In Valhalla's Shadows

by W. D. Valgardson

  “Got a job at the Bissett gold mine right out of high school. Came to a dance in Valhalla. Met a girl I fancied. Came back a few times. Married her. It’s an old story.”

  “Any family?” Tom asked, trying to be sociable.

  “A son. He’s in Alberta.”

  “Does he ever get home?”

  “Not much to come back for,” Mindi said.

  There was a movement in the grass and Tom turned toward it. The grass had dried to a dull yellow and brown. There was a line of green and Tom saw that it was a small garter snake. Mindi took one of his canes and tapped the ground. The snake darted forward and disappeared into a hole.

  “You see that,” he said, tapping the cane on the ground. “It all looks solid, like it’s here for eternity. You strip off this layer of dirt and you’ll find caverns. I think about that often. We’re sitting here, kings of the world, we think, and underneath us there are thousands, hundreds of thousands of creatures hunting, eating, dying, breeding.” Mindi gave a grimace of a smile. “You think you know what’s going on, but then something happens and you find out you don’t know nothing.”

  “Did you know Angel?”

  “Did you?” Mindi replied.

  “I know Ben.”

  “Bad Luck Ben.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “His wife dies. Cancer. His daughter.” Mindi shook his head in disapproval. “His granddaughter.”

  “Bad way to die.”

  “You know any good ways?” Mindi asked. “I heard she was raped.”

  “She was fully clothed. Ask Sarah. Or Albert. Where do you hear this crap?”

  “Here and there,” Mindi said.

  There was a transistor radio on the table between them and a book. It was open, face down, and the title said As Their Natural Resources Fail.

  “A lot of people married into this town,” Tom said.

  “Getting married gave us a reason to be here. How about you? What are you doing here? There are lots of better places.”

  “I was here once. I thought I’d come back.”

  “You think you’re going to find Odin’s gold?”

  “What’s that?”

  “The wooden chests of gold buried or sunk somewhere by the first Godi?”

  Tom shook his head.

  “Some people say they’ve come here to fish. Except they’ve also got a shovel and a metal detector in with their fishing rods.”

  “I’ve heard old stories about farmers who didn’t trust the banks and are supposed to have buried their money in glass jars. After the farmer dies, his family spends years digging up every likely spot.”

  Mindi smiled wryly.

  “Do you have a metal detector? Some people think Odin’s treasure might be buried on your property. You seen places on your property where there are holes dug?”

  “Yes, a few. I thought they were because spruce trees had come down.”

  “You got that field with the barn. Lots of holes there. Don’t fall in one.”

  “Do you think it’s real? The gold?”

  “Probably.”

  “From the Bissett mine?”

  “There were rich veins then. I’ve heard that guys were taking it out in their ass. They were selling it, but there wasn’t any need for Godi to buy stolen stuff. In those days, the Godi could buy all they wanted. Just go into a bank and put your money down.”

  “Chests of gold?”

  “Maybe one. Maybe more. Some people think it might be in your walls. They’d like to tear your house down. Burn it down. Sift the ashes. If you smell smoke some night, grab your pants and run.”

  “What about Jessie?”

  “Lots of people hated her. She chased anyone off she caught digging. Got that ox of a McAra to give them a cuffing to make the point. Or his wife. She’s got a bad hip now, but you wouldn’t want the back of her hand in your face. No one picked a fight with their sons. Some diggers thought Jessie was keeping them from winning the lottery. Lots of resentment.”

  “What do you think?”

  Mindi tipped his head back and grinned widely. He looked at Tom and said, “Lots of places to hide something. The east side of the lake is all volcanic. I used to prospect over there in my spare time. This side is all sedimentary. You take a boat along the shore, you’ll see lots of caves, lots of large cracks in the rock that go way back inland. Big enough to walk into.”

  “What are these Godi like?”

  Mindi shrugged. “They sell me produce at a fair price. You want to know more about them, go visit. They’re not like the big shots in the city living in a gated community.”

  “You said Bad Luck Ben. His wife, daughter, granddaughter. Nothing about his grandson.”

