The old man stood and skated forward until the rope once again draped itself on the cool ground. He could see his shadow in the smoky ice and could see the dull yellow of his jacket, like a cloud-dimmed view of the sun. Birds passed overhead, disturbing him. He saw Phil straighten with the slackening of the rope, so he immediately returned to his crouched position, making Phil work once more. It was his gold but half of what he had would be Phil’s. If he must carry it Phil must pull. He wondered for a moment what Phil’s home would be like. Certainly nothing like Japan, but he was sure, if it was a town of any size, they would have a historian. He wanted to meet the man, to exchange views. He wanted to see what he could see, to learn what he could, in the time he had left, about other parts of the world.
Henriette had missed her monthlies before, but this time she was widely suspicious. She’d lost track of time, letting one day flow to the next like merging beads of quicksilver, but now, as she stood before the window of her room, she was sure. She cupped her hands together just below her navel and perceived the skin tightening. It was three weeks since she’d been with Hummel, five since her engagement to the reverend.
Soon after the night with Hummel, Henriette told him that she could not see him again, but he came now, the silent serenader just below her window. He stood long hours in the cold, his head turned upward in the moonlight, or when she worked and when Ellen was at rest he stood silently in the corners of the bath, his features hanging heavy off his bones.
“I can’t see you and I’m sorry if I led you on,” she had said, but he wouldn’t answer, would only look about, furtive, sorrowful.
And now her monthlies missed. Henriette knew she could confide in the reverend, tell him the baby was his and that he would never doubt it. Or she could tell John Hummel. Both men wanted her and to tell the truth there were ways in which she would not be unsatisfied with either. With Hummel she’d be rich and warm, living in his imagined house, and with the reverend she was sure to be needed, would be able to help in his work. She was afraid of Hummel’s mother, but was afraid of everyday life in the village as well. Maybe she’d get tired of it, want to leave, and be forced by the reverend to stay, or worse, force him to leave and then lose him. In the village too much would be expected of her. In Nome nothing would.
Henriette saw Hummel moving along the paths below so she stood back from the window. She could hear him standing in the snow. She turned the lanterns low and began dressing in the orange light of the slow stove. It didn’t seem as though her skirt was any tighter than it had been, so perhaps this pregnancy was too soon imagined. Perhaps it was time, not her skin, that stretched so thin and long. Each night took the time of two to pass, and at that rate wouldn’t it be another week before her period was even due? Ah, if that were only the case she’d still have two men to choose from and it would be pleasant, in a way, to be sought after. In the end she’d probably choose the reverend, who’d asked her first and in writing. There was something about the weakness of that note. Not what it said exactly, but the way it looked. Now that she’d seen Hummel’s hand she could compare. Hummel’s life had been ordered by his mother but the reverend needed somebody. One look at his note would tell you that.
Henriette sighed and went down the stairs to the main room and saw Ellen alone, throwing her marble egg high into the air and catching it. She wore a pair of canvas trousers and was lifting her leg and throwing the egg up from under it. It was a schoolgirl’s game, and each time, when the egg was in midair, she’d clap her hands lightly and count, one O’Leary, two O’Leary, like jumping rope but with only herself and the marble egg.
Henriette stood quietly and watched. She’d never before thought of Ellen as a girl. And she was good at it. She sometimes let the egg go from behind her back yet caught it deftly in front of her without really looking. And from wherever she happened to throw the egg it always came down in the same place. Ellen merely placed a hand against her stomach and waited, nearly casual, for the egg to fall into it. Then she flipped it to the other hand and released it again, higher into the air, higher and higher. Of course there were no customers and Henriette hoped that Hummel would remain outside, that no one would come in to destroy Ellen’s mood. It was strange to watch the marble egg lift closer to the dusty ceiling each time. It rose heavy end first and then turned slowly and descended that way as well. As it reached its apex it stopped in the air before turning and Henriette could see the shafts of brown marble laid through the white, like a child softly growing. The pattern ran from the base to the top and Henriette thought, each time, that it would surely come apart in Ellen’s hands, that this time when she caught it she would have two pieces of egg, equal and heavy and good for nothing. Yet always the egg rose and fell without incident. It rose slowly, as if a bubble in a liquid room, and always as an accompaniment to Ellen’s song: One O’Leary, two O’Leary, three O’Leary, four….
Henriette thought of the egg in her body as floating and turning as Ellen’s egg did. Perhaps it too rose heavy end first around its half child. She couldn’t imagine that it too had a fault, that it was cracked or would break. Its shell was made of sterner stuff. Yet as Ellen continued her game Henriette remembered the expanding skin of her belly and began hoping that Ellen would miss, that the marble would fracture on the hardwood floor and that she would be able to hold the flesh of her abdomen, loose again, in both of her hands. She knew, suddenly, that if the marble egg broke she’d be safe. She knew it. Yet Ellen kept skillfully at her game, fast and sure. Henriette imagined Ellen dancing along the dusty roads of Ireland, this egg of hers always reaching a bit higher into the sky. It is the nature of lonely children that they have patience and she knew that Ellen would never miss.
