Firewood ... I bet there’s some stacked outside.
Along the side of the shanty, I find a mound of it under the new fallen snow. I stop for a moment, wonder how I knew it would be there, but then chide myself. For where else would people store wood? Taking an armload of logs, I return to the shanty and pile some in the fire pit. My hand instinctively reaches for the leather pouch nailed to the post. I know before I open it there’ll be a flint inside. Minutes later, I’m warming my hands over a crackling blaze.
Melting a bit of snow in one of the black pots by the fire pit, I give Mahingan a drink before quenching my own thirst. His color seems better, his breathing deep and sound. I don’t know what to do for his arm—’tisn’t gushing, but a long slow leak can be just as deadly. I wish his grandfather were here. He’d know what to do.
Throwing another log on the fire, I stare at the flames as my eyes grow heavy. Orange light flickers, throwing shadows on bunks lining the walls.
Who lived here? Where are they now?
I want to stay awake, to remember. I knew where to find the blanket and wood, common sense, really ... but the flint? How did I know about that pouch? I yawn. The day’s adventure and long trek has worn me out. In any case, it seems my memory is as empty as the beds. Stretching out in a lower bunk, I snuggle under my blanket and let my eyes drift shut.
Maybe Mahingan’s grandfather is right. I just need to be patient. I’ll leave all those unanswered questions, hang them like wet socks before the fire, and, free of their cold itch, if only for a little while, settle in for the night.
CHAPTER 20
“This place?!”
I bolt awake, thunking my head on the bunk timbers above me. It takes a moment or two for my mind to clear, but ’tisn’t long to realize it’s Mahingan ranting. I guess he’s feeling better.
He flings the blanket off and jumps out of his bunk like it’s on fire. “Why did you bring me here?”
“You’re welcome,” I say, rubbing my temple as I sit and let my legs dangle over the bunk’s edge, “for saving your life.”
“I didn’t need saving.”
“So it’s in the snow I should’ve left you, then?”
He glares at me and stomps out the door, returning moments later with his snowshoes, which he awkwardly ties, given his injured arm. He stands and looks around the room in disgust. “Why didn’t you take me to my home instead of ... here.”
I don’t know what his problem is. “What’s wrong with it? Beds. Blankets. A fire. It’s got thick log walls ... not a few scraps of bark. And the floors are solid planks, not sprigs and branches.” I wasn’t planning on slagging his home but, still, I’m only saying the truth of it.
He looks like he wants to choke me with his bare hands. For a moment, I think he might. My heart is pounding. I still don’t know what we’re arguing about. But if he comes at me, I’ll kick him in his wounded thigh, bite him myself, so I will.
He turns and heads outside. Stopping to pick up the toboggan rope, he faces me once more, his voice as hard and cold as the beaver carcass. “You come here,” he says, his jaw tight, “you ignorant hunters. You know nothing about the ways of the forest.”
The beaver? Is that what this is about? He’s not going to let me forget that, is he?
“You don’t belong here,” he continues. “Go back to where you came from before you destroy it all.”
The anger shoved upon me makes me push back. “I want to go back to where I came from, you gobshite! You think I like wandering in the woods? You think I want to be lost?”
“You kopadizi shognosh!” He spits the words at me. “You don’t even know where you are or what you have done.”
“Where am I? What have I done?” I demand. “Tell me! For the love of God, please tell me!” If he knows something, anything about me, I’m desperate to find out. “You don’t know,” I say, trying a different tack. “You don’t know a thing about me.”
“I know all about you.” He looks me over. “You come here. Work for them. You steal from the land of my ancestors. Destroy dens and nests. You don’t care about the ways of the forest. About the animals. You don’t care about the Anishnaabeg. Yes, I know all about you.”
I’m stunned. Part of me wonders what the hell he’s talking about. I haven’t done those things. Have I?
“Just ... just show me how to get home.” I say. “I won’t ever come back, I promise—”
His eyes flare. “Promise?” He spits on the ground between us. “Your empty words mean nothing to me.”
“Fine,” I say. “Just tell me which way civilization is. I’ll find it on my own.”
He laughs and turns. “I don’t know what you call civilization, shognosh, but my home, my people, are this way.”
And with that, he walks off into the woods.
