“I could leave the door open a little, put the chair back where it was. You’re in the room without anyone knowing it.”
Maureen smiled. “You remember Joe Loon?”
“Of course.”
“Then you remember he doesn’t speak English an’ understands little. He tells Brian what he learns about who a white man is mostly comes from listenin’ to what sort a sound he makes, what his voice sounds like when he is surprised, or when he is callin’ out to his friends. Oh, an’ especially when all day long his friend is catchin’ fish an’ he isn’t, Joe Loon tells us that what the voice sounds like at the end of that day tells him everythin’ worth knowin’ about a man.”
“Well, get comfortable in there, for a number of these are the sorts that like the sounds they’re making with their voices.”
As the long dusk approached early night fall, Joe Loon and Simon arrived at the small snow covered wigwam that Joe Loon’s father built with his father in the old times when he first trapped this watershed forest—someone from the clan visited it almost every summer to make sure it was ready for a winter visit, and over the years the repairs had nearly rebuilt the structure. They dug the snow from the wigwam door and piled it around the outside of the shelter to help keep them warm inside; they collected firewood, and then they settled in for the long winter night.
Simon started a small fire in the wigwam’s fire pit while Joe Loon set out some of the food Naomi packed for them.
From out of the dark shadows Trapper leaned forward, enjoying the fire’s warmth.
Before they ate, Joe Loon thanked the spirits of this place, then the spirit of Marten, then the spirit of Beaver. He asked the spirit of Beaver to recognize him, to know him as the man who never takes too many of the big beaver wherever he finds them, and to guide him the next morning when they continue on to the new lake that hides the shore of the River.
He reminded the spirit of Beaver that their ancestors had lived together since the earliest of days. He told the spirit of Beaver that for the old ways to continue they must continue to live the old ways, and that he was there to stay true to them. Then he thanked the ancestors, and they ate.
Later, as they slept, Trapper was still praying, to the spirit of Beaver.
Maureen took a pillow from the couch, pen and paper from the desk, and settled into a corner of the tight closet a few minutes before Kevin expected the first man to arrive. When the man arrived Kevin invited him to sit in the chair in front of the closet door. His voice sounded familiar to Maureen as he talked with Kevin about a hurling match he recently attended. The next two men offered strangers’ voices and the topic was still hurling, though a different match.
The fourth voice, again a new one to Maureen’s ear, brought an elaborate and long-winded story about an arrest of one of their men. Maureen didn’t know any of the names he mentioned as he told his story, and it was hard for her to determine the significance of it, for the man telling the story found it quite important, but the others decidedly less so, or perhaps they had grown bored as the telling of it dragged on and on, with every small detail shared, then revisited.
She hoped to hear Kevin asking about her da, but what followed were generally confused voices as two men introduced a recent rumor of infiltration that others outside this group had shared with them, and now all of them seemed determined to interpret each statement twice, to reexamine each fact again and again. The familiar voice, the one close at hand, muttered something to someone; Maureen couldn’t make it out, but someone laughed, and she grew more anxious at the absence of any reference to the search for the murderer of Donovan O’Toole.
The next topic for discussion began with a well-organized sound to it, bringing her some renewed hope. One voice reviewed the inventory of mines and other explosives. A second voice read an inventory of their cache of machine guns—Stens and Brens and grease guns—as well as M1s and hand guns, and ammunition, acknowledging that the Ebrington Barracks raid, the raid Maureen had led, was still the source of most of the arms. No one mentioned her by name when they talked about the raid, and that pleased her, but she felt a surge of deep pride and her memories of the thrill of it made her smile.
The armament reports triggered debates, first a quick and slightly humorous one about the relative merits of Sten and grease machine guns, then a longer one about whether the cache of weapons should be divided into smaller lots and dispersed, and finally an anxious one about how they might handle the problems another unit had recently when a mine exploded unexpectedly, maiming a unit member.
Then Maureen was deeply disheartened to hear the voices speak of a hurling match coming up in the next few days, and after a little bit of that the familiar voice in the chair excused himself, then one by one the others said goodbye, until Kevin told Maureen she could come out.
There was nothing said about her da, and as Kevin collapsed back in his chair she stood before him with a condemning look.
“You never took the risk of meetin’ unless it was of vital importance. What was that?”
“Proof.”
“Proof of what?”
“Of how badly I need your help, Lady Girl. Right now.”
“Why didn’t you ask about me da?”
“The fellow finding him for us wasn’t here. He was supposed to come, I don’t…”
Maureen walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water for Kevin. She had seen him tired before, but never like this; this reminded her of when she had met Sean Russell, in Berlin, when he had failed in his efforts to recruit the Nazis for a joint invasion of Northern Ireland. These two men weren’t just tired—they were worn down and worn out.
She was confused about her feelings. She was eager to discover the location of her da’s murderer so she could find out what she would do, and so she was disappointed the fellow with the information didn’t come; those reactions didn’t surprise her. What she hadn’t expected was the feeling that took over during the discussion of the Ebrington Barracks raid, the feelings of pride and satisfaction that lingered on. She was angry at Kevin for being so ineffective, and then she was sorry to see Kevin slouched in the chair, his head back, his legs stretched out into the room, looking so fully deflated if not defeated. He took the glass of water from her and drank deeply.
