Land of Bones and Tears

Chapter Four

Grandfather

I walked up to the small house that Luke and I’d built to Grandfather’s specifications twenty years ago.  He’d picked the location for it very carefully; made sure that it got as much sun as a person could find in Canada. Here he grew his herbs and vegetables, did his fishing and bird training. Falcons. Granddad was always skilled with wild animals. Human kind too.

I stood staring at the neat little place with its stack of firewood carefully piled by the side door. The garden was prepped for winter – I wondered who the wood was for; who was supposed to plant next year’s garden?

A husky pup came running from around the back of the house, barking up a storm. It came to a stop five feet away from me and growled menacingly. I growled back, baring my teeth. The poor pup lowered its...her...head and whimpered. I laughed and knelt to scratch her ruff.

“You scaring my sweet Cheyenne there, you ornery boy? Come here and let me take a look at you.”

I straightened up slowly. I wasn’t sure what I’d been afraid of. That the years had changed him. Made the giant of my childhood and teens into an ordinary man.

I let out a relieved breath and walked forward to accept a hug from the man who’d raised me since I was a pup with more bark than sense.

Granddad patted me on the shoulder a few times as we stood close for a few minutes, longer than we’d ever done before. It had been a long time since we’d been together.

Granddad held me at arm’s length and looked me in the eyes. “You all right, boy?”

“I’m good.”

He nodded, satisfied. Then he frowned. “Where’s Vasha? Didn’t I tell you to bring her?”

“Bit of a story there. Aren’t you going to invite me in? Give a man who’s been flying a plane for  most of a day and sitting in another one for most of another day a beer?”

“I’ll give you some cider.  Plus some of my stew. Plenty of that for you. You can eat and tell me where Vasha is. And why you’re looking a bit distracted.”

I was a bit dumb-founded. He calls me to come bring him back to the land of our fathers, the unspoken message being that he is ready to join them, and he thinks I look distracted.

“Make that coffee instead of cider and you’ve got a deal.”

He nodded. “Come Cheyenne,” Granddad said as we turned and walked toward the house.

At eighty-nine, Nathaniel Redraven stood as tall and straight as he did seventy years ago when he went off to war with his three best friends from the reservation in Montana. Kids, off to fight the Nazis. Big adventure. Only two came back. One, they buried in France. One was captured, but he never turned up on any POW list. Granddad said he didn’t think his friend would have handled being a prisoner of war very well.

He’d pretty much said the same thing when he told me about my father, who’d gone to Vietnam at the age of twenty.  Charles Redraven was listed as MIA on the government’s official list, but Grandfather told me there was no hope – my father was dead. He would have died in battle, fighting for his men, Granddad said. And indeed, years after the war ended, one of his men came to find me. He told us that my father had died fighting off a guerilla attack, one that allowed his men to get away.  Knowing my father had been a war hero was an odd sort of comfort when white kids called me names in school. Indian bastard, half-breed. I wasn’t the first and while I was the second, if the Indians didn’t reject my diluted blood, I didn’t see where it was something for any white to be complaining about.

Once my grandfather figured out that I was developing a real attitude about my mother’s contribution to my gene pool, he started sending me to stay with my other grandfather for visits, something I fought bitterly – the first time. But after meeting my crazy ass Papa Joe Gee, short for Guillaume, I was taken with life on the Bayou. It was as poor as the reservation, but nowhere near as serious. I learned a lot of the same skills that Grandfather had been teaching me – but in a whole different way. Papa Joe taught me to hunt, for example, but his kind of hunting was worlds away from what I’d learned in the forests of Montana. In Cajun country, we hunted everything from possum to alligators.  Not supposed to hunt gators of course, but then, you’re not supposed to pass laws that don’t make sense was how Papa Joe looked at things.

