The 53rd Parallel

by Carl Nordgren

  Simon stood to fetch his water bottle from the small birch bark lean-to behind the cedar at the back of the small clearing.

  This Man made a warning sound.

  They stood quietly, listening. From far down the path below Simon heard muffled voices. It was still two days before his people would come for him, so he knew it was not members of his village.

  The voices grew louder. It had the sounds of white man talk and Simon knew it must be since all the Keewatin people would know Simon was there and would never interrupt a young man's vision quest.

  Simon wondered if he was acting in a dream as he dashed back to the cliff side to grab his beaver pelt, then began stuffing the feathers and beads up in the cedar boughs to hide them. The voices were excited and the sound of them told Simon they would soon arrive.

  He dashed behind the first big tree and then looked to find his next point of retreat.

  As the two pulp-mill men followed their voices up the last length of the path and into the clearing, Simon stayed just long enough to see them, still uncertain of the reality of it all, then he slipped into the forest and settled down behind a large boulder. When he hit his knee on the edge of the big rock, he considered the sharp pain to be evidence he was in the natural world, that this wasn't his dream vision. But he wasn't sure.

  The men stopped on the spot Simon was sitting as it afforded a completely spectacular view. The tall man was delighted to have found this place.

  “I was right. The highest peak around with a view looking out to the Eastern sky.”

  The shorter man was also taken by the sweep of the forests and lakes below.

  “That's where we were when you saw this, right there, on that lake right there, just off that point, eh?”

  “I looked up and said, 'I'll bet that's the place'.”

  “You found it.”

  The tall man reached into his rucksack for the map and studied the high ground to the north.

  “Their burial ground is out of sight from here. It behind where two ridgelines meet. Just tucked behind on that branch of the River, eh?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I think so.”

  “Well, if it's just these two sites we have to worry about, then we got nothing to worry about. We just shift the whole operation southwest, which lengthens the road cut a little, but that lets us stay off this ridge… And if we stay off this ridge we wouldn't want to log anywhere near that ridge wall so that should be plenty of protection for the burial site.”

  The men turned away from a sudden, strong gust of wind that kicked up a bit of fresh ash from the fire pit. With the next gust, the feathers and beads fluttered down.

  “Someone was up here last night.”

  The tall man let the feathers dance on his open palms.

  “I'd like to do that. I'd like to spend a night here examining and wondering about my life, about my role in my life… I wonder if they'd let me.”

  The short man noticed the lean-to and saw its meager rations.

  “I think there's someone here right now.”

  “We should leave. We might be interrupting some sort of something.”

  They looked around quickly, then headed back down the path. After just a moment's hesitation to create a safe distance, Simon followed them. They made it easy, their voices amplified by their excited spirits. Simon was still not certain this wasn't part of his vision. He had to find out who these white men were and why they were here, and why they were so interested in the most sacred places of his people. This would help him understand if this was his vision or if these were the white men coming to destroy the River.

  When the two lumbermen got to their canoe, Simon was back in the trees on a small knoll, watching them push off from shore, start their motor, then turn upstream. He stayed back off the shore and followed the sound of the outboard as he dogtrotted the ridgeline where he could see the River between the trees. He wasn't worried when the outboard motor's last echo faded for he was certain he'd come to their camp soon enough.

  From the top of the steep slope he could see over the trees below, and he could see a great length of the River before the rapids and he knew their camp would be on this side of them.

  Before dusk settled and as the ridge grade became more severe, Simon left the slope and walked along the bank of the River where there was more light; shadows spread and met and darkened the forest, but along the bank he was able to maintain a steady pace.

  In the last light he saw the canoe pulled up on shore, just above the rapids, and he left the River to come to the camp from the deepest forest.

  The two lumbermen sat at the fire on their campstools. Between them and their tent a table sat under the glow of a kerosene lantern. Earlier, they had eaten at the table while they recorded the day's findings in journals and on maps they kept in a briefcase. When they finished, they took a bottle of whiskey from the briefcase and the tall man poured a couple of fingers of whiskey in two glasses as they settled in around the fire.

  The short man pushed and poked at the fire with a stick.

  “They say they've got a new job for me. It's an extra $50 a month, but it's in an office in Dryden. I told my wife there's no better job for me than this one I'm doing now, but I'd let her think about the money and tell me what it would mean to the family.”

  “So then how can you hide the work you love so much? Aren't they telling us to hire as lumberjacks every one of the Indians who want the work? And don't the Indians want these jobs so they can live out in the forests still with some steady money in their pockets? And now, now that we're learning to keep away from their sacred sites, I say there is no better job than this, and I'm proud to be doing it.”

  Simon moved quietly in the dark. He had scraped the paint from his face so nothing reflected the campfire's light. When he got down on his hands and knees to approach the camp, he discovered how tired he was from running and how weak he was from fasting for two days. He leaned against a tree to rest and gathered his spirits as he plotted a course to the edge of the camp.

  The short man sipped his whiskey and smiled.

