Thunder Bay

by William Kent Krueger

  That was something Henry understood well.

  “We need to go back,” Henry finally said.

  “You will come again?” Maurice asked eagerly.

  “He would like us to return,” Henry told Maria.

  She smiled at Maurice and said, “Mais oui.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The days passed quickly. Henry and Maria often visited Maurice, who proved to be a wonderful and grateful host. Over time, they learned his story.

  His father came from Haiti, where he’d been a carpenter, working on a sugar plantation. One night he got into a fight with the plantation owner’s son over a woman and he beat the white man badly. He was forced to run. He took the woman with him and she became his wife. They fled to Canada, to Quebec, where a small colony of black Haitians was already established. Maurice was their first child.

  His mother was white, and Maurice grew up with the names half-breed, mule, and mongrel thrown at him like stones. All his life he dreamed of rising to a place where he could look down on those who’d taunted him. Money, he’d believed, would be the way. He’d grown up with stories of wealth waiting to be discovered in the great, unexplored wilderness to the northwest. As soon as he was able—when he was seventeen—he left home and set out to find that wealth.

  For the next fifteen years, he spent summers exploring rivers and streams he suspected no man had ever followed. Winters, he worked as a hand in a mill in Fort William owned by a French-speaking Quebecois.

  One summer day he came across a village of Odawa where a young woman named Hummingbird lived. Love, he told Henry and Maria, struck him with the force of a bullet in his heart. All his loneliness leaked out and what filled its place was happiness. Hummingbird left her village and they traveled far into the wilderness, to the place beside the stream, where they’d built the cabin and lived together for twenty years. There was an Odawa village three days to the south where they traded for things they could not hunt or trap or gather—coffee, molasses, flour—which the villagers got from the government.

  “It has been lonely since Hummingbird died?”

  “Yes,” Maurice admitted.

  “Why did you stay?”

  “I came here looking for gold. I found something better. These hills, this forest, the lakes and streams, the memories of Hummingbird, all these are worth more to me than gold.”

  “It must be a hard life here,” Henry said.

  “It is hard.” Maurice nodded. “But I decided long ago that life among white people would be harder.”

  Lima and Wellington continued to return at day’s end tired and discouraged. In the evening, they drank by the fire and discussed the next day’s plan. One evening, Maria asked why they’d even bothered to come to this place anyway.

  Wellington, whose tongue was loosened by drink, said, “We heard a story.”

  “Leonard,” Lima cautioned and gave him a dark, warning look.

  Wellington ignored him. “We heard a story from a man named Goodkin who canoed up here on the Pipestone River two years ago. He spent a night in an Ottawa village. While he was there, he heard a story about a Negro who dressed in buckskin and came a couple of times a year to trade for goods. The Indians said the Negro always traded gold. Goodkin didn’t believe them, but they showed him a deerskin pouch covered with the residue of what looked like it could be gold dust. Goodkin bought the pouch and brought it back with him to have it tested. Sure enough, gold dust.

  “A few months ago, Carlos and I flew up to the village. The Ottawa people didn’t know exactly where the Negro lived. He was always clever in his coming and going and they couldn’t follow his trail. But they told us it was generally up this way. We flew over the region and I liked the look of this lake. I did a brief preliminary survey and took samples of the sediment on the lake bottom. The results were extremely promising and we decided to return and spend more time before the snows came.”

  “Promising? Hell, you said you were certain,” Lima snarled at Wellington. “So far we have found nothing.”

  “It’s here, Carlos.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Maria asked.

  Wellington stood up and paced restlessly as he spoke. The firelight ran the length of his body, so that he seemed to be a man in flames. “Gold is found in the oldest rock on earth, Maria. Usually that rock is too deep beneath the surface to get at the gold, eh. But where the rock has been pushed up through the surface—by volcanic action, for example—that’s a good place to look. Also in a place scraped clean by glaciers in the Ice Age. Like the Quetico-Superior wilderness area north of where Henry lives. Or here. Those ridges across the lake are volcanic in origin. And the rock that underlies all this area is some of the oldest exposed rock on earth, the Canadian Shield. When I heard the story of the Negro’s gold and saw this place, I knew it had to be true.”

  Maria spoke up. “But it is, as you said, the Negro’s gold.”

  “Not if he hasn’t filed a claim,” Wellington said.

  “And if he has?”

  “Then we’ll strike a deal. It’s just a question of figuring out what a man like this Negro would want.”

  “What if there’s nothing he wants?”

  Wellington looked at her as if she were hopelessly naive. “There’s always something, Maria.”

  That night, Henry lay with Maria in his arms. They no longer made love at night; it was too difficult to be quiet, and Henry was afraid of what would happen if the white men knew. With Maria’s head on his chest, her hair soft against his cheek, her breath rolling warm across his skin, Henry had never been so happy.

