Stephen stared at his menu and shrugged. “I don’t know. It just came to me, and it sounded right.”
Jenny could have told him that the term “harelip” came from the resemblance a cleft lip bore to that of a rabbit’s divided upper lip, but she didn’t. The truth was she liked the name.
It was hard dark when they headed south on U.S. 53 toward Tamarack County. Jenny was exhausted and sat quietly in back, listening to Aaron and Stephen talk up front. They seemed to have warmed to each other as the miles went past.
“How come you’re not in school this week?” Aaron asked.
“Most schools in Minnesota don’t start until after Labor Day. It’s like a law or something. And Labor Day’s late this year.”
“Do you play any sports? Football or run cross-country?”
“Football in the fall.”
“What position?”
“End.”
“Offense or defense?”
“Both. What about you? Did you play football in high school?”
Jenny could see Aaron’s face, his profile hazy from the glow of the dash lights. It was a handsome face. His voice, when he spoke, had a deep timbre that made her think of some rich, dark wood, like teak or mahogany. He could be extremely gentle, and his poetry was stunning in its sensitivity to relationships in life, especially those between nature and humans. There was so much to like about him. And yet, in the last few weeks, she’d found herself holding back more and more, and the why of it was something she hadn’t been able to put her finger on.
“Lacrosse,” Aaron said.
“Lacrosse?” Stephen seemed surprised and pleased. “I’ve never played, but it looks pretty cool. An Indian game, right?”
“Right. Those Indians were pretty creative and competitive.”
“We still are,” Stephen said.
Aaron glanced at him and gave a serious nod. “Of course.”
“Were you any good?”
“We took state my senior year.”
Stephen gave a low whistle to show that he was impressed. They drove through Ray and Ash Lake and Orr, dark little towns surrounded by deep woods and with a few lights in the windows.
“I read a book of your poems.” Stephen sounded as though he were making a kind of confession.
“No kidding? Which one?”
“The Heart’s Divide.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“Bought it off Amazon.”
They crossed a bridge that spanned a channel between two lakes. The moon was up, and the channel was a brilliant, iridescent spill between two vats of silver.
“Okay,” Aaron said, “the suspense is killing me. Did you like my poems?”
Stephen stared out at the lake, then glanced at Aaron. “I liked the ones where you talked about the land. I could see what you were getting at. Some of the others, well, I didn’t understand them.”
Aaron nodded. “Fair enough.”
At last they turned east and entered Tamarack County. A sense of gratitude overwhelmed Jenny. She’d thought, years ago, when she left for the University of Iowa, that she was leaving Aurora and the house on Gooseberry Lane behind for good, but now it felt wonderful to be coming home. It felt safe.
“Tell me about this Henry Meloux,” Aaron said.
“I’m not sure I can,” Stephen replied. “I think you have to meet him. He’s . . .” Stephen seemed to be searching for the right word. “Unique.” A few moments later, he added, “And important.”
“Dad says he’s not well,” Jenny said from the backseat.
Stephen half-turned. “He told me that, too, when I came home from Texas. He said there’s someone staying with Henry. She’s like a nurse or something.”
“His great-niece. Dad says her name is Rainy Bisonette. She wants to become a Mide, like Henry.”
“I’m going to be a Mide someday,” Stephen said with certainty.
“What’s a Mide?” Aaron asked.
“A member of the Grand Medicine Society,” Stephen explained. “A healer. Somebody who understands the harmony of life and how to use nature to restore harmony when it’s been lost.”
“You seem to know Henry Meloux well.”
Stephen hesitated before replying. He glanced back at Jenny, who nodded that it was okay. “Some pretty horrible things happened to me a long time ago, and he helped me heal. He’s helped us all at one time or another.”
Aaron considered this for a moment, then said quietly, “Maybe if there’d been a Henry Meloux around when I was a kid, my family wouldn’t be so screwed up.”
It was past midnight when they came into Aurora. The houses were dark, and the streets, too, except where the streetlamps threw down circles of light. Jenny didn’t need light to know this town. She could have guided Aaron around every corner with her eyes closed.
