Soapstone Porcupine

by Jeff Pinkney

  Lindy is a bit more bent over than I remember, and he walks a bit slower. But his eyes are as bright as ever and his laugh rings with the same happiness. We walk back to where Dad and my brother and some of our guests have joined Mom. Everyone cheers and greets Lindy.

  “Wachay,” Mom says. “Will you join us for supper?”

  “Meegwetch,” says Lindy with a nod.

  Dad and my brother take Lindy’s bags to his room. He says he will sit by the river until suppertime.

  Then Lindy turns to me and says, “Please show me your carvings.”

  I run to my bedroom, reach under the bed, grab my special wooden box and run down to the riverbank.

  Lindy studies each one. The butterflies in my stomach are flying loop-deloops. Finally, he speaks.

  “You are a stone carver. Tell me about your signs and whispers and how you knew these carvings were inside the stone.”

  I tell him about the beluga whale on a canoe trip with Mom. About hunting with Dad, Stan and my brother. About missing on purpose when I shot at the snow goose and how much I worried about that. I tell him how I’m going to be a camera shooter now. About how I met the otters this past winter and how they went whooshing down the riverbank. I think I tell him all I’ve ever had to tell. It’s dusk when Mom calls us in for supper.

  Lindy hardly has time to eat a mouthful with all the excited questions and the laughter at the table.

  Bedtime comes too soon.

  Lindy joins us for breakfast. My brother has decided to spend his Saturday out hunting. I know what he is after. It is no surprise that the talk at the table is about poor Atim and the porcupine.

  “I once walked with a dog who tried to bite kâko,” Lindy says. “Many quills got stuck in his face. Just like your Atim, he whined and whimpered very loudly while I pulled them out.”

  “Have you ever hunted a porcupine?” my brother asks Lindy.

  “One winter long ago, my mother, my father, my sister and I became weak with hunger. My father sent me out to hunt kâko. At the end of that cold day, I turned my back to the setting sun and saw the quills reflected high in a pine tree. I promised kâko never to hunt him again if he would feed my family. We ate for the first time in days. My father pulled many quills from my hand that day.”

  “How did it feel to have quills stuck in you?”

  “I also whined and whimpered very loudly.”

  “Why did you promise to leave him alone?”

  “Many hunters choose to hunt kâko only when they are very hungry and other food is scarce. Those hunters believe that if you take kâko when you are not in great hunger, kâko may not be there when you are.”

  My brother is quiet. After breakfast he leaves with his rifle, Atim and the lunch Dad packed for him.

  Lindy invites me to the riverbank to carve with him.

  I feel sad about what my brother is doing. I also wonder what Atim will do if she faces the porcupine again.

  But you can’t be with Lindy and not be in a happy mood. Sometimes when he laughs, it’s like his whole face disappears into its wrinkles. We spend many hours together when he visits. He knows things about the animals that you can only know from being outside with them and watching them closely for many hours and days and years. I have lots of questions for him, especially about porcupines.

  “Have you ever carved a soapstone porcupine?”

  “A long time has passed since my signs have brought me kâko in the stone.”

  I tell him about the smell when I snuck up to take the pictures.

  “If you could smell the porcupine, it means you are not as sneaky as you think. That smell means kâko knew you were there.”

  “The scent was like a mix of spring swamp, summer garbage and my brother’s hockey bag when he forgets to air it out.”

  “To the porcupine’s sweetheart, that smell is like a bouquet of roses.” Lindy laughs, and so do I.

  “Why didn’t the porcupine run away?” I ask.

  “Kâko seldom runs. When kâko walks, he slowly sways from side to side, like he hasn’t a care in the world.”

  “Is that because of the quills?”

  Lindy nods. “Kâko is very brave in his own coat. He knows he is well protected. He can be curious about what other creatures are doing, but he will not be pushed to change his actions or his mind.”

  Lindy looks at the soapstone my brother gave me. “Your brother is a real prospector. He has found a good piece of carving stone.”

