SEASONS OF A RIVER
by
Felicity Louise Edzerza
B.A. University of Northern British Columbia, 2019

THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF
THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF
MASTER OF ARTS
IN
ENGLISH

UNIVERSITY OF NORTHERN BRITISH COLUMBIA
January 2020
©Felicity Edzerza, 2020

Abstract
Seasons of a River is a fictional story about a woman looking back on her life. In her
recollections she has to acknowledge and come to terms with the fact that her relationships with
indigenous people in Canada have been inequitable and unbalanced. She realizes that she has
been in the role of helper, of ally, and as such has perpetuated ideas of colonization and
oppression, despite her good intentions. The protagonist, Annan, is in the process of trying to
understand the complicated issues involved with the helping industry and her part within that
industry. My introduction discusses the power differentials within allyship relations. I discuss
how liberalism, at the root of the helping industry, although seen as a positive ideology, often
perpetuates inequities and injustices when dealing with groups that are seen as “different.” I also
discuss the importance of relationship building and listening and the need for quelling the
tendency to assist others without consultation. This introduction and story also contain themes of
ageism and how these attitudes are woven into the fabric of society in such a way as to
internalize oppression and the idea of staying in one’s “place.” Ultimately, this story is about
transformation.

Table of Contents

ii

Abstract

ii

Table of Contents

iii

Acknowledgement

v

Dedication

vi

Introduction

1

Chapter One

18

Chapter Two

22

Chapter Three

24

Chapter Four

29

Chapter Five

33

Chapter Six

42

Chapter Seven

48

Chapter Eight

61

Chapter Nine

65

Chapter Ten

70

Chapter Eleven

76

Chapter Twelve

79

Chapter Thirteen

87

Chapter Fourteen

92

Chapter Fifteen

95

Chapter Sixteen

98

Chapter Seventeen

106

iii

Chapter Eighteen

108

Chapter Nineteen

112

Chapter Twenty

117

Bibliography

120

iv

Acknowledgement
Thank you to my husband, Ken Edzerza, for rescuing me from the breach of ignorance and
naiveté. Your stories about what it means to be an indigenous person growing up and living in
what is now called Canada have inspired and disturbed me. It is because of you that I was able to
write this novel. The way that you have and continue to thrive in a place where the colour of
your skin is a major disadvantage provides a constant motivation to me to learn and understand
more about the place I now call home and the people who were displaced in order for me to do
so. Thank you for encouraging me to believe in myself and to go back to school to continue on
my journey of discovery. Thank you also for your composure during my outbursts while I
wrestled with this story.
Thank you to Dr Dee Horne, without whose critiquing, encouragement and support this novel
would never have come to fruition. Your ability to reframe my stories with your eye on the
academic underpinnings was and remains such an important part of this journey. I will be forever
grateful for your guidance on the path to becoming a writer.
Thank you to Dr Kristen Guest for your support, for tweaking my interest in liberalism, for
instilling in me the desire to understand my Victorian ancestors and for teaching me the
difference between a house cat and an alley cat. Thank you also for taking the time to read my
story and sit on my committee.
Thank you to Dr Indrani Margolin for taking the time to read my story and sit on my committee.
Thanks to my four children for loving me and for being the strong, functional, enduring adults
that you have become.
Thank you to my Tlingit and Tahltan family for their acceptance and for teaching me how to
fish.
Thank you to the young people of the Carrier, Wet’suwet’en, Chilcoten and Blood Nations that I
came to work with in 1986. You changed my life in ways that were not clear at the time. Your
influence has continued to shape how I see First Nations people now as compared to the
stereotypical images of “Indians” that I saw when I was growing up in the UK.
Thank you to the strong Tahltan and Tlingit women who inspired me to write the character of
Auntie Vi:
Louise Framst
Lillian Esquiro
Evelyn Rattray
Lil Edzerza
Hilda Mason
Thank you to all my friends who cheered me on and read my stories as I honed my writing skills.

v

Dedication
For Johnny and Ryan
and
Auntie Louise

vi

Introduction
This creative thesis focuses on the potential problems involved with relationships
between non-indigenous and indigenous individuals and groups, in Canada. I will refer to these
relations as allies. Recently, the term “Allyship” has become popular urban language and in my
theoretical introduction I will be discussing the potential problems around Allyship and how one
can first, become aware of these and secondly, understand the importance of adopting checks and
balances to avoid these problems. I have termed the aspects of relationships between indigenous
peoples and their allies that are problematic as ‘rogue allyship.’ I will point out how creative
engagements with ‘rogue allyship’ can provide new insights to the formation of such problems.
By inserting the potential inequities within relationships between indigenous people and their
allies into a narrative I hope to reach a broader audience in an attempt to recognize continued
mechanisms of colonial discourse and practice, and how attitudes are perpetuated by simple,
everyday actions. Formal writing may clearly illustrate the overarching systemic structure of
imperialism. However, by creating normal, relatable characters who act out these inclinations
one will hopefully be encouraged to reflect on small, commonplace behaviours that can lead to
‘rogue allyship.’ In my novel I will be using the perspective of the ally. By looking through this
lens we will learn about how the ally is looking back on her life and actions and how she is
coming to terms with the intent behind her relationships and the resulting negative outcomes.
Through my characters I will draw attention to attitudes of oppression and colonization. My
protagonist, Annan Riggs, will be reflecting on her interaction with indigenous individuals. We
will be seeing her stilted, biased worldview in her ideologies of “helping.” Through her story we
will see how these attitudes reveal and perpetuate imperialism and colonialism.

1

Annan Riggs is at a cross-roads in her life. She is experiencing the intersectionality of
looking back on her younger self and is coming to terms with the reality that she has been in the
role of the oppressor and of the oppressed. We see through the story of Annan, the story of an
ally and the resulting consequences but we also see the narrative of a woman in the reflexive
period of her life who is trying to comprehend her true self.
As the ideas and attitudes that perpetuate helping ideologies increase it is important to
examine how such “helping” affects those who are being “helped.” This is imperative if we are
to avoid the continuation of oppression that those in positions of marginalization have
historically suffered. In recent years there has been an increase in scholarship regarding the
possible inequities between indigenous peoples and their allies and to understand the concept of
Allyship it is useful to examine how the roots of the idea emerged. Keith Smith examines
liberalism in Canada as an extension of capitalist ideals that promoted the imposition of
colonialism in the west. He explains, “Liberalism permitted the expansion of Anglo-Canada and
drives the nation-building model in Canadian historiography.” He goes on to explain,
Liberalism is selective about upon whom it bestows its benefits. It has a curious knack for
passionately demanding freedom and the rights of individuals to diverse understandings
and beliefs while seeking at the same time to efface imbalances in relations of power. It
has a long history of similarly finding pride in its inclusive nature while at the same time
this history is ‘Unmistakably marked by the systematic and sustained political exclusion
of various groups and types of people.’ (12)
In relation to the historical problems with the development of liberalism, Smith discusses how
John Stuart Mill suggests, “a hierarchy of “civilization,” the elements of which for him, not
surprisingly, “exist in modern Europe, and especially in Great Britain” (13). The idea that “the

2

experience of liberalism in western Canada, as elsewhere, demonstrates that its benefits can best
be seen as rewards for being able and willing to comply with its mandates,” (13) illustrates how
non-indigenous people’s efforts to be allies, although perhaps well intentioned, may continue to
perpetuate inequalities and injustices.
As liberalism enveloped Canada, concern has grown for those in positions of
marginalization. Along with this concern there has been a development in how those in positions
of power can decolonize and not perpetuate marginalization. Clare Land points out, through her
research, that “the imperialist enthusiasm for ‘getting to know the Other’ as one-way sharing that
benefits only non-Indigenous people” (119) only perpetuates colonial and imperial practices and
inequalities. Gary Foley, an Australian indigenous man, suggests that Land’s book will create “a
greater depth of understanding among non-indigenous supporters of the Aboriginal cause” (xi).
These discussions are not directed at indigenous people but at the non-indigenous people that
wish to be allies; however, these non-indigenous individuals and groups need to hone their
awareness as to the imbalanced relationships that exist and resolve not to perpetuate these. These
concepts are expanded in Snelgrove, Dhamoon and Corntassel when they say that, “without
paying attention to the conditions and contingency of settler colonialism… The practices of
solidarity run the risk of reifying (and possibly replicating) settler colonial as well as other
modes of domination” (1). Mahrouse and Rogers further discuss these power imbalances. Rogers
states,
moving social difference to the center of articulations of liberalism thus accords with a
central point of these thinkers – namely, the individual and group identities are
indispensable for understanding the integrity of moral agency and its corresponding
role in producing and assessing principles of justice. (1)

3

Similarly, Mahrouse discusses a perpetuation of colonial ideas when he debates the tendency to
“re-enact a colonizing role” (96).
Much of the problem that results from the liberal view of First Nations peoples relates to
how they are perceived by non-indigenous people. The concept that has existed since the turn of
the nineteenth century regarding the perception of the “Indian,” is discussed by Thomas King:
this particular span of time is known as the American Romantic Period, and the Indian
was tailor-made for it. With its emphasis on feeling, its interest in nature, its fascination
with exoticism, mysticism, and eroticism, and its preoccupation with the glorification of
the past, American Romanticism found in the Indian a symbol in which all these concerns
could be united. Prior to the nineteenth century, the prevalent image of the Indian had
been that of an inferior being. (33)
King expresses his thoughts about the famous “Indian photographer,” Edward Curtis. His
discussion includes the statement, “I can imagine this solitary man moving across the prairies,
through the forests, along the coast, dragging behind him an enormous camera and tripod and the
cultural expectations of an emerging nation” (37). This idea of the expectations of how the
Indian should behave and appear to the new settlers and those in Europe can be found at the heart
of ideas of solidarity and prosociality. The idea of a liberal and benevolent response to the Indian
of North America is subtle in its manifestation because even though the settler may not have
racist intentions, the resulting impacts often are racist. The act of imposing the perceptions of a
non-member of a group onto a group is, in itself, colonial and disavows indigenous rights to selfdetermination.
In my creative narrative I weave some of the aforementioned colonial attitudes into those
who attempt to be allies. These attitudes are evident in the struggle of the protagonist, Annan. I

4

propose to examine the imbalances of being an ally in a way that can be related to via ordinary
characters living typical lives. In her later years, Annan reflects on her loss of identity as a result
of being an ally. As well, she realizes the impacts that she has had upon RJ, the First Nations
man she loves. In addition to this, we see her reflect upon her subsequent marriage and the
continued allyship involved in that relationship. Annan immerses herself in her relationship with
RJ. Her interest in First Nations people developed supposedly because of her liberal attitude and
because of her fascination with the image of the “Indian.” Yet as their relationship progresses,
she struggles with the attitudes and perceptions she brings with her into the relationship.
Additionally, as she becomes more engrossed in her relationship with RJ and with the struggles
of his people, she loses interest in her own cultural identity. However, she still manages to
impose her colonial attitudes upon “others.” Despite her oppressive behaviours, it is as if she
becomes invisible – not because of the actions of RJ but because of her own self-effacement.
Clare Land discusses how, in the process of the movement towards indigenous selfgovernance, there are still restricting processes within which these movements are placed. It is as
if the encouragement of indigenous peoples to break free of the controlling mechanism of
colonialism has been placed within yet another structural constraint. Land points out that even
“Aboriginal self-help organizations have been forced to govern themselves according to
dominant culture practices” (112). These practices continue the inequities seen in the original
and continued contact of non-indigenous and indigenous people in Canada. Yet, although society
is often left thinking that these changes are a move in the right direction, we can see by Land’s
comments that indigenous people are still operating under the control and “guidance” of the
original oppressors. Land goes on to discuss how acts of tokenism within institutions are often
mistaken for valid attempts at including indigenous voices. This tokenism masquerades itself as

5

inclusion, but is a subtle continuation of colonial constructs. Gary Murray sees this token
inclusion as a “government failure to educate and train Aboriginal people in the last few
decades” as a result of the lack of “experts and people with qualifications.” In relation to power
inequities in his native Australia he explains, “if you did an analysis of how many nonIndigenous staff compared to Indigenous staff, what you’d find is that the non-Indigenous staff
are in all the positions of power” however, he says that these non-Indigenous people keep a
“reasonably low key” (Land 114). This illustrates the artful apparatus of tokenism. To avoid such
situations, Land is clear in her work regarding the needed reflection when dealing with systems
of power imbalance within allyship. She states, “No matter what the form or function of the
relationships, attentiveness to notions of representation, voice, difference, dialogue and power is
key to reflective practice. It is important to consider a variety of perspectives on collaboration,
dialogue and difference in order to foreground the contradictions inherent in collaboration and
dialogue across difference” (116). It is my hope to add to this discussion using a creative
approach. In Annan’s insertion into the colonial landscape of Canada we can see her failure and
the failure of the system she has come to work under, to examine the role of “helper” in order to
mitigate the perpetuation of power imbalances.
Annan’s efforts to be an ally are further complicated by another form of marginalization
or difference that is being experienced first-hand by the protagonist. Annan is experiencing what
it means to be seen as “other” because she is experiencing discrimination on the basis of her age.
A middle-aged woman, she is uncertain how she now fits into society. Her status in life has
changed from wife to widow and she is struggling to redesign herself. Annan’s marginalization
as the “other” intersects with her own experience of discounting of diverse First Nations voices.

6

This tension drives the story forward through Annan’s memories of RJ and her interactions with
her new community in the UK.
In understanding the power differentials involved in being an ally I can think about my
own experiences of being a woman. This is not to compare my experience of inequity with those
of indigenous people. As I wrote this story, I realized that Annan had internalized attitudes of
sexism and ageism into her own life. This internalization was as a result of consistent societal
messaging from institutions and individuals (such as the interactions Annan has with John and
with Mia). This internalization assists in keeping attitudes such as ageism in place. As Duncan
Green points out, “As important as ‘hidden power,’ and certainly more insidious, is ‘invisible
power’ which causes the relatively powerless to internalize and accept their condition” (30). In
this way, the oppressed become their own overseer, as stated by a Guatemalan woman when she
says, “Why do we not speak now? We did when we were children. We have internalized
repression. They gave us the words: “stupid”; “you can’t”; “you don’t know”, “poor thing – you
are a woman””(Green). As Green concludes, in the words of Michael Foucault, “There is no
need for arms, physical violence, material constraints. Just a gaze. An inspecting gaze, which
each individual will end up interiorizing to the point that he is his own overseer” (Green). This
internalization is what allows the continuance of oppressive environments.
As a woman, I have become conscious over the years of the limiting nature of the
expectations that have been placed on me: the expectation that I would not have a career but
would become a wife and rely on a man for my financial survival. These expectations were
handed to me by the men in society when I was growing up and I internalized those values to the
point that I was perpetuating the beliefs that had been imposed upon me. The males in my family
had wanted to protect me and ensure that I was cared for, but in the process, I was never asked

7

what it was that I wanted. I am not comparing this situation to the colonization of indigenous
people in Canada. However, I can see how societal expectations and mind sets are continued by
those in the role of oppressor and by those being oppressed, when these expectations are
internalized.
Despite Annan’s experience with sexism she has grown up in an atmosphere of privilege
and this has provided her with the ability to “help” those she perceives to be less fortunate. Her
fascination with the “Indian” has sprung from colonial images of indigenous peoples. She takes
these images, attitudes and privilege with her when she travels to the west coast of Canada.
Despite her good intentions she imposes her beliefs about indigenous people onto RJ and the
children/youth with whom she works. These good intentions come from her ideology of service,
which also stems from privilege. These ideas of helping and serving prevail in the British
sensibility of philanthropy. It is this environment which has molded her thinking and which has
inspired her to travel to Canada to “help.” Ideas about philanthropy had emerged in Britain and
had come about, partly as a result of, a need to perpetuate the power imbalances that existed at
home. K. D. Reynolds in his paper, Aristocratic Women and Political Society in Victorian
Britain, discusses how the subtleties of philanthropic endeavours were founded on ideas of
benevolence that would assist in benefiting the helper’s social position. In this way, Reynolds
suggests that under the guise of selfless giving came a continuation of interdependence and
oppression on the part of those being helped (104). Annan is unknowingly continuing these
attitudes. In addition to this, Annan’s actions are a reflection of the beliefs that it was a Christian
woman’s duty to carry out benevolent acts (Prochaska 8). This mantra of servitude is a driving
force behind Annan’s decisions. Yet, her work lacks the foundational knowledge necessary for
becoming a respectful and politically aware ally.

8

When Annan first arrives in Canada, she does not see her role as problematic. However,
through her interactions with RJ and the indigenous youth she meets, she comes to learn that she
is involved in a complex situation that she does not understand. Through her relationship with RJ
she comes to realize that there are complications and yet she is still involved in a union that is
based on colonial perspectives. This increased understanding of the nature of oppressive
relations is something that transpires over the time span from when she meets RJ and the
indigenous youth to when her husband, John, dies and she returns to the UK. She is struggling
with the realization and is trying to deal with the guilt of acknowledging the imperial structure in
which she has been involved. Ultimately, it is this guilt that drives to her return to the UK as she
believes she is an interloper on indigenous landscapes in Canada.
Romantic ideas of indigenous people, coupled with ethnocentrism, is colonial even when
the intent of the helper is “benevolent” because there is an inherent unequal power relationship,
especially if the help is unsolicited. This is not to say there can never be allies; however, allies
need to consult with those whom they form an alliance, ask those they ally with how and in what
ways they wish the ally to assist. The consultation process is on-going and must be based on
mutual respect, consideration and consultation. While striving for balanced power relations, such
relations are always shifting. Still, the ally must take care to respect the agency and selfdetermination of those with whom they offer to be allies and also be willing to listen and to leave
should those they are working with no longer wish to have them involved.
Being aware of the traits for a constructive alliance is imperative if allies of any kind are
to be effective. Without the ability to listen and to dismantle power inequalities it is almost
certain that oppression will continue. In the case of Annan and her work with the indigenous

9

youth, she has failed to ask or listen to indigenous voices. Instead, she has imposed her colonial
ideas on those that she has supposedly come to “help.”
Jen Margaret, in her research paper, Working as Allies discusses how, “Ignorance and
collective denial of colonial violence, a lack of awareness of white privilege, and racism within
the broader white settler population, are key challenges for white allies to address” (14). For
successful ally relationships Margaret lists three things:
·

be prepared to sit with the discomfort and learn from it.

·

be prepared to engage with ‘unlearning’ of assumptions and behaviours.

·

be open to feedback and challenge. (15)

By accessing these simple, yet important, directions allies can begin to hone their awareness
towards a less oppressed, more equitable relationship. As stated in the first page of the Truth and
Reconciliation Report of Canada, “By establishing a new and respectful relationship between
Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal Canadians, we will restore what must be restored, repair what
must be repaired, and return what must be returned.”
Annan has embarked upon her move to Canada as an adventure, a life-long fulfilment of
a dream based on stereotypical myths. In her enthusiasm, she imposes herself upon First Nations
people of Canada just as those who came before her did. Due to the influence of RJ, Annan is
required to listen to stories that force her out of her colonial mindset and set her on a path of
change. This path is weathered, arduous and uncomfortable but if she is truly invested in
becoming a respectful ally it is a journey that she must take. She realises that she has spent many
years imposing herself on others and, in turn, taking on their identities rather than leading her
own life. If she is to celebrate the last season of her life it is critical that she re-claim her sense of
self and enter relationships with balance.

