The 53rd Parallel

by Carl Nordgren

  Both Brian and Tom Hall nodded in understanding. Maureen went on. “Who's the ambitious journalist at the newspaper who wants the insider view of the biggest story of the year as it unfolds?”

  “You've never wondered why the newspaper is called The Kenora Timbermen? The publisher's money came from his father's lumber company, Dryden Paper and Pulp.”

  “I'll show them a story that's too big to keep under wraps. An' if I can't find one, I'll create one. An' sooner than later I will make them beg to sit down with us an' talk.”

  Simon walked just ahead of Brian and Maureen to the diner nearest the floatplane dock. He stopped and turned.

  “I must know how I would stand today in your world without you. I need to know where I am on this journey.” He entered the diner, and Brian and Maureen waited a few moments before they followed him in. He was standing inside the door, but they walked by without a word, and a waitress quickly cleaned and set their regular booth and gave them a friendly smile. Their habit was to sit on the same side of the table at the window that looked out onto Lake of the Woods. They could see the bay where Dutch would land when he returned with Tommy. Maureen leaned into Brian's chest, a position that had quickly become a favorite part of sitting there for both of them.

  Simon stood at the door. He didn't know to claim a table. He was ignored by the staff, the target of frowns from customers.

  Brian hugged Maureen's waist. “When you got back from Kingston I was really concerned we were goin' too far too fast, escalatin' the violence.”

  “There's been no actual violence, only a feel of it. The River must be protected, an' there are circumstances when physical force is the most effective means of accomplishin' a mission. Suggestin' it helps as well.”

  “I don't have the same faith Joe Loon's people have in his dream, or that you have. If I knew it, the way they seem to know it, that the River is threatened by this pulp mill, well then I might find what you are sayin' now becomes somethin' we should be talkin' about.”

  An empty table, a small one just at hand, came open. Simon sat in the empty chair. Customers' frowns turned to loud whispers of displeasure. The head waitress called the owner at home.

  Maureen was talking with Brian, but taking it all in.

  “Pre-emptive moves have leverage. Now Abitibi is off balance. Then we keep them off balance. Then we sit down an' talk about restorin' balance.”

  “But if you weren't knowin' about this dream of his… Without the dream, you're talkin' about such slim threads of evidence that there's even a threat at all. Most of the scientists say it ain't.”

  “At every turn, Joe Loon's dreams have power an' truth. It always seemed to me it was your dreams that brought us here, but it was his dreams that led us right to Innish Cove.”

  “Yes. Sure, I've believed somethin' like that, before, when we were just happy to be accepted an' life was openin' up everywhere. But now the cost of bein' wrong about actually believin' in a dream seems to be growin' and growin'.”

  She leaned away so she could look him in the eye.

  “Will I now hear Big Brian Burke, owner and proprietor of the Great Lodge at Innish Cove and the son of Joe Loon, say it's just a dream?”

  The diner owner didn't answer the phone, the two waitresses agreed to ignore the Indian boy as long as no one asked for his removal. Simon knew it was time to stand and leave, and before he did, he called out to them all in his forest language. “You people do not want us to live in your world. I must do all I can to keep you from destroying the world of my People.”

  He returned to the dock where he would find a friend.

  Dutch helped Tommy make out the first traces of Kenora on the far horizon and Tommy, dressed in his work cassock and white tab collar, couldn't make it out yet and returned his attention to a his great appreciation of the beauty all around.

  “It's a grand place, what magnificent country. You explore this wilderness every day?”

  “Most days, anyway. Not so much during the winters but just about every day the rest of the year. I was a pilot in the Royal Canadian Air Corps, and when the war ended I bought this lady, used and worn, but there's no aircraft as rugged and reliable and perfectly designed for what we are asking her to do. So I fixed her up and I flew her into Lake of the Woods one day and have been here ever since.”

  “You must have one of the more wondrous jobs a man can have.”

  “Brian says those exact words.”

  Dutch set himself before he spoke again.

  “There's something I wanted to say, but I figured it is such grand country, I'd wait til the trip had ended, in case I said it wrong, I didn't want to spoil the flight for you.”

  Then he was quiet long enough for Tommy to wonder if that was all he had to say. So Tommy was quiet, too, and began to discern the town's details as they flew closer to the far outskirts. Then the massive Lake of the Woods taking over the world ahead of them captured his attention.

  “I've never heard what it was your father did to you. As terrible as he feels about it, it must have been serious and grave.”

  Tommy studied the lake.

  “But I can tell you this. Your father loves you and your brother and sister every day.”

  Brian, Maureen, and Simon waited at the end of the NOA dock for Dutch and Tommy. With the toe of his boot, Brian was knocking stray cigarette butts between the slats of the dock and into the lake to wash away.

  “Tommy's got 'im a handsome mind. You could see it when he was still in nappies. Was my doin' that put this hard edge to him an' it would be oh so grand if this was the place that might take some of that hard edge off 'im again.”

  “Simon should take him out on the River. With Mathew.”

  “The three of 'em out on the River for a day a' fishin', yeah.”

