Shelter

by Frances Greenslade

  She felt helpless, bobbing in the chop, miles from anywhere with no sign of Emil and a boat she couldn’t operate. Rock cliffs on one side, a wall of forest in front of her and a rough sea out beyond the shelter of the bay. She wouldn’t let herself panic. She started the Coleman stove that they used on the deck when the weather was nice, and she boiled her clams and made coffee. But she vowed to pay more attention to what Emil was doing to the engine.

  Rita swallowed and had a hard time getting the next words out. “She had learned something and she told me she never forgot it. She said she tried to teach you girls, too.”

  She seemed to be struggling to keep from crying.

  “What was it?” I asked.

  “She wouldn’t ever put herself in someone else’s hands like that again.” Tears ran down the side of Rita’s nose and she brushed them away. “You should never do that. End up at someone else’s mercy. She knows it. I know it. You have to look out for your own safety.” She breathed deeply. “I think you probably understand this, Maggie. You, me, Irene, we’re all a bit like that. We protect ourselves. You even more than your mother. You can take that as a compliment. But it makes us difficult to live with. Irene decided that from then on, whenever they went to shore, she’d make sure she had everything she needed—matches, a knife, and food.”

  It grew dark and the tide went out again. She heard something big splashing around out near the cliffs. An owl called. You know what the owl call is supposed to mean, right? It’s just silly superstition, but try to convince yourself of that when you’re grounded in a tide pool in the dark, with just a mast light and an oil lantern.

  The owl call made her think suddenly that she should be out there looking for him. He must be cold and hungry. Maybe she should have gone looking hours before. It hadn’t even occurred to her.

  She couldn’t see anything on the beach now. She considered slopping through the shallow water in her rubber boots to the shore. She could take the big flashlight and try to signal him. But her anger returned and instead she went below deck and crawled into the bunk. She didn’t expect to sleep, but when she next opened her eyes, an orange light was flickering on the porthole.

  When she went up on the deck, she saw a bonfire burning on the beach. She climbed down the ladder and into the dinghy. She couldn’t call out to him. She didn’t know what to say or what she would find. The tide was coming in and light was starting to show over the trees. It was near dawn. When she pulled the dinghy onto the beach, he didn’t get up from where he sat by the fire. He looked strange and distant. Her first thought was that he was mad at her. Maybe she really didn’t understand how things worked out there. There was something she was supposed to have done, and she missed it and now he would take her back to Bella Coola and drop her off.

  She said his name. She asked him if he was all right.

  He didn’t answer. A shiver ran through her. She really didn’t know much about him at all, and she was out there in her rubber boots and pyjamas with only a flannel jacket over top.

  Let’s go, she said. Put out the fire. Let’s go back to the boat.

  He looked behind him at the woods as if he had been followed.

  What is it? she said. Finally, he stood up and began to walk to the dinghy. She kicked some sand into the fire and hopped into the dinghy and, since he was making no effort to move, she took the oars and rowed them back.

  He was covered in bleeding scratches and deeper cuts. Leaves and bits of bark and twigs were tangled in his thick curls and his shirt was ripped to shreds. When she saw the state he was in, she forgot her anger and her fear. She helped him take his shirt off and she boiled water and tried to wash his cuts. But he turned away from her. He wouldn’t let her pull out the thorns and nettles that had made burning rashes on his skin. So she made him tea and a can of beans. He ate without looking at her.

  What happened? she kept asking. He finished the food and lay down, turned his back to her and fell asleep.

  “It’s getting chilly. Let’s go back.”

  “What?” I said.

  “Back to the house. The sun’s gone,” Rita said.

  “Oh, I thought Irene said that.”

  We jumped down off the boulder and headed back through the woods to Rita’s.

  “I have some deer sausage,” she said. “We can have that with potatoes.”

