Beacon of Light, page 20
“A boat needs a good shape. You can’t just build a flat raft,” Brad said, scratching his head in bewilderment. “But this lumber doesn’t want to do what it’s supposed to.”
They put Oba to work, bending, holding pieces with clamps, fitting the long planks like a handclasp until spikes could be driven to hold the heaviest timbers, then bolted into place. He felt the thrill of seeing the craft come to shape, saw the outline of a genuine wooden boat, felt an accomplishment even greater than he’d felt as the cabin took shape.
They slapped at the ever-present blackflies and then got used to the constant high whine of mosquitoes as the season went on, the bites only annoying on occasion. The river gurgled over rocks and the sun shone most days as bald eagles wheeled overhead, their wingspan an amazing display of power. The dogs whined on their chains, but Jonas didn’t trust them to stick around if they were let loose. He took them for long walks to keep them fit and get their energy out.
The day came when the boat was pitched and painted, the outboard motor attached and ready to go. Sam arrived with her parents and Jonas was in high spirits, a time of celebration after months of hard work.
Brad navigated the river in his own boat, which was how they usually came to visit. To trek across the untamed land would be arduous work—there was no sense spending half a day hiking to and from Jonas’s cabin when they could cut around the woods via the water. The river was deep and wide, with dangerous bars of gravel that protruded along its banks, but Brad knew every twist and turn, knew where the best route would carry them along. Often, Sam would be standing at the wheel, taking instructions from her father as she brought the boat through the current, her face alight with the challenge of pleasing him, showing him she could do this as well as he could.
And Oba stood on the bank, gripped by his feelings for this adventurous, completely guileless young woman.
She hopped off the boat, turned to grab the rope, then helped tie it to a tree, watching as her father instructed her. She turned to smile at Oba.
“Hi, Oba.”
“Hi.”
“You ready for the big day?”
“Yeah.”
She smiled again, her teeth as white as snow in her copper-colored face, her hair caught up in a braid along the back of her head. Oba’s heart melted within him, knowing he would never tire of the sight of her, would always become tongue-tied and brainless the moment she stepped out of that boat. He imagined himself saying clever things, the way he would entertain her with his knowledge of the world and experiences in towns and cities she had never encountered. But when she was present, all the words seem to disappear from his mind.
All he knew when he was with her was the way she infused his entire being with light and warmth, each moment as wondrous as the next. Sam netting fish, uncaring of the cold river water, her feet clinging to rocks as surefooted as a deer. Holding a rabbit by its ears, after a quick shot, her face like a sunbeam. She could skin and gut a rabbit with a few quick strokes of her knife, shove the carcass in her backpack without thinking. Oba learned far more from her than he could ever teach her.
They created their own sense of competition. Oba was taller, more muscular, could cover more ground without tiring, and had become a crack shot, able to compete with her ability at bringing down game.
And today he would learn the intricacies of navigating a boat on the great river, a job he did not look forward to. He was deathly afraid of water, the drowning of his parents the root of his uneasiness at the sight and sound of a swift current. He had learned to enjoy swimming and fishing, but getting in a boat was an entirely different matter. But today he would have to hide every sign of his desperate timidity. He knew how Sam felt about boats, about the river—she loved them. There was no way he could let her see his fear.
The boat was handmade, heavy, with a definite lack of grace. Something about it appeared quite different from the Zusacks’ craft, a factory-made outboard more than twenty feet long with a delicate bow, a wide body, and all the correct measurements. Oba viewed them both from his perch on a large rock, watching Jonas and Brad roll the heavy vessel on small logs until they reached the water, where it flumped into the river with a tremendous splash and rocked back and forth like an overfed duck. Brad and Jonas lifted their faces to the sky, howled, and then did a clumsy victory dance, clapping each other’s shoulders. Rain shook her head, her flat, wide eyes squinting as she smiled, and Sam laughed outright.
She saw that Oba wasn’t participating in the celebration. “Aren’t you happy to have a boat on the river?”
