Beyond the Wild River

by Sarah Maine

  Breakfast was quickly prepared and eaten, and within the hour they were back on the river, heading north. The men paddled strongly against the current, then glided over the still waters of the next lake, their reflections mirrored in the surface, and a viscous wake spread fanlike behind them.

  Lake Marie, Mr Skinner told her.

  At the end of the lake they joined the river again and entered a high-sided gorge where rock rose on either side to form a roofless tunnel. The green-black water was lit occasionally by narrow darts of brilliant light where the sun found a gap amongst the rocks, and the men struggled against the current. They were breathing heavily by the time they reached the next portage, their shirts stained with sweat.

  ‘Split Rock Portage,’ said Mr Skinner as he helped the guests ashore. ‘Jest a short one.’

  It was, but it was over rough terrain. Portage boxes were packed again and raised on the men’s backs, tumplines stretched across their foreheads causing neck muscles to tauten and teeth to be gritted. And next the canoes themselves were lifted shoulder high and brought across, and it seemed to Evelyn that the men had barely rested before Skinner was getting them back into the canoes. They paddled on for another hour or so. ‘Island Portage,’ declared Skinner. ‘We’ll eat here, and rest awhile. From here on up, the river gets wild.’

  The rocks where they spread themselves were worn smooth, scoured of lichens by melting floodwaters and scarred by moving ice. Scrubby plants and mosses had found purchase in some of the cracks and crevices, succoured by the fine spray which blew back from the cascading water. They could not see the nearby falls, but their roar was clearly audible. Skinner offered to take the two women to where there was a good view to be had while the men fished from the rocks, and lunch was prepared.

  He led them along a narrow trail which rose uphill to a point where they could look down onto the river, and where a wooded island divided the current. On either side the water surged past in a turbulent flood, dashing through a narrow rocky flume and sending spray into their faces.

  ‘I’ve pulled some big ones from outa there,’ Skinner shouted above the roar, and whatever response Clementina made was lost in the din.

  Evelyn looked down from the edge of the rocks, mesmerised by the sight before her. Nothing could be further removed from the river at home which flowed sedately past the ordered fields of her father’s estate, tinkling over long-smoothed pebbles where the cattle wandered down to drink. Surely they would never dare put the canoes back into the water above such a place!

  At the top of the falls, where the river slid over the edge, the mass of it looked like a curved block of clear ice, before it fell to explode into a mass of thundering white water, sweeping all before it with a relentless energy. The rocks vibrated with the force of it.

  Then she felt a hand grip her arm and pull her firmly away. ‘Don’t stare at it.’ It was James. ‘You’ll lose your balance and you’ll be in.’ He released her arm and turned to tell Mr Skinner that the food was ready.

  ‘All that energy, just disappearing into noise and spray,’ her father was saying as they returned to the group. Luncheon, once again, was salt pork, bannock, and beans.

  ‘Difficult to harness it up here,’ George remarked.

  ‘Maybe one day, though, when the railways have opened things up.’

  Evelyn had been watching large ants carrying off crumbs of bannock and thinking that they looked like the men weighed down with their packs. A brightly coloured butterfly came and landed on a plant growing nearby, whose closed bell-flowers reminded her of the heathers back home. ‘But it’s too beautiful to spoil, surely, with all that ugly, clanking machinery—’

  ‘You rode the streetcar in Port Arthur, did you not? What do you imagine powered that?’ her father asked with a smile. ‘And the great wheel at the Fair?’

  ‘And all those lovely lights that danced along the White City’s rooftops—’ Mr Larsen added.

  ‘There is always a cost, Evelyn, a price you have to pay.’

  But the White City was now a thing of dreams, a distant memory, a million miles away. The same was true of the Valkyrie with its gleaming brass, its striped awnings and lobster canapés. Even the busy wharves of Port Arthur or Nipigon town were civilisation in comparison to where they were now. Life had been stripped bare. Had they really been on the river only four days? Or was it five—?

  And then Skinner was on his feet again and the guides began packing up, stamping out the fire and pouring water on the hot ashes. ‘Only short portages from now on,’ he said as the men settled the packs onto their backs, ‘and we’ll make camp at the bottom end of Emma Lake.’

