Medicine Walk: A Novel

By Richard Wagamese

A First Nations man helps his estranged father find a place to die in this novel by the award-winning author of One Drum and Indian Horse.

“Richard Wagamese is a born storyteller.”—Louise Erdrich

When Franklin Starlight is called to visit his father, he has mixed emotions. Raised by the old man he was entrusted to soon after his birth, Frank is haunted by the brief and troubling moments he has shared with his father, Eldon. When he finally travels by horseback to town, he finds Eldon on the edge of death, decimated from years of drinking.

The two undertake a difficult journey into the mountainous backcountry, in search of a place for Eldon to die and be buried in the warrior way. As they travel, Eldon tells his son the story of his own life—from an impoverished childhood to combat in the Korean War and his shell-shocked return. Through the fog of pain, Eldon relates to his son these desolate moments, as well as his life’s fleeting but nonetheless crucial moments of happiness and hope, the sacrifices made in the name of love. And in telling his story, Eldon offers his son a world the boy has never seen, a history he has never known.

“Deeply felt and profoundly moving…written in the kind of sure, clear prose that brings to mind the work of the great North American masters; Steinbeck among them.”—Jane Urquhart, award-winning author of The Night Stages

“A novel about the role of stories in our lives, those we tell ourselves about ourselves and those we agree to live by.”—Globe and Mail

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: May 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781571319319

Richard Wagamese

Richard Wagamese, an Ojibway from the Wabaseemoong First Nation in northwestern Ontario, was one of Canada's foremost writers. His acclaimed, bestselling novels included Indian Horse, which was a Canada Reads finalist, winner of the inaugural Burt Award for First Nations, Métis and Inuit Literature, and made into a feature film; and Medicine Walk. He was also the author of acclaimed memoirs, including For Joshua; One Native Life; and One Story, One Song, which won the George Ryga Award for Social Awareness in Literature; as well as a collection of personal reflections, Embers, which received the Bill Duthie Booksellers' Choice Award. He won numerous awards and recognition for his writing, including the National Aboriginal Achievement Award for Media and Communications, the Canada Council for the Arts Molson Prize, the Canada Reads People's Choice Award, and the Writers' Trust of Canada's Matt Cohen Award. Wagamese died on March 10, 2017, in Kamloops, BC.

Book preview

1

HE WALKED THE OLD MARE OUT OF THE PEN and led her to the gate that opened out into the field. There was a frost from the night before, and they left tracks behind them. He looped the rope around the middle rail of the fence and turned to walk back to the barn for the blanket and saddle. The tracks looked like inkblots in the seeping melt, and he stood for a moment and tried to imagine the scenes they held. He wasn’t much of a dreamer though he liked to play at it now and then. But he could only see the limp grass and mud of the field and he shook his head at the folly and crossed the pen and strode through the open black maw of the barn door.

The old man was there milking the cow and he turned his head when he heard him and squirted a stream of milk from the teat.

Get ya some breakfast, he said.

Ate already, the kid said.

Better straight from the tit.

There’s better tits.

The old man cackled and went back to the milking. The kid stood a while and watched and when the old man started to whistle he knew there’d be no more talk so he walked to the tack room. There was the smell of leather, liniment, the dry dust air of feed, and the low stink of mould and manure. He heaved a deep breath of it into him then yanked the saddle off the rack and threw it up on his shoulder and grabbed the blanket from the hook by the door. He turned into the corridor and the old man was there with the milk bucket in his hand.

Got any loot?

Some, the kid said. Enough.

Ain’t never enough, the old man said and set the bucket down in the straw.

The kid stood there looking over the old man’s shoulder at the mare picking about through the frost at the grass near the fence post. The old man fumbled out his billfold and squinted to see in the semi-dark. He rustled loose a sheaf of bills and held them out to the kid, who shuffled his feet in the straw. The old man shook the paper and eventually the kid reached out and took the money.

Thanks, he said.

Get you some of that diner food when you hit town. Better’n the slop I deal up.

She’s some good slop though, the kid said.

It’s fair. Me, I was raised on oatmeal and lard sandwiches. Least we got bacon and I still do a good enough bannock.

That rabbit was some good last night, the kid said and tucked the bills in the chest pocket of his mackinaw.

