Motorcycles & Sweetgrass (34 page)

Kait was not comforted by her mother’s less-than-competent plans for their future. Crystal Park could be remarkably vivacious in front of a camera, and certainly knew how to turn a phrase in a way that made her seem remarkably bright and “with it.” But her daughter knew that often the wrapping paper didn’t represent the present in the box.

“Yes, Ms. Park.” Kait went back to scribbling, wondering to herself how much it would cost her to go for that master’s degree.

“Have you seen him lately? Huh, have you?” Dakota seemed awfully excited for somebody stuck at school on a beautiful June day.

“Who?” asked Virgil, annoyed. He’d had to wait fifteen minutes to get access to the school library computer, and he didn’t have time for lovesick cousins. He was doing something called research and his next class was due to start.

“John! John Clayton. That’s who.”

Virgil thought for a moment, jumping from website to website. “Who is John Clayton?”

Rolling her eyes, Dakota feigned annoyance. “You know who. John. Motorcycle John! That guy from Grandma’s.”

Instantly, the Internet lost its appeal. “He told you his name was Clayton?”

“Yeah, he told me a lot of things. Haven’t seen him at all in the last day or two. I was just wondering if you’ve seen him around, I mean because I know he likes to hang around with your mother and all. Well, have you?”

“No. Why?”

She looked disappointed. “Just wondering. If you see him, tell him I said hello.”

“Dakota. If I were you, I’d stay away from him. You don’t know what you’re getting into here. He’s not what he appears to be. Trust me. It’s safer.”

“What does that mean?”

“Just forget about him. Okay?”

Dakota looked annoyed. “No. He’s my friend. He came over to see if I was okay. I don’t think he’s done that for you.”

“Dakota…”

“I can like him if I want. You just want to keep him to yourself, don’t you? You and your mother.”

Virgil almost laughed at that. “Noooo. Not at all. I’d give him away if I could.”

“Then why are you being so mean about him? He’s a very nice guy. Better than you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, never mind. Just leave me alone, Virgil. I’ll find him
myself later.” Angrily, she turned away from her cousin and disappeared out the library door.

“Dakota…” Virgil started to follow her, but the school bell rang, indicating time to change classes. John’s involvement in his life just kept getting deeper and deeper. And what did Dakota mean, “later”? His research forgotten, Virgil grabbed his books and dashed out the door without turning his computer off.

A few minutes later, Gregory Watson, the librarian, noticed the computer running unattended, and thought it better to shut it down. Whoever had been using it, he observed, had been doing some heavy surfing. At the bottom of the screen were five still-active websites. Curious, he opened one after another. They all revolved around traditional Native legends or myths. Specifically, the Trickster or Nanabush stories. Somebody was trying to get an “A” for sure.

TWENTY-THREE

The piercing call of a red-winged blackbird woke John with a start later that morning. He had actually slept several hours, which was unusual for him. And he had dreamed, which was even more unusual. And what a peculiar dream it was. Glancing around, he saw that nothing seemed to have changed—reality looked the same; that was a good sign. He lay there for a few minutes, assessing his nocturnal adventures, both physical and dream ones. That Jesus guy didn’t seem so bad after all. Maybe he had misjudged the fellow. When he had the time, he would have to re-evaluate his perceptions, especially since they had each shared some secrets of the trade.

But now the sun was just rising above the crest of the trees. Though still half asleep, he felt good. He hadn’t felt this alive in years. Decades, in fact.

Rising to face the coming hours, he left his cloistered cell and wandered out into Sammy’s house. As usual the old man was gone on his quest—an Aboriginal Don Quixote, John thought. Stretching and yawning, he went out into the front yard, naked. The morning wind and sun felt good on his exposed skin. All was well in the world. Then, near the shed, he saw his motorcycle. And everything else.

“What the…”

John could almost smell it from the front yard, coming from a good ten metres away. He recognized it instantly.

“Those fucking raccoons…” he muttered through clenched teeth.

They had been there, marking his beloved and irreplaceable two-wheeled vehicle. His precious 1953 Indian Chief motorcycle had been the latest victim in their war. An innocent bystander for sure. He barely felt the grass underneath his bare feet as he approached. John stood there, staring at the collateral damage. It looked like several dozen of his sworn enemies had contributed to the desecration of the rare machine. It was literally fender deep in shit. And a substantial amount of piss too. The distinctive red of the machine was now darker, as if wet. It was like the raccoons had been saving up for weeks to do this.

It was a childish, cheap and not especially clever or creative attack. But it was effective, and very raccoony. John would have to spend most of the day tending to his precious vehicle, time he wasn’t sure he had. And even then, there would probably be a lingering stench for some time. The raccoons had upped the ante, and now it was his turn.

Seriously angry for the first time in a very long while, he turned to face the woods. Somewhere in there he knew all the raccoons were hiding, more than likely laughing at him. His eyes scanned the wall of green, but they were too well hidden, and the woods too deep. He picked up a rock and threw it into the trees, not really expecting to hit anything but still needing to vent. He could hear it bouncing off a tree and falling to the forested floor with a soft thud. Then nothing. Even the red-winged blackbird had stopped its call.

“You fucking bastards!” John yelled at the forest. “You’ve crossed the line.”

