Blood Upon Our Land Page 5
Au point du jour
I dreamed of falling, moments ago, and it was an awful thing. I had slipped off the edge of a cliff, and went spinning out, falling and falling, unable to breathe because I was afraid of smashing onto the ground. I woke just before that happened, though, thank Le Boon Jeu.
I did not really want to write down the last part of last night’s story, but I can see that I must. The story needs its ending, after all, and perhaps the writing will keep the dream from coming back.
So. When Papa finished speaking, Moushoom reminded him that some people — the Blackfoot people, if he was not mistaken — used to drive buffalo to the edge of a cliff. It was during a time when the Blackfoot had no guns. It all ended the same way, though. The buffalo would fall to their deaths.
Last night I did not think it was a very cheerful ending for the story, but there it was. Now, though, I believe my grandfather had not been talking about buffalo at all.
Le 11 février 1885
I have helped Papa move the last of Mama’s belongings from his room into mine. There was not much, only some clothing, and a small hooked rug she was working on before she died. Papa held her diary, the one she had begun when they left St. Boniface. He said it was foolishness for him to keep it, as he cannot read. I told him it was not. Besides, it would be all he had left of Mama.
“You should have it,” he said, and he pressed the diary into my hands. “You and the boys are part of what I have left of Mama.” Then he put one of his own hands over his heart. “The rest — the memories, and the love — will always be here, Josephine.” It took all my strength not to weep.
Perhaps I will finish Mama’s rug, but I am not certain I can ever bring myself to read her diary.
Le 12 février 1885
Even though it is her wedding, Louise has offered to help me make preparations for the celebration to follow. She would cook and bake in the kitchen of her father-in-law’s house, naturally. I said yes.
Louise is a good woman, but I treasure these last days that this kitchen is mine alone. It is the place where Mama was the happiest, and sometimes I can almost feel her near me. Will I still feel that when Louise is here? It saddens me that I may not.
Le 13 février 1885
A pleasant happy day. We journeyed out this morning, two of our horses pulling our sleigh. Edmond had the reins and I sat beside him with my grandfather behind us, a small sack of venison at his feet. In Moushoom’s arms was his Winchester 66 rifle. He treasures it so, and has named it Gárso Zhounn — his yellow boy. It is a clever name, because of the rifle’s brass parts, but then Moushoom is clever with words.
Out we went past the garden, past the barn with its chickens, cats and our goats, across the small hay field and the open pasture where our cattle pawed the snowy ground looking for a bit of last summer’s grass. Winter is hard on the animals, but our cattle are tough. It takes more than winter to bother Bouvier cattle. The wind was harder on this Bouvier, I fear, and I could not help but think of our house and its warm kitchen, even though the place we were heading to would also be warm. Two miles is not so far to ride.
Then, there it was. I felt the same odd flutter inside me that I always feel when I see the reserve. It is called Une Flèche, after Moushoom’s friend, Chief One Arrow. Again I felt that flutter inside me, because these are Moushoom’s people and Edmond’s, the Willow Cree. Mine as well, I suppose, since there is Cree blood in my veins.
I saw one woman moving between the tipis with a load of sticks in her arms, but everyone else was inside. All the tipis faced east and so we could not yet see the fronts, but I knew that the door flaps would all be snugly closed against the wind. There were no barns or stables here, and so the horses took what shelter they could between some Red River carts standing near the tipis.
We stopped at One Arrow’s tipi, our horses content to wait quietly while we visited. One Arrow’s horses were there too, and all the horses nickered and talked to each other, the way horses do. This tipi was painted just as all the others were, and yet somehow One Arrow’s tipi looked like that of a chief. The images were faded, but they still told the story of his life. Here he was going into battle on horseback, armed with a bow and arrow, protected only by a buffalo-hide shield. Here he was hunting buffalo, his horse close to the stampeding bull. There were other animals and scenes that meant little to me. I had been told that these were dreams that mean a great deal to One Arrow, though.
