Northwest Passages

by Barbara Roden

  “There’s all sorts of animals out there, and a lot of them start to get active around this time of day. It’s their country, not ours, but that doesn’t mean I want to become a meal.”

  “Do you know how to use it?”

  Peggy stared at him levelly. “It wouldn’t be much use having it around if I couldn’t use it. I’m not an Olympic marksman, but if it’s within fifty yards of me I can hit it. Let’s go.”

  They headed out towards the trail, skirting the paths. A little gust of wind was eddying dust along one of them. Peggy was conscious of the hillside above them to their left, and could not shake off the sense that something was watching. What was it Jack had said? Something there, watching, waiting, something really old .. .. .. part of this place, guarding it, protecting it, looking for something. No; she had to stop it, stop it now. Thoughts like that were no good. She needed to concentrate.

  “Come on, Robert,” she called over her shoulder, “let’s go. We have a lot of ground to cover, and it’ll be dark in another couple of hours. You better go first; it’s been a while since I was last through here. Keep yelling Jack’s name, and keep your eyes open.”

  They started along the trail. It was fainter than Peggy remembered, but still distinguishable as such; more than clear enough to act as a guide, even for the most inexperienced eye. They took turns calling, and stared intently about them, looking from side to side, searching for any signs of Jack; but there was nothing, not a trace of his passage, not a hint that he was calling or signalling to them. They stopped every so often to listen, and to give them both a chance to rest; but they only lingered in one place, when Robert indicated that they were at the spot where he had last seen Jack.

  “Here,” he said, pointing. “I was standing here, and Jack was about fifteen feet in front of me, and then . . . he wasn’t.”

  Peggy looked around, trying to will some sign, some clue into being, but there was nothing that marked the spot out as any different to anywhere else they had passed. Birch and poplar and pine crowded round them, but not so thickly, she thought, that someone could disappear into them and be lost to sight in a matter of seconds. A breeze rustled the branches, and something skittered through the undergrowth; a squirrel, she thought, from the sound. They called, but there was no reply, and searched either side of the trail, but there was no sign of Jack. Without a word they continued on their way.

  Robert was still in front, Peggy behind; the trail was not wide enough to allow more than single file passage. Indian file. The phrase from her childhood popped unbidden into Peggy’s mind, along with the accompanying thought, I suppose you can’t call it that anymore, but Aboriginal file doesn’t sound right. Or would it be Native file? Natives . . . now what did that . . .

  “Natives don’t like that place.” Who had said that? Someone, years before, who she and Len had run into in town, someone who knew the area and was surprised when they told him where they lived. “Natives don’t like that place,” he had said. “Never have. Don’t know why; you can’t pin ’em down. Used to be a prospector lived back in there, not far from where you are, I guess, and there was a feeling he was tempting . . . well, fate, I suppose, or the gods, or something. . . . What happened to him? He just up and left one day; disappeared. Some people figured he’d hit it lucky at last and had cleared out with his gold, others said it was cabin fever; whatever happened, it didn’t do anything for the place’s reputation.”

  Why had she thought of that now, of all times? She shivered uncontrollably, and was glad that Robert was up ahead and couldn’t see her. She hurried to close the distance between them; and although her breath was becoming more ragged, and the ache in her legs more pronounced, she did not stop again until they were at the cabin.

  It was much as she remembered it; a low, crudely built structure of weathered pine logs, with a single door and one window in front, and a tin chimney pipe leaning out from the roof at an angle. There was no smoke from the chimney, no movement within or without; only the sound of the wind, and a far-off crow cawing hoarsely, and their own breath. The dying sun reflected off the one window, creating a momentary illusion of life, but neither one spoke. There was no need. Jack was not here.

  They checked the cabin, just to be sure, and the van, sitting uselessly in front, and they called until they were hoarse, but they were merely going through the motions, and Peggy knew it. Robert tried the van again, but the battery was irrevocably dead. Still silent, they turned and headed back the way they had come.

