Copyrighted © 2006 J. Nowell Butler
All Rights Reserved.

Ojibway Prayer

Oh Great Spirit,
Whose voice I hear in the winds ….
I need your wisdom and your strength….
Make me wise, so that I may understand
What you have taught my people…
Not to be superior to my brothers,
But to be able to fight my greatest enemy,
Myself....

-- Author Unknown

Chapter 1

My life as I had known it was over.

This weekend I vowed to do more than worry about the emptiness inside my bourgeois existence. I'd think about who I really was and what I might do with the rest of my life. Wasn't that the new goal for the millennium: Defining your true self?

April’s warming sun rays slanted through the trees and left me squinting. I reached for my sunglasses off the dash, inhaled brisk air laced with the pulp mill’s pungent fumes, a stench worse than rotten eggs, and closed my driver's window. Today was the first step toward salvaging the rest of my life, and a comfortable place was beginning to grow inside of me, dissolving the loneliness within my heart. I smiled widely. I would always be a contradiction. Resigning my tenured position with The University of Northern British Columbian's English Department had been surreal. I was about to put my life on the right track, only I wasn't sure what that was.

After what had happened yesterday, I knew I could no longer deny the fact: The only reason I'd become an English teacher was because my mother refused to speak the language. And since I'd wasted valuable years annoying her, twenty of them after she was dead, today seemed a good time to stop.

Now, feeling both frightened and exhilarated, I wondered: If not an English Professor, who was Brendell Kisêpîsim Meshango? Other than a divorced, Métis with an innate distrust of white people, despite being half-white?

Anything I bloody well wanted to be.

Twenty-five years too late?

I smacked the gearshift. No more regrets. The past was over. So what if I’d stayed married to the wrong man for nineteen years. So what if I’d grown to dislike my profession. At fifty, I was in my prime. And thanks to my mother I was broken, but not dead. The author of a book of poetry, five short stories, and an essay made me the epitome of capable, better to ignore the regret. Better for everyone.

Convoys of traffic continued west on Highway 16 toward my destination. But I wouldn’t let that ruin my plans. They were certain to continue on past Cluculz Lake to Vanderhoof, Lejac, or perhaps even Telkwa. Those with American license plates would head north to Alaska.

My cabin, my weekend retreat, was less than forty minutes away. I’d build a fire in the woodstove and wait as the cabin warmed, then sit on my wicker futon on the veranda and listen to the loons’ lonely call. In the morning, wrapped in my favorite quilt, trimmed in the traditional Métis colors of red, green, white, and yellow with black fringe, I’d watch the swans from my wharf. Maybe the otter I’d seen skittering across the ice last winter would return.

I admired the older Chevelle pulling out of the Petro-Canada station across from Home Depot, then glanced down at my gas gauge. Full. Good, because the station was packed, and I had no patience to wait.

A young man in a convertible pulled up behind me. Driving with the top down in early spring seemed to me to be a crazy thing to do. Besides leaving my leather jacket, I had my heater set at a comfortable twenty-five degrees Celsius.

I inserted my Kanenhi:io Singers CD, watched the traffic light turn amber, inched forward and cut in. The first of many white crosses appeared on the side of the road, reminding me that moose could vault from the bush without warning. I slowed to 105 km until reaching ‘potato flats’ eight minutes later. Then I sped up. I passed a SUV signaling for a right hand turn and all the tightness in my shoulders and back eased away.

When I turned fifty I had planned to shave my head to prove I was more than another hot flushing, throwaway wife. The actor Tyne Daly had done so, proclaiming the result freed her soul and her psyche. That was enough for me. I'd even told some of my female colleagues. I hoped by sharing news of the upcoming event I’d feel obligated to carry it through. No problem if they thought I was disturbed, at least I’d be committing to something. One of the older women said, "People are going to equate your bald head with cancer. Do you want to be a magnet for pity?"

"I can’t control what others think," I replied. Even if I wanted to.

On that fateful afternoon, Valentine's Day, as the hairdresser moved the razor within inches of my scalp, I bolted. And the next morning, instead of doing the polite thing and not mentioning the obvious, my assistant announced in a voice that boomed off the lounge walls, "I knew you couldn’t go through with it." Those colleagues, who had days earlier laughed at my craziness, couldn't at that moment disguise their disappointment. And despite turning my other cheek, my own disappointment pained me. Once again, fear had triumphed over my battle for courage.

I combed my fingers through my hair, it felt silky falling across my neck, and glanced in the rear-view mirror. Instead of glimpsing the tiny wrinkles at the corners of my eyes, or the deep crease forming along each side of my mouth, I saw dark hair with no hint of grey, the one good thing I’d inherited from my mother. Next month when the weather was compliant, I’d have my smooth shiny head. Laughter rose up from the warmth gathering in my chest. I’d simply make certain I showed up at the salon with a wig stuffed in my purse. In case my former assistant was right and I did look ridiculous.

This made the next question equally important. Now that I was prepared for a ragamuffin look, was I brave enough to purchase a sleek, white woman's wig? Something in platinum blonde?