It was Papa Joe who took me to my first whorehouse at age fourteen. He figured if I was big enough to pass for a man, I probably better learn to act like a man in all respects. I think that was one of the few times that he and Granddad had a real falling out. How Grandfather found out, I’ll never know, but he did.  He showed up within a week and the two of them had a fight to end all fights. By that point, being a bit of a bratty teen, I’d had a real chip on my shoulder and had kind of thought that Papa Joe, who was a hell of a lot more fun and crazy as a loon, getting into bar fights six times a night in his cousin’s bar, would have had the edge on Grandfather. 

That was the only time I underestimated Nathaniel. He kicked Joe G’s ass six ways to Sunday, meeting and matching every dirty move that was thrown at him. I probably looked like a fool, standing wide-eyed and drop-jawed, as I watched the only two people in the world who gave a damn about me fight over the best way to raise me. In line with his principles, Grandfather didn’t beat Papa Joe in front of any of his cronies – the fight had an audience of only one. It wasn’t until later that I realized how much was at stake.

With his daughter gone and his sons having left Louisiana, Joe had wanted me to stay year round. His arguments had been that there were cousins, other family members for me to grow up with, a fishing trade to learn if I wanted, family and friends to lean on when Joe passed on, all things that Grandfather couldn’t offer.

But Grandfather wouldn’t let me go and he fought to keep me. If he had simply asked, I would have told him I wouldn’t have wanted to stay with Papa Joe year round, but funny thing, he didn’t do that. I think he felt he had to show me that I was worth fighting for to him, as much as I was worth fighting for to my other grandfather.

Of course, Nathaniel won. No contest. Bloody damn fight too. But the hell of it was, they became the best of friends after that. Ganged up on me like nobody’s business on dozens of occasions. Grandfather took it terribly hard when Papa Joe died during a boating accident in ‘99. But one comfort, he wrote to me, was that Joe didn’t live to see Katrina and what happened to his beloved New Orleans.

Sitting down at the scarred wooden table and waiting for a bowl of the stew I could smell to be placed in front of me, I felt the pain of loss. For the grandfather who was already gone and for this one who I feared would soon leave me. I’d been taught to see the wholeness of all of existence – to sense my grandfather’s presence even when we were half a world away from each other – which was the valuable gift that Nathaniel had to give me when I was young and searching for meaning in my life. It proved better than a passel of cousins and other “blood relatives” such as Luke spent half his life fleeing. Grandfather was with me every time I entered my sweat lodge in Scotland; he was there watching critically every time I threw my hunting knife cleanly through a target in Iraq. But while he helped me learn to hold on to Papa Joe even after his passing, I didn’t know how I could hold on to the fundamental truths of my world without him as my anchor. I needed him here, in his place, either in this cabin or at the reservation.

My hands were clenched on the table in front of me, almost as though in prayer, which was not something I did. Not in that way at least.  Grandfather set down a large steaming bowl of stew next to them, and instead of moving away, he folded his hands over mine. I saw with some surprise that his hands weren’t quite as large as mine were.

“Do not be so frightened, Black Raven. I am only beginning a new journey. I do not know how far along the road I will go, only that I did not want to begin it without my son’s son by my side.  I am old and there are some roads a man does not want to travel alone.”

I turned our hands around until I was holding his in mine. I raised my eyes to the only other set of eyes I’d ever known to be as black as my own, and, seeing the concern he didn’t try to hide, I stopped worrying about myself. He’d spent a good part of his life taking care of me, it was about time I put him first.

“I will be there with you for as much of this journey as you feel you must take – but I hope you only intend to travel the path of bones a short way for now. I like having my anchor in this world.”

He smiled, a rare sight but always one that made me feel like I’d earned a medal or something.

“You will always have anchors, Raven. You collect them, which is good, as you’d fly too high and never descend to earth to walk among mere mortals without such connections.  Eat now, before your food grows cold. And do not feed Cheyenne, she is a greedy puppy and I know that you were going to do just that, so don’t look innocently at me.”