  They did not call out now, or search for signs; their one thought, albeit an unspoken one, was to get back to Peggy’s before dark. The sun had dipped well below the hills now, and the shadows were lengthening fast, and Peggy found herself keeping her eyes on the trail ahead. Once she thought she heard movement in the trees to their right, and stopped, clutching Robert’s arm; but it was only the wind. They continued on their silent way, and did not stop again.

  They reached the cabin as the last of the light flickered and died in the western sky. Peggy ached in every joint and muscle in her body, but she lit the propane lamps and put water on to boil for coffee while Robert collapsed into a chair and put his head in his hands. Finally, when she could think of nothing else to do to keep herself busy, Peggy sat down opposite him.

  “Robert.” He looked up at her with tired eyes. “Robert, it’s time to phone the police. I’ll do it, if you’d like.”

  “Yeah, that’d be good. Thanks.”

  She would not have thought that this was the same Robert she had seen earlier in the day. He seemed lost, diminished, and she realised with a start that Jack had been wrong, completely wrong, when he had told her that Robert wouldn’t have minded if Jack had gone off and never come back. Something inside Robert compelled him, but Jack, she thought, had always been there, a link with the life he had left behind, and a way back to it. As long as Jack had been with him, Robert would have kept moving; now, without him, Peggy had the feeling that there’d be no Northwest Passage. She wished that Jack could know that, somehow. Perhaps he already did.

  She moved to the phone, an old-fashioned one with a dial. She picked up the receiver and listened for a moment, then jiggled the cradle two, three, four times, while the look on her face changed from puzzled to worried to frightened. She replaced the receiver.

  “No dial tone.”

  Robert stared at her. “What do you mean, no dial tone?”

  “Just what I said. The line must be down somewhere. We can’t call out.”

  “Great. Just fucking great.” Anger mixed with fear flashed across his face, and for a moment he looked like the Robert of old. “What do we do now?”

  “We have a cup of coffee and something to eat; then we get in my Jeep and drive to town and tell the police what’s happened. After that it’s in their hands.”

  “Shouldn’t we go now?”

  “Frankly, until I get some coffee into me I won’t be in a fit state to drive anywhere, and I’d be surprised if you’re any different. And the police won’t be able to start a search until morning; another half an hour or so isn’t going to make much difference now.”

  Robert looked at her bleakly. “I guess not,” he said finally.

  She busied herself with the ritual of making coffee. As she measured and poured, something caught her eye at the window, and she looked up automatically.

  A face was staring in at her.

  She gave a brief, choked cry and dropped the teaspoon, which clattered on to the counter. It took her a moment to realise that what she saw was her own reflection, framed in the darkness of the window and what lay beyond. That was all it could be. There was no one out there.

  But she had seen something at the window, out of the corner of her eye, before she looked up. No; it had been a reflection of something in the room. The cabin was brightly lit, and the windows were acting like mirrors.

  From the front of the cabin the wind chimes rang.

  Peggy was suddenly conscious of feeling exposed. The l
ittle cabin, lights streaming out the windows into the darkness, did not belong here; it was an intruder, and therefore a target. She turned to Robert.

  “Close the curtains.”

  “What?”

  She pointed to the picture windows overlooking the valley. “Leave the windows open, but close the curtains.”

  He did as she asked, while Peggy reached for the blind cord by the kitchen window. The Venetian blinds rattled into place. That’s better, she thought, and took the coffee in to the living-room.

  They sat and sipped, both unconsciously seeking refuge in this ordinary, everyday act. There was silence between them, for there was nothing to be said, or nothing they wanted to say. The wind chimes were louder now, the only sound in the vast expanse around them. The only sound. . . .

  A thought which had been at the back of Peggy’s mind for some time came into focus then, and she looked up, listening intently. She placed her cup on the table in front of her so hard that coffee sloshed over the side. Robert looked up, startled.

  “What . . . ” he began, but Peggy held up her hand.

