Froelich's Ladder

by Jamie Duclos-Yourdon

  “From the first page to the last, Froelich’s Ladder brims with color, intrigue, and verve. At once a fantastical, madcap adventure and a poignant meditation on independence and solitude, it’s the kind of book that captivates you quickly and whisks you high into the atmosphere. I was in thrall to the surreal Oregon landscape, populated by tycoons and grifters, cross-dressers and hungry clouds. This debut is clever, irreverent, and ultimately unforgettable.”

  – Leslie Parry, author of Church of Marvels

  “A wild odd funny picaresque headlong fervent fever dream of a dense moist prickly novel—the most unusual fiction I have read in years.”

  – Brian Doyle, author of Mink River

  “Three words: inventive, intrepid, imaginative. Froelich’s Ladder blends the best elements of magic and realism, conveying characters and readers alike into the familiar fog-enshrouded world of Oregon where anything but the familiar happens.”

  – Gina Ochsner, author of The Russian Dreambook of Colour and Flight and The Hidden Letters of Velta B.

  “Froelich’s Ladder is a delight: sneaky, wise, hilarious. In thinking of Jamie Duclos-Yourdon’s spectacular debut, I’m put in mind of another tall tale, Huck Finn, whose title character said of his author, ‘There was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth.’ Froelich’s Ladder tells the truth of America, with astonishing insight, invention, and grace.”

  – Jennifer Finney Boylan, author of She’s Not There and Stuck in the Middle with You

  “In Froelich’s Ladder, Jamie Duclos-Yourdon debuts an impeccably crafted adventure in the best tall tale tradition. The men and women of his frontier Oregon are keenly drawn and brilliantly, painfully human, as is the book itself, touched with wit and whimsy and saturated with longing. Duclos-Yourdon’s deft, lyrical prose gives the novel an impressive, addictive fairytale sensibility, and marks it as one of those rare reads that simultaneously evokes and transcends its wholly original time and place.”

  – Tracy Manaster, author of You Could Be Home by Now

  “Froelich’s Ladder is a tall tale/fable/kindermärchen set in the Oregon Territory and featuring a large cast of eccentric characters. It’s reminiscent of the works of Patrick deWitt, though entirely its own thing. I loved the magic and the tall tale-ness and the characters and I wish there were more books in the world that were creating new folklores and fairy tales. Sometimes we grown-ups need to be reminded of why we started loving stories in the first place, and Froelich’s Ladder is a book that can do that.”

  – Billie Bloebaum, bookseller, Third Street Books

  ”Jamie Duclos-Yourdon’s new novel, Froelich’s Ladder, is the perfect tall tale for our time. Funny and smart, Duclos-Yourdon takes us back to just settled Oregon. With logging camps, confederate spies, and industrious builders, this book is at once a lesson in Oregon history and a lesson in the unexpected. Overall, it’s a joy to read; it’s evocative of a different time, and a tale that’s taller than the ladder Froelich builds.”

  – Kate Ristau, author of Shadowgirl

  Froelich’s

  Ladder

  By

  Jamie Duclos-Yourdon

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance these characters have to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  © 2016 by Jamie Duclos-Yourdon

  All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced in any form, with the exception of reviewers quoting short passages, without the written permission of the publisher.

  An excerpt from Froelich’s Ladder appeared in Chicago Literati in December 2014.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Duclos-Yourdon, Jamie, 1977- author.

  Title: Froelich’s ladder / Jamie Duclos-Yourdon.

  Description: Portland, OR : Forest Avenue Press, 2016.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016010509 (print) | LCCN 2016021056 (ebook) | ISBN 9781942436195 (paperback) | ISBN 9781942436201 (ePub)

  | ISBN 9781942436218 (Kindle) | ISBN 9781942436225 (pdf)

  Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, Legends

  & Mythology. | FICTION / Fantasy / Historical. | FICTION /

  Coming of Age. | FICTION / Literary.

  Classification: LCC PS3604.U354 F76 2016 (print) | LCC PS3604.

