Chapter One

I’m Comin’ Over To Mow The Lawn

 

 

        We just happened to time our arrival in Fort St. James the day after a shooting in the community, so tensions were running high.  I hadn’t really taken Mike’s career too seriously.  Being a Mountie is serious business but that was his job.  I’ve worried a few nights but remind myself that he is a big boy and can take care of himself.  There are moments every now and then when the gravity of his position has crossed my mind but I guess that’s only natural.

 

        Standing inside the RCMP detachment I looked around and tried to be interested in what the members were saying.  We went through the introductions and small talk but honestly, I was simply trying to catch my breath.  Every sense I had was screaming to flee before the sun went down.  It wasn’t the remoteness or the isolation within a community that had me looking for a quick exit.  I was overwhelmed by the move, concerned about my lack of a job, anxious about the prospects of fitting into a new place, and needed time to sort it all out.  A few of the other members suggested we all get something to eat, so Mike and I followed them out.

 

I’ve never been overly comfortable in the company of police yet there I sat with four of them and Tim’s wife, Cat, eating breakfast in the only decent restaurant that Fort St. James had to offer.  While the guys talked shop, or regaled their past accounts of “The Wild West”, Mike was getting his induction.  We had both heard horror stories regarding isolated postings in the north but had decided to keep an open mind about what the next two years would hold in store. 

 

Aside from my nagging apprehensions, I was looking forward to experiencing all the great outdoor activities and working on expanding my photographic portfolio.  Northern lights were a big draw for me.  Down south I had managed to capture comets, planetary alignments, and auroras on film and was eager to see and shoot the spectacular night scenes that awaited me from my new back yard.  I was trying desperately to lose myself in my escape fantasy while Mike was doing his level best to get a handle on the community and learn what concerns the villagers had as far as policing was concerned.  As you can see, we had two very different agendas.    

 

Cat tried to confine her one and a half year old daughter to the highchair and I contemplated my fate: I was quitting a good paying job that I loved and leaving friends and family behind.  Feeling quite safe with Mike at my side I was, however, still somewhat uneasy about moving onto a reserve.  The fact that I am a non-native married to a native police officer had never been an issue before but we weren’t in an all-native community: now we were.  It appeared that being inconspicuous was my best bet but that was nearly impossible to achieve while seated with three uniformed RCMP members.    

 

About then a native gentleman approached the table and with a toothless smile he asked, “when does the new Mountie come in?”

 

“I just arrived.”  Mike smiled and shook his hand.  “My name’s Mike Moyer.”

 

“I’m Joseph.”  He smiled at me then asked, “Is she your wife?”

 

“I’m Brenda.”  I took his hand and was instantly at ease.  He had a calming effect on me.  His face was reminiscent of an apple that had been left out in the sun for too long and had become overly wrinkled.  There was wisdom in his dark brown eyes as though he understood what I was feeling. 

 

He nodded slightly then flashed a heartfelt smile.  “I’m comin’ over to mow the lawn.”  With a wink he left as quietly as he arrived.  I sat somewhat bewildered but grateful for the interruption in my train of thought.  I hate moving with a passion and the prospect of unpacking did not please me.

 

I’d never been a minority before.  The feeling was unfamiliar, almost foreign.  I was still in Canada, wasn’t I?  If there had been a border between Tachie and the rest of the province one would think I would’ve noticed a sign or something on the drive in.  Still, looking around I had the distinct impression that British Columbia and this place were not on the same map. 

 

Two years didn’t sound like a long time when Mike and I talked about the transfer to Tachie, which is northwest of Fort St. James, on the shores of Stuart Lake.  One good look around told you of long winters, a short growing season, and brief but beautiful fall colours.  Mike was talking to me as we drove up to the house but I truly can’t recall what he was saying.

 

The moving truck was there when we pulled in and the fun began immediately.  For hours the movers paraded into the house with boxes and furniture while we scrambled to decide how to distribute the material.  In my mind-at that moment-it’s only wood or glass, plastic or painting, and can be thrown out in the trash.  You must keep in mind how deep my loathing of moving is.  I’ve never taken change well, on any level, and moving everything I own and am did nothing for my psyche.  All I really wanted was a pen and some paper and to go off to write in a corner: therapy via scratch pad.

 

It was summer and, because the door was constantly open, the mosquitoes and black flies were having a field day buzzing through the house and irritating everyone.  I was about at the end of my rope when there was a soft knock on the open door.  As I was trapped in the kitchen due to an overwhelming amount of boxes, Mike went to the door.  Some very thoughtful neighbours had come by with iced tea, smoked moose meat, and bread for us.  Knowing that we wouldn’t have time to cook lunch or even be able to find a pot they had put a few things together and brought them by. 

 

When Mike returned to the kitchen and showed me their offerings I was moved.  I moved right over the boxes and poured a drink from the jug.  Never had iced tea tasted so sweet.  For a few moments I forgot that the bugs were biting.  I forgot that there were mountains of boxes still waiting to be put away.  I forgot that I was miles from home.  Then I forgot to chew and almost choked on a piece of jerky.        

 

From the front yard came the sound of a gas powered weed-whacker.  Looking out the kitchen window I saw Joseph tending to the lawn and smiled to him.  Mike went out and thanked him while I returned to the joys of silverware with no trays, pots with no signs of lids, and china without a cabinet.  The back-up music provided by Joseph and his traveling mower serenaded us for nearly an hour.

 

Eventually, driven by the frustration of unpacking, I snuck outside for a smoke.  As I sucked sanity back into my lungs the music stopped and Joseph walked over to me with that same heartfelt smile.  “How’s the house?”

 

“Good, thanks.  You know how moving is,” I took another drag, “a whole bunch of marked boxes but you can’t find a thing.”  Trying to stop myself rambling I began again.  “Thanks for mowing the lawn.”  I smiled at the one large bush of wild flowers he’d left standing like an accent piece in his thoughtful work of art.

 

“Have you heard any noises yet?”

 

“Noises?”  I wondered what he meant but didn’t want to appear too naive, at least not so soon.

 

“Yeah,” he leaned against his now silent weed machine.  “The last Mountie who lived here said there were noises: bumps and bangs.  Even doors opened and closed all by themselves.”

 

Taking a long, deep pull off my cigarette I collected myself.  “Are there ghosts?  You mean this house is haunted?”

 

He crinkled his face and with a sombre expression he continued, “there’s spirits in there.”

 

Not really knowing what to make of the situation I played along.  “Good.  That means I’ll have someone to talk to.  I might get lonely so that’ll work out just fine.”  We both smiled-he for the lack of fear I showed for noisy ghosts and me for the promise of company.

 

“What was that about ghosts?”  Mike came out onto the deck and stood behind me.

 

“The house makes noises.  There’s spirits in there.”

 

Mike, who is very spiritual, immediately adopted a serious tone: “Are they good spirits or bad?”  We both waited for his response.

 

“Dunno,” he shrugged.

 

“Well maybe you and some of the Elders should come over to do a smudging.”  I could tell Mike was not comfortable with the thought of ghosts in the house.  “That way we can cleanse the place and they can go on.”

 

With a mischievous grin Joseph pointed at me, “she wants to talk to them first.”