The Ravens

by Vidar Sundstøl

  “One of my great-grandmothers was Ojibwe.”

  “When did you find out about this?”

  “Sometime last summer.”

  “And you haven’t told anyone until now?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Lance paused before replying.

  “I guess I’m afraid it will change things,” he said.

  “But you already know,” said Willy. “And Jimmy is Ojibwe, no matter what. So who’s it going to change things for? Your brother and his family? Your mother? Do you really think it would turn their lives upside down if they found out that this great-grandmother of yours was Ojibwe?”

  “I know it sounds stupid, but . . .”

  “Could it be that you’re the one you’re protecting by not saying anything?”

  “Maybe that’s what I’m always doing,” Lance said. “Protecting myself by acting as if I’m protecting others.”

  “So what is it you wanted to talk to me about? Do you want to be made a member of the tribe?” Willy’s shoulders shook briefly with soundless laughter.

  “I’m just wondering whether it means anything,” said Lance, feeling a bit insulted. “For instance, does it mean that I belong here in some other way than I previously thought?”

  He could see that the old man gave the question serious consideration.

  “Depends what you decide to make of it. The fact is there for you to use. Or not use. It’s an opportunity for you to belong in a different way, but it’s up to you.”

  It was comforting to listen to the soothing, familiar voice of Willy Dupree, to be addressed by someone who was older and knew more, and not have to bear everything alone.

  “But there’s something else bothering you, isn’t there?” said Willy after a moment.

  For a few seconds Lance was tempted to tell him everything, about the murder, about Andy, and about the shot in the dark on that Sunday in November. But he stopped himself. He wasn’t sure that Willy would keep quiet about a serious crime. The most serious crime of all. For the first time in ages Lance felt himself waver. Maybe the only way out of this mess was to call the FBI agent Bob Lecuyer and tell him everything he knew; accept the probable punishment for withholding information, obstructing the police investigation, and so on. Let the whole thing run its course, and possibly send Andy to prison for life. Continuing on like this was no longer an option, at any rate.

  “You’re right,” said Lance. “Something has been bothering me lately, but you won’t believe me when I tell you what it is.”

  “What is it?” asked Willy.

  “Are you superstitious?”

  “What does superstition really mean? One man’s superstition can be another man’s faith. I trust people that I know I can trust.”

  “Am I one of those people?”

  “Yes, even though you have a lot of secrets.”

  “Okay, well, here’s one of them. On four separate occasions, I’ve seen Swamper Caribou.”

  Lance held up four fingers.

  A look of boyish curiosity lit up Willy’s face. “Where?” he asked.

  “The first time was on Highway 61, near Silver Cliff. The second time he was sitting in a canoe not far from the lighthouse in Grand Marais. That was on the Fourth of July, by the way. Next time I saw him sitting on the lakeshore just north of Grand Marais. He was just sitting there, staring straight ahead. And the last time I saw him in the woods when we were out deer hunting in November. Also near the lake, between the Temperance and Cross Rivers.”

  “And how do you know it was Swamper Caribou?”

  “I just know.”

  Willy nodded.

  “Does he scare you?”

  “What scares me is that I can see someone nobody else sees,” replied Lance. “That makes me feel very alone.”

  “Lots of people have seen Swamper Caribou’s ghost,” said Willy.

  “But nobody that I know.”

  “No, but other—”

  “Ojibwe,” said Lance.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think that’s why I see him too? Because I have Ojibwe blood?”

  “I don’t know,” said Willy. “I don’t know enough about these kinds of things. But do you want him to stop appearing to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you tried thinking about him before you fall asleep?”

  “I’ve tried that lots of times.”

  “Have you ever dreamed about him after doing that?”

  Lance shook his head.

  “No? Because it’s possible to decide who you want to dream about. At least to a certain extent,” Willy added. “I do that myself sometimes.”

  “But why would I want to see him in my dreams too?”

  “Because that’s the only place you can reach him. And when you meet him in your dreams, you can ask him what he wants from you. Why he’s appearing to you. Then maybe you can put an end to it.”

  “Are you serious?” said Lance, in surprise.

  “Sure. What would you suggest? Have you got his phone number or something?”

  “No, but . . . the problem is that I never dream.”

  “Of course you do. Everybody dreams.”

  “I haven’t had a single dream in almost eight years,” said Lance.

  Willy was about to say something, but he didn’t. It looked as if something had started to dawn on him.

  “Not even one?”

  “No. And the strange thing is that I never used to care about dreams, but now I’d be willing to do almost anything to dream again.”

  “You can’t live a proper life without dreaming,” said Willy.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s through dreams that the other world speaks to us. If you’re in touch only with the visible world, you’re only half alive. But it’s important to find the right balance between both worlds; too much of either of them is never a good thing. I once heard a story about a man who was born without the ability to dream. As an adult he went to see a medicine man to ask for advice. Since he’d never dreamed, he didn’t miss it, but he’d heard other people talk about their dreams, and he envied them. The medicine man instructed him to build a dream bed and gave him specific rules to follow as he fasted, and so on—all essential to dreaming the Big Dream.”

