and higher and there will soon be ice. Later than on Mistik Lake.” On the gravel between his knees, he placed eight pebbles in one neat row with a rectangle of wood at the end.
“Mush!
Tiger-Tiger,
mush!”
whispered Champion-Jeremiah as he made the pebble at the head of the line jump up and down. In the make-believe windswept distance, the caribou were flying across his invisible ice-and-snow-covered northern lake.
A wisp of snow flew by, the first that Champion-Jeremiah had seen this fall. He half-heartedly tried to catch it, but it’s hard to catch a wisp of snow, even with mittens.
Cree boys small and large — some almost young men — were scattered like leaves across the yard, near and not so near, even way to the other end of the fence, a good quarter of a mile away. Girls had their own yard on the other side of the giant building, out of sight, away from the view of lusty lads who might savour their company, so Champion-Jeremiah was to learn in the nine years he would spend here. Even his sistersJosephine and Chugweesees were marched away to their own world the minute they got off the plane. He would find a way to visit them someday, as sure as the moon was round.
A whimsical shift in the direction of the wind brought to Champion-Jeremiah’s attention something other than snow. Two floors up, a window was slightly open. There was that lilting melody again, the undulating bass, the rising and falling harmonies so shiny with light that he could wrap them around his fingers, lick his hand, and let the liquid music spill onto his lips, over his chin, down his neck.
He missed his accordion dearly.
His hair had now grown to a downy brushcut. The caribou hunter’s son stood before an old oak desk so mountainous he could barely see over its top. Beside this desk stood a Christmas tree, and behind it sat Father Lafleur, peering over his reading glasses at the tiny lad who stood at stiff attention, like a drummer boy.
“Yes?”
“Yes.” The second English word Champion-Jeremiah had learned. After “no” and then “yes,” he had learned about twenty others. He paused to see if the priest’s furry eyebrows would curve upward. They didn’t. But he was not going to shy away from attempting, for the first time, in public, a complete sentence in English, curving eyebrows or no.
“Play piano?” The two words popped out of the nervous crusader’s mouth like the chirping of a newly hatched bird. Champion-Jeremiah cursed himself for not sounding moreimpressive, more stentorian. But then the holy eyebrows formed two crescents, furry caterpillars arching for a meal over the edge of some green birch leaf.
“Ah, you can play the piano,” said Father Lafleur to Champion-Jeremiah, doubtful but taking his time with the terrified child.
Aha! he was about to exclaim with a hearty slap to his desk. The organ! The organ at Father Bouchard’s church, of course!
But Champion-Jeremiah’s chirp beat him to the punch.
“No! Wan play piano!”
“Ah, you
want
to learn to play the piano.” The principal treated every second word as if it were a stepping stone to a sacred shrine.
Thrilled that he had finally gotten through to the man, Champion-Jeremiah nodded, almost violently.
“Hmm-hmm,” purred the priest, for he seemed to find the boy’s vociferous nodding entertaining.
Champion-Jeremiah knew he was about to be tested. He knew the answer to his prayer wasn’t going to fall from the sky. He knew he was going to have to work for it when he saw the principal’s lips virtually disappear into one small, hair-thin slit.
“Do you make any other kind of music?” Leaning forward, Father Lafleur tapped his pen on the desk. Such gestures made Champion-Jeremiah nervous — besides, he didn’t understand the question.
“Music,” the man in black boomed, elongating the vowels as if they were some tragic dirge. “Do you make any otherkind of music?” as if the seven-year-old would understand better if he shouted.
“Mush!
Tiger-Tiger,
mush!”
whispered Champion-Jeremiah as he made the pebble at the head of the line jump up and down. In the make-believe windswept distance, the caribou were flying across his invisible ice-and-snow-covered northern lake.
A wisp of snow flew by, the first that Champion-Jeremiah had seen this fall. He half-heartedly tried to catch it, but it’s hard to catch a wisp of snow, even with mittens.
Cree boys small and large — some almost young men — were scattered like leaves across the yard, near and not so near, even way to the other end of the fence, a good quarter of a mile away. Girls had their own yard on the other side of the giant building, out of sight, away from the view of lusty lads who might savour their company, so Champion-Jeremiah was to learn in the nine years he would spend here. Even his sistersJosephine and Chugweesees were marched away to their own world the minute they got off the plane. He would find a way to visit them someday, as sure as the moon was round.
A whimsical shift in the direction of the wind brought to Champion-Jeremiah’s attention something other than snow. Two floors up, a window was slightly open. There was that lilting melody again, the undulating bass, the rising and falling harmonies so shiny with light that he could wrap them around his fingers, lick his hand, and let the liquid music spill onto his lips, over his chin, down his neck.
He missed his accordion dearly.
His hair had now grown to a downy brushcut. The caribou hunter’s son stood before an old oak desk so mountainous he could barely see over its top. Beside this desk stood a Christmas tree, and behind it sat Father Lafleur, peering over his reading glasses at the tiny lad who stood at stiff attention, like a drummer boy.
“Yes?”
“Yes.” The second English word Champion-Jeremiah had learned. After “no” and then “yes,” he had learned about twenty others. He paused to see if the priest’s furry eyebrows would curve upward. They didn’t. But he was not going to shy away from attempting, for the first time, in public, a complete sentence in English, curving eyebrows or no.
“Play piano?” The two words popped out of the nervous crusader’s mouth like the chirping of a newly hatched bird. Champion-Jeremiah cursed himself for not sounding moreimpressive, more stentorian. But then the holy eyebrows formed two crescents, furry caterpillars arching for a meal over the edge of some green birch leaf.
“Ah, you can play the piano,” said Father Lafleur to Champion-Jeremiah, doubtful but taking his time with the terrified child.
Aha! he was about to exclaim with a hearty slap to his desk. The organ! The organ at Father Bouchard’s church, of course!
But Champion-Jeremiah’s chirp beat him to the punch.
“No! Wan play piano!”
“Ah, you
want
to learn to play the piano.” The principal treated every second word as if it were a stepping stone to a sacred shrine.
Thrilled that he had finally gotten through to the man, Champion-Jeremiah nodded, almost violently.
“Hmm-hmm,” purred the priest, for he seemed to find the boy’s vociferous nodding entertaining.
Champion-Jeremiah knew he was about to be tested. He knew the answer to his prayer wasn’t going to fall from the sky. He knew he was going to have to work for it when he saw the principal’s lips virtually disappear into one small, hair-thin slit.
“Do you make any other kind of music?” Leaning forward, Father Lafleur tapped his pen on the desk. Such gestures made Champion-Jeremiah nervous — besides, he didn’t understand the question.
“Music,” the man in black boomed, elongating the vowels as if they were some tragic dirge. “Do you make any otherkind of music?” as if the seven-year-old would understand better if he shouted.
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