  “It's possible we were the first white men up there on that cliff. To be making your life in the forests where there's Indians still living their ancient ways, that's what makes this job special.”

  “That's why I just don't understand you.”

  “What?”

  “That you can talk that way one moment and then consider sitting behind a desk.”

  Simon crawled on his belly up to a fallen tree and realized that if he could get to the cluster of low-brush bushes just ahead, he would have a full view of the camp. He slid over the tree trunk and inched his way under the bushes. He made no sound that didn't belong in the forest's nighttime symphony and the rapids' rumbling undertone.

  He peeked from under the bushes and a second later This Man crawled up next to him.

  Seeing this white man camp helped Simon remember. He and Mathew had traded with these two men at their camp, when they had first tasted moon breads, years ago.

  He had liked those men. Simon learned that white traders usually gave less than he expected. These men had wrapped up such large portions of batter and butter and syrup to take back to their camp that Nokomis made them moon breads for two days. The second day had seemed like an extra gift to Simon and Mathew.

  The fire burned low. The men kicked the last flame out and gathered their papers and charts and stuffed them back in the briefcase. One carried the lantern, the other carried the case as they retreated to their tent.

  Simon watched their silhouette shadows on the tent walls as the men settled into their cots. The lantern's flame was soon extinguished, all was dark, and a few last muffled words were spoken.

  Simon waited a long time, resting under the bush. He listened to the night sounds, and he waited longer.

  For a short time he slept.

  When he awakened, he listened through the nighttime forest music for the sound of deep, peaceful sleep. He crept out from under the bu
sh to crawl to the table, then to the tent. He lay quietly just outside the tent flap, listening to their sounds. He had never been close to a sleeping white man, and they sounded like his own people. Slowly, he pulled back the tent flap.

  The briefcase was right there, in arm's length, so he slipped it out and carried it to the fire ring. He gathered up pine needles and twigs and carefully tended a last hot coal until he was able to start a small flame.

  He removed a chart from the briefcase and he burned it, carefully, allowing just enough flame for the fire to keep itself going, positioning his body between the flame and the tent to block the light.

  Then he removed a map and slowly burned it.

  One by one, he removed the papers and the maps and the charts from the briefcase and burned them, slowly, watching their demarcations and specifications curl and darken and disappear in burnt black ash flakes.

  He protected an occasional corner of a document so the white man could identify the source of the mound of ashes they would discover in the middle of their fire pit in the morning.

  The last two documents he removed were a map and a sealed envelope that he tore open to find a thick report with big, bold, bright red letters on its cover. He set the map and report aside but burned the envelope, leaving a reminder of it in the ash.

  Then he returned the case to the tent and vanished into the trees, carrying the last documents as his coup, and so he would know when the sun came up if this had been real and what it might mean for his vision.

  In the morning, the pulp-mill men were quite surprised and very confused to find the briefcase empty, then angry to discover someone had come into their camp at night and burned all their papers.

  The short man was especially angry with himself for leaving his copy of the confidential report in the briefcase but he felt somewhat relieved when he discovered the evidence that the report had been burned.

  The tall man conjectured that it was probably some Indian boys who had stumbled upon their camp during the day, then came back to practice their warrior skills in the night. Since neither could think of a better explanation they decided that was what had happened.

  Simon sat under the cedar and waited for his grandfather and the others to come for him. His hand rested on his coup. This Man stood to honor him. Soon, Joe Loon appeared at the end of the path followed by the other men of the clan.

  Simon sat next to Joe Loon and the other men formed a half circle, looking out over the cliff. After Simon told his story of the strange visitors and showed his coup, they praised his bravery and his craft.

  While the men passed the map around and located many familiar places marked in the white man's pen, Joe Loon picked up the report. For a long time he looked at the large red markings stamped on the cover, moving his fingers along them again and again. Then he opened the report and carefully studied every page, following every line.

  When he completed his examination of the last page he looked up.

  “This is Simon's purpose. It is shown to us all. Simon will learn all about the white man. He will learn how they use their language as the weapon that gets them what they want. This is what he will do to help us protect the River.”

  Joe Loon listened as others offered agreement.

  “It is time to bring Big Brian into our council. We will ask him to tell us what these markings mean. Then I will tell him that Simon will no longer sleep in my wigwam. Now he must live with Big Brian and Raven Hair Woman. They will teach him how the white man thinks about these things they do.”

  Again, the men told Joe Loon why this was a good idea. And Simon wondered what this would mean for him, to leave his family's wigwam to sleep in a bed in a white man's cabin.

  Chapter 25

  The Commitments

  Brian was in bed the morning after Dutch flew him back to camp. It was a long trip from Ireland, and he had been waking slowly. Knowing he had arrived to an empty camp, he allowed himself the extra sleep his body and soul needed.

  Maureen called from the porch that she was coming in and then appeared at his bedroom door. They each had a bedroom in this two-bedroom cabin, but the first season's low occupancy rate permitted Maureen the privacy of her own cabin for most of the summer.

  She brought him a cup of coffee.

  “Good afternoon.”

