The Diviners (53 page)

“This that’s happened to me–” Royland said, “it’s not a matter for mourning.”

“I see that now,” Morag said.

When Royland had gone, Morag sat in her armchair looking out the wide window. Contemplating. Could this be termed an activity? It was to be hoped so. She certainly spent enough time doing it.

At least Royland knew he had been a true diviner. There were the wells, proof positive. Water. Real wet water. There to be felt and tasted. Morag’s magic tricks were of a different order. She would never know whether they actually worked or not, or to what extent. That wasn’t given to her to know. In a sense, it did not matter. The necessary doing of the thing–that mattered.

Morag walked out across the grass and looked at the river. The sun, now low, was catching the waves, sending out once more the flotilla of little lights skimming along the green-bronze surface. The waters flowed from north to south, and the current was visible, but now a south wind was blowing, ruffling the water in the opposite direction, so that the river, as so often here, seemed to be flowing both ways.

Look ahead into the past, and back into the future, until the silence.

How far could anyone see into the river? Not far. Near shore, in the shallows, the water was clear, and there were the clean and broken clamshells of creatures now dead, and the wavering of the underwater weed-forests, and the flicker of small live fishes, and the undulating lines of gold as the sand ripples received the sun. Only slightly farther out, the water deepened and kept its life from sight.

Morag returned to the house, to write the remaining private and fictional words, and to set down her title.

ALBUM

THE BALLAD OF JULES TONNERRE

THE BALLAD OF JULES TONNERRE

(Written by Jules “Skinner” Tonnerre, for his grandfather who fought with Riel in 1885)

The Métis they met from the whole prairie

To keep their lands, to keep them free,

They gathered there in the valley Qu’Appelle

Alongside their leader, Louis Riel.

They took their rifles into their hands,

They fought to keep their fathers’ lands

And one of them who gathered there

Was a Métis boy called Jules Tonnerre.

He is not more than eighteen years;

He will not listen to his fears.

His heart is true, his heart is strong;

He knows the land where his people belong.

Macdonald, he sits in Ottawa,

Drinking down his whiskey raw,

Sends out west ten thousand men,

Swears the Métis will not rise again.

The young
Anglais
from Ontario,

Out to the west they swiftly go;

They don’t know what they’re fighting for,

But they’ve got the cannon, so it must be war.

It was near Batoche, in Saskatchewan,

The Métis bullets were nearly gone;

“If I was a wolf, I’d seek my lair,

But a man must try,” said Jules Tonnerre.

Riel, he walks with the Cross held high,

To bless his men so they may not die;

“God bless Riel,” says Tonnerre,

“But the cannon
Anglais
won’t listen to prayer.”

Dumont, he rides out to ambush the foe,

To hunt as he’s hunted the buffalo;

He’s the bravest heart on the whole prairie,

But he cannot save his hunted Métis.

Jules Tonnerre and his brothers, then,

They fought like animals, fought like men.

“Before the earth will take our bones,

We’ll load our muskets with nails and stones.”

They loaded their muskets with nails and stones;

They fought together and they fought alone;

And Jules, he fell with steel in his thigh,

And he prayed his God that he might not die.

He woke and found no soul around,

The deadmen hanging onto the ground;

The birds sang in the prairie air.

“Now, it’s over, then,” said Jules Tonnerre.

Riel, he was hanged in Regina one day;

Dumont, he crossed to the U.S.A.

“Of sorrow’s bread I’ve eaten my share,

But I won’t choke yet,” said Jules Tonnerre.

He took his Cross and he took his gun,

Went back to the place where he’d begun.

He lived on drink and he lived on prayer,

But the heart was gone from Jules Tonnerre.

Still, he lived his years and he raised his son,

Shouldered his life till it was done;

His voice is one the wind will tell

In the prairie valley that’s called Qu’Appelle.

They say the dead don’t always die;

They say the truth outlives the lie–

The night wind calls their voices there,

The Métis men, like Jules Tonnerre.

LAZARUS

LAZARUS

(Written by Skinner Tonnerre, for his father, Lazarus Tonnerre)

Lazarus, he was the king of Nothing;

Lazarus, he never had a dime.

He was sometimes on relief, he was permanent on grief,

And Nowhere was the place he spent his time.

Lazarus, he lived down in the Valley;

Lazarus, he never lived in Town.

Now that damn town, still, see, it sits up on the hill,

Oh but Lazarus, oh he belonged way down.

Lazarus was what they called a halfbreed;

Half a man was what the Town would say.

What made him walk so slow, well, they didn’t care to know–

It was easier by far to look away.

Lazarus was nothing to the Mounties;

They knew he never had a cent for bail.

When his life got more than rough, and he drank more than enough,

They just threw him in the Manawaka jail.

Lazarus was not afraid of fighting;

It was the only way he knew to win.

But when the fight was o’er, he’d be in the clink once more;

Those breeds must learn that anger is a sin.

Lazarus, he went and lost his woman;

She left him when she found he wasn’t king.

Then he had no woman there, nothing left, no kind of prayer,

And Nothing was his always Everything.

Lazarus, he had a bunch of children;

He raised them in the Valley down below.

So that they could eat, he shot rabbits there for meat,

Where his ancestors had shot the buffalo.

Lazarus, he lost some of those children,

Some to fire, some to the City’s heart of stone.

Maybe when they went, was the worst time that was sent,

For then he really knew he was alone.

Lazarus, he never slit his throat, there.

Lazarus, he never met his knife.

If you think that isn’t news, just try walking in his shoes.

Oh Lazarus, he kept his life, for life.

Lazarus, rise up out of the Valley;

Tell them what it really means to try.

Go tell them in the Town, though they always put you down,

Lazarus, oh man, you didn’t die.

Lazarus, oh man, you didn’t die.

PIQUETTE’S SONG

PIQUETTE’S SONG

(Written by Skinner Tonnerre, for his sister)

My sister’s eyes

Fire and snow–

What they’d be saying

You couldn’t know.

My sister’s body

Fire and snow–

It wasn’t hers

Since long ago.

My sister’s man

Fire and snow–

He ate her heart

Then he made her go.

My sister’s children

Fire and snow–

She prayed they’d live

But it wasn’t so.

My sister’s death

Fire and snow–

Burned out her sorrow

In the valley below.

My sister’s eyes

Fire and snow–

What they were telling

You’ll never know.

PIQUE’S SONG

PIQUE’S SONG

(Written by Pique Gunn Tonnerre)

There’s a valley holds my name, now I know

In the tales they used to tell it seemed so low

There’s a valley way down there

I used to dream it like a prayer

And my fathers, they lived there long ago.

There’s a mountain holds my name, close to the sky

And those stories made that mountain seem so high

There’s a mountain way up there

I used to dream I’d breathe its air

And hear the voices that in me would never die.

I came to taste the dust out on a prairie road

My childhood thoughts were heavy on me like a load

But I left behind my fear

When I found those ghosts were near

Leadin’ me back to that home I never knowed.

Ah, my valley and my mountain, they’re the same

My living places, and they never will be tame

When I think how I was born

I can’t help but being torn

But the valley and the mountain hold my name.

The valley and the mountain hold my name.