Worlds Between

by Nordgren, Carl;

  He tried again to stand, fought off the nausea, but then a wave of dizziness brought him to his knees. When it passed he rose again and slowly made his way towards the kitchen door. He thought about the Chapel—he remembered its call to him earlier, and there it was again—but the Chapel was all the way across the clearing and seemed even farther than that now. It seemed a world away, and he was sure he was needed inside, so again he ignored its pull.

  The kitchen door flew open and the guest who had asked about Maureen stepped out. The sight of him immediately infuriated Brian, though he wasn’t sure why.

  “We’ve been looking for you Brian, Mr. Hemingway wants to… hey, you okay?”

  The mention of the writer’s name and Brian’s anger with this man standing in front of him helped Brian begin to remember, that Hemingway had arrived in camp the day before with… a wooden crate… a big wooden create, a big and long wooden crate, and there was something dead inside it… covered in a burial shroud? In his confused state he wondered if it was Maureen O’Toole’s body in the crate, that the IRA soldier had been found and delivered to him, and the shock that came and went with this idea helped him clear his thinking some more. Now he remembered. He brushed past the guest as if he were a nuisance.

  Hemingway’s trophy was a world-class gemsbok, a female. Her horse-shaped head was intelligently beautiful, her horns stellar. All together she was magnificent.

  The face was black with what looked like white butterfly shaped sunglasses, oversized, perched across her brow, just above her eyes, and she had a white snout. The black was full black, the white a brilliant white.

  Her horns were long spears, each one so close to perfectly straight they first appeared to be exactly that. Together they made a slight V from base to sharp tip, and the brass tag on the wooden trophy frame claimed they were 38 inches long.

  Standing just below his trophy, Hemingway was holding forth as Papa, telling stories about the hunt and the kill while someone tracked down Brian.

  “One shot from the ‘03 Springfield. She went down. My gun boy, a bushman, he called it a two heart beat kill.”

  He was surrounded by the 30 or so guests who were in camp, all of them pleased with themselves to be there.

  Brian stood in the kitchen at the double doors leading to the dining hall, looking through the door’s window at the crowded room; he caught his reflection in the glass and saw the blood on his face. Brian found a dishtowel and stood at the sink to clean himself up as his nuisance guest came in, smiled meekly, and continued on. The window glass to the dark outside served as a useful mirror, and after he washed his face he located the gash in his scalp with his fingers and cleaned it as best he could.

  When Brian pushed through the swinging doors from the kitchen into the Great Lodge’s dining hall, he reminded Hemingway of a bull entering the ring. Brian had control of his confusion but not yet his anger. He put himself to that task. He approached the crowd and the guests parted. There stood Ernest Hemingway and the moment Brian saw him, he had the urge to punch this man right in the face; he didn’t know why, but his right hand tightened into a fist while he forced a smile. Then he saw that the burial shroud was a sheet, and it was lying at Hemingway’s feet and Brian looked up and realized that the crate hadn’t carried Maureen O’Toole but this trophy head, and he remembered that Hemingway had arrived with it to honor his wife.

  Still shaking with anger, still working hard to control it, Brian stood next the writer as Hemingway turned to the purpose at hand, Papa’s memorial to Maureen Burke.

  “The gemsbok is unusual among the African antelope. It is the female of the species that grows the largest horns. And that’s as it should be, for it’s the female who uses these extraordinary horns, theses sharp spears, in deadly fashion, to protect what’s hers. The muscle in her shoulders and neck provide the force behind those weapons and she is fearless with them in the face of a leopard attack, or an attack from lions, from any predator. Time and again she will drive them off. The bushmen use the tips of female gemsbok horns as the head of their spears.” He puffed on his cigar. “The males, well, the males, don’t misunderstand, they are outfitted with a fine set of horns themselves, just not like these. And they only use their horns to fight other males, to maintain rights to their harem, their herd of females.” He puffed again, and smiled. “And I for one will never fault them for that.”

  The guests laughed.

  Brian didn’t feel like laughing.

  He fully recalled what the evening was about now—the writer brought the trophy head to Innish Cove in honor of Maureen Burke. And as he became clearer about the evening, he realized he was the one person in the room who knew that Maureen O’Toole was not honorable.

  Papa Hemingway continued. “As you get older it’s harder to have heroes, but it is just as necessary. I didn’t know Maureen as well as some of you perhaps, but during the brief days I spent with her last summer, with her and with you, Brian, and Joe Loon, the impact this place had on my view of the world was wonderfully restorative, and Maureen, she was at the center of it all, reminding me that the best of the human race redeems the rest of us sinners, and that is heroic in my book.”

  Brian wasn’t well. He was woozy. He was drunk. He was very angry. And now, it seemed, everyone was looking at him, no, staring at him. A guest gestured for him to pat his brow, and when he did he found he was bleeding again. He reached for his handkerchief but Hemingway noticed.

  “Are you bleeding?”

  Brian had enough control to stay Big Irish.

