Totem (2 page)

New Kid

Sam's swollen fingers could barely lift the spoon of brown beans into his mouth at breakfast the next morning. Jonny slathered a piece of bread with lard for him. With four places empty at their table, there should be more bread to eat, but there wasn't.

Talk about the escape flew about the tables like a flock of birds. The kids whispered to each other in what the priests called their devil language.

“
Lawman chako
,” Sam said in a loud voice, hinting to the others that the nun in the room was close enough to overhear. They switched to English and discussed what they would do with their families on the summer vacation. There would be fishing expeditions, fires on the beach, and canoe races when they got together with their parents.

“You going to race?” one of the boys asked Sam. Then everyone suffered the silence of such a stupid question, remembering Sam's hands. He would be lucky if he could hold a pencil, much less a paddle, by the end of the summer.

“
No mahkook
,” Sam said, in a low voice. “I've won all those races already.”

Everyone agreed it would finally give someone else a chance to win. The boys at his table poked each other and laughed as they discussed the moose, fish, and bannock they would all eat until they could eat no more.

Father Gregory entered the dining room. His straight blond hair, usually combed to perfection, looked unkempt. He had dark rings under his eyes as if he had spent a sleepless night. “First boat,” he said in an exasperated voice.

A rumble of excitement broke out.

Father Gregory held up his hand to lead them in a prayer for a safe journey.

No one spoke.

When finished, Father Gregory raised his hand a second time. “I need to make something perfectly clear. None of you,” he said in a even tone, “are to discuss the boys who escaped from Dorm C.”

His gaze travelled from one side of the room to the other. “You are dismissed,” he said with a loud sigh. “Have a good summer.”

Two years ago, Jonny had stopped going down to the wharf, tired of listening to other people's excitement. The boys used the word
Naha
a million times a week, but it had no meaning for him. He had no mother who would run to him and hold him tight. No one would kiss him on the face over and over again because school was finished for the summer. His whole world for the past fourteen years had been this island.

Jonny picked up Sam's plate and put it on top of his own. In a few hours he would be by himself. At least they let him eat in the kitchen over the summer. He could help himself to any of the leftovers from the priests' dining room. Their breakfast plates always had bits of toast with jam, bacon, and egg.

Jonny walked up the wide oak staircase to the second floor. He pushed aside the thick velvet curtain, climbed onto the wide windowsill and curled his arms about his legs. Through the metal grid he watched the boys and girls walk in lines down to the wharf. The silence of the long summer had already begun to take over.

The wooden launches moved away, puffing and smoking. Four priests and three nuns in their long, black gowns stood watching. Father Gregory, new to the school this year, was the only one to wave goodbye. Of all the priests he was the friendliest. When the boys built fences, he helped mill the timber. He dug holes and nailed wire alongside them. When Father John supervised, he did nothing but direct and complain about their work.

After a while a boat returned to the wharf, but to Jonny's surprise it didn't come back empty. The Indian Agent got off dragging a boy alongside.

Jonny left his windowsill and made his way downstairs. He pushed open one of the huge front doors flanked by white wooden crosses and sat down on the top step. The cement was unexpectedly cold against his thighs, a reminder the sun wasn't yet at its warmest.

The boy and the Agent stood in front of Father Paul. Father Paul ran his handkerchief around the inside of his holy collar.

The Agent pulled a roll of paper from his pocket. “Been trying to get a hold of this one for some time,” he said, rapping the boy on the head with it. “His parents live like outlaws, always hiding from the authorities.” He handed the papers to Father Paul.

Jonny looked at the boy's clothes. That buckskin vest wouldn't make it up the stairs, neither would his shoulder-length hair. Before he knew it, that kid would be wearing a plaid shirt and heavy denim pants just like the rest of them. No one got to keep anything they brought, not even their shoes. Seeing the toe sticking out of the end of the kid's moccasin, however, Jonny realized even the thin leather boots the school provided would be an improvement. He probably felt every pebble in the path.

The boy tossed his long black hair. “You can't put me in school when it's summer.” The slingshot sticking out of his back pocket jiggled.

The Agent cuffed him across the head. “Be quiet,” he said. “The law says you belong to the government and we can do what we want with you.” He turned to Father Gregory. “Every year his family stays out fishing until after I make the rounds,” the Agent explained. “I decided this time to pick him up before they left.” The Agent pointed to Jonny on the front step. “You got one kid here for the summer, what's another?”

Father Paul turned and thumped his way up the cement steps. Even though there was plenty of room to pass, he used his cane to shove Jonny to one side.

