Elephant Bangs Train

by William Kotzwinkle

  With the first grey light of dawn, he was outside preparing the dog team. He slipped the lead dog into the harness, then the rest of the dogs in pairs, seven in all, yapping happily.

  'Here's your grub,' said Cook, handing him a filled knapsack, which Constable Turner tied in with his own large travel pack.

  Lieutenant Belfast handed him the long sled whip. 'Take care of yourself, Constable.'

  'Thank you, sir.' Turner saluted, cracked the whip, and before he could say mush! the eager dogs were on their way. Along Red Deer Hill they ran, and then down; Constable Turner looked quickly back over his shoulder but the cabin was already out of sight.

  By the time the sun was noon high, he was beyond the woods he knew, breaking new trail with map and compass, northwest towards Snake Lake. 'Mush, mush!' he cried, whipping the air. The snow flew and Constable Turner's dreams fluttered in brilliant crystal designs, converging into the shape of glistening medals, falling on his jacket.

  At dusk he searched along the ridge of a hill for a campsite, settling finally by a large rock in the side of the hill, out of the driving wind. The sun had gone and the bitter cold of the north came on, penetrating through the several layers of his uniform, deep into his bones.

  He took dry wood from his pack and built a fire against the rock wall. Laying a frying pan on the flame, he thawed out the dogs' dinner of frozen fish. His own dinner followed—warm beef and scorched potato. He heated snow in his cup, turning it to water and then to tea into which he dunked one of Cook's biscuits.

  Dinner ended, the dogs huddled closer to him, chins on paws, ears back, eyes glistening in the firelight. He took a shovel from his pack and dug a hole in the snow. When the hole was large enough for his entire body, he unrolled his sleeping bag into it. Slipping into the bag, he scooped a blanket of snow over himself and lay down. The wind blew over his grave bed. He turned his face into the sleeping bag and the dogs crept closer. The fire collapsed, went to embers, to ashes, and disappeared beneath lightly falling snow.

  Four days he mushed over rolling timberland and on the fifth day came to a low-lying basin of scrub pine. A frozen body of water ran through it, winding like a snake. Above the treetops, he saw smoke curling in the sky.

  Constable Turner tied the dogs to a tree, and removing his rifle from the pack, went forward, along the icy waterway, blending in with the scenery, now a rock, now a tree. The snow was new and made no sound beneath his boots. He followed the snaking lake to its tail. Beyond it, the woods cleared, and in the clearing was a small cabin.

  Circling the cabin, he came up behind it, next to a large storage shed. He crawled through the snow towards the shed, coming up quietly against its back wall. The door of the shed was open.

  He stepped through the doorway. His leg brushed a taut rope, which suddenly gave way. A blur passed over him. He tried to leap away, but was struck on the head and fell to the ground, as a large wire cage slammed down around him, forcing him to his knees. He tried to lift the cage. It was weighted from above, with heavy sacks.

  'Snaffled,' said Constable Turner, struggling to cock his rifle.

  He aimed the rifle at the doorway of the shed and held steady as he could, bent over as he was with his head towards the ground. Performing the duties required of me as a member of the Northwest Mounted Police. He heard the cabin door open and footsteps flopping in the snow towards the shed. Without fear, favour, or affection of or towards any person.

  The footsteps stopped. The wall of the shed was filled with knotholes, through which the sun streamed. He ran his eyes over the wall.

  The footsteps flopped away. Constable Turner lowered his rifle. 'I'll have to break this birdcage to bits,' he said, and kicked and shouldered the cage, ramming it with all his might, but the wire did not yield.

  The afternoon passed slowly and Constable Turner spent it curled in a ball. Darkness fell and he remained in a huddle. The floor of the shed was frozen earth. The walls were hung with animal skins. The wire of the cage was so finely woven he was unable to pass a finger through it. He took pad and pencil from his jacket.

  29 Nov 1909

  Found trapper. Snaffled in fox pen.

  Formulating plan.

  The night wrapped him in. His limbs rattled and his teeth chattered uncontrollably. His nose ached as if it had been struck by a hammer.

  Sleep came and he fought against it, for sleep was deep cold. Teeth and eyes of animals came out of the dark moonlit walls. Terror surrounded him for a moment and then it passed, and he spent the night dumbly dreaming.

