“Just be patient, honey. It’s all coming together,” Brian said.
Winch had bigger problems with Lulu. One evening I was licking stamps and Winch and Brian were having a tête-à-tête when she barged in, apologized to Maude for doing so and dragged Winch outside for a private talk. She needn’t have bothered. The whole neighbourhood could hear.
“Winch, I’ve had just about as much of this crap as I can take. You’re going to have to make a choice. It’s me and the kids or the aliens. I’m going home to mother and taking the kids if you don’t give us some of your time.”
She stood on the lawn, arms crossed, with one foot tapping like Buford’s lone tooth on a cold day. Initially Winch was lost for words and stuttered at the onslaught. He was terrified of losing her and the kids. Then he found his voice.
“Lulu, we are almost there. We have this thing in the bag and almost wrapped up. Just a little while longer and bingo, done deal, and I’ll never do this again.”
Lulu didn’t really want to go through the trouble of leaving with the kids; she was having a bad day and wanted Winch to know it. She pursed her lips some more, tapped the other foot and said, “Okay, Winch, but let this be a warning.”
She left as quickly as she arrived, and Winch went back to work.
CBC radio got wind of the project and phoned early one morning to interview Brian. Maude was annoyed at being wakened, and thinking the call was collect, shouted threats at Brian to get off the phone. The caller stopped the interview twice, hearing her in the background, and asked, “Is everything all right there?”
The planning continued. Speakers were booked, exhibits built, programs printed and the date set for the weekend of the summer solstice.
Scientists from universities in London, Moscow and Riga in Latvia were invited but politely declined. An excited professor of astrophysics from Moldova responded with an offer to lecture on the subject of Greek mythology and the alien influence. The Russian keepers of the Romanians were such believers in aliens that his passport and visa were issued in two days rather than the usual two years.
Winch’s uncle Zak offered to share his World War II experiences. “I’m sure aliens were there and on our side. I took a glancing bullet off the head that put me out for two days, but when I woke, I’m sure I saw spaceships, and they were shooting at those Jerries. Damn good shots they were.”
Brian told Zak he was looking forward to hearing the full story at the convention.
As the list of speakers grew, Brian was confident that world-shaking history would be made in Dawson City that summer. The thought of making a contribution to mankind and lifting any notion of weirdness from their shoulders raised Winch and Brian’s spirits enormously.
There were doubters in town. Howard Bungle, the most outspoken, yelled at Brian and Winch from across the street as they loaded a sound system into Gertie’s.
“You bunch of crazies! What kind of people are you bringing into this town anyway, more idiots just like yourselves? I’m going to the cops and stop this.” His face went deep red, and by the time he jumped in his truck and ground gears in a jerky takeoff, he was beet purple.
“That guy might just explode if he’s not careful,” Winch said, picking up an amplifier.
Howard did go to the cops, who diligently filled out a report but ripped it up and tossed it in the wastebasket before Howard even went out the door.
“That guy has severe cabin fever—365 days a year,” said the sergeant to the constable. He put Howard on his mental list of people not to turn his back on.
On the morning of the registration, more than four hundred people crowded into Diamond Tooth Gertie’s. Brian and Winch were beside themselves with happiness. Hotels and restaurants threw their complete support behind them, now that their rooms and restaurants were packed full. The Occidental and Downtown hotels offered sponsorships, which Brian collected and added to the growing coffers.
Professor Alexandru Anca had brought his daughter from Romania, and she was a real looker. With flaming red hair and emerald green eyes, she was a classic beauty. I made a point of introducing myself.
“Welcome to the Yukon,” I said.
The professor bowed slightly at the waist and in the heaviest accent introduced his daughter.
“I am Professor Anca and this is my eldest daughter, Camelia,” he said.
Camelia took my hand and gently shook it.
“Are you a communist?” she asked in the most cultured English with a British accent.
I was attracted by her charm but at the same time taken aback by her directness.
“No, but my father is a socialist,” I said.