It’ll keep ya on the trail a while. He’s gonna be sick. You know that, don’tcha? The old man fixed him with a stern look and pressed the billfold back into the bib of his overalls.

I seen him sick before.

Not like this.

I can deal with it.

Gonna have to. Don’t expect it to be pretty.

Never is. Still, he’s my dad.

The old man shook his head and bent to retrieve the bucket and when he stood again he looked the kid square. Call him what you like. Just be careful. He lies when he’s sick.

Lies when he ain’t.

The old man nodded. Me, I wouldn’t go. I’d stick with what I got whether he called for me or not.

What I got ain’t no hell.

The old man looked around at the fusty barn and pursed his lips and squinted. She’s ripe, she’s ramshackle, but she’s ours. She’s yours when I’m done. That’s more’n he ever give.

He’s my father.

The old man nodded and turned and began to stump away up the corridor. He had to switch hands on the pail every few steps, and when he got to the sliding door at the other end he set it down and hauled on the timbers with both hands. The light slapped the kid hard and he raised a hand to shade his eyes. The old man stood framed in the blaze of morning. That mare ain’t much for cold. You gotta ride her light a while. Then kick her up. She’ll go, he said.

Is he dying?

Can’t know, the old man said. Didn’t sound good but then, me, I figure he’s been busy dying a long time now.

He turned in the hard yellow light and was gone. The kid stood there a moment, watching, and then he turned and walked back through to the pen and nickered at the horse. It raised its head and shivered, and the kid saddled her quickly and mounted and they walked off slowly across the field.

The bush started thin where the grass surrendered at the edge of the field. There were lodgepole pines and firs where the land was flatter, but when it arched up in a swell that grew to mountain there were ponderosa pines, birch, aspen, and larch. The kid rode easily, smoking and guiding the horse with his knees. They edged around blackberry thickets and stepped gingerly over stumps and stones and the sore-looking red of fallen pines. It was late fall. The dark green of fir leaned to a sullen greyness, and the sudden bursts of colour from the last clinging leaves struck him like the flare of lightning bugs in a darkened field. The horse nickered, enjoying the walk, and for a while the kid rode with his eyes closed trying to hear creature movement farther back in the tangle of bush.

He was big for his age, raw-boned and angular, and he had a serious look that seemed culled from sullenness, and he was quiet, so that some called him moody, pensive, and deep. He was none of those. Instead, he’d grown comfortable with aloneness and he bore an economy with words that was blunt, direct, more a man’s talk than a kid’s. So that people found his silence odd and they avoided him, the obdurate Indian look of him unnerving even for a sixteen-year-old. The old man had taught him the value of work early and he was content to labour, finding his satisfaction in farm work and his joy in horses and the untrammelled open of the high country. He’d left school as soon as he was legal. He had no mind for books and out here where he spent the bulk of his free time there was no need for elevated ideas or theories or talk and if he was taciturn he was content in it, hearing symphonies in wind across a ridge and arias in the screech of hawks and eagles, the huff of grizzlies and the pierce of a wolf call against the unblinking eye of the moon. He was Indian. The old man said it was his way and he’d always taken that for truth. His life had become horseback in solitude, lean-tos cut from spruce, fires in the night, mountain air that tasted sweet and pure as spring water, and trails too dim to see that he learned to follow high to places only cougars, marmots, and eagles knew. The old man had taught him most of what he knew but he was old and too cramped up for saddles now and the kid had come to the land alone for the better part of four years. Days, weeks sometimes. Alone. He’d never known lonely. If he put his head to it at all he couldn’t work a definition for the word. It sat in him undefined and unnecessary like algebra; land and moon and water summing up the only equation that lent scope to his world, and he rode through it fleshed out and comfortable with the feel of the land around him like the refrain of an old hymn. It was what he knew. It was what he needed.

The horse stepped up and he let her have her head and she trotted through the trees toward the creek that cut a southwest swath along the belly of a ravine. She was a mountain horse. It was why he’d picked her from the other three they kept. Surefooted, dependable, not prone to spook. When they got to the creek she walked in and bent her head to drink and he sat and rolled a smoke and looked for deer sign. The sun was creeping over the lip of the mountain and it would soon be full morning in the hollow. It was a day’s ride to the mill town at Parson’s Gap and he figured to cut some time by going directly over the next ridge. There was a deer trail that snaked around it and he’d follow that and let the horse pick her pace. He’d ridden her there a dozen times and she knew the smell of cougar and bear so he was content to let her walk while he sat and smoked and watched the land.