  As pale streaks of morning light came across the floor of the shed, Turner was in a crouch, watching the door and the hill, where the grey light was advancing.

  He heard the cabin door open. Across the newly-frosted ground came the crunch of boots. 'Hello!' shouted Turner, with a voice like cracking ice. 'A team of dogs is tied up at the far end of the lake!'

  The footsteps crunched away. Later came the barking of the dogs. Their rough voices grew louder until they were in the snow directly outside Turner's shed. Finally, he heard their satisfied chomping on food.

  'Hello!' he called. 'I am Constable Turner of the Northwest Mounted Police!'

  The dogs growled, tearing at their food. Turner banged against the cage with his fist. 'I am from the Post on Red Deer Hill, outside Saskatoon!'

  An odd, gravelled voice came through the wall of the shed:

  'Horn soup!'

  Then the footsteps crunched through the snow, back to the cabin. Constable Turner sat, staring out the door, his neck bent, and listened to the morning. A rabbit crossed the doorway, looked in for a moment, and hopped away. The sun went along, over the trees, over the shed.

  Night came again and the cold moved deeper into him, like icewater in his veins. The snow owl hooted. The trees gleamed in the moonlight. The wind came through the open door, howling around him. His dream was grey and lonely. He ran across the moonlit snow. Yonder were the Caribou Mountains.

  An iron sound split the air. Turner sat up, looked around. It was morning. The cage was lifted. His rifle was gone. A shadow stood over him, and a gun barrel gleamed.

  'Section 105 of the Criminal Code,' said Constable Turner, standing stiffly. 'Pointing a firearm at a law enforcement officer.'

  'Soup's on,' said the cracked gravel voice, and the shadow walked out of the shed.

  Constable Turner followed numbly through the snow, into the cabin. The cabin held stove, bed, table, chairs. A frying pan sizzled on the stove. The trapper was a small grey-bearded old man with bowed legs, gnarled hands, and a walrus moustache.

  'You're under arrest,' said Constable Turner.

  'Set down,' said the trapper, and turning to the stove, emptied the contents of the frying pan into two plates.

  Constable Turner ate slowly. The trapper sat across from him, shovelling food into a toothless mouth. In a rocking chair near the stove sat an old hound, fat, sleeping. The rocker moved gently back and forth with the dog's breathing.

  'I'm sorry,' said Turner, when dinner was ended, 'but my orders are to take you into Edmonton.'

  'I knew a feller went to Edmonton,' said the trapper, and getting up, walked to his bed table and opened a cigar box. He handed a faded blue envelope to Turner. It was postmarked Edmonton, 1898.

  Turner opened the envelope and removed a single sheet of paper. On it was written, in painfully twisted letters, the words: Made it O.K. Partner Chonkey.

  'Partner Chonkey,' said the old man, putting the letter back in the cigar box. 'Took our fur to Edmonton five-six year ago. Ain't seen his hide since.'

  The trapper cleared the table. His shotgun was leaning against a chair. Get the jump. Turner weighed the move carefully in his mind. The old man was splashing water in a basin. No. Can't jump a man while he's doing your dishes.

  The wind howled against the window. The trapper threw the dishwater out the door. Constable Turner stared around the cabin, looking for relics of madness, but
there was only a moose head on the wall.

  His belly full, fatigue overcame him. Unable to keep his eyes open, he spent the day dozing fitfully in his chair, as the warmth slowly returned to his body. When night came he dragged his chair next to the stove, and extending his feet towards the warmth, tried to formulate a plan. The trapper joined him with his own chair and the two men sat quietly in front of the radiant iron.

  'Reckon Partner Chonkey's comin' back?' asked the trapper.

  'Maybe,' said Constable Turner.

  The light in the cabin was low, held in a glass lamp. Constable Turner watched the shadows dance along the log walls. The shadows leapt, died, leapt again.

  'He ain't never comin' back,' said the trapper, and spit on the stove.

  Constable Turner watched the bright fire through the teeth of the stove. The flames were yellow, tinged with blue, and the stove an iron head.

  'Chonkey danced with the women, I betcher,' said the trapper.

  The moon passed through the window, lighting the frosted glass.

  'Runnin' through the wood,' said the trapper. 'Then you're in water. You know what I mean.'