“All my boyfriends are communist,” she said and walked away.
“I could convert,” I yelled after her.
Maude and Lulu got word of the success and proudly showed up, decked out in the finest Halloo women’s fashions with matching dresses and hats. Maude was now a full-patch member of the family.
The din subsided as Brian and Winch, dressed in tuxedos, stood nervously side by side at the microphone. Brian wore a black top hat; Winch wore a brown derby that clashed with his suit but matched his rubber boots. Brian took off his hat, collapsed it and tucked it inside his jacket. There was a smattering of polite applause before they spoke. Holding his papers at arm’s length because of nearsightedness, Brian spoke loud and clear. “Welcome! Welcome, everyone, to the first annual Dawson City Alien Research Convention.”
A murmur swept through the room, and then everyone stood up. Thunderous applause gave way to cheers, yells and more applause. Brian and Winch looked at each other and shook hands. Then, with beaming faces, they waved to the crowd.
I was surprised to see Richard Cooper, front row and centre, having a great time. I asked him how he was doing. He grabbed my arm and told me, “Star Trek convinced me that Spock is real. No amount of makeup could make pointy ears that perfect. I seen him at a convention in Las Vegas and took a real close look. They’re real, all right! Nope, there are aliens out there, or maybe I should say in here.” He laughed heartily, still holding on to my arm.
Sitting next to Richard was Chief Daniel with a large contingent of his family, which took up two rows of chairs. Chief Daniel got up onstage next, and after a prayer he said, “God bless you all and safe journey to you all.” Then, with a rhythmic beating of his drum, he chanted in his own language a greeting to all the visitors. He then climbed down and took his seat.
I had been asked to read a prepared message, but I turned it down and suggested that Uncle Zak, as an elder and a war veteran, be given the honour. He enthusiastically took the assignment.
Zak wore his army uniform, decorated with three rows of medals and still fitting after thirty years. He took the mike. “Dear travellers, who have gathered here today from all points of the globe and universe, we welcome you with open arms and minds. It is a rarity that such a gathering as ours is taking place when so many naysayers abound—”
Then Zak left the text and started to interject his own thoughts. “—especially that damn no-good Howard Bungle, who should be tarred and feathered and driven out of town on a rail.”
There was a scuffle at the back of the room, and Howard rushed up the aisle shouting the foulest language. Zak stepped back from the mike, pulling his sleeves up his bony arms to welcome Howard in whatever encounter he wished.
“Come on, come on, you dirty rat. I’ll Popeye ya,” he shouted over the microphone.
He didn’t have to worry, because Lulu deftly stepped into the aisle and hardly had to throw her fist, as Howard ran directly into it. His head snapped back, and he fell dazed onto the floor. Lulu stood defiantly over him, smiling and brushing her hands together, while Howard was grabbed and ushered quickly outside by a group of Brian’s volunteers and an RCMP officer.
“Come on, Howard, you’re spoiling the party,” the constable said. He locked up Howard for the weekend.
I snapped the perfect picture of Howard flying back with no p
art of his body touching the floor and Lulu standing with her fist out like Mrs. Rocky Marciano.
Maude was delighted and hugged Lulu. “Thanks, Lulu, you don’t know how much that punch means to me.”
Zak took the mike once again, grinning, and announced, “And that, folks, is why Halloo men never have to fight.”
The crowd roared its approval.
Zak finished his message without further personal interjections. Then Winch read the agenda and introduced the speakers, who stood and bowed respectfully to the participants. Professor R.P. Austin was the chief expert on alien abductions. Author Glen Smarting wrote Aliens and Beyond. Researcher Dr. Min Yan Ming had flown in from Formosa. Elder Joseph Copper represented Dawson City. Professor Madame Merch lectured at the university in Metz, France.
Doctor Ming was first to show his film, Look to the Skies. Example after example of oddly shaped silver objects flashed across the screen, eliciting oohs and ahs from the rapt audience in the darkened room.
