19
FLY AGAIN
I chose the evening when at dusk the mosquitoes were so thick I inhaled them with each breath. Even the dogs lay with tails wrapped about their muzzles, and I watched the muscles of their backs twitch like gasping fish to shake the bloodsuckers from burrowing deeper into fur.
I would fly again. I took my old bush plane out of the hangar down the road and gave the motor a little loving and a lot of fuel. I turned it over. I checked the instruments, and I checked the rudder, the flaps, the elevator and ailerons.
My old house outside of Moosonee didn’t need much. I shut down the propane and the water and locked the front and back doors. I’d already collected what I needed, flour and canned food and two axes and rounds for my rifles and my conibear traps. I’d packed my chainsaw and my fishing lines and gill net and blankets and extra fuel and oil.
I saved my money, me, and bought a case of Crown Royal rye. This would have to do. I’d be forced to quit drinking, and this would be good for me. No room for pop, and so I’d drink my whisky straight or with a little river water. I bought two cartons of smokes and two tins of tobacco. I’d have to eventually quit smoking, too.
I cut the cast off my leg by myself, stared at the shrivelled muscle and the sprouts of black hairs that grew in patches up and down it. I wrapped that leg back up with tensor bandages till it could regain more of its strength. If I ever came back, I would come back reborn.
The plane was at her capacity. But she was a good old plane back in the day, despite the fuel lines always wanting to gum up. She would get me again where I needed to go. She sat now on the river by my dock. Many a night I used to take off from the gravel road in front of my house when the pontoons were off. But tonight I would fly from the river. I would leave this town tonight.
I’d watched Marius from afar for weeks. I knew his routine, where he went, when he was with others and when he was alone. I track moose the same way, learn their habits, and startle them when the wind is in my favour. Tonight the wind was in my favour. Marius would leave his girlfriend’s house near Two Bays gas station soon after seven. He’d drive to the beer store from there, making sure he didn’t miss it closing. He’d take a shortcut to his house out by the airfield, a gravel road near the high school. A quiet stretch, only occasionally at this time of night travelled by one of the white schoolteachers, but typically not Wednesdays.
That is where I’d wait in a stand of trees twenty yards from the road. Moosonee is a nothing town. The only way in is by slow train or by plane out to Cochrane or Timmins. I’d be in the bush by the time Marius was dragged to the morgue on the reserve in Moose Factory across the river, and I would be building an autumn shelter hundreds of miles north by the time the RCMP got up here to investigate.
Not a perfect plan. I’d be a prime suspect. But I’d seen enough episodes of CSI to know that the rifle I used tonight was not my own and would never be found when I slipped it out the window of my plane into James Bay. I’d made sure to tell my sister and my close friends that I was going into the bush to trap again and to build a new hunt camp. I’d talked about it for weeks. The timing of my departure was not good, and I couldn’t get around that, but this coincidence was circumstantial evidence, and I’d be innocent until proven guilty.
Close to 7 P. M. the sun was still bright, but I knew Marius would soon be driving his usual route. I’d already tucked the rifle in the space behind the bench seat of my truck, a gift from a white hunter I guided long ago, a gift that I’d never used and no one around here had seen. It was loaded. For a short time I’d considered using my father’s rifle from the Great War but decided against it. The round was a rare one and would give me away.
I’d drunk a mickey of rye to steady my nerves. I’d killed dozens of moose in my life, dozens upon dozens of beaver, fox, marten. I never thought I would kill a man. But Marius was no longer a man. Maybe he never was. He was missing something that the rest of us have. He is what the old ones would call windigo. Marius, he needed killing.
My truck’s gas gauge sat on empty. Worrisome, but if I stopped at Two Bays, someone might remember I was there, and even worse I might run into Marius. I couldn’t take the chance. The old war pony was thirsty, but she’d lived her life that way. No other choice but to wind my way down Sesame Street, the usual kids playing in the dirt on the road.
Quiet evening. Quieter than usual, even. The Two Bays School bus that takes tourists out to the dump passed me, and I kept my head tucked low and under my baseball cap.
