new and strange. I felt like someone who’d come back from a coma and had to be reintroduced to his life. The missing years as cold and black as the holes between stars.

  As I drifted off into sleep I thought of my father and what he might think of me now. I thought of his last night of this earth and how the wind must have whistled through his gut like it had whistled through mine all those years. About his loss and mine too. About the connection to a childhood that teetered briefly on the edge of darkness, faltered maybe in its misery, reaching back for footing but tumbling nonetheless into that dark, dark cavern of time.

  There was a note pinned to the doorjamb when I woke up the next morning. I’d gotten used to being woke up at seven in the pen and I thought that was real early, but Stanley and Jane had already been up and out. Their note said my mother and brother were on the seven-thirty bus and they’d be back with them about nine. There was some thick black tea on the stove, so I grabbed a cup and sat on the steps outside to wake up.

  Thinking about my mother being on her way towards me right that very minute was enough to get me anxious and wanting to run again. Maybe it was the fact that it was a long walk to town that held me there, but even more it was the talk me’n Jane had. Operating without a history all those years had made running real easy, but now that I actually had a history I found myself wanting more. I really wanted to see this woman who’d given me life. I’d always wondered what she looked like and I had all these images floating around my mind through the years. In some she was a gorgeous Indian princess with flowing black hair and a killer smile. In others she was old, gray-haired, looking like a queen of the woods.

  I was standing inside pouring myself more tea when I heard a car horn from close by and saw Stanley’s beat-up old black Mercury pulling up. Jane was peering up from the front seat like she was wondering whether I’d actually stuck around, and I could make out the shapes of two other heads in the back. The teacup started trembling a little in my hand when the doors eased open and people started piling out. I went and stood by the front door waiting for someone to tell me where to go, what to do, what to say.

  Stanley was the first one in and he just looked at me with eyes all shiny and walked on into the living room to the teapot. Jane was next, and she just grinned at me and disappeared into the other room too.

  A tail, lanky guy with long, long hair and a red bandana, wearing one of them red-checkered hunting jackets, jeans and workboots, clumped into the doorway. He was taller’n me’n Stanley and a little heavier but he had the same kinda face. He stood looking at me for a long time, nodding his head real slow and breathing real deep and long. Finally he reached out and shook my hand real firm, saluted me with a raised fist and walked on into the living room with Jane’n Stanley.

  I heard her footsteps on the stairs outside kinda slow and measured. My breathing was getting shallow and I looked down at the floor, the cup shaking in my one hand while the other was opening and closing, opening and closing at my side. Her shadow fell across the floor in front of me and I stared at it for what seemed like an eternity, unable to lift my head and look at her. I heard a sniffle, a sigh and then my name whispered over and over and over.

  “Garnet. Garnet. Garnet,” she said. “My boy. My boy. My baby boy.”

  I looked up and saw a short woman with curly black hair that framed a round face that was still young-looking, with eyes all sparkly and wet. They were my eyes. She was built more along the lines of Jane than Stanley’n Jackie’n me and she was dressed in white slacks and a bright pink turtleneck that gave her a kinda glow. Real knockout, actually.

  We stood there facing each other, neither one of us knowing whether to move, until she finally reached out and grabbed me and held me close against her. She was strong and her hug was tight. The teacup tumbled from my hand, clanged onto the floor, and I lost myself in that strong, warm hug. I could hear her start to sob and she hugged me even tighter till I thought I was gonna faint.

  What happened next is what I’ve learned to accept as part of the magic my ma talks about all the time.

