Take Us to Your Chief (14 page)

Nothing in the room responded. You could have heard a pin drop, but none of the pins in the room felt like dropping at that specifi
c moment.

The floodgates had been opened, and the boy unleashed a torrent. “It's just… Why? That's all. Why? Why don't I fit in? Why am I here? Why should I continue to put up with this shit? It's all so hard. I am not doing anybody any good, especially me. So there. There's your stupid reason. Happy?!”

Again, the room was silent. Even the old-fashioned clock on the wall seemed reluctant to shatter the quiet with a tick. Finally, the robot's eyes dimmed briefly, then resume
d glowing.

“You realize you are talking about the misery of existence to a cheap plastic robot that you've ignored for most of your teenage years. I know about being alone. Look, my left leg has a hairline crack along the back. Two of my lights are burned out. I've got dirt and sand inside most of my working parts. This damp weather is hell on my electronics. Your dog peed on me once, and I can't remember the last time you changed my batteries. Right now, I am operating on shee
r willpower.”

“So am I,” retorted th
e boy.

“Fair enough,” responded the toy. “I don't argue that things may be difficult at the moment. Everything you are feeling… Well, that is what you feel and who the hell am I to tell you not to feel that way? Remember your Uncl
e Todd?”

Of course he did. Uncle Todd was a legend. Out hunting three Februarys ago, he had gotten lost in a sudden snowstorm and spent eight days surviving on his own until a search party found him holed up in a desolate hunting cabin about six kilometres from where he'd gon
e missing.

“I know for a fact he was just as down as you are, maybe more, thinking he was lost, that eventually he was going to freeze to death, or maybe slowly starve, or maybe even be eaten by a grizzly bear. More importantly—and this was what ate away at him—he was embarrassed, even humiliated, that he, a good and knowledgeable Kwakwaka'wakw man, had gotten lost in the woods and that right at that moment, people were searching and worrying about him. Each night, as the darkness grew in that dingy cabin, it grew inside him. He'd look over to where his rifle stood and wonder what was the best course o
f action.”

This was definitely news to the boy. His uncle had always seemed so strong and… well, fearless. That he would even consider something like that… For the second time that day, the teenager wa
s surprised.

“But things got better for him. They usually do. Eternity has taught me that. Yes, yes, I know the argument that the world is so depressing and gloomy, so it would just be better to end it all and revel blissfully in non-existence. But the thing is—and keep in mind this is coming from someone who has seen the mountains rise and fall, and then rise again—that is such a narrow perspective on how the world runs. Nothing ends. Everything goes on, and on and on. Taking your own life because life is painful, that doesn't end it. More often than not, that spreads the pain. One person, then another, probably another will see what you've done. Some might follow. Or it might be just your family, sitting there at your funeral, crying, blaming themselves. Suicide becomes a virus, spreading across the youth of a community. And it spreads sadness to everyone. We've all see
n it.”

The robot was speaking the truth. As horrible as things were for him, the boy definitely did not want to be responsible for other people following hi
s example.

“Is this a…” Once again, the boy searched for the words. “A suicid
e intervention?”

“No, it's a cultural intervention. You and your generation are the elders of tomorrow. The virus starts and stops with you. I—all of us—happen to like the Kwakwaka'wakw nation and would like to see it survive. We'd like all the First Nations of Canada, the world—what the hell, everybody—to survive. Every once in a while, everybody needs help. Think of this as… I guess you could call it ‘spiritual welfare.' We're there when you nee
d us.”

The boy was silent. The room was silent. Finally, he asked an important question: “Will things ge
t better?”

The toy's eyes flickered. “I don't know. We're spirits, not fortune tellers. Usually, that's up to you. Other people can knock you down, but only you can get back up. If you don't get back up, if you go to sleep and don't wake up the next morning, they—whoever they are—have won. And everything you and your people believe is important gets a littl
e weaker.”

Down the hall, the boy could hear his grandfather wake up. The bed creaked, and footsteps headed for the bathroom. The living room was littered with beer bottles for the first time the boy could remember. A moment of weakness for the old man, who had always seemed so strong. But now the man who had raised him, the man who had just lost the woman he had loved and lived with for forty-seven years, was walking forward. No doubt sadder than the boy could imagine, but carrying on. He had gotten bac
k up.

“What should I do, then?”

