The Back of the Turtle

by Thomas King

  “How many ponds do we have?”

  “Seven,” said Wang. “Four at 160 acre feet each and three at 500 acre feet. The first breach was at one of the smaller ponds.”

  “Holding Pond Number Four.”

  “Yes,” said Wang. “The second breach was at Holding Pond Number Two.”

  Dorian returned to the left flat-screen. “And this is a larger pond.”

  “It’s the largest at the facility,” said Wang, “585 acre feet.”

  Dorian nodded and raised his fist. “Do-mi-di-on,” he chanted. “Do-mi-di-on.”

  Wang and Weisman glanced at Lustig.

  “That’s what you’re going to hear,” said Dorian, “if we don’t get control of this. ‘Do-mi-di-on.’ Give it a try.”

  Lustig looked stunned. “Sir …”

  “Do it!”

  “Do-mi-di-on.” said Winter. “Do-mi-di-on.”

  “All of you,” shouted Dorian. “Do-mi-di-on!”

  WHEN Dorian got back to his office, he poured himself a very large Scotch.

  “So, how bad is it?”

  “Compared to what?”

  Dorian finished the Scotch in one swallow and poured himself another. “Deepwater Horizon.”

  “It’s worse,” said Winter. “The 2010 Gulf of Mexico spill dumped more than five million barrels, or 210 million gallons, of oil into the ocean.”

  “But it was oil, and it was the open ocean.”

  “That was BP’s contention,” said Winter. “Our spill has dumped about 242 million gallons of toxic waste into a river system.”

  “So our screw-up is more concentrated.”

  “The spill will kill everything in the river. In less than a week, the toxins will reach Lake Athabasca. From there the toxins will join the Mackenzie River system and everything will wind up in the Beaufort Sea.”

  Winter ticked off the information as though she were reading items on a grocery list.

  “How long?”

  “To the Arctic Circle?”

  “Yes.”

  “A month,” said Winter. “Within a month, the pollution will reach the Arctic Circle.”

  Dorian put his glass down. “Is there a cleanup plan in place?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will it stop the toxins?”

  “No.”

  “But we’ll be seen to be trying.”

  “PR is sending two full camera crews.”

  Dorian brought the drink to his desk. “I bought a new watch yesterday,” he said, holding out an arm. “What do you think?”

  “A Rolex is always a good choice.”

  “I assume the Board is upset.”

  Winter raised a fist and smiled. It was the first smile that Dorian had ever seen on the woman’s face. “Do-mi-di-on,” she said. “Do-mi-di-on.”

  51

  IT HAS TAKEN SONNY ALL MORNING TO COLLECT THE NECESsary materials. There will be more to collect, but for now, at least, he can begin. Sonny marks off the distances, placing one foot in front of the other. The base has to be broad enough to withstand the wind, and the structure has to be set back on the beach beyond the high tide mark.

  Five, six, seven, eight, nine …

  Sonny has decided on twelve. And he has decided to begin with a square. That way he doesn’t have to remember the length of two separate sides.

  Twelve, twelve, twelve, and twelve.

  And he has already found the perfect spot among the seagrasses on a small rise that looks both ways along the beach. Sonny begins stacking the gathered items—shells, bones, driftwood, ocean miscellany—along the lines of the foundation.

  Twelve feet on a side. Twelve inches thick. That will be the base. Keep things strong. Keep things simple. That’s Sonny. Strong and simple. Sonny’s only concern is that he is building his tower on sand, and he remembers that Dad has warned about building houses on sand.

  Dig deep and lay the foundation on rock. That’s what Dad has always said.

  Before he left the motel, Sonny had knocked on Dad’s door to ask if building a tower on sand was the same thing as building a house on sand.

  But there had been no answer.

  Sonny selects a turtle shell and hooks a bone through one of the openings. He attaches a piece of steel mesh to the bone and then another shell and more bones. He pounds a piece of driftwood into the sand for support and then begins again.