I swore genially and blamed the dog for giving me away. I had intended to give the Husky pup a taste of the beef – she looked so pathetic sitting there with her one blue eye and one brown eye opened wide at me; she was looking for all the world like she hadn’t eaten in a week but wouldn’t dream of taking anything without an express invitation. After Grandfather’s psychic reprimand, though, all I could do was shrug at the pup and suggest she go sit down and wait for her own dinner. Which, after a few backward glances, she did.

After catching up on the few neighbors who lived close enough for Grandfather to tell me about their major events in his letters over the years – children born, graduations celebrated, old folks passing on – he asked after Luke and Linton.

“How is your two-spirit friend and his life mate doing? Luke was greatly troubled in his heart when I saw him last, but I did not know how to advise him because I sensed he was not ready to follow the advice I wanted to give him. Too many secrets haunt both of those men.”

“You’re right, but then, that’s something I’m kinda used to. Luke has had some of his secrets come out over the past year, and some of it has been hard. On him, on English, on that little brother of his you’ve heard about over the years. But in the long run, it’s been for the best. Especially for Luke.”

I found myself talking on about it as Granddad asked questions that got me thinking about some of the events in ways I hadn’t considered. I probably talked more during the next two hours than I normally did in a month. Or maybe even a year. I wasn’t what you’d call a gabby guy. Some wouldn’t call me a thoughtful one either probably. But I was observant. That was a lesson I’d learned early on.

Finally, he returned to the subject of Vasha. That made me grin.

“Of course I followed your orders! Since when have I ever disobeyed you?”  He just leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. I laughed. The sound made Cheyenne lift her head and join in barking. That made Granddad crack a smile.

“I knew that pup reminded me of someone,” he said, picking up his pipe. “Sounds just like you laughing when she barks.”

I called the pup over and she came willingly. “I think one of us is being insulted, pup, but I’m not sure which,” I told her as I rubbed her belly. She was an affectionate girl. Vasha made folks work for acceptance – then they could rub her belly, I thought fondly. First she liked to terrify them with her size and fierce appearance. Of course, that was before. Now she was more likely to lift one sleepy eye, assess the situation as non-threatening and go back to sleep, as she had with Liam Lennon. Which, quite frankly, was about right. The man was a harmless drunk. 'Cept maybe to his wife and kids.

I frowned at that thought and of course Granddad didn’t miss it.

“What’s wrong – women or dogs?”

“Little bit of both, in a way. I brought Vasha, as you asked. She’s not been herself. I’m hoping you can fix her up.”  I waited for him to say something but he just sat, looking thoughtful and waiting for me to continue. I shrugged and continued. He’d give me an explanation of why he wanted Vasha along when he was ready. Sometimes he had visions, sometimes it was just his instincts, and sometimes he just felt like telling me to jump through hoops. Could be any one of the three.

“Luke asked me to do his sister Mary Frances a favor and bring one of her kids out to a job at the reservation. Seems she was heading to the same place we are – small world, huh?” Still no reaction from him. I went on.

“Her name is Colleen. She’s one of the girls I wrote to you about. Was caught in the earthquake down in Haiti – she and her sister got hurt pretty badly. She’s fine now. More or less. She’s ready to get back to the do-gooder work she’s trained for, which is why she’s heading to the reservation. She’s a teacher and a social worker so there should be plenty to keep her busy. Right now she’s watching Vasha for me so I didn’t have a hassle at the airport. Of course, that was before I knew you’d be wanting me to get this pup past any type of border check.”

“You’ll manage,” was all he said.  Yeah, I guess that was true. It wasn’t like I was in the Alliance for the pension.  We talked for hours without him ever giving me any more information about what made him decide to make the trip now. After we both got a good night’s sleep, we left the cabin that had been his home for so long, and walked back down the path, neither one of us looking back, Cheyenne running on ahead to whatever adventure awaited her, as the young ones will. I wondered when it was that I lost that quality. What I did know was a deep desire to hold onto what was behind me on the path, but I was true to my training and kept my eyes focused on the road ahead.

Even if it was leading to the land of bone and tears.

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