Arctic Smoke

by Randy Nikkel Schroeder

  This was seriously screwed up. Where was the Old Stope?

  It began to snow. He could feel the chemistry again—accretion of cloud droplets, sintering bonds in the snowpack, wind-blown dunes transforming snow to ice. But everything was transformed here. Avoiding another phone booth, he reached a ledge and gazed down into a ravine, to spy what seemed a garbage dump split with a dark seam of rushing water. His eye twitched. His fingers tightened on the guitar case.

  “This has got to be a joke.” Where was the Old Stope?

  As if in answer, a raven rose from the mound, croaked, and flapped skyward.

  Lor picked his way down the side of the ravine. The dump was wedged between rock faces, its bumpy contours shellacked with snow and speckled red. As Lor descended he saw that the red dots were plastic poppy pins, left over from the Canadian equivalent of Veterans Day.

  He stopped. Yes, the black seam was a tiny river, rushing north. Some of the poppies were borne away in the current, spinning and clotting at the bottlenecks like bright blood cells.

  Lor’s finger prickled. He dipped it in the water, which was disturbingly warm. “This is so messed up.”

  He sat on an old wooden rocking chair and tried to concoct a plan. What would Franklin do? The thought surprised him. Franklin would go north in search of clarity. Franklin would spout some clever philosophy. Franklin would. . . .

  His mind looped back after a long lapse. What was he thinking? Oh yes, Franklin. But the thought dispersed again, and he found himself slumped in the chair, one hand dangling over the armrest, finger in the water, eye on a poppy.

  God, he was so sleepy. The snow’s light began to chime softly, night breezes whispering beneath. He had to get up and shake off this somnolence. He was so heavy. He felt he was splitting open from the inside out, nasal linings pulled and stretched across his head and limbs. He could smell moonlight, and cold, and the chatter of deep water over river stones. His guitar was in his lap, out of its case.

  Get up. Get up, Lor. He had to meet his friends. Friends were the only handholds in a world of chaos. He touched the guitar, and the thought dispelled. All he needed was to sleep.

  No. Get up. Follow the river. Find its headwaters.

  With great effort, he leaned forward and replaced the guitar in its case. Then he stood and picked a poppy from the snow. Yes, it was plastic, with a pin for pricking in the back. He gazed about the dump, itself a cache of unsorted memories, holding more than seemed physically possible—a crib, broken toys, clothes strewn like an eager lover’s. All twined. All covered in snow.

  Lor closed his eyes. The poppies called him to sleep. What did he need to do? Oh, yes. Find his friends. Of course. He opened his eyes and felt a shadow—ravens circling the watery moon in a great black wheel. He looked away, pinched the prick-wound still fresh on his finger. The pain roused him.

  He flicked the poppy into the water. It bobbed once and rushed away. He followed, running to keep up.

  † † †

  In the distance Santa crouched by a snowman and fished with a long pole. Lor rounded the river’s crook, squinted. No—a white-bearded man in red parka, kneeling by a smoky fire. Wet fish, Lor thought.

  “Sir!” he called.

  The old man looked up, lifted his pole. Not a fishing rod—a long butterfly net full of red circles. As Lor drew near he saw that the man was netting poppies from the river and casting them into the fire, where they sizzled, leaving the pins to whiten with heat. The smoke spiralled dark and acrid.

  “The poppies shouldn’t burn,” Lor said.

  “The river shouldn’t flow.”

  “Good point.”

  The old man nodded. “This is black water. Best thing to hold a snowman together.” A cinder-snap voice. He grunted, fished a few more poppies from the rapids.

  “You built it?”

  “’Course. Best thing for a warding hex.”

  Lor’s head was cold, but he thought he understood. Some kind of homeopathic logic. He knelt. “Build a snowman to ward off a snowman?”

  “Snowman?” The old man laughed. “No.”

  Lor frowned. “Sir, I think I’m lost.”

  “Where you going?”

  Lor hesitated. “Are we beyond the Arctic Circle?”

  “Not even close. Why on God’s earth would you want to go up there? Land of the midnight sun.”