  As I sit with Lindy, I begin work on my soapstone porcupine. I also watch Lindy carve. He works as if he has eyes in his fingers. Where there was just an edge of raw stone, a paw or a beak or a wing will be formed. Sometimes a lot of time goes by before any words are said between us. But I always feel welcome. He shows me that he knows I am there by making sure I can see his hands and what he carves.

  The day slips by as all the best days do. When we go in for supper, my brother is not yet back from his day of hunting. As darkness falls, the loudest thing at our table is the empty plate at his spot.

  Dad looks worried.

  Mom does not.

  “He is a good woodsman, and he knows his way,” she says to Dad.

  But Dad wants to go look for him. He is starting to get ready when we hear a faint bark from outside. Mom is the first one to the door.

  We all go out to the porch.

  There is my brother, returning on the river path with Atim at his side. My brother has not brought home any kill. No one asks about that.

  Mom gives my brother a big hug. “Come, eat,” she says. “I have held a warm supper. You will not go hungry in this house.”

  The night ends as it usually does, with my brother and me tucked into our room.

  “Does your kâko have a stripe down one side of his face?”

  “Yes,” I say. “That is the one.”

  “He was in my sights just at dusk, high in a poplar tree. I was ready to take him. I told him I did not like what he did to Atim.”

  “And then what?”

  “I told him that I will not shoot my gun today. I told him that I will wait until I am very hungry and that now I know how to find him.”

  I fall asleep with pride in my heart for my brother. But I decide he doesn’t have to know it.

  Carving Tools and Tourists:

  You Can’t Push a Porcupine!

  Most folks board the train way to the south, where the roads end and the train tracks begin. Lindy and I are boarding for the last leg of the journey north. The train stops here just for us. Conductor Gillian is at the open door. She is a friend of Mom’s. Lindy is taking the train into town to carve for the tourists for a few days. He has invited me to join him for the first day. Mom and Dad said it was okay! I will ride home all by myself. I have never done that before. The butterflies in my stomach swarm with excitement.

  The train is warm and it rumbles and creaks. It is full of the sounds families and friends make when they are excited about a big adventure.

  The engineer blasts his horn long and loud as the train rolls into town. The station is bustling with travelers. Long ago, ships sailed here from France and England to trade for beaver pelts. Now tourists come to see the historic sites and to learn what it’s like to be Cree. Tourists also come here on canoe trips or to fish and hunt. Of course, lots of folks come to see the birds. The river is much wider here than where it passes by our lodge. We are so close now to where the river spills into the ocean that the river rises and falls with the tides.

  Lindy leads us near the town docks to where three other people sit along the shoreline. I see that they are carving soapstone. They are very happy to see Lindy. Lindy introduces me.

  Silas and Rose have come from the far northwest. Rose was born and raised here. She travels back with Silas every year. Silas shapes a beaver out of a piece of very dark stone. Rose carves a loon. They have carvings on display for tourists t
o buy.

  “I come up from down east way,” Pierre says.

  Pierre works with a large piece of brownish stone. He holds out his carving to me. It is an owl. He is working on the curved back and on forming the tail feathers. It is a beautiful carving. Beside Pierre are carvings of a walrus and an osprey. Pierre speaks French to the tourists who come by.

  Lindy unties the ribbon from his tool roll and spreads it out. The canvas has pouches that hold a set of rasp files, a well-worn jackknife and a beeswax candle for polish. He lays out his finished pieces beside him. He has two bear cubs, a beaver, a raccoon and a narwhal. Lindy begins to shape a new piece of stone.

  I unwrap my carving stone from the soft rags Mom gave me. I place my rasp file and my jackknife in front of me on a piece of cloth. I can hardly believe I am here with a group of carvers, and that today I am one of them.

  We get a lot of attention. Most folks approach shyly or watch from a distance. Some folks are not shy at all. Almost everyone takes pictures. I am wearing my camera around my neck and I take some pictures too.

