The Diviners (18 page)

(Hired guns? I bet they weren’t!)

Sure, they were. Anyway it’s just a story. So Rider Tonnerre and the others, they make an ambush, see, and the other guys fall for it and ride straight in. So Rider, he starts picking them off with his rifle,
La Petite
, and the other Métis do the same. The English and the Arkanys try to shoot back, but they’re not doing so hot, and in the end every single one of them got killed. And one of Rider’s men made up a song about it, only my old man, he don’t remember it. But he said his father, Old Jules, used to sing it sometimes.

(Hey–I know. That would be “Falcon’s Song,” and the battle would be Seven Oaks, where they killed the Governor.)

That so? I never connected it with that, because my dad’s version was a whole lot different.

SKINNER’S TALE OF RIDER TONNERRE AND THE PROPHET

Another time, a long time later, I guess, because Rider Tonnerre was an old old man, anyway, another time, there, the government men from Down East, they’re really getting mean and they plan on getting the Métis land, all of it. They are one hell of a mean outfit, and at least I’m damn sure that much of the story is really true. They send in men to take all the measurement of the land, so’s they’ll know how much they got when they get it. So Rider Tonnerre, he says to himself
The hell with this
. He is an old man, so he knows he can’t be leader, see? But he knows somebody who can. Somebody who is just waiting the chance. Now this guy is–I guess you’d call him Prophet. He is like a prophet, see? And he has the power.

(The power?)

He can stop bullets–well, I guess he couldn’t, but lots of people, there, they believed he could. And he has the sight, too. That means he can see through walls and he can see inside a man’s head and see what people are thinking in there. He’s Métis, but very educated. How the hell he ever got to get that way, I wouldn’t know.

(You’re talking about Riel.)

Sure. But the books, they lie about him. I don’t say Lazarus told the story the way it happened, but neither did the books and they’re one hell of a sight worse because they made out that the guy was nuts.

(I know.)

Well, the Prophet, then, he’s a very tall guy, taller even than Rider Tonnerre.

(I thought he was supposed to be a very short guy.)

No. Very tall. And he carries a big cross with him all the time–this protects him, like. He’s a very religious guy, see? Well, so here is our guys, not knowing what the hell to do, and the Prophet is trying to tell them, but all they’re actually doing at the moment is hunting, drinking and screwing. So then, Rider Tonnerre, there, he goes to all the families of our people and he tells them a gutted jackfish would have more guts than what they’ve got, and this really shamed them. They really only needed somebody to tell them to get up off their asses and oil their rifles for a different kind of hunt. So they went along with the Prophet, and they took the Fort, there.

(They lost it again, though.)

Yeh, the government from Down East sent in about ten thousand soldiers, with cannon and like that. But that wasn’t the end of it, by God.

SKINNER’S TALE OF OLD JULES AND THE WAR OUT WEST

It would be some time later, out west, near Qu’Appelle or around there in Saskatchewan, and my grandad old Jules who was just a young guy then, he was out there. He was a good hand with a rifle, and he went out to fight with the Prophet’s men, because the Métis were putting on a war, there, for their land, see? Having lost it all around here, around Red River. So they got the Indians to join them, the Crees and Stonies and like that.

(Big Bear. Poundmaker.)

Yeh, those chiefs. And more. Lots more. I don’t know their names. They weren’t as good with a rifle as our people, but they were pretty damn good and they had a lot of men. Anyway, the way my grandad told it–at least, the way Lazarus says he told it–is that when Jules got there, things were going good. The Prophet and his guys and the Indians and their guys, they’d just beat the shit out of the Mounties at someplace, and everybody was feeling pretty fine. But what happens then? What happens is that the government from Down East sends in this fucking huge army, see? Not just with rifles, hell no. They’ve got the works. Cannon, even machine guns probably, if they were invented in those days. So the Métis are trying the old ambush, like a buffalo hunt. Well, Jules is dug in really fine, there, covered up in a pit with poplar branches and that. And he’s sniping and picking off soldiers, and he gets him maybe a dozen or so. The guy they call Dumont, the lieutenant, like, he wants to attack in real full strength, but the Prophet, he’s walking around with his big cross, waiting for the sign. From God, I guess. And Dumont’s losing his mind because he wants to attack so bad he can taste it, but the Prophet keeps stalling. And Jules
and them, they’re still picking off as many soldiers as they can. Well, the Prophet waits for the sign a bit too long, because by that time the big guns begin. Jules stays right there in his cover, eh? All that yelling and firing and the big guns–he figures he’s a dead duck if he breaks his cover. Guys dropping all around. Dead horses. Jesus, I always thought too bad about the horses, eh? They never done a thing to deserve it. But got shot just the same. Anyway, Jules picks off fifteen or so of the Eastern men before he gets a bullet in the thigh. Then he passes out.