When she’d taken her fill he backed her out of the creek and turned her north to the trailhead. She followed the trail easily, the memory of warm livery, oats and fresh straw, and the sour apples the kid brought her before bedding down beside her for the night urging her forward, and the kid sat in the pitch and sway and roll of her, smoking and singing in a rough, low voice, wondering about his father and the reason he’d been called.

2

THE TOWN SAT IN THE VEE OF A RIVER VALLEY. There was a steep flank of mountain on either side where the water rushed through and the mill sat a mile or so beyond, gathering the force of the flume. He could see the grey-white spume from the stacks before he crested the final ridge and when he topped it the town lay spread out along the edges of the river like a bruise. The horse snorted and shook her head at the sulphur smell. The kid blinked his eyes at it and kneed the horse forward to the downward trail. The trees were stunted and there were no varmints or scavengers except for crows and ravens that squawked at them as they passed. It was sad country and the kid had never liked coming here. The mill town kids were crude and laughed at him on the old horse and called him names when he passed. Sometimes they pitched stones at him. But he would just pull his hat brim down low over his eyes and hunch his shoulders against the plink of stones and the guttural scrabble of their voices. The last half-mile he had to follow the highway and the horse grew agitated at the rush of vehicles with drivers who hadn’t the sense to slow or give a wider space when they passed. Some even honked. Horses on the road were seldom seen here and they were a curiosity. People stood on the steps of their houses and stared and he was aware of how he looked: the worn dungarees and boots, the faded mackinaw, the wide-brimmed hat and the old saddle, weather-beaten, the flank skirt cracked and scraped and scarred a hard brown like the body of an insect. He kept his face neutral. He rocked with the rhythm of the horse and let his shoulders roll some, both hands resting on the horn, the press of his knees calming the horse when she skittered at the cars or the screeching metallic sounds of town life.

The highway bellied out into a wide avenue that was the main street, and the kid turned down a side street a few blocks before he reached it. The houses were small, tar-papered or sided with crumbling wood, and most times there was sheeted plastic in the windows and dead automobiles in the twitch grass of the yards. There was woodsmoke and the greasy smell of cooking. Large dogs on chains raced out to bark and growl, and he had to ease the horse forward up the street. At the far end was the farm where he liveried the horse. It wasn’t much. Five acres tucked against the sprawl of the town on one side and the jutted wall of mountain on the other. They had a pair of ponies, a jackass, a goat, and a few chickens that all bedded down in the same slumped, dilapidated barn. But the oats were good and they kept the straw fresh and they were half-breeds who’d known the old man for decades and they fed him and seemed to understand his quiet ways and let the kid be whenever he arrived. There was no one around so he unsaddled the horse and brushed her out and left her with oats and hay and made his way back down the street toward the heart of the town.

It was evening. Purple. The autumn chill was in the air and he could smell the frost coming and the rain that would follow sometime the next day. He could hear the clink and rattle of families settling in to their evening meals and there were kid sounds at the back of most of the houses and the dogs hunkered down near the front doors and raised their hackles and growled at him as he passed. His boots scrunched on the loose gravel of the asphalt. He rolled a smoke while he walked and traded solemn nods with men standing in their yards, smoking and drinking beer out of bottles. They were hard-looking men, grease-stained, callused with the lean, prowling hungry look of feral dogs, but his size and his tattered look let them take him for one of them and they let him pass without speaking. He smoked and squinted at the jutted angles of the town. When he got to the highway again he picked up his pace and strode purposefully to the main street, where the lights glimmered in the evening haze. He made his way lower, past the shops and mercantiles into the greyer, seedier area near the river where the grim bars and honkytonks were alive with the clatter of glasses, shouts, curses, laughter, and the smoke and sawdust smell that hovered just above the blood and piss and semen of the alleys and muddied parking lots. He wrinkled his nose at it and walked on harder, looking at no one and giving no sign of indecisiveness. There was a row of rooming houses farther down that backed onto the riverbank where mill workers and itinerant drunks and fugitives stayed and it was where he knew he’d find his father. The houses sat in the gathering dark, dim and unwelcoming, and when he came to a slatternly woman weaving drunkenly along the sidewalk he stepped to one side to let her by.

