Scattered Bones (14 page)

There’s a tacit agreement among the three that Ernst will not be invited to partake of the meal. It’s a private joke they share.

~•~

Cornelius had served
as Ernst’s guide during the clergyman’s very first visit to his parishioners’ autumn hunting camps. After paddling for hours in chilly weather, they came across a trapper’s cabin. Hospitality was the rule so, although the owner, Jeremiah McCallum, wasn’t there, the two men felt free to make themselves comfortable inside. They found nothing to eat, only a little tea. Cornelius surmised that Jeremiah was probably out hunting. Ernst was so exhausted that he had collapsed onto the little bed and fell instantly asleep. He woke the next morning, his nose twitching. Beside him on the floor was a bloody mess of flesh, guts, skin, bones. Jeremiah had returned late in the evening with a moose he had bagged, rudely butchered it, and left the meat where no wild creature could get at it. The stink had been so terrible, the scene so savage that Ernst gagged when a steak was placed before him for breakfast. Ever since, he’s had no stomach for moose. At least that’s the story. Actually, over the years he has come to quite enjoy it, whether barbecued, roasted, or stewed. But he’s never let on to Cornelius. He doesn’t want to dampen the joke they shared for so many years.

~•~

While Cornelius picks
at the food in his bowl, Ernst tells him about his encounters with the fur trader and his sidekick. “Human remains, if you can imagine. What on earth can they be up to? I haven’t a clue, but I can guess that the Almighty wouldn’t approve.”

The old chief sits in silence, his huge face clouding over, tears welling up. He then utters words so despairing the clergyman feels goose bumps crawling up his arm. “It never stops. Our soul is being sucked from us. Our heart snuffed out.”

He closes his eyes. “I see my
mosom
. He is hunched over crying, he
who had never shed a tear before in his entire life. A white man stands beside him, a man of the Christian God. ‘Come now, Whitebear,’ he says, ‘Remember your promise.’ My
mosom
takes the drums from their hiding place under the bed. With shame in his heart, he follows the priest. At the Narrows of Dread he hesitates. The priest says, ‘God is watching you.’ My
mosom
hurls his precious things into the deep, rushing water. His music, his people’s music, gone forever.

“You ask, why did a man as strong and powerful as my
mosom
, a trusted and beloved shaman, let himself be bullied by a scrawny priest? A simple explanation, my friend. Small pox had killed so many. The medicine man could do nothing. We lost faith. The white religious said he would pray for our people‘s recovery if my
mosom
obeyed. Heathen music was evil, he said, it shored up our superstitious beliefs. St. Peter would never let us through the Pearly Gates with a drum under our arms, a rattle in our hands. Every single piece was rounded up and either axed, burnt or drowned. That ancient beat, the old songs, were heard no more.

“It was only the beginning of our suffering. But I’m too tired right now to talk more.”

Ernst is shocked by what he’s heard. He always thought Cornelius was such a devout Christian, a loyal Anglican, a soulmate even. He remembers something Canon Mackay said. “For the Indian, Christianity is only skin deep; it never gets into the blood stream.” Ernst groans. Another dilemma in a day full of dilemmas. And now he must face a council of war.

Chapter Eighteen

Ernst wends his way
down the hill
towards the lake, passing a dozen log cabins along the way. High in the tree branches ghostly skeletons lurk, stark white against the black green foliage. These are carcasses of bear, moose, beaver that have been hunted, butchered and then strung up. He has always considered this display as a symbol of the paganism still dwelling in the Indian heart, a theory reinforced when Chief Whitebear had explained its significance. “It’s so no dogs or other animals can get at the remains. You see, after the animals have been killed, if you show respect, they turn back again. They turn back to life and scatter in the forest again. They are willing to be hunted and we are happy for that.” Ernst had reprimanded Cornelius, saying that he hoped he didn’t believe such nonsense. Now he wishes he had been more patient in explaining the Lord’s Truth to his friend. Confusion and doubt as the end of one’s life nears must be a horrible thing.

