Motorcycles & Sweetgrass (41 page)

“Never underestimate the need for some sheer silliness,” said John. “That’s why some people drink. That’s why some people take drugs. Of course that’s the cheap way out. A good bout of complete nonsense now and again would keep everybody sane. You can quote me on that.”

Virgil found the thought itself quite silly. “Yeah, I plan to go around directly quoting Nanabush.”

“Ah, now you believe me?”

“I believe nothing.”

“Now
that’s
silly, and I like it.”

“John, Nanabush, or whatever you want to call yourself, what’s next?”

“Whatever I want. That’s what I do.”

“I mean more specifically.”

“Virgil, half the fun is not knowing, but I’ll send you a postcard when I do.”

Before long, they emerged from the forest near the spot where he’d parked his motorcycle. John could tell the boy was eager to sit atop the machine.

“Go ahead. Just don’t scratch anything.

Slowly, as if he were in a dream and the bike might disappear in a heartbeat, Virgil approached it. He threw his leg across the fabled 1953 Indian Chief motorcycle, admiring its ageless beauty. Yeah, he’d seen Harleys and Hondas and Kawasakis in magazines and on television, but he had to admit, there was something very different about this machine. He could understand why John would choose to ride it.

The Indian Chief was big for the boy physically but not too big for his imagination. Sitting atop the bike, hands stretching forward to grasp the handlebars, he could almost feel the wind blowing past him. He imitated the sound of the motorcycle as he pretended to shift gears. At one point, deep into his fantasy, he was trying to avoid the police as he raced down a highway. Up ahead, the cops had thrown “sticks,” with their tire-piercing prongs, across the blacktop. Desperate to avoid them, bad boy Virgil lurched to the right—only to find himself and the motorcycle falling over onto an obscure dirt road in Otter Lake.

He found himself on his back, John standing over him with an amused look on his face.

“You scratch it, you buy it.”

Scrambling to his feet, Virgil helped John lift the bike up and onto the kickstand. “Just having some fun.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Ready to go home now? The helmet’s a bit big but it should be fine.”

Virgil put on the oversized helmet and sat across the gas tank, while John donned his own headgear. Virgil’s heart thrilled at the vibrations when John turned the ignition and kick-started the beast. To please the boy, he revved the engine a few times, making it growl, then joyously gunned it and sped down the road, leaving behind a trail of dust.

For the last time, the 1953 Indian Chief cruised through the streets and roads of Otter Lake, though avoiding the well-travelled routes where the Res cops might be lurking. Virgil enjoyed every kilometre of it. He waved to the Otter Lake Debating Society as they roared past, momentarily disturbing today’s topic of discussion: who was sexier, Charlotte or Emily Brontë?

John weaved in and out of side roads until he ended up down by Beer Bay, near the Second house. There he stopped the vehicle with a skidding flourish.

His heart still beating a mile a minute, and his butt tingling from the engine’s humming, Virgil ripped his helmet off, smiling ear to ear. “That was so incredible! I want one!” He slid off the bike and turned around.

Slowly, John removed the screaming-raven helmet from his head. For a moment, Virgil’s heart almost stopped. The blond White man he’d known for over a week was not the man before him. In his place sat a strikingly handsome Native man, still lean, but with a dusky skin colour, high cheekbones and long black hair that danced in the slight wind. Still in John’s clothes. And for a second, Virgil could see the last traces of amber in his eyes, before they filled in with brown.

Through gritted teeth, John managed to say, “Christ that stings. I told you it hurt.”

“J—John…?”

“Not quite, but close enough.” The pain seemed to subside, and the Native man who was dressed like John now sat tall in the saddle.

Virgil felt his eyes widen. “Then who…?”

“Yes, Virgil, there is a Nanabush.”

“Oh my God…”

“Well, that’s a bit presumptuous, Virgil, but thank you for the compliment. You know, through these brown eyes, the world does look a little different. Curious, huh?”

Nanabush took a deep breath. “Just smell that. Anishnawbe. Otter Lake. It never really changes, you know. You could say the more things change, the more they stay the same.”

“Wow.”

“You really have to work on your vocabulary.”

“You
are
Nanabush!”

“And you are Virgil. I thought we established that already.” The now-Native-looking man surveyed the surrounding land. “Virgil, this road here, where does it lead? Down to the water?”

Virgil nodded, finding it an effort to answer. “Yeah. That’s where they take the boat trailers in the spring, to put boats into the water. And in the fall to take them out again.”

“Good. That’s what I needed to know. Well, this is goodbye, Virgil. I am quite confident I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

“You’re leaving! But you can’t! I want—”

“Sure I can.” He began tying his hair back into a ponytail, similar to Wayne’s. “I’ve been away for a while, Virgil, and now I’m back. It’s a whole new country, a whole new adventure now. Lots of new people. I’ve been negligent lately. Got things to do now. I didn’t before. I hear Ottawa’s a fun town. Might go into politics. Never know. I’ll be around.”

“Goodbye, then, I guess.”

“No, Virgil. There is no word for goodbye in the Anishnawbe language. Only…”

“I’ll be seeing you. Ga-waabamin.”

“There is hope for you after all. Ga-waabamin, my friend.” Grunting, he turned his bike toward the weed-infested road.

“But I told you, you can’t leave that way. That’s a dead end. It ends at the water.”