  U354 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016010509

  Distributed by Legato Publishers Group

  Printed in the United States of America

  Cover design: Gigi Little

  Interior design: Laura Stanfill

  Forest Avenue Press LLC

  6327 SW Capitol Highway, Suite C

  PMB 218

  Portland, OR 97239

  forestavenuepress.com

  For Melissa:

  every word

  Now that my ladder’s gone,

  I must lie down where all the ladders start,

  In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.

  – W. B. Yeats

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Readers' Guide

  Chapter 1

  It was November 1851 when Harald and Froelich arrived in Oregon Country. Disembarking at Fort Astoria, they journeyed inland by foot, hiking over the Cascades in a gale that swept off the ocean like an enormous push broom. Above the eastern timberline, precipitation turned to hail—even masquerading as snow for one eerie afternoon, with flakes the size of dinner plates. When they finally descended and the land had leveled off, the air was buoyed by a gentle mist. Here, the hemlock trees were wrapped in wintergreen moss, unlike the whitebark pine they’d passed at higher altitudes, stooped over and rough to the touch.

  Statuesque Harald was the picture of contentment, his eyes shut and his nostrils flared; unfortunately, his brother felt less rhapsodic. The third of four sons and heir to none of his family’s fortune (which was comprised of a hog farm in Germany), Froelich had been born with outsized ambitions. He’d set his sights on America—convincing Harald, fourteen months his senior, to join him. But now the soles of Froelich’s feet were soft and wrinkly from threadbare socks in sodden shoes. Loudly he complained, “I feel like an otter. Never in my life have I been so wet.”

  The brothers’ land (two plots arranged end-to-end) was adjacent to Boxboro—less of a town at the time than the notion of a town. The previous year, the United States Congress had passed the Donation Land Act. Harald and Froelich, being of voting age and white (by accident of birth, and without conscious design), were entitled to three hundred twenty acres in Oregon Country, provided they make improvements to the land and remain for four years. At nineteen and eighteen years old, respectively, they received no greeting when they arrived, nor did anything but a handwritten mile marker signify their property.

  “A bog,” Froelich noisily observed. “It reminds me of a bog, Harald, only without the charm. In California, at least it’s sunny. At least the people were civilized! Did you see that coot at the general store? His mouth looked like the back of your knee! Is it any wonder they’re giving away land? If a perso
n were to come up to you and say, ‘Here, take my daughter—my pride and joy, a vision to see,’ would you think to yourself, ‘Oh lucky day!’ Or would you think, ‘Let me see this daughter of yours.’ Maybe it’s not even his daughter, Harald, but a man dressed as a woman, lying in wait! And when I pay her a visit, with my chin shaved and my hair nicely parted, he jumps out from behind the wardrobe, strikes me over the head, and—”

  “Enough, Froelich!” Harald shouted, finally compelled to open his eyes. Staring down at his brother, he asked, “What are you trying to say?”

  “What am I trying to say?” The volume of Froelich’s voice was enough to startle the birds. “I’m saying it’s abysmal here! I’m saying this has been a terrible mistake! No one should suffer such indignity, unless they’re being punished for a grave sin—which, to my knowledge, I am not.”

  “But I like it here,” Harald said. “I enjoy this weather.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Froelich snapped. “Go live at the bottom of a well, if that’s your preference. I say California was superior in every way. Or New Orleans—I rather liked the Port of New Orleans. Let’s go back.”

  This statement caused Harald’s jaw to swing open, as if on a great hinge. For a moment he was rendered speechless, his face all but frozen, except for a distressed vein that pulsed in his temple. Finally, when it appeared he might’ve been struck dumb, he offered a smile.

  “Go back?” He chuckled.

  “Yes—go back. What’s so amusing?”

  “Walk all the way to the Fort Astoria? And how will you, with your feet in that condition?”

  Froelich folded his arms and scowled. He’d thought his limp was less noticeable, even as it had grown more and more pronounced. He felt it was cruel for Harald to make light of his affliction. After all, his brother stood head and shoulders above normal men and was strong as a locomotive.

