by Thomas King
The Indians have returned.
That’s what has happened. That’s the answer to the question of the drum. The Indians have come home. That which was lost is found. This is good news. Sonny has missed the Indians.
Of course, there’s that Indian in the yellow house. She’s still here. Maybe the drum is her drum. Maybe she lost it. Maybe she left it behind by mistake.
Sonny could take the drum to her house. Here’s your drum. Found by Sonny.
Then again, it might not be her drum at all. Sonny can feel uncertainty and doubt creeping into his thoughts, again, and he begins to experience the first stirrings of confusion. This is not good.
Not Good!
What is he thinking? What has Dad told him? In the face of uncertainty, have faith. That’s what Dad always says. Have faith. That which is to be, shall be. Life is a mystery. The only way to understand existence is through faith, not curiosity.
Have Faith.
Dad has said this over and over again, but Sonny cannot remember Dad ever saying have curiosity.
The wind blusters in off the ocean. Sonny likes the damp salt air on his face and the sensation of his hair fluttering out in flags and streamers. Sonny starts back along the beach to the motel. Asking questions is not only dangerous, it is also strenuous, and Sonny realizes that he is hungry.
Out on the water, Sonny sees a dark shape slouching along the horizon. A solitary ship, perhaps, moving at the edge of the world. Ships come and go all the time. Some come close to shore. Maybe one day a ship will wind up on Sonny’s beach. Now that would be exciting, Sonny tells himself.
A ship on the beach.
On that day, there would be no end to salvage.
8
THE ABSENCE OF WINDOWS IN THE DOMIDION COMPLEX HAD always made it difficult for Dorian to gauge the time, and when he looked at the icon in the lower right-hand corner of his computer, he was surprised to see that it was after five.
Dorian took off his glasses and closed his eyes. Tonight would be a quiet night. Dinner with Olivia. He might even watch the football game. He couldn’t remember who was playing. Not that it mattered.
So long as it wasn’t Buffalo.
Most of Toronto followed the Bills, but Dorian had no time for that team. No matter how they started off, they always came up short. Dorian wondered if Buffalo itself had something to do with the team’s failures. The city had a palpable stink of depression and need. Perhaps failure was in the air. In the water.
He checked the Internet. The Arizona Cardinals were playing the Houston Texans.
Terrific.
All right. Dinner with Olivia and then a movie.
Dorian looked up to find Winter at his door. He had already seen enough of his assistant today. Then again, Winter never came to his office unless it was necessary.
“The car will pick you up at six,” she said. “Lobby level. They’re updating security protocols in the garage.”
Dorian tried to keep his face passive and open.
“The Walper Lecture at the university.”
“That’s tonight?” Dorian slumped slightly in his chair. “Wonderful.”
“You’re giving the keynote on public-private partnerships.” Winter handed Dorian a tablet. “You can review the talk on the drive to the university. There’ll be a teleprompter.”
“Fine.”
“You should spend some time with the president and the board of governors.”
“Am I bearing gifts?”
“A major partnership with the Humanities,” said Winter. “The Domidion School of Business and Media Communications. Physical plant, start-up costs, endowed chairs. The plan is to fold English, Sociology, and Psychology in to the new school.”
“What about Philosophy, History, and Fine Arts?”
Winter waited as though she had not understood the question.
“Are we concerned about those disciplines?”
“No,” said Winter. “Remember to emphasize the benefits of university-corporate co-operation in an increasingly competitive world.”
Dorian looked at the phone. Winter would have already called Olivia to tell her that her husband would not be home until late.
Winter touched the side of her glasses. “There’ll be a delay in compiling all of Dr. Quinn’s background information.”
“A delay?”
“Many of those records are in archives,” said Winter.
“And there’s no one in archives.”
“That’s correct.”
Dorian was sure that somewhere in his talk this evening would be a mention of the efficiencies of contemporary business and the capacity of multinational corporations to outperform their public sector counterparts.
“You’re familiar with archives.”
“Yes, sir. I am.”
“Supervise the search yourself,” said Dorian. “I want those records by morning.”