My laughter seemed an unbalanced sound in comparison to the chants, drums, and cow horn shakers coming from the stereo speakers. Wathahine and her Mohawk and First Nation sisters weren’t cutting it today. I switched to Prince George's local rock station. Charlotte was playing the great oldies. I pushed the speedometer to a bold 112 kilometers, set the cruise control and sang along with the Guess Who’s American Woman.

The red convertible pulled out to pass, and I eased over to allow him more room. I glimpsed his bumper sticker, GO AHEAD--HIT ME [my dad’s a lawyer], shook my head and moved back to the center of the lane.

Beeeeeeeeeep .... My cellular phone made an ungodly noise, and I scrambled to retrieve it from my pocket. "Doctor Meshango," I announced without thinking. If I wasn’t going to teach any longer, should I drop the ‘Doctor’? Hell no. I’d worked too damn hard to get my degree.

"Ma’! Tánité éyáyan!"

"I’m right here." I giggled quietly.

"You're on your way home, right? Tu êtes on your way ma-nad-us, eh!"

"I think you mean wagaahigan. Oji-Cree for 'house'. You know, Darling Daughter, you might find it easier if you stick to Cree and French instead of trying for Oji-Cree, too."

"Ma, please! Are you on your way home or not?"

Hearing my baby--who much to my horror was turning twenty-one next month--panicking over my whereabouts produced an instant chuckle under my breath. Sometimes it was a challenge discerning which one of us was the mother. The fact that Zoë, since beginning her private study of Cree last semester, had acquired the habit of speaking in a mixture of Cree, French, and English made me proud. Though, I did wonder why I hadn't yet corrected her dialect. Darling Daughter had mistaken the combination of tongues for the "impossible language": Michif. Perhaps I hadn't yet said anything because, of late, daughter and mother weren't entirely at peace with each other.

"Sweetheart, remember I'm off to the lake. Why? What do you need? Nah, let me guess ... Money, food, laundry facilities, fridge rights--"

"Ma! I can’t find your keys. Mâhti, tell me you didn’t take both your camion et votre otapan keys. Ma, tâniwâ your keys."

I cleared my throat and prepared to use my 'melodic' voice. "Actually, Sweetheart, remember what the Elder said. When you're asking for inanimate objects as in car keys, you use the plural in Cree. It's 'Where are': tâniwêhâ."

"They're not here!"

The image of Zoë' with her waist-length dark hair, sapphire-colored eyes, and flawless skin reinforced the notion that no matter how badly my mother had messed me up, I had done one good thing: giving life to Zoë.

"Why do you need my car? You’re not going on a trip with what’s-his-face … eh?" Mentioning him made me want to cry. Her deadbeat Anglais boyfriend, Dennis, was a weasel.

"Ma! Please!"

"Zoë, do not panic. Awena shákéyishk? Who loves you? Your mama does. And so, as usual, kikâwî, your mother to the rescue, eh." I heard Zoë's deep chuckle and felt safe again. "There's a doohickey on the wall next to the back door. You’ll find a fancy Chrysler thingamajig hanging from it."

"And to think," Zoë said in French, "just yesterday I was bragging about my mother the Professeur Anglais. Oh, here they are. Têniki, Ma," she said in Cree. "Have a great weekend. I have to go. I'm late for Simi’s rehearsal. Did I tell you they’ve decided to use your car for the bride and groom?"

"That’s nice. But remember: No drinking and driving. And remind what’s-his-face."

"Yeah, sure. Ma. Mee-gwitch. Je t'aime," was the last thing I heard before the connection broke.

"You're welcome," I whispered to dead air. "And yes, I love you too."

I snapped my cell closed and placed it back in my pocket just as I passed Bednesti Resort. Informing Zoë that I'd resigned my tenure would have to wait. I entered the Nechako Forest District, switched off the cruise control and slowed to 104 kilometers. Prince George RCMP seldom ventured this far outside their city limits, but the City of Vanderhoof’s Mounties religiously patrolled their district from the resort, all the way to Stoney Creek Reserve. With only 15 kilometers to go before reaching my turnoff, it wasn't worth risking another ticket.

Zoë had been with me the morning I received my first ticket in ten years. Memories of her convulsing in laughter while a very serious-looking young constable cited me with a hundred dollar ticket, made me laugh aloud. Although at the time I'd been scared to death. Thanks to my mother, I understood what awful things policemen could do to a girl. After handing me my copy, he ducked down, no doubt preparing to give Zoë a reprimanding gawk. I could still picture the blood rising from the young officer’s neck to the top of his head. He’d taken one look at that exquisite, exotic creature, with her golden porcelain skin and raven black hair, and his jaw fell open. Zoë stopped laughing immediately and said, "I’m sorry, Constable. It’s just that my mother never breaks the rules."

