The Stone Collection Read online

  © 2015 Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm

  Excerpts from this publication may be reproduced under licence from Access Copyright, or with the express written permission of HighWater Press, or as permitted by law.

  All rights are otherwise reserved, and no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise—except as specifically authorized.

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts. / Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien.

  HighWater Press gratefully acknowledges the financial support of the Province of Manitoba through the Department of Sport, Culture and Heritage and the Manitoba Book Publishing Tax Credit, and the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF), for our publishing activities.

  HighWater Press is an imprint of Portage & Main Press.

  Printed and bound in Canada by Friesens

  Design by Mike Carroll

  LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

  Akiwenzie-Damm, Kateri, 1965-, author

  The stone collection / Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm.

  Short stories.

  ISBN 978-1-55379-549-0 (paperback)

  I. Title.

  PS8557.A495S76 2015C813’.54C2015-905704-3

  Also issued in electronic format: ISBN 978-1-55379-870-5 (ePUB)

  ISBN 978-1-55379-871-2 (MOBI)

  ISBN 978-1-55379-869-9 (PDF)

  22 21 20 192 3 4 5 6

  The Debwe Series features exceptional Indigenous writing from across Canada.

  Series Editor: Niigaanwewidam James Sinclair, PhD

  Titles in this series:

  A Blanket of Butterflies, by Richard Van Camp

  Fire Starters, by Jen Storm

  The Gift is in the Making: Anishinaabeg Stories, by Leanne Betasamosake Simpson

  Indigenous Writes: A Guide to First Nations, Métis & Inuit Issues in Canada, by Chelsea Vowel

  Manitowapow: Aboriginal Writings from the Land of Water, ed. Niigaanwewidam James Sinclair and Warren Cariou

  Surviving the City, by Tasha Spillett

  Three Feathers, by Richard Van Camp

  www.highwaterpress.com

  Winnipeg, Manitoba

  Treaty 1 Territory and homeland of the Métis Nation

  For my beautiful sons Kegedonce and Gaadoohn. I love you every minute of every day, all the time, no matter what.

  For my boy Theo and for Teddy and all Indigenous babies and children hurt while in the care of Child and Family Services.

  For Michael Akiwenzie and all of the other children who entered the Indian Residential School system and never made it home again.

  For all of the missing and murdered Indigenous women in Canada.

  We remember.

  stone song

  like stones are alive

  like stones dream stillness

  like stones are alive

  like stones hold energy

  like stones are alive

  like stones store history

  like stones are alive

  like stones hold story

  like stones are alive

  like stones dream winter

  like stones are alive

  like stones are alive

  like stones are alive

  you are the earth in winter

  CONTENTS

  Prologue:

  PICKING STONES

  It’s Not So Much

  The Blackbird Cage

  The Stone Eater

  The Palace

  Calcified Horses

  Mashkii-akii

  Mirrors

  Butterflies Are Free

  the day I learned to fly

  whale song in riverain park

  Chloe

  Touching Sky

  Epilogue:

  THE DREAMING AND THE WAKING

  PICKING STONES

  YOU RIDE BIKES PAST THE LUMBER MILL TO A SHELTERED BEACH. Leaving your bikes you walk, finding a large piece of driftwood to shelter you from the wind. The wind is steady. Riding there she pointed out spots of interest, spinning small webs of understanding for you. You watched intently. Sometimes you just watched her, concentrating so seriously on her that you lost track of what she was saying. She is one of those people whose movements speak very strongly, very clearly even when you aren’t yet capable of fully understanding. So without forethought your mind locks on what she is doing, the way the muscles in her legs propel the bicycle forward, the way her hands grip the handlebars, the way her lips form each word, the way she exerts a steady, silent presence in the pauses. Her words slip past you sometimes, taken whizzing past your ears by the wind. And somehow it’s okay. It’s okay even though what you do hear knocks you on the skull.

