Vityr steps along sleigh tracks filled with last night’s snow. They stop a minute by a highbush cranberry. The shrub still has fruit, the berries glistening a bright red. Andrei eats a few. They’re full of juice. Some drop off into the snow, and he steps on them, the snow staining as if it bleeds.
A feather of new snow swirls in a circle on the trail. More snowflakes fall from the sky, more hurried, not floating as before. Snow feathers along the path in swirls of twos and threes, each one chasing the next, the wind seeming to blow from above Andrei’s head. Soon the forest thins to bluffs and rolling hills. Here the wind gusts from all directions, but mostly from the north.
Vityr comes to a stop all on his own. Andrei hears the storm, at first only faint, now and then a whisper in the swirls. But now on the open prairie, Andrei and the colt are fully exposed to the wind and snow. Sheets of it sweep down to strike and then rise retreating, only to sweep back, repeating over and over until the motion is constant, a steady moving blast of snow, moans and screams of snow sucking at Andrei’s breath. Vityr hangs his head, turning away from the storm.
Andrei unhooks the harness from the sled, discarding it and leading the colt. He has no idea where they are, all sense of direction lost. Even up and down look the same. The snow clings to Andrei’s face.
Both he and the colt are in snow up to their knees. Andrei stumbles, falling on Vityr’s neck. The colt’s four feet pump then hesitate, stilt-like in the snow. Andrei grabs a line of the harness draped on Vityr’s back, then pats the colt on the rump. He has to forget about the cup, forget about looking for Petrus, and instead let Vityr lead them home. He slaps Vityr’s rump, but the colt doesn’t budge. Now what are they to do?
Andrei takes the lead rope again, and tugs at Vityr’s halter. He ties the rope around his own waist and the two of them plunge on through the storm.
They’re on a hillside, half walking, half stumbling, moving downward, the wind at their backs. Though he can’t see anything but the blizzard, Andrei figures they’re moving south, and not toward home. But he won’t go back uphill and into the wind. All they can hope for is to find trees. Find shelter somewhere below.
A sound pierces, cutting like a knife through ice, a high-pitched and sweeping wail, as if calling “Heeere! Heeere! Andrei almost runs, stumbling, pushed forward and down by the wind, the tug of Vityr’s halter pulling at his back. He loses his footing all at once. The ground has given way and he’s up to his neck in snow. He falls forward, his hands reaching ahead, hitting a wall. Rock. He’s stumbled upon the Indian rock. Thank goodness, he thinks. At last he knows where he is...he’s come to the cup after all.
Andrei unties the rope from his waist, then crawls through the snow to the back of the rock. He can feel the heat of Vityr’s breath at his neck. On his knees, Andrei brushes away snow, revealing the small pile of stones stacked at the rock’s base. He pries a stone loose and pounds it against the others, breaking the frozen heap apart. The snow swoops down the hillside to the rock then curls each way, forming banks at the sides. Andrei pries out shale, one piece at a time, laying the pieces flat on the ground. He reaches into the hole and pulls out the goatskin bag. He removes the lacquered box, setting it down on the shale. Andrei forgets the cold. The clinging snow melts on his forehead, water running down his cheeks, and then the premonition...the sudden twitch of his temple. The storm calms.
He flicks open the clasp and lifts the lid. He unwraps the cup, spreads the black cloth on a blanket of snow. A black feather rests on the ruby jewel at the centre. The feather can’t belong. Andrei pulls it out and drops it in the snow. Slowly a golden halo of light rises from the cup, the spray of red glowing at its centre, rising from the ruby jewel. The six golden horse heads twirl in a circle.
Andrei shuts his eyes. Out here he can’t allow himself to be drawn to magic. Out here he’s in danger of freezing to death. He must keep hold of his senses.
But he feels a persistent twitching on his temple, and warmth rising from the ground. Opening his eyes he picks up the cup and holds it to his chest, then extends it out before his eyes. Gold stars and red moons twirl inside the cup. A miniature Scythian warrior, the very picture of Andrei, clings to the ruby, his arms extended, holding the lines of the six horses that form the cup.
Andrei places it on top of the rock. The cup separates. The six horse heads line up in a row, and the Scythian rides a ruby chariot, driving the horses west along the ridge.