“Yeah, I am. I’m just not a lunatic.”
She frowned at him, two small puckers appearing below her smooth brow. “They aren’t either,” she said, only a bit stern.
Oba turned away, did not answer. She watched the mysterious face, the profile she was accustomed to seeing, the quiet way he had about him, his eyes never quite revealing anything. He was an extremely handsome young man, any girl would be sure to notice, but she could never place her finger on exactly what it was that kept her at a distance. He was a great hunting and fishing companion, a true friend in every sense of the word, but she could never bring herself to think of him . . . well, in that way.
Her mother was protective of her only daughter, had seen Oba once, said there was something about that boy, and shook her head.
Her mother was a full-blooded Inuit and had lived in the Far North all her life. She had enjoyed a simple, happy relationship with her husband from the day she married him. They lived a solitary life, which suited her very well. She felt herself lucky to be with a good man like Brad and wanted the same for her daughter.
Rain was not a mother who coddled her daughter, but expected her to learn to fish and hunt, how to keep a decent cabin, sew her own clothes, learn how to harness a dog team and drive them. She was proud of Sam and had no intention of letting some good-looking, white-haired scoundrel ruin her chances at a happy, fulfilling life.
So she watched beneath lowered lids, half her attention on the river and half on the interactions between Oba and Sam. Like a statue Oba sat, still and unresponsive, as Sam spread her hands. If Sam knew what was good for her, she wouldn’t worry about him. Rain gave a small snort and turned her attention to the men who were trying to get the engine started, pulling on the rope over and over.
Finally, with a weak blatting sound, the motor came to life, causing more jubilation from the men. Sam leaped away from Oba and ran recklessly down to the water, splashing through the shallows and hauling herself onboard, from where she motioned to Oba.
Rain looked over to watch his response and was amazed to see him white-faced and apprehensive. What? Was he afraid of a boat?
“Get going, there,” she shouted.
“Does the boat hold four?” he asked.
“Go find out.”
He shook his head and sat on the rock as if his backside was glued to it. “You go,” he said, angry now.
The motor was revved into a louder, faster gear, the rudder drew to the right, and the nose swung out into the current toward the middle of the river before moving upstream, Brad at the back, Jonas in the middle, and Sam at the bow, her face lifted to the sky as she exulted in the power of being on the water.
Rain chuckled, then lowered herself to a grassy knoll and sat cross-legged, her elbows propped on her knees, her keen eyes surveying the opposite shore for signs of wildlife. She decided to ignore Oba. If he wanted to be friendly, it was fine with her; if not, they’d sit there in separate worlds till the boat returned.
A swan gave its plaintive cry from somewhere in the deep water grasses on the opposite bank. Another answered, so Rain watched for its arrival and exulted in the grace and precision with which it landed on the faraway bank. Oba sat like a stone, giving no indication of having heard the swans or the answering call.
As for Oba, he felt like a complete failure, and he was convinced that Sam had lost any shred of respect she might have had for him.
AS THE DAYS grew cooler, Jonas grew more serious about gathering enough food for the winter. Alpheus would fly in some necessities and luxuries, but the biggest part of their food would be from the land. The old radio on the shelf crackled and sputtered, with occasional news from the outside, but Jonas knew winter was coming by the feel of the wind, the shortening of the days that would bring the sudden cold during the night.
Gradually, Oba learned to appreciate the boat. When it was just Jonas and Oba, it was easier to climb aboard. Jonas picked up on his fear but didn’t make a big deal of it. He encouraged Oba gently, letting him come at his own pace. Eventually Oba got used to the idea of sitting atop the water in a craft that actually seemed perfectly reliable and waterproof, in spite of his misgivings. He learned to relax, to ignore the tilt of the boat when he cast his bait too far, or when they leaned over with the net to scoop large flashing silver char, trout, and salmon into the bottom of the boat, where they gasped and flopped about until they died.