  “His son is a capitalist. He’s figured out how the system works.”

  “You’re a Marxist.”

  “Try working for the mines. Try working for big business. If you aren’t a Marxist, you’re a fool. Of course, in the Winnipeg General Strike, you guys worked for the bosses. Shot the protestors.”

  “That was a long time ago. Times change. Even the Force is getting unionized.”

  “I heard that. It’s the biggest miracle since Moses divided the Red Sea.”

  “What did you think of yesterday’s performance?”

  “Trouble. Some of those people aren’t part of the Godi community. I don’t know where they’ve come from.”

  “Jessie said the community were communists.”

  “Maybe. Depends how you define it. They live in a commune. All for one, one for all. They share the work. They share the rewards.”

  “Karla doesn’t like them.”

  “Of course not. What capitalist would? They aren’t good customers.”

  “You think Russia was better under the communists?”

  “It wasn’t communism. It wasn’t socialism. After the socialists won the revolution, Stalin had them all shot. It was the cult of personality. Stalin was the new tsar. Putin is the latest tsar. Those people don’t know anything except tsars.”

  “Things work pretty well here. In Canada.”

  Mindi’s laugh was a sharp bark. “You got lots to learn, sonny. Open your eyes. You and me? Disposable people. And you think the system works? For who? Washed up, that’s you and me.” He saw another garter snake and struck the earth with one of his canes. The snake’s body flashed in the sun, then disappeared. “Down there,” Mindi said. “Think about what’s down there. Lots going on you don’t know about. Just like in Ottawa, and Washington, and London. People making decisions. No health care for you. More money for me. No sprinkler system for your building. More money for me.” Mindi’s voice had become angry. “You know what people say about me? That accident was the best thing that ever happened to him. He’s got a disability pension. That’s what they’re going to say about you.”

  When Mindi described what was happening beneath them, Tom’s head filled up with images of dark caves, of long, twisting holes, of fangs and teeth and snarling death, and he shut his eyes for a moment as he tried to shut out the images. It was like his accident had shattered the barrier between the real world and his imagination, as if an image, once it began, would spiral out of control. He had learned to quiet his mind by choosing an object and focusing on it. The second therapist he’d seen had shown him that trick. It was a kind of self-hypnosis, and with it he shrunk the images and locked them up. Before he’d learned that trick, a rush of images would cause the world to lose its solidity and begin to dissolve, and there were times when he felt as if he might be seasick and throw up, the way he had in a ditch outside of Regina when he saw his first dead child. He turned away from the images and the sounds in his head toward the real and immediate.

  “Did you go down to the store, down to the dock, the day Angel died?”

  “I did go. I wanted some fresh sunfish. I like it boiled. I got some from Ingvar.”

  “Did you see Angel?”

  “I don’t think so. I was busy talking with Ingvar while he w
as cleaning three sunfish for me.”

  “You went straight home?”

  “No. I stopped at the emporium for my mail. I had a soft drink. I talked to Horst. Karla is trying to get him to hire you to drywall and paint two unfinished rooms upstairs. There are three rooms. She sleeps in the finished room. The other two are just used for storage. She says if they get them finished, they can rent them out.”

  “I could use the work. What’s Horst’s objection?”

  “He doesn’t want you up there with his wife. He thinks you might screw more than the drywall.”

  “She flirts.”

  Mindi took out a wooden match and stuck it between his teeth. When he talked it went up and down. He smiled and laughed to himself. “You wanna be careful. Horst has friends. Well, maybe that’s an exaggeration. Horst has people who will do jobs for him. The Jones boys that live past the end of the road. Horst got mad at Billy Begood because he thought Billy stole a load of homebrew Horst had brought in for a wedding reception. Some people say Horst paid them to feed him to their pigs. The pigs ate him, then they ate the pigs.”

  “They didn’t want to waste anything.”

  Mindi Miner slapped his knee and laughed. “You got that, sonny. The difference now is they’re more sensitive. If they feed someone to the pigs, they’ll sell you the pork chops but won’t eat them themselves.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “People do crazy things because of jealousy.”