Ernst’s heart is pounding He’s terrified of the coming confrontation with Étienne Bonnald. The priest is superior to him in so many ways. He’s strikingly handsome – Lucretia says that with his sleek hair, now gray but still thick, his soft brown eyes, and his even features, he looks like a muscular version of the Mexican movie star, Ramon Novarro. Forever calm. Competent at everything he does. Beloved by his parishioners – unlike St. Bartholomew’s, his church is filled to the rafters every Sunday. Authority is as much part of him as his shadow. And he gives every sign of loving God passionately. Ernst wouldn’t be surprised if when he dies, he is beatified. Saint Étienne of the Woodland Cree has a nice ring.

When Ernst arrives at the rickety shack that serves as Pelican Narrow’s post office, he finds Bonnald already there, though there’s no sign of the Indian agent. The two clerics greet each other politely enough, although Ernst remains stiff and unsmiling. The priest’s tone is soothing, patronizing. “I understand you’ve complained to the officials that I receive some sort of favourable treatment. I’m very surprised. I had no idea that you felt that way and it’s really too bad.”

This is what bothers Ernst the most about his Catholic colleague. He’s never rude or disdainful; he simply treats the Anglican clergyman as if he was a junior, and rather stupid, member of the ecclesiastical brotherhood.

“I don’t think it proper that we discuss the details until the Indian agent is in attendance,” insists Ernst. He’s promised himself that for once he will show backbone. He will not succumb to the priest’s pleasantries.

“I had hoped we could settle this between ourselves and not have to drag in the authorities,” replies Father Bonnald.

“That’s why Taylor’s not here! Once again he’s done your bidding. This is exactly what I am talking about.”

“Please, I didn’t mean to offend. I’ve simply asked him to give us a half hour alone. We’re both reasonable men. Surely we can sort things out between ourselves. The last thing in the world we want is to return to the poisonous past.”

Ernst knows about the war waged in Canada’s forests by missionaries competing for the Indian soul. You only had to look around; Pelican Narrows has long been a battle ground.

The village is shaped like a deformed lobster. A short claw protrudes a little ways into Pelican Lake and on it sits the Catholic St. Gertrude’s. At the end of the longer claw, jutting further out into the water, is situated the Anglican St. Bartholomew’s. Running up the lobster’s back is a rocky ridge which divides the two religious communities as sharply as the Pyrenees separates France and Spain. The Anglicans build their cabins or pitch their tents on the side closest to their church; Catholics occupy the other side. The antagonism was fuelled years before by two representatives of God who loathed each other – Canon Mackay and Bishop Charlebois, Father Bonnald’s predecessor. Winning over an Anglican to the Catholic faith and vice versa became a vicious, all-consuming struggle.

When Father Bonnald arrived at Pelican Narrows, he refused to engage with Canon Mackay, so the tension eased a little. Still the bitterness lingers. Ernst has broken up raging battles, a gang of young Catholics throwing rocks at Anglican kids after the Anglicans had ambushed the Catholics. He’s heard of occasions when, on the trap line, a Catholic stole the furs of an Anglican, when an Anglican had turned his back on a Catholic whose canoe had overturned and supplies dumped into the lake. Chief Whitebear said he didn’t believe these tales, they’re so contrary to Cree tradition. The ridiculous thing is that few of the Indians give a fig for the theological differences between the two Christian denominations; it’s simply a matter of which faith you happen to be born into.

While the two clerics make sure their disagreements are not hashed out in public, in reality they detest what each other stands for. Ernst believes that Catholic rituals are garish and hysterical, and, as he often told Lucretia, “Their beliefs are as dogmatic as those held by Brahmins and as superstitious as the Mohameds.” Étienne Bonnald considers the Anglican faith as a pale, uninspiring and false version of Catholicism. Lost lambs gone to the devil.

Ernst is relieved when he hears Bob Taylor come rattling through the door – the priest’s attempt to mollify him has been thwarted. The three men sit down at a table set up for the summit and the Indian agent pulls out a sheaf of papers from his satchel. “I want you both to know that, although in the past I have attended services at St. Bartholomew’s, as a government representative, I’m charged with remaining entirely neutral in such disputes as these. I have here a list of complaints submitted by Reverend Wentworth. I suggest we go over them one by one.” The two clergymen nod their heads in agreement.

