Fearless Warriors

Contents

Cover

Acknowledgements

The Circle of Death

Girl Who Loved Her Horses

The Boy in the Ditch

Strawberries

The Art of Knowing Better

Fearless Warriors

Someday

Heat Lightning

The Man Who Didn’t Exist

The White in the Woods

Ice Screams

A Blurry Image on the Six O’Clock News

Other Books By Drew Hayden Taylor

Copyright Information

Acknowledgements

Fearless Warriors is a collection of twelve stories which have their origins in many different places, and with many different inspirations. Sometimes the stories began with one simple image or concept etched in my consciousness; other times the whole tale came completely from my subconscious. Storytelling, in my opinion, should always be a mysterious process, otherwise, there goes much of the fun. If we know where the stories come from, then the journey to where they end might seem a little less magical.

However, there are many people who are directly and indirectly responsible for inspiring these humble little yarns and credit should be given where it is definitely due. My special thanks to the following: David Johnson, Julia Taylor, Larry Lewis, Danielle Kappele, Dan David, various members of my family, and Dawn T. Maracle (who’s a story in herself).

And my heartiest and most sincere thank you to all the little girls who draw horses on their walls, the boys struggling to avoid the ditches of society, the ark builders with dreams, the people who don’t exist but really do, and the true fearless warriors of the world. Someday I hope to be one.

Ch’meegwetch.

The Circle of Death

The big dip in the road, the kind that leaves your stomach dangling around your ears, was the geographical road sign telling me and my sister we were now crossing into Japland. I never liked this part of the reserve. Nobody really did. I guess that’s why not too many people lived there.

The land in the area consisted primarily of a ground moraine, meaning it was made up of sand, rocks, clay and everything else useless to any long-term settlement. Only scrub brush, big pine and cedar trees, and just about every bug known to man populated the region, thanks to the swamp that framed the eastern half of the section. It was not a pretty place—most people avoided it if they could. But thanks to my sister Angela, and her job, I wasn’t that lucky.

This rugged little plot of land the Federal government kindly gave to my people over a hundred years ago only because they didn’t want it. It was christened Japland decades ago by some of our war veterans who thought the land was rough and undesirable enough to hide Japanese holdouts from WW II. There was also an unsubstantiated theory that the mosquitoes in the area were big enough to be mistaken for Japanese holdouts, but that has yet to be proven. Driving down the dirt road, looking at the hot, baked rock, I had better hopes for any such unfortunate Asians.

This was the kind of land good religious pioneers travelled across the Atlantic to tame and settle, feeling that the difficulty of the soil and the harshness of the land was rightful penance being doled out by God. They accepted it meekly. I’ve never been able to figure out white people.

The dirt road we were on was the only access into the area, except for a few trails cut out of the bush for ATVs and snowmobiles. This was the only reason anybody ever came into this area anymore.

Look! I pointed out a deer that was running across the road. I didn’t think there were any deer up this way.

Mmmm … Angela’s mind was focused on the clipboard in front of her, as she busily scratched out a line she had only just scribbled down three minutes ago.

What’s another word for ‘art’? I’ve used the word three times already.

I thought for a moment. Crafts?

Used it. She snapped her fingers like she always did when trying to drag a word from her memory. Evidently it works for her.

Creations. Fabulous creations. That’s good. Again she quickly scribbled it down. My sister is proud of two things in her life: the fact that she’s a vegetarian in a society where meat is a serious addiction; and that she considers herself an artist. Not an artist in the conventional sense, but in a more practical one, or so she says.

Angela makes quaint little things that tourists like to buy. She’s developed somewhat of a reputation for her willow chairs—solid constructions made from laced willow saplings. Nice to look at, a bitch to sit in, but rustic enough for tourists to buy by the dozen. That and various other bric-a-brac creations gave my sister a purpose in life.

This little industry of hers was so successful, by her standards anyway, that she was now trying to organize an arts and crafts festival for the village. Over the first long weekend in August, she wanted all the local artists to put up booths at the community centre so that the tourists could come in and buy all the knick knacks their hearts desired.

Most of the stuff my sister makes, as well as that of the other artists she’s contacted, is typical of the rural roadside things that can be found anywhere in North America. There’s nothing particularly Native about them, so I was worried that the tourists who might drive all the way into the Otter Lake Reserve for this, expecting culturally appropriate arts and crafts, might be a little disappointed. But Angela, my beloved and obviously determined sister, would hear nothing of it. Instead, she’d even invited some of the few non-Native residents of the village to participate.

Other than the financial benefits of the festival, think of the community value. It will bring the village together. Somehow row after row of handmade fishing plugs and tie-dye t-shirts were going to unify the village. But hey, who knows? I’d seen lesser things tear it apart.

So, the First Annual Otter Lake Arts and Crafts Festival, coordinated by Angela, had brought us out here to Japland in search of artists. One artist in particular.

There it is, she pointed. It was the old Marlowe house, a century-old farm house—a monument to a tragically failed experiment and faith.