In we went. One Arrow would have been told of our approach, but he shouted out in surprise anyway, and gestured for Moushoom to sit next to him in a place of honour near the rear of the tipi. The shouting makes for a better welcome. He called Moushoom by his Cree name, Mihkwânikwacâs. Moushoom had dark red hair as a boy, so the name Red Squirrel is fitting, although his hair is white now.
It makes me think about Moushoom’s other name, which is more difficult to understand. Thompson — Thompson Bouvier — because he was born the year that an English man the Cree called Koo-Koo-Sint came to look at the stars and wintered near a village where Moushoom’s parents were staying. His English name was David Thompson, this man who worked for The North West Company of traders. All three are still Moushoom, but no one calls him Thompson.
But back to the visit. Moushoom gave One Arrow’s daughter the gift of meat. She immediately began to serve us bowls of food. I remembered how Moushoom had said that the people here were close to starving. Still, we could not refuse. That would have been rude, and so there I sat eating the stew.
You would think a tipi would be cold in the winter, that fourteen or fifteen buffalo hides would never keep out the cold, but they do. Besides, the tipi had a warm inner lining and a cozy fire burning on the ground at its centre. I soon felt quite warm.
I do not speak Cree as well as I might, and so I simply listened and smiled at the women while the men talked. Like my grandfather, though, Edmond speaks Michif, French and Cree. I do not mind them speaking Cree except when they use it as a secret language to keep things from me. I know a few words, but not enough to discover their secrets.
Finally, One Arrow leaned over to me and held out a finely painted parfleche. Inside the leather packet was a gift of pemmican for my father and his new wife, Moushoom explained, made after the last buffalo hunt. I knew the mixture of meat, fat and berries would be at least five years old, but of course pemmican will keep much longer than that.
I was told that One Arrow said I was becoming a fine young woman. I smiled modestly. I was also told that the next time we came here One Arrow would no longer be able to stop his young men from asking for me in marriage. I did not smile at that. How could I? Moushoom laughed and said it was in fun, that One Arrow still had his old sense of humour. Besides, One Arrow knew that the Métis liked to wait until their women were almost too old before they married. It was unfortunate. He said I looked content, that the prospect of having another woman in the house seemed to agree with me. Marriage meant babies, he went on, and more work for the women, but that was a good thing — it was important to keep busy.
Suddenly One Arrow looked very sad, and Moushoom explained that the chief still mourned the loss of a grandchild. One Arrow’s wish for us was that our family would never have to do the same.
I thought about that all the way home.
Plus tard
Armand was very cross that he had missed the outing today, saying that going to the reserve was more important than school. He made me describe everything, and so I turned the description into a story. At its end, Armand said he wants to draw pictures on the outside of our house, so that it looks like One Arrow’s tipi. He was not pleased when I said he would do no such thing. “No one can stop me,” he shouted.
I wonder if Louise understands just how stubborn Armand can be? Abain, I suppose she will find out soon enough.
Le 14 février 1885
I wonder how I could have become such a foolish girl with such a shameful habit as listening to private conversations. But if I did not, how wo
uld I ever learn anything? And so last night I listened at the floor hole while Papa and Moushoom talked.
Papa wondered if it had been a good thing for me to go out to the reserve. Some people still have bad feelings about the disagreement between the Cree and the people of Batoche regarding the land boundaries separating the reserve and us, he said. Moushoom told Papa that land is one thing. Respect for Mihkwânikwacâs’s granddaughter is another. And that was that.
They talked about Chief One Arrow, and what he had said. One Arrow still had the silver medal he had received from signing a treaty. He was proud of that medal since it signified his bond with the Queen. But sometimes it seemed as though the medal was as cold as the hearts of the men who had given it to him. The government had not kept their promises, no matter what they had said.
Moushoom said that One Arrow still has regrets about the treaty — it was hard to go against the Cree way of life, which was following the buffalo, not digging the earth.
