Take Us to Your Chief (16 page)

The sun was just about to dip beneath the treeline when I heard footsteps coming up my driveway. I was enjoying my afternoon tea, so it took me a moment to recognize the step pattern—that's something us old geezers can do. Some of us know the sound of how every person in the village walks. It's like how people speak; no two people have the same footsteps. It was Duane, back from whatever mischief he'd been up to. I'd been thinking all day about what I was going to say to him. Should I yell at him for an hour and then kill him, or kill him and then yell at him? I'm exaggerating of course, but sometimes kids and grandkids will make you feel that way. Regardless, I figured I'd feel the situation out before making
a decision.

Before he got to the door, I yelled to him, “I know it's you, Duane. You get your ass in here.” I stood to meet him as the screen doo
r opened.

What walked through that door startled me. Yesterday, Duane had been clean-shaven, washed and maintained. This Duane had a three-or-four-day beard growth. His hair looked like it hadn't been washed in a week. And even from clear across the living room, I could smell his
BO
. It was the kind that had fermented over several days and naturally kept the mosquito
s away.

“Where the hell have yo
u been?”

“I know we were gonna have dinner at Maggie's tonight… It was tonight, wasn't it? But I thought maybe I should come over here first. Hope that's okay?” I noticed he had his backpack with him when he dropped it to the ground with a loud and heavy thud. “I know you got a lot o
f questions…”

“Damn right I do! What the hell have you been up t
o and—”

“Sorry, Poppa, but you got anything to eat? I haven't eaten a lot in the last few days. I have to remember to bring mor
e food.”

I didn't really know what he meant, but he was my grandson, and hospitality has been part of our culture since Time Immemorial, even when it comes to rude, crazy grandkids. Two sandwiches and a carton of milk later, he asked to take a shower. It was almost half an hour before he finally sat down at the table with me, wearing a pair of my track pants and a spare
T
-shirt I am ashamed to say has grown a little small fo
r me.

“What's wrong with the shower at Maggie's? And she doesn't feed yo
u either?”

Duane smiled like these were the questions of a child. We elders don't get a lot of smiles like that, and it made me kind o
f mad.

“Well?”

He opened his backpack and removed something long and thin, then hid it under the tablecloth. “I got something to show you first,” he said, “and it's part of the answer to you
r question.”

My grandson then placed it on the table in front of me. It looked like one of those old-time flintlock pistols, like in those pirate movies or something. I picked it up. It was heavy and smelled of what I assumed wa
s gunpowder.

“Did you steal this?”
I asked.

A sequence of expressions flashed across his face: surprise, a little shame and the
n amusement.

“I know what you're thinking. You're right. I did steal it. But not from a store.” From here, to put it politely, his story got a bit weird. In fact, I struggled to make sense of it. “I took it off what I think was a coureur de bois. At least, that's what we were told to call them in school. I'm going to have to research them, but you know, those French guys who traded goods for furs with Native people a long time ago. That's who I took it from. That's where I've been. Oh, Poppa, it's great to b
e back.”

“You took it from somebody that hasn't prowled these woods in hundreds of years? And just how did you d
o this?”

Duane started flossing his teeth. I guess there was no floss back in coureur de boi
s times.

“You know, for people who spent all their time travelling this wild country, living off the land, battling rapids and all sorts of difficulties, you'd think they'd be a lot braver than they actually were. I also brought back some axes and beaver pelts that I left on the island. I'm kind of new to this, Poppa, and I need some advice. I'd like to start paying rent at Aunt Maggie's and was thinking about selling them to a museum or something, but I wanted to clear it with you. I didn't want you to think I was doing bad thing
s again.”

Here came the big question. “You brought them back fro
m where?”

He smiled again, before taking a deep breath. “Well, here's where it gets complicated. I don't know if it was a different dimension, or maybe a universe with the same kind of history, or maybe I just travelled back in time. I haven't figured that out yet. I should have paid more attention in science class back in school, but I know it's something like that. It has to be. Got any potato chips? That's what I've been craving for the last thre
e days.”

“You were back in time… or in another… What did you call it… dimension? For the last thre
e days?!”

“Yeah, it took longer than I thought. I lost my hammer and chisel when I fell in the river. You know Otter Lake used to be an actual river way back when? A fast-moving one, too. I guess that's why the coureurs de bois were using it. I had to steal some stuff from their camp to survive. It's amazing what you can do with a flashlight and a cellphone that plays recorded messages. Scared the heck out of them, and they ran off like spooked rabbits. Boy, was I terrified for a moment. But here I am. Salt and vinegar if you hav
e them.”

Somehow, as I tried to figure all this out, I got him his chips. Duane seemed quite earnest and sincere. As problematic as he had been as a child, then later as an adult, was he really the type to sit there and lie directly to my face? Or worse than that, maybe he thought I was a complete idiot. The final possibility was my grandson was crazy. None of these options were particularl
y appealing.

It seemed Duane could tell by the expression on my face that I was having a little trouble believing hi
s story.

“I guess I wouldn't believe it either. But I swear to you, Poppa, that's where I was. And it has to do with thos
e petroglyphs.”

Whether or not I believed him, I had figured out it had something to do with tha
t place.

“The two new carvings on the wall… that wa
s you?”

“Yep, that's how it works. Except there's four ther
e now.”

Okay, now I knew the boy was lying. “No, I was there this morning. I saw the two new carvings… Onl
y two.”

