way their mom always did when the girls were little.
“Someday soon you will be a kohkum too, Nikawiy,” Wren said and raised the palms of her flour-covered hands to the sky. She was speaking with her mother, now in the spirit world. “And I will tell stories about you. Lots of them, but I will change that bear story a bit, and tell this child that you killed a bear using only a river rock. Kisakihitin. I love you, Mama.”
Shadows Past
Lord Magras is Wren’s new husband. Hell of a heavy burden to carry a name like that: Lord. It was often the source of scorn for Lord when he was a boy, and especially as he grew into adolescence. Lord always wondered why his parents would give him such a name. “You are above others,” his mother would tell him when he was young. “You won’t settle into the lower class. You are Lord, meaning superiority.”
When his class studied Lord of the Flies for a literature class in grade seven, Lord found his top-flip desk filled with dead flies one day. He left school and ran home crying to his mother. It upset him so much that she allowed him to stay home for two days. Lord was coddled to the point of suffocation. “I will always be here for you,” Lord’s mother would tell him. “No one can take care of you as I do.”
People he met would joke about the name for years later. The only person who didn’t was Wren. She didn’t care about his first name and instead commented on his last name, Magras. “Sounds like muskwa,” Wren said, glancing into his eyes for a moment before becoming shy and looking away.
“What does that mean? Muskwa?” Lord asked.
“Kohkum told me it means bear. A symbol of strength,” Wren replied, this time meeting his glance and offering a smile.
“I’m not familiar with that term. And what does kohkum mean?” Lord inquired.
“That’s the Cree word for grandmother. It’s nice to meet you. You a collector?” asked Wren, changing the topic. “I’m the artist for tonight’s exhibit. Thanks for coming.”
Wren’s new works were being exhibited at the Dunlop Art Gallery, located within the walls of Regina’s central public library. A committed library patron, Lord had stopped in to renew some materials he’d borrowed but hadn’t gotten around to finishing yet. As he strolled by the Dunlop Gallery, he was captivated by the beauty of the works in clay that he saw on display from the library’s main atrium.
Once inside, he was taken with the beauty of the artist herself. He couldn’t take his eyes off her full lips as she spoke about a piece she’d created. Portrait of a Woman, she called it. A large piece, abstract and twenty inches high, it swirled into many shapes capturing the feminine. A woman called by the wind. Lord purchased the piece that evening. Lord remembers her tossing her long black hair to one side as she nervously flattened a crease on her taffeta dress. And he remembers her talking about bears.
What happened after that first meeting was pure magic. The signs were everywhere. The day after meeting her, Lord came across a historical story about the lost grizzly bears of Saskatchewan in an ecology magazine. Then the movie The Life and Times of Grizzly Adams randomly appeared on a local television channel, and next a friend at work introduced him to something called a “grizzly” cocktail after a long week at work: bourbon, lemonade and an energy drink.
Only three days after they’d met, and there had been so many bear signs. Lord decided it was time to act. Even though it was after 9 p.m., and after more than a few grizzly cocktails, he dialled the phone with shaking hands, using the number from the business card that he’d picked up at the art exhibit. “As Lord of this manor,” he said into the receiver, “I invite you to dinner tomorrow.” After a pause he added, “Been thinking about you since we met.” He said all this without slurring.
Wren phoned back the next day and ended up talking to Lord about what her style of art represented to him. “Perseverance,” he proclaimed, “and always believing and never fitting into a box. Very bold. I love your lines.” He understands, she thought, and surprised herself by agreeing to the dinner invitation.
Less than twenty-four hours later, Wren found herself checking out her reflection in the rear-view mirror of her vehicle and hoping that she hadn’t sprayed on too much perfume. She insisted that they meet at the popular Cathedral Village restaurant in Regina rather than having him pick her up at her home, just in case her first impression of him was inaccurate. By the time she entered, Wren noticed that Lord was already there, sitting near the end of the dining area with a clear view of the front door. He was holding flowers—not roses, but a brightly coloured bouquet, the kind anyone can buy at a local grocery store. Lord did not take his eyes off her as Wren walked toward him. “You look lovely tonight,” he said.
Wren had spent the entire afternoon primping and selecting an outfit, applying and reapplying makeup, and trying to figure out which accessories to wear. In the end, she was both stunning and elegant, wearing a simple black dress, long-sleeved but with an exaggerated neckline that subtly covered her cleavage, leaving room for the imagination. She wore simple jewellery, silver rhinestone-studded earrings and a choker-length silver chain that displayed a heart-shaped pendant. She decided not to wear lipstick that night, instead just dabbing on a clear gloss that outlined the shape of her lips. “Thank you,” she tittered. “So good to see you again.”
“I hope you don’t mind or think it is too forward, but I bought you some flowers,” Lord said, handing over the bouquet.
“Not too forward at all. Thank you.” Wren sniffed their sweet fragrance before adding, “I can’t remember the last time anyone gave me flowers. Oh, I mean, unless you count my sister who sends an arrangement each year on our birthday.”
Puzzled, Lord asked, “What you mean our birthday?”
Wren’s explanation led to much more conversation around getting to know more about each other. They talked about family, art, design and music before the waitress came to take their order.
“I will have your twelve-ounce filet mignon, medium-well, and a baked potato. Just butter as a garnish please, no side of vegetables,” said Lord. Wren ordered a medley of sides that included hummus, tzatziki, goat cheese and figs. Lord found it funny these were all things he’d never even tried. After the meal, Lord insisted on walking Wren back to her car in the parking lot at the back of the building and just off an alleyway. “Just want to make sure you’re safe,” he said as he led her to her car. Lord held Wren’s small hand and the two made plans to see each other again in a week’s time.
“I can’t wait for a week,” Lord complained over the phone at about eight o’clock the next morning. “I’m sitting here, alone in my apartment and drinking a nice, hot coffee and thinking wouldn’t it be so much nicer to be sitting here with you.”
“Me too,” said Wren. Lord suggested the two meet up again for dinner that night, but this time at Lord’s home, and Wren agreed. Lord lived in a comfortable highrise apartment at the corner of College Avenue and Broad Street in Regina. Lord explained with great affection that one point in history it was where the edge of the city began. His apartment had a great view looking to the west, including an impressive sunset each evening and nearby Wascana Park.
Earlier that day, he’d stopped at a deli on the way home to pick up a ready-made barbeque chicken, some fresh ciabatta bread, smoked gouda and soft brie cheeses, and a side of quinoa salad—foods he’d never imagined bringing home prior to seeing what Wren ordered the night before.
They embraced that night and shared their first kiss. Lord recognized something in Wren as
