Blood Upon Our Land Read online

  That let me work on Mama’s rug. I got out her bag of rags and picked up her hook. How the memories flooded in, and how the tears threatened to do the same, but I forced them back. I would not let myself cry in front of Louise.

  I can remember the day Mama drew the pattern on the burlap and attached it to the frame, and that helped. She would work on the rug some evenings when all the housework was done, saying that she should have drawn something simpler. This rug would never be finished, she insisted.

  Yes, it will, Mama, I promised, and I set to work.

  Le 20 février 1885

  Emma had never heard of the sort of winter fishing that is carried on by Métis until she and her family came here. At Toronto they sometimes drill holes through the ice and then fish with a line. Unlike us, though, they do not use a wooden jigger to pull a net from one hole, then under the ice, and then out again through a second hole. It must take the people in Toronto a very long time to catch enough fish to feed a large family. Perhaps they eat less.

  Papa and Moushoom checked our fish nets, as they do every few days. Yesterday they caught something of interest. By the time Armand had come running, shouting that Louise and I must see the beast, it lay gutted in the snow, surrounded by admiring men and boys. The beast was a sturgeon, a huge creature full of eggs which Papa carefully removed as he cleaned the fish.

  Armand claimed the sturgeon’s bony head with its chin whiskers, but when he picked it up he slipped on the bloody ice and the head flew out of his hands. He and the boys began to kick this dreadful prize back and forth across the ice, seeing who could make it slide the farthest. How Louise laughed! She said it looked like a game they play up in Prince Albert. Curling, she said it was called. When she explained how it was played, the boys ran home and returned in minutes armed with brooms.

  I claimed the intestines for the barn cats and had to make two trips with my pail filled, while Louise made two trips to carry in the eggs. That night for supper we ate some of the sturgeon and eggs fried in bacon grease. They were delicious, and since the cats’ pan was quickly emptied, they must have thought the same about the intestines.

  Louise says that there are people who cure sturgeon eggs with salt and sell them for a great deal of money. I would rather eat the eggs just the way I did tonight. As for the sturgeon-head game, the curling, it makes me wonder about men who play at such things.

  Le 21 février 1885

  There are now four small dogs on the back wall of the cabin. They are chasing what looks a bit like a sturgeon. I suppose I should say something to Armand, but it is more interesting to wait and see what will happen.

  Plus tard

  Papa says there will be a community meeting at St. Antoine church.

  Le 22 février 1885

  There will be no music or singing until Lent is over and Zhour di Pawk is here. The house seems oddly quiet without the sound of Papa’s fiddle. It is a sacrifice we must make, though, and his music will seem even sweeter once we may again enjoy it.

  Papa made his own fiddle out of birchbark and maple wood when he was a young man. Emma’s mother plays the fiddle, but she did not make hers. Her husband bought it for her. And it is a violin, Madame MacLeod has told me, not a fiddle, a valuable instrument called a Villaume that came from Ottawa.

  I heard her play that violin once. It did not sound at all like any Métis fiddle I have ever heard, even though it looks somewhat like one. They say that names have a certain power. It must be true, because that Ottawa violin sounded so sad, a person could have cried to hear it. Poor unhappy Villaume.

  Somehow this all makes me think of the conversation I had with Emma, the one about the word half-breed. I am Métis, but if I were a fiddle I would not be a Villaume, I would be a vylōōn like Papa.

  Le 23 février 1885

  People are talking about William Jackson, Monsieur Riel’s secretary. They say he is taking instruction from Père Moulin, and that Monsieur Jackson wishes to be baptized. How wonderful!

  Le 24 février 1885

  Only the men went to the meeting at the church. Louise and I remained home with Armand, she with her knitting and I with my hooking. When Papa and the others came home, I could not believe the news. Monsieur Riel said that he planned to leave Batoche! He fears his presence here will only be harmful to the Métis cause.

  What an uproar this created, Moushoom said. The men shouted out in protest. They refused to lose their leader. Even Père Fourmond agreed and blessed Monsieur Riel.

