This short story was inspired by The Inconvenient King by Thomas King.
(Thomas King is the 2022 winner of The Pierre Berton Award)
After reading Thomas King's book I was inspired to write...
But was it my story to tell?
I'm indebted to Johnny Aitken for giving me the support and encouragement I needed to claim this story.
Island Invasion
I’m outside, weeding my lawn. Scotch Broom has long roots and spreads like peanut butter. It’ll take over if you’re not on it. I stand up to stretch my back and see this ship-size white truck roll up and just park on the street right in front of my property. And it’s just there for a good long time. So I wave at the driver. You know earth to outer space. The driver-side window rolls down so I walk over.
The driver opens his mouth and words come out but the only one I can identify is Galiano. Galiano Island is one of the islands that form the Southern Gulf Islands. The others are Gabriola and Saturna and Pender and Salt Spring and Mayne and… I was born on Mayne Island but left in my twenties. I moved back two years ago when my parents died and left me their house. My people the Tsartlip First Nations have been living here as far back as 3000 BC. I feel my ancestors in this land. It feels so good to be home.
“Galiano,” he says again and points at my house.
I turn to face Galiano Island, and swing my hand back and forward, pointing to indicate that the island is a ways off.
He nods, leans out of the cab, and stretches out his arms like he’s embracing all of Mayne Island but once again he says, “Galiano.”
I try again. Pointing down, I say, “Mayne”.
“Main Galiano.” He nods. “Thank you,” he says in his thick accent. Poor guy. He’s lost and he doesn’t even know it—or refuses to see it. Then he just drives off. Maybe he’ll find someone else who can help him.
A little while later, I’m still working on the roots when he comes back. This time he climbs out of the truck. By the way he slams the door, I can tell he’s pissed off. He’s carrying a pamphlet and he waves it at me. All I see is the title but that’s all I need. It’s a map of Galiano. A long string of words shoots out of his mouth. The only word I catch is Galiano but I understand. He’s upset because he can’t find his way around the island. Duh, of course, he can’t because this is Mayne, not Galiano. Somehow I need to make him understand. I have my work cut out for me so I invite him into my house and set a mug of coffee and a map of Mayne Island on the table directly in front of him. He sips the coffee and picks up the map. That’s a major breakthrough, I think. But he throws the map back on the table. He looks me dead in the eye and utters one word. You guessed it, “Galiano.” There’s no helping some people.
He follows me back outside like a little lost puppy. I lead him to my large garden where I grow almost all the vegetables I eat. He oohs at the garden and aahs at my view. My property overlooks the ocean. Clearly, he’s impressed by what he sees. He sits in a lawn chair and watches me work until the sun begins to set.
“Ferry,” I say. Unlike Vancouver, Mayne Island has three ferries—one in the morning, one in the afternoon, and one in the evening. You miss the last one and you’re stuck. Believe me, I don’t want him to get stuck.
He gets the message, jumps into his truck and I wave goodbye to that strange encounter.
Signing with relief, I walk back into my house, watch a little TV, and then I start to get ready for bed. But then there’s this pounding on the door. It sounds urgent so I run to answer it. And guess what? Yup, it’s him. He has the BC Ferries’ schedule in his tight fist. He sets it on the table and I clearly see the problem. The pamphlet is open to the Galiano Island ferry schedule.
Well, I don’t mind telling you that my patience is wearing thin. I find the Mayne Island ferry schedule and circle the time for the first ferry with the first pen I can lay my hands on.
But he says, “Galiano” and flips back to that island’s ferry schedule.
I can’t kick him out. He’s lost; he’s alone, and he’s more than a little pathetic. So I offer him my spare bedroom.
But I’m determined that he’ll be on the first ferry headed back to the mainland. I serve him breakfast and put him on the road in plenty of time to catch the ferry—day after day after day. He always comes back. He’s been here way too long—drinking my coffee, eating my food, sleeping in my spare bedroom—and I'm going to--. But I can’t… What would you do?
Books I've reviewed by Indigenous authors.
Selling Stolen Land by Samuel Kramer
December on this blog...