  “The Big Dream?” said Lance.

  “It’s the one dream that will tell you who you really are and how you should live your life. Few people do it today, but this happened long ago. The medicine man offered guidance, and soon the man was fasting and sleeping at his chosen spot in the woods. But after he’d been gone for a week, two of his brothers went out to visit him. They found him in a deep sleep, and it was impossible to wake him up. Between them they carried their slumbering brother back to the village. After that he became a popular attraction, and people came from far away to see him. He became known as the ‘sleeping man.’ I think he lived more than twenty years in that sleeping state. If he had any dreams, the story makes no mention of them. Personally, I don’t know which would be worse—twenty years spent in the labyrinth of the dream world or twenty years in an unconscious state of sleep, as if he were already dead. It’s hard to know, isn’t it?”

  Lance didn’t know what to say to that, but he suddenly had an idea.

  “So does it work?” he asked. “Fasting until you have the Big Dream?”

  “Probably not for everybody, but it worked for me, anyway.”

  “You’ve done it?”

  “My father coached me. I built a dream bed high up in a tree and began fasting. On the third night I dreamed the Big Dream.”

  “What was it like?”

  “Well, it was a dream like any other, but it showed me my spirit guide, a figure in the spirit world that is always with me and that I can turn to in special situations. To ask for advice, for instance. But I guess this sounds like a lot of superstitious foolishness to you.”

  “Not foolishness, but very strange,” said Lance. “Not that I haven’t hea
rd about this sort of thing before, because I have, both from Mary and other people. And I’ve read a bit about it too, but hearing you talk about it as something in your own life makes it seem even stranger and at the same time more real.”

  Willy nodded to show that he understood.

  “It’s real if you choose to make it real,” he said. “It’s totally up to you.”

  “I do want to dream again,” said Lance.

  “But the dreams won’t come?”

  “No. It’s like a frozen faucet. Not a drop. Not even any rushing sound in the pipes. How do I go about fasting so I can dream again?”

  “You just need to fast. It’s as simple as that. You’re actually supposed to build a dream bed, a platform up in a tree, so that you’re lying high up under the open sky, but I wouldn’t recommend it when the temp is twenty below. I’m sure you can do it just as well at home.”

  “Or at the motel?”

  “Sure. Why not? Maybe you could still make some kind of dream bed by arranging a place to sleep on the floor so it’s different from other nights. The important thing is to fast.”

  “But I won’t be able to sleep if I’m hungry.”

  “Hungry?” Willy sounded annoyed. “Do you think this has anything to do with going to bed hungry? I’m talking about self-deprivation, Lance. Torture. You need to suffer until you have a vision.”

  “But . . . won’t that cause permanent damage?”

  “Not at all. You can survive for several weeks without food. Just be sure to drink some water. And take a few vitamins along with a little salt.”

  “Do you think it will work for me?”

  “Yes, I do. But you have to choose to do this. And make it part of your reality. As I said, it’s up to you.”

  Then there was a long pause—not the uncomfortable kind that clamors to be ended but a natural pause, as if the conversation were taking a break. Lance considered the idea of fasting, which was a foreign concept for him. He was not a Catholic, a Muslim, or an Indian; he was a Protestant American with roots in Halsnøy, Norway. His people did not fast. They worked hard, ate healthy meals, and went to bed early. That was how Lance had always lived, but if he had any hope of dreaming again, he needed to choose another way. He was convinced of that. And what would be more natural than to take the option that was part of his own past, Nanette’s option? In spite of everything, she was also part of his ancestry, and he carried her blood, although perhaps not to the same extent as his Norwegian blood. Yet it was still just as real.

  “But what a man of your age needs, first and foremost, is a woman,” said Willy after a moment. “Then you wouldn’t care about all these dream problems. Or Swamper Caribou. A young man like you should be thinking about completely different sorts of things. Oh, to be your age again! I don’t mean to get too personal, but you really ought to find yourself a girlfriend.”

  “And why are you so certain that I don’t have one?”

  Willy threw out his hands, a small gesture that encompassed the whole situation. The two men sitting there at midnight, talking about ghosts and dreams while Lance’s car was parked out of sight behind the garage, and no one was supposed to know that he was here in the United States.

  “In fact, I do have a girlfriend,” said Lance.

  “Really?” Willy looked surprised.

  “I think so.”

  “You think so?”

  “No, I mean, I do.”

  “So she hasn’t been seeing much of you lately?”

  “She doesn’t even know I’m interested,” said Lance.

  “Oh, come on, Lance! Have you considered getting one of her friends to ask her about you? You’re not a schoolboy anymore.”

  “No. But I didn’t even realize it myself . . . not until . . . but now I see that I’ve known for a while, without really knowing it.”

  “Right,” said Willy, shaking his head with resignation. “And we’re not talking about my daughter, are we?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  “Good?”

  “Well, I mean . . .”

  “You wouldn’t want to be my father-in-law again. Is that it?”

