Secret Shepherd

by James Osborne

  “Many in the Metis Nations have also suffered just as much as our people have,” Dan added.

  “You know,” Joseph said, clearing his throat. He sat up straight, commanding the attention of everyone. “Some of this is our fault, too, you know! Many of us do not see it that way yet, but maybe one day they will.”

  “Why do you say that?” Dan challenged.

  There was a growing chorus of grumbled disagreement with Joseph’s remarks.

  “Hear me out,” Joseph said. “We all know that our people have suffered terribly for centuries under the oppression of the white man’s colonization. That is irrefutable. At the same time, many of us have let our vision become preoccupied with... become blurred by feeling sorry for ourselves... and that terrible flaw has been working, and continues to work, in the white man’s favor. The white man is using it to further his ends. If we want things to get better, we must stop looking back, stop wallowing in self-pity. We must look forward from now on, and start doing positive things for ourselves. No one is going to do it for us! We have learned that, if nothing else, after centuries of oppression... of colonization.”

  Chief Boisvert raised his hands to calm a chorus of objections from those gathered.

  He nodded for Joseph to continue.

  “One of the ways that allowed the white man to denigrate and to oppress us is that we let them take away our traditional ways of supporting ourselves. We must demand that those means be replaced... replaced with the skills we need to feed and clothe and house ourselves, by ourselves as we did before European colonization... and to regain our self-reliance and yes, above all, our hope and self-respect. All of the terrible things that have been done to our people have impaired our ability to see what is really important above all else: our children, and what is happening to them.

  “Our children are the future of our people, of our culture... a culture that goes back twenty thousand years, probably even more. Our children must become our first priority again, the way it was with our ancestors. The concerns of our children and their hopes must become our primary concerns and our hopes for their futures.”

  Joseph paused to let his words sink in. The room was silent. He continued:

  “We have not been listening to our children,” he said. “That is what is killing them. We are allowing our own troubled minds to help kill our children. This must change, starting right now, before it’s too late.”

  ***

  That Evening

  “What on Earth are you talking about, love?” Anne asked. “You mean those people came up with huge plans overnight?”

  Paul chuckled at her softly accented voice on his satellite phone.

  “Not quite, my love,” he replied. “The tribal elders have been working on some thoughts ... dreams really ... for many years. Their plans originate from a centuries-old commitment imbedded in the culture of indigenous people, to be faithful stewards of the land where they live. All that Dan and I have agreed to do is to help them convert their thoughts into workable plans. I must admit, the ideas are impressive, far more so than I expected. That’s really encouraging. We’ll see what develops out of our meetings. I’m quite sure that some help from Secret Shepherd, in the form of venture philanthropy, is in order.”

  “We miss you, Paul,” Anne said.

  They exchanged their usual endearments and reluctantly hung up.

  He walked from the kitchen to the crowded living room in the tiny home of their host, Lyle Amanust.

  “There’s something else I should have mentioned to you earlier,” Dan said, leaning back in a worn easy chair.

  “What’s that?” Paul asked.

  “A fellow here wants to show you a project he’s been working on,” Dan said. “It’s separate from what we’ve been looking at. Says it’s in a tiny community about an hour north by snowmobile... would take just a couple of hours. Interested?”

  “Someone you know?” Paul asked.

  “No,” Dan replied. “His name’s Sandy Redmond. He’s been staying off and on with a local guy. Evidently he came back here last week on one of his visits. Claims his project has been stopping suicides in that community.”

  “I guess we’d better go see what he’s been doing,” Paul said. “I assume you’re coming too?”

  “Of course,” Dan replied.

  ***

  Next Morning

  “So you want to visit a real igloo?” Sandy Redmond asked.

  “Sure,” Paul replied, although he was more interested in the main purpose of the proposed trip.

  “You bet!” Dan echoed.

  Paul and Dan were standing in front of a ramshackle house on the edge of Namusat. The resident had offered to introduce them to Redmond, who claimed to have a program dealing successfully with teen suicides among First Nations children. Paul had asked why local leaders had not explored the program. Dan told him they’d never heard of it but were expecting a report from them on their return.

