Worlds Between

by Nordgren, Carl;

  “It brought Sky Woman great happiness to accept this invitation from Great Sea Turtle—”

  Grace O’Malley reached up to pull her da’s head close for her whisper. “Old George is telling a story about a lot of rain. And about a turtle.”

  “—She sent word to all the water animals that survived the flood asking for their help. When they gathered around she asked them to fetch her some mud from the bottom of the deep flood waters for she needed this mud to rebuild earth on the back of Great Sea Turtle’s shell.

  “All of the animals that heard her call came to help her. First Otter dove into the deep floodwaters. Otter was under water for a very long time, but when he surfaced he was out of breath. He failed to find the bottom.”

  Again Grace O’Malley whispered. “Nigig is Otter.”

  “Then it was Beaver’s turn to try. He dove down deep into the water. He swam deeper than he had ever gone before. But he could not find the bottom, so Beaver had to return to the surface of the water exhausted.

  “Then Loon tried. She called out and then slipped into the water. She dove deeper and deeper, but it got too dark and too cold for her to continue her search so she returned without any mud for Sky Woman.

  “That is when Muskrat offered to try. All the other animals laughed at him, for they knew little Muskrat was not as strong as they were.

  “Muskrat pretended he didn’t hear their laughter, and he dove into the floodwaters. He swam deep into the cold and dark water, deeper and deeper he went. He was down there a long long time. Muskrat was down there so long that the other animals stopped laughing. He was down there so long the other animals became afraid for he was underwater much longer than any of them had been.

  “Sky Woman and the other animals were just giving up hope when Muskrat’s body rose to the surface and floated there in the water, as still as death. All of the animals gathered around Muskrat. They watched as Sky Woman breathed life into Muskrat. That is when it was discovered that Muskrat had found the bottom of the deep, deep floodwaters, for there was a small bit of mud in his paws.

  “Sky Woman used this mud to rebuild the earth on Great Sea Turtle’s shell. And to show her thanks Sky Woman gave all turtles the gift of understanding the speech of all Great Creator’s creatures. And that is why all Ojibway and our brothers of the Three Fires call this place Turtle Island.”

  When Brian checked, he found his daughter was fast asleep, a smile on her lips.

  Chapter 6

  Departures and Arrivals

  The Burkes lived in a modest townhouse in Kenora. It was the night before Brian and Grace O’Malley would leave it for the fishing shows in Chicago. Brian was in the bedroom finishing his packing while Maureen checked to make sure Grace was sleeping. Brian and Maureen had begun sipping before supper—the Irish for him, wine for her—and each had kept a glass close by throughout the evening, so they would be fueled just right by the flirting it brought on, teased and tuned just right for the late night love making Maureen still called their heroic fuck, the sort of sex they always attempted to mark a departure or return, to celebrate a success or the anniversary of one.

  Most often they did accomplish some version of what they wanted to achieve; delighted at the start and carried away by all their many variations of energetic going in and coming out and then the long sprint of the back stretch, each of them lost to all but the both of them together at the great convergence then emergence of bliss.

  Brian put on his robe and shuffled in the dark to the bathroom down the hall, then headed to the living room bar for one last nip. When he returned to bed, Maureen had lit two candles, for Grace had climbed into their bed and was already sleeping curled next to her mother. He looked down at them in the soft light.

  “Our Grace has your grace.”

  “Fueled by your fire.”

  Brian settled into bed next to them.

  “Since you know our itinerary an’ we won’t know yours, it’s you who has to call us, an’ regularly.”

  “I will.”

  He gently took her arm.

  “Regularly.”

  “I will.”

  “Frequently an’ regularly.”

  “I will.”

  “If the IRA don’t blow up all the telephone lines with their next god damned—”

  “It’s a smart move their part, effective, an’ no casualties.”

  “A smart move? A smart move? When someone figures out a great way to rob a bank, you gonna credit thugs with makin’ smart moves?”

  “You promised me, Bri.”

  “I’m sorry. Yes, I promised you. I’m angry that’s all.”

  “Angry? How can you be angry after what we just did wit’ each other an’ with our Gracie girl lyin’ between us?”

  “I’m still angry you ain’t comin’ to Chicago.”

  “Well take care, because when you call them thugs then I have to say, ‘So if they’re thugs, what’s the proper label for what the Brits are?’ an’ then we’re off on an all-night argument again.”

  Brian took her in his arms.

  “I said I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m scared, Lady Girl. I don’t want you anywhere ‘round Derry, an’ I’m angry at anyone an’ everythin’ that threatens ya, so.”

  “The IRA threat is aimed at the illegal forces of British occupation, not the Irish. Not the true Irish.”

  Brian pulled the covers up over their daughter.

  “When Grace O’Malley Burke was born in a wigwam this place became her home. She’s Canadian. An’ she’s rooted me so deep here I don’t even think about all that drama anymore.”

  “You got children there as well.”

  “Livin’ free in Dublin an’ Cong, an’ inclined to think about me only when I ask them to… An’ for good or for ill they don’t care so much about the Six Counties neither, not like we all did once upon a time.”