  We ate on the porch, watching the light disappear behind the snow-topped mountains. We didn’t talk much; I was still out on Emil’s boat, waiting to hear what had happened to him. I only wanted things to turn out well if I could think of this Irene as someone who was not my mother. I wanted everything to be okay with Emil; I didn’t want him to drop her off in Bella Coola. They might be out there still, roasting fish on the beach and chugging into civilization only to grub up and get gas.

  It seemed to me that Rita could do that, separate the Irene she knew from this girl she was telling me about. She wasn’t angry as she told the story. There was no jealousy or bitterness in her voice.

  “It took several days before Emil was anything close to his old self,” Rita began again.

  It was as if he’d been under a spell, and one morning it lifted. They were drinking their tea in the silence that Irene had stopped trying to fight when he said, I’m sorry. I know I had no business leaving you like that.

  Then he told her in a rush all the things he loved about her: the noise she made when she sipped her tea, her strong hands, the way she frowned when she was concentrating. He took her hands and kissed her neck and repeated that he was sorry, he didn’t know what he had been thinking. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He promised to do better. And Irene was relieved. He was the Emil she loved again. She assumed it had been an aberration and she forgave him.

  They ran into Namu for gas and grub. That night was behind them. Nothing had happened. They slipped down the ladder to swim in the sea. They gathered sea urchins and dug clams, tried drying seaweed and sprinkling it on their eggs in the morning. Emil’s cuts healed. They made love with the hatch open and the stars shining on them.

  But in the evenings, he told her bits and pieces of the most fantastic story.

  You should know, he said. I don’t want to scare you, but you may have noticed the birds following us. They’ve been following me since Winnipeg.

  That’s what he said.

  Just when I think I’ve escaped them, they come back. I’m not saying they’re the same birds.

  Irene had noticed the birds, too. Had they been there all along? And he’d say, There are things we don’t understand, things that happen that we can’t explain rationally. Irene knew that to be true. He’d say, You don’t think I’m crazy, do you? She said no. She began to watch the cormorants that hung around the Elsa and the bald eagles that gazed down on them from the branches of spruce trees. But she also noticed that Emil’s eyes had a bright restless sheen she hadn’t seen before.

  The other morning in the old village house, he said one evening, I heard them. They were outside, but I knew it wouldn’t be long before they figured out how to get in. I waited until they were in the trees by the beach and I ducked out of the house and ran for it. That’s how I got all cut up. It wasn’t that I was deserting you. It was important to him that she understood that. It’s me they’re looking for.

  He told her he managed to evade them for a while. But when he had to stop and catch his breath, he heard them in the tops of the cedars, their wings beating the air. They were screaming down at him.

  He warned her that she’d find it a little hard to believe what happened next. He saw a huge feather lying on a rock. It wasn’t an eagle feather, or a hawk’s; it was about two feet long. He thought it might be an offering of some kind, or maybe some kind of protection. So he picked it up.

  I would never trust anyone else with this story. I’m not making this up.

  And Irene saw that he believed every word of what he told her.

  He lowered his voice to a whisper. When I picked up
the feather, I became a bird. A giant one, about the size of a human. I lifted on these huge wings and I rose above the tops of the cedars and I just kept going. I broke through the low cloud. The sun was shining up there, but the world beneath had disappeared, the ocean, the forest, everything was gone. Then I saw mountains, snow-topped, almost silver and I found myself landing at the foot of one, in front of a large black bird who was surrounded by other, smaller birds. How did you get here? he asked. His voice was weird, like a crackly radio.

  I picked up a feather, I said.

  You’re lying.

  I’m not.

  Where is it then? Give it to me.

  I don’t know where it went. I must have dropped it.

  You’re lying.

  I don’t know what happened to it.

  That’s what you always say, isn’t it?

  No.

  It’s never your fault, is it?

  Then Emil told Irene there was something he had never told her, never told anyone at all. He needed to tell her. The bird knew it. He didn’t know how, but he knew.

  Irene wasn’t afraid of what he would say. All she wanted then was to be worthy of whatever secret he told her.

