Scattered Bones (3 page)

A tent has been set up in a pretty grove of silver birch up from the beach, where tea chilled in an icebox and egg salad sandwiches will be served. The guests are about to make their way there when their travelling companion, Arthur Jan, comes beetling over. Ignoring everyone else, he eyeballs the Lewis brothers. “How would you fellows like to bunk at my place? It’s not a palace but it’s pretty clean. And the meals are a treat. I bet that you’d both enjoy a night in a real bed.”

The Famous Writer looks tempted, but his brother pipes up,
“Thank you most kindly, Arthur, but, as you are well aware, from the
start of this trip, we’ve followed a strict policy of no special treatment. We’re part of the Treaty Party and will live in whatever conditions they do.”

Not at all cowed, Arthur replies, “That’s understandable, I guess. But please accept an invitation to a small gathering at my place tonight. In honour of your arrival. It’s not often that someone so famous drops into this neck of the woods.”

Sinclair Lewis thanks him profusely; a delicious dinner
not
around a campfire would be heaven. As the writer turns and walks away, Florence spots Arthur folding into an obsequious bow, a mocking smile on his face. She feels like spitting at him.

She had planned to join the tea party but at that moment the Wentworths’ daughter Izzy comes skipping by. Florence adores this eighteen-year-old. She’s everything her mother isn’t – sensible, kind, intelligent. “How you doing, my beauty?” she calls out.

“Just fine thanks, Flo. I’m on my way to watch the set up.” Izzy is trying not to show how happy she is but Florence has a pretty good idea of why the girl’s face is so flushed. She’s eager to see caramel-skinned, honey-eyed Joe Sewap, the Cree boy she’s fallen for.

“Okay, darling. Mind if I walk along with you?” Flo asks.

Arrangements have been made for the Treaty Party to pitch their tents on a flat stretch at the back of the Bay store. While the party is sipping iced tea, Joe and the other native workers put up the tents and move in the equipment. Izzy and Florence stand to the side, watching.

“What’s that?” Izzy asks, pointing at a huge pile of canvas.

“That’s a duffle bag, if you can believe it. Belonging to The Famous Author,” says Cecil Ballendine, one of the more loquacious paddlers. He then proceeds to demonstrate an unbelievable number of buttons, flaps, straps, buckles, padlocks. “And this is nothing compared to the rigmarole that we go through at
bedtime. Fluff up his eiderdown blankets, blow up his waterproof pillows, make sure the yards and yards of mosquito netting are pinned up around his bed. You’d think he was in Africa or somewhere tropical.”

Once the tents are assembled, the firewood neatly piled, the latrine dug and the cooking area set up, the crew is free to go. Izzy quickly latches on to Joe.

“How’s the trip so far?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“What about The Great Writer? Everyone here is dying of curiosity.”

“He’s okay.” Joe pulls a gadget from his pocket and begins separating its parts. “He gave me this. It’s a knife, can opener, nail file, screwdriver, auger, pliers, and corkscrew, all in one. Haven’t used it yet, maybe never will, but it was nice of him. Some people don’t like him, but I do.”

Izzy is amazed. This is not the taciturn, depressed Joe she has known in the past. He has spoken more than two words. Maybe he’s beginning to feel comfortable with her!

“So, you translating for the Treaty Party today?” Izzy asks. What intrigues her most about this boy is his ability with languages. He can switch between Cree, English and French without batting an eyelash.

“Yeah, I get two dollars for doing it. Which is good ‘cause my motor needs new plugs. The only problem is that sometimes I have to stop myself from punching the Indian agent in the mouth.”

More words! An actual opinion! Izzy is in heaven. But then he abruptly walks away. “See ya later,” he shouts over his shoulder.

“Isn’t he a dreamboat?” the girl beams. “You’ve probably guessed, Flo, that I kinda’ like him. But please, I beg you, don’t tell my parents.”

“Of course not. I promise, not a word.”

At first Florence hadn’t approved of Joe and Izzy becoming so friendly – life with a husband who was native would be so hard – but now she’s changed her mind. They would make a divine couple, she’s decided. But she knows that Izzy’s father, the Reverend Ernst Wentworth, would have his daughter fry in hell until her skin crackled rather than have her marry an Indian.

