Icefields

by Thomas Wharton

  They hike out together from the chalet, along Jonah Creek into the high alpine tundra. On either side of them the mountain walls are laden with cirque glaciers. They are walking through a hall of frozen kings.

  —All this wasted light, Freya says. I didn’t bring the camera.

  They find a place to set up camp in the open meadow, where a rivulet of the creek spills half-hidden through the thick carpet of moss.

  36

  They spend the day hiking and return to camp in the evening.

  —Hungry?

  —Starving.

  Hal starts a fire and unpacks his cooking supplies.

  —What’s on the menu?

  —Whitefish, rice, tinned vegetables. And some hot cocoa for dessert.

  Freya sets up her tent and crawls inside to change her clothes. She comes back out in an olive-green wool sweater and a white culotte, then notices his amazed stare.

  —What?

  —Sorry.

  She sits down across the fire from him.

  —At the lake the other day, was that your sweetheart?

  —Celeste? No.

  —She was pretty. And the look she gave me. Daggers.

  —Well, I’d just been reciting a poem. You interrupted us in the middle of Yeats.

  —I take it poetry has a use then.

  37

  After supper Hal shakes his own tent loose from its canvas sack.

  —You don’t need that, Freya says.

  He finds he is not shocked to be making love with her. What surprises him is her unexpected gentleness. He is almost asleep when he feels the touch of her finger tracing letters on his arm. I love you.

  —You can’t, he whispers. Not yet.

  —Write it and see, she says. On me.

  38

  In the morning they linger together in the tent.

  —How about a quick splash in the creek.

  —Freya, that water’s arctic.

  —I’m going. See you later.

  She crawls out of the tent and he stays behind, thinking it’s too late to come out after her, like an adoring dog chasing her heels. He watches through the open tent flap as her slender, pale body disappears down the green meadow. He lies back on the blankets and closes his eyes, hears a splash and her shriek.

  —Yow!

  She laughs, calls out to him, but the wind carries the words away. He lies still, sunlight pulsing red on his eyelids. He imagines he is in a tent on the edge of a desert of sand.

  She comes back in like the sun, her face burning. But when she moves into his arms her body is ice.

  —There, now I’m arctic.

  He watches her sleep. She stirs and water slips from her wet hair, into the cup of flesh between neck and collarbone. He touches the droplet with a finger and she opens her eyes.

  39

  —I was worried when I found out you were a

  poet.

  —Why?

  —I don’t care much for poetry, for one thing. But I was more afraid you’d keep me up all night talking about the infinite, the ineffable, the truth.

  —That’s been your experience of poets?

  —Yes. Your quote at the glasshouse was a good example of what I mean.

  —I’m not a poet.

  —What about your book?

  —I haven’t written anything in months. When I saw my words in print I wanted to run away and hide. Maybe that’s why I ended up here.

  —What was wrong with your words?

  —One poem described a lizard crawling across a mirror, but it was just a symbol. Of what? I can’t even remember. It was an idea, I hadn’t actually seen it. In other poems I used words like lute and arbalest. I realized I’d written about nothing that I’d lived through. None of it was my life, my experience.

  —Words always do that to me, even when I’m reporting what we like to call the facts. I think to myself, was that really what I saw, what I felt? But I keep trying, I have to try to nail things down with the exact words, and sometimes I feel I’ve come close. That’s the reward. To feel that nail go in and hold something.

  —I’ll try not to mention the infinite, or the ineffable.

  —Good.

  —If I do, just put your hand here. Or here. And I won’t say a word.

  40

  —I’m here in Jasper, Freya says, for the same reason I’ve been to Asia and Egypt and Mexico.

  —And what’s that?

  —Too many fathers.

  Something happened to her father when she was a young girl. No one ever told her exactly what it was, but she was patient, she watched and listened. From her mother’s rare but bitter accusations, her father’s whisky-soaked mutterings, she put together a story.

