Bone Black Read online

  Bone Black

  Bone Black

  Carol Rose GoldenEagle

  2019

  Copyright © Carol Rose GoldenEagle, 2019

  all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior permission of the publisher or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from Access Copyright, the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, www.accesscopyright.ca, [email protected].

  Nightwood Editions

  P.O. Box 1779

  Gibsons, BC v0n 1v0

  Canada

  www.nightwoodeditions.com

  cover design: Angela Yen

  COPY-EDITING: Angie Ishak

  Typesetting: Carleton Wilson

  Nightwood Editions acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $153 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country.

  Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L’an dernier, le Conseil a investi 153 millions de dollars pour mettre de l’art dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays.

  We also gratefully acknowledge financial support from the Government of Canada and from the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  This book has been produced on 100% post-consumer recycled, ancient-forest-free paper, processed chlorine-free and printed with vegetable-based dyes.

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: Bone black / Carol Rose GoldenEagle.

  Names: GoldenEagle, Carol Rose, 1963- author.

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190088974 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190089083 | ISBN 9780889713642 (softcover) | ISBN 9780889713659 (ebook)

  Classification: LCC PS8607.A5567 B66 2019 | DDC C813/.6—dc23

  To Terri Boldt

  A wonderful auntie (even though she may not like to hear that, which makes me laugh out loud). Such a dear friend and soul sister. Love you so much—Namaste

  Bone black: a term used to describe a glazing technique in pottery. Bones are burned at a high temperature to obtain bone ash. What is left, after being fired in the kiln, is calcium and phosphorous. It is white in colour. That ash is then mixed with iron or copper during the glazing process before the pottery is fired. The addition of minerals turns the glaze the colour of black. It is a unique finish, not often practised by artisans, and the process is ages old.

  Bones

  Wren Strongeagle was almost killed by a train when she was little.

  She hadn’t turned five years old yet when she was standing on the railroad track. Wren and her twin sister Raven used to wander down to the tracks all the time. Some days, they’d be gone for hours after having wandered off the property where her grandma lived in the valley. They visited their grandmother often and eventually came to live with her. They call her by the Cree name, Kohkum.

  The girls had a routine, especially in the summer. If they weren’t riding their bikes up and down Kohkum’s long and curving driveway, they’d be splashing around on the creek bed: a shallow waterway with a slow-moving current snaking its way between the grassy, hilly coulee of the landscape. Kohkum’s house was built in the valley part of the land, beside Last Mountain Lake in Saskatchewan’ßs Qu’Appelle Valley. It’s an area protected by buttes and trees and an ever-present wind on the Saskatchewan prairie, but with a breathtaking view.

  So often, as little girls will do, Wren and her sister got sidetracked and followed the creek in the direction the water ran, toward the big lake. A long lake. Kinookimaw in Cree. Back when Wren was just a girl, the rail line was still operational. Its tracks carried passengers and cargo from the city. The train wound its way along a scenic route of the Qu’Appelle Valley, right beside the water’s edge.

  Kohkum had always warned the girls not to play on the tracks alone. But as children sometimes do, they’d forget what she’d said and found themselves on the tracks anyway, picking up stones that they’d throw with all their might into the lake, playing a game they’d invented to see who could throw the farthest. It was usually Raven who’d win the toss, but neither of them kept score. It was just fun to be out and playing near the water’s edge.

  And the girls were never really alone. The lake itself was always busy with people enjoying a day of canoeing, fishing or just being out on the water. They were friends and neighbours of Kohkum, living in town a kilometre or so from where the little creek drained into the big lake. They knew the girls by their names, and would always shout friendly greetings when they spotted the twins playing on the shoreline. The girls would give a wave from the shoreline or the train tracks, and they’d remain there until returning to their grandmother’s house when they started to get hungry.

  On the day when Wren was almost hit by a train, a good day of throwing stones and laughing and waving at lake folk in their canoes, Raven had stopped to pick handfuls of sweet saskatoon berries along the trail that wound through the trees back to Kohkum’s home in the coulee. But something sparkly on the train tracks caught Wren’s eye that afternoon, so she lollygagged, sitting right on the tracks to see where that shininess was coming from.

  She didn’t even notice that the train was coming. She didn’t hear its whistle, which sounded incessantly once the conductor saw the small figure on the tracks. Wren was enthralled, doing her best to pick up each tiny rhinestone she’d spotted embedded in the dirt beside one of the rail ties, and putting the glass treasures in the small pockets of her denim cutoffs.

  People on the lake had noticed. As the train’s whistle sounded in an increasingly furious manner, two people in a canoe near the shoreline yelled and screamed as loudly as they could at Wren. Still, she didn’t hear any of it. It was like she’d been caught up in some other world that was bereft of sound and moved in slow motion.

  It was at this moment that Wren remembers a bright light appearing beside her. She didn’t know what it was, only recalls being thrown from the track and the oncoming train. She remembers it feeling like an electric shock, the same type you would feel if you were to foolishly put a knife in a toaster for half a second, which she’d already done in her so-far-short life. It was that little shock that brought her back to real time.