I drove the straight shot along the river road out to the base, made a left turn, and parked my truck on a path no one used anymore. I had time, smoked a cigarette and kept my eyes peeled for anyone who might be on the road tonight. Not a soul.
I got out, grabbed my rifle, and headed into the bush along the road. The mosquitoes landed on my exposed arms and face. I didn’t even bother to brush them away. I’d marked the place where I’d crouch. Good cover. Nothing but bush behind and to the sides, a clear view of the road on either side. Close enough to the road that I couldn’t miss.
I crouched and waited. Mosquitoes sung high-pitched songs in my ears.
A raven glided in and perched on the telephone wire across the road from me. It knew I was here, twisting its head at an angle to stare at me with its black eye. I lifted my rifle and peered through the scope, placed the crosshairs directly on the black bird’s chest. Good scope. Better than my own. A shame to throw the whole rig out the window of my plane. Maybe I’d keep the scope. No.
My hands, I wished they were made steady from the whisky. I wished I had more with me. But I knew how fast one gets sloppy. I lowered my gun and the raven laughed out at me, then dropped from the wire and found a bit of wind and flapped its wings so that I could hear the rush of air below them.
Amazing how the world changes in four months. Four months ago, I wouldn’t have dreamed I’d be here planning to do what I was about to do. Four months ago, snow lay thick on the ground, and the Moose River was still frozen. But the ice eventually thawed, and the dark water below pushed it out to James Bay.
I lit a smoke and glanced at my watch. My hands shook. He’d be coming by soon. I checked the action of my rifle. Round in the chamber. Four in the mag. It wasn’t too late to go home and forget about this, to go back to pretending. I counted his sins against me. I snapped the safety off and listened for the crunch of tires on gravel.
Before I finished my cigarette, I heard a car coming. Big car. I peered out. It was the red of Marius’s new F150 truck. I dropped the cigarette and made a note to myself to pick it up before I left. Evidence.
I raised the rifle and sighted in on the truck, a hundred yards away. Marius was coming, driver side closest to me. I could see that his window was rolled up. Shit. It would be a more difficult shot. He drove slow, looking down at something in his hand, then looking up again at the road. A cell phone? More complications. He was fifty yards away now, and my hands were shaking so that my scope jittered, too.
Control. Breathe. In, out, in, half out. Like my father taught me. Blank mind. Focus on the kill. Hands steadier, I followed the movement of his truck with my rifle, like sighting in on a goose coming in for a landing. The crosshairs were on Marius’s face now. Ugly face. He was laughing to himself, no longer focused on what was in his hands. Sunlight reflecting off his window. Almost. Almost.
I couldn’t do this. Light bright in my scope from reflection. Steady on his head. I wished his window was down. Not yet. Wait. Fifteen yards away, I followed his movement through the scope. Blinding light now, and I could just make out his head in my crosshairs.
I couldn’t do this. The truck passed directly in front, and I followed with the rifle. Finger pressure on trigger and I couldn’t make out his head for the sunlight. Whine in my ears. Mosquitoes biting. I pulled the trigger.
The boom of the rifle in my ear was like the world waking up. Glass shattered, and Marius’s truck veered hard into the ditch. His horn blared, and the
truck engine wound up. His foot must have been jammed on the pedal.
Find the hot casing of the ejected cartridge. I needed to pocket it. Think, think! I peered through my scope and saw his head slumped on the steering wheel. The horn continued to blare, the engine screamed as the tires spun in the mud of the ditch. I had done it. Forgive me, whoever you are who forgives. No going back.
I searched for the spent cartridge and found it in the leaves. I had to move quick now. I made my way out of the bush and headed toward my truck fast, peering around me for signs of people. Nobody. But somebody must have heard the awful noise of the engine, the blare of horn.
Cigarette butt! Halfway to my truck, I turned back quick and ran fast as I could with rifle in my hand. I dove onto the ground and searched desperate for it. I rooted through the dead leaves, through the weeds, and finally saw the white of it peering up at me. I grabbed it and made my way back to my truck.
