When Eagles Dare to Fly

By James W. Hoddinott

When Eagles Dare to Fly is a story of hope. It foretells a bright future where the deep-rooted spiritual nature of mankind can overcome the past and lead us to a future of peace, love, and tranquility.

This is a powerful story of Mitch and Raymond growing up in a society where men have lost purpose. Robbed of pride, men drink to forget their past and hopeless future; alcoholism and the destruction of their families result. Children are forced to endure physical and mental abuse of their mothers and families. The children realize the cycle must be broken. Joining together, they show their parents a better life.

A seemingly insignificant deatha murdergalvanizes the youth to action. Reverting to the old ways, the spiritualism of their forefathers, they vow to return to the days when they were a proud, loving people. During their journey, they discover an amazing fact. That bigotry and racism are just barriers erected to hide the fact that mankind suffers from the same diseases.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Apr 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781490734323

James W. Hoddinott

James W. Hoddinott is a teacher, resource/special education teacher, and consultant and currently works as a vice principal. James is interested in making a difference in his own life and the lives of others. He is a believer in strength-based education and helping students find what it is that is their gift. He is an advocate for students with special needs and individuals who have not yet found their way. He also believes in creating healthy communities which understands the importance of people.

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© Copyright 2014 James W. Hoddinott.

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ISBN: 978-1-4907-3433-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-3432-3 (e)

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CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Epilogue

Dedication

For my sons

Matthew and Nicholas,

May you find your wings to fly.

PROLOGUE

The resplendence of the full moon’s brilliant light was unable to dim the florescent stars on this frigid winter evening as temperatures plummeted to minus forty degrees Celsius. The howling of a wolf could be heard in the distance, bellowing from the hunger pangs that animals felt during these harsh winter months. Although it was only December, the winter had already been bitter. The snow was halfway up the tree trunks, making it impossible for the deer and moose to find any grass to feed upon. It wasn’t just the lack of food causing problems but also the extreme cold, which made it difficult for all animals, especially the young, to survive.

The snow that fell at the beginning of October remained. The Indian summer, usually welcomed in late October or early November, did not come. The beginning of December brought with it an icy arctic weather system usually not seen until January. The temperatures for the past two weeks had not risen above minus thirty degrees. The bitter cold, early snowfall, and long wailing cry of the wolf brought an eerie sense of death to the serene forest. This forest had gone through fire, drought, and early winters before, but this year was going to be different. Never before had death come so brutally and unmercifully.

Among the evergreens, a fawn tried to nurse from her dead mother. Sucking on nipples that stood erect like icicles hanging from pine trees, she shivered in the bleakness of the forest. The fawn kept suckling, unaware of the advancing wolf pack, mouths salivating in anticipation of what would be their final meal this winter. The piercing scream of this never-to-be yearling echoed for miles as the hungry wolves ripped at the flesh of the soon-to-be-forgotten fawn. This is the way of the forest, of the animal world—the weak die while the strong survive.

Deeper in the forest, another pack of wolves hunted for food. These hunters were not as fortunate. Their bones were exposed through shaggy coats, the winter fat already gone. A young wolf tried to tread through the deep snow, but his legs were powerless. His mother turned to look at her child, wishing she could help him. She thought back to his birth this past spring and how she nursed him and trained him to be a hunter. Now she saw only death in her young child’s eyes. She was not sad, for she knew the way of the animal world. She had been fortunate as both her cubs survived last winter, and she knew this death would only be the first of many experienced by the pack. The rest of the pack turned also, sensing death, sensing food. They knew this young cub, scrawny from hunger, would have little meat, but the blood and flesh would provide some respite to the ache pulsating in their stomachs. The cub, sensing his fate, closed his eyes, not crying out as his mother’s teeth ripped out his final breath.

The pack continued to walk onwards as an eagle flew overhead, watching the blood of the cub child drip, drip, drip from his mother’s fangs. The eagle found the noise both revolting and deafening. Breaking the rules of science and nature, the eagle tried to cover the pinholes of his ears with his wings. He hoped to drown out the horrific sound of the blood dripping onto the lustrous white carpet covering the earth. Immediately, the eagle started to spin uncontrollably downwards. The wolf’s tongue darted out of her mouth, slurping up the blood drippings, not wanting to waste the nourishment her child had provided her. The dripping ceased, causing the eagle to once again expand his wings, regaining the nobility of flight.