  “Listen!” she whispered urgently. Robert looked at her, puzzled. “What do you hear? Tell me. . . . ”

  Robert tried to concentrate. “Nothing,” he said finally. “Just that chiming noise, that’s all. Why, did you hear something? Do you think it’s . . . ”

  “Listen. We can hear the chimes, yes, but there’s no wind in the trees; we should be able to hear it in the branches, shouldn’t we? And the windows are open, but the curtains aren’t moving, they’re absolutely still. So why can we hear the wind chimes, if there isn’t a wind?”

  Robert stared at her for a moment, uncomprehending. Then he went pale.

  “What are you saying?” he asked; but she saw in his eyes that he already knew the answer, or some of it. Enough, anyway.

  “I’m saying we have to leave,” said Peggy, startled by the firmness in her voice. “Now. Don’t bother about the lights. Let’s go.”

  She picked up her purse and keys from the shelf where they lay, and moved to the door. She did not want to go out there, did not want to leave the cabin, and it was only with a tremendous effort of will that she put her hand on the knob and pulled open the wooden door, letting a bright trail of light stream out over the rocky ground. She thought she saw something move at the far end of it, something tall and thin, but she did not, would not look, concentrating instead on walking to the driver’s door of the Jeep with her eyes on the ground, walking, not running, she would not run. . . .

  “Hey!” Robert’s voice rang out behind her, and she turned to see him still on the porch, looking not towards the Jeep, but towards the paths. She followed his gaze, and in the faint light cast by a three-quarter moon could just see a figure standing silent, fifty yards or so from them.

  “Jack!” cried Robert, relief flooding his voice. He stepped off the porch and moved towards the figure. “Hey, man, you had us worried! Where’ve you been? What happened?”

  Peggy felt a trickle of ice down her back. “Robert—Robert, come here,” she called out, fear making her voice tremble. “Come here now; we have to go.”

  He stopped and looked back at her. “Can’t you see?” he said, puzzled. “It’s Jack!” He turned back to the figure. “C’mon, come inside, get something to eat, tell us what happened. You hurt?”

  “Robert!” Peggy’s voice cracked like a gunshot. “That isn’t Jack. Can’t you see? It isn’t Jack.”

  “What do you mean? Of course it is! C’mon over here, man, let Peggy take a look at you, you’re frightening her. . . . ”

  All the time Robert had been moving closer to the figure, which remained motionless and silent. Suddenly, when he was only twenty feet away, he stopped, and she heard him give a strangled cry.

  “What the . . . what are you? What’s going on?” Then, higher, broken, like a child, “Peggy, what’s happening?” He seemed frozen, and Peggy thought for a moment that she would have to go to him, pull him forcibly to the Jeep, and realised that she could not go any closer to that figure. A warning shot, if she had thought to bring the rifle, might have broken the spell, but it was back in the cabin . . . She wrenched open the driver’s door and leaned on the horn with all her might.

  The sound made her jump, even though she was expecting it, and the effect on Robert was galvanic. He turned and began moving towards the Jeep in a stumbling, shambling run; as he got closer she could hear him sobbing between breaths, ragged, gasping sobs, and she was glad that she had not been close enough to see the figure clearly.

  She had dropped the keys twice from fingers that suddenly felt like dry twigs. Now, on the third try, she slammed the key into the ignition and turned it. Nothing. She turned it again. No response. She tried to turn on the headlights, but there was no answering flare of brightness. The battery was dead, and she realised, deep down in a corner of her mind, that she should have expected this.

  Robert turned to her, eyes glittering with panic. “C’mon, get it started, let’s go! What are you waiting for?”

  “The battery’s dead.” Her chest was heaving as she tried to bite down the panic welling up inside her. Robert began to moan, a thin, keening sound, as Peggy forced her mind back. Think, think, she told herself. There’s a way to do this, you know there is, you just have to calm down, remember. . . .