  Paul and Dan had arrived just after lunch and were met by a tipsy Tony Stewart, much to their dismay. Paul was relieved to see Redmond promptly take charge.

  “My Inuit friend is a hunter,” he said. “He and his wife and three children live in an igloo. They’re nomadic, just like their community... they follow the migration of wildlife that provide their food, clothing, and incomes. Igloos are used in winter as temporary housing during the migrations. It’s just a few miles away.”

  “I’m with you, Dan,” Paul said. “I’ve always been curious about igloos.”

  Dan’s dark brown eyes sparkled with excitement.

  “I’ve been studying them online,” he said. “I’d really like to see first hand how they’re built.”

  “You’ll see a bunch,” Redmond said, chuckling. “If we leave now, we could be back by suppertime.”

  “Let’s do it!” Dan said.

  “I’ll drink to that!” Stewart twisted the cap off a bottle of cheap red wine. He offered the bottle to his guests. Redmond accepted. Paul and Dan declined with thanks.

  Paul sat behind Redmond astride his snowmobile. Dan climbed onto another snowmobile driven by a tipsy Stewart. To Paul’s surprise, Redmond told Stewart to take the lead. They set off in the twilight of a northern afternoon.

  Since arriving at Namusat, Paul had found it necessary to glance at his watch often as a reminder of how little daylight there was in the north this time of year. The day began with a few hours of dawn starting about mid-morning and promptly ending in twilight by early-afternoon.

  The machines roared northward. By the time they reached the Inuit community, Paul’s watch was showing late afternoon, almost dinnertime. Their arrival was more than an hour past the time Redmond had told them they’d be heading back.

  Through the gloom Paul could make out large white mounds on the undulating snow-covered landscape: igloos... close to a dozen. Faint glows were visible from vent holes at the top. Redmond said the glows were from seal oil lamps that supplied both light and heat.

  “C’mon,” Redmond cried as he leapt off his snowmobile. He dropped to his hands and knees on the hard-packed snow and disappeared down a black hole. It was the entrance to a tunnel barely visible in the dark and blowing snow.

  By now, Paul and Dan’s faces, eyebrows and hair had become caked with snow and frost from the snowmobile trip.

  “You look like an actor out of a winter scene from Tolstoy’s War and Peace,” Paul said.

  “We be twins.” Dan laughed.

  They walked toward the opening where Redmond had disappeared. Paul went first, dropping about four feet in a flurry of snow. Dan jumped down behind him. The two men were in a short narrow tunnel. They crawled about six feet toward a faint light and up an incline, entering a wonderfully warm single room—inside the igloo. Paul guessed the temperature probably was just about freezing, but it felt almost tropical after the bitter cold outside.

  “Over here,” Redmond said, barely visible in the light from two seal oil lamps. He introduced Paul and Dan t
o the hunter, his kindly wife whose smile revealed several missing teeth, and their three small children.

  The youngest child, a baby, was snuggled in the hood of the indoor parka the mother wore. The eldest child, five or six years old, was shy while fussing with a toy made of whalebone. He or she—Paul couldn’t make out the gender because of the parka—was sitting on a wide shelf about two feet above the hard-packed snow floor.

  The six-foot-wide shelf surrounded the inside perimeter of the igloo. It was covered in three or four inches of caribou and seal hides. Paul realized it was the family’s living and sleeping area. The only break in the shelf was where the entry came up.

  Their host motioned them to sit on the shelf. The family joined them. Paul tried to imagine their lifestyle and how the igloo had been built. A slab of something resembling a frozen steak appeared. Their hostess placed it on a flat piece of whalebone, produced a large knife, and cut two-inch cubes from the foot-square slab. She gestured for her guests to help themselves.