The eagle flew out of the despair of the forest into the small community of Pennville, where the smoke billowing out of the chimneys suggested the warmth of the houses. The town was nestled in the quiet rolling hills of the Qu’Appelle Valley. Streetlights lined the roads of this seemingly peaceful village. The eagle drifted slowly over the town, not feeling serenity but rather a fear of something evil, something destructive. The eagle flew silently over a small home, which like the others, was filled with both warmth and hatred.

Inside, unseen by the eagle, a young woman huddled around the fireplace with her newborn son, keeping warm. The husband was jabbing methodically at the coals with a poker, grumbling about those damn Indians who were always drunk on the day they got their cheque. He couldn’t understand why he, a hardworking man, had to pay to support people like that. The young mother sat by the fire, shaking her head while slowly lifting her blouse, allowing her breast to fall out as she drew her son closer. She pinched her nipple, making it hard and encouraging him to suckle, but the infant only played. The woman released the nipple, letting it fall softly onto the boy’s tongue as he gently licked rather than sucked.

The mother began to squirm in her seat, shifting her thighs as she felt an unwanted sexual excitement between mother and son. The woman began to squeeze her thighs together rhythmically as the son continued to play. The mother’s nipples now grew harder, and the boy ceased his play and began to suckle, causing his mother’s movements to cease. The young boy continued to suck until milk squirted to the back of his throat, bringing him much-needed nourishment. The mother smiled as the milk was expelled from her nipple, not only for fulfilling her role as mother, but also because she felt more comfortable as a mother rather than a lover to her child.

The father continued to mumble while poking at the fire, encouraging the logs to generate even greater heat. He turned, smiling at his wife, who looked so contented. He had seen that look before, but that was when he and she… No, he must be mistaken. He shook his head and returned to jabbing the logs of the fire while his beautiful wife fed their new son, Raymond.

The eagle continued on, following the now-frozen river into a small but fertile valley. Below was a spattering of new houses, nestled among the old weatherboard homes. The eagle hovered above an old house with wisps of smoke coming out of a broken chimney. It paused upon hearing an ear-piercing scream coming from the shack below. Inside, on top of the bed, lay a dark-skinned woman, legs spread apart, pushing with all her might.

In another room, separated only by a tattered bedsheet, three men were sitting on old wooden crates at an old hardwood table, drinking Labatt’s Blue. The men continued to drink as the woman screamed agonizingly.

The eagle was curious. Against his better judgment, he flew down to take a closer look. Peering through the broken glass, the eagle saw the woman was not alone; an older man—the father to one of the men drinking at the table—was crouched at the woman’s feet. The woman continued to scream and push as the old man reached down between her legs.

The eagle shifted to get a closer look, seeing a head coming out from between the woman’s thighs. The eagle watched, trancelike, as the old man lifted the new baby high into the air before presenting it to the mother, who was no longer screaming but had tears dripping down her face.

The older man suddenly stopped, stared directly into the golden eyes of the eagle peering through the broken window, and yelled, This child is blessed by the eye of the eagle! He ran from the room through the tattered bedsheet, past the three men sitting on wooden crates, drinking Labatt Blue, and into the cold night air. None of the men cared enough to raise their heads to acknowledge his entrance into the room. They just kept drinking as he ran through the makeshift doorway.

Once outside, the old man spotted the eagle flying away, his hypnotic state broken by the screams. The old man continued to look upwards as the eagle soared higher into the sky. He watched as two feathers floated downwards towards the snow that now covered his bare feet. Picking up the feathers, the old man fell to his knees in tears. He had been praying for someone to send help for his people, and now his prayers had been answered. His grandson, his flesh and blood, was the chosen one. The Eagle Child.

He rushed into the house to tell his son of the great gift bestowed on their family but stopped when he saw him still sitting on an old wooden crate, drinking beer with his two drunken friends. He carefully placed the two feathers in his pocket, knowing he could never tell anyone, at least not yet. Many things needed to happen to his people first before the Eagle Child could help them.

CHAPTER 1

Mitch

Thinking back, it is hard to remember when it happened. Life has so many twists and turns; it is difficult to remember which decision or event leads you where. Sometimes I felt like a mouse in a maze in search of the ever-elusive piece of cheese or Nanabush trying to teach me something I wasn’t ready to understand. My grandfather would tell me it just took me a long time to listen to the messages in my heart. It is difficult to know where to start. Perhaps I should do as my grandfather told me, just tell the story, and let each word lead me to where it want to take you.