“Let’s go past the house,” she said.
“Why?” Stephen asked.
“I want Aaron to see it.”
Stephen shrugged. “Turn right on Walnut,” he said to Aaron. “Two more blocks.”
In a couple of minutes, they were parked in front of the two-story on Gooseberry Lane. It was white wood with green shutters and a roofed porch that ran along the front. The big elm that had been there even when her father was a boy cast moon shadows across the yard and the house. There was a porch swing, and Jenny remembered how her parents used to sit and talk after she and Anne and Stephen had gone to bed. Her room was just above, and she could often hear them conversing below in the quiet, intimate voices of people who’ve loved each other for a long time. It had made her feel safe. And now, for some reason, it made her feel lonely.
“Where’s Trixie?” she asked Stephen, speaking of the family dog.
“Staying with the O’Loughlins across the street.” Stephen turned back to her. “We shouldn’t be here. Dad wanted us to go straight to Henry’s. Somebody might, I don’t know, be watching or something.” He peered carefully up and down Gooseberry Lane, which was quite lifeless.
“All right,” she said reluctantly. “Let’s go.”
They drove north out of Aurora, along a county road that paralleled Iron Lake. Occasionally, among the thick growth of evergreens, they could see a light from a cabin or one of the small resorts that sat on the shoreline, but mostly there was just the dark of night and the splash of moonlight between black shadows. They turned onto an unpaved road, and after a couple of miles, Stephen directed Aaron to pull off and stop near a double-trunk birch tree.
“This is where the path to Henry Meloux’s cabin begins,” he explained.
They got out of the truck and took with them the items they’d need: the ice chest with the baby inside, no longer sleeping but making no sound; two packs, one with all the baby supplies inside and one with a change of clothing for each of them; a flashlight; and three sleeping bags. Aaron and Stephen each shouldered a pack. Jenny took one handle of the ice chest and Aaron took the other. Each of them gripped a sleeping bag. Stephen walked ahead with the flashlight.
“How far is it?” Aaron asked.
“About a mile and a half,” Stephen said.
“We’re in the Superior National Forest right now. In a little while, we cross onto Iron Lake Reservation land. Just beyond that is the cabin. It’s an easy hike, you’ll see.”
Jenny hadn’t been to Meloux’s cabin in a very long time. Stephen had been a more frequent visitor, a special visitor in many ways. What her father had said about him was true: He had a unique relationship with the old Mide. She was glad he’d agreed to come along.
The way led through deep forest lit by moonlight. Although it was the middle of night, the woods were alive with the chirr of crickets and tree frogs. Occasionally, Jenny heard the crackle of something in the underbrush to the right or left, some small animal startled by their presence and scurrying away in the dark. The path was soft with fallen pine needles, and all around her was the good, fresh scent of evergreen. On the small farm in Iowa where she lived with Aaron, the la
nd had a different smell, heavy and earthy, and she realized how much she missed the cleansing scent of pine pitch.
They crossed a small stream—Stephen said that white people called it Wine Creek; the Ojibwe called it Miskwi, which meant “blood”—and, not far beyond, they broke from the trees and stepped into a meadow that lay white under the moon.
“This is Crow Point,” Stephen told Aaron. “Henry’s cabin is over there.”
He gestured across the meadow to a low structure that was partly illuminated by the moon and lay partly in shadow. Beyond it was the silver shimmer of Iron Lake. As they stood there, Jenny heard a lazy barking come from the direction of the cabin.
“That’ll be Walleye,” Stephen said.
Aaron asked, “Walleye?”
“Henry’s mutt. He’s a great old dog, with an emphasis on ‘old.’ ”
A light appeared at the cabin door. Jenny knew that Meloux had no electricity, and she supposed that the light must be from one of his lanterns.
“He’s awake,” Stephen said.
“Let’s go.”
They followed the path across the meadow, and as they approached the cabin, Jenny saw that it wasn’t the old man who was awaiting them. It was a woman in a loose T-shirt and sweatpants. In the lantern light, her face was the color of faded brick. Her long hair was black, except for a streak of gray that ran down it like a vein of graphite. She was pretty, and she was smiling as if their presence was no surprise.
