Medicine Walk (28 page)

The kid nodded. They looked at each other. The horse neighed softly in the barn and the old man pulled the kid to him and clasped his arms around him and rocked side to side. The kid could smell the oil and grease and tobacco on him and it was every smell he recalled growing up with and he closed his eyes and pulled it all into him.

He walked out into the pasture and got the old man’s grey mare, brushed her out and saddled her, and led her out to the
paddock. He pulled a hat down low over his eyes and mounted, urging the mare to the gate, and he leaned down and opened it and rode through into the field. The light across the horizon was a wide flush of pink and magenta beneath the banked tier of cloud and the lowering sun threw shards of light upward so that the sky seemed curtained. He rode across the field to the line of trees. When he got there he turned the horse and regarded the farm. He let his eyes trail across the fields to the back ten acres his father had fenced and thought of that time when he had been almost happy. Then he wheeled the horse and kicked her up the trail.

He sat the mare easy. The roll of her gait was comforting and they climbed steadily. When they breached the rim of trees at the top of the ridge, the last of the clouds parted and sun reclaimed the western sky. The clouds were dappled now in a burnished gold and he thought that this was all the cathedral he’d ever need.

The ridge formed one side of a deep narrow valley. It was a half-mile across at its widest point and there was a stream that ran its length through thickets of alder and red willow with a swath of meadow, level and true as a table, leading to the scree and talus that marked the bottom of the far ridge. It was the old man’s favourite ride when he’d gotten too old for riding into the depths of the backcountry. He nudged the horse forward and kept his eye on the vista.

The light weakened. He could feel the thrust of evening working its way through the cut of the valley and he watched the shapes of things alter. The sun sat blood red near the lip of the world and in that rose and canted light he sat there filled with wonder and a welling sorrow. He wiped his face with the palm of his hand and he stared down across the valley.
Soon the light had nudged down deeper into shadow and it was like he existed in a dream world, hung there above that peaceful space where the wind ruled, and he could feel it push against him. He closed his eyes for a moment and when he looked down into the valley again he thought he could see the ghostly shapes of people riding horses through the trees. They angled east into the valley with dogs strewn out in ragged lines ahead and behind them and children running after them waving sticks, the shouts of them riding the wind to the rim of the ridge. Close on that the clack of the horses’ unshod hoofs on the loose and scrabbled stone and the drag and bump of travois poles and the shouts of young men on rearing ponies. There were women walking stately beside the horses, stooping to gather herbs and berries in hide pouches slung against their hips, the dip and sway of their travelling song finding the push of thermals and rising to him. He watched them ride into the swale and ease the horses to the water while the dogs and children ran in the rough grass. The men and women on horseback dismounted and their shouts came to him laden with hope and good humour. He raised a hand to the idea of his father and mother and a line of people he had never known, then mounted the horse and rode back through the glimmer to the farm where the old man waited, a deck of cards on the scarred and battered table.

In the Ojibway world you go inward in order to express outward. That journey can be harrowing sometimes but it can also be the source of much joy, freedom, and light. There are many who have been there to share on my inward journey and without their light I may not have found the wherewithal and courage to brave the darkness and shadows. Suffice to say, the re-emergence has been amazing and this story was born out of long nights of soul searching and reflection. I am grateful as always to my steadfast, indefatigable agent and friend, John Pearce, who’s been there every inch of that inward journey and always when I re-emerged to take up the writer’s craft again. You made me strong enough to write this book. As well, to those great friends who have also been part of that journey and always been there for me though sometimes I didn’t know it: Nick Pitt, Rodger W. Ross, Dawn Maracle, Shelagh Rogers, Charlie Cheffens, Joseph Boyden, Thomas King, and Fiona Kirkpatrick Parsons. I owe my current state of openness and light to the presence of Rick Turner, Arjun Singh, Waubgeshig Rice, Kim Wheeler, Daniela Ginta, Blanca Schorcht and Vaughan Begg, Mackenzie Green, Michelle Merry, Deb Green, Jane Davidson, Herman Michell, Peter Mutrie, and, especially, Yvette Lehmann.

Thanks to all the folks at Westwood Creative Artists, the Thompson-Nicola Public Library in Kamloops, and all my students and workshop participants for the ongoing motivation to be more.

Heartfelt gratitude and deep indebtedness to my uber editor, Ellen Seligman, for finding me and this book. I owe you many dinners. To all the folks at McClelland and Stewart and Random House of Canada, the Canada Council, the B.C. Arts Council, thanks for the support.

Lastly, this book would not have been possible if it weren’t for the presence of Debra Powell in my life during its writing. Long may you shine.