I pulled into the overgrown driveway, two tire ruts barely peeking out of the weeds and grasses. Leaning against the house I saw the bike Allan Martin rode. He was a familiar sight riding into the village store, his bike looking older than he did. Allan was one of the few white people living full-time on the reserve, by himself. A bit of a hermit and an oddball, everybody thought. He’d have to be, to live in the Marlowe house.

My mother told me that, when she was a kid, nobody ever went near the Marlowe place. And the fact that it was all the way out here in Japland wasn’t the only reason why. Her grandparents had recounted a local legend to her about the Marlowe family, a Calvinist lot that had tried to scratch a living out of this land too long ago for people to remember exactly when. It seems the Marlowe family could produce plenty of kids—there were seven of them in the end—but not enough of anything else to eat or sell for food. According to rumour, weakened by hunger and malnutrition, they all eventually died, one by one, of tuberculosis in that house.

The house remained empty for over sixty years, getting older, darker, becoming part of local legend. Eventually it became an island of grey in a sea of green and rock. Whatever could be said about their dreams, the Marlowes sure knew how to build a sturdy house. Except for a certain weather-beaten appearance, it still looked solid.

Even during the Depression, when things were really harsh, the idea of putting new life or a new family into that tainted house was never entertained in the village. As my mother said: The house was born of misery, and will die of misery.

Then, sometime in the late sixties (my mother says it was ’69 but Dad swears it was the spring of ’70) Allan Martin showed up. They said he had long hair, longer than most of the Indians in the village, and a backpack with the American flag on it. Usually the only Americans we used to get were fishermen or hunters, and he didn’t look like either.

One way or another, nobody’s quite sure, Allan Martin sort of ended up at the Marlowe house and had been there ever since. Nobody really owns the Marlowe place, nobody really cares, so nobody took any notice of Allan’s residency on the reserve. He kept to himself, making a living from various wood-based arts and crafts he’d sell to tourist shops in town, and never bothered anybody.

As we got out of the car, all we could hear was a million buzzing insects, some crows cawing and the creak of the only remaining barn door on the Marlowe farm. It waved back and forth in the slight breeze. Other than that, the place looked silent. Except maybe for the odd ghost still haunting the place. Or the ones I could imagine.

Thanks for bringing me, Andy. I really appreciate it. Better safe than sorry.

I’m sure he’s harmless. Besides, he always looks like he weighs about what I eat in a day. Angela had been a little nervous about visiting Allan Martin, all alone, way out here in the bush. Eccentrics aren’t called eccentrics for nothing. So I’m out here playing big brother, even though she’s older than I am.

Have you ever talked to him? she said as she closed the car door.

Once, when I worked that summer at the store. I waited on him. That was about it. Got some groceries, paid for them, put them on the back of his bike and pedalled off. No more than twenty words, I’d guess.

Look. Now it was my sister’s turn to point. I followed her lead and looked off towards the barn, about a hundred feet behind the house. There, spread out on the lawn, was an army of flat wood cut-outs of people and animals. Almost all were three or four feet tall, and about an inch thick; a cowboy with a cigarette leaning against nothing, a cow with a calf, bears and so on. There seemed to be over a dozen or so, their paint drying in the sun. These peculiar lawn ornaments were one of Allan’s specialties. Low cost, easy to make, cute and adorable. A sure-fire tourist gimmick.

I bet these would go like hotcakes at the festival.

I couldn’t believe people spent money on these things.

We just gotta get him in the festival. We just gotta. My sister had found her calling. Think he’s home?

I nodded towards his bike. Unless he was out playing in the swamp, he had to be home. He’s probably inside. Want me to knock on the door?

I can take it from here. You stay by the car.

Out here, in the hot sun?!

Yes, out here. He might be shy. You know artistic types.

My eyes travelled to the wood cut-out of a woman’s large behind in flowered bloomers, bending over, her rump obscuring the rest of her body. That was art to my sister.

Feeling the stillness of the summer air, and seeing the open windows of the Marlowe house, there’s no way Allan Martin couldn’t know we were standing outside. The noise of the tires on gravel, the growl of an engine badly in need of a tune up and the slamming of two car doors could not be ignored. He knew we were there.

Angela approached the two-storey grey house, showed me two crossed fingers, then knocked loudly on the door. The crickets roared in the silence of our waiting. Angela looked puzzled.

Try again, I said.

She knocked again, harder this time. The summer sounds broke as a dog suddenly started to bark, rapidly, continuously. It sounded quite close, but came from behind the barn. My sister and I were exchanging curious glances when the door in front of her swung open. It took her by surprise and she stepped back a pace. The brightness of the sun made the door frame seem like an entrance into night. I could see Angela squint into the doorway, trying to make out the person there.

Uh, hello, Mr. Martin. Is that you?

As if agitated by Angela’s voice, the barking increased.

Shut up before I come and shut you up, came a loud voice from the door.