Eldon Starlight? You know him? he asked her.

Got a smoke? she said in return.

Only rollies.

Smoke’s a smoke.

He took his makings from his pocket and twisted a smoke while she watched and licked at the corners of her lips. When he handed it to her she reached out a hand and leaned on his shoulder and the fumes off her were sharp and acidic. She motioned for a light and he sparked a match and held it up for her and she put a hand demurely on his and winked at him while she took the first draw. She kept her hand on his until he had to pull it away. She eyed him lazily while she smoked and he felt awkward.

You’re a big one, aren’t you? she said.

Eldon Starlight? he said again.

She laughed. Twinkles? What do you want with that old lech?

I need to find him.

Finding him ain’t never hard, darlin’. Standing him more’n an hour’s the trick.

Do you know where he is?

If he ain’t passed out drunk out back of Charlie’s, he’s second room on the right, third floor, third house down. But I’m way better company than old Twinkles and I like ’em young and big like you. Come on. Let old Shirl show you a good time.

Thank you, he said and stepped back onto the sidewalk and turned to walk away.

Suit yourself, she said. Indian.

3

THE HOUSE LEANED BACK TOWARD THE SHORE so that in the encroaching dark it seemed to hover there as though deciding whether to continue hugging land or to simply shrug and surrender itself to the steel-grey muscle of the river. It was a three-storey clapboard and there were pieces of shingle strewn about the yard amid shattered windowpanes and boots and odd bits of clothing and yellowed newspapers that the wind pressed to the chicken-wire fence at its perimeter. There were men on the front verandah and as the kid climbed the steps that led to it they stopped their chatter and watched him. He tried the door but it was locked and when he turned, three of them stood up and faced him.

Eldon Starlight, he said evenly.

Who the hell are you? the tallest one asked and spit tobacco juice at the kid’s feet.

Franklin, he said. Starlight.

You his kid? the one beside the tall one asked. He had a lazy eye and it made the kid check over his shoulder.

Yeah, the kid said.

Never knew Twinkles had a kid, the tall one said.

Neither’d Twinkles, a fat one said from behind them and they all laughed.

Hell, kid, have a drink, the tall one said and motioned for him to lean against the verandah rail.

No, the kid said. Thanks, but no.

Damn. Polite and he don’t drink. Can’t be Twinkles’ kid, the fat one said, and they laughed again.

The kid watched while they passed a gallon jug of wine around and when they’d all had a drink the fat one sat forward on the lawn chair he occupied and took a draw on his smoke. He breathed it out in a long stream and scratched at his chin with a big-knuckled hand.

What brings you here, kid? he asked.

I’m aiming to see him.

He ain’t right.

I heard.

Not all of it, you didn’t.

Guess I’ll see.

I guess. But just so you know.

I heard, the kid said.

The fat one rose and waddled to the door. He was tall but equally rotund and the boards of the verandah sagged and creaked with the weight of him. When the kid stepped to pass he blocked the kid’s view of the street. He had a sour smell of old tobacco, stale whisky, and unwashed feet. The kid moved back a step and the man grinned.

You get used to it, he said.

Don’t expect to.

Your pap’s no better.

The fat one unlocked the door and pushed it open with one wide arm and held it for the kid, who looked at him and nodded. The man nodded back and when he eased the door closed behind him he farted, loud and wet, and the men on the verandah laughed and the kid strode quickly to the shabby stairs across the small foyer. He stood there a moment and looked around. It was drab. There were low lights in the ceilings and they served only to add a level of shadow to the murk of the decor. The walls were panelled a cheap laminate brown and the threadbare carpets had faded from pumpkin to a sad, mouldy orange and the newel of the staircase was split and cracked. He could smell cooking and hear the jump of fat in a fry pan. Spiderwebs. Dust. An old cat slunk out of the corner and eyed him warily, and when he turned to the stairs it hissed and arched its back and the kid shook his head at it and began to climb.