  “You’ll have to carry me, of course,” Froelich said.

  Harald threw his head back as his laughter turned to howls. The rain dappled his forehead and ran in rivulets down his cheeks.

  “Carry you?” he gasped, when he was finally able to speak.

  Froelich, who was beginning to lose his patience, confirmed, “Yes—carry me. Don’t pretend for a second that I’m too heavy.”

  “Of course you’re not too heavy—I could put a wagon on my back. But why carry you? Why should I leave? This is my home now, Froelich. The contract requires that we stay for four years.”

  Now it was Froelich’s turn to gape. The betrayal he felt stemmed less from what Harald wanted, and more from what he didn’t want. Harald, with his unique physical gifts, could’ve made a name for himself in Deutschland, when no such option had been available to Froelich. His only chance at upward mobility had been to pursue his fortune, and that pursuit had led him to this wilderness.

  “Come with me,” Froelich said. “I want to show you something.”

  Technically, they were standing on Froelich’s land. Slogging to the middle of an empty pasture, where the drizzle had turned the ground to slurry, he spun around to face his brother.

  “There,” Froelich said, pointing at his feet. Rain was dripping down his brow and under his collar, not that he noticed anymore. “Look right there, and tell me what you see.”

  “There?” Harald frowned. “All I see is mud.”

  “It’s your grave,” Froelich sneered. “Yours and mine, both—but you first, if rank stupidity has anything to do with it. We’ve traveled tens of thousands miles, Harald, and for what? The privilege of drowning while standing up? If that’s the case, I’d rather spend what time remains alone. Oregon Country is big enough that I don’t have to see your idiot face.”

  Hobbling toward the wall of the trees, he paused to correct himself. “My home,” he said. “My land. You go live someplace else.”

  Chapter 2

  Harald passed a peaceful fortnight, during which time he constructed a series of shelters, each one an improvement upon the last. He never left the pasture, as Froelich had instructed him—assuming, correctly, that his brother would return, and that they’d be forced to share accommodations. When Froelich did storm back, it seemed that little time had passed for all the respite he’d afforded.

  Froelich had made two important discoveries on his own. First, he had discovered the Very Big Tree. After their dispute in the meadow, he’d spent three days limping through the woods, making his displeasure known to every living thing. When he’d encountered the tree, it had been so massive that he’d mistaken it for a rampart. Its trunk, felled by some catastrophe, was thrice as wide as he was tall. Froelich had spent a full morning walking along its length, from top (where birds continued to occupy their nests) to bottom (where the roots continued to grow). As best he could tell, it extended for a full kilometer.

  To Harald’s mind, the timber represented a commercial opportunity, but Froelich’s second discovery, made shortly after the first, would supersede any material gain. In fact, it was this second discovery that had compelled him to seek his brother’s help. Casting aside their differences, he hurried back to the pasture, where Harald was erecting yet another shelter.

  “Love, Harald!” gushed Froelich, cheeks flushed and slightly out of breath. Harald saw that his limp had improved, perhaps due to a new pair of socks, expertly knit and dry as tinder.

  “I’m in love!” he continued. “Here, at the bottom of the well, I’ve actually found it! What are the odds? Who would’ve thunk? Of course, you can’t know how it feels until you’ve felt it for yourself. But simply to behold her, you might get the gist. She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, with hair as dark as night and eyes that smolder.”

  Harald wiped the sweat from his brow and put down his ax. In the time that his brother had been missing, Harald’s frustration had subsided. Now, subject to Froelich’s enthusiasm, he felt weary all over again.

  “Did she give you those socks?”

  “What?” Froelich said, frowning. “No, I got these in town. What are you talking about, socks? Haven’t you heard a word I’m saying?”

  “I’m sorry.” Harald sighed, trying to muster some hint of enthusiasm. “What’s her name?”

