ayekis
As we walk up the road, scanning the ditches for treasures, I tell Kyle, “We saw a whole herd of elk here last year. They were on the sides of the road and just in the trees there.” I point, but he’s not looking.
“So?”
“So you have to be pretty careful around them. If you make eye contact, they could charge you. Just telling you, in case we see any.”
“Yeah, well, I know a guy who killed a moose with a slingshot before,” he says. I consider this for a few moments.
“That’s impossible,” I tell him. “Moose are huge. You couldn’t kill one with a slingshot.”
“Well he did, smart ass.” Kyle pauses.
“How?”
“How he did it was he waited until the moose was having a drink. Then he shot it in the nuts with the slingshot. It was so surprised it sucked up a bunch of water and drowned.” Kyle makes the motion of firing a slingshot, closing one eye, pulling his arm back and releasing his imaginary projectile.
“Sick,” I say. We plod the rest of the way to the store in silence.
Weekends, when I go to my Kokum’s with my dad and camp on the couch, there are cousins who stay too. They call me moonias and laugh when I can’t understand the Cree my Kokum talks. I’ve long since stopped telling them I’m not moonias – it just makes them laugh harder.
“C’mon, little shit face,” Kyle calls to me. Kyle is what you might call a dink. At least that’s what I call him. He’s got a gland problem (says my Nana) that makes him have a fat problem (says me). His dad takes him to the barber and gets his hair cut down to stubble so you can see the pink, fleshy rolls at the back of his neck.
I think Kyle’s jealous that I get to live with our grandparents. My Nana tells people they’re “co-parenting” me with my dad, who works up north in the mines. I know Kyle wishes his dad would go away and work, too. My dad says Kyle’s headed for the reformatory. I don’t know what that is. It sounds like the word he told me for the place where they burn dead bodies, but I don’t think that’s right. That gave me nightmares after he told me about that: the place where bodies get burnt. Kyle’s pretty bad, but I don’t think he deserves that.
Because I get to stay with Nana and Grampa, Kyle thinks I have it easy. Maybe he’s right. But then maybe there are things Kyle doesn’t know about being the only brown kid in a white neighbourhood, about being the “little Indian” and getting called “chief,” even by some of the teachers. What Kyle does know about, though, is how to be a first-class ass.
But once in a while he can be okay. Like the time he made me a walkie-talkie out of a block of wood. It was just pretend, but it was really cool the way it fit in my hand just right and I could hold it there at my side and then bring it up to my mouth like I was talking to someone. It would have been better if there were two of them, even though it was just pretend.
On the narrow beach behind the store, Kyle picks up stones and throws them at the water, at first half heartedly, and then with more effort to skip them. He has a shitty throw and the little rocks fall, ploop, into the water. I wonder if I should try skipping stones too, but I would probably be better at it, in which case he’d be likely to pound me.
This is the place I found the rock last year that looks almost exactly like a candy corn. It’s even the right colours – orange where it should be orange and white near the tip. It’s even better when it’s wet and you can see the different layers of orange getting lighter and lighter as the rock comes to its point.
I have that rock at home in my cigar box, the one that Grampa gave to me, with the parrot on the lid. Sometimes I take the rock out and rub it with my thumb, just to feel its polished surface. I put it in my mouth and slide it over my tongue, feeling its cone shape, slightly flattened on one side, clicking it between my teeth, tasting its mild nothing flavour.
I imagine this little candy corn rock making its journey with the waves, getting polished by the rhythm of the water, the rubbing of the sand and the nibbling fishes. Maybe it even came all the way from the ocean, all the way to this particular shore to be found by me. Sometimes I look, wishing I could find more, thinking I could make a little dish of candy corn rocks if I found enough. But then I think that would kind of spoil it, so I don’t look too hard.
I hear voices, and then two kids, a boy and a girl, burst through the trees. They’re fat, pale and red haired. They stop and squint suspiciously at me and Kyle. Their doughy noses, uneven ears and little pink eyes remind me of the grunting pigs my Mooshum keeps. Kyle looks over his shoulder and then goes back to pretending to ignore all of us.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” the boy echoes.
We watch Kyle twisting his body and flinging his arm out from his side. The stones all land with a single plop several yards from the shore.
“You guys staying in these cabins?” I ask.
The girl shakes her head and the boy points in toward the campground. “We’re in the campground over there. How about you?”
“Yeah, we are too.”
Kyle has given up on the rock skipping and comes slouching over to where we stand. He knows we’re watching him as he pulls out a pack of cigarettes, takes one out and puts it between his lips. Looking up, trying hard to be cool, he says, “Gotta match?”
