Halfbreed Page 5

  So to the service he went. The minister conducted it in Cree with lots of hollering and stamping. Finally he said, “Now we will sing.” Old Ha-shoo, who was sitting on the floor, took up his drum and began to chant. The minister yelled, “Ha-shoo, you son-of-a-bitch! Get the hell out of here!” The old man got up and left, and so did the rest of the congregation.

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  When I was still quite young, a priest came to hold masses in the various homes. How I despised that man! He was about forty-five, very fat and greedy. He always arrived when it was mealtime and we all had to wait and let him eat first. He ate and ate and I would watch him with hatred. He must have known, because when he finished eating all the choice food, he would smile at me, rub his belly and tell Mom she was a great cook. After he left we had to eat the scraps. If we complained, Mom would tell us that he was picked by God and it was our duty to feed him. I remember asking why Daddy didn’t get picked by God. All through my childhood years that priest and I were enemies.

  Eventually our people were able to build a church and two nuns came to keep house for the priest. We were all baptized and I had to go to catechism. What a drag that was! The nuns would never answer our questions and all we did was pray and pray until our knees were sore. The churchyard, which was the graveyard as well, was just down the hill from our house and it had the most luscious strawberries in the country. However we weren’t allowed to pick them. The berries, said the father, belonged to the church, and if we took them it would be stealing from God. This made us very angry. We had seen him many times taking things from the Indians’ Sundance Pole, and that belonged to the Great Spirit. So my brother Robbie and I decided one day to punish him. We took Daddy’s rabbit wire and strung it across two small green trees on either side of the footpath. The wire was tight as a fiddle string.

  We strung more wire a couple of feet further down the path and then hid in the bushes. It was almost dusk. Soon the father came striding down the path, tripped on the first wire and fell to the ground, moaning. He scrambled up, only to hit the second wire and crash head first to the ground again. There was silence for a few seconds and then he started to curse. Robbie and I by this time were doubled over trying to smother our laughter. But when we looked up and saw father heading for our hiding place, we were frightened out of our wits. We knew he would whip us so we ran home as fast as we could. Mom and Daddy were sitting at the table drinking tea when we entered. We pretended nothing had happened and went quietly off to bed without the usual argument. A few minutes later the father arrived. We sneaked over to the door and heard Momma ask him in for a cup of tea but he refused. It was difficult to overhear their conversation until the priest raised his voice and we heard him say, “I’m sorry for you. I guess all we can do is pray.”

  “My wife and my kids don’t need your goddam prayers,” Dad shouted. “Now get the hell out!” We scrambled back to bed and pretended to be fast asleep, but Dad hauled us out by the scruff of our necks. He demanded to know what we had done and why. Forgetting that we were supposed to be innocent, we told him the whole story about the strawberry patch and the father stealing from the Sundance Pole. Dad got a funny look on his face and Mom became very busy at the stove. He sent us to bed, but when morning came we were whipped with a razor strap and told that regardless of what the father had done, it was not our job to punish him. Years later, Daddy told us that Mom had prayed for a week afterwards because she had laughed so much. The father never dropped by again to eat our Sunday dinners and we left the strawberry patch to God.

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  There were several churches in our part of the country besides the Roman Catholic ones—the Lutheran which the Swedes built and later abandoned, the Church of England (Anglican), the Seventh-Day Adventists and the Holy Rollers. The Roman Catholic and Anglican buildings were framed with steeples and bells, and were whitewashed inside and out. The yards were kept clean and trim by the Native people in the community who believed that if they didn’t keep it neat they would roast in hell. The Catholic churches were beautiful with waxed hardwood floors and pews, many tall statues and paintings of the Stations of the Cross. The Protestant churches were long, one-roomed log structures, grey with age and dusty inside, their yards overgrown with brambles and weeds. They had small congregations of white people.

  In general the Halfbreeds were good Catholics and the Masses were always well attended regardless of weather or circumstances, because missing Mass was a mortal sin. We could break every commandment, however, during the week and be quite confident that the worst that could happen would be to say a few “Hail Mary’s” when we went to confession.

  The Mass was held in Latin and French, sometimes in Cree. The colourful rituals were the only thing which made the church bearable for me. I was spellbound by the scarlets and purples and even the nuns, whom I disliked as persons, were mystical and haunting in their black robes with huge, swinging crosses. They reminded me of “The Lady of Shalott” floating down the river. My imagination would run wild in Mass and with eyes shut as in prayer, I would dream of far-off places. The pomp and pageantry would take me to Egypt and England and the Knights of the Round Table. Then Mom would poke me and I would come to with a start, and there would be just the old priest and the little altar boy in front of us.

  Our people talked against the government, their white neighbours and each other, but never against the church or the priest regardless of how bad they were. No one, that is, except Cheechum, who hated them with a vengeance. I used to wonder why my mother was not even critical, because surely if a little girl could see the fat priest for what he was, then she could. But she accepted it all as she did so many things because it was sacred and of God. He was not just any God either, but a Catholic God. Cheechum would often say scornfully of this God that he took more money from us than the Hudson’s Bay store.