  —He was a tireless adulterer, but I think he became too good at it. He had to keep trying for greater challenges, bigger trophies. And then he met his match. I don’t know who the woman was, I think she might have been Greek, I’m not sure. But I always wished I could meet her. She must have been the Queen of Swords.

  Freya remembers his longest absence, at least half a year. She celebrated her ninth birthday without him. And then everyone—her mother, her uncles— said he was going to be with them again very soon. But they weren’t excited about his return the way they used to be, when they would bustle around the house as if it were an office building, shouting at each other down the hallways about the way something or someone was going to be put back on track now that George was coming home. This time they huddled together in the big empty dining room and whispered, it seemed to Freya, like frightened mice.

  —When I think of the day we went to meet his train, I have this image of him stepping from different compartments at the same time. Of course I didn’t realize it until he’d been back at home for a while, but he was split, in pieces. It was terrifying, so I made it into a kind of game, a joke. As if some insane laboratory experiment had done this to him, fractionated him, and I could classify the various George Beckers. My amazing collection of fathers.

  First there was the earth father, the brute. The one who could barely feed himself on bad days.

  —He brought home a tin of cookies for me once. When he walked in the door I knew which of my fathers this was, so I just sat there, not sure what to do or say. He tried to talk to me and I just stared at the wall. Then he started throwing the cookies at me. Hard.

  Hurts, doesn’t it, he said. Get used to it.

  Then there were the various opaque, fleeting fathers. The ones who would appear suddenly in the morning, in their housecoats, wolf down a breakfast and talk on and on about their latest grand scheme. One of these George Beckers was mostly electricity. He read a lot, and paced around the rest of the time, chewing his nails, drumming his fingers on the win-dowpane as he gazed out at the street. Another, the one her mother went to bed with, was sort of thin and papery. For a while these fathers could fool Freya into thinking he’s back, this is him, all of him together again. But the plans and schemes rarely succeeded the way they had in the past, and then these doubtful, wavering fathers quickly faded away.

  It was the water father that Freya loved.

  —He was quick, he danced. I thought his laugh was like water falling. I loved to dance for him, put on little performances. I could make him laugh, and then I’d feel that cool, gentle water wash over me.

  —He took me to a carnival once. We went on a Ferris wheel. I remember feeling foolish on this thing, ashamed of the cheap deception. It was supposed to be like flying, but it just went around and around, showing you the same sights over and over again. A fence plastered with bills. Some kid’s mother waving up at him. The bored ride operator looking at the women’s legs. And the fence again, and around we go.

  —That was the day I knew I had to leave. And I didn’t hide the fact, at least not from him. When I was seventeen he helped me get my own apartment. Freya’s first scandal, a schoolgirl living on her own. This was Montreal, not Paris. I had to admit it, without him I probably would’ve been stuc
k doing something safe and ladylike for the rest of my life. I hated myself for needing George Becker’s money and influence, so I kept this thought in mind: it was him, the water father, he gave me my freedom, not any of the others.

  One by one, over the years, her pantheon of fathers dwindled. Perhaps, she thought, the stronger ones killed the weak. She used to believe the brute would live the longest, he seemed indestructible, but the only father left now is the one made of air.

  —He’s invisible, she says, but sometimes I can feel him hovering over me, it doesn’t matter how far away I get.

  41

  She tells him about the Slovak woman who lived in the apartment next to hers.

  —Sophie was reading Dracula, and she got it into her head that I was a vampire. After we became friends we had a great laugh about it, the way I looked to her. How I would be holed up all day in my room, and appear only in the evening, pale and twitchy. I was always asking about everybody else in the building, which she thought made good sense if I was hunting for potential victims or watching out for my enemies. But the biggest clue was, whenever Sophie mentioned God or church or heaven, she said I would get this pained grimace on my face. Then she found out I wasn’t a vampire, I was a writer.

  —Trask thinks that you’re, well, a lover of women.

