Navigating Early

by Clare Vanderpool

  Returning the rose-colored book to its place on the shelf, I reached for the black and more masculine-looking Alford Medical Manual and headed reluctantly back to the main room.

  Gunnar placed the glasses on his nose and thumbed through the pages.

  “Oh, yes. Here we are.” He moved his lips and muttered words like incision and laceration and coagulation. Then he placed the book facedown in his lap, as if he might need to refer to it again during the procedure.

  “Have you ever done this before?” I asked, my eyes growing wide as Gunnar took up the needle.

  “Oh, you bet. I make the stitches one other time. Of course, I was much younger then. Just a boy myself.” He threaded the needle. “It was another boy, his name is Lars. He start a fight with me, saying all manner of mean things, and I punch him in the mouth. His lip, it start to bleeding all over, so I stitch him up good. He never say those mean things again. In fact, I don’t recall him saying anything again, his lips sewn up so good.”

  I pulled my head back but caught Gunnar giving Early a wink as he set to work on my forehead. I winced and grimaced. If I’d had a bullet to bite on, I might have bitten clear through it. But with a few steady strokes, Gunnar had stitched me up good. The wound was throbbing. Early reached into his backpack and unscrewed the lid of a small tin. It was some kind of lavender-scented salve that he gently dabbed on my new stitches. “It will ease the pain,” said Early. “It’s really for snakebites, but it should work on stitches too.”

  “Now it is the time to eat lunch.” Gunnar cleared away the stitching supplies and washed up while Early made himself completely at home and stirred the simmering stew.

  Gunnar took three wooden bowls from a cabinet and spooned out generous helpings. We all sat on stools around the fire and ate for a time in silence. The stew was hot and filled with flavors and spices.

  I was just pondering what might be in it when Early said, “Jack, did you know Gunnar’s missing a toe?” I gagged a little on the stew. “Gunnar, tell Jackie about that time when you went fishing and you caught that sea bass, but when you pulled him out, it was a shark instead, and he bit your toe right off. Remember that?”

  I looked at both of them, Early and Gunnar, with my mouth hanging open. It was only lunchtime. How could Early have learned so much of Gunnar’s life?

  “Yes, I remember. But we’ll save that story for later. I’d like to hear how young Mr. Jack is feeling after having drink half the Kennebec River.”

  “A little shaky,” I answered, partly because of the stitches and partly because I had bitten down on something I hoped was a carrot. I still had not heard the fate of Gunnar’s toe, and my imagination was running wild.

  “That’s right. Go on now, eat your supper.”

  I was hungry enough, and the meaty broth was so good, I decided to take my chances.

  “So,” Gunnar continued, “Mr. Early tells me you are on a quest.” He finished his stew and set the bowl aside.

  “It’s really Early’s quest,” I said, trying to distance myself from Early’s crazy notions. “I’m just going along.”

  “I see.” Gunnar picked up a rabbit skin and, using a curved white bone, started scraping the inside of the pelt. “Just going along? That is what you are doing in the river too—just going along.” He puckered his lips out. “You might consider taking a more active role in your pursuits.” There was something between a challenge and a chastisement in his voice. “Leastways, if you end up in the river again, you’ll have the comfort of knowing you played some part in getting yourself there.”

  My face flushed a little at being called out. “Yes, sir,” I said. I knew what he meant. My mom used to say, If you get caught with your hand in the cookie jar, don’t pretend like somebody else reached it in there for you.

  “What is it you do here, exactly?” I asked, trying to change the subject. Plus, the cabin, with its array of animal skins and gear, begged for an explanation.

  “I am a veterinarian” came his answer. I felt my insides ball up again. He can’t be a very good one, I thought, looking at the stuffed badger in the corner with his mouth pulled open in an angry snarl. And the raccoon hides that hung from the ceiling. Yes, every doctor loses a patient now and then. But how many doctors hang their dead clients from the rafters or have them stuffed and on display in the corners of their homes?

  Gunnar let out a slow laugh. “I am only fooling with you. I am what they call an outfitter. I have the gear you need for the hunting, fishing, trapping, and the like.”