He learned to accept the death of animals, of fish and large beautiful caribou or elk, as gifts for their survival. He learned to feel the thrill of setting his sights, pulling the trigger, and watching the animal collapse, or, if the shot was not perfect, of trailing the fresh blood till they found it. He grew confident in cleaning the animal, packing out the meat, drying it on racks or preserving it in Mason jars, knowing this would stave off hunger when winter storms prevented any interaction with the outside world.
He missed Sam when the Zusacks’ visits became less frequent, but knew they, too, were intent on gathering food for winter. He thought of her every day, longed to see her with an intensity born of his love for her, but had no idea how to spark her feelings. It was better to focus on the job at hand, better to be grateful for Jonas and his easy companionship.
He no longer brooded when there was only him and Jonas. He was too occupied, too intent on the job at hand to think about his own petty feelings. Jonas could speak freely, unafraid of the dark look and curt reprisal. He watched Oba stumble from his bunk, wash his face, and brush his teeth and wondered what possessed a person to brush his teeth every day. Perhaps it was some holdover from his Amish upbringing, that teeth brushing.
He told Oba this one morning, as he was bent over the sink, plying the toothbrush as if his life depended on removing every trace of anything that might have clung to his teeth. Oba finished, rinsed the toothbrush, tapped it on the edge of the porcelain sink, put it in the stoneware mug, and set it on the highest shelf. He grinned at Jonas, a good-natured grin that made Jonas decide he was one of the best-looking young men he’d ever seen.
“The Amish? I doubt if they had much to do with brushing teeth. My mom was particular about it. Guess it stuck.”
“You never say much about your mother,” Jonas observed.
“No, I don’t. Guess it’s easier that way. It seems like a long time ago. Another world, really.”
Jonas glanced up, noticed the lack of anger, of fierce self-defense, and wondered what brought this about.
“What I wouldn’t give for a dozen eggs,” Jonas said, changing the subject for fear of saying the wrong thing.
“Yeah. Oatmeal gets pretty boring. But if you’re hungry enough, it isn’t bad. We always made it with milk, though. It’s creamier. Out here, a cow and chickens wouldn’t last very long, would they?”
“There’s some folks have them. They bring in a few chickens, a couple of calves, and raise them. It takes a sturdy barn, though, with all the predators.
“Why don’t we?”
Jonas shook his head. “Too much trouble.”
THE LEAVES CHANGED to astonishing shades of red, orange, and golden yellow, the grass turned brown and brittle with a lack of rain. The river ran low, revealing a wide pebbly beach strewn with driftwood. The air was frosty in the morning and the days were filled with hunting and gathering. The air surrounding the cabin was rank with the smell of drying fish impaled on lean branches strung from forked poles stuck into the ground. But their days were full to the brim, every hour taken up by a sense of urgency, a need to stockpile meat for themselves and the dogs.
Oba’s eyes took on a new light, a shining from within, a sense of purpose. He didn’t notice it himself, but Jonas saw the change, day by day, week by week. It seemed as if Oba thrived on challenges, was never happier than being pushed to his limits. He was dead tired in the evenings, but never sullen.
Before the first snow fell, Oba surveyed the amount of dried fish, the jars of meat, the cache built behind the cabin, and realized he had been a large part of their success. It was a new and strange perception, one that was startling in its sense of well being as he stood beside Jonas, surveying the results of their relentless labor.
“It’s enough to make a man proud,” Jonas said. “Thanks, Oba.”
“Thanks for what?”
“I couldn’t have done this without you.”
“Yeah, you could.”
“No. You don’t understand. I couldn’t. I’m not getting any younger.”
Jonas didn’t tell him about the awful pangs of pain from his arthritis, the swelling of his joints, the pain keeping him up at night as he changed positions to ease the discomfort. He felt the cold seep into the corners of the cabin, dreaded the worsening of the condition he knew would occur.
Oba caught Jonas’s eye, grinned, but words eluded him. He had no idea how to respond to praise, but in that moment, he felt happy and like he belonged.
