Celia's Song (28 page)

Outside, men were raking the stones and preparing for the asphalt truck behind them. The road was going to be paved. No more dust. No more cars with busted springs and no more scrabbling up the mountain scraping up bits of roots, herbs or berries, hoping they would last the winter. The vice was off. Some crazy elastic band had snapped. The whip from the rubber had lashed them all. They were scarred. Half the village ran amok, blind with pain; the other half struggled to rebuild their lives and their sense of themselves without really seeing the journey that had carried them here to this moment of truth about Jacob and the old snake.

Jim was out there in the yard with his too many children putting up a swing set he'd purchased at Kmart. His eldest daughters were each holding up the upside down Vs that formed each side of the swing, while Jim set the horizontal beam that would join the Vs together. He was the one who had told Celia the story about Momma and Jacob. It sat there with him for the thirty seconds it took him to part with it and then he just let it go, and now Celia was peeling potatoes humming that Christian song Momma loved, “Amazing Grace.” Ned was sitting in the rocking chair on the porch, smoking a cigarette and smiling at the little one he had on his lap, not bothering to help his son.

“WE'RE ALL MAD,” STACEY
said. “We're insane.” She slapped the pot full of peeled potatoes onto the stove. “You drop some news that maybe Jacob might have done something to cause those men's deaths and in between talking about murder and suicide you tell me you will save the potato peels for a garden. You're nuts, you are plain crazy, and your brother is too. He tells you this story one minute and the next he is putting up a swing he bought at Kmart.”

Celia finished the line of the song that spoke of how we have more trials and fewer days, and then she stopped peeling. Stacey turned her back to Celia and stared out into the yard where Celia's grandchild sang and dug holes in the dirt. She shook her head back and forth. Celia was slightly taller than Stacey. Both faces were cut from the same cloth. But for the ten years between them, they looked nearly identical.

“I don't want to tell you what to do, Stacey, but seems to me, figuring out who we are is our only obligation to those kids out there.”

THE ASPHALT TRUCK'S GEARS
shifted, the sound of the engine deepened, and the truck rolled onto the flat gravel surface. Under the rollers a black flat ribbon of road appeared like magic. The driver waved to the men and children in the yard. Jacob was driving the truck; he was smiling that broad-toothed grin. His teeth were bright white and even, like his grandma's. He didn't behave like anything was amiss; in fact, Stacey had never seen him quite this happy. She wondered what they had done with people like the old snake and Amos before and asked Celia if that old man had
told her.

“Same thing Jacob did.” The water in the pot of potatoes began to boil.

Stacey did not like the answer, but knew she would have to live with it. She felt like Steve, so foreign.

“Damn, if your boy isn't just handsome,” Celia finally said and she slipped her arm about her sister's waist.

“Damn.” Stacey clutched her sister's folded arms close to her body. “I should never have come back. Maybe now I would be living in Chilliwack, a doctor's wife who had no idea what was going on this dusty little village.”

“Stacey. What do we really have to tell? Momma was all hyped up on morphine, seeing angels, seeing Great Grandma Alice, Dominic, and failing to recognize any of us half the time. What is there to tell but the drug-induced hallucinations of an old woman? What is the matter with you?” Celia felt compelled to blindfold her sister. Everything she said was true. Momma was out of her
mind at the end, babbling to her son as though he were her first husband, whispering “my Jim” to Ned as though they had never had a life together, speaking the language intermittently. At the same time, Celia was desperate to quiet Stacey's judgment of her nephew; after all, implicating Jacob would uncover her complicity. “Do you really think Jacob could set about to murder Amos or anyone else? Do you really think that sweet old man would have let him?” What is wrong with me, I am lying to the only relative that is close to me?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I am a responsible grandmother even if I wasn't much of a responsive mother. I plan to carry on being one; despite everything there is nothing wrong with me, or anyone else in this family. There never was.

Madeline sauntered in, eyes red and puffy, hips still swivelling as she walked. She had a big brown bag in her arms. “Fruit.” She put the bag on the counter. Celia grabbed a metal spoon from the drawer and stared at it for a moment. “What the hell?” she said. “Come on, Madeline, we are going to plant potato peels outside.”

“Don't plant too many in a pile,” Madeline instructed as the three women left. “Not too deep, either. Better space them a foot and a half apart.”

“Where did you learn so much about planting potatoes?”

“You have never been to my house,” Madeline said. “Had a garden for years.” Both sisters nodded. It was true; they had no idea what Madeline did in her home, the women all met at Momma's and they rarely went to each other's homes. They dug a dozen holes, loosened the dirt in their hands, and buried the peels. Stacey wasn't enjoying herself a bit until the kids showed up asking what they were doing. “Starting a garden, sugar,” Madeline answered as if it was her idea.

“How did you learn about planting before you grew your own garden?” Stacey asked, fighting for some kind of mundane civility that would push back the terrible truth about Jacob that Celia had revealed.

“First farmer in La Pas was a Saulteaux-Ojibwa woman back in
1756
. White men bumped her granddaughter out of the commercial end of farming, but none of her descendants ever gave it up except me — until a few years ago, after the longhouse was built.”
She laughed. They stared at the little mounds they'd made, as though expecting them to sprout any minute, hands on spread middle-aged hips, bellies slightly protruding, and shoulders beginning to round. Jacob swung into the yard, jacket over one shoulder, slightly dirty, hair a little dishevelled, and behind him was Celia's mom waving at them. He picked Celia up, swung her about like an airplane. Her laughter broke the reverie over the garden they had begun. Stacey turned to look at him. Celia was right, there was nothing in this young man of hers that was either menacing or evil and she let go of Momma's last words.