10

In my novel, I will illustrate the negative attitudes that exist towards aging women in
western society. I also propose to demonstrate how being an ally can be an unhealthy process if
the power differential in such relationships is not monitored. Societal attitudes towards aging and
Annan’s continued “helping,” with the underlying false assumption of superiority over “others,”
leads her further astray from defining her own life. In order to reclaim herself she must reflect on
her “benevolent” colonial ideas and how these have resulted not only in the oppression of others
but also in a loss of self. She must also re-imagine herself as an older woman who has lost her
role and has become a widow. She must learn how to re-design her life on her terms.
The story begins with Annan’s return to a small coastal community in the UK, after many
years away in Canada. She is post-menopausal and newly widowed and because of these changes
in her life she is particularly self-reflexive. Annan originally left Britain to travel to Canada as a
volunteer as she was stifled by her life of privilege and had a fear of dying without having
experienced anything remotely adventurous. Annan also has a second reason for travelling to
Canada: Her western upbringing has exposed her to images of “Indians” which she has yet to
realize are based on stereotypical, romantic and colonial ideas. She is uneducated and unaware of
the challenges or history that indigenous peoples face and she parachutes herself into this
environment in the role of “helper.” This provides context for Annan’s ruminations, memories
and dreams. This narrative will be written in the first-person limited point of view, which will
assist the reader to see these experiences through Annan’s eyes and will help demonstrate her
perceptions and how she came to be in her present situation. At the same time, the first-person
point of view is limited by Annan’s blind spots.
Upon her return to the UK Annan will come into contact with an old acquaintance, Olive.
At first Annan resists the friendship of this woman, as she retreats into her memories. However,

11

the woman persists by leaving a series of gifts on her doorstep. Olive perceives that Annan is lost
in her grief but she misconstrues this grief as being as a result of the loss of her husband rather
than the loss of herself.
In the process of Annan’s memories and dreams we will be introduced to RJ, an
indigenous man she meets in Canada and to his Auntie Vi. Both these characters guide Annan
through her memories and they reveal to the reader the doubts she has about her past endeavours
and attitudes. We learn that RJ had asked her to wait for him. He is also in a process of selfdiscovery, after growing up an enfranchised native of Canada and not knowing his own or his
community’s history. He did not know his own mother and was raised by his Auntie who in turn
was struggling with the realities of being a person of indigenous heritage in a country that
attempted to destroy diverse indigenous cultures. Auntie Vi has done her best to raise her
nephew within a world of uncertainty and oppression but she has taught him the ways of the
dominant culture in the hope that he would be able to forge ahead with his own self-discovery.
However, Vi is herself caught between two worlds and it is inevitable that this complex dynamic
influences RJ’s upbringing.
When RJ meets Annan, he has spent some time at university and is learning the reality of
his indigenous heritage. This new knowledge confuses him because all that he knew as truth has
now been dismantled. He is immersed in his own complex search for knowledge. Annan enters
into his world at this critical time and a relationship develops. This starts with Annan and her
fascination for the “Indian” and it is this attitude that Annan has a difficult time keeping in
check. Her naiveté and benevolent ideologies seep into the partnership and create complicated
dynamics. When it seems that Annan is completely inseparable from RJ and her efforts to be an
ally are all-consuming, he asks her to make a sacrifice for the relationship. He asks her to wait

12

for him while he goes and reunites with his people and finds out who he truly is. RJ becomes an
insurgent and he drops out of university, with the realization of the colonial constraints of such a
system. He is concerned about the survival and resurgence of indigenous people and he wishes to
connect with his indigenous community to create children who will strengthen the movement of
change. Annan refuses to accept his decision and the two go their separate ways. She is
devastated and perplexed but is still oblivious to why her efforts to be an ally are not only not
helpful, but paternalistic and detrimental to their relationship. Specifically, by perceiving RJ as
someone who needs her help, she disrespects his ability to identify and solve his own issues.
Annan eventually marries another man who is Canadian but comes from a similar,
privileged background as herself. She immerses herself in her role as a wife. However, we come
to learn that Annan was never truly happy in her relationship with her husband. She still finds
herself in a situation where she is more focused on her partner than she is on herself. In this way,
she becomes allied to this man just as she had become allied to RJ, focussing on who he is rather
than who she is. Eventually, Annan learns the importance of self-actualization. As well, she
realizes the importance of respect for others’ differences and sees the value of listening,
consulting and cooperating, rather than imposing her values and beliefs on others.
Annan is not only dealing with her loss of identify but she is also dealing with the
attitudes of society around aging woman. With the death of her husband and her return to the UK
she is suddenly disorientated. She is not in the traditional role of mother and grandmother and as
such does not reflect the traditional portrayal of an aging woman. Through her thoughts and her
interactions with Olive, Annan opposes the societal construct of what it is to be an older woman
and perceives the internalized stereotypes from which she is trying to break free.

13

Some readers might expect that the answer to Annan’s problems would be to find a new
man to fill the void in her life. However, this is not a romantic narrative. If Annan truly wishes to
free herself, she needs the autonomy to stand back and assess her life on her own terms, not
define herself by how others perceive her or how she thinks they perceive her. At the end of the
story (but not shown in the thesis) RJ will return to Annan in the hope of being reunited. After
over thirty years he has had time for contemplation and is an active member of his nation, with
five children who are also members. He has spent the years educating himself and has re-claimed
his identity. Despite Annan’s original love for RJ she is now questioning whether this love was
based on the romantic idea of him as an “Indian” or if she ever truly loved him. Now that she can
better perceive how her work in Canada perpetuated, rather than contested, colonialism and see
her reasons for getting involved with RJ it is impossible for her to reunite with him. This
decision is based on her own health but also because of her respect for RJ.
This story illustrates my argument that the changes in Annan’s life have resulted in an
opportunity to reflect on her past benevolent colonial attitudes and not only how this has
impacted RJ but also how she has been affected. The narrative will also emphasize the problems
with societal attitudes towards aging. It is the intersection of these two that create Annan’s
challenges and propel her forward toward a new chapter in her life.
My own personal experiences have been an influence in the writing of this story. I have
been married into a First Nations family for thirty years. Before I came to Canada, from the UK,
I had a perception of indigenous people learned from popular culture, reflecting the stereotypical
and colonial images of the “Indian.” I felt a certain propensity towards a people I had never met
and I became a supporter of a movement I knew nothing about. Upon my arrival in northern
British Columbia I was welcomed into a group of people who did not resemble the images I had

14

grown familiar with in the UK. I learned the history of the area and of the country. I was
educated about colonialism and the resulting devastation. However, I did not immediately
understand that my coming to Canada represented a continuation of imperialistic approaches. It
was not until, many years later, that I have been able to come to terms with the issues associated
with my uninformed opinions and beliefs. These new insights have helped me realize that my
unsophisticated mindset was a perpetuation of oppression in this country. I have spent the last
thirty years allying myself to First Nations people in my desire to educate myself in the place I
now call home. However, in my eagerness I have come to understand allies need to respect,
consult and cooperate in ways that are just and do not perpetuate racism, colonialism and social
injustices.
I would like my novel to challenge the idea of the “benevolent” ally. Additionally, I wish
to illustrate the importance of re-examination of life during the process of aging and the resulting
changes. The scholarship I have read and will continue to examine illustrates how prejudice
towards an aging population needs to be challenged. It is my hope that my novel assists in
opening up a conversation about diverse ways to build constructive alliances that nourish
healthier and more balanced relationships.
In the process of writing this story I was fortunate enough to have access to the letters
that I wrote to my parents when I came to Canada in the 1980’s to work with indigenous youth.
These letters gave me a window into my former self and the attitudes I brought with me from
Britain. I made sure that Annan reflected those attitudes and how these conflicted with the lives
and philosophies of the people she meets. RJ is the Indigenous voice as heard by Annan. While I
was writing I was constantly aware of my inability to write from the perspective of the
indigenous voice, in order to avoid cultural appropriation. However, RJ’s voice became more

15

and more important in the development of the narrative. Without his voice Annan would never
have been challenged to question her motivation and indeed the whole structure within which she
operates.
In this thesis the protagonist experiences a number of name changes. I ended up choosing
the name Annan because I found information that said that this name means “from the stream.” I
wanted her name to be connected to water as this theme weaves its way through the story.
RJ is an indigenous man whom I chose to represent complexities with which Native
people may sometimes struggle. His behaviour, actions and words have come about from my
discussions over thirty years, with my husband, who has experienced, first hand, what life is like
for an indigenous man in Canada. His name comes from the names of two indigenous boys from
my family who died in their early teens.
Auntie Vi is a character who unexpectedly spoke to me. She emerged from a collection of
experiences with family members whom I have known since my marriage into a First Nations
family. Vi represents the connection to land, the practical wisdom and the conflicting nature of
organized religion and native spirituality that I have witnessed. Vi’s story is as important as any
character in this narrative and I believe she will appear in other stories after this one is complete.
As with the voice of RJ, I will need to still be careful of the danger of appropriation of voice and
so Vi’s story will be spoken through the eyes of Annan.
There are other, smaller characters, who enter the story but do not stay for the duration.
One of these is B and in her we see an important discussion about the imposition of ideas by one
group of people onto another, in the guise of helping. B is a strong character who maintains her
balance in the face of her own challenges, despite the ignorance of Annan. She takes an

16

important part in the reshaping of Annan’s understanding. In B we see the next generation of
indigenous people who are tasked with living within a world of conflicting values.
The character of Olive represents what Annan may have been like if she had stayed in the
UK and never ventured to Canada. Olive is always seen to be pushing her bike rather than riding
it and this reflects her inability to take risks. However, Annan envies her stability and the fact
that she chose to “stay in her place.” In this way she acts as a counterbalance for Annan but it is
my hope that Olive will create discussion about the importance, not only of roots, but the effects
of becoming displaced and how this displacement can have negative impacts, not only for the
person who is displaced, but also how that person can perpetuate the displacement of others.
As I was developing the character of John, I wanted him to represent ideas of oppression,
in regard to his relationship with Annan. As the story unfolded John also demonstrated the deepseated racist ideologies that are sometimes subtly and sometimes not so subtly part of Canadian
society. His attitudes serve as a counterpoint for Annan who is also coming to terms with how
some Canadians view Native peoples. This conflict is a constant throughout their marriage and is
paralleled with his misogynistic views of women. We are initially told that it is the death of John
that drives Annan back to the UK. However, I hope to demonstrate, in the continuation of this
story, that it is Annan’s feelings of guilt that drive her back to England. She has returned home
with the belief that she was an interloper on indigenous landscapes and as such it becomes
impossible for her to stay.
This creative thesis ends at an appropriate stopping point, to hopefully create discussion.
However, this is not the end of this novel or of the stories that will spring from it.

17

Seasons of a River
Chapter One

A fine web of moist air hung over the tiny harbour like a breath. Motionless boats sat
atop the water, their masts pointing straight up and dissolving into the brume. The sun had risen
but was obscured by the damp; making its brightness a pallid yellow. Days often started this way
in the small English village and the residents moved about, carrying on with their daily lives, like
spectres through the fog. Annan sat in her house, staring out onto the cobbled street, the chattels
of her life around her like scattered debris after a storm. She had been up since 4 am, her body
locked into its rhythm. The eight-hour time difference between her new home and where she had
just come from weighed heavily upon her. There had been an early morning call from Canada,
“But what are you going to do?” The voice at the other end of the phone had asked.
The question still rung in Annan’s ears after she had hung up her phone. When had she not been
doing? Sitting in her quiet house she could almost feel the ground still moving under her, similar
to how it feels when you finally alight from a train after hours of travelling - a certain swaying
and vibration through her body. How many times had her father asked her,
“What are you going to do today?” She had grown up fearing silence and stagnation.
Keep moving. Keep going. Keep doing. Now, at nearly sixty years old she was not sure she
should be doing anymore. She needed time to think, to remember. Yet, now that she was an
older lady she was of the understanding that it was important to keep moving. Stop moving and
you’re done for, that’s the message she had been hearing for the past few years. The fear of a
giant vice gripping her body with its strong metal arms, seizing her joints and muscles, had kept
her on treadmills and in running groups since her womanly cycles had stopped being cycles and
had become thin lines stretching out before her; an awful long artery that led to nowhere.
18

A few days after Annan’s return to the UK she walked to the top of her street and away
from the huddled community. The cobbles ended and turned into a rough gravel path, its tracks
leading their way into the hills. Coarse wind blew off the sea, humming in her ears. It carried a
salty taste to her lips, and reached into her hair. Her runners slipped a little on the gravel. She
hadn’t bothered to put on her hiking shoes. She just wanted to see if the tree was still there.
Uneasy clouds passed in front of the sun, creating ever-changing patterns on the path until it
ended and turned into flattened grass. Annan made her way higher and around a small ridge. She
couldn’t remember how many times she had taken this path: First with her family on their
Sunday afternoon walks, and then in her teenage years with her village friends - the short walk
away from the bunched grey buildings an attempt at freedom and dissent. When she had left
Dorset at the age of twenty-three, she hadn’t considered the impermanence of the tree. To her it
seemed as much a part of life as the village and those dwelling in the cold stone buildings. Now,
she was shaking in anticipation by the time she came around the rise and saw the tree. Its size
took her by surprise. Dark brown branches spread out from the imposing trunk, like muscular
arms extending out to caress. Robust foliage delicately fluttered against the light, making mottled
shade beneath. Annan greeted the tree like an old friend, placing her forehead against its crinkly
bark and wondering if trees had a pulse.
Standing there, leaning against the tree, she could see the village falling down to the tiny
harbour and the land opening up to meet the curve of the beach that framed the steep Purbeck
hills behind it. The colour of the solid rock hills echoed the colour of the house Annan had been
born and raised in: The stone of her past and now, it seemed, her future. She walked slowly
around the tree, running her hands along the grooved crust and smiling as she remembered how
she and a friend had tried to carve their initials in the timber but had found the wood too tough

19

for their tiny knife and immature hands. She had smoked her first cigarette behind that tree; her
lungs pulling against the rank smoke. She had her first kiss there, hidden behind the lushness.
Winking lights had teased her from the safety of their houses, as she looked on, down the hill,
the night before she had left for Canada. The place where she had grown up suddenly looked tiny
compared to what she imagined lay ahead. Thirty-five years later the rootedness of the place
was a sudden comfort.
Her husband, John, had died on a Saturday. They were going for dinner that night. The
invite had been for seven O’clock and at five John decided to go for a nap. It was unlike him and
she was irritated that he had left the appetizer prep to her. The snack completed, she had reclined
on the balcony with a bottle of wine John had been saving for a special occasion. It had been
sitting in the wine closet for about a year and Annan had decided that there was no time like the
present. The wine had a clarity to it that she envied but staring through the glass out to the large
harbour, she saw the boats and people below, and the trees and mountains beyond, were
deformed through the liquid. They say that when people have a heart attack, they make a sound
like a giant snore, but Annan had heard nothing. She sipped her wine and contemplated life. She
then went to check on her husband. The appetizer she had prepared for the dinner was still on the
counter when she returned from the hospital. She ate it then, suddenly aware of her ravenous
hunger.
John would have been bothered by the way he died. He hadn’t planned it. Of course, he
had planned to die – just not quite this soon after retirement. If he had known he would have
picked his coffin, the music at his service, the plot. As it was, the planning was left to Annan and
she found it disconcerting. For thirty-five years her plans had been constrained and derailed and
now that she had an opportunity, she felt fatigued. She spent one evening staring at the calendar.

20

John had meticulously marked down the days he had planned for them to stay in the city and the
days they were to go out to their second home, Cedar Chine. Now that he was gone, she
marvelled at his precision. When they had first met she had little idea of his organizing talents
but over the years she came to realize his obsession for details. At first, she did not pay close
attention, just grateful for the company. However, as the years went on, her nighttime dreams
became more and more constraining in nature: Tight fitting clothes, too small to breath, and
shrinking rooms crowded her dreams. She placated her desires for liberty by remembering the
circumstances of their union.

21

Chapter Two
Now, Annan remembered that first morning in British Columbia and how she had been
surprised by the volume of sound coming from some kind of bird just outside her window. The
girl sleeping in the bunk underneath her groaned and shifted, sending the whole frame into jittery
action. Annan was awake now and she listened as the bird shouted some kind of call, as if
directly at her.
“What is that?” she asked the girl, but she was unresponsive. Sitting up, Annan looked
around room. She had not really noticed it through her fog of tiredness the night before. The drab
shades curtailed the light and created a dingy shadow across the room. The chipped paint on the
bedframe was a harsh blue. A chest of drawers, with two handles missing and one drawer tipped
slightly, stood alone against a wall. Walls that had probably once been white were now faded to
a dull beige. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed Annan looked at the wall over where she
had been sleeping. In tiny letters it said, “Time will tell.” She had not been told if this was to be
her permanent residence while she was volunteering but hoped it was not. She shuddered a little
as she jumped down to the cold floor.
Entering the meeting room later that day Annan was surprised at the volume of people.
The noise seeped into her and filled her chest with a feeling of elation. This was the culmination
of a year of planning and anticipation. She introduced herself to some people standing in a large
group. They spoke in torrents, like water trickling quickly over small stones. They asked her
where she was from and a tall guy with a shock of blond hair and fierce blue eyes, made some
blunt comment about the English that she couldn’t quite make out. Annan’s roommate, Delia,
came over and joined them, her American twang a harsh counterpoint to the lyrical Irish notes of
the others. She was hopping around, rubbing her hands together.

22

“Jesus sent me here for this” she exclaimed. “I’m living his word.” She looked into
Annan’s eyes and Annan saw certainty in them. She smiled back at her.
That night, as Annan lay in her bunk, Delia returned. Her pajamas were as exuberant as
she was, with oversized flowers on a bright pink background. Her long brown hair cascaded
loosely down her back and freckles skipped across her nose. Annan’s attire was a subdued white
nightgown. Her strawberry blond hair was cropped close to her head and her pale blue eyes were
a surprising contrast against her slightly olive skin.
“Praise God” Delia exclaimed, lowering herself to her knees at the foot of the bed.
“I pray, Lord, that I can be your instrument, your tool, for love. Use me as you will in the service
of your people. Help me on this path you’ve set me on, so I may do your will.” She bowed her
head as Annan peered over her bunk. She admired her zeal. She had whispered her prayers
earlier, but Delia’s seemed to have packed more of a punch.
“How was your day?” Delia asked as she settled into bed.
“It was okay, I think. There’s lots of work to be done. I’m glad I came.” Annan said.
“Yeah, those kids seem amazing. So full of light. I mean they’ve got problems but, yeah,
I’m so glad I came to help them,” Delia cooed. Annan laid back in her bed.

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Chapter Three
After John had died Annan had decided to move back to England. Home. Now that she
was back where she had started her life, the ambiguous word hung over her as she tackled the
moving boxes. After the kitchenware, she discovered a tall box she knew contained her art. She
wondered if any pieces had survived the journey as she began carefully removing them. Her new
house was significantly smaller than the apartment she had left. Lining the paintings against the
living room wall, she sat cross legged and gazed at them. You need a much higher ceiling to do
these pieces justice. The shadow of John’s voice murmured. For a moment she agreed with him,
but she was irritated with the pretentious idea and she stood up and rearranged a few, recalling
the stories behind each acquisition until she pulled the final one from the box. It was quite small
and could have easily been left behind and forgotten. The red, black and white shapes were
strangely out of place in her hands now. The art depicted a wolf. The style was unique, and she
had picked it up for a good price. She smiled as she remembered its story.
******
Annan had been surprised by the style of the work. It was unexpected. The shapes and uses
of colour were new to her. She had two comparable images in her hands when she became
conscious of RJ standing beside her.
“Can’t decide?” he asked her.
“Well, not really. I’m not sure what they are. I don’t really understand them.” She
answered.
“Oh, hmm,” he put his finger to his lip playfully. “There’s not really a code. Which one
do you like?” he asked.
“This one,” she held up one of the pieces.

