by Thomas King
Three, four, five, six.
“Hello.”
“Hello. . .”
“Hello. . . Who’s this?”
Charlie sat up straight on the bed and drew a deep breath.“Dad?” he said. “Is that you, Dad?”
“I got back as soon as I could,” says Coyote. I was busy being a hero.”
“That’s unlikely,” I says.
“No, no,” says Coyote. “It’s the truth.”
“There are no truths, Coyote,” I says. “Only stories.”
“Okay,” says Coyote. “Tell me a story.”
“Okay,” I says. “You remember Old Woman? You remember that big hole and Young Man Walking On Water? You remember any of this at all?”
“Sure,” says Coyote. “I remember all of it.”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” I says.
“Who else is here?” says Coyote.
So.
Old Woman leaves Young Man Walking On Water and his apostles and floats around for a while. She floats in rivers. She floats in bays. She floats in bathtubs. She floats in lakes. One day she is floating in a real nice lake. This lake is so smooth you can see the sky when you look in the water.
My name is Glimmerglass, says that Lake. What’s yours?
I’m Old Woman, says Old Woman. And I am floating.
It’s a nice day for that, says that Lake.
Old Woman floats, and pretty soon she floats ashore.
Is that you, Chingachgook? says a voice. Is that you, my Indian friend?
Old Woman sits up in the water and looks around. There are some beautiful trees and some excellent rocks and some splendid clouds. And there is a short, skinny guy in a leather shirt with fringe standing behind one of the trees.
Chingachgook! That skinny guy says that. Chingachgook! That’s what he says.
Hello, says Old Woman. I’m Old Woman.
That skinny guy in the leather shirt with fringe stays behind that tree, and all Old Woman can see is a big rifle. A really big rifle.
That’s a big rifle, says Old Woman.
You bet, says the skinny man. I’m Nathaniel Bumppo, Post-Colonial Wilderness Guide and Outfitter. You must be Chingachgook.
No, says Old Woman, I’m not Chingachgook.
My friends call me Nasty, says Nathaniel Bumppo. Chingachgook is my friend. He’s an Indian. But he is my friend anyway.
But I’m not Chingachgook, says Old Woman.
Nasty Bumppo runs to the next tree and hides behind it. Nonsense, he says. I can tell an Indian when I see one. Chingachgook is an Indian. You’re an Indian. Case closed.
I’m sure this is embarrassing for you, says Old Woman.
Indians have Indian gifts, says Nasty Bumppo. And Whites have white gifts.
Gifts? says Old Woman.
That Nasty Bumppo keeps running from tree to tree as he is talking, dragging that really big rifle behind him.
Indians have a keen sense of smell, says Nasty Bumppo. That’s an Indian gift.
“I have a keen sense of smell,” says Coyote. “I must be an Indian.”
“You’re a Coyote,” I says.
“No, no,” says Coyote. “I have an Indian gift.”
Whites are compassionate, says Nasty Bumppo. That’s a white gift.
“Wait a minute,” says Coyote. “I’m compassionate, too. I must be a White.”
“You’re still a Coyote,” I says.
“Boy,” says Coyote, “this is confusing.”
Indians can run fast. Indians can endure pain. Indians have quick reflexes. Indians don’t talk much. Indians have good eyesight. Indians have agile bodies. These are all Indian gifts, says Nasty Bumppo.
Interesting, says Old Woman.
Whites are patient. Whites are spiritual. Whites are cognitive. Whites are philosophical. Whites are sophisticated. Whites are sensitive. These are all white gifts, says Nasty Bumppo.
So, says Old Woman. Whites are superior, and Indians are inferior.
Exactly right, says Nasty Bumppo. Any questions?
“Oops,” says Coyote. “We have a problem.”
“Only if you’re an Indian,” I says.
“You’re right,” says Coyote. “I’m probably a Coyote.”
And, says Nasty Bumppo, Whites are particularly good killers. Do you see that deer over there?
Oh, dear, says Old Woman. That’s not a deer. That’s Old Coyote.