  The bird said, I know all about your brother and what you said and what you didn’t. You told yourself it wasn’t really lying if you didn’t tell everything. Humans don’t know how to lie. You could learn a lot from us birds. We don’t feel guilty. You start to feel so guilty, you erase all the benefit you got from lying in the first place.

  The bird offered Emil a deal. He’d keep Emil’s secret if Emil kept his. The bird’s secret was that place. He called it his kingdom. He said Emil had to find the feather he’d dropped and bury it. Not just shallowly either. He wanted it at least three feet underground. Emil said he would do it. Next thing he knew he was lying on the forest floor again. He looked for the feather. He must have looked for hours, until it was too dark to see. Then he came back to the beach and lit the fire.

  So you never found it? Irene asked.

  Emil said no. But he thought maybe it was a trick. Maybe the bird already had the feather. He probably got a good laugh at his expense.

  Irene said that in spite of how crazy the story sounded, she believed him. Or she didn’t believe exactly what he had said, but she believed the essence of what he had told her, that he had had some strange encounter. And she was nervous about the fact that he hadn’t found the feather like the bird asked. She thought this would haunt Emil. She asked him if he thought they should go back and look for it.

  He said no. He thought it was best to stay away from there.

  “What about the brother?” I asked.

  Irene didn’t push it, and for a while it seemed as if Emil had forgotten about it. One afternoon, a wind kicked up. It looked as though it might blow for days and they needed to find shelter before it really blew up. But they’d left it a bit too late, I guess.

  The Elsa pounded into giant waves that broke over the deck. The chart showed a bay ahead, but all they could see, when they cleared a bit of window, was a choppy foaming white sea. The wind kept pushing them back and little by little the Elsa had edged close to the high cliffs. They had to worry about not only the cliffs, but what might be near them, under the water. Irene steered while Emil poked his head out and shouted directions.

  They were being hammered by the wind, not making any headway. The cliffs were drawing closer. Emil thought they might be smartest to try and tie up to a deadhead rising straight up out of the water. He went out on deck with a pole and tried to keep the Elsa from smashing into the rocks. It was a terrifying couple of hours. Irene could hear things scraping the hull. Rocks or submerged trees or something else, she didn’t know. Water crashed over the Elsa and she dipped and plunged like she might go down for good. Finally, out of the storm, a bigger fishing boat came alongside. They tossed them a rope and towed the Elsa in behind the shelter of a kelp bed.

  The water suddenly flattened out. She said it was the strangest thing to see. Emil told her he’d heard that the Indians used to slide their dugout canoes up on top of these kelp islands when the water was too rough. They even built fires on them and rode out the storms there.

  The fishermen told Emil there was a good chance they’d damaged the Elsa’s propeller or cracked the hull since there were mountain peaks of rock under the water where they’d been tied up. He went below to check, but could see no sign of cracks. The fishermen said they’d let someone know to check on them when the weather let up.

  That night, with the waves crashing into the kelp bed and the storm lashing rain against the portholes, Emil handed Irene a photograph of a boy, about her age.

  That’s my brother, he said. That picture was taken in high school. He was beautiful.

  Irene agreed. He had thick black hair like Emil’s, and dark spirited eyes. His smile was a grin, all confidence.

  His name was Edward and he was a year older than Emil. Everybody loved him. He was always happy, a practical joker. He had a beautiful voice, sang in the church and school choirs. Most people didn’t know that he had a mean side. Emil said he may have been the only one who knew about that.

  Socially, Edward was at ease in a way Emil never was. He liked people, he knew how to like them. He hated how nervous Emil was. What did he have to be nervous about? Sometimes, after they’d been somewhere together, he’d just open a valve and let all his hate pour out on Emil. Why couldn’t Emil ever say the right thing? Didn’t he realize he insulted people? He was embarrassed to be seen with Emil. He said that often. He told Emil he should go live like a hermit in the bush since he couldn’t learn how to act properly in public. He’d rage and roar like a wildfire you couldn’t stop until finally he’d start to sputter out.