  “I was thinkin' an overnight camp, let the boys show him their world, let him see it's becomin' our world.”

  Simon agreed. “Yes. I will talk with Mathew about this.”

  Dutch steered the Norseman's glide to the dock so precisely that first Brian, then Maureen, and finally Simon simply stepped from the dock onto the pontoon as it passed. Brian took one step up the ladder, opened the cargo door, and one after the other they climbed inside.

  Tommy unbuckled his seat belt and was ready to give up the co-pilot's chair to his father.

  “Hello, Brian. You sit up here with Dutch, I imagine.”

  “No, Tommy, you keep the seat.” He approached with his hand out and Tommy shook it, feeling awkward from the getting up and sitting down and reaching back in tight quarters.

  “Seein' you sittin' up there next to Dutch, that's a sight I've been prayin' for. You get the best views, an' we'll be flying over land an' water even lovelier than what you've seen.”

  “Thank you.”

  Brian and Tommy stood inches close but felt distant. Brian broke the tension by turning to open a view to Maureen and Simon behind him in the fuselage.

  “Tommy, let me introduce you to Maureen O'Toole, my business partner, but soon to be Maureen Burke, my wife. Here's my son the Father, Tommy Burke.”

  “Pleased to meet you but no, I'm not a priest yet.”

  Maureen bent past Brian to extend her hand to Tommy.

  “I've been lookin' forward to meetin' you.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  Brian and Maureen settled back on one of the fuselage benches across from Simon.

  “An' this is Simon.”

  “Pleased to meet ya, Simon.”

  “You are Big Brian's oldest son.”

  “Big Brian? Yes, I am his eldest son. So when's the wedding?”

  “We've decided to get married this winter back home. Maureen's people are in Derry, so it'll be there, or Cong; we won't tend to the plannin' til the season is over.”

  Dutch taxied his Norseman back out into the bay and lined up his take off.

  “As soon as everyone is strapped in, I'll be ready to go.”

  It was a Norseman of a differ
ent color that circled over Innish Cove, this one forest green with the words Abitibi Lumber Company captured in the gold seal painted on the tail. James, the older brother, piloted the plane, Stephen, the youngest, was in the co-pilot's chair. Three of their biggest lumberjacks sat on the bench seats behind them.

  The youngest brother had radioed their approach and received no answer from Innish Cove.

  “Is that an Indian camp down there as well?”

  “I saw it.”

  Mathew was sitting before his wigwam, surrounded by the village's children, telling them about the white man's school and how to avoid going. And what to do, and what not to do, if forced to go.

  The men of the village were guiding, or scouting trap lines, or visiting other forest clans, so Mathew was the oldest male in camp.

  “The story they tell of Geronimo at this school is not true. They will trick you by making it look real in their movies. But it is not true. If they catch you to send you to their school, you must not believe the picture they show of Geronimo. Then you must wonder if the story they tell of Geronimo is not true, what other lies do they tell us?”

  When Mathew first heard the distant sound of a bush plane's approach, he listened to identify it. It sounded like Dutch's plane. He stood when the plane came into sight across the far horizon, but he could tell immediately it was not the bright yellow of Dutch's Norseman. Perhaps it was green, or blue, but it was not Dutch's plane. As it came closer, he saw it was green, and when the plane banked to line up a landing, he studied the gold mark on the plane's tail.

  Only after the plane taxied around the point and into the cove did Mathew realize the tail marking was the lumber company mark on the map and report, the symbol used by the Atibiti Lumber Company. He called out to the women.

  “Take the children to South Ridge Rocks. Stay there until I send someone for you.”

  In a few moments Mathew was alone in the camp. He sat at the fire ring to wait for what was to come.

  When This Man emerged from the forest, Mathew moved over so that This Man could sit down next to him.

  The dock was empty as the jacks tied down the Atibiti Norseman.

  Stephen had his army pistol, a Browning 9mm, holstered at his hip, the standard officer issue he had brought home from the war. When his older brother James saw him strapping it on, he said, “You're bringing your pistol?” and Stephen replied, “She used a knife.” Quickly, the older brother realized he wouldn't mind how foolish the pistol made his brother look, maybe not now to the jacks, but certainly later and much more importantly to their father and grandfather, so he didn't say anything more about it.

  From where they stood on the dock they could see much of the operation and there were no signs of anyone about.

  The older brother had been composing a letter in his head that he'd write and leave if they discovered everyone was gone. Now that it seemed clear they'd arrived to an empty camp, he turned to Stephen and said so only his brother could hear, “If you don't show me how you are keeping track of these blunders of yours, I'm going to start keeping track of them for you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I said no. When you suggested we just drop in on them, I said no, that we get no advantage from surprise like you claimed. She used it because it's all she has. We have nothing to hide or slink around about. But you made the decision, and here we are, and they aren't here, so once again your judgment was—”

  The youngest brother turned and started down the dock to shore.

  “I saw Indians. We'll start there.”

  When the two pulp mill brothers followed by their jacks crested the short rise from the shore to the village camp, they saw a teenage Ojibway sitting alone in front of the cluster of tents and wigwams they'd seen from the sky.

