Moccasin Square Gardens Read online

  I was like, “So much for reconciliation.”

  The RCMP looked at the volunteer firefighters, who looked back, and they all started clapping their hands and smiling. “This is going to be so awesome. It is on!”

  I saw them trying not to laugh at the Chief directly, but the challenge was out there, and I was embarrassed that people who risked their lives for us had been insulted by Chief Danny. From then on, people got fired up. The wives and husbands and kids of every Mountie and volunteer firefighter were like, “You show them. You show them who they’re dealing with.”

  It was personal. For everyone. Suddenly this became our everything. I got scared. I even did a couple push-ups at home for conditioning, but they hurt so I stopped.

  Musta been a Tuesday when Chief Danny took off again to Ottawa to do his thing: negotiate, drink, play pool, negotiate, right? Always in meetings at The Keg, I guess, with a T-bone steak, garlic mash and all the fixin’s. What the fuck ever.

  Yeah right, I thought. Chief, you’re busy watching all three X-Men movies on Air Canada all the way to Ottawa for the second time this month. He’s off and we’re organizing this huge tug-of-war. Or I am. Everyone in the Band office except me is still booking their next vacation to Cabo and creeping everyone in town on Facebook.

  The Chief arrives back right on Canada Day. He comes in to work and he’s like, “Hey, what’s this? You a Super Indian, or what?” he says, looking at my office walls. I had printed and hung a pile of new Star Wars artwork while he was away: Ryan Singer, Kelly Kerrigan, Andy Everson, Steven Paul Judd.

  “Hi,” I say. “Welcome back.”

  I can tell what he’s thinking: You’re Tłı̨cho�. Your mom’s the mayor. Your dad was the mayor. Why do you work here? Who’s paying you? What are you worth to me?

  “Nobody else at work?” he asked. “What’s this—cat’s away, mice are gonna play? Where is everybody? There’s only two holidays here: baby Jesus’ birthday and Aboriginal Day, June 21st. As far as I know, it’s only Moonyow Day today, okay?”

  I waited, because I could see how this whole thing was gonna go.

  He ignored me as he sent out a volley of messages on his two cellphones. I’m going to say that again—he has two cellphones: a new iPhone and a new BlackBerry, both on his belt, right next to his Big Chief Snuffleupagus knife that he uses to slice eight balls of hash for the one-man dance party at his mansion in the bush, I guess.

  I said, “Sir, remember that big tug-o’-war you announced for the town?”

  And he goes, “What? Yes. Yeah. I remember that.”

  I said, “Well, it’s right now. The whole town’s waiting for you.”

  He clapped his hands. “It’s now? Right on. Let’s go right damn now. Okay!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  So we hop in his truck and we go racin’ down to the track. Those little coyote tails on his antennae are flopping all the way down there. I notice a big braid of sweetgrass on his dashboard and, boy, it smells nice. I guess every time the sun hits his cab, the fragrance of the land comes rushing in. I can hear the cellphones clipped to his belt rubbing away at his plush seats. When we get out of his truck, everyone’s there, right? Everyone’s just gettin’ ready. They’re like, “All right. Here we go. Here we go!”

  So, Fort Simmer’s population is 2,500, give or take. We’re officially five languages. There’s Chipewyan, Cree, Tłı̨chǫ, French and English. A beautiful town—a fierce town when it comes to politics, history, pride, love, exes, peace bonds, child support payments, hand games, Nevadas, bingo and hockey, right? The Chief goes racing right up to the front of the tug-of-war line, pushing everyone out of the way. And then—no lie!—he wraps the rope around his body three times.

  But what he didn’t know was this: two days earlier we’d had a five-hour office party (a.k.a. coffee break). Everyone who was currently standing behind Chief Danny on the tug-of-war line had called for a mutiny of sorts. The Council members had realized they were doomed. “Man, there’s no way we’re gonna win against the RCMP and the volunteer fire department. Those guys live at the gym. Those guys are on protein shakes and energy bars, and the women are toughest of all, ne’rmind.”