There were men sounds coming from every room. Belches, curses. The pale blue light of televisions seeped through the cracks of half-closed doors and it gave his movements a spooky, out-of-time feel. He could hear a man’s raised voice. It was something addressed to a woman and the kid was embarrassed to hear it and when he came around the corner he tried to creep by but the door was open and the man who spoke turned to look at him. He kept rambling loudly. He stared straight at the kid and his eyes were crazed and the bush of his beard was mottled with tobacco and he had no teeth so the words were garbled some and crazy-sounding. As the kid eased past he saw into the room and there was no one else there. The man laughed suddenly, sharp like a bark, and he stood and shook his fist at the kid and stepped forward to slam the door.

He came to his father’s room. The door was shut. Across the hall a tall, skinny man stood at a hotplate, turning baloney in a fry pan. He looked at the kid flatly and eased a foot up and pushed the door closed. The kid pressed an ear to his father’s door. He could hear murmuring voices and for a moment he thought it was a television or a radio but there was a guttural laugh and then a woman’s voice and the glassy thunk of a bottle set hard on the floor and the complaint of bed springs. He knocked. Silence. He heard whispers and scurried movements.

Well, come in, dammit.

The kid turned the knob and eased the door open. The room was bare except for a dresser, a wooden chair, and the bed, where his father lay with a woman leaned against his chest. There were empty bottles lined along the dresser mirror. Clothes had been flung and were scattered every which way along with empty fast-food boxes and old newspapers. There wasn’t a square foot of open floor in the entire room. The closet door dangled off its hinges and there were tools hung on nails and piled on the shelf. Saws, hammers, wrenches, a chainsaw, a rake and a shovel, and looped yards of electric cable. There was an old bicycle sitting up against the far wall partially disassembled with the wires and gears of it strewn around the back wheel and a rusted scythe with its hook bent up to the ceiling. The hot plate was crusted with grease and dribbles, and a coffee can overflowed with butts and ashes and a few jelly jars stuffed full of the same. A black-and-white television was tuned to a snowy channel. The man in the bed just stared at him and the woman eased her chin down and looked at the kid through the top of her eyes and batted her eyelashes.

Well? the man asked and raised a bottle

Reviews for Medicine Walk

[obtusata · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A sad, beautiful and compelling story.

[hemlokgang · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is an absolutely exquisite rite of passage story. Richard Wagamese captures the heartfelt pain and sorrow which comes with love and loss, which comes with the parent/child relationship, and which comes with the passage into adulthood. A father and son, and an adoptive father struggle with the hard facts of hard scrabble lives, with the hardened heart which has trouble expressing itself fully, and with the limit to lifespan which brings that unique pressure to make things right. Love takes so many forms, and goes through so many filters, that sometimes it is tough to express, and this wonderful story demonstrates that with the grace of good writing, engaging and believable characters, and its ability to capture some of the truths of being human.

[beamis12 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

In this heartbreaking story about redemption, forgiveness and past regrets, Wagamese writes a magnificent story. His descriptions of the lives of Franklin, his father and the old man are poignant, at times heartbreaking but show a deep and abiding love that though not always shown, was always there. There are very few characters in this story but the characters that are there are more than enough to fill these pages. He uses words in a way that few can, his portrayal of the woods, and the trip Franklin undertakes in a last effort, out of duty to a father who was mostly absent, I found beyond compare. My feelings at the end of this book were certainly melancholy but also glad that Franklin had someone who loved him throughout his life. Though this is the first book I have read by this author, it certainly will not be my last.

[lorishwydky · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I am a fan of Canadian author Richard Wagamese, and this is his best yet!

[janismack · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

a son is called by his estranged alcoholic father to take him to his final resting place because he is dying. Franklin Starlight dutifully answeres his call. The story is about what happened to his father all these years and also how his son came to be. This is the second book I've read by this author and I like his prose and how you really feel a sense of place and time.

[carlathelibrarian · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

As I finished this book, I wanted to head to the bookstore and find his other ones. This is a story that is going to haunt me for quite awhile.

This story encompasses so much. It gives details of the lives of Canada's Native people, the life of an uneducated labourer, the effect of war on a young soldier as well as the hurt and betrayal of family members.

Franklin Starlight, is a sixteen year old Native teen who was adopted by "The Old Man" when he was a little boy. He was taught the value of work and he found satisfaction in farm work and his joy in horses. He left school at an early age, as it was not his thing. He never knew his father or mother. Over the years he visited his father, Eldon, but he was an alcoholic and those visits usually ended quickly and badly. One day, Franklin is called to visit his father and he went because it was his duty. He finds his alcoholic father in a small flophouse, dying of liver failure. Eldon asks his son to take him into the mountains, and bury him in the traditional Ojibway ways. “I need you to bury me facing east. Sitting up, in the warrior way.”

