by Thomas King
But he couldn’t be sure. In the end, the only thing that the bones resembled were bones. If there was a memory of an animal hidden in the skeletons, Gabriel couldn’t find it.
Much of the time was spent in half-shadows. At moments, too few to mark, the sun would find its way to the bottom of the canyon and form pools of light. In one of the pools, he found two tiny skulls. Twins perhaps.
He hadn’t intended this.
Yet this is what he had done.
HE had come home. Once he had come home.
In his second year at Stanford, he had flown to Calgary, and, on the bus ride to Lethbridge, Gabriel had tried to think what he was going to say. He hadn’t spoken to his mother since his father’s death, hadn’t seen Little since the day he and Joe had left for Minneapolis. He wanted to see his sister, wanted to surprise her, wanted to tell her that she had not been forgotten.
He was sure she would be thrilled to see him, too.
He wasn’t sure what he would say to his mother.
It was evening when he stepped off the bus. He could have taken a cab. Instead, he had started walking. He and Lilly had been born to this place. It was home. At least that’s what it said on their birth certificates. But, as he walked through town, Gabriel hadn’t found any sense of belonging. Even as he stood at the top of Whoop-Up Drive and looked across at the lights of the west side, he hadn’t found any reason to be here.
The walk down to the river bottom, across the bridge, and up again was longer than he had remembered. At one point, he stepped off the path to stand in the stiff prairie grass. They had played here as kids, had chased each other up and down the coulees. There in the distance was the High Level Bridge. Off to the left was the stand of cottonwoods and the bend in the river where they had seen the pelicans.
There had been a moment when he thought that there might be a bond in the blood, that he would remember the land, and the land would remember him.
So he had waited.
But there was just the sky and the wind rising out of the west.
Their house had been on Princeton Crescent, a grand name of a street for an ordinary run of small homes on narrow lots. The place looked even smaller now. His father had planted a Russian olive in the front yard. The tree was still there, looking as fatally thin and grey as it had the day Joe had dug the hole.
Gabriel stood on the sidewalk in front of the house, hoping that Lilly would see him and come rushing out. That was how he had imagined the reunion. Lilly running out of the house and throwing her arms around him.
He had bought a stuffed dog with floppy ears at the Calgary airport, before he remembered that Lilly would almost be a teenager by now. And he had found a box of chocolates for his mother, the same brand his father had bought Rose for special occasions.
Lilly didn’t come running out, and Gabriel finally went to the door and rang the bell. A young woman he didn’t recognize answered it. The woman did not look happy to see him, and he was clumsy in his explanation.
I used to live here.
My family used to live here.
I thought my mother and sister still lived here.
I’ve been gone, but now I’m back.
My father planted that tree.
The woman watched him closely, her left hand on the door. No, she didn’t know a Rose Quinn. “I’m cooking dinner,” she told him. “Check with the neighbours.”
He did.
Up and down the street he went, knocking on doors, hoping to recognize a familiar face, asking the same questions, getting the same answers. Until evening turned to night, and a police car came along and angled up on the sidewalk beside him.
GABRIEL picked up the skulls and turned them over in his hand. He had missed all of it. His mother’s funeral. Lilly’s marriage. The birth of her child.
He placed the skulls on the ground where he had found them. Now he was cold, and he wanted to be rid of this place. But the path forced him deeper into the canyon. The walls rose far above his head, until the sky was a jagged sliver of light in the tops of the trees. The only sounds were the creek and the silence of the land, and they followed him as he made his way through the desolation.
THE police constable was a woman, and she was understanding. A concerned neighbour had called in. A man was in the area, knocking on doors, trying to find lost relatives. Or so he said.
Gabriel showed her his driver’s licence and his Stanford ID.
The officer was smiling by then, and Gabriel had to admit that the situation had a certain comic aspect.
“The caller thought you might be a criminal.”
“No,” Gabriel said, by way of a joke, “just a university student.”
He took his time walking back down to the river and up the other side, and every time a car flashed by, Gabriel tried to catch a glimpse of the driver. He got a room at the Lethbridge Lodge, overlooking the courtyard and the pool. He had a light meal, ate the chocolates while he watched television, and went to bed.
In the morning, he caught the bus back to Calgary.
On the plane to San Francisco, he looked around for a child who might like the dog, but in the end, he propped it under his head, leaned against the window, and went to sleep.
THE path left the creek and began to rise. The Smoke was farther on, but Gabriel had seen enough. He began the climb, hiking along in his wet pants and ruined shoes, as the trail made its way out of the canyon and found the light. When he reached flat ground, he picked up the pace, weaving his way around the trees, crossing small creeks on the wood planking. And then the path turned to asphalt, and the asphalt ran into a small parking lot.
There, on the far side of the lot, in the shadow of a large cedar, was an old truck. Next to the truck was a bald man with a flaming beard, and standing beside him was a scruffy dog with an honest face.
74
“THE WOMAN WHO FELL FROM THE SKY.”
It was a rather prosaic title, borderline romantic, but Q’s notes and the documents he had compiled made for disturbing reading. How in hell had the man been able to put the pieces together?
