The 53rd Parallel

by Carl Nordgren

  Inside the panel truck, in the dark, Mathew sat in a corner. A small boy leaned against him, a younger girl was nearly on his lap.

  “Listen to me, my brothers and sisters. This is what I will do. I will tell my spirit to stay here. My spirit will wait for me here, for my spirit must live on the River, and in these forests. You will decide if that is what is best for your spirit. But I am telling my spirit to stay here with my people.”

  Simon trotted in the darkness back to the River. His hand was still bleeding and two of his fingers were growing numb when he tried to grip. He nearly stumbled over a young boy hiding under a bush. He took him by the hand and they headed down the slope to Joe Loon who stood silhouetted at the shore.

  Joe Loon had loaded his canoe with five children and Old George took them to Three-Headed Rock. The fishing boat held three more children and Joe Loon had waited for more to emerge from the darkness but had just sent it off with Louis Assiniboine when Simon and the boy arrived.

  “What did you see?”

  “Men in uniforms with guns. They captured many of our children. Mathew was with them. They caught Stevie Angenconeb. They caught Louis Strong. I saw the daughters of John Fobister being led away.”

  “Your hand is bleeding.”

  Joe Loon opened a bundle to use the cloth that wrapped it. He examined his grandson's hand then rubbed some medicine from the bag around his neck on the wounds.

  “Gitchi Manitou, you know of this brave son of the Keewatin People. We ask his hand to be strong when you have healed his wound.” He tied the wrap around the wound.

  “You will take Nigig. It will be dark when you get to Three-Headed Rock. I have told them no fires tonight, so you must watch carefully for them for there is no moonlight.”

  The boy climbed into the bow of Nigig and took up a paddle as Simon settled into the stern. The wounded fingers felt better pressed against the wood. Joe Loon held Nigig steady as they settled in, then pushed it from shore.

  “We will be there tomorrow. Then we will travel together to Big Brian's cabins and wait for him.”

  The pub had been crowded every night since the movie crew arrived, and tonight was more crowded still. John Ford just bought a round for his table, so John Wayne, Victor McLaglen, Barry Fitzgerald, and Eamon Burke turned for his toast.

  “Here's to blue skies, to lovely women…” he lifted his eye patch just a bit and acted as if he was searching, “… and to more lovely women.”

  After they drank, he picked the conversation up again with Eamon.

  “You can ride?”

  “There's a two-mile horse race at some big sand dunes just north of here. They call it The Race to The Sea—”

  A couple of old-timer pub regulars were seated so close at the next table that their chairs nearly touched, and one of them leaned over to interrupt, nodding at Eamon.

  “This fella here, when he won the race last year, 'twas his third victory in five years. No man alive but Eamon Burke himself has had such a reign of success at the Race.”

  “We've got a big racing scene in our movie. I'd like to hear more about how your race is staged.”

  The other old-timer took his turn.

  “Ah no, Mister Hollywood man, nothin' staged about it. He wins 'em on the square.”

  “And you can take a punch?”

  The first old-timer spoke up again.

  “No, now, there I gotta say no man 'round here has ever dared throw one his way.”

  John Wayne knew the outcome was assured.

  “He's the man for the job, if you ask me, and it sure seems like my vote about my double should count for something.”

  “Welcome to the movie business, Eamon.”

  As closing time approached, it was just Victor McLaglen, Barry Fitzgerald, and Eamon sitting at their table, but with the actors buying drinks for the house there were a number of locals at the other tables.

  “Can I ask your opinion about somethin' here Victor?”

  “Ah, I got lotsa opinions, bucko, which one ya want?”

  “It's about a cousin of mine. His name is Brian Burke.”

  All night three local lads, one fifteen, one sixteen, one eighteen, had been working their way to a table closer to Eamon. They finally made their destination when the old- timers left.

  The sixteen-year-old had spent the evening with an eye on Eamon as he was shaping his new hurling stick with a small fine file. He tapped the table with the file to quiet the other two.