  He nodded his agreement. He’d called ambulances for a lot of women. Over the years he’d covered a number of domestic murder-suicides.

  “You got a rifle?” Mindi asked.

  “If I’ve got the money, I’ll buy one for hunting season. If not, I’ll try to borrow one. Do you think I need one?”

  “Lots of bears around. A gimp isn’t going to outrun a bear.”

  Tom cringed at being called a gimp. “Even two good legs won’t outrun a bear.”

  “No use trying to climb a tree, either. They’ll follow you up and eat you like a piece of fruit. There’s lots around. Last time I was at the dump, I counted seven.” He picked up his book and Tom knew their conversation was over. Mindi held the book up. “All about the lousy way Native peoples have been treated in Manitoba. Capitalism at work.”

  Tom tried one more time. “If Angel’s death wasn’t an accident, where would you look for answers?”

  “If,” Mindi repeated, an edge of annoyance in his voice. “Big word. If. Lots of possibilities. People camping on the beach. Fishermen in Horst’s rentals. People on the boats. The cottagers. People from the east shore coming over to party.” He shrugged, then looked steadily at Tom. “You don’t know what kids are up to today. Maybe she was sniffing gasoline. All you need is a plastic bag and some gas from someone’s outboard motor. Used to be the fishermen left their gas cans in their boats. Now, they lock them up. Maybe taking some of those new pills. You’re like a dog with a bone. Don’t choke on it.”

  He sat there glaring at Tom. Tom the intruder. Tom the newcomer who didn’t know what went on below the surface, just as he didn’t know what went on in the dark subterranean world where the snakes went. Tom didn’t look away, and he said with his voice edged with his own resentment, “I found her. I turned her over. I felt her cold hand. I didn’t ask for that. I didn’t want it. I don’t want it. I don’t need that memory. “

  Mindi studied him. “You lie in a dark mine with rock pinning you down, you learn things other people don’t know. Like where your mind can travel. You going to walk much?”

  “Maybe,” Tom replied.

  “People are going to say why’s he walking so much? Better to take up a hobby—prospecting, cutting wood, hunting. Nothing unusual about walking all day hunting; nobody’s going to say why’s he going hunting so much. If you don’t bring back any game, they’ll just say he’s not a good hunter. Maybe even, if they like you, they might say, ‘Not much game this year.’”

  “Okay,” Tom said.

  “People think they understand darkness. Most of them don’t understand anything about darkness.” He looked fiercely into Tom’s eyes and banged his cane on the ground.

   Chapter 19

  The Dance

  He had thought he was tough, followed the code of silence in which no matter how horrific the event—charred corpses, heads blown off by shotguns, severed limbs—no one talked about it, unless it was to make a sardonic joke. They all followed the code. Shut it down, shut it out, shut up. Talk about it, shed a few tears, and the next day when you came to work there was a pink towel hanging over the back of your chair.

  He knew that with his leg pinned and bolted together, he needed to move into an administrative job, but there were none available in his detachment. There were endless deadline requests and paperwork, too many people involved. Too many files, too many messages, too many. He spent nights sitting in the living room, walking the floor, watching the sun come up, and Sally, outraged at the lack of help from the Force, and their complete lack of concern, railed against the system. There were no answers, and the rage turned to a feeling of being lost and confused.

  He went to see a shrink to help him adjust to his new reality. “You weren’t just an RCMP officer," the shrink had said. “You were a person who was an RCMP officer. You were a lot more than that. You were a husband and father, a son. You have lots of options. You could go back to university, become a history professor. You like working with your hands. Take up a trade. You can be anything you want.”

  Tom thought the shrink was full of shit. He said, “I want to be a quarterback for the Blue Bombers.”

  The shrink was taken aback. “Within current limitations,” he said, but it was obvious that having to admit to limitations instead of believing in a future in which everything was possible was painful for him. Tom got the idea that it was a strategy. Starting out with saying anything being possible and working down to adjusting to reality.

