This is a work of fiction; any resemblance to a person or situation is accidental, although I was inspired by my extended conversations with a colleague and friend Dr. Ernie Benedict.
Acknowledgements
I wish to thank my friends Tamar Tembeck, Karim Rateb, John Harrington, Anne-Marie Dambournet, Ati Gereb, Liana Welty and Azza Sidky for their valuable comments and support, acknowledge Raouf Gomaa for offering to design the book cover, Jacqueline Wang for revising the formatting, and Ashley Fortier for helping me edit themanuscript.
LIMINAL COUNTRY
A novel
Liliane Karnouk
CHAPTER1
Crickets chirped, bees hummed and showers of sunrays airbrushed amber patches on the infinite interlacing of mosses, ferns, and bark, blending them into an organic whole. Vince felt somuchapartofitthathewastakenbyasudden urge to run, jump, skip, and crawl over boulders, roots, andlogs.
Uplifted by adrenaline and high on oxygen, he felt his sense of gravity shift. He dreamt he was lifted by wings expanding over his clavicles, above the tall trees grown like bristles out of the Great Mother very ownflesh.
Nothing moved below him with the exception of a solitary black dot crawling in the
green fur. It disappeared to show up again, always aheadofhiminwhateverdirectionhiswingstook him.
Vince whispered “Ochquari?” Meaning bear, his Mohawk given name, and was still wondering if bears ever get lost, for he certainly was when, back on his two feet, he noticed that the overgrown trail he had followed had vanished. The crackling leaves and twigs of the path had dissolved beneath his feet into a carpet of composting soil that smelled of resin and mud. Aside from his pounding chest, the silence was absolute.
While he searched through the overlay of foliage for the lost trail, his eyes got caught by a number of rectangular shapes gleaming in the setting sun. Intrigued, he crossed a deep glade and stood at the center of agrove.
The strangeness of the site made him wonder
if he was back in his dream. Surrounding him, were freshly painted canvasses nailed to trees like a set of pinned butterflies.
Subtle blue, green, red and yellow dissolving in a thick layer of white paste, where glossy photographs had been embedded like mosaics
In the fragments he recognized details of shells,beehives, ripples, clouds, furs and stones looselyconnected by a web of deep scratches in the paint.
The message seemed cryptic, yet the art
was very much to his liking. But it was the show location that left him wondering. An art exhibitioninthewildernessmadenosense.There was no trace of celebrations or rituals on the grounds and he had met no one on his haphazard hike. In fact he may well be the only person to have set eyes on thesite.
He wondered now if Ochquari, his spirit animal, was following him in his dream or intentionally leading him to this destination and whether the paintings carried any message intended for him.
While descending on the recovered forest trail in the direction of a watershed Vince could not think of anything else. A welcomed breeze suddenly passed through his soaked shirt and uplifted him like a sap rising from within.
It was nearing the summer solstice and the light lingered in the sky past ten o’clock but the still-sunny beach was surprisingly empty at Alouette Lake. Too hungry to wait till sundown, most visitors had already packed up their BBQs or had returned to cook their dinner in the campground.
A solo Volkswagen van attached to a trailer carrying a sign that read “ArtisStudio” remained near the BC Hydro dam. Its owner was a tall middle-aged woman with a sunset halo of auburn hair tied back in a long braid. She was busy filing a series of drawings hung with laundry pins on a stretched rope and another dozen of canvasses still specking the green lawn. In all it had been a good day for her. Artis had sold paintings for three hundred and forty dollars and earned sixty dollars by sketching twochildren.
She went inside the van to check the stew bubbling on her camper stove, threw in a few herbs, added more wine, drank a sip from the bottle and came out with a table cloth, a lamp and cutlery that she placed on a foldable table. She returned to fetch her meal and sat down to eat, watching the majestic Golden Ear peaksturn
into sequences of pink, separating a streaked cyan sky from a glittering silver lake.
“That stew is really good, throwing in
my orange peels gave it a little duck a l’orange flavor… The sky should be clear tonight. I will try to stay awake long enough… Pios einaiautos. Who ishe?”
Coming out of the woods, a man carrying no camping gear was heading towardher.
-Hi. I saw paintings hanging on trees. Are you theartist?
-Yes.
-My name is Vince. I am a Mohawk from Kahnawake inQuebec.
-Artemisia. You can call me Artis, she said, pointing at her sign. I used to live in Montreal but I amGreek.
-What aboutthem?
-Aboutwhat?
-The paintings, the reason why I came looking foryou.
Vince’s direct approach had not bothered her, although she felt slightly confoundedbecause she had never spoken to an Indigenous person before. She had wished to but never hadthe
opportunity. Their casual introduction left them with a mutual feeling that they knew each other. Sometimes encounters work that way. While she walked back to the camper to fetch a chair, s
he had the recollection of another accidental encounter from a long timeago.
