Carol GoldenEagle - Bone Black

“But before we do anything,” Raven says, “I’m going to suggest you head upstairs and try to lay down for a bit. I’ll clean up the kitchen and figure out something to eat later for lunch. You need some sleep.”

Raven casts a glance toward the stairwell, hoping Wren will honour her wishes. Wren agrees, sighs and gently holds the hand rail as she makes her way up to the bedroom.

As Raven begins washing dishes, she notices the local newspaper laying on the counter. She dries her hands and starts leafing through the pages. It makes her smile to read stories of the small community. Two young boys rescued a fawn, left abandoned after its mother was hit by a car. The boys wrapped her in a towel and brought her home. Their efforts made sure the little animal was sent to a wildlife sanctuary in Moose Jaw.

Raven reads another story about residents in the town gathering at the community hall to celebrate someone’s ninetieth birthday, a beautiful old woman who carries knowledge and appreciation for the land. There is another a story about a dinner-theatre production being staged in the school gym, evidence that local community members embrace the arts. Amidst the headlines, Raven notices an ad:

At first glance, Raven scoffs. Why would anyone admit being a redneck, let alone celebrate it? She changes her thinking though, after only a few short moments, realizing that mindless gaiety in a social setting might be just what Wren might need. Especially since Lord is away.

Silliness will give Wren a chance to snicker at those who are bold enough to black out their front teeth and don a pair of tattered overalls rolled up to the knee. The party is tomorrow night. Raven makes a mental note to mention it to her sister after she’s had a chance to rest. Besides, the ad also says there will be a special price on chicken wings and a live band. Who doesn’t appreciate chicken wings and live music?

Wren is surprised she falls asleep so quickly once tucked into her comfortable bed, but with the sleep comes something else: her recurring dream. Wren tosses and turns, sweating as she once again finds herself walking toward the meadow and the mysterious scarecrow. This time the dummy moves, extending one hand and bending toward the ground. It captures a baby bird, just new from its nest and learning to fly.

The straw fingers turn hard and pliable like steel threads, encasing the small bird, which begins squawking with fear. Close by, the mother bird screams in protest but the scarecrow doesn’t flinch, it just keeps on squeezing. Wren notices the attire on the figure is altered from her last dream in this pasture. Now it wears a red cravat tucked in amongst the gingham.

Wren awakes with a start, kicking off the light sheet that’s covering her. She realizes she’s seen that neck scarf before. It’s in the photo of Lord’s mother. That photo taken of her the day of her funeral, just as she had taken one of Lord’s deceased father: a photo of the old woman lying dead in her coffin, part of a long-standing tradition in the Magras family to take photos of the dead.

Wren and Lord rarely disagree on anything. It’s the way it’s been since the first day they met. If there is conflict, it’s always smoothed over with some discussion and sensible logic. They talk about and share their feelings. They are honest and vulnerable; it’s what holds them together—there’s nothing phony or unspoken between them.

Wren remembers Lord telling her he hated asparagus the first time she cooked him a meal. He’d used his fork to push the vegetable to the side of his plate. “You might like to try it,” she’d urged. “I grow it myself and toss it with garlic, butter, parmesan and black pepper. It’s one of my favourites.”

Most probably, Lord was trying to make a good impression because it was early in their relationship, so he did put a forkful in his mouth. Surprised, Wren was correct, the flavour was superb. Now asparagus is something he asks for as a side dish on a regular basis.

She’s changed his view with respect to other, simple considerations as well. Like decorating the farmhouse. When the couple first moved in, Wren suggested they brighten up some of the rooms with a new paint job. Watching hgtv had turned Wren into a fan of the “accent wall,” which is what she’d had in mind for the downstairs family room. Other than the kitchen, that room was likely to be a room where the newlyweds would spend a lot of their time. The huge bay window and window seat frames a view that looks toward the west, catching the evening sunset. An antique, cast iron wood stove was still in good working order and the main source of heat during the winter months. The room had a bookshelf built-in from floor to ceiling and spanning an entire wall. Wren wants to spruce it up with a new coat of paint, and she suggests a shade of orange.

“Oh, yikes,” Lord responded when she told him her plan. “I’ve always regarded orange as such an offensive colour. I never use it in my designs.”

“Kohkum always told me that orange represents energy.” Wren shows Lord a swatch of a hue she’s hoping to use. “Just an accent wall,” she assures him. She explains that orange reminds her of the sunset, and how the colour captures the essence of her favourite season, autumn. She even mentions that, spiritually speaking, orange is the colour of a person’s aura when they’re radiating happiness, joy, vibrancy and warmth.

Her descriptions come from a place of memory and love, which softens Lord’s heart. It’s what he also wants for their home and he changes his attitude toward the colour. Now, that orange hue is what catches the soft lighting of the wood stove when the two cuddle up for an evening of relaxation and a good movie.

The dream prompts Wren with an uncomfortable idea, one that may require her to navigate through another potential disagreement. When Lord returns, she will ask him once again if she can move the display photo of his mom that sits on the mantel in the living room. That framed photo of Lord’s mother laying in her coffin is something Wren has always had a hard time getting used to. Even the idea of death photography is unsettling for her, despite Lord telling her that it was the norm in certain parts of the Maritimes and the New England states, and even still happens today.

Lord has always honoured her Cree roots, so even though the image of a dead woman on her mantel gives her the willies, she feels a bit conflicted. She wants to be able to honour his family’s traditions in return. She hasn’t been able to tell him that the photo seems haunted.

And now the dream, the red cravat. At times, she’s felt as if the eyes of Lord’s dead mother are open and watching her from the photo, and she has yet to tell him about the disconcerting thing that happened one night when he was away.

*

There was a wicked rainstorm in the valley and Lord was gone again for work. As Wren settled in for the night, lighting a fire in the stone fireplace, she felt as though she was being watched. Maybe it was the sound of a harsh wind blowing branches against the side of the house. Maybe it was the flickering of light from the fireplace. Maybe it was the fact that Wren was alone and in a large home out in the middle of the prairie. Maybe her eyes were playing tricks on her but in those moments, Wren was certain she saw the eyes in the death photo open. She shook her head in disbelief and looked again. The eyes were closed. But were they open a moment before?

*

Awake from her nightmare, Wren remembers noticing the cravat in the photo and thinking, What an odd piece of clothing to take to one’s final resting place .