What’s an Old Coyote? says Nasty Bumppo, and that one shoots at Old Coyote.
Stop shooting, says Old Coyote. You could kill someone with that really big gun.
Stand still, Nasty Bumppo tells Old Coyote, so I can shoot you.
Boy, says Old Coyote, I was safer in that other story. And Old Coyote jumps into a hole by a big tree.
Phooey, says Nasty Bumppo. Now I’m going to have to kill something else.
Well, says Old Woman, there’s no one here but you and me.
Well, that sure is a problem, Chingachgook, says Nasty Bumppo. That sure is a problem.
Maybe, says Old Woman, it would help if you knew that I’m not your friend Chingachgook.
Yes, says Nasty Bumppo, that does help a lot. If you’re not my friend Chingachgook, then I should go ahead and shoot you and get it out of my system.
That’s not exactly what I had in mind, says Old Woman.
Gut shot or head shot? says Nasty Bumppo.
“I’m going to need a few minutes to figure this out,” says Coyote.
“Just pay attention,” I says.
“No, no,” says Coyote. “This is deep. This is very deep.”
So that Nasty Bumppo hides behind a big tree and that Nasty Bumppo loads that really big rifle and that Nasty Bumppo aims that really big rifle at Old Woman.
Here we go, says Nasty Bumppo.
And there is a really big explosion. And there is a lot of smoke.
Boy, says Nasty Bumppo, that was a really good shot. And that one falls over.
What happened? says Old Woman.
I’ve been shot, says Nasty Bumppo. You must have shot me.
No, says Old Woman. I didn’t do that.
What did you say your name was? says Nasty Bumppo.
Old Woman, says Old Woman.
That’s a stupid name, says Nasty Bumppo. We have to get you a better killer name than that. How about Daniel Boone?
I don’t think so, says Old Woman.
How about Harry Truman? says Nasty Bumppo.
Not that either, says Old Woman.
Arthur Watkins? says Nasty Bumppo.
No, says Old Woman.
We got to get this settled before I die, says Nasty Bumppo, and that one takes a book out of his pack. Here we go, he says. Hawkeye. That’s a good name. Hawkeye.
Hawkeye? says Old Woman.
Good name, huh? says Nasty Bumppo, and that one drops dead.
“Hawkeye?” says Coyote. “Is that a good Indian name?”
“No,” I says. “It sounds like a name for a white person who wants to be an Indian.”
“Who would want to be an Indian?” says Coyote.
“Not me,” I says.
“Not me, either,” says Coyote.
Hello, says a voice. Are you all right?
Old Woman looks around, and there is an Indian standing by a tree.
Hello, says Old Woman. You must be Chingachgook.
That’s right, says Chingachgook. Have you seen a skinny guy in a leather shirt with a really big rifle?
“Wait, wait!” says Coyote. “Who shot Nasty Bumppo?”
“Who cares?” I says.
“Maybe Old Coyote shot him,” says Coyote.
“Anything’s possible,” I says.
“Maybe there was more than one gunman,” says Coyote.
“Anything’s possible,” I says.
“Maybe,” says Coyote, “it was a conspiracy.”
* * *
Oh, oh. Whi
le Chingachgook and Old Woman are talking, some soldiers come along and they see the dead Nasty Bumppo.
Okay, says those soldiers. Who shot Nasty Bumppo?
Not me, says Old Woman.
Not me, says Chingachgook.
Not me, says Coyote.
Well, I didn’t shoot myself, says Nasty Bumppo. And that one dies again.
Ah-ha! those soldiers says. This looks like a mystery.
Well, says Old Woman, it’s sure a mystery to me.
Names? says those soldiers, and they all take out a book from their packs.
I’m Chingachgook, says Chingachgook.
Yes, says those soldiers. There is a Chingachgook in this book. And they check Chingachgook’s name off the list. Next!
I’m Old Woman, says Old Woman.
No Old Woman in this book, says those soldiers. You’ll have to do better than that.
Daniel Boone? says Old Woman.
Not on the list, says those soldiers.
Harry Truman?
Nope.