  “They know about Maurice,” Maria whispered.

  “They’ve found nothing. Maybe they will give up.”

  “Maybe,” Maria said. “What are we going to do about us?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t ever want to leave you, but when my father’s finished here...”

  Henry hadn’t thought beyond the moment, beyond the happiness beside that wilderness lake. Which was unusual for him, in a way. His life depended on looking forward, reading the signs in autumn that would tell him about the winter to come, watching the skies in spring for the return of the birds, whose timing and number revealed much about the summer ahead.

  “We could live here,” Maria said. “Like Maurice and Hummingbird. They were happy.”

  Henry understood how hard that life would be. For the woman who’d loved Maurice, it was different. She’d been of this country and knew the hardship. Maria had lived another life.

  There was something else to consider: Henry didn’t know about love. He didn’t know if love would always be enough for Maria.

  He kissed her hair. “Sleep,” he told her. “Just sleep.”

  He woke in the morning later than he’d intended. The tent canvas already glowed faintly with dawn. He slid away from Maria, who was still deep in sleep, her face relaxed and so beautiful he risked a kiss, a touch of his lips to her eyebrow. She stirred but didn’t wake. He crouched at the tent entrance and reached out to open the flap. From outside came the cough and spit with which Carlos Lima greeted most mornings. Henry heard the crackle of fallen leaves as Lima made his way to his toilet. Henry waited a minute before leaving the tent, to be certain Lima had settled into his business. He eased the flap aside just a slit and peeked out to check the campsite. It looked clear. Quickly, he slipped from Maria’s tent. As he stood and turned toward his own tent, he spied Leonard Wellington standing ten yards away, urinating into the underbrush. Wellington spotted Henry at the same time. The white man’s eyes held on him, slid to Maria’s tent, then crawled back to Henry.

  “Appears that wolves aren’t the only nocturnal predators up here. Carlos!” he called.

  “I’m busy!”

  Wellington buttoned his trousers. “Finish up, compadre. You have family business to attend to.” He circled, watching, as if Henry were an animal about to bolt. “Carlos, get your Cuban ass over here.”

  Though there was
menace in the white man’s voice, Henry wasn’t afraid of him. He was afraid for Maria because he didn’t know what Wellington and Lima might do to her because of this sin. He kept his position blocking the opening to her tent.

  Lima appeared, hiking up his trousers as he came. “There you are, Henry. Where’s the fire, damn it? And hell, boy, where’s the coffee?”

  “Henry’s been busy with other things, Carlos. I just caught him sneaking from your daughter’s tent.”

  Lima, as he walked, had been concentrating on the buttons of his pants. When he heard Wellington’s words, he stopped. His eyes rolled up and he took in Henry and the tent where his only daughter slept. Rage flared on his face.

  “You savage son of a bitch,” he spat. “I will kill you.”

  He ran at Henry. Lima wasn’t a big man, but he was powerfully built, especially in his upper body. He raised his arms and lowered his head. He reminded Henry of a charging moose.

  Henry dropped low, caught Lima in the gut with his shoulder, and used the man’s momentum to lift him off his feet. Lima tumbled over Henry and landed flat on his back. He tried to rise, but clearly the wind had been knocked out of him.

  Wellington started toward Henry, but not with commitment.

  At the government school in Flandreau, Henry had learned to box. Now he braced himself, brought his fists to the ready, and dropped into an easy fighter’s crouch. It was enough to make Wellington pause.

  “Henry?” The canvas flap rustled at his back. Maria touched his shoulder. “Oh, no.” She rushed past him and knelt at her father’s side. “Papa?” She looked at Henry. “Did you hit him?”

  Before Henry could reply, Wellington said, “Your father was just trying to defend your honor. Henry nearly killed him.”

  “Maria?” Lima’s breath had returned. He reached out and took his daughter’s hand. “Tell me it’s not the way it looks.”

  “Papa, I love Henry.”

  “Love?” He snatched back his hand. He rolled to his side and pushed onto his knees. “Love?” he bellowed. He brought himself up fully and leaned threateningly toward his daughter. “This is not love. This is rutting. This is what wild animals do. I did not raise you to rut like an animal.”

  “I’m not an animal. And Henry’s not an animal.”

  “He’s not a man.” Lima turned to Henry. “A man would not take advantage of a girl this way.”

  Maria grasped her father’s arm. “I’m not a girl.”

  He pulled away. “Clearly not anymore.”

  “I’m a woman, Papa.”

  “Maybe.” He glared at her. “But you will never be a lady. Not after him. What man would want you now? I gave you the best of everything, and this is how you thank me? You are no better than a street whore.”

