Bac anglais

« 12AN1LME1 Page : 2/4 Joseph Netmaker brought the letter out to me.

Winter had just started to settle itself into the country.

Joseph walked on snowshoes from the town.

‘This is for you, Niska,’ he said.

‘It is from the Canadian boss, their hookimaw.’ As soon as I saw the brown letter, the English words written upon it, I knew what it contained.

I sat down beside the fire and stirred at it with a stick while Joseph read, first out 5 loud and in his stumbling English, then for me in our language.

‘Serial No.6711.

Deeply regret to inform you, Private First Class Xavier Bird, infantry, officially reported died of wounds in the field, November 3, 1918.

Director of Records.’ [ .

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] Many moons later, when the winter ice was leaving and travel was difficult, Joseph 10 came back with another letter.

He explained that it was in reference to Elijah, and that Old Man Ferguson had given it to him to give to me since I was the closest thing to a relation that Elijah had.

The letter said that Elijah had been wounded, that he had only one leg now, that he had tried to rescue another soldier, was given a medal for bravery.

It said that although weak, he 15 had healed enough to travel and was expected to arrive in the same town from which he and Xavier had left so long ago.

I had Joseph explain to me how the wemistikoshiw calendar worked, what month I was to be there, and I made careful preparations to journey by canoe to that town where Elijah would arrive.

I left early in the summer and paddled up the river.

It was difficult.

I am older 20 now, but I travelled light.

Joseph had asked to come along, but I told him no.

I went alone.

I watch the beast pull up and give one last great sigh, as if it is very tired from the long journey, smoke pouring from its sides.

People wave from the windows and people on the ground wave back, just as I have watched them do for days.

Then men and women and 25 children who have arrived start stepping down into the arms of others.

I see a few soldiers and search among them for Elijah’s face with his sly grin.

The crowd begins to thin, and once again I do not see an Indian soldier with one leg.

I am turning to leave when I see through one of the windows the silhouette of a man inside.

He walks slowly along the aisle, on crutches, in a uniform, a small bag slung over his 30 shoulder.

I step away from the shadow of the wall.

He wears a hat, just like the wemistikoshiw do, but this one is of their army and I cannot see his face for his looking down as he slowly makes his way down the steps on his crutches.

He is an old man I think.

So skinny.

This cannot be the Elijah I know.

[ .

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] When he is off the steps I begin to back away, thinking it is not him.

He looks up and I 35 see his face, thin and pale, high cheekbones, and ears sticking out from beneath his hat.

I stumble a little, the blood rushing away from my head.

The ghost of my nephew Xavier looks at me.

He sees me at the same moment, and I watch as his eyes take a long time to register what they see, but when they do he begins to rock back and forth on his crutches.

He falls to 40 the ground.

I rush up to him, kneel beside him, grab his warm hands.

He is no ghost.

I hold him to me.

His heart beats weakly.

I am struck suddenly that he is very ill.

‘Nephew,’ I whisper.

‘You are home.

You are home.’ I hug him, and when he opens his eyes, I look into them.

They are glassy.

Even in the shadows of the station his pupils are pinpricks.

45 ‘I was told you were dead, Auntie,’ he whispers.

‘And I was told you were, too,’ I say.

We sit on the ground for a while, both of us too weak for the moment to get up.

We are crying, looking at one another.

A small group of wemistikoshiw gathers and stares at us.

I. »