The Search for Joyful Read Free

Mamanowatum.”
    â€œWho’s that?”
    â€œYour mother, Oh-Be-Joyful. Mamanowatum is the way it’s said in Cree. Sarah, the woman I live with, knew her, she knew Jonathan, she knew about you being born . . . and she knew what would happen.”
    â€œHow? By divination? By magic?”
    Elk Girl said complacently, “She looks into smoke and it shows her things.”
    â€œWhat things?” I couldn’t help asking.
    â€œHerself.”
    I frowned over the answer.
    â€œYou have to know yourself first, before you can know anything else; that just stands to reason. By the way, how do you get on with your pawakam?”
    â€œMy what?”
    â€œYour wolf tail.”
    â€œI still have it, if that’s what you mean.”
    She seemed pleased with this answer. “You make a good split.” She carried her sundae to one of the tables and proceeded to eat with obvious relish, making sure to get every bit.
    â€œThere ought to be a law,” one of the girls from school whispered in a voice meant to carry, “no ice cream for You-know-who above the fiftieth parallel.”
    This raised a laugh from her friends, but Elk Girl did not choose to hear. She had not come for ice cream. I knew enough about magic from my brother to know that. Georges was fascinated by things that appeared to be one thing and were in fact quite different. “The science of misdirection,” he called it. Elk Girl had come because of the pawakam.
    ELK GIRL WAS my only link with my Indian self. My only link to Oh-Be-Joyful’s Daughter. She seemed to know a lot about me. I knew nothing about her, not even where she lived, except it was with a wind shifter called Sarah. Elk Girl had always been aloof, distant, and unknowable, like my Indian heritage. I decided to make her a friendship bracelet. I’d made one for Connie’s birthday. It involved a lot of rummaging—tiny glass beads, seed pearls from a pair of outworn gloves, covered buttons from a torn jacket, segments of a broken watch band, strung together. I was still thinking about the possibilities of a second bracelet as I walked home from school. I wondered if I could find enough items.
    Because I lived farther out than most of the kids I generally walked home alone. I turned at the sound of my name.
    â€œKathy!” It was Phil Dunway on his bike. Phil Dunway was the boy at school that I liked. I’d liked him since fifth grade when he stood up for me on the playground. He was a senior now, and after graduation I wouldn’t see him again.
    Phil caught up to me, got off and walked his bicycle. “Kathy,” he said again, “I’m going your way.”
    I was surprised at his friendliness. At school we didn’t speak. “Fine,” I said. Neither of us could think of anything further to say, then we spoke at once. I laughed and took a breath. “Are you visiting someone?” I asked, because he’d never taken this route before.
    â€œNo.” There was a short pause. “I just thought maybe you wouldn’t mind.”
    Was he saying that he took this path deliberately to walk me home? My heart raced with excitement. He liked me. Phil Dunway, the cutest boy in school, liked me.
    The pause between us lengthened, and I searched for something interesting to say, but could only come up with, “Lucky you, you’ll be graduating in a couple of months.”
    â€œYeah.” He smiled but had nothing to add.
    â€œSo, do you have something lined up? A summer job?”
    â€œMy dad wants me to go into the contracting business with him, but things are pretty slow just now.”
    â€œYou ought to think about being a Mountie. If I was a man that’s what I’d be.”
    â€œI’m glad you’re not.”
    â€œWhat? A Mountie?”
    â€œA man.” And he took one hand from the handle of his bike and laid it over mine. The wheel immediately turned, bringing us to an abrupt