Stephen said, “Anin,” offering her the traditional Ojibwe greeting. “Are you Rainy?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Uncle Henry told me to expect someone, but he didn’t say who or that it would be in the dead of night. Unless I’m mistaken, you’re all O’Connors, right?”
From the ice chest came the whimper of the baby.
“Oh, my goodness,” Rainy said, peering inside. “What have you got packed in there?”
Without hesitation, Jenny said, “His name is Waaboozoons. We call him Waaboo for short.”
A heavy cough issued from the dark in the cabin. They all turned, and Henry Meloux shuffled into the lantern light. He looked surprisingly old and frail to Jenny, gaunt and immeasurably tired. His dark eyes stared at them from a face so deeply lined that there wasn’t an inch of smooth left on it. Then he smiled, and despite the pall of illness that clearly hung over him, a gentle and lively spirit seemed to dance in all his aspect.
“You are late,” he said. “I have been expecting you forever.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Rainy Bisonette made tea and brought out cold biscuits left over from the dinner she’d made that evening, which had been fish and wild rice stew and which she offered to reheat. They accepted the tea and biscuits but declined the stew, though it was clear to Jenny that Stephen would gladly have eaten a bowl or two. The only room in the cabin was clean and simple. The walls were hung with items that recalled Henry Meloux’s long history among the Iron Lake Anishinaabeg: a bearskin, a bow ornamented with feathers, a deer-prong pipe, snowshoes crafted from spruce-wood frames and strips of moose hide, a lacquered rack that cradled an old Winchester rifle. The only furnishing that looked new was the iron cookstove in the center of the room. There were four handmade chairs around the rough-hewn birch table. Aaron insisted on standing, and he leaned against the wall near the door, looking uncomfortable, as if prepared any moment to bolt. Jenny held the baby in her arms. Walleye lay in the corner with his old head cradled on his paws, blinking at the gathering and probably blinking back sleep as well. Henry Meloux sat with a blanket around his bony shoulders and listened as Stephen told their story.
“Waaboozoons,” the old Mide said when Stephen had finished. “A little animal who knows how to hide from the wolf.” His dark eyes rested on the child, and he seemed pleased with the name.
“Mishomis,” Stephen said, respectfully using the Ojibwe word for “grandfather,” “my father sent us here. He hopes that you’ll help us keep the baby safe until he can catch the wolf who hunts Waaboozoons.”
“It is a long way to come,” the old man said. “Why here?”
“Because on the Angle we don’t know for sure who to trust.”
“I have an old friend who lives on that great lake,” Meloux said. “His name is Amos Powassin.”
“We met him,” Stephen said.
“And you would not trust him?”
“He pretty much sent us here,” Stephen replied. “He was afraid, I think.”
A troubled look came over the old man’s face, a darkness in every line. Jenny saw that his hands shook with a slight but uncontrollable tremor. “An animal that has made Amos Powassin afraid? Tell me about this wolf who hunts a child.”
Stephen said, “I haven’t seen him, but Jenny has.”
Everyone looked to her. She shook her head. “I’ve only seen him from a distance, maybe a couple of hundred yards away, when he raised his rifle to shoot at us.”
The old man seemed interested in this information, which hadn’t been a part of the shortened story Stephen had told. “Two hundred yards? Did he have a scope on his rifle?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Did he shoot at you?”
“No.”
“Two hundred yards is nothing for a good hunter, but he did not shoot.” Meloux seemed puzzled. “Is he not a good hunter?”
Stephen said, “Mr. Powassin seemed to think he was.”
“A predator that does not behave as a predator should,” the old man noted.
“Mr. Powassin said something to me, mishomis. He said that in everything that’s good is the possibility of evil, and in everything that’s evil, the possibility of good.”
The old Mide nodded, and his eyelids drew nearly closed as he considered Stephen’s words. To Jenny, he looked immeasurably tired. “I think I will have to sleep on this,” he finally said. “Niece, will you make our visitors comfortable?”
