Hunting by Stars

They saw us now for what we were: dreamers, providers, fuel. I knew what they wanted. I’d watched a pack of dogs once, breaking bones apart in a parking lot and snarling over the marrow, chewing and growling through exposed teeth at the same time, a cacophony of glut.

When Dad told us about the call for healthy Indigenous donors in the early days, before some escaped with the truth, this was what I thought of: slaughterhouses. Now I wondered if the dreams from those who had walked in of their own free will instead of being dragged in by white vans, were better, full of sunshine and wingless flight.

Some days I had questions: most nights I questioned everything. It’s hard to devote yourself completely to logic when you have to face yourself alone at night, knowing where you came from, knowing your own family members had met the same fate as those you helped lay to rest.

But what could we do? Let the whole world crumble into madness and violence? How could we let that happen when there was a chance, a solution, right there in front of us? And how could we, the dreamers, begrudge any of God’s children the opportunity to rebuild and move on? You see, eventually everything would right itself. The world would settle, and the networks and systems would return, and then there would be no need to sacrifice anything.

“But no real interaction with the inmates—”

“Residents.”

“Residents? Like, I can’t hang out in the common room with everyone else?”

He chuckled. “Definitely not. Besides, why would you want to? Those people have no hope of moving into the system. They are the rejects, the holdouts, the past. We”—he put a hand on my shoulder—“are the now, the future.”

I decided sometime that first night that I was going to have to get rid of them and carry them out of here at the same time. I recalled something Mitch had said back in the infirmary about reading the Bible. About how it was ridiculous to think the book was the important thing and not the words themselves that should live inside of you. So, one by one, I slipped the notes out of the mattress, memorized them, and flushed them.

[…]

I spent the rest of the day running laps around the room, whisper-singing each note back to myself. I made up a song to help me remember them—I couldn’t stand to lose even one word.

“Let me teach you a quick lesson, French. Back in the days of massive slaughterhouses, they would push the cattle through a narrow chute before they put them down. The chute would contract, and the animals got squeezed. That kind of pressure alleviates stress, releases good chemicals.”

[…]

“Anyway, it’s all well-known science. The squeeze, the chemicals, that lets them relax before the end. Then the meat tastes better without all the panic and fear in it.” He spoke as if hosting a matter-of-fact radio program. “We don’t have chutes here, but what we do have is a supply of the good chemicals. Let’s just say we’re looking for new ways, better ways. So everyone benefits.”

Out here, I lost my sense of edges, of where I began and ended. Inside the school, I noticed that I smelled: my hair, my skin, my breath—everything carried a scent like meat. It was maddening, inescapable.

[…]

But now that I was home, my scent was diluted, buried and welcomed. Humanity behind walls is highlighted. Humanity in the woods is insignificant. And because of it, I could take deep breaths and think of things other than myself. It was like the relief you get when you remember your thoughts are not facts, not yet, that they’re only just thoughts rolling around in your head. Everything was still possible.

I looked down at Sunny, the clomp of approaching footsteps echoing in my head. She was gazing up at me again—no judgment, no fear, just wide-open eyes. We both turned toward the vehicles. The high beams on the vans were too bright. Neither of us raised a hand to shield our eyes. We just squinted in the glare. I squeezed her hand harder; this time it was her who comforted me, because we were there together, and it was too late to run.

I took him in and tried to remember each nuance of his smell, his skin, the way his hair felt when the breeze blew it suddenly over the back of my neck. The next time I was in a dark room, I would need it. Or I would die. I knew that now. This was oxygen. This was why I breathed.

After a few seconds, he gripped me back, taking handfuls of my clothes in his fists and holding tight. He leaned down and kissed the top of my head, speaking to me in Anishinaabemowin. I felt those words under my ribs. In that moment, everything snapped into clarity. I knew for certain, regardless of the odds or risks, that I would do whatever it took to keep them safe, all of them. Even my asshole brother, who had big dreams of being Supervising Asshole. I would do whatever it took.

“I just feel like, I don’t know, like a second-class citizen there.”

“Ummm, I mean, sometimes it’s weird. But they really take you on your own merit, you know? Like, you can work your way up from the bottom. It’s all about pulling yourself up.” He was practically skipping along. “I appreciate that. It means I can get to where I want to be for no other reason than that I earned it.”

“Okay, but aren’t you beginning a hundred yards back from the starting line while everyone else is already at the gate, just because of what they are and what you aren’t?”

He didn’t answer right away. A good sign. I kept going.

“Out here is where you can really prove yourself every day. And nature doesn’t judge anyone before they are called to task—it can’t.”

“We, brother, can make it so that more Native people have a chance to truly live. As productive members of a reborn society.”

[…]

“See, there will be the herd, and then there will be everyone else. Not divided by race, exactly. Just divided by purpose. And the purpose of Indigenous people will be to give birth to the answer. What more noble purpose could you ever ask for?”

I thought about what Mitch had told me. Farms. They weren’t ditching the schools; they were repurposing them. How could dreams be transferred in to such poisoned heads? I couldn’t imagine minds capable of making schemes like that also being able to create nighttime cinema of swimming through the stars or losing teeth by the handful. But it didn’t take depth to build cruelty, only a profound lack of hope.