Then Moushoom mentioned something else — that One Arrow likes Riel and Dumont, enjoys their company when they come to visit him. He will not turn his back on friendship or blood.
Papa said that he had a sense that something very bad was coming for both the Cree and us. “It is a pity that the prime minister cannot see what life is like here, how the Métis way is threatened by all the settlers who will be coming here. Why can we not be left alone in our own country?”
Moushoom said some very rude words, the same ones that I had heard at the forge. He said them in Cree, which made them sound even worse. Then he reminded Papa of what Macdonald had said back in the days when they lived at St. Boniface, that the French half-breeds were determined to keep the North West a buffalo reserve forever. Did that sound like a wise man who cared about the Métis way of life? And Moushoom grumbled another rude word.
I could not make out Papa’s answer, but I myself thought that Macdonald did not sound wise at all. And it frightens me that Papa has a bad feeling about what will happen.
Le 15 février 1885
Père Moulin read the last of the banns this morning. Papa and Louise will be married tomorrow.
Plus tard
A very small dog has been drawn on the outside back wall of Moushoom’s cabin. I suppose I should wash it off, but I have decided to leave it there, at least for a while. After all, Moushoom likes dogs, and so does Louise.
Le 16 février 1885
Au point du jour
Sleep is impossible. Prayer has not helped. I am a selfish girl who thinks of nothing but herself, and who cares only for her own happiness.
There. Tell the truth, Moushoom said to me, and maybe this is the truth.
Mama’s watch lies on the table here, next to my diary. I will wear it today tied around my neck with a long ribbon so that it rests over my heart. For Anne Bouvier, Batoche, 1872, on the occasion of the birth of our daughter, Josephine. My love for all time, Michel, is what is inscribed on its back. I know these words and the truth that is part of them. Papa will always love and remember her.
The last truth is that I love Papa very much. If this marriage makes him happy, then so be it, but it will be hard, so very hard.
Plus tard
Papa and Louise’s wedding was beautiful, which I suppose should be a comfort to me. There were no flowers, of course, but we had decorated the altar with boughs of spruce and the church smelled like a forest. Louise wore a new blue dress with dozens of small buttons down the front, the hem trimmed with lace. Papa wore his best deerskin coat, one that Mama embroidered for him long ago. Almost everyone in Batoche attended, and for once Armand did not wiggle. I wept, but there were so many happy tears that mine went unnoticed. After the wedding we went home, and when the kitchen was filled with friends and family we sang.
Nous sommes ici a soir
Assisses à votre table
Salut la compagnie
Aussi la mariée.
How many times have I heard that song in people’s homes after weddings? Here we were tonight, all of us around the table, toasting everyone, but especially the newly married couple. It is a very happy song.
There was a big cake, three layers high. And there was a small package from Madame Montour. It contained a note, which Louise read to herself, and then to all of us. Her sister sent her love and best wishes as well as a médaille miraculeuse and a chain for it. It was a very beautiful silver medal showing the Virgin Mary, her hands outstretched in blessing. Louise put it on immediately.
As for the celebration, I am sure I can say that everyone was here. Our house was filled to overflowing with friends and family. Even Moushoom’s dogs were in attendance, and all were well behaved except for Eagle, who behaved no worse than Armand, I suppose. Puppies and boys will play noisily, but it was a happy noise. And I even had a chance to visit with my cousins Veronique and Henriette, when I was not helping serve the guests. Emma as well, since she and her parents were here helping us celebrate. The Riels attended for a short while, although Monsieur Riel spent most of his time talking with other men rather than dancing. Madame Riel did not dance either, saying it just made her cough more. She did seem to enjoy watching the dancers, though.
That was not the case with me. I danced until my feet tingled with it, and then I danced more. The rabbit dance, la danse du crochet, the duck dance and a great many Red River jigs. Our house rang with the sounds of turtulage as people tapped spoons or their toes and heels to the music. Mouth harps and fiddles joined in. When the pitch of the fiddle music was lowered, women or men took turns adding fancy changes to their jigging and, although all were good, Edmond’s changes were the best and the quickest. It was no surprise. He is Edmond Swift Fox, after all!