ALPHEUS BROUGHT IN the supplies before the river froze over. He was delighted to see them, his elfin face alight with good news and good food. Oba greeted him warmly and helped unload and sort through boxes and bags. They spent a long evening sitting around the homemade table, listening to stories from Dawson Creek and beyond. Someone—Alpheus had no idea who the man was—had found a fairly large amount of gold west of Dawson, up toward the Yukon Territory, so now there was an influx of feverish men who had more craziness in their heads than common sense. Alpheus leaned back in his chair, crossed his wiry arms across his concave chest and shook his head.
“It’s almost the ’50s, mind you. That stream of men in the 1800s will never be repeated, hopefully, but this is bad enough. They aren’t equipped to deal with the rigors of this country. Driving into Dawson by the carload, it’s a mess. The world’s changing, but some things remain the same. The greed of men, the lust for gold, the unfairness of race and social status.”
Oba looked up, wondering at the man’s language. Some things were the same the world over, he supposed. As an orphan, you were below others, bound to cruel relatives and their expectations. There was prejudice against anyone who wasn’t white. There was greed, yes, the love of money that took completely possession of someone like Melvin, turning him into an evil man who let nothing stand in the way of his goals.
The men’s voices droned on, but Oba was lost in sharp memories like knives, scars twitching and searing into his back. He moved his shoulders, tried to rid himself of the sensation, but gave up and went to lie on his bunk, caught up in the throes of his past.
He felt the hot sun on his back, heard the jabbering of the sharecroppers, heard, too, the rattling of the wagon as Melvin approached, the mules on their normal hurried trot. The expectation of being called, asked to do some menial work that sent hot rebellion through his veins. He thought about the similarities between hatred and defiance, found no difference.
He simply hated Melvin, and that hatred had stayed in his heart, causing him to be miserable with the realization of it. He’d blocked out God on account of it. Told himself he didn’t believe, when he knew very well there was a God. He was just terribly frightened of Him, given the fate he knew all haters deserved.
How did one go about shedding hatred?
He’d never wanted to before, never let it bother him that much. But now, listening to Alpheus and Jonas, the atrocities of men, he realized he was no better. The only thing missing was acting on his feelings. But it wouldn’t take much to become violent, the way some men did, hitting with fists, drawing knives or guns.
A deep fear brought a numbing chill, then the heat that enveloped him like a fiery current. Was he, in fact, no better than a murderer, hatred blooming in his chest like a vicious growth?
Far into the night, the men’s voices droned on, but Oba heard only the half of it, embroiled in his own searching, his own discomfort. If only he could talk to someone, but who would be willing to listen?
Not Sam. She was too young, too unencumbered by the severity of real life. Raised in the wilderness, free as a bird as she roamed the forests and waterways of the Northwest; she would never understand the deep measure of his pain. He knew Jonas would just tell him to forgive. But how did one go about forgiving?
He slept very little that night.
AS IT WAS, Rain proved to be the one who opened her heart to him. Arriving on the cusp of a heavy, wet snow, with Brad in tow, she had come with the sole purpose of teaching Oba how to make good bread, a staple for the long winter. She clucked and stewed, fussed at the other men and shooed them out the door.
“You can fish, set traps, do something,” she said in her openly demanding voice. “Just get out and give us some space.”
By then, after weeks of unrest, Oba was bleary eyed, sullen, and uncooperative. He couldn’t see why he had to be the one to bake bread. Couldn’t Jonas do it?
Finally, Rain stopped, put her hands to her hips, and glared at him with black eyes that sparked angrily.
“What is your problem? You have moods like thunderclouds. It’s rude, and annoying.”
Oba looked up, an angry retort on his lips, but there was something so inquisitive, so birdlike, and . . . he didn’t know what. She was so short and dark and round-faced, like a chickadee with her snapping eyes. He lowered his eyes, shrugged his shoulders.
“Where are you from? Why are you here? I’ve often wondered what your story really is.” Her voice softened a little. “I tell you what, let’s make some tea and you can sit down and talk to me while the dough rests. Tell me your story.” When only silence filled the room, she added, gently, “Pretend I’m your mother.”
