River Dogs

(This short story is based on a true confession.)

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“Lies are like sled dogs. Feed and exercise them regularly, as you never know when you might need them. But you keep them on a short chain. Because if one should get loose in the world, it will come back to bite you.”

So began the confession of my grandfather several years before he passed in early 1980.

S.S. Distributor

A tall, burly Cree man who spoke remnants of five languages including Cree, English, French, Slavey, and Chipewyan, he was also the captain of the S.S. Distributor, a stern wheeler that plied the thousand miles of the Mackenzie River from Great Slave Lake to the Arctic Ocean in the 1930s and 40s. This river, like a main artery, ran through the heart of Denendeh, the land of the Dene people. It was known here as the Dehcho or the Great River.

One day, Mooshum found out that he would be taking the Prince of Wales on a journey down north to the Arctic Ocean and back the following year. The Prince was simply going on a nice relaxing vacation and insisted that no big ceremonies were to be planned. In fact, he wanted his journey to be kept a secret. He wasn’t coming to fix the Dene people’s world this time. He just wanted to get away from the madness in his family.

But when one of the deckhands, a local Dene man, asked my grandfather why the Prince of Whales was coming north, Mooshum jokingly replied that His Royal Highness had heard that the Dene women were rumoured to be the most beautiful women in the world. And they had such beautiful teeth. So the Queen had suggested he come here all the way from England to find himself a wife.

Now, my grandfather assumed everyone else knew what he knew – that Cree women were actually the most beautiful women in the world. With deep, dark eyes, full lips, satiny smooth brownish-red skin and noses of such strength and curve, they were so desirable that they were often taken by other tribes simply for their aesthetic value.

That’s why to this day Cree men like me have a fascination with women’s noses. If you find us staring at your nose, remember that we are simply looking for our long lost sisters. Everybody knows that. It’s just a fact.

Just like it is a fact that in order to keep Cree women happy, the Creator skipped bingo for four nights just so he could make for them the most exquisite men.

And when he had finished, he was so pleased with himself that he named the entire tribe using the first three letters in his own name. Everybody knows that. It’s just a fact.

But that’s another story for another time.

And so it was that a year passed, the Prince of Wales quietly arrived. Introductions were made while the supplies and wood for the steam engine were loaded. The Prince settled into his soft chair along with his entourage on the top deck, just fore of the pilot house and soon the trip down the Great River to the Arctic Ocean was underway.

At first, the cruise “down north” on the big stern wheeler was uneventful. In fact, it became downright magnificent along the turn in the river where the current begins to follow the Mackenzie Mountains. The Prince and his hangers-on spent much of the time drinking tea, pointing, and ooohing and ahhhing at their surroundings. There were lots of By Jove!s and Jolly Good!s and My Word!s all around. Mooshum was glad the passengers were happy.

But, as soon as Fort Wrigley, the first Dene community along The River, came into view, my grandfather slowly began to realize to his great horror that one of his dogs had gotten loose into the world and it was going to be hard to get it back.

It started with the sound of a faint heartbeat far off in the distance. And as they drew closer, the heartbeat began to grow louder and louder. The Prince of Wales stood, as immediately did his entourage, to see where this great heartbeat was coming from.

Fort Wrigley, c. 1922 (Photo: Prince of Wales Northern Heritage Centre)

Then, there high up on the eastern bank of the Great River, they saw a long line of men, women and children from the village. They were drumming, waving, singing and dancing – all keeping rhythm with the chug-chug-chug of the Distributor steam engine and the heartbeat of The River. The music could be heard for miles up and down the Great River Valley.

The Prince turned and looked questioningly at my grandfather in the wheelhouse. What was this all about, then? My father just smiled, but otherwise ignored him, not knowing how to explain his flippant-joke-turned-mistake.

And when the Distributor tied up at the dock that warm fall afternoon, and the Prince walked up the bank to the welcoming committee, mothers pushed their young daughters to the front. The pretty young Dene girls were garbed in the finest moose hide and caribou skin dresses, garnished in traditional floral beadwork, their hair tied back in braids with flowers. They smelled so lovely. And their teeth – oh, their teeth were as white as my Mooshum’s face on that day.

Obviously, hunters the previous fall had gone out and killed moose and caribou and very carefully skinned them. Then, in the spring, the women spent weeks tanning and curing the hides to a beautiful brown, and, in the case of caribou – a sparkling white. Then the beadwork and sewing began. Many, many winter days and nights had been spent meticulously preparing for this important day – the day when the Prince of Whales would choose his Dene bride.

When the stop was over and the ship was underway again, Mooshum was questioned by the Prince an his British entourage about all the hoopla. No one was supposed to know they were coming on this trip. How did word get out?

My grandfather, now having had time to think, simply shrugged and said that Dene people greet all newcomers on The River this way. That is their way. He also added with great confidence that it was impolite to question such a welcome. And that the Prince should make sure to shake the hand of every young woman according to Dene custom and tell each of them that they were very beautiful. In fact, he even taught the Prince of Wales to say, “You are very beautiful.” in Slavey, the main Dene language.

The Prince reluctantly accepted my grandfather’s story. And so, this scene was repeated at every community on the Mackenzie River during that trip. The hands of young Dene girls were shook all along the Valley. They were each told how beautiful they were. Their parents bragged afterwards about what they had heard the Prince say about their daughters. And the Prince was off again on his unwitting search for a Dene bride.

For obvious reasons, this story was not told until many, many years after it happened. I am one of the few who have heard it.

Now you have heard it, too, so don’t say you haven’t been warned.

So, it is that today, when you travel through Denendeh, you will still find stunningly beautiful, dark-skinned Dene women, now well into their eighties and nineties, sitting quietly on the banks of a that same Great River. Their moose hide dresses are decorated in the most intricate floral bead patterns, their hair tied back in caribou antler clips.

Some sit and bead moose and caribou hide moccasins. Others make fires and cut fish or hang meat for drying. Every now and then each of them will cast an eye up river and smile, longing for the sight of a rich, handsome Prince who, rumour has it, will someday come down the river riding on the backs of Whales.

He will come to claim his Dene bride.

And today, when your cruise ship the Norweta anchors at the point where the Great River crosses the Arctic Circle, and you settle into a hot tub under dance of the late August northern lights, you might suddenly catch a glimpse of a lone sled dog running along the shore. You might see him gasping for air, his long tongue hanging almost to the ground and he is pulling a short piece of broken chain. You might also hear a the beat of drums behind you in the distance. You turn to look behind you and realize that the husky is actually following an old stern wheeler churning its way up south through the current. The chugging of its engine keeps the same rhythm as the heartbeat of The Great River.

And if you quickly grab your binoculars and look very carefully, for a split second you might see a tall, very handsome young man at the wheel of that ship, shifting uneasily in his captain’s chair, his flat Cree ass still smarting from an old bite wound that goes back many, many years.

And you might lower your binoculars and wonder to yourself, “How well did I tie up my dogs before I left home?”

Mahsi.

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Fearless Frederick Lepine
Originally written and presented at
The Banff Centre
Storytelling Residency
February 2006