  'Yes,' said Constable Turner, staring at the frozen window.

  The dog shifted in his chair and it rocked quietly.

  'I kin git those moose to vote,' said the trapper. 'Trot 'em up to Parlemint, git 'em some wigs.'

  Wood fell inside the stove, crackling and spitting. 'Here come the guests,' said the trapper. 'Now jist one thing, Consterble,' he said, touching Turner's sleeve. 'No shootin'. I don't want' guests gittin' winged with silver bullets.' The trapper opened the door of the stove and called into it. 'Come on in, Miss. Please set down.'

  Constable Turner looked into the glowing fire bed. The embers were red and sparks jumped up the stovepipe.

  'This here's the Mountie I was tellin' yer 'bout last night,' said the trapper to the stove. 'Says he's up here for moose. Tryin' to git the vote out, I suppose.'

  The hound jumped off the rocker and walked across the cabin floor to his food dish. The chair rocked back and forth in the moonlight.

  'Ain't cold, air you, Miss?' asked the trapper speaking towards the rocking chair. 'Say, do I hear the Cap'n?'

  He turned back to the stove and opened the iron door once more. 'Thought I heerd yer, sir. Step inside. Glad to have yer with us.' He nudged Constable Turner. 'They're gonna lead me over Caribou Mountain. They been out here a hunnert year, since the territory opened. He come from the sea and she from New Yawk. Pretty, ain't she?'

  'Yes,' said Constable Turner.

  'You betcher,' said the trapper. 'She reminds me o' the gold rush days. A bag o' gold, gents, will buy the vote of any moose!' He stood and walked to the window. Suddenly his voice fell to a whisper. 'Jesus, here come the wolf.' He fell back in his chair, as if shot in the chest. 'He come to git me! Oh boy, he come to take old John away!'

  Turner put his hand on the edge of the trapper's chair. 'Don't worry,' he said. 'I'll take you to a hospital tomorrow.'

  'T'ain't worried,' said the trapper. 'The lady and gent'll take care o' me. They'll take me, Mountie, where I'm bound to go.' He closed his eyes and his head fell forward. 'No hospital, Chonkey,' he said, softly. 'Gubbermint stuff. Party o' seals . . .' His breath came more slowly, grew heavy, and soon he was snoring.

  Constable Turner dragged him across the room and laid him in his bunk. Then he banked the fire for the night, and laying his sleeping bag on the floor beside the stove, crawled inside it.

  The fire crackled softly. The wind moaned in the chimney. Constable Turner closed his eyes and sleep closed him in its shadow. The shadow became a woman with a pale body of ice and hair like the shining snow field. Beside her walked a sailor with a ring in his ear. They made signs to him, and pointed. He looked where they pointed and was tugged towards the stars, into a great hall, where crystal chandeliers were hung. There upon a rocking chair of ice was the trapper, in long underwear, drinking tea.

  Constable Turner came awake in the first grey light and crawled out of his sleeping bag. He opened the stove and stirred the fire, then put the tea kettle back on. A noise came from the old man's bunk.

  'Mornin', son,' said a muffled voice from within a long brown snout. Large antlers rose up from the pillow. The trapper was wearing the moose head. 'Yessir, quite a convention,' said the moose-man, climbing out of bed, the long snout coming directly under Turner's nose. 'Had every moose for miles lined up there.'

  The trapper hung the head back on the wall, and they cooked breakfast, ate, and went outside to feed the dogs. The day was clear and bright. Turner and the trapper stood in the snow, while the huskies barked and tore at the meat. 'Moose meat,' said the trapper.

  'I'm mushing over to Edmonton,' said Constable Turner.

  'Makes yer ears grow,' said the trapper.

  'I can take your furs,' said Constable Turner 'I'll sell them for you and bring back the money and whatever supplies you need.'

  'Much obliged, Consterble,' said the trapper. 'If yer can't trust a Mountie, who can?'

  They walked to the fur shed behind the cabin. 'Watch yer step,' said the trapper, pointing to the trip wire. The cage was back up on the ceiling. 'Glad yer came by,' said the trapper. 'I been waitin' years to spring that thing.'

  They carried the pelts from the shed and loaded them on to the sled. The trapper returned Costable Turner's rifle. 'Say, Consterble, git me a new calendar when yer hit town. Mine's wore out.'

