Akiwenzi-Damm - The Stone Collection

2015 Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm

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HighWater Press is an imprint of Portage & Main Press.

Printed and bound in Canada by Friesens

Design by Mike Carroll

LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

Akiwenzie-Damm, Kateri, 1965-, author

The stone collection / Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm.

Short stories.

ISBN 978-1-55379-549-0 (paperback)

I. Title.

PS8557.A495S76 2015 C813.54 C2015-905704-3

Also issued in electronic format: ISBN 978-1-55379-870-5 (ePUB)

ISBN 978-1-55379-871-2 (MOBI)

ISBN 978-1-55379-869-9 (PDF)

22 21 20 19 2 3 4 5 6

The Debwe Series features exceptional Indigenous writing from across Canada.

Series Editor: Niigaanwewidam James Sinclair, PhD

Titles in this series:

A Blanket of Butterflies, by Richard Van Camp

Fire Starters, by Jen Storm

The Gift is in the Making: Anishinaabeg Stories, by Leanne Betasamosake Simpson

Indigenous Writes: A Guide to First Nations, Mtis & Inuit Issues in Canada, by Chelsea Vowel

Manitowapow: Aboriginal Writings from the Land of Water, ed. Niigaanwewidam James Sinclair and Warren Cariou

Surviving the City, by Tasha Spillett

Three Feathers, by Richard Van Camp

www.highwaterpress.com

Winnipeg, Manitoba

Treaty 1 Territory and homeland of the Mtis Nation

For my beautiful sons Kegedonce and Gaadoohn. I love you every minute of every day, all the time, no matter what.

For my boy Theo and for Teddy and all Indigenous babies and children hurt while in the care of Child and Family Services.

For Michael Akiwenzie and all of the other children who entered the Indian Residential School system and never made it home again.

For all of the missing and murdered Indigenous women in Canada.

We remember.

stone song

like stones are alive

like stones dream stillness

like stones are alive

like stones hold energy

like stones are alive

like stones store history

like stones are alive

like stones hold story

like stones are alive

like stones dream winter

like stones are alive

like stones are alive

like stones are alive

you are the earth in winter

CONTENTS

YOU RIDE BIKES PAST THE LUMBER MILL TO A SHELTERED BEACH. Leaving your bikes you walk, finding a large piece of driftwood to shelter you from the wind. The wind is steady. Riding there she pointed out spots of interest, spinning small webs of understanding for you. You watched intently. Sometimes you just watched her, concentrating so seriously on her that you lost track of what she was saying. She is one of those people whose movements speak very strongly, very clearly even when you arent yet capable of fully understanding. So without forethought your mind locks on what she is doing, the way the muscles in her legs propel the bicycle forward, the way her hands grip the handlebars, the way her lips form each word, the way she exerts a steady, silent presence in the pauses. Her words slip past you sometimes, taken whizzing past your ears by the wind. And somehow its okay. Its okay even though what you do hear knocks you on the skull.

As you rode your leg muscles began to twitch and your breath began to grow ragged around the edges. Then you noticed with some embarrassment that she continued to talk evenly, peddling with an easy rhythm despite the many more years she has weathered. You secretly blamed the wind, the borrowed bicycle, your fear of testing the gears, but you continued watching, listening, and propelling the bicycle with your legs. You continued to concentrate on her and began to suspect that there is some other form of communication occurring between you. Some form of communication that you are only vaguely aware of and that you have never experienced before.

Now in front of the driftwood you sit and talk. You pick at rocks and shells. Examining them, replacing most, pocketing a couple. One that is typical of the rest, that will remind you of the place, the people, the talk. One that is special, that will remind you of the beauty you found hidden in certain people, places, words. Then you stretch out on your side, listening, soaking in the place, her presence, still looking at bits of the shore as she tells you some small fragments of what she knows. And the stones are like stories piling on the shore of memory.

The lumber mill has ripped the face off the hill.

The people allow it in exchange for money and, in the past, a few jobs, she tells you.

But the jobs, like eroding pieces of the hill, are gone now. Still the money allows them to keep the land, thats what they say. The land that is slowly falling into the sea.

Easy for you, you have good-paying jobs, they say. And there is no easy response. So the hill is sacrificed bit by bit for now in the hopes the people will have a future. Easy for the lumber mill. Difficult for everyone else.

You rise together and walk. The shore, as far as you can see, is covered in stones. You imagine each one is a story she has told to other listeners on other bike rides, other walks. Then stopping, stooping, you scoop up a handful of stones, pebbles, shells. As you let them sift through your fingers, you notice one, a little different from the rest. You notice its texture, imagining the layers of silt that have combined with incredible forces of energy to form this solid piece of earth. You notice how the movement of the waves has worn the rough edges smooth, how the stone is solid in your hand and soft against your skin. Clutching it in your palm, you feel its energy pulsing into your flesh, and it becomes part of your memory, your mind memory, skin memory, muscle memory.

You skip along the stones knowing without looking that she is just ahead of you and to the left, waiting. She jumps onto a rock to scan below the surface while you catch up. Just as you reach her you stop and dip your hand into a little pool along the shore. Is it cold? You wiggle your fingers then look up. Yeah. But not enough to make your bones ache. You add that last bit with just a hint of bravado. Wouldnt want to go for a swim though. You both smile.