Motorcycles & Sweetgrass (39 page)

“Oh, John, you’re killing me. What fucking surprises?” Her loud voice startled a nest of crows in a nearby tree.

“The other ten percent…”

“Yes, John, yes.”

“A mixture of other bones I found in the museum. A little of this, a little of that. Kind of like a skeletal potpourri. Those scientists will find a wrist bone from an Eighteenth Dynasty Egyptian nobleman, a fragment of pelvis from a three-thousand-year-old Australian Aboriginal woman, the bottom jaw of a pre-Columbian Mayan warrior and a couple of toes from somebody called
Homo erectus
. That should keep them guessing for a while, huh? I mean those scientists and forensics people must have lives that are so boring, they probably would welcome a little mystery
into their lives.” Once more, the man smiled proudly. “Just one of my little jokes.”

In a bizarre kind of way, Maggie could see the humour in what he’d just done. Unfortunately, she wasn’t in much of a mood to laugh. And to think she thought her life was complicated before! She found herself breathing heavily, panting almost.

“I take it you aren’t in a mood to thank me.” John looked puzzled.

Maggie started panting harder. Her chest… no, her entire body hurt. Was thirty-five too young to have a heart attack? But somehow, she managed to find the resolve to utter what she thought might be her last words.

“You… you… did WHAT? You… son of a bitch…” She panted some more. “You planted caveman bones in my forest!”

“Caveman!” He snapped his fingers recalling the connection. “That’s what a
Homo erectus
is. I knew I recognized the name.” Then, John noticed Maggie’s clenched teeth and narrowed eyes. “I don’t get it. You should be happy. I’m happy. Goodbye, problem. Yeah, we still got some loose ends to figure out but all in good time. Maggie, are you okay? You look like you are going to pass out or something.”

Using what little strength her hyperventilating body had left, she curled up her right fist and, with little hesitation, sent it directly into John’s solar plexus. Her brother had tried that move earlier in the day high atop the forest but the blond man had been prepared, and had blocked it easily. This time, the punch was completely unexpected, and Maggie’s fist went deep into his body. A loud whoosh of air escaped his lungs, and his knees buckled beneath him. He fell to the ground, one hand grasping his mid-torso, the other reaching for her pant leg.

“Why?” he whispered harshly.

Maggie knocked his hand away and put her hands on her knees, trying to catch her own breath. She took a wobbly step toward the kneeling man. John tried to scramble away from her and her lethal anger.

“Don’t,” he managed to say, barely above a whisper, before he fell over.

He had been hit by a lot of women in his time but for some reason, he had never managed to get used to it. He couldn’t understand their logic. John always had their best interests in mind, surely.

“I don’t… believe… you did this. This is so stupid. How could you?”

“Give… the plan… time,” John said, trying to convince his diaphragm to function normally.

Using all his strength, he climbed back to his feet, though still a bit unsteady. Then Maggie Second, chief of Otter Lake, completed this impromptu meeting with John Tanner/Richardson/ Clayton/Prestor/Frum/Smith by kicking him squarely in the crotch. Again, though with less of a verbal response, the man hit the grass, facedown this time.

Feeling confident that her point had been made, Maggie found the strength to walk shakily to her front steps. She turned back to him. “Get off my Reserve,” she snarled.

By now, John was on his back, hands protectively cradling his vital areas. “What?” he managed to grunt.

“Get off MY FUCKING RESERVE!” Leaning against her house, Maggie’s strength and voice returned. “You have half an hour to get your White ass out of here. Or I am going to call the Res cops and make sure they escort you as far away from here
as they are allowed. Maybe farther.” She seemed to be reconsidering her demand. “Or maybe I’ll have them just shoot you.”

Now on his hands and knees, John was realizing that his brilliant plan wasn’t as sure-fire as he had anticipated. “Maggie, you don’t mean that. There’s so much we can do together. This is…” The rest of what he had to say was lost in a coughing spasm.

By now, Maggie had made it up the concrete steps to her front door. “I am so tempted to just tell the police everything and let them do whatever they want to you, but that might somehow implicate me, my family and possibly Otter Lake in your idiocy. I will figure the rest of this out later, but just get the fuck off our land before I replace what you took from the museum with
your
bones. Do I make myself clear?”

There was no mistaking the tone of Maggie’s voice, and John, though still racked with pain, understood this was not the time to engage in a debate. Nodding, he struggled to climb up onto his motorcycle, trying to fight off another coughing attack as he gingerly adjusted his privates on the seat.

Feeling stronger already, Maggie opened her front door. “Like I said, you have half an hour before I send the police to Sammy’s and have them patrol this entire community looking for you and your
classic
motorcycle. Go. Now.”

“I don’t suppose we could…”

“No, we can’t.” Maggie reached just inside the open door, and her hand materialized with a phone. She began dialling. “I’d start moving if I were you. My cousins, the constables, would love the opportunity to work over a White boy on a motorcycle. They’ve heard it’s good exercise.”

Across her front lawn, John could just barely hear the sound of a phone ringing through Maggie’s receiver. As with his first
encounter with the raccoons in Otter Lake, he saw the wisdom and knowledge of fighting this battle another time.

Seconds later, he had departed the chief of Otter Lake’s driveway and was already disappearing down the road, feverishly avoiding all the potholes.

TWENTY-FIVE

What a day it had been. Virgil didn’t know if he was coming or going or not moving at all. He had witnessed an epic battle. Sure, the leaves and branches had hidden most of it from him, but he’d seen the repercussions.

