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turn was drawn into the past by theirs.
One morning I arrived to find a crowd of fifty more children and several adults waiting for me to
open the schoolhouse door. The new group stood apart from my regular students, and eyed them
with suspicion and fear. The air snapped with tension and I feared what was about to happen
would end in blood. The leader of this group approached me cautiously. "I am Maria General,
speaker of Mohawk and Seneca. This is Isabelle Jamieson, speaker of Onandaga and Cayuga. We
have come to teach the children their own languages. We have come to teach them their own
ways."
The sense of relief and indeed elation at that moment was beyond description. "Mrs. General,
Mrs. Jamieson," I sputtered, "we are going to need more desks."
It was necessary to extend the school day by an hour so we could provide adequate time for both
aspects of the children's education. The two women quickly picked up the essentials of the white
curriculum in order to develop their own to correspond to it.
To my relief even the little ones rose to the challenge. I watched with the greatest satisfaction as
my students' performance in the standard curriculum improved because of their growing
understanding of who they were and where they had come from. By the end of my second year
there, the attendance rate rose by eighty percent and two students had gone on to college with full
scholarships.
It was obvious to all that Six Nations was undergoing a spiritual rebirth and in its struggle; I, too,
felt the rebirth of my spirit."
***
The Present: So Nana had found the answer to dying from the inside out at Six Nations, Cathleen
speculated. The reason she had returned to White Earth in 1962 lay in her conquest of the disease that
had plagued her people. She had learned the secret of healing, first from her mother, then from her
grandmother and her father, and finally from the very people who had needed healing. The secret was in
the hoop, in the very margins that defined the hollow. It lay in the act of closing the circle so that deed fed
deed; spirit fed spirit. She shifted her body in the armchair, expecting to feel a jab of pain in her neck and
in her head from the night before. But it was gone, replaced by the energy of her thoughts, soothed by a
hand extended from beyond death itself.
***
The Past: "In the Fall of 1916, two important events occurred within a short time of each other.
And although I hardly sensed it at the time, they would both conspire to define my path, to change
my life completely. From the vantage point of old age, I see now that these two events, like the
forked branches of a spikenard root, combined to form the most powerful medicine for myself and
for my people.
The first one came with the frost-laced winds of October. I was in the schoolyard watching over
my students as they spent their energy, pent up from a morning of concentration. He appeared
from nowhere, at first a voice and then a familiar face.
"Why, if it isn't Annie Graham, lookin' like she's found herself a perfect spot on earth."
"Cyril Brennan. As I live and breathe what are you doing here?" I turned and grasped the hand of
my old friend, my spiritual guide and confessor. He stood there, still looking like a schoolboy
dressed up in the robes of a priest. Time had silvered some of the thick red hair at his temple, but
his round face still shone pink and his smile still held the promise of mischief.
Seth Crow Catcher stood to the side watching with obvious satisfaction. "I guess I will not need
to introduce you to the village school teacher, Father Brennan. And it also explains why your
application also stood out from the rest. You too have fallen under the spell of this Ojibway Bear
Clan woman's medicine."
"More than once, Chief Crow Catcher, more than once. But you needn't fear her power. I have
found that whatever she does to people, it ends up bringin' 'em closer to God."
Maria General appeared at the door of the schoolhouse and rang the bell to signal the end of the
lunch period and the beginning of the children's lesson in Mohawk. It also signaled the beginning
of a two-hour break for me.
"I have some time now. Come over for lunch and tell me what is going on."
"Much as I would prefer it, Annie, I must attend to urgent business at the council office," Seth
Crow Catcher sighed. "But I am sure our new parish priest can accept your offer."
"It's the burial ground business, isn't it Seth?" I noted the strain in his smile.
"It seems that Mr. Yorke won't take no for an answer." he sighed.
"I'm sure there is a way around it, with God's help."
"And the help of a good lawyer, by the looks of it. Enjoy your lunch."
We watched as the chief strode off down the road in the cold sunshine. The gaiety of our reunion
seemed dampened only momentarily. Naturally Cyril wanted to know all about it.
"Zachary Yorke is corrupt. He has either bought or bludgeoned the city council of Brantford into
issuing a claim for the six-mile reservation tract above the Grand River. The treaties are not clear
about who owns what, and The Indian Affairs Bureau in Ottawa claims they are the real
controllers of Indian land. You can guess whose interests they uphold."
"And this man Yorke wants to buy the land that the band has used as a burial ground, right?"
Cyril asked.
"Right. He wants to buy it so he can set up a garbage dump for the city. So you see it isn't just a
question of defiling the dead, it involves poisoning the living."
"Sounds like Mr. Yorke's way of pissin' upstream to defeat his enemies." He looked at me with the
devil in his eyes, hoping to bring the roses to my cheeks.
"I see you haven't changed a bit Father Brennan. But then tell me the news. Parish Priest?
Here?"
"Ah yes. Some time ago I met up with a special child, one who seemed as old as time itself. And
her very nature came from the soil of an Indian reservation. She put the bug in me to find my own
place on sacred soil. So, after years of tryin' here I am."
This attempt did put the roses in my cheeks and I turned away from him to hide his victory. "The
house is over there. Bridget will be home for lunch too."
As we entered the foyer, the smell of leftover stew wafted from the kitchen. "Bridget, could you
set another place please. We have company."
"Who is it you've dragged off the street this time?" She chimed back as we made our way to
where she was bent over the cooking pot.
"Bridget, this is Father Cyril Brennan, our new parish priest."
Cyril smiled impishly as he watched Bridget smooth down her stained apron and coax a wild bit of
hair back in place. "How do you do, Father. Please forgive my appearance. No one warned me
that you were coming." She shot me a deadly look and motioned me to the pantry.
"For God sakes Annie, I'm in no shape to be receiving priests."
"Stop fussing, Bridget. He's an old friend and a horrible tease. Come on, let's get some food out.
I'm starving."
We finished setting the table and spooned the steaming mixture into bowls. Cyril offered blessings
for the meal and then we dug in, hungry after our busy morning.
"What's the news from home? Have you seen Lilith? Is she well?" I hadn't received a letter from
my stepsister in weeks and it had made me anxious.
"The Corcorans are well enough. But they still suffer from the loss of Arthur."
The pang of sorrow caught me unexpectedly. I turned away.
"There now, Annie. You did more for him than anyone else. Had he lived who could say? He
would have ended up dyin' in some muddy trench in France, alone, his body pushed into some [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]