by Lisa Smedman
I suddenly remembered the briefing Steele had given me, back in Regina. When listing the magical phenomena that had been reported in the North-West Territories, he’d mentioned an Indian woman who gave birth to a blonde-haired child: a stillborn infant who had been raised from the dead. Had that tearful mother been Emily, and was this the resurrected child in her arms? It seemed too much of a coincidence to be true.
I hurried toward the pair. As I approached, Emily wrapped the blanket around her daughter, but not before I had noted the child’s fever-flushed cheeks, sweat-damp hair, and utterly listless appearance. The infant lay limp in her mother’s arms, only occasionally stirring or whimpering in a soft voice. Emily rocked her and said something soothing in Peigan.
I paused, wondering how I could broach the indelicate subject of childbirth with a woman. “Your daughter looks like a fragile child. Has she always been that way — since the day she was born?”
Emily looked up at me with a strange expression on her face. I saw the same combination of fear and determination on her countenance that I had seen the previous evening, after she had shot her husband.
“I hope you were able to purchase some medicine from the traders,” I continued. “A good patent medicine should set your child on the road to recovery — although I expect you’ll also want to combine it with your own remedies. I understand that Indians have many powerful medicines. I’d like to learn more about them, some day.”
Emily’s response was noncommittal. “White man medicine good. Birth hard, but white man medicine save me.” She glanced around the woods with a distant look in her eye, tilting her head as if she was listening for something.
“Yes, but what about Indian medicine? I hear there are Indian women who can effect miraculous cures.”
I watched her keenly for a reaction, but didn’t see one. Either Emily hadn’t understood what I had said or she really wasn’t the woman whose child had been raised from the dead. My hopes of being introduced to an Indian medicine woman faded.
“I couldn’t help but notice the colour of your daughter’s hair and skin,” I added. “Albino children must be quite unusual among your race.”
Emily tucked the blanket more tightly around her child and her face grew guarded. I realized then that she might think that I found her child freakish. Indeed, that was not the case. The girl might be pale as straw, but her features had the same delicate beauty as her mother’s did. I cast about for something else to say.
“Is she feeling any better?”
Emily nodded. “She be well soon. Medicine come soon.”
I assumed that meant she would be purchasing medicine from the traders, after all.
Emily’s daughter whimpered and reached a soft pink hand out of the blanket. Instinctively, I stuck out a forefinger and let her grip it. The child’s palm was hot and moist with sweat.
Emily stared at me, her brown eyes pleading for me to let her be on her way. Her face still bore the marks of the beating Four Finger Pete had inflicted upon her. If she’d been my wife, I’d have given her anything she wanted — not used rude fists to bruise such a lovely face. I suddenly noticed how close Emily was to me, and how warm the day had become.
“Your girl is a dear little child,” I said, withdrawing my finger. “What’s her name?”
“Iniskim.”
It must have been a Peigan word; Emily, it seemed, had given her daughter an Indian name. I noticed that she was trying to keep her daughter’s face covered by the blanket, and that my proximity was disturbing her. I decided to give this beautiful, tragic woman no further discomfort by dwelling on the subject of her daughter. I instead decided to be helpful.
“Are you looking for the graveyard?” I asked. I pointed down the trail. “Your husband’s body is just over there. They should be laying him to rest presently.”
Emily nodded and murmured something in Peigan that might have been a thank you. I watched as she hurried away down the trail toward the graveyard with graceful steps. As she did, she began singing to her child. The song was a simple chant of the kind the Indians favour, and was presumably a comforting lullaby, yet hearing it sent a cold shiver down my spine.
I wondered what would become of the woman and her child. I supposed she would return to her tribe, now that her white husband was dead. I watched her a moment longer, and toyed with the idea of going after her — although to what end I could not say. Reluctantly, I turned away.
