Ally Oop Through the Ulysses Trees

by Lenny Everson

  Between donuts, Sammy offered opinions on everything, and never positive. It's just as well he's young and tough, Lester thought. Otherwise I'd be tempted to shoot him some days. Accidentally, of course.

  Sammy, on the other hand, saw Lester as an uptight asshole with a better-than-thou attitude. But Lester was a brother SEAL, so Sammy cut him a lot of slack.

  They drove south, looking at fields and old farms among the hills. "Lots of apple trees," Sammy noted.

  "I wanted to see this place in apple blossom time," Lester said, grateful that he could keep the windows open, what with Sammy's flatulence problem. Mind you, he had to stop every half hour to pee behind a bush. Must do something about that prostate, he decided again.

  "What's in apple blossom time?" Sammy asked.

  Lester handed him a lined paper bag; when Sammy ate too many donuts, he had a tendency to bring up, especially on winding roads. Whatever your feelings, you look out for brother SEALs.

  "Song I heard once."

  "Andrews Sisters?" Sammy wasn't as slow as he pretended.

  Lester shook his head. "I like the one by a guy called Aengus Finnan. I think he lives somewhere around here.

  Sammy just grunted, and looked a bit queasy.

  ****

  Toronto

  Button Day

  Gabriel Dumont slept that night in a ravine, beside the tent of a guy named Jake, from Newfoundland. "I'm crazy," Jake told him.

  "That's okay," Dumont said, "I'm Gabriel Dumont and I've been dead for years." He handed Jake an apple.

  "Sure. Thanks. Sorry to hear about that rebellion. And Riel."

  "Thanks. Can I curl up somewhere around here? It's getting dark."

  "Sure. I've got a spare blanket, if you don't mind the smell. You can sleep over there."

  Dumont said, "You're the first person I've met who smelled like a real human." That seemed to so please Jake that the guy from Bay Roberts shared a can of stew with the guy from the coulees.

  The next morning Gabe followed the land downhill – that was the way to go if you didn't know where you were, until he could see towers. Then he headed towards the tallest buildings he could see above the rooflines.

  He ended up that day on a park bench on King Street, totally pissed off. Damned if he knew why he was here or even where he was.

  Last thing he remembered of his previous life, he’d been dying in North Battleford. Some kind of deaths you can do without, but at least with two religions – neither of which had served him well in life – he'd had some curiosity as his breathing stopped and the blackness rolled in.

  If this was heaven, then somebody’d lied to him. Not that that was any sort of surprise.

  He sat still, taking it all in. The cars he figured out quickly enough. He’d never seen things like that before he croaked, and judging by appearances a fair amount of time had passed since. That pissed him off even more, since his only dying wishes had been to see Madeleine again and to flatten Sir John A’s balls with a hammer. One at a time. But unless the former prime minister was here, too, it looked like that was off.

  And there was no sign of Madeleine.

  Pedestrians went by steadily, mostly giving only a corner of an eye to his buckskin and cowboy hat, as well as his long beard and hair. Clean and colorful these Toronto people were, which made it even more unusual that nobody gave him a longer look. Sobriety must have overtaken civilization, and short clothes. Two young women, dressed for the heat, went by. He checked his dick; nothing happening there, so this wasn’t heaven or he was missing something.

  Semi-naked women and a dick that didn’t seem interested. This was either purgatory or he’d skipped right to hell. That, he figured, was what he got for hanging around Louis Riel and the religion Riel had invented. Still, it was a better hell than the priests had warned him about.

  It was hot, but not as hot as hell should have been, so he slid along the bench to a shady part, then took off the buckskin jacket and set his hat beside him. It was obvious from the looks that he almost got that his shirt wasn’t the clean one he’d been buried in. He didn’t know it then, but it gave him a look of authenticity that a lot of other homeless men didn’t have. A couple of people slowed and dropped some coins into his hat, which surprised him. Somehow he’d got to be a street bum.