  They say he will stay. That the North-West Mounted Police might come from Fort Carlton, as some people fear, does not matter. I suppose I must trust in the judgement of my father and the other men, but the thought of police here is so very frightening. I have heard the stories about what happens when the police come. Enough, though, or I will never sleep.

  Le 25 février 1885

  Last night snow fell. There was no wind and so it came straight down. When I looked out my window, the yard was smooth and white except for the small marks of birds, and the footprints and tail markings of mice.

  There was also something else. Papa said that someone’s ox must have escaped from a barn, and that the fool — he was speaking about the owner, not the ox — did not deserve to own an ox if that was how he kept it. Armand whispered to me that maybe the roogaroo had come around, or maybe googoosh, although he was not certain exactly how their feet looked. I was sure that Moushoom would laugh, but he did not.

  I walked out with Moushoom. He was quiet for a long while, examining the tracks, smelling the air, not even looking at the windows where everyone was watching. He told me to study the tracks, to remember how they looked. “It is the most important thing you will ever see,” he whispered. I said to myself that the footprints of any ox could not be that important.

  “Not an ox,” said Moushoom. He can read my mind. “A buffalo made this, Josephine. What sort of Métis will you be when we go on the hunt, if you cannot see even that small thing, my girl?”

  Later Papa said that he sometimes worries about Moushoom and the way he lives in the past. It has been so many years since the buffalo ran here. Living in the past is the troubling thing about growing old, Papa said.

  I worry too.

  Avant de dormir

  Now the dogs and sturgeon have been joined by a buffalo and what I think is a boy. It is hard to tell, though, as the boy has no body, only a head with sticks growing out of it, sticks that end in chicken feet.

  Le 26 février 1885

  Seeing those tracks in the snow yesterday made Moushoom think about buffalo. It also made him tell stories about the hunts. Fortunately, he did not ask me to write them all down, for they would have filled this whole book.

  “Only one,” he said. “This one, and get it right, you girl who cannot recognize a buffalo’s tracks. This is about the 1840 buffalo hunt, the best one I can remember.”

  Here are his words:

  The Buffalo Hunt of 1840

  Told by Moushoom Bouvier

  More than a thousand carts with more than a thousand men and their women left that juin. Hard to count the children because they wiggled so, but there were hundreds. Gabriel Dumont was there with his parents, just a small boy, but I could already imagine what a hunter he would become. He had the look even then. There were hundreds of carthorses, oxen and buffalo runners. Best horse in the world, a buffalo runner. Nothing can scare it.

  We went more than two hundred miles in less than twenty days, and then there was the herd. Josephine, it was a blanket of buffalo covering the prairie, offering itself to us the way the animals used to. The priest said Mass that morning. Even I attended, for when you set out for buffalo you need all the blessings you can get.

  We followed the Laws of the Hunt, and they were as important as the Commandments. Break a law once and your saddle and bridle would be cut up. A second offence and your coat would be cut up. And for a third offence, you were flogged. A thief would be shamed publicly. There was no hunting on Sunday. All of
us rode together unless we had permission to do otherwise, and no one began before the order was given. I was a captain of the hunt that year, and so was Gabriel’s papa Isadore. I tell you, I was stricter than the St. Laurent nuns!

  Later someone told me that at least thirteen hundred buffalo were killed that first day. When it was all over, my share was a couple of thousand pounds of pemmican in the three carts my first wife and I had brought with us. That was a good hunt. I fed my family that winter, and the men at the Hudson’s Bay Company paid me well for the pemmican I later sold to them. Many years of good hunts and many bags of money. Shillings, French coins, American dollars. Never had all that much use for money, though, except for what it bought for the family, and I did not need much money for that, only a little sugar and some flour. I would trade a pot of money today, though, for just one pot of buffalo marrow.

  I think about those buffalo now and again. Not the ones that ran and lived, or even the ones we killed. I think about what we left behind. All those skinned and gutted bodies, all the meat we did not use but left for the wolves, coyotes and ravens. All those bones. Mountains of bones. Sometimes I wonder if the bones are why the buffalo no longer offer themselves to us. Maybe if we had picked them up right away instead of leaving them there. Mostly though, I just remember the hunt and what fine good days those were.