  The work is very slow, and, after several hours, Sonny has made little progress. While he can use small pieces of everything for the base, he can see that he will have to find larger items for the sides of the tower or he’ll be on the beach for all eternity. There are things at the motel that he can use. The broken lounge chair. The rake with the bent tines. The tire jack that someone left in the parking lot.

  And there’s the town.

  Wham-wham!

  The town will have many things that could be used for Sonny’s tower, things people forgot when they ran away. Sonny gets excited, and he works faster.

  The foundation is the most important part of the tower. Sonny knows this. Once the foundation is straight and true and well laid, he can be creative with his materials. He can be artistic. Sonny realizes that there is no reason that the tower can’t be strong and functional and beautiful as well.

  Sonny sits in the sand and pieces the foundation together. The motel, the town, the beach. Each can contribute in its own way. Each can provide something for Sonny’s tower.

  And the reserve. Sonny is stunned that he hasn’t thought of this sooner. The reserve. Surely there are things on the reserve that can be used for the tower. Maybe when he goes there, he’ll find the ghost Indians. And once he explains what he’s doing, once he explains what the tower is for, they will probably insist on helping.

  Come be my hands, Sonny will say. Come join me in this my creation. Come and marvel at what I have wrought.

  Perhaps they’ll provide lunch.

  52

  MARA PLUNGED INTO THE FOG WITH ONE OF THE PAINTINGS and the hammer. She couldn’t see a thing, not even the outline of the other buildings, but she knew the ground. Her feet could feel the paths that connected the houses. Her toes knew where the road came in and where it circled back out.

  WHEN they were teenagers, she and Lilly had played a game that involved a blindfold, some spinning around, and lots of shouting. They called their game “Blind Bat.”

  “Blind bat, blind bat, find your way home.”

  That was the goal of the game. To find your way home blindfolded. The “blind bat” would be left to feel for the ground, listen for a familiar sound, search for a telltale smell, while the other player would yell out encouragement.

  “Blind bat’s hot.”

  “Blind bat’s cold.”

  “Blind bat’s very cold.”

  Originally, these encouragements were supposed to be of assistance. If the blind bat was moving in the right direction, the other player was obligated to let the blind bat know that she was on the correct path.

  “Blind bat’s getting very hot.”

  And if the blind bat was heading off in the wrong direction, the other player was duty bound to tell her that she was off course.

  “Cold, blind bat, freezing.”

  Then, as Mara and Lilly got good at finding their way home, the rules were changed. The shouting continued, but now there was no requirement that the information be accurate, and the other person would generally do their best to confuse the blind bat. They even began to time each other, calling out intervals as well as instructions.

  “Twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two,” Mara would yell. “Cold, blind bat, hot, hot, hot.”

  They must have looked like a pair of fools, stumbling around the reserve, disturbing the peace. But it had been fun.

  MARA was almost to the next house when she realized that she had lost Gabriel. Or, more properly, Gabriel had lost himself.

  Blind bat, blind bat.

  Okay, not good. While the reserve wasn’t that large, there were haz
ards to be avoided. If this Gabriel had gone east, he’d be fine. Eventually, he’d bump into the water tower or the community centre, or he’d stumble across the main road and work his way back.

  But if he headed west, there was the chance he’d walk right off the cliffs and wind up on the rocks below. West was where the danger lay.

  THERE was a second game that Lilly had shown her. It wasn’t quite as much fun as Blind Bat, but it did involve the same level of shrieking. They never put a name to it, perhaps because it wasn’t so much a game as something to do on days when strong winds came in off the ocean.

  It was a game of timing and faith. Like the waves, the ocean winds came in patterns of seven, the big gusts blowing in at the end of a sequence. Mara and Lilly would stand on the headlands, their jackets held tightly to their bodies, and then they would run and count.

  “One, two three, four, five, six …”

  And at the instant of the big gust, they would fling open their jackets and leap into the air. If they had guessed correctly, the wind would catch them, lift them off their feet and sail them backwards, sometimes as much as ten feet. If they guessed wrong, they would simply crash to the ground.

