Blood Upon Our Land Read online

  Back then, Moushoom went on, all the women and girls helped with the hunt. For a moment he fell silent. I know what he was thinking just then, and what he could see in his mind. Buffalo, yes, but also the end of a great and wonderful way of life. It made me shiver. I cannot imagine losing such a thing.

  My mother, Moushoom told me, had done this before I was born, and maybe some day if the buffalo came back I would do this for my own husband. For now though, I had to help in other ways. Asking Louise Pepin to marry him was not an easy thing for my father to do, and it would not be an easy thing for Louise to come into our family. She would need my help.

  How those last five words went against everything I wanted to do!

  Then Moushoom reminded me that it always would be my kitchen, just as the house would always be my home, if I was worried about any of that. He was certain I was not, though, since I was a smart girl. And a smart girl knows good advice when she hears it.

  I was not so certain about any of that, especially the last part. He kissed me goodnight, then just before he closed the door he said, “Maybe you should write it down after all so you do not forget it.”

  Of that, I was certain, and so I have.

  Le 17 janvier 1885

  Louise Pepin came to supper.

  Le 18 janvier 1885

  When I read back in this diary I can see that I sometimes write the first idea that comes into my head. It is the reason why I have taken time to think carefully about what I want to say about the evening that Louise Pepin came to our house. I have made a vow to think before I write. And before I speak, but I am not certain which will be harder to keep.

  So. Louise Pepin did not arrive empty-handed. She brought a loaf of fresh bread and a jar of saskatoon-berry preserves. Our cellar has many such jars of blueberry, saskatoon-berry and bunchberry preserves all put up by me, but I kept that fact to myself and thanked her most graciously. No matter what I was feeling, I would not ever shame my family with bad manners.

  We visited. Papa served small glasses of the special wine he makes, his chokecherry piquette, adding water to what he gave to Armand and me. Armand made horrible faces at his glass, but Louise did not seem to notice. She told us about life in Prince Albert. It is far too busy there, it seems, and Batoche suited her better. After all, there is a new church here, a school, a post office and enough shops to please anyone. It is good to be home, she said. I have to admit I could understand her feelings about that.

  While she talked I studied her and wondered why of all women she should be the one Papa would choose. She is not beautiful, although she has a pleasing smile and, I believe, all of her teeth. I noticed that she is clean and that she had polished her boots. Maybe that was worth something, since she knows nothing about fixing a roof.

  Adrian asked her what she thought of Monsieur Riel and before she could answer, he also asked did she not believe he was a great thinker among the Métis people? For a moment, she said nothing. I began to suspect that she had no opinion. But then she said — and I must write it exactly as she said it — “Thoughts come from the mind. The Métis are more than thoughts. There is the heart to consider as well.”

  I feared there might be an argument because Adrian speaks so highly of Monsieur Riel, even though Louise’s words would have been hard to argue against. That was when Moushoom’s stomach rumbled. Everyone laughed and Papa said that the supper bell had been rung.

  We ate my grawdpayrs in chicken broth, a dish of which I am very proud, since they taste just like Mama’s. Even Emma enjoys these long, flat dumplings. Louise said she supposed that she would miss browsing through Mister — she used the English word — Mister T. N. Campbell’s store back in Prince Albert. There were such fine books in it, she explained, and confessed that now and again she indulged in the purchase of an especially interesting volume. Mister Campbell would send to Montréal for whatever a person wanted. She had heard that I enjoyed books. She would be more than happy to give me the loan of hers.

  I am not a child who may be bribed with sweets. Or books.

  Plus tard

  More. Louise told me that I must call her by her given name. She does not expect to be called Belmyr, even though she will be our stepmother.

  I still feel the same way about how things are going, but I must admit — only here will I admit it — that for now I have given off trying to find fault with Louise Pepin. At least she has one admirable quality. She enjoys reading when she has a few moments.