  “Just so, you respect I still do an’ will ‘til the Brits are gone.”

  “Go get your mum an’ bring her home with you an’ maybe you’ll find you can care a bit less.”

  “I’ll bring her back if she’ll come, but what you’re askin’ me to do beyond that, I hear it as forgettin’ those heroes who died for—”

  Brian held her tight to his big chest, just the way she liked it.

  “I said I was sorry.”

  “I’ll be thinkin’ of this moment the whole time.”

  “Just come back to us as soon as you can.”

  They were at the Kenora Airport, loading luggage into the brand new de Havilland Otter rented to them for the trip. The plane was bright red, with gold trim, the interior set up with plush seats, a more deluxe package than the bush plane NOA was buying. Maureen settled Grace into her seat next to Little Stevie, behind the pilot and co-pilot’s chairs, and in front of Mary. Maureen was strapping a seat belt around her daughter and tucking picture books close at hand, and barely holding back her tears.

  “You an’ Little Stevie will have a grand adventure.”

  Grace O’Malley reached against the constraints of the seat belt to hug her mother.

  “I want you to come.”

  Maureen had hugged her daughter all morning; they were parting for the first time, and this last hug released the first tears that she’d been fighting since dawn.

  “Da is with you—” The deep sadness in her voice surprised her. She leaned back to include Mary with her comment.

  “—and if ever ya need Mary to be your Mum, she’ll hold you in her arms.”

  “Azhegiiwe. Until your mother returns.”

  Brian was settling into the co-pilot’s chair and Maureen turned to him for respite. She wiped the tears before she leaned forward with her elbows on the back of each chair, then rested the side of her head on Brian’s for a moment before she stood as tall as the ceiling allowed.

  “I picture Mary an’ the children at the hotel an’ you showin’ Dutch the blues joints.”

  “An’ Greek town.”

  “Make sure he
takes you to Halsted Street, Dutch.”

  “Make you wish you were comin’ with us?”

  “Actually, it does.”

  “There’s an empty seat back there, an’ you’re already packed.”

  She cut him off with a kiss, hugged each of them one last time, and then left, slamming the fuselage door shut and checking twice that it was closed tight.

  Dutch taxied to position to await his clearance. The snow was packed high along all the runways, the wind was gusting, it was bitterly cold, but Maureen stayed outside on the hanger apron where they had loaded the Otter, and watched the plane take the runway, set itself, then accelerate into a smooth take off. As soon as the plane was safely up and away, she left, shivering.

  That afternoon Maureen returned to the airport to take the commercial flight to Winnipeg to make her connection to New York, to fly to Dublin, where she planned to hire a car for the trip to the North, to Derry, to call on her mother.

  And to see Kevin.

  Joe Loon and Simon were bundled with layers and their warmest coats for the coldest weather, for nights below zero and days below freezing. Around their necks and tucked under their layers they wore their magic in small leather pouches. Simon broke the way in the deep snow for Joe Loon as they snowshoed single file through the trees. Joe Loon had the clan’s rifle strapped to his pack. Simon had a small killing club hanging from his rope belt. Their traps hung from slings across their shoulders, down their backs, and from their waists.

  They followed Joe Loon’s trap line as it ran up from the River along a feeder stream. After Mathew Loon was shot they named it Three Kill Creek, when someone recalled that the winter before he died Mathew Loon caught a beaver in each of his first three traps the first day he set them.

  They set four traps, sized and placed for beaver.

  So far north in winter the useful day was short and they worked it steadily so they could be back at their cabin by nightfall. The next day, at first sun, they would walk the trap line again, checking for success.

  The Otter’s approach to Chicago took them along the shore of Lake Michigan. When they saw the city rising on the horizon Brian called the children to come sit in his lap so he could tell them stories of the amazing castles the people of Chicago have built.

  “The first people to live here were brothers to the Ojibway called the Potawatomie. They named this place Chee Kwa Gwa.”

  As they flew along the lakeshore approaching the great cityscape, Brian pointed out the Wrigley Building and Tribune Tower. Brian and Maureen had visited the Tribune Tower during one of their previous trips, and he told Dutch what he remembered.

  “When it was built they gathered stones from historic places ‘round the world, an’ used them in the buildin’ of it. They’ve used stone from the Great Wall of China, from the Coliseum in Rome, from the Cathedral at Notre Dame, places of that sort, yeah. I guess they figured sacred stone would glorify their office buildin’.”

  “It looks to be a pretty glorious office building.”

  “One thing I’ve learned running our camp, you can always count on Americans bein’ American.”

  “That’s a comforting thought, actually.”

  “I guess it is.”

  “What about the Irish?”

  “The Irish?”

  “Can you count on the Irish always being Irish—yes, this is Canadian Registry CA two two four, approaching at…”

  Before Maureen left the Dublin Airport in her rented car, she called the shop nearest her mother’s cottage with a telephone, a shop that took messages delivered by the shop lad, and word was sent that Maureen had arrived and was on her way.

