Motorcycles & Sweetgrass (32 page)

They, like the man on the motorcycle, had been born in an age when gods, monsters, humans and animals ate at the same table. Now man ate alone, while animals begged for scraps. The others were unable to survive in the new times and had disappeared into the folds of time. Who knew gods and monsters could and did fall victim to evolution?

Again thunder boomed and lightning made the sky crackle. In the shadow of a particularly dark and large cloud, for just a moment, John could almost see the outline of a thunderbird against the sky. Then, just as quickly, it was gone. Nostalgia knotted in his belly.

As he passed the
WELCOME TO OTTER LAKE SIGN
, John tried to pop a wheelie in the community’s honour. Because of the nature of Indian motorcycles—being a very heavy machine low
to the ground with high gearing—popping a wheelie was notoriously difficult. For John, the impossible was always in reach, but not today.

He increased his speed above eighty kilometres an hour. He didn’t want to miss all the fun, and there was still a lot to do.

Fifteen minutes later, the rain was still falling, this time on the community graveyard. Tiny rivulets of water ran down the elevated mound of dirt that was Lillian Benojee’s final resting place. The bare earth had barely settled from the funeral a week ago. Surrounding her was a plethora of headstones, detailing the life and death in this community. Names like Aandeg, Kakina, Stone, Noah, Pierce, Hunter and Kokoko crowded the gently sloped field.

The wind picked up, sending the rain slashing diagonally. Nearby, a tree rustled and bent in the wind, losing a small portion of leaves and a fair-sized branch. A rabbit, caught in the maelstrom, ran through the graveyard’s cut grass, desperately seeking shelter of some sort from the wind, rain and lightning that were playing havoc.

Barely heard above the commotion, a motorcycle pulled up. The light at the front of the machine went dark, and the kickstand came down. The man slid down into the ditch that ran between the road and the graveyard. Climbing up the far side, he reached out his right gloved hand, and then his left, and grabbed the wire fence. Then he stood there, helmet still on, not moving. The rain pelted him, and leaves, twigs and unfortunate insects eager to find shelter whizzed by or into him.

The skies continued to open up and it seemed like the very forces of nature were fighting atop this tiny plot of land. A scant
ten metres away a bolt of lightning hit a hydro pole, showering the area in sparks that were quickly doused by the torrent of rain. Wires fell, and more sparks erupted. The storm was building.

At one point, a small chickadee, buffeted by the storm, fell to the ground, stunned. At first the man just looked at the small, still bird, lying motionless in the grass. The man knew that death was as much a part of nature as the storm he was witnessing. The potential death of such a tiny creature meant little in the overall scheme of the world. This miniature creature would die and it would not be missed. For reasons of his own, the man thought maybe this was a little unfair. Life was always preferable to an unnecessary death. He too was worried about not being missed, should he be forced to move on.

After opening the zipper on his jacket a few inches, he gently picked up the minuscule bird in his gloved hand and placed him inside his jacket, where it was warm and dry. He zipped the jacket shut again, as the storm around him raged. Once more he gripped the fence. This storm was as good as any he’d seen in his many years. It was the earth reminding its citizens it was still the boss in the end.

John remembered the story of it raining for forty days and forty nights, and wondered if the Ark had started off in Vancouver. Forty days of rain was nothing out in B.C. And that other guy, Jesus, who had been born and raised in the desert, John was mystified by his appeal here. To truly understand how Turtle Island and its people thought and lived, John thought, you had to know the emotions of its land. The snowstorms of the Arctic, the wind of the Prairies, the humid summers of southern Ontario were all reflected in the people. Desert was desert and there wasn’t much of it in Canada, other then two small patches in lower British
Columbia and the Alberta Badlands. And of course, he’d left his mark in all three.

Gradually, as dawn approached, the storm weakened. The lightning flashed less and less frequently, and the thunder crashed less. The wind died down, and the trees stopped protesting. Eventually, even the rain had other places to go, and peace returned to the land, and especially this land of internment. The ground smelled of renewal. Rain was life, even amid death.

“For you,” said the man quietly. “That was for you, Lillian.”

Once all was quiet, the figure by the fence loosened his grip on the wire and undid his leather jacket. The chickadee stuck his head out, aware the troubles had passed. Without even a thank-you, it flew off and disappeared into the night. The man shook his head, marvelling at some animals’ rudeness. Once more he crossed through the ditch and up to his waiting bike. One long-ago promise to Lillian had been fulfilled. He had brought her the thunderstorm, finally. Off in the distance, fighting against the dark rain clouds, the first hint of dawn could be seen peeking up from the horizon in the east. It was time to go.

John had still much to do, and little time to do it. Full dawn would be in a few hours and he wanted to be done by then. The rain had softened the ground, perfect for what he must do. Afterward, he would bring a little of the rain back to wash away any evidence. Granted, he would get wet and dirty by the end of it. But leather is so easy to clean, and he’d survived a lot worse. Besides, Maggie was definitely worth it.

He started his motorcycle and headed for the controversial three hundred acres, his headlight illuminating the way.

TWENTY-TWO

The morning air had the clean feel to it that only comes after a night of rain. Wayne, Virgil and Maggie were having breakfast. The clinking of spoon against cereal bowl, the sipping of coffee and orange juice and the shifting in wooden chairs were all that was heard. All three were lost in thought, though coincidentally, their thoughts all centred on the same thing, or more correctly, the same man. Even though John wasn’t there, he was.