24

“Nice. It’s wolf,” he explained. She turned her head sideways in an attempt to make out
the shape.
“Here’s the head, the snout. Here’s the legs and the moon behind.” He traced the lines
carefully with his fingers and then tapped on the name squiggled at the bottom of the print.
“Good local artist. Could be worth thousands one day.” He walked away. For a long time,
she had the painting crudely pinned to her wall with thumb tacks but years later had paid to have
it professionally framed.
Later that day RJ gathered the small group together in a circle. Annan and her fellow
volunteers had completed their first few days of orientation and had now left the larger group and
were taking a few days to bond as a team. RJ was their team lead. As a young Indigenous man,
he was there to orientate them to their new positions and to direct them in their work. They were
staying at the camp where they would live for the next eight weeks. Wooden cabins sat staring
out across the water like a row of faces. To Annan’s naïve eye it seemed as if the structures had
been there for a long time, with roots reaching down into the dirt just like the trees that hung
above them - the unruly foliage like the hair of old witches. In fact, they were fairly new
buildings, compared to the age of the ground below. Before their existence the place had been
used as a fishing area for the local Indigenous people but their signs had long since been erased –
torn up by machinery and men – centuries of existence destroyed and purposefully re-designed.
Annan went to bed each night with the smell of sea kelp ripe in her nose. She was familiar with
the ocean, but here it was different. Things were rawer, rockier than the undulating sand of
home. Small pools formed in the spaces between rocks. The tree line came down and touched the
water when the tide was in – the massive cedars dipping themselves into the salty water. They
had been out on canoes the day before. RJ had told them about the community. It was relatively

25

small as many of the people had moved away in search of new lives, or work. Annan had half
listened, her mind buzzed with her own thoughts. She imagined what she would say to the first
Natives she would meet. What questions she would ask them. She went to sleep that night not
only with the odor of the sea in her nose but with the story RJ had told about a whale and a lost
traveller. His voice danced in her head and fell through her dreams until she woke. Then, with
her camera slung tightly over her body she watched from the canoe as the houses drew nearer
and nearer. RJ was behind her in the canoe, paddling evenly through the water; the tip of the
canoe forming a crease in the pristine surface. He was quiet, his upper body moved with rhythm
and consistency. There were other canoes in the water near them. The passengers chatted
enthusiastically; their voices a stark contrast to the still water and clear air.
“I’m really excited about this,” Annan finally said. RJ did not break his stride. She
strained to see the community as they approached - one of her paddles skimming the water while
the other plunged too deeply. RJ kept paddling.
“I’ve waited a long time for this,” she tried again. “I have so many ideas about working
with Native people.” She said.
“I always watched moves about Indians when I was growing up. They were my favourite.
I never could understand what all the fighting was about. But I loved them.” She explained. “I
was always on the side of the Indians. I somehow knew that they had been wronged even though
the movie never explained that. But they had such lovely lives. Hunting and fishing. Living in
tents.” The images came clearly to her head. “Those and musicals. I loved …..”
RJ stopped paddling. He drew his paddles in slowly and laid the handles across his lap. Water
dripped off the paddles; each one seemed momentarily suspended in crystal-like perfection

26

before splashing into and rejoining the sea. He was motionless and Annan held her breath.
Finally, he let out a long sigh, and she twisted her body to look at him.
“Did you do any research before you came over? Like, did you read anything about the
history of the area or the stories about what happened here?” He asked as he sheltered his eyes
from the sun. He looked at her with one eye closed and she was grateful he wasn’t able to look
directly at her with both eyes, as she felt a warmth come into her cheeks. She rested her paddles
on the edge of the canoe.
“Well, not really. But the movies…..You know….I always knew. I used to …I realize
something bad happened. I mean, that’s why I’m here.” He continued his sideways glance in
silence. “But, no research, as such. I …not really,” she paused and turned to look at the
approaching town. “I’m a fast learner,” she offered. They were still a little way out from the
village, and it remained, like a shimmering mirage on the near horizon. The sun was hot on her
shoulders and she shooed a fly away from her face.
“Things here are complicated.” He finally spoke. He looked as if he hadn’t finished but
she wasn’t sure.
“I know, I know. That’s why I want to learn. That’s why I’m here.” Her stomach
clenched at the slight lie. “To help.” She explained.
“It’s messy. The history. The story of the genocide. It depends how deep you want to go,”
he dropped his hand heavily onto his leg and looked away from her face and from the sun and
over into the brooding embankment of trees.
“Genocide?” she asked. “Genocide here? That’s a bit of a strong word.” She threw the
words out carelessly and the canoe suddenly felt smaller than before. She surveyed RJ’s face.
His cheek bones hovered just below his eyes, creating a tight expanse of skin that stretched to his

27

taught mouth. Annan had previously caught sight of some subtle contours at its corners but at
this moment they had disappeared.
“Strong.” He said simply. It wasn’t a question – merely a re-stating of what Annan had
just said. “I think the others are already at the village,” he said. She gripped the ends of her
paddles. RJ resumed his paddling. Clenching her jaw a little, she followed suit. There was a
smell of rain in the air.

28

Chapter Four
Now, after more than thirty years, she remembered the canoe ride and the conversation as
if it were yesterday as she made her way up the street. Monotonous rain made Annan’s face
moist and her long hair frizzed, its gray and blond tendrils curling tightly beside her face.
Stepping into her house she tripped a little over the too high step and cursed under her breath. If
John had been here he would have insisted on this being fixed before they even considered
calling this home. So far, she had only hung one picture. The others remained leaning against the
wall and were surrounded by a scattering of boxes. She kicked one of them lightly but
purposefully as she crossed the living room. Her habits had changed since she arrived back in the
UK. She had taken to sleeping in. John had detested anyone sleeping passed 7am but now, there
was no one making the rules. One such morning Annan finally found her way to the kitchen
when she heard a barely audible tap on her door. She hoped to catch someone there but there was
a packet leaning against her house. She hesitated, and then poked her head out of her door. Part
way up the street she noticed a woman walking away from her, pushing a bike. Annan tossed the
book she found in the large envelope towards the couch, but it missed and the pages fanned apart
as it hit the ground. There was no postmark on the envelope – just her scrawled name. She
picked up the book again and read the title, “Overcoming Grief.” Right. She dropped the book
into the garbage can as she passed by. Whoever had left the book clearly knew nothing about her
life.
It was nearly noon by the time she finally got dressed and made it outside. The usual
cloud cover had moved away to reveal a pale blue sky. There was a breeze moving up the hill.
She walked into it, taking care not to slip on the shiny cobbles under foot.

29

Her stride and determination reminded her of when she had first arrived in Canada, with her
dreams and simple ideas.
******
As the group walked up the hill behind RJ, Annan chatted with a girl beside her. The girl
had asked her where she was from and Annan had told her and continued,
“This is like a dream. Being here, I mean. For so long I have dreamt about meeting
Natives. I used to dress like one.” The girl looked at her awkwardly. “When I was a kid,” she
qualified. “It was silly then, but I felt, you know, connected somehow. It’s hard to explain.” The
girl looked at the ground and Annan kept talking. “It’s fate, I think. Don’t you believe in fate?”
she looked momentarily at the girl who didn’t speak. “Anyway, here I am. Where are you from?”
The girl said something, but her words fell onto the gravel road and Annan answered without
hearing,
“Hmmm. Where are we going anyway?” She asked, glancing around at her surroundings.
Annan thought she saw the girl roll her eyes a little.
“This is the reserve. RJ told us down at the beach,” the girl answered abruptly and
increased her step. Annan looked around and realized she had not seen anything until this point.
She stood staring down the hill. The gravel road ran through the middle of the community, like a
thin grass snake. Houses sat on either side; some were close to the road while others were set
back. Grass grew tall and untamed in any available space. She noticed a couple of children
crossing the road on their bikes, their shrieks travelling up the road and reaching her ears. A
group of dogs tussled in a field scattered with old cars and what looked like a rusted washing
machine. She put her hand on her camera and then changing her mind, turned to catch up with
the others. RJ’s Auntie’s house was perched at the top of the hill behind a white picket fence, a

30

contrast against the rest of the community. The group had already walked around the house and
she followed the sound of their voices. They were standing clumped together in a crowded
garden. An old woman sat on a chair in the corner, a cup in her hand and a scowl on her face.
She wore some tatty slippers and loose-fitting socks hung around her ankles. There was dirt on
her apron and her hair was slipping out of a lopsided knot. Annan watched as RJ emerged from
the house and handed the old lady something on a plate.
“There are home-made cinnamon buns on the table there,” he flapped his hand in the
direction of the house. Cups are here for the tea.” He announced. Annan introduced herself to the
woman. Holding out her hand, she seemed to tower above her, so she lowered herself to the
ground and sat next to her. The woman’s hand was small and just grasped the end of Annan’s
fingers. She noticed dirt under her nails.
“Hello. I’m Annan. How are you?” she asked. “How do you know RJ?” The old woman
looked down at Annan. Her face was crinkled into a thousand lines, the white strands of her hair
falling against her brown skin. Her eyes were like two tiny black studs and were set close
together which increased the intensity of her stare.
“My son.” she replied gruffly.
“Oh! He didn’t tell us.” Annan found herself wondering how such a small person could
have produced such a large man. Auntie balanced her plate on her knee and handed Annan her
cup.
“He’s shy.” Auntie Vi replied crossing her arms over her small body. “I take mine with
two sugars,” she raised her chin at Annan.
“This place is so quaint” Annan’s voice was saccharine. RJ was standing with his back
to her and didn’t turn around straight away. “You didn’t tell us this is your mum’s house.”

31

“My auntie.” He clarified.
“What?” Annan asked.
“My auntie.” He repeated, turning to face her.
“She said she was your mum.” She persevered.
“Kind of.” He turned back to the table and filled his Auntie’s cup with tea and sugar,
handing it back to Annan. He looked away and she waited for some sort of explanation.
“So, which is it?” she shifted from one foot to the other, asking herself privately why this
information was so important to her. Leave it alone Annan. He looked at her then and she noticed
a subtle trace of hazel in his otherwise black pupils. His furtiveness confused her.
“I noticed the reserve was kind of ….” She faltered a little. “Well it was kind of a mess.
But your Auntie’s house…this house. It’s different.” She had decided to change the subject.
“This house isn’t on reserve. The reserve ends over there.” He pointed to his right over
her shoulder.
“So, you don’t live on reserve?” she needed answers.
“Nope. Never have.” He answered flatly.
“I’m just trying to understand.” She placed her hand on her hip.
“Not all Indians live on reserve.” RJ said, looking down at her.
“That’s kind of confusing.” She answered.
“Like I told you. Things here are not always straightforward.”

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Chapter Five
Annan’s mind had wandered as she walked the labyrinth of streets in the tiny village and
she eventually found herself in a little bakery. She wasn’t sure how she had arrived there but
thought she would make the most of it.
“Hi. Could I just take six croissants, a loaf of that white bread and a cream slice?” she
asked clearing her throat. She was probably getting sick. God knows what she had breathed in on
the flight. She looked at what she had ordered as it went into the bag. John would have
disapproved. All high in calories and fat. Good, she thought. It’s you that had the heart attack
not me. On her way across the patio she noticed a woman sitting alone. She caught Annan’s eye.
“Hello.” The woman waved.
“Hi.” Annan answered trying to move away quickly.
“How are you?” the woman asked.
“Fine.” Annan answered. She kept walking and had stepped off the patio now.
“How was your move?” the woman was persistent.
“It was …… it was ok.” She told her. What the hell?
“You are? Do I know you?” Annan asked trying to keep her voice even.
“Oh, Olive. Sorry.” The woman stood up and moved towards her. “We went to school
together, a thousand years ago.” Olive laughed.
“Hi. Ok. Sorry. Have to be somewhere. Nice to see you.” She called over her shoulder.
So much for anonymity. The last thing Annan wanted right now was some forced chitchat about
the weather and her big move. The next morning, over croissant crumbs she thought about the
woman at the bakery. She concluded that it must be a small-town symptom, flourishing gossip.
She attempted to recall her face as she brushed the crumbs to the corner of the table, with every

33

plan to scoop them away and into the sink. She stared at the tiny bits of pastry for a while and
then suddenly brushed them onto the floor. Sorry John.
The following week Annan woke up early and, finding it impossible to get back to sleep,
she had flung herself from the bed and out of the house. A low ceiling of cloud hung above as
she made her way down the hill to the small harbour. From there she walked along in front of the
collection of moored boats until the sandy beach opened up in front of her. She swung her arms
aggressively; taking long strides with her legs until her muscles stretched under the strain. She
glared at the ground as she walked, careful not to twist her ankles on the uneven sand. Her shoes
were full of sand and a tightness travelled up her neck and into her jaw. Finally, she turned to
face the sea, the sound of the waves easing into her consciousness as she relaxed her body and
sank down onto the sand. The clouds over-head were thick and white but as they reached out
over the ocean, they became a solid gray which gradually gave way to a somber black. Clouds
and sea touched and colour merged, making where one began and the other ended indiscernible.
A tanker far in the distance sat motionless against the somber darkness; a tiny dot against the
expanse of sky and sea. Annan sat still; her legs drawn up against her body. She took off her
shoes and shook the sand out, burying her bare feet in the cool sand. Looking up at the tanker
again she noticed that it had become smaller which meant it must be moving at a fairly quick
pace. She marvelled at how something that appeared to be still must, in fact, be moving
extremely fast. She dug her feet further into the sand. Small tidal pools had formed not far from
her as the water was drawn by its primordial force back towards itself; the sound of the retreating
surge filling her ears. She sat there until the tanker had been swallowed by the encroaching
blackness. Annan put her forehead on her knees and groaned, memories bubbling up to the
surface. An image of RJ’s face - the various brown tones of his eyes but not the exact shape of

34

his face, came to her. John had never asked about RJ. Why would he? In his world RJ was an
interloper, ambling quietly through their world, an unspoken shadow. John’s presence had kept
RJ at bay but now that he was gone, she feared the shadow of his memory would strengthen
Hers was the reminiscence of a girl: The flawed, narrow, rose-tinted view, tinged with the
hue of disappointment. She sensed the rain before it happened and then felt the first rain drop on
the back of her neck - its cool moisture a welcome contrast to her clammy skin. More fell as she
ground her feet hard into the sand. The shower was constant now and her back was becoming
drenched. A sound of thunder echoed somewhere in the distance. What were the chances that if
she stayed where she was, she would get struck by lightning? What would John say if he were
here? Oh, fuck John.
“This isn’t about you John.” She said out loud.
By the time Annan made her way up the street back to her house her hair was dripping
into her eyes. She was still in bare feet and carried her wet shoes in her hands. Her sodden jeans
clung to her legs and chaffed as she walked. About half-way up the street, she glanced up and
noticed a figure outside her house. It was a woman bending over and placing something through
her letter box, her head hidden behind a large yellow umbrella.
“Hello!” Annan called, slipping a little on the cobbles. The woman looked back at her
from around the side of the umbrella and quickly hurried away up the street and away from her.
“Hey!” She called a little louder, but the woman was moving nimbly, and the cobbles
were making it too treacherous for Annan to continue. Once inside her house, Annan opened the
envelope that the woman had delivered. The invitation was simple. It just requested Annan’s
presence at Olive’s house. There were directions and a time. This hadn’t been part of the plan; to
meet up with old acquaintances. She needed time to reconcile her past and this wasn’t going to

35

help but there was something about the painting on the front of the invitation card: Light played
in the muted blossoms and vines, a table and empty chair in the foreground of the picture made
her think of people she had long ago tucked away.
******
Auntie Vi pointed from where she sat. RJ was harvesting some of the plants and tying
them at the tops with rough string while the old woman was placing them in a box that sat by her
chair. Annan was scratching around in a garden box filled with herbs, rubbing her fingers on
each of the leaves and bringing them to her nose to breathe in the various fragrances. She did not
hear RJ and Vi talking and was unaware of the shouts and laughter coming from the adjacent
field where her colleagues were playing a scratch game of soccer. Auntie looked at her nephew.
“I have a gift for your friend.” She said, raising her chin at Annan.
“We just met, Auntie.” He told her.
“Hmmm.” The woman waved her hand at him. “There is a bag of spinach in the shed. I
was saving it for you, but she needs it more.” She looked at Annan who was still rummaging in
the herb garden.
“She does?” RJ asked.
“Thin blood.” Vi answered plainly. “Give her the bag and tell her I have something else.”
“You do?” he asked her. Vi raised her eyebrow at her nephew.
As RJ approached Annan, he could hear her softly talking to herself but couldn’t quite
make out the words.
“My Auntie has a gift for you.” He announced, awkwardly standing over her. She had not
heard him approaching and she flinched at the sound of his voice.
“Oh! What? Sorry. What?” She said, standing up.

36

“A gift. My Auntie wants to give you a gift.” He repeated.
“Sorry. Sorry. I love herbs.” She said sniffing her fingers again. “Where is everybody?”
she asked looking around. Stooping down beside Vi, Annan said, “I love your herbs. Such a
smell of home. The rosemary and the basil. I love it! So delicious. Your garden is wonderful – so
full of colour and life. I…..” Auntie raised her hand, showing Annan the brown, earthy lines on
her palm. Annan stopped and looked into the old woman’s face and felt quiet.
“First, this. You need to eat more of it.” Vi handed Annan the bag of spinach. “Your
blood is thin and with winter coming you will need to thicken it up. It gets cold around here. Eat
this whole bag and then get more.” She ordered.
“Thank you. I love spinach. But I won’t be staying til winter. This is a short-term project
for me. I am just here to help and then I’m going home.” Annan clarified.
“Winters here are cold.” Auntie said looking at Annan.
“Ok. Thank you.” She said.
Annan pushed against the soft grass and stood up.
“Where did you say everyone is?” she asked RJ again.
“I have a story for you.” Vi announced from her chair. “A gift. Sit down.” Annan looked
at RJ and he shrugged his shoulders.
Annan sat down again, and after Vi had smoothed the creases in her apron and clasped
her hands neatly together she began to speak.
“My father was enfranchised when he was a young man. He needed to feed his family
and because he had lots of children it was impossible for him to make enough money on the
reserve. So, he signed away his Nativeness and moved from his family and from his people. His
search for work took him far afield and he traveled from job to job. He travelled through the

37

United States and was visiting with some people on the Great Plains when an elder told him this
story”:
“There was a little mouse. It lived with other mice. All the same kind. They spent their
days scurrying around looking for food. All day they kept their noses to the ground. Smelling.
Smelling. The only thing that the mice saw and noticed were those things that touched their
whiskers as they scavenged for crumbs and grubs with their tiny, bony hands. Sometimes the
mouse looked up, but it was only because she was looking for the eagle. Once she saw the clear,
empty sky, she continued with her work. One day mouse asked one of her family if they heard a
roaring in their ears.
“I hear nothing” said the other mouse. “Don’t bother me, I am busy with my work.”
The mouse asked another of their community members,
“Can you not hear that loud noise in your ears?” but the mouse simply looked up, cocked
an ear and continued on its low path with a shake of its head. The mouse tried to ignore the
sound, but it soon became a constant. So, the mouse decided to go in search of the roar. She
scuttled forward for quite a way before lifting her head again. The sound was louder now: Awful
and yet wonderful at the same time. She was running ahead when she ran right into a furry paw
and glancing up, she found herself looking into the stripy face of a racoon. The little mouse
readied her tail to run but the racoon spoke,
“Hello little sister. What are you doing here all by yourself?” the racoon asked the mouse.
The mouse was shy and hid behind one of her paws. She said,
“I am trying to find out where that noise is coming from. The roar that I hear in my ears.
Do you hear it?” she asked timidly. The racoon looked surprised.
“You hear a roar in your ears?” he asked. “That, my little one, is the river.”

38

“What is the river?” asked mouse.
“Come with me. I will take you there.” Answered the racoon.
As the mouse and racoon walked towards the river the little mouse became more and more
afraid. She could still hear the roar, but she could smell the odor of many strange, unfamiliar
animals on their path. At one stage she almost turned around and went home, for fear she may
become lost and never see her family again. Finally, the pair reached the river. It stretched out in
front of the mouse like a massive, swirling, dancing monster. Its enormity and commotion were
too much for the mouse and she momentarily hid her face. When she looked again she noticed
things, chunks of life from places unknown, passing by her, caught up in the churn and bluster of
the water. As the mouse looked on in wonder the racoon said,
“I want to introduce you to my friend, the frog.” Frog was resting on a lily pad in a quiet
eddy. Mouse asked him,
“Who are you and are you not afraid to sit in this mighty river?” The frog replied,
“I am a frog and I am keeper of the river. You can come and visit me any time you like.
When you do I will show you how I can harness the power of the river. Would you like to know
how to get some river medicine?” the frog asked the mouse.
“Yes. Yes, please.” Replied the mouse.
“Crouch as low as you can and then push yourself off the earth and jump as high as you
can. This way, you will have your medicine.” Explained the frog. The mouse did as she was told
and she jumped as high as she could; so high she could see over the river and to the mountains
that lay far in the distance. But when the mouse landed, she fell, “plop” into the river. She
managed to scramble back to the bank but the mouse was really angry with the frog and she
yelled at him,

39

“You tricked me! You knew I would fall into the river.” She said.
“But are you hurt?” the frog asked the small animal.
No, but…..” stammered the mouse.
“What did you see?” asked the frog.
“I saw the mountains, the mountains that are far in the distance.” Mouse explained.
“Ah!” exclaimed the frog. “You have seen the sacred mountains and so you shall have a
new name.” The frog smiled at the mouse. “You shall now be known as Jumping Mouse.” The
mouse was very grateful, and she told the frog that she wanted to return to the other mice and tell
them right away what had happened and what she had seen. The frog told her to find her way
back to the other mice by keeping the sound of the river in the back of her head.
Jumping Mouse returned to her community, but she was sad because no one would listen
to her. She became disappointed. She had returned home with wet hair and so the other mice
believed that she had been spat out from the mouth of another animal who did not want her and
so she must be poisonous. Jumping Mouse lived again with the other mice, but she was never the
same as before her trip to the river; before her vision of the distant sacred mountains. She could
never forget the sound of the roar in her ears that had taken her away.”
Aunty Vi stopped talking and took a deep breath through her nose. She unclasped her
hands. Annan looked up at her not knowing quite what to say.
“That’s a good story Auntie.” RJ said.
“Yes. Thank you.” Annan said, unfolding her legs to stand up. “I love stories about
animals.” RJ glanced at the young woman and squeezed his aunt’s shoulder gently.
“Would you like me to take you in and get you something to eat?” He asked.

40

“Help me into the house.” She said bluntly. “But I can feed myself.” Easing herself up
slowly from her chair she took RJ’s arm.
“Thanks again.” Annan said reaching out to touch the woman but then withdrawing her
hand. “Thanks for having me and for showing me your garden.” She said. Auntie Vi, who was
now part way down the path to her house, stopped and looked back at Annan.
“Eat your spinach.” She said firmly. “Winter’s coming.”