I stood watching, waiting at the edge of the gravel road leading to my house. You couldn’t really call it gravel; it was more like mud with boulders. I looked back at the wooden shack the government had so kindly supplied us with. The paint was nonexistent. The door stuck half open, and smoke billowed up from the broken-down chimney that we used to heat our home. I should say house because you really couldn’t call it a home. Most people don’t realize how lucky they are to have running water, a toilet, and heat. We had nothing. That morning, Mom went to get water from the outside pump because that damn water truck driver was late again. Before Mom got back, the water had started to crystallize. I hated it when the water truck was late; it made things so hard on Mom.

It took a long time for the water to boil. Since my porridge wasn’t ready, I had to grab an apple for breakfast. So there I stood, shivering without gloves or toque, waiting for the bus, which was late again. I had to go to the bathroom, but I wanted to wait until I got to school because it was so cold in the outhouse. That was one cold toilet seat. I wondered if the bus driver was drinking again last night. I also wondered if he realized how cold it was outside, or how much I hated standing there by the edge of the gravel road waiting for him to come.

The clock read nine fifteen when I finally got to school, which meant we were late again. I spotted our teacher, a white man, who had no idea what it was like living on a reserve in a lousy government housing.

Hurry up! Get to class! You’re late!

Didn’t he know I hadn’t been to the bathroom yet, and if I didn’t go soon, I was going to piss myself?

Mitchell, where do you think you’re going?

To the washroom, I got to go bad, I replied, squeezing myself as much for effect as to stop some piss from dripping down my leg.

You’re late, so just get to class.

But…

now!

I shuffled off to class, thinking to myself, I bet he never had to use an outhouse on a cold day like this. I also wondered how I was going to hold it in until break.

I just couldn’t concentrate all morning. I was hungry and had to go to the can in a real bad way. School was still a good place to be despite the bodily discomforts. Hey, I was warm, had running water, all my friends were there and, most importantly, indoor toilets. God, why did I mention the washroom?

Ring!

Saved by the bell. I could finally get to the can for that much-needed piss and a smoke. Wow, what a relief! Thank God for the break between classes. I must have had a gallon stored up inside of me, or should I say four litres? That metric crap really confuses me.

To this day, I still don’t understand why ninth graders had to go outside for recess, but it was a good time for a smoke. The teachers never did understand! I needed that smoke.

Rule number 1, No smoking on school grounds. Shit, I knew smoking was bad for me, but I just started because I was bored . . . and everyone else was . . . Oh, it doesn’t matter. Back then, I still needed that smoke. I was willing to risk the four-day suspension even if it meant no school and being stuck at home, that cold run-down shack without indoor plumbing. I guess looking at it that way, if I would risk all this comfort just for a little nicotine, then I probably was addicted to cigarettes.

Mrs. Clearsky and Mrs. Graves were on duty. Those two just stood inside the doorway keeping warm, which meant no risk of being caught smoking. Hey, Mitch, let’s go for a smoke.

I turned and saw my best friend, River. Not his real name, but that was what we called Justin ever since he swam across the river that runs through the reserve. That might not sound like such a big hairy deal, but he did it in the springtime when the water runs really fast. Besides, I thought he would never go in the river again, since… Well, that was where his brother drowned last year. At least, they all said he drowned, and that was what the police report said, but that was not what really happened. Thinking back on that day…

*     *     *

Justin, Larry, and I picked up a couple of cases of beer and went down to the river to party. Everyone was going to be there. I was going because Louise was, and I thought she was hot. I’ve never seen anyone fit a pair of jeans better than Louise. Every time she walked in front of me, I could feel a strain on the front of my jeans. I worry that my fly would burst open under all that pressure. Perhaps I exaggerate a little, not about how fantastic Louise looked but about busting open my fly. Louise wasn’t the best-looking girl at school, but she sure turned me on.

When we got to the river, the party was well under way; and most of the people were having a great time laughing, drinking, and telling stories about our teachers. Mostly drinking. I personally didn’t like drinking much. You could’ve given me a Coca-Cola anytime because frankly, beer tasted… well, awful. However, since everyone else was drinking, I had no choice. If I didn’t drink, then I would be some kind of a loser. So I opened the beer, even though I didn’t want to, took a sip, and wondered how anyone in his or her right mind could drink that monkey piss.

How is it, Mitch? inquired Justin’s now-dead brother, Larry.

Excellent, Larry, this is going to be great, I lied.

Taking another sip, I thought about the awful taste that was going to be in my mouth the next morning. We called it the zacklee. That was when your mouth tasted zacklee like your asshole.