  “He left here a couple a' years ago, yeah, with plans of buildin' a fishin' lodge somewhere in the wilds of Canada. He was thinkin' Ontario before he left.”

  Eamon gave a brief description of Brian's dream for the Canadian fishing camp, mindful of it being the first time he had told Brian's story, and he was pleased with his effort even before Victor spoke with such enthusiasm.

  “Now that's the business we should be in, creating adventures, real adventures, every day treating your audiences as guests and your guests as audiences.”

  “You sound like my cousin talkin' about it.”

  “Somewhere I went astray and decided to make believe. Let's get into this with him, yes, sir. He's looking for investors is what I feel coming next, so I'm saying bring it on.”

  Eamon's smile didn't last long.

  “I don't know anythin' at all about what he's up to. I'm sorry to say we haven't spoken since he left.”

  “A movie concept of the wayward one, going off to make good, and he's vanished until he does?”

  “Which movie was that?

  “I'm saying once you know the plot you can see it coming in scripts time and again.”

  “I suppose that's as good a summary for his life as another. I don't know if he's got the camp built, or if it is still bein' planned. Or even if he's in Chicago to stay. But if he built it, when he did, his plan was to send invitation letters to movie actors like you and John Wayne, invitin' you to come, for free, to stay as his guest. That's what I was goin' to ask you about, would you be interested in that sort of offer?”

  “Ah, now what a grand gesture. That's marvelous, in fact. I know ol' Johnny boy is a true sporting man. I've seen him with a shotgun at his shoulder, shooting like he's John Wayne. He's likely to be interested. As for me, as soon as we're wrapped up with this picture, I'll be ready to go.”

  “Do you think with John bein' here, you bein' here—for the next two months is what Mr. Ford said I should set aside—do you think if I could track down my wayward Cos an' invited him to come see you, you two could meet with 'im?”

  “Of course. We'll sit right here and toast his success and damn the rest.”

  At closing, the pub emptied quickly. A horse and cart waited on the curb as two men climbed in, shouted good-byes, and clip-clopped down the street while Eamon reminded the actors how to find their accommodations.

  The local lads who listened for Brian Burke's story stayed as close to Eamon as they dared. Finally, they were alone in the street. The eighteen-year-old, the biggest lad, implored the fellow spinning his hurling stick in his hands.

  “I'm sayin' no, we don't tell him. I don't want to do nothin' could feck with this movie makin', anyone could see the reasonin' in that. They're payin' me da just to take pictures of his cottage for Christ's sake.”

  The younger lad was timid but clear.

  “Tony's right, there's plenty makin' more the next couple of months than they do in two years of feckin' sod cuttin' or sellin' their wool.”

  Tony was certain. “Let's give 'em a feckin' chance here.”

  The hurling lad rested his stick on his shoulder.

  “This woman's been disappeared for nearly ten years now, no one has a bead on where she went except maybe she ran off with Brian Burke. An' now we're handed important pieces of information to find her. An' you say don't tell Kevin?”

  “At least wait 'til the filim is done.”

  “Not when others are lookin' for her as well as us. And on the chance Russell did get the 50,000 poun
ds he was after, Kevin is sayin' we should treat it as a race, not a search. Well, me boyo's, I know a winnin' edge when I see one, and our chances of winnin' the race just got a whole lot better.”

  He flipped his stick off his shoulder and twirled at his side. “An' I like winnin'.” He hit an imaginary ball for a long looping ride with a good, full swing. They all felt the power in the whoosh of sound and air.

  “So you can let me take all the credit when I visit Kevin tomorrow, or you can make a bus trip with me an' share the glory an' we'll have us a little fun in Dublintowne.”

  Chapter 20

  Someone's Coming

  Two boats were trolling just above the wide falls that dropped straight down ten feet.

  Joe Loon operated the outboard for the lead fishing boat with Brian in the middle and Albert in the bow seat. Albert was reeling in another walleye.