Henriette got up off the step and ran into the room toward Ellen. She pushed Ellen forward and the egg fell onto the floor. Ellen scraped her palm on the counter top and turned with wild surprise toward Henriette, who knelt on the floor and felt hot tears on the backs of her hands. Of course the egg had not broken. It hit with marble hardness and, making a little indentation, stood, not even rolling its egg wobble across the floor.
“Here!” said Ellen, and then more softly, “Here, here, you’ll be the death of me running in like that. What’s come over you?”
Henriette lifted the egg and handed it back to Ellen. It was at this time that John Hummel opened the heavy door and stood smiling at them from the entrance. He truly was healed, you could tell from the pink tightness of his gums. And it was not hard to tell from the cast of his glance that he still had his eye on Ellen’s egg.
The reverend saw them first. It was late and he was walking the beach again, alternately thinking of Henriette and dreading the sermon he would have to give the next morning. It was getting so that he liked the village better the way it was now, with everyone underground, everything out of sight. Occasionally he’d see one of the village people step from the earth, but generally when he looked to where the spring lean-tos would be there was nothing.
The reverend saw them first, and when he did he recognized Phil by the flash of his skates in the dull, low-lying sun, by the sound of them still distant on the ice. Phil was pulling a sled and it looked as if a person rode it. Out to sea the setting sun laid a path of wet light across the ice and outlined the travelers for him.
The reverend moved quickly up the beach and across the snow to the entrance to Phil’s home. He lifted the hide flap and called into the earth. “It’s Phil. Phil is coming,” then he stood back and waited, looking toward the beach again. He hoped Phil would not be bringing bad news about Finn. He hoped that was not Finn lying bent and wounded on the sled behind him. But it was a man, he could see that clearly now, and the man appeared to be hurt. He was surrounded on the sled by a clutter of objects, clothing and nets that hung from him like bandages.
From his kneeling position behind Phil, Kaneda began rubbing his eyes. In front of him and around him there had been nothing but ice and snow and the rolling lowlands. They were skating
nearly into the sun so he had been keeping his eyes closed. Now though, on the bank ahead and to his right, he saw the dark shapes of people. They appeared to multiply each time he looked, until, squinting and rubbing his eyes, he saw forty or fifty of them, all quiet, some with their arms raised in greeting. He saw Phil straighten and begin to slow down. Perhaps they would rest here for the night, though there was still an hour of daylight and it was unlike Phil to want to stop so early.
When they got to within seventy meters of the shore it was clear to everyone that Phil had brought a visitor. The man was not riding on a sled as the reverend had thought, the man was the sled. He was being pulled by Phil and therefore must be injured, but most of the people who waited looked at Phil’s feet. Many shook their heads and looked again.
When they got closer to the beach Phil turned somewhat sideways and took the tight waist rope in his hands. Yes, they were going to stop here. Kaneda knew that Phil was about to pull him forward, but he had been sitting for so long that he found it difficult to stand. It was exhilarating being pulled forward in such a way but he was afraid that this time he might fall. All of the people were very close now. Phil pulled and he jerked forward and was able to stand at the last moment and heard a gasp from the crowd. They too seemed afraid he might fall.
The old man stood shakily before them. He counted one white man but all the rest looked Japanese. All of the adults stood with heads downcast, but the children were wide-mouthed looking at him. He had always liked children and had always sensed that they liked him. Phil pulled back the hood of his jacket and a few of the people came close to him. The old man was very glad to see that Phil was known here. It felt good to be standing and it would feel much better once he got the sled runners off his feet. He reached out to touch the nearest child, but as he did so all the children turned silently and ran from him. They fanned out across the snow and then, much to his surprise, stopped and disappeared into the ground.
Phil took off his skates and handed them to the reverend. Then he bent and helped the old man unstrap the runners. It was a very good feeling. People in the crowd had their hoods off and followed the skates as they changed hands. The old man undid the lacing around his neck and pushed his own hood away from his face. The crowd shifted their glance to him, and quickly three women stepped forward to get a closer look. They held him by the arms and looked at Phil and spoke. Though the old man did not understand what they were saying, he was pleased with the reception he got.
Phil assured everyone that the resemblance between Kaneda and his father was a coincidence. Those who fall through the ice do not return unless they do so immediately. Still, he enjoyed the surprise on everyone’s face and he told them that he too had reacted in much the same way.
The villagers came forward and began shaking Kaneda’s hand. They formed a circle around him and led him gently up off the shore. Phil’s wife shaded the old man’s eyes and frowned at the fact that the word “coincidence” had escaped her husband’s lips. Of course she did not think that Phil’s father had returned, but this was no coincidence. Her husband had been spending too much time with white men. Coincidence. She suspected that even the reverend would have to laugh at such a thought.