“First. The Department deposits all emergency supplies with Father Bonnald, food, clothing, medicine, to be distributed to starving, destitute or sickly Indians. He alone dictates who gets them, and Reverend Wentworth feels Catholics benefit far more than Anglicans.”

The priest’s face flushes, but he maintains his composure. “It’s true that I’ve been performing this duty for years but I adamantly deny that I play favourites. If Reverend Wentworth wants this thankless task, I’m quite willing to hand it over to him.”

“Well, we’ve settled that nicely,” smirks the Indian agent. “Let’s move on. Father Bonnald has been authorized to judge if an individual has been so severely injured or is critically ill enough to warrant being sent, at government expense, to a hospital in The Pas or Prince Albert. Rev. Wentworth believes that far fewer of his flock than Father Bonnald’s have been deemed eligible for such treatment.”

“That might be because there are two-thirds
more Catholics in this parish than Anglicans,” retorts the priest who is struggling to maintain his control. “I’m quite willing to consult with you, Reverend Wentworth. You may discover such decisions are burdens that are hard to bear.”

Ernst butts in. “Well, I’d certainly try and help poor Rose Nateweyes, for example. She is in such agony with her tubercular hip. Why, she should have been sent to the hospital for an operation months ago.”

Father Bonnard barks his indignation. “I’ve been trying to do something for poor Rose for many months but…” Bob Taylor’s even louder voice overrides the priest’s. “Let’s move on. We haven’t all day.” He pauses for a few seconds, knowing what indignation will follow – “Reverend Wentworth maintains that you withhold cash from Indians who have deposited their savings with you for safekeeping.”

His face red with fury, the priest explodes. “Are you suggesting I’m stealing from my parishioners? What utter nonsense!”

My God, he’s going to hit me, thinks Ernst. He quickly pulls
several papers from his satchel. “I have here documents, signed with an X by specific individuals and duly witnessed, accusing you of just that – refusing to give back monies belonging to others.”

Furious, the priest grabs the papers. “These are all on Northern Lights Trading Post letterhead, the witness in each case is Arthur Jan. Of course, he wants me to hand over their money so it can be spent in his store.

“I withheld the cash because their wives asked me to. The men get drunk on the brew supplied by Jan and they’d be sure to gamble it all away. If you, Rev. Wentworth, opened your eyes and saw how the Indians actually live instead of secluding yourself in that, that castle of a rectory with that fancy wife of yours...”

“That’s enough, gentlemen,” Taylor abruptly intervenes. “We are here to resolve these issues in a dignified and rational manner, not get into a brawl. Actually, I’m surprised at your belligerence since you have so much in common.”

Both men stare at him.

“What are you talking about?” Father Bonnald shouts.

“Explain yourself,” demands Reverend Wentworth.

“Why, Izzy and Joe! I’m surprised you don’t know. They’ve been keeping company. I can hear wedding bells already.”

Father Bonnald remains calm enough, but Reverend Wentworth looks as if he’s been kicked in the stomach. His beloved little girl, his adored angel, being made love to by a savage! He’d rather be flayed alive.

Lucretia Wentworth’s Soirée

Friday evening

Chapter Nineteen

Lucretia has to admit
that everything is under control;
preparations for that evening’s entertainment are well underway. The place is spotless thanks to Annie Custer’s elbow grease. It’s amazing. How could a squaw, uneducated, coarse-looking, inscrutable, turn out to be such a fine housekeeper? Lucretia has made it a rule not to tell Annie how well she’s doing. Servants perform better when reprimands are delivered more often than compliments – that was a conviction long held by her family.

The finishing touches, though, have been left to the lady of the house. Lucretia places the wild roses and asters which she collected that morning in the only decent vase she has at her disposal. She unwraps her precious crystal sherry glasses and sets them on the rosewood commode. As glossy as burgundy satin, it’s the one piece of furniture Ernst allowed her to ship to Pelican Narrows – “because it reminds you of your dear departed mother.” Then she sorts through her books, pulling out all those written by Sinclair Lewis. She plans to set them up in a separate display on a side table which she hopes will impress the author mightily.