It has been said that the land does not forget; it is in fact the memory of all who live on it. In today’s world, raccoons live closer to the earth than most people, so their memory too is longer.

“Well?” There was no response. By this time, John’s breathing was heavy, induced by insult and rage. “For the last goddamned time, I did not eat your ancestor.”

It seemed a long, long time ago, in a forest not that far away, that the man known in Otter Lake as John had been a bad boy. Though a friend and ally to most living creatures, he was known occasionally to… not be. He, like all animals of the forest and plains, had a strong need to eat. It had been a cold winter and spring was slow in coming. The man’s stomach was empty. He had survived for a while on teas made from the bark and leaves of various trees. But the man craved something more substantial. That’s when a certain raccoon, lost in an early spring blizzard, wandered into his camp. From there on, well, witnesses’ descriptions varied.

“I didn’t! I swear! It just looked that way when that other raccoon caught… I mean saw me. I was… trying to give it mouth-to-mouth. Yes, it… it can be done through the belly sometimes. And then I… I listened to its heart. That’s how I got some blood on my face, uh… when I did that. And I tried to warm it up by the fire. That’s why it looked like I was cooking it. Honest! I was trying to save its life. It just looked like I was eating it. All this is over nothing. Why won’t you bastards believe me?”

Once the echo of his voice had disappeared, the forest was silent again. “Well? Got anything to say?” Somewhere off in the distance, a coyote howled. “Fine, next time we meet, I’ll shit all over you. See how you like it. I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again. Bunch of miserable, furry, flea-infested… I hope those raccoon-skin coats come back into fashion.” John turned back
to his motorcycle, almost shedding a tear at the defilement. High above him, on the branch of a century-old cedar tree, a single, aged raccoon appeared, the one John had seen several days ago on the stump. The creature called to the man far below him. It chattered and mocked and cursed and laughed. John fought an instinct to toss another rock, and instead just listened. The creature continued its verbal assault, and once, pointed at the bike with its little hand. Understanding, the man glanced over his shoulder at the motorcycle, then back up at the lecturing raccoon. Slowly, John’s anger left him, and he stood there, naked to the world, nodding. Eventually the raccoon went silent, apparently satisfied with what he had said, and waited for a response.

It came quickly. “Promise?” asked the man.

Once more the bandit creature chattered, nodding its head.

John weighed what the animal had offered. “What does everybody else say?”

Almost at once, a chorus of raccoon chattering could be heard emanating from the trees. John couldn’t see them but he could sure hear them. Every raccoon for a day’s ride must have gathered to day within a stone’s throw of Sam’s house.

“How do I know I can trust you?”

Again, it was the raccoon on the cedar that responded for the ring-tailed army. A short staccato burst ended the conversation, and then the old raccoon waddled along the branch into the protection of the forest. Gradually, the sounds of the forest returned, and John, realizing the deal he’d just made, took a deep breath.

“Okay, once I do that, it will be over then? We can end this stupid thing?”

There was no answer.

Scratching his crotch, John surveyed the damage inflicted by the raccoons to his metal mount. “I hate raccoons,” he said to no one but himself. He’d have to use a lot of water and soap before he could fulfill his end of the agreement. But at least those pesky animals would finally leave him in peace.

He hoped.

In her office, Maggie looked out the window at the lake. In the distance she could see motorboats going by, the odd houseboat and the occasional Jet Ski. When she was younger, Virgil’s age, the lake had been so much calmer. You could have canoed across to the other side without being broadsided by a wall of internal combustion–generated waves. The sound of the outboard motors through her open windows kept reminding her of another, similar-sounding two-wheeled vehicle.

The press conference was a little more than two hours away. Maybe things would finally calm down with the announcement that the land would be officially transferred. Otter Lake had a letter in principle saying the federal government would turn it into Reserve land, once all the assessments were completed. After that, who knew what would happen. Maggie was still getting stopped by people kindly “suggesting” things the community should do with that property. The most recent had come from Neil McNeil, who advocated letting the city of Toronto dump its garbage there. Maggie sighed the sigh of a conflicted head official and turned back to her desk.

Her phone rang. It was her cousin Pamela, the receptionist. “Maggie, Crystal Park is here.”

“Send her in.”

Let the dance begin, thought Maggie. Through this whole escapade, she’d worked closely with the MP, and she acknowledged that Crystal Park could get things done, though she sometimes wondered for whose benefit.

There was a knock at her door and two White women entered. “Crystal, and Kait, welcome.” Maggie rose from her desk to shake their hands.

“Are we early?” asked Crystal.

“Nope, right on time. Have a seat. I suppose we should go over exactly what will happen at three.”

“Right. I believe Kait has made some notes on the subject.”

Both heads turned to the young woman, who now consulted her clipboard.

“Um, yes,” said Kait. “Well, it’s pretty straightforward. I’ve arranged for the press to be there on site, the local television station, radio and newspapers, all the usual suspects. I think my mother… Ms. Park should speak first, followed by you, Chief Second. Afterward there will be a brief question-and-answer session. Hopefully not too long. If we are lucky, this should last maybe twenty minutes or so.”

“Finishing in just enough time to make the evening news. By the way, Maggie, you’ve kept us all in the dark about what the Reserve plans to do with the land. You do know the reporters will ask you about that. What are you going to tell them?”