Up Ghost River by Edmund Metatawabin Read Free Book Online

they’re just gonna take it from him anyway.” They left the photos on their bed and I stood there and looked at them as Papa got dressed.
    Alex was already up and dressed. He asked, “Where’s he going? Where’s he going?” Mama told him that I was going to residential school, but he kept asking, like he didn’t understand. When I waspacked, I put my hand on Alex’s heart and looked him in the eyes, as Papa did when saying goodbye to Mama. Then Mama grabbed me and pulled me into her, and I could smell her scent of bannock and tea.
    Papa and I went outside. The sun had broken through the clouds, and I saw that our firewood was wet, so it must have rained in the night. Strange, I hadn’t heard it. Papa took my hand and I looked back and saw our chimney spurting smoke. I realized that I wouldn’t be there for the final fire before they left for a winter in the bush. It struck me that I wouldn’t go with them at all, and I squeezed his hand tighter as we walked to school.
    The three-storey school building had always been there, just across the river channel, and I studied its square windows as we approached, wishing I could see inside. For a split second I saw a man through the window. He was wearing a black cloak like Father Lavois, and grabbing the sides of a boy’s head. There was a prickly feeling in my chest as I realized he had the boy’s ears. The boy had lost his balance, stunned, and then I realized that my imagination was playing tricks on me. This was just a story that Joseph Tomikatick had told me—there was no boy in the window.
    We were at the concrete steps. I was trying to hold on to our time together but it was slipping by so fast. Papa was at the top of the steps and knocking on the wooden door.
    â€œGood morning,” a nun said to us in Cree. “Come in.” We walked into a wide lobby that was nothing like our house. The hall was so bright, with lights shining down from on high and tall windows, and everywhere was white: walls, tablecloths and clocks. No furs or grass on the floor. Instead, hard things—a see-yourself glass, grey stone stairs, and leather-like floors. I saw lots of squares—photo frames, side tables, chair seats—and surfaces that must have taken many hours’ scraping to be so smooth. The air was different here, too, and it was not just the smell, which I later discovered was bleach, but the way itmoved, like there were lots of invisible things in it, and all the things were too close together.
    â€œI’m Sister Wesley,” said the nun. “What’s his name?” she said to my father, speaking her mother tongue.
    â€œEdmund Metatawabin.”
    â€œAnd you are Mr. Metatawabin?”
    â€œUh huh.”
    She led us to a bench in front of two full coat racks, where two other boys were sitting. One of them was smaller than me, and the other was tall and built. “It’s good you came. Sit there, Ed,” she said, pointing to a spot next to the slender boy, who was fidgeting with a piece of paper. “Mr. Metatawabin, I’ll be right back.” She disappeared through a wooden door at the end of the lobby. Papa waited until she was out of earshot before speaking.
    â€œWhat are your names, boys?”
    â€œTony,” said the taller boy.
    â€œAmocheesh,” said the other.
    â€œYou boys are a long way from home.”
    â€œI’m from Peawanuck,” the boy named Amocheesh said.
    â€œI’m from Moosonee,” Tony said.
    â€œHmm … your face looks familiar,” Papa said to Tony. “Your family traps on the Moose River, right?”
    â€œYeah, but they are thinking of going farther north, following the caribou.”
    â€œThat’s good. I heard the animals are now near Peawanuck.”
    â€œYeah …” Seeing Sister Wesley returning, Tony stopped talking.
    â€œMr. Metatawabin. You can go.”
    Papa frowned, glancing at her. I