  “Take a lesson from that, Josephine.”

  I told him that I would, but now I am not sure just what lesson I should take.

  Le 27 février 1885

  Tonight we

  Plus tard

  My fingers were so chilled I could not hold the pen. So I have begun again.

  Tonight we stood outside for a long while and watched the sky. The stars were there, and so was the moon, but there was more. The blackness of the night sky was alive with the chirāān — how I love those beautiful lights when they come out. They were dancing across the north, and so Papa said there would be a cold north wind the next day.

  Armand began to whistle, but then stopped when Moushoom reminded him that whistling could bring down the spirits of the dead, for that is what the lights are. Armand replied that Père Moulin says they are just lights, and that lights cannot decide the wind’s direction. Moushoom made a snorting sound, and said that the priest had no proof at all for those words. Who was Père Moulin to make such rash statements?

  As for me, I only know that Mama is a spirit now, and that she is in Heaven. When I saw the chirāān, I only saw something beautiful.

  Le 28 février 1885

  A very cold wind today, but then it is winter and cold winds are to be expected. Moushoom went outside, wet his finger and held it up. “North,” was all that he said.

  Plus tard

  During supper tonight, Moushoom said that someone has been drawing strange pictures on his cabin. Dogs and a large fish and some sort of unpleasant-looking monster. Then he said that if he caught that someone, the person would be very sorry. A wise person would rub out the pictures. Soon.

  Armand was strangely quiet for the rest of the meal.

  Mars 1885

  Le 1 mars 1885

  Adrian heard that Monsieur Riel spoke to the congregation on the steps of St. Laurent de Grandin church this morning. “What did he say?” I asked. “Was it another declaration to the Sacred Heart of Jesus?”

  It was not. Monsieur Riel said that it is time for the Métis people to bare their teeth. Armand laughed and laughed at these words and made savage noises. “I am a Métis roogaroo,” he growled, and Eagle growled with him. “See my fierce teeth! If Macdonald or his followers come here, I will bite them and save you, Josephine and Louise.”

  A year ago, the thought of me needing to be saved would have been amusing. Now it is not.

  Le 2 mars 1885

  This morning Edmond told us that Moushoom’s hands and knees were painful with the aching that bothers them from time to time. Moushoom would take supper later in his cabin rather than coming up to the big house. I decided to ride over to Nohkom LaBute’s farm. Burdock tea is what he needs, she said. And she should know, for she is la septième, the seventh daughter born to her parents, and so she has the power of healing.

  Then, in the afternoon, Armand and I walked down to the cabin, my brother carrying a pot of stew while I carried a kettle of burdock tea. I had made sure the meat in that stew was soft and well cooked, since Moushoom has no teeth.

  There he was, his aching knees and hands wrapped in muskrat skins that also soothe pain. He hugged Armand, who ran off to explore the hollows that are tucked under the riverbank. One of the hollows is surrounded by the roots of a large tree, and Armand has dug and deepened it into a cave until it is almost like a small root-lined room. Armand calls it Fort Bouvier. There is a Fort Carlton on the other side of the river beyond Duck Lake, after all. Why not a Fort Bouvier? This always makes Moushoom smile, because although Armand may say he is making a fort, in truth he is looking for the Ma-ma-kwa-se-sak.

  Moushoom thinks that Armand will never see the little people who live in the caves — he makes too much noise when he plays there. Besides, the little people are hardly ever seen these days, even when a gift of candy is left. Too much disturbance, too much uproar.

  Emma calls the little people fairies, but she does not believe they exist. I myself have never seen even one of the Ma-ma-kwa-se-sak, but I have not seen the ocean either. I believe it is there, though. They say that if you see one of the little people you will have good luck. We could use some of that.

  Plus tard

  Looking for the Ma-ma-kwa-se-sak was not all Armand did this afternoon. All the drawings are now gone from Moushoom’s cabin wall.

