The Cast Stone (24 page)

“And that's being a flake?”

“No, it's just that she insists that she can communicate with her mother without words. It's a little weird, but it's nothing, really.”

“What makes you think she can't?” Ben faced his son squarely across the table.

“Not you too. Is this some kind of Indian thing or what?”

“I don't think you have to be Indian to have a sense of how your children are doing.” Ben paused, wondered how much to tell Benji. “It's not like vision quest or sweat lodge ceremony, not even the sacred pipe. It's more personal than that. Intuition.”

“Intuition I can understand, but she insists that she sent her mother a message.”

“Well, intuition is part of understanding. You can't know anything completely if you only apply logic.” Ben felt the professor within him stir. He suppressed it. “Intuition can be developed, learned. Maybe Rosie and Elsie have learned how to use it, how to use the connection between family.”

The word family hit Benji, stopped him from his quick answer. Family he did not know about, was not sure enough to insist upon his otherwise clear perspective. He sat still, looked down at the folded platform on the table. There was a communication device, understandable: microchips, circuits, wireless connections, solid, real. He looked back up at Ben, checked flannel shirt, red and blue squares, something out of history, at the wind-tanned face beginning to be gouged by the lines of age, at the eyes that looked beyond him, not at him, not challenging.

“We understand family, maybe a little differently than you've been taught.” Ben was not the professor now, he was his own father and grandfather speaking. “Our ancestors are always behind us, a line of them going back; we're connected to them. The things they did in their lives affect us, just like the things we do in our lives affect our children and grandchildren. If our grandparents did something good, helped someone, that help might come back to us. That's why in this life we should try to do good, so that good brings a blessing to our children.” Ben wanted to talk, felt the need to pass this on, understood his own father, and the warmth of the wood stove and the cabin and the quiet of a winter evening while he sat and listened to these same words. He now appreciated his father's need to speak. Time was short, was always short. “You should remember seven generations behind you, and think seven generations ahead of you. Those are your connections. Imagine a string running through you, out your back to your ancestors and out your front to your great grandchildren that are not here yet. When you can imagine that, you are getting somewhere. Then you should try to imagine how you are related to everything else, how you are related to the trees, to the animals, the fish and the birds. Those are our relatives too.” Ben held back, did not talk about the other relatives his father told him about. Those could wait. Benji had enough to think about for now.

Benji was thinking. “What about my adopted parents?” he asked.

Ben sat back. The connection between him and his son felt strong. “We knew about adoptions, we used to adopt each other as brothers, people would adopt the children of their friend. That child then would have a second set of parents and when that child needed they could go to them. It didn't get in the way of the child and its biological parents. You could adopt anybody, get new grandparents, or a new sister. It even went so far that nations would adopt nations. That's what the Treaties were to us. We adopted the white people and as relatives they got the right to be here, on our land, we shared with them.” Benji was looking up, listening. Ben looked into the young face, at the eyes that were open to understanding. “Your adopted parents are part of the string of ancestors behind you. That string I was talking about. It doesn't have to be only biological. Anybody who loved you in their life, will be there in the Otherworld, looking out for you, will help you when you need help.” Ben stopped. This was going too far for Benji to grasp just yet. He needed to experience it before he got it.

Benji did not get what his father was talking about. He thought that the man across from him was trying to explain Cree mythology, trying to explain some ancient superstition. He was not sure which world he was in, which his dead adopted parents might be in and which world Ben might occupy. He was careful enough not to say anything that might be insulting. He had learned not to speak quickly from Elsie, her back straight. “Be careful what you say about things you don't understand.” Her voice stern, clear, her head high, her eyes meeting his directly, equally.

“I'll have to think about that,” Benji murmured.

It was the perfect answer to Ben. He sat back from the table satisfied. His son was developing understanding. Maybe if he thought about it long enough he might learn how to use his connection between the worlds. He might reach the point where he would settle comfortably into his own life, into his own skin.

Lester waited. This was easy for him. Sitting around the gas station, listening in on conversations; weather, mostly weather:

“Too damn hot, never seen it this hot.”

“What a storm yesterday.”

“Heard about the forest fire way down in Regina, I guess the little park downtown burned up, hell-of-a-thing.”

Local stuff; going to town, someone needs a ride:

“Chief is at the band office today for a change, better catch him while he's there, before he has to run off again, meeting with officials.”

“Is it true the southern Indians are moving up here? What we going to do when that happens? There isn't enough moose and elk for us as it is.”

“Heard they're changing the hunting laws.”

A man in a suburban truck pulled to the pumps. “Fill,” he commanded the young woman attendant.

“You got it.” She tightened the leather glove that was slipping off her free hand, teeth to the cuff, the taste of gasoline now in her mouth.

He looked around at this environment: dark green trees of some kind, no one had ever told him the difference between white and black spruce, of pine and poplar and birch. Trees were things along residential streets in the old parts of the city, important to some people, especially important to dogs. Here they were everywhere, the clear areas were the exception, here trees ruled, pushed to the edge of the gravel road, surrounded the back of the gas station — a rectangle cleared into the thick of them for a house across the road from the gas pumps — a pole fence bleached in the sun, marker for a square of faded grass in front of the house that looked like every other reserve house on every other reserve, government issue.