Florence decides she had better see how the tea party is getting along and she walks over to the treed grove. The Famous Writer is holding forth, the crowd lapping up his every word. Florence can’t help herself; she lets go with a honking laugh. This man is an idiot for sure. It’s 80 degrees, but he’s dressed in oilskin trousers and a heavy canvas jacket coloured brown and green, as a camouflage against God knows what, with huge pockets to store the game he never bags. He’s also sporting thick, fleece-lined, ‘self ventilating’ gloves, a red woollen scarf around his neck, flannel socks and high-laced boots. Topping it all off is a wide-brimmed hat that makes him look like a debauched boy scout. That paddler, Cecil Ballendine, was wrong, thinks Florence. The Famous Author doesn’t believe he’s in tropical climes. He thinks he’s in Antarctica.

Arthur Jan, his long pointed nose twitching, is shamelessly fawning over The World Famous Author. “You were such a trooper, such a sport on the long and dangerous journey,” he mewls. Florence is reminded of Judas Iscariot before he betrayed Jesus. This performance sets her fretting again. It’s been over two months and she still can’t get the scene out of her head.

Chapter Two

She hadn’t been able to sleep.
Reading the Aeneid hadn’t helped, but she thought maybe a walk outside might. A remarkable aurora borealis was flashing in the sky and she decided to catch a better view by climbing the path up the steep hill behind the HBC store leading to a flat plain where the Cree graveyard was located. About halfway up, she heard the sound of metal, a shovel probably, crunching into
the earth. Then she spotted two figures on top of the hill. Arthur Jan
and Bibiane Ratt were digging furiously. Dozens of objects had already been retrieved and were scattered around them. Some had been placed on the ground, others were sitting along the trunk of a dead jack pine long ago felled by lightening. Florence could barely see them in the queer green light, but, after she crept a little closer,
the shapes came into focus. Bowls, axes, knives, awls. And many other
things she couldn’t make out.

Suddenly Arthur Jan jumped up and yelled, “Son of a bitch! Ain’t this a gem?” He began waving a long, narrow bone as though it were a band leader’s baton. It glistened stark white in the beam of the Eveready flashlight which Bibiane had switched on. Bibiane laughed out loud. “What a clever chap you are, Arthur. I can see dollar bills flying into our pockets already. But wouldn’t a spade speed things along?” Arthur nodded yes and, after thrusting his shovel into the dirt, Bibiane hurried off.

Arthur sat down, lit up his pipe, then reached over and carefully scooped up one of the objects. His back was to Florence so she was able to creep a little closer. By craning her neck, she could see the necklace, the red, green and blue glass balls and the blood-coloured pipestone beads. Arthur sucked in his breath. “Oh my God! What a beauty. What a precious thing.”

Florence wasn’t sure what to do. She was still hiding in the bush,
but the night was cold and she was chilled to the bone. Also, she was a little afraid of what these men might do if they found her hid
ing there. Her bed suddenly seemed a wonderful idea and she snuck quietly away.

The next morning she returned to the grave yard, but there was not a sign of the previous night’s activity. The curious objects had disappeared, and the spot where the Arthur and Bibiane had been digging looked as though it had never been touched.

Florence hasn’t confronted either one about what she had seen. She’s waiting patiently, for exactly the right moment.

Arthur Jan’s Welcoming Party

Thursday evening

Chapter Three

Arthur Jan hurries over
to his trading post.
He wants to make sure the unloading of his precious cargo goes well, but more, he’s dying to tell his store manager, Bibiane Ratt, his thrilling news. The two go back a long way. They met years ago during a loud and vicious poker game at a La Ronge speakeasy, during which Bibiane pocketed an amazing amount of cash, not only from greenhorns, but also from the seasoned players, whites and Indians alike. Arthur caught how the half breed cheated: not only with the usual marked cards but, by performing audacious hand-mucks – switching one bunch of cards for another hidden in his Assomption sash. All with an impressive, steely-eyed calm. Arthur recognized him as a kindred soul, so uttered not a word.

