Worlds Between

by Nordgren, Carl;

  As the men gave the hired car a thorough search, inside and out, under every space, within every opening, deeply probing the upholstery—without damaging it—she recited for them the lyrics of the song of Roddy McCorley at Toome Bridge.

  She started softly, so only those closest could hear.

  “See the fleet-footed host a’ men, who march with faces drawn,

  From farmstead an’ from fishers’ cot, along the banks of Ban;

  They come with vengeance in their eyes. Too late! Too late are they,

  For young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge a’ Toome today.”

  Then she got louder.

  “Ireland, Mother Ireland, you love them still the best

  Those fearless brave who fightin’ fall upon your hapless breast,

  But never a one of all your dead more bravely fell in fray,

  Than he who marches to his fate on the bridge of Toome today.

  Up the narrow street he stepped, smilin’ proud an’ young.

  About the hemp-rope on his neck his golden ringlets clung…”

  She was loud enough now all could hear her, and she continued though the men shouted out to stop.

  “…There’s not a tear in his blue eyes, fearless an’ brave are they,

  As young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge a’ Toome today.

  When last this narrow street he trod, his shinin’ pike in hand

  Behind him marched, in grim array, an earnest stalwart band.

  To Antrim town! To Antrim town! He led them to the fray,

  But young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge a’ Toome today.

  His grey coat an’ its sash a’ green were brave an’ stainless then,

  A banner flashed beneath the sun an’ o’er the marchin’ men;

  His coat has many a rent this noon, his sash is torn away,

  An’ Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today…”

  The men trying to shout her down had abandoned their search of the car and their language was menacing, but she stared at the commanding officer and looked him in the eyes and continued as another car pulled up, deflating the anger of the men a bit as the car was quickly waved through. The officer matched Maureen’s gaze as he walked towards her.

  “…Oh, how his pike flashed in the sun! Then found a foeman’s heart,

  Through furious fight, an’ heavy odds he bore a true man’s part

  An’ many a red-coat bit the dust before his keen pike-play,

  But Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge a’ Toome today…”

  The officer took her arm and pulled her towards her car, for the men had completed their search.

  “…young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge a’ Toome today.”

  She tossed her handbag into the car in the same motion she raised her arms out to the side for a body search.

  “If you had any decency at all you’d have a female officer for this… Oh that’s right, you’re British.”

  The officer searched her body, first carefully but then carelessly.

  “I pity your wife.”

  The officer pushed her into her car.

  “Get out of here.”

  Maureen drove away, watching the officer in the mirror as long as she could.

  When she was out of sight, the officer reached for the radio.

  “London Bomber Six just passed. Driving north towards Dungannon in a hired Ford Prefect, white, license plate Alpha Romeo Romeo One Zero Three. She was wearing a green coat. We searched her and her car closely. It appears she is not armed.”

  As soon as there was light Simon climbed up on top of the boulder, first to check the sky—he found it clear as far as he could see—and then he studied the lake ice. He found that a large portion of the ice ceiling had collapsed near the far shore. He turned to his grandfather to tell him the good news.

  “The sound I heard last night, I think it was some of the top ice collapsing.”

  “The top ice has fallen in?”

  “Not all of it. A large section near the far shore. And the hole where we fell in looks like it might be bigger.”

  They stoked their fire and ate more freely from their food stores.

  Simon left the shelter for the shore using a stone and a hand axe to break away the ice that covered the ground and stumps between the ice floor and ceiling to create a path up the steep incline. Standing on the ice floor he looked out towards the middle of the lake and through the swirling lights he could see a moose laying still, his legs folded under, his head tucked, as if asleep. He walked towards it and didn’t need to get too close before determining it was dead.

  Simon had just finished his path from the shelter to the ice when he heard the helicopter in the distance. By the time he climbed back out Joe Loon had tossed some of the pine boughs on the fire to create a heavy smoke signal. Simon mounted the boulder again to watch the helicopter work its way from the dam along the shore, coming closer and closer until the pilot spotted them and waved. When Simon waved back, the pilot gave him thumbs up before he veered back out over the ice.

  “He is going to break the ice to land.”

  “Help me stand so I can see.”

  Simon jumped down from the boulder to help Joe Loon lean against it, then he pulled back a large spruce bough so they could watch as the pilot of the Bell 47 hovered over the ice ceiling, slowly lowering the craft, his large pontoons just a foot or so over the ice, his blades kicking up a broad bowl of swirling snow. Then the pilot descended for a hard landing on the ice ceiling and a large section of it gave way as the helicopter rose quickly and again hovered a few feet above so the pilot could survey the results. They watched as the pilot worked his way along the edge of the first hole he’d made, bouncing his large pontoons on the ice ceiling, knocking more and more of it down, the helicopter surrounded by dancing snow clouds.

  When the pilot determined he had knocked down enough of the ice all along the shore to land he lowered the copter until the pontoons set down on the solid floor ice, and the blades slowed, then stopped. The pilot and a man carrying a stretcher stepped out and waved and slid along the ice to the shore. Simon met them there.

  “Sorry we couldn’t get you out last night. It was snowing too hard.”