Father Gregory stood with his hands folded in front of him regarding the new boy. The priest's black cassock looked newly tailored and elegant against his pale face and shining blond hair.

“Jonny,” he called with a cock of his head. “Jonny Joe will show you the ropes,” he said to the new boy when Jonny got to his side.

The boy lifted his high cheek-boned face to Jonny. His angry face had hard, black eyes. His long, black hair smelled of smoke, sweat, and fish. His vest had a different, peculiar odour.
Pure Indian,
Jonny thought,
not an ounce of white in him.

“Wait for him in the dorm,” Father Gregory told Jonny as one of the nuns led the boy away. The boy stared up at the three stories of gridded windows in disbelief. Jonny jogged back up the sixteen steps that led to the second floor dormitories, straightened the blanket on his bed, and waited.

Father John soon shoved the boy into the room. His ill-fitting clothes, close-cropped hair, and angry eyes made him look exactly like all the other kids who normally filled the dorm.

“Pick a bed,” he said as he tossed him a pair of blue and white striped pajamas. The priest's steel front tooth glistened in the sunlight.

The boy muttered something guttural, like he was grunting.

Jonny had never experienced the changeover. No one had shaved his head, smeared it with ointment to stop the itch, and scrubbed him down from top to bottom with a stiff brush full of carbolic soap. No one had taken away his possessions because he had none. Then he remembered the small stone in his pocket and reached to finger it.
Until now
, he thought.

“Your pajamas go in here,” Jonny said, pointing to a square wooden cubby on the wall. “Do you know your number?”

The boy shrugged.

Jonny looked inside the collar of the pajama top. The nuns marked all the boys' clothes with their number in dark black ink. “You are number 553,” Jonny told him. Jonny had a number too, but he also had a letter. He was W1.

The boy spoke to him again using words Jonny couldn't understand. He just shrugged, having no idea what the boy had just said.

“You lost your Indian tongue?” the boy asked in amazement.

“
Naika wawa Chinook wawa
,” Jonny replied. “I speak Chinook speak” was one of the few phrases he had mastered that all the boys understood.

The boy gave a wide smile, so brief it could have been a face spasm and stuck out his hand. “I'm Ernie Swiftfoot.” He looked to the window overlooking the water. “I bet you can see the whales go by in the spring.”

Jonny nodded.

“When I turn fifteen, I'm going whale hunting with my dad,” Ernie said.

Jonny picked a few tufts of lint from the grey blanket on the bed beside him. “I don't have a dad.”

“Oh,” Ernie said, lowering his eyes, “Sorry.”

The school bell clanged, making Ernie jump. “What the hell is that?” he shouted.

Jonny winced. It was a sin to use that word. If the priests heard, Ernie would be strapped. “It's time to change schedule,” he told him.

“Don't worry about me,” Ernie said. “I'll just follow my own schedule.”

“But it's ten thirty,” Jonny protested. “We've got work detail.”

“You can go without me,” Ernie said. “It's bad enough I've got to hang around here. I'm not going to be doing any work.”

Father John must have suspected as much, for his black muscular body reappeared in the doorway. Beneath eyebrows that looked like whiskers, his dark eyes glared out of their sockets. “You two finished your little chat?” he asked. Father John grabbed Ernie by the arm. “Time to get rid of that lazy devil inside of you,” he said, shoving Ernie toward the stairs.

Jonny followed them down.

Father Gregory slipped in behind Jonny as they made their way down the corridor. He put his hand on Jonny's shoulder, leaned down, and whispered in his ear. “This summer we've got a special project.” He handed Jonny an apple.

“Thanks,” Jonny said in surprise. It was an unexpected treat. The priests kept the apples in the basement and only gave them out on special occasions. Jonny stuck it in his pocket.

“Meet me at the truck when you're done,” Father Gregory said, squeezing Jonny's shoulder as he passed.

Father John pointed to the stack of cardboard boxes in the storage room. Ernie stared at the huge collection of mops, pails, sponges, brooms, and dustpans.

“Two boxes a day,” Father John said. “Deliver them to the fire pit.”

Jonny already knew the routine. Every summer vacation began with a giant bonfire. He never got to tend the fire, however, just deliver the fuel.

“What's in the boxes,” Ernie asked.

“Just basement junk,” Jonny told him. “They burn it all off to make room.”

“Ever look in them?” Ernie asked. “There could be some good stuff.”

“I only deliver the boxes,” Jonny said.