CHAPTER 21
Good riddance. That Mahingan, he’s crazy, I swear. Talking nonsense. So he hates shanties—he didn’t need to take it out on me. I throw another log on the fire and poke it awake.
What’s his problem, anyway? This place is brilliant, so warm and sturdy. Even if it isn’t quite as cozy as the Wawaties’ dwelling, this place is much better than my lean-to by the bluff. I could stay here all winter, if I had to. Mind you, I won’t have to. Surely my family will come looking for me here. I’ve been here before. That much I know. They must know it, too.
I run my hand along the square timber post, surprised to feel so many nicks and notches. Names, actually. The post is covered in them, Danny, Jack, Andrew, Pierre—one must be mine. Being here is bound to stoke my memory.
My stomach gurgles and I realize I haven’t eaten since Mahingan and I grabbed a few strips of dried moose meat on our trek yesterday. Maybe the pots and kettles stacked by the fire pit hold something worth eating. I check under their lids. Empty. Then I spy a small lid, half buried in the fire pit’s sand. Kneeling, I unearth it to find, not just a lid, but a whole pot of baked beans beneath it. Buried treasure if I ever saw it! I pull out the small pot and scoop two handfuls of beans to my mouth. Stone cold they are, but mighty delicious just the same. Rummaging around the pots and pans, I soon find a wooden spoon. I’ve half of the pot finished and I’m sorely tempted to down the lot, but I decide to save the rest for later. I dig a hole closer to the fire and fill it with some of the embers before re-burying the pot. Come dinner, I’ll have a heaping of hot, sand-baked beans and, with the luck I’m having, I may even snag a bit of meat to go with it.
I spend the day roaming the area, but there’s no hunting to be had. Maybe the animals are smart enough to hide. Maybe they’re just not there anymore. I suppose it takes a lot of meat to feed the bellies that fill all those bunk beds.
Though there’s been a few snowfalls since the place was emptied, it isn’t hard to see the roads leading in and out of the bush. I follow a few and find myself in one of many emptied glades, surrounded by hundreds of snow-covered stumps. They cut the trees here. I turn and follow the path down to a leveled clearing. And then carried—no, dragged them here by horse, I imagine. I kick the spongy ground beneath the dusting of snow, unearthing shorn bark, and curled shavings. My heart skips. I’m right. I am! After so many days of so many questions, answers are as satisfying as ten kettles of baked beans.
And over there is where the logs were squared, stacked, and stored to wait for the spring thaw. Common sense, really, but I can almost see the mountain of timbers piled four men high. Almost hear the ax and saws, and that damned timber stamp marking each end. Chink. Chink. Chink. Pulling off my gloves, I look at my callused hands. That was my job, stamping the hundreds and hundreds of log ends. My body remembers even if my mind is unsure.
I’m almost running now, chasing the skid road as its wide path slopes and cuts through the thick woods to the river’s edge. The log drive. We started here. I remember! The foreman said the thaw had come—it was time to run the river. I race to the side of the clearing. Here ... I was standing here, watching the mighty logs roll down the slope and t
hunder into the water. Yearning ripples through me and I know that, although I had the best vantage point, ’twasn’t watching I wanted to be doing. I wanted to be in there, shoulder to shoulder with them. A real log driver.
Don’t you have some pots to scrub, Bébite?
The voice is so clear I glance around, but there’s no one there.
Shut yer gob, Pierre, my answer echoes in reply. I see it all, playing before me, like a waking dream. Pierre tousling my hair. Me shoving him away. And his laugh, that Godforsaken braying forever in my ears. That Pierre, he was a right jackass. He had a few years and muscles on me and he never let me forget it. How many times I’d heard his laughter at my expense. Hey, everyone, look at Bébite. He wants to wield a broadax and he can’t even handle a potato peeler … You’re too small, Bébite … Leave the work to the real men and get back in the kitchen. I’d show him. I’d bloody show them all.
A crow caws atop a lone pine before taking flight. I stand in the cold, empty clearing. As quickly as it came, the glimpse of memory fades and I can recall nothing more. Turning, I trudge towards the shanty, but the wide road seems so much longer on the way back. The answers I’ve wanted for so long have only given me more questions. Two in particular.