  Le 19 janvier 1885

  Papa enjoys a game of billiards. Since Monsieur Riel has come to Batoche, they sometimes play a game or two at Monsieur Dumont’s stopping place. My father says that his friend Louis is a talented opponent, even more skilled than Gabriel is. Papa has described Gabriel Dumont’s billiard table to me. He says it is made of mahogany, that it is six feet by twelve feet, and that it is the best table here. The word Northwest is engraved on its underside, and although Monsieur Dumont cannot actually read the word, he is very proud of it. Curious that he can speak six languages, yet he does not read or write.

  I have never seen that table, though, and I suspect I never will. Papa says that some things are for men and some are for women, and that has always been the way of it here for Métis people. Billiards is not for women, I have been told often enough, which seems unfair, but I suppose Papa is correct. I can scarcely imagine what would happen if I walked into Monsieur Dumont’s stopping place and picked up a billiard cue.

  The house or the barn and dairy are for women, but I cannot see why the forge should be only for the men. Papa says it is because it is so foul, but I think it is because the forge draws the men the way rug hooking draws the women.

  All that may be true, but I like the forge. When the smith hammers the red-hot iron, the sparks look like fireflies. And when his boy pumps the bellows, the fire makes me think of what the roogaroo’s eyes would look like — if there was such a thing as a trickster that could take the shape of a wolf, that is. There is not.

  So. This afternoon after my supper was in the pot and the house in order, I walked to the forge. Moushoom and Papa had been there since late morning, having La Mignonne shoed. She is a good gentle ox, La Mignonne, but not at all the dainty creature her name suggests, and so the blacksmith insists that Moushoom and Papa be there. And Edmond, if he is about, since he is so good with animals. When I arrived, they were just lowering her with the sling used for the task, since like all oxen, she cannot stand upon three legs for long and two shoes are needed for each cloven hoof. What a grunt she gave when all of her new shoes touched the floor!

  The smith did not see me, or he would not have chosen the words he used to express his relief. Perhaps this added foulness is another reason that the forge is a not a place for women. I walked in as though he had spoken politely rather than cursing the weight of Bouvier’s Monster, as he calls La Mignonne. I kissed her nose and greeted everyone. How Edmond laughed at that.

  So did Gabriel Dumont, who was seated with Moushoom, Moïse Ouellette, mo nook Napoleon, and my cousin Daniel, watching the work. I asked mo nook Napoleon how my cousin Flora was feeling. The poor thing has been suffering terribly from a cough. Well enough, was what he said. Monsieur Dumont made a quiet remark to Edmond in Cree, something about kissing, and laughed harder than ever when Edmond’s cheeks reddened. All this I ignored. Instead, I offered to lead La Mignonne home.

  “Whoa, boy!” Monsieur Dumont shouted then, observing that I was fearless. Moushoom said it was the Cree blood, not the French blood, that gave me my fearlessness, and the nonsense went on until finally Monsieur Dumont held a newspaper out to me.

  “Read this, child,” he said, pointing to a page. He gave me the paper, explaining that it was Letendre’s paper. Monsieur Letendre had read it to him, and Monsieur Dumont had told Papa what it said, but it would be even better if I read it aloud for all.

  This I did, and what an uproar it caused! Who were these people to make up stories about what goes on here? What was this foolish
ness? Riel had sent the petition to Ottawa and an answer would come soon. What sort of idiots were these men?

  When the uproar died, Monsieur Dumont said I might keep the paper, seeing that I was a reader like Madame Pepin. Papa said we must start for home. It was beginning to snow.

  And that is what we did.

  Plus tard

  This is what I read aloud at the forge.

  The Globe’s Ottawa correspondent says, “Mr. Chapleau states that Riel has been, to all appearances, very quiet during the summer, but it is well known that he is secretly advising the half-breeds to make a demand upon the Government for compensation for the whole Northwest. Riel’s argument is that the whole country belonged to the half-breeds and Indians before the Canadian Government took possession, and that to extinguish the half-breed claim a sum equal to twenty-five cents for every acre of land sold by the Government should be paid them. Perhaps we had all better move out.