Smiling his trademark smile, albeit a more tanned, high-cheekboned version of it, the man formerly known as John shook his head. “Haven’t you figured it out yet, Virgil? There are no such things as dead ends. Only people who find dead ends. I sometimes wonder if that’s the only thing I have to teach.”

“Before you go…”

“Yes?”

Virgil took a braided strand of sweetgrass out of his pocket and held it up for the man to take. “I took one of these from the pile you made. I think you should keep it. A little something from Otter Lake. My mother and a lot of my relatives with cars have dreamcatchers or these hanging from their rear-view mirrors for good luck. You don’t have a rear-view mirror but still, I…”

Reaching out, the stranger took the gift and smelled it. “That is truly the smell of the Anishnawbe. I accept your gift. Even though I made it.” He attached it to the mirror on the left handlebar. “Thanks.”

“That’s so… White. I think you’re suppose to say ‘meegwetch.’”

“Meegwetch, then.”

He put on the helmet and, with a nod to the boy, Nanabush kicked the bike into gear. The wheels spun and shot vehicle and rider down the road.

There are no such things as dead ends. Only people who find dead ends
. Virgil stood, pondering the meaning of that. It would make a great title for an essay. He had planned to write about his uncle’s martial art, until Dakota, a much smarter kid than him,
told him she was amazed at what he now knew about Nanabush. It would mean a lot less research too. And maybe he wouldn’t have to use so many adverbs and adjectives.

TWENTY-SIX

Dinner was almost over and Virgil, Maggie, Wayne and Dakota were finishing off the final crumbs of their apple pie.

“Oh my God, that was tasty,” Wayne said. “I could almost get used to this kind of cooking. That pie was almost as good as Mom’s.”

“Keep complimenting women like that and you’ll have a girlfriend in no time,” Maggie said with a smile.

“Hell, I wouldn’t know what to do with one anymore.” Mildly amused, the three other dinner mates all looked directly at him. “I mean… I would know… I mean… it’s just been a long time since I dated… and I… geez, leave me alone, guys.” Sheepishly, he licked his plate, trying to hide behind it.

At this, as in the other recent suppers, nobody mentioned the elephant—or in this case, the White man—in the room. It had been almost two weeks since John had left. Most of Wayne’s bruises had healed and he was walking with only a slight limp. More importantly, he had used the time he was laid up to devise a usable defense against a raccoon being thrown at him, at least in theory. He was, understandably, in no hurry to test it. Besides, he was safely ensconced at his sister’s, feeling oddly comfortable there.

Dakota was studying up on Nanabush. Though her parents tended to dismiss “all those old stories,” she was enthralled.

Especially by the more adult, bawdy ones that many teachers and social workers might find inappropriate for a girl of Dakota’s age. Every time she found a new Trickster story, she would mumble under her breath, “Yeah, he’d do that” or “Nah, not in a million years,” almost as if she were reading a biography.

Maggie tried hard not to think of he who must not be named, who had entered and left her life so suddenly. But John was a hard man to forget. Like the dust from the meteor that had wiped out the dinosaurs, it would take quite a while for things to settle. At that very moment, as it had been since the press conference, that particular patch of woods was crawling with police, forensic teams, archaeologists, anthropologists, media and, for some reason, a lot of fat raccoons. Bones were still being found and there was a rumour that some ancient Mayan artifacts had been uncovered.

In the meantime, Maggie was trying a more Zen approach to her work and her life. She could not control the things that happened in her community; she merely had to react. That, in itself, lowered her blood pressure. John, if nothing else, had taught her chaos was to be expected and nobody can really plan for it. Just prepare as best you can and deal with it when it arises. No more late nights worrying about “what if…?” Instead, more television or fishing with Virgil, thinking “whatever.” She was sleeping better.

And then there was Virgil. Essentially life had not changed much for him. He still went to his rock by the railroad tracks, though less often, and the last time he took Dakota, to show her the petroglyphs. He was still waiting to find out if he’d managed to salvage his year, but he had handed in his essay. One of the most significant changes, if it could be called that, was the knowing smile he shared with his uncle and cousin.

Perhaps most importantly, it was the phrase uttered by John-of-a-thousand-last-names before he disappeared that caused Virgil to think and ponder.

“There are no such things as dead ends. Only people who find dead ends.”

That was almost T-shirt worthy, the boy thought. How to apply its wisdom to his own life… well, that would take a bit more thinking. He was only thirteen, after all; he had a few years ahead of him to ponder it.

“Do you want us to clean up, Mom?” Without waiting for an answer, Virgil began to stack the plates while Dakota gathered the cutlery.

“No, don’t worry about it. We can look after this later. I’m too full to even think about washing them now. Why don’t you two go outside. Show Dakota some of that stuff your uncle has been teaching you.” She stacked the plates from around the table and looked at her brother. “I could go for a coffee, how about you?” Wayne nodded, pushing himself back from the table. In his scant two weeks on the mainland, his pants had gotten unusually tight. Might have to start training again, soon and a lot. Nothing more embarrassing than a fat martial artist.

“Okay, we’ll be outside.” Almost instantly, Maggie and Wayne were alone in the kitchen. Wayne picked the last pickle from the bowl in the centre of the table, somehow finding room for it.

“Wayne, they’re putting in Mom’s headstone this afternoon.”

“Already? I thought that took two or three months or something like that to carve.”

Maggie smiled. “Well, when you’re chief, you can pull a few strings. Put a rush order on things. I told them she was a matriarch of the community…”

For a moment, Wayne lowered his eyes. “Well, she was,” he answered softly.