  “I’m looking for the Old Stope Hotel.”

  “Old Stope?” The old man grimaced, baring long yellow teeth. “The Old Stope burned down New Year’s day, 1969.”

  “Burned down?”

  “Yeh. They say the only thing survived was the old boiler.”

  Lor swallowed. “Are you sure?”

  The old man stood and poked his net at the snowman. He shrugged. “Time is a loop. My memory was never as good as it used to be.”

  Lor rubbed his eyes. “Please. Try. The manager’s name is Lifeson.”

  “Seem to remember the manager called himself O.P. Yates.” The Santa shrugged. His eyes were a rheumy blue. “That may be another trick of memory. There are many.”

  “Yeah.” Lor stared at the fire’s unnatural crackle.

  “Try upriver,” said the old man. “As it widens the water freezes. The folks up there have long memories. They know history,” he dumped a netful of poppies into the fire, which hissed and jumped skyward, “as a line, not a circle.”

  Lor trudged on. The river widened, whitened to ice. The moon haloed a giant wheel of frozen crystal, and Lor understood briefly why summer was the least interesting season. Winter had it. The exquisite cinematography of the world—fine-grained, lit along streams of lean cold air, shearing light to severe angles. But did he really want to flee further north? He did not share Alistair’s esoteric visions, though he wanted now to see his old friend, talk old times, spill new tidings. He wanted to outdistance this latest vision of the Weird. It was a brief anomaly, he thought. But he had to clear this magic circle to make sure. That meant finding the Old Stope, finding his friends.

  Ahead the water widened. Lor surveyed the boats frozen at the shoreline—one ferry-like, another flat as a barge, some beat up as tugboats. Even some small motorboats. This must have been where the people lived. His ear keened. Nothing but silence. Then, gradually, a distant rhythmic thump. Lor decided to try the boats themselves, but noticed signs at the river’s middle. One large green, a smaller white—warnings to keep off the thin ice. He stepped gingerly from the shoreline and crept along toward the boats. The distant thump turned to a throb, almost a rumble. That couldn’t possibly be the sound of ice groaning under his weight. He kept as close as possible to the shoreline. How thick did ice need to be in order to hold? He realized how unprepared for the north he actually was, how naïve, how ignorant. Again he felt the swell of agoraphobia, the crush of white skies.

  The throb turned to a rumble, almost familiar. He slowed his pace, stretched his arms for balance. Yes, a familiar rumble—music, seventies, scent of. . . .

  Led Zeppelin? He stopped. Thought he heard the ice creak beneath him. Yes, “Immigrant Song,” as a matter of fact, all propulsive octaves and banshee wail. He turned. An ambulance and two cars crawled the very centre of the river, followed by a black four-by-four with the Jolly Roger flapping from its antenna. He straightened, dropped his arms. The signs were actually road signs, directing traffic on the ice road.

  “Jesus in heaven.”

  The ambulance rolled by. He recognized the four-by-four, and just about fell into the snow. It slowed. The window rolled. Led Zep poured forth at a monstrous volume.

  “Holy fucking shit,” yelled the pointed white hat. “Like, here we thought we missed you, and you suddenly appear, dazed and dusted halfway to whiteout on the road to nowhere.”

  Lor stood and stared.

  The four-by-four stopped. The music dropped.

  “Climb aboard, amigo.” Alistair grinned. “Did you get my message?”

  PART SIX

  Further, Farther, Forward, Backward


  We are also being faithful to all who came before us, who through great hardship and sacrifice made a quest for knowledge of the North.

  —Former Prime Minister Stephen Harper, 2008

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Ends With the Serpent

  Dark orange light bloomed on the horizon, as if some ancient city was on fire beyond the compass of the world. Seri stared north through the windshield, at thickets cut with icy rivers, the occasional raven rising from the mist.

  “Ted.” Her voice cracked. She hadn’t spoken since Edmonton, Gateway to the North. “What do you know of these punks? Are we chasing old enemies?”

  Rooke tapped the dash. “Old friends.”