  Edmond said nothing when I read this story at the forge. As we walked home though, leading La Mignonne through the falling snow, he wondered aloud how anyone could think to own an entire country.

  I agree. All we want is our farm. Surely the government understands that.

  Le 21 janvier 1885

  Louise has asked Père Moulin which of her books might be suitable for a girl my age. He will examine the titles and make his judgement. I hope there will be even just one.

  Le 22 janvier 1885

  Armand’s stomach hurts. He is not ill, unless you count the illness that comes from a greedy boy eating too much candy. Moushoom has a tin box that he keeps down in the small cellar under his cabin, next to a bottle of brandy he brought from St. Boniface. Now and then Moushoom will give Armand a penny from the box. If my brother saved the pennies he would have something, but instead he buys sweets. Moushoom says he has no use for money, but I wish he too would save his pennies. One never knows.

  Le 23 janvier 1885

  Strangely mild weather. It makes me think of spring and our sugar bush, although it is far too soon for sugaring, since the sap will not rise for a long while. I can almost taste the snow maple taffy Mama would give us as a treat if we behaved.

  Enough writing, Josephine. Sugaring will come in time. For now, there is supper to prepare.

  Plus tard

  Emma surprised me as I was coming from the cellar, a basket of potatoes and cabbage in my hands. She was able to come over from their home near Duck Lake with her father in their sleigh. He had work to be done at the forge, needing his ploughshare to be straightened and sharpened so it will be ready in spring. The MacLeod land has many rocks and the ploughshare finds them endlessly. Later Emma’s father would come here and visit with Papa, who is always happy to give him advice about farming, which is somewhat new to the MacLeods.

  I had not known she was coming and so the kitchen was in a state, but Emma does not mind a rababoo. That is her favourite Michif word since it is, she says, so very cunning. I cannot see what is cunning about a stew made of vegetables and game meat, but I can see the cleverness of using it to describe a mess. My kitchen was indeed a rababoo.

  She watched me slice and chop, but all the while I could tell that there was something she wanted to say. My face gives nothing away, I have been told, but Emma’s shows all. Finally, out it came. People were saying my father was going to marry Madame Pepin, and she asked if it was true. I admitted that it was true, adding that it made sense. I knew better than to say much more than that. Emma is a friend, but words have a way of growing and changing until they come back to roost like huge chickens filled with gossip. I know those chickens would go to roost in Louise’s house, and so I simply said that a wedding is always enjoyable.

  Emma then wondered if I had heard about what had been printed in a Toronto newspaper, the very newspaper her father had worked for before they came here. She could not understand how anyone who was not an Indian or a half-breed might have to give up their farm. And she wondered how I could bear being called that — a half-breed. It sounded so common, so very low.

  I assured her it meant nothing to me. The name held as much truth as the newspaper story did, and that was little indeed. Her father’s sleigh arrived just then. Papa met it, her father climbed down, and the two men began to walk to the house. Emma said nothing more about the matter.

  Encore plus tard

  The word has tumbled about in my head most annoyingly, like a bit of fiddle music that will not stop, until finally here I am out of bed.

  Half-breed. In our family, only Moushoom is half of one people and half of another, his mother having been Cree and his father a Kanayah from Québec. And what about me? Mama’s great-grandmother was of the Sarcee people. Is one of my ears then Kanayaen and the other Cree, and if so, which is which? Do I have a Sarcee nose or a French nose? I am certainly not half of one thing and half of another, but that is what I will always be called, it seems. If I have children some day, I wonder if it will be the same for them?

  Mama once said that we Bouviers are like threads in a long, tightly woven sash — and as difficult to unravel. One thing I do know. I may be made up of many things, but I am entirely Métis.

  Le 24 janvier 1885

  Bone’s puppies were born in the night. All but one perished of the cold, or perhaps from her lack of experience. Poor things. Emma will be so disappointed, as she was hoping to have a puppy from this litter.