Andrei follows it to the west end of the rock, where he picks it up, back in its original shape. He fills the cup with snow, and the red light rises, melting snow to water. Andrei pours water into the mouth-shaped crevice of the buffalo stone. Three times he pours water where it turns to ice on the granite face. He then points the cup directly at the rock. A flame shoots from the crevice back and forth to the cup.
From somewhere out of the noise and swirling snow of the storm, Andrei hears rattles and the growling of a bear. The colt rears up in the swirling snow, neighing again and again. He leaps through drifts, galloping up the hill into the wind. Andrei hears Vityr’s scream, and the moan of the wind, fade and disappear over the hillside. He clutches the cup tight to his chest.
Chapter 21
Even if he has the cup, Andrei knows he can’t stay exposed out here at the rock. He’s got to find shelter somewhere below, a place out of the wind where there’s wood for a fire. He sits with his back to the rock, fingers wrapping the cup in the black cloth, placing it into the box. He snaps the lid shut and stuffs the treasure into the goatskin bag.
Andrei wonders about the cup’s power. Can it be of help? Dido wants it, but it’s Andrei who needs the help now. Was it just luck, or was it the cup’s power that brought him to the rock? At least now he knows where he is. Vityr’s gone, but a horse should survive in a storm. He’ll probably find his way back to the barn. Andrei can’t see past his nose, but at least he knows there’s bush for shelter somewhere at the bottom of the hill.
He shakes snow from his woolen hat and puts it back on, tugging it low over his forehead and ears. Dido’s sheepskin keeps him warm, but it hangs heavy on him, more and more coated with the clinging snow. The further he walks, the deeper the snow gets. Andrei can’t see a foot ahead. He drags the goatskin bag trailing over snow, his free hand ahead to catch himself when he stumbles. The snow is halfway up his thighs.
Andrei’s no longer sure that he’s moving downhill. The wind howls louder than ever, the choking snow swirling around him blasts thicker than ever. He should be coming to the bluffs, but it seems that, if anything, he’s even more exposed. The only good thing is that the snow seems not so deep. But why? It should be deeper at the bottom of the hill. The snow should bank up against the bluffs.
Andrei’s boots slide on ice and he nearly falls. Suddenly he understands. Ice, he’s on the ice. He’s on the river! And he doesn’t know how long he’s been on it.
He missed the willows. He’s got to get back there. He’s got to get off the river. It’s like Andrei’s fallen off the earth, his only mooring the goatskin bag gripped in his mitt.
He’s got to rest. Hunching down, he takes off his mitts and wipes ice and snow from his face. He’s got to get off the river, but where? He has no sense of how long he’s been wandering. The wind is at his back. He calculates that the wind is blowing from the north if it hasn’t changed. That would mean he’s facing south, and the shore should be to his left.
It’s easier walking now. The snow’s not more than a foot deep, and in places he’s sliding on bare ice. On he goes, further and further, still on the river, struggling to stay on his feet, buffeted by the force of the wind. Why hasn’t he reached the shore? Maybe the river bends. Maybe it’s running east and west, and not north and south. Or maybe the wind has changed direction. He remembers the Gypsy fortune teller and her crystal ball. She had told him that the gold turned to nothing but white...
Andrei drops to his knees. He’ll rest again. He wishes he had something to eat. Reaching into the po
cket inside Dido’s coat, he grabs onto a cloth bag. It’s Dido’s Cossack pipe. He wishes it could be a crust of bread instead. Andrei eats snow, and cradles the goatskin bag. He’s got to keep walking. If he sits here, he will freeze to death. On and on he trudges, blind to any direction, aware only of the need to keep the icy wind to his back.
Andrei hasn’t thought of the danger of falling through the ice. He hasn’t thought of muskrat breathing holes, and it wouldn’t have mattered because he wouldn’t have seen the danger anyway, until it was too late. He doesn’t see it when it does happen, only hears the cracking of ice as it gives way.
He’s splashing in water up to his neck, his feet barely able to reach bottom. Arms thrash in ice and slush and chilling water. The goatskin bag floats in front of him. Andrei reaches into it for the box. He takes out the cup, holding it up. The dazzle of its beauty is as bright as ever, this time Andrei seeing it as it really is, the cup a circle of reined-in horses, spinning as if in a whirlwind, the ruby in its eye.