Some objects looked suspiciously like pie plates glued together. The pictures were fuzzy and out of focus, but the audience didn’t seem to mind. When someone asked about the lack of clarity, Dr. Ming said, “All these pictures were taken without any advance notice, and the camera holders had only the briefest second to react. It is impossible to get any better pictures unless the aliens stop and pose.”
A smattering of laughter followed his response.
Then the spokesman for the Sasquatch Believers Club, which had sent a contingency of observers, said, “We know better than anyone how difficult it is to take pictures of the Sasquatch and aliens.” The discussion ended there.
Elder Joseph Copper sat quietly in the audience, waiting for his turn to speak. When Brian finally invited him onstage, he didn’t rise from his seat but waved his hand and said, “At this time I won’t speak. Maybe later.” With that he got up and left the room, head down and frowning.
Madame Merch spoke at length, in fractured English, about crop circles. Near her home in Metz in northeastern France, people had discovered these circles numerous times. Professor Merch believed that crop circles were the greatest proof that aliens exist and were attempting to communicate. “We must decipher their meaning, as they contain important messages.”
“So far,” she continued, “I have deciphered a complicated message that involved the study of six individual circles that collectively said the Earth is round.”
Her theories and her slide show were warmly received, and numerous questions followed.
At the back of the room, from a darkened corner, a man asked, “If these beings are intelligent, why do they have to wait for harvest time to communicate with us? And why crop circles? Don’t they have any regard for the farmers? Why don’t they write us a letter or send us a postcard?”
Madame Merch pretended not to understand, apologized for her lack of English and moved on to the next query. It was quite complicated, but she answered without any difficulty.
And so the conference went, with speaker after speaker convincing each other of nothing, really. They offered the weakest of proof and the barest of evidence, but their audience accepted everything wholeheartedly. It was a case of the blind leading the blind.
When Professor Anca expounded on the Venus de Milo—he said she didn’t have arms because some aliens didn’t have arms—there were more loud scoffs and laughter from the back of the room.
“How do they pull their pants up if they have no arms?” was a question.
“Yeah, and how do they hug their children and wives?” came another.
Winch had had enough of this, and I stepped aside as he rushed past me toward the back.
The voices asking the probing questions turned out to belong to OP and Clutch.
Winch fumed. “Saboteurs! Idiots!” he spat. “I thought it was you two. How could you embarrass me like this?”
OP and Clutch cleared out as fast as they could; they didn’t want to face the wrath of Winch. Later, when they bumped into each other in the hall, Winch turned his anger on OP, believing he’d persuaded Clutch to disrupt the convention.
“How could you be so damn rude? Who are you hanging out with these days, Howard Bungle?” he snapped.
“You know we would never do that, Winch,” Clutch said, not trying to hide the hurt in his voice.
OP said, “We just want our brother back.”
Winch’s shoulders sagged, his voice softened and he raised his palm as he nodded. “Okay, okay. I know this hasn’t been easy on you guys, but we can’t talk now. We’ll talk later. This whole show is almost over.” He patted their shoulders and walked outside.
“Later,” OP called out hopefully behind him.
The convention’s comradeship was inspiring, and the banquet was sumptuous. People drove and hiked up the Dome road and overflowed the summit to celebrate the summer solstice. Brian stood on the highest point to make his speech, and the midnight sun reflected off his silver hard hat and blue face as he spoke. “Thank you, thank you all, for being here in the name of science. Wonderful things have been brought to light this weekend. I’m sure we have advanced the cause of understanding our fellow inhabitants of this universe to a new level.” He stretched out both arms to the crowd, then pointed to the heavens. “Let no one rest until all aliens are human, and all humans are alien!”
No one really knew what he meant by that, but in the spirit of accepting non-conclusive evidence for the past few days, everyone cheered wildly.
I saw Camelia in an animated conversation with Howard Bungle Jr., who sported a Chinese Maoist cap with the red star and all. I think he bought it from an army surplus store while on a trip to Vancouver. He wore the cap all the time. Camelia must have taken it seriously, because she was arguing wildly about something.