  I’m standing there in that doorway with a sobbing woman in my arms, feeling tears starting to well up inside me. Welling up from someplace far removed from my eyes. Welling up from the edges of that great big hole the wind used to blow through, getting bigger’n bigger until they finally break loose and I find myself sobbing too all loose and uncontrollable. We stood there sobbing away, hugging tighter and tighter still. And then as the tears began to quiet down the magic happened. Our breathing got slower and deeper. Still locked in that hug I started to be able to feel the rhythm of her heartbeat against the empty side of my chest. My attention got focussed on it and I felt its barrrrumpa, barrrrumpa echoing through me. And bit by bit as I lost myself in that heartbeat, any doubt I ever had about this woman being my mother began to disappear. My speeding brain got quieter and quieter and I felt more and more relaxed and safe and sheltered and warm until I began to realize that I’d felt this same way somewhere back in my past. I don’t know what it was but something somewhere deep inside me recognized that heartbeat. Recognized it from the days way before I ever slid out into this world. Recognized it from when her body kept me safe and sheltered and warm. Recognized it from when she was all vibration, fluid and movement. From when our souls shared the same space and time. My mother.

  And I cried deeper and longer than I ever had before or since.

  It still took me’n Ma a while to get around to actually speaking to each other. We roamed around the house all that day peeking over at each other while everyone else gabbed on and on. Every now and again we’d meet up at the teapot and I’d kinda reach out and touch her sleeve or she’d touch my shoulder and we’d just smile all shy and quiet at each other. Me, I didn’t know what the hell to say and I guess Ma was in the same boat. Stanley’n Jackie’n Jane just shook their heads and grinned whenever Ma’n me would pass each other by.

  I conked out for a nap sometime in the early evening and when I woke up the house was empty. Walking around looking out windows, I saw Ma sitting out back of her house up on the hill beside a small fire. She looked all small and alone so I decided I’d head on up there and keep her company. I could still feel the effects of that long hug in the doorway.

  She saw me coming from a ways off and by the time I got there she had a fresh pot of tea brewing on the fire and an extra cup set beside a camp chair. I watched her watching me as I approached.

  “Ahnee, my boy,” she said and smiled. “Nuhmutabin. Sit here. Tea?”

  “Sure,” I said, settling into the chair and looking around. “Nice view up here.”

  “Hey-yuh,” she said. “Me, I come out here lots. Winter even too sometimes.”

  Something in the way these people talked was kinda soothing and it felt real familiar already. The soft roll of Ojibway was gentle on the ears. As if she were reading my thoughts she smiled over at me.

  “Don’t speak Indyun, eh?” she asked.

  “No. Never learned.”

  “Ah, s’easy. What I said to you there, nuhmutabin, means sit. Try it.”

  “Me? Nah. I’ll never learn.”

  “Never know ’less you try. G’wan.”

  “We
ll, okay. How’s that again? Nuh … mut … bin?”

  “Nuh … mut … AH … bin,” she said, a little slower and smiling. “Nuh …mut …ah … bin.”

  I tried it out while she smiled and nodded. The words felt good rolling offa my tongue and I giggled to think I’d just said something in Ojibway for the first time.

  “Nuhmutabin!” I yelled and waved at a small group of people goin’ by in a boat on the lake below us. They gave me a weird look then waved back.

  My ma laughed and I watched as her face all crinkled up with it, the fire starting to throw small shadows on it. It was getting darker by now and the air had that crisp northern edge.

  “Yeah, me I come out here lots,” she said. “Drink tea, think, look around. S’good.”

  “Yeah. It’s nice. Good to be out.”

  “Was it tough in there?”

  I’d only meant it was good to be outside. “Kinda,” I said. “You learn to just keep to yourself and no one bugs you.”

  “I’m sorry you had to go there.”

  “Yeah, me too. Me too. It’s over though.”

  “Hey-yuh. S’over.”

  We looked at each other just then and with that fire kinda crackling and the wind picking up and whistling it reminded me of something but I couldn’t recall what. Again it was like she was reading my mind.

  “We used to sit like this, the buncha us, way over there. See that place where the lake cuts in there, way down? That’s where we used to have a camp when you were just small. The buncha us would sit there in the evenin’s round the fire like this. You useta really like that, watch the fire all the time.”

  “I, uh, I … don’t remember. Not really anyway.”