Quinn would be found. Dorian was sure of that. They’d have a chat about his interest in classified files, about his sudden disappearance. Everything would get straightened out, and that would be that.
“The school colours are red, gold, and black.”
Dorian frowned.
“You might want to wear an appropriate tie.”
What was particularly curious was the writing. When they found Q, that’s how Dorian would start the conversation. “The writing on the walls,” he’d say, “tell me about the writing on the walls.”
Winter stopped at the door. “You might encounter a rally.”
“A protest?”
“A small demonstration is what we’ve been told,” said Winter.
“Zebras?”
“Possible,” said Winter. “I can arrange a security team if you like.”
Dorian waved a hand. “Bad PR.”
“Yes, sir,” said Winter. “Enjoy the evening.”
DORIAN walked through his office to the executive suite. He opened the closet and ran a hand along the rack of ties. Red and gold and black. Not exactly subtle colours. He chose a silk Brioni, a soft crimson with gold flecks.
As he stood in front of the mirror, working the tie into a compact knot, he noticed a dark spot on his temple. He touched the mark. It felt strange and somewhat numb. This was new. Or perhaps he just hadn’t noticed it before. He had been able to avoid the signs of age, but now, here was a blemish, a distinct and unmistakable sign of decay.
No doubt there would be others.
The lobby was empty. As he walked by the aquarium, Dorian remembered the turtle. The reptile had vanished. Just like Quinn. It had gone somewhere, and it had never been found. Maybe Quinn had taken it.
Maybe the two of them had run away together.
The limo was waiting. Dorian settled in the back, took Luxury Home Magazine from the seat pocket, and opened it to the dog-eared page. The idea of Quinn and the turtle lighting out for the territories amused him beyond expectations, and he found himself inexplicably laughing out loud.
Tomorrow he’d have his medications checked.
9
GABRIEL LAY ON THE DECK AND WATCHED THE SUN BRIGHTEN the tops of the waves. For no reason in particular, the light reminded him of the year that an American bomber had developed engine trouble over the St. Lawrence River and jettisoned a Mark 4 nuclear bomb a few kilometres downstream from Quebec City.
1949? 1950?
The pilot exploded the bomb at an altitude of 2,500 feet. The plutonium core wasn’t in place at the time, so there was no nuclear detonation. But the blast rattled windows and scattered uranium-238 over the area.
Now he remembered: November 10, 1950.
No one knew what to do with the radioactive dust that settled on the water and along the shoreline, or what the long-term effects might be. And since not asking was deemed to be better than knowing, no one asked.
GABRIEL pressed the pillow against his face. It felt as though it were made out of laundry parts—socks, underpants, T-shirts, small towels—all stuffed into a bag. The thing w
as lumpy and had a stale odour to it that was not so much unpleasant as it was old.
He wondered if you could actually smother someone in this manner. The pillow would have to be foam, he reasoned. Feathers would be too leaky. He pressed harder, wrapped his arms around the pillow and squeezed. Yes, a pillow would probably do the job, but it would take a fair amount of effort and will. Still, Gabriel could feel his heart picking up speed, could feel his lungs running out of air.
“Be ye aboard?”
Soldier barked once and dove off the deck. Gabriel peeled the pillow from his face and got to his feet.
Nicholas Crisp was kneeling at the corner of the trailer, rolling Soldier’s head back and forth in his hands.
“Master Dog here tells me ye be slack in the doldrums.”
Gabriel looked at Soldier.
“Exhaustion can be a perilous companion on the open seas.” Nicholas laughed and shook his head. “But I’m a meddlesome creature, always sticking an oar in between strokes.”
“Would you like something to eat?”
“I’ve commerce in town,” said Crisp, “but it’s a sorry soul what turns down groceries.”
“Chicken’s not ready yet,” said Gabriel. “But there’s coffee and some bread and jam.”
“Not much for the sinew and bone,” said Crisp. “Still, it’ll wake the garrison and rally the troops for the manoeuvres ahead.”
Soldier began a long, low rumble in his throat as he rubbed himself against Nicholas’s leg.