Marius’s engine screamed and then suddenly coughed and went quiet. I only heard the blare of the horn now as I threw the rifle behind my seat, got in, and turned over the motor. One turn. Two. Wouldn’t start. I pumped the gas, tried not to panic, tried not to flood it. The engine caught. I threw her into gear and drove slow as I could onto the road. I couldn’t leave tire marks. Couldn’t leave a trace. This is what I could control. What I couldn’t was anybody else driving or walking this road. I reached for my cigarettes in my shirt pocket, but my hand shook too bad. Nobody yet. The sound of the horn faded to quiet, just the rattle of my truck on gravel.
I turned off the gravel road and onto the river road. A couple walked hand in hand. I glanced over to them as I passed, but they were deep in conversation. Down the road further, I saw lots of people out now, hanging around outside Taska’s. Kids. A few of the old drunks. I tried not to look at any of them, tried to keep my speed slow, made the turn onto Sesame Street that would eventually get me to the dump road. A couple of cars passed me. I nodded to Eddie who drives the town maintenance truck. He nodded back. Shit.
The long stretch past the dump seemed to take forever, but I didn’t pass anyone. I peered down the turnoff to the dump and saw the yellow school bus full of tourists searching for bears. A couple of miles down, I turned off to my house, removed from the rest of town by trees and creeks and bush.
I wanted to lock up my truck, but I never do that. I left it open and grabbed the rifle, held it close to my chest. I walked down to my plane tied off at the dock. If there were traces of gunpowder in the truck, that was fine. I was known as a hunter here. The house was clean. Locked. Everything I needed was in my plane. I climbed in and held the steering wheel, tried to calm the shake of my hands.
I’d killed a man. I couldn’t think about that now. Many months for that when I landed. I went through the checks in my head. Ignition on. Throttle on the dash ready to be pushed in. I turned the motor over, and my plane roared to life. I eased the throttle and climbed out, untied the ropes from the dock. I had my canoe tied to the pontoons. I had everything I’d need to survive in the bush.
I climbed back in and upped the throttle and left the dock. I aimed the plane into the wind and opened up the throttle to a roar and adjusted my flaps to fifteen degrees, full fine pitch for the propeller. I bumped along the river, the plane vibrating. When I lifted off the water, she hummed. Within a minute I was flying again, turning away from Moosonee and the sparkling water of the Moose River, fighting the urge to fly over Marius’s truck, turning my plane north.
I adjusted the pitch of the blades and the prop bit the air. I looked once more down at my town and then looked forward and flew out over the muskeg.
I tried to settle in my seat and gripped the wheel tight. My plane bumped up on a wind current. Flying was second nature, a part of me. Don’t think of Marius right now. Instead, I remembered after the beating. Remembered him trying to burn down my house. Remembered my bear. My bear. She did not deserve that end.
I hadn’t seen the country from above for years, but some things you don’t forget. The rivers snaked and glittered across the flats that stretch out for hundreds of miles to the Arctic. I saw the white flocks of snow geese grounded and moulting on their feeding place below, the late sun glancing off their feathers. In an hour the dusk would set in, and so I had to stay focused. It would be too difficult to land on water for the first time in years in the dark. If worst came to worst, I’d set down for the night on a good stretch of creek or river and then find my hiding spot tomorrow.
Still, there was the matter of the rifle. I couldn’t be caught with it. It was a pretty gun, solid and accurate. What a waste. But it had to go. It was the one concrete thing that tied me to Marius’s murder. Murder. I was a murderer now. I had murdered another human. My head buzzed. Eddie the maintenance man saw me on the road, but he was a drinker, and he hated the cops. Adrenaline was losing its grip on me. I had a headache, and I wanted a sip of whisky. A cigarette. I peered behind me at the pile of gear on the backseat. I reached from the vibration of the wheel to my shirt pocket for my smokes. I saw the case of whisky almost close enough to reach. I could almost taste the burn of it on my tongue, in my stomach.