  As you rode your leg muscles began to twitch and your breath began to grow ragged around the edges. Then you noticed with some embarrassment that she continued to talk evenly, peddling with an easy rhythm despite the many more years she has weathered. You secretly blamed the wind, the borrowed bicycle, your fear of testing the gears, but you continued watching, listening, and propelling the bicycle with your legs. You continued to concentrate on her and began to suspect that there is some other form of communication occurring between you. Some form of communication that you are only vaguely aware of and that you have never experienced before.

  Now in front of the driftwood you sit and talk. You pick at rocks and shells. Examining them, replacing most, pocketing a couple. One that is typical of the rest, that will remind you of the place, the people, the talk. One that is special, that will remind you of the beauty you found hidden in certain people, places, words. Then you stretch out on your side, listening, soaking in the place, her presence, still looking at bits of the shore as she tells you some small fragments of what she knows. And the stones are like stories piling on the shore of memory.

  The lumber mill has ripped the face off the hill.

  The people allow it in exchange for money and, in the past, a few jobs, she tells you.

  But the jobs, like eroding pieces of the hill, are gone now. Still the money allows them to keep the land, that’s what they say. The land that is slowly falling into the sea.

  Easy for you, you have good-paying jobs, they say. And there is no easy response. So the hill is sacrificed bit by bit for now in the hopes the people will have a future. Easy for the lumber mill. Difficult for everyone else.

  You rise together and walk. The shore, as far as you can see, is covered in stones. You imagine each one is a story she has told to other listeners on other bike rides, other walks. Then stopping, stooping, you scoop up a handful of stones, pebbles, shells. As you let them sift through your fingers, you notice one, a little different from the rest. You notice its texture, imagining the layers of silt that have combined with incredible forces of energy to form this solid piece of earth. You notice how the movement of the waves has worn the rough edges smooth, how the stone is solid in your hand and soft against your skin. Clutching it in your palm, you feel its energy pulsing into your flesh, and it becomes part of your memory, your mind memory, skin memory, muscle memory.

  You skip along the stones knowing without looking that she is just ahead of you and to the left, waiting. She jumps onto a rock to scan below the surface while you catch up. Just as you reach her you stop and dip your hand into a little pool along the shore. Is it cold? You wiggle your fingers then look up. Yeah. But not enough to make your bones ache. You add that last bit with just a hint of bravado. Wouldn’t want to go for a swim though. You both smile.

  You jump up on the rock, and the two of you stand together. The sea isn’t yielding what she
wanted to show, so she continues walking, and you follow. She picks up a plastic shampoo container washed up on the rocks. Japanese, she says. Those boats are supposed to stay 200 kilometres offshore. You glance at the container, noticing the foreign script. Later you come across a rusting oil drum. You both stop and look at it, saying little. She sets the shampoo container down eventually as you walk.

  At a small pile of oval whitish rocks you stop. You pick one up. It’s lighter than expected. She turns and watches.

  Pumice.

  You nod, rubbing your finger against it.

  You can use it to rub away dried skin, calluses. Again you nod. Do you have it where you’re from? she asks.

  Nah, we have to buy it.

  It’s lava rock. Take some, she says simply.

  Okay, you agree, bending over and selecting a smaller-size stone that you stuff into a pocket with the other stones you have collected.

  And so you walk along, talking, stopping to look at stones, birds, a beached buoy, shells. You walk along chatting easily, sometimes saying nothing. And the silence is light and easy between you.

  It’s Not So Much

  IT’S NOT SO MUCH BEING DEAD HE MINDS, IT’S THE WAY IT happened, he likes to tell the other Invisibles.

  What freakin’ difference does that make? Tony would always ask. You’re dead! He’s always a real smartass like that.

  Then Kowhai or one of the others would tell Tony to shut up, and a big argument would break out. Good thing Invisibles are also Unhearables, I tell them, what with all that racket going on all the time. Sometimes though I wish some of my friends could hear them too. Some of it’s pretty funny. Some of it makes those little hairs on the back of my neck rise like little ghosts. Those Invisibles have seen some crazy stuff, and they just love to talk about it.