Arthur Watkins? says Old Woman.
Not even close, says those soldiers.
Is there a Hawkeye in that book? says Chingachgook.
Yes, there is, says those soldiers.
Well, says Old Woman, I guess I’m Hawkeye.
Ah-ha! shouts those soldiers. Then you’re going to prison for a long time.
And they grab Old Woman.
For killing Nasty Bumppo? says Old Woman.
No, says those soldiers. For trying to impersonate a white man. And those soldiers put Old Woman on a train and send her to Florida.
* * *
“That sounds like Fort Marion,” says Coyote.
“Yes, it does,” I says.
“So that’s what happened,” says Coyote.
“That’s what always happens,” I says.
Eli didn’t get back to the cabin until well after midnight. Just as he crawled into bed and was arranging the pillows, they turned the floodlight on. Sifton’s revenge, no doubt. Eli hung a blanket over the window, but it could not block out the hard white light that came in around the edges and flowed through the blanket itself and set it aglow.
He did not sleep well that night, and before dawn he got up and put on a pot of coffee. Then he backed the pickup up to the woodpile and threw blocks of wood into the truck as he waited for the sunrise. He was sweating when first light filled the sky.
Eli went back to the cabin and brought out the coffeepot and set it on the porch. The air was cold and he felt tired. He leaned back against the cabin and waited for the sun.
The next morning, Babo rose early, showered, and dressed for the adventure. It wasn’t such a bad thing to have lost Dr. Hovaugh’s car, she concluded. He was so set on finding the Indians that he would never have stopped at the many out-of-the-way places in the area, would never have taken the time to see them.
But a bus. Well, there was no place to go. All you could do was to sit back and relax and enjoy the view. They would find the old Indians in good time. No sense in missing the other points of interest.
When Babo got to the restaurant, Dr. Hovaugh was waiting for her. He looked as if he hadn’t slept at all. The book was open and sitting on top of a map. “Good morning, Dr. Hovaugh,” said Babo.
“I ordered some breakfast for you.”
“That was nice. What did you order?”
Babo and Dr. Hovaugh ate in silence. Dr. Hovaugh ran down the pages of the book, occasionally looking at the map. Babo found the chili omelet a touch on the dry side, but the potato chips were tasty.
Babo had just started to drink her second cup of coffee when Dr. Hovaugh shut the book, folded the map, and stood up.
“Come on,” he said. “Time to go.”
“The bus doesn’t leave for another half an hour.”
“We have to get good seats,” said Dr. Hovaugh. “At the front. So we can see everything.”
“Plenty of time.”
“It happens today,” said Dr. Hovaugh, and he caught up the book and the map and disappeared out the front door.
Babo sighed and finished her coffee. This didn’t bode well for some leisurely sightseeing. Perhaps Dr. Hovaugh would relax once the bus got going and just forget about the Indians.
When Babo climbed on the bus, Dr. Hovaugh was sitting in the front seat, the book open, the map spread out on the seat next to him.
“Sit there,” he said, pointing to the seat across the aisle. Other people began to get on, but the bus wasn’t very full.
“Hi,” said the bus driver. “My name is Ralph, and I’m your driver for today. If there is anything I can do to make your West Wind Tour more enjoyable, please let me know.”
“Let’s get going,” said Dr. Hovaugh.
Ralph adjusted his seat and turned on the microphone.“We’ll be seeing a number of interesting places today. If you have any questions, just shout them out, and I’ll do my best to answer them.”
“How long before we get to the dam?” said Dr. Hovaugh.
“Remember,” said Ralph, “no smoking is permitted on this bus. There’s a bathroom to the rear of the bus and there are reading lights above your seats.”
Babo reclined her seat and put her hands in her lap.
“On behalf of the management of West Wind Tours,” said Ralph, “thanks for traveling with the Wind. So, sit back and enjoy the adventure of a lifetime.”
That would be nice, thought Babo. That would be very nice, indeed.
Clifford Sifton sat in his office at the dam site and read through the pile of reports on his desk. A waste of time. A damn waste of time. Sifton loved building dams, but he hated the paperwork. Loved watching the forms being built and the concrete being poured. Hated the dinners and the speeches and the reports.