When Papa said later that the celebration was not too bad as such things went, Louise simply rolled her eyes. Moushoom said it was unfortunate that it had only lasted one day, since a wedding celebration should last three, but we had celebrated three times as hard, so it would do. Papa agreed that it was a shame to cut it short, but it was important that we take part in the prayers at St. Laurent tomorrow. Monsieur Riel had reminded him of this a number of times.
Tomorrow is Laenjee Graw — even Emma calls this by its French name, Mardi Gras — which will be followed by Zhour di Sawndr as it is every year. Normally we would visit and feast to mark the last day before Lent. Instead, we will pray. Changes. So many changes.
Encore plus tard
That médaille miraculeuse has started me thinking, which is the worse thing I can do at this time of night. It is just that the Blessed Mother is the patron of childbirth. A brother or sister will come in time, I suppose.
I recall the night that Armand was born, and Nohkom LaBute came to act as midwife. Nohkom — she is not my grandmother, but everyone calls her that — said that I was a lucky girl. Bouvier women always had an easy time of bringing their children into the world. I can remember thinking that the whole thing had not seemed so easy to me, but I kept that to myself.
Childbirth can be so difficult. Many women do not survive, and sometimes neither does the bābee. Perhaps it is a good thing that Louise has that medal.
Le 17 février 1885
The prayers at St. Laurent de Grandin church lasted forty hours, although we were only there for a few of them. I was glad that Armand had not come along, as the cold wind made the twelve miles there and back seem much farther. Poor Armand had a fever and tightness in his breathing, and so stayed home with Moushoom and Edmond. I rubbed some of my goose grease on his chest, and ordered him to bed with one of his favourite toys, the bonhomme jigueur that Papa made for him last year. He loves the way the jigueur’s arms and legs dance around. Eagle tucked himself in against Armand’s side as though to say, “There, boy. Now you will be warm!” Then off we went.
Though St. Laurent church is a small building that can hold perhaps sixty people at most, we had left the house very early and so were able to get seats. My eyes were closed and my rosary was in my hands when I heard Père Fourmond
say that he wished to read something. It was something that had been written by Monsieur Riel, a prayer dedicating the Métis people to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. It asked that we be given light and protection and strength, and that we who are united by blood be saved.
It was a prayer of great feeling, and of all the times of the year, I think that Lent is when we pray hardest to be protected and saved from evil. Yet now it makes me wonder. What sort of evil might Monsieur Riel have been thinking about when he wrote that?
Le 18 février 1885
Zhour di Sawndr
Since Emma and her family are not Catholics, they do not observe Lent the same way we do. They are Presbyterian — I must ask her about the spelling of that word — and they would have to go all the way to Prince Albert or to Qu’Appelle for church each Sunday. That is simply too far, especially in winter.
Emma’s mother misses their church back in Toronto. St. Andrew’s it is called. She is also homesick and longs for her family terribly, writing letters that are taken away by the mail carrier every two weeks. Emma says that once her mother even sent a telegram from the office downriver at Clarke’s Crossing, even though it was very costly. Sending words through a wire. It is such a strange idea.
Emma’s family will continue to eat meat on Fridays as they always do. All of our Fridays are meatless, of course, and so it is a good thing that I like fish. We might also have muskrat and duck, if our men are fortunate enough to get any, for those creatures spend so much time in the water that their flesh is not really meat. And we will fast, taking only one full meal most days until Lent is complete.
I have tried to imagine homesickness, and I cannot. It must be a hard thing to never see your home again.
Le 19 février 1885
Very mild weather today. Thanks to the tea that Louise brewed for him from spruce needles, cherry and balsam bark, Armand feels much better. Still, he stayed home from school and it was left to me to try and amuse him with card games, but Armand cannot seem to grasp euchre. He could make buildings with the cards though, and that was good enough.