Thunder Bay: A Novel, page 10
part #7 of Cork O'Connor Series
Henry took his time with his second shoe while the other kid stood above him, arms crossed over his chest, watching with that disdain common to the whites in the communities around the Flandreau school.
“Ain’t you one ungrateful son of a bitch,” the farmer’s son said.
Henry finished with his shoes and stood up. “You walked a long way out here just to tell me that.”
“How come you never look at me?” the kid said.
“I look.”
“You never look me in the eye.”
“I have work to do,” Henry told him. He picked up the shovel that he’d laid in the dirt, ready to return to the irrigation ditch he’d been cleaning.
“Look me in the eye,” the kid demanded.
Henry paused, half turned away.
“You heard what I said. Look me in the eye.”
The prairie sun pressed on Henry like a hot iron. He felt the crawl of sweat down his chest and back and sides, the sting of it dripping into his eyes. He gripped the handle of the shovel with his strong, calloused hands and gauged the heft, the easy swing.
“You deaf all of a sudden?”
Henry turned slowly. He lifted his dark eyes and stared at the other boy.
The farmer’s son grinned with stupid satisfaction. “You got a letter up to the house. My old man says to come get it.”
Henry pulled his shirt—long sleeved and white, made of thin cotton—from the branch of the bush next to the ditch where he’d hung it when he’d begun his work. He carried it with him as he followed the long rows between the knee-high corn plants, dirt sifting into his shoes at every step. At the farmhouse, he let the kid go inside first while he took a few minutes to dump his shoes clean again and to wash himself off at the water pump in the yard. He put on his shirt, buttoned it carefully all the way up to his throat, and went into the house through the back door.
The kitchen still smelled of dinner, the noon meal, which was two hours gone. It had been generous portions of boiled ham, baked chicken, fried potatoes, corn casserole, waxed beans, heavy brown bread, and rhubarb pie. The farmer’s wife was a fine cook and a decent woman. When Henry had first come to the place, three weeks earlier, she’d stood firm that he should eat as well as any of the family because he worked his share. Mealtime, she put his plate together and brought it to the barn where he ate in his small quarters, which was an old tack room, no longer used for that purpose because the farmer, a prosperous man, had a Ford tractor now.
The farmer sat at the kitchen table drinking from a glass full of cloudy liquid. He was a tense, willowy man with a German name and a head as bald as a rock. Over his glass, his small, mean eyes took in Henry.
“Lemonade, Henry?” said the wife. She stood at the gaping oven door, her face red from the heat. She was small and plump. Her eyes were a sad blue.
“Thank you.” Henry stood politely, just inside the door.
She filled the glass and took it to him, looking as if she were about to speak something comforting, but her husband cut in.
“A letter come for you. From the boarding school. Took the liberty of reading it since I wasn’t sure you could.”
“I can read,” Henry said.
“The upshot of it is that your father’s dead, boy. Logging accident. I understand it’s dangerous work.”
“Karl,” the woman said. “Give the boy the letter and the decency of reading it on his own.”
“You snap at me like that again, Emma, I’ll take the strap to you. Don’t think I won’t.”
“Yah, you lay me up and who’s going to feed you, huh? Give the boy the letter.”
The farmer reached into the shirt beneath his overalls and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “Come on,” he said holding it out. “Take it, boy.”
“For heaven’s sake.” The woman plucked the letter from her husband’s hand and brought it to Henry. “I’m so sorry. You take that lemonade and letter and you find you some shade. Take all the time you need, Henry.”
He sat under a crab-apple tree near the vegetable garden he helped the woman hoe. The writing was neat, the letters precisely made.
Dear Nephew,
It is sad news I tell you your father my brother die in that logging camp he works a white man drive here to tell me your father killed by log rolling over him he bring the body for me to bury and I have done beside your mother’s grave this news is heavy on me and I know will be for you great sorrow.
