“You haven’t got any of that candy left, have you, Nish?” Jesse asked after they had eaten their fill. “We could do with some dessert.”
Nish shook his head. “You guys ate it all.”
“Come on outside,” Rachel said, holding up a clean spoon. They looked at her like she was crazy. “Come on,” she repeated. “Everybody.”
The sun was still high, and they came out blinking in the strong light. They could see and hear the rescue mission from the village as the snowmobiles appeared along the far shore. They would be here in a few minutes.
Rachel went over to the closest snowbank. It was perfectly white, perfectly clean. She reached out and took a spoonful, blowing some of the fine powder off before turning to Travis.
“You want to try first?” she asked.
Travis didn’t know what to say. Rachel had obviously heard the story about Christmas in the bush, but Travis didn’t know whether she was making a fool of him or whether he was being given a great honour. When he saw the way she was smiling, he could only nod his head.
“Close your eyes,” she said.
Travis closed his eyes.
“Open your mouth.”
He opened his mouth.
The spoon rattled on his lower teeth. He could feel the cold of the metal. He closed his mouth over the soft, frozen snow and took it off the spoon. It seemed to explode on his tongue, the cold so sharp, tickling the roof of his mouth, the instant ice and water so refreshing. And almost…yes, he had to admit it, almost sweet. Just like Jimmy Whiskeyjack’s grandmother had said.
“Well?” he heard Rachel ask.
Travis opened his eyes, blinking in the brightness, surprised by how close she was to him. He could smell her, and she, too, smelled bright and sweet as the open air.
“Good,” he said.
“You want to try, Liz?”
“Sure.”
The grandparents were out, watching and laughing as if they knew the story, perhaps had done it themselves for their own children. Clapping her hands as if she’d just remembered something, the grandmother turned and hurried back into the camp.
Liz smacked her lips.
“Can I have seconds?” she laughed.
Rachel shook her head. “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Nish?”
Nish shook his head. “No way.”
“C’mon, Nish!” they called out. The grandmother came back out, giggling to herself.
“C’mon! Give it a try,” Liz said.
Rachel nudged him: “It’s good–you’ll like it.”
Nish shook his head, his mouth tightly clenched.
The old woman laughed and took the spoon from Rachel. She grasped Nish by the hand and led him to another bank, where the angle of the sun was now turning the snow the colour of gold. She reached out and took an enormous spoonful. She held it up, smiling.
Nish didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t say no; she didn’t even speak his language. He couldn’t be rude.
The grandmother began speaking Cree, almost as if she was singing. She reached up with her other hand and placed it over his eyes, so he would shut them tight.
Nish closed his eyes. He made a quick face and then opened his mouth wide.
Travis barely saw it happen. At first he wasn’t sure what she had done, but it seemed the spoon with the snow in it had disappeared into the old woman’s pocket and another spoon was suddenly in her hand. Only this one had been dipped in water and then into a sugar jar. It was covered in sugar crystals. She quickly passed the spoon over the snowbank to cover the sugar with a layer of snow.
Then she placed the spoon in Nish’s mouth. He bit down, sucked a moment, then opened his eyes wide. Nish looked in total shock.
“Well?” said Rachel.
“I can’t believe it,” Nish said, his eyes big and black as hockey pucks. “I can-not be-lieve it.”
All the way back to the village, and even after they’d arrived, Nish kept repeating, “I can’t believe it. I can not believe it.”
Travis was amazed at the reception when they got back, the way the entire village once again turned out to greet them, including, this time, the rest of the Screech Owls, their parents, and the coaches.
The first figure they saw when they came within sight of Waskaganish was Muck. Growing impatient, he had walked out to meet them. He hugged them all, even Nish, and Muck never hugged anyone. Not even when they won the championship at Lake Placid.
Data and Andy and Chantal and Derek and Dmitri and Cherry and Gordie and all the rest of the Owls had been standing high on the snowbanks so they would see the snowmobiles come into view, and most of them ran down and out over the frozen bay to meet the lost Screech Owls as soon as they appeared, jogging alongside and cheering their return.