  Success was magic. Failure was pain.

  And after a day of leaping and sailing and crashing, they would come home with torn knees and elbows, and the satisfaction that they were invincible. Breasts and boys would change much of that, but on the headlands in the wind, like the birds who rode the thermals, Mara and Lilly could fly.

  MARA heard him before she could see him. He was breathing heavily, not from the exertion of walking—he hadn’t come that far or that fast—but from worry. By now he knew he was lost, and the reality was probably distressing and embarrassing.

  “Hello …”

  Mara smiled as she listened to him call out and suck in air through an open mouth. Men. Embarrassment would be the stronger of the two emotions.

  “Blind bat, blind bat!”

  Mara was close enough now to see Gabriel jump. Lovely.

  “You decide to give up on the Apostles?”

  “What?”

  Mara stepped in front of him. “The suicide thing,” she said. “I’m just checking, because if you hold to your current heading, you’ll walk off a cliff.”

  “How’d you find me?”

  “You breathe through your mouth.”

  Mara was tempted to tell this Gabriel about the flying game, to see if he wanted to play. But the winds weren’t strong enough, and that time had passed. It had always been a game for children with their skinny bird bodies and stick arms and legs and no fear that the world would harm them in any way.

  A game for children who truly believed they could fly.

  “Are you thinking about it?” she asked. “Because if you are, I’ll take my paintings now.”

  “No,” he said, “I was just lost.”

  “A lot of that going around.” Mara twirled the hammer in her hand. “You think you can keep up this time?”

  “Sure.”

  “That’s what I figure.” Mara shifted the hammer to her right hand. “Let’s try it this way.”

  Mara had never hooked the claw of a hammer through a man’s belt before. It seemed rather bold, but as she dragged Gabriel back to the townsite, any apprehensions were replaced with a warm glow of power. Towing a man through the fog by his belt might well be the adult version of Blind Bat.

  “Am I going too fast?”

  “No.”

  Mara found herself wishing that the fog would lift so the community could see her return from the hunt with her prey. Mara nails man. Film at eleven.

  “How’s the hammer?”

  “Great idea.”

  She wondered how Gabriel felt about the matter, hoped that he didn’t think this had anything to do with sex. Or worse, affection. But of course he did. What man wouldn’t? Christ, but they were simple constructions.

  “We’re here.”

  Mara dragged Gabriel onto the porch before she rescued her hammer.

  “Where are we?”

  “Give me the red one.”

  Mara leaned the painting against the wall and held out a hand. “Nail.”

  “You want me to do that?”

  Mara considered jamming the hammer back in Gabriel’s belt and twisting it a bit. “Remind me again who was lost?”

  “I can drive a nail.”

  Mara could taste meanness on her tongue. “Okay,” she said. “Go for it.”

  Now it was a contest, and Mara had always liked contests. Gabriel and the nail. Could he hit the damn thing. Mara found herself hoping that he would miss, so she could say something pithy.

  “You waiting for theme music?” It wasn’t all that pithy. Tart. It was definitely tart.

  “Maybe a drum roll.”

  “Rat-a-tat-tat.” Now that was pithy. “Rat-a-tat-tat.”

  The first blow hit the nail squarely on the head, and Mara felt a pinch of disappointment. The second stroke missed the target, and, from the way Gabriel’s neck disappeared into his shoulder, she guessed that it had found a piece of his hand.

  “You okay?”

  The sound seemed to come out of the ground.

  “What was that?”

  “What?”

  Mara pushed past Gabriel and opened the door. There it was again. A low, rolling rumble. She stepped inside, could feel Gabriel step in behind her.

  “I suppose,” she said, because she couldn’t think of anything else to say, “that you have a good explanation for this.”

  The fog floated into the room, but it was little more than a soft mist.

  “Can’t say that I do.”