Woodrow Meloux
There was no date on the letter, no way of knowing when the death had occurred. It didn’t matter; it was done. His mother had died of tuberculosis three years before. His father worked as a logger and was away most of the time and could not care for his children. Henry had been sent to the Indian boarding school in Flandreau, South Dakota. His two younger sisters had gone to a boarding school in Wisconsin.
Henry read the letter again, folded it, and put it in his pocket.
Even in the shade the air felt thick, hot, heavy. He sat for a long time without drinking from the glass of lemonade the farmer’s wife had given him. He listened to the bawling of cattle in the pen beyond the barn. He stared across the cultivated fields and his dark eyes followed the flat line of the horizon that circled and imprisoned him.
TWENTY
Long after dark, Henry rose from his cot in the old tack room. He put on his white shirt, overalls, and shoddy boarding-school shoes. He left the barn and walked out to the yard. Stars lay across the sky like a dusting of pollen, and the moon, nearly full, made everything around Henry silver. The farm dog, a German shepherd they called Joey, barked a couple of times, then recognized him and settled back onto the grass near the back door of the house. Henry started toward the dirt road that ran in front of the farmhouse, but stopped when he heard the hinges of the screen door creak.
She came toward him, a small, pale figure that seemed to float in her nightgown. Her feet were bare, but her hands were full. She held out a potato sack.
“You’ll be hungry, I expect. It’s not much. Couple of sandwiches, a jar of pickles, some cookies. And here.” She put coins in his hand. “Fifty cents. It’s all I can spare without him knowing. And take a blanket with you, the one on your bunk. You’ll be sleeping out some, I expect.”
He looked at the coins burning in the silver light. “Migwech.”
She eyed him with puzzlement.
“It means thank you,” he said.
“God be with you, Henry.”
She floated back to the house.
He rolled the blanket and tied it with a length of scrap rope he found in the barn. He slung the bedroll and the potato sack over his shoulder and left.
He followed roads that headed toward the east, toward Minnesota. Near dawn he lay down in a haystack in a field far from any house. When he woke, the sun was not yet directly overhead. He ate one of the sandwiches, a pickle, and a cookie and took to the road again. Whenever he spotted dust rising ahead of or behind him, he lay in the tall grass at the side of the road until the vehicle had passed. When he was thirsty, he drank from the creeks along the way. Near sunset, on the outskirts of a small town, he came across a train paused on a siding, loading from a grain elevator. The engine was pointed east. Henry climbed onto a coupling between cars and waited. Just as the sun hit the horizon, the train pulled out.
Near sunset of the third day, he reached the mission on the Iron Lake Reservation. It was a small, white clapboard building in the middle of a forest clearing between the tiny communities of Allouette and Brandywine. Behind it lay the cemetery, enclosed by a low wrought-iron fence. The clearing was empty and quiet. The sun threw a soft blanket of yellow light across the meadow, and the mission walls were the color of buttered bread. Henry stood at the cemetery gate looking at the assortment of headstones and memorials and grave houses and at the long shadows they cast. He’d been here many times in the past. Under the white man’s authority, Henry’s people died too easily. Diseases, especially tuberculosis, took them in great numbers.
He eased the gate open. The hinges cried like a hurt dog. He knew the place where his mother was buried. Beside her marker was another: a smooth, varnished wood plank with his father’s name burned across the face, and below that the figure of a cormorant, his father’s clan, upside down to indicate death. He sat down cross-legged, weary to the bone. He’d determined along the way that when this moment came, he would not cry. At the boarding school, he’d never cried, though many nights he’d listened to the sobbing of other lonely, homesick boys. He understood that crying did no good. It could not change what had passed. It could not change what was, nor what was coming. Even so, he felt like spilling tears, felt more empty and alone than he ever had.
He lay down in the uncut cemetery grass, more tired than hungry, and went to sleep.
