Read Online Runaway Dreams by Richard Wagamese - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard Wagamese
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frickinâ taxes and they still
whine about what they lost. But they can drink our liquor,
screw our women, claim our rightful property, sue our
government for cash they donât try to earn in any kind of
respectful way and then they go and tell the world how bad
theyâre done by here. He stands up and holds a hand over
his heart and belts out a line or two in a big bass voice.
âO Canada,â he sings. âYour homeâs on native land.â Everyone
laughs like hell, even the waitress who drops him a free
one.
When he sits back down thereâs big, hearty, manly slaps on
the back and shoulders and he basks in it, swallows half his
beer and grins like a silly kid who farted at the table. You can
always tell an Indian, he says, pauses and looks everybody in
the eye, holds the moment, savours it, then says, canât tell âem
much . . . and laughter rocks the place again. He flicks his
watch up to his face, and drains off his beer and stands to
hitch his pants and straighten his suit. âBeen fun but I gotta
work,â he says and turns to leave. âWhere you workinâ anyway?â
someone asks. He turns at the door and levels a grin at
everyone. âIndian Affairs,â he says and his belly laugh follows
him out into the world.
Medicine Wheel
Â
Â
Â
I
When you come to stand upon the land thereâs a sense in you
that youâve seen it all before. Not in any empirical way. Not
in any western sense of recognition but in the way it comes
to feel upon your skin, the way it floods you with recollection.
Standing here beside this tiny creek in the mountains you
suddenly remember how it felt to catch minnows in a jar.
The goggle-eyed sense of wonder at those silvered, wriggling
beams of light darting between stones and the feel of the
water on your arms, cool and slick as the surface of dreams.
You lived your life for the sudden flare of sunlight when
you broke from the bush back then and the land beckoned
through your bedroom window so that sometimes when the
house was dark and quiet you stood there just to hear the call
of it spoken in a language that you didnât know but that filled
you nonetheless with something youâve grown to recognize
as hope. So that you came to approach the land like an old
familiar hymn, quietly, respectfully, each step a measure, each
breath a softly exhaled note. That creek ran out of farmland
and wound its way to the reservoir behind an old mill, the
voice of it a chuckle, its edges dappled by the shadows of old
elms and its light like the dancing bluish-green eyes of the
girl on the bus you could never find a way to say a word to. So
you lay across a long flat stone to dip a mason jar elbows deep
and hung there, suspended in your boyhood, while minnows
nibbled at your fingertips and the breeze brought moss and
ferns and rot and scent of cows and flowers to you and you let
that arm dangle until the feeling went away then raised it with
minnows frantic in the sudden absence of their world. Oh,
you couldnât keep them. Couldnât carry them home like a
carnival prize, give them names or place them in a bowl upon
your desk. No, something in you understood even as a boy of
twelve that some things ache to be free and the charm of
them resides in their ability to be that freedom. So you let
them go. Let them swim away. But when you rose you carried
something of that creek, that cold against your arms, the
sun-warmed stone against your belly, the breeze, the light and
the idea of minnows, away with you forever. So that standing
here at fifty-five on the edge of another laughing creek youâre
returned to that place, and youâre surprised to find it here
like the feeling of opening your eyes after sleep and finding
home all around you once again. Itâs a journey, this life.
A crossing of creeks on stepping stones where so much comes
to depend on maintaining
whine about what they lost. But they can drink our liquor,
screw our women, claim our rightful property, sue our
government for cash they donât try to earn in any kind of
respectful way and then they go and tell the world how bad
theyâre done by here. He stands up and holds a hand over
his heart and belts out a line or two in a big bass voice.
âO Canada,â he sings. âYour homeâs on native land.â Everyone
laughs like hell, even the waitress who drops him a free
one.
When he sits back down thereâs big, hearty, manly slaps on
the back and shoulders and he basks in it, swallows half his
beer and grins like a silly kid who farted at the table. You can
always tell an Indian, he says, pauses and looks everybody in
the eye, holds the moment, savours it, then says, canât tell âem
much . . . and laughter rocks the place again. He flicks his
watch up to his face, and drains off his beer and stands to
hitch his pants and straighten his suit. âBeen fun but I gotta
work,â he says and turns to leave. âWhere you workinâ anyway?â
someone asks. He turns at the door and levels a grin at
everyone. âIndian Affairs,â he says and his belly laugh follows
him out into the world.
Medicine Wheel
Â
Â
Â
I
When you come to stand upon the land thereâs a sense in you
that youâve seen it all before. Not in any empirical way. Not
in any western sense of recognition but in the way it comes
to feel upon your skin, the way it floods you with recollection.
Standing here beside this tiny creek in the mountains you
suddenly remember how it felt to catch minnows in a jar.
The goggle-eyed sense of wonder at those silvered, wriggling
beams of light darting between stones and the feel of the
water on your arms, cool and slick as the surface of dreams.
You lived your life for the sudden flare of sunlight when
you broke from the bush back then and the land beckoned
through your bedroom window so that sometimes when the
house was dark and quiet you stood there just to hear the call
of it spoken in a language that you didnât know but that filled
you nonetheless with something youâve grown to recognize
as hope. So that you came to approach the land like an old
familiar hymn, quietly, respectfully, each step a measure, each
breath a softly exhaled note. That creek ran out of farmland
and wound its way to the reservoir behind an old mill, the
voice of it a chuckle, its edges dappled by the shadows of old
elms and its light like the dancing bluish-green eyes of the
girl on the bus you could never find a way to say a word to. So
you lay across a long flat stone to dip a mason jar elbows deep
and hung there, suspended in your boyhood, while minnows
nibbled at your fingertips and the breeze brought moss and
ferns and rot and scent of cows and flowers to you and you let
that arm dangle until the feeling went away then raised it with
minnows frantic in the sudden absence of their world. Oh,
you couldnât keep them. Couldnât carry them home like a
carnival prize, give them names or place them in a bowl upon
your desk. No, something in you understood even as a boy of
twelve that some things ache to be free and the charm of
them resides in their ability to be that freedom. So you let
them go. Let them swim away. But when you rose you carried
something of that creek, that cold against your arms, the
sun-warmed stone against your belly, the breeze, the light and
the idea of minnows, away with you forever. So that standing
here at fifty-five on the edge of another laughing creek youâre
returned to that place, and youâre surprised to find it here
like the feeling of opening your eyes after sleep and finding
home all around you once again. Itâs a journey, this life.
A crossing of creeks on stepping stones where so much comes
to depend on maintaining
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