Motorcycles & Sweetgrass Read Online Free PDF

and rolled forward, coming to rest at the rider’s boot.
    Slowly, the rider reached down, picked it up and tossed it back to the girls. As the ball arced in the air, the rider suddenly gunned the throttle of the bike, making it roar loudly. Scared, the girls turned and ran, disappearing up the driveway, leaving little trails of dust and a bouncing blue ball in their wake.
    Just as quickly, the rider and the motorcycle were gone, leaving a trail of burning rubber and exhaust that drifted across the driveway of the Setting Sun Motel.
    The sign at the side of the road said, WELCOME TO OTTER LAKE: HOME OF THE ANISHNAWBE—PEOPLE OF THE LAND , and on top of it, to the left, sat a large black crow. The crow was not perched there as a political statement or social commentary, since it was a creature of the air. It too was just bored. The roadkill had been good this week and his tummy was full. So it sat there, watching the world go by…
    On any given day, dozens of cars would zoom past, along with a lot of trucks, several minivans and the occasional RV. The crow had seen them all. He wasn’t expecting anything much different today. Then, from around the bend, came a motorcycle. And a figure on top of it, his outfit as black as the crow himself. The vehicle slowed, and finally stopped directly in front of the sign. Though it was impossible to tell what was happening beneath the helmet, the rider seemed to be reading the sign. There was even a slight nod. The crow couldn’t help feeling there was something very different about this creature, especially when it finished reading the sign and looked up at him.
    The crow had seen lots of these two-legged creatures look at him, usually when he was ripping through their garbage, or cawing loudly early in the morning. But this time it was different. Even though the rider’s eyes were hidden, the crow could feel its piercing gaze. The rider lifted its helmet a few inches until only its mouth was visible. And from that mouth came a loud caw. Not a human imitating a crow, but what seemed to the crow anauthentic
crow
caw. The crow had been around for a few years and knew the difference. Crows do communicate, in their own way, and “I’m back” is what the crow heard.
    The crow, having had enough of this weird business, decided to put a few treetops between himself and this creature. So it took to the air. Whoever or whatever it was that might be “back,” the crow didn’t want to stick around to watch.
    The rider returned the helmet to its shoulders, and watched the bird disappear over the deciduous forest next to the highway. Crows never had much intestinal fortitude, the rider thought. Must be all that roadkill they eat.
    The rider revved the engine and continued on the journey. Its destination was fast approaching.
    Across most of the world—except those urban centres where they are more reviled than rats—raccoons are known as cute and clever creatures. Less well known is the fact they possess long memories. Memories of a multi-generational length. The woods around Otter Lake held many raccoons. On that bright Saturday afternoon, at least a dozen or so were casually foraging along the side of the road. Most should have been sleeping in a hollow log or hole in the ground because they were nocturnal animals, but today was different. Something special was happening. Though it was hard to say how or why, it’s safe to say they were waiting, as they had been waiting for a very long time. And rumour had it, their waiting was soon to be over.
    Under most circumstances, the roar of a motorcycle would have startled them and made them scatter. But not this time. It was like they were expecting it, and its rider. One by one, theywatched the figure on the motorcycle whiz pass. Their little fingers twitched, their eyes sparkled.
    It was him. And he was back.
    This was good. In this part of the country, revenge was furry and wore a bandit’s mask.
    They were affectionately called the Otter