That night he had his first vision. It was like a dream, but it was not a dream. He stood outside himself, watching the part he played, feeling everything that occurred but at the same time remaining a separate observer. This was the vision: A huge white snake slithered among the stones and markers and grave houses of the cemetery. It swallowed Henry. Then it sprouted wings and took him on a long journey deep into the wilderness, far beyond Noopiming, the great woods of his home. It disgorged him on the shore of a lake he did not know. The lake glowed, as if a fire burned at the bottom. Fire under the water? How could this be? When he turned back, the snake had vanished.
He woke on the ground, curled and cramped, his blanket covered with dew. Dawn was just breaking, and he was hungry. It was midsummer, blueberry season, and he knew where the patches grew. He feasted on ripe berries as the sun rose above the pines and he continued his way north, toward the cabin his father had built. He figured the boarding school had probably alerted the local authorities that he’d run away, and he kept off the main roads, following instead the forest trails he’d known since childhood. He saw not a soul that morning, a good sign, he decided.
It was nearly noon when he reached the small cabin where he’d been born—and his sisters, too—where he’d spent the first twelve years of his life collecting fine memories that would remain strong even when he was an old man. The cabin stood at the edge of a pond. The water was still and blue and full of reeds along the edges. Wild grass had grown up around the cabin, and honeysuckle vines crept up the log walls. Henry came toward it slowly, with the knowledge that what awaited him there was little different from what the cemetery had offered. But he had nowhere else to go. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
It was one room, mostly bare now, with a plank floor. The table where his family had eaten was overturned. One chair remained. The black stove that had heated the cabin and on which his mother had cooked was there, the stovepipe still thrust through the roof. The frame of the bed his father had made for himself and his wife stood against the far wall beneath a small window that had once been covered by oilcloth. The oilcloth was gone. The bedding and the straw mattress were gone, too. He checked the cupboards. Empty except for a few cans with flour and salt and baking soda and one dented pot. He also found a can of kerosene that had been used to fill the lamps that were no longer in the cabin. Henry knew it was possible that Shinnobs on the rez had stripped the place, come and cleared out what was usable, but it was more likely white people looking for things they could take for themselves or sell as Indian souvenirs.
The floor was covered with dust, the corners hung with cobwebs. This day he did not feel like weeping. He wanted to bring life back to his home. He left the door open to let in the sunlight and the evergreen-scented air. Outside he used his pocketknife and cut pine branches with thick needles and bundled them together to use as a broom. He swept the floor and every surface. He cleared the cobwebs. From the cupboard he took the one remaining pot and filled it with water from the pond. His shirt became a washrag, and he scrubbed the place clean. He cut more pine boughs and laid them on the bed frame as a temporary mattress.
In the late afternoon he gathered wood for the stove and built a fire. He made biscuits with what he’d found in the cans. He ate the biscuits with the last of the blueberries he’d picked. Afterward, he sat outside and watched the night come on and tried to think what he should do. He was fifteen years old. His parents were dead and buried. His sisters were far to the east. In the letters they’d sent him, his sisters told him they liked the school in Wisconsin. The people were decent to them there. Henry didn’t want to go back to the boarding school in Flandreau, ever. He knew the white authorities would be looking for him. Maybe even some Shinnobs who thought it best to do what the white men wanted. If he went to anyone on the rez for help, it might mean trouble for them. The last thing a Shinnob needed was trouble with white men.
In the long dark before the rise of the moon, Henry listened to the woods, which were alive all around him. Tree frogs and crickets. The hoot of an owl. The wind dancing in the tops of the pine trees.
Even if they found him tomorrow and dragged him back to Flandreau, he was glad he’d made the journey. He was glad to be home.
TWENTY-ONE
Wake up.”
Henry felt a shove and opened his eyes. The words had been spoken in the language of his people, the first he’d heard in that tongue in a great while. Henry lay on the blanket he’d spread over the pine boughs on his parents’ bed. He rolled over to see who’d rudely awakened him.
