Free Motorcycles & Sweetgrass by Drew Hayden Taylor Page B

led a strange and separate life and there were always rumours about what he did over on his island. People fishing just offshore of his island would occasionally hear strange yells. Family, when visiting, said the place looked like a primitive gym, with homemade punching bags constructed from canvas and stuffed with leaves and sand.Her brother rarely came to the mainland, and if he did, it was usually for supplies and to visit his mother. Though he was the youngest, he spoke the best Anishnawbe—like his mother, strong and without hesitation.
    And then, of course, there was the famous rumour, the stuff of legends. Supposedly a few years ago, some rowdy boaters had landed on the shores of what had once been called Western Island, but was now more frequently known as Wayne’s Island, intent on building the world’s biggest bonfire. They started foraging for wood, and soon discovered the island was occupied. According to the story, Wayne disagreed with their starting a fire, and his disagreement was strong and severe. Exchanged words and issued threats developed into an altercation. Five drunk White guys against one lone Indian. This had the makings of a pretty good civil rights case.
    The next morning their boat was found drifting a kilometre offshore of the island. Inside that boat were many bruises, one dislocated elbow, numerous lacerations, seven cracked ribs, four black eyes and at least a dozen missing teeth. The White men said everything was a blur. One guy mentioned a crazy Ninja Indian on the mysterious island, but the others shushed him up, embarrassed.
    “Mom?” Virgil was standing beside her.
    “Yes, honey.”
    “I’m gonna go now. Okay?”
    “Did you have something to eat?”
    He nodded. “Three sandwiches, one apple, a grape juice and some cookies. Okay?”
    “I guess so. Where’re you going?”
    “Dunno. Probably home.”
    “Tired?” she asked.
    “A little.”
    Behind Virgil, she could see Duanne DeBois hovering, waiting for his chance to speak with her. God only knew what he wanted to do with the land.
    “Well, go get some rest. Hopefully I’ll be home in a few hours and will make you a real dinner. Something with vitamins and fibre maybe. Sound good?”
    For a moment, Maggie saw the saddest smile on his face. She realized she’d said this before. Many times. And she’d often failed to keep her promise.
    “Sure,” Virgil said, and then quickly left. Maggie watched him walk through the hall doors.
    “Maggie, good to see you. You got a second?” said Duanne DeBois as he sat down beside her and opened a colourful flow chart.

SEVEN
    About half an hour later, Virgil was walking toward the railroad tracks that ran through the Reserve’s northern border. He had lied to his mother once again, only because he knew that she wouldn’t understand and that it might start an argument neither of them wanted. Virgil knew he was running late and he had increased his pace. About twice a day, a passenger train would speed through the forested hills as if afraid to stop—rumour had it there were Indians about. Frequently, Virgil would be sitting there on a large flat-topped rock set about ten feet back from the tracks, watching the train thunder past on its way to wherever it was going. He’d done some research on the computer and most of the trains were heading to Toronto, or out of Toronto, several hours to the south. He would catch a glimpse of faces in those windows, some looking out at him, others engrossed in a book or laptop. Where were all these people going? Who were they? What did they do?
    Virgil had never been on a train and his dream, mundane as it might seem to others, was to book himself a ride when he got older. Those trains reminded him that there were places to go, beyond the Reserve. The next train was due by in about six minutes, though the exact time was always a rough estimate, with VIA Rail’s record. The engineer had seen him sitting thereso often, it had become his habit to blow