  He fished a coin out of the hat and looked at it. Golden, but not gold. Must be a lot of fakery going on in this place, or these people weren’t all that bright. Canada dollar, it said on one side, around a picture of a loon. That was a useful piece of information. Maybe the country was run by loons. Maybe things hadn’t changed all that much.

  He turned it over. There was a picture of a queen on the front, and he first assumed it was Victoria, which would have been a bit illogical. Elizabeth second, queen by grace of God, it also said. Victoria must have started a trend.

  2004, it told him. Unless the locals had taken to giving away antique coins or they had figured out it wasn’t gold after all, this local time had to be 2004 or no more than a few years after. Sometime after 2008, according to a little ten-cent piece with a picture of a sailboat on the back. Loons. Sailboats. Water-loving bastards, obviously.

  Another coin dropped into his hat. His first thought was that these people were rich beyond belief; in his day a dollar would get a night in a hotel and a couple of glasses of beer. But somehow he knew people weren’t that generous, even in this city.

  Another fellow sat down on the bench. “Getting much?” he asked.

  “Wasn’t intending to beg,” Dumont said, still watching the people going by. He did like the bright colors. “I took my damn hat off because it was hot, and some people threw money in it.” He shook his head. “That supposed to happen?”

  Not to us Injuns,” he said. “People think we should be back on the rez. White beggars get all the money in Toronto. You native?”

  Dumont turned to look at the guy. He had his dark hair in a long braid. “I'm Métis,” Dumont said.

  “No status?”

  “I'm not sure what that means," Gabe told him, “but I’m pretty sure I don’t have any, unless you count 'revolutionary traitor'.”

  The other guy looked at him a bit funny. “Bill Johnson,” he said, extending his hand. “Muskrat Dam First Nation.”

  He shook his hand. “Gabriel Dumont. From somewhere west of Winnipeg.”

  “Well,” Bill said. If you’re going to be Métis, that’s a pretty good name to have, I guess.”

  “You think so? There was a time when Gabriel Dumont was a face the mounties wanted.”

  “Mounties,” Bill said. “They got other problems. You were named after the hero of the Métis. Or did you just take that name?”

  “It’s my name, alright,” Gabe told him. “Any Métis in this place? Toronto, is it?”

  “Lots of Métis, or at least mixed bloods, in Toronto. Lots of us Injuns, too. Lots of lost people.” He shook his head. “You pick up another dollar and you and I can have a beer this afternoon.”

  “Best plan I’ve heard in the last century or so,” Gabe said. More young women went by, but only one woman pushing a baby in some sort of wheeled device. He sat and thought about things, but nothing made sense. Lot of people here considering they didn't seem to reproduce much.

  On the other hand, nothing had made sense in his last life, either. For the moment, this was at least more relaxing than running a rebellion or working in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. He had a lot of questions to ask Bill Johnson, but, as usual, he decided to just wait and learn what he could from looking. On the other hand…. “What’s a beer cost in this town?” he asked.

  “I know a couple of places you can get a glass for three bucks, but the company can get rough. Maybe not for you; you look white enough and tough enough.”

  That was information.

  A young woman with red hair and a bright blue dress stopped in front of the bench, and looked around, as if puzzled. Bill and Gabe kept her in the corner of their eyes in the old
fashion, staring at the vehicles going by. She turned towards the two and looked at both of them in turn, stopping with her gaze on Bill. “You,” she said, “have a water soul, and swim through the streets like a silver fish in a creek that’s gone muddy from last week’s rain. You like this other guy, but you don’t trust him, which is a pretty reasonable thing, all things considered.”

  “You consider all things?” Gabe asked.

  “All that fate allows.” She eyed him. “There’s something odd about you being here now. It feels like you don’t have a soul. Just a body. That’s kind of different. First zombie I've ever met. You eat brains?

  "I've eaten buffalo brains. Does that count? You a witch?” he asked, “Or just crazy?

  “That’s not for you to know.” She eyed him for a long time, which is a white person’s idea of being an asshole, then said, “I am Olnya Light.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said. Some people walked over and threw paper money into his hat.

  “You’ll be seeing me when you need help.”

  “What about Bill, here,” I asked.