A sense of quiet settles over Andrei with the twitching of his temple. It seems that the blood-red ray ascending from the cup warms him. The vision grows as the Scythian warrior rises from his horse into the sky.
“No!” he thinks. “No! No!” and in a last flash of consciousness, he flings the cup into the storm.
Andrei’s rejected the Scythian cup, and it’s only now that he begins to hear the rattle. Above the splash of ice-cold water, the blasts of wind-swept snow, Andrei hears for a moment the clattering of Snow Walker’s dewclaw rattle. He swallows water, coughs, and wonders if this is what it is to die. He’s no longer cold, and he falls into a calming sleep.
And then he slowly wakes, the time an hour or an instant...he doesn’t know which. Andrei feels the pinch of sharp claws clinging at his sheepskin, and he’s dragged from the water up onto the ice. The next thing he does know, he’s standing alone on the surface of the ice.
All at once he notices that the wind blows warm, a thawing wind, the snow sticking more than ever to his clothes. Again for a brief moment he hears a rattle and sees a black form ahead, cutting through the curtain of snow. He hears growling, as if a bear’s shadow calls him to follow. But what would a bear be doing out in the winter? And why would it be helping Andrei? But then he remembers seeing the bear that day at the rock. Whatever is happening, Andrei doesn’t have much choice but to follow. The wind is at his back, and every few moments the dark figure shows through the choking blanket of snow.
He walks to keep his circulation, keep from freezing in his wet clothes, boots sliding on ice, tramping through drifts, gripping on crusts...gripping on crusts...deeper snow...
There’s no more ice! He’s in a snowbank up to his thighs. Shoreline, and high banks against willows. Andrei grabs hold of branches, using them to pull himself along. Waist deep in snow, he plunges on through willows. After a while he’s more and more certain where he is. Once through the willows, he makes out a high cliff to his right. He comes to the grove of twisted trees, and the cabin.
He doesn’t know if he opens the door, or if it is opened for him. All he knows is that a hot fire burns in a tin stove. He stumbles to it, a boy inside a mass of ice-stiff sheepskin. Snow Walker takes him by the arm and sits him down in a chair by the stove, helps him remove his frozen clothing.
Andrei shivers, wrapped in a blanket, absorbing heat from the stove. Boiling water bubbles in a blackened tea can on the tin stove. Snow Walker pours tea into a tin cup and he spoons in sugar. He passes the cup to Andrei. The tea is hot and sweet, warming his stomach, giving him energy, lessening his shivers. Only after Andrei finishes the tea does Snow Walker feed him. He dishes stew into a blue enamel bowl and hands it to Andrei, who spoons the meat stew into his mouth. For a moment Snow Walker watches him eat, then passes him a slice of bannock, a saucer of corn syrup, and another cup of the hot tea.
Neither says anything. The time before, when Andrei met with Snow Walker, it was Chi Pete who translated. The silence doesn’t seem to matter. The only sound is the snap of the fire and the drip of water from Dido’s sheepskin hanging from a beam on the ceiling. After an hour, Andrei’s finally warm. Snow Walker spreads wolfskins on a willow cot. He says something in Cree, and points for Andrei to lie down.
The drips of water from the sheepskin have formed a small puddle by the stove. The ice has melted from the coat. The heat from the stove, and the wet wool emit a scorched smell of comfort. Andrei stands up and reaches into the inside pocket of the coat. He takes out the little bag and hands it to Snow Walker.
The pipe glistens in the firelight. Snow Walker lays it in the palm of his hand. He strokes the poppy flower engravings on each side of the cup. Turns it round and round in his fingers like Dido does. Lifts the pipe to his nose. Only then does he put the pipe back in the bag, to hand back to Andrei.
“No, no,” Andrei says, holding his hands up, indicating for Snow Walker to keep it, that the Cossack pipe is a gift. Andrei’s sure that Dido wouldn’t mind. It just seems right that Snow Walker should have it; Andrei doesn’t have anything else to give.
•••
Andrei sleeps through the rest of the day, all night, and most of the next morning. When he wakes, it’s noon. A small table sits by the cot. His clothing is dry and draped over a chair. On the table are the Cossack pipe, a package of tobacco, and a weasel skin bundle. Snow Walker stands at the other end of the table. He takes tobacco in one hand, and the pipe in the other, nods at Andrei, then draws his hands together. Andrei squints. Snow Walker gestures again that he wants to fill the pipe and smoke it. Andrei nods as if speaking for his dido.