  First he spoke to Hemingway, and all was well. “I’m fine, an’ all us gathered here…” Then he spoke to his guests, and a new tone grew as he went on: a Big Irish polite dismal of the landlord. “…and we thank you, don’t we fella’s, we thank the famous writer, the great man, ah what an honor ‘tis, for he not only comes to grace us wit’ his mighty presence, he shares his trophies wit’ us, yea, Hemingway’s trophy, the remarkable gift, as, what...” Brian turned back to the writer. “…as a remembrance?”

  Hemingway didn’t like Brian’s new tone at all.

  “If you like.”

  “If I like.” He looked out at the guests. “If I like.” The guests didn’t like this either. Brian decided he didn’t care. He stepped back to get a better angle up at the gemsbok and genuflected as he spoke.

  “In the name of Maureen O’Toole. The tip of the spear. All in remembrance of her.”

  Hemingway thought he would try one more time. “Maureen O’Toole? Her maiden name?”

  “Maureen O’Toole. Her first name an’ her last.”

  Some of the guests in the back of the pack began to retreat from this scene, breaking away from the crowd and heading to the pub or out the door to their cabins. Brian noticed and called to them.

  “We do this in remembrance of her.”

  There was more blood on his face. More guests turned to leave.

  Brian turned to Hemingway.

  “When I saw you standin’ there I wanted to knock you on your arse.”

  “Was a time I would give you a fair fight.”

  “I said nothin’ about lookin’ for a fair fight.”

  The guests who heard this divided into two camps; most backed away, but Hemingway’s friends and Brian’s longest tenured guests stepped forward in case they were needed. With his friends at hand the writer saw the opportunity to retreat, and he did. In a few minutes more the dining hall and the pub and the billiard lounge were all empty but for Brian, who had a bottle of Tullamore Dew, which he drank to the memory of Maureen O’Toole and her deadly horns.

  Mary sat on the bench in front of the statue in the Chapel far longer than she wanted to that night; she knew she needed to return to the house where Little Stevie was watching over Grace, but she also had to stay. She didn’t know why, but she knew she was waiting, she felt she was waiting, for something, or someone.

  After a time she returned to the house, past This Man who maintained his vigil in front of the sacr
ed birch grove, and when she got to the house she found Little Stevie asleep on the floor at the foot of the bed where Grace slept soundly.

  The next morning Brian was found lying on the floor under the gemsbok by two Ojibway women who were part of the early morning kitchen crew. They roused him; it wasn’t easy, but they got him to his feet. And after breakfast two groups of guests regretfully reported they had to leave earlier than planned and asked Brian to make the necessary arrangements, and the next day Hemingway’s party left early as well.

  The gemsbok remained.

  Every day for the rest of the season Mary found a moment to slip away to the Chapel where she would sit in front of the statue and pray for the soul of her sister Maureen, Raven Hair, and where she waited for a sign.

  Author’s Note

  It has been wonderful to see how these novels I am writing that are based on my experiences as a fishing guide with the Ojibway on the English River in Northwest Ontario and on my time in the West of Ireland have brought so many folks together.

  The families who owned the fishing camps where I worked before I worked there have discovered my novels and through them have gotten acquainted with the grandchildren of the Ojibway guides who used to work for them, and with the current owners of the camp.

  In Ireland, a recent research trip for the third novel of this River of Lakes trilogy will result in teams of my Duke students working for local historian entrepreneurs who have dedicated their lives to preserving the wonder of the West of Ireland.

  About the Author

  Carl Nordgren was born in Greenville, Mississippi, where his great grandmother’s house was across the street from the boyhood home of author Walker Percy. Carl has worked as a fishing guide on the English River in Northwestern Ontario and on the White River in the Arkansas Ozarks, as a bartender, as a foundry man, and as an entrepreneur. He lived with his family in Ireland for a year where he researched the IRA. Carl currently teaches courses in Creativity to undergraduate students at Duke University. His first book in the River of Lakes trilogy, The 53rd Parallel, was an international bestseller and Anung’s Journey, his novella for young readers was named by Foreword Reviews as one of the Top 10 Middle Grade Books of 2014. He graduated from Knox College and lives in Durham, North Carolina with his wife, Marie, where they have raised three daughters.

  Other Books by Carl Nordgren

  The 53rd Parallel

  (River of Lakes, Book 1)

  International Bestseller

  “Dreams of disaster and redemption... author Carl Nordgren meditates on themes of immigration and environment as well as new beginnings and old ghosts.”

  –The State of Things, WUNC

  “A most lyrical and poetically imagined novel... to be savored.”

  –Mallory Heart Reviews

  “Lyrical and touching, The 53rd Parallel brings together two very different cultures, both looking to preserve a sacred way of life.”

  –Looking For a Good Book

  Anung’s Journey

  An ancient Ojibway legend, as told to Carl Nordgren by Steve Fobister. Illustrated by Brita Wolf.

  “This story gently proffers a message of cooperation and harmony with nature, community members, and all the world’s people.”

  –Foreword Reviews, 5 Stars

  Named Top 10 Middle Grade Novels of 2014 by Foreword Reviews. INDIEFAB finalist in Juvenile Fiction and Multicultural Fiction.

  International Book Awards Finalist

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