  Emil said that everything Edward said was more or less true so he didn’t know how he could defend himself. He didn’t even try.

  But one day after school had ended for the year, they went out to a bush party. Everyone got drunk, Emil included. Edward didn’t say anything to him that night as they were walking home and Emil was relieved. The next day they went fishing, just the two of them. They went down to a bridge over a creek near their house. They drank some beer to take the edge off the night before. But Emil knew there was something coming. There was always something coming.

  His brother had this way of clearing his throat before he spoke. It was a kind of warning. And he finally heard it, the throat clearing. Edward was good at finding Emil’s most vulnerable places. Some people are like that. Siblings maybe most of all.

  You were an embarrassment. That much he remembered, but that was nothing new. That girl you were chatting up thought you were an idiot. I saw her laughing it up with her girlfriends after you walked away.

  He’d heard worse before, but Emil liked the girl and that day, he’d had enough. He shoved Edward so hard in the chest, he went down on the bridge on his back. His head hit something, hard, and he kind of bounced back up. He was surprised. Emil had never fought back.

  Edward sat there rattled for a few minutes while Emil brought in his line. The day was ruined. He was going home. Edward caught up to him and said, So you do know how to defend yourself. His voice was a little slurred. Emil thought he’d bitten his tongue when he hit the bridge.

  That night Edward didn’t come down for supper. He told their mother he had a headache and wasn’t feeling well. He stayed up there all night. When Emil went to bed, he thought Edward was pretending to sleep so he wouldn’t have to talk to him. Edward wouldn’t apologize—he never had—but something might have to change, now that Emil had stood up to him.

  When he woke up the next morning, he turned over and saw Edward still sleeping. It was late and he wondered what kind of game Edward was playing. But something made him uneasy. Maybe he was too still, or maybe it was too odd, Edward sleeping in on a beautiful Sunday morning when he usually met his friends in the park for rugby. He went to Edward’s bed and leaned over him to get a look at his face. His skin was the
colour of ashes. He put his hand on his arm to nudge him. He was cold.

  “Oh my god,” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Rita. “He called for his mother. She came running. When the doctor got there, he focused on that headache Edward had complained of. Emil didn’t even know if his brother really had a headache or if it was just something he told his mother. But the doctor went from there. He asked about what Edward had been doing the day before and Emil told about the party on Friday night, told about the fishing, and the beer they’d had to drink. He just didn’t tell about the way he’d shoved him so hard he’d slammed his head into the bridge.”

  “Poor Emil,” I said.

  The stars had come out. Rita carried our plates into the kitchen and put the kettle on to make tea. I stepped off the porch to get a better look at the sky. I could see Cassiopeia above the house. I wondered if Mom was out on the Elsa again with Emil, looking at these same constellations. Maybe they’d both been lost at sea. It could have been an accident. But I couldn’t go from the last time Rita had seen her to an accident on the Elsa without a lot of time in between that I couldn’t account for.

  “I’m almost at the end of what I know, of what she told me,” Rita said when she came back with steaming mugs.

  When the weather calmed, Emil went underwater to look at the propeller. Sure enough, a blade had been sheared off. They hailed a passing boat and were towed into Namu.

  The wharf was busy with boats coming and going. That was 1958, the year of the record salmon run. Seine boats were coming in loaded down with all this fish. People made their fortunes that year. The village stank of fish. Boats were tied to the float six deep. At night the tires that kept the boats off the dock creaked and rocked, the wind rang through the rigging, and voices carried across the water. Irene wanted to leave as soon as possible. But Emil seemed in no hurry. He struck up conversations with the fishermen and drank beer and tinkered with the boat while he waited for the propeller. He said he planned to get in on the salmon run and needed to refit the boat for it. Not wanting to feel like a prisoner to his plans, Irene went for long walks along trails in the bush, picking berries.