The Land of Dreams (Minnesota Trilogy)

by Vidar Sundstøl

“And I’m not dead,” Jimmy said firmly.

  “You certainly aren’t. But I can tell by looking at you that you’re getting sleepy.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. It’s almost nine. Time to brush your teeth.”

  “Aw, come on, Dad . . . ” Jimmy pressed closer to his father, making himself as heavy as possible. “Can’t we watch a little more TV? Just a little?”

  Lance held his son firmly and stood up. Then he hoisted the boy up onto his shoulder like a sack and carried him out. Jimmy laughed all the way to the bathroom.

  When his father set him down and got out the toothbrush, Jimmy suddenly thought of something. “Dad, there’s something I have to show you,” he said.

  “What is it?” asked Lance skeptically.

  “Wait here . . . I’ll go get it. Okay?”

  “From your room?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Okay,” said Lance. “But be quick.”

  Jimmy ran down the hall to the room that had always been his. Lance heard him open the zipper on his bag. After a few seconds he came running back. He was holding a can of air rifle pellets. Has he already started shooting with an air rifle? thought Lance.

  “Look inside,” said Jimmy. He held out the flat metal container toward his father.

  Lance took it and unscrewed the lid. Inside were Jimmy’s baby teeth. They looked like tiny pearls or bits of porcelain. Behind him Lance heard his son saying something excitedly. Some of the teeth had reddish-brown specks on the roots. Probably dried blood. Nausea started swirling in Lance’s stomach. He tried to force it back, but without success. It just got worse, and his forehead felt cold and damp. His son was tugging at him, saying something again. He sounded worried. But Lance knew that something inside him needed to get out. And he couldn’t stop it. He dropped the container with the boy’s teeth in the sink and threw himself down in front of the toilet. At first he retched loudly and painfully, but nothing came out. For a moment he pictured those teeth, gleaming white in the crushed skull. And then the nausea overwhelmed him. He instantly leaned over. Stomach acid and partially digested pizza sprayed out of him so violently, it was almost as if he had a high-pressure hose inside.

  AFTER DRIVING JIMMY BACK HOME ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON, Lance went to see his mother at the nursing home. They agreed to go for a drive on the following weekend. He asked her if there was anything special she’d like to see or do on the North Shore, now that she had the opportunity. She said she couldn’t think of anything. Lance was relieved that she didn’t mention Andy or Tammy. He’d been afraid she might want to visit them.

  Afterward he decided to take a little tour of Duluth. He drove up to the big shopping center on the plateau above the city, not far from the airport. He and Eirik Nyland had driven in the opposite direction on this same road just over two weeks earlier. How incredible that it was such a short time ago, he thought. Everything had happened within a span of a little less than three weeks. But now he had a feeling things were going to return to normal.

  At the shopping center he turned onto Trinity Road, heading south, taking a road that goes in an arc back to town. He was still on the same plateau, but the road took him through well-tended, parklike woods. Between the trees he could see people taking a walk along the paths on this fine Sunday evening.

  He thought about what happened on Friday night when Jimmy showed him those teeth. Afterward he’d spent a long time trying to reassure his son. Finally he’d managed to convince Jimmy that it was just an upset stomach.

  Throwing up like that had actually done him good. Because each time he bent over to empty more from his stomach into the toilet, he felt as if the sight of the dead man faded farther away.

  Now he was passing Enger Park on the right. He parked near one of the entrances and went in. When was the last time he was here? It had to be years ago. The paths were still covered with the same reddish gravel. The canal was still there too. It couldn’t be more than a foot and a half deep. On the other side of the canal the path continued toward the hundred-foot-high tower, which offered the best view of the city and the lake, as well as over the flat plain in Wisconsin on the other side. Lance paused on the small bridge. He leaned on the railing and looked down at the canal. He remembered standing here with Debbie Ahonen. That had to be over twenty years ago. That might even have been the last time he was in Enger Park. They had stopped on the bridge and looked down at the water, just as Lance was doing now. Debbie had spit her chewing gum into the canal. Lance still remembered how it sank into the green water and came to rest on the sandy bottom. Somewhere in his mind the sight of that wad of chewing gum had been stored for more than twenty years. Forgotten until now. And as he thought about it, he also recalled her laughter, the way it had sounded back then. A warm laughter that hinted at what was behind her reserved expression. What he thought was behind there.