  “What about tracking?” Early asked, without mentioning the Great Bear.

  “Well, now”—Gunnar pursed his lips together—“that can be dangerous. You never know when what you are tracking might be tracking you.”

  “Will you outfit us?” Early asked. “We can pay you.” He reached into his nearly empty backpack, most of our provisions having already been eaten or lost to the pirates. But somewhere in a zippered pocket that Olson had overlooked was Early’s bean tin with his wad of money.

  “Oh, Lord. You two are greener than a couple of cucumbers. You make a big mistake just now, waving money around like that for anyone to steal. And what business do you have wandering around up here in these woods?” He squinted at us.

  I was afraid Early might say too much. “We’re just on a nature hike,” I said.

  “Oh, sure.” Gunnar peered over his glasses at me. “Well, I suppose it would be better that you are prepared, or you might end up, how shall we say—floating up Runamuck River without the paddle. Too many folks roaming around looking for the wrong thing, that’s what I think.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “If someone’s going to come out here, maybe even spend a lot of money on equipment, seems like they’d be pretty sure what they’re looking for.”

  “And that is where you would be wrong. The ones who are most consumed with their hunt—desperate, you might say—for what they think they are after, it is often a far cry from what they are really after. It is a fact, too, that sometime, they not really looking for anything at all but are running away from something instead.” His voice was clear and full, as if it came from the vast glacial waters where the great whales roam.

  “Like dogs?” Early asked in his off-the-wall way.

  “Maybe.” Gunnar breathed in deeply, so deeply that I wondered if he had a blowhole in the top of his head and could hold his breath for long periods of time. But eventually he let the air out in a slow, measured breath.

  “Maybe,” he repeated. “But sometime, what they run from, it just follow them until there is no place left to run.” Then, as if wanting to change the subject, he turned his back to us to stamp out the smoldering embers in the fireplace. That’s when I saw that Gunnar himself had run from something. And that something had followed him, leaving him restless and unsettled. I had seen it first in his dark, somber eyes. I had read it in his letter to Emmaline. And just then, as he stamped out the embers, I saw it most clearly in the thick, angry scars that marred his back. He had run from something, but it clung to him and would not let loose.

  21

  Gunnar must have heard my little gasp behind him, because his shoulders stiffened, and he quickly reached for the white shirt beside the fireplace, pulling it on over his scars. Early had seen it just as I had. I was sure he would ask where Gunnar’s scars had come from. Early always asked. He always said whatever was on his mind. But this time, for some reason, Early said nothing. He just reached out, slipping his small, pale hand into Gunnar’s great, weathered one.

  I felt strangely on the outside looking in, but eventually, Gunnar said, “Come. The stew will not keep you full for long, and it is time for your first lesson in survival skills. The Lord say, Put out into the deep and lower your nets for a catch.” Gunnar reached beside the cabin door for a long, slender rod. “But that is only because the Lord, He never been fly-fishing!”

  It was afternoon as we made our way down to the river, accompanied by a running commentary by Ear
ly about whether or not the Lord had actually been fly-fishing.

  “Jesus did have lots of friends who were fishermen,” said Early. “Maybe after Peter fell into the Sea of Galilee, he decided to give up deep-sea fishing and take up fly-fishing in the river Jordan. Jesus and Peter were friends, so they might have gone together. And besides, Jesus wouldn’t have even needed waders, because he could walk on water.…”

  By the time we reached the river and Early had exhausted all his reasons for why fly-fishing might have been a New Testament pastime, the sun was high, casting warmth and shimmering light across the river. Gunnar had his waders on and gave Early and me each a pair, insisting we join him.

  “Fly-fishing is the sport of the thinkers and the dreamers,” Gunnar said. “It is the contemplative man’s recreation.”

  If that was so, I thought Jesus a likely candidate for fly-fishing, but—not wanting to reignite the discussion—I took up my waders and kept quiet.

  The rods were longer than regular rods and had a lot more give to them. The line hung loose, with a bit of colored feather on the end. Gunnar waded into the water and began a long, slow motion with the rod, sending the string and the colored lure gliding through the air and glancing off the water.