When he wakes up, he’s all covered in stiff blood, and he can hardly move, and he’s still buried in poplar branches, and the whole goddamn thing’s all over and everybody else is gone. He doesn’t move for one whole day. He can’t, on account of his bullet wound. So then he crawls out and makes it to a farm somewhere, our people, and lives there for a while. Then he gets the hell out, and winds up here, finally, having brought a Saskatchewan Métis girl back with him. Oh yeh–and the name of that place, the last battle, it was Batoche.

(They hanged Riel, the government did.)

Yeh. They hanged him. Dumont got away, though, just like my grandad.

SKINNER’S TALE OF DIEPPE

?

Memorybank Movie: The Flamingo

The
RCAF
has a training base at South Wachakwa, and this is a boon for many of the Manawaka girls. Not especially, however, for Morag. Sometimes she goes to the Saturday night dances at The Flamingo, with Julie or with Eva, who has become pretty
in her pale and gutless way and who dances every dance because it isn’t only gentlemen who prefer blondes, it is every goddamn smart-aleck in the whole Airforce. Morag is too tall for many of them, not actually taller than they are, but five-eight and they prefer tiny frail creatures like Eva, who they can look down on and who will say
Gee! Really?
to everything they say. Morag has tried but is not the type. Sooner or later she either finds herself talking, which does nothing for her popularity, or else sinks into a semi-hostile silence, hating their assumed slickerdom, the way they are contemptuous of the girls they are trying to make. Not as though it might be something both might want to do, but only as though the girl were a mare to be mounted by a studhorse.

The hell with them. They never talk to you as though you are actually
there
, but only put a knee between your legs and get a hard-on against you while pretending to dance.

She hankers after them, their tallness, the sexy sweat smell of them. She wants them. She wants them to want her.

When asked to dance, Morag does not know how to flirt. How do girls learn? Does she really want to join the circus, be a performing filly going through her prancing paces? Pride says
Hell, no
. Longing, on the other hand, says
Try anything
. She tries. What are the words?
I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.
Not much of an opener if they haven’t actually said anything.
Gee, you’re some dancer.

The words won’t come up into her mouth. How corny could you get, to talk words like that? The boy with whom she is dancing clamps a damp hand on her breasts and shuffles along, veering her backwards to “Tommy Dorsey Boogie.”

“Not very talkative, are you?” he says.

Morag swallows her nonexistent saliva. What is it makes your mouth so dry here?

“Where–where are you going, once you’re finished training, I mean?”

The airman shifts his gum to the other side of his mouth, just outside her radio-receiving-station ear.

“How should I know?” he says.

“What do you think of Manawaka?” Desperation. What would Betty Grable say, under similar circumstances? With a bust like hers, what would she need to say? Well, Morag’s isn’t so bad, either. But B. Grable isn’t about nine feet tall.

“This town? It’s a dump,” the boy is saying. “I come from Calgary. Now
there’s
some place.”

“Yeh. I guess so. I’ve never been–”

Anywhere. Except Manawaka. This will change, though. By God and the Apostles and all the Saints, it will.

“I don’t aim to stay here,” Morag finds herself blurting. “I’m gonna get to college when I’ve got enough money. I’m through High School now, I’ve just got a job. I’m working on the
Manawaka Banner
.”

Silence from him. Busy with the gum. Spearmint.

“That’s the town newspaper,” she adds.

“Oh?” the airman says. “Well, thanks for the dance.”

The dances are played in sets of three. You are supposed to keep the same partner for three tunes. This is the end of the second one.

Morag bolts like a shot elk to the Ladies’ Powder Room, upstairs. Locks herself in the john. Her refuge, as of old.

john of Ages

locked for me

let me hide

myself in thee.