She was driving on a dirt road between an exit to Parc Mont-Tremblant and the Rivière Rouge. The ground was badly potholed and overgrownbrancheswhippedhercaronthefront and sides. She couldn’t decide whether to back up or carry on because it was nearing dusk and she had slowed down to a nearstop.
Suddenly a stag, three female deer and a fawn came out of the bush and surrounded her car. They stood like statues staring at her from different heights while she rolled down her window, waiting. The lead stag moved closer and for a stopped moment they observed each other eye-to-eye through the open window. An instant passed and the stag leaped, followed by the pack, gone to where she could neverfollow.
Constricted by the narrow road to only move forward in either direction,Artemisia
experienced what animals trapped inside a cage mustfeelwhentheirwideopenspaceisshrunkto restrict their steps to a back-and-forth repetition. On that day Artemisia redefined wilderness as a place where animals were free, like drivers could neverbe.
Another set of rationales, perhaps shared by other newcomers, slipped into her psyche: This new world is where mythologies ran their course, where land was more powerful than myth, where Artemisia the ancient Greek hunting goddess and protector of wildlife she had been named after had no status. In this land seemingly empty and immense, she felt as separated and yet as safe as inside her car.
She recognized that day that she now existed in a new construct, more alike what she read in futurist novels. Likewise, from Artemisia she became Artis.
The sudden appearance of Vince, coming
out of a barrier of trees on his own two feet and speaking to her with the familiarity of an old acquaintance, had revived her sense of myths and of ancient lands. It may well be the reason why, in the time it took her to fetch a folding chair
and the leftover stew, Artis had romanticized him.
-Kahnawake is the Indian reserve south of Montreal, right? Is it OK if I sayIndian?
-OKbyme.IstillpreferIndiantoAborigines.
Abhor-origins. Ugly word.
-First Nations,maybe?
-Sowhocomesfirst—Dene?Inuit?
Mi’kmaq? Cree?
-So, Indian isOK?
-Idonotseeaproblem.WearenotIndian and you are neither British nor Columbian. But Mohawk is best.
-You are right. I also prefer Greek Canadian toAllophone.
-Hello-phone—that is also a funny French word.Ibelieveitincludesallnon-Frenchspeaking immigrants inQuebec.
-Now tell me, from where did you walk over? Are you campingnearby?
-My uncle lives with his family near Maple Ridge. He married a Katzie woman. They lent me the keys to their huntingcabin.
-Katzie?
-Yes, from the Katzie Nation. This water, and all that surrounds it, used to be theirancestral territory.
-How far is thatcabin?
-Half a day’s walk from here. What is this place anyway? Is it a lake or the ocean? Onenever knows in this part of the world. What is itcalled?
-Lake Alouette. How did you gethere?
-Iwalked.
They stood up to stretch their legs and went to the shore.
-Lake Alouette is plugged by the hydro dam you can see. The South end, where we are now, is the only shallowarea.
-I saw hugetrees!
Artiswassoinvolvedinhervisualdescription that she missed theinterruption.
-Thereisasplendidwaterfallandseveral
pristine creeks cascading down from surrounding peaks. The hikes are beautiful and, with a canoe, one can access some lovely wild beaches. Unfortunately a few dangerous flooded stumps remain. One must becareful.
It was nearly dark when they returned to the camping site.
-I would not advise you to walk back. Perhaps you should stay here tonight. I have an extra sleepingbag.
Artis went into the camper to fetch it, and she returned with a pot of tea, two mugs and a shawl she wrapped around her bare shoulders.
He noticed the light bouncing on her auburn hair when she lit a candle and, for a fleeting moment, he felt like drawing her by the waist and untying her long braid. He had been instantly attracted to the Greek woman, or maybe just intrigued by the fact that her bohemian life did seem to match her artistic sophistication. He wished to learn more and the idea of questioning her amused him. “Reversed roles. Indian now playing anthropologist”. He smiled remembering other times. He thought of his father’s friends, brought up in residential school, who were often reluctant to answer questions or speak up. “They feared the power of words and they were right,” he thought. “Words are the Trickster next of kin. They can trick you by twisting their meaning in the instant it takes them to travel from mouth to ear.”
They listened to the rustling sound of the breeze feathering the lake. The moon leaked its glow around the contour of the clouds and finally came out.
-I am ready to retreat. I leave you with the moon.
-What about the paintings in thewoods?
-Oh they stay there. My offering to the gods of the forest. Good nightVince.
A camper van pulled into the parking lotand a young boy ran out like a wild thing liberated from its cage. On his way to the washrooms he almost stepped on a curled up green sleeping bag releasing long black locks. The morning dew made them look wet and slimy, like algae. There was a faint smell of ashes in the air from the extinguished small fire. The child quietly turned around and tiptoed toward his next destination: a camperandtrailerclosertothebeachthatseemed abandoned.