Snow Walker takes a pan of embers from the stove and places a length of braided grass on the coals. Smoke issues and he lets it rise through his hands holding the clay pipe. He lets it pass over the weasel skin bundle, and then he lights the pipe, drawing the tobacco smoke four times. He speaks in Cree, but not to Andrei. He speaks skyward, the Cossack pipe raised toward the ceiling.
It’s only after this ceremony that he opens the weasel skin. Inside it are a black feather, a square of red flannel, and a bear claw. Snow Walker places the white clay pipe in the bundle, tying it closed. There’s nothing more. Andrei thinks it must be time for him to leave. The storm’s over and he’s anxious to get home. The family must be worried sick. And the colt! He’d give anything if only Vityr made it home! Sunlight streams through the window. He dresses. Snow Walker feeds him tea and bannock.
When Andrei finishes eating, he puts on the sheepskin and his hat, holds his mitts in one hand, and in the centre of cabin, stands face to face with Snow Walker. He extends his right hand, touching Snow Walker’s elbow. He wants to embrace him, but Andrei doesn’t know if that’s what he should do to show his thanks to a Cree medicine man. With both hands, Snow Walker grasps Andrei’s arm, nods, and a grin breaks across the creases of his leathery face. He hands Andrei another piece of bannock to put in his pocket, and opens the door. Andrei’s now ready to go home.
The forest outside is nothing that he remembers. Last night he paid attention only to the black form leading him. He’d seen this place before, but it was in the summer. This morning everything’s banked with snow, but at least the wind has died.
A squirrel chatters high up on a branch. The snow’s deep, but Andrei thinks he knows the way. Some of the terrain he recognizes from the summer. The high cliff on his left, the willow shrubs ahead. Soon he’s through the willows and knows for sure that he’s at the bottom of the coulee. It’s then he hears the jingle-jangle of bells. A horse and sleigh appear at the top of the hill.
“Hey!” Andrei yells, waving his arms. It’s Gabriel and Chi Pete! And someone else is with them. Someone wearing an Old Country hat. It has to be Petrus. “Hey! Hey! Down here. I’m down here!”
They leave the sleigh at the top, running to meet Andrei more than halfway down the hill. “Andrei!” Gabriel cries, grabbing the boy’s shoulders with a shake and then a hug.
“Petrus!” Andrei says. �
�What’s Petrus doing here?” Andrei and Petrus hug each other, over and over.
“Thank God you are safe!” Petrus says. “Chi Pete thought you might be around here somewhere.”
“We were taking Petrus to your place,” Gabriel says.
“He came to Batoche yesterday,” Chi Pete says. “Right to the store. I asked him who he was looking for, and he said ‘Stefan Bayda.’ So we set out, early this morning.”
“We met your father on the trail,” Gabriel says. “He’d been searching for you half the night. ‘Thank God you found Petrus,’ he said. ‘You know the country better than I do,’ he said. ‘Find Andrei!’ Your father said he had been in the barn with the cow...three o’clock in the morning when your horse appeared out of the storm. Your father left the cow struggling to have its calf, and he went looking for you. When he met us, he kept repeating, ‘Please find Andrei.’ And then he said that he had to go back to the cow. He said that if the cow died, everybody might perish before the Canadian winter finished its work.”
“So Vityr’s in the barn,” Andrei says.
“So your father told us,” Chi Pete says.
Petrus steps between them. His smile is as bright as the sun. “I’m glad I didn’t come all the way to Canada just to find you frozen to death.” He hugs Andrei again, cheek to cheek, one side then the other. Petrus’s hat falls in the snow.
“My God! What a country this is!” Petrus says, tromping in snow above his knees.
“Your hat,” Andrei says, holding back from laughing.
“What’s wrong?” Petrus asks. “It’s the same hat I always wear.”
“Sure,” Andrei says. “Nothing wrong with your hat. Nothing wrong with that hat, is there, Chi Pete?”
“Not that I can see,” Chi Pete says. “Is something supposed to be wrong with it?”
Andrei and the Snow Walker Page 14
