Lily Fairchild - Don Gutteridge

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then sat down at the entrance to a huge skin tent and passed the ceremonial pipe. Major Richardson was seen to talk animatedly in Ojibwa to several of the chiefs whose smiles were all-encompassing. Meanwhile the more than one thousand natives who had now reached the plain began to select their presents. The bundles were not marked in any way, but each individual or group knew, from custom and tradition, which kind of bundle was intended, and deserved. There was no rush, no confusion even though the actions of the several families and tribes appeared to be spontaneous. Bundles were carried off to the edges of the plain where families had set up their cooking apparatus and blankets for the events ahead. Fires sprang up, cards and dice appeared, fresh calico paraded, Cavendish proffered and puffed. The Great White Mother had wafted her attention and grace across the world-sea and blessed them with this day.

      Only one element seemed out of place on a morning described later by Richardson as having “all of the softness of mellowed autumn.” One of the chiefs, a wrinkled and scarred veteran of the Battle of the Thames who had stood beside Tecumseh when the Yankee bullets ruptured the great man’s heart, did not smile, did not sip peace with his brothers, did not take the gifts offered, did not bend his gaze from the badges and brass before him. He was Shaw-wah-wan-noo, the Shawnee or Southener, the only one of his race known to still inhabit these grounds so long after those cataclysmic events. Richardson, at an age when romanticizing is either foolish or profound, wrote in his account that this man, “notwithstanding five and thirty years had elapsed since Tecumseh’s fall, during which he had mixed much with the whites, suffered not a word of English to come from his lips. He looked the dignified Indian and the conscious warrior, whom no intercourse with the white man could rob of his native independence of character.”

      Lily was made dizzy by the colour and the crowds. The Indians’ regalia took two forms: the outlandish harlequin suits of many of the younger Chippewa – complete with scarlet sashes, blue leggings, black and white ostrich feathers, and an English-made beaver hat – and the traditional deerskins, rabbit furs and eagle feathers of the older males and of most of the Pottawatomies. At first Lily could observe only the natives since, when she had stepped out of the bush that morning, the plain was dotted with them. Later she followed the slow-paced Acorn towards the bay and the ceremonial party. There she saw the soldiers she had heard about from Gaston LaRouche and his war stories. Their scarlet uniforms caught the mid-morning sun, imprisoning it; the bright steel and gilt of their swords dazzled all who dared look their way. Never had she seen men uniformly attired, prancing in step, swinging their arms high in unison, marching to the panicked hammering of drums. She saw too their sleek rifles and the bayonets thin as a wish-bone: these weapons, she knew, were not for hunting.

      There were a few white women in the throng too, whose tailored jackets and fancy bonnets she could only gawk at. Since observing the Partridges, mother and daughters, she was all too aware of her sack-cloth chemise, her improvised leggings, and her unadorned reddish-blond hair. She sat down by the fire-pit, the better to hide from notice. She did not hear Acorn squat beside her in the commotion, but then became aware of his presence. He held out an offering.

      “For you, little fawn,” he said, averting his eyes. It was a gift, a buckskin pouch bearing an intricate configuration of beading that might have been inspired by the stars.

      About noon-time, Lily ventured down to the River. The paddle-wheel steamer blocked her view until, from its iron stack, clots of soot shot upwards, smudging the sky. Several men tossed whole logs into a square stove-like affair and the flame inside blew white and venomous. Suddenly a man in a dirty uniform gave a shout. A metallic rod whined, the wooden sides of the boat shivered, and the wheel beat frantically at the calm water, sending the steamer northward towards the townsite.

      The River was now hers. She could see the other side, but the trees there were faded and shapeless, so vast was the blue torrent flowing past them. To the south she could trace its surge for miles as it swept through the bush. This was no creek, however magnified in imagination. No shadow touched its translucent face save that of the herring-gull or fish-hawk; it was forever open to the sun and the stars. There was an eternal earth-light in that blue tidal twisting, even in the depths. It rejoiced in its flowing.

      To the north, beyond this brief inlet, the near-bank bent slightly west, and Lily strained to see through the autumn haze the place where the Freshwater Sea of the Hurons fed its own waters into the River. She felt its mammoth presence behind the mist.

      Papa spent much time talking with the officers and other white men from the steamer and Port Sarnia. Many times he laughed out loud; other times, his eyes clouded over, the way they did when he talked about Mama. Twice his gaze had searched out Lily among the throngs, looked relieved to find her, and then twinkled. Sounder hopped and skittered, threw dice and horse-traded, and finally snoozed beside her in the afternoon grass.

      “I’ll give you a half-dollar for it, ancient one.” The officer held the coin up to the sun as if it were a jewel or a talisman. The old Pottawatomie chief eyed it, tempted. His hands unconsciously rubbed the black walnut war club they had polished with their affection these many years since the wars ended.

      “This club belong to my father,” he said, more to himself than to the pot-bellied military man before him.

      “Two half-dollars, then.”

      The old one looked momentarily puzzled, then hurt. Finally he said, “One half-dollar,” letting the officer reach across and lift the club from its accustomed grip.

      Papa was about to step forward when something in the Indian’s expression made him pause. Papa watched him put the silver coin into his pouch without examining it, and turn towards the river. Lily saw the look on Papa’s face; it was the same he wore just before he swung the hatchet at the beaver or muskrat not drowned by the trap.

      “Sun-in-bitch soldier,” said Sounder behind them. Then, after a decent interval: “They start dancing now.”

      Against the tangerine sun, the Indian dancers were silhouettes freed from gravity, moving at the will of the drum. Their feet struck the ground as if beating the stretched hide of the earth itself. The air above shook with their cries. They danced towards enchantment, expiation, communion. Lily was drawn into the melee and felt her feet take off, seeking out the cadence, finding it with astonished ease, letting her body swing free. She danced until exhaustion overtook her and she moved to the edge of the circle to sit and watch once again.

      After a while a small group of Pottawatomies approached the central fire. They appeared to be members of a single family, a mother and father, some grown sons and a slender girl perhaps a few years older than Lily. The drum dance had stopped, but at a sign from the father it started again, subdued but insistent. His daughter knelt before him as he placed a garland of some sort on her head and began a long incantatory song in Pottawatomie. Lily could catch none of the words, but she knew it was a joyous chant, full of affection and hope.

      “She has changed her name, little dancer.” It was the voice of Southener, the Shawnee, seated beside her. “Her name was White Blossom. Tonight she becomes Seed-of-the-Snow-Apple. It has been proclaimed before all of the tribe. Now she must strive to live up to the name bestowed upon her.”

      Southener said nothing else, as the ceremony ended and the fire grew smoky and fickle.

      Suddenly very tired, Lily dropped her head to his soft shoulder. Papa would find her there, safe and sleeping beside the old Shawnee.

      4

      In honour of Lily’s eleventh birthday, Papa had installed a glass window in her loft sanctuary. From there she could see the quarter moon, the black rampart of trees, the outlines of the new road to the west, and the figures of two men walking purposefully towards the cabin. They knocked, doffed their hats at Papa’s greeting, and entered, the candlelight catching their red hair, slick lapels, and polished boots.

      As soon as Lily heard them speak she knew they were Scots. One spoke smoothly, the other with a sort of hitch, a kink somewhere in every sentence.

      “Yes, thank you very much, but just a thimbleful if you don’t mind. Good for the gout my doctor says.”

      A gurgle of

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