Howard saw me watching them, and later when he walked past, he said, “That chick is nuts.”
After his speech Brian and Maude left to lock up the meeting hall for the night. Brian called to me, “Tobias, come and help us.” As we entered the cool darkness, we could hear faint voices coming from the stage area. Silently we stood and listened.
Elder Joseph Copper sat onstage with his two grandchildren Gerald and Terry, talking in a quiet voice in the silent, empty hall. The boys listened, entranced with his words. He looked up and motioned for us to come over, which we did.
“You can stay and listen to this if you want. Draw your own conclusions. I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings or change what people believe in, but everyone told their stories, so now I will tell mine.”
There were chairs nearby, so we dragged them over. As soon as we sat, he began.
“Long ago, when I was young like Gerald and Terry, my father Copper John and my two uncles Robert and James took me with them up the White River for an early fall caribou hunt. It was my first time and I was very young. We hunted successfully for two days and then camped beside the river. We had to smoke and prepare the meat for transportation back home. I made my first kill. I was very excited. Around the campfire my father and uncles honoured me with their stories and gave me small gifts for the occasion. I scratched my name and the date—it was 1911—on a jackknife that my Uncle Robert gave me.”
With that, Joseph reached into his pocket and took out a well-worn bone-handled Buck knife and handed it to me.
“Read it and tell what’s on it, Tobias,” Joseph said.
I held the knife up to catch the light from the open door behind me. I could make out the faint worn scratches on the handle.
“It says, ‘Joseph Copper, 1911,’” I said.
I passed the knife around; everyone looked at it, then Joseph put it back in his pocket.
Just then Professor Anca and Camelia walked in, and uninvited, pulled chairs up and joined us. Joseph didn’t seem to mind.
“The work of preparing the caribou was done,” he continued, “so one afternoon when my father and uncles were napping, I decided to wander off and explore the countryside. I took my Cooey .2
2 rifle and followed the river upstream for a while. Then I came across a small creek flowing into the river and decided to follow it up into the hills. I kept my eye out for small game and prospected along the way. I hadn’t gone very far when I saw something move on the bank above the creek. I thought it might be more caribou, so I crawled up silently and lay peering through the grass to see what it was. At first I could not make it out, because it looked so strange, but then I saw small creatures walking around what looked like the boiler from a riverboat. It was shiny and made a sound like the wings of a bee. The small creatures looked like youngsters but they moved like men. Their clothes were thick and padded, and their heads were bare. I sat and watched them for a long time. I wasn’t scared. Maybe I was too young to be scared. They didn’t see me because I kept hidden. They seemed to be doing something … working maybe. Finally they all walked back into the boiler and closed the door. That was when I left and went back to camp to tell my uncles and my father. They were amazed. They wanted to hear about everything. Uncle James asked, ‘Did it sound like bees’ wings through the air?’ I told him it did.
“Have you ever heard bees’ wings like that, Brian?” Joseph asked.
Brian had been deep in thought and jerked when asked the question. “No,” he said with weariness in his voice. “No, I have never heard or seen anything like that.” He leaned forward in his chair, looking at the ground and rubbing his hands slowly together.
“We stayed in camp, but the men asked me to point out the direction I had travelled in. So I did, and they gazed intently in that direction, hoping to see something, all the while questioning me and talking excitedly among themselves. Sitting around the fire my father said, ‘This is good. These are good people. They have come here many times before … we know about them. This is good.’
“My uncle Robert explained, ‘We won’t go see them. They like to be left alone. They don’t mind us seeing them, but they don’t like being chased. We call them Small People.’
“The men remained at camp for another night. They stayed awake, sitting around a blazing fire and excitedly exchanging stories. It seemed that the sighting had opened a floodgate of history that could now be shared because the time was appropriate.
Talking at the Woodpile Page 15