  “You see, it is a fluid motion,” Gunnar said. “No herkyjerky of the rod and the reel. The line—it is an extension of yourself. Come,” he said, his arms spread out wide in a gesture of invitation.

  I held the big rubber pants in front of me and felt a tremor of fear as I eyeballed the coursing river. Put your big-boy pants on, my mom would say when I was reluctant or afraid to try something new. The waders reached clear to my chest. These were definitely big-boy pants. I’d better get them on so Early won’t be afraid to do the same. Poor kid has probably never been chest-deep in a river, and he’ll be swallowed up in the waders. I sat down on a rock and pushed and pulled, trying to get the rubbery bottoms on.

  “It’s okay, Early,” I called over my shoulder. “You can stay in the shallow part right by the side. See there—” I grunted, struggling to stand up, only to topple over sideways onto the pebbly bank. I rolled to the left and then to the right, trying to gather enough momentum to hoist myself up. Another couple of tries and I’d be standing.

  “Hang on, Early. I’ll help you as soon as—” I turned to face the river, and there was Early, in full gear, already out in the middle of the stream, casting his lure with the ease and grace of a ballerina. My mouth fell open.

  “Come on in, Jackie,” Early called. Gunnar must have given him a smaller pair of waders, as they seemed to be an appropriate size for Early’s height.

  “What—how—” I sputtered, finally getting to my feet and taking baby steps to make my way into the current.

  “Very good, Mr. Early. You have a fine cast,” called Gunnar.

  “I know. My brother taught me before he went to the war.” Early swished his line back and forth. The motion seemed to take him away somewhere.

  Gunnar’s expression registered what he knew, what we all knew, of the fate of so many of those brothers who went to war. He looked at me, asking the question he didn’t want to say out loud. Did Early’s brother make it back?

  I shook my head in answer. No, Fisher was dead.

  Gunnar allowed the quiet to take over as Early moved farther out into the water and into his own thoughts.

  Finally, Gunnar spoke, his voice so fluid and moving, it could have come from the river itself. “I once hear a poem about angling. It say when you send out your line, it is like you cast out your troubles to let the current carry them away. I keep casting.”

  I liked the sound of that. The river pressed and nudged, each of us responding to it in different ways, allowing it to move us apart and into our own place within it.

  We fished for a couple of hours, the fresh air and cold water easing my aches and pains. Gunnar and Early each had a catch. Then we spent the rest of the afternoon on several more lessons in survival skills and wilderness training: How to start a fire using a mirror and the sun. How to set a trap for an unsuspecting rabbit or squirrel. And, most important, how to track a bear.

  Early and I were eager students and tried our best, but Gunnar frequently shook his head in dismay. Like when I burned a hole in my pants with my fire-starting mirror. Like when Early fell out of a tree in the “What to Do If a Bear Is Chasing You” lesson. And just when I was sure I’d found some bear droppings to track, Gunnar merely popped them in his mouth and said they tasted strangely like blackberries.

  Eventually, I got the feeling that Gunnar’s plan all along was to convince us that we were not ready for a true wilderness adventure. Unfortunately, he was probably right. He finally gave us a reprieve, and just as my stomach was beginning to growl, the stew a distant memory, two beautiful bass were simmering on a spit above the open fire along the river. We ate every bit of them, down to the last shred of meat, leaving barely more than bones and eyeballs.

  Our bellies full, Gunnar, Early, and I sat by the fire as the first stars shone in the night sky.

  “O look at all the fire-folk sitting in the air,” said Gunnar in a dreamy voice.

  “Fire-folk?” I asked, looking around.

  “Yes, have you not heard of the fire-folk? That is what a famous poet—Hopkins, it was—called the stars. Look at the stars! he says. Look up at the skies! O look at all the fire-folk sitting in the air!” His accent was rich and full, lifting each word as if sending it off to float in the night sky.