  Paul watched as Redmond and Stewart eagerly popped the frozen cubes into their mouths. It was seal blubber, a staple food among Inuit across the Arctic. Paul exchanged glances with Dan and each popped a cube into his mouth. Paul had to work hard to keep from gagging. He noticed Dan was struggling too, but refusal would have insulted their gracious hospitality.

  Blubber must be an acquired taste, Paul thought.

  “Is your friend here the man heading your anti-suicide project?” Paul asked.

  “Oh, no,” Redmond replied. “My friend lives just a few minutes from the community. I wanted you to meet this family first, to get a sense of family life here. I’ll take you to see him soon.”

  “Don’t you think we should be on our way if we’re going to be back in Namusat before it gets too late?” Paul said, looking at his watch. “We’re way behind schedule already.”

  Redmond nodded at Paul and glanced at Stewart.

  It’s going to be a late supper, Paul thought.

  Within minutes they were headed out of the community, Redmond leading the way this time. Paul assumed they were headed in the right direction. A wild blizzard had roared to life while they were enjoying the hospitality in the snug igloo. Visibility was a few feet at best—they were caught in a whiteout.

  “Aw, we’re used to this,” Redmond shouted over his shoulder.

  I sure hope so, Paul thought, keeping his mouth closed to stop the blowing snow from gagging him.

  The storm became more intense as they travelled, and it got colder.

  Two hours later, Paul shouted into Redmond’s ear:

  “Shouldn’t we be there by now?”

  Redmond stopped the snowmobile. Paul had never felt colder in his life. He thought Dan surely had to be feeling the same.

  “This is going to get worse,” Redmond shouted over the screaming wind. “We’d better find a place to make camp. I’m going to take Stewart and look for a suitable place.”

  Redmond and Stewart hopped on his snowmobile and disappeared into blowing snow and darkness.

  Paul and Dan sat on Stewart’s machine. There was nowhere else to sit. Fifteen minutes passed, then half an hour. All the time, the snowstorm continued to rage around them.

  “What do you think, Dan?” Paul said finally, his voice loud so it would carry over the howling wind.

  “Hate to say this Paul, but I think we’re on our own,” Dan replied. “Did they leave us or did they get lost?”

  “Let’s see if we can follow their tracks with Stewart’s machine before the snow covers them,” Paul said. He swiveled around and turned the key. The engine started but quit. Repeated attempts to start it failed. Paul looked and felt around the fuel line.

  “Shit,” Paul exclaimed. “Look at this! The damned fuel line’s been cut half through. Those bastards left us behind deliberately. Son of a bitch!”

  “Any idea what this is all about?” Dan asked.

  “Yeah,” Paul shouted over the storm. “It’s a long story, Dan. A crime syndicate has a bounty on my head. My guess is they’re behind this. The short version is I helped a young man get away from them. They didn’t like that. They murdered him and now they’re after me.”

  Paul and Dan stepped back from the snowmobile. The drifted snow was hard packed under their mukluks.

  Dan dug around in the storage bin under the seat of the snowmobile. He pulled out a machete-like knife and plunged it into the snow.

  “I guess we’re going to find out,” Dan shouted over the howling wind.

  “Find out what?” Paul called back.

  “I read online how the Inuit build their igloos,” Dan replied. “They’re First Nations like my people. That’s why I wanted to see an igloo up close. We’ll see if I can remember how it’s done.”

  In seconds he’d cut loose a block of snow about eighteen inches by twenty-four inches.

  “That’s going to work,” he said.

  Dan stomped in a wide circle creating a track about fifteen feet in diameter, barely visible in the storm.

  “This should be big enough for us to wait out the storm,” he shouted. “I think the Inuit call it an iglusuugyuk. I’m probably not pronouncing that right, but that’s their word for a small temporary snow house they use for emergencies while hunting or traveling... that would be us.

  “Good idea,” Paul shouted back. “I’m not sure how long we’d last out here in the open. Once the storm blows over I’ll see if we can fix that cut fuel line enough to get us back... assuming we can find the way back.”

  Paul watched as Dan chopped blocks of snow resembling enormous bricks, all cut on an angle. Paul helped him place the blocks in a spiral, leading up and around, leaning slightly inward and narrowing toward the top.