Nothing. The toy robot sat on the shelf, staring off into the distance. No lights, no voice, silent as it had been fo
r years.

“Hello? You still i
n there?”

He picked up the plastic creation and shook it. Around the room the boy could see the objects that just a few minutes ago had shaken his world. They were all silent. Still grasping the toy, he turned the lamp on and off. Flipped through the pages of his graphic novel. Turned the radio on briefly. All seemed perfectly normal… whatever tha
t meant.

Mr. Gizmo's red plastic eyes remained blank, as they had been for as long as the boy could remember. He wiped the dust from the shelf and returned the toy to its former position. After a moment of thought, he grabbed the gun. This time it felt ominous and uncomfortable in his hand. He hoped he could get it back to the old man's closet before his grandfather came out of the bathroom. As he turned toward the door, he felt the gun move slightly. The hammer slowly uncocked and went back to its normal position. And along the side of the revolver, he saw the safety shift t
o on.

This time, his door opened with no fuss. The boy quickly entered his grandparents' bedroom, then the closet, hastily replacing the gun. He returned to his room and sat on his bed, trying to fathom the afternoon'
s events.

Looking up toward the thing on the shelf, he said, “You're never going to talk to me again, ar
e you?”

There was no response, not that he was expecting one. Outside his door, he heard his grandfather return to hi
s room.

Nothing had really changed in the boy's life. Yet so much was different. Tired, that was how he felt. That he could deal with. Getting comfortable on his bed, he hugged his pillow, wondering if there was indeed a spirit inside the fluffy collection of foam. He realized he had to go to th
e bathroom.

Opening the bathroom door, the first thing the boy saw was the porcelain toilet. As Mr. Gizmo had pointed out, and if thousands of years of Kwakwaka'wakw teaching were true, the toilet had some kind of spirit too. And quite probably it was watching him at this very moment, and al
l moments.

Suddenly, the boy wasn't sure he had to g
o anymore.

Petropaths

I guess you could say Duane Crow was a bad boy. Everybody knows he'd been in some trouble before. If you were keeping track, you could say a lot of trouble over the years. Never made it past Grade 10. Never held down a job for more than a year; going in and out of jail kind of limits your employment opportunities. Still, I knew he was a good boy. He just made a lot of bad choices. Who hasn't? A lot of you are thinking I have to say that. I'm his grandfather, and I'm giving the eulogy. But I truly believe the boy had untapped potential. And in the end, he proved it t
o me.

I still remember him as a gap-toothed young boy, climbing trees and swimming in Otter Lake. He loved to explore. He had the whole world before him, and I always thought he was meant for something special. My daughter tried as best she could. His father… Well, the less said about him the better, I suppose. The only good thing he ever did for the boy was teach him how to play guitar. But when Duane's mother passed on seven years ago, I think that was what really derailed him. It was like Duane became angry at the world. He stopped trying… Or I guess you could say he started trying the wrong things. All that unfocused energy got him in so much trouble. Drinking, drugs, fights and, finally, a fondness for taking other people's cars. Only twenty-six years old, and already people had painted him bad for life. That's how he ended up on Thunderbird Island. Thank the Creator for sentencin
g circles.

White people, feeling so guilty for everything they've done to us over the last five hundred years, are always trying to make amends in one way or another. This year, it was the imposition of a sentencing circle for Native young offenders. The Crown suggested that for lesser crimes the local elders get together and come up with an alternative punishment. As most of you know, the Native way is to repair the damage and heal the wound, not to exact punishment for something alread
y done.

One month on one of our islands, learning the ways of our people, trying to ground himself in tradition. I know Duane didn't really believe in our traditional ways, but maybe he thought this option was a lot easier than half a year of cement, steel and guards at the local jail. Maybe he felt it would be like going camping for a couple weeks. He could be short-sighted that way. Whatever the reason, the important thing was we got him to th
e island.

I remember when he was brought before the elders after his last little escapade. Afterwards, as I walked him out of the building, he didn't look up. Like I said, inside he was a good boy. Duane knew he'd done bad and was embarrassed to be paraded in front of u
s all.

“I'm sorry, Poppa. I really am,” he said. That's what he called me, Poppa. And I could tell he was speaking the truth. “I don't know why I took that car. I knew I'd ge
t caught.”

“When you take these cars, are you running away from something or t
o something?”