  —Is that right. And what do you think?

  —I had a dream about it. About you and a woman. Together.

  —Who was it?

  —I can’t tell you. Not in the cold light of day. It wouldn’t come out right.

  —It must have been quite the dream. Were you

  in it?

  —Well, I was watching.

  —I’m sure you were.

  —I mean I was watching a dream. I was dreaming it. There was a man there, though, but I couldn’t see who it was.

  —Who was the woman? Tell me, damn it.

  —No.

  42

  Celeste has been sent home.

  —I heard a kettle whistling and I found her in the front parlour, Elspeth tells Byrne.

  Four o’clock in the morning. Sitting at the window, a tray of tea, orange marmalade, and biscuits on the table beside her.

  Celeste smiled at Elspeth, raised a tea cup to her lips, and bit a piece out of it.

  43

  —I just want to look at you tonight.

  —That’s all?

  —I can’t believe you killed someone.

  —I told you, I’m not sure I did. But I don’t think it leaves a scar.

  —Your feet.

  She laughs.

  —What?

  —Look at your feet. Every part of you is so … charming.

  —Oh my God.

  —I can’t think of a better word. Maybe it’s not just the meaning. It’s the letters, too. The letters of the word charming.

  —In bold face at least?

  —No, italic.

  44

  Byrne is reviewing charts in the hospital tent when Swift appears at his side. No, the American growls impatiently, he isn’t in need of any medical attention. And he never will be.

  —I heard your name mentioned when the surveyors stopped at my place, and I thought, now there’s a man with some sense.

  He leans in closer to Byrne.

  —I thought you might know something about the situation here. They were supposed to make me an offer, for my land.

  —Who?

  —The Lords of the Iron Horse. The bastards skirted my property line by a few hundred yards. Because I reported their surveyors for poaching. And they damn well were.

  Swift’s homestead claim was inviolable because he had filed for it years before. The land was his. He had built on it, improved it, saved it from destruction by the forces of nature. After much deliberation by the officials in charge of the new park, he had been allowed to remain when the other settlers were ushered out, and given the titles of honourary game warden and fire-ranger.

  His solitary empire was at an end, but he had vowed to make sure they paid him handsomely for it. The proposed railroad was to come up the valley along the surveyed route. The line would have to pass through his property, raising its value beyond his capacity to calculate.

  Realizing this, he wrote to a well-known financier in the east, told him of his expected profit. Months later, to his surprise, a letter of reply reached him. The financier was interested. He had consulted with Sibelius and the survey crews. Swift’s land was perfectly situated.

  Together they envisioned a sprawling complex of rustic resort cabins, tennis courts, terraced slopes, swimming pools. And a name: Swiftmere.

  —He sent me these letters, you should’ve seen them, on creamy vellum paper. And now, well, the letters are all dry and yellow, and he never appeared in the flesh.

  Swift wants to know if Byrne has heard anything of him.

  —I’m asking you because I don’t trust the others. Never get a straight answer from any of them.

  Swift whispers the financier’s name. Byrne knows it, having read in the papers of his grandiose plans for developing the west. Recently the papers also listed him as one of the dignitaries lost on the maiden voyage of the Titanic.

  If Swift is crushed by the news, he does not show it. From Little Bighorn to the Titanic, thinks Byrne. Swift has lived a life at the edge of disasters. No wonder he went looking for an empty valley.

  Swift shrugs.

  —Well, I’ll be here, ’til doomsday. The barons had their chance. Now I’m going to sit in the middle of their pretty park like a rusty spike.

  He allows himself a grey smile.

  —Come out to my place tomorrow, for dinner. We’re not fancy, but you’ll get a good meal.

  —I was wondering about Sara’s people, Byrne finally dares to ask. From the Arcturus settlement, the ones who took care of me after I fell in the crevasse.

  Instead of fading, Swift’s smile grows enigmatically wider.