  “I’ve always thought that you’re a good man, Lance, but the fact that you made up this whole story about Norway, no matter what your reason for doing so . . . And sending phony postcards to your son . . . I think Mary might be better off alone.”

  “I think she is. And I am too,” said Lance.

  “So what about this other woman?”

  “We were together a long time ago, long before I met Mary. But only for a few months.”

  “Ah. An old flame.” Willy chuckled.

  “She dumped me.”

  “But you want to try again?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You have to, Lance. This is much more important than fasting and dreaming. Don’t you know anything, man?”

  9

  17 MARCH. The boy arrived this morning. What a bitter cold he has endured! His face was like cold meat to the touch. His dreams are terrifying. He screams as we go about our daily chores. The children race anxiously past his bed every time they have to pass. My husband feels such great sorrow that it has not been possible for any of us to have peace in our hearts during this day. Thanks to God’s mercy he is still among the living, but just barely. His thoughts merge with his dreams, and he speaks in delirium. Thank God that the children do not understand what he shouts in his dreams and feverish fantasies! Apparently he knows no English or French, but only the Norwegian language, which in my opinion can be learned only by a child who hears it sung at the cradle. A great and difficult task is now demanded of us. I promised Father François at the mission school that no lie would ever cross my lips. But when we removed all of his clothes, as we were forced to do, we saw two deep wounds in his right arm. I think that it is because of these wounds that he has lost most of his strength. My husband tried to ask him questions, but he would not tell us anything of what had happened to him.

  LANCE SAT ON THE EDGE OF THE BED and read the text typed on a couple of sheets of paper as he ran his fingertips over the old, leather-bound book lying on his lap. He had always thought of himself as a white American of Norwegian ancestry, but in between these worn pages he had discovered a different truth. When he received the translation of several pages from his great-grandmother’s diary, the police had just arrested the young Ojibwe Lenny Diver for the murder of Georg Lofthus. And Lance had started to think that Andy might not be guilty after all. The most important evidence found at the scene of the crime was in the blood, which had to have come from an Indian, although not necessarily a full-blooded Indian. And that meant that Andy couldn’t be the killer. Lance had felt that he’d been saved by the bell, because everything else had pointed directly to his brother.

  But then there was the diary, the French Diary as it was called in his family. None of them had ever read it, for the simple reason that nobody in the Hansen family could read a word of French. The official story was that the diary had been written by Inga’s paternal grandmother, Nanette, who was French Canadian. But when Lance got back several pages that he’d sent to a translation agency, he immediately realized the truth: they were part Ojibwe. So there was nothing in the police evidence to exclude Andy as the possible murderer.

  Lance continued reading from the excerpts of the book that had been translated.

  18 MARCH. My husband does not think that his sister’s son will survive unless we can bring a doctor here or take the boy to a doctor. But every time he mentions this, the boy is seized with a terror that seems worse than his fear of dying. He still refuses to say anything about what happened to him, but it seems clear to us that he was in the cold water and nearly froze to death. But it is easy to see that someone stabbed him with a knife to give him those wounds. He refuses to talk about that, and we think that is the reason he does not want to be treated by a doctor. Because the doctor would ask how he had acquired those two wounds, and if he did not an
swer, the doctor might mention it to the authorities. It is clear to us that this is what he fears. But I have given this a lot of thought on my own, both last night and during the course of this day, and I am struggling to decide whether to tell my husband of my thoughts, because according to our beliefs, this is the work of the devil. What Nokomis taught me was not about the good, even though she was the most beloved, both then and forever. She lived in the darkness in which so many old people lived. But if I am now going to bring the boy back to health and save him from death, I will have to do as Nokomis taught me before I went to the mission school.

  IT ALL BEGAN on the day when Lance found the body of the Norwegian canoeist Georg Lofthus. Everything started that day. After the corpse had been removed, Lance and several other police officers had talked as they stood in the parking lot near Baraga’s Cross. One of them wondered whether this might be the very first murder in Cook County. No one knew for sure, but when Lance got home, he’d done a search of the archives. A newspaper article from 1892 reminded him of an old missing-persons case that he’d actually heard about before, although it had taken the form of a legend. It had to do with Swamper Caribou, the local Ojibwe medicine man, who had disappeared without a trace, as if he’d been the subject of his own magic and had spirited himself away. Yet it was clear from the newspaper article that this was a real case of someone who had gone missing. The medicine man’s brother, Joe Caribou, was also quoted as asking for help from the public. According to the paper, Swamper had disappeared from his hunting cabin near the mouth of the Cross River, meaning close to Baraga’s Cross, “at the time of the last full moon, meaning in the early morning hours of March 16.”

  21 MARCH. Thanks be to God that we have managed to keep him on this side of death. He is past the worst of it now. I made him a decoction to drink, as I remember Nokomis doing, and something to spread on his wounds. I have also committed the sin of making an asabikeshiinh for a person’s dreams, because he screamed and flailed so much that none of us could get any sleep, not even the children, but now he is calm. May God have mercy on me, for I knew not what else to do.