On a quiet Sunday, right after breakfast, James decided to go for a walk to the cemetery—to plead for guidance and strength once again from the ancestors of the place. At the first cross street, he was joined by Jeremy, who explained he was going to his uncle’s place for coffee. A few steps later, Henry stuck his head out of his door and shouted, “Hey you two hoo’tups, where you goin’? Princip’l, better watch out for that Jeremy—he’s always up to no good.” He reached back into his house for his coat. Pulling it on, he ambled over to James and Jeremy, fell into stride and launched into some banter: “Hadih, I saw a big bull moose jus’ across the creek yesterday, gonna start stalkin’ ’em today—get ta know his habits. Lorna wants another hide to work on. Last week I got a silver fox—ya should come over after ’n see the fur. Maybe you wanna buy it off me, Princip’l.”
Jeremy, who hadn’t said a word since Henry appeared, sighed and broke rank. “I’m goin’ home. My show’s comin’ on soon.”
Henry and James kept walking, in the direction of the cemetery and bridge of wooden planks at the entrance to the village.
“Christ—las’ night I dreamt ’bout residential school,” said Henry. “About when I was in the marchin’ band, playin’ a bugle. They gave us uniforms and we got ta go ta Prince George ta march in parades.”
“You went to Lejac School, right? For how long?”
“Too damn long—ten years. At least I got ta come home most summers—didn’t forget our language. I can still speak Indian. But there were boys from all over the place, and we fought. The kids from up north were nasty to us. But we learned howta farm—the gor’ment figgered that was the answer—teach us how ta farm and give us some patch o’ land to work—turn us into Nedohs.”
“Funny, Henry, you guys say Nedoh for white people, us Crees say Moniyaw, or Wêmistikôsiw if they’re French—people who go away in canoes.”
“Most o’ the priests and nuns at Lejac School was Frenchmen. But they made us ta learn English.”
“I was raised Catholic, too. My mom went to residential school at a place called Buffalo Bay. But I left the church when I turned fourteen. Didn’t make sense to me. I’d go to confess my sins and start out by lying about how long it was since the last confession.”
“I did the same! Been years now I ain’t been ta confession or taken communion. Agnes, her, she always gets after me ta go.”
“Do you believe in that stuff, Henry—Father, Son and Holy Ghost? Transubstantiation?”
“I can’t think about it, Princip’l. I get scared whene’er I try. We learned not ta question things—never spos’d ta try ta read the Bible on our own or pray to God directly. Jus’ accept what they teach us and pray to Mary or one of the saints.”
“But you can free yourself, my friend—pray to God, directly. You don’t need a priest or a church. Pray to the universe and to your ancestors. Light a smudge of sage or sweetgrass—maybe you guys use some other medicines.”
“I do those things, t’James, but can’ let go o’ the other. Can’t do it. Anytime I let my mind think about different beliefs or pos’bilities, I see the fiery pictures of hell the nuns used ta show us. Scares me shitless. Start havin’ nightmares about burnin’ up in them flames, wake up screamin’. Jus’ can’t.” Henry went silent for a moment before saying, “Hadih, come ta the house, Princip’l. Wanna show you pictures from Lejac School days.”
Henry’s house was similar to Art’s: two rooms with a floor of plain and dirt-impregnated wood, at least where you could see it—the breaks in the sea of foam mats and blankets. Kids everywhere. A miniature cross with a tiny metal or plastic Jesus hung above every doorway—just like at home, James decided. Crosses above every doorway to keep out evil spirits. A well-worn couch with a tattered Hudson’s Bay blanket sat under the large picture window that looked out into the street. And there was a crude home-crafted pine table with matching benches running lengthwise along both sides of it.
Shannon, Henry’s oldest and the smartest kid in school, was holding a baby in one arm and had a toddler clinging to her free hand. The boy had spread Shannon’s fingers, as if he wanted to count them. She looked up at James and smiled vaguely. A few kids James recognized from Debbie’s primary class sat in a circle, cross-legged, playing jacks—dropping the red ball and frantically scooping up a precise number of the little metal widgets and grabbing the ball out of the air before it hit the floor and bounced again. James was impressed by how adroitly they moved their tiny brown hands. Henry’s wife, Lorna, was in their worn, rustic kitchen, chopping carrots and onions. Appearing washed-out, she looked up at James and forced a smile.
Henry must have seen the look of despair on James’s face. He piped up, “We have runnin’ water now, Princip’l—an’ ’lectric lights. It was a big deal a few years ago when they put ’em in.”
Henry got out a tattered Catholic missal and flipped it open to the place where he had tucked a couple of curling photos, glossy black and white with a white border all around. Without looking up, he handed one to James. It was a picture of a shy-looking boy wearing a neat cadet-style uniform, holding a cornet. The boy—Henry at age twelve, James guessed—wore a forced smile and his eyes brimmed with a plea for mercy, empathy, salvation. James knew that the terror, loneliness, sorrow and suffering he saw in Henry’s eyes would trouble him for days—even return to him in dreams. He stifled a moan, swallowed his anger. Those bastard priests and nuns tortured these kids, tried so hard to make them white.
“Whoa, incredible pic, Henry. Sometime, maybe you can show me more, but I gotta get going now,” James lied. There was no place he needed to be just then. He still had an hour or two before his appointment with Patrick to go over the plans to build a new fire escape for the school. But he was overwhelmed with emotions he could barely contain.
“Talk to you soon, Henry. See you, Lorna. See you, Shannon.”
James let out a moan as he pulled the door shut behind him. So many memories of his childhood home and the houses of his aunts and uncles—but these people were even poorer. His family at least had had linoleum on their floors.
Staring at the ground in front of him, James walked slowly toward the cemetery. Once there, he looked around to make sure nobody could see him or was close enough to hear him. He moved around the graveyard—to the other side of the grey picket fence that encased it and turned to face the snowy forest—when the sound came out of him. A powerful chant he had never sung before.
“Ha-iy ha-iy ya… Ha-iy ha-iy ya…”
It was his great-grandfather’s chant. He muttered the phrase over and over, swallowing back the sorrow that was threatening to take him over.