It was very early. The sun was about to come
out from behind the hills and the mist was still rising from the grasses. The smell of coffee came from somewhere but the child noticed no one near the beach. Another scorching hot day was about to begin and the boy felt it. He took off his sandals and carefully dipped his toes to test the water temperature.
-Bernd! Frühstück, his mother called him for breakfast. He ran back to the rented Ford, an RV his parents had transformed into a fully equippedhome.
The campgrounds were already full. On
a summer weekend, the two hundred and five spaces were crammed with tents and RVs.Adding more day visitors, who came for a swim and a picnic, there would be no less than five hundred people passing through the area between the beach and public washrooms. With very little around to satisfy their consumer habits, they often stopped to look at Artis’s featured artwork. It was more people than she could have expected had she exhibited her paintings in any reputable citygallery.
Sunrays were starting to patch the grass. Artistookhercoffeemugandsatonherbutterfly
chair. “Enjoy it,” she thought to herself. “A good chance it will pour this afternoon.” She looked toward the shower building and noticed that her sleeping bag was still in use so she took her guitar and began to tune it. “Let’s see if I can finish that song.” She began to hum, muttering her lyrics,
Nowhere is my favorite space Thatplacewithnonameortrace I travelledeverywhere
Liked it best up in the air Between here and there Anywhere is everywhere…
Minutes later Vince was standing in front of her with his braids undone and his T-shirt smelling of ashes and sweat. Artis offered to lend him some soap and watched him walk to the showers. In silhouette against the light he reminded her of an Aboriginal warrior photo exhibition she had seen at the McCord Museum. The same slim figure, long torso, angular features and, as he got closer, his long and narrow eyelids. She figured he was younger than her, but, for peoplewhometbetweenhereandthere,itdid
notmattermuch.Hertendencytoplacefiguresin imaginary compositions did the rest. He became an iconic figure in past legends, the dwelling of her romanticfantasies.
“It is confounding” she thought, “all that country was theirs. Yet, they never had a say in selecting or admitting a single immigrant like myself on their own land. Instead they led for centuries an existence cut off from the rest of us. We, on the other hand, were integrated and not once ever bothered wondering what it was like to live on a reserve, or what people who lived in them thought of usnewcomers.”
A delicate question she intended to raise with Vince.
TheindifferenceofCanadiansforthe
culture of people who had existed on this landfor millennia confounded her. From her schooling in Montreal she did not recollect learning much about the nomads who followed herds on the Plains, the fishermen who captured whales in the Pacificorthefarmerswhogrewcornandtobacco in thewoodlands.
On the other hand, from day one of their arrival, immigrants were taught that Canada
could be summed up as the struggle of the two colonial founding nations, the issue of Quebec identity and a complicated electoral map. When so-called Indians were mentioned at all, it was in the context of an obsolete past. There was no knowledge to draw from them, not even from their remarkable capacity of adaptation to such a harshenvironment.
As for what it meant to be a Canadian, itwas really a matter of personal choices. Newcomers could adopt any lifestyle or identity, ethnic or otherwise. As for Indigenous people, until recently, it was altogether anotherstory.
Lake Lillooet by its originalname,wasrenamed Lake Alouette, meaningLake Lark.A premonitory translation since, likethe pooralouette of the French song, it was submittedtoanumber of mutilations. The lake wasnotpluckedof its feathers like the bird but pluggedbydams.The first ones built as early as1926andmoreobstructive ones followed. With its arteries
clogged, Lake Alouette became a vast sterile watershed.
The situation began to reverse itself quite
recently. As miraculous as a lark resurrecting into a phoenix, the lake took on a new life. A program of fish habitat restoration was implemented. The waters of the lake were fertilized by regularly adding nourishments depleted partially by the shrinking number of decaying salmon carcasses. Entwined with the local wildlife, plants and aquatic species, they used to compose nutrients that sustained the productivity of aquatic life, especially the steelhead and sockeye.
While surrounding creeks underwent a cleanup a hatchery for Coho salmons was also built in order to replenish the fishpopulation.
Thesurprisecamewhenlandlockedkokanees,
the word for sockeye salmon when they mutate into very small fish in order to adapt to living permanently in fresh water, escaped through a dam overflow and were able to find their way to the ocean. They later returned to spawn in their place of birth Alouette Lake, matured into full- scale sockeye. It proved a fact that no one knew before:dwarfedfishretainedtheiroriginalsockeye
DNA, even eighty years after their detention in sweet water.
Thatdiscoverycarriedapromisethat
eliminated any reluctance to invest in the full restoration of damaged salmon runs. Building a runway allowed kokanees, other salmons and trout to bypass the dam and leave the lake to migrate from watersheds to ocean to return and completetheirmigratorylifecycle.Theirexistence for eighty years in a liminal state wasover.