  Rose looks at my carving. “I like how you have chosen to make your porcupine with the quills down. It gives me a much calmer feeling than if the quills were up for a fight.”

  My porcupine holds on to a tree trunk just like in my pictures. Pierre shows me how to use the tip of my knife blade to make the tree bark look real. Lindy shows me how to carve the porcupine’s claws so they look like they cling to the tree.

  Two giggly teenage girls sit down, one on either side of me. The girls ask if they can take a selfie with the three of us in it.

  “Okay,” I say and hold up my carving as they squeeze in for the picture.

  Pierre gives me a big wink and laughs. I laugh too—and blush.

  A tourist wants to buy one of Lindy’s bear cubs but thinks the price is too high. He offers less money than what Lindy is asking.

  Lindy laughs his friendly laugh and says, “Okay, but at that price I will take off the back leg and the tail.” The tourist laughs also and then gives Lindy his full price.

  Sometimes folks say things like, “Hey, kid, whatcha workin’ on?”

  I smile and say, “Work in progress,” but I move my hands like Lindy does so they can see what I am carving. My porcupine is almost finished. I have shaped the head, body and tail. Lindy has shown me how to polish the carving first and then etch the stone to show the porcupine quills.

  Silas and Rose have a sack filled with chunks of dark-gray stone. Their polished carvings are jet black with beautiful lines and light shining through. Lindy shows some of the white stone he collects from his secret locations. Silas picks up a piece. Lindy nods and accepts a piece of dark-gray soapstone in return. Pierre has some of his reddish-brown stone for trading. Now I know how Lindy gets so many types of carving stone in his sack.

  Dad packed a big lunch before the train left this morning. We have enough to share with Silas, Rose and Pierre. I don’t know how Dad knew to pack so many extra sandwiches. He can be pretty smart sometimes.

  The afternoon flies by. Freighter canoes zip back and forth like big green water bugs. Barges swim like giant beavers with loads of lumber. Waves dance sideways and wash like drum rolls against the rocky shoreline. The breeze off the river is misty and cool and feels good under the warm sun. The sky is big and blue and busy. Ospreys swoop and soar, and loon calls can be heard in the distance. Seagulls circle, sound and dive-bomb. High overhead, a great blue heron crosses the bright sky.

  Here on land, pickup trucks and all-terrain vehicles kick up dust. Stray dogs weave through the traffic and the traffic weaves through the dogs. I watch for dogs who might be brothers and sisters of Atim. Excited groups of tourists rubberneck in all directions. Those who forgot to put on bug spray, slap and smack and do “the dance of the tasty newcomer.” Windbreakers are bright and sun hats are wide brimmed. You can hear excited and happy words in lots of languages. There are so many wonderful things to see and do that folks come here from all over the world. The river rises with the tidewater, swelling with pride.

  My finishing touch is to carve a wiggly stripe on one side of my porcupine’s face. I am very proud that some tourists have asked if they could buy it, but I don’t feel like I want to sell.

  Lindy sees that I wonder about that.

  “It is okay to say no,” he says. “Your signs will tell you if it is the right thing to do.”

  Crowds of people arrive at the docks to make their way back up to the waiting train. I wrap up my carving, pack up my tools and load my pack for the journey home.

  Pierre takes a last look at my soapstone porcupine. “I love the way this porcupine is looking sideways with such curiosity. I have seen him many times in the forest,” he says.

  “Looks like we have a real up-and-comer here,” Silas says to Lindy.

  “As soon as this young carver starts to sell his work, that’s it for me—no more business!” says Pierre with a fake frown, and everyone laughs.

  Rose hands me a small piece of her dark-gray soapstone to keep. Silas gives me a thumbs-up.

  “Thank you,” I say. “It was really cool to meet you both.”

  Pierre reaches to shake my hand. “This is to say thanks for the great lunch,” he says. In my hand he places a piece of his carving stone. It will polish to a shiny brown with reddish swirls. I am excited to have it.

  “Merci beaucoup,” I reply.