  Like take Jervis. Always on about the way he died. Made my skin crawl the first few times I heard it. The first time I heard him I went to talk to my Mishomis.

  He was sitting on a tree stump outside the old place. Ahnee, I say to him.

  Ahnee, he says back. Then he points his lip at the blue-and-white nylon lawn chair beside him. So I sit down. It was one of those grey November days. The ones where it snows, and it seems like the whole world is melting just like the snow is melting, and everything is damp and cold. Together we watched the snow turn to small grains of ice falling from the sky.

  aHmmm, I say to him.

  Ya know, he says, it’s not so much the cold, it’s the dampness.

  Yeah. I wrap my arms around myself. Wasn’t so damp last night, I say. He doesn’t say anything. So I say, I was sitting there in my room, and that door opened, and I could hear footsteps, but no one was there. Was pretty cold though, eh. He looked at his hands, so I went on. Yeah, so anyway I can’t really see him, but I know someone’s standing there beside me like he’s just waiting, so I say to him, hey, whaddaya want?

  I blow on my fingers and hunch my shoulders to keep warm. I clear my throat before I continue.

  I don’t hear anything at first. Then I hear kind of a buzzing like there’s a fly trapped in my ear, moving down my ear canal. Then I hear this guy yell, how about now? Can you hear me now?!

  Just about jumped through the ceiling. Geez, I say, ya don’t haveta yell. You’re new at this, hey? Ya scared the crap outta me.

  He told me his name was Jervis. So I said, Jervis, buddy, you’re dead. And he said, Yeah. He said it wasn’t so much being dead he minded, it was the way it happened.

  Mishomis stares at the trees across the road. So I stare at them too.

  Got a smoke? he asks after we’ve been staring for a while. I’m not supposed to smoke, but I pull out my pack, hand him a smoke, and take out one for myself. I take out my Bic in that beaded case Pechi made for me when she liked me, and I lean over to light his cigarette first. Mishomis sucks his cheeks in so far I swear they musta hit each other inside his mouth. But I don’t say anything. I just light my smoke.

  He blows the smoke out real slow, real long. Like I think he’s gonna pass out or that his lung’s gonna collapse or something. Real slow. And just staring across the road the whole time.

  I blow smoke rings for a while. By now we’re covered in a thin film of ice and I’m starting to shiver. It really is the dampness, not the cold that soaks into your bones.

  We both stare at the horizon, that old man and me. The sky is that strange translucent grey-white colour it gets in November. The maple trees across the road are bare, poking their scrawny fingers at the navels of clouds. In the distance the escarpment looms, one of four limestone warriors protecting the land, the people, and the sapphire bay curving around our peninsula. There’s not a bird above us, not a bird in those bony trees, not a sound except the sound of my breathing. Mishomis is blowing cigarette smoke at the sky.

  So, I say.

  He shrugs. One time when your Gramma was visiting her sister someone sat in the rocking chair by the fire all night. Mighta been that uncle she inherited the chair from when her mom died. Maybe. He inhales slightly then exhales real slow again. Said he’d been trying to walk home from one of them residential schools. No boots, no warm clothes. He’s shaking so bad he falls down; after a while he stops shaking, and he falls asleep. He said it was the wind, and the damp. Mishomis takes four big drags from his cigarette and blows it towards the tops of the trees. Then he sits there looking at the sleet dropping onto the dry leaves that stretch from his feet to the maple trees and disappear over the edge of the escarpment. I put out my cigarette butt with my fingers and place it on the cold ground at my feet, covering it with a few dried pieces of leaves and grass.

  That tobacco ain’t jus’ for blowing smoke rings, he says.

  That Jervis can be a real pain in the ass.

  Comes running into the house, yelling like a crazy person. They found him! They found him!