“I… I wanna go someplace, but I don't know where. Other than you, Poppa, this place has been shitty to me. I'm bored. I'm frustrated. I'm… something.”

He sounded like a lot of the youth in our community, stuck between the past and the future. The true goal is finding enough of both to make your life wort
h living.

I told him it was okay, that he was there to make amends for stealing thos
e cars.

“Don't worry,” he said. “Someday I'll make you proud. I'll be famous and you'll be able to say with pride, ‘That's my grandson.'
I promise.”

I told him he didn't have to promise me anything. Famous don't mean nothing. I told him just to look after himself and the important things in his life. I told him that's why people often fall off the road into the ditch. That's 90 percent of just getting through the day—looking afte
r things.

Duane nodded before we entered the room where the elders were waiting. “I'll try, Poppa,” h
e said.

We elders felt that Duane's problem was a lack of understanding of his place in the universe. Yeah, I know, that sounds so airy-fairy, like we'd be having him do yoga or something, but it's true. We explained to him that he needed to know who he was, where he came from and what his path was. You can't know where you're going until you know where you've come from. That was one of the things my grandson had to look after. Otherwise, he'd be like a shiny metal ball in one of those pinball machines, just banging here and there, making a lot of noise but not really accomplishing much. I told him I would come over to the island frequently, to give him instruction in the traditions of our people. Still, I don't know if he fully understood what we expected o
f him.

We chose Thunderbird Island because it's fairly isolated and large enough to provide the boy with some space to wander about and not feel trapped. More importantly, that's where the petroglyphs are. A thousand years or so ago, some of our people carved images on the wall of a cliff, just a dozen feet up from the shore. Overall there seems to be maybe thirty or thirty-five separate images scattered across the limestone wall, ranging in size from the width of a hand to the size of a Hula Hoop. It's difficult to tell what some of the images are supposed to represent. Over the centuries, some have faded, others you aren't sure where one picture stops and another begins, and a few, around the edges, have crumbled off and fallen to the ground. Time and weather can be formidable enemies of Aboriginal art. Not to mention the bunch of carved initials and rude words that populated the edge of the petroglyphs. Reminders left by dozens of stupid people trying to find immortality by hacking away at a sacre
d site.

This has been a sacred place to us for as long as we can remember. When I was young, I would canoe for hours across the big lake to get there and sit for days, looking at them, trying to figure them out. Some were easily identifiable, like fish and animals. Others were a little more unusual. A few were just bizarre. Sprinkled among them were non-specific shapes that some anthropologist once described as geometric. As a kid, I just thought they wer
e pretty.

It took me a while to understand these were the musings and dreams of our ancestors, the thoughts and history of our people carved into Mother Earth for us to see. People always told me I was just imagining it, but I was sure I could feel a delicate hum coming from those rocks. A subtle vibration. Nobody else felt it, so I always figured they were right and it was my own silliness. As I learned later, I wasn't alone in m
y silliness.

We felt that putting Duane so close to the petroglyphs, literally on their doorstep, would be like the heart and soul of his people looking over his shoulder, giving him a path to follow. Being on Thunderbird Island would give him some time to look after things. Sometimes being alone with yourself, with your thoughts and realizations, can be more trying than a long prison term. Or for some, it can teach you a lot more than one of those degrees at a university. It depends on the person. I hoped Duane would do as I had done and ponder the images so lovingly etched into the rock. Long hours in front of them had taught me patience and contemplation. But Duane seemed more interested in making sure he had enough cigarettes to get him through the week, till I would show up with his next boatful o
f supplies.

We arrived at Thunderbird Island and unloaded the boat. “So, what am I supposed to do until you get back?” Duane aske
d me.

I told him, “Wake up with the sun. Go to bed with the sun. Make yourself some tea. Look at those pictures on the wall. Respec
t life.”

“That'
s it?!”

I think he was expecting more, like it was some sort of boo
t camp.

“Yep, that's it. The only thing I, or anybody, can really teach you is to do what you can to be a good person. I know that probably sounds stupid, but the only reason we're put on this earth, I believe, is to try and make it a better place when we leave than when we entered it. See, that's the real trick. Everything else is jus
t details.”

His forehead crinkled as he processed what I had said. Next, I filled him in on the rules: he was not to leave the island for any reason. Everything he needed, outside of the food I would bring, was on that island. It was up to him to figure out what he needed in this world. That was his responsibility—to figure things out. Why he was so angry. What he needed in life to be happy. Why he took things. Why he fought people. Why he had ended up there on Thunderbird Island. He had to look afte
r things.

