Kathy Little Bird Read Free

we don’t have to cut ourselves.”
    “So let’s do it. My shadow is right here, stretched out on the pavement.”
    “Don’t move!” In three hops I was beside him; hopping gave it more emphasis, more importance. “Watch this!” With a final leap I landed almost on top of him and our shadows merged. “Now SING!”
    In the blood, blood, blood,
    We are one, one, one!
    “That isn’t Indian,” he objected, recognizing it.
    “I haven’t finished.” I closed my eyes. “I call on the spiritof all things, flowers, plants, animals, mountains, and waters to witness.” I peered through my lashes and lo and behold—a spinning world of dazzling colors, its brightness so intense it blinded me.
    I seized Abram’s arm. “Look at the sun with your eyes closed.”
    “Make up your mind, do I close my eyes or look at the sun?”
    “Both. Quick, while the magic is jiggling around. Do you see it? A bright wheel of pure light and splashes of color. Do you, Abram?”
    “Praise the Lord,” he said.
    The rapture increased and the brightness. The Great Manitou by this token acknowledged our two shadows as one. I began to dance, and Abram, throwing his arms wide, started singing psalms.
    A deep, resonant strain of music flowed from the magic wheel, overpowering his voice. It was a second before I realized it came from the church.
    The peal of the organ and the thunder of the choir reached us through the open window. I knew the routine by heart. The congregation knelt for the prayers and stood for the blessing. They were standing now.
    Worship service was over and the girls were lining up on their side of the chapel. I stood straight and prepared to sing. Nothing could compare with singing, not even Abram, or trading shadows, or the scooter I saw in the hardware store window. Sounds came together in my head, wonderful, soaring, pulling me out of myself. The sound was often thereeven when I was quiet, and then I just listened to it. But it was best when I threw back my head and let the melody into the world, carrying me with it.
    In the hour of pain and anguish,
    In the hour when death is near,
    Suffer not my soul to languish,
    Suffer not my soul to fear.
    I am washed in the blood,
    I am saved, saved, saved.
    I lived for this hour of choir practice twice weekly. It didn’t matter to me that I stood outside. The only thing that mattered was the music.

Chapter Two
    T IME collided, years of it, and the spring I was fifteen Mum wasn’t well. The chores I had assisted at were now mainly my responsibility. Home schooling was pretty much a thing of the past, although we made a pretense of it. Mum still went over the papers I wrote, correcting spelling and punctuation. She claimed I was a wild speller. I put in all the letters, but not always in the right order. I was better at mathematics, but Mum was a whiz. She had been at the top of her class in nursing school. While she told me stories of the hospital, my hands were busy with mason jars, paraffin tops, and the wide rubber ring that went around the rims.
    Sometimes it was fun. I liked straining blackberries though muslin. Once they were sugared, the boys couldn’t wait for it to turn into preserves, but pestered me for a taste.
    Jason at thirteen took after Mum; he always asked if he could have some. Morrie didn’t ask, he took. If he was caught, he lied. If the lie was found out, he sulked.
    Morrie was a Jellet. He got his handsome Cree looks from Mum, but he was mostly Jellet. He had some good traits, though. When he took things from the larder, he always shared with Jason. And when I was at my wits’ end what to do about him, he’d bring me presents of stuff he’d pinched.
    My work didn’t end with straining blackberries. There was the wash to do and meals to help with. The wash was done on a waffle scrub board with lumps of homemade carbolic soap. The boys tended the goat and pulled weeds in the vegetable garden. Jellet slept all day and after supper went off to the pub. He