  Each time they passed over the hole marked twenty yards off shore by the big rock with the scrubby stunted pine growing out of the rock's crack, they caught at least one walleye.

  Simon guided the second boat along the same path to similar success. Maureen was the only fisherman with him.

  A large, wooden box was tied in the bow of each boat. Both boxes were painted green, each with a distinct Ojibway pictograph of a walleye painted red on the lid.

  The engines rumbled low in reverse, the boats piloted so their broad flat sterns' resistance maintained slow, steady trolling speeds.

  The top of the falls was close and its sound was less a crashing roar and more a deep rumbling purr. Brian felt full of the purr, and as Albert netted a walleye he called to all who would hear him.

  “All I gotta do is make sure the coffee's hot in the mornin' an' the steaks are cooked right for supper. If we do that, Lady Girl, an' you gentlemen of the forest bring our guests to places like this all day, they will have to agree they have found that bit a' Eden in the north woods we promise 'em. Them hard-edged Chicago businessmen will find a good fight in this action an' peace in this place an' it's great smiles an' grand stories they'll take home with 'em.”

  Brian turned to Albert.

  “I hope Joe Loon understands your people have become my people. Anythin' he needs from me, he just has to ask.”

  “He asks you do you understand you are needed here.”

  Brian looked to see if Maureen was listening. Her head was cocked their way, but she was studying the shoreline, and rumbling water and coughing motor sounds filled the air.

  “I am needed here?”

  “We believe the white man who stay in the cabins will tell stories of this place to their children. We believe their children will come to see if the stories are true. They will fish here with their grandchildren. When their grandchildren have grown, they will tell their sons the stories of the first days they fished the River. Their stories will be filled with the spirits of this place. They will help us protect this place for our grandchildren.”

  “Protect it?”

  “From the white man coming who would destroy the River.”

  “Why would anyone do that?”

  “We do not know who they are. We know they are coming.”

  “This is what Joe Loon's dream is tellin' you?”

  “It is telling us we must stop them. It is telling us you are here to help us stop them.”

  “Well, as soon as you see them, point 'em out to me.”

  “We are watching.”

  “I'll put my war paint on when you find them. Did your ancestors put paint on their faces when they went into battle?”

  “Only when our enemy was worthy.”

  “Is this enemy worthy?”

  “We have not met him yet.”

  The small windows of the Mackintosh Residential School provided narrow views of the lovely spring-green countryside that surrounded the two-story brick building. Right behind the school a playground was defined by the large cinder-covered yard. Ojibway children laughed as they tossed balls and chased one another and lined up for the swings and the slide.

  The boys wore uniforms of gray work shirts, thin denim pants, and canvas slipper shoes. The girls had similar shirts and shoes and denim skirts. Each item of clothing was numbered—on the back of the shirt, on the hip of the pants or skirt, and on the side of each shoe.

  Each child had been assigned that number.

  The cinder yard was surrounded by a three-inch high cement curb painted bright yellow. Beyond the curb the meadow was vibrating with emergent life. And beyond the meadow was a forest of birch and aspen where young leaves shimmered and quaked.

  Mathew Loon was number fourteen. He stood alone in the far corner of the cinder yard, the tips of his shoes at the edge of the yellow curb. In just a moment he would sing the meadow lark's song back to the bird that had been teaching it to him. Mathew had never heard this lovely song before for they are indeed birds of the open fields, not found in the deep forests of the Keewatin Ojibway.

  The school was run by the Jesuits, and two brothers stood together, arms folded, watching the children. One brother paid attention to Mathew.

  “Watch number fourteen. Watch what happens. This is how it started yesterday.”

  Soon after Mathew began the meadow lark's song the children running closest to him slowed their step, then came to a stop, then drifted his way to stand with him. It didn't take long for three children, then five children, all from Grassy Narrows, to come to stand with him, watching the grasses dance with the wind, smiling at Mathew's song and at all the birds' songs.