I continued along the trail to the McDougall house, which proved to be a simple two-story structure, built of the same squared-off logs as the church, with a stovepipe emerging through the roof. Like the church, it was deserted. As I stepped up onto the porch I heard an unusual chirping sound, and paused to listen to it. The morning was too far advanced for birds to be singing, and evening was too far off for the chirping of crickets. The noise was muffled, as if the creature making it was inside a hollow tree trunk. I listened for a moment, but before I could identify it as belonging to either bird or cricket, the sound stopped.
I pulled my report book and a pencil out of my haversack in order to make notes. Then I pushed open the front door of the house.
I could see immediately why Corporal Cowan had reported signs of a struggle. The kitchen in which I stood looked as if a whirlwind had struck it: tables and chairs were smashed to splinters, broken crockery was strewn across the floor, and one window was broken with its curtains torn. Flies buzzed around mouldy lumps on the stove and floor, and the smell of spoiled food filled the air. Unlike the church, the McDougalls’ home hadn’t been cleaned up.
I took a good look around the kitchen, the back room, and the two upstairs bedrooms. The destruction was concentrated on the main floor; upstairs, everything looked peaceful, as though the family had just gotten out of bed. On one side of a curtain that divided the upper floor into two bedrooms was a double bed with nightclothes neatly folded upon it; on the other were two rumpled double beds that had been pushed together. A child’s rag doll lay on one of the pillows, and a washbasin still held soap and a whitish crust from the evaporated water. A wardrobe on the parents’ side was filled with neatly folded clothes, and none of the children’s possessions had been disturbed.
Downstairs, the cupboards were still filled with sacks of flour, tea, and salt — even a bottle of spirits. It didn’t look as though anyone had looted the place — which was in keeping with the Indians’ strange sense of right and wrong: they would happily steal a horse, but would refuse to take food from a larder, even when hungry.
Giving the main floor one last scrutiny, I found no evidence of spilled blood, bullet holes, or spent cartridges. There were gouges aplenty in the walls, table and lower stairs, but they didn’t look like the tomahawk slashes I’d found on the melodeon. They looked more like scrape marks than axe chops.
I also noted in my report book that several scraps of clothing of different sizes were scattered about; it almost looked as though they had been torn off the persons wearing them, yet none were bloody. I also noticed two other oddities: a large dent in the thick metal of the cast-iron stove, and a peculiar puncture in the wall next to the front door. The hole was as wide as the circle one can make with thumb and forefinger, and quite deep — too large to have been made by a bullet. When I stuck a finger in to feel its shape, my finger went all the way in.
Slipping my report book back into my pocket, I decided to smoke and think. I took the pipe out of its case, screwed mouthpiece into bowl, and filled the bowl with tobacco. I lit it with a Lucifer match and took several quick draws, coaxing the tobacco into a cherry-red glow.
“‘Allo in there!” said a man’s voice from outside. “Are you Corporal Grayburn of the Nor’ Wes’ Mounted Police?”
I stepped out through the front door onto the covered porch and saw a young man standing at the edge of the clearing that surrounded the house. He was a strapping lad in his late teens, with long dark hair and a face and hands tanned by the sun. He wore a workman’s shirt, trousers, and mo
ccasins, and his waist was wrapped with one of the bright red sashes that the Metis use to carry loads while portaging. I didn’t recognize him as a riverboat passenger; I guessed that he must be one of the traders from the fort. He held a piece of paper in one hand.
“I ’ave a telegram pour vous,” he said.
I beckoned the lad forward. He was at least thirty feet away, but even at that distance I could see his eyes widen. “Oh non!” he exclaimed, making the sign of the cross upon his breast with his free hand. “I dare not, or I will vanish like the others. Monsieur must come ’ere, instead.”
I sighed in exasperation. I’d just proven him wrong by walking into the house and emerging unscathed, but Metis superstitions run deep. “You can see with your own eyes that there’s no danger,” I scolded, pointing at the house behind me with my pipe stem. “Bring me the telegram at—”
It was no use. Instead of doing as I had bid him, the fellow bent down and placed the piece of paper he held on the ground. He tarried only long enough to place a rock on it as a paperweight, then fled into the woods.
I shook my head, understanding now why the McDougall house hadn’t been disturbed. The locals obviously held it in superstitious dread.