I slowed for my turnoff. As soon as I pulled onto the narrow, tree-hugged lane, I lowered my window and switched off the radio. The light breeze smelled wet and clean. My heart lightened to the cries of hundreds of geese and swans coming from the open part of the bay. If the weather permitted, I’d haul the rowboat from the shed. Better yet--one of my lawn chairs. No sense getting too close and scaring them off. I glanced up at a turquoise sky, a sight that put goose bumps on my arms. A corny old saying came to mind: Today really was the first day of the rest of my life. I was no longer doyenne of the English Department.

One kilometer later, I turned onto my long driveway, inaccessible on my last visit. Three feet of snow had covered the ground then and I’d had to pack everything in from the road. Now there was five inches of brown muck mixed with slimy-rotting cottonwood leaves. I’d been smart to bring my 4x4. From the looks of things, neither neighbor bordering both sides of my property had been out. Good. I preferred my privacy. I had a lot to think about. And experiencing peace and quiet would be heavenly.

One winding curve through the spindly leafless alder and dense spruce, and my one-bedroom cabin, secluded and sylvan, my place of kindliness and sustenance beckoned. Everything seemed in place. Two cords of wood were stacked along the front of my cabin, the side Zoë referred to as the back because it faced the road, not the lake. The confusion made for interesting conversations. The snow shovel, axe, and snowshoes were propped in the corner of the porch. I shook my head and once again scolded my forgetfulness. The power saw lay on top of the woodpile instead of locked up in the pump house where it was supposed to be.

Two quick trips and I had everything piled on my chesterfield and coffee table just inside my front door: tote bag, groceries, briefcase, and laptop. I lit a fire in the cast iron woodstove, and while the chill lifted from the room, dumped the chemicals into my portable toilet and opened the bathroom window a crack. The cabin smelled remarkably fresh despite being closed up for two months--and I’d forgotten to empty the toilet again. I had to chuckle. The first day of my new life might well be underway, but apparently, it had left my memory behind.

I set the canned goods and produce on the tiny counter next to my sink in the kitchen alcove. The small space barely fit between my washroom and kitchen nook. I transferred my laptop and briefcase to the nook's table where I planned to do some budget work after dinner. Without my usual salary and collection of royalties from my two books, things would be tight for a while. I whipped off the covers from the chesterfield and chair, shoved open the bedroom door adjacent to the bathroom, and paused. An eerie sound somewhere between a cougar caught in a trap and a ghostly wolf's yowl came from some place outside.

Were my intrusive Oji-Cree ancestors coming back to haunt me?

I set my suitcase on the red-carpeted floor next to my bedroom door. I walked over to the veranda doors next to the kitchen nook and looked north to the lake a hundred feet from my deck. The large opening of sparkling blue water was filled to capacity with trumpeter swans. A gaggle of geese, with ducks hiding amongst them, rested in various spots on the ice.

A sharp piercing yelp startled the sentries standing tall at each end of the large gathering. They looked to the south. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Then a dog barked somewhere outside, sounding angry. I unlocked the door and stepped out onto the deck. The barking had been replaced by a stillness that created equal unease. Where had the birds gone? I wondered, and instantly a murder of crows filled the sky above my cabin. The sound of their flapping wings made me shiver. They landed at the top of the bare cottonwood next to my truck and exploded into a symphony of cackles.

I had heard the stories: Crows gathered in huge numbers the moment a family's loved one passed away. "Quiet," I said, bringing a finger to my lips.

In the distance, a dog cried. Instantly, the crows scattered. Their black wings rose to the sky and carried them north away from the road.

"You better not have pooped on my truck," I managed to whisper.

I took the cell phone from my pocket, made a fist to stop the trembling and then pressed the code for Zoë's cell phone.

Zoë reported that she and friends were busily washing the wedding cars. After a minute of small talk, I hung up and dismissed my nervousness with a cluck of my tongue. Then I clucked my tongue two more times for added measure.

After priming the barbecue for ten minutes, I wrapped one potato and one corn on the cob in tinfoil. I grabbed both and reached for the oven mitt next to me on the deck's railing. The hairs on my neck stirred.

I walked to the far side of my deck and glanced around the corner of the cabin in the direction of the road. With the sun setting in front of me, it was difficult to see through the thick bushes.

I squinted.

The air smelled unusually rancid. Like damp animal fur.

That made perfect sense if the neighbor's dog had rolled in something dead.

I went back inside through the veranda doors and listened. The crows had quieted, yet my senses continued to warn that something was awry. I looked across the living room, through my bedroom door toward the front bedroom window and the copses beyond. The nearest cougars were on Sinkut Mountain twenty miles away. Unless starving, they seldom ventured this close to the highway. And as far as I knew, Cluculz Lake had no legal trap lines. This meant there would be no trapped game to tempt--

Footsteps crashed through the forest.

Branches snapped.

I looked through the opening behind the nook to the kitchen alcove. At this angle, I could just barely see through the small window above the microwave.

Something was running this way.

Closing in.

Fast.

I turned. The front door exploded off its hinges and crashed to the threshold. A dark-clad person flew through the doorway, over the coffee table, propelling me backwards. My body slammed to the floor. Thunder roared through my head. I couldn't breathe. Pain shot through my back. The dark figure hovered over me and something hard struck my jaw.

The room blackened.