This began the journey both up the mountain with his father, and in learning the story of his father's life as well as what happened with his mother. Eldon tells his son about his life history, his happiness and sacrifices made along the way. And we see both father and son connecting, for the first time. This was an extremely sad story but I could not stop reading. Eldon's life was not an easy one and he carried scars from the battles he had endured. As Franklin buried him he told him "the was is over". An extremely emotional read that was so well written that you could not put it down. The descriptions of the scenery as well as the toll the illness took on Eldon made you feel like you were there. This is a novel about courage and love, and redemption.

[romonko · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is probably one of the ten best, it not THE best book I've ever read! Words cannot express just how wonderful it is. The language that Richard Wagamese uses is spare, but so descriptive. His descriptions of the scenery in and around northern BC, took my breath away, just like the actual scenery does every time I see it. Franklin is 16 years old when we meet him. He lives on a remote farm with his guardian who we only know as "the old man" up until the end of the book. Franklin's only memory is of this farm and this man. He does have a father who he has seen on occasion, but usually his father is drunk when he sees him. He has never known his mother. But "the old man", who is not Indian, has tried to teach Franklin Indian ways and life survival skills. Franklin's values reflect this. He believes in hard work, simple food, finding happiness in the outdoors, and honest, straight-forward people. He admits to himself that he never took to schooling, and that he has learned everything he needs to know about farming, nature, solid and honest values, hunting and fishing from the "old man". Then Franklin's father asks him to take him to where he believes will be his last resting place. After a lifetime of hard drinking, he is dying, and he wants to leave this earth on his own terms. He wants a warrior's resting place - out in the wide open with the sun rising to the east. On this journey, his father tells Franklin about his own life, and also tells him about Franklin's mother about whom Franklin knows nothing. The book reveals so many life lessons, and in language so beautiful, that it took my breath away. As Franklin and his father journey through rugged and beautiful backcountry, they are also journeying into the past. Franklin and his father both find love, forgiveness and redemption on this epic journey - an ending as well as a beginning for a dying father and a young man who needs to learn about his father's past before he can grow up to be a man. "Franklin wondered how he would look years on, and what effect this history would have on him. His life was built on the stories of vague ghosts." Loved this book! It was absolutely amazing! CanLit at it's very best.

[gypsysmom_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Ever since I read Indian Horse I have been a fan of Richard Wagamese. He writes about people in such a way that you feel you are almost in the room with them and when he describes natural surroundings you can see them. Franklin Starlight is a 16 year old boy of native ancestry who has been raised by a white man who is no blood relative. And yet his relationship with the "old man" is closer than many sons have with their blood father. The old man is a farmer in the BC Interior and he has taught Franklin everything he knows about surviving in the woods, which is a considerable amount. Franklin's birth father shows up from time to time but he is an alcoholic and can never be relied upon. Yet, when this story starts and Franklin gets a request to go see his father in a mill town that is a day's ride away, Franklin decides to go because it is his father. Eldon Starlight tells Franklin he is dying from effects of the alcohol and asks Franklin to take him to a place up in the hills where he wants to die and be buried like a warrior, sitting up. Franklin agrees to do so mainly because he wants to learn more about his heritage. Eldon tells Franklin his life story including what happened to Franklin's mother. Will knowing these things help Franklin? I hope so but I felt so bad for him that I shed tears when I finished the book. And yet, Franklin's story is probably far from unique. Similar events happen to far too many youngsters. Let's hope that there are some "old men" (and old women) around to give them a fighting chance.

[iudita_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This was a privilege and a pleasure to read. Full of beautiful imagery. It is impossible to read this and not be touched in some way.