  The reserves near our home were all Catholic except for the Sandy Lake Reserve, which was a Church of England stronghold. The Ahenikews, Starblankets and Birds, well-off and educated families, were the most powerful members, and were always the chiefs and councillors. One or two of the Ahenikews became ministers and some of the women married ministers.

  The church on the reserve was built beside the lake and had a beautiful interior which was lovely, but not as elaborate as the R.C. church in our settlement. When I visited Moshom and Kokum, I went to services with them. My imagination was even more inspired here because the Catholic nuns always told us that this church was founded by fornicators and adulterers. In answer to my questions about this, Mom said that the reasons lay with Henry VIII, a wicked king who had had to build a new church so that he could divorce his wives and marry others. Even though I was supposed to think of him as a wicked, sinful man, I rather liked him because he was an exciting figure, but I was disappointed that he belonged to the Indians instead of the Halfbreeds.

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  By the time I was four, I had two brothers. But I was still number one in Dad’s eyes as Jamie was quiet and docile and Robbie was too young to be competition. However, when Jamie was six and Robbie four, they began to take over my place with Dad. At the age of seven I was kept home with Momma and the old ladies while my brothers went with Dad to the store and to the homes of his friends. I became very resentful and jealous and did all sorts of things to attract attention.

  One occasion stands out very clearly in my mind. Sunday afternoons were a real highlight in our lives because of the baseball games. After church and dinner, Daddy would hoist me up behind the saddle and away we’d go. This particular Sunday I rushed around as usual after dinner getting changed when Robbie appeared all dressed up in a blue sailor’s suit with a white collar. Dad said to me, “Maria, it’s his turn today, Jamie’s next Sunday, then the Sunday after that will be your turn.”

  I was so stunned I couldn’t think for a moment, but there were no tears as Dad had alwa
ys told me, “Campbells never cry.” I was sitting outside sulking when Mom asked me to take Robbie to the outhouse. This was in May and the toilet was still full with the overflow of water from the slough. As I opened the door of the outhouse, I suddenly knew how I could go and he would stay home. Inside the toilet were two holes, one for adults, one for children. I put him on the adult one, gave him a mighty push and down he went with a splash. I came to my senses then, realizing what I had done. He was screaming at the top of his lungs and as I couldn’t pull him up, Dad had to fish him out.

  While Mom washed him at the well Dad looked at me and asked, “You pushed him in?” My father has blue eyes that turn to ice when he’s angry. It was impossible to lie so I said “Yes.” He took a long green willow switch, peeled it and whipped my legs. When that one broke he took another until he had used four and my legs were swollen. I was sent to bed and Robbie was cleaned up and taken to the ball game.

  Since that time I never did anything to either Jamie or Robbie, physically anyway. Instead I watched what Dad taught them and would practise by myself until I had perfected whatever it was. Reward came whenever Daddy would say, “Dammit you boys! Maria can do it and she’s a girl! Can’t you do it at least half as good? If you can’t, I’ll send you in with the old ladies and get her to help me!”

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  Summer was always a great time because during those months Dad was home from trapping and could spend most of his time with us. In early June Mom would bake and pack food in the grub box while he would grease the wagon wheels and fit the harness. Then we would leave our house early in the morning and head for the bush to pick seneca root and berries. Our parents sat on the front seat of the wagon, Cheechum and Grannie Campbell and the littlest ones in the middle, Jamie, Robbie and I on top of the grub box, tent, or tailgate. Our four or five dogs and two goats ran behind and away we went.

  By dinner-time three or four wagons of Halfbreeds had joined us along the way and everyone was talking and yelling and joking, excited at seeing one another and at the prospects of what lay ahead. By the time we pitched our tents for the night there were ten or more families in a long caravan. What a sight we must have been, each family with one or two grannies, grandpas, anywhere from six to fifteen children, four or five dogs, and horses trimmed with bells!

  The evenings were great. The women cooked while the men pitched the tents and we kids ran about, shouting and fighting, tripping over dogs that barked and circled around us. Parents called to each other and slapped at their young ones, but only half-heartedly, because they too were enjoying themselves. We all sat down to supper outside and ate moose meat, ducks or whatever the men had killed that day, bannock baked on hot coals, with lard and tea, and all the boiled berries we could eat.

  Afterwards we helped to clean up and for the rest of the daylight hours the men would wrestle, twist wrists, have target practice or play cards. Someone always had a fiddle and guitar and there was dancing and singing and visiting. We kids played bears and witecoos (a white monster who eats children at night) until it was too dark and we were called in to bed. Inside the tent were our blankets all spread on fragrant spruce boughs, freshly cut. A coal-oil lamp on the grub box gave some light. When we were put to bed the grown-ups would gather outside and an old grandpa or grannie would tell a story while someone built up the fire. Soon everyone was taking turns telling stories, and one by one we would creep out to sit in the background and listen.