I strode out to the edge of the woods and picked up the telegram. It was from Superintendent Steele, and, like him, was brisk and to the point:
CASES SIMILAR TO J. M. CASE REPORTED ACROSS NWT: SETTLERS NEAR BROADVIEW, WOOD MOUNTAIN & BATTLEFORD; CPR ROAD CREW AT TRACK’S END NEAR CALGARY; PASSENGERS & CREW ON FERRY AT CLARKE’S CROSSING, & 4 MEN & 1 SGT. FROM MAPLE CREEK DETACHMENT WHILE ON PATROL ALONG INTERNATIONAL BOUNDARY LINE. REPORT YOUR PROGRESS AT ONCE.
I stared at the telegram, the pipe in my hand forgotten. Steele’s message was cryptic, since he’d sent it by telegraph via a civilian operator, but I knew instantly what it meant. People were disappearing from widely scattered locations all over the prairie. Even our own North-West Mounted Police, it seemed, were not immune. Both Steele and I had assumed that the McDougalls’ disappearance was a single, isolated case, but apparently it was not.
I wondered if anyone I knew was among the men who had gone missing from my former detachment. I’d kept my own company while I was stationed there, but there were among the detachment men whom I respected and liked.
The telegram, according to the date and time recorded by the operator, had arrived in Victoria Mission less than an hour ago. Steele obviously wanted answers, and as quickly as possible, yet I had very little to tell him. The Manitou Stone was indeed gone, as were the McDougalls. Beyond that, I could shed no more light on the case. I folded the telegram and tucked it inside my shirt pocket.
As I contemplated the disappearances, I wondered if the missing men were dead or alive. I was glad that, were I to die in some isolated spot on the prairie, I wouldn’t be dumped ingloriously in the nearest graveyard like Four Finger Pete. As a member of the North-West Mounted Police, I was ensured a proper burial.
A shiver ran down my spine then. How morbid my thoughts had become! Deliberately tearing my musings away from the grim prospect of my impending death, I instead pondered what response to give to the telegram. As I stood sucking on the stem of my extinguished pipe, I heard the chirping noise again. With so many questions crowding my mind, I was at first inclined to ignore it, but my intuition told me not to. So strong was the feeling, I tucked my pipe into my pocket, not even stopping to clean it and pack it away in its case.
This time, I could tell where the chirping noise was coming from: a tree a short distance from the house. As I walked closer to the tree, I saw a peculiar object wedged in a hollow in the trunk. Then the noise stopped. For a moment I wondered if I’d merely imagined it. I used a stick to pry the object free, and it fell to the ground. I heard the strange chirping noise again — once, softly — and I instinctively reached down to pick the object up, cradling it in my hand as carefully as a fledgling bird.
The thing was an amulet of some sort: a ball of leather not quite big enough to fill my hand, strung on a leather thong meant to go about the neck. Half a dozen mottled brown feathers had been stitched to the bottom of the ball and hung from it like a fringe. I could hear the chirping noise again; it seemed to be coming from inside the ball, which was made from a thin strip of leather that had been wrapped around and around some object.
My curiosity piqued, I peeled back one end of the leather and began unwrapping it. As I unveiled the object that lay within, the chirping noise stopped.
The ball didn’t contain an insect, as I had suspected. Instead it contained a strangely shaped stone.
I’d never seen anything like it. Definitely stone — it was hard and heavy — the object curved in on itself like a snail shell. The spiral was ridged, and the stone of which it was formed had a shiny surface like the inside of an oyster shell, but yellowish-green. As I held it in my hand the stone gave one last chirp — a loud, strident sound, unmuffled by leather — then fell silent. No amount of jiggling it back and forth on my palm could get it to make the noise again.
I had no idea what the stone was or what it signified, but I had a hunch that it was somehow connected with the McDougalls’ disappearance. And my hunches were rarely wrong.
I heard a crashing noise in the woods and turned to see Chambers running toward me. When he reached me, he was quite out of breath.
“I’ve found it!” he cried. “The McDougall grave.”