  He sat up with a grin.

  “Ah, right with the tease.” Brian stretched. “I slept like a feckin' baby.”

  “You've been in the pubs.”

  “Every night.”

  “You don't say feckin' to me, or the guests, an' most certainly not the Ojibway. That's the way you talk in the pub with your lads.”

  “It was a feckin' great trip.”

  Maureen crossed the room and handed him the cup, then stepped back. They had each seen the other in bedclothes before, but neither had been in bed at the time.

  “An' full of surprises.”

  “An' full of surprises.” He took a drink. “The day I caused that look a' terror on Katie's face, I figured she'd be the last who'd be able to forgive me, poor, poor Katie. Plenty a' time I fell asleep prayin' for her to be able to find some peace about that night… not for me, for her. What she must a' heard, on the other side of that door.”

  “She forgave you?”

  “Oh no, no, after her first approach she kept me at a distance, but she didn't run an' hide. She did ask if we would send her more pictures of Innish Cove an' the girls.”

  Maureen sat on the foot of the bed, for the room had no other furniture.

  “So now can you see a path to havin' 'em back in your life?”

  “I'm not sayin' we're on it, but see it? Yeah, maybe I see it.”

  “Wouldn't they love it here? Ah, it would be grand. We'd set a cabin up special for them. I say we put a plan in place that has 'em comin' over for a visit next year.”

  Their mindfulness that this was the first time they were on a bed together was growing.

  “So you go back over this winter to keep workin' on 'em.”

  “An' you'll come with me this next time.”

  Maureen feigned admonishment to break the growing tension as she stood and stepped back to the middle of the room, away from the bed, her hands on her hips. Brian put the cup aside.

  “Let's not have this discussion every time you're headed back over.”

  “As I recall, last time, your point was it wasn't somethin' a business partner would do.”

  “It's somethin' a wife would do.”

  “So, this time the discussion is—would you go back with me if it was to become my wife?”

  Maureen's arms dropped to her side.

  “Become your wife? You need to be clearer than that when it's as important as this.”

  She took a step closer to the bedside.

  “So then, I'm askin' you to marry me, back home, in Derry with your people or in Cong with mine, I don't care. Let's get married.”

  “When?”

  “This winter, an' it's time ya answered me.”

  “Of course I will, yes. Haven't I been sayin' yes every day since we got reacquainted?”

  Brian rose in the bed and Maureen moved to be embraced, but instead he swung his legs around her and dropped to the floor on his way to retrieve something from his trousers tossed in the far corner.

  She sat on the edge of the bed when he returned, opening a dark blue velvet jeweler's box.

  “I got it durin' my layover in New York. I nearly missed the flight to Toronto. I went into the nearest jewelers, an' comin' back I got caught up in more traffic than I imagined.” He removed the simple gold ring from the box and she held out her hand for him to slip it on her finger.

  “It'll do for an engagement, an' we'll make it up with a nice weddin' ring.”

  “It's perfect.”

  They embraced on the edge of the bed.

  “What changed yer mind?”

  “It was seein' Katie lookin' down at me when I was lyin' there on the street, an' she had this look abou
t her, might have been but a moment, but I saw it; she looked like she cared—about me, if only was I hurt or not. My head was spinnin' still, an' my old shoulder pain was throbbin', but Lady Girl, I'm tellin' you, my spirits soared when I saw she cared. An' I must have had another dream, for from lofty heights I could feel you there next to me an' I knew if you were standin' there with me life would be grand.”

  “We'll get 'em back. An' I'd like to talk about us havin' some of our own.”

  “Is that what you want? I never figured you as one who wanted such.”

  Maureen pulled away slightly.

  “Of course. It's what every woman wants.”

  “Even after you know what I am capable of.”

  She pulled back the rest of the way and stood before him.

  “I know who you are. I may never understand what you did, how you came to a place where you were beatin' your own child. But I know you could never do anythin' like that again.”

  “I know that's so. I do. I know I have changed. There's hot temper there still. But it won't ever hurt anyone else again.”

  Maureen began to unbutton her blouse.

  “Here's what every lovin' couple wants, an we're a pledged couple now for sure.”

  She unbuttoned her jeans.

  “Mind you, I'm savin' our heroic feck for our weddin' night.”

  “That's fine. All I want in the world right now is to make love with you.”

  Kevin had met with the most senior IRA leaders, some old, many new, for two days in a row after he first shared the news leading to his ideas for finding and approaching Maureen. He wanted her back, and active, and at first thought the others felt the same. He didn't like how this third meeting was going.

  “So if you're saying you're taking over now, of course, that's your prerogative. I'm just asking if you'll explain why when I seem to be putting us in a preferred position with her, and all in good time.”

  “A fair question has an easy answer. Maureen O'Toole is your girl. You recruited her, you trained her, you sent her to Germany to get the money in the first place.”

  “No, it was Russell who approved of O'Brien's recommendation; you'd do well to keep that in mind about her. None other than Russell picked her to give him support on what he thought was the most important mission of his life.”