I left him there that first week, a gradually diminishing figure on a Central Ontario beach, looking confused and a little apprehensive. I don't think he'd ever spent a week by himself, alone, with no way of talking to other people or occupying his time. Duane always acted tough, but as my boat pulled away I thought I saw that little boy I remembered, so confused and hurt, asking me where his fathe
r was.

So he spent that first week alone on Thunderbird Island. Later, he told me he just about went crazy with boredom. Basically, getting firewood, swatting mosquitos and swimming were the only things to do. So he would sit there where he had set up camp, watching the birds, occasionally strumming his guitar. After some discussion, we elders had decided to allow him to bring the guitar. It wasn't like we were sending him to one of those Russian prisons or anything. By the end of the second day, he had named all the birds that liked to hang around his camp. Same with the chipmunks and squirrels and a porcupine that watched him from a nearby tree during the day, always changing trees a
t night.

It was on the third day that he found himself in front of the petroglyphs. He'd seen them a couple times as a kid, when his family or the school would bring him out for a day trip. But this time, with a good fifteen hours of June daylight to kill, he propped up his lawn chair directly in front of the wall. Normally, doing exactly what he'd been told to do would have grated on Duane's pride, but he had pretty much exhausted all the other time-wasting possibilities on th
e island.

So he sat there, playing his guitar, smoking and looking at the images. He told me he would string some of the images together and make up stories to pass the hours. Two days of this. By the third day, he found himself letting those carved images just wash over him, like an aroma or light. That day he barely touched his guitar. Instead, he would lean forward, frequently leaving his chair, and approach the engraved hollows. His fingers touched them, feeling their texture and tracing the images chiselled into the soft limestone. Like there was a message somewhere in the ageless stone. All those stories he had been making up about the carvings started falling to the ground. A different saga was emerging from the weathere
d rock.

When I returned that Sunday, I saw him standing on the shallow beach, waiting. Again I saw the little boy he'd once been, so lonely yet happy at m
y arrival.

“There you are. I wasn't sure you were coming!” was his greeting t
o me.

“I ain't got no place else to be. Besides, I thought you might b
e hungry.”

I brought out a bucket of fried chicken, his favourite as a kid. I guess he was still a kid deep inside, because he grabbed it right out of my hand and ripped into it. His only other comment, between drumsticks, was “You bring m
y cigarettes?”

After unloading the boat, I spent a couple hours catching up with him. The day was mostly consumed with me doing my elder thing and telling him what he should do now that he was comfortable on the island. We talked a while about ceremonies and teachings. I gave him some sage and sweet grass. He seemed receptive, almos
t interested.

I spoke of nature, of the Creator, of the importance of having respect for other people and, just as important, respect for yourself. Normally Duane would have rolled his eyes at this lecture, but I guess he was so starved for the sound of a human voice that he listened. Didn't ask many questions, just listened, till near th
e end.

All around I could hear the birds scolding us for disturbing their little island. Off in the distance, a Sea-Doo was making a racket as it crossed the lake some miles away. I could tell he was biding his time to ask me something. Finally, he worked up th
e nerve.

“Those petroglyphs… they're something special, aren't they? I mean, I thought they were just pretty things chipped into a wall. But there's a purpose to them, ain'
t there?”

I asked why he though
t that.

“Just
a feeling.”

“What kind of feeling?”
I pressed.

A moment passed, then the old Duane came back, because the only answer I got was
a shrug.

When I returned the subsequent week, I could tell the carvings were beginning to consume his interest. As soon as I got out of the boat, he ushered me toward the wall. He had moved his camp to directly in front of it, and there was a pile of cigarette butts scattered across the pine needles there. I asked if he'd been doing the ceremonies I had taught him, but I don't think he heard me. Duane put his hand on one of the carvings, the one that looked like
a turtle.

“Put your hand here. Tell me if you fee
l anything.”

He grabbed my hand and held it up against the wall, looking at me with an odd intensity. I felt the rough texture of the limestone, the softness of some moss, the shallow indent of what had been laboriously carved into the sedimentary rock thousands of years ago. Then I remembered my own youth. The humming. But putting my hand on that rock wall, I didn't fee
l anything.