[lindsay_w_2 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

In Medicine Walk, Eldon Starlight is a “half breed” (Ojibway/Scot) struggling with alcoholism as a way to fill the holes in his life that began to form when he was part of a group that “no one wanted around.” As the story begins, Eldon’s 16-year old estranged son Frank is summoned to take his father to the mountains to die. As the often-tragic circumstances of the father’s life are revealed, it becomes apparent that the alcoholism resulted from his attempts to keep away feelings of guilt, loss, and lack of belonging. Retracing the path of his life is cathartic for the father and revelatory for the son as they both come to understand the healing power of storytelling to reclaim their lives and connect with their aboriginal heritage.Together with Indian Horse, Medicine Walk will give Canadian readers a greater understanding of the injustices experienced by our country’s aboriginal people

[deltaqueen50 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Medicine Walk by First Nations author Richard Wagamese is about the journey, both spiritual and physical that 16 year old Franklin Starlight makes with his dying alcoholic father, Eldon. Their relationship is a broken one as Eldon has been absent from Franklin for most of his life but now at the end of his days, he turns to Franklin to accompany him to his final resting place in the wilderness.Franklin was adopted by an “old man” and raised close to nature but as much as he reveres and respects the old man, he yearns to know more about himself, where he came from and who his mother was. This final journey with his deathly ill father through the mountainous wilderness of British Columbia will hopefully give him the answers that he needs.Richard Wagamese is a wonderful story teller and has a way of inserting life’s tragedies and sorrows into the narrative that make his stories into thoughtful, literary works of art. This story unfolds over a period of just a few days yet the author is able to add alcoholism, domestic violence, and the nature of being “Indian” to the story. Medicine Walk is a complex and moving father-son story from this accomplished author.

[vivienner_3 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I read Starlight in July and was immediately drawn in by Wagamese's writing and the appealing character Frank Starlight, who was brought up as a son by "the old man". In this book, his real father, a hopeless alcoholic Frank has only met on a few unpleasant occasions in his life, has requested a visit before he dies. What follows is a pilgrimage of sorts in the mountains of British Columbia to where Eldon wants to die, on a specific mountain ridge, buried in the traditional way for a warrior. Frank is sceptical of Eldon's warrior status but out of loyalty goes along with his father's wishes. Eldon is placed on the horse, becoming sicker with each day of the journey, while Frank walks alongside, preparing a bed of spruce for his father each night and sheltering him with a spruce lean-to. He catches fish and collects berries and plants along the way - a medicine walk, like the old man has taught him, while Eldon recounts the cathartic story of his life and of Frank's birth, about which Frank knew nothing. This is a beautiful, moving story of loyalty and of healing for both men. Highly recommended.I loved the bit where they came across a grizzly. Now I know what to do when I encounter a bear, although I doubt that I would be as brave as Frank. Fortunately I was already in my car when it happened a couple of weeks ago.

[ainjel-3 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Wagamese's prose is absolutely stunning, so stunning in fact that it makes the story hurt just a little bit less. While I wouldn't say there was anything surprisingly in this novel, it sure does pack a punch. Perhaps it's the lack of surprise that really gets to you-- what does it mean to feel as though you already know a story before it's finished being told? These characters are so very real, and I love how Wagamese is able to capture indigenous and Canadian vernacular. This here is a story that hurts, yet I also feel like it's one that deserves to be read, even if only so you can think about the ways these issues might impact your own life, or those around you. It is a story about stories, and a voice in the silence. Don't be surprised if you find tears in your eyes as you turn that last page.

[bucketofrhymes · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I feel like this is equal parts a cop-out and the highest praise I can give when I say that I don't know how to review this book. There isn't anything I could possibly say here that would capture the beauty and the pain that Medicine Walk portrays.

So, I guess I'll say this:

This is a book that I had to read slowly -- to savour the writing style and to process what was happening. It's vivid, and brutal, and heartbreak, and so, so, so amazing.

This is a book that I'll be recommending, and an author that I'll be reading more of.

I received a free copy of Medicine Walk from the publisher through Goodreads.