  Wren remembers the sound of that train speeding past her a moment later as she sat on the dirt, now breathless, mere metres away. She finally heard the train’s whistle and engine. She gasps even today, knowing that she’d have been squished if it hadn’t been for the sudden appearance of that bright light, and the force that pushed her off the track. She remembers feeling the light checking on her once again, to make sure she was safe, before it disappeared. Then the wind carried Raven’s voice to her, and Wren ran into the bush toward the sound of her sister calling. Wren was saved. By light.

  On that day there was some kind of shift between two worlds, and for a few moments in time one of them stood still. That day on the tracks Wren acquired a special gift of knowing, which is how she has since been able to tell the moods of people, or to know things about them without them sharing any information, without even saying a word.

  Arrival

  Wren still thinks about that moment she saw the bright light. She doesn’t know if it’s a real memory. Did it really happen that way or was it just something someone read to her once from a storybook? Maybe a scene from a movie she watched? Her questioning of her memory happens each time she sees a flash of light, which is pretty much a regular occurrence—especially on these days when magic has again come into her life.

  Three decades have passed since that near-accident, and she’s done so much living since. Wren suspects
she might be pregnant but doesn’t know for sure. Her period is quite late, but that can sometimes be due to stress, she knows. An appointment with her doctor isn’t scheduled until next week. Wren’s never been one to believe in the accuracy of a store-bought pregnancy test, so she will be patient.

  In the meantime, she also looks forward to more excitement. Her sister will be visiting tomorrow. Raven is coming home. That’s why Wren is in a big grocery store in the city, picking up some items so the girls can cook and chat and carry on as they always do when they find themselves together. They cook, they eat, they laugh—and so much more goes on in between. Magic.

  Wren is reminded of the light when she sees a young girl shoplifting at the store. The youth looks to be no older than twelve, wearing an oversized, grey bunny hug. Wren saw her put some beef jerky into the big front pocket of the sweater. Her first instinct is to tell someone, but she looks at the girl closely, intuiting something. She can tell this teen isn’t stealing on a dare, or as a bad habit.

  She’s doing it because she’s hungry, Wren assures herself. It’s like she is able to read the girl’s thoughts. Wren examines a soft light that seems to be following the girl: light blue and hovering over her as if to protect. At that, Wren’s instinct is to remain silent and carry on with her own business. That girl needs food, she tells herself, and I will not be the one to deny her something so basic. Wren dismisses the concern and pushes her cart to another aisle.

  As she walks by the frozen foods section of the grocery store, Wren wants nothing more than to pick up a large frozen turkey. It’ll have to wait for some other time when we have a family, she muses, smiling and patting her belly. Someday soon, she’ll let her husband in on the secret she has been keeping. She chooses the Butterball stuffed turkey breast.

  She places the frozen half-bird in the cart among a few other items that she’d selected: a bagged salad, some baby potatoes, potato chips, chip dip, a can of Spam and readymade gravy packets. She’ll stoke the outdoor food smoker in the morning once the bird is thawed. By the time Raven is expected to arrive, it’ll be ready.

  “That’ll be $49.87,” the cashier tells Wren, without making eye contact. The clerk checks her long, red fingernails while Wren reaches into her wallet for some twenty-dollar bills.

  Sheesh, I have hardly enough cash left for a nice bottle of wine with dinner, Wren thinks while counting how many bills are still in her wallet. No matter, she assures herself. It’s not like I plan on drinking anyway.

  But Raven likes a nice bottle of Malbec, so that’s what Wren will pick up before making her way out of the city. She misses her sister’s smile, their thorough and frank discussions, and she can hardly wait for the two of them to get on their bikes once back at the farmhouse. They’ll let the wind run through their long hair as they pedal along the bike path near the lake, just being outdoors, like they always did when they were girls.

  Wren hands over the cash to the waiting cashier. Out in the parking lot, while settling her groceries in the hatch of her small Nissan Versa, Wren finds herself offering prayers of gratitude. The twins have done well for themselves even though the odds growing up were against them.

  Raven practises family law with a firm in Calgary. She was recruited even before writing her bar exam. Wren has travelled in another direction, choosing instead to express her creative spirit, completing her bachelor’s degree in Fine Arts from the University of Regina. Her dedication earned Wren a place on the dean’s list. She now specializes in pottery, creating what look more like sculptures.

  The unique designs have attracted many commissions, allowing Wren to make a living as an artist. It’s a career so many in her youth assured her couldn’t be possible. “Be reasonable,” her high school volleyball coach would say, “and choose something more practical.” He’d suggest that Wren follow her sister into law or become a teacher, social worker or administrative assistant. “It isn’t easy for girls like you to make a difference. Besides,” he’d add, “no one makes a living as an artist. You will starve.” He was wrong.