  Soon they were ready to place the last blocks. Dan stood on a larger square block he’d cut earlier. Paul had wondered about its purpose.

  Dan reached up and placed the final blocks, leaving a small vent at the top. Despite being inside and in the dark, they dug an entrance, first tunneling down vertically on one edge of the shelter, then out horizontally six feet, and then up to the outside. The result was a surprisingly effective air lock. Later, they would use the large block Dan had stood on to seal their exit for the night.

  Back inside, they were relieved at how much warmer they felt out of the wind. Dan set to work smoothing the snow piles that had resulted from digging the entrance, while Paul went back outside to check on supplies left in Stewart’s snowmobile. He returned with an old sleeping bag and a worn bear hide. Paul guessed from the oil stains the sleeping bag had been used to cover the machine. Also in his hands was a small block of blubber wrapped in tanned hide.

  Exhausted, they both lay on the bearskin and pulled the sleeping bag over them. They could barely hear the wind through the foot-thick hard-packed blocks of insulating snow. Fine snow sifted down from time to time from cracks between the blocks above, reminding them of the raging gusts of wind outside swirling around their tiny shelter.

  Paul was in a deep sleep when Dan shook his shoulder. Dan pointed at his glowing watch and assured Paul it was the next morning.

  “Guess it’s time to go,” he said, handing Paul a few cubes of frozen blubber. Paul had to admit the blubber tasted much better this time.

  They emerged to find the storm had blown itself out. Instead of swirling snow, all they could see in the morning gloom was a white rolling expanse interrupted occasionally by snow banks or mounds, but otherwise absent of any viable landmarks.

  Paul pulled out his satellite phone. It wouldn’t turn on.

  “Batteries are too cold,” he said.

  Dan’s face fell.

  “Hey, hear that?” Paul said. “That’s a plane. From the sound of the engine it’s climbing. I’ll bet it just took off. All we need to do is follow the direction of the sound. Maybe it will take us to Namusat.”

  Paul used the machete to make two long slits in the snow to mark the direction of the sound.

  “There’s a co
mpass on my watch,” Dan said. “Never used it. Want to try?”

  “You bet!” Paul said.

  Dan gave Paul his watch. Paul used its built-in light to zero the compass on north and take a reading on the direction of the sound. He knew any such readings could be off by many miles, but at least they would be closer to Namusat. He’d made a note that their travelling time the previous day had been almost two hours. The compass and travel time gave them approximate coordinates for direction and distance.

  Now, are we going to be able to fix the snowmobile? Paul thought.

  “This thing has a flex fuel line to absorb vibration,” he said. “One of those assholes cut it. Let’s check the storage compartment... see if there’s any tape or anything else.”

  They found an assortment of tools and discarded items, including empty chip bags and gum wrappers. No tape.

  “Hey, gum wrappers,” Paul said. “Why don’t you see if there’s any leftover gum in there while I clean off the fuel line.”

  Dan rummaged deeper in the under-seat storage compartment. “Look, a couple of pieces of bubble gum!” Sensing what Paul had in mind, he said, “You chew one and I’ll chew the other.”

  “Such a deal,” Paul said, chuckling. “We need to make sure we get as much sugar out of the gum as we can. The more we get out the better it will stick.”

  Ten minutes later, their jaws were tiring from vigorous chewing. They agreed the gum was ready.

  “Here goes,” Paul said. “Let me have your gum.”

  “I was beginning to enjoy it,” Dan said, smiling as he handed his wad to Paul, who massaged the two pieces into one.

  Paul held his bare hand on the cut fuel line for a few minutes to warm that part of it. “Here goes.” He worked the bubble gum firmly over and around the cut in the line.

  “Okay now, we need to wrap it with something to keep it in place,” Paul said. “Ideas?”

  Without a word, Dan unzipped his heavy parka and unbuttoned a shirt pocket. He pulled out a small thin paper box and handed it to Paul.