  Le 3 mars 1885

  A robin landed on the windowsill for a moment today. It is early for him to have returned, but still it cheered me. Mama used to say that a person should take comfort in small and ordinary things. I do.

  Plus tard

  Armand is small, but certainly not ordinary, for he has been teaching the chickens. That they wander about pecking in the yard does not bother him at all. He makes his voice deep — I suppose he thinks he sounds like Père Moulin — and orders them to say the alphabet or count to ten. When the rooster crowed today, Armand was convinced that the bird understood him.

  It seems so long ago that I played like that.

  Avant de dormir

  It is hard to find ways to take our minds away from the troubles with the government, and what is worse, Papa and Adrian have argued. It seems to me that more and more our lives are being poisoned by all this. Only here will I admit how worried I am not only for Batoche but for our family. When Mama was alive, no one —

  No. I will not think that thought again.

  So. Tonight I read a story to Armand, one from Louise’s book. He has been asking for this story for some time, since it is more or less about the Ma-ma-kwa-se-sak. Monsieur Perrault has titled it “Les Fées.”

  In the story, the little people test two girls. Jewels and gold fall from the mouth of the good girl and she marries the king’s son. As for the bad girl, snakes and toads fall from her mouth and she comes to an unhappy ending.

  The moral was a suitable one. It said that diamonds and gold coins may work some wonders in their way, but a gentle word is worth more than all the gems on earth. Armand said that a mouthful of toads and snakes would be more fun. I believe the moral was wasted on him, but still, it made me smile inside.

  Le 4 mars 1885

  This morning Papa was taken by curiosity to see how Gabriel Dumont’s new house is coming along. He and Adrian were gone most of the day, and have only just arrived home a few hours ago. I must admit I was a little worried. Batoche no longer feels as safe as it once did, but my father and brother are capable men.

  As for the building, it is not yet finished and so it seems that Madame Dumont and the washing machine will have to wait for their fine house.

  To bed, Josephine.

  Le 5 mars 1885

  We spent a quiet day at home,
with no worrisome talk. Edmond and Moushoom played cards. Papa and Adrian did not. Instead, they cleaned their guns and sharpened all the knives in the house, since they have given up cards for Lent. Louise and I saw to supper, making a rababoo of fish and vegetables. She used her own recipe, and so the food tasted different, but everyone seemed to enjoy it.

  Armand played string games — cat’s cradle, Emma calls this — but they could not hold his attention for long, and he began to tease the puppy until Eagle nipped him.

  “Enough!” shouted Moushoom. He does not shout often and so Armand’s chin began to tremble. Armand looked to Papa for sympathy, but he only shrugged. “What Armand needs …” Moushoom went on, but then he paused. I supposed he wanted to give Armand time to think about what he needed. Finally, my grandfather said that Armand needed to help him with the cariole. He added that I should help as well. Neither Armand nor I should spend so much time indoors, especially on a fine day such as this.

  Moushoom’s cariole is beautiful, the birch runners smooth and slick when they travel over the snow. It is old, but the buffalo-hide panels on its sides are kept brightly painted. The harnesses are not ordinary leather, either. They are shaganappi that Moushoom braided himself, since buffalo hide is far stronger. All three of his dogs pull the cariole, but Moon is always the lead dog. He also wears the finest tapis — and actually seems proud to wear a coat all trimmed with bells and ribbons, if a dog can be said to look proud.

  Leaving Eagle behind in the warm house, Armand and I dressed the dogs while Moushoom pulled the cariole out of the shed near his cabin. When all was ready, when the dogs were in their harnesses, when Armand and I were seated in the cariole, Moushoom threw a buffalo robe over our laps. He whistled to the dogs, cracked his whip over their heads — the whip never touches his dogs — and we were off. Pimbahtaw! he shouted, and they took us along the river past the Caron house and the Gareau house. There was the cemetery and there was the church, both looking peaceful under the snow. We flew into Batoche and Moushoom slowed down the dogs so that we could wave and call out to anyone who happened to be looking. They might wish to admire us, after all. Then out we flew again.