Nish sat like Santa Claus on the last float of the parade, waving to each side. Travis wondered if it had occurred to Nish that this whole thing was taking place because of him.
“We’re in the final!” Derek called as Travis’s ride passed by him.
The Screech Owls had won their game against the Northern Lights, even without their best defenceman, their captain, and Jesse Highboy. And after all the wins and losses had been added up, and all the goals for and against accounted for, it was announced that the First Nations Pee Wee Hockey Tournament final would be played that evening: Screech Owls versus the Waskaganish Wolverines.
“We made the final!” Rachel shouted when she got the news. She pointed at Travis and Nish. “We’re going to play you for the championship!”
“You won’t have a prayer,” Nish said.
“Why not?”
“Shovels are illegal.”
Travis was out of sorts. He had dressed carefully for the final game, but he still didn’t feel right. Mr. Dillinger had sharpened his skates perfectly. “Good gosh,” he’d said when he looked along one of the blades, “what on earth were you doing with these, whittling wood?” Travis told Mr. Dillinger about the hard ice of the bay, and Mr. Dillinger had just shaken his head and gone to work. Now the skates were back the way Travis liked them, even at his most fussy.
He hadn’t cut any corners. He had his lucky underwear on. He had tied his right skate first, and then his left. He had wrapped his ankles in shinpad tape. He had kissed the inside of his sweater as he yanked it over his head. He had placed his hand on the “C” stitched over his heart. “C” for captain.
But it still wasn’t right. He had only one stick. He liked to have two, minimum, each one as new as possible. Each with the same curve–a “Russian curve,” he called it, with a slight flick at the end–and each freshly taped with black tape on the blade and white tape on the handle. Muck had taught him that. “Black tape will rot out the palms of your gloves,” he had said, “white tape won’t.”
But one stick–he had only one stick. He had brought three up, all brand-new. One he’d given to the captain of the Mighty Geese, the first team they had played. The other he had taken to the camp and stupidly left there. Now he was down to one stick, and if something happened to that one, then he didn’t know what he would do.
Muck seemed happy. He had no plays to go over, no hockey to discuss, but he did insist on making a speech.
“This is the icing on the cake,” he told them. “You kids have had one of the greatest experiences of your lives up here, and you should be thinking about that when you’re out there on the ice.
“We’re playing our hosts. If not for them, you wouldn’t be here. That doesn’t mean you give them the victory–a win that comes that way is really a defeat–but it does mean you play with courtesy. No cheap stuff. No showing off. Listening, Nishikawa? Nothing but a mature approach and good hockey. Understand?”
No one said a word. No one ever had to say a word after Muck had spoken.
Travis was captain. He knew his job. This was his cue. He leapt to his feet.
“Let’s go, Screech Owls!”
Nish jumped up after him.
“Screech Owls, Sc
reech Owls…GO, SCREECH OWLS!”
The atmosphere at the Waskaganish Community Arena was electric. The little rink was packed so tight, there wasn’t an empty seat to be found. The entire village was there. And all the other teams. It felt like Hockey Night in Canada, not Hockey Night in Waskaganish. He could hear the cheers, the boos, the thundering clap of the public address system as the Wolverines’ came onto the ice.
We will,
We will,
ROCK YOU!
Travis rounded the net and did his sweet little hop. He skipped slightly, shrugging his shoulders. He felt good. But he couldn’t help thinking about his missing stick. What if he broke his last one?
The Owls warmed up Chantal, who was getting the start on the basis of her play in the game Travis and Nish and Jesse had missed. Travis hit the crossbar–the good luck sign he needed.
The warm-up over, the Screech Owls gathered at the net to charge themselves up. They rapped Chantal’s pads. They tapped each other’s shins. Travis knocked helmets with Chantal, then his linemates, Dmitri and Derek, then Nish. He usually stopped there, but he found himself going to Jesse and tapping him, helmet to helmet. Travis led the team cheer: “Screech Owls, Screech Owls…GO, SCREECH OWLS!”
