Carol GoldenEagle - Bone Black

Wren holds her husband’s hand, a gesture of hope that he’ll get more excited about it. “And how about checking out the architecture that has been imported from elsewhere in the world and is now part of this prairie landscape?”

Finally a comment that piques Lord’s interest. He has only ever seen photos of stone buildings or sod houses across the plains. He’s looked at pictures of train trestle bridges and the wonder of that engineering, but has never seen them up close. He’s driven by grain elevators which stand as sentinels of the past in many towns. Those structures were crucial in building this province, keeping families fed at one point in time. He admits to himself he would like to see those old ones up close before they’re taken by the wind and the weather. But mostly, he’s persuaded to do this because of his wife. She beams with excitement at the plan.

Wren pats her tummy again. “We’ll have fun, just, well, just being . I love you more than words can say. Please say yes.”

Lord agrees to the road trip. He knows it will include drinking a great deal of gas station coffees, which will likely come with their own stories. He knows that a road trip like this means driving for hours and hours with nothing but wild grasslands, buttes filled with native bush and flora, and harvested crops. He and Wren will be exploring together, celebrating things that are ordinary but somehow extraordinary. Things like finding delightful greasy-spoon diners and wandering around main streets. They both know that a baby is always seen as a blessing, and this trip will be her introductory welcome to the world.

Wren heads outside, and as she sits beside the trickling creek, she listens to the sound of melting ice breaking and says a prayer. It’s a conflicting notion, but she can’t help but wonder if she is somehow being rewarded for taking care of business and ridding the world of those who caused harm. In this joyful time, she makes a solemn promise to no longer take part in the chaos of this world. To walk along a pathway of love and light. To travel in grace.

“Please let this baby enter this world as a protected soul who doesn’t lose her way,” Wren whispers to the river.

Wren is hoping the child will be a girl. She always refers to it as she even though the couple has elected not to know the sex. Wren’s already decided she will name the baby after Raven. She will share with this child a love of the land and repeat the stories told to her so many years ago by her beloved kohkum. She will be gentle and kind and protect this baby from harm.

Wren goes back to the farmhouse and smudges with what is left of the dried sage she picked late last summer, the last afternoon she was able to run with her sister toward the bluff, covered in a meadow of wildflowers. The last time they lay amongst the tall prairie grass and watched the clouds. The last time she remembers that all things were good in this world.

She feels her baby kick. Wren strokes her tummy, feeling blessed that balance in her life has finally returned. But a craving has also returned. She’s been eating the cinnamon buns that are baked each morning at the local gas station, sometimes twice a day. Wren stands up and loosens some dried grass from her skirt before deciding to head into town.

“There’s a bun in the oven with my name on it.” She giggles at her own bad joke and calls into the house, “Want to come with me? I’m going to make a trip to the gas station again.”

He declines, saying there are some emails that need attention, but it doesn’t break Wren’s resolve. She is feeling happy, like good in the world is coming. And besides, she can buy an extra cinnamon bun for him and bring it home.

As she walks down the pathway and towards her car, Wren notices the coyote watching from a distance. He hasn’t been around for a while. He’s pacing and seems frantic with purpose. Wren gives him a wave, saying, “Hello, old friend. I have nothing for you today, but if you want, I can pick up an extra bun while I am in town. I will leave it in the gully for you when I get back.” The coyote follows her more closely, halfway up the pathway, before hearing traffic on the highway and retreating into the bush.

During her short drive into town, Wren thinks about ways in which she has conducted her own ceremony of letting go. Under the full light of Grandmother Moon, she danced around the fire. She burned the newspaper articles that told the stories of Father Hector and Myron Salt to let that poison go. She said a prayer and offered it to the fire. She gave thanks for all the people who’ve come into her life and helped by offering friendship and guidance, then burned some photos. The first was of her sister. She still gets weepy at the thought that Raven may never be found, and the mystery of her disappearance may never be solved, just like no one will ever find Father Hector, Billy Vespas or Myron Salt.

Wren has been using this time during the baby’s growth to try and heal her own heart and always, to remember the bond she had with Raven. They shared a sacred space together—in utero, like the baby is now, and through all those years of growing and learning. Wren also burned that photo of Lord’s mother laying in her coffin. She offered food for the old woman’s spirit, hoping it nourishes her and carries her to a place where fear exists no more.

The farmhouse seems more at peace as well. There’s a familiar energy, like she remembers when she was growing up. Kohkum’s love has returned. The morning light is brighter when it shines through her kitchen window and the old wooden stairs no longer creak. And Lord? He seems to have lost his angst about inviting people over. A curse removed forever, Wren hopes. She smiles, remembering last weekend when Lord invited work colleagues to come over for brunch in celebration of their impending arrival. A secondary purpose was to help create a new design he’d imagined for the baby’s crib: repurposed barn wood that would be covered with an old quilt from his childhood. She was surprised Lord insisted on preparing brunch that day: fry bread and Spam along with a lush fruit salad that included many plump strawberries.

Wren’s happy musings come to an abrupt halt as she pulls into the gas station parking lot. Wren sees a blue pickup truck with silver bull’s balls hanging from the back hitch. It isn’t owned by a local resident, Wren is sure. No one out here would drive around with a bumper sticker proclaiming, Rednecks Rule .

Something in Wren begins to stir again. In her mind, she is transported back to the ditch. Blood is in her hair and scalp. She’s on her bike, looking for her sister. In that moment, a stillness sets in. Even the wind stops blowing. No breeze, just calm and clarity. Wren is transported to a dream state, a place bereft of colour, and a feeling that she is floating on air. It’s in this place that she catches a glimpse of her sister, who is smiling. Raven gently reaches out to touch Wren’s cheek and everything starts to unravel.

The wind blows Wren back to the present, where she finds herself standing in the gas station parking lot, startled by loud squawking. There is a flurry of activity in a nearby tree where a murder of crows has landed. Wren counts seven birds and wonders if their arrival signals action, a cackling suggestion from the souls of those departed. A large, grand raven flies in like a sentinel and takes a spot at the top of the aspen. The raven looks directly at Wren and squawks loudly, as if calling her to arms.

Wren is sure she knows what it means. As she casts a glance toward a pale blue and cloudless sky, she rubs her hands together and looks back at the pickup with those bull balls and the same licence plate number she had committed to memory many months ago. She crosses her fingers and makes the sign of the cross over her head and her heart.