  Wren couldn’t stop smiling. This time tomorrow, she’ll be slowly stewing up some wild cranberries. She’d had them shipped, by air, from Robertson’s Trading Post in La Ronge. Nothing like wild cranberries to excite the taste buds. And they only grow in the north. The first time she’d tasted them was a couple of years ago when she travelled up there to facilitate a pottery workshop. The flavour has stayed with her since. Along with the turkey and wild cranberries, Wren knows that her sister will prepare her world-famous potato salad. Sharing recipes and blending flavours—it’s what they’ve always done, adding up to everything in the world being right, just because they are together.

  “I wonder if I should tell her the news?” Wren mutters to herself as she comes to a stop at the red light at the corner of Albert Street and 9th Avenue North, on her way out of the City of Regina toward her home in the Qu’Appelle Valley.

  Wren wants to tell her she might be pregnant because she knows Raven needs to be reminded that there is still good in this world. It’s news that might help Raven balance out the stress that’s been happening at her work. In recent phone conversations, Raven has told Wren that a daily deluge of sadness, heartbreak and loss of hope has been causing her to lose sleep. Raven has taken on a case representing a Blackfoot family that is desperate to persuade police to reopen a missing person’s case. Their daughter, just sixteen, disappeared two years ago while walking home from the rink one night following hockey practice.

  “But there has been misstep after misstep in every area,” Raven explained. “Police not properly investigating. The Crown not presenting evidence. The family left behind feels like they are being victimized over and over again. No answers, just jargon. No one seems to care. Like it’s normal. Like no one cares about our girls.”

  Raven says their case has led her to others. She’s been meeting with other mothers who’ve also lost daughters. “It’s unbearable to sit and listen as they sob uncontrollably, recounting stories of sexual exploitation they’ve only heard about in their area,” Raven continued. “A whispering campaign. No one in a position to do anything about it checks on the details. One day another child just disappears… People in the community tell stories about human trafficking, how it’s a practice that is alive and growing, but police tell them they don’t have the proper resources to tackle the problem. It’s so frustrating for everyone, so there’s a group of us trying to figure out ways to get people in authority to open their eyes and see what’s happening. Maybe even call for an inquiry.”

  Wren thinks of a specific case her sister told her about the last time they chatted on the telephone. Raven was in tears.

  “I won’t mention the name of the family, but this case involved such a young girl. Only ten years old. She was walking home from school like she did every day, and a car followed her. Eventually, a white-haired man stopped the car and approached the girl. He unzipped his pants to show her his erect penis. The girl ran home as fast as her little legs would carry her.”

  Raven pauses for a moment and Wren knows she’s likely lighting up a cigarette before she can finish the story. “The girl got home and obviously told her mom what happened. The mom called the police, but no one came. The next day, the mom made her girl promise that she wouldn’t walk alone, that she’d make her way to school in the morning with the neighbour kids who lived just down the street. The little girl promised, grabbed her lunch bag and pulled on her sweater. The mom didn’t realize the neighbours had already made plans for an extended long weekend and took their kids with them to an out-of-town wedding. So the girl was left to walk to school by herself. It was the last time anyone ever saw her.”

  “Oh my God, Raven. I can’t imagine the guilt her mom must feel.”

  “Guilt, absolutely. She’s wrought with guilt for not walking her daughter herself. But they had a plan to keep the daughter safe. Sadly, details of that plan weren’t fully thought out. Her neighbour had always offered to drive the
girl. It was no inconvenience because she was headed for the same destination. It was a standing invitation, and every now and then the young girl would show up for a ride. There was never a need to make a phone call to confirm. That’s where wires got crossed.”

  Raven continued, “The mom is a single parent who needs to work to support her family, like so many other families that struggle. She needed to take an overtime shift that morning. A promise of overtime meant being able to buy extra groceries. So, she sent her daughter to the neighbours.”

  “Tragic. What did the police do?”

  “Not much. They asked a few questions around the neighbourhood. Didn’t even issue an Amber alert, they just put up some posters.”

  So much stress. But now the sisters will see other again instead of just hearing each other’s voices over the phone—and for the first time since Wren moved back into the old family home with Lord, her new husband. The old farmhouse is where the girls spent so much of their childhood, and is filled with good memories for Wren that she hopes her sister will feel, too. As she drives toward the valley, Wren knows this visit is exactly what Raven needs. It’s what Wren needs as well.

  Wren

  As Wren makes her way down Highway 11, her memory slips back to a mostly happy childhood, with a sense of joy in how she and her sister were raised. An industrial accident had taken Wren’s father when the girls had just started elementary school. Their mother Edna used to tell them it was a sign that they were born on the date of a solar eclipse: March 7, 1970. The eclipse, a phenomenon representing darkness and light. “A day when elves play with ogres,” she’d tell the girls. “There is peace in the entire universe.”

  Wren’s mother had a colourful explanation for just about everything. Like the story she told and retold about how the girls’ kohkum killed a bear using only a river rock. “Kohkum was out picking berries,” the story always began. “She wasn’t wearing her glasses and didn’t realize that a small black bear had wandered into the same patch she was in until they came face to face. The bear snarled at her, but Kohkum had an arm like Ronnie Lancaster.”