Travis skated out to take the face-off. He looked into the stands and saw Chief Ottereyes sitting with Jesse and Rachel’s grandparents. They had come in from the camp to see the game.
He scanned the crowd and found his parents, waving to him. He saw where the Moose Factory Mighty Geese were all sitting.
Travis was facing off against Jimmy Whiskeyjack, his host and the Wolverines’ captain. Jimmy winked and tapped Travis’s pads with his stick. Travis returned the tap. The big, surly assistant captain was on defence, already scowling at him. Rachel wasn’t on the ice. He checked the Wolverines’ bench. She was sitting, waiting. He could see the “A” on her sweater.
When the puck dropped, he wasn’t paying full attention. The Wolverines’ captain swept it away easily, sending it back to the big defenceman. Travis and Dmitri both gave chase (Muck usually wanted only one to forecheck), and the defenceman waited until the last possible second before flipping the puck up to the left winger. Travis and Dmitri turned into each other, catching up in each other’s sticks and legs. Travis went down.
The winger hit Jimmy Whiskeyjack as he made the blueline. The Wolverines’ captain deftly flipped the puck over Data’s stick and then was all alone, bearing down on Chantal.
Until Nish hit him. Nish simply threw his body at Jimmy, cutting him off and knocking the puck off the stick before, spinning like a top, he tore the legs out from under him. The puck dribbled away harmlessly into the pads of Chantal, who covered up.
“Alrriigght, Nish!” Travis shouted. Good old Nish–he had saved the day.
They lined up for the face-off. The big defenceman moved up tight, hoping for a quick shot. Nish took note and shifted.
“Hey, Moose Nostrils!” the big defenceman called.
“Whadya say, Bear Butt?” Nish called back.
Travis laughed. He knew Nish was here to play. It was going to be a game.
Travis won this face-off. He dropped it back to Nish, who circled his net and hit Dmitri along the boards by the hash marks. Dmitri chopped the puck out into centre, where Derek picked it up and headed for the blueline, the big defenceman backpedalling at full speed.
Derek carried the puck over the line, then left it there while he and the defenceman came together in what looked like, but certainly was not, an accidental collision. The puck sat waiting for Travis, who scooped it up, danced past the defenceman, and put a nifty pass over to Dmitri, who one-timed it off the crossbar.
“OHHH NO!” Travis shouted.
Back on the bench, Muck patted their shoulders. He liked what he was seeing, even though they had no goal to show for it. Travis couldn’t stop his legs from jumping with nervous energy. He sat, anxious to get right back out.
Liz’s line was on now against Rachel Highboy’s. Rachel had the speed, and she also had a big centre with good reach. The centre beat Andy Higgins to a puck and swept it away. Wilson missed it and Rachel flew past him, picking it up and moving in, one-on-one, on Chantal. Rachel deked once and went to her backhand, and roofed a beauty as she pulled around the net.
Wolverines 1, Screech Owls 0.
They flooded the ice between periods. Just like the NHL. Floods, stop time, announcements, goal judges. In the dressing room, Muck seemed content with the way things were going, even though the Owls had failed to score and were now behind in the game.
“Just keep doing what you’re doing,” Muck said. “It’ll come.”
He walked to the centre of the room and paused. “Nishikawa,” he said.
Nish, who had been bending down, catching his breath, looked up, wincing.
Muck almost smiled. “That’s hockey you’re playing, son.”
Travis knew what he meant. Nish was playing the game of his life. He was being double-shifted by Muck and never seemed to stop moving out there. No stupid rushes, no foolish pinches, just Nish at his best: steady, dependable, good on the rush and absolutely perfect on defence.
“You’re playing great, man,” Travis said as they walked down the corridor to start the next period.
“I have to.”
Nish said nothing more. He moved ahead of Travis when they hit the ice, sticking to himself.