  Our group looked like little candy apples. How can we all be skinny and fat at the same time? We couldn’t possibly win, so the deal was supposed to be that I would stay at the Band office on Canada Day to wait for our fearless leader. I would tell him we had a plan to propose. “How ’bout when they go ‘One, two, three,’ we all let go? And when the RCMP and the firefighters fall back we can have a good laugh and we’ll buy ’em a coffee, and everything will be good, right?”

  That was supposed to be the deal. But no one was counting on me, the daydreamer, a.k.a. Super Indian, to decide not to tell our Chief about this trick, which had been decided in solidarity just to have a good laugh. And here’s why I didn’t. Chief Danny is one big stinky loser face. He’s always been here, and nothing ever changes. He’s made his fortune off of us and our future. Our town looks like a war zone. The Youth Centre is closed all the time; there’s no café. The Sportsplex kind of imploded and now the building is condemned. And what do we do? We sit around waiting for something to happen. You know, when I was little, everyone had bush radios on top of their fridges so we could listen to what was happening on the land and hear who needed help or where so-and-so had seen a moose. Now it’s police scanners. We’re more interested now in who’s beating up who, and I am just so sad when I see the smiles of our ancestors in those photos. I wonder what they would think of us Town Indians living our lives as half of who we could be. Maybe even a quarter. Why the eff am I more excited about looking at pictures of the past rather than looking ahead with hope? These were the ingredients that spurred me in my decision to stage a little mutiny of my own, I guess you could say.

  So, as we all lined up for the tug-of-war, Pauline, our secretary, asks me, “Did you tell Danny that we’re all gonna drop the rope?”

  And I’m like, “Yup. On our way here.”

  And Dave, our councillor, says, “I dunno, guys. He’s wrapped himself up pretty tight in that rope.”

  I bite my tongue and look down, because this is going to be spectacular.

  “Any speeches today, Chief?” the Sergeant asks. Nobody bothers learning their names anymore because RCMP rotate outta here faster than Lady Gaga does a costume change in one of her concerts on YouTube.

  “Take our rights,” the Chief says, “you’re gonna get a flurry of lefts. Let’s go!”

  We walleye each other and pretend to tighten our grip, but deep down inside we’re all like, “Here we go.” I’m saying that internally too, but I’m also going, “Oh my Geaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawwwd!”

  So, the whole town’s there, and they go, “One! Two! Three!” The RCMP and the volunteer firefighters pulled just hard, boy, and we who work at the Fort Simmer Band Council office just let go and Chief frickin’ Danny just frickin’ flew, boy. It was documented by a hundred cellphones and later posted online in slow motion. Okay: Chief Danny didn’t just fly—he uncoiled and spun three complete times in the air as he soared. He flew so fast his little sneakers were still stuck in the mud, and his little white socks. You could see his little white socks as he flew, and his mullet just fanned right out, hey? And what was sad was his little white socks didn’t even match.

  Yup, about halfway in the air, we saw his eyes bug out and his mouth open before he belly-flopped into the biggest Sarlacc pit of all time. It was mud; it was clay. There were a couple stolen bikes in there, and he went splat. Also, he had on his leather jacket from The Leather Ranch. He’s got his two cellphones, right? His wallet, his glasses. Everything goes into the mud, right? And he’s just swimming around, eh? He’s just dog-paddling and gulping for air.

  And the whole town, they’re killing themselves laughing, ’cause they can’t believe it, right? Then the publisher for the paper comes up and calls Chief Danny’s name, and they hate each other, right? ’Cause the journal’s always exposing
what the Chief’s up to.

  And unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on who you talk to—the Chief said the f-word just as the picture was taken. You can see him enunciating with his big brown patty-cake face: “Effffffffffffffffuuuuuu.” We all know it’s gonna be the cover story, and this little boy comes running up, and goes, “Ha ha ha, Chief Danny! My dad says that you’re exactly where you belong. You’re just like a pig in—” and the boy said the sh-- word.