“Did you hear the storm last night?” garbled Wayne, his mouth full of cereal.

Virgil’s mouth was equally packed with cereal, but he nodded and said, “I think it went over twice.”

Maggie, who was anxious to get John and his abs out of her head, decided to start a real conversation. “Hey, Virgil, want to come to the press conference with me? There’s going to be a bunch of TV cameras and reporters and fancy-dressed people. You might find it fun.”

“I’ve been to your press conferences before. They’re boring. I think I’ll just hang with Uncle Wayne.” Virgil drained the last of his milk from his bowl. In truth, he’d barely tasted the Shreddies because he’d been so distracted thinking about John and his motorcycle.

Wayne barely heard the mother–son conversation, because in his mind he was revisiting the encounter between John and the
raccoons. As a nervous habit, but one conducive to his constant training, Wayne was clenching and unclenching his toes under the table.

“Oh, really. And just what does Uncle Wayne have planned for today?”

Realizing he had been plunged unwillingly into the table discussion, Wayne tried to formulate a constructive and believable lie. “Nothing really. Just hanging out. Maybe some visiting. Supplies, that kind of thing.” He added a smile for good effect.

Maggie surveyed the two, not quite believing the supposed innocence of the men sitting around the table. “Are you two up to something?”

Both males looked at each other with a passable expression of confusion. Then, in unison, they shook their heads.

“Right. Well, Wayne, you are welcome here as long as you like and don’t get me wrong about my next question but how long do you plan to stay? I have to go grocery shopping at some point and I need to know how many people to buy for.”

Spreading jam on the last piece of toast on his plate, Wayne thought for a moment. “No, I understand. Well, if all goes well, maybe tomorrow I’ll head back to the island.”

“If what goes well?” Now Maggie
knew
he was up to something.

“I… I have some business to attend to.”

While Wayne talked, Virgil found his glass of orange juice suddenly very interesting.

“Wayne, you have no business to speak of. That I know about!”

“I might! I might have business,” responded an increasingly irate Wayne. “You don’t know! You don’t know me at all.”

“Okay, like what business? Teaching a course on how to be a hermit?”

“You never believed in me! You never did. Mom did, but you…”

“Mom had to believe in you. You were the youngest, the baby. It comes with being a mother. Geez, Wayne, we all worry about you, over on that stupid island, doing whatever it is you do.” Maggie’s big-sister complex was never far below the surface.

“You know what I do over there. I’ve told you lots of times. You just don’t care.”

“Wayne, it’s not that we don’t care, in fact, we do care. It’s just that it’s… kinda silly. A Native martial art… really? You might as well be writing a Native opera or something. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Well, don’t worry about me. I am perfectly able to look after myself. Better than you!”

Virgil drained the last of his suddenly interesting orange juice and looked across the table for something equally distracting. He tried to force the ongoing argument from his mind.

“Yeah, right, you and your precious Indian martial art. My brother, the monk. I mean really, Wayne, I think you need a girlfriend. I know that might interfere with being a monk and all that, but…”

“I am not a monk. And I will not talk to my big sister about getting a girlfriend. And you should talk, what with you being a motorcycle mama!” Wayne screamed, regretting the words immediately after they left his mouth.

Virgil winced. The subject matter of the fight was getting uncomfortably close to the issues that they were all trying to avoid.

Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about,” replied a sullen Wayne.

“John. You’re talking about John, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“Or should I call him Nanabush? The blond, blue-eyed… I mean green-eyed…” said Maggie.

“I thought they were hazel…”

“Shut up, Virgil. What colour his eyes are is irrelevant. Wayne, you have been on that island way too long. The family’s been talking…”

“Oh God. Not the family!”

“… and we think, maybe you should consider moving back to the mainland. At the moment Willie is looking after Mom’s house. Since you were her favourite…”

“Quit saying that. I was not her favourite.”

“Just think about it. Okay?”

Now the whole table became quiet again. Maggie was staring at Wayne, who was trying not to look at her. Virgil sat between them, like Poland between the Soviet Union and Germany. If history was correct, that was not a good place to be. It seemed to Virgil that this was up to him.

“Press conference, huh, Mom? Sure. Actually, that might be fun. What time do you want me to be there?” Tension was still thick in the air and Maggie was defiantly staring at her brother. “Mom? What time do you want me there?”

Almost reluctantly, Maggie turned her attention to her son. “Um, around three-thirty. Do you need a ride from school?”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll be fine. Three-thirty. I’ll be there. Holy! Mom, look at the time. Shouldn’t you be at work? I’ve got to go to school!”

Maggie glanced at the clock and, indeed, she was running late. Barely uttering a word, she grabbed her car keys and exited the house, this time not bothering to glance at her brother.

As the sound of her car faded in the distance, Virgil let out a sizable breath. “That was close.”

“I am not wasting my life. What I’m doing is important, damn it. So what if I don’t have a girlfriend right now. It’s no business of hers. Sisters, man. Sometimes they just make you want to…”

“Uncle Wayne, chill. And focus.” Once more, Virgil appreciated the fact he was an only child.