  He slapped her hard and she spun away. He raised his hand to hit her again. Henry lunged and grabbed Lima’s arm. The man turned angrily. Henry hit him full in the face and felt the shatter of bone. The man went down. His head hit one of the rocks that ringed the fire, and he lay still, blood leaking from the left side of his head.

  “Jesus,” Wellington said. “You’ve killed him.”

  “Papa!” Maria sprang up and ran to her father’s side. She knelt and put her hand to his cheek. “Papa?” She bent near his lips. “He’s breathing. Henry, get me some water.”

  Henry grabbed a tin cup and sprinted to the lake. He dipped the cup full and brought it to Maria. She tore a strip from the bottom of the undershirt she wore, soaked it in the water, and dabbed at her father’s blood.

  “Papa?” she tried again.

  Lima didn’t respond.

  Wellington threw a menacing look at Henry. “Let’s get him into his tent.”

  They carried him in and laid him on his sleeping bag. Maria sat beside him.

  “I’m sorry,” Henry told her.

  “He’ll be all right.” She gave him a brief smile, but Henry heard the lie in her voice.

  Outside the tent, Wellington stormed about the campsite. “Damn you, Meloux. If he dies, I’ll see you rot in prison. God as my witness, I’ll see you hang.”

  Henry made a fire and coffee and biscuits because it was something to do while they waited. He poured a cup of coffee for Maria and put two biscuits on a plate with a puddle of honey. Wellington barred his way into the tent. Henry handed the food to the white man, who took it inside. Wellington and Maria spoke in voices too soft for Henry to hear the words. Wellington emerged, drilled Henry with a killing glare, and headed toward the lake. He waded to the floatplane anchored just offshore, disappeared inside, and came out with a small satchel that he took into the tent.

  Henry, in his life, had seen a good deal of death. Usually it came at the end of a long, hopeless vigil. This was different. In truth, he cared little about Carlos Lima, and he thought if the man recovered and ever struck Maria again, he would kill him for sure the next time. But if Lima died, could Maria ever forgive the murder? Or would her love for Henry die as surely as her father had? That was a possibility Henry couldn’t bear. He stood at the edge of the lake and he prayed— to Kitchimanidoo, to God, to all the spirits of the woods—to keep Lima alive.

  Near noon, Wellington threw aside the flap on Lima’s tent and stepped into the sunlight. He walked to where Henry stood on the lakeshore.

  “He’s not getting better. He needs a doctor. Maria and I are going to fly him out of here. Give me a hand getting the plane ready.”

  They laid bedding in the small cargo area, then returned for Lima. Inside the tent, Maria sat beside her father. She looked so tired and worn that Henry wanted to hold her and weep. He took his place on one side of Lima, with Wellington on the other. They lifted the unconscious man, carried him to the lake, waded to the airplane, and eased him inside. Maria had gathered a few of her things in a knapsack, and after her father was inside, she got into the plane. Henry saw the edge of her journal jutting out from under the flap of the knapsack. Even in desperate circumstances, she couldn’t bear to leave it behind.

  Wellington said to Henry, “Help me get some things from camp.”

  “Maria—” Henry tried to step up to the door, but Wellington grabbed his arm.

  “Now!” Wellington ordered.

  “Hurry, Henry,” Maria called to him.

  When they neared the tents, Wellington stopped and turned on Henry. “You’re staying here, you redskin son of a bitch. You make sure this equipment is safe until I come back. And you better hope to God that Carlos doesn’t die. Because if he does, I’m coming back with police, and you can kiss your red ass good-bye.”

  Henry glanced toward the plane. “Maria.”

  “I hear her name from your lips one more time and I’ll kill you where you stand.”

  Henry wasn’t afraid of the threat. He’d been threatened by white men all his life. Mostly, they were nothing but words. But he’d made enough trouble already.

  He said, “I’ll wait here.”

  “Damn right you will. Give me a hand with the propeller.”

  Wellington spun on his heel and hurried back to the plane. He pulled up the anchor, scrambled inside, and shut the door. Henry stood on the pontoon, and when Wellington gave him the signal, he threw the propeller. The engine coughed; the propeller made a couple of lethargic turns on its own, then caught. Henry stepped back onto the shoreline, and the plane maneuvered slowly toward the middle of the lake. Henry saw Maria’s face at the window. Her lips moved, but he couldn’t hear the words. He watched the wings square for a run across the water.

  “Maria!” The word flew desperately from his lips.

  He ran toward the plane and splashed into the water. The lake ate his body, swallowed him to the waist.

  The floatplane began its run, leaving a silver crack in the water behind it.

  “Maria!” Henry threw himself forward, swimming wildly toward the floatplane as it picked up speed and lifted into the air. “Maria!” he screamed.

  He watched the plane grow small as a