Motorcycles & Sweetgrass by Drew Hayden Taylor

the train’s horn as he went by. It was a loud noise, one that Virgil had become used to and enjoyed. It was an acknowledgment of his existence by somebody other than his family. At least some things in this world could be counted on.
    Virgil often came here instead of the classroom. He knew that his skipping school upset his mother, and perhaps somewhere down the line he would pay for it, but right now, he didn’t care. Maybe he should be more like Dakota. She went to school religiously and took to each subject like a kitten to a ball of string. But school was almost out for summer anyway, weakening his educational resolve.
    Today had been a long and sad day and he was glad to get away. The tree branches grabbed at his black jeans and black shirt—perfect funeral attire—but he ignored them. He knew the large lime stone rock that sat three metres to the left of the train tracks was just up ahead. There he could ponder the mysteries of the universe, or think about absolutely nothing. Both were equally enjoyable. He emerged just west of the rock, where the bush was the thinnest, and walked along the railroad ties. He didn’t know why he was feeling so solitary these days. He’d heard people say stuff about his turning into a typical moody teenager. Great, now he was becoming a cliché.
    His flat-topped rock was surrounded by a small field of sweetgrass. That’s how he’d found it. His grandmother had taken him out one day when he was small to teach him how to pick sweet grass, and she’d told him this was the best spot. Maggie had come with them once, but usually only Lillian bothered to gather, dry and braid the wild grass. “I used to do this with my grandparents,” she’d often tell the bored Virgil. Thoughhe found the smell pleasant, he had never tried to pick it himself. He knew it was one of the four sacred herbs, the others being cedar, sage and, the most important, tobacco. Soon, though, it had become too difficult for Lillian to make the tiring journey through the woods, and it was left to the boy. Only now he came for the train, not the sweetgrass.
    Sitting on his rock was the blond stranger, watching him approach, as if he was waiting for him. Virgil stopped on the railroad tracks, unsure what to do. The motorcyclist leisurely lay back on the boulder, and yawned as the boy approached. Virgil could hear the creaking of the man’s leather garments.
    “Hey, what’s up, little man?”
    It was a casual greeting for such a startling encounter. Virgil didn’t think anybody knew about his precious rock. He didn’t know how to respond. Instead he just stood there, in the middle of the tracks.
    “Beautiful spot, don’t you think? It’s a wonder they haven’t put condominiums up yet.” The motorcyclist stretched out on the rock as if it were a bed. He seemed quite at home, staring up at the blue sky spotted with wispy clouds. “Have fun at the funeral?”
    At first Virgil didn’t respond, but then he thought about the man’s question. “That’s stupid. Nobody has fun at a funeral.”
    “My mistake.”
    The stranger looked at the boy. “You know, that may not be the safest place to stand. You might want to move off to the side. I know every man walks his own path, but sometimes a little advice from a stranger can save your life.”
    A little embarrassed, Virgil moved to the shoulder of dark gravel opposite the black-clad man.
    “Here, I made you something.” The man held out a perfectly braided length of sweetgrass. “I haven’t made one of these in years. Just smell that. Now that’s Anishnawbe.”
    Virgil didn’t move. He did, however, notice the pile of freshly picked sweetgrass drying on the rock beside the stranger.
    “They do speak English here, don’t they?”
    Virgil swallowed hard before answering. “Yeah. Who the hell are you?”
    This seemed to amuse the man on the rock. “Oh my, now there’s a direct question. Geez, where to begin. Who the hell am I? Well, I guess I could start