  Moushoom brought all the dogs and Bone’s living puppy into the house. Moushoom has named the puppy Eagle, since he is strong. His dogs do not have fleas, he says, but I am glad they sleep with him and not me.

  I wonder what Louise will make of a houseful of dogs?

  Le 25 janvier 1885

  Louise brought a book here this evening. It is called Les Contes de Perrault, and it has ten stories with pictures. The stories all have morals, and that is especially good. It seems that Père Moulin says they will be acceptable for me to read, all except for one story called “La Barbe-Bleu.” It is far too frightening for a girl my age, and he advises me to avoid it. How a tale about a man with a blue beard could be frightening is very odd. Moushoom laughed and laughed at this, saying it would take more than a blue beard to frighten his Josephine.

  Plus tard

  Louise is fond of dogs, especially puppies.

  Au point du jour

  Moushoom was wrong. “La Barbe-Bleu” was terrifying! I wish I had not read that horrible, horrible story. The fact that it had a moral — curiosity, in spite of its appeal, often leads to deep regret — does not help at all.

  I must vow to be less curious!

  Le 26 janvier 1885

  Big Tom Hourie passed through Batoche today, travelling southeast to Qu’Appelle. This always results in many comments. Monsieur Hourie is a tall man, well over six feet. Armand thinks he is an English half-breed giant.

  Papa says Tom Hourie is not English at all, although he is a half-breed. His ancestor came from an island near a country called Scotland many years ago to work for the Hudson’s Bay Company, and this man took a wife from among the Snake people.

  All Moushoom says is that Tom Hourie is too tall for his own good, but he only says that to be funny.

  I wonder what it is like, working for the English. It must be a strange thing, no matter how tall or short you are.

  Le 27 janvier 1885

  We will have rabbit for supper tonight. There were eight of them in Edmond’s snares. Moushoom has salted the skins and set them aside to be tanned, so that I may use them to line moccasins. There is nothing like rabbit fur against your bare feet.

  Plus tard

  Moushoom has often said that tanning a hide is more than preserving a skin, that it is almost as though you are giving life to the animal once again. He reminded me of this as he and I worked on the skins this afternoon, stretching them and scraping away every bit of flesh and fat.

  It set me to thinking. I make three pairs of moccasins for everyone in our family each year, just as Mama did. Mine are not as f
ine as hers were, since the beadwork on the Sunday moccasins is simpler, but they are comfortable. Emma and her family buy boots that they wear summer and winter, and none of them own even one pair of moccasins. I think that must be a very hard way to walk through life.

  Le 28 janvier 1885

  We had unexpected guests today, or rather Moushoom did. It was Louis Riel and Gabriel Dumont. All this month Monsieur Riel has been visiting families around here, but Papa says it is more than just visiting. Monsieur Riel wants to know what men such as Moushoom and my father are thinking. When Adrian added that Monsieur Riel was seeking out not just any men, but important and influential men, Papa only shrugged. My father is a very modest man.

  The visit, though. Adrian, Edmond and Papa were adding some chinking to the logs of Moushoom’s cabin, and I was there preparing rabbit soup for all of them. Moushoom has an old stove in his cabin, one called a Carron stove that he brought with him, strapped to the back of his cart, when our family came from St. Boniface. Years before that, the stove had travelled even farther. It was made in the country of Scotland, and had been brought across the ocean on a ship.

  My grandfather was saying that food tastes better when it is cooked on that stove, when we heard the sound of horses and voices. Moments later, in came the visitors. There was enough soup for six hungry men and one girl, but only just.

  They ate in silence, all crowded into the cabin. I suppose some would say that I should have gone back to the big house. This was men’s business, after all. But I did not. Why should I? Mama would have stayed, as she had always taken a keen interest in the affairs of Batoche. But Monsieur Riel had not come on business. He and Gabriel Dumont had come to offer my family their congratulations regarding Papa’s forthcoming marriage.

  That done, Monsieur Dumont pointed to me, telling Monsieur Riel that this was the girl who could read English newspapers — thanks to her sainted mother Anne, may she rest in peace.