  And then the Chief yelled something I’ve thought about every day since. You know what he said? Now, don’t forget, this guy is a veteran of the Indian wars, right? What did I say—this Chief survived what? The Pope, prime ministers, premiers? You know what he said to that little boy? He said, “That’s no way to talk to your real dad.”

  At first, everyone thought that was just a bad joke. But then the little boy’s mom said, “Danny, no!” And that little boy said “Mom—?” and his dad said “Barb—?”

  And the woman started to cry.

  And Chief Danny crawled out of the mud, grabbed what he could, got into his truck in his little muddy socks, and he drove off. Those little coyote tails just bobbed away in the wind.

  And I stood there thinking, What a thing to do to a little boy: “That’s no way to talk to your real dad.”

  That poor kid. That poor husband. That poor wife. You know, our Elders say, “There’s God’s way, there’s man’s way, there’s the Indian way.” That’s what they say. There’s something called Indian court, you know. Brutal, eh? Rugged!

  And that was the day I started to plot my revenge. I would spend my life uncolonizing Chief Danny. Seven billion people on this planet and I’d found my reason to live: to take him down and save the North from him and every other loser leader out there. One day I will speak my language. One day I’m gonna raise my family in a good way. I’m going to buy that house Chief Danny’s adding onto right now, and I’m gonna reclaim that high score in Galaga that I used to have when I was thirteen.

  Chief Danny, your Reign of Cheapness is about to end. My superhero power is now this: I will spend the rest of my life taking you down. I’m going to end you, Hoochie Coochie Man. Here comes the pain from the Tłı̨chǫ daydreamer. And, holy shit, this is gonna be fun.

  Wheetago War I: Lying in Bed Together

  Warlike, and just what the doctor ordered. Holy cow. What a night! Valentina!

  Valentina …

  Valentina!

  The way she crouched and sank into me as she squeezed the back of my neck and whispered, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

  Her tattoos. She’s marked in ways that aren’t ours, I think: her legs, arms, feet and hands. And she’s scarred: scorch scars on her hip and bruises all over her. Fresh stitches under her left rib. My God! A warrior! The sweep of her hair over my hands as I held on and the growl of me trying to hold back but losing myself to her every time completely. Holy! The hunger for each other. We became the night.

  And who knew suffering could be so glorious? What a goddess. Sweet mercy. I am in awe. I had no idea. I am a brand new man and I am hers now. And on today of all days: my last day as a Handi-Bus driver. I’m free. We could hit the city, get her car fixed, rock out. What can I cook her? Porridge, heavy cream, blueberries. Toast. Jam. Oh, I’m going to spoil her.

  Last night I fried up some caribou meat with lots of butter and salt, prepared fresh veggies with tons of butter and a swab of minced garlic. I used my couscous from Kaesers, the garlic blend. As I got all three of my pans and my pot going, I boiled up some mint tea, which I had picked myself at Tsu Lake. Oh, she was hungry.

  And now she’s back, glowing from the bath.

  “Shhhhh,” she says. She’s dressed. Hair wet. Ready to go. Her clothes, in this light, look different. She’s used sinew to mend the tears on her light jacket, and there’s a symbol that I see now on her right arm: the skull of a caribou. Did she have that last night? And why does she smell like smoke?

  “Shhh?” I say and reach out my hand. “Can I make you coffee?”

  She shakes her head. “We have to go.”

  “Where?” I ask. “The Pelican? I can cook for you—”

  “No,” she says. “We have to leave.”

  I frown. “And go where?”

  She points to the sky.

  I wrinkle my nose. “What?”

  “Goddamn you,” she says, suddenly serious. “Why didn’t you listen to me?”

  “Listen?” I asked. “I did everything you wanted me to last night.”

  “No,” she says. She hands me the plastic container for my prescription pills. “What are these?”

  My pills. I’ve had the worst splitting headaches this last year. It feels like a 747 is taking off in my head. I almost go into seizure if I don’t get to my pills in time. That container was in my bathroom, tucked behind the mirror. Oh no. Don’t tell me she’s psycho.

  “Those? They’re for my migraines.”

  She shakes her head. “Those aren’t migraines. That’s us trying to reach you.”