  And so they rejoined the river, following it north, and it disappeared ahead of them round twists and bends, in and out of shadow and sunlight. The jagged cliffs before them seemed to converge, in some places almost closing in to form a funnel of rock. Large birds wheeled and turned above them. Eagles, James told her, following her gaze— Solitary pines clung to the rocky heights, standing sharp against the skyline; others had fallen, torn from their flimsy hold to be caught halfway down the cliffs, or had tumbled all the way to lay as brittle skeletons beside the river where they made perches for the kingfishers.

  No other boats had passed them since one had hailed them late last night, heading downstream past their campsite, and apart from the crude landings which marked the start of the portages, there was now no sign of human civilisation. They had travelled fewer than twenty miles since leaving Skinner’s lodge, barely the distance from Ballantyre House to the North Sea coast, but to Evelyn it felt as if only the essentials of life now remained.

  Chapter 20

  Up the Nipigon River: Third Campsite

  It was late when they set up their third camp. The evening air was sharp by then and the wind blew fitfully through the forest. ‘Season’s changing,’ Louis remarked as Evelyn pulled on her jacket. The cleared area was smaller here, so the tents had to be pitched close together. Skinner’s still straddled the divide, sited between the three guest tents and the native shelters, but the separation was now more symbolic than real, and that night they huddled close around a single fire.

  ‘Try not to get downwind of Machk,’ Clementina spoke in a low voice, and Evelyn frowned at her.

  ‘So,’ Skinner was saying. ‘It’s up to you. We can stop here now and fish Emma Lake or there’s a good spot just below White Chute. Or some of you c’n carry on up the last stretch past Devil Rapids and on towards Virgin Falls. But maybe not the ladies—’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Evelyn.

  Skinner scratched his chin. ‘Kinda tough going, missee.’

  ‘Then we won’t attempt it, my dear,’ said her father, with a smile but a note of finality in his voice. ‘I don’t speak for the others, of course.’

  ‘I’m for heading on—’ said Rupert.

  ‘Yes, I think you should,’ said her father, and Evelyn saw James raise his head. ‘Melton? What about you?’ George looked quizzically across at Clemmy, who returned him an uncertain look.

  ‘I shall stay here with the Ballantyres,’ said Mr Larsen, ‘and let the fish come downstream to me.’ Evelyn watched as Clementina pulled George to one side, and some earnest conversation ensued. She could imagine what was being said. Clementina’s appreciation of the forest had run its course and she was becoming more fearful as they headed north.

  In the end, however, it was agreed that both George and Rupert would continue on upriver, leaving early the next morning. They would fish for a day, then pitch camp, and return the following morning. Clementina looked unhappy with this, but George was clearly resolute. Mr Skinner put Louis in charge of the party going north and said that he would take with him Machk, the two Ojibway boys, and James. Marcel, to his evident disgust, was to stay at the camp in charge of the remaining natives to ensure that the older men got some good fishing. Skinner would stay too.

  ‘You will be fine, my dear,’ she heard George say.

  James began gathering u
p the plates and kept his head down. He did not want to meet Ballantyre’s eye in case the man read his mind. If he was going upriver with Dalston, then this would be his chance to settle the matter at last. He would have to take Louis into his confidence, he thought, as he dumped the plates beside the two boys and began sorting through the gear necessary for the expedition. Louis and Machk could hold on to Melton in case he turned nasty, but he would deal with Dalston himself, and by the time they returned Ballantyre would have his confession.

  He looked up as Skinner approached. ‘Change of plan. Marcel’s going. You’re staying.’

  James paused, a rope length in his hand. ‘No. I’m going—’

  Skinner snorted. ‘You ain’t. Mister Ballantyre thinks maybe the others got more experience, he remembered that first day at the jetty, see?’ He raised his hand, deaf to James’s protests. ‘You’ve only got yerself to blame. Can’t take the risk, once he’s said that—’

  But James was no longer listening. He threw the rope aside and went back to the campfire, but Ballantyre was not there. He looked around and he saw him, in the fading light, a little way along the riverbank with his back to him, lighting one of his infernal cigars. James made off towards him, stopping only to pick up two of the water pails to give himself a purpose.