Travis’s line was starting again. He won this face-off and got the puck back to Nish, who kept it long enough to draw his check. Nish then flipped the puck back to Travis, who headed down-ice, slowly looping when he made the blueline so he could see where Dmitri and Derek were going to be.
Travis hadn’t even been looking at his stick or the puck when the big defenceman slashed him. All he felt was the jolt.
The whistle blew. And then, when he looked down, he saw his stick was broken. He threw down what was left of it. Good, at least the big guy was going to get a penalty.
“Number 7!” the referee shouted. “Let’s go!”
Number 7? Travis turned and looked at the defenceman, now skating away. He was wearing number 22. Number 7 was Travis Lindsay.
The referee was glaring at him and pointing to the penalty box. “Let’s go!”
Travis couldn’t believe his ears. “What for?”
“Two minutes for playing with a broken stick! Now let’s go! Or it’s two minutes more for unsportsmanlike conduct!”
Travis couldn’t believe it, but he knew better than to argue. He skated to the penalty box, where the door was already swinging open.
He could hear the cheers. He could hear the odd boo from the Screech Owls’ supporters, but it wasn’t very loud or very serious. Everyone knew Travis had made a mistake.
Derek skated across with a new stick. He handed it over the boards to Travis.
“You haven’t got any left,” Derek said. “This one’s Liz’s. They’re almost the same.”
Travis took it. They were almost the same, but there was still a world of difference. He felt the stick. A left lie, but Liz never put a Russian curve in hers. Neither did she tape the handle the same way. He stood in the penalty box and flexed it, but it didn’t feel at all right.
The Owls were shorthanded now with Travis in the penalty box, although it didn’t seem that way. The Wolverines were a good team–they moved the puck well, and they shot well from the point, particularly the big defenceman who’d broken Travis’s stick–but Travis couldn’t believe the way Nish was playing. He was diving in front of pucks. He was ragging the puck and breaking up rushes, and once he even took the puck up-ice and had an excellent shot himself, only to have it tick off the post. When Nish went to the bench at the end of his shift, every fan in the building rose in tribute to him. Nish never even looked up. He sat on the bench, his head down between his legs, gasping for air. From the penalty box on the far side of the rink, Travis could see Muck lay a hand on Nish’s neck as he passed behind him. He knew Nish would feel it. He knew Nis
h would know whose hand it was and what it meant.
“Hey, Travis!”
Travis turned, not recognizing the voice.
The captain of the Moose Factory Mighty Geese was standing behind him. He was holding up Travis’s stick, the one Travis had given him.
“Looks like you need this back, pal.”
Travis took it, flexed it on the floor of the penalty box. It felt great! Perfect! He looked back at his new friend and smiled.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Get a goal for me,” said the captain of the Mighty Geese.
Two Wolverines, the captain and the big defenceman, came down, two-on-one, on Nish. Nish waited, then lunged, brilliantly poking the puck free and up to Derek. Derek turned immediately and hit Travis, who was circling just outside the blueline. The puck felt right on his blade. It was good to have his old stick back.
Travis hit Dmitri right at the opposition blueline. Dmitri swept past the one remaining defenceman and shot, the slapper catching the Wolverines’ goaltender on the chest and bouncing back out toward the blueline, where Nish cradled it in his glove and dropped it onto the blade of his stick.
Nish pivoted beautifully, hit Jesse Highboy, coming on in a quick change, with a beautifully feathered pass, and Jesse rifled a shot high in under the crossbar.
Wolverines 1, Screech Owls 1.
The crowd went wild. A goal by the visitors, yes, but a goal by a Highboy. They stood and cheered, and cheered again when the announcement was made. Travis skated back to the bench, where Nish was already sitting, trying to catch his breath.
“Great poke check,” Travis told him.
Nish looked up, grinning. “An old man taught it to me.”
At the next intermission, Muck had nothing to say. He seemed satisfied. Travis had already spoken to him in the corridor, and now Muck stood in the middle of the room and signalled to Travis that it was time for him to speak.
“Your captain has something to say,” Muck said.
Travis stood up and cleared his throat.
The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 1 Page 26