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Chapter Six
Annan had not approved of the gun in their summer house, but John had insisted. He said
it was the safe thing to do when they were in the bush. Cedar Chine was buried deep in the
forest, with little for company other than the massive trees, their dense vegetation rising up and
blocking out the sun. Most days had begun with a low mist hanging below where the green of the
trees began. The moisture sealed away the light and heavy dew hung onto all it could including
the velvety moss thicket. Annan had loved the quiet there. No neighbours, no traffic, no
restaurants or coffee shops. John, however, knew there were bears. He had seen tracks once and
had purchased the gun as soon as they had returned to the city. The bear never did show its face
around their house and so John had taken to firing shots at the crows and ravens. She knew it was
wrong but John hated the noise they made in the mornings. She flinched each time a shot rang
out. RJ had told her stories about crows when they were together – stories that made her see the
giant black birds differently. She had tried to share one of the stories with John once.
“Incessant cawing. Good for nothing birds.” He had said. She had given the gun away to
one of his friends before she left Canada. Now, she remembered the gun, as she lay in her bed
and listened to a lone sea gull who must have found its way up from the harbour and was, she
was convinced, hovering outside her bedroom window.
When Annan had been alone at Cedar Chine, she had taken to hiding the gun in the back
of the closet; the idea that John would have used it to shoot a bear made her want to forget its
presence. The bear had been there for centuries.
“Bears don’t live that long,” he had argued. She told him he was missing the point. She
also told him that it made her uncomfortable, but he said it was for her own good. She would be
grateful of it when the bear showed its face.

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“Don’t you ever feel like a trespasser?” She had asked him one evening as they sat on
their deck. The sun had slid down behind a large rise to the rear of their house and the muggy air
of day had been replaced by a fresh breeze coming from the west. He placed a blanket around
her shoulders and handed her a glass of wine.
“A what?” He asked.
“A trespasser?” She repeated. “Do you ever wonder if we are the outsiders?” She asked.
“There was probably a trail that went right through this property before it was our house. He is
just trying to find his way, maybe.” She said.
“That’s an oversimplification and anyway, I bought and paid for this land.” He answered
staring out over the stand. She sometimes liked it when John didn’t go with her out to their home
in the forest. She felt safer with the gun at the back of the closet.
Annan now made her way up the cobble street. She turned right onto a tiny lane. The
cobbles narrowed and the walkway was bordered by waist-high walls of light grey stone that
looked like they had been there for millennium. Running her hand along the uneven edges there
was comfort in the coarseness. Roses climbed the wall – their tangled roots intertwining. The
subtle shades of pink and apricot, juxtaposed their hard, thorny branches. Annan unlatched the
worn gate and made her way slowly up the short garden path to the front door. She pressed the
doorbell.
Olive led the way through her house.
“It’s over a hundred years old.” She explained as they passed from the entrance, down a
step into a cozy sitting room.

43

“It’s lovely.” Annan replied. The walls were at least six inches thick and caked with
white plaster. Sparse light came in through the windows, but Olive had made up for this by her
pastel upholstery and light wood furniture.
“I’ve lived here forever.” She explained as the two women stepped through French doors
and out onto a patio. “I lived here the whole time we were at school together. When my parents
died, I inherited it. Never felt like moving away. Thought it would have been an insult to the
place.” She explained. Annan was looking at the view. The house was perched at the top of the
hill with the village tumbling down gradually until it reached the harbour. It was an unusually
bright evening and the retreating sun glinted as it reflected off the descending surfaces.
“This is spectacular.” Annan said. “I’m not surprised you couldn’t leave.”
“Well it’s home.” Olive said pouring some clear white wine into a glass for Annan.
“Why did you leave?” asked Olive. “I remember hearing that you had gone abroad but I
wasn’t sure where.” Annan sipped her wine and raised her glass slightly to Olive.
“I haven’t seen a garden like this for a long time.” She said. The two sat in silence for a
while and then Annan spoke,
“Was it you who sent me the book?” she ventured.
“Oh no. I mean, yes it was. Was it terribly presumptuous?” Olive twisted her hands a
little as she balanced on the edge of a chair. She forced a laugh.
“A little.” Annan said restraining herself. “How did you know?” Annan asked.
Olive stared at the ground. “I suppose that’s what happens when you live in a small
town.”
“I’m sorry.” Olive said, holding up a plate of something. Annan raised her hand in polite
refusal.

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“I know you meant well. It’s just….I’m fine. I don’t really need it. The book I mean.”
“I have another friend who lost a loved one and she recommended the book. I thought it
might be helpful.” Olive offered. “I have been fortunate enough never to have lost someone
close. It must be so difficult.” Olive said.
“But your parents?” Annan asked.
“Well, they were old. It must be different in situations like yours.” Olive explained,
crunching on one of the things that had been on the plate.
“Well. Thank you.” Annan said. “I have it out, just in case.” She made a mental note to
fish it out of the rubbish when she got home. Annan liked the silence up here on the hill.
“So, what happened?” Olive asked pointedly. “To your husband?” Annan looked at Olive
and noticed her face for the first time. She was quite plain and yet there was something definitive
about her green eyes. Her glasses were too big for her face and they frequently slipped down,
requiring her to push them back into place. Her hair was trapped behind some sort of scarf
making it impossible to know its true shade. Annan felt a sudden pang of guilt.
“I will read the book,” she avoided answering Olive’s question. Olive tipped her head
slightly to the side.
“He died.” Annan laughed nervously. “I mean, he had a heart attack. It was quick and
unexpected. Rather the opposite of how he had lived his life.” She said it almost to herself.
“Oh. I’m so sorry.” Olive said.
“That’s ok. Shit happens.” Annan said, almost smiling to herself as she remembered the
first time she had heard that term and then realized how harsh she sounded.
“It must be hard though.” Olive said, moving to pick up the bottle again. “Suddenly being
on your own after all those years. I assume you were married for a while?” She asked.

45

“Twenty-five.” Annan explained. “It’s different. Yes. But I’m ok. What about you?”
“Oh! I never took the plunge! Seems like I am married to this house and to this place.”
Olive said looking at Annan’s face. “But sometimes it feels like I’m walking in quick-sand. You
know? I have an idea about getting out but as soon as I try to move, I get sucked back in.”
Annan laughed, “You make it sound terrifying, staying in one place. It can’t be that bad.”
“It’s easy for you to say. You were brave enough to move away.” Olive said.
“Oh, no, wait a minute. Please don’t use the word brave for what I did.” Annan got up
and walked to the edge of the garden. “Brave is not how I see it.” Annan said and looked back at
Olive.
“Oh?” the other woman asked.
“I think…it doesn’t matter.” Annan said sitting down again, grabbing the bottle and
filling her empty glass.
“Let me do that.” Olive said trying to take the bottle from her.
“I’m fine. Thanks. But please don’t think of me as brave.” She tried again.
“Well I do.” Olive said. “I have heard rumours about what you did over there. I don’t
know if they are true but it sounds ridiculously adventurous and scary.”
“Canada is not that scary. It’s kind of like here only with higher mountains and bears. Not
scary.”
“Do tell me.” Olive moved her face towards Annan’s. The woman looked at Olive and
wondered what their relationship had been like. Had they been friends? Had they shared
scribbled secrets on ripped pieces of paper passed to each other in class? Why did she have no
recollection of this person with the vivid eyes? Was she one of the girls who Annan had curled

46

up with under the tree and spent the night giggling and marvelling at how clever they were for
escaping the confines of their parents’ houses?
“I’m sorry.” She finally said. “It’s hard to talk about Canada. Not just because of John…”
She reached over and took one of the unidentified snacks and placed it dubiously in her mouth,
smiling carefully at Olive.
“That’s ok.” Olive said. “Time is the great healer.” And suddenly the woman jumped up
from her spot and tripped into the house. A mellow trickle of music came from a small speaker
somewhere over Annan’s head. Olive reappeared with two more plates. This time Annan paid
more interest. There was a sudden hunger in her.
“There’s a friendly tie of some sort between music and eating.” Olive declared. Annan
smiled at the woman.
“Thomas Hardy.” Olive explained.

47

Chapter Seven
Annan woke to the black of the cabin and the realization that she needed to pee. The
presentation on bear encounters was still fresh in her mind as she hurried to the outhouse. The
blackness was different here – there was no radiance in the sky from nearby communities, no
streetlamps or friendly glowing windows. The dark was complete. Annan was preparing herself
for her run back to the cabin as she quietly opened the door of the outhouse. It was then that she
noticed, against the ebony backdrop of the night, the slight glimmer of a fire. As she approached
she could see the outline of a person sitting with their back to her. Without turning the person
said,
“Couldn’t sleep?” Annan found a spot in an old deck chair next to RJ. Now that her eyes
had adjusted to the dark she could make out the deep cobalt of the water.
“I had a strange dream.” She explained. “Then I had to go to the loo. Now I probably
won’t be able to get back to sleep.” She said.
“The what?” RJ asked.
“The loo. It means the toilet.” She clarified. RJ looked at her but didn’t say anything. An
affable breeze tickled the bottom of the flames and RJ leaned down to poke the burning logs with
a long stick. Annan moved around in her plastic seat.
“It’s dark here.” She finally said.
“Is it?” He asked. She looked over at him and he was still staring into the fire.
“Well, I mean, I’m not really used to this. You know, like being outside, in the night….”
She said.
They were quiet again. Annan thought of things she might like to ask this man. She snuck
a look at the side of his face, the orange from the fire creating a silhouette of light. He had finally

48

taken off his baseball cap and it had left a groove in his hair. RJ was nothing like the images she
had seen on TV at home; the pictures of Indians that she had grown up with. His jeans were
fraying along the hems and he wore a large checkered jacket over an old T-shirt. There was no
sign of fierceness in his eyes and his speech was not forced or awkward. An increased breeze
came from behind them and Annan could now see the white edges of the foamed waves as they
found the shore. Something in the bush behind them cracked and Annan jumped, gripping the
handles on her chair.
“I don’t like the dark.” She explained again. “How can you even see out here?” she asked
him. “I’m afraid I’m going to trip over something and break my leg.” She wanted to move her
chair closer to RJ but he suddenly got up from his perch and moved away, his body gliding into
the darkness.
“Umm.” She stammered. “Where are you going?” She stood up until he appeared again
carrying a pile of logs. The fire grew a little higher and Annan could feel the heat on her shins.
She moved her chair back a bit, but not too far that she was out of the circle of light. At the same
time, she managed to move her chair an inch closer to him.
“I like the sea.” She tried to break the silence. “I was born by the ocean.” She said.
RJ poked at the fire.
“Different to this, though.” She said. “Smoother.” She said. “Things seemed softer at
home.” She was picturing the landscape. She wondered if he had heard her.
“I wonder what time it is.” She asked him only to be met with silence. She was thinking
about going back to bed when RJ finally said something.
“Why did you come here? He asked. “What made you leave your smooth sea and come
all the way over here?” The fire had died down now and she moved her chair towards it.

49

“I was called.” She said without hesitating.
“Called.” He repeated. “Hmm.” He nodded his head.
“Yes. Called.” She said as if confirming it to herself. The wind hummed in the trees
behind them and the tide slipped back a fraction.
“Ah! The roar in your ears.” He said. Annan didn’t hear him.
“It seemed like the right thing to do. At the time.” She said. “I come from a long line of
helpers. I suppose it’s in my blood.” She said.
“And what did you think of my Auntie’s story today?” he asked her.
“Oh! I liked it. Your Auntie is good at telling stories. I grew up with Beatrix Potter
books. Love animal stories.” She said. RJ looked at her then and she cleared her throat.
“You know earlier today, in the boat?” She asked him.
“The canoe?”
“Yes.” She said. “That word you used. Genocide. I just wasn’t sure how to react. It feels
like a really forceful word. I heard it a lot growing up. My parents lived through the war. It feels
like way too big of a word to use for what happened to the Indians here.” She stood up and put
her back to the fire and to RJ. She looked over at the sea and saw what looked like the first signs
of dawn in a line of purple on the horizon.
“So, why were you called here? If things weren’t that bad here, why would you come?”
he asked.
“I’m not saying things weren’t bad. I don’t really know. But the genocide is the genocide,
right? It’s what happened to the Jewish people. I feel like we shouldn’t be flinging the word
around.” She turned to face him.
“I didn’t know that certain words belonged only to certain people.” He said.

50

“To describe certain things.” She told him. “It’s the Jewish holocaust, genocide. When
someone says the word people kind of know that’s what it means. I mean, specifically.” She
explained.
“But what if there have been other genocides?” He asked her.
“I believe there have been other bad things like that.” She felt a little confused now. “But
just not as bad. The numbers were so high, and it was so terrible.” She explained.
“Yes. You’re right.” He said. “But do you know what happened here, in North America?
Do you know about the numbers? About the deaths and the violence and the dissemination of
culture?” He was looking directly at her and she felt a tightening in her stomach.
“I still think it’s a word we shouldn’t be borrowing. I feel like it should be only applied to
one incident.” She said.
“That’s because it’s hard for people to acknowledge what happened here. If you apply a
word like that to it, it becomes more real maybe. That throws people off. Look what’s happening
to you. You’re thrown off right now.” He said.
“I’m not thrown off.” She faltered. “I just don’t think it’s the right use of the word. I
think it should be revered more.” She hadn’t noticed the dark dissipating.
“If you are gonna work with Native kids you are going to have to understand the history
here, otherwise it’s just going to be like a fun little holiday for you.” He said.
“A fun holiday? I’m here to work.” Her voice was sharp. “I spent my own money to get
here and I am here to work for no pay. To help people who need me.” She sat down heavily in
the chair and righted it as it nearly tipped.
“Why do the people here need help?” He asked.

51

“Because they are underprivileged. I want to teach them about what God said. How he
loves everyone. If it was him that called me then I should be talking about him, shouldn’t I?”
“Not sure.” He said. “If you don’t know what the people here are suffering from, how can
you help them?” He pointed out. “It’s kind of flimsy, your argument. How can you help someone
if you don’t know their history?” The light was increasing, and she wondered if it was too late to
go back to bed.
“Maybe you just have a chip on your shoulder.” She blurted out.
“A chip?” He asked.
“Yes. You’re upset that the word genocide can’t be used for the Indians. It’s like you are
jealous of the word.” She was standing again and moved backwards and forwards from foot to
foot.
“So, the problem lies with me?” He asked gently. She looked into his face and stood still.
The strip of purple had grown to an expanse of luminosity that had brightened to shades of
orange. A bird called from somewhere over the water.
“How long did you say you were planning to stay here for?” He asked her.
“I think six weeks all together.” She responded. She could hear her heart beating in her
ears. RJ was flattening the pieces of wood in the fire and tapping any active coals, subduing their
embers.
“I have a book I think would be helpful for you to read while you are here. Just one
book.” He said, pulling a small book out from under his jacket and dropping it Annan’s lap.
“Once you’ve finished it, we can talk again. About my chip.” He walked away in the direction of
his cabin.

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The flushed promise of sun rise had paled behind a low ceiling of silvery moisture. The
forest behind their sea-side camp was rain forest, the sun being an elusive visitor to the spot.
Damp clung to Annan’s hair as she made her way to the area where they were to greet the
incoming campers. Annan had anticipated this moment her whole life: The moment when she
would meet the Native children. The camp had been set up to work with the children and youth
from the outlying reserves to provide a week of recreation, spiritual learning and comradery.
Annan’s footfalls were heavy that morning, partly because of her lack of sleep but also because
of her conversation with RJ. Entering the gathering space at eight o’clock she cast her eyes
around the room until she saw him and then when he looked up and noticed her, she quickly
looked away. Delia unexpectedly grabbed Annan’s hand and squeezed it.
“This is it!” she exclaimed. “So joyful right now.” She said.
Annan smiled back. “Yes. Me too.” She said.
“This is our pivotal moment. What we’ve been waiting for. This is our chance to make a
difference in the world.” Delia oozed.
She squeezed Delia’s hand back.
While the group ate breakfast RJ spoke briefly, reminding them all of the points he had
made during their orientation. Some of the things he had told them and repeated now were
uncertain to her, unknown. She hadn’t spoken up though despite his encouragement for
questions. Thoughts darted through her head. She realised that she had met RJ and his Auntie
and now she was about to meet the Native children. While RJ was speaking, and she stood
behind her chair, she jogged slightly, on the spot, as she half listened to what he had to say. She
wondered who she would meet first, if they would ask her questions about where she was from,
how she lived. She anticipated eager faces and innocent smiles.

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The first bus would arrive in half an hour and as she left the eating area to cross to the
parking lot, she noticed RJ standing down by the water. He had his back to her and he held his
cap in his hand with his arms to his side. She had meant to thank him for the book he had given
her. She had tucked it into her backpack with a promise to read it. She took a step towards him
and then stopped herself, remembering their conversation a few hours earlier. It was then she
heard the crunch of the bus tires on the gravel.
Annan stood squarely at the side of the bus, as part of a line-up of staff ready to greet the
children. This first week of camp was a teen camp so any youth over the age of 14 would be
staying. Annan would have ten girls in her cabin, and she would be responsible for waking them
up in the morning, getting them to bed at ten each night and helping to organize their activities.
The drizzle had momentarily stopped and Annan welcomed the warmth from the sun on her back
while she waited. There was a commotion on the bus and Annan could see shadows moving
behind the small windows. There was a sudden burst of laughter and at last the kids emerged.
They came in a steady stream and barely noticed Annan. She smiled as they passed and noticed
the recognition between some of the kids and RJ.
The next morning, Annan woke and was immediately startled by the person standing
beside her bed.
“Ahhh!” she exclaimed. “Oh, good morning.” One of the girls from Annan’s cabin was
standing close to the edge of Annan’s bed, staring at her.
“Six o’clock. It’s time for the freezer swim.” The girl said.
“Oh, right.” Annan rubbed her face roughly and swung her legs over the side of the
narrow bed. “Are you the only one up?”
“Guess so.” The girl said.

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“I’m sorry. I can’t remember your name.” Annan said.
“Do you have your swim suit?” The girl asked.
“Oh! Hmmm. I’m not really a lover of cold water.” She said, honestly. “I have to wake
everyone up.” Annan said looking around the cabin.
“Don’t bother.” The girl said. “No one is going to get up.”
“Sorry, what’s your name?” She asked again.
The chill of the air was apparent, by the show of their breath ahead of them, when they
stepped out of the cabin. The sea was calm and polished like a mirror, with a sun struggling
against some heavy cloud and not high enough to provide any heat. Annan had her towel
wrapped closely around her.
“My name is B.” the girl said abruptly.
“Oh, right. Now I remember. I am terrible with names. Is that spelt BEA or BEE? Is it
short for something?” Annan asked.
“It’s B.” the girl said shedding her towel and walking straight towards the water.
“Wait, um.” I don’t think we can go in without the life-guard on duty. “We have to wait
for someone else to come out.” Annan said, squeezing her towel. Her bare feet were starting to
tingle with the cold. B pointed over the shoulder. RJ was crossing the beach towards them.
“Where is everyone?” Annan asked him. “Why aren’t people getting up?”
“They’re teenagers, it’s six o’clock and it’s freezing.” He looked at her. “After you.” He
said with a flourish of his hand.
“I don’t really like cold water.” Annan said clinging to her towel. B was standing at the
water’s edge.

55

“Don’t like the dark. Don’t like the cold.” He said. “B is going in the water. You have to
go. I will be here, just in case you need me.” He winked. “I’ll hold your towel.” B had gone in
the water as if she belonged there. She was a large girl but once in the water she was lithe and
subtle. Periodically she would emerge and shake her long dark hair out of her eyes.
“You are a good swimmer B.” Annan was standing up to the top of her thighs in the
water. Her teeth were chattering and she clutched her hands together. RJ was on the beach
watching them and waved when she turned to look at him. She thought she saw a smile but it
was hard to see, she was shivering so much.
“Are you afraid?” B asked her.
“No, no. I like the water. It’s just a bit chilly for me this morning.” Annan went up on her
tip toes as she moved further into the water and gasped when her belly went under.
“Get in quickly. It’s way easier that way.” B laughed and disappeared under the water.
“Good grief.” Annan muttered to herself and took a step forward not knowing that the
ocean floor fell away abruptly. Her whole body was submerged before she came up gasping. She
was aware that B was at her side and felt the young woman lift her and put her back into the
shallower water. Annan was shivering uncontrollably.
“Oh!” She said. “It’s deeper than I thought.” She clutched B’s hand as the two of them
left the water. “That was refreshing.” She looked into B’s eyes and saw a twinkling mixture of
amusement and concern. “Thank you.” Annan said. RJ was on the beach and he handed her the
towel. “Nice dip?” he asked.
“An interesting way to wake up.” She smiled tightly at him as she followed B back to the
cabin.