He stumbled, one foot dropping into a pothole between the pumps and the gas station — only savages would live like this, without pavement. He walked carefully, hoped that the dust he raised would not cloud his leather shoes, fine Italian leather, not moosehide. He was not a savage, not a bush Indian, not naïve. He was business.

He recognized Lester sitting on a bench in the shade in front of the gas station, convenience store, grocery, post office, snack bar, coffee shop, lottery distributor. Lester stepped from shade into the August sun. “Richard.” He held out his hand.

“Lester.” Richard's tone matched the formality of his strong handshake. “So, do you own this place yet?” He indicated with his chin the graffiti-splashed metal-sided building.

“Not yet. I've got something else going on. Something I need NS to help with.”

“We're not charity, Lester. What can you do for Native Syndicate? Not, what can we do for you, remember.”

Lester nodded, looked down, then quickly back up. Never be humbled. Never feel shame. “It's a good project for NS. But, you look it over. You decide. If it fits in with our other work, maybe we have something. If it doesn't then it doesn't. But between you and me, Richard, I think we have something here.”

“I'll have a look.” Richard slid a slim wallet from his hip pocket. It was made with smooth nearly shiny material, light and strong. Slim because it did not have any cards or identification, no photos of loved ones, nobody's business card or folded piece of paper with a phone number. It contained one commodity — cash, Amero hundred-unit bills. He gave five to the attendant for the fill. Lester was impressed.

When Lester was in the Suburban, listening to the very good stereo sound of powwow blended with hip hop, absorbing the chill of the air conditioner, reclining in the comfort of leather, Richard reached under his seat for a bundle wrapped in red cloth. “Here, something for you from head office.”

Lester unwrapped the cloth around the stainless steel semi-automatic, hefted the weight of the piece, felt the solidity of the grip fit to his hand, pointed it, found its balance, let it rest there, easy, so easy. He checked the magazine, fifteen rounds, pulled back the action, there was another in the chamber. Ready to go, ready to go anywhere with class.

“Nine millimetre Browning.” Richard looked back to the gravel and potholes. “Fast as you can pull the trigger.”

“Nice.” Lester held it to the light, away from the tint of the side windows to see the shine of steel in sun.

“I'll have a look at what you phoned about. But that is not why I'm here.” Richard poured bottled water into a glass with his right hand, offered the glass to Lester. Lester declined. The pistol in his hand filled him. His thirst was quenched.

Richard eased back into the seat, drove left-handed; drank water from a glass, not the bottle, not like a wino. He didn't like it here, on the reserve, on dusty rough roads. He didn't like the houses — spaced, each in its square cleared of trees; these houses were cheap. You could tell just by driving by, nothing solid about them, cheap siding, cheap roofs.

No sidewalks anywhere, no pavement; there was nothing here that Richard wanted, and Richard did not want to be here; did not want to be reminded that this was where he came from — not Moccasin Lake, but from a reserve, a reserve just as dusty and poor and cheap. He was better than this now. He had class. He drove a Suburban, a GMC, with a full-size gasoline engine, not a hybrid — fully loaded, nothing chintzy, nothing routine, nothing working class, or worse — reserve class.

Lester was spinning the pistol on his finger, finding the balance of it; spin it, grab the grip, point, aim.

The music through the clear speakers chanted a song of resistance, banned lyrics; a song of rights, freedom, and homeland, a version or perversion of “Oh Canada”, depending upon your perspective. Richard heard the words and dismissed them, this resistance stuff wasn't real fighting. Real fighting was north-central Regina nearly a decade ago. Now that was war. The enemy didn't wear a uniform, you shot at blue bandanas or red bandanas or white and they shot at you for the colour of your clothes. Then killing was all revenge and honour and control, and you never slept.

Native Syndicate rose, became great, faded, and rose again. Now Richard had command and NS had purpose, it had place; and the respect they had fought for all those years in crumbling apartment blocks and slumlord rented collapsing houses was finally theirs. Native Syndicate was the battle arm of the resistance. It put more soldiers onto the streets than anyone. And, whether the resistance liked it or not, NS reaped the profits.

Everyone wanted to get high and hide. The war on the insurgents replaced the war on drugs. While the police chased the bombers and watched the marchers, cocaine flowed freely, morphine was almost as easy to supply as cigarettes, and the OxyContin Blues was becoming the most popular song on the streets. Richard and Native Syndicate were the link between the powder and the profit; and the police were busy elsewhere.

The best part, the very best part; no rats. No one was phoning Homeland Security because there was a crack house in the neighbourhood. And the RCMP, well most people saw them as just an adjunct to HS.

“So, what do you want me to do with this?” Lester toyed with the Browning.

“It's business — not mine — I'm just bringing a message, an assignment for you.”

Lester rested the pistol on his lap, kept his hand on it, listened. “Yeah?”

“Someone for you to watch for us. It probably won't go anywhere. Far as I'm concerned it's someone pulling strings, getting favours, wants someone out here looked after.”

“You want me to babysit.”

“You have a problem with that?”

“No, no problem. You tell me what you want done. It'll get done.” Lester tipped the pistol sideways, movie gangster style, and pointed it straight ahead.