After they’d progressed a few meters up the beach the old man looked at her and spoke, but she did not understand him. Everyone stopped and was quiet and waited for him to speak again, but when he did so they still did not understand. The language he used was familiar but not understandable. And it was not the language of another group of Eskimos, for though there were many dialects they didn’t know there were none they could not recognize. They looked at Phil and he told them “Japan” and some of them remembered the name and looked toward the reverend, who nodded as if he too had definitely heard the word before.
The general movement of the group was toward the reverend’s house. It was important for the old man to get warm and for them to have a better look at him. The reverend and Phil moved on ahead to build up the fires and make room. The central group surrounded the old man, standing near him in case he might fall. Behind them the children reappeared. They ran around the silent sides of Nanoon’s hut frowning, and fell in with the others.
Inside the reverend’s house the reverend and Phil exchanged words. The reverend hung his skates in their usual place, then asked about Finn and was told who the old man was. He went quickly around the room picking up objects from the floor. It was Saturday and he had not had a chance to do his cleaning. On Sunday, for the services, his house was always very neat, but he didn’t clean again until Saturday night. And now all these people were coming. He scooped papers and books into his arms and threw them up onto the hidden floor of the loft. The door opened and the old man was ushered in and for a moment the reverend had the image of garlands being laid before him.
“Do you speak English?” the reverend asked.
“I do not speak English,” said the old man.
Phil told the reverend and the others about Fujino and how the two Japanese and Ellen and Henriette had all come to the country together. He impressed them with the fact that it took half a year to make the trip from Japan and said that he and the old man had talked of how surprising it was that they should look alike.
“Surprising, maybe, but no coincidence,” said Phil’s wife.
The children, who had been standing at the back of the room, stepped forward, each holding a large piece of sketch paper. They began to circle the old man, shifting their glance from him to the golden webbing that he still wore. After they had circled him several times the children stood their drawings on the furniture and against the walls around the room, and this time, when the old man reached out, they allowed him to touch them on the tops of their heads. The gold was heavy and he wanted to take it off, so Phil stepped forward to help him cut it away. There were sixteen drawings and the old man had snowflakes in excess of three dozen. He shook his shoulders until a woman came up behind him and began rubbing the sore spots away. Each child stood behind the drawing that was his own.
The old man, in the center of the room, at the center of the circle of people, stood doing calisthenics. After the gold was off him he removed his coat and stretched his arms high over his head and bent forward and down until he had touched his toes. He did deep knee bends and rolled his hips and torso from side to side, breathing deeply as he did so.
“Though Taro here did all the work, my body is in pain from crouching in one position for such a long time,” he said. Then he laughed once. “Taro made me carry all the gold so I made him do all the pulling.”
The Eskimos listened again as hard as they could, but could not catch what he was saying. The old man had hoped they would smile, but when they did not he put on a serious face again and began to circle the room, looking carefully at each nervous child, at each drawing. The children stood like dog owners. When the old man had circled the room twice he began around again carrying one of his golden snowflakes. When he’d gone less than halfway around the group he carefully placed the snowflake in front of the drawing that equaled it. The size and all of the webbed lines matched perfectly. Each time he circled the room he carried only one snowflake. Occasionally he found no drawing that matched the snowflake he carried, but in the end each drawing was matched to the finest of its lines, to the last of its detail.
When the old man finished, the children picked up their snowflakes, looked at him through them, and showed no surprise. Phil took those remaining and laid them in a pile on the old man’s coat. Someone thought of hunger and went out and came back with dried fish. Now that the ritual of greeting was over the people of the village began to question Phil about what he had been doing while he was away. There had been a death in the village while he’d been gone and they told him about that. Only Phil’s wife stayed with Kaneda. She continued to rub at the sore muscles of his back and shoulders. She helped him walk about the room, spied on by the children like spider prey.
There was a new notice board in the exact cen
ter of Nome and Finn leaned against it with all his weight. He could see the top floor of the bath and the frames of a dozen new buildings. Frost clung to his snowbeard. He could hear the hammers ring and he read about the organization of the town, about the public construction crew and the drawing of lots. There had been a town meeting and there would be another one in three days. There would be an election. Finn lifted the pencil that hung in front of him and wrote his name second on the list of mayoral candidates, under that of Dr. Kingman. He laughed and picked up his pack again. Now there was organization, a notice board in the center of town.
It had taken Finn a week to walk to Nome but he felt in good shape from it. There’d been no distractions inside the evening ice houses that he’d built, so he had had a chance to rest. During that time he had not spoken or sung or whistled, and now, as he approached the bath house, he felt really tired for the first time. He took a wrong turn once and then corrected it and came around from the right. He saw that the window was closed and clean and that the door was working again. One man entered and another left as Finn stood there watching. The building seemed strong and beautiful. He walked very close to it, then stood in the dead center of the four mule hooves, pushing his bearded face to the glass and peering in.
Fools' Gold Page 23