“So how do I contact your man?”
Kevin was quiet. She sat down across from him.
“Tell me all you know about your man and what he’s learned.”
She unfolded her sheet of paper and sat on the couch across from Kevin. As he began to share what he knew, and she took notes, there was a knock on the door.
This Man continued his song cycle at the birch grove as winter followed winter, as all traces of the pyres burnt logs vanished, and as the birch trees seeded more trees that matured and died and fed the new growth with their own decay.
Maureen returned to the closet under the stairs and then Kevin answered the door. Her heart was pounding. She heard him greet the new arrival and hoped that sounds of them sitting down together meant this was the man they were waiting for. Her heart raced faster when she heard his pronouncement.
“I found him where he was so I’m—”
When the closest door suddenly swung open the man reached for his pistol hidden in his coat pocket. Kevin stood to assure him.
“No, no, you won’t be needing that.”
The man looked from Maureen to Kevin to Maureen again, and smiled with a respectful nod.
“You’re Maureen O’Toole?”
“That’s right.”
“I know where to find the man who murdered your da.”
“I need you to take me there.”
He sat back down.
“You need to take me there now.”
Kevin sat down. “Let’s listen to what he has to say.”
The man explained the fellow had joined the Royal Ulster Constabulary, stationed in Banbridge.
“His name is—”
“Wait.” She thought for a moment. “I don’t want to
know his name.”
“Tell her everything else you know about him.”
It wasn’t very much beyond that, that he’d been stationed in Banbridge for two years. And they found him as a happenstance; he needed to tell the tale whenever he was well into the whiskey and one night a true Irish patriot undercover heard him brag about being the triggerman, the man who executed “the Fenian bastard Donovan O’Toole.”
They talked well into the night until Kevin declared it was time for them to find beds, for they had an important day ahead of them.
And the man who had followed Kevin and Maureen called his superior and was told to maintain his watch.
This Man waited winter after winter as this sacred place above the cove began to change. First some cabins were built among the pines. And then a small log Chapel was built, right before the birch grove. It was the winter that the Chapel appeared that the first spirits joined This Man, and together they continued the song cycle.
In the morning they decided to retrieve Maureen’s hired car from Toome; it was possible, Kevin contended and she acknowledged, that emerging circumstance might cause Maureen to bolt to the Dublin airport. Kevin was confident this townhouse was a well-protected secret; with so many coming and going since the previous evening, he preached caution now. Maureen left from the back door, scurried down the alley, and hid herself on the floor of the back seat of Kevin’s car. Kevin arrived and drove out of town, giving her the all clear when it appeared no one was following. Maureen kept an eye on the road behind, and an eye on the road ahead.
She thought about calling Brian, but found she couldn’t.
Kevin’s contact waited five minutes and left from the front door, to drive to Banbridge where they would meet.
The man who had been watching the house saw Kevin leave, then a second man, and he waited for Maureen to show herself. The man grew suspicious, and ran to the alley behind the townhouse, but it was empty. And when he checked he found the townhouse appeared to be empty as well.
Before Brian headed to his booth in the ballroom for another day of playing Big Irish, the wilderness fishing camp owner, he stopped at the hotel front desk.
“Can you check for me again? I am expecting an overseas call.”
“A call from Ireland as I recall.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Let me check with the switchboard.”
“It’s a very important call, from Maureen Burke, my wife.”
The hotel clerk left, was gone but a moment. “There’s no record of any calls coming in from Ireland, and I’ve told all the operators to let me know as soon as one does.”
“They need to let me know as soon as one does.”
“Yes, sir.”
Simon knew it was his job to awaken through the night to rebuild the fire and Trapper woke him when the fire burned low. Awake just before dawn, he wasn’t surprised to see the snow falling through the smoke hole in the center of the wigwam’s ceiling, for he had sensed the heavy quiet of a full snow fall coming on each time he woke to build the fire back. In the early gray light he pulled back the deer hide flap at the door and found the large flaked snow falling and filling the air so he couldn’t see beyond the closest trees. Joe Loon sat up to look out over his grandson’s shoulder, and he smiled. He told Simon to make sure they had wood for the morning for he was content to stay awhile, and he reached for his blanket to reposition himself so he could gaze out at the snow.
Trapper continued his prayer to the spirit of Beaver.
Maureen was traveling five minutes behind Kevin; his contact told them of a quiet café down the street from the police station; each would reconnoiter the town separately and then meet at the café to find the best plan.
Maureen had packed her favorite pistol for this trip, a .38 caliber Smith & Wesson. The Model 40 was snub-nosed, light and compact, and she had not only practiced shooting cans and bottles at the garbage dump behind the Great Lodge until she was a deadeye expert shot, she practiced hiding it on her person. Now she took it out, from the loop she had sewn inside her coat sleeve, and placed it by her side. She picked it up every couple of minutes, to have a constant feel for it.