  Her name was Lotsee, and she was an outcast from the Siletz tribe. At nineteen, she had entertained a premonition about her people: misery and death awaited them, to be nurtured in the too-small confines of the Coast Reservation (which would only be sanctioned four years later). Disinclined to share their fate, she’d swallowed her words of warning, chewing them up like tidy morsels. She’d left the Siletz and relocated to the outskirts of Boxboro.

  Once she was on her own, Lotsee’s visions hadn’t ceased. Soon, she’d been forced to accept that Death would claim her, too, with or without her people. Her only hope, she’d believed, was to seduce him. To her mind, Death would resemble a white man, pale and hulking. If he were ruled by his baser instincts, surely he’d be in thrall to her charms.

  All of this, related by the proprietor of the general store, Froelich now related to Harald. He felt confident he could win Lotsee’s heart, but was embarrassed to approach her empty-handed. That, he explained, was where the Very Big Tree came in.

  “Just look at this monster!” Froelich exclaimed, having convinced his brother to visit the enormous timber. “It must be a sign!”

  “A sign of what?”

  “Don’t you see, Harald? It’ll make the perfect engagement gift!”

  “Engagement gift? All I see is an impediment.”

  “That’s because you lack imagination.”

  “You want to chop it up for firewood?”

  Froelich shook his head. “Yes, Harald—I want to give firewood to my bride-to-be. Before, when I said that you lacked imagination, I was mistaken.”

  “What, then?”

  “A seafaring canoe—one big enough for twenty men!”

  “No more boats,” Harald groaned. “Anyway, what do you know about carving a canoe? Most likely it’ll sink, and everyone
on board it will drown.”

  “Then …” Standing back to better appraise the Very Big Tree, Froelich tapped a finger against the bridge of his nose. “I see … a ladder.”

  “A ladder?”

  “Yes, a ladder! It’ll be amazing, Harald, the tallest ladder you’ve ever seen! Not just the tallest in Oregon Country—possibly the tallest ladder in the entire world! A monument to human achievement! Can’t you picture it?”

  “What I can picture,” Harald said, “is finishing our shelter, so we can spend the night in dry bedclothes. I can picture clearing the land and trading my services for a rooster and some hens. Would you like me to go on?”

  “But, Harald, we must!”

  “No, Froelich,” Harald sighed, “we mustn’t. I’m sure she’s very pretty, and I can appreciate your desire to talk to her. But why not do that? Why not talk to her, instead?”

  With a noticeable sag to his shoulders, Froelich answered him. “Because anyone can talk to her. I must woo her.”

  “Woo, talk—what’s the difference? All you do is introduce yourself.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. Please, Harald. Help me do this, and I promise to leave you alone. No more favors. No more adventures.”

  And so Harald was duly persuaded. After all, how could he deny his brother, who was in thrall to the noblest of all emotions? Starting from the same place on the Very Big Tree and each working in opposite directions, they marked the first rung as the “middle” of the ladder—though whether their efforts would ultimately be equal, who could say? Each rung was three decimeters from the next, to be measured by the length of Froelich’s forearm (Harald’s arms being too burly for comparison), and slightly longer from stile to stile.

  Early on, it was easy to exchange verses of song, or to speak. But as the days turned into weeks, and the brothers couldn’t see or hear each other, the forest grew up between them. While they maintained separate campsites, they also developed a vocabulary called TAP. The language borrowed from Morse code, to which they’d been exposed on their transatlantic voyage, and used thumps and vibrations to form combinations of words. The time that elapsed between knocks determined the meaning of the word, or words, to be conveyed. For instance, one knock immediately followed by a second knock meant Yes. One knock gradually followed by a second knock meant No. Two knocks in a row meant Good afternoon. Three knocks in a row meant Rain. Two knocks followed by a pause followed by a single knock meant Perhaps, but it depends on the weather. Three knocks, followed by a pause, followed by six knocks, followed by a pause, followed by four knocks, meant Just because it rained today doesn’t mean it will rain tomorrow—and should it rain tomorrow, you can’t claim to have predicted it, simply on the basis of having said, “It feels like rain tomorrow.” And so on, and so forth. Even while they were apart, they were never truly alone.