  Now Debbie had come back from California and was living with Richie Akkola, a man who was close to seventy. Lance remembered her saying something that indicated Richie had been taking care of her aging mother. But was that the reason she was living with him? That can’t be it, he thought. The world couldn’t be that ugly. But he knew full well that it was even uglier. And that people had to adapt as best they could. No matter what, the past twenty years had erased any chance they might once have had to be together. That was the reality. Lance knew it. In real life people didn’t find each other again after twenty years.

  When he came back out of the park, he noticed a few people near a car at the other end of the parking lot. Some black-clad girls with black hair. Three girls, he saw now. They were talking to whoever was sitting inside the car. There was something about them that sparked Lance’s curiosity, but he didn’t know why.

  He got into his Jeep and began driving toward them. The three girls were leaning down to talk to the person inside. As Lance slowly drove past, one of the girls straightened up and looked at him. For a few seconds their eyes met. She was wearing way too much eye makeup. It made her face look sickly pale. The dyed black hair was practically plastered to her head. Yet, he recognized her. And he saw that she recognized him too. It was Chrissy Hansen standing there.

  THAT EVENING HE SAT FOR A LONG TIME, wondering whether he should call Andy and Tammy and tell them what he’d seen. Occasionally he would get up and restlessly pace the living room with his hands behind his back. But what did he really have to tell? That their daughter was with two of her girlfriends in the parking lot of Enger Park? That she now had black hair? Her parents must know what she looked like. It had been more than six months since Lance had last seen Chrissy. Back then she was still the blond “angel from Two Harbors.” But she was seventeen now, and things changed fast during those teenage years. That was perfectly normal. Yet there was something disturbing about the sight of those three girls talking to someone in that car. He didn’t know what it was. Regardless, it wasn’t worth mentioning to her parents. But when he pictured in his mind his pale, black-clad niece, it suddenly didn’t seem so strange that she might have been in the cabin at Lost Lake after all. He remembered how weird it had been to find a copy of Darkside there. Maybe she’d been out there partying with those black-clad friends of hers, he thought. Maybe they’d brought some boys with them. He hadn’t even considered that possibility before. In general, he’d been thinking of Chrissy as a child.

  But the thought of the cabin made him decide to call her parents after all. He tapped in the number. It was Andy who answered. “Hello?”

  “Hi, it’s me.”

  “Oh.” He sounded disappointed.

  “How are things?”

  “What’s this about? I’m expecting somebody else to call . . . ”

  “Have you been out to the cabin lately?”

  “Not since . . . Not for a couple of weeks, at least.”

  “I should have mentioned this before, but I’ve had a lot to do . . . and Jimmy was h
ere over the weekend too . . . but, anyway, on Friday I went past the cabin, and it turned out that someone had broken in.”

  “Oh, shit . . . Did they break the lock, or what?”

  “No, they broke a window. It looked real bad inside. A big mess. Blood and stuff. Broken glass. Must have been some kids, if you ask me. I just thought I’d better tell you.”

  “Thanks. I’ll go up there as soon as I can. Did they steal any- thing?”

  “Not as far as I could tell.”

  “What about the TV?”

  “It was still there.”

  “Good.”

  There was a long pause. Lance could hear Andy breathing. There was something restrained about it, as if his brother knew he was listening. Maybe that was the same way he sounded to Andy.

  “By the way,” said Andy at last, “I heard they caught the murderer.”

  “Yeah. He hasn’t been charged yet, but . . . ”

  “Ojibwe?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “A dope dealer?”

  “He’s been convicted of possession a couple of times. I don’t know if I’d call him a dealer.”

  “So now they’re going to lock him up for good, right?”

  “Yeah, they sure are. If he’s found guilty, that is.”

  “Good.”

  “Okay, well, say hi to Tammy and Chrissy for me.”

  “Sure. But tell me . . . What exactly were you doing out at the cabin on Friday?” said Andy.

  “Oh, I just thought I’d stop there to have lunch. You’ve always said . . . ”

  “You wanted to eat indoors when the weather has been so great?”

  Lance had the feeling his brother didn’t believe his story. He tried to think of something else that would sound convincing, but his mind was blank.

  “Well, anyway, thanks,” said Andy. “I’ll pop over to Lost Lake real soon and take a closer look.”

  26

  WHEN LANCE GOT HOME FROM WORK ON TUESDAY AFTERNOON, he found an e-mail from the translation agency in Minneapolis in his inbox. He’d almost forgotten about the diary and Swamper Caribou.