  The pistol was strapped to the youngest brother's left hip. During the war his habit was to walk with his left fist resting on the pistol stock, his arm slightly bowed, and he walked that way again as he approached Mathew.

  “The kid should speak some English,” the older brother said.

  “Hey, kid, you speak English?” the youngest brother barked.

  Mathew stayed seated, and answered in his native tongue.

  “Come and sit with us.”

  Stephen shook his head at the Indian boy.

  “I don't understand that mouthful-of-shit talk. You don't speak the white man's tongue?”

  Mathew spoke of this white man who was kneeling down next to him. He was speaking to the spirits of the ancestors who lived in the cove so he spoke the forest language.

  “This is where our journeys gather on the same path.”

  James looked at the Indian boy at eye level.

  “Brian Burke? You tell me where I can find Brian Burke.”

  Mathew looked past this white man and studied the younger brother's pistol. “In the movies, a white man with a gun in his holster will take it out to shoot my people. I will take that gun away from you so you do not shoot my people with it.”

  Stephen turned to the jacks. “How the hell do they expect to survive in the world today if they won't even learn English?”

  James turned and headed back to their plane. “I'm going to try the radio one more time. If we don't raise anyone, we're leaving.” The youngest brother and the jacks followed him.

  As soon as they stepped back down out of the forest onto the beach, Mathew entered his wigwam. When he reappeared, he was wearing a small buckskin pouch around his neck. It rested next to his heart. It held his magic. He stopped at the fire pit to scoop ashes with two fingers, then streaked them across his cheekbones.

  As he marked himself, This Man emerged from the wigwam, carrying all of Mathew's possessions.

  He held Mathew's blanket out in front of him, folded and draped over his arms like an offering.

  In the middle of the blanket was a wooden bowl. In the bowl was a necklace of quill. Next to the bowl, a beaver trap.

  Balanced across his arms, This Man carried Mathew's bow and a quiver of arrows that he had made when he was a boy.

  Mathew disappeared into the forest. This Man set the possessions on the ground, arranging them carefully next to the fire pit.

  No one responded to James' radio call.

  “If I can't raise them, they won't be returning anytime soon.”

  “Maybe they're behind a ridge line.”

  “I'll write them a letter that we were here, and then we're gone.”

  “One more thing first. I was thinking, maybe we should show them we can violate their private space as easy they can ours.”

  “You mean check out their cabins?”

  Stephen had already turned to again lead the jacks down the dock to shore. This time he headed across the beach into the forest where the cabins sat among the trees. After a moment, James followed.

  The cabin set up to serve as a lodge was identified readily by its oversized front porch and the wooden door propped open. Stephen led them there, pausing long enough to send one of the jacks back to the plane.

  Mathew was nowhere to be seen.

  Early in the flight Dutch had suggested and then a few minutes later he urged Tommy to sit in back with the others, and he did. He sat down next to Simon, across from Maureen.

  Maureen told Tommy about Joe Loon's dreams, the pulp mill's threat, and their solicitor's certainty that fighting through the legal system to reverse the permit would take so long that the mill would be in operation before they could stop it. Brian leaned in closer to hear Tommy and Maureen continue the debate started when Maureen introduced physical force as a legitimate step.

  “Most of the students in seminary got angry with me about this, you see, but I would insist on Gandhi as a model Ireland needs to look to now. No, he's not Christian, let alone Catholic, but surely conditions the British left in India an' Ireland are similar.”

  “They split countries in two parts for their own advantage.”

  “So, sure, Christ should be enough, but you have to
consider Gandhi's relevance to our cause, to our need.”

  “It was a sin against humanity what they did, usin' ancient grievances, inflamin' them, pittin' Hindus against Muslims, Proddies against Catholics.”

  Brian chose his words for his son carefully.

  “I imagine you've come to a profoundly spiritual understandin' of violence.”

  Tommy stood to return to the co-pilot's chair. “There's times I think so.”

  “So maybe you've a destiny… Ireland's Gandhi?”

  Tommy looked back before he sat down. “If you want to think on it in such terms at all, yeah, I've been seein' me as the Irish Gandhi's John the Baptister.”

  The jack sent to the plane had returned with an ax over his shoulder, and he joined the other two waiting on the porch of the lodge cabin.

  Just behind the lodge cabin, Mathew was hidden in the trees, working his way to a protected view of the front door, the porch, and the visitors. This Man stood back in the trees, watching.

  The two brothers entered the lodge cabin, the screen door slamming behind them.

  The older brother was impressed. “Looks to me like they've got the makings of a nice little business here. We should talk to them about us bringing some of our customers here. I'm thinking Mark Vincent and Jake Preston, Erik Edwards and Robert Martin. And Fredrick Fulbright. They're all big customers and all serious fishermen.”

  “You're still not seeing this right. She came in after us in the middle of the night, while we were sleeping, with a knife in her hand. Most would call that an attack.”

  “She didn't come after us. It was a bunch of college professors. And the knife was nothing more than a prop for dramatic effect. It wasn't a threat. But now we pay a surprise visit with a gun and an ax. Interesting logic. How does it continue?”