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Later that evening Annan stood behind her chair ready to say grace then get in line for
food. RJ motioned for her.
“There are two kids missing.” He told her. “Joe and Lori. They’re not here. Can you go
find them?” It was more of an order than a request.
She checked the shore line first. There was a brisk wind blowing across the surface of the
ocean which created numerous little white crests in the water. There was no sign of Joe and Lori.
She called their names and scanned the tree line behind the cabins and couldn’t imagine why
anyone would venture into the dense forest. Making her way back to the group of cabins she
started to worry. What if she couldn’t find them. Maybe they had wandered off and got lost. Had
they gone into the water and been swept away? Rounding the front of the cabins she caught sight
of Joe with his body pressed up against the rough cedar siding of the cabin. It took her a while to
realize that Lori was in between Joe and the wall. The couple were moving rhythmically. Joe was
grinding himself against the girl and she was reaching up with her face, her lips entangled with
his. Annan yelled before she thought, “Hey. What are you doing?” The couple drew apart and
ran behind the cabin and then she saw them scuttling across the grass to the gathering space. He
reached for her as they fell through the door and disappeared. Annan was gasping and her face
was red when she got back to RJ.
“You look like you’ve been running.” He said.
“I need to talk to you.” Annan replied.
“Ok.” He said, taking a spoonful of chili into his mouth. “Did you find the kids?”
“Yes. But I can’t talk to you here.” She hissed through her teeth.
“Can I finish my food first? Is it that urgent?”

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Annan’s heart was pounding after dinner as she approached RJ to talk to him. She wasn’t
sure how she was going to tell him what she had seen.
“What’s bothering you?” he asked as she approached. He was sitting on a large grey log
that had found its way up onto the beach.
“Joe and Lori” she started. “I found them…”
“That’s good,” he said.
“But when I found them they were moving, you know. They were…. She said.
“They were?”
“They were moving…well, rhythmically.”
“Ah.” He said, looking away and over the sea. The wind had dropped and the small crests
had smoothed out to a calm grey sheet.
“Foxtrot or cha cha cha?” He asked.
“What?”
“You said they were dancing, right?” He looked into her face.
“You aren’t making this very easy.”
“The waltz?” he asked.
Annan drew in a large breath. “You seem to think this is amusing. They were one step
away. From. Well….” She was pacing in front of RJ. “I hope you are going to talk to them. I
can’t. I wouldn’t know what to say. But you, well, you should talk to them. Tell them it isn’t
right, what they are doing.”
RJ was syphoning sand through his fingers and watching the fine grains as they caught
the light.
“You are going to talk to them aren’t you.” Annan asked.

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RJ finally looked over at her. “You really should calm down. It’s not healthy to get that
worked up. Can’t be good for the heart.” He said. “What would you like me to say to them?”
“Huh!” Annan snorted through her nose. “This is a catholic camp. We have catholic
values here. I thought everyone here was catholic. You need to talk to them about that.” Annan
said.
“The reason these kids are catholic is not the same reason you are.” He said.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“They are catholic because the catholics got to their village before the protestants. That’s
why. That’s the only reason.”
“What?” Annan sat on the log and tried to steady her legs. “But this is a catholic camp.”
She tried again.
“Annan, what are you so afraid of? They are teenagers and they are horny. It’s natural.
It’s part of life. People have sex.” He was walking towards the ocean.
Annan was stunned into momentary silence and then, “Not on my watch they don’t. I
won’t be responsible for that type of behaviour.” She tripped over the uneven sand as she went
after him.
“You do that in England, don’t you?” he asked.
“What?”
“Have sex. Like, that’s how you procreate?” He turned to her momentarily and bent to
find a collection of small stones by the water’s edge.
“Of course, we do.” She was exasperated. “But not before we are married.” She
explained.

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“Wow.” He said. “How do they monitor that?” He leaned back to cast a small flat pebble
across the surface of the sea.
“Look, you and I might not agree on this but we still need to deal with Joe and Lori! This
is a religious camp.” She said.
“These are your rules, Annan. Not theirs. If you are so upset about it then you talk to
them. If you want to try to explain to a couple of teenagers who think they’re in love that what
they are doing is wrong, be my guest.” RJ dropped the rest of the pebbles on the beach and
walked away. She didn’t turn to look at him as he left.

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Chapter Eight
Annan had managed to get a seat by the window in the small restaurant. The tide was out
in the harbour and had left an expanse of dark, wet sand. Puddles of water, that Annan imagined
would be warm on her feet, drained into little streams that ran back towards the ocean, their
water trickling hastily in an attempt to get back to their centre. All the memories of RJ that she
had been having since she arrived back in the UK had so far been of their disagreements and she
wondered how they had ever fallen in love. Looking back, the void between them seemed
insurmountable but she also recalled the feeling she had had when she was around him.
She had talked to Joe and Lori. Her language had been awkward. Lori had hidden her
face behind her hand and Joe had stared at Annan. His large brown eyes constant. She had tried
to be biological, and formal. She made a case for abstinence and safety but by the end of the
conversation she was less sure about her assertions than she had been at the start. She hadn’t
talked to RJ about it again.
Olive was late and by the time she arrived Annan had decided on the fish and chips.
“Tell me about John.” She said once they had got settled.
“What exactly would you like to know?” Annan asked.
“What was he like? Tall, short, blond, brunette?” Annan paused.
“I would rather talk about you.” Annan said. “I don’t know much about you. What did
you do after secondary school? Did you work? Go to college?”
“I was a teacher my whole life. It’s what I always wanted. Those kids took up so much
space, it was hard to do anything else. I always had lots of plans but then, well here I am.” Olive
explained.

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“It’s a nice place to be.” Annan said raising her chin at the view. “To staying home.” She
said and tipped her glass to Olive. “So, now what? I take it you are retired? What’s next?” she
asked.
“Oh, I work, at that bakery up the hill. It’s part time but it gets me out of the house and
gives me a purpose. They’re hiring you know. If you need something to do.” Olive looked
sideways at Annan. “I mean, there’s not much money in it but it keeps me involved. I hear all the
gossip up there.”
“I don’t have a lot of work experience.” Annan stated. “Haven’t had too many jobs.”
“Really? You surprise me. I thought of you as some executive assistant or CEO.
Something where you had to wear those American type power suits.” Olive laughed.
“Hmmm. John never wanted me to work. When we first got married I had to stay at
home. I…. Well I was at home for a few years.”
“You had to?”
“Circumstances. Then after that I just felt unsure. I felt more at home in the house,
cleaning and organizing. John was in business and entertained a lot at our house. I did all the
work for that. I wasn’t really encouraged to do anything else. There had been a time when I had
big ideas, goals.” Annan stared out of the window. “But things change. You get older and things
just change.” She said.
As they left the restaurant Olive unlocked her bike that rested against the brick wall of the
building. She placed her purse in the front basket.
“Do you not have a car?” Annan asked her.
“No, just old faithful here.” The two women walked up the hill, past the bakery.

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“Do say you’ll apply for the job. It would be fun to have someone my age there. The staff
are nice but they are young. I don’t have much in common.” Olive said.
“I’ll think about it.” They had reached Annan’s front door and made their farewells.
Annan watched as Olive pushed her bike up the hill, until she rounded the corner into her lane.
The next morning Annan thought about turning up the heat in the house. The damp from
outside seemed to permeate the walls of her home and seep into her bones. She poked her head
out of the door to grab the one pint of milk that she had taken to having delivered. There was a
small basket on her stoop, covered with a red cloth. Olive she thought. Unpacking the contents,
she breathed in the smell of freshly baked scones and saw small containers of clotted cream and
blackberry jam. She’d had a restless night and sleep pulled at the corners of her eyes. Dreams
that she couldn’t quite remember loitered at the edges of her memory. She wondered why she
had not dreamt of John since he had passed, and a pang of guilt sprung up as she admitted to
herself how much she had thought of RJ since she arrived back in the UK. Drinking her tea, she
wondered if she should apply for the job at the bakery. She imagined herself – the middle-aged
woman struggling to manage the new technology of a till, an unsightly hairnet covering her
graying hair. It was an unattractive proposition and yet she couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Maybe she would become the master baker – up at 4am each day, whisking up light and airy
bread and surgery cakes and then back in bed by 11am, a full day’s work behind her and cash in
her pocket. She wouldn’t even have to touch the money John had left her.
It made sense that she stayed at home when they first got married. John would leave
before six in the morning and not return until around seven. She covered his dinner with a lid to
keep it warm. She was needed at home. As time passed it grew harder to ignore her restless

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thoughts and the only thing that helped was to keep moving. She went for walks, did the grocery
shopping, shopped for clothes she didn’t need. But John insisted he buy his own clothes.
“There’s a certain look I need for work.” He explained. He had bought a new shirt the
day he died, the red and white cotton pin stripes ripped open in an attempt to save his life.
She had never wanted for anything. John insisted on having a cleaner into their apartment
once a week and while the woman was there Annan had removed herself and her paraphernalia
to a coffee shop or down to the local beach, while she awaited the cleansing of her space. They
always had vacations. Apart from their weekends at Cedar Chine, there had been holidays. Two
weeks every August and a week in February,
“To get some heat.” John had insisted. Annan had tagged along, bringing the necessary
trifles. They had a couple of favourite spots, some small tropical islands to combat John’s
seasonal affective disorder. Still, Cedar Chine was her retreat. John was often working on
something while they were there, scratching on endless sheets of paper while Annan worked her
way through various books and took walks in the woods. Despite the heaviness of the evergreen
vegetation there was a lightness to Annan when she was there: A familiar yen. The house had
been the only thing she could not part with after John’s death. It remained there, silent and
waiting in amongst the undergrowth and soaring trees. She had left it as it was, choosing not to
disturb its contents. The art and the furniture were expensive but were insured. However, before
she left, she had taken the few photos she knew she couldn’t be without.
“Thank you for the scones.” She told Olive on the phone. “A dangerous precedent to set
for breakfast.” She laughed.
“Did you apply for the job?” Olive asked her.
“Yes, I start next week.”

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Chapter Nine
The fourth morning into the camp Annan sat slumped over the table waiting for
breakfast. She tried to focus her brain on the day ahead, but her thoughts were fuzzy. The
temptation to put her head on the table was stronger than her hunger and she was barely aware
that other people were filing into the room.
“Morning, sleepy head.” Someone’s hand brushed her shoulder and she looked up to see
RJ walking towards his own seat. B sat down next to her.
“You missed the swim this morning.” She said staring ahead.
“I’m so sorry B.” Annan turned to look at the girl. “I think I slept through my alarm. I’m
a little tired this morning.”
“I turned your alarm off. The waves were big this morning. You wouldn’t have enjoyed
it.”
“B, you shouldn’t be going out there alone.” Annan said. “Was there anyone else there?”
B shook her head. “I don’t need no one else. I know the sea and it knows me. Don’t need no
monitor.” Annan was too tired to object. She looked at B and smiled. B’s round face looked back
and Annan saw a surety there that she envied.
“You really should think about competing. You are a fantastic swimmer.” Annan said.
“Like competitions?” B asked.
“Yes, like swim meets. You could do so well and you would meet so many people and
get to travel. I think you would enjoy it.” B stared back at her,
“Sadie keeping you up?” B asked. Annan turned her whole body towards B and grabbed
her arm gently, “Yes, how do you know? Do you hear her too?” She asked.
“I’m a light sleeper.” She said.

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“It’s become such a problem. She’s so tired during the day. She needs to get her body
into the same rhythm as everyone else. She’s never going to be able to get up and go to work
when she’s older.”
“Sadie’s always been like that. Got her own clock.” B said moving towards the food
table.
Later that day Annan managed to corner RJ to ask him about Sadie.
“I can’t get her to go to bed when everyone else does. She paces around the cabin or sits
by the window ’til the early hours. I’ve tried threats and everything but nothing works. She’s
pretty stubborn and then because she won’t go to bed until the early hours she can’t get up in the
morning. It’s like trying to wake the dead. A train could go through that cabin and she wouldn’t
wake up.”
“Did you ask her why she can’t sleep.” RJ asked.
“I don’t think it’s that she can’t sleep. She’s just stubborn. It’s like a game to her. B said
she has her own clock. Wants to do it her way I suppose. But she’s going to have to learn to
conform. I told her that. She won’t even talk to me.”
“So, you didn’t ask her?” RJ repeated.
“Well, not really. I just told her she needs to go to bed. She needs to listen. Some of these
kids don’t like authority but they are going to have get over that.” Annan said.
“So, you haven’t considered what may be keeping her up then?” He asked. Annan looked
at him and shoved her hands into her shorts’ pockets. There was something about that way he
looked at her.
“Have you ever had trouble sleeping?” He asked.
“Of course, over the years, I suppose.” She responded.

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“Why?” He asked. She was slow to answer and then,
“I suppose if I’m worried about something or …well I used to be scared of the dark when
I was a kid.”
“Used to be?” He asked.
“Can you talk to her?” Annan asked.
“Nope.” He said bluntly.
“Why? I don’t know how to assert myself with these kids. I’m just an outsider to them.
You know them. You’re one of them.”
RJ looked down at her and in that moment it felt as if he was seven foot tall.
“You certainly have a way with words.” He said. “You are the one who came to work
with these kids. I’m just here to supervise you. I know Sadie. She’s been coming to summer
camp since she was little. There are problems at home. There’s nothing I can do about it. I told
you before, things are complicated here.” He said.
“What do you mean, problems? Like, there’s no one there to train her to get up and go to
bed at the right times?” Annan laughed a little and it came out rather too much like a scoff. “How
complicated can things be? We all had to learn discipline. It’s uncomfortable sometimes but we
all get through it.” Annan sounded sure of herself but there was an unknown feeling building
inside her.
RJ was quiet. They were standing on the beach, the sound of the kids behind them was a
low murmur. The usual opaque veil shrouded the sun. RJ had his back to her and she could see
the groove in his hair from his cap. The broad line of his shoulders was something she was
becoming familiar with.
“You really have no idea, do you?” He finally asked her.

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“Idea about what?”
“What these kids have to deal with. What goes on at home, in the communities.” he said.
Annan stayed silent.
“Why are you here? Don’t tell me it’s because you were called.” He said. “I mean, really,
why are you here?” Is it to whip these kids into shape? To make a little army of Annan’s?”
His voice had taken on a sharp tone that was in contrast to his normal softer voice. She felt an
acute stab somewhere in the back of her throat.
“I don’t know what you mean. I’m here to help. I want to do something, something for
these kids. But I don’t understand how.....”
RJ stopped her with a raised hand. “Ah! Finally, you admit it. You don’t understand.”
“I hadn’t finished.” she persisted.
“But that’s it, Annan. You don’t understand. You will never connect with these kids if
you are holding them ransom to your standards. They are not like you. They never will be. They
are trying to survive in a world that was altered by people like you: people who came here and
wanted everything to be the same as the place they left.” RJ’s voice was louder than Annan had
ever thought possible and he was standing in front of her, his eyes boring into the top of her
head. She felt the sting of the tears but refused to let him see so she kept her head down. She
didn’t move away.
“How can you possibly know how to deal with kids like Sadie when you don’t get what
she is struggling with? Things have happened to her that you would not, in your wildest
nightmares, know about. She’s trying her best to get on with it around people who know her
secret but don’t know what to do about it, how to help. Everyone has secrets - it’s just
some people’s are worse than others.” He said looking down at her. He continued, “For hundreds

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of years imposters to this land have been doing just what you are trying to do now. To mold the
people into replica English/Irish/Scottish/French/whatever whatevers. Nothing has ever been
good enough for them, not the language, the behaviour, the education, or the looks. Everything
had to be revamped. Destroyed and rebuilt. Killed off.” RJ was yelling. A great tightness
filled Annan’s diaphragm and moved up into her chest. Her face was wet, but she still wouldn’t
look up. Digging her feet into the ground she braced herself for the final blow.
“You’re just like the rest of them, only you are wearing a clever disguise. It’s so clever
that you’ve fooled yourself.” RJ made a short, stunted laugh. “You have your own secret don’t
you Annan? I think you are secretly looking for meaning in life. Something that will make you
feel better about yourself. But in your enthusiasm to help people you are continuing the chaos.
Where will it stop? If people like you keep coming, where will it stop?” He seemed to be asking
himself the question as he walked to the edge of the water and stared out into the mist. He
was breathing heavily, as if he had just run a marathon. Annan didn’t move and neither of them
looked at each other.
“It was a mistake for you to come here.” He said in a calmer voice, turning to look at her.
Annan stood, her arms by her sides with her chest heaving large gulps of air as she fought to
control the massive tears that had welled up inside her.

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Chapter Ten
The first time Annan saw John she noticed his kind eyes but failed to notice the set of his
jaw. He was in the right place at the right time and they became friends. She couldn’t remember
if this had happened out of necessity or not. John was efficient and had an affinity for making
things neat. He took care of things. He took care of her. Annan had always wanted a big wedding
but John had insisted on a quiet celebration out at Cedar Cove. A clandestine gathering under a
lush canopy. Annan had acquiesced. John had told her it was the appropriate thing to do under
the circumstances. When the small group of people had left after the weekend and John had
returned to the city for work, Annan remained in the hushed grove with only the sound of her
own thoughts and the occasional screeching of resident birds. She wasn’t afraid to be alone there.
Her fear of the dark had subsided with the knowledge that the unseen things belonged in that
place and they had no interest in her. The honeymoon had been postponed. John would organize
when things had calmed down. Guilt loitered at the edge of Annan’s memories as she fought to
suppress memories of RJ and she was grateful for a few days to catalogue and file away her
recollections. She owed John much for his show of kindness and devotion and she would not let
memories of RJ tarnish what John had offered her.
******
Annan stood with the other volunteers as the kids climbed onto the school bus to go back
to their homes. B and Sadie hugged Annan easily and she hugged them back, surprised by the
sudden emotion bubbling up. Joe and Lori clung onto each other, as if joined by some invisible
cord, as they passed Annan, avoiding her eyes but giggling slightly. There would be one day and
one night off for the staff before the arrival of the next group of kids and as she contemplated the
next week Annan felt rooted to the spot, unable to move. She hadn’t spoken to RJ since their

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argument and he had not even looked in her direction. His words had stung but it was his silence
that she found more distressing. She replayed his maze of words over but could never find a way
out. RJ was right. She was a fraud and now she had been revealed she wanted nothing more than
to talk to him. A strong wind blew off the sea that morning and it whined in the trees behind the
cabins. Everyone seemed to have disappeared to find precious time alone before the work started
again. Annan saw RJ walking down the beach and trotted to catch up with him. Her voice
sounded precarious when she spoke.
“I need to talk to you.” She said. RJ kept walking. “I’m sorry. I want to say I’m sorry.
You were right about me. Everything you said.” She was running to keep up. “But can we talk?”
“There’s something I want you to see.” He said.
They took the old camp truck. RJ was quiet. A distant country song found its way
erratically through the static of the radio and was accompanied by the beat of the windscreen
wipers. Annan didn’t know where they were headed. RJ looked straight ahead, his elbow rested
on the edge of the open window and his skin became moist from fine drizzle. After a while they
pulled off the highway onto a gravel road that ran underneath tree cover so heavy that the rain
couldn’t get through. RJ navigated the truck around the pot holes and over the ripples in the
gravel track and eventually parked in a small parking lot.
“This is it.” He said, getting out of the truck. Annan stayed silent as she followed. A
small sign gave directions for hikers and they entered a narrow trail. The air was thick with
humidity and Annan immediately had to defend herself from a myriad of mosquitos. They had
only walked for a short way when the trail sudden dipped down in front of RJ. Turning, he
offered her his hand,

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“Here, it’s pretty steep.” He said. She took it and he braced his arm as they descended the
rocky path. Annan’s mind buzzed with questions but she didn’t know where to start. She wanted
to say sorry again but didn’t want to sound pathetic. She also wanted to understand why this
otherwise kind man had been so hurtful. She began to sweat as they moved further and further
into the woods. She used her free hand to swat away the relentless mosquitos. The descent ended
abruptly and the pair found themselves on the banks of a massive river. RJ let go of her hand.
“Here we are.” He said moving to her side. Annan was astonished at what she saw. It was
a huge body of water, making the rivers at home look like tiny little streams, and yet its rapid
movement made absolutely no sound. The river slipped by – a green stealth-like magnificent
flow – carrying the occasional log as if it were an insignificant twig. She stood, watching the
scene for at least five minutes before she spoke.
“Wow. It’s big.” She said.
“Yep.” RJ replied. He had found a fallen tree and was perched upon it. She stayed where
she was.
“How can such a big river be so quiet?” She asked. RJ shrugged.
“That’s the nature of certain rivers, I guess.” He said. “It’s rough up there. Pretty loud
too.” He said pointing somewhere.
“What’s it called?” She asked him. “Which river is it?”
“Name’s not important.” He said. “It’s just named after someone who thought they were
the first to navigate it. Unfortunately, I don’t know the pre-history name.” He half laughed to
himself.
“Do you know anything about rivers?” He asked her as she found a place beside him on
the log.