  —Most of them scattered. West over the pass, north into the Smoky country. Nobody kept track.

  —Sara as well, I suppose. You don’t know where she might be now?

  —I have a pretty good idea. She’s at the house, probably standing on the porch wondering where in the hell I am.

  —I didn’t know, Byrne stammers. I mean to say, when I first met her, I thought she lived alone.

  —She did, then, no matter what I argued to the contrary. There was no way she was coming down from her icy stronghold just to please me. Only when the government so very kindly told her to vacate, she had to decide. Leave the mountains altogether, or move in with me. That was it.

  He strokes his grizzled moustache:

  —I’m still a bit surprised at her choice.

  45

  When they pull up at the house in Swift’s pony trap, Sara steps out onto the porch.

  Her hair is white. That surprises him. If he was right about her age when he first met her, she cannot now be much over forty. The image in his memory has not changed with time, he realizes, and he wonders if he looks the same way to her, familiar and yet strange.

  —Once again I am your guest, he says lightly, and sees by the quick nod of her head that this time she will not be so welcoming. He imagines he can understand the reason. The railroad that carried him back here also brought the surveyors and work crews who built the chalet, and who tore down the trading post, as Swift has just told him, to build a raft to ferry themselves across Arcturus Creek.

  —It’s Doctor Byrne, Swift says, with a note of anger in his voice at Sara’s impassive silence.

  —I know.

  A girl of about eight or nine, in a white sack dress and sandals, appears beside her at the door.

  —And this is Louisa.

  The girl will not look at Byrne. She kicks off her sandals, jumps from the porch and scampers across the yard.

  —The child can’t sit still, Swift says.

  —I’m used to that, Byrne says. Children and doctors are natural enemies.

  During di
nner and afterwards on the porch, Sara says very little. Louisa sits at her feet, holding the skein of wool she is winding. It is Swift who does the storytelling.

  —When I first came to this valley, he says, I found an arm.

  He was in the heart of a spruce bog, surrounded by crooked, black trees. His ox was stuck. The huge animal thrashed for a moment in the thick green pool and then went still, its flanks steaming in the cool air. Swift stood back at a distance, more wary of this great bulk becalmed than he had been of the ox’s frequent displays of temper. He shook his head.

  —I turned away, thinking this was the end of line, and then I saw it.

  An arm sticking up out of the spongy brown earth. A bloodless arm in a tattered sleeve of black cloth. The hand, bone white, clutched a survey stake. Swift pried the stake out of the hand’s dry grasp and checked its number. It was the one indicated on his map. This was the land he had filed for.

  Somehow, after a desperately long time, the ox hauled itself out onto firmer ground. Swift approached, righted his belongings on the cart, and went on.

  Byrne shakes his head.

  —Forgive me if I’m a bit incredulous.

  Swift scowls.

  —It’s hanging on the wall, he says, gripping the arms of his chair. The stake, I mean. I can go get it for you right now.

  —It’s not the stake I have doubts about.

  —Well, you may be the doctor, but. . . .

  —Let’s have the story, Sara says.

  Swift took the stake with him, slung in his belt. Up the valley of the Athabasca, until the survey stakes ran out and he lost sight of the river.

  He pushed through a dense thicket of willows that scratched his face and tore at the canvas on his cart. A wheel jammed in the crevice of a split stone. Swift knelt to free it, growling soft curses. Then he stood up, listened. A gust of cool air stirred the leaves around him.

  He knew then there was an open space just beyond the next stand of willows. The sound and smell of flowing water reached him. He stepped from the thick brush into an open meadow by the river.

  Into the midst of a herd of wild horses.

  Swift stood motionless. The horses raised their heads from the grass they were feeding on and watched him. Their quiet shapes, grey and paint and roan, stood gathered in the clearing like suddenly remembered dreams. Slowly, led by a dappled mare, the horses turned and moved away, down the long stretch of open meadow.