Water laps past my knees and the roundish stones rub my feet. The torii looms in front of me and I think briefly of swimming to it. Shannon is splashing beside me, “Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink,” she calls out to me. Sounds recede and I think of the Shinto priests listening to the rush and suck of water as they go to sleep, when they wake up. From here, there is no Hiroshima, just the mountainous island behind us, the jagged Japanese coast where a warlord decided to build a city. When the water reaches the bottom of my chin, I submerge myself and then let the salty sea lift me back up, resting my feet above water. Blue sky opens up, unbounded, swirls of greyish cloud like smoke drift past the horizon and show up, I am sure, on the other side of the world, which would be home.
In Search of Mosquito Lake
We are late starting, morning spent with items crossed off lists, chocolate smeared from breakfast muffins. At the hardware store we buy a lantern when we really need a camp stove. Sarah says we can cook over a fire, she has a special recipe that requires a can opener, tins of tomatoes, wieners in thin plastic wraps.
“People really do eat anything when they are hungry,” I say. I am always hungry. Intense impatience accelerates metabolism to the speed of sound.
Owner of the store smiles as he lights the wick, immediate light and hiss draws the attention of a Mennonite boy at the till. Stands by his father, both with hands deep in their pockets, handmade pants, black strap suspenders. From another era, the silent screen. Round black hats on smoothed hair, father has a chaotic beard, horn-rimmed glasses, watches rapt as his son. Owner smiles, beatific—we are his lost flock, he has found us in the corner, hiding from the light. I give Sarah a nudge. We need to catch the three o’clock ferry or there is no use going at all.
“Let’s roll!” I hiss. Enthralled with her new lantern, she asks the owner if it gives off a lot of heat. Can I burn it inside my cabin? Does it give off toxic fumes? He is a fisherman, classic in Shetland sweater, Irish flat cap nesting on his grey curls. Lined, kind face. He hasn’t answered yet, one of his employees has elbowed in. Mennonite father and son are still staring, motionless. They live halfway between Masset and Port Clements. I’ve seen their homestead, unlovely clearing, sheared sheep wandering across the road. Solid house shuddering in all that space.
We leave finally, questions unanswered, lantern stuffed in the box, jammed in the back with the gear, surrounded by pillows. It can’t break, Sarah says. It cost fifty bucks and I don’t want to buy another one. Finally at the ferry terminal, morning mash of harried shopping and I wanted to get here much sooner. Fifteen years ago I lived in the bush, picked mushrooms, bathed once a week, smelled like dirt and ferns. Every day hauling buckets up and over the waves of hills. Skinny and tough, I lit these lanterns every night, frozen calloused fingers flicking one mouldy Bic after another. Often the sound startled me as I turned the wick down.
Moresby is mounds of grey light, lumps of deep green. Impenetrable. Sleeping in the van I would open my eyes to black night. Frost slowly dancing on the window. Ferry docks and unloads, sloshing in the bay, open deck cleared in minutes. Deckhands head to smoking spots, slouched, one hand in their pockets to keep warm. Wall of cold wind cushions them, they lean into it. They could be the same guys from last time, grown up, with homes and families on one side or the other.
Yellow mesh fence is removed and cars, trucks hunch in, slick-backed like beetles. Rock a bit, water- sloshed moors. Salt driven slap blasts as we get out, wander to the edge. Seagulls gasp, belligerent. Other motorists are reading newspapers, drinking coffee in white cups, oblivious, heads bowed over their steering wheels.
Tall ferryman with walrus moustache joins us, cigarette smoke streaming through dragon nostrils.
“You girls camping?” Appraising eyes, slow amused voice.
Sarah says yeah, we’re going to Mosquito Lake. Ferryman raises quizzical eyebrows, exhales. Could be cold. You got rain gear?
Deep-throated engine chugs out the periphery of voices. I lean over the edge, try to glean the swim of seals, their curious eyes. Sarah takes pictures of everything, focused, refocused, refracted light-framed beauty. Such beauty, she says, needs more light. I wait for something to surface, for the sea to offer up a gift.