I lit a cigarette and peered over at the rifle in the blanket beside me. Down below nothing but muskeg. At the Attawapiskat River, I’d fly east over the bay to my chosen place. Akimiski Island. That big island out in the bay. No man is an island, but islands were good for hiding. Flying with one hand, I reached for the rifle and rested the stock in my lap. Swamp and creek lay far below me. It was no stretch at all to think no human had ever set foot on that ground.
I pushed the door open against the wind with my elbow, the plane filling with the commotion. With my right hand I forced the rifle outside, making sure as I let go that it fell clear of the pontoon. The wind’s howl dropped to a loud whine again when I closed the door, and I imagined the rifle plummeting to earth, barrel first, plunging deep into the mud and water like an arrow or a knife, burying itself forever.
I ran through everything I’d brought and tried to think of anything I might have forgotten. This plane held its maximum weight, me plus nine hundred pounds of gear. If I’d forgotten something, I’d have to do without it, and if that wasn’t possible, I’d have to create something similar to it. I had lighters and matches for fire. I had two rifles, a shotgun, and plenty of rounds. I had two axes and a canoe. I had warm clothing and sewing supplies. I had canned food to eat for a number of weeks. If I couldn’t live out here alone with these things, I deserved to die.
It is not what I had forgotten that bothered me, I realized, but what I had left behind. My sister, Lisette, my missing nieces, my two friends, Joe and Gregor. Dorothy. That could have been something. I might never see any of them again, I thought, but then I told myself to stop being such a suck. I would see them again. I just hoped not from the other side of thick Plexiglas as I whispered my plans for a breakout. I’d watched too much TV these last few months. I’d be lonely in the bush, but I’d get strong again. I’d become the old me, and that was a very appealing thing.
The sun to my left was very low now as I spotted the Attawapiskat and turned out onto the bay. Light at this time of evening is dangerous. It plays tricks on you, especially over water, making it hard to judge distance and height. I checked the altimeter, the fuel gauge, the oil pressure and temperature. The sun hovered low enough for me to track its sink, and I stared hard for land. I knew I was close.
The wind picked up and jostled my plane, then dropped it on a current so that my stomach went to my throat. To make me more nervous, the engine was acting up, my plane vibrating normal, then coughing, then vibrating normal again. If the gas cut out completely I’d have to glide in and onto the bay. The wind blew hard enough that waves would be forming. I dropped the plane a little lower just in case.
Akimiski rose up out of the water ahead. A big island, a part of Nunavut even though it is well below Inuit country. I never figured that one out. I passed over the bank of the island and in a few minutes I saw
the interior lake I remembered, good trout fishing and rivers running from it that would hold the life I needed. I set myself in the right place and squinted into the brightness of the last of the sun.
My left hand gripped the wheel hard as I grasped the throttle. The wind jostled me, as much from the south as from the west, but I’d chosen my landing path and was only feet from the water now, coming in but too fast. I knew I didn’t have much water ahead of me. I prayed there were no logs or rocks or sunken trees on this stretch. Impossible to know now.
I clenched my jaw tight as I touched water, then lifted, then touched again. I adjusted the flaps twenty degrees, thirty, and still too fast. Thirty-five then up to forty-five degrees. My plane shook hard against the wind’s drag.
Finally she slowed, slowed fast, thrumming on the water, slowing more until I knew I was going to be okay. I let out a big sigh, pulled the throttle completely out, and let myself drift to shore at a small sandy spot. I lit a cigarette, reached back, tore open the case of whisky, and grabbed a bottle.
The sun set as I sat there. All of the last hours’ tension was on top of me, and I took pulls on the bottle every minute or two and chain-smoked cigarettes, my hands shaking out of control as the sky turned dark blue and then black.
How long did I just sit in my seat and drink and smoke? I didn’t want to do anything else right then. I couldn’t. The weight of those last hours pinned me there. Smokes were a real commodity now, and I wouldn’t do this often. But that night I needed it. And I deserved a whole sixty of rye, too, if I wanted. I drank and smoked, drank and smoked. I listened to the night noises of the animals here. I listened to the ripple of water on my pontoons.
Through Black Spruce Page 18