  The north went on forever. Even in the car, Seri felt exposed to sky, so far from anything that could be called home. She missed Mum, and especially Gran today, and Mr. Scott’s old Planets album, cracking and hissing on the turntable while Grandpa Hamm dozed off by the fireplace, pipe smoking, mug steaming.

  And yet . . . there was something seductive about this place, knowing you were so far from the hearth, from comfort, from safety. You could vanish in this world, between Jack pines and spruce, beneath dark rivers and waves of wind-polished snow. The sky could pull your atoms apart and tumble them across the barrens. The feeling reminded her of strange childhood moments—rainy winters when she wanted to jump from the seawall into the ocean, autumns when she wanted to run away beneath a giant moon.

  She always drew away, pulled her foot back from that seawall. This feeling was not part of the clockwork universe. Not sent from God, not as she knew him or had ever known him.

  She emptied her lungs, mind momentarily blank, and felt a turning within her, like a tongue of fire peeling inside out to reveal its bright white core. The image came unbidden. It cinched her stomach.

  “You been this far north before, Ted?”

  “Literally, you mean?”

  She whiffed his cologne.

  “So vast and empty,” he continued. “One could stare at the sky and feel almost naked.”

  Seri cleared her throat. “Do you remember much of the itinerary Dawn Cherry gave us for her clients?”

  “How could I forget? You forced it out of her.”

  “No! You did.” Credit due, partner.

  She stopped the car, pulled a small calendar from her pocket. Tapped a slow count on the wheel, counting the days. Then replaced the calendar and pulled a U-turn in the middle of the highway. An ancient blue Camaro racing the other way swerved to avoid them, honking.

  “Maniac,” Seri said. Then, “We’ll go backward.”

  “Home?” Rooke sounded almost hopeful.

  “Just had an idea, Ted. We’ll go south, to Rat River.”

  He waited a long time. “What for?”

  She knew he knew, but answered anyway. “To interview more strippers.”

  † † †

  The hamlet of Rat River nested on the south bank of Great Slave Lake, directly across the waters from Yellowknife. Seri stopped at an impossibly small bar called Buster Floyd’s, paper thin against a fiery skyline. A few four-wheel drives were parked at a fence. Between them, a thin young man in coonskin cap and double-breasted overcoat patrolled the lot with a picket sign.

  Rooke smiled, cracked the door.

  “Hello, friend.” He stepped out, raising his collar against the chill.

  “This den of iniquity will be closed soon.” The man lowered his sign and pressed the cap back on his forehead. “Closed for good. This is God’s will. This is my prayer.”

  Rooke nodded. “A good prayer. Where there is hope there will be judgment. The God of fire will not abide a Sodom or Gomorrah.”

  The man squinted. “You know the Bible?”

  “Then the Lord rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire.”

  “Well, yes.”The man lowered his sign until it touched the ground. “The God of the Old Testament. But Jesus tells us to love the sinner and hate the sin.”

  Seri stepped out, leaned on the door.

  “Are you a dancer?” the man said.

  “Heavens.” Seri laughed. “No. But we are looking for an act called The Penalty Box. Is this the right bar?”

  The man rubbed his forehead. “What do you want with them?”

  “We’re law enforcement,” she said.

  “Are you against subversion and wickedness?” Rooke directed the question at the man, but looked at Seri.

  “Why yes, yes.” He jigged the sign upwards. “Are you?”

  “It is our only directive.” Rooke stepped forward, ice and gravel crunching beneath his buckled shoes. “Do you think one may be renewed through wickedness?”

  “No. Never.”

  “What does your sign say?”

  The man raised the sign. “God hates immorality.” He sniffed, then added, “But don’t forget he loves the sinner.”

  “You do good and thankless work,” Rooke said. “Doesn’t it say somewhere in the Bible that impurity is. . . .” He looked up, bit his lip.

  The man smiled grimly. “As the Good Book says, if the tokens of virginity be not found on the damsel, then they shall bring her out, and the men of the city shall stone her with stones that she die. God is clear on the consequences of sin.” He stared at his thumb. “I will tell you where this wickedness is. But you must listen to the truth, first.”

  Seri shook her head. “We’re in a hurry.”