  One morning Sally had come into the living room just before dawn and said, “Let it go. The Force won’t help you. They’d have preferred it if you’d got killed in that accident. Then they could get all dressed up in their dress uniforms and march together, and a politician could have spouted bullshit.”

  He’d sat at the window all night watching the houses across the street, houses with no lights in the windows because everyone was asleep. He refused to look at her.

  “Are you surprised?” she yelled. “Why should you be surprised? There’s never been enough guys to cover. All the times we moved. No bloody communication, no housing arrangements, no furniture storage. They wanted everything from you and delivered nothing in return.”

  He wasn’t going to go back to the shrink, but Sally insisted. “Get him to give you something for depression,” she’d said. A pill a day to keep the boogers away.

  He gave up on the shrink during a session in which the doc launched into a lecture on how adversity helped people throw off their shell and offered an opportunity for growth. He hoped the bastard drove his Ferrari into a tree, became a paraplegic and, given lots of adversity, grew. Tom got up and put on his cap and his jacket, and the shrink, startled out of his lecture, said, “What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.” And Tom thought about four years on traffic duty. They averaged one death a week in summer. Blood and guts everywhere. The worst was a family—parents, four kids—running head on into a semi-trailer. The Winnebago looked like it had exploded. They thought they had found all the bodies and were cleaning up when a paramedic lifted a piece of plywood and there was a two-year-old under it.

  At some point he developed compassion fatigue. Everything he saw was like a movie out there on a screen and nobody was real. The dead and injured were all actors, and after it was over, they’d wash the fake blood and makeup off, reattach the limbs and go home. The problem was that he took it home with him.

  He signed up for handyman courses at the local college. He could, he figured, if nothing e
lse, use his experience with Anna to manage an apartment block or two.

  He might have gotten over his depression—the shrink said that it would gradually fade as he adjusted to his new condition and developed new goals—if Sally hadn’t gotten a boyfriend. The doctor said Tom was fine physically, but after he got home from the hospital and was doing rehab, he had no desire; it was like his testosterone had been drained. Sally had said to him, “Kiss me,” “Cuddle me,” “Feel me up,” “Fuck me,” at various times. It was like she was talking about things beyond his understanding, as if she were in another room, behind an invisible glass wall.

  The boyfriend was one of her patients. He came in for a cleaning and left with a date for lunch. He was a real estate agent, one of those sly bastards who lie and manipulate their way to a Beemer. He was married and had a high-end bungalow with a pool, a high school cutie who was aging, two kids and a need to conquer new territory. Tom hadn’t told his kids that was why he didn’t object when Sally said she wanted a trial separation. The real estate wife had called him and poured out her heart. She didn’t want to give up her house, her swimming pool, the annual vacation. She’d serve her husband better meals, she said, so he didn’t need to go eat in fast food joints, if Tom knew what she meant. More variety, spicier. She’d lose weight. She didn’t like to talk directly about these things.

  Before he moved out, he confronted Sally. She said, “What do you care? You don’t want the goods anymore. For six months you haven’t touched me.”

  He wasn’t, he thought, providing good meals, no sexual grocery cart full of goodies, no mango, no papaya, no chili pepper.

  It was easier to leave than to fight. He wasn’t even certain what he would have fought about. It’s not like it was a competition and the other guy had got the gold medal.

  No more, he said to himself, no more. But now he needed company, needed to join in community events, needed to be connected so that he wasn’t lost in the hallways in his head. So he went to the dance at the community hall. By now, he knew a few people by sight, knew them enough to say, “Hello, how are you?” Knew people that he’d done the odd, small job for, not that they included him in the small knots where they were discussing whatever it was that they were discussing. Outsider—he could feel it—not trusted, and he wondered if he’d been a retired teacher or an accountant or construction worker, instead of a used-to-be cop, if he’d have been welcomed, but he doubted it. He surveyed the hall that just three days before had held Angel’s funeral reception, but now the tables and benches were along the walls so that the floor was clear for dancing. A portable stage had been pushed into one corner. On it, a group of men were tuning their instruments and a woman was testing out the keys on a piano. One key was dead. She tapped it a number of times, but all it returned was a thunk.