Dutifully, he and Dakota had walked his uncle to the clinic. At first Wayne hadn’t wanted to go, insisting he was fine, but after he’d walked into three outcroppings of rock and repeatedly tripped, and even tumbled down one embankment, Virgil managed to convince him a quick medical checkup wouldn’t be a bad thing.

Along the way, Virgil had managed to inform Dakota as much as he could about the Nanabush legend. He told her of the stories his grandmother would tell, and of the information he’d found on the Internet at school and of his conversations with Uncle Wayne. At first Dakota didn’t say much, just listened as Virgil poured out everything he knew.

Finally, twenty minutes later as they approached the health clinic, she commented, “Wow, you sure know a lot about Nanabush. Wish my parents had told me more about him.”

Virgil left Dakota with Wayne at the clinic. His cousin was definitely not the type to deal with Nanabush and the kind of things Virgil had been seeing lately. The little she’d seen had already shaken her world. He told her he’d call her later to explain things further.

Wayne, on the other hand, thanked his young nephew for helping him. As the nurse practitioner was cleaning the wound on his head, he added, “Boy, sometimes magic can really hurt.”

As Virgil left the building, he could tell something was up. People were running around, phones were ringing repeatedly and staff kept talking excitedly about mysterious bones and bodies somewhere on the Reserve. Normally the boy would have been overcome by curiosity, but today, he just shrugged and kept his eyes on the floor ahead of him. He could always get excited about whatever it was tomorrow.

Now he was alone. Really alone. His grandmother was dead, his bruised and battered uncle was being cared for, Dakota was busy wrestling with the concept of reality, and his mother—if not packing to run off with the guy who just might be Nanabush—was probably off doing chiefly things at the press conference… which he suddenly realized he had in all probability missed. He had been way too preoccupied with certain motorcycle-man issues to keep track of anything more. It was late afternoon but already Virgil felt tired. He just wanted some time to collect his thoughts. He needed to figure out what to do. Nothing had been solved, and he was no closer to understanding things. So he bought a large bottle of water to fight the hot sun and dehydration from all the running around he’d been doing, and headed for his flat-topped rock…

… which, he discovered upon his arrival, was again occupied. John was sitting there, seemingly deep in thought, head in his hands. Virgil could see his torn clothes and some cuts, but he’d managed to take back the headlight without being spotted, and end up here, so he couldn’t be too badly injured.

Virgil was confused. Part of him wanted to walk right up to the man and hit him as hard as he could. Another part wanted to run
away and hide, and hope that the man would just disappear. Still another part wanted to ask why the man had decided to torment Virgil and his mother. Having so many questions paralyzed him.

John spoke first, his head still in his hands. “Why do you like this place so much?”

At first, Virgil didn’t even know for sure that the man was talking to him. But the forest was otherwise deserted. Still, he opted to not respond.

“Don’t get me wrong. It’s a good place. I was just curious, why?”

“I don’t know. I just do.”

“‘I don’t know. I just do.’ That sounds a lot like me, and pretty much how I justify just about everything I do. You must have a better reason. There are a thousand big rocks like this scattered all over the area. Why here?”

He sounded tired, almost defeated. Virgil could see now that John was massaging his temples.

Still standing on the tracks, Virgil kicked an iron rail. “I like watching the trains go by.”

“You like watching the trains go by.”

“Yeah.”

John took a deep breath, and Virgil could tell it hurt.

“Why do you like watching trains go by? Most people usually require a reason to repeatedly do stuff.”

Virgil shrugged, unsure how much to share. “They’re going places. People look out the windows at me. I look at them. Each one of them is coming from someplace and going to some other place.”

“Meanwhile, you stay here. As they go by.”

“Something like that.”

“Maybe someday you’d like to hop on that train yourself, and see a little more than what Otter Lake has to offer?”

“Maybe.”

Finally, John raised his head and looked at the boy. “Maybe.”

His whisky-coloured eyes were now severely bloodshot. He was no longer the handsome young man who’d ridden into the community just over a week ago, setting all the female hearts aflutter. He looked… worn, beaten and exhausted.

“Where’s my mother?”

“Your mother… is safe. Very safe. She’s at home, I would imagine. Trust me, little man, she doesn’t need any protection from you. She’s quite capable of defending herself. And I don’t think she wants to see me anymore. So, your problems are solved.”

Virgil’s mood lifted when he heard that. Was there light at the end of this tunnel? But there were still other issues to be dealt with, relating to this man.

“You hurt my uncle.”

“I hurt your uncle. Well, he started it.” John lay down flat on the rock, groaning.

“You don’t look so good. Did my uncle hurt you?”

“Well, same family, wrong member. Virgil, a word of advice from someone who’s been around for a very long time. I have been everywhere, done just about everything, and everyone, and to tell you the truth, I don’t know if I’ve learned a goddamned thing in all that time. That’s kind of scary, now that I think about it. Your grandmother once told me I wouldn’t be me if I actually learned from what I did. That kind of hurt.”

Virgil noticed a pile of freshly braided sweetgrass beside the man.

“Anyway, trains come and go all over the world, just like people. You know, there are probably people sitting on that train looking at you sitting on this rock, thinking, ‘Sure wish I could be
out in the woods, watching the world go by, instead of sitting in here beside somebody who’s snoring and farting, and going somewhere I’d rather not be going.’”