Was my father one of the loggers?
Why can’t I remember him?
I see Pierre, hear his laugh and that annoying French nickname Bébite—“little bug.” I can even recall scrubbing those pots, peeling spuds, and stamping log end after log end like it was just a few weeks ago. Indeed, it probably was. I remember all that but, try as I might, all the rest of that day and well into the night, I toss and turn, for I remember neither my father nor what happened next.
How did I show them all? What was I going to do?
Or, more importantly, what have I done?
I wonder if that is why they left me behind.
CHAPTER 22
My ears ring as I stumble again, gasping from the ache in my side, sick from my spinning head.
Mick? Mick!
I glance around but there’s no sign of him. He was behind me … right behind. What happened to him?
He’s not ashore with me and he’s not clinging to the floating logs that ride the explosion’s dying ripples. Which means he can only be one place. Shantymen now scurry along the shifting timbers, flailing for balance like tightrope walkers as they search the frigid water’s dark surface. From shore, I can see there’s no sign of Mick between those bobbing logs.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was going to break up the jam, chop the key log. I was going to show them all, and they’d be telling stories about me just like I was Big Joe Montferrand—but the timber shifted and I got stuck. No matter how I yanked, I could not free my leg. That’s when I saw the men running for the shore. That’s when I knew they’d freed the key log. The whole thing was going to blow any second. I was about to die.
But Mick appeared beside me. Came out of nowhere and, wedging a cant-hook under the log, he freed me. We bolted for the shore, scrambling from log to log. He was right behind me. Right behind.
Dear God, I scan the black water, please let him be all right.
A man shouts from out on the river. Others join him, scuttling from timber to timber, as easily as running a country road. They grab something with their hooks—it looks like Mick. I pray it is. But someone yells as the logs shift and the men, unable to drag Mick free, push him back under as the timbers collide. They’ve saved him from a crushing. Still, every man knows Mick will not survive in that water much longer. He has only seconds left, if that. Didn’t Benoît tell us how freezing water can douse a man’s spirit as quickly as it can a roaring fire? No wonder only the brave few volunteer to free the logjams.
That’s why I had to do it. I had to. Only everything went wrong. And now—
I see him then. They drag his full form up onto the log where he flops like a load of wet laundry. He’s not moving. One man grabs his feet, another under his arms and they run for shore. Benoît meets them, spreads a blanket on the ground, but moments after Mick’s limp body is laid upon it, ’tis sodden in blood. Benoît works quickly, bandaging what he can with what little he has. From his gushing head to the gash in his side, never mind the deathly gray of his skin, Mick’s battered body tells me he’s dead. But the way Benoît fusses, the way he hastily binds the wounds, despite his own mangled hand, makes me think there is a chance. There has to be.
“Is he—” I grasp Benoît’s arm.
Pierre shoves me back. “You did this! First my father’s hand … and now—” He lunges for me, but the men hold him back.
“Shirt! Give me a shirt!” Benoît orders, and I throw down my jacket and yank off my plaid shirt. Snatching it, Benoît gingerly wraps it around Mick’s head before ordering two men to lift Mick into the back of the wagon as he hops up front. He grabs the reins in his good left hand, pinching them between his remaining right thumb and finger. With a snap, the wagon jolts forward and quickly disappears into the thick spruce. I turn to find every man’s gaze upon me. ’Twas all I ever wanted, only not like this.
No one speaks. Their steely glares say enough as they size up this pathetic boy, quivering in his tattered undershirt. I’m no hero. No lumberman. I’m not even a good cookee. I’m a fool, is all. ’Twill be a long road traveled before I earn a sliver of their respect.
“Right, lads,” the foreman calls from behind, “them timbers won’t drive themselves.”
One by one, the men walk away. But I don’t see them leave. I can’t take my eyes off the red slush. So much blood. Mick’s blood. Shivering, I pick up my coat, hold it in my trembling hands. I should put it on, should try to warm up—but this winter chill is nothing compared to the cold inside me.
My best friend is surely dead. And I killed him.
CHAPTER 23
“Mick!” I waken with a gasp, like I’m coming up from the dark depths. In a cold sweat, I launch myself from the bunk and, bending over, retch into an empty pot. Flinging the door open, I stumble onto the stoop, but there isn’t enough air in the whole wide sky. I can’t catch my breath and my heart is choking me. I’m drowning, drowning in guilt. Head spinning, I fall back against the log wall.