Angela stepped back another step. But the barking stopped. Allan Martin stepped forward, into the light. Not you, the dog. Stupid dog doesn’t know when to shut up. Who are you?

Both my sister and I looked him over. While he’d lived on the reserve longer than we’d been alive, neither of us had ever seen him up this close for this long, at least not since that time at the store ten years ago.

He still had the long hair, held back by a bandanna soaked in sweat. He looked to be somewhere this side of fifty, with a wiriness that made him look fit, if not a little anaemic. His plaid shirt had the arms cut off and his jeans were worn. No shoes.

Angela put her hand forward. Hi, I’m Angela Stone.

He looked at her, then over at me.

That’s my brother Andy.

I waved, forcing a smile. He did neither.

Okay, Angela and brother Andy. You’re obviously Indian, from the village. Am I being kicked off, after all these years?

Angela faked a nervous laugh. No, nothing like that. I actually want to talk with you about your art.

For the first time, Allan Martin showed an emotional response. Puzzlement flickered across his face. My art? What art?

Your … carvings. Angela beamed as she waved toward the drying figures.

Allan blinked a few times. Those things?! Those pieces of shit? Art?!

I see you’re your own worst critic. That’s all right, so am I. I mean my own worst critic, not yours. Anyway, I’m putting together an art festival of sorts and I’m very familiar with your work. So I was thinking … Angela went into her spiel, which I’d heard perhaps half a dozen times this week already. I watched her get more animated. All the while Allan listened, not knowing what to make of her.

After a few minutes, Angela wiped her brow somewhat exaggeratedly. It’s really kind of hot out here, do you mind if we went inside to discuss this? So this is the Marlowe house. You’d be surprised the things I’ve heard about this place. I’ve even heard it’s haunted … Angela disappeared into the portal of darkness, leaving a surprised Allan Martin standing in the doorway, still puzzled. He’d just been Angela-cized.

Angela’s voice boomed out from the interior. Uh, Mr. Martin, as I was saying …

Ah, your brother … he said, still trying to gather his thoughts.

Oh, don’t worry about him, he’s … claustrophobic anyways. He’ll be fine. Now, the festival …

I’m not actually claustrophobic, but my sister was on a roll. Pulled in by the vortex of her pitch, Allan Martin was drawn back into what had once been the safety of his home. He shut the door behind him but Angela’s voice could still be heard pouring out through the windows.

Everybody from the community will be involved. It will be bigger than the Pow Wow.

I lasted about ten minutes sitting in the car with the radio playing. I could feel my underwear beginning to melt. We had brought no water or anything cool to drink, since I hadn’t expected to be banished to the car on one of the hottest days of the summer. Feeling the dire need for shade, I headed for the barn. The long building threw a wide shadow of inviting darkness. I even spotted a lawn chair near the far end of the shade.

Along the way were the dozen or so wood cut-outs Allan had placed outside to dry. In their own way they seemed kind of precious, I guess. I had a vision of every lawn in suburbia being covered with these things, and the owners chuckling to themselves at how cute their lawns now looked. Still, it was better than the ’78 Ford that sat on my uncle’s front lawn.

As I made my way around what looked suspiciously like a teepee, my foot hit a baby bear ornament and knocked it over. Not wanting it to look like I had manhandled the art and risk the wrath of my sister, I tried to right it. That’s when I heard the growling—a deep throaty growling that would make a dog lover break out in a cold sweat. And there, just around the corner of the barn, was the source of the ominous rumbling, about ten or twelve feet away.

It was a big dog, mostly mongrel with a lot of shepherd mostly in him. He was still growling, looking at me with brown eyes. He was in a sitting position, head slightly cocked to the left, watching me closely. And, luckily, he was chained. Thank God he was chained. Reserve life has taught me there’s nothing worse than a dog with an attitude.

Hi dog.

His response—a loud and vicious barking. It was so forceful I could almost feel his hot breath from ten feet away. I stepped back, tripping over the fat lady in bloomers.

Shut up, you stupid dog!

The voice from the house made the dog whine. Immediately, the dog lay down, his head resting between his paws, his eyes never leaving me.

Sitting there in the grass, surrounded by two-dimensional figures, I faced the animal. I wasn’t afraid, just wary. A minor expanse of flattened grass separated us, but we watched each other.

The animal had a leather collar which was chained to what looked like a long-dead tree. Evidently, the years of friction from the chain around the tree had worn away its bark, killing it. Its dried branches hovered over the scene, giving no shade. A few feet from the tree was a homemade dog house, with a faded green roof. In front of it were some beat-up Melmac dishes used to feed the dog.

But the most startling feature was this: surrounded by forests and fields of vibrant greens, yellows and pinks, nothing within an eight-foot radius of the tree was living. It was as if somebody had drawn a perfect circle around the dead tree, and then coloured everything within its boundaries brown or black.

Evidently, the dog had been there a long time, and as he had paced his small domain, he had ground under, dug up, or worn away all the grass, plants or bushes within his perimeter. Just at the edge of the chain line,