I can’t remember how to get there, I yell to her in the wind. She can’t hear, is open to the picture world but I need to fling it out there. Less fear then. Ferryman sidles up, he’s heard me. Blue-eyed and smiling, he speaks in snippets that the wind can’t snatch. There’s only one road. Follow it. Sign to Mosquito Lake says go left past Skidegate Lake. Drive careful, potholes are deep, will blow out your tires. Logging’s done so there’s not a lot of traffic, could be walking a bit if you do. So stock up on water, fuel for fire. SuperValu in Sandspit is open till eight. I thank him, hands clutching the railing to steady the roll.
Shore comes up and we huddle back, pilgrims on to the next vista. Up the steep ramp and rounded curves and there is Sandspit, flung out, grey, hinging on at the edge of the world, boarded windows, for sale signs with black marker numbers to call, please call. Looks like logging took the money out. Waves polish stones like candy on the shore. People move in the mould and green wet, steady, hunch over their gardens, prune their trees. Held by the constant line of the horizon.
There’s the trailer park where I had my weekly shower, I show Sarah. It looks the same. Red Roof restaurant with the excellent pizza. I drive past SuperValu to the airport so Sarah can see the whole place, the cedar hotel with the Haida gift shop. Engine that keeps the town going, fitful heartbeat.
Pulling in to the mini-mall with the grocery store, men in work boots are chatting at open windows, diesel idling revs through me. Second-hand store is open, Sarah squeals, she loves second-hand shops, flies out the door, dashes across the gravel. SuperValu is the hub of Moresby—post office, liquor store, car parts. In a small aisle by the spirits, there’s beer, rows of wine. I grab a six- pack for the road.
How do I get to Mosquito Lake, I ask, squinting at a map behind the cashier. Measured look through glare of glasses, long dyed brown hair, no shine, frizzy bangs. Here’s where you are now, she says. Sparkles on her index finger, long nail arched. Turn left at the school, road runs to gravel at the edge of town. You’ll pass the old fishing camp, cross a few bridges. When you get to Skidegate Lake, keep going, turnoff’s on your left. Rapid fire, direct, she knows everything. What people drink, what they eat, sharp eyes see the insides. There is only one road, she repeats the ferryman. Drive slow.
One dollar shades! Sarah slips in beside me, beaming about her deal. Catches the last part of the conversation—one road, drive slow—and I walk to the car, buckled knees from some deep driving current, cold, cold feet. Maybe a beer will help. Sarah rides shotgun and we turn at the school, camera attached, extended eye.
Pavement eases to gravel and we are bouncing along, just like we did in the van, dust fuming through the vents. It was always sunny and I was always happy in the memory. Food and wine in boxes, my hair untangled and benign down my back. At a turn off we keep going, trees bending branches into open windows and I panic again. Do I remember? Try to discern the pull.
Crack a can of beer, pass one to Sarah. Late afternoon sun casts its mellow light on her cat’s eye frames. Road is empty and we start counting off the miles. 1… 2… 3. Without logging, so quiet, no blasting trucks to watch out for. We could be the only ones here for miles. Fishing camp pops up, cottages crowded by the rocky shore.
Let’s get out, take a look around, Sarah says, laughing, her long hair octopus twirling. Sometimes she wears it in a wreath. Almond eyes, broad round cheeks. She just finished a year of law school in Toronto. Not sure she wants to be a lawyer, or how she will be when she comes out. Snarled and tense or unravelled. We met at a guest house her first day in Masset and she already knew the way to the beach. We walked past a moss-shrouded graveyard. One grave was entirely covered in gleaming pink alabaster, fragile sea skins.
On a white board on the si
de of a decaying cabin are drawn lines of a round-robin tournament with names carefully printed in black. Moresby Coho Salmon Derby, 2007.
That was four years ago, she says and takes a picture like it will change. Some of the cabins are listing, others have been lifted up on new beams, smell of fresh wood. Clean windows, drawn curtains. Does anyone live here? I look again at the neat rows of names that have survived pelting rainstorms. Sarah goes to the beach for another view, leaving me in the stillness. Watch the windows, she says, look for a flutter. I wait and there is nothing. Maybe they are in town, buying beer, I call out to Sarah. I walk to the beach. She is hunched over pools of anemones, snapping them as they close their tentacles around slippery seashells, alive and hungry.