  Simon showed them the path he made and they climbed out.

  “So who’s hurt?”

  “My grandfather. Both of his legs are injured. Our shelter is just behind that big rock.”

  He led them to the shelter and they found Joe Loon, sitting back again.

  “You guys fell, what, that had to be nearly twenty feet, eh? You think you got any broken bones?”

  “Grandfather doesn’t speak English. His right ankle may be broken. His left knee will not bend without a great pain. He does not say this but I am sure it hurts all the time.”

  They unfolded the stretcher and supported Joe Loon as he settled on it.

  “And you fell through as well?”

  “Yes, we were walking together.”

  “You’re lucky you didn’t get hurt.”

  “I fell on top of my bag. It was under me when I landed.”

  “The nearest hospital is in Kenora and that’ll take almost two hours. We’ll have to get refueled.”

  Simon translated the pilot’s words for his grandfather.

  “Tell the pilot he must take me to Grassy Narrows.”

  “You cannot take Grandfather to the hospital in Kenora.”

  “Why not?”

  “They do not care for us there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The hospital in Kenora is for the white man. Not for the Indian.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “My uncle was turned away when he had an injury. So was Tommy Keewatin.”

  “Then where do we take him?”

  “You must take us back to Grassy Narrows.”

  “Your grandfather needs to be seen by a doctor.”

  “There is a doctor who comes to
visit us once a month. But he will come sooner when we radio him to tell him he is needed.”

  “You can radio him from the helicopter and maybe he can meet us there.”

  They strapped Joe Loon onto the stretcher and slowly worked their way down to the ice floor. He was loaded in the helicopter, sitting up on the stretcher just before takeoff.

  “You must tell the pilot to break the rest of the ice.”

  Simon called up to the pilot.

  “You must break the ice ceiling.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You must break the ice ceiling. All of it.”

  “Look, I’m not exactly sure how far it is to the Reserve, I need to get more fuel, and I got a long day ahead of me as it is.”

  “You saw the dead moose. He fell through the ice and was trapped in between. There are many animals trapped down here. They die when they cannot get out.”

  “I’m sorry, but we’d have to bounce up and down on this ice all day to get it all knocked down.”

  Simon told his grandfather as the helicopter lifted off, rising slowly until it cleared the ice ceiling. A smile came to Joe Loon’s face.

  “Tell him to be a skipping stone.”

  Simon knew exactly what his grandfather meant.

  “It will be fun. Fly to far end of the River’s lake then bounce your way back to the dam, bounce hard...” Simon surveyed quickly. “…five times and by the fifth bounce all the ice will fall.”

  The pilot pictured it, and shook his head as he described it to his crewmate. They nodded, they smiled, and the helicopter set off to the south end of the long narrow River valley lake. The pilot conferred again with his crewmate, then turned to Simon. “I think it will take six bounces, we’ll give it our best shot, but one way or another, we are on our way.”

  Simon nodded his understanding as he translated for his grandfather.

  The pilot turned when he reached the far edge of the lake and flew over the ice towards the dam and after a few moments he dove down hard, bouncing the pontoons against the ice ceiling and rising fast the instant the impact was made, and Simon saw the impact was effective, looking back to see the hole was large and growing larger when the helicopter again dove down hard, and again knocked a hole, and then sped on and dove for another hole, and this third one Simon thought was much larger, much faster, and then the fourth hole reached out to the hole Joe Loon and Simon made when they fell through and now a great section gave away; the pilot bounced twice more and elevated for one look at the work and saw they’d been effective, pieces were still collapsing, but much of the top ice had fallen in, a raggedy sharp toothed grin of a River valley left behind.

  Maureen knew a car was following her out of Dungannon as she drove northwest to Pomeroy; the tail made no effort at hiding himself, making her anxious. She stopped at the small village’s phone box and the car passed by, then pulled over just ahead and waited. She entered the phone box, pistol in hand though out of sight, and called the emergency number for Kevin, but no one answered.

  She called the townhouse in Kenora. No one answered.

  To buy a few moments and to make her tail think about it, she pretended to talk on the phone. As she pantomimed her end of the conversation, she wondered if she should walk up to the man in the car to ask what he was doing, prepared to shoot him.

  She considered it self-defense.

  She got back in her car and drove past the tail car; it pulled right out onto the road, and followed a steady constant ten car lengths behind.

  She drove on through the quiet countryside. If she sped up, so did the tail car. If she slowed down, the car behind her did too.

  She was followed through the tiny village of Carrickmore, past the RUC barracks there, and on west towards a wide River valley. The car stayed right on her tail, in clear sight, ten car lengths behind.

  The road crested a rise and she looked down at the broad shallow bowl of a valley, with a three arch stone bridge carrying the road over the River. She pictured the next village was Six Mile Cross, three or four miles on the other side of the bridge.

  A car was parked near the bridge, and that concerned her; she noticed the fly fisherman wading the River just below the bridge.

  She checked the car behind her, keeping its close measure.

  She focused on the fisherman. Before she could identify the personal details of him she could see how he handled his fly rod. By his second cast she knew he was a fisherman, and that brought some relief.

