ê-kwêskît - TURN-AROUND WOMAN When I was growing up in the bush, on the hillside, I watched the sun arrive from the dark, watched her slip into the dark. I travelled. I didn't know the world back then. I just travelled. I was afraid I would never return. I tumbled that hillside back into myself. You can tell me after you hear this story if my name suits me. I've yet to figure it out. In Rib Woman stories are born. The Old Man called it psychology. Me, I just dream it. These gifted mysterious people of long ago , kayâs kî-mamâhtâwisiwak iyiniwak, my mother, Gone-For-Good, would say. They never died. They are scattered here, there, everywhere, somewhere. They know the language, the sleep, the dream, the laws, these singers, these healers, âtayôhkanak , these ancient story keepers I, Turn-Around, am not one of them. I was taught by Old people. An Indian Man, a White Man. An Indian Woman, a White Woman. They worked in lairs, in the full veins of Rib Woman. I sat in their thicket, wailing. The old ones navigated through my dreams. Sometimes they dragged, scolded, cajoled, cheered and celebrated. I wanted to be with them. Like them. I am not a saint. I am a crooked good. My cousins said I was easy, therefore I've never been a maiden. I am seventy, but still I carry my sins. Brothers-in-law I meet for the first time wipe their hands as if I am still among the maggots. I didn't know their women wept when their men slept in my bed. I am not a saint. I married Abel, a wide green-eyed man. Fifty years now. Inside Rib Woman I shook hands with promise. Promise never forgot, trailed me year after year. His Big Heavens a morning lake drowns me in my lair. I learned how to build Rib Woman one willow at a time, one skin at a time. I am only half done. This is part of the story. I, ê-kwêskît , am a dreamer. I dream awake. Asleep. On paper. The Old Man said the universe, the day, was the story. So, every day I am born. The Old White Man taught me to unfold night visits. The Old Woman taught me all of it was real. The Old White Woman helped me To cry with the thunder. Excerpted from The Crooked Good by Louise Halfe All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