  “Us?” I say. “Who’s ‘us’?”

  She points up. “Us.”

  “Okay,” I say and pull the blankets close. I’m still buck. “What are you talking about?”

  “Remember what I said last night?” she asks. “Remember I said you were needed?”

  At the dance. Roaring Rapids Hall, a.k.a. Moccasin Square Gardens. I nod.

  “And remember how I said you called me?”

  I don’t want to blow this with her, but I still don’t know what she’s talking about. “Yes.”

  “The guys who were after you have all agreed to stand down. Because of me. I showed them something.”

  Seriously, Gunner and his bros aren’t going to beat me up anymore? “Okay,” I say. “What did you show them?”

  She sits on the bed beside me and places my prescription bottle on the nightstand. “Close your eyes and focus.”

  I do it.

  She places her hand on my head, and I see a series of brutal flashes. I hear hissing.

  Footage. How? I’m whipped into another time: footage. Grainy footage. Something huge—not human—walking through smoke. Screaming. Praying. The pop pop pop of guns firing. Screaming. To my left, bodies are rolling in an ocean of froth. Children. Adults. Upside down. Parts of them, rolling with the tide. People running. Praying in all languages. Running. The something not human is hit by bullets and falls, kneels, gets back up. Throws its head back and howls. Keeps walking. Three beings follow. One without arms. Another flying low to the earth, human face, spinning its body around on its neck.

  Then a scream that hurts my head and breaks the feed, and a cut to a forest. Nothing is moving. Hundreds of things are standing still, arms up towards the sky. Their backs. Skin is hanging off their backs, and one is ramming a tusk through another one’s head. They are humming. It’s a low roll, and they’re swaying together. Some are hissing. Some are yelling, but it’s a cry song. I hear Valentina’s voice whispering, “Go go go go.” She stands gripping a long spear, and then people are moving. They slow to a crouch, watching carefully a field of beings praying under a full moon.

  I take a big breath and I’m in my bedroom. “How did you do that? Did you drug me last night?” I look in her hand for a microchip. I look around the room for a tiny projector. How did she do this to me?

  “We warned you,” Valentina says. “You were supposed to stop the Tar Sands.”

  “Me?” I say. “How?”

  She sighs. “Not just you. Everyone. We sent dreams back, and we know you received them.”

  I glance at her hands. What is she holding? Nothing. “Those were nightmares. How did you do that?”

  She looks at me. “Our daughter taught me.”

  I get the shivers. “Our daughter?”

  “You and I have a girl. They’re scared of her.”

  “
Who? How? Prove it,” I say. “You can’t do this shit to my head and not have me asking questions. Just talk to me.”

  She studies me, then points to my jeans on the floor. “You don’t believe me? Okay, in your left pocket two days ago was a shell casing, right? Our Dream Throwers put it there ten years from now. Your mark in the future will be your right hand bathed in yellow pollen. You will leave yellow swaths on the trees to signal where an area is safe.”

  “Safe?” I say. Shit! I had found a shell casing in my pocket when I was getting dressed the other day. I’m pretending to not be stunned, but I am. Ten years from now? Dream Throwers? I’d found that shell casing and sniffed it and known it had been left for me. “From who?”

  “It’s what.” She shakes her head. “What’s coming is already here.”

  “Wait. You sound like something out of The Terminator. Don’t lie about anything. Just tell me.”

  She looks so tired. “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “I don’t,” I say. “Start at the beginning and tell me.”

  “The world’s ammunition lasts three days. That’s it. We hold them off for three days, and then they rule the Earth.”

  “Who?” I ask. “Who do we hold off?”

  “Body Eaters.” She looks right at me. “The Wheetago.”

  “The Wheetago,” I say. “Okay … when?”

  “When is the year the caribou do not come down from the coast?”

  I glance around the room. “It’s now. This year. They didn’t come down. The Elders just met, and they are worried.”

  She nods twice. “This is the year the Wheetago War begins.”

  “Wait a minute. Come on.”

  “Do you know what I saw three days ago?”