  Len’s voice sounded in her ear, so clearly that for a moment she thought he was beside her. “It’s not difficult,” she heard him say, “as long as it’s a standard; automatics are trickier.” And she remembered; she had asked him, once, what they’d do if the battery went dead, up here with no other car for miles. “We make sure the battery doesn’t go dead,” he’d said with a laugh, but when she pressed him—she was serious, it could happen, what would they do?—he had replied cheerfully, “Not a problem; just put the clutch in, put it in second, let gravity start to work, let out the clutch, and there you go, easy-peasy. Make sure the ignition’s on, and just keep driving for a bit; as long as the engine doesn’t stop you’ll charge the battery back up.”

  She had no intention of stopping once she got the engine started.

  She took a deep breath. The Jeep was parked on the flat, with the downward slope beginning twenty feet away. She would need help.

  “Robert.” He was still moaning, looking out the passenger window, and Peggy risked a look too. The figure seemed closer. “Robert! Listen to me!” Nothing. She reached out and shook him, and he turned to her, his eyes wide and scared. She hoped he could hear her.

  “You need to get out and push the car,” she said, slowly and clearly. He started to say something, and she cut him short. “Just do it, Robert. Do it now.”

  “I can’t get out, I can’t, I don’t . . . ”

  “You have to. You can do this, Robert, but you have to hurry. Just to the top of the slope. Twenty feet; then you can get back in.”

  For a moment she thought that he was going to refuse; then, without a word, he opened his door and half-fell, half-scrambled out. Peggy turned the ignition on, pushed in the clutch, put the Jeep in second, and they began to roll, slowly at first, then faster, Robert pushing with all his strength.

  It seemed to take hours to cover the short distance; then Peggy felt the car start to pick up momentum, and Robert jumped in, slamming the passenger door. She said under her breath, “Work, please, work,” and let out the clutch.

  For one brief, terrible second she thought that it wasn’t going to work, that she had done something wrong, missed something out. Then the engine shuddered into life, and she switched on the headlights, and they were through the gate and round the curve, and the cabin had disappeared behind them, along with everything else that was waiting in the darkness.

  They did not speak during the drive to town. Peggy concentrated on the road with a fierceness that made her head ache, glad she had something to think about other than what they had left, while Robert sat huddled down in his seat. She did not ask him what he had seen, and he did
not volunteer any information. The only thing she said, as they drew near the police station, was “Keep to the facts. That’s all they want to hear. Nothing else. Do you understand?” And Robert, pale, shaking, had nodded.

  They told their story, for the first of several times, and answered questions, together and separately. Peggy did not know exactly what they asked Robert; she gathered, from some of the questions directed at her, that he was under suspicion, although in the end nothing came of this.

  Officialdom swung into action, clearly following the procedures and guidelines laid out for just such a situation. Appeals for help were made; search parties were sent out; a spotter plane was employed. There were more questions, although no more answers. Peggy sometimes wondered where they would fit all the pieces she had not told them: eddies of dust and the ringing of chimes on a windless day, someone (not Buddy Holly) calling her name, the figure they had seen outside the cabin, the battery failures, the phone going dead. She imagined the response if she told the police that they should examine local Native legends and the vanishing of a prospector years earlier, or that she had felt that the hillside was watching her, or that Jack had not disappeared at all, he was still there, watching too, that he had only been looking after Robert.

  All the searches came to nothing; no further traces of Jack were found. A casual question to one of the volunteers elicited the information that the phone in the cabin was working perfectly. Peggy herself did not go back; no one expected a sixty-three-year-old woman to participate in the search, and everyone told her they understood why she preferred to stay in a hotel in town. They did not understand, of course, not at all, but Peggy did not try to explain.

  Paul came up as soon as he could. He, too, was very understanding, although he was surprised at his aunt’s decision to put the property on the market immediately. She was welcome to stay with him and the family for as long as she needed to, that went without saying; but wasn’t she being a bit hasty? Yes, it had been a terrible, tragic event, but perhaps she should wait a bit, hold off making a decision . . . she didn’t want to do something she would regret. . . .