Your face and my ass, I think to myself. I don’t say it, even though it’s a good burn, because I don’t feel like being pummelled. Not only is Kyle two years older than me, he outweighs me by a ton, the porker.
When none of us answer him, Kyle digs a box of matches from his pocket and slickly lights one with a flick of his thumbnail.
“You smoke?” the girl asks. Kyle smiles, glad to have impressed someone.
“Yeah, but I’m trying to cut down.” I have to give him credit, that was pretty good. Then he spoils it by sneering at me. “Hey, little shit face, you’d better keep this,” he jerks his smoke at me, “to yourself, if you know what’s good for you.”
As we walk back to the campsite with the red-haired kids, Kyle talks all loud and pisses me off by pulling my hair and putting me in a headlock every two frickin’ minutes. Jesus Christ, I wish I were bigger and could give him a licking.
When we enter the campground and turn up the main road leading to the camping loops, Kyle starts walking ahead of us and then calls over his shoulder, “I’m going ahead. Meet me at the campsite, ass face.”
“I have a name,” I say quietly under my breath as we slow our pace and watch Kyle walk quickly away.
“How do you know him?” the red-haired boy asks me.
“He’s my stupid cousin.”
“What a jerk.”
I guess this kid doesn’t really look so much like my Mooshum’s pigs.
“Hey,” I say, as we turn down the road to our campsite. “Do you want to see something cool?”
Instead of turning toward the campsites, I lead them the opposite way down the loop. We cut to the cooking shelter and I take my new friends around to the back of the building, to the place I found earlier, alone. It’s mine, I found it, and I plan never to show it to Kyle. We step into the unnaturally cool shade and I hunch down at the edge of the stream that runs through the dirt at the bottom of a small incline. The stream is a good secret, lying in the dim, cool place where the sparse sun can’t reach. The towering trees and shade from the cook shack make this place dark and damp. A very good secret. Brown rotting leaves line the edges of the bank. On either side, small, scrubby brush inches hopefully toward flecks of sunlight dancing at the tops of the trees. The stream seems to come from nowhere and disappears quickly into the bush. We listen to the sound of the trickling water and breathe in the musty smell.
A tiny brown frog jumps across the stream. It would ordinarily be perfectly camouflaged by the rotting leaves, but now its little hind legs have missed the bank and splashed into the water. I reach across and scoop it into my hand, where I feel its frantic struggle. Cupping my other hand over it, I slowly open my palms. The frog jumps, and I clamp my hand down again. Soon it tires and lies quiet. I open my hands to see its moist brown sides heaving; its delicate feet tickle my hand. Then it jumps unexpectedly into the bushes and is gone.
“Ayekis,” I say to my friends.
“What?” asks the boy.
“That’s Ayekis the frog. My kok...gramma told me a story about him. Lots of times.”
“What’s the story?” asks the girl eagerly.
“She told me you’re not supposed to tell the stories in the summer. Stories are for the winter. I can’t remember why.”
“Please tell us,” she begs. Her freckles, dashed across her nose, are dotted with sunlight, reminding me of how some piebald horses look.
“Well, I’ll just tell you a bit,” I say, feeling guilty. No one has to know, I think. I dip my hand into the running water of the stream and feel its coolness. I try to remember the Ayekis story my Kokum has told me forever, wishing I had listened more carefully.
“Once, Ayekis the frog lived on the banks of a river,” I start. “He had short, stubby legs at that time. And he had a beautiful voice. He sang songs every night and Wesakechak would hear him singing. Wesakechak would send tasty flies to Ayekis as a way to thank him for his singing.”
“Who?” the girl interrupts.
“Shhh!” the boy says, smacking her in the arm.
“Wesakechak is someone who lives across the river,” I say. “He’s kind of – magic.” That’s lame, but I don’t really know how to describe Wesakechak to someone who’s never heard of him.
“Then what?”
“Then one day, Ayekis decides he wants to meet Wesakechak. But he can’t get across the river because he can’t swim. Did I tell you he had short legs back then?” Two red heads nod.
“Anyway, so Ayekis asks a bird, I can’t remember what kind, to help him. He tells the bird he wants to send a present to Wesakechak. He makes a package and he fills it full of kinikenik.” Before they can ask, I say, “Kinikenik is a kind of Indian tobacco.”
As I’m talking, we all watch the trickling stream. Down here in the shade, it’s like a different world. Suddenly, another little frog hops on the bank close to us. The boy reaches out and places his hand over it. He scoops it up and holds it cupped in his two hands. Once the little frog calms down and we’ve all had a look, the girl asks, “Can I hold it?”
Reluctantly, the boy holds out his hands, offering the frog, “You better not let it go.”
The girl sits perfectly still with the frog and whispers, “Ayekis” They both look at me.
