Annie Proulx - Barkskins

“Yes. He has too many winters now to count. There are not enough numbers for his winters. But he is my father and he is still very wise and leads us. He no longer hunts but tells stories of hunting.”

“Let us go to Kuntaw and Etienne and the others. I want Etienne to tell me everything about the death of my father. And I have much to tell them.”

“You go ahead. We come later,” said Peter. He put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Alik and me got to finish clean the boat. Take care the boat, boat take care of you. Me and Etienne and Alik go out early morning catch fish for our celebrate. You want to come fish?”

“I do. I want this work. I help with the boat, too.”

• • •

Old Kuntaw, half-asleep in the predawn pallid darkness when Aaron came into his wikuom, woke and stared, listened with mouth agape, put his hands up to his face and made a sound like a hurt moose. “Come here,” he said, stretching out his stringy arms, “come and be embraced by one whose blood is running in circles with happiness. Call everyone,” he said to his wife, Maudi, who was fumbling with the hide door. “Call everyone. Here is a Mi’kmaw son come home. Prepare food. Tomorrow we make a celebration. We will be happy!”

The next day Maudi built up her fire on the riverbank and dragged out her big cooking pots. In late morning Alik came carrying three big mackerel, Etienne and Peter following with more of the huge fat fish. Etienne embraced Aaron. The basket-making women Aaron had seen on the dock came from their wikuoms to help make the feast.

Aaron sat next to old Kuntaw and tried to explain that he had changed but the old man waved his hand as if driving off flies.

“I know how it is,” he said. “I have felt this. Look you.” He took up an empty wooden bowl, put in a dipper of water, asked Maudi to bring a dipper of mackerel oil from the pot and added it. He stirred the water and oil briskly with a forked twig until it whirled into an amalgam of froth. “Water is whiteman. Oil is Mi’kmaw. In the bowl is mix-up métis, ” he said, “whiteman and Mi’kmak. Now watch.” They all stared at the bowl. The glistening mackerel oil rose and floated on top of the water. “That’s how it was with me, long ago. I tried to be whiteman, but Mi’kmaw oil in me come to top. That same oil come up in you. Sometime I hope for this Canada that the Mi’kmaw oil will blend with the water and oil come to the top. We will hold our country again someday,” he said, “but we will be a little bit changed — a little bit watery and the whitemen be a little bit oily.”

• • •

Aaron and Etienne walked away some distance and sat on the ground, drawing strength from contact with the earth. Etienne said, “We look you in Boston. Never find.”

Aaron said, “When I was here before I saw that old Kuntaw and the Sels thought they were making a Mi’kmaw place again, but I did not understand; it felt unsure, as when you take up a cup of tea and put it to your mouth and find that what looked to be tea was only the shadow in the cup.”

“Do you feel this now?” asked Etienne.

“No. I drink the shadow now. I find it good.”

• • •

They passed around the traditional talking stick all day and into the next night before voices slowed and they began to name problems — food, lost territory, the cruelty of whitemen’s laws, the loss of good canoe makers. Suddenly Kuntaw’s young wife, Maudi, very pregnant, who had been listening, said, “You men are foolish. You do not see the greatest problem of all. We need women here.” There was silence for a minute and then Etienne said, “She is right. We need more women. I thought they would come if we made a good place, but they have not come. Why?”

“They have not heard we would welcome them,” said Kuntaw. “In the old days women were important, they were the great deciders. They did everything, some even hunted like men. But over the years Mi’kmaw men begin to act like whitemen, who do not regard women as worthy. It is the old Mi’kmaw way to know women are of equal value as men.”

Then Aaron spoke of the couple in the ruined village wikuom, the starving people, told what he had found in those wikuoms. “Those ones in the only unbroken wikuom are named Louis and Sarah Paul.”

“How old are they?” asked Etienne.

“Old, I think,” said Aaron.

Peter half-stood. “Old! They are not old. Louis is younger than me — a little. I knew that man once. He is a good man for weirs, none so careful as he. We used to call him Eel Man. And a good fisherman. I take him on my boat if he comes here. Very strong, knows the shoals and currents. He cannot be more than thirty winters. We must go there and get them, bring them here. Tomorrow.”

Skerry Hallagher, Elise Sel’s son who had gone to Dartmouth College for half a year, had come to Kuntaw’s band much as Aaron. They were close in age, but where Aaron was muscular and hard-handed, Skerry was thin and intense, rarely said anything as he felt very much the outsider and was afraid of old Kuntaw, who told him he could never be a real Mi’kmaw man until he killed a moose. He did not think there was much mackerel oil in him. Now Skerry held out a dirty, creased envelope. “I did not say this before but my mother, Elise Hallagher, wishes to come in summer for a visit. Since my father died she is alone. She wishes to bring a young woman, Catherine Flute, a full-blood Mi’kmaw girl got brought to Boston by her parents when she was small. The parents are now dead with alcohol sickness and the girl is unhappy. My mother asks if we will take her here. She is fourteen or thereabouts. She says there are other lost Mi’kmaw girls in Boston. We could welcome them here?”

“Yes,” said Etienne in the voice of a hot-blooded moose. “Tell your mother to bring all the girls she can find. I will personally marry them all.”

• • •

Two days later Aaron, Etienne, Peter and Alik went back to the path west of Sydney to find the starving Mi’kmaw couple Aaron had seen and bring them to K’taqmkuk.

“I am sure this is the place where Louis and Sarah Paul had that wikuom, ” said Aaron to the others as they stood on the trail staring at five whitemen working with two oxen and a log puller, a dozen more heaping slash into a burning pile. There was no sign of any wikuoms, but at the back of the clearing a tiny wisp of smoke caught Etienne’s eye. “There?” he said, and they walked over to the flat grey circles of ash. The wikuoms had been burned. They saw nothing of Louis and Sarah Paul.

“Ho!” shouted one of the whitemen. “Git out of there. Go on! Git goin!” He took up his shotgun, which had been leaning against a log, half-aimed it and pulled the trigger. A pellet went past Alik’s ear with a sound like a hummingbird.

“We go,” said Etienne. “We go!” This last he shouted angrily and the same whiteman did not like his tone and shot again.

“Eh!” said Etienne, hit in the back by a piece of shot.

“Those men,” said Etienne later as Aaron pried the pellet out of his shoulder, “I seen them afore. They not settlers. They come and take any land they can get, clear it, burn it, however they can rid of trees and sell it. Some settler not want spend his life choppin trees buys it. It’s a way whitemen make money. Take a lot of Kuntaw’s oil to make them change.” They walked on toward Sydney.

“And do Mi’kmaq not need money now?” asked Aaron. “How do you get your money?”

“Cooperin,” said Etienne. “Didn’t have time to show you yet but we make barrels. Whitemen buy from us. We got a workshop, forge, oak planks, steamer, plane, everything to make barrels, big ones, little ones, kegs, casks and tubs. We make the best barrels in Canada. Julian Cooko used to work in a cooper shop in Halifax, showed us how to make barrels, washtubs, all them things. He comes to live with us.”