The following story is part a new feature, a fictional work by our columnist Wayne Weedon, The Journal. Wayne is a brilliant writer whose style consists of simple declarative statements that stick in your mind as he leads you through an intricate web of circumstances to reach the lesson he set out to teach.
By Wayne Weedon
Pregnant and deserted by her lover, a young girl moves in with her grandfather. When the baby boy is born, the grandfather agrees to look after him so his granddaughter may go to work. Despite the age difference, the relationship between the boy and his great-grandfather was more like two siblings than that of an adult and child. As this boy grew into a young man, he loved to look back and tell stories about his great-grandfather, whom he always called “Pops”.
Hank, a former Blood Indian from Alberta, gave Pops a handwritten journal. Pops gave it to his great-grandson, asking him to read it. It became a lesson in history.
May 16, 1947
As I was quietly sitting in the shadows watching her, the sun started to rise and as the sun grew higher on the horizon it flooded the kitchen with light from the window. The sun’s glare prevented me from seeing her clearly. The sun appeared as a halo as it silhouetted her face and head. Her appearance was that of a sun god. She was sitting upon a straight-backed wooden chair, and she was leaning over the square maple table where I usually eat my meals. Her arms and elbows rested on the table with her hands together and her fingers intertwined as if she was in deep thought or possibly prayer. She rested with her eyes softly closed. She never stirred while the sun started to send its rays through the window and onto the opposite wall. When the full daylight came over the room, she opened her eyes, unclasped her hands, and quietly reached for the string on the green roller blind. She drew the blind down to shield her face, but the rays still highlighted her arms and hands. It was hard to make out her facial features because of the shadow from the blind.
With her right hand, she reached across the table. From a bowl, she lightly picked up a ripe avocado. With a slight smile on her lips that indicated delight, she brought the avocado up to her face. As she lightly rested the fruit on her cheek, she softly caressed her face with it. Certain cultures refer to this fruit as a bull’s testicle. By the shape and the texture of the skin, one could easily understand why they would give the avocado this moniker. She, however, always referred to the avocado as butter from a tree, as many Indians do.
She continued to caress the round ripe object against her skin. She drew it up to her nostrils so she could sniff at it. She ran her tongue over the rough skin of the fruit as if she was making love to it. Smilingly, she placed the avocado onto a plate just in front of her bosom. She held the fruit with the stem side up, and gently slipping a knife into its skin, she pushed the knife down until it hit the stone and then she turned the fruit up and around so that she sliced it in half. Turning the avocado one quarter turn, she repeated her actions so that she now had sliced the fruit into quarters. Picking the fruit up with both hands, she gave it a sharp jerk to break the meat from the stone. She then turned it a quarter turn and repeated this action. She pulled outwards and ended up with four separate pieces on the plate with the stone still attached to one segment. Grabbing the stone with her fingernails and the segment that it was attached to with her other hand, she gave a sharp twist and the stone popped away from the meat.
She stretched out her hand slightly and gazed at the stone, which still had bits of the fruit clinging to it. She moved the pit to her mouth and slowly, deliberately sucked on it while rotating the stone until she had scraped each part of it with her teeth and sucked it clean. For some reason I found her actions to be very sexual. I imagined the stone to be a man’s body part. Even though, I believe, she was past her childbearing years, she still had a sexual effect on men. Her movements were provocative, and many men find her charms irresistible. I now felt a little stirring in my crotch and found my breathing to be somewhat laboured. I ran my eyes over the silhouette of her body from top to bottom. Even though I was certain she was past menopause, she still had the soft curves on her hips along with the rounded buttocks of a virginal bride.
She removed the object of her delight from her sensual lips and placed it upon the plate. She then picked up the four avocado segments, one at a time. She proceeded to peal the skin from each one. She placed the skins to the side of the plate, close to the stone. The bare segments she placed side by side on the opposite side of the plate. She now began inserting her fingers into her mouth, one at a time. She sucked each finger slowly and deliberately until she had licked every one of them clean, but each one was still shimmering with wetness. I imagined that these fingers were hot and delightful. Finally, she picked up a napkin and wiped her fingers and then she wiped her mouth slowly and sensually. I longed to jump up and take her. I was mesmerised. Was she aware I was in the shadows watching her performance? My answer soon came.
She now, with a fork, picked up a segment of the fruit, which she laid across a piece of dry toasted bread. Using the back of the fork, she mashed the fruit onto the toast. When she was satisfied that she had spread the meat evenly and to her satisfaction, she slowly raised the toast to her parted lips and deliberately bit off a very small bite. She chewed, with her mouth closed, slowly and lovingly as if she wanted to savour every particle. After several bites, with a look of shear enjoyment and satisfaction on her face, she, very softly and slowly, said something. I could not make out what she was saying. I sat mute and unable to move. She repeated her words a little louder. I thought she said something about, “unt and lather”. I wondered what she was trying to say. I silently watched her as she slowly turned and, while smiling ever so slightly, she looked at me, indicating that she knew I was there.