  He opened the e-mail and read the brief message from the translator. She finished her message with the words: “This was unusually fascinating material to work with.” Then came some practical information regarding payment. After that it was just a matter of downloading the attachment with the translation so that he could read it. Lance felt more uneasy than he had in a long time. He was actually feeling sick to his stomach. It reminded him of something from his childhood, but he wasn’t sure what it was. Maybe having to appear onstage during a Christmas celebration at school? Or coming home with his report card on the last day before summer vacation? Right now he felt something similar to that combination of solemn occasion and doomsday. Then he downloaded the attachment and opened the document. Suddenly the text was there, right in front of him:

  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.

  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 answer, 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.

  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.

  24 MARCH. Today he sat at the table and ate with us! When we changed the bandages on his wounds, we saw that they were clean and without pus, just as the wounds of Old Shingibis were after Nokomis treated him when he was attacked by a bear when I was a little girl. I clearly remember when they arrived with Shingibis in the canoe. But even though this is a good sign, and my husband is now lighter of heart than I have seen him before, nothing can ever rectify what I have done. For that reason my heart is as heavy as stone. My husband says that we must never speak of this, just say that the boy fell through the ice and almost died from frostbite, but that we saved him with porridge and coffee. That is how we will speak of it in the future, also when we talk to the boy. We will never try to find out what happened to him. And here I have promised Father François that no lie shall ever issue from my lips.

  At first Lance’s eyes merely took note of the text, but the meaning glanced right off. He didn’t really take in what it said. He merely saw the words. The sentences. There was nothing about these passages that distinguished them from passages in other documents that he was constantly receiving. All sorts of reports, memos, personal e-mails. And even though he had known it might be like this, it was still a shock. The whole thing seemed so trivial. He couldn’t see the connection between this typed text and the French scribblings on the yellowed pages of the diary. So many times he had opened that book and let his eyes glide over the incomprehensible words. And he had thought about the fact that his great-grandmother had held this very book in her hands. The diary became something that reached from Lance back to that dark log cabin more than a hundred and twenty years ago. A time machine for his thoughts. He often imagined he could see the cabin and the people inside. Smell them, hear their voices. And the difference between that vivid experience and the modern, trivial text that now met his eyes when he opened the document caused him to read the words without fully comprehending what they said.

  But then he read them again, and he understood.

  One part was what she wrote about Thormod Olson. That confirmed what Lance had thought—that the boy’s experience had encompassed more than just falling through the ice. Of course there was no proof that he’d encountered Swamper Caribou, much less killed him, but Lance still felt as if he was now closer to answering the question of what had happened t
o the medicine man.

  But that was not the most important part. He was even more interested in what Nanette said about herself. Lance had always heard her described as the “French Canadian.” But evidently it should have been the “French Canadian Indian.” Maybe she wasn’t French Canadian at all. Maybe she was a full-blooded Ojibwe from somewhere north of the border, and she had learned to speak French at a mission school. That would not be an unusual story. But what made it different was that it was about Lance’s great-grandmother. At any rate, there was no mistaking that “Nokomis,” who had taught Nanette to heal wounds by using plants, was her grandmother. The translator had erroneously assumed that “Nokomis” was a proper name, but Lance knew it was the Ojibwe word for “grandmother.” He’d even heard Nancy Dupree use the word when she was talking to little Jimmy. “Come here to old nokomis,” she had said merrily. In other words, Nanette had learned her skills from an old Ojibwe woman. Lance pictured a small, stooped figure in the dim light inside a birchbark wigwam. That was Lance’s own great-great-grandmother.

  Suddenly he felt as if he were being pulled away from the room where he sat. He grabbed hold of the edge of the desk with both hands and held on tight.

  His maternal grandfather had died several years before Lance himself came into the world, but he’d seen pictures of the white-haired man. His face was marked by all the hard work he’d done outdoors in every kind of weather. But was there anything Indian about his features? It didn’t matter. Because that was what he was. Half Indian. Or maybe one-quarter, depending on Nanette’s own background.

  Just as revealing as the word nokomis was the information that she had “committed the sin of making an asabikeshiinh for a per-son’s dreams.” Today “dream catchers” could be bought in all sorts of New Age shops, but in 1892 they were unknown outside the Ojibwe world. Lance knew what a genuine dream catcher looked like. The frame was made from a twig or other slender piece of wood that was bent into a circular or teardrop-shaped form. Inside this frame was a woven, interlacing pattern. It actually resembled a human-made spider web. And bad dreams were caught in the web before they could reach the slumbering person.