That night, as Ned spoke, Judy, Rena, Stacey, and Celia flanked his sides. All four of them were afraid. With Momma and the old man gone and Ned barely standing, they were the elders here. They had begun grandmotherhood so young and so tragically and they knew so little. Now they were being forced to become elders too soon. They gathered the bits and scraps of their knowledge together in their minds.

They were aware it was all just scattered scraps, like the little bits of cloth left over after Momma made a blanket. They had choices Momma never had. Scraps made good blankets, Celia decided. Scraps for blankets and they were all Momma had and she had managed to patch together a pretty good life in the end. They had a choice: join the Christians or be who they were and always should be. Under the hum of an old song, Celia could hear Momma say there was always more than one choice.

NED LAY IN HIS
bed many years later, when the sun shone fireball
red, dew glistening on the grass and the light of the sun painting the world with a faint ashbury hue. Madeline, Rena, Judy, Stacey, and Celia were already outside hoeing the sprouted potatoes and digging the weeds from carrots, cabbage, lettuce, and camas. They had decided to plant camas root. Ned had helped them find it, transplant it; he had shown them how to tend it. None of them remembered eating it. It was an old plant, but they decided to try it out, see if they liked it. The children were still sleeping. Wendy was inside whipping up a breakfast of oatmeal and eggs and bacon. She went to bring Ned his coffee. He refused to get up. Wendy mumbled okay. She stood on the porch and looked at the women and hesitated. Celia saw her. “Damn,” she cussed and the others looked up. They dropped their hoes and shovels and headed toward Wendy. “He won't get up.” Her eyes welled up, but the tears did not swell enough for her to let them go.

“Damn,” they all murmured softly and went into the house.

“Madeline, call Steve.” Stacey and Celia entered his room. “Ned. What's wrong?” Stacey sucked her breath in. Celia touched his forehead. He barely moved; his body was cold. “We are taking you to the hospital. Help me, Stacey.”

“No,” Ned answered flatly. “Just bring Steve.” The sun was peeking through the curtains Momma had sewn up the day Ned arrived. The children were stirring and Ned could hear Wendy and Madeline tending to them. He could see out on the mountains that cradled the valley like a bowl and Ned thought he caught a faint glimpse of his grandson, Jim, perched on a log next to his
beloved wife and he sighed. Steve's feet hit the porch running but it was already too late.

He had given them all enough time to grieve Momma's departure and begin to live again. He was tired and wanted to leave. They knew it, they had felt it, but they didn't want it. Madeline had called Martha, Alice, Rena, and Judy right after she called Steve. They arrived within seconds of Steve. Steve had called Jim. Jim collected Jacob and they appeared just as the women looked at one another in shock. “He was fine just last night,” Stacey muttered.

“Damn,” Celia said out loud. “You're leaving us with one hell of a mountain to climb.”

“Oh, I think Raphen had a hand in it, if Ella's right about him bringing me and all the others here,” Judy said aloud.

“Her,” Rena corrected Judy.

“Her?” Judy looked at Rena, confused.

“Raven is a she.” Rena stifled a laugh.

“I am never going to get it right.”

I am done here. This is all I committed to tell. You know what to do with the story now. I skitter up the hill, away from the humans, and under the moon's light I lie down to sleep.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to thank Peter Jones for the many insightful discussions that
made the writing of this work bearable and possible, Tania Carter for her literary and oratorical insights, Smaro Kamboureli for reading it and discussing it with me, and Gerry Ambers, traditional healer and counselor, for her reading and cultural response.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lee Maracle is a member of the Sto:lo nation. She was born in Vancouver and grew up on the North Shore. She is the author of the critically acclaimed novels
Ravensong
and
Daughters Are Forever
. Her novel for young adults,
Will's Garden
, was well-received and is taught in schools. She has also published one book of poetry,
Bent Box
, and three works of creative non-fiction, including
I Am Woman
. She is the co-editor of a number of anthologies, including the award-winning anthology
My Home As I Remember,
and
Telling It: Women and Language Across Cultures
. Her work has been published in anthologies and scholarly journals worldwide. The mother of four and grandmother of seven, Maracle is currently an instructor at the University of Toronto, the Traditional Teacher for First Nations House, and an instructor with the Centre for Indigenous Theatre and the S.A.G.E. (Support for Aboriginal Graduate Education). She is also a writing instructor at the Banff Centre for the Arts.

In
2009
, Maracle received an Honorary Doctor of Letters from St. Thomas University. Maracle recently received the Queen's Diamond Jubilee Medal for her work promoting writing among Aboriginal youth, and is a
2014
finalist for the Ontario Premier's Award for Excellence in the Arts.

Maracle has served as Distinguished Visiting Scholar at the University of Toronto, University of Waterloo, and the University of Western Washington.

This book was designed using Sabon Text, which was originally designed by Jan Tschichold in
1964
. The design roots of this typeface go back as far as
1592
and because of its history with Jakob Sabon — whom the typeface is named for — it is often referred to as a graceful and legible variation of Garamond.