“Okay, so Ayekis makes up this package of kinikenik, but he leaves a little extra space in the package. Just before the bird comes to pick it up, Ayekis crawls inside and pulls the flap shut. The bird comes and picks up the package and is surprised how heavy it is. As the bird flies over the water, Ayekis starts to slip. Just before they reach the other side of the river Ayekis falls out of the package. He’s falling and falling toward the water. No, wait. He’s falling toward the rocks at the edge of the water. That’s it.” I have the feeling I’m not telling this completely right.
“Wesakechak sees that his friend’s going to be killed if he hits the rocks, so he sends some magic out, and at the last minute Ayekis gets snagged in a tree branch at the edge of the river, which saves him from hitting the rocks. He’s hanging there upside down by his feet. He squirms and wiggles but he can’t get his feet free. He hangs there for such a long time that his legs start to stretch. They get longer and longer until he’s almost touching the water. Finally, the branch lets go and Ayekis slips into the water without getting hurt.
“After that day, Ayekis’s legs were stretched really long, which made him feel embarrassed and shy. So he hid from everyone and hardly ever came out of the water. That’s why frogs are the way they are today.”
I look at their intent faces and am just about to say, The end, when I hear, “That’s a real sweet story, chief brown streak. Tell us another,” and Kyle jumps over the side of the shelter, landing hard in the dirt. The girl tries to hide behind her brother. “What’re you doing here, telling your little gay stories with your new girl friends?” Kyle turns to look at the red-haired kids. “Lemme see the frog,” he demands. The girl simply holds out her cupped hands. Roughly, Kyle takes the animal.
The frog hops in Kyle’s hands as he tries to get a look at it. When he cracks them open, the little frog tries to jump through the narrow opening. Kyle clamps his hands together and barely catches the animal by its hind feet. He closes one fist around the frog’s legs and lets it dangle upside down from his hand.
“Quit it,” I say.
“What’s the matter, little baby? Are you scared I’ll hurt your stupid frog?”
“If it’s stupid, then you must be a retard.” I don’t care if he beats me to a pulp. I yell, “Put it down, you’re scaring it with your ugly face.”
Kyle, still dangling the frog in one hand, fumbles in his jacket pocket with the other. “Oh? You wanna see me scare it?” He pulls out a wooden match.
“Quit it,” I say.
Kyle flicks his thumbnail over the match head and it flares to life. He holds it up in front of the frog. The frog squirms.
The girl starts to cry and I can’t help but stare. She makes snivelly noises and cries in a way that doesn’t make you feel sorry for her at all, like crying should. Instead, it sort of makes you want to do something really mean like give her a lighter-burn pinch. I can tell Kyle’s thinking the same thing by the way he looks at her and smiles, shark-like.
The frog is frantic as Kyle pokes the flame at its writhing body. I lunge at Kyle and shove him hard. Kyle’s solid, but he’s taken by surprise, and while he’s distracted, the flame from the match touches his fingertips.
“Shit!” He drops the match, shaking his hand. He yells something at me, but I don’t understand it. Then Kyle turns to the red-haired girl. She starts to back away but he reaches out and grabs her by the arm.
She doesn’t even try to snatch her arm away like most people would. She just starts to twist and squirm, rotating her arm around in his hand, leaving red marks on her flesh where his hand is rubbing her skin. She makes feeble attempts to pry his fingers off her arm as if she doesn’t really expect to get away, as if she is just going through the motions – as if she believes she should take her punishment, whatever it is.
Kyle holds on to her arm because he wants her to stay, to see what he’ll do next, because it’s for her that he does it. Because she has it coming. He drops her arm and with the frog still clutched in his hand, he jumps awkwardly onto the ledge that forms the partial wall of the cooking shelter. He looks down at us and then, all at once, he raises his hand with the frog high above his head.
He brings his arm down with all his force, his body bending at the waist, as he flings the little brown frog onto the cement floor of the cooking shelter.
The girl’s face collapses and turns a dangerous shade of red, shiny with mucous and wet. The boy stands frozen, his lips hanging open. Then he grabs his sister’s hand and runs. I listen to the sound of their sneakers on the gravel and the girl’s fading wail until all we are left with is the soft sound of the shuddering trees.
Kyle, still standing on the ledge, seems stunned, as if the sudden quiet has broken a spell.
“Why?” I ask. “Why’d you have to do that?”
Kyle, quick to resume being Kyle, shrugs his shoulders with mock carelessness. “Why not?” he says, as he jumps down beside the mangled frog and walks away. I watch his retreating back long after he’s gone. Over my shoulder, the cool rolling stream mutters its secrets to no one in particular. The light through the trees begins to fade.