Motorcycles & Sweetgrass (42 page)

“Yeah.” A silence rose up between them. “Wanna come with me? Make sure everything’s fine?”

“Yeah, you know, I would like that. Sounds good.”

They shared a sibling smile. “Hey, what about that coffee?”

“Ah yes, coffee. Coming up.” Rising from the table, Maggie got out her can of ground coffee and began to spoon half a dozen helpings into the machine.

“Maggie…?”

“Yes?” She now filled the pot with water.

“That nurse at the clinic. Do you know her?”

“Colleen. Kinda, why?”

“I’ve been saving up my compliments. I might want to try a few on her. Think I should?”

She looked at her brother and raised an eyebrow. “She’s heard the stories. She knows you’re weird, you know.”

“Not weird. Eccentric.”

“You’re not rich or White enough to be eccentric.”

“Then I’ll have to settle for ‘peculiar.’”

“Feel free to use me as a reference. By the way, on Thursday nights, she teaches a beginner class in tae kwon do at the Health Centre.”

Now it was Wayne’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

Outside, the two kids were wrestling on the grass. Dakota seemed to be getting the better of Virgil, pushing him backwards until, with a little flip, she went flying over her cousin’s hip in a very ungirlish manner.

“Ow!”

“I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?” Virgil rushed up to her.

“This is supposed to be fun? When do I start having a fun time?” Helping her up, Virgil flicked some grass off his cousin’s back. “There better not be grass stains!”

“Nope, you’re okay,” Virgil lied.

Off in the distance, the telltale sound of a motor, gradually getting closer, made them freeze. Their eyes locked. For a moment, they shared a joint sense of excitement, concern and delight, touched with a flavouring of apprehension. Then, as the sound grew louder, they began to relax, albeit with some disappointment, for like anybody who lived by a sizable river or lake, they knew the unmistakable growl of an outboard motor. Somebody was boating in Beer Bay.

“Where do you think he—” Before he could finish, Virgil went flying over Dakota’s hip, also landing in a very ungirlish manner.

“Is that how you do it?” she asked innocently.

Staring up at the sky, Virgil had to laugh in spite of himself.

EPILOGUE

Seventeen years, three months and four days later, Michael Mukwa, the last remaining member of the once-famed Otter Lake Debating Society, passed away quietly. On his deathbed, as on every single day since it had happened, he swore up and down, by every god that was worshipped, that the story was true.

On a certain summer day so many years earlier, he had been travelling home by boat across the lake after a busy day of fishing. Three bass and two pickerel lay at the bottom of his boat, and he was content. Though this wasn’t nearly the number of fish he’d have caught when he was young, it was still a good day’s catch by any standard.

So there he was, steering his boat, propelled by a Johnson ten-horse-power motor, through slightly choppy water when something caught his eye, and casually he looked over to his right, and to the back. That’s where he saw what he saw. A familiar, large red-and-white motorcycle was barrelling along behind him, riding the wake from his boat like a surfboard.

At first the image failed to register in Michael’s brain, it was so ridiculous and impossible. It was like an Apple computer receiving a PC command. Then the man on the motorcycle waved a hand, and automatically, without thinking, Michael waved back.

After a few minutes, the rider, with what appeared to be great
difficulty, managed to pop a sizable wheelie in the middle of the lake. Then, waving his hand in victory, he sped up and pulled ahead of the boat.

Michael caught glimpses of an Indian headdress on the gas tank, some sort of bird on the crash helmet and a braid of what appeared to be sweetgrass wrapped around a handlebar. The last he saw of motorcycle and rider, they were moving farther and farther ahead of the boat, riding the waves like speed bumps, until they disappeared around a spit of land.

Michael Mukwa swore this really happened. Yet nobody in the village believed him. Well, almost nobody. There were three who did.

And that’s how it happened to a cousin of mine. I told you it was a long story. They’re the best ’cause you can wrap one around you like a nice warm blanket
.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

In many ways a novel is like a pyramid, with several people laying stones to build up the story. The writer is merely the architect, or perhaps foreman. With that in mind, there are many people to thank who have provided this humble architect/foreman with the raw materials and expertise to construct the story you have just read.

I had the opportunity to work with such people as Alan Collins, James Cullingham and Larry E. Lewis in hammering out the original story, back when I thought it might make a cool movie. Then others joined the bandwagon, showing their support for my storytelling: Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm in the guise of Kegedonce Press, and the Ontario Arts Council, which financially believed in me. Also, the Leighton Artists’ Colony at The Banff Centre. What a place to create!

Then of course, there’s Tom King and Basil Johnston, whose writings about the Trickster helped lay the groundwork for this and countless other books.

A special thanks goes to Helen Hoy, who gave me the clue on how to get to the “bones” of the issue.

The following people provided technical or moral support as I feverishly laboured away: Dan David, Linda Cree, Anita Knott, Kennetch Charlette, Umeek of Ahousaht, the mysterious
T. L. Corell, Tom Wilcock—and Michael Schellenberg and Amanda Lewis of Knopf Canada.

And finally, a special thanks goes to the lovely Janine, whose efforts, faith and understanding almost mirrored my own. This is as much her book as mine.

An Ojibway from the Curve Lake First Nations, D
REW
H
AYDEN
T
AYLOR
has worn many hats in his literary career, from performing stand-up comedy at the Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C., to lecturing at the British Museum on the films of Sherman Alexie. Over the last two decades, he has been an award-winning playwright (with over seventy productions of his work), a journalist/columnist (with a column in several newspapers across the country), short-story writer, novelist and scriptwriter (
The Beachcombers, North of Sixty
, etc.), and has worked on seventeen documentaries exploring the Native experience. In 2007, Annick Press published his first children’s novel,
The Night Wanderer: A Native Gothic Novel
, a teen story about an Ojibway vampire. Last year, his non-fiction book exploring the world of Native sexuality, called
Me Sexy
, was published by Douglas & McIntyre. It is a follow-up to his highly successful book on Native humour,
Me Funny
.