It was not yet dawn. Barely any light came through the cabin windows. The door was open.
“You sleep like a deaf old dog, Nephew.”
Woodrow Meloux, whose Ojibwe name was Miskwanowe, which meant “red cheeks,” was not tall. Several inches less than six feet, he was broad across the chest, and strong. He wore his black hair in a long braid. His eyes were deep brown. He resembled Henry’s father in many ways, but harder. He had never taken a wife, never fathered children.
“Uncle.” Henry sat up on the bed and rubbed his eyes. “How did you know I was here?”
A leather pouch hung from Woodrow’s belt. He undid the pouch, reached inside, and took out a strip of deer jerky, which he handed to Henry. He sat on the bed beside the young man.
“Everyone on the rez knows you’re here. The smoke from the stove.”
Henry chewed on the jerky. He loved the texture and flavor, which he hadn’t tasted in three years.
His uncle said, “The whites were in Allouette yesterday. They warned there will be trouble if we do not send you back.”
“I won’t go back,” Henry said.
Woodrow took a piece of jerky for himself and gave another to Henry. They ate in silence while the sky turned red, filling the cabin with an angry hue.
Woodrow looked around the room and shook his head. “White people came here after your father died. They took what they wanted. They are like fat, greedy squirrels. They pile nuts they will never eat.” He stood up and retied his pouch. “We have a long walk.”
“I’m not leaving the cabin.”
“They will look for you here, and they will take you back to that school.”
“I’m leaving. But I’m not leaving the cabin my father built. I don’t want the whites or anyone else in here again.”
Henry got off the bed. He put on his government shoes and walked to the corner where the can of kerosene sat, useless without the lamps it was meant to fill. He removed the cap and began to spread fuel across the cabin floor.
“You have things?” his uncle asked.
“Only what I’m wearing,” Henry replied.
Henry took the box of matches from near the stove. He stood at the door with his uncle. He struck a flame and threw it into the wet line that lay across the floor. Fire crawled through the cabin like a yellow snake. Henry waited until he was sure the logs were burning well, then he turned away with his uncle and never looked back.
They walked for several hours, keeping to the trails, skirting Allouette and the cabins and shanties that spotted the woods. Henry knew where they were headed. His uncle had a parcel of land in the northwest corner of the reservation, a small, rocky finger that jutted into Iron Lake. It was far from Allouette, far from any other dwelling. Woodrow had named it aandeg, or crow, because the trees were a favorite rookery for the crafty black birds. His uncle had built a wiigiwam, a traditional Ojibwe dwelling, a simple framework of ironwood poles covered by bulrush mats and roofed with rolls of birch bark. There, in the summer of his fifteenth year, Henry Meloux began to live in the old way.
* * *
His uncle didn’t work at the jobs the whites offered most Ojibwe—logging, mining, serving the tourists who came north in greater numbers every year. Woodrow trapped and fished and hunted in the vast forest to the north, which the whites called the Quetico-Superior wilderness. Through an outfitter named Aini Luukkonen, who operated on Iron Lake near the town of Aurora, he sometimes agreed to hire on as a guide to take white people into the wilderness and see that they came out safely. Because he knew the northern forest and the lakes better than any other man, he was always in demand.
Through that summer, through the season of the wild-rice harvest that followed, through the long winter when Grandmother Earth slept and the time for storytelling came and passed, through iskigamizige-giizis, the time of collecting maple sap and boiling it into syrup, Henry Meloux watched his uncle and listened and learned. Woodrow could track an animal over stony ground. With his rifle, he could bring down a deer at over a hundred yards with a single chest shot, even in thick cover. From the shoreline, he could read the depth of ice across a frozen lake and see where to cross safely. He could take a canoe through white water and knew portages no white man had ever walked. He knew how to start a fire with tinder, flint, and steel. He knew the old way of making a bear trap. All this knowledge he passed to Henry.