I finished two beers before they finally started to taste good and provide the courage I needed to talk to Louise. Louise was always nice to talk to, but I was shy, and it seemed I needed those couple of beers before I could talk to her. Labatt should come up with an ad like:

Lack courage? Afraid to talk to girls? Embarrassed about

how you look? Take two Labatt Blues, and you’ll have what

it takes! Labatt Blue: the beer of champions!

It sure worked that way for me. I was always so insecure because of my complexion. Every time I looked into the mirror, all I saw was one big pimple covering my whole face. Everyone else at school seemed to have such smooth complexions—me, pimples. Other students would get the odd pimple, which I always noticed. Maybe that is what frightened me, wondering that if they could see their one or two pimples, then what the hell did they see when they looked at me? One big frickin’ pimple.

I was talking to Louise when I noticed Justin and Larry were pretty drunk and talking about everyone going for a swim. I wasn’t going swimming even though I had finished another beer talking to Louise. I really started feeling different, more at ease, powerful, and confident. Shit, I even forgot I had pimples.

It was still the spring, and I wasn’t drunk enough to go swimming—not when the water runs fast. Those undercurrents could take you for miles—oops, kilometres—before you knew what was happening. I threw a stick into the river one spring day when I was five, and before I had a chance to blink, the stick had disappeared. Ever since then, I’d been scared of the river. Maybe scared isn’t the right word; I appreciated and respected the river. If they wanted to go swimming, then I wasn’t going to stop them, but I sure as hell wasn’t going in.

I kept talking to Louise, not noticing that Justin had taken Larry’s ’74 Chevy 1/2 ton to get more beer. I heard Justin pull up, and I was pissed off at him for taking the truck. Not only was he just fifteen, but he was also hammered. I turned away from Louise to give my best friend supreme shit for being so damn stupid when he tossed me another beer, which I took, and said nothing. Instead, I put my arm around him, and we both laughed ourselves into convulsions about beating the law again.

I knew it was getting real late when I saw the sun starting to come up.

Sunrise is supposed to be the best part of the day, especially when it displays the beautiful red tinge on the horizon. Sunrises had always been so special. I remember sitting with my grandfather, listening to his stories of the old days and watching the sun come up.

Grandfather always told me how in the good old days his grandfather and father would go hunting buffalo on the plains. They would ride on horseback, driving the buffalo to the jump, hollering, heads held high because they were the ones in charge.

When I was younger, watching the sunrise, I pictured Grandfather and me riding our horses among the buffalo, getting food for our family and our people—not worrying about government handouts or my dad being drunk.

Mr. Hodges read us a story one time called Charcoal’s World, which was about an aboriginal warrior convicted of killing an RCMP officer. I remember that in the story, they talked about how the warriors had lost their manhood. They used to be judged on how well they did on the hunt, but when Indian Affairs stepped in and started handing out food, especially meat rations, all the men lost their identity. It is funny how we give handouts so people don’t starve, but we forget that people need to have a purpose to live.

Back then, all I saw at sunrise was murder but was afraid to say the word. I always talked about Larry’s drowning, but I meant murder. When I finally said the word, it felt good. Now I never say that Larry drowned. It was murder before, and as sure as I’m standing here, it is still murder.

Everyone was drunk when the sun finally rose that day. We were all swimming by that time, including me, so I don’t need to tell you how drunk I was. Everyone was laughing and talking about how much we would like to get into Ms. Blaine’s pants. She was the fourth grade teacher at school, and man, was she hot. Besides, none of us had ever had a white woman before, and we would just sit around, wondering if it would be different. Different? Hell, I didn’t even know what it would be like.

Everyone thought I did, and that was what was important. I didn’t want them to think I couldn’t get a woman, so I told them I had Denise. Shit, Denise was a nice girl and my friend, but I still told everyone I’d made her just so I wouldn’t look bad. When she found out, she cried. I didn’t want to make her cry, but what choice did I have? I was backed into a corner. All the guys were talking about their first time, so I told them about Denise.

You would have done the same thing; you can’t tell me you wouldn’t. Yeah, I made it up, all except the part that she liked me. Then all the guys thought she was a slut because they all started saying that they did her too. Every guy over the age of twelve said he’d had her, so I guess, that maybe, she was a slut. Gee, here she was the easiest girl in the school, and I was the only guy in the school who never made her. What was wrong with me? In those days, I was probably the only living fifteen-year-old virgin!

No one had a bathing suit, so the guys were swimming in their underwear—good thing too because cold