  Ballantyre was clearly anticipating him and he turned as he heard the crunch of James’s boots on the rocks, and viewed him with grim irony. ‘There’s nothing wrong with your river skills, of course,’ he said, in a quiet voice, ‘only with your temperament. I can’t take that risk. Fill your buckets.’ And he turned away, pulling on the cigar and blowing the smoke out over the water.

  ‘If you think—’

  ‘Fill them, man, and stop glowering at me.’ James swore softly but bent to the river’s edge and threw in the buckets. ‘Tomorrow, James. When they’ve gone, there will be a chance for me to explain. And perhaps then you’ll understand.’

  The morning, however, opened with a howl of rage from Skinner followed by a tirade against the two Ojibway boys. It appeared that the canoe most suitable for the trip up north had been badly packed after the last portage, and the blade of an axe had ripped through the birch bark, leaving a gash below the waterline. It would require patching, stitching, and sealing before the party could set off. Skinner unleashed such a deluge of abuse over the two boys that they exchanged glances, then silently gathered their possessions and set off into the forest. Skinner roared at them to return but was ignored, and he turned to Marcel, demanding that he go after them and bring them back.

  ‘They wouldn’t come, not after what you called them,’ Marcel replied and stood, arms folded, and watched them disappear down the trail. ‘Why would they?’

  ‘They’re your kin, so go find someone else.’

  Marcel tossed him a scornful look, and went over to the fire.

  This departure left them shorthanded, Skinner explained, looking rather sheepish, with not enough men to take the party upriver, see? They would have to wait for the repair to be done, and see if extra hands could be found. He would send Marcel off to try to make contact with groups hunting in the area, and maybe bring back more men.

  James saw Ballantyre glance at him and then speak with a careful nonchalance. ‘So today can be a day of leisure for us all. Very welcome, I daresay. I understand that the ladies’ fishing trophy is still unclaimed?’ He smiled at Lady Melton. ‘Perhaps Niels will take on the role of judge for you – while I’ve a fancy to try my luck at this pool that James was telling me about, if he’ll take me up there—’ From the corner of his eye James saw Louis stop and look across at him.

  ‘I’ll take you myself, sir,’ said Skinner, his face brightening. ‘James c’n stay here and start fixing that canoe, Louis too. While Marcel c’n get himself downriver a ways and find someone who’ll replace those no good sons of—’ He stopped himself, and James saw a flicker of annoyance pass over Ballantyre’s face. ‘I’ve been fishing Astra’s Pool longer than any of these boys, mister, and there’s an old monster lurking up there you might do business with. Bin hooked a dozen times but never landed. A real fighter!’

  ‘And I’ll join you, Charles, if I may,’ said Larsen. ‘And we can judge the ladies’ fishing derby together when we return.’

  There was nothing to be done. James saw Ballantyre nod politely and then gave a half-shrug as he passed him. ‘Another time,’ he murmured. ‘But soon—’

  With her father, Mr Larsen, and Mr Skinner all gone up the trail to Astra’s Pool, and with the departure of the two Indian boys, the campsite felt empty. Evelyn was not sure why this made her feel uneasy, but it did. Perhaps it was because the forest here seemed darker and more dense, pinning them to the rocky shelf above the river. How was it that one could feel exposed while at the same time claustrophobic and confused? In this wide, expansive land, she felt trapped.

  A small creature with a striped tail and bulging eyes appeared suddenly and took her attention; she watched it dart in and steal a crumb from under the table. And as she followed its retreat up a tree she saw scorch marks on the trunk and that lower branches were blackened. Some past campfire out of control, perhaps? ‘Lightning fire, more like,’ Louis said, in answer to her question. ‘Sometimes it just blows straight through, scarring the bark.’

  ‘But doesn’t kill the trees?’

  He shook his head. ‘It clears out the dead wood and lets in the light. And then the forest is stronger.’

  She watched as the small creature came back for more. ‘But what about the animals?’