Winter had had sandwiches and fruit brought up, along with coffee. Dorian hadn’t touched any of the food. Neither had Winter. She had quietly taken up a position in one of the wing-backs and waited while Dorian made his way through the papers.
“Several years ago, we looked at the possibility of genetically modifying the SDF 20 variation of Klebsiella planticola for use as a commercial defoliant.”
“GreenSweep.”
“Yes,” said Dorian. “GreenSweep. Dr. Quinn and Dr. Thicke split the project between them. Dr. Thicke’s team was tasked with increasing the virulence of SDF 20, while at the same time limiting its life cycle. Dr. Quinn’s team was responsible for extending the bacterium’s environmental range, while preventing horizontal gene transfer.”
Dorian could hear the energy seep out of his body. A tire with a slow leak. What he needed was a patch and a nap. The Lucror didn’t seem to be doing much, which probably meant that Toshi was running out of options.
Or didn’t know what he was doing.
“The two teams were able to increase the bacterium’s virulence, and they were able to extend its environmental range by splicing in genetic material from thermophiles and psychrophiles.”
“Very ambitious.”
“However,” Dorian continued, “they were only partially successful in limiting the bacterium’s life cycle, and neither team was able to eliminate the risk of genetic transfer.”
“Chaos theory.”
“At the time, Dr. Quinn recommended that we terminate the project. He was concerned that GreenSweep had the potential to become an event horizon.”
Winter blinked once. “An environmental black hole.”
“That assessment was considered excessive,” said Dorian. “It was felt that if we could find a way to control life cycle and horizontal transfer, we would have a potent and commercially valuable defoliant.”
The watermelon look
ed particularly good, and Dorian helped himself to several pieces. The coffee was still hot.
“GreenSweep was not supposed to leave our facilities.”
“Kali Creek.”
Dorian sipped at the coffee. “Mistake on mistake on mistake. In the end, we shut the project down and disposed of the remaining stock.”
Winter cocked her head. “But?”
Dorian pulled several pages from the folder and handed them to Winter. He waited patiently while she read.
“It’s probably not an issue,” he said, “but I’d like you to verify that the proper protocols were followed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, Winter,” said Dorian, “do it quietly.”
DORIAN spent the rest of the afternoon reviewing the Athabasca spill. Domidion had acted swiftly enough. The ponds had been drained, the breaks repaired, collection booms had been strung across the river at various points, and the surface effluents had been sucked up into storage tankers that the corporation had rushed into service.
Dorian knew that the equipment and the trucks were mostly for show, knew that the dioxins and the heavy metals were already on the bottom of the river, where neither the booms nor the vacuums could reach them. Still, it was a good show, and Public Relations had sent footage of the cleanup operation to CBC, insisting that En Garde give the corporation equal time to tell their side of the story.
Dorian looked at the clock. He’d have to eat and clean up a bit before the show. He thought about calling Olivia to tell her that Toshi wanted him hospitalized. It sounded rather dramatic, “hospitalized,” though it might be more effective if Winter made the call.
Your husband has been hospitalized.
Of course, there was no reason to suppose that Olivia would rush to his side. And there was no telling how the Board would react if they discovered that their CEO was sick. Best to leave that dog lie.
“Nothing serious,” he could tell Olivia. “Nothing to worry about.”
And suddenly he was angry. Angry about the divorce. Angry about Florida. Angry that they had bought the condo on Queen’s Quay. Angry with Toshi.
Angry that he had settled for the Rolex instead of getting the Jaeger as well.
Dorian looked at the clock. Time enough for a steam. Perhaps even a massage. Relax. Gather his strength. Tonight he’d settle with Manisha Khan.
Tomorrow he’d go shopping.
75
GABRIEL COULD FEEL THE MUD SQUISH ABOUT IN HIS SHOES as he walked across the parking lot. It was a disagreeable sensation and reminded him of baby diapers.
“The hound’s uncanny,” shouted Crisp. “I wagered you’d find a captain’s share of inconvenience and bother on your journey, but Master Dog said ye would be along shortly and none the worse for wear.”
“I appreciate your waiting for me.”
“Nay, we didn’t wait,” said Crisp, “for as ye can see, we’ve been engaged in some measure of toil.”
The back of the Ford was filled with appliances and furniture.
“Are you moving?”
“Nicholas Crisp. Finder-Minder.” Crisp moved to the side of the truck and gave a large cast iron stove a pat. “This be the grandmother’s,” he said. “Her pride and joy. Many’s the time I stood before it and warmed my blood to the boiling.”
“Mara’s grandmother?”
“The same.”
“I thought the stove had been stolen.”
“Stolen?” Crisp thought on this for a moment. “There was thievery, to be sure. Enough to raise the hackles and sour the milk, but much was moved into storage for safekeeping. For when the People return.”
“I don’t think Mara knows that.”
Crisp slapped his head with his hand. “Have I done it again? Forgot to mention the matter to Mistress Mara?”
“She’ll be happy to have the stove back.”
“And there be the reward, certain sure,” said Crisp. “Still, the omission’s a worry-weight on my faculties.”
“Are those the appliances from the house, too?”
“They are indeed.”