“Yeah, those were what—I guess you could say—opened the door and let me… ‘travel' is the best word I can use. I had to add a note to the song of the petroglyphs, one that matched the rhythm of the other ones that were alread
y there.”

“What the hell are you talkin
g about?”

“And of course, I had to carve another to get back. You probably didn't notice the one I'd carved a few days ago to get back with the tomahawk because it had aged over the years and looked like the rest. If you look closely, you'll notice another new one I just added a couple hours ago… or centuries ago, depending on how you want to look a
t it.”

Something suddenly occurred to him, making him look at me with new interest. “Or maybe you won't. I mean, for you, they will have always been there, so maybe that's why you didn't notice the first one. This all gets so complicated. Time, or dimension, travel isn't for the stupid,
I guess.”

By now I was wondering if I should cal
l
911
.

“Back when I was on the island, I could tell those pictures weren't random or haphazard. There was a story or pattern there. I told you that. It took a while, but I've figured out the pattern of the glyphs. It was kind of like a code, so I think now I know how to use them. I've been through them twice. You add to it, and it… like… increases whatever power is there and opens some sort of door. It's s
o cool.”

I remembered the music analogy he'd explained to me by playing his guitar and thought there was a weird sort of logic to what he was saying. Over the years, a lot of idiots had carved their initials into the limestone surrounding the ancient pictures, but probably no mysterious time doorways opened up fo
r them.

“And then I got back to the mainland and read about all those places around the world. They're all connected somehow. One guy says it's because of the resonant harmonics in the crystals located in the igneous rocks. It creates a sort of frequency that somehow manages to open these doors.” This did not sound like my car-stealing grandson at all. “These places of power occur at regular intervals around the world. It's like our ancestors knew and understood this, that's why they put the petroglyphs there. But over the years, we forgot about them. I guess we were too busy dealing with all the white men who had suddenly appeared. Then smallpox and measles probably killed off a lot of wise people. But I figured it out, Poppa, I could see what they had done. I'm not as stupid as everybody thinks
I am.”

I wanted to tell my grandson that nobody thought he was stupid, but I didn't get th
e chance.

“I told you that I would make you proud of me. I'll be famous for more than stealing cars. Everybody will know me and Otter Lake. I've done what nobody else—at least in a long time—has been able to do. All by myself. Just think of all the things we can accomplish, the history we can change. It's amazing, the possibilities. Maybe I'll go back and kick Columbus's and Custer's asses!” Duane laughed at his own joke. “History isn't in books anymore. We can walk throug
h it.”

Once again I saw that young boy I'd loved since long ago, wanting to be appreciated and applauded, like al
l children.

I was beginning to put two and two together, at least within the context of what Duane was trying to tell me. Whether I believed every single word my grandson told me was anothe
r matter.

“That tomahawk you showed me a couple days ago. That's where you got it… through th
e petroglyphs?”

“Yep. I think it was our ancestors'. How far back, I don't know. I know there's some way to tell by looking at the stars and mapping the constellations, and then comparing them with the way they look today, but I'll figure that out later. Hey, but one guy I saw paddling a canoe looked a lot like Uncl
e Floyd.”

As any grandfather and elder worth his salt knows, the power in a good story shouldn't be dismissed. However, all this talk of time travel and dimension-hopping was getting way over m
y head.

“So this is what you're doing with your life now? Travelling through time and dimensions, stealin
g stuff?”

For a moment, he looked embarrassed and a little hurt. “No. I got bigger plans. I just wanted to have something to show you—and everybody else—that I wasn't lying.” He finished the bag o
f chips.

I picked up the flintlock gun and had to admit it looked pretty real. I had no idea what a fake one looked like, but if this was bogus, somebody sure had put a lot of time and effort into making a convincingly decen
t fake.

“You can keep it, Poppa. It'
s yours.”

All this was too much for an old man. I had run out o
f questions.

“You know how you always talk about how we have to struggle to keep what culture we have, hold on to the language, all that stuff. Now you don't have to worry. Everything our ancestors had, we can have again.” His eyes were gleaming with those amazing possibilities he ha
d mentioned.

Admittedly, my experience as an elder hadn't really prepared me for a conversation like this, but I had seen enough science fiction movies to know this kind of thing was dangerous. Those Anishinabe and coureurs de bois that he had run into on those two trips—supposedly run into—were probably tough customers. I told my grandson of my concerns, but he was like a kid with a motorcycle, thinking only of the speed and the thrill, not of the potentia
l accidents.

“I'll be good, Poppa. You'll see. And… and… and I can do so much good. I'll be able to answer so many questions. I'll be able to help our people back then, you know, deal with everything that's going to happen. Maybe sometime you can come back with me.” He suddenly got more excited. “Yeah, you can speak Anishinabe way better than me. Let's do it sometime! Okay?”

I had no answer at that time. I wish
I had.

Gathering his stuff up, still smiling, he left my house. That was about two weeks ago. I didn't see him for a week. Logic told me that he was in hiding, trying to make me think he'd gone through that doorway of his. Giving more substance to his story. That he was actually up to something he didn't want me to know about, that this was just some big con or something. I do believe there are places in this world, and I guess all the other worlds that may be out there, that ordinary men and women shouldn't walk. They're not meant to. Especially twenty-six-year-old ca
r thieves.

Something kept gnawing at me, and I went over to the island. As I had half expected, I discovered two new images etched into the wall, but no Duane. I found myself placing my hand on the rock. The same place Duane had put my hand just a few weeks ago. It might have been my imagination, but I thought I could feel a buzzing… then I heard
a groan.