  She slowed as she drew near the bridge, taking in every detail of the scene laid out in front of her; the car behind her kept the distance constant.

  Maureen decided to park next to the fisherman’s car and walk down to the River; she looked for a spot to pull over but slammed on the brakes when the head and shoulders of a man popped up behind the steering wheel of the parked car. She hadn’t noticed until then that this car’s engine was running, and she was angry at herself when the driver stepped on the accelerator, turned hard back up onto the road, and blocked the bridge with his car.

  Maureen stopped, twenty yards from the bridge. She took a deep breath, then another, to empty her emotions, to reset herself, for she knew that whatever happened next, she had to be at her best, and she began to look for options and consider their odds.

  The fisherman was wading quickly towards shore while she reached into her bag.

  The tail car stopped, ten car lengths behind hers.

  She reminded herself she only had four rounds in her pistol.

  The driver of the car at the bridge was getting out.

  The fisherman was climbing the River’s bank.

  The driver of the car behind opened his door.

  She hadn’t seen any guns, so far. She expected to.

  Maureen slipped off the pistol’s safety. She looked for other cars on both horizons, but none were coming. The fisherman was climbing from the River to the road, the driver in front of her removed his pistol from his coat, and her quick look over her shoulder told her the driver behind her was out of his car carrying a Sten machine gun.

  Maureen figured the man with the Sten as the first target; as long as the fisherman appeared unarmed, he would be the final target. She slipped the pistol into the sleeve loop, then nodded to show she would roll down the window.

  The fisherman stepped onto the road. She was practiced at disarming, and she called out to him.

  “I’ve heard of anglers goin’ to great lengths to protect a favorite stretch of water…”

  The fisherman worked hard to keep from laughing; the man with the Sten couldn’t help himself. She saw it was a good moment to make a move but it had come too soon, she wasn’t ready.

  For one thing, each of the men were still too far; the snub nose made her pistol a short range weapon, even in her expert hand.

  The man at the bridge knew he had to take control, so he waved his pistol in the air.

  “Keep your hands where we can see them, right.”

  “You don’t need a gun to have a conversation with a Canadian tourist.”

  “You’re Maureen O’Toole.”

  “I’m Maureen Burke. I’ve got an Ontario driver’s license here says so.”

  The fisherman joined the man at the bridge and stood close by his side. She appreciated they were organizing her targets for her. She pictured a surprise move to take out the machine gun behind her—now she’d aim for the man’s chest, the largest one shot kill target—and then she’d duck and spin and…

  “Open the door and get out of the car.”

  “You don’t need to be wavin’ that around so. You don’t need it at all is what I’m sayin’.”

  Maureen got out, leaving the door open, and stood behind it.

  “Close the door and step away from the car.”

  She did, and at the same time she turned enough so the man behind her wasn’t anymore, and she also took a full step closer to him, a move hidden in her turn; now the man with the Sten was nearly in range.

 
; She reminded herself she couldn’t afford to miss.

  “I know I am looking at Maureen O’Toole, born in Derry to Donovan and Mary O’Toole.”

  “Ah then, you introduce the more important question now don’t you, an’ that is this. Do you know who Donovan O’Toole was?”

  “Shut up. I know that when you were nineteen, that on two occasions, the first in January 1939, the second in June, you smuggled the mines and gelignite to your terrorist friends in London who built the bombs that killed British citizens and destroyed British property.”

  The fisherman spoke.

  “That means Donovan O’Toole should be damned for bringing a soul as black as yours into the world.”

  She still didn’t like her position so she tried to buy some more time.

  “All you need to know about Donovan O’Toole was he was a true Irishman who believed the Brits have no right to ever tell a true Irishman how he can live in his own land. For that basic belief of Donovan O’Toole a Black n’ Tan scum shot him dead an’ forced his family to watch.” She smiled thinking of what she had done to avenge her da’s murder and wondered if she should she confess it now; perhaps it would upset their balance.

  She decided it wasn’t the right time. The two men near the bridge were still too far. One against three—she wasn’t sure the fisherman wasn’t armed—and just four bullets, her only chance was to make every shot a killing shot.

  The driver at the bridge called out to the man with the Sten.

  “Your father was a Black n’ Tan, wasn’t he?”

  “That’s right. He was a hero.”

  Maureen finished her turn to stand sideways to the men and spoke to them all, the two men near the bridge to her left, the man with the Sten to her right.

  “I’ll tell a story about Black n’ Tan heroes, yeah.”

  “If you’re buying time for someone to come along, we got an RUC road block behind you, a road repair block ahead.”

  “So I can take my time an’ tell you all about the Black n’ Tan heroes who took Donovan O’Toole from his bed one night, tied his hands behind his back—” She put her hands behind her back and slipped the pistol into her right hand, and as long as she told the story she could keep her hands and pistol hidden, and ready, behind her. “—an’ then they beat him. An’ you can only understand the heroic consequences of this story if you linger for a moment on the sequence of those events. They tied him up, then they beat him. I know because I was there. That’s the stuff of Black n’ Tan heroes right there. Ya’ sing songs in your British pubs celebratin’ that, do ya?”