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“Absolutely nothing.” She admitted.
“Good place to start.” He said. “There are stages to a river.” He began. “This kind of
looks like the mature stage to me.” RJ said. Annan kept gazing out over the agile flowing mass.
“By the time a river gets to this stage it’s become wider and gentler. I know it looks kind of
crazy and there’s a lot of water but further back that way,” He waved his hand “It’s nuts. That’s
where it starts – a long way up. The first stages of a river are small and they have tons of energy.
Usually they have steep slopes for the banks and it’s pretty tumultuous. Everything’s moving
towards a goal, like…” He made a noise with his mouth and Annan was watching his face.
“There’s lots of erosion there, things are being broken down because the water is in such a rush it
takes some of the bank with it. It’s kind of like a teenager in a rush to become an adult. They
mess up everything on the way, taking people down with them. You know, like the selfish stuff
they do. All crazy like.” He looked at her. “The banks get loosened up and stuff like gravel and
dirt from the banks and trees and stuff, it all gets dragged in with the momentum. Everything is
hurtling towards something. Then things calm down, like here.” He looked out over the river.
“It’s much wider now and things get a little slower. The water is moving slowly towards its
target. Its load is bigger because it’s carrying all the stuff it dragged into its self, further upstream. Also, it’s joined by other bodies of water. Tributaries. So, things get wider and wider and
everything slows down.”
“You know a lot about this.” She said.
That’s the mature stage.” He said, continuing. “In the end there’s the old stage. That’s
when the river is as wide as it’s going to get. The land around it is flat. Things get real slow then
and the water is working extra hard to get where it’s going – your precious sea.” He looked over
at her. “That’s it. That’s how the river gets from the beginning to the end. That’s the anatomy of

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a river. In layman’s terms I mean. The stages of a river - they are like seasons; seasons of a river.
But it’s kind of more complicated than that.” RJ walked down to the edge of the river and picked
up a handful of rocks, sifting the fine sand out between his figures. He looked over the small
stones and then returned to Annan on the log and handed them to her. She held the pebbles in her
hand, not paying much attention to them. She was watching RJ as he returned to the river’s edge.
“See that spot out there in the middle of the river?” He pointed.
“Yes.” She said.
“Is that the same part of the river as when we first got down here?” He asked her.
“I suppose.” She said. “I mean, it’s the same river.” She clarified.
“So, you’re saying that the river is stagnant? How’s that going for you, seeing things as
unmoving, stationary?” He asked her.
Annan shrugged her shoulders.
“It’s not the same water.” He said, returning to the log. “That water’s long gone. Flowed
right past us and on its way.” He looked away from her and down to where the river disappeared
from view. “It’s always changing. Always flowing. We might think it’s the same river but it
never really is.” He said.
Annan couldn’t think of anything to say so she mumbled an affirmative response. She
was watching RJ’s eyes.
“We all think we are so stable, so fixed and sure of things. Ha.” He laughed to himself
and looked over at Annan. “You’re a good person, Annan.” He said looking into her face. “But
don’t be static. Think of your life like this river.” The light had shifted in his eyes and she
suddenly felt uncomfortable in his presence and moved to stand up but he caught her arm. After

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a short pause that felt like eternity, he leaned in and gently kissed her on the mouth. It was a
short, conciliatory graze of her lips.
“You have a strong spirit, but you’re kind of like this river. You are in a rush to get to
where you are going and you’re dragging everyone in with you, without thinking too much about
the process. You just need to slow it down a bit.”
Annan was still thinking about RJ’s lips on hers. She was staring at him as he spoke.
“Let’s head back.” He said getting up and moving towards the trail. “Come on. Jumping
Mouse.” He said, holding out his hand.

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Chapter Eleven
Annan was thinking about the curve of RJ’s lips and the pressure of his hand on the side
of her face. Even after thirty-five years the sensation had not dissipated. It was 5.30 am and Annan
was having trouble concentrating. She had started her new job at the bakery and was being trained
by a young woman named Mia.
“Those croissants are burning. Can’t you smell them?” The sound of the timer buzzed
and Annan turned just in time to see Mia yanking open the oven door. “Just about saved them.
We can’t afford to go to sleep on the job.” Mia barked as she tossed the baking sheet onto the
counter. Olive glanced at Annan. “This is the type of job you have to stay with it.” Mia went on.
“We have a name to live up to. This place has been here for years. Our customers rely on us. It’s
like their life-line.” She said. Annan felt the urge to say sorry to Mia but managed to repress it,
tucking the irritation somewhere, for processing later. Mia was pretty enough, but her voice was
rather like someone dragging their nails down a blackboard. Her eyes were round and framed
with long lashes and her mouth was perky. Her black hair was caught under the required white
baker’s hat. In her introduction she had explained how this was her summer job. She was at
university in the city, studying to be a psychiatrist. She had only meant it to be a small job but it
was now taking all her time as staff had left and she had been left to manage the place. Annan
had nodded. Later, with the baking complete and displayed in the glass cabinets, the three
women had sat down for a break before the shop opened.
“So.” Mia asked Annan. “What brings you here? Tired of retirement already?” Her voice
squeaked out. Annan took a breath and crossed her legs under the table.
“I’m exploring my options.” She said looking at the girl. She must have been twenty-five
at the most. Annan noticed how tight the skin was around her eyes was, even when she smiled.

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“What did you do? When you worked? What were you?” Mia questioned.
“I’m not sure I can be categorized.” Annan said, taking a sip of her tea and looking at Olive.
“Well, what was your profession?” Mia tried again.
“I looked after my husband. Took care of his business affairs. Cooked, cleaned. I…” Annan
hesitated. “I organized.” She finished.
“Oh, a housewife!” Mia’s tone was tickling the delicate bones in Annan’s ears. “Things
must have been so different back then.” She left the statement open ended.
“Well I guess the choices were kind of different.” Annan added.
“It’s interesting how people decide to go back to uni when they are older. It’s like, which
one of these things doesn’t belong?!” Mia chuckled. “There’s a couple of older students in my
class and it’s kind of irritating.” She guzzled some of her tea. “When you get to introduce
yourself at the beginning of class, they go on about how they don’t get to spend enough time
with their grown-up kids and they love spending time with their cats and I’m thinking oh my
God, NO ONE CARES.”
Annan was looking at her croissant and noticed that melted butter was pooling in certain
areas while in other spots there were strands of pastry that remained thin and dry.
“Do we have any jam?” She asked.
“What?” Asked Mia.
“Jam. For the croissant.” Annan looked directly at Mia and the young woman got up and
roughly opened the fridge behind the counter. Coming back to the table she continued,
“I mean, I’m not saying older people shouldn’t go back to try and get an education. But
sometimes enough is enough.”
Annan was spreading the jam on her croissant. Olive stayed quiet.

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“Really, if they wanted to go, why didn’t they go when they were young? When their
brains were more, well, active? It must be really hard to study at that age. My mum gets so tired
in the evenings, she’s in bed by nine sometimes.” Mia was whittering on.
“What year did you say you were in?” Annan finally asked.
“I just finished one year.” Mia explained.
“Ah, a little way to go then,” Anna said. She picked up the last few crumbs off her plate
and placed them in her mouth.

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Chapter Twelve
A large fire blazed against the darkness and logs crackled as they settled into the fire pit.
Annan had been dubious about how the kids would react to Auntie Vi. For many of them this
was not the first time they had met. She was surprised at how their demeaners shifted from brash
and indifferent to childlike enthusiasm. They settled into a circle as RJ found the most
comfortable chair for his Auntie. Low hanging clouds crouched over the group and met the
smoke as it spiraled up from the fire but the rain had ceased as if in anticipation of Auntie Vi’s
visit. B and Sadie had returned for this second teen camp and B sat beside Annan. She had
introduced Annan to smores and was preparing one. Annan looked around the circle and felt a
calm she was unfamiliar with. She hadn’t noticed RJ watching her from the other side of the fire.
B finished with the marshmallow roasting and placed it carefully between two crackers and a
piece of chocolate. She assembled the package carefully, her head tipped slightly to one side, and
then handed it to Annan.
RJ stood up and rested his hand on his Auntie’s shoulder.
“So.” He announced. “Aunty Vi has a story.” He said. “Are you guys ready?”
The crowd murmured and then settled into a lull as Vi began to speak.
“You all know the story of Jumping Mouse.” She began. “Well, there’s more to that
story.” She said. “Another part.” She settled back in her chair and peered into the fire as if
searching for the words amongst the flickering crimson.
“After Jumping Mouse returned from the great river, she tried to settle back into life with
the other mice but she was restless and uncomfortable. Eventually, she decided she needed to
return to the river to take another look at the sacred mountains. The other mice warned her

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against going, “Can’t you see all those spots in the sky.” They said. “Those are eagles and they
will gobble you up as soon as you leave the safety of our home.”
But Jumping Mouse’s legs could not stay still and she soon found herself running across
the great plain in search of the river. Fear was bright inside of her as she kept one eye on her path
and one eye on the sky. She could feel the shadow of the spots on her back as she picked up
speed in her anticipation of reaching the river. Finally, the little animal reached an oasis of
bushes. Running under the cover she discovered seeds, and berries and fresh water as well as
grasses for nests and holes to be explored. She knew that if she stayed there, she would be kept
busy for a very long time. While the mouse was sniffing her new domain, she heard laboured
breathing coming from a massive mound of brown fur not too far off. Leaving the safety of the
thicket and approaching the large bank the little mouse saw two stately horns and then two eyes
that were looking directly at her. It was buffalo. Jumping Mouse was at one terrified and amazed
at the size of this great animal and she crept in to take a closer look.
“Hello, little sister.” The buffalo spoke.
“Hello.” The mouse responded dubiously. “Why are you lying here?”
“I am very sick and I am going to die.” The buffalo replied. “But I have been told that if
you were to give me one of your eyes I would be healed.” The buffalo stopped talking to take a
breath. Jumping Mouse ran back to her protective brush and wondered how one of her tiny eyes
could help such a humongous animal. The buffalo’s breathing became heavier and slower and
the mouse knew that if she did not help he surely would die. She ran back to the animal and said,
“You may have one of my eyes because I do not want you to die.” As soon as she had
spoken one of her tiny black eyes left her and the buffalo stood and shook out his dusty fur.

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“Thank you, my sister.” He said. “Now that you have saved me, I will take you to the
river. You have given me life so I will help you get there. Run underneath me as we cross the
plains and my great back will protect you from the eagles.” So the two animals ran across the
dry, rolling grass. Jumping Mouse was scared as she watched the colossal hoofs of the buffalo
but she knew she was protected from the eagles there and so she kept running.
Finally, the buffalo stopped and told the mouse, “This is where I have to stop. I have to
return to my home but you can keep going and find your sacred mountains.”
The mouse thanked the buffalo and watched as he lumbered away.
Her new surroundings were inviting with special smells and interesting busy things to do.
Before too long the mouse discovered a gray wolf sitting at the base of the mountains.
“Hello Gray Wolf.” Said Jumping Mouse.
“Wolf! Wolf! Yes, I am a wolf!” Replied the wolf. But then his mind clouded over again
and he forgot who he was and went back to sitting and staring blankly ahead. Jumping Mouse
reminded the wolf many times who he was but each time he quickly forgot.
“Poor Gray Wolf.” Thought the mouse. He is such a strong animal and yet he has no
memory at all. Jumping Mouse went back to her place of interesting smells and thought about
the problems of the wolf and decided in an instant that what the wolf needed was one of her eyes.
She believed if she could give this up for wolf then he would be healed and would remember
who he was again. The mouse went to wolf and shared her belief and as soon as she had told of
her idea her other eye flew out and the wolf’s memory was restored.
“You are a wonderful sister.” Cried the wolf. “You have restored my mind and for this I
am so grateful.” Jumping Mouse could not see the wolf’s tears of joy because she was now blind.

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“I will take you to the sacred mountains.” Said the wolf. “I will be your guide.” On the
way to the sacred mountains the wolf described the beauty he saw to the mouse, who listened
with her heart and stayed close to the wolf’s side. Eventually, the wolf stopped and announced
that he must go no further and would leave the mouse alone. The mouse understood this and she
listened as the wolf descended the mountain trail.
She was now alone on the top of the mountain and she trembled with fear as she realized
that she would be picked up by an eagle and turned into food. She felt the giant shadow gloom
upon her back and knew that her time had come. She stood trembling and alone when the eagle
hit and the mouse was shocked into sleep. In her dream the mouse heard a voice and struggled to
see through a murky haze.
The voice said, “Would you like some of my medicine, Jumping Mouse?”
The mouse answered and the voice told her to jump as high as she could. The mouse
jumped and almost at once felt herself caught up by the wind and carried higher and higher. She
felt the breeze in her fur and the ground slip away from under her. Suddenly, the mouse woke
and was astonished to realize that she could see. At first things were blurry and she struggled to
focus on what she saw. But then she realized she was flying! She flew over the sacred mountains
and along the river and she saw her old friend the frog on its favourite lily pad down below.
“You have a new name.” Called the frog.
“I do?” called back the mouse.
“Yes, little friend, you are now Eagle.” The frog said.
Auntie Vi stopped and looked around the group. She took a sip of tea from a mug and
leaned over to tell RJ something. The kids were noisier now and RJ stood up.

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“Ok, Ok. Auntie is tired but she wanted me to ask you guys what this story means to
you.” He said. Silence fell around the group.
“Alright. Well, then what about the characters. Does anyone have any idea about them?
What do you think they are? What do you stand for?” He asked. A young boy called Jack was
laughing at a private joke with the boy next to him and he blurted out,
“Buffalo’s like B. B for Buffalo.” He stood up and stomped around, pretending to make
the ground shake. There was general laughter around the circle but Auntie Vi didn’t look happy.
She forced herself out of her chair and managed to exhale a sound that was bigger than expected.
“Jack.” She yelled. “That’s enough. These stories aren’t supposed to be jokes. They are
not from your people but the people who told them wanted them to mean something.” She glared
at the boy who had now timidly found his seat. “And if B stands for buffalo then she should be
proud.” Her voice had softened and she looked over at B who had her head down.
That night Annan fell into a heavy sleep. Sadie sat by the window of the cabin and
watched the moon as it slowly rose over the water. The dense clouds they had sat under earlier,
had separated and slowly departed, leaving a bow of light to shed its brilliance across the glossy
water. The world was hushed and the only other person who was not asleep was B. She lay
awake in her bunk, watching Sadie’s silhouette framed against the large window. Annan’s
breathing grew heavier as she slipped deeper into her dream. She was sitting under the large oak
tree back in England. From there she could see her small town slipping away into twilight. Any
remaining light threaded its way through the broad branches above her head and settled onto the
moss below. Annan’s eyes were still as she experienced the calmness of the moment; the
tranquility spreading into her body and slowing down her breathing to a long, deep pattern.
Standing, Annan could feel the touch of the first layer of limbs of the tree. They spread wide and

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long – their weight pulling them down to touch the earth. Green, multi-faceted leaves stood out
against the dusk and Annan brushed them with her hands as she stooped to leave the cover of the
tree. Turning away from the village she found the trail that led up behind the tree and towards the
open fields. Evening had been replaced by the height of day and the glare of the sun reflected off
Annan’s hair. She was jogging, in search of some sort of destination. The sun was warm and her
legs pumped wildly now. Sweat trickled down her neck. A shriek pulled her attention skyward
and away from the path. Looking up there were a dozen spots, circling, agitated contours against
the sun. She looked for cover but there was none. As she started to run, she felt a great shadow
fall across her back and then, in that instant, felt the sharp pain of something grasping her
shoulder. Running and shaking. Running and shaking. She couldn’t rid herself of the clinging
obscurity. Her mind whirred. But a voice, low but strong said, Annan. Annan answered, her teeth
grinding against each other. Yes. Auntie. Help me. The voice replied, eat your spinach. Eat. The
voice and the shaking and the running. Annan moved abruptly and opened her eyes.
“You’re having a dream.” B was standing beside her bed with her hand on Annan’s
shoulder. “It’s 6 o’clock. Wake up sleepy head.” The girl chuckled quietly as she walked towards
the door. Annan sat up and shook her hair out a little and became aware of an intense noise. The
rain was pelting the tin roof like a million tiny footsteps above them.
“But it’s pouring.” Annan said, swinging her legs back into her bed.
“This is the best time to swim in the sea. The water will be warm. Come and see.” B
stepped outside and dissolved into the gray dimness.
B was right, the water was extraordinarily warm. B was already immersed. As she ran to
the shore, Annan caught sight of the bottom of the girl’s feet.

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“Wow! You were right.” Annan laughed as she waded in. Her hair was already wet from
the rain and the smell of salt filled her senses. The clouds were so low they seemed to dip
themselves in the water and their plump rain drops each made a perfect splash as they met the
placid surface. B came up for air and wiped her face with her hand.
“I told you.” She said and disappeared under the water. RJ was not around but Annan
didn’t worry. B was a better swimmer than anyone else at the camp. Annan swam parallel to the
beach, making large arching movements with her arms. She dipped her face in the water and felt
it run off her face. When she stood up, her feet sank into the spongy sand below them.
B finally came up again and stood looking at Annan. She was not even out of breath after
her diving and reeling under water.
“B, are you ok?” Annan asked.
“Yeah. Why?” B asked.
“Jack was pretty rude last night. You don’t have to take that you know. Do you want me
to talk to him?” she asked.
“No.” B said.
“Are you sure? There’s really no excuse for that. He was bullying you.”
“It’s fine. It’s no big deal. I’m kind of used to it.”
“You are? Why?” She asked.
“He’s my brother and he’s just being an idiot. He don’t mean nothing by it.” She said,
spreading her arms above her head and falling backwards into the sea. Annan waited for her to
come up again.
“Well, he really should have more respect than that. Especially for an older sister. RJ
could talk to him.”

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B shook her head. “He’s just blowing off steam. I don’t care.”
“What about your mum and dad? Don’t they say anything when he treats you like that?
Do they let you fight at home?” Annan asked.
B swam passed Annan on her back, using her strong legs to propel her. She then turned
on her front and dipped under the water and disappeared from Annan’s view.
Annan turned to the left and then to the right but still couldn’t see the girl. “B.” She
called. The rain continued to pelt and she could hear the din of it on the tin rooves of the cabins.
She was starting to panic when someone grabbed her from behind and she heard a deep chuckle.
“Don’t do that.” Annan said. “I thought something had happened to you.”
B laughed and pushed herself away from Annan, kicking hard and splashing water into
the woman’s face.
“Hey!”
“Don’t worry about me.” B said. “I can take care of myself.”
Walking over for breakfast with B, Annan asked her again,
“What about your parents? What do they say about Jack’s behaviour?”
B walked in silence for a while and then said quietly but matter of factly, “Dad passed
five years ago. Mom’s not around. Jack’s good. I’m fine with it.” She opened the door of the
gathering place and held it open for Annan.

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Chapter Thirteen
“You are really good at this.” Annan said placing the latest gift left by Olive, on the table.
“Oh, you’re welcome.” She said. “Just little trinkets I thought you might like.” She said
moving around the room and looking at things. Annan had found the small packet on her
doorstep the previous morning as she went to retrieve her milk delivery.
“Was John good at giving gifts?” Olive asked, looking at a small framed photo of Annan
and a tall gray-haired man standing on the deck of a wooden house. Annan stopped what she was
doing in the kitchen and thought for a moment.
“John was a generous man.” She said. Both women were quiet.
“But?” Olive pressed. Annan stared over Olive’s head and out through the open window.
Smokey images came into her mind: A web of memories shrouded by something incongruent.
“He always meant to be generous. He had my best interest at heart.” She qualified. Olive
looked at her as she replaced the photo carefully.
“He always tried his best.” Annan said, returning to her task. Olive had moved over and
was hovering by the compact fireplace at the end of the room. From the mantle she picked up a
piece of wood worn to a silvery polish by decades of wind and rain. She ran her hands along the
intricate lines and knots.
“It can’t be easy.” Olive said.
“What?”
“Being married to the same person for so long.” She said.
“It has its moments, but it’s not bad.” Annan explained. “You settle in.”
“Settle in?” Olive asked. “Like an old settee?” She laughed.