  “S’okay,” she said and grinned at me, “s’okay. Us we remember for you.”

  “You remember all about everything, don’t you?”

  “Hey-yuh. I remember all ’bout ev’rythin’. Ev’rythin’. All them years. Ev’rythin’.”

  “I don’t blame you, you know. About me going to foster homes, I mean. I don’t.”

  She smiled, and her eyes were wet with tears. She started poking the fire with a long stick sending embers flying up in the breeze that I had to duck from. She stared into the fire for a long time before she spoke again.

  “Me, I did. Your dad, him too. He was good man that John Mukwa. Good man.

  “We di’n’ know what to do. We come home that day an’ your granny was runnin’ around all crazy lookin’ for you kids. We searched the bush and called for you all that night. Was round noon next day when they came with their letter’n tol’ us what was goin’ on. We di’n’ understand. Your dad, he never did. We di’n’ know nothin’ ’bout their system then, di’n’ know we coulda fought it. We jus’ thought we failed you all.

  “Two years after that your sister found me in Minaki. She run away from that home and come lookin’ for us. Us we were drinkin’ it up all over. Lucky she found us. Tol’ me ’bout the other two boys bein’ okay an’ then she tol’ me you were gone, she di’n’ know where. We cried together in that bush that day me’n Jane.

  “Pretty soon I sobered up. Started askin’ for visitin’ rights and got ’em after a while. Saw those kids regular all through the years till they come home on their own. Stayed together in those homes, all three of ’em.

  “Your dad, he never forgot or forgave ’em for what they done. Couldn’t. They hurt him real bad. I tried bringin’ him home one time an’ he stayed here ’bout a week, pacin’ round, takin’ long walks in the bush, hardly talkin’ and you could tell he was fallin’ apart inside. One day I woke up he was gone. Died ’bout three months after that. He was a good man, John Mukwa. You look like him, you know?”

  “Really? Do you think … do you think he woulda liked me?”

  She smiled all soft across the fire at me and a little tear skied down one cheek. She nodded real slow and then looked off across the lake, breathing deep and long.

  “Oh yes,” she said really quietly, “oh yes. Useta come an’ talk to you while you were still in my belly. Tol’ you things, like my name, his name, all ’bout your fam’ly, even sang you songs at night. Sometimes he’d be singin’ so soft an’ low that me, I’d fall asleep. Wake up after and him, he’d be sleepin’ too with his head on my belly, one hand kinda lay across it. I remember thinkin’ that me, I had two little boys in my belly those times. Oh yes, he’d liked you, my boy, he’d liked you.”

  I gazed out cross that lake, watching that eternal blue edging into darkness and thinking about this man that was my father. John Mukwa. The name had something to it now and I got the feeling that it would always mean quiet nights and fires, songs sung low in Ojibway and sleeping deep and long, safe and sheltered and warm. My father. As I watched that night be born, I saw a tiny little star wink into view and I named that star the Bear Star right then and there. And I knew that whenever I felt lost or lonely that I could wander out when the night was being born and wait for that tiny little star to wink into view and talk to my father, tell him about my life and maybe even sing him a song in Ojibway all soft and low.

  We sat by that fire most of that night, Ma’n me. We didn’t talk too much but we shared that time together and it felt right. Just before she got up to head on in to sleep she looked over at me and smiled.

  “M-m-m-Ma?”

  “Yes, my boy?”

  “I … I know my father’s name. But … but … I don’t know what your name is.”

  One wrinkled brown hand went to her throat for just a second and she sniffled slightly. When she spoke it was very soft.

  “Alice. My name is Alice Raven. But all I ever wanted you to call me was Ma. That’s all, my boy, just Ma. ’Kay?”

  “Okay, M … m … Ma.”

  “Wanna know why I like to come here so much, my boy, winter too even?”

  “Yeah. I wanna know that.”