  But first, she drove into the city, and parked on a street between Kevin’s store and his townhouse; the store was closed and the townhouse empty. She found a telephone box and called the last Dublin number she had for Kevin, but no one answered.

  She returned to her car and headed to the North, crossing the border into the Six Counties on the road from Dundalk to Newry, the road that headed to Portadown. When she arrived in Portadown she stopped at a public phone box and rang a local number. She had used this phone box for similar purposes years before.

  After a few rings a man answered.

  “Was a time I used this number to leave a message.”

  “Who’s the message for?”

  “Kevin.”

  “Kevin?”

  “If I did so now, would he be gettin’ it?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “An’ when might that be?”

  “Tomorrow’s even’.”

  “Can’t get it to him tonight?”

  “Don’t know I can get it to him t’all.”

  “But you will try.”

  “The message?”

  “Lady Girl is visitin’ Mum.”

  “Lady Girl is visiting Mum.”

  “For Kevin, yeah.”

  “So why is Lady Girl visiting Mum?”

  “Thanks for your help.”

  Meigs Field was a single strip airport on a man-made, offshore island in Lake Michigan. Dutch obtained clearance and set the Otter down smoothly.

  As they taxied in Brian patted Dutch’s shoulder and thanked him for the great flight. Dutch smiled and said, “Airports on a constructed island today, Halstead Street blues later. That’s Americans being American.”

  “Poetry, an’ songs for martyrs of lost causes.”

  “What?”

  “That’s Irish being Irish.”

  Maureen stopped again, in Omagh, and rang a second number. The man who answered told her to stay near the phone box; he’d ring her right back, for he thought he knew where Kevin was.

  It was thirty minutes later before the phone rang; Maureen had just begun to wonder if she should leave.

  “Kevin will meet Lady Girl at Lough Neagh, tomorrow. At the same place and time of day they met there before. He asks you to confirm Lady Girl will be there.”

  “Lough Neagh, tomorrow. At the same place an’ time of day they met there before. Lady Girl will be there.”

  It was late at night when Maureen pulled off the road that continued north to Derry, onto the side road that led to her family cottage. Her mother lived there alone now. They fixed a pot of tea, set out biscuits and a bit of cold meat. Maureen found the feel of her father was still there, and she was glad. His picture on the mantle; his pipes in the rack sat on the shelf; his smell was gone but a sense of how he stood in the room remained; and he was at the table with them while her mother spoke about family members.

  When Maureen told stories about Grace O’Malley and her new friend, the famous American writer Ernest Hemingway, she found she was speaking to her mum and her da.

  Maureen realized how exhausted she was, kissed her mother good night, and she curled up in the bed she had slept in as a child; she listened for the sounds her da had made as he puttered about the cottage at night, and she heard them.

  A car passed by her mother’s cottage in the early morning, slowed a moment when the driver found what he was looking for—a hired car parked in the yard—and then it drove on.

  Joe Loon and Simon returned from Three Kill Creek with one beaver and their traps dangling and jangling. Joe Loon skinned the beaver and gave it to Naomi to prepare the meat for roasting. Then they checked their gear, and supplies, for they would leave again, the next day, to find the big beaver, and they would be in the winter forests for two or three days before they’d return.

  It was just after dawn, in County Atrim, the sun still low over the North Channel and Rathland Island. Two men found each other just above the basalt columns of the Giants Causeway. One offered the other a cigarette and they turned their backs against the open water breezes to light up, cupped hands for two on a match.

  “When I realized who it was asking after Kevin Coogan I told Trevor to keep checking the O’Toole cottage, to drive by and keep an eye on any happenings. He found her hired car there early this morning.”

  “Have you actually lai
d eyes on her?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Do any of your fellas claim to have actually laid eyes on her?

  “Not yet.”

  “Then you don’t know if it’s her car, and you don’t even know if she’s returned. I can’t pass this on to Stormont until we’re sure. The last of the London Bombers is what they call her, and this means too much to them for me to be wrong.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I can’t be sure until you’ve seen her.”

  “A bird calls an old IRA contact to say she’s looking for Kevin and she says to tell him she’s visiting her mum. That night a hired car from Dublin shows up at Donovan O’Toole’s cottage. And you’re not sure. I gotta say, what the feck.”

  “This is too important to them. They’ll ask me if I have positive eye witness confirmation it’s her, and right now you haven’t given it to me.”

  “So you won’t be paying me my money.”

  “You haven’t earned it yet.”

  “My fellas, as you call them, is all of them expecting me to come back with the money.”

  “Sounds like you’re disappointing the lot of us.”

  “You know Jerry, you were a bastard as a lad and it’s sure nothing has changed.”

  “Ah ha, but don’t I remember as a lad you being a feckin’ Fenian and so now everything’s changed with you turning on them.”

  “I haven’t changed. It’s the time that’s changed. Any chance of driving the British out of here is long past. I realize it. They haven’t.”

  Maureen stood behind her mother’s cottage watching the sunrise. She turned when she heard her mother knocking about inside and went in. When she announced the trip she would be taking later in the day, to meet Kevin, she didn’t mention anything about its purpose: to find her father’s murderer.