  The oldest girl, near Mathew's age, began to whistle the pine siskin's song.

  Then two young boys answered with a redeye vireo duet, the long sequence handled as a round.

  Another girl mimicked the black and white warbler, and as her call ended and the boy who sang to the song sparrow began, Mathew was compelled. He had to stand out in the meadow, in the midst of the songs and the wind and the sun and the purple and green grasses, to join the songs and the celebration. He stepped over the curb, one careful step followed by another, then one more, before he stopped.

  He sang again, then took two more steps, his hands open to feel the tall grasses tickle his palms.

  The brothers shook their heads, one smiling, the other frowning. The smiling brother said, “He did that yesterday.”

  “And you didn't strap him?”

  “He came right back when I called him.”

  “And then you explained he's not to cross the curb again, eh?”

  “That's right. He understood me. I thought so, anyway.”

  “That's why you have to strap them when they're new, so they understand the meaning of rules. Especially this one. The others look to him as their leader.”

  The leather strap unrolled as the brother removed it from his coat pocket and stepped towards Mathew. He called back over his shoulder.

  “You have to be toughest on the oldest.”

  He approached number fourteen, the strap flapping at his side, the children scurrying out of his way.

  Brian and Maureen stood at the end of the dock and watched Dutch bank over the ridgeline in the freshly-painted bright yellow Norseman with the red NOA stencil on the tail. Dutch lined up his landing and sent a rooster tail of spray flashing silver when the pontoons broke the water's surface.

  Joe Loon and Albert and Old George waited with Brian and Maureen on the dock, for in Dutch's plane were the first guests of the Great Lodge at Innish Cove. All of the Ojibway who lived there were watching—the women and youngest children from the village camp set up above the beach, the men and boys standing between dock and sheds.

  Maureen waved when Dutch taxied up to the dock. Brian caught the wing strut and slowed the plane to stop dockside. Albert and Old George stepped forward to tie the pontoons. The cargo door opened, and out stepped Brian's first guests.

  “Gentleman, welcome to the Great Lodge at Innish Cove.”

  The first man nearly shouted his delight. “What an extraordinary place!”

&nb
sp; The second man smiled. “I'm Gary Dorn. The exuberant one is my good friend, Loran Fredrick. You must be Brian Burke.”

  “I am, an' me an' me partner here, Maureen O'Toole, together we are at your service an' humbly so.”

  “Why do I think there's absolutely nothing humble about either of you?”

  “Wait 'til you get to know us, you'll discover we're shrinkin' violets. But for now…” Brian's gesture included Maureen and all the Ojibway men standing there, “…we all welcome you as our first guests.”

  Brian grabbed one of the guest's duffle bags, Albert and Old George grabbed the other bags and tackle boxes and rod cases, and they stepped from dock to beach to the path to the cabins.

  “We're your first guests this season?”

  “Indeed gentlemen this is our very first season of actual operations after years of dreamin' an' plannin' an' buildin'. So we're just open for business an' that makes you our first guests at the Great Lodge at Innish Cove. An' we intend to honor you for it.”

  Maureen spoke up. “We have a lovely little cottage, ah, that's the Irish in me, I mean that cabin ahead is all ready for you. These men here with us built all these cabins last summer while Brian an' I tried to help. That one right above yours, the biggest, we've set up as a lodge for meals, with a bit of a pub fixed up in the corner for your evenin' refreshment.”

  Then Brian said, “But most importantly, let me introduce you to this man, Joe Loon. He's the number one guide 'round here. He's been fishin' these waters his entire life, an' so too his father an' his grandfather's grandfather. If they didn't catch fish they wouldn't be eatin' or feedin' their young ones. So they know where the fish are as sure as the fish know where the fish are is what I am sayin' to you.”

  “Nice to meet you, Joe.”

  “He's called Joe Loon. An' you'll find he speaks no English.”

  “Won't that make it interesting? A guide who doesn't understand us.”