She laughs, but quietly and to herself. Not that even a laugh aloud would be heard over the birdflock voices of the girls who are gathered around the mirrors, putting on lipstick for the millionth time. Some girls hide in the Ladies’ all evening.

Well, tonight wasn’t as bad as the time she had been emboldened by a boy’s friendly half-shy smile and had asked him if he liked poetry. Hell no, he had said, he was raised on a chicken farm and hated the buggers. Thinking she had said
poultry
.

Morag walks out of the cubicle. There is Eva. Looking soft and fragile as a yellow rose. In a blue and yellow dirndl skirt, new. With huge scared eyes, looking at Morag.

“What
is
it, Eva? What’s the matter? Are you okay?”

“No,” Eva says. Not crying, not sniffling as of yore. Just staring with unblinking eyes like a baby bird does when it falls out of the nest and is too petrified to move away from any kind of danger. “I didn’t mean to tell you. I ain’t your worry. But–oh Morag. I’m two months gone.”

“Oh my God, Eva.”

“What’ll I do?” Eva’s anguished whisper. “I’m ascared to tell my dad. He’ll whip the piss outa me. I know he will. You know him.”

“Yeh. Well, look, Eva, there must be something. Is the guy–I mean–”

“He says he’d really love to marry me,” Eva breathes, a little more softly now, almost smiling. “He bought me this here skirt and blouse. He really thinks a lot of me. He said so. I’m not kidding you.”

“Well, then–”

“He’s got a wife in Moose Jaw,” Eva says.

Happy endings all the way for Eva Winkler, born to grief as the sparks fly upward.

Downstairs, music.

“Eva–I just don’t know. I don’t know at all what you should do.”

Christie, years ago. The parcel in the garbage tin.
I buried it in the Nuisance Grounds–that’s what it was, wasn’t it? A nuisance.

A kid. Shakespeare. Milton. Not very likely, with Eva Winkler, admittedly, but you never could tell. Well, even an ordinary kid. A real kid, who would grow up.

“You could–I mean, people
do
have them adopted.”

“It ain’t that part of it worries me,” Eva says. “I’m ascared of my dad. He’d never forgive me for getting in trouble.”

Morag and Eva walk home together. Eva shivers, cries a little but not much.

And aborts herself that night with a partly straightened-out wire clotheshanger. As Mrs. Winkler whispers in horror, then goes back to sit with Eva, too frightened to do anything. But later on, doing something becomes necessary.

“My goddamn girl’s plenty sick with her monthlies,” Gus Winkler bellows at the Logans’ midnight door. “She been bleedin’ like a stuck pig, there, my woman says. What I do, Christie, eh? Goddamn women.”

Christie drives Eva to the hospital in the Scavenger truck. Morag sits up until he returns.

Gutless. Eva? Now really so, but not in the other way. What could Morag have done? Was there anything? Maybe not, but it will stay with her forever. She will never be rid of it. How will Eva feel? If she lives.

“She’ll live,” Christie says, returning. “Dr. Cates says she’ll live. Suppose that’s a good thing, although I wouldn’t bank on it. She won’t be able to have any kids. Maybe that’s lucky, too. Och aye, Morag. What a christly bloody life.”

“What did Dr. Cates tell Gus?”

“That the girl was anaemic and she haemorrhaged.”

“Did Gus–?”

“Yeh. He believed it. Old Gus has never been none too bright. Jesus, he’s a stupid man, thank God.”

“What happened to the–”

Christie’s watery and increasingly red-rimmed blue eyes harden.

“I seen Eva’s mother while Gus was yelling at the boy when we come back. Never you mind, Morag. It’ll be seen to.”

Another candidate for the town’s unofficial cemetery.

Eva, when she returns finally, walks a little stooped. Goes out to work as a hired girl. Some not-too-fussy guy will marry her someday, maybe. Or maybe not.

Morag recalls herself two years ago, and the chance she took, was willing to take, and what might have happened if the event had worked out differently. It never occurred to her, then. Now it does. Now she knows one thing for sure. Nothing–
nothing
–is going to endanger her chances of getting out of Manawaka. And on her own terms, not the town’s.

But it’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s the man who has to take the precautions, and if he doesn’t, forget it, sister. There are other ways. But how would you find out, or get whatever it is, if not married? Maybe you might in a city, just maybe, but not here.