I don’t really know where I’m going, so I’m hoping I’ll remember, I tell her, calmed this time by a few beers. Sun is out, dappling the pocked road. That’s part of the adventure, Sarah says as we ease through the deepest holes. When we reach Mile 13 we stop again. Road is decaying but signs are fresh, black lettering, yellow squares pop out at each bend. This is where the ghost chased us out, I say. She already knows my stories. In Masset, we talk late to candlelight, green tea, coffee at the tiny warm cinnamon shack when it’s open. Sip from thick potted mugs. Peering through the brush at the side of the road, thin trees drink deep, light gets darker. Can’t see the ridge from here, seems flatter. No trails in that I can see. But they’re there, they always are, paths remembered by the worn earth.
So, is it speaking to you? She asks when I get back in. Mosquitoes pounce dumbly on the windows. No. I could hang out a bit but it’s getting dark, I say. She takes pictures of me posing, silly, fake serious. Interesting part is the light, I say, how green it is.
Fifty thousand shades of green! Sarah exclaims.
At least! I slurp on another beer.
Car develops a cough and rattle, like it is old and choking on the past. It wheezes but when I mention it, Sarah says she can’t hear anything. Giant white head, proud eagle gleams through branches and Sarah says stop. Urgency leaves her when she gets out, quietly inching on the road. Eagle is by a fierce clear creek. At the bridge she catches it before it sweeps away on dinosaur wings.
Mile 25… 26… 27. Lake looms at the edge, left-hand side of the road. That must be it I say to Sarah. Feist is playing on the blown-out stereo. … February, April says…There’s a pull-in by the lake where people camp, a launch for boats. Clear-cuts shear the mountains rolling on the other side. We get out, lake is calm, loons in the middle bow gracious heads, concealing their sorrow.
Is this Mosquito Lake? I say to Sarah. She is framing me, careful to catch the clouds trailing the trees reflecting on the water. Bulrushes push up their thick brown heads. I remember going across this lake in a blow-up boat, I say. We got it at the hardware store, same place you got your lamp. Same guy sold it to us. We thought we would go pick on the other side, see what was there. Everything around here had been over-picked or claimed. There were fights about territory over campfires, so we thought: go further, cross the lake. Paddles were blue plastic, wind carried us over and it’s smaller than it looks, this lake. Other side is steep, mushrooms were rotted mostly. We were too late. Got soaked in a storm on the way back.
What happened to the boat, Sarah says. We are walking to the other side of the road. There is a post and beam structure for a lean-to left by some campers. Bits of plastic cling to pounded-in nails. Charred bits of wood surrounded by scorched stones. Been awhile since anyone’s stayed here, I say. It is so quiet, except for buzzing bugs. Breeze flurries the leaves, they shine luster and silver. Don’t remember about the boat, it was cheap, maybe we sold it before we left.
Should we keep going? I say. Lady in the store says the turn-off for Mosquito Lake is left. Although this could be Mosquito Lake. I can’t remember but I know I’ve been here before.
She said the turn-off is on the left-hand side, Sarah repeats. I can’t read her eyes through the sunglasses, but she is fine to keep going.
So we crest a hill that snakes around the lake. Weeds crowd out the shallow end, swallow up the water to make more land, change the landscape. Hill turns to mountain, keeps going. I really don’t know where I am now, I tell Sarah. Crack another beer, which has turned warm in the sun. Feist is singing secret heart, what are you afraid of and Sarah has found a bag of chips to tide us over. We crunch them back and forth.
On a straight stretch, bob of a tiny tail, a baby deer wobbling down the road. Delicate legs, awkward gait that speeds up in terror at the sound of us, our presence and no mother around. Panicked, it doesn’t know where to go, even as it picks up speed. Sarah is enthralled and we stop for a picture although I want to leave. We should pass it by, I say. Side of the bank is too steep to climb so it sinks into some brush by the road. So small that it will be invisible, letting the earth shield it so we walk by. Sarah gets in close, deer shivers, is shaking, white spots like dips of paintbrush grazing brown skin, nose wet, eyes closed tightly, thick fringe lashes. Bones so small, like bent grass.
Hurry up, I say. I can’t watch this. It’s going to explode from fear right by the side of the road. Mile 47 pops out when I look ahead. What mile was it that our camp was at? Must have passed it, land didn’t look like this. Memory scoured, comes up empty.
We settle in and go for the hundredth time. This reminds me of Sisyphus, stone rolling up, stone rolling down, I say as I start the ignition. Tires are holding out so far, I checked them, gave them a little kick. I watch the baby deer in the rear-view mirror while Sarah checks her pictures. It is still in the bushes, waiting. It doesn’t flinch.