Lewis Pick opened the office door, letting in the cold air behind him.
“Hey, Cliff,” said Lew. “You better come and see this.”
“What is it?”
“Don’t know,” said Lew, “but you better come.”
Sifton pushed the report aside. What he should have done was walk down to Eli’s. Coffee with the old man in the mornings was always a high point, and he hated missing it.
Lew was standing at the railing, looking out over the lake, when Sifton got outside.
“So what in the hell’s the problem?”
“No problem,” said Lew. “Just weird.”
“Okay,” said Sifton. “What’s weird?”
“Look,” said Lew, and he pointed off across the lake.
At the far end, just beyond the range of sight, Sifton thought he saw something. Dots on the horizon. Nothing more than that.
“Here,” said Lew. “Use the glasses.”
The binoculars didn’t help much, but Sifton could now see that there was something out there.
“Kids probably,” said Sifton. “They know they’re not supposed to be on the lake, so they do it anyway.”
“Yeah,” said Lew. “Could be kids.”
Sifton looked through the binoculars again. The dots were beginning to take shape, to pull closer. There were three of them, and Sifton could almost make out what they were.
“Here,” he said to Lew. “You’ve got younger eyes. What do you see?”
Lew took the binoculars and leaned on the railing. He stayed there for a long time, watching. Finally, he stood up and shook his head.
“So?” said Sifton.
“You’re not going to like this, Cliff,” said Lew, handing the binoculars back to him.
“Make my day,” said Sifton.
“Cars,” said Lew.
“Cars?” said Sifton.
“That’s right,” said Lew. “And they’re coming this way.”
Bill Bursum parked his car at the lake’s edge and unloaded his lawn chair and the large cooler. He set up a folding table and put the portable radio and television on it. It was cold and Bursum wore a heavy ja
cket, but as soon as the sun came up and the day warmed, he would change into shorts and a light shirt.
The lake was spectacular, quiet and so calm you could see the sky in the water. Bursum stretched out on the chair and pulled his tuque down over his ears.
He could see the world from here. To the east was the dam. Bursum could just see the lip of the structure and the control tower, and he imagined the engineers moving back and forth, checking the turbines, running tests, drinking coffee. Beyond that was the prairies, a wondrous landscape that ran all the way to Ontario.
To the west, beyond the lake and the trees, the mountains ran north to Banff and Jasper and south into Montana.
Bursum sat up and adjusted the chair. He started to turn on the radio when a flash of light caught his attention. The sun was not yet up, but in the early light Bursum could see three objects on the lake. He walked out on the peninsula where he planned to build his house once the business with the dam and Eli was resolved, marched right through the master bedroom and the living room until he stood at the edge of the water.
They were still a way away, but even from this distance, Bursum could tell what they were. Cars. Three cars.
“Good God!” said Bursum.
Bursum stood there as the cars sailed past the peninsula and continued on down the lake toward the dam.
The lake was beautiful. Babo leaned against the glass as the bus ran along the embankment road.
“Parliament Lake,” said Ralph. “The eleventh largest man-made lake in Alberta.”
Dr. Hovaugh was bent over the book and the map.
“Dr. Hovaugh,” said Babo, “look. It’s the lake. The dam is just ahead.”
“About time,” said Dr. Hovaugh, and he turned in his seat to look out the window.
“The lake probably looks a little deserted right now,” said Ralph, “but in the near future, you can expect to see houses and condominiums along the shore and boats and swimmers enjoying the water.”
“What’s that?” said one of the passengers.
“What?” said Ralph.
“Over there,” said Babo. “What’s that over there?”
Ralph slowed the bus down and then brought it to a stop. “Well,” he said, “I don’t know. Anybody got some binoculars?”
Several people had binoculars. An older man gave his pair to Ralph, who looked through them and began to laugh.
“Well, folks,” he said, “this is certainly a highlight of your tour. If you’ll look to your right, you’ll see three cars floating on the lake.”