  Halfbreeds are very superstitious people. They believe in ghosts, spirits and any other kind of spook. Alex Vandal was the craziest, wildest man in our area and he believed with his heart and soul in the devil. He would tell about the time he came home from playing poker for three nights. His wife and ten children were asleep in the shack and it was fairly dark. His wife’s sewing machine was beside the bed and as he came in, the little drawer in the bottom opened and a devil, the size of his hand, stepped out and jumped to the floor. Alex said he froze in terror. As it landed on the floor, it got bigger and bigger until it was taller than him. The eyes were red like fire and the tail switched. It smiled and said to Alex, “I helped you win the games, Alex, now I’ve come for your soul.” Alex came to his senses and pulled out his rosary and held it in front of the devil who then disappeared.

  And so the stories would go. The owls hooted and we would draw closer to our parents and grannies and they would hold us. Someone would again build the fire up until finally we all went to bed, paralyzed with fear. Then after lying quietly for a few minutes we would have to go to the toilet. Dad and Mom would never take us out, so our grannies would have to. I remember being so frightened that I couldn’t pee for the longest time, and I nearly fainted whenever a dog howled or branches moved in the wind. Soon the camp would be quiet, the silence broken once in a while by a mother crooning to her baby, awakened perhaps by the howl of a coyote or a wolf.

  Some nights there was lots of excitement, like the time a bear crawled into John McAdams’s tent and stepped on his wife! She shrieked and her children started screaming and they woke everyone in camp. The bear in his fright stood up and knocked the tent pole and the tent came tumbling down. All the men were trying to get the tent up, McAdams were crawling out from all over and the poor bear was trapped and growling with rage. Dogs were going crazy and everyone was yelling and talking at once. Needless to say everything was restored to order and we had bear “burgers” for dinner the next day. “Burger” is the right description because the bear was completely chopped up with axes, those being the handiest weapons for the men.

  We worked like beavers during the daytime. Grown-ups would compete to see whose family picked the most roots or berries and parents would drive the children like slaves, yelling insults to each other all the while. Come supper-time and everyone would gather around while the old people weighed it all to see who had picked the most.

  We had bad times during those trips too. For as much as we all looked forward to going to town, we knew our fathers would get drunk. The day would come when we had enough seneca roots and berries to sell, so we would all get bathed, load the wagons and go. The townspeople would stand on the sidewalks and hurl insults at us. Some would say, “Halfbreeds are in town, hide your valuables.” If we walked into stores the white women and their children would leave and the storekeepers’ wives, sons and daughters would watch that we didn’t steal anything. I noticed a change in my parents’ and other adults’ attitudes. They were happy and proud until we drove into town, then everyone became quiet and looked different. The men walked in front, looking straight ahead, their wives behind, and, I can never forget this, they had their heads down and never looked up. We kids trailed behind with our grannies in much the same manner.

  When I first noticed this, I asked Momma why we had to walk as though we had done something bad and she answered, “Never mind, you’ll understand when you’re older.” But I made up my mind then and there that I would never walk like them; I would walk tall and straight and I told my brothers and sisters to do the same. Cheechum heard me, and laying her hand on my head she said, “Never forget that, my girl. You always walk with your head up and if anyone says something then put out your chin and hold it higher.”

  Those days in town were both nightmare and fun, the evenings ugly yet at times humorous. After the roots and berries were sold, Daddy would give some money to Mom, some to our grannies and twenty-five cents to each of us and we went shopping. Mom and the grannies always bought flour, lard and tea, and then they would look for satin and silk material to make blouses, embroidery thread in all colours, and scarves. We kids bought comics and black licorice pipes. The men went to the beer parlour, promising to be out in half an hour.

  After our shopping was done we all walked over to the wagons. We waited and waited until finally Mom and some of the braver women drove to the outskirts of town, set up tents and made a meal. Those times were quiet with little laughter or talk. Bedtime ca
me with the warning that if Mom called us we were to run outside and hide.

  Sure enough, about one or two in the morning the men returned, yelling and singing. Sometimes they were not too drunk but often they brought wine and started drinking outside the tents. Then Mom would call us and we would crawl out back of the tent, to hide in the bushes and watch until they all fell asleep. The men would get happy-drunk at first and as the evening progressed white men would come by. They all danced and sang together, then all too soon one of the white men would bother the women. Our men would become angry, but instead of fighting the white men they beat their wives. They ripped clothes off the women, hit them with fists or whips, knocked them down and kicked them until they were senseless.

  When that was over, they fought each other in the same way. Meanwhile the white men stood together in a group, laughing and drinking, sometimes dragging a woman away. How I hated them! They were always gone when the sun came up. Our men would be sick and hungover and ugly-mean, the mothers black and blue and swollen. The men would go into the beer parlour every day until the money ran out and every evening the fighting would start again. After two or three days, we all left, usually at the request of the RCMP.

  One day we were visited by a committee of indignant townspeople, among them an Indian dressed in a suit, who told us to leave, but we were still waiting for our men so we stayed. We were very frightened, though the women tried to quieten us. One wagon was set on fire before we were left alone. Our men came back shortly afterwards and for once sobered up at the destruction they saw. They caught the horses and we were gone before dawn. I remember feeling guilty about the trouble we’d caused, and angry at myself for feeling apologetic.