Dene
Tsalekulhye had four brothers, the youngest, fifteen, named Nathadilhthouelh, found his sister and brother hiding by the river and he loaded them on his back. Hot tears shedding on his shoulders, he started to cross the river. One foot at a time, steady through pummelling current. Need to be strong, he begged them, we all need to be strong, no screaming. Sister is eight, brother is three and they lock onto him. Transformed, all their skin clutching, he thought they could make it. Then the current loosened their grip. The cold, the fear was too much. But he didn’t let them go. They were taken. Body wracked in sobs, he reached the shore naked. Another sister ran along the border of ice clinging to the shore. He screamed keep going, keep going. Out of reach of hostile eyes and arrows, he stood on the shore of the doomed camp waiting for the end of the massacre.
In Search of Mosquito Lake
Road rounding, swerving around potholes, all the beer is gone and we are facing the sea. Last few miles I took every left turn, searching for a sign that said Mosquito Lake. Losing light, hunger edges in and we are dragging rotting branches and tinder twigs to start a fire, haul out the boxes, tins, spread out the tent. Beat the bugs back with slapping hands.
“Is this a good spot to spend the night?” Sarah pounds pegs into pliant earth.
“Campsite has been used before, you can tell by the clearing,” I zip up the flap, snug against cool evening.
“Where the hell are we?” I plop down on the rocks. Sarah stirs dinner, a bubbling pan of goo, pail of water rolls and steams for tea. Tide comes up and we rush to save our things but it only grazes the beached tree that shields us, becomes our table and couch. Rocky islet hovers at the edge of the bay, water rushing over its edges, trying to smooth past the opening, held by silver horizon.
“Some kind of inlet,” Sarah keeps stirring. “We can check on the map tomorrow.”
“How did we miss it?” Only one road and we fucking missed it.
Plan was to spend the night at Mosquito Lake, test the story, see if spirits still rise up from the land, bent on revenge. I take pictures of her hunched over, feeding the fire. On a wander down the beach, I find a newspaper open, travel section of wide beach in crystalline Asia. I may have even been there once but it’s too dark to read the print. I pick it up, bring it back to burn. Trucks hauling boats and families roll by to camp on another shore. Dim glow of lighthouse
starts like a firefly, grows sharp in the darkness, reaching out to ships we will never see.
There’s a wire frame person perched on a deck, I tell Sarah. Some yellow house by the sea in Queen Charlotte. You can see through it. It’s cut in half by grass and stones but the outline is a person. Someone must have made it, like they wanted a watcher, a companion or something. It’s strange. I look at it every time I walk by.
Sarah looks at me, smiles. There is a boy she is talking about, two boys; one here, one in Toronto. One here is dreadlocked, dreamy. She is trying to figure them out, reading between the lines of texts. They don’t compare to the boy that caught her heart when she was young, though, she tells me. He swims in her still. Water is heating for dishes, which is my job. Branches snap in the woods by us, tripped over by deer.
There’s also this young woman who plays loud heavy metal every morning on my way to work, I continue. She wanders in and out of her cabin, a flaming sun tattoo on her arm, surrounded by all that disruptive quiet.
“God, her neighbours must hate her,” Sarah laughs. All the other homes are quaint, seaside village out of a picture. I love the walk, mountains of Moresby filling in the edges, adding heft. Always something that sticks out, she says. Things that don’t seem to fit.
Hard to see the stars by the fire and smoke so I walk down the road a bit before it gets too dark. Blooming June trees climb the rocks to rest in an odd quiet. Sea lisps in the background. I only go so far, some part of me stops in the road, says this is it. Invisible line, internal horizon makes its claim. Back at the fire Sarah is reading Haida myths.
“An elder in Masset said she hears the voices of her ancestors all the time, hears their canoes crunch up on the shore,” she says as she closes the book. Sarah works in Old Masset, rides her bike from the new village to the old every day, wind trying to blow her off the road, or at least it feels like it. Until her legs got stronger, she tells me. Weathered totem poles stand in front of houses, tell their stories. I wonder what the houses of our ancestors looked like, I say. Where were the stories carved? Who knows, she says. Maybe they were made with strings and wire to carry things instead. Fire transforms the wood, night huddles in close.
The Earth Remembers Everything Page 6