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“Well maybe not quite that unromantic. But there’s a certain tempo to it. If you can
repose into it, you kind of just get carried along.” She said.
“Ah, like a river.” Olive said, holding up the piece of wood. Annan looked at the woman,
and held her breath at the reference to the river.
“This is beautiful.”
Annan rested her hands on the counter. “It was a gift.”
“Lovely. So silky.” Olive said replacing the object.
“The river has a way of wearing things down.” Annan said. Olive looked over at her but
didn’t ask for an explanation.
“It’s from Canada.” Annan explained.
“John?” She asked. Annan hesitated. She hadn’t spoken RJ’s name out loud for decades.
No.” She said quietly. “A friend.”
“Sometimes gifts from nature are the best gifts.” She said. “Don’t you agree?”
Annan was placing food on the round table that sat in front of the window. The elusive
sun had snuck in as it found its way across the sky and through the crowded buildings on her
street; it cast a saffron streak of light across the table. Annan had been nervous about having
someone as a guest in her new home for the first time.
“This salmon is farmed.” She said. “I couldn’t find anything other than that. Sorry.”
Olive pulled back her chair and looked eagerly at the food.
“I’m starving. This looks incredible.” Olive said. “I usually have a bowl of cereal for
dinner.” She rubbed her hands together.

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By the time the women had finished eating the sun had faded, leaving a series of odd,
long shadows across the cobbles outside Annan’s house. She drained the third glass of wine
slowly, decidedly.
“It was complicated; why I left.” She stated unexpectedly. Olive tipped her head to one
side in question.
“You asked me. The first time I was at your house. You asked me why I left.” She
explained.
“Right. I remember. Was it? Complicated?” Said Olive.
“I was terrified: About life. Scared it would slip away and leave me behind.” She went
on. Olive looked into her face but remained silent. “It’s almost as if I felt I was missing
something and if I had stayed here, I would have missed it altogether.” She said. Olive nodded.
“But then I look at you, and you seem……well you seem alright. I don’t look at you and think
God, she’s missed living.”
“Well…” Olive inclined her head.
“You are happy. Aren’t you? You have a house. You had a career. You have
community.” Annan was standing now and she gripped the back of her chair.
“Me, on the other hand. My life is split in two. I’ve got a foot in two countries. Ties that
can’t be broken. If only….” She stopped herself.
“Yes?” Asked Olive.
“Nothing.” Annan said moving away into the living room and flopping onto the couch.
The room spun slightly.
“If only I had stayed here.” She said. “Life would have been a hell of a lot less
complicated.”

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“But look at what you have done.” Olive said, getting up and joining her on the couch.
“You’ve had adventure, a marriage. You’ve seen parts of the world I don’t know anything about.
You’ve met different people. Isn’t that just as important as living life in the same community and
being with people of your own kind. Look at these houses.” She said looking around her. “They
are rooted in Purbeck stone and they have seen a lot of existence but they are stuck here. You can
shout into their walls but they are never going to change because this is where they are from and
this is all they know. I’m like these walls, Annan. I’m solid and reliable. Permanent. But who
measures what is more important: Permanence or vicissitude? Why should one be better than the
other?”
“Right you are.” Annan turned to Olive and grabbed her arm. “But doesn’t it depend on
why a person seeks something new?” She let go and stood up again, steadying herself a little.
“When I was twenty-three, I thought I knew it all. I was sure of life. Surer than I have
ever been. I was a purveyor of truth.” Annan said, scoffing at her own impertinence. Olive
watched her face. Annan sat in the arm chair facing Olive.
“I thought I had something to offer, to share. Like I knew something others didn’t and I
needed to organize the world,” she said.
“It sounds exciting.” Olive offered.
“No!” Annan banged her fist lightly on the coffee table. “It turned out I was wrong.
Everything got screwed up.” She said. “The whole thing was a mistake.”
“How so?” asked Olive. Annan was pacing.
“Do you ever look back at yourself and wonder what the hell you were thinking, how
naïve you were?” asked Annan.
“Oh! Yes, of course.” Olive nodded. “I think that’s the human condition, don’t you?”

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“Maybe” Annan said, “But I feel some peoples’ decisions are more arrogant than others.”
She hesitated. “I think I’m one of those people.”
“Well, we all make mistakes. Isn’t that how we learn?” Olive asked. “When we are
twenty-three we don’t know much. We are winging it.”
“Hmm. The old adage of life’s lessons.” Annan said.
“Exactly.” Olive smiled.
“That’s all very nice.” Annan said. “But what if my mistakes have cost someone else
something? What if a person’s actions have contributed to something insidious and awful?
Something you can never correct? What if you have been part of something that oppressed
someone else and you were too foolish to realize it?”
“I suppose it depends on the intent.” Olive said.

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Chapter Fourteen
As nature set to shed itself in preparation for the next season, so Annan braced herself.
Trees that she had not even previously noticed now revealed themselves in their autumnal
shades, between their giant cedar companions. As their colours morphed from green to
burgundy, carrot and bisque, they seemed to swell in size, giving the impression they would
escape their sandwiched spaces between the massive cedars. Annan, however, drew herself
inward, making nest-like cots whenever she could. As the evenings darkened, she pulled in
blankets and pillows as if in protection from some unseen force. John had left her at their
property in the woods for four days while he went hunting with a colleague. She lit candles
around the house that reflected their tiny wobbling flames against the ebonized bush outside.
RJ’s face was still sketched on her mind and the outline of his body seemed to wander the rooms
aimlessly. John had made it clear he did not want to know about him, his history or his reasons
for leaving her and yet, over the years she caught a look in his eye or the way he turned his head
and watched her, and that made her wonder if he was as curious as she was censored.
John returned to Cedar Chine a mere twenty-four hours after he had left. He entered the
house as a storm, throwing his bags and supplies on the floor.
“Those bloody natives.” He yelled. She flinched as he almost threw his gun into the
corner.
“What do you mean?”
“We got out there. It took us an extra hour because of all the mud. Seems like no one
bothered grading the road this year. And then there was a blockade across the road. Couldn’t
even get into the territory.”
“Oh.” She said, not really knowing what else to say.

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“There were a bunch of us there. Couple of guys from the association but they wouldn’t
let any of us through.”
“What was it about? I mean, what was the problem?” She asked.
“It’s bloody bullshit, that’s what it is.” He exploded again. “I took a week off for this.”
“Why did they close the road?” She tried.
“Some crap about the game. Trying to replenish. I didn’t ask for an explanation. They
were standing there as if they owned the god-damned place. There was someone there with a
drum. A drum for god’s sake. Jim was pissed off. It’s good that we left our guns in the truck.”
“John.” She snapped. “Why are you being so aggressive? Maybe they have a point.”
“Oh! Of course, you are going to take their side. Given your situation.” His voice was
low and overly controlled. Annan felt the bite of emotion in her throat. “Maybe this is an
important thing for them. I don’t know anything about hunting or moose but maybe you should
trust their judgement?” She framed it as a question in an attempt at restraint.
“Judgement!” He screeched, taking her by surprise.
“You expect these people to have judgement? Are you actually serious? I think you may
be a little confused.” He laughed coldly. “What could you possibly know about this situation?”
“As I said,” she said calmly, “I don’t know anything but obviously they have some
information they are working with.”
“Those people couldn’t organize their way out of a paper bag.” John stormed passed her
and into the kitchen. He pulled a beer out of a small fridge and slammed it on the counter.
“What do you mean?” she asked him, opening the beer for him.
“Look at them.” He yelled. “They live in shacks and survive on welfare and they think
they can tell us what we can and cannot do.”

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“I think it might be a bit more complicated than you think.” She started.
“Complicated? The only thing that’s complicated is the way you are reacting. The idiot
dumped you when you needed him most and you are defending them. Defending him.”
“John.”
“You would have thought it would have given you a dose of reality, a wake-up call. But
no, all moony eyed about the Indians. If you know so much about it, why don’t you explain it to
me?” He looked into her face without seeing her. He waited.
“John.”
Well.” He threw up his hands.
“Did you talk to them? Ask them exactly what the problem was?”
“I’m not going to stand around and have a conversation about something I already know.
I’m going back to the city tomorrow.”
Later that night Annan listened to the rhythm of John’s snoring as she stared into the fire.
She closed her eyes against the day and prayed uncertainly for the ability to get through the next
few months.

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Chapter Fifteen
Annan had never been a fan of lasagna but as it was ladled onto her plate the aroma of
minced tomatoes and garlic permeated her taste buds. It was fresh and it was warm and she was
cold and tired after a long day. She found an empty seat next to RJ and sat down.
“Hey.” He said, glancing momentarily at her and leaning over his plate. “You look tired.”
“Long day. These kids are wearing me out.” She said. RJ continued to eat.
“I need to talk to you about something.” She started.
“Oh boy, did you find somebody else making out?” He asked, grinning at her.
“No. It’s worse than that.” She said hesitantly.
“Holy. You didn’t find someone…..” he lowered his voice, “smoking cigarettes?” She
punched him lightly on the arm.
“Come on.” She said, “I’m trying to be serious right now.”
“You need to lighten up Jumping Mouse.” He said. “Not everything is doom and gloom.
The river is finding its way.” He looked up at her and ran a finger down her bare arm.
“Seriously, RJ. Listen to me. I’m really worried about someone. I think they are in a
terrible situation and I think we need to do something about it.”
“We?” He asked.
“Yeah, we. Well, you, really. I don’t know the system. But you must.” RJ had finished
his meal and was wiping a piece of garlic toast conscientiously around his plate. He smacked his
lips and left his cutlery across his plate, the knife facing the fork. He leaned back in his chair.
“Ok, he said. Tell me what’s going on.” Annan looked at his plate and went to move her
hand towards it and then stopped.
“What?” He asked looking down.

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“It’s just.” She looked sheepish. “You’re supposed to put the knife and fork together on
the plate, at an angle. Like this. Side by side.” She rearranged the silver wear.
“You are?” He asked.
“Yes. It’s a signal to the waiter or waitress that you are finished your meal and are ready
to have your plate taken away.” She smiled at him.
“Hmmm.” He looked around. “Don’t see no waiter around here.” He winked at her and
moved the cutlery back to where it had been. “Whose rules?” He asked.
“They’re just rules. It’s polite.” She said.
“In whose estimation?” He asked, placing his hand on the back of her neck.
Later on, Annan was thinking about the earlier conversation and the proximity of RJ’s
body. She drew in a breath in an attempt to refocus her thinking: She was there because of B.
Straightening her back a little she stepped away from the cabin and into the complete darkness.
RJ had told her he would wait by the fire but she couldn’t see him and so she headed down
towards the beach. The night was quiet. Ashen clouds were suspended against the sapphire sky.
Annan was unaware of the muted lapping of waves against the shore. She still couldn’t see RJ
and so decided to walk. She thought about B and what her life must be like: Trapped in a house
and looking after all her siblings; unable to fulfil her dreams. She wondered why the mother was
so selfish and absent from B’s life, leaving her to fend for herself. She bent down and removed
her shoes and felt the cool sand jam up between her toes. Staring ahead she felt the anger prick
the back of her throat. She knew what she had to do. Maybe this was why she had been called to
this place, even if she could help just one person it would be worth it. She suddenly noticed a
dark shape in front of her. At first glance it would have appeared as a large mound protruding
from the sand but looking closer Annan noticed jagged, uneven edges. She stopped and caught

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her breath, suddenly realizing that this shape could be a bear. Any previous information she had
learned about bears fell away as she stood rooted to the spot. Now, the measured swell of the tide
filled her ears until she thought they would pop and she was about to turn and run when the
shape moved slightly, then stretched and elongated and turned to face her.
“Hello, little mouse.” RJ’s voice was clear against the dim and Annan exhaled roughly.
“Unusual to see you trotting around in the middle of the night.” He said.
“It’s only half past eleven and I need to talk to you.” She took a few steps towards the tall
shadow. “What were you doing anyway, crouched like a bear? You scared me.”
“Did I?” She could hear the amusement in his voice. “The sand at this time of night. It
has a texture that’s different from the day.” He said looking down as he walked towards her.
“Umm, I need to tell you something. I need you to listen to me.”
“Alright.” He said simply.
“It’s about B.” She started. “I’m worried about her. She told me that her dad is dead and
her mum isn’t around. She basically has to take care of her younger brothers and sisters. There’s
no one else to help.”
“Ok.” RJ said.
“So, I was wondering if you could contact the authorities. I don’t know what the process
is but you would, I’m guessing. We need to get this sorted out. How is B supposed to cope with
all that? She must have her own plans. How is she supposed to go to school when she’s got all
that responsibility?” She asked. RJ was walking slowly along the damp line that the retreating
tide had drawn in the sand. Annan walked beside him, gesticulating enthusiastically.
“I haven’t told B I am going to do this but I’m sure she would appreciate it. I mean what
seventeen-year old wants that responsibility? She probably wants to just get on with her life.”

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Chapter Sixteen
Vi was stooped over her zucchini box when an all too cheerful voice chirped from the
side of the house. Vi stood up and was face to face with the community social worker. Deep set
sharp green eyes peered out at Vi.
“Morning.” She said. Vi looked her up and down and continued with her work. The
woman introduced herself and stood awkwardly for a moment.
“It’s only 9 am. You are up early.” She said, hovering. Vi wiped her hands on her apron
and stretched her back.
“Want some tea?” She asked, moving towards the house.
“I would love some.”
Inside the house Vi pottered around the kitchen, preparing the teapot and lining up two
cups. “Sugar?” She asked.
“Oh, do you have honey?”
“Of course.” Vi said, opening a thin cupboard. She was wiping down the counter by the
sink and watching the woman out of the corner of her eye. The social worker’s face was long and
placid but her eyes darted intrusively around the room.
“Muffin?” Vi asked.
“What?” the woman asked.
“Home made this morning. Probably still warm.” Vi placed three muffins on the plate
and put them in front of the woman.
“Oh, delicious. Thank you.”
Vi sat down and poured tea into the two cups. She fumbled a bit with the honey and milk
and spilt a small drop of tea on her shirt.

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“Damn tea pot’s been dripping for years.” Vi said, brushing herself dry. The younger
woman looked at her and there had been a change in her expression. The eyes had taken on a doe
eyed shape and Vi knew what was coming. She slurped her tea loudly.
“Have you ever thought about getting some help around the house?” The woman began.
Vi spread a thick layer of butter across the top of one of the muffins. The woman’s eyes
slanted a bit. Vi was reminded of an old cat her mother had when she was growing up.
“Have you had a check-up lately, I mean at the clinic. It’s important to stay on top of
these things. You know, as we age.” The woman asked, one eye on Vi’s face, the other on the
muffin.
“Nope. Been doing fine for the last seventy years. Don’t see that changing things now
would help. I must be doing something right because I’m still here.” Vi took a large bite of the
muffin, purposefully smearing butter over her lips. The social worker repositioned herself in the
chair.
“Sometimes, as we age, we need to adapt our diet. Sometimes, we don’t need as much
food as we did when we were younger and on the go more.” She explained.
Vi gulped some more tea and took another bite of her muffin. The social worker cut a
muffin in half, gingerly pulling the corner off and placing it delicately in her mouth. Vi chewed.
“Sometimes, as we age, we need more help around the house. Someone to make sure we
are cleaning properly, you know, behind the toilet and such. Haha.” She laughed softly. Vi was
staring at her now.
“Sometimes, we even discover that we can no longer cope with our gardens, our yards,
and we have to let go. Have someone come in and help, even maybe give it up. Move on.
Sometimes.”

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Vi gulped some tea and placed her cup loudly on the table.
“Sometimes, eh?” She stated.
“Well…” the other woman began.
“Who sent you?” Vi asked abruptly.
“Pardon?” she asked.
“Who? Why are you here? Who’s been sticking their nose in my business?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” The other woman replied. “I am here merely as a matter
of courtesy.”
“Out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you?” Vi asked bluntly. “Reserve ends there.” She
waved her hand towards the wall. “I’m not on reserve. So, I’m not your concern. You can tell
Meddling Mary to stay out of my business. She might be my cousin but she has no reason to
poke around in my life.” She stood up and rummaged in a cupboard. After finding a small paper
bag she placed four muffins in the bag and curled over the top.
“Here.” She said handing the social worker the brown bag. “For the road. Wouldn’t want
your job if they offered me a million bucks. Thanks for coming but I need to get back to the
garden. There’s going to be an early frost.”
Later that day, Vi had taken one bite of her dinner when someone tapped on the door.
“Come in.” She called, not bothering to turn around.
“Cousin?” a voice called back. Vi rolled her eyes privately and then turned in her chair.
“Stew?” she asked the approaching woman.
“Oh, is it dinner time?” her cousin asked. She was a heavy-set woman with a mound of
unruly hair. She wore a pair of square, black glasses which had been chosen to off-set the
roundness of her appearance. Her face stretched into a smile when she saw Vi. The two women

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sat across the table from each other. Vi dished up a healthy serving of stew and placed it in front
of her.
“It’s been a while.” Mary started. Vi nodded.
“Where’s RJ?”
“Been at school for two years already.” She pushed a plate of scones in Mary’s direction.
“Oh, thanks, but I’m watching what I eat these days.” She stated, carefully patting her
hair.
“How’s Frankie. He still in Vancouver?”
“Keeps himself to himself. Tied up in politics. Not much time for us over here.” Vi said
concentrating on her food. “How have you been? How are the kids?”
“Doing well. Doing really good. Thanks for asking. The two women ate in silence and
then,
“The house is looking old.” Mary said, casting her eyes around the room. “Could do with
a lick of paint.” She added
“House is just fine the way it is.” Vi retorted.
“Things will start to wear down, need repairing.” She pushed. “You still got mice?”
“Yep, and I still got traps.” Vi looked up at Mary’s hair. “What you do to your hair?”
“I got a perm. What do you think?” Mary asked.
“You got any grey yet?”
“Course not.” The woman winked at her cousin.
“Don’t see why you bother. Hair’s fine the way it is.”
“House is fine, hair is fine. Sometimes you need change.”

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“Don’t you start with the sometimes.” Vi snapped. “Why did you send her over here
anyway? Poking around in my house, telling me I should let the garden go. I’m telling you right
now – I will never let that garden go. That garden’s what got me through the worst times of my
life and it will see me through to the end. Not you or no miss social blablabla can change that.”
Vi banged her fist lightly on the table. “Want some tea?”
“Sure.” Mary replied. “But, I was only thinking of you.” Vi was filling the kettle.
“Up here on your own. Trying to work on that wretched garden of yours. I thought you
might need help. Wanted to make sure you are taken care of.” Mary stated.
“When was the last time you were in my garden and when was the last time you wanted
to take care of me?” Vi asked. Mary looked at her.
“I’m just trying to help. Looking out for my cousin. Remember when we were more than
cousins. Remember when we were friends?” She reached over and touched Vi’s hand.
“Remember when you were around?” Vi shot back. “Remember that?”
Mary looked down at her hands laying in her lap. “Right, it’s been that long. A whole lot
of water has passed under this old bridge since you were around. You can’t just come wandering
back in here and tell me what you think is best for me. I’ve known what’s best for me since the
beginning. That’s why I’ve kept myself away from the likes of you.” Vi looked at her cousin and
noticed the lines around her eyes. “That’s why I kept RJ here, just me and him and the plants,
that’s all we needed.” Vi stopped what she was doing and leaned on the edge of the sink. She
breathed deeply and pondered how it had felt to have RJ’s small hand in hers.
“All my life I have been doing it myself. Now that I’m old I’m not sure why everyone
thinks they need to do it for me. I’m doing fine. I’m not ready to die yet.”
“Oh, stop being so morbid.” Mary said, picking up a scone. “No one’s dying here.”

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Of course we are. Just like William died and just like my sister died. But I’m doing it my
way and when I’m ready. Not before and not in some senior’s home, staring out the window and
trying to remember who I am. I’ll die here with my plants and when I do you can cremate me
and sprinkle me on the beans.” Vi took a breath. “Sugar or honey?”
“What?” Mary looked up.
“In the tea.” Vi motioned towards the cup with her head.
“Three sugars.” Mary replied. Vi raised her eye brows. “I’m worried about you Vi. We
all are. What if you fell or if you tripped in the garden? What if you strained your back lifting
something and you couldn’t call for help? Don’t you ever think about these possibilities? We
can’t get to you if you are stuck up here on your own. It’s not safe. It’s not healthy.” Vi felt
something shift within her.
“Healthy.” She stated, sitting down across from her cousin. Mary was cleaning her
glasses with the bottom of her shirt. Vi took a good look at the woman’s face. She could see
where a heavy line of make-up ended and her natural skin tone began.
“Healthy.” She repeated. Mary put her glasses back on.
“Yeah, I mean look around – there’s so many unsafe things. Steps and shit. Stuff you
could fall over. They say once you break a hip you’re done for.”
“How long have you been clean?” Vi asked.
“What? What the fuck has that got to do with anything?” Mary barked.
Vi threw up her hand. “Not in this house.”
“I’ve been sober for a year but that’s got nothing to do with this. I’m here because of
you.” Mary said.

