others. Despite the grin on his face, we all know what he means. Thank god Frank doesn’t see the driver’s full-on eff-you gesture as we surge past. Crap! What’s gonna happen when the road levels off?
We level off.
All thoughts of the truck driver fly out the window.
The landscape looks about as welcoming as the surface of the moon.
My grandfather mumbles something about the treaty. He told me the treaty story many times when I was a kid. He must have told it really well, because the treaty was signed over a hundred years ago — even before he was born, yet in my memory I was there. Apart from this one major flaw, I’m sure that everything else he said was true. My grandfather’s grandfather was one of the men who had talked with the British, although talked isn’t the right word, because he didn’t speak their language, and they didn’t speak his. And he couldn’t read the letter from Queen Victoria either. Nor could any of the other Chipewyan, Cree, or Métis. But the queen had sent an interpreter, and he explained that she wanted them to live in peace with her British subjects. My ancestors had thought the newcomers were asking for a friendship treaty, like the ones they’d made with other bands and tribes and nations.
A Catholic priest was already working in Fort Chipewyan. “For some crazy reason,” my grandfather always said, “the people trusted that black robe. They believed him when he said that our lives would remain more or less unchanged and that we’d still be able to hunt, and trap, and fish, just as we always had. There was a lot of land, and there were very few people, so we agreed to share. We made a spoken promise … one that was for as long as the sun shines, as long as the grass grows, as long as the river runs. We also made our mark on the queen’s paper. We didn’t know that the scratchy lines said that we agreed to cede the land to the queen. We didn’t know that cede meant give up; relinquish; hand over!”
The way my grandfather’s story goes, Queen Victoria’s representatives gave the people gifts as a sign of her friendship. Chiefs got thirty-two dollars plus a silver medal. My grandfather’s grandfather got twenty-two dollars, because he was what they called a head man. Everyone else, Indians as they called us, got twelve dollars. Whenever my grandfather told the story, it never crossed my mind to ask why they called us Indians. I didn’t know back then that Indians come from India. For hundreds of years we’ve been called Indians because Christopher Columbus was going the wrong way around the world and thought he’d landed in India when he “discovered” America!
Apart from the cash, the queen gave the Indians ammunition for hunting and twine for fishing, as well as hoes, rakes, and shovels. The whole band got a plow and a pair of horses to share. Then she gave the people land. One square mile per family. She called it their reserve. I never got how the queen gave the people land that was theirs in the first place. It didn’t seem a fair exchange for two hundred million acres that spread from the Northwest Territories across Northern Alberta and into both British Columbia and Saskatchewan. Of course, the people could still use all that land for hunting and fishing as before, except — and this is another phrase from the treaty that my ancestors couldn’t read, a phrase that wasn’t explained — except if the land is required for settlement, mining, lumbering, trading, or other purposes.
I gaze out of the truck window at the landscape that flies past and at the turnoffs for the big names like Suncor and Syncrude and Shell.
For the first time in my life I realize how badly we got screwed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The fish hawk flies across the barren landscape until it gives way to forest once more. She alights on the top of the tallest tree. She’s missing a talon on her right foot, but the remaining three claws curve around the branch, holding her securely as she shakes her plumage into position. She preens her feathers to ensure that each one is airworthy. Then, with her job complete, Three Talons looks around and calls for a mate.
Once we get past the turnoffs to the big oil companies, the traffic on Highway 63 thins.
“We’re nearly there,” Frank says, taking the exit and driving along a road lined with spruce trees that are all the same height, width, and colour. They remind me of soldiers on parade. He pulls onto the shoulder next to a colossal sign: “Energyse” painted in orange on a blue-green background. It’s dazzling compared with the rest of the landscape, which is washed-out and muddy grey. Water trickles over slabs of rock, collecting in a pond next to the sign. Lily pads float there. They must be plastic because it’s too early for real ones, but it’s impossible to tell for sure because they’re covered in the same mud-coloured dust that’s everywhere.
My grandfather stares at the water and then turns to me.
“Remember the moose wading into the shallows by the cabin? You’d stuff your knuckles into your mouth, trying to keep quiet, but it never worked for long. You’d explode, and they’d bound away.”
I can’t remember this, but I don’t want to spoil his pleasant memory, so I nod.
But Frank ruins the moment. “Do you want to go back up there, old man? Do you want to be all alone again, with no family, with just the damn moose to keep you company?”
“Frank! Take it easy,” Angela says.
“I boarded up the windows the day I left,” my grandfather continues, obviously knowing how to tune my father out, “to keep animals from moving in.”
Frank chuckles in that mean way of his. “Even the animals wouldn’t want to live there. It’s such a dump.”
“You’re such an ass,” I mumble.
Frank glances over his shoulder. “What’s that, Adam?”
I set my face in a stony stare.
Frank steps on the gas and pulls away from the Energyse sign. But suddenly, my grandfather is unbuckling his seat belt and opening the back door.
“What the hell!” Frank yells, slamming on the brakes. “Get back in!”
But my grandfather is out of the truck, even before it comes to a full stop. I wonder if he’s had enough of his own son and if he’s planning to walk all the way back up to Fort Chipewyan. In one of those crazy split-second decisions, I figure I’ll go with him, and I’m out the door too. But he’s not going to Chip. He’s going back to the pond by the Energyse sign. And so am I.
He starts climbing the rocks, and I’m right after him. A glance over my shoulder shows that Angela and Frank are on our tail.
My grandfather’s face soon falls.
“There’s no stream,” he says. “Where does the water come from?”
Frank laughs. “Nowhere! They just pump it around in a loop.”
“Cool!” I exclaim.
Cars slow down and people stare at us. “Get back in the truck,” Frank orders. “Everyone’s looking.”
The entrance to the mine reminds me of border crossings I’ve seen on TV — flashing red stoplights and guards. Frank puts his card in the machine, and the bar rises. The guard waves us through.