  I followed Gunnar’s gaze to the stars. “I can name them all. There are the Pleiades.” I pointed to a cluster of bluish stars. “And Orion, the Hunter, is over there. And those five stars that look like a W—that’s Cassiopeia.” I was showing off.

  “How do you know those names?” asked Early.

  “Learned them when I was a little kid. Just picked it up, I guess. My mother wasn’t much into knowing the names of the stars and the constellations.”

  Gunnar grunted, clearly unimpressed with my astronomical knowledge. “No one say anything about knowing the names of the stars. No, the sky, it is not a contest or an exam. The only question is, can you look up? Can you take it all in? As for names of constellations, they are not the be-all and the end-all. The stars, they are not bound one to another. They are meant to be gazed upon. Admired, enjoyed. It is like the fly-fishing. Fly-fishing is not about catching the fish. It is about enjoying the water, the breeze, the fish swimming all around. If you catch one, good. If you don’t … that is even better. That mean you come out and get to try all over again!”

  If Gunnar hadn’t been a big, bald barrel of a man with a strange accent, I’d have thought it was my mother talking.

  Early piped up. “You mean looking at the stars is like looking at clouds? You can come up with different constellations every night?”

  “Ahh, yes. Look up at the skies. What do you see?” asked Gunnar.

  Early scanned the sky. “I see something! Over there.” He pointed. “A boat! Just like the Maine.”

  I followed his finger. There was a cluster of stars that, if you squinted, did look a little like a boat.

  “Oh, sure. Now, let me see,” Gunnar said, rubbing his chin as he looked up. “I see a beaver just there … and a largemouth bass over there, with a very small mouth.” He grinned. “And there”—his voice grew soft and wistful—“those two twinkling stars. I have seen them before. I call those Emmaline’s Eyes.”

  I saw the stars he had pointed to, bright and shining. The sky seemed to draw me in, and I recalled the feeling of fly-fishing in the river earlier that day. The sounds, the pull of the current, the light sparkling on the water like—stars.

  Gazing into Emmaline’s Eyes, I could imagine Gunnar casting his line. I thought of the letter to Emmaline and the scars on Gunnar’s back, visible now beneath his thin white undershirt. I was pretty sure that he had tried to cast his troubles into the river, but things were too jammed up inside and they couldn’t break free.

  “A
nd what do you see, Mr. Jack?”

  I looked at the sky. Searching—for what, I wasn’t sure. Then I saw a cluster of stars in the shape of a circle. Like a ring. It twinkled and shimmered elusively. I pointed to it but couldn’t find it anymore. There one moment and gone the next. Just like my dad.

  I looked harder, for something else. Wanting to see something other than scars and logjams and navigator rings. “I don’t see anything,” I said. But I felt as I had that day in the Nook, when I’d placed my hand on the Maine and been unable to come up with a real wish. Once again, I was left lost and adrift. The silence ended our little star game.

  Early sat next to Gunnar, and without even glancing sideways, he reached over and touched Gunnar’s wide back. Gunnar caught his breath as if something had shocked him. It had probably been a long time since anyone had touched those scars.

  “What happened, Gunnar?” asked Early.

  As Gunnar breathed out, it was as if Early’s touch somehow caused that logjam inside him to shift, and the words began to flow.

  “I was a fighter. A tough kid, sixteen years old, fresh from Norway. I work the docks in Portland, build up strong muscles, and could fell a grown man in three blows. Eventually, I get paid for it. Men make wagers on me. Mr. Benedict, he make me his fighter. He say he pay me good as long as I keep up the winning. That is how I grow up, the only life I know for years. Until I meet Emmaline.

  “I used to see her pass by on her way to the library where she worked. So I start going to the library. She recommend the books, and I take them home so I can bring them back and see her again. It don’t take her long to figure out what’s what.” Gunnar smiled.

  “One day I bring a book for the return. Huckleberry Finn. She ask me, ‘How do you like it?’ I say, ‘Oh, I like it just fine.’ She say, ‘That Mr. Twain, he got some imagination. Whoever hear of a dog named Huckleberry?’ I nod and say, ‘Yes, but that Huckleberry, he is a rascal of a dog.’