“And the table and the chairs? The bed?”
“Matching cuffs and collars, near as I can remember,” said Crisp. “I marked the lot so I could put them back as needed, but some of the sign has faded, and a measure of speculation is in play.”
Soldier came around the truck, snorting and mumbling to himself.
“Yes, yes,” said Crisp, holding up his hands. “I do talk too much, though it’s no great mischief, for I loves conversation and the company that comes with it.”
Soldier waited for Gabriel to slide to the middle before he jumped in. Crisp climbed behind the wheel.
“Keep an eye,” shouted Crisp, “for she’s heavy at the topsail and likely to capsize in a rolling sea.”
Crisp took the turns slowly, keeping the truck flat and level, but when the road began to rise, he pulled over and stopped.
“I was optimistic,” he shouted. “She’ll tip on the next tack for sure, unless we brace the cargo.”
“How?”
“Master Dog is of no use in this matter, for he’s all brain, and I must tend the tiller. Which leaves yourself and your strong back.”
“So Soldier is the brains, and I’m the brawn.”
“Control the top,” said Crisp, “and the rest will follow.”
There was no room to stand in the back of the truck.
“Ye needs ride the bumper,” said Crisp. “Both feet here. One hand on the tailgate, the other on the fridge.”
“Stand on the bumper?”
“Keep her upright, and the rest is clear sailing.”
The bumper was flat and corrugated. Gabriel tried to angle his feet, but there was little room.
“I don’t think this is going to work.”
Crisp didn’t help the situation. He wasn’t as careful as he had been before. Gabriel’s standing on the back end had given Crisp an unwarranted confidence, and he careened up the road, diving into the bumps and potholes and heaving out the other side. Gabriel bolted his feet to the bumper as best he could, took a death grip on the tailgate, and set his whole body against the white enamel box that wanted to tip on him like a chainsawed tree.
All the way up the road to the reserve, Crisp shouted instructions from behind the wheel, while Soldier sent sheets of slobber flying out the passenger window.
“Brace! Damn your eyes! Brace!”
When they got to calm ground and the houses were in sight, Crisp stopped the truck and came back to check on Gabriel.
“Brilliant!” shouted Crisp. “For we thought we’d lost ye to the last wave.”
Gabriel couldn’t feel his fingers, and the muscles in his legs were locked. He pulled his hand away from the refrigerator and discovered it was cramped in position.
“Are ye in need of assistance?”
“I’m okay.”
“For ye appear to be somewhat sprung.”
“Maybe some help getting down.”
The ground felt strange, and he had to take a few steps to correct for tilt and balance.
“Hop in,” said Crisp, “for she’s a smooth sea, now, and a deep harbour.”
The passenger door handle was covered in drool.
“I think I’ll walk,” said Gabriel.
“As ye wish,” said Crisp. “Master Dog and I shall disembark the cargo, while we awaits your arrival.”
GABRIEL’S legs were still stiff from the ride up the hill on the bumper, and he didn’t stop limping until he got to the water tower. It was probably the sunshine, but, as he walked through the townsite, the reserve didn’t feel quite as lonely and abandoned.
Crisp and Soldier were waiting for him on the porch. They had been busy. The only things left on the truck were both stoves, the refrigerator, and a mattress.
“I could have finished it myself,” Crisp sang out. “But Master Dog insisted I wait, so ye might have a hand in the ordering of this new world.”
“Where
’s Mara?”
Soldier grumbled and chased his butt around the porch.
“Not answering the flags or pipes.” Crisp jammed the tongue of the dolly under the refrigerator. “Might have gone to town on foot and been missed by us going and coming.”
“Then why didn’t she go with me?”
“Thought about it later perhaps,” said Crisp. “Or she might have gone back to the house for something forgot and needed.”
“She’ll be surprised when she gets back.”
“Lend a hand, now,” said Crisp, “for there’s no surprise but at the finish.”
IT didn’t take long to get the truck unloaded. Putting the bed together took more time than it should have, and both men had to wrestle with connecting the stovepipe to the venting collar in the ceiling.
“The electricity will have to be arranged,” said Crisp, “but the water should be little more than an obliging valve and a long wrench.”
“You can get the water working?”
“The main’s at the community centre. It were turned off when the People was removed.”
“So, we can just turn it back on.”
“That would be the plan,” said Crisp. “Course, the pump might be in the scuppers or the valve froze up, but if all’s well, we’ll have water by evening.”
Soldier led the way. He was off the porch at the run, dancing across the ground. Crisp and Gabriel followed.
“Did your mum ever talk about the Smoke?”
“I don’t think she had any good memories of the place.”
“There’s truth in that,” said Crisp. “Her dad ran off, you see. Mother died hard. She herself was badly used by some of the boys in town.”
“But she came back.”
“Salmon, birds, turtles. They all come back.” Crisp began walking again. “Humans ain’t no different. Don’t need a reason.”
THE community centre was white clapboard with green trim, raised out of the ground on a cinder-block foundation.
“Many a feast were had here.” Crisp opened the door and stepped across the threshold. “Singing, drumming, dancing, eating. All the fine things in life.”