  “His paths are already set. Any help would just muddy his streams, but if he hangs around you he’ll get some anyway.” She smiled a really big smile, and walked off.

  “This normal?” Gabe asked Bill.

  “Not to me. Was going to ask you the same question.” He shook his head, looking at the ground. “Crazy bunch, these white people.”

  “Sure as fuck got that right,” Gabe said, looking around some more. “What’s that building?” he asked, pointing to a rather large structure behind them.

  “City hall.”

  “Supposed to be a wonderful design?”

  Bill laughed. “Everybody said so when they built it. Now most people think it looks old and stupid.”

  “And that old building?” It looked like something Sir John would have liked. A couple more coins came his way.

  “Old city hall. 1889.”

  "Ah, then. Lets go get a beer."

  Bill smiled. "Now you're talking. I'll show you the ropes in this town. Where to get food and a place to sleep."

  "I'd appreciate that."

  ****

  Brighton

  Along Popham Bay

  Button Day

  Some time after midnight that night Laura woke. She checked the doors and windows – they were all secure. Restless, she went onto the deck to listen to the waves come in, and to imagine she could see High Bluff Island. The clouds broke and a waning moon came through. She squinted; there was a two-masted sailing ship, moving alike it was driven by a storm. Which was unusual, because it was a calm night under the moonlight. The ship hit the shore, and Laura could hear a faint screaming as people tumbled off it. Then it vanished.

  It took Laura more than three hours to fall asleep, and she slept till nine.

  ****

  Chapter 6: September 18

  This day is calm and bright.

  Day after Button Day

  ****

  Trenton, Ontario

  At the Skyline Restaurant.

  Day after Button Day

  They met in downtown Trenton. Laura was sitting at a table in the Skyline Tavern and Steakhouse when Jag walked in. She seemed genuinely glad to see him.

  He smiled broadly when he sat down, but she hesitated before saying, "Good to see you, Jag."

  They made small talk until the meals came, a steak for him and a Greek salad for her. Then she said, "There's something wrong, isn't there. Can you tell me about it?"

  He hesitated. "Tammy called me this afternoon." When Laura tilted her head, he added. "My ex-wife."

  "How long have you been separated?" Laura asked, watching him carefully.

  "A year and a half, give or take a bit."

  "It's hard," she said. "I know. It's been eight years for me, and it still hurts. What did she want?" A pause as Laura looked at her salad. "If you want to tell me, that is. It's none of my business."

  "She said she wanted to see how I was." He put his fork down, then picked it up and finished the piece of meat on the end. "She sounded concerned."

  "Have you given her reason to be concerned?"

  He shook his head. "I haven't spoken to her since she left me. The kid visits me from time to time, but they don't talk about her when they do."

  "So it was sudden." She scanned the dessert menu.

  He almost said something. Then he flagged the waiter down. He ordered a coffee and she ordered a slice of chocolate cake. When the waiter had gone, he spoke. "I was with the forces in Afghanistan," he said. She said nothing.

  "I met an old friend today, a guy named Cope," he said, "Oscar Copeman. He was with the intelligence people, trying to figure out what the Taliban were doing. We were with a patrol out in some little place on the outskirts of Kabul, checking out the area." He looked at her directly, but his eyes were focused further away.

  "A car came down a side street and suddenly turned towards us. I was just raising my gun to warn the driver not to get too close when I saw there was a woman in the passenger seat and three kids in the back. So I hesitated. The people around there generally know the score."

  "A mistake?"

  "Cope was armed. Even intelligence people carry weapons out there. He was about twenty feet away, and he put a bullet through the driver's head."

  She said nothing.

  He focused on her as their orders came. "Saved my life. And most of the rest of us, too. The wife and kids were dummies; clothes stuffed with straw. The car coasted towards us and came to a stop against a pole. It contained enough explosives to leave a very big hole, if he'd managed to set them off."

  "Impressive. You owe Cope one, I guess. But I was never a soldier."