  I'll see you in two weeks,' said Constable Turner, climbing on to the back of the sled. Through the trees he could see the sparkling tail of the Snake.

  'If yer run inter Partner Chonkey, tell him to take care o' hisself. Feller drinks like a moose.'

  Constable Turner cracked the whip, and the weighted team moved off slowly, west from the winding Snake.

  It was six days through level country to Edmonton. Constable Turner sold the furs at a good price, had a hot bath in the hotel, and went down that night to the bar. The old piano was tinkling and the saloon girls smiled at his uniform, but he drank alone by the door, beneath a stained-glass lamp, watching the Indians, miners, trappers and trail bums coming in and stumbling out, into the falling snow.

  Turner drank slowly, turning the whisky glass around in his hand. He took pad and pencil from his pocket.

  15 Dec 1909

  Arrived in Edmonton, without trapper

  Turner laid down his pencil. He knew he was through with the Northwest Mounted Police.

  The following day he turned in the dog team at Fort Edmonton, along with his uniform, and collected his eighteen dollars pay for the month.

  'Where you headed?' asked the Quartermaster.

  'Alaska,' said Turner.

  'Gold, is it?' smiled the Quartermaster.

  Turner bought a rifle and a five-year calendar with the head of a moose painted on it. He replaced his provisions, and started on foot through the snow fields, towards Snake Lake.

  Two weeks later he came to the glistening Snake's tail, and walked along its frozen shore. Atop the tail, the cabin came into view. The chimney did not signal, however, and when he opened the door, the stove did not greet him with heat.

  He took off his pack and cooked dinner. Evening shadows were falling across the lonely clearing. He hung the moose calendar on the wall. The moose head was gone.

  He sat for a while in front of the stove, and then stretched out on the trapper's small bed. Exhausted, he fell quickly asleep. He awoke later in the night, when the moon had climbed the window ledge. Its pale ray was deceptive, and for a moment he thought he saw four figures in it—a woman in white, a sailor, an old hound, and a moose on two legs, walking over Caribou Mountain pass.

  Soldier in the Blanket

  THE MUZZLE of a small machine gun stuck out from behind the floor lamp. A brass cannon fired; a shell floated through the air, knocking the machine gunner on the head. A tank rolled over the rug. 'O.K., men, here she comes,' said the b
oy.

  The front door bell rang.

  It was Annette, the beautiful girl.

  'Hi, Jeff.' Her perfume floated over the battlefield. The tank banged into her foot, tried to crawl up her ankle. The little man in the turret rose up and aimed a rifle at her, then sank back down.

  Mother came into the room. 'Hello, Annette.'

  'Hello, Mrs. Kaye.'

  'I hope you brought a nightie. We'll be out late.'

  He collected the soldiers into a box and carried them through the kitchen, into the cold spare room where toys were kept.

  He played on the painted linoleum, in the Hi Diddle Diddle square. First he became the dark sky. Then he was the white moon, laughing. Finally, the smiling cow.

  Annette came in. 'Playing Hi Diddle Diddle?'

  'No,' he said.

  'We're going now,' said Mother, kissing him on the forehead. Father jingled keys in the doorway. He watched them through the window, following their red tail lights up the dark street.

  'Want to play Uncle Wiggley?' asked Annette.

  Around the board he chased her, under the log and into the hole, and at the end he passed her.

  'Nuts,' she said.

  The door bell rang again. Annette went to answer it.

  He heard another girl's voice. He climbed on the black horse and rocked along the secret trail. Invisible riders came over the plain of squares. Recognizing them, he waved and called. Through the white room, past the windows, on dancing horses they rode.

  'Jeffrey, this is Gloria.'

  He climbed off the hobby horse and walked away.

  'He's shy,' said Annette.

  On the bench along the wall lay Pinocchio in a heap of wooden limbs and strings. He lifted the long-nosed boy and walked him along the bench. Shadows fell on the wall, like a man and his son. The girls left the room and began talking.

  He walked to the Old King Cole square in the centre of the linoleum, where he kept his throne. He climbed into it. An airplane passed over in the night. The voices of the girls seemed far away. He felt himself falling through space, with a chute opening behind him.