Kiss of the Fur Queen by Tomson Highway Read Free Book Online Page A

lip, he waded through the river of discarded hair and scrambled clumsily into the chair in front of Brother Stumbo, who stood there waiting with his smile, the hair-sprinkled pale blue sheet, and sharp-toothed stainless-steel clippers. As Champion’s weight sank in, the leather upholstery sighed. A split second before Brother Stumbo enveloped him in the sheet, Champion reached up and touched, with wistful affection, the strand of wavy hair around his right earlobe.
    Brother Stumbo had to pause. “Down. Put your arm down.” And though Champion didn’t know what the man was saying, his body language clearly ordered Champion to lower his arm and sit as still as a rock.
    Poised for the slaughter, Champion straightened his back and called forth every ounce of courage so he wouldn’t burst into tears. The bristles of discarded hair made his neck itch. He wanted desperately to scratch but his arms were immobilized. If he started to cry, he wouldn’t be able to wipe away the tears and he would be seen by all these strange boys from other places with a baby’s crying face. He wished that he could look at his hair one last time. Hewished he was on Nameegoos Lake with his family. And the caribou. He wished his accordion was strapped to his chest so he could play a melancholy song, he thought mournfully, flailing about for anything that could hold the tears at bay.
    Clip, dip, clip
. Champion could feel his hair falling, like snowflakes, but flakes of human skin. He was being skinned alive, in public; the centre of his nakedness shrivelled to the size and texture of a raisin, the whole world staring, pointing, laughing.
    “And what’s your name?” Brother Stumbo’s voice hit the boy’s neck with a moist, warm billow of air that smelled of days-old coffee and Copenhagen snuff. Champion assumed that he was ruminating on some sacred subject known only to men of his high station and remained silent.
    “Name? What’s your name?” the snuffy whiff came at him again. Champion’s nerves began to jiggle, for he was beginning to suspect that he was being asked for something.
    “John? George? Peter? Joseph?” The clipper-happy barber cut four incisions into what remained of Champion’s mop of hair.
    “Cham-pee-yun!” He countered the assault by ramming the three syllables in the spots where the ouches would have been. Not only did he now know that he was being asked a question, he knew exactly what the question was. “Champion Okimasis!” he reiterated, in challenge.
    “Okimasis,” a fleshy voice floated up behind Champion’s ears. “So this is the one named Jeremiah Okimasis.” A face surfaced, one he had not yet seen in this new place, one witheyebrows so black and bushy they could have been fishing lures. The face consulted a sheet of paper.
    Champion’s heart gave a little shudder. But he refused to admit defeat, especially now that there were two of them to one of him. He summoned forth the only English word he knew and, with it, shielded his name.
    “No. Champion. Champion Okimasis.”
    “According to Father Bouchard’s baptismal registry, you are named Jeremiah Okimasis,” chortled the portly, elderly face, now attached to a great black cassock, starched white collar, and silver crucifix that dangled from a chain around his neck. As with Father Bouchard, Abraham Okimasis would have decreed that this man’s word bore the weight of biblical authority and therefore was to be listened to; feeling his father’s eyes looking over his shoulder, Champion would have knelt before the priest and crossed himself but for the pale blue sheet that held him prisoner.
    “Ah, Jeremiah,” said Brother Stumbo as he snipped merrily. “Jeremiah Okimasis. That’s a good name.” Champion felt the tear that, against his best intentions, had escaped from his right eye. “There now, Jeremiah. It’s only Father Lafleur. You mustn’t cry in front of the principal.” His hair now gone completely, Champion had no strength left;