  “That’s my one bargain.”

  “Look,” she said. “We can do this the easy way or—”

  “He brings words of wisdom,” Rooke interrupted.

  Seri was about to jump back into this meandering conversation. But she stopped. No: let Rooke go. He had the poetry for this, sneaking to the heart of the information. She would just tromp all over it.

  The man smiled. “You sound like educated people. Do you know Saint Augustine, who turned away from immorality and experienced the life-changing power of God?”

  “Yes!” Seri said.

  The man licked at his chin. “Saint Augustine made a spiritual journey, from lawless passions and chaotic sensations to God’s own order. To purity. Do you know the story?”

  “It is my own,” Rooke said quietly.

  The man smiled. “Why, God has sent—”

  “Except,” Rooke narrowed his eyes, “I tell it backwards.”

  “Backwards?” The man’s jaw loosened. “God’s story begins with the fall, with Eve and the serpent, and ends with redemption.”

  “No.” Rooke winked. “It begins with redemption and ends with the fall. It ends with the serpent.”

  The man’s sign dropped to the snow. “May I . . . may I tell you about the love of God?”

  “Please do.” Rooke was trying not to smile. It made Seri’s stomach twitch.

  The man planted his sign in the snow and pulled a black Bible from the overcoat pocket. He opened and read: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only son to die for our sins.”

  “Which god?” Rooke’s heel crunched the gravel.

  The man looked up. “There is only one God. The God of the Bible.”

  “And he has a son? How pagan.”

  The man looked at Seri. She offered no encouragement, no smile or shrug. She felt the turning again, saw the stripping tongue of fire.

  The man flipped through his Bible. “I am the way, the truth and the life,” he read. “No man comes to the Father but through me.”

  “This father.” Rooke took another step forward. “You said yourself that he’s different in the New Testament than the Old. But both are part of the Bible, correct?”

  The man nodded.

  “So,” Rooke continued. “Just how many gods are there in the Bible?”

  The man’s tongue reached noseward, snapped back. “I told you. There is only one God.”

  Rooke put his hand out. “Give it to me.”

  The man looked at Seri, then offered his Bible. His fingers shook.

  Rooke took th
e Bible, licked his finger, flipped. He stopped. “Who is this Yahweh?”

  “Yahweh is God’s name in the Old Testament.”

  “Yahweh,” Rooke’s voice low, “was the Midianite god of volcanoes. Read carefully: there are many gods in the Bible, one for each patriarch.”

  “Not true,” the man cried.

  Rooke looked up from the Bible. “Have you not heard God called El Shaddai?”

  “Yes, but—”

  Rooke raised a hand. “Isaac’s god was named Fear and Jacob’s Mighty One. And Moses. . . .” His voice dropped further. “To Moses an obscure war god named Yahweh Sabaoth appeared in a burning bush.”

  “No, no, no.” The man shook his head, twirled the coonskin cap. “There is only one God in the Bible. There is only one God.”

  “And is the Bible true?” Rooke said.

  “Yes.”

  “Every word?”

  The man nodded, wrapped a fist around the sign.

  Rooke smiled, flipped a few pages. “The book of Psalms: Yahweh takes his stand in the Council of El to deliver judgements among the gods. Gods. Plural.”

  “Let me see that.” The man flushed.

  Rooke flipped a few more pages. “The Book of Isaiah: God splits Rahab in two, and pierces the dragon through.”

  “It’s symbolic!”

  Seri agreed. But this was a necessary puncture point. Tongue of fire peeling.

  “Ah. But you can’t have it both ways, pick and choose,” Rooke said. “Then the crucifixion is only a symbol as well.”

  The young man twisted the coontail to the front of his head, began to flick it back and forth. The pub’s door slammed and two stocky men emerged, pulling on their toques.

  “Yahweh.” Rooke dropped the Bible to the snow. “Sometimes a pillar of fire, sometimes a vagrant, sometimes a mountain deity. Sometimes friendly, sometimes bloodthirsty, sometimes compassionate, sometimes angry, sometimes impatient, sometimes insatiable—”