  "Less than two years ago I was a cop in Toronto. Got out of the service after we got out of Afghanistan. It was about midnight in a little industrial park and a couple of cars were there for a burglar alarm. We'd cornered a car with a couple of young men in it, and had them up against the wall. We took guns off them. A guy named Brian and I were just going back to our car when from behind the machine shop this other car comes out. Instead of running for the street, the car suddenly turns and comes right towards us." He paused, and his hand shook a bit. She watched him, stopped eating the cake.

  "Maybe he was trying to scare us away," Jag continued," so his friends could escape. I don't know." A sigh. "I don't even remember drawing my pistol, but I put five shots through the windshield. Killed the little bugger dead." He sipped his coffee. "You understand, they said we could probably have got out of the way. Or fired a warning shot. The kid…. He was sixteen, and very much of a different ethnic group than me."

  She nodded. "That's the way things go sometimes. When you need time to think, you don't get it."

  "In less than a week I was home, while the media and the brass decided what to do with me. Tammy read the papers for a couple of days, without speaking much to me, then packed her bags and left. The kids were already grown and gone, so the house went quiet real quick. That's the last I heard from her till today."

  "Brighton's a refuge?"

  "Got a job here through a friend."

  "You miss her?"

  "I waited for months for the phone to ring. I couldn't think straight. I kept thinking I saw her or her car when I didn't."

  "The nights go on forever," Laura said, watching her plate.

  "I couldn't listen to love songs," he said, or keep track of where I'd put things. Does it get easier after eight years?"

  She nodded. "Some of it does. You learn to like being alone."

  "But you're here."

  "I am."

  "You give me hope," he said.

  "And that's a hopeful sign," she said. "Are you going to call Tammy back?"

  "I don’t think so. Probably not. I don’t want to."

  "Shall I spend the night at your place?"

  "I'd like that," he said.

  "Me, too," she said. "I'll leave the Cherokee at the cottage
. You can pick me up there."

  When she got to the cottage, there was a phone message waiting for her. It was from Tom.

  ****

  Brighton

  Along Popham Bay

  Day after Button Day

  Lester and Sammy didn't stay long at the boat that evening. "Things are happening," Sammy said, biting carefully into a chocolate donut.

  Lester said nothing. He just looked over his glasses at Sammy.

  "I mean," Sammy said, "we've been spotted by the Canadians, and we know where they've probably got their headquarters." He opened a can of Pepsi. "At that cottage on the bay," he said into the silence.

  "You think?" Lester was making a salmon sandwich to go with a glass of milk.

  "Oh, yeah. Whatever we're supposed to watch for is in that bay, and we find a link to a cottage with a good view of the bay. What else would you say?"

  "Actually, for a change, I think you're right."

  "Well?"

  "Let's call the chief." Lester opened the laptop, connected an antenna, and wrote a question about Oscar Copeman and the Brighton branch of the Ontario Provincial Police. He hit Ctrl-B-Enter to send it off in a coded microburst.

  The answer came back in fifteen minutes. Oscar Copeman was with CSIS. Jagger Stone, now with the local police, was an intelligence officer and known associate of Copeman. No record of a female intelligence officer at the moment.

  "Damn, they're fast," Lester said.

  "You old farts," Sammy offered. "I was wondering what took them so long."

  Lester pointed at the screen. "They're moving the urgency level up a couple of notches and telling us to be careful." He shook his head. "We're supposed to be careful when we don't know what we're supposed to be doing here."

  "And they want us to do it faster." Sammy put his feet onto the table.

  "Usual crap."

  "Let's go stake out that girl's cottage."

  "Hide in the bushes all night? It's getting dark, soon. And cold. Sure."

  "Nah. Let's get into the cottage next door."

  Lester thought a bit. "Okay. We'll drive by and see if it's possible, anyway."

  It took them twenty minutes. The green Jeep was still in the driveway. Lester slowed the car, and Sammy gripped a bag in case he threw up again.

  The cottage next door was larger, with a silver Camry parked in the driveway and lights showing through the windows. The two cottages were within shouting distance. Lester slowed a bit, then backed up and drove in behind the Camry. "C'mon," he told Sammy," and walked up to the front door. He tapped lightly, and waited for it to open.