As she drove, she said a prayer. She prayed for justice and peace for Donovan O’Toole. She prayed for wisdom and for opportunity.
She prayed for forgiveness.
And she prayed that God bless the innocents.
The heavy snowfall stopped by mid-morning. Joe Loon and Simon left their shelter and followed the last leg of their trap line up the slow and easy incline of the final ridge that separated them from the River and its new lake. Even with snowshoes it was a hard trudge through nearly a foot of fresh powder on top of a deep snow base; the binding on one of Simon’s snowshoes was coming loose and he stopped to make a temporary repair.
They had the last of their traps tied to their packs.
Trapper walked just ahead of them.
They had one trap left that was sized for marten and found a number of promising spots as they worked their way up the ridge. Joe Loon told Simon to pick the spot he thought best, and then nodded his agreement as Simon laid the trap and placed the bait just right, and Joe Loon nodded again.
They still had three beaver traps between them, and as they approached the top of the ridge Joe Loon began calling to the spirits of this place, asking for their assistance discovering the secrets of where the big beaver had gone. Trapper joined him.
Just before Maureen crossed the River she saw a road sign pointing north, to Belfast, and she remembered that her father used to call Stormont “the kennels” because the Northern Irish government seated in Stormont were “Brit sheepdogs” trained to herd their sheep.
And after she crossed the River she felt certain, for the first time. If they could locate the man and if she was sure it was him, and if the opportunity was a clean one, she would shoot him.
No, she would kill him.
And on the heels of that certainty came the notion that, once successful, she would talk with Kevin about planning and leading another major raid, to turn the tide, all in the name of Donovan O’Toole.
She would urge they target Stormont.
Maureen entered Banbridge from the north and soon found her first objective, the police station. She drove by slowly, studying the two RUC officers standing outside. Theirs weren’t familiar faces, but they were laughing, and it came to her suddenly that the men who gathered around her da when he was kneeling before his family, his face badly beaten, his hands tied behind his back, that those men had been laughing, right before they shot him.
No. Right before they killed him.
She drove on, slowing cruising all the side streets nearest the police station, alert for an officer’s uniform. After she passed the police station a second time she finished her exploration of the town’s streets and alleys, noting the dead ends, considering the hidden corners, making a mind map of the streets’ patterns, as she’d been taught; she ended up at the café.
Joe Loon and Simon caught glimpses of the far shore of the lake before they rounded a forested knoll and looked down over the trees at the dam and a full view of the lake behind it. The strongest winds had been blocked on their side of the ridge. This side the winds whipped and howled, stirring up waves of the morning’s snow from between the trees; some mighty gusts roared down the old River valley now filled with frozen lake, and the strong winds set the snow swirling again.
Trapper was on a different mission now, and he stayed at the top of the ridge when Joe Loon and Simon worked their way through the trees, the wind kicking up snow all about them.
“Grandfather, will these winds hide the signs and secrets you search for?”
“The winds may hide the signs. It could be a gust will carry the secrets to my ears.”
Joe Loon pulled his scarf up over his nose and his hood down low as they reached the lake shore; the winds had rushed across the snow on the lake’s ice since morning, creating low shifting drifts here, sweeping the
ice clean there.
Joe Loon stepped out on the lake, just a step or two, to walk the ice along the shore, up stream, the dam behind him. Simon followed, but he stayed on shore, weaving between the spruce trees along the shoreline, only stepping on the ice when his route was fully blocked by dense growth and his snowshoe binding came loose again.
When they came to a grove of aspen they brushed away the snow from the base of the trees but didn’t find any tooth marks. They continued some distance until Joe Loon stopped, pulled back his hood and lowered his scarf, and listened. He shook his head, covered up again, and they walked on.
The spruce along the ridge slope gave way to a sweep of maple trees and again they stopped to check for tooth marks. They found none, and Joe Loon asked, “Where have you gone?” When there was no answer Joe Loon decided it was time to turn around and head back to the wigwam.
This wasn’t the first time Simon imagined what Maureen might do.
“She changes her view. She gets closer, or she stands back.”
Simon stepped out onto the ice and kept heading out away from shore, sliding and stepping in his snowshoes, worried the binding was getting looser, and when he was ten yards out he turned.
“Before she would return, she would stand out here and look back at the shore.”
Joe Loon followed and he pulled back his hood and lowered his scarf; the cold winds tossed his hair and froze the moisture around his eyes as he studied the forest and the ridge behind and above; the wind burned the tips of his ears as he listened for whispers of something he could not hear.
After a minute he turned and Simon followed him further out on the lake, stopping thirty yards out, then walking another fifty yards, the wind bitter and sharp. After many minutes standing and watching and listening, Joe Loon was still searching.
When Joe Loon began to cover his head again Simon asked if they should walk to the very center of the long narrow lake, for a full look, all around, and at both shorelines. They walked together, first clattering on clear ice, then walking over small shifting sweeping drifts, for another ten or twenty yards, and when they got to the center of the lake they turned back to study the shore behind them and the trees swaying in the wind on the ridge, and the blue forever over the snow white and fir green world.
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