[icolford · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Franklin Starlight—16 but practical and resilient beyond his years—lives on a farm with an old man and knows next to nothing about his family origins. The old man has taught him the value of hard work and instilled in him an appreciation for the wonders of the natural world. The sole presence of family in Franklin’s young life is his alcoholic father, Eldon, who, in several ill-fated attempts to connect with his son over the years, has proven only that he is selfish and unreliable. Franklin is therefore understandably skeptical when Eldon summons him to the derelict rooming house where he’s living, informs him that he is dying and declares that he wants Franklin to take him into the forest to a sacred place and bury him upright, in the warrior position. Ignorant of the events in his father’s past that have brought him to this point, Franklin’s response, perfectly reasonable, is that his father is anything but a warrior and so why would he think he’s entitled to a warrior’s burial. The novel that Richard Wagamese has fashioned from Eldon’s desperate last-minute yearning to finally reconcile with his son is moving and uplifting. For as long as Franklin has known him, Eldon has let his son believe that a simple weakness for alcohol has been his ruin. Is it too late to change how his son feels about him? As they trek through the woods to the spot that will be Eldon’s final resting place, and as his father’s strength gives out, stories emerge that debunk many of the assumptions that Franklin has relied upon all his life to explain his father’s actions. Wagamese’s novel takes the reader on a heartfelt journey through Eldon Starlight’s cursed childhood and the sad life that followed, describing how the young man was forced to abandon his Ojibway heritage and rely on his wits to survive, making many poor decisions in the process, some of them purely selfish, some motivated by a desire to ease the pain of others. Along the way, the novel demonstrates that a life is an accumulation of choices made, and, for good or ill, we end up where those choices leave us. Wagamese does not excuse Eldon’s behaviour; he doesn’t ask us to mourn his passing, forgive or even sympathize with him. But he does seem to want us (and Franklin) to reconsider Eldon, to weigh misfortunes endured against mistakes made. In the end, it is up to the son to decide if the harsh lesson of his father’s luckless existence is worth heeding.

[pgchuis · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Read for book club.Franklin Starlight has been brought up by a grandfather-type figure and only seen his unreliable, often drunk father very couple of years or so. At the beginning of the story his terminally ill father summons Frank for a last journey to a ridge where he wants to die.Beautifully written, and the use of "the old man", "the boy" etc is effective, although occasionally I struggled to work out who "he" was. This is not at all the type of book I usually read: there is no humour and the experiences of the characters are very far from my own. Still, I found it mostly compelling and very sad. Note that the characters with the strongest ties to nature and the spirit of the wild outdoors are non-"Indian".Thought-provoking and some how both unjudgmental and deeply moral at the same time.

[paperdolllady · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is a wonderful book by a gifted storyteller. So sad to hear that Richard Wagamese recently passed-- much too young. The other LibraryThing.com reviews here are well worth reading. Not much to add except one quote that made this book so full of meaning for me (pg. 203) "When you share your stories you change things." Sometimes a book comes to you at just the right time in life, when as a reader you needed to discover its message. It felt that way to me, but it's also a book so rich and full of meaning in so many other ways too.

[rodraglin · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Franklin Starlight never knew his mother and the few encounters he's had with his alcoholic father have left him hurt and disappointed.He's been raised on a small ranch in northern British Columbia by "the old man", who's taught him everything he knows about ranching and wilderness survival. He's also taught him about integrity, self-esteem and the qualities of good character. At sixteen, Franklin's more a man then most. When he gets a call from his father he's tempted to ignore it, but this time it's different. His father is dying of liver disease and wants Frank to help him travel to remote ridge forty miles out in the wilderness. Once there he wants "a warrior's death", buried sitting upright in the ground facing east "so he can follow the rising sun across the sky to the Happy Hunting Grounds."As it's his father's dying wish, Frank feels duty-bound to oblige him. Besides, he's longing to know more about his family history including how he came to be brought up by the "the old man".So begins the journey, from a small mill town into the wilderness, Frank walking and leading a horse his father rides because he is too weak to walk. As each mile passes Franklin begins to know his father as the man slowly divulges his personal history, Franklin's history.In Medicine Walk, Richard Wagamese has created a story that resonates on many levels. There's the portrayal of a Spartan way of life defined by hard manual labour, loyalty and integrity as conveyed in the characters of Franklin and "the old man".Then there's the life Franklin's father has lived - one of never facing up to your demons and using alcohol to keep them at bay. It's a story of the extremes of human nature - of doing the right thing no matter how tough and painful it is, and doing everything to avoid it.Wagamese' dialogue is authentic, his characters complex, and his story is brutal in it's truth.

[docwood-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Amazing. Simply amazing.

It's pure poetry. The kid's father calls for him one last time, and for once he does not get drunk and screw it up. An epic journey of compassion, generosity, and self-discovery. You can't not read this book.