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“All those years.” Vi started. “When William died, I had no one. After the wake you guys
just went home. Forgot about me. I was up here with nothing. Nothing. Were you worried about
me then?”
“That was years ago Vi. Why drag up that crap now?”
“And when my sister died. And RJ – when I took him on. Where were you then?” She
didn’t wait for an answer. “We had nothing. No money and no help. But we had the garden and
we kept it going. It kept us alive. Where were you then Mary?”
“Let it go Vi.” Mary said.
“You were staring down the neck of a bottle, that’s where you were. You and your
cronies. Out falling around, puking outside on the sidewalk and screaming at the neighbours.
Were you worried about me then? Did you ever check in?”
“Why are you talking about this now? I told you, I’m done with that shit. Done. I’m here
to talk about you. You’re my cousin and I love you.” Mary breathed deeply.
Vi was up on her feet again, wiping something that had already been wiped, guarding her
eyes from her cousin.
“I’ve joined this club. It’s a bunch of us. We got together and organized it. It’s called
Healthy Living Club. We meet every Tuesday down at the hall. Some bring baking but I never
was much for that.” Mary said, brushing crumbs off her lap. “It’s just getting off the ground. We
have a list of people and we’re going around, you know, making sure people are ok. Making sure
they’re healthy. We want to spread our knowledge.”
Vi noticed a shift in the light across her garden. She imagined RJ sitting on a small stool
just outside her shed. He was chatting to her as she pulled weeds and tossed them into a
cardboard box.

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“You have to go now.” Vi turned to Mary.
“What? Why? We’re just talking.” Mary pleaded. “What happened? Why should I
leave?”
Vi focused on the rays of light outside her window. “You need to tell your club to take
me off their list.”

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Chapter Seventeen
“Have you ever tried to stop the flow of water?” RJ asked her after a lengthy pause.
“What?” She turned and faced him. The contours of his face were softened by the
darkness and his pupils seemed to merge with the night. She could see his teeth, between his
slightly open mouth. It was hard to tell whether or not he was smiling. He put his arm softly
across her shoulders. “Have you?” he asked.
“I don’t understand. I don’t get what that has to do with what I asked you. About B.”
“You have rivers in England, right?” he asked. They were walking slowly.
“Of course! What do you mean?” Her laugh was muffled against his chest. “They are
probably smaller but we have them.”
“Do you think you have the power to stop them?” he pushed.
“No, but why?” She asked.
“If I came to England today, would I understand your rivers? Would I understand where
they came from and where they ended up?”
“I suppose not, unless you were a geographer. I probably don’t know myself. But B…”
“So, if I came there today, why would I want to stop them, change them, before I knew
about them. Before I understood them. Why would I want to interfere with their momentum?
How helpful would it be if I tried to improve them and make them as wide as our rivers?”
“Why are you talking to me in riddles?” She shook herself free of him. “This is a serious
situation. Someone is suffering here. RJ did not respond but stood and looked into her face for
what felt like a long time. Finally, he placed both of his hands on top of her shoulders as if to
steady her. “I see through you, Jumping Mouse. Some people would see you as arrogant but I
know you have seen the Sacred Mountains in the distance. You are just having problems getting

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there.” Then he pulled her in to himself and bent his neck so as to reach her face with his lips.
Later on, Annan could barely remember what happened next. The world she had once been
familiar with slid out of existence and she was left with an obscure sense that things would never
be the same. He held her hand as they walked back to the cabins and she could hear her heart
beating in her ears. She hardly noticed that they had reached her cabin door.
“Thank you.” She said not really knowing why.
“You’re welcome.” He said, beaming.
“But B. What about. What should we do? I can’t just let this go.” She said.
“B is caught in the river, Annan. It’s not your place to stop it. Don’t be like the people
that came here before. Don’t invalidate the peoples’ power.” He ran his finger from her temple to
the corner of her mouth and muttered something incoherent.
Annan stood for a while behind the door, the handle clasped in her hand. She had not
noticed before, but now saw the clouds had allowed the moon some space and its light fell across
the room. B and Sadie were sitting silently by the window and when Annan noticed their
shadowed presence she jumped slightly.
“Why are you still up?” she tried to sound authoritative.
“Waiting for late comers.” B said getting up and moving towards the row of bunk beds.
“Waiting for you.” She said.

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Chapter Eighteen
Vi was nearly asleep when she heard what she thought was a shout a little way down the
hill from her house. It wasn’t unusual to hear people moving around or yelling during the night
but there was something about this voice that made her turn abruptly in her bed. She listened
carefully and heard an uneven footfall on the gravel path and then the squeak and clunk of her
front gate.
“Vi.” The voice croaked out sharply. “Viiiiii.” Vi pulled on her housecoat and flicked on
the light. She recognized the catch in her cousin’s cry.
“Coming, coming.” She muttered under her breath. By the time she reached her front
door, Mary was pounding. “Vi. Help me Vi.” She yelled. Pulling the door open she saw her
cousin on the door step. It had been a long time since she had invited someone this intoxicated
into her home but she reached out and firmly pulled her in.
“They’re coming for me Vi.” Mary said, glancing over her shoulder. “Them spirits. I
can’t shake em. Tell them to fuck off Vi. You got a way with words. Tell em to git.” Mary said
tripping over something and stumbling into a chair in the kitchen.
Vi steered the woman back into her living room and sat her on the couch. She swung her
legs around and placed a cushion under her head. “How many have you had?” She asked.
“Only a couple.” Mary burped. “I just wanted one. Just one lousy stinking drink.
Something to relax me. And I stopped Vi. I really did. I stopped and flushed the rest away. I
stopped myself Vi. I did.” She clutched the older woman’s hand. “Help me Vi.” She said. The
earlier curls that had been piled up so neatly had detached themselves and hung limply on the
cushion. Vi saw the grey roots and reached out to smooth them down.

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“They’re coming for me.” Mary repeated. “Black shapes. They followed me up here.
They’re laying down in the grass out there. Do you believe me Vi?” She asked.
“I’m not sure.” Vi answered. “It’s probably the drink.”
“No.” Mary sat up and Vi saw the look in her eyes. “It’s not. This time it’s not. They’ve
been waiting for this. Waiting to wear me down. That’s what they want. Those bastards.”
“Well, they can’t get in here. The door’s locked. We’re protected in here. Lay yourself
down and I’ll make some special tea.” Vi patted her cousin’s hand. She went out into the kitchen
and put the kettle on to boil and returned with a cold cloth, placing it on Mary’s head.
“You were always the best.” Mary mumbled. “Solid.”
“Practical. That’s all I am. Just plain and practical.”
“You’re tough.” Mary spoke as if through a mouthful of thick wadding.
There was a small, disconnected sound outside. Both women looked up.
“I told you.” Mary said grabbing Vi’s arm. “They’re coming for me.” She said.
“No one or thing is coming for you.” Vi said sternly. “I’ve had trouble with foxes.
They’ve been in the garden every night this week. They’re after the cabbages.” Vi returned to the
kitchen and poured hot water over some herbs in a cup. As she stirred the liquid she looked up at
the Virgin on the wall. The eyes were perplexed. On her way back out of the kitchen she locked
the kitchen door that led into the garden.
“Use some of your magic.” Mary said when Vi returned to the room.
“No magic in this house.” She responded, slipping the mug into Mary’s hands. “Just
prayers.” Vi took an envelope from the pocket of her apron and teased out a small amount of
dried pine needles. She smelled the needles pensively before placing them into a hollowed-out

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stone that sat on the living room table. Placing a lit match against the needles, she waited for
them to catch a flame and then gently blew them out leaving them to glimmer a low glow.
“Remember this?” She asked her cousin and Mary deeply inhaled the aroma. She relaxed
against the cushions.
“Remember the pine trees around the old house? You couldn’t get away from that smell.”
Vi chuckled lightly. “There were times I hated that smell. Seemed to be stuck in my clothes and
my hair all the time. I asked Grandpa if we could cut those trees down. Nearly got a whooping
just for suggesting it.” Vi went on.
“There’s no pine trees down there.” Mary waved her hand wildly. “No trees. No
nothing.” She yelled. “Nothing but mud and shit.” She tossed her head. “Why did you leave me
Vi?” She searched her cousin’s face. Vi noticed the smudged mascara and the dry powder, a tone
too light, in patches on her face. “Why’d you go? There was nothing when you took off.
NOTHING.” She flung her arm over her head and pressed her face into it.
“Circumstances out of my control.” Vi said quietly. She stroked Mary’s hair. “I see
gray.”
“Things would have been different if you’d stayed. We would have lived together.
Looked out for each other.” Her speech came in slurred punches.
“People make choices Mary. You made yours.” Both women were quiet. Mary turned
away.
“By the time I came back you’d lost interest. I looked in your eyes but your spirit had
gone, drained out.” Vi watched the smoke curl elegantly towards the ceiling. Mary had her eyes
closed but her chest heaved great sobs now. She suddenly sat up.” Pray over me Vi.” “Get the

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darkness out of my life. Make it go away.” She put her head in Vi’s lap, her wails reduced to a
muffle by Vi’s old house coat.
That night, once Mary had fallen to sleep on Vi’s couch, Vi made sure all the windows
and doors were locked and then chided herself for being silly. She went up to her room and
retrieved the feather and placed it on Mary’s chest. She then took the picture of the woman in
blue from the kitchen and laid it at Mary’s feet. Standing at the bottom of the stairs she could
hear her cousin’s raspy breathing and before she ascended the stairs, she muttered a prayer, to
whom she wasn’t sure.

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Chapter Nineteen
Annan woke to a headache and the realization that she may have told Olive too much the
previous evening. The light from the window found its way irritatingly through the curtains and
Annan left them closed. Opening the front door to collect her milk she saw a small box on the
stoop. Another of Olive’s presents. Hopefully, this time it was something for her dry mouth and
her sore head. As she placed the box on her kitchen counter, there was a precipitous falling
inside her stomach and she filled a glass with cold water. Sipping the water, she ran her hands
along the top of the box. She checked for a post mark: nothing. The writing was from a strong
hand but not one that she recognized and definitely not Olive’s. She ripped the brown paper off
the outside of the package and found a non-descript cardboard box and pulled out an assortment
of coloured tissue paper. At the bottom of the box there was a handful of river rocks. The small
pebbles were all a similar size but varied in shape. Moving them from hand to hand she noticed
the subtleties in shade, from the palest gray to intense tones of indigo. At the bottom of the box
was a piece of paper. Annan read the words out loud: Do you know the anatomy of a river?
Turning the note over she looked for a sign as to who the note was from but there was nothing.
John’s voice breathed into her consciousness, Suspicious. She pondered the word as she stared at
the rocks. Who, in this small town, would understand the significance of these rocks and of those
words?
At around midnight Annan sat up in bed. Her eyes were heavy but her brain whirred and
ticked like some old machine attempting to fire itself up after a long hiatus. She leaned against
her large pillow and wondered if she should be counting sheep. Her mind slipped back, as if on a
treadmill, to a reoccurring thought. Maybe she should be counting pebbles. Finally, with an
outtake of breath she stood up by the side of her bed and pulled on a pair of trousers she found

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on the floor near the bed and an oversized sweater she had slung across her chair. The delivery of
the rocks earlier had unnerved her and she fingered the small pebbles carefully once she was
downstairs in her living room. RJ’s voice edged its way into her conscious, like a cat squeezing
itself into a narrow space. She wasn’t sure what it was saying, the corners of the words were
unhewn and out of place. Annan slipped on wellington boots over her bare feet and peered
outside into the onyx night. Afraid of the dark? She slipped out of her front door, locking it
behind her. She wasn’t surprised to feel the dampness fall around her. Being alone and outside at
this time of night filled her with an unfamiliar sense of abandonment. As she strode up the street,
she asked herself if she thought that older women such as herself should be going on such bold
adventures. The air had turned to a sprinkling haze of dew-like rain that Annan had become
accustomed to and almost welcomed. She reached the top of the hill and continued onto the worn
path to the oak tree. The wind had picked up a little and was undecided as to which way it would
blow, taking Annan’s hair in arbitrary directions. The oak was there, of course, staying its course
in the unruly weather. She reached it and quickly scuttled under its branches. Underneath, Annan
could hear the patter of the increasing rain as the irregular droplets bombarded each leaf, making
them quiver nervously above her. The only sound was the rain and as it became heavier it filled
her ears and reminded her of a million tiny drummers beating their instruments out of time. She
leaned her back against the tree and closed her eyes, the orchestra taking shape around her. Rain
came in torrents now, but magically, she stayed dry, protected by the over-reaching arms of the
tree. Memories flowed too and she felt things weakening, as if a dam were about to break. Her
eyes had become accustomed to the dark now and she peered out from under nature’s roof to see
the stone of the small grey town barraged by the storm. The rubber boots she was wearing and
her lack of socks were creating unpleasant, perspiring feet and she glanced down at them,

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shaking her head at her own impracticality. It was then she noticed a small stream, born of the
cascading run off from the tree above. The water collected itself at her feet and was dashing off
in the direction of least resistance, towards some larger ambition. She smiled. Can’t stop the
flow. She said it out loud and her voice sounded distant against the background of the night and
the rain. She admitted then, where the pebbles she had received in the box had come from. She
looked up and around her as if RJ would be standing there, the groove still in his hair, despite the
rain. Her fingers explored the rocks in her pocket and she stood staring down at the unstoppable
ebb that reached out in front of her. With that her memories came.
********
Annan sat at Auntie Vi’s worn but clean kitchen table, as she had been doing every
weekend for the past seven months. It was a clear Saturday morning and the two women had just
finished breakfast. Annan knew it was impossible to offer help with the dishes. She cupped her
tea in her hands while she watched Vi move around the kitchen.
“Time goes fast.” She said. “I can’t believe I’ve been here nearly eight months.”
“Can’t stop it.” Vi said, wiping the counter.
“What are we putting in today?” The younger woman asked.
“We need to work on the greenhouse. Get it ready. I’ve got tomato seeds and some
zucchini. We could look at putting the peas in the ground in that first bed.” She said.
Annan stretched her legs out in front of her and lifted her arms above her head. “OK.”
she said. Vi was vigorously spraying and wiping down the stove. An old tea towel slung over her
shoulder.
“How do you know when to plant things? Does it depend on the weather or do you just
have a sense, a feeling, about it?” Annan asked.

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Auntie turned to look at her. “Second nature I suppose. I’ve been doing this for a long
time. You just read the signs and smell the air. You know what can take a bit of cold and what
has to wait until the soil is warmed through. You have to trust yourself. Gardener’s instinct.”
A clocked ticked somewhere in the house and a dog bark came from down the hill.
“Do you think it’s the same with people.” Annan eventually asked. Vi looked at her. “I
mean, do you think it’s the same with getting to know someone? Knowing when the time is right
to plant a seed or trim a stalk?” She asked. Vi was rinsing her blue teapot and appeared not to be
listening. “How do you know when the time is right with people? To ask them something?”
Annan looked at Vi expectantly.
The older woman turned off the faucet and wiped it with her tea towel, until it shone. She
turned and rested her quilted hips on the edge of the counter. “You talking about RJ?”
Annan moved her hands quickly and nearly knocked her cup off the table. She wiped up
the spilled tea with the palm of her hand.
Auntie Vi threw her the dish cloth. “Timing’s got to be right.”
Annan stood up and was looking outside at the garden.
“If you get it wrong, if it’s off, even by a bit, there could be trouble. There’s no going
back.” Vi said. “Once a seed is in the ground, it’s in the ground.”
********
The rain continued and with it the rill. Annan’s wet feet were cold from the damp
condensation that had settled in her boots but she stood, rooted by memories. Auntie’s advice
had been solid and had stood on its own but Annan had done what she was best at: she cast her
thoughts around erratically, never coming to a clear or concise conclusion but only knowing that
action took precedence.

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Annan had stayed. RJ had gone to Vancouver to continue his studies and had left with
assurance of weekend visits. She had managed to get a job in the school on the reserve as an
assistant in the classroom. Her love for RJ grew and she hung on his words, his metaphorical
rambling stories. The abandonment of herself came so stealthily that she didn’t even notice it as
it slid through her life. After months of waiting, she laid out the plan, as if in a series of sketches,
side by side – a time line of imagined events. RJ had listened attentively, his hands by his sides,
quietly nodding, as if in time to some invisible beat. She was open like a children’s picture book
but she kept one page closed, reserved for after his decision.
Annan discovered what Vi had meant. It was impossible to un-plant a seed. RJ explained.
This time it was her turn to nod, although she did so mechanically, her neck stiff. He described
the importance of the tribe’s survival. He loved her, he said, but he asked her to wait until after
he had returned to himself and rediscovered what had been violently stripped away by colonial
hands. As he spoke, her world fell away and she was left standing in the deep hole of reality,
moody clouds and an insurmountable cliff face above her. Now, all those years later, at the
release of the dam, she sank to her knees in the mud and watched as the water trickled quickly
away from her. The unstoppable flow.

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Chapter Twenty
The day after RJ left her was unusually warm. The sun rose, unimpeded by cloud, sat
high in the sky for what seemed like an unnaturally long time, and then slowly descended. The
sun made the day too long and, as Annan waited for it to end, she envisioned the next chapter in
her life. She visited Auntie Vi that evening. The two women sat in the garden. Vi reclined
heavily in her familiar chair while Annan perched lightly on the edge of an overturned ceramic
pot. They looked in silence at the woman in blue; her contemplative eyes stared solemnly out at
them. Vi muttered to herself, her lips moving with some unknown supplicate. The rest of her
face stayed fixed, its numerous creases creating a labyrinth of miniscule lines across her face.
Annan watched the woman out of the corner of her eye and envied her faith. The only certainty
left for her was the suitcase that sat waiting in her rented room.
“RJ’s bent out of shape.” Vi said. “He’s been led astray by Frank, my brother.”
“He has?”
“Yep. Should have never let him into his life. Been nothing but trouble right from the
start.”
“How, why? What has he done?” Annan asked.
“He’s got him confused, that’s all.” She said. “Now he doesn’t know where he belongs.”
“Do you wish he had stayed with you?”
Vi looked sideways at Annan. “Of course not. RJ’s a man. He’s got to figure it out for
himself. Not going to do that pottering around in my green house. But it would have been a
whole lot easier without Frank and his crazy Indian talk.”
“Maybe university has changed him.” Annan tried.

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“Maybe.” Vi said. “But that’s no reason to treat you like this.” She stood up and
straightened her apron. “Loose ends never did anyone any good.” She said moving towards the
house. Annan wondered what she meant. Vi was boiling the kettle.
“What did you mean about loose ends?” Annan asked.
“He’s got responsibilities he has to live up to. Education’s one thing but there’s other
matters. You shouldn’t let him go.”
“I don’t really have a choice.” Annan said. “He was clear about what he wanted. And
what he didn’t want….”
Vi was pouring tea into Annan’s cup. She put in half a teaspoon of sugar and stirred the
mixture around. She slid the cup over to Annan who stared into it and tried to clear her mind.
Tears fell into the tea, salt mingled with sweetness.
“I hadn’t planned for this.” She felt the flood gates opening. “Nothing is the same.” She
said.
Vi reached over and touched Annan gently on the arm, for the first time since they had
met.
The sun had finally given way and the windows at the back of Vi’s house had become
sombre squares of black.
“It’s like I can’t see anymore.” Annan blurted out. “Everything’s blurry. Like one of
those dreams where you are stumbling around and walking into things. As if there is a membrane
over my eyes.”
Vi nodded but stayed quiet.
For the first time in Annan’s life she couldn’t think of anything else to say. The air settled
around the two women like dust settling on unused furniture. Finally, Annan spoke.

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“You were right about me staying.” She smiled at Vi and she noticed the woman’s eyes
soften to a lighter chestnut brown. “I’m going to miss you.” Annan said. “I don’t know what I’ll
do without your endless cups of tea and your magic elixirs.”
Vi sipped her tea.
“Was I so wrong?” Annan asked.
“About what?
“About coming here? I used to think I was a good person but now I’m not sure.” Annan
said.
“People who say they are sure about things are like those mice in the story. They only
know what’s at the end of their whiskers.” Vi said. Annan was expecting more but Vi’s face was
passive and grim.
“Well, I have to go.” Annan moved towards the back door. She had grown accustomed to
leaving the house through the garden.
Aunty Vi followed her and leaned against the doorway, where she was silhouetted against
the glow of the house.
“Annan.” She said. “Remember, just because a story isn’t yours, it doesn’t mean you
can’t walk in its tracks.” She pulled out a fabric handkerchief from the sleeve of her shirt. “So
long as you remember you’re not the one that made the footprints.” And then she said, “I’m
going to miss you too.”

*The Story of Jumping Mouse, as told in Seven Arrows, by Hyemeyohsts Storm.

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