  Mara took in the scene in front of her. “Shut the door,” she said. “This is going to take a while.”

  53

  THE HOUSE SHOULD HAVE BEEN EMPTY AND BARE.

  All the homes, all the buildings, all the outbuildings had long since been stripped and vandalized. Mara had walked through them in turn on more than one occasion, searching for reminders of the families who had once lived here.

  There had been little left. Initials carved into a porch post. A flyer from a big box store, forgotten on a high shelf. Thirty-five cents lost in the sand at the playground. Nothing more than that.

  And now there was a dog on a blanket in the middle of the floor. Along with a mattress, several chairs, a table, dishes, and pots and pans. Nothing new. Everything with the look of having been thrown away more than once. In one corner were the two bench seats from the bus.

  Soldier struggled to his feet and let loose another growl.

  Mara waited for Gabriel to ask the obvious question.

  “I thought you said the reserve was deserted.”

  “It is,” said Mara. “What’s your dog doing here?”

  “He’s not my dog.”

  Soldier continued to growl.

  “Evidently.”

  Gabriel dropped to one knee and patted his thigh. “Soldier,” he said. “Come on, boy. Good boy.”

  Soldier didn’t move off the blanket.

  “Where have you been, boy? Did you get lost?”

  The growling stopped, and Soldier’s back end began to quiver. Mara slowly walked the room.

  “Someone’s living here.”

  “More than one,” said Gabriel. “From the look of it.”

  Soldier limped over and buried his face in Gabriel’s lap.

  “Where’d they go?”

  “Heard us coming,” said Gabriel. “Ran off.”

  “All the banging we were doing.”

  “Be my guess.”

  Soldier rolled over on his back and sighed.

  “Who’s living here, boy?” said Gabriel. “Folks from town?”

  Mara picked up a pot and turned it over. There was the chance that some of the families had returned, but she knew better. If that had happened, the people would have come into town for supplies and to say hello. She would have known. Such a return would not have gone unmarked.

&
nbsp; “Come on.”

  “Don’t you want to stick around to see who shows up?”

  “No one’s going to return so long as we’re here,” said Mara, “and we’ll never find them in the fog.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll come back when I can see.”

  Gabriel got to his feet. “Come on, boy,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

  The dog stayed on the blanket.

  Mara smiled. “Doesn’t look as though he’s going anywhere.”

  “He’s just playing hard to get.”

  Mara stepped out onto the porch, hefted the hammer, and drove a nail into the wood siding. Whoever was living here needed to know whose house this had been, whose house it remained. They needed to know that they were not welcome.

  Gabriel stood in the doorway. Soldier was at his side.

  “You convinced him.”

  “He’s hungry.”

  “Good a reason as any.” Mara unwrapped the painting and looped the wire over the nail. “Does this look straight?”

  Soldier whimpered and leaned against Gabriel’s leg.

  “Rose and Lilly Sampson,” said Mara. “And Lilly’s son.”

  Gabriel reached out and touched the frame. “This is where they lived?” He tilted the picture to the left. “This house?”

  Mara nodded. “Lilly was my best friend.”

  Gabriel stood and stared at the portrait, his hands jammed deep in his pockets. Then he stepped off the porch and vanished into the fog.

  Soldier began moaning, swaying back and forth, and when the man didn’t return, the dog dove into the weather, howling as he went.

  Mara stayed on the porch, listening for any sounds the land might be willing to share, waiting for Gabriel to reappear and explain himself.

  Nothing.

  Finally, she folded the butcher paper up and shoved the hammer into her jacket pocket. She checked the painting one last time. Okay. Enough was enough. She had saved this Gabriel once today. She wasn’t going to do it again.

  From now on he could save himself.

  54

  BY EARLY AFTERNOON, THE COLLAPSE OF THE SECOND DAM had made international news, with all the networks showing the same footage of dirty bronze tailings pouring into a glacial blue river. Along with music in minor chords and sombre voice-overs.