  ‘Some die. Others flee before the flames. The quick ones, the healthy ones, the ones you want to survive. And later they return. Same with the people, the forest-dwellers; they run and then return when the fire’s blown through. Been that way always.’ And he told her that these people had left rock paintings up above the waterfall, done many years ago, centuries perhaps.

  ‘Could we go and see them?’

  ‘Bien sûr.’

  She went over to Clementina and asked if she wished to come along. ‘And George, will you and Rupert?’ George agreed, but Rupert said he had no interest in primitive art and would stay in camp; the gun he wanted to take up north with him needed cleaning.

  And so the four of them set off along an overgrown trail through the trees where the sounds of the river and its waterfall soon faded away, leaving a cool sort of silence. Evelyn breathed deeply, savouring the damp pine smell of balsam and crushed needles. She was not sorry that Rupert had stayed behind, although she would have been hard-pressed to explain why. Since the visit to the Indian camp he had seemed restless and edgy, sometimes sulky, and she had found his company less congenial than she had on the yacht. Perhaps he was bored, regretting having abandoned his original plan to go buffalo hunting. His wit seemed to have developed a sharp edge, and too often his remarks were condescending towards the natives, showing little concern that they might overhear. Perhaps he resented the new proximity between the servile and the served.

  James, she noticed, watched him with ill-disguised hostility.

  She stopped on the trail to pin back the hair that had escaped and was falling over her face. Ahead of her Louis also stopped and turned, looking beyond her back down the trail to where Clementina was struggling over a fallen tree trunk. Her skirts had caught on a snag, and George was endeavouring to free her.

  ‘We will wait for them,’ Louis said and pulled out a short pipe, cupping his hand around it to light it, and gestured to a recumbent log. ‘Rest a moment.’

  They were in a small clearing on the slope beside a clutch of low-growing trees which were covered with clusters of small red berries. ‘Are these edible?’ she asked, picking one and holding it between finger and thumb.

  Louis nodded. ‘Try it.’ She put it in her mouth and bit. A sharp sourness numbed her tongue and taste buds and she spat it out, wiped her mouth and looked up indignantly at Louis. ‘The sharpness gives flavour,’ he said, without apology. Then he put down his pipe and went to
the edge of the clearing and began gathering berries from the bushes there. He came back and dropped a handful into her lap. ‘But if it’s sweetness you want, then stick to these—’ and he picked up his pipe again.

  Clementina arrived, breathless from the climb. ‘Is it much farther?’ George followed, wafting a wide frond over their heads to keep the flies at bay.

  ‘Ten minutes only.’

  ‘Ooh, raspberries! Lovely,’ she said, seeing them in Evelyn’s lap and taking one. ‘Where did you find them?’

  ‘Louis got them. But avoid those.’ She pointed to the other berries and frowned at Louis. ‘They’re horrid.’

  Louis looked back at her through the blue smoke from his pipe. ‘But now you know, and can choose. Shall we go on?’

  Chapter 21

  Larsen essayed a cast, taking joy in the whirling sound of the line as it passed overhead. This was how he had imagined it would be, how he had planned it. Just himself and Ballantyre, fishing in a companionable silence, imbibing deeply of the peace, and the quiet. Simplify, simplify, simplify, Thoreau urged.

  There was no need for words, and perhaps this would be their only chance, away from the restlessness of the younger ones with their laughter and their chatter, their stories and their demands for one’s attention. This was what he had craved through those long dark days in his Boston office, bent over columns and figures, determined to leave things in good order. Just a lake with trees reflected in it, a perfect mirror, its surface broken only by the flies, real and counterfeit, which dared the trout to surface. Life simplified—

  Skinner had seen them set up with their rods and then wandered off, and Larsen could see him now, on the far side of the pond, settling himself down in the shade for a nap. Almost twenty years had passed since he had first come to Skinner’s lodge, and gone upriver with the old trader. How could that be? He had hardly noticed the years pass. The river had been quieter then, fewer people knew of it, and they had been good days. And now Skinner was an old man, wiry and strong still, but ageing. Like himself.