I misunderstood, at first. “Another one?” I asked. “Which McDougall is it this time? Don’t tell me there’s another wife buried in that graveyard.”
“No!” Chambers said. “Not an old grave: a new one. There’s freshly turned earth, down by the riverbank.”
I shoved the oddly shaped stone and its leather wrappings inside my trouser pocket, next to my pouch of tobacco. “Show me.”
I followed Chambers through the woods for some distance. We headed upriver and at last came to a spot where the river had cut a steep bank before shifting its course. We clambered down onto a gravel bar, and Chambers pointed at what looked like a cave in the bluff, an opening as large as a livery stable door. It looked as though someone had been digging inside the cave; a scattering of dark black soil had been thrown out across the gravel bar for some distance.
“I was able to make contact with Abigail McDougall on the astral plane,” Chambers said excitedly. “She came to me as the sound of a woman singing. I asked her to show me where her husband was, and the singing led me to this spot. I’m certain the bodies lie just inside that cave. All you have to do is walk in and dig them up, and the case is solved. What an amazing journal entry this will make!”
I didn’t share Chambers’s certainty. He’d probably heard Emily singing to her daughter, and then stumbled across the cave by accident as he tried to locate the source of the sound. Corporal Cowan’s report had made no mention of a cave — had the McDougalls been killed and buried here, surely our scout Jerry Potts would have been able to follow the tracks of their killers to this spot.
There was something ominous about that hole, however: I fancied I could feel a chill breeze sighing out of it, even though I stood a good twenty feet away. The trees on the bank above the cave seemed suddenly filled with shifting shadows, and the gurgle of the river behind me reminded me of the blood that had bubbled out of Four Finger Pete’s body after he was shot. As I stared at the cave, the sun on my back utterly failing to warm me, I had a strange dread of entering that dark passage. The feeling was nearly as strong as the premonition I’d had on the day George Johnston had gone up the trail and been killed in my place, but it was different, somehow. I wasn’t certain I would die if I entered that cave, but I had the feeling that I wouldn’t come back if I did — which made no sense to me whatsoever.
Chambers stared at me, hands on his hips. “By Jove,” he said in a bemused voice. “Don’t tell me you’re too squeamish to dig up a month-old body. I’d expected a North-West Mounted Police officer to be made of sterner stuff!”
I wheel
ed on him, and glared him down. “I’m no coward,” I gritted at him. Ignoring the warning bells that were ringing in my mind, I strode closer to the cave, then knelt to examine one of the clods of earth that lay just outside its entrance. The soil felt moist and cool.
Chambers watched me, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet like a racehorse anxious to begin its run.
“This is freshly turned earth,” I told him. “If the McDougalls’ bodies were concealed here a full month ago, these clods should either have dried up, or been melted away by the rain.”
Despite my assertions of bravery, Chambers must have thought I was making excuses — either that, or his excitement got the better of him. “Very well, then — I’ll do the job myself. I was the one who solved the mystery, anyway. I really can’t see why you policemen were so baffled by it.”
I jumped up and tried to catch Chambers’s arm as he strode into the cave mouth, but he was too quick for me. I started to go after him, but suddenly found myself rooted to the spot by an overwhelming dread. Gritting my teeth, I found myself questioning my own manhood. Was I a coward? No, I told myself sternly. I was simply heeding a warning voice — one that the impetuous Chambers refused to hear. The same warning voice that had saved me from an Indian bullet, all those years ago.
Sweat trickled down my temples as my sense of duty warred with my premonition of danger. Inside the cavern, I heard Chambers say: “Oh! Isn’t that curious.” I could hear him moving about inside — he didn’t seem to be in any danger. I could still hear his footsteps over the soft gurgle of the river behind me.
No — not birds. The curious stone I’d collected was once again chirping softly. I thrust my hand into my pocket and drew it out, but as soon as I did, the noise stopped. I stared at the stone as it lay on my palm. I’d half expected to see some strange transformation, but the stone was just a stone, as silent as any of those I stood upon. I shoved it back into my pocket.