“Of course, Uncle Henry.”
There was a bunk in the cabin, and that was Meloux’s. There was also a cot, where Rainy Bisonette slept. She offered it to Jenny, who refused. “I’d prefer to be outside so that if our little guy gets fussy I can walk him without disturbing anyone. I have a sleeping bag, and he can sleep there with me.”
Stephen said, “I’ve slept in the meadow before. It’s pretty comfortable.”
“That’ll be fine,” Jenny said.
“Will he need a bottle in the night?” Rainy asked.
“Probably. I have a thermos if we could heat some water now.”
“Of course. I’ll stoke the fire in the stove. Uncle Henry, why don’t you lie down.”
“Migwech,” he said, thanking his niece. With some difficulty, he stood and returned to his bunk. As soon as he lay down, his eyes closed, and he appeared to go immediately to sleep.
Stephen and Aaron headed outside to arrange things in the meadow. Jenny stayed in the cabin with Rainy, who busied herself adding wood to the embers she’d banked in the stove and blowing a flame to life. There was a sink with a hand pump for water. From the cabinet above the sink, Rainy took out a steel saucepan, filled it, and put it on the stove.
“Uncle Henry and I drink the water straight from the pump,” she said. “But to be on the safe side, I think we should boil it for Waaboo.”
Waaboo. The moment Stephen had said the name, Jenny had liked it. It fit her little guy. He was becoming fussy, and as she held him, he turned his head to her breast.
Rainy saw and smiled. “Any port in a storm.”
“When we were stranded on the island, I let him have my breast,” Jenny said, as if it were a confession of some kind. “Just to keep him quiet.”
“Did it work?”
“Yes.”
“Did you like it?”
It seemed at first an odd question, but the truth was that she had. “Yes,” she admitted.
Rainy smiled. “There’s nothing at all unnatural in that. Or, for that matter, in a woman breast-feeding a child not her own.”
&nbs
p; “I’ve got nothing to offer him.”
“Not now maybe.”
“What do you mean?”
Rainy leaned against the sink counter with her arms folded across her chest. “I’m a public health nurse. I’ve seen women adopt a breast-feeding baby and, with time and patience, begin to lactate, though they’re not and, in some cases, never have been pregnant. There’s a tea I can make.”
“That will help me lactate?”
“It may. But it will take some time.”
Jenny said, “I don’t know how much time I have. Waaboo is mine for only a little while.”
Rainy looked at her, and Jenny saw nothing but utter compassion in the other woman’s face. “You’ve stepped onto a difficult road, Jenny.”
“I know. But I don’t think I had a choice.”
“Uncle Henry would say that the choice was made for you by Kitchimanidoo and that there’s a reason.”
“I felt . . .” Jenny hesitated, realizing she was confessing again.
“Yes?” Rainy encouraged her.
“I felt something from the moment I first saw him all alone in his basket with that horrible devastation everywhere around him. I fell in love with him, Rainy. Another woman’s child.”
“Do you know what, Jenny? If I were Lily Smalldog, I’d be happy that my child found you.”
“He found me?”
“I believe that, where love is involved, we find each other, no matter how random it may seem.”
Rainy went to the stove and checked the water. Jenny watched her, this stranger who, in only a few minutes, had begun to seem a good friend.
Aaron opened the door and came in. The moonlit meadow lay at his back, visible through the doorway.
“Everything’s set outside,” he said. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“You and Stephen go ahead and lie down. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“No. We’re fine.”
When he’d gone, Jenny glanced in the direction of the bunk where Meloux’s breathing was quiet and regular. “What is it with Henry?”
Rainy put a finger to her lips and said, “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
The water boiled. Rainy let it cool a bit, then filled the thermos. The baby had gone back to sleep, and Jenny laid him in the bedding inside the ice chest. She faced her new friend, who unasked, took her into her arms and whispered, “You’ll come through this, Jenny, and on the other side will be answers to all the questions that trouble you right now.”
The William Kent Krueger Collection #4 Page 55