Dear God, it can’t be true. It can’t!
I grab a handful of snow and rub my face raw. But no matter how I blink and squint, the sight of his bloodied gray face lingers and burns like bile.
I did this. I killed Mick.
Memories of him flicker past like shuffled cards. Mick and I hired by the foreman. Cookees for now, Mick, but, sure, we’ll be felling and hawing in no time. You’ll see. The excitement of our long ride into the bush. Snowball fights after the first snowfall. Mick, ye couldn’t hit a barn if yer life depended on it. Ye never could. Mick’s wide-mouthed grin, gaping from the bunk above, as he dropped yet another bean-stink upon me. Songs and stories shared in firelight. Plans for our next big adventure. Mick dragging my sleepy arse out of bed on those midnight mornings to help Cook get the breakfast going for the men, or walking miles into the timber limits to bring them their lunches. From ice-in to ice-out, he never once complained—not about the early rising, or bitter cold, not about the endless chores and thankless work, fetching water, chopping wood, peeling spuds. I wanted more adventure, more praise, but Mick, he always did whatever needed doing. Even if it meant cleaning the mess I often made of things. Don’t worry, he’d say, I’ll take care of it. And he did, too. Even when Benoît got hurt.
Trapped in a net of memories, one leads me to another, stringing my mind around its many holes. Benoît’s hand. Another day I’d sooner forget.
Don’t be such a chicken, Mick. I’m just trying it once. I stole a swing of that broadax but somehow lost my grip. We watched it fly, spinning in a perfect arc before sticking in the log where Benoît sat eating the lunch we’d brought. He’d rested his hand on the log as he leaned. Never saw the ax coming. Just like that, it bit into bark and bone, severing three fingers on his right hand. I saw them. T
hree bloody sausages in the white snow. They didn’t look like fingers at all and I couldn’t stop staring at them. Mick had Benoît’s hand iced and bound in seconds. He half carried the old man all the way back to the shanty and spent most of the next few weeks taking care of him. Getting him food. Changing his bandages. Or just listening to the same stories over and over again. He forgot all about me. Didn’t care that Pierre, Benoît’s son, was out for revenge. It’s just three fingers, I said, when Pierre cornered me in the shanty, accusing me of making his family suffer. Pierre told me that without those fingers, Benoît couldn’t swing an ax. And without work, his brothers and sisters would starve. Pierre swore he’d get even. I could tell by his eyes, he meant it.
Mick followed Benoît around like a puppy and, as the old man relearned his timber trade with his left hand, he taught Mick everything he knew. Mick. It should have been me. Mick didn’t care if he ever left the kitchen. But I was made for lumbering. I begged them to teach me. But Benoît said no. No one, not one man, would let me near his ax or saw. I’d been cursed. Shunned. They didn’t invite me to join them while they ate the lunch I’d made and lugged through the woods. They no longer asked me to play my whistle at the fire. As the pile of felled timber grew, so did my lonely work of timber stamping. Hammer in hand, I stamped every bloody log another man felled. Hundreds of them. Day after day. I didn’t come here for this. I came to make my mark.
And when those logs jammed up, I knew in that moment, my time had come.
CHAPTER 24
I take a deep breath, let the cold night air scour all that’s been stirred up inside me. But there’s more I need to know, more I don’t want to see. My head feels like it might explode with the pressure of the dammed memories. But this place has trenched my mind and, like it or not, the cold truth is gushing out.
Shivering, I wrap my blanket around me and sit on one of the square beams framing the fire pit. I can see them all in my mind’s eye, every one of the forty-six men I’d lived with these past few months. I know their bunks, their stories, the way they take their tea, black and “strong enough to float an ax.” I can almost see them telling those tales around the pit, sweaters airing overhead, suspenders shucked, socked feet propped and thawing by the fire as pipe smoke filters from their bushy mustaches. I can almost feel the floorboards thumping to the fiddle as they danced at a Saturday night clog. Lord, I wanted to be like them. Big and burly. With more scars than I could count, each with a story wilder than the last.
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