“Aye, Master Dog,” said Crisp, “they’re back.”
“Back?”
“The Jabberwoks,” Crisp cried out, his beard trembling. “No doubt bearing idle gifts and sweet-water words.”
“Jabberwoks?”
“The destroyers of worlds.”
Gabriel considered Crisp for a moment. “Now I am become Death,” he said, letting the words roll out like a wave, “the destroyer of worlds.”
Crisp’s eyes twinkled. “So it’s a learned man ye be. A personage of the spoken word. Ye know the Bhagavad-Gita then. Perhaps even in the original Sanskrit?”
“Oppenheimer,” said Gabriel. “I know the phrase because of Robert Oppenheimer.”
“Los Alamos,” said Crisp. “The Holy Trinity.”
“July 16, 1945, August 6, 1945, and August 9, 1945.” Gabriel set a jar of jam on the table. “Years later, Oppenheimer was asked how he felt about the tests, and he quoted that passage from the Bhagavad-Gita.”
The fur on Soldier’s neck rose up like the edge of a knife, and he began stalking the borders of the deck, shaping a slow circle around the two men.
“But he was wrong,” said Crisp, “for it ain’t the vanities of physics what’ll do us in, but the vulgarities of our own greed.”
“Cream?” asked Gabriel. “Sugar?”
“Neither,” said Crisp, “for it’s the dark of a thing what sets its worth.”
GABRIEL stepped into the trailer and came out with the Bodum and two heavy ceramic cups.
“Bread’s from the bakery in town.”
“Webb’s,” said Crisp, tearing off a piece and putting it to his lips. “I recognizes the tug and pull. Family what makes the tack. They was to catch the tide a while back and sail off with the rest of the privateers, but decided that staying at anchor was wiser than running before the wind.”
“Jam’s apricot.”
Crisp painted a ragged edge of bread. “A treasure unto itself.”
Gabriel cradled his cup between his hands. “So, tell me about …”
“Not much to tell,” said Crisp between chews, “for they’ve the same names and faces. Burbling foes, with eyes aflame. They appear and disappear as they’re needed. Some years back they came and tried to sell us heaven and all the stars.”
Gabriel couldn’t help the smile. “So you’re going to … snicker-snack them with your … vorpal blade?”
“Indeed, indeed.” Crisp threw his head back and roared. “There’s no telling what the slithy toves be flogging this time! The Girdle of Hippolyta, perhaps, or the Seal of Solomon. But betwixt the threes of us, I’m supposing that they want to pick up where they left off. Negotiating the right of way once again.”
“Right of way?” said Gabriel. “For a road?”
“In a manner of speaking,” said Crisp. “It were a bad idea then, and it were a bad idea now. So it must be stopped.”
“Can I help?”
Crisp put a hand over his heart and turned to Soldier. “Did ye hear that? An offer so full of grace it would make money weep.”
“I’ve nothing better to do.”
“No, no,” said Crisp. “Ye be both genial and generous, but such a crusade on your part is not required. I only disturbed your meditations to drop off complimentary passes to the hot springs. Ye and a friend, if one can be found. If not, then come twice and bring the dog, if that be your pleasure.”
“Soldier,” said Gabriel. “Evidently his name is Soldier.”
“Soldier, is it?” said Crisp. “Raising an army, are we?”
“It’s just a name.”
“Yet there be much in a name.” Crisp stepped off the deck and gave his pants a quick brush. “No, no, stay here. Enjoy your day. Come by the pools at the full moon, for the waters will be in riot with insomnia and lycanthropy.”
“I don’t have a swimming suit.”
“Then ye be in luck,” said Crisp, “for we don’t require that the loins be clad.”
GABRIEL took the dishes and the cups back into the trailer. Soldier found his bowl and pushed it around the kitchen, banging it about between the stove and the refrigerator.
“So, what do you want to do?”
Soldier continued pushing and banging.
“We could jog to the beach.” Gabriel let the water drain from the sink. “Did you know that exercise is supposed to release hormones that make you feel happy?”
