by Jeff Pinkney
When the train nears our stop and our platform comes into view, guess who is at the controls with the engineer and the conductor?
I can see the outline of my family on the platform to greet me. I wail the horn as I lean out the open window and wave.
Mom looks up and points.
Dad is laughing.
My big brother’s mouth forms the words No way!
Atim is there too. Her tail wags with excitement. I am happy she has chosen to keep us. My birthday wish is coming true.
The steel wheels screech and squeal. The whole train makes a special stop just for me. I am encircled by a family hug.
As the train rolls down the track, the caboose gently sways like a porcupine sways when it has no worries and is happy to be home.
Pronunciation Guide
When a Cree word appears, Moose Cree dialect is used.
âštam (ash-tum): come here
atim (a-tim): dog
kâko (ka-koh): porcupine
meegwetch (mee-gwetch): thank you
mahkitonew (mah-kee-tah-nayo): one with a big mouth
wachay (wah-chay): “what cheer” or “greetings” or “goodbye” (this word has many spellings, including wah-chay, watchay, wachey, wâciye)
Acknowledgments
The author offers sincere thanks to: editor Liz Kemp, for refinement and shine; Darlene Gait, for illustrative magic; the team at Orca, for presenting the story so well; Greg Spence, for advice about the Moose Cree language; and Rick MacLeod Farley and Russell Turner for insights. Heartfelt thanks also to family members: Leslie, for support beyond compare; Isabella, for youthful perspective; Maarika, for assuredness; June, for inclusiveness; Charlie, for orientation; Morley, for adherence; Gillian, for whom the conductor is named; and Alexandra, for literary reclamation and loosening the quill when it was stuck.
Jeff Pinkney likes to be out in a canoe or on his mountain bike on forest trails. He has met a few porcupines along the way. He is an amateur stone carver, having learned the art from a Cree elder who provided him with his first piece of soapstone. Jeff carved a bear cub. He also writes poetry and is a proud member of the Live Poets of Haliburton County. Soapstone Porcupine is the second novel in the Soapstone Signs series. The stories draw on Jeff’s experiences while living and traveling as a development consultant in Canada’s James Bay Frontier, where he acquired a deep appreciation for the people and the landscape. He knows firsthand what it’s like to be a little brother and a big brother too. Jeff is husband to Leslie and father to Maarika, Alexandra and Isabella. Learn more at www.jeffpinkney.com.
The following is an excerpt from Soapstone Signs
Soapstone Signs and Whispers:
A Spring Arrival
Lindy travels opposite to the geese. Every spring after the ice breaks up on the river, he walks in from the north along the tracks. Even though his name is Lindbergh, everyone calls him Lindy. Even me. He has a way of being polite without saying anything. He smells like campfires and the outdoors.
Lindy carries a big burlap sack of soapstone pieces. Folks ask where he’s found all that soapstone. He just laughs and tells them, “Somewhere between here and there.”
Our place is one of the stops on his yearly journey to the south. We operate the lodge between the river and the train tracks. Lindy trades his carving in return for a place to sleep and food to eat. Each year, Mom puts the one he carves for us in the glass display case. Our guests sometimes ask to buy them, but Mom always says, “Not these ones—they are special to us.”
When someone asks, “Whatcha working on?” Lindy smiles and says, “Work in progress.” He leaves his finished carvings on the ground beside him, and the tourists can look and touch and buy those ones if they want. He carves bears, loons, owls, ospreys, beavers, walrus, seals and even fish.
Lindy has a place he likes to sit by the riverbank. I like to sit with him and watch him carve. Sometimes he hands me what he is working on. I look and then hand it back without saying a word. Really, that is saying a lot.
Today, when Lindy finishes a carving, I become curious. “How do you know what you will carve next?”
He pauses, looking thoughtful. “You ask the stone,” he says. “Whatever it is going to be, it is already there.”
“How does the stone answer you?”
“Sometimes, you might be given a sign, and then you will know what to carve.”
“Do you mean signs like the ones where the train stops?”
“Those are important signs too, but a sign can be any way that the world gives you a message. Signs come to you when your thoughts mix with your senses.”
I know what all the senses are. I ask Lindy, “If you mix your thoughts with your sight, can you see what is inside the stone?”
He lifts the piece he is working on, turns his hand and studies it against the clouds. “Sometimes it feels like I can see into the stone.”
“Does the stone talk to you?”
“Sometimes I feel like the stone is whispering to me.”
“Can you ever tell by the smell and the taste?”
Lindy laughs. “Sometimes the smells and tastes of the world around me give me signs about what is inside the stone.”
“Can you tell what is waiting inside by touching the stone?”
“Sometimes if I hold it just so, it’s like I can feel what is inside.”
“What if the stone won’t tell you?”
Lindy reaches into his burlap sack and holds a small piece out to me. “This is for you—ask for yourself.”
My very first piece of soapstone. It is dull gray and feels powdery before it is carved. I know from watching Lindy that the soapstone will look different after it is made into a carving. It will polish to a beautiful dark green with black swirls and white shimmers like the northern lights.
I am not sure my ears are sharp enough to hear the soapstone whisper. “Will you tell me what is inside, so I can try to carve it out?”
“That piece of stone has chosen you. Only the one who is to be the carver will know.”
“What if it never tells me?”
He laughs again. “Take it with you and be ready for a sign.”
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