Bibiane can count on his mother’s side a French grandfather and an Assiniboine grandmother; his father’s relatives were a mixture of Scottish, Métis, Ojibwe and Cree. ‘Mixed blood” is how he refers to himself, but others are not so kind. “Mongrel,” “cur,” “mutt” – he’d been called it all, and suffered the beatings that followed. Which is why, Arthur thinks, he is so mistrustful and inscrutable, an outsider forever spying on the insiders. His kind of man.

Bibiane is easy to spot since, on this hot day, a bright red handkerchief has been wound around his head to soak up the sweat. Still, a bead or two trickles along the scar that cuts Bibiane’s face in two – a
memento of a long ago knife fight. He’s kneeling in the flat-bottomed fishing boat, patching a leak. He looks up when Arthur calls out, “There you are, you old son-of-a-bitch.”

Bibiane doesn’t smile, but then he never smiles. He simply asks “So how was the trip? Any luck?”

“Beyond our wildest dreams. I have much to tell, old chum.”

The two men make for the store’s office, and, before they sit down on the surprisingly elegant leather chairs, Arthur pours them both a whiskey. Then he settles himself, eager to relate what happened.

“The meeting in New York went beautifully. When I pulled off the covering and showed the agent the samples, I thought the man was going to faint. ‘Incredible!’ he bellowed. The bargaining that followed was still pretty rough, but we did good.”

The two take a celebratory gulp of whiskey, and Arthur continues. “On top of that, I’ve come up with a plan to ensure it all happens. A brilliant one if I do say so myself. You know that American writer, the one I travelled with for all
those interminable weeks? The guy that everybody is bowing down to as though he’s a close friend of King Tut’s?”

Bibiane nods yes, and Arthur continues. “You and I, we’re going to have fun playing with him. He`s our ticket to the riches we both deserve.”

The two clink glasses. “To our treasure,” says Bibiane. He hesitates for a second, and then angles a leery eye at Arthur. “You’ll make sure I get my share, won’t you, Boss? Remember, I’m the one who found that christly mother lode.”

“For heaven sakes, we’re old friends, Bibi. How could you think I’d do anything but treat you well?”

Chapter Four

As the justice of the peace
for Pelican Narrows,
Arthur feels obliged to make sure things run smoothly for the Treaty Party, so he heads back towards the village centre. First though, he drops into Madeline Michel’s crowded little cabin.

There was a time when he was enthralled with a tender Cree girl, but now she’s a fat-assed squaw who harangues him mercilessly every time she runs into him, so you couldn’t get him into her bed for love or money. Three of her children are his, he’s acknowledged that. He drops off cash now and then and has remembered them in his will. But he has no real feeling for them. “Hi there,” he greets them whenever he spots them. “Behaving yourselves?”
They never utter a word, just stare at him with their big, doe-like eyes. It amazes him how Indian they look with their brown skins and midnight black hair. The only hint that British blood runs in their veins is their long, pointed noses. Madeline’s a Catholic so they’ll be shipped off to the new residential school opening in the fall. He can’t say he’s sorry; not being constantly reminded of past indiscretions will be a relief.

As usual, the shack is a muddle with all kinds of stuff strewn about. Dishes displaying relics of bannock spread with bearberry preserve sit on the table. A huge chunk of driftwood stands in the middle of the room; it looks as though one of the children is carving it into a bear’s head. But nobody’s around. Arthur assumes the family’s gone off berry picking, or maybe they’re lining up to fetch their treaty money. Wherever they are, Madeline’s beady-eyed mother will be with them. She despised Arthur from the moment they were introduced. Well, the feeling’s mutual.

He takes out two one-dollar bills and places them under a saucer. Of course it would be cracked.

Madeline’s place is situated in a neighbourhood that is called, ridiculously, The Bronx –Arthur’s never been able to figure out why. He makes his way along a path that runs through the hodgepodge of three dozen cabins plopped down every which way like dominos gone crazy. They’re pretty well all the same: one room, sixteen by twenty feet, made out of logs with sheets of tar paper covering the roofs. As well, there are a dozen wigwams scattered about. Each dwelling sits in a confusion of outhouses, storage sheds, dog kennels, fishing nets, traps of all kinds, drying racks for game, tools used for skinning moose, pots, axes, fishing rods. Arthur is inherently neat, and the jumble offends him. Still, he’s been around Indians long enough to know that there is real order in the chaos: every piece of this flotsam and jetsam is essential to making a living.