“Hunters and gatherers.” She repeated in a very distinct manner.
At first, I said nothing. I was still hypnotised by her performance. Finally, with a jolt, I recovered. “Pardon me?”
“Hunters and gatherers. That is what these barbarians have called us.” She must have recognised the puzzled look on my face since she carried on with her soliloquy. Holding up a whole avocado she asked, “Where do they think this came from?” Seeing that I was not about to answer her, she went on, “I can tell you that it just didn’t pop up out of the jungle.” She held the fruit forward to silhouette it in the morning light. “This was cultivated over hundreds of years by the world’s most advanced civilisation. The ancestral people of the Americas developed it. It was developed by your forefathers.” She pointed the fruit towards me.
I know very little about my ancestors. Least of all I don’t have any idea who my ancestors were. I know that I am of mixed race. But am I more barbarian than civilised? Who were my civilised and my barbarous ancestors?
She decided to carry on, “When London, England, which was said to be the largest city in the world, had a population of 35,000 citizens or less; in the Americas, there existed cities exceeding 200,000 people. In addition, these cities were marvels of sanitation, having running water and sewers. At this time, at least eighty percent of the population of Europe were homeless while in the Americas virtually every person had some form of roof over their head. Most had more than one dwelling since temporary housing was necessary. Seasonal migration between the north and the south was normal for much of the population.” At this point, she gave a slight snicker, “It appears that we have come full circle. Many Canadians venture south for the winters just like our ancestors. But our ancestors were referred to as nomadic people while modern Canadians are referred to as having a winter residence.”
Because of the bright sun behind her, I could not make out the expression on her face. But I knew that as long as I remained silent, she would continue as she usually did. “I visited one of the last remaining cities built by the original peoples. I visited Machu Picchu, which even today, to the barbarians is an engineering marvel. They admit that they could not duplicate this city. How did our people build these terraces so that there would be intricate drainage systems that allow the torrential rains to percolate through the terraces while holding back enough water for the benefit of the plants, but not allowing erosion of any of the terraces? The barbarians who came to butcher and conquer could not duplicate this city even with the knowledge that they have stolen from as many civilisations as they have conquered. Their philosophy is, Might is Right. They come, they take the very best, and they destroy the rest.”
She remained silent for a long period. I sat motionless so that I would not disrupt the electrical feeling in the air. My objective was to learn as much as I could from this woman and I was adamant that I would learn, even if it meant sitting in silence until she revealed her secrets in her own good time.
Who am I? Was I not descended from these “Barbarians”, as she so justifiably called them? It is true that I am descended from the original American people, but it is also true that these barbarous conquerors have corrupted my blood. Then again, she is a half-breed, just as I am.
Eventually she found her voice once more, “I talked to a psychiatrist once.” Silently, I leaned forward so as not to miss a single word. I knew that if I spoke, even to acknowledge what she said or to ask her to repeat what I did not hear or understand, the spell would be broken, and she would indicate that the session was over. “This psychiatrist had spent four years in a Nazi concentration camp. But he survived. He learned how to survive. He wrote a book about his experiences.” She paused as if in a reverie but soon continued. “He stated that he was happy that he went through this ordeal. It made him a better person and a better psychiatrist. He quoted Sir William Osler. ‘If you haven’t gone through it, you don’t know’. This psychiatrist often quoted this line because he went through it. He understood.”
She leaned back silently putting her hands behind her head while she calmly stated, “I was a barbarian once.” This was it. She was about to tell me the secret that we could not talk about. This was the reason our people were butchered, tortured, and sometimes lobotomised. She was about to talk about it. I knew about this secret. I knew the tribe did not allow anyone to talk about it outside of the closed, exclusive circle, and I knew very little about it. She was about to take me into this circle. I felt that she was accepting me. I felt sheer joy. I knew I would never be the same after this day. What was she going to tell me? I silently waited.
“You are privileged to inherit the world you have created. But remember that you are also condemned to inherit the world you have created.”
Was this a paradox? Was she talking in riddles? I could not understand it. Forgetting myself, I started to speak. The spell was broken. She jumped up and almost shouted, “I have things to do,” as she left the room.
I wanted to kick myself. What do I have to do to become intimate with this woman and why does she have such a hold on me? Is it animal desire or is it because it’s a challenge? Would I still feel the same if we ever consummate our relationship?
Next Month: The Journal Continued.
Wayne Douglas Weedon is a Manitoba author who writes a combination of fictional and factual stories, essays, and novels.
