Muriel Gray - The Trickster

He looked at the six dark men, sitting calmly in the snow with nothing more than buckskin and wool to keep them warm, and wondered at their constitution.

‘And is there news from the man McEwan?’

Hunting Wolf fixed him with his deep black eyes.

‘He big trouble with me. I no can tell him you think. He take rock tomorrow. Men come.’

Hunting Wolf took time to decipher this jumble of words from the frowning Scot, then spoke slowly and as simply as he could to help this white man’s poor comprehension. It was like dealing with a child.

‘This is very bad, Henderson. You realize that we cannot allow the mountain to be opened. I have explained. We will remain here. You must tell him that. We will remain.’

Henderson sighed, the cold hacking at him through his coat.

‘No more I do. Men with man McEwan. Danger for you. Please to come with me now.’

Fishtail and Powderhand exchanged looks of mirth, crushed quickly by a glance from their chief.

‘I am sorry, Henderson. We will remain. There is more danger for you if we do not. If we let you open the mountain, you will all die. This way, we save many lives. Not merely our own.’

Henderson looked deep into Hunting Wolf’s eyes.

‘You not change story? Trickster still?’

It was Hunting Wolf’s turn to sigh.

‘Yes. The Trickster, Henderson. We have told you plainly, many times.’

‘Think you about Great Spirit I tell you. Good Lord Jesus Christ?’

‘Of course. We have thought a great deal about your spirit and his teachings, as you asked us to. We do not believe this.’

Henderson looked as if he might cry.

‘Is truth. Is only truth. Jesus Christ your great Spirit. He bring love to you. You have must to him love. He save you. Save you from Trickster also. Trickster not true.’

Powderhand gave a snort and crossed his arms beneath his blanket, fishing under one armpit for a mite he could feel shifting in the warmth.

This time, he was not reprimanded by Hunting Wolf. Hunting Wolf was growing tired of the well-meaning foolish white man.

‘We thank you, Henderson, for your kindness and concern, but you must understand that we are well aware of what is and is not true. You should explain these things we know to be true to the man McEwan again. We will remain.’

The seven men squatted silently for a few minutes while Henderson wondered what he should do. He was a failure. A spectacular failure. Was God testing him? All he longed for in this life was to save more souls, gather more precious gifts for his Lord Jesus Christ. He knew he could save these people if they would just listen, just believe the words of joy he had to share with them. He’d learned the complex rudiments of Siouan, slowly and painfully from a logger in Montreal, in preparation for his task ahead. The task of bringing these people to Jesus.

But he was failing. It was James Henderson at fault, not the natives. An English Catholic had saved an entire band of Blackfoot Indians a few hundred miles away, building a mission school and converting every last one to Christianity. The Catholics were good at it. They used the weapon of fear, something these natives seemed to understand.

Henderson’s weapon of love was going nowhere.

No, it was Henderson’s own failure that was condemning these people to Hell, and he was finding it hard to live with.

Meg was right. Her words had been in anger and through tears, but she correctly predicted that he would achieve nothing here. Perhaps he should have listened to her and not to God, when she insisted he stay in Edinburgh, ministering to the souls as much in need there as here. But if she loved him she must have known how it was suffocating him, killing the spirit in him a little more every day, with the smothering middle-class indifference his parishioners had to the word of God and His purpose.

She had refused to come with him. A chance to do missionary work in the new world and she had refused. James thought of Meg, forever taking tea in Jenner’s on Princes Street with the ladies of the parish, gossiping over fine china and fresh cream confections, and admitted to himself for the first time that she did not love God in the way he did. He was quite certain now she did not love him either. If he were honest, he’d always known she had married him because he ministered in a fine part of the city, to people who had money and what Meg constantly referred to as ‘respectability’. She kept three servants busy maintaining their respectability, putting a strain on James’s church stipend, but she regarded it as a major part of being a minister’s wife. No wonder her world had been shattered when he had rushed home that breezy April day, cheeks burning with fervour, to hold both her hands in his and tell her of his plans to work for God and Canadian Pacific Railways. She pulled her hands out from his large fists and put them to her cheeks in horror. He had looked at her for the first time then. Really looked at her. Dressed in her heavy expensive skirts, her hair tied in a fashionable twist, her face lightly powdered and rouged, she was in every way a model of those hideous Edinburgh women who loved nothing but themselves and their position in some imagined pecking order of that ‘respectability’ James was not privy to.

So he had left without her. And now here he was, squatting on a mountain with six Indians, who not only refused to accept Christ as their saviour, but also harboured some insane superstition that was bound to result in violence. He had lost the love of Meg, and now it seemed he had lost the love of God.

Hunting Wolf spoke first, breaking the silence above the soul-chilling howl of the blizzard.

‘You should go now, Henderson. Night is falling. There is nothing you can do.’

Henderson looked tragic. ‘You pray with I?’

The chief smiled and looked to his warriors. They returned his gaze impassively. He looked back at the minister, huddling in the snow. He was like a crow that had been broken and smashed against the rock, the dark fabric of his big coat spread crazily around him.

Hunting Wolf spoke gently. ‘Can your prayers protect you? Do they have power against great and terrible evil?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then let us hear them, Henderson. We will join you.’

James Henderson stood up, raised his right hand, held his coat shut with his left, and closed his eyes. He spoke in English this time. What did it matter if these men understood him or not? He was praying for them, not with them. It was all he could do.

‘Almighty Father …’

The blond boy stared up at the wolf with a mixture of awe and expectation. He jumped about three miles high when Katie spoke softly behind him.

‘It’s a female. She’s protecting her cubs. See? Behind her there.’

The boy breathed out hard, whirling round to look at Katie.

‘Did I give you a fright? I’m sorry. Guess I shouldn’t sneak around like that. Do you like the wolves?’

The boy’s heart rate had slowed enough to speak. ‘Sure. They’re neat.’

‘That’s the male over there. Do you notice he’s a bit bigger and a slightly different colour?’

She had an arm round the boy now as they both stood looking up at the stuffed animals whose dry, painted jaws gaped back at them in silent roars.

The boy’s mother appeared from behind a snarling grizzly bear to join them, her face registering curiosity when she saw Katie with her arm conspiratorially round her son’s shoulders.

‘Will the male wolf eat the cubs?’ The boy’s eyes were wide.

‘Well sometimes they can, but the mother wolf is a pretty strong force to be reckoned with. If I were him, I wouldn’t mess with Mom.’ Katie looked round to greet her young charge’s mother. ‘Hi. Hope you’re enjoying the museum. Can I tell you that we’ll be closing in about twenty minutes? Don’t rush on out or anything, but if there’s something else you need to see, now’s the time.’