  Who, I say. Geez, Jervis, who?

  Suddenly I’m outside, it’s drizzling, and I’m walking down a road. I can hear tree branches rattling. Then there are lights shining in my eyes. Next thing I know I’m in an old shed. It’s pitch black except for a bit of moonlight falling through where some boards fell off near the roof. Look at the truck, I hear, but I can’t see whoever’s saying it. All right. All right, I say. Ever pushy! Then I’m staring at a truck bumper, and there’s a dent and scratches in it. A shiver runs from my tailbone up to the base of my skull. Next thing I know I’m staring at an outhouse. Then a rock.

  Mom gives me a funny look at breakfast. I’m reading the back of the Cocoa Krispies box. This is crap, I say. Pure crap! We shouldn’t have this stuff in the house. Mom raises an eyebrow. Well, I say, it is. We should eat porridge. Dad walks over, grabs my bowl of cereal and the box of Cocoa Krispies, marches past Mom, and flings it all out the patio door.

  Hey! I say.

  Mom and Dad are wiggling their eyebrows and pursing their lips at each other, and their eyes shimmer like moonlight on the bay.

  Hey, I say. I was eating those!

  Later Mom asks me what’s wrong. Well, actually she said, “Who shit in your Shreddies?” but that’s what she meant.

  That damn Jervis, I say.

  How is he? she asks.

  Dragged me all over the place last night, I say, and I tell her about my dream.

  Hmmm… she says. What was it you saw at the end?

  Some stupid outhouse, I say.

  A what? she says.

  You know, an outhouse. She looks at me like I’m speaking Chinese or something. A toilet, a privy, a…. a john! I say real exasperated like.

  Oh, she says and grins.

  And then a small rock, I say.

  A what? she says.

  A what? Am I speaking English, ‘cause I’m starting to wonder. A rock, I say sighing. You know, a rock? One of those hard things Jack’s head is filled with?

  She gives me a blank look like I’m speaking Tibetan or something.

  A rock, a little rock… you know, a small, little rock….

&nbs
p; More blank stares. A big pebble, a small boulder, a… a stone, I blurt.

  Oh, she says and grins again.

  Oh, now you get it, I say real sarcastically, because hey, I’m a 17-year-old guy, and sarcasm and silence are what we do best in these situations.

  A john and a stone, I repeat, emphasizing the words john and stone. She puts her hand in front of her mouth and giggles.

  Ha-ha, I say, very funny. I try to say it real angry, but I feel like an idiot.

  Hey, says Dad.

  I look at him. He’s kneeling in front of the woodstove placing wood in as if he’s building a house of cards. Careful.

  I go over and sit in the rocking chair.

  That brother of yours is pretty smart, he says.

  A smart ass, I almost say, but I don’t. Dad doesn’t like it when I call my younger brother names. Guess so, I say.

  Taught himself how to make elm bark baskets after we saw them ones in Saratoga last year. Coming back from that Leonard Peltier march.

  Yeah, I say. But bark ones don’t last. He should make them out of old plastic pop bottles or ice cream tubs. Recycle and all that. That’d be smart.

  Hmmm… says Dad.

  And they’d last, I say.

  He strikes a match, and smoke rises from the centre of the wood pile. He blows on it, and it crackles and flares.

  Nothing lasts, he says.

  The fire is spreading, and we watch it licking at the kindling and moving to the larger blocks of cordwood.

  You better bring in some more wood, son. Gonna get our first winter storm tonight.

  Okay, I say, and I stand up. How can you tell? I ask him.

  Tell what? he says.

  That it’s gonna storm.

  Oh, he says, that. See that window there? he asks, nodding his head to the side.

  Yeah, I say, and I go over and look at the sky. It’s darkening, and I can see swirling grey clouds moving towards us from across the bay. Oh, I say.

  Yeah, he says, now turn to your left. More…more, okay, stop. Now I’m staring at the TV. Weather report comes on every 30 minutes, he says.