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Special constable was armed with just a flashlight and his wits

This is the first of a five-part short story recounting a Special Constable's life on Christian Island.
Flashlight

Area resident Jeff Monague, an elder and knowledge keeper for the Indigenous community, has written a short story loosely based on the experiences of his father who was a Korean War Veteran and eventually became one of the first First Nation Constables in Canada under the RCMP's Special Constable Program. Today is the first of a five-part series that will run daily until its conclusion Wednesday.
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The old man was seated by the wood stove when I entered his house. A Remington .306 single shot rifle held firmly in his lap. He gripped it tightly as if it were a beast that had slipped its leash.

It was toasty warm in the house. The kind of warmth that comforts and holds you as a favoured quilt would. There was only the dim light of an incandescent light bulb hanging low from a black chord over top of the dining table.

It lit only the short low area of the room while the remainder was shielded in the shadow of the wide brim of the low hanging lamp.

The smell of burning tobacco hung heavy in the air as I took a seat on the first chair at the table. I turned to face myself directly opposite the old man seated beside the wood stove. Only his legs and the trigger portion of his Remington were illuminated by the weak light.

He sat by the fire just like he always had countless times before. Only this time things were different. This time, not more than an hour ago, he had killed someone.

Old Simon Gosling came to me days ago complaining that he was finding that he was being accosted nightly by the young people who drank whiskey late into the night in the woods north of his home. Sometimes there were two or three of them.

"Big guys, too," he said, motioning wrinkled hands high into the air. "They threatened to beat me up!" he exclaimed.

The only foot path to his home from his nearest neighbour took him past the area where the young people would build a bonfire and drink bootlegged whiskey until they passed out from intoxication.

He could hear the yelling and wailing from his home late into the night and it wasn't just on weekends. Many nights he would sit just as he did now by the wood stove until first light, unnerved, by the commotion.

"If they touch me again I will kill them!" he had warned me just days before and I had no reason to think that he wouldn't.

But as the only law man in this small backwoods village of 300 people, I could only advise him to not kill anyone.

He was a lean muscular old man who favoured rubber gum boots, a lumberjack coat, and a Montreal Expos baseball cap. He gestured wildly with his arms flinging in all directions as he related the story of being accosted by the three youths in the pathway leading to his home. Anyone watching from a distance would have thought he was giving me a serious dressing down. He was that animated.

After he had quieted his gestures and his excited tone I assured old Simon that I would patrol the area on foot the very next night. So I did, and for two whole nights there had been no human activity in the area.

A strong wind had blown in from the west which aided my stealth. Not one of the neighbourhood Rez dogs stirred. I was that quiet.

I had patrolled the area armed with the only piece of equipment provided to me by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) through the First Nation Special Constable Program: a flash light. I didn't find occasion to ignite it.

I was proud to have been chosen to serve as constable by the Chief and Council of the Sault Harbour Band. That was four years ago. The Federal government and the RCMP were to provide the training and the equipment.

Since then I still did not have a uniform, a vehicle or a gun. The only training I had received was how to do the paperwork upon charging someone of an offence. And they did give me the flashlight. It wasn't a police issue flashlight though. It was a flashlight that could be purchased at any hardware store. It was black, rubberized, and was powered by three C Eveready batteries.

I was very familiar with the pathways that cut through the wooded area between homes here on the Reserve. These pathways were crucial and wove through the community like capillaries. They were known to the locals as short cuts and were an advantage to a community that was not dissected by fences.

At least not in the physical sense.

The cold west wind had blown strong on both of those nights. The rustling leaves clung desperately to the trees trying hard to hang on to the remnants of summer even as the howling wind heralded the arrival of the fall season.

I saw no need to ignite my flashlight. My eyes adjusted easily to the darkness and I could follow the faint outline of the well-worn pathways as they guided me like trusted friends.

It helped that I knew every inch of this community and it also helped that my service in Vietnam as a Marine had sharpened my instincts in the bush. I was in my element.

My sense of smell, my well-honed hearing and most of all my intuition told me that no one was lurking about on either of those nights. My mistake was standing down and not going out on that third night.

Watch for Part 2 tomorrow night.