  “Well, us Indyuns, we sing songs all the time. Songs are ’bout as important as prayer. We sing them songs to the spirits of our ancestors who are part of them northern lights now. Sing songs for the animals we hunt, songs for the Creator, thank him for life, all kindsa songs.

  “When I d’in’ know where you were no more, I wanted to sing a song for you wherever you were. Maybe protect you out there, keep you safe. Maybe even bring you home to me sometime. Wanted it to be a special song, wanted it to be your song forever.

  “But I couldn’t find no words. Came out here night after night tryin’ to sing you somethin’ but couldn’t find no words. Too much tumblin’ round inside me to find what I wanted to sing most. After a while though a song was born and I been singin’ it almost ev’ry night for ’bout fifteen years now. Wanna hear it?”

  Of course I wanted to hear it. She closed her eyes real tight and her foot started beating on the ground, one two, one two, one two. A heartbeat rhythm. The rhythm of the drum. The rhythm of prayersongs. Her head started bobbing to the ancient rhythm and her tears glistened in the firelight and brought a few to my eyes too just then. Finally she started to sing, soft and low.

  “Bih’kee-yan, bih’kee-yan, bih’kee-yan,” she sang, her voice breaking over the words. “Bih’kee-yan, bih’kee-yan, bih’kee-yan.”

  That’s all. Just one word over and over and over again for about five minutes, with her foot still tapping that rhythm, her head still bobbing in time, tears flowing like a river down her face and her body swaying and swaying with her arms hugged around herself.

  “Bih’kee-yan,” she sang, “bih’kee-yan, bih’kee-yan.”

  When she finished she looked over at me and smiled, rose up, walked to me and grabbed me up into a great big hug and held on for a long, long time.

  “What does it mean, Ma?” I mumbled through tears and her hair. “My song, what does it mean?”

  She breathed really deeply one more time and said, “It means, come home. Come home, come home, come home.”

  She hugged me again and headed into the cabin, looking over her shoulder one last time to ask, “You w
anna come stay with me, my boy, make this your home now? Come home? Be with me? With us? You take that empty room ’side mine, okay?”

  “Yeah, Ma, yeah,” I said. “I’ll be in soon.”

  “ ’Kay then,” she said and waved.

  “ ’Kay then,” I said.

  I sat by that fire and thought for a long, long time. The sounds of loons and wolves in the distance, the wind, the water lapping up softly on the dock down below, everything seemed to punctuate my thoughts that night. I thought about this James Brown Indian coming home, about these strange-talking, strange-looking people who opened up their reserve and their hearts to me, about my ma, my dad, my brothers, my sister and the sound of the wind that was breezing by my ears instead of ripping through my guts that night. Thought about all them years spent moving, running, searching, trying to find who held the missing pieces of that puzzle. And I thought about an old Ojibway woman beside a small fire on a lonely winter’s night, staring out across the land and the universe towards someone, somewhere in a place far away, singing soft and low, over and over and over … bih’kee-yan, bih’kee-yan, bih’kee-yan.

  BOOK TWO

  BEEDAHBUN

  First of all, you’ve got to realize that the lake is like a reflector, okay? What I mean is that on those long, calm nights we get around here, a voice can carry for miles. We used to eavesdrop on conversations whenever we’d see Myron Fisher and Mabel Copenace heading out on the bay in her auntie’s canoe. They’d be talking all lovey-dovey across the bay and we’d catch every line. Old Myron would be mad as hell and chase us all around the townsite whenever we’d repeat what we figured were the sweetest lines of the evening. Myron and Mabel have been married for about three years now, got themselves a boy named Theodore and are living in a house at the east end of the townsite. Maybe all the teasing helped, I don’t know. Anyway, the lake is like a reflector that can take a whisper clean across.

  Now according to Mabel’s auntie—not the one with the canoe, the other that’s older and has a face like a fresh-scraped deer hide once the wet’s all squeezed out—there was a time on this reserve when the lake was the only way to get a hold of someone on the other side. People would just wander on down to the dock and yell across.