Soldier stayed with the bowl.
“I could throw a stick, and you could chase it. I could try to destroy the world. You could try to stop me.”
Soldier licked his chops, sat back on his haunches, and waited.
Gabriel ran a hand across his face. Maybe he’d grow a beard. He didn’t have much in the way of facial hair. Not like Crisp. But it might be fun to try. He could let his hair grow long, stop taking baths, start talking to himself. He could run in the woods with the dog and howl at the moon.
Or he could just lie on the deck by himself and give the pillow another try.
10
BY THE TIME SONNY GETS BACK TO THE MOTEL, IT IS LATE afternoon, and now he is very hungry. The Ocean Star Motel is famous for its fish. Poached fish, baked fish, fish fingers, fish and chips, fish chowder, fish balls.
Fish, fish, fish, fish.
Sonny doesn’t like fish. Fish tastes like the ocean. Fish has thousands of little bones in it. Fish has slimy scales. Sonny likes toasted cheese sandwiches.
Sonny goes into the motel café. He sits at the table with the best view and studies the menu.
Toasted cheese sandwich for Sonny, Sonny shouts to the kitchen.
Sonny takes the drum out of his salvage bag. The skin is drier and the sound is deeper now, full of muscle and authority. Sonny taps out Dad’s favourite Native song, the one from the old Hamm’s beer commercial.
“From the land of sky-blue waters …”
Sonny puts the drum down, goes to the wait station, and gets himself a glass of ice water, along with a knife and fork wrapped up in a white napkin. He arranges these in their proper order on the table, just the way Dad has shown him.
The kitchen is deserted. Sonny goes to the cupboards and opens all the doors.
Empty.
He goes to the refrigerator and opens the door.
Nothing.
Wham-wham.
Toasted cheese sandwich for Sonny, Sonny shouts into the empty refrigerator. With mustard.
There are marks on the shelves of the refrigerator where food used to be. There are crumbs
in one of the crisper drawers and green stains in another where something has rotted away.
Sonny gets a plate from the sink, rinses it off, and goes outside to the EverFresh vending machine with its individual compartments and clear plastic doors. Sonny puts his money in the coin slot, and when the machine makes its jingle-jingle sound, he opens the door and takes out an egg salad sandwich. He puts in more money, opens a second door, and takes out a small bunch of grapes. More money, a third door, and a piece of pound cake. Then he carries everything back to the table with the good view.
Sonny’s supper.
The egg salad is tasty, but the bread is somewhat stale and hard at the edges, and, as Sonny debates sending it back or reducing the tip, he realizes that he may have a problem. There are any number of musical instruments of which Dad approves, instruments that Dad has deemed to be appropriate accompaniment for joyful singing and dancing. Trumpets are a great favourite, as are kinnors, nebels, pipes, and cymbals.
But no drums.
Dad has never mentioned drums. Drums do not appear anywhere on Dad’s list of approved melodic devices.
Of course.
Drums are cruder instruments favoured by cruder people with a limited understanding of salvage. Such as Indians and Africans. Sonny remembers a show he watched on the Discovery Channel, where little Asian men beat out perplexing rhythms on enormous drums the size of oxen.
Why hasn’t Sonny thought of this problem with drums?
Perhaps Dad won’t be as pleased with his beloved Sonny after all. Sonny tries to put this dilemma out of his mind, but by the time he gets to the second half of his sandwich, he has lost his appetite.
Wham-wham.
Sonny cautiously holds the drum up to the light and immediately recoils at what he sees. It’s all there. The pallid veins running through the body of the skin, the ominous checks in the wood frame, the twisted sinewy strands that hold the drum head in place. He can even feel the heat of the fire and smell the stink of the smoke on the hide.
Wham-wham, hammer-hammer.
What is he going to do with the drum he has found? Perhaps the drum is a test. Dad has always been fond of tests. Tests to gauge Sonny’s resolve. Tests to measure Sonny’s endurance. Tests to evaluate Sonny’s devotion. Maybe the drum is a test to determine Sonny’s intelligence.
