That night there was a banquet to celebrate the start of the First Nations Pee Wee Hockey Tournament. The Screech Owls, all in team jackets, white turtlenecks, and dark pants, were seated at one long table to the side. Muck, the assistant coaches, and Mr. Dillinger, the team manager, sat at the end nearest the head table, and Travis, Data, Jesse, and Nish were at the far end. But it still wasn’t far enough away for Travis.
Nish had brought some of his candy stash with him, and laid it out on his plate: a Caramilk bar, a couple of green licorice twists, a Twinkie, a pair of Reese peanut-butter cups.
“A balanced diet,” he announced as he laid it all out and pointed deliberately to the licorice. “Right down to my greens.”
What had got into Nish?
Chief Ottereyes had announced that a traditional Cree feast would be held at the community hall. There were Cree drummers pounding as the eight teams playing in the tournament had entered: the Screech Owls, the Wolverines, the Mighty Geese, the Northern Lights, the Caribou, the Trappers, the Belugas, and the Maple Leafs. (Jesse Highboy had pointed out that there were no maple trees this far north, but they picked up the Toronto Maple Leaf broadcasts by satellite.) The Screech Owls were the only non-native team. The Mighty Geese were the only group without team jackets.
The banquet opened with a long Cree prayer recited by an elder, then Chief Ottereyes talked a bit about life along James Bay. It was a speech clearly meant for the visitors from the South. She talked about the history of the area, a history that white people like to date from 1611, when the British explorer Henry Hudson sailed into this bay and anchored at the mouth of the Rupert River, “which you can see for yourself if you just step outside the front door here,” she added. The Crees, however, preferred to say that 1611 was the year they discovered the white man.
The Chief told them the Crees had had to learn to accept other languages and other religions and customs, and that the visitors should feel free to ask any questions they might have about how the Cree lived in the North. “Tonight,” she said, “you will be eating traditional Cree food. This is the diet we have lived on for centuries–and we’re still here, so enjoy.”
She sat down to great applause, no one clapping louder than the Screech Owls. They began serving the meal immediately, starting with bannock. Nish, however, would have nothing to do with it.
“You can’t eat just junk,” Travis warned.
“You’ll make yourself sick again,” Jesse added.
“I’ll make myself sick if I have to watch you people eat,” Nish snapped back.
The feast proceeded: huge bowls of boiled potatoes, moose stew, caribou steaks, cheese, smoked whitefish, fried trout. At one point, a large bowl was carried past the Screech Owls that seemed, at first glance, to have a small hand sticking up from it.
“GROSS!” Nish shouted before Travis could even point it out to Jesse.
“What is it?” Travis hissed at Jesse.
Jesse Highboy was laughing. He stood up and excused himself as he picked up the bowl from the next table. Inside was, indeed, a small hand sticking up. An arm and a wrist and a…paw.
“Beaver,” Jesse said, matter-of-factly.
“BEAVER?” Nish howled. “WHAT’S NEXT…SKUNK?”
Travis cringed. People were staring. Some were laughing at Nish. Some, like Rachel Highboy, were definitely not impressed.
Jesse handled it perfectly. “Beaver is a very special food here,” he said.
“I thought you trapped beaver for fur,” Data said.
“We do. But even if no one in the world wore fur coats, we’d still trap beaver. It’s our food up here, same as cattle and chickens are your food down south. You think the original natives went after beaver so they could wear fancy fur coats?”
Data had clearly never thought about this. Neither had Travis. He had presumed trapping was wrong because it hurt. But as Jesse had once said, did he think that cows and chickens volunteered for McDonald’s?
“I’m gonna hurl!” Nish said, opening up his Caramilk and laughing a bit too loudly. Travis glanced down the table. He could see Muck was watching. He did not look happy.
Jesse tried another approach. “Look, Nish, do you like crackle?
“Crackle?”
“Yeah, you know, the hard outside when your mom cooks a pork roast.”
“Oh, that. Yeah, you bet, I love it!”
Jesse signalled to a woman who was carrying a tray to the head table. She stopped and smiled as Jesse stood, checked the tray, then helped himself to a plate piled high with what seemed like slices of bacon that were all fat and no meat.
Jesse took a fork and placed a slice carefully on Nish’s plate right beside the licorice twists–Nish’s greens. He stood back: “See what you think of ours.”
Nish sniffed, then nodded happily. “This I can relate to,” he said.
He picked up his knife and fork, cut a piece off, placed it in his mouth, and chewed happily.
“First rate,” Nish pronounced. “My compliments to the chef.”
“What about to the hunter?” Jesse asked.
Nish opened his eyes, blinking. “You hunt pigs up here?”
“Who said it was pig?”
“You did–pork crackle.”
“Call it crackle if you like,” Jesse said, “but it isn’t pork.”
Nish stopped chewing. “What is it then?”
Jesse turned to the woman carrying the tray. “Tell him,” he said. “He won’t believe me.”
The woman smiled at Nish. “Moose nostrils,” she said. “Would you like some more?”
Nish looked as if he was about to pass out.
“I’m gonna hurl,” he repeated, spitting his food out onto his plate.
Muck had seen enough. He got up and walked straight down the aisle toward Nish, who winced when he saw him coming.
“Outta here, Nishikawa,” Muck ordered.
There could be no fooling. When Muck used that tone, you jumped. When Muck used last names, you jumped twice as fast. Nish scrambled to his feet and, with Muck at his elbow, was escorted out of the banquet room.