  Lindy walks me back up to the train station. He will be staying in town for a couple of days to carve with Silas, Rose and Pierre before he visits again at our lodge. Already I can’t wait. I reach to shake Lindy’s hand but then change my mind and give him a hug instead.

  “Meegwetch,” I say to Lindy. “Today was so awesome.”

  “Thank you also,” he says. “You are learning to trust your signs and your hands too. I am very proud of you.”

  Conductor Gillian greets us. “It’s your lucky day,” she says. “You get to sit with me.”

  Gillian has her papers spread out at the back of the passenger car. She makes room for me. The train pulls out of the station with a goodbye blast of its horn. I wave through the window. Lindy smiles and waves back. The bustling town becomes the backs of houses, then cabins, then the quiet sway of sedge grass.

  Conductor Gillian asks me how my day went. She listens to my stories about carving for the tourists. I show her my photos. Gillian laughs at the one I took of those teenage girls taking pictures of themselves. And then I show her my soapstone porcupine.

  “I like the way you made the tail swing sideways rather than hang straight down. It’s the touch of a master carver to show movement in solid stone. You are certainly good enough to sell your work to the tourists.”

  “But I didn’t want to sell my carving like the others were doing.”

  “Why not?” asks Gillian.

  “I think if I had any money, I would just want to buy this carving back.”

  Gillian smiles and turns my carving in her hands. “Did anyone take your picture with the carving?”

  “Lots of tourists did.”

  “Those photographs are a good way to share your work and keep it too.”

  “I never thought of it that way. Most folks wanted me to hold up my carving for their pictures.”

  “Just one day on the job, and you are already the world-famous boy with the soapstone porcupine!” We laugh, but I am proud too.

  She sets my soapstone porcupine on the small table in front of our seats. “I’ll be right back,” she says as she stands up. “I have to punch the tickets.”

  Gillian heads down the aisle. Just then a hand reaches over and snatches up my carving.

  “How much do you want for this?” asks a fast-talking lady in a neon-red windbreaker. She is thin and wiry with a pointy face like a marten or a fisher.

  I am too startled to speak, but she keeps talking anyway.

  “I said, how
much money? I must have it.”

  “That carving is not for—” and then I swallow the rest of what I am saying from nervousness.

  “Nonsense,” she cuts in. “I didn’t see any of these in the souvenir shop. You must have got the last one.”

  “That is not from a store.” My voice is very weak.

  “Speak up, boy. What do you mean, not from a store?”

  “I carved it myself,” I manage to say, wishing Lindy or Stan or Mom or Dad or even my brother was with me.

  “Ha-ha, very funny. A kid like you couldn’t carve like this! How much? Name your price.”

  She roughly turns the carving over and over in her hands. It feels like my heart is beating inside that soapstone porcupine. I think that if I were a porcupine, I would have my quills up right now. And then I think of how the porcupine knows it is well protected so it can be brave. I think of how the porcupine does not let itself be pushed around.

  I say, “I’m sorry, but that soapstone carving is already spoken for.” I put my hands out and look right into her eyes. I try to smile, but my lips are shaky.

  The lady arches her eyebrows like she’s going to say something else. She pauses, narrows her eyes and then sets the carving back into my outstretched hands. She squeezes up her face and stomps away. I hold my carving tightly. It takes a few minutes for my quills to relax. I wrap up the porcupine and carefully tuck it back into my pack.

  When I told that lady the carving was spoken for, I did not tell a fib. At that moment I made a decision about it. The soapstone porcupine is going to be a gift from me to my brother. I am so proud of him for respecting the real live porcupine that I am going to give him this one.

  Conductor Gillian comes back from the far end of the passenger car. “Would you like to go up front to see the engineer and help drive the train?”

  “You bet I would!”

  “Okay!” she says. “I’ll take you because I like to drive the train too.”

  “Hey, if it isn’t one of the boys from the river crossing,” the engineer says. “Glad to have you on board.”