When they reached the smouldering fire in the circle of blackened stones, Jonny put his box down. Ernie flipped the one he was carrying, emptying the contents onto the ground. Velvet skirts, cotton blouses, and multi-coloured shawls spilled out. Ernie kicked at the pile and unearthed a small rag doll. “It's girl stuff,” he said. But his brow furrowed at the sight of a woven medicine pouch.

“No one told you to dump it out,” boomed Father John. “Get that picked up before I pick you up,” he threatened.

Jonny turned the cardboard box upright and scooped up an armful of the clothes but Ernie turned to the priest and put his hands on his hips. “How come you're burning this?”

Father John cuffed him across the back of the head. “It's junk. Pick it up.”

Ernie picked up a blouse and held it out to the priest. “There's nothing wrong with this,” he said. “It would fit my sister.”

Father John snatched the blouse from his hand. “By the time you see your sister, it won't.” He hit Ernie across the face with the hand holding the blouse.

Ernie fell to the ground with a bloody nose.

The fire was beginning to catch. Father John tossed the blouse on top.

“Come on,” Jonny said as he pulled Ernie up by the elbow.

Ernie, holding his arm across his dripping face, turned back and glared.

“I'm going to get that guy,” he mumbled as Jonny led him away.

Chicken Coop

Father Gregory waited behind the wheel of the old green pick-up in a grey short-sleeved clerical shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Ernie and Jonny jumped into the back beside a pile of used shingles, a couple of fence posts, and a battered tool box. They bumped down the grassy rutted road to the school gardens beside the river.

“Welcome to our Garden of Eden,” Father Gregory called out the window gesturing to the rows of beans, carrots, and cabbages. “It smells so beautiful in the moonlight, when the trees are full of fruit and the ground ripe with berries.”

Jonny knew nothing about the garden at night, but he knew once the boys returned from summer vacation, they would be picking all day long. The one good thing about garden work was you could eat straight from the plants when no one was looking.

The two nuns working at pea trellises waved to Father Gregory as they drove by. Behind the gardens, a small storage shed had collapsed in a storm.

Father Gregory, Jonny, and Ernie surveyed the heap of boards. “We're going to re-use the wood for a chicken-coop,” Father Gregory told them. He handed each of the boys a hammer and a tin can. “You can get to work pulling out the nails.”

Before long, the cans were full of slightly bent nails and several piles of lumber lay on the ground, sorted according to size.

The school bell clanged in the distance.

“Hope that's the lunch bell,” Ernie exclaimed. “I'm starving.”

Father Gregory opened the metal lunch pail and handed each of the boys a newspaper packet. Ernie began to unwrap his, but Jonny put out a hand to stop him. “
Klahwa
,” he whispered. “We have to give thanks.”

Father Gregory unwrapped a chicken leg, some cheese, and a bun after saying grace.

Ernie stared down at his single slice of bread and cold boiled potatoes. “How come he's not eating the same as us?” he asked in a loud voice.

No one answered.

After wolfing down his food, Ernie crumpled the newspaper into a ball and tossed it to Jonny. Then he picked up a piece of lumber and waved it about. “Throw it,” he said. “We'll see how far I can hit it.”

Jonny placed the newspaper ball on the ground beside his feet. He knew it wasn't time for sports.

“You'll get free time after dinner,” Father Gregory said. “Let us pray.”

“We prayed before we ate,” Ernie protested.

“And we pray to give thanks for the meal,” Father Gregory informed him.

As Jonny and the priest bowed their heads, Ernie stared at them in disbelief.

“It might be a good idea to put the coop on a platform,” Father Gregory said when he opened his eyes. “That way it won't flood when it rains.”

“One night there was much rain,” Jonny said as he stood. To his own surprise, he found himself repeating the words of the old man in the woods. “The water crept around the houses. The great poles trembled and groaned. The people stayed on their platforms as the water rose higher and higher.”

Father Gregory looked at him and raised his eyebrows.

“Where did you learn that?” Ernie asked.

“I don't know,” Jonny said. “It just sorta popped into my mind.”

“You're telling the story of Noah's Ark,” Father Gregory said as he fastened the lunch pail shut.

Ernie and Jonny took turns sawing the fence posts in half, while Father Gregory dug the holes. By the time they heard the dinner bell, the platform was finished.

“You boys ride up front with me,” Father Gregory told them. He patted the worn leather seat. “Move in closer, Jonny,” he said. “Make room for Ernie.”

“How many chickens are there going to be?” Ernie asked as they pulled away.

“We are going to start off with eight,” Father Gregory said. He placed his hand on Jonny's knee and squeezed. “And one rooster, of course,” he said.

Jonny shifted himself closer to Ernie.

Two bowls of soup waited for them on the table in the kitchen. Two slices of bread and two spoonfuls of white lard sat on a tin plate. An enamel tea pot stood next to two chipped cups.

Ernie frowned at the ghostly crescent of onion, dime sized piece of carrot, and four peas floating in the greasy broth. “My baby sister can make better soup than this,” he said.

The cook opened the oven and removed a pair of roasted chickens. He placed them on a platter and surrounded it with potatoes. When Father Gregory entered, he handed him the platter.

“Don't they ever get tired of eating chicken?” Ernie asked as he picked up his spoon.

At six-thirty they were to clear the table where the priests ate their evening meal.

Jonny tore the remaining meat from the chicken carcass and stuffed it in his mouth. “Best part about working in the kitchen,” he said. He pried off a wing and handed it to Ernie.

Ernie scraped the remaining vegetables from the plates into a bowl. He spooned it into his mouth, and then handed the empty bowl to Jonny.

“That's all right,” Jonny said. “You can have it all.”

“Sorry,” Ernie said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “I'm just so hungry.”

They took the dishes into the kitchen.

“What do you want to do now?” Ernie asked, after they finished scrubbing the pots and wiping down the floor. “Wanna go for a walk down that road?”

“We can't,” Jonny told him. “That leads to the girl's school. It's out of bounds.”

Without the other Indian boys around, there wasn't really much to do. There wouldn't be a baseball game or choir practice. They didn't even have a fight in the yard to watch.

“Let's go to the study hall,” Jonny suggested. “I've got a book on the go.”

Ernie wandered about the dark-panelled room, paying elaborate attention to the bars on the windows. “Do you know the rest of that legend?” he asked from across the room.

“What legend?” Jonny replied.

“The one you started to tell at the chicken coop.”

“I didn't know it was a legend.”

“You don't know much about Indians, do you?” Ernie said. “That story you told sounded exactly like one of our legends. Do you know the whole thing?”

Jonny closed his eyes. He could still hear the voice of the man in the woods. “Higher and higher went the water,” he said. “Day came and the rain still fell. Night came and the rain still fell. The chief of the village ordered the warriors to tie their canoes together.”

“Keep on going,” Ernie said sitting next to him

Jonny faced the boy next to him with a puzzled face. “I don't know how I know all this.”

But Ernie didn't seem to think it strange that Jonny knew this story. “Go on,” he said.

Jonny closed his eyes and continued. “And the people did. For many days and nights the people of the village watched the rain come down and the water rise above the treetops. In fear, they floated and drifted in the waters of the falling rain.”

“You're telling it exactly the way it is supposed to be told,” Ernie said. He gave a great sigh of satisfaction. “Keep going.”

The rest of the story flowed from Jonny's mouth. “They lived in the cave until the waters moved back down the mountain and the world began again.” He stopped speaking and gave out a great sigh. A sense of satisfaction rose within him and he smiled. “That's it,” he said.

“You've got to end it the right way,” Ernie said. “Whenever my grandfather told legends, he always ended them the same way.”

Father Gregory walked into the study hall at that moment, carrying a notebook, pencil, and ruler. Jonny closed his book and stood up. Ernie sauntered over to the door.

“You go on ahead,” Father Gregory told Ernie. “I want to show Jonny my plans.”

Father Gregory put the notebook on the table. “In my last church, I had a whole choir of boys that sang as beautifully as you,” he said. “I wanted to be in charge of the choir here, but Sister Theresa was already directing it.” He gave a deep sigh and placed his hand on Jonny's. “Maybe if I show Father Paul how good I am at taking care of little chicks, he'll let me take over the choir. What do you think?”

Jonny slipped his hand out from under the priest's. He didn't know what to think or what to say, so he slid the notebook toward Father Gregory and quietly left the room.

In the dormitory Ernie adjusted his bed covers while Jonny sank to his knees. “Don't tell me you're praying again,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“We're supposed to pray before bed,” Jonny replied.

The lights went out at nine-thirty. In the long-echoing dormitory, both boys lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Then Jonny remembered what Ernie had said in the study hall.

“Hey, Ernie,” he whispered. “What did you say about ending that legend?”

“You have to say,” Ernie whispered back, “‘these are the words of my people. These are the words I have learned.'” His voice broke into a sob, followed by a series of muffled whimpers.

That kid may be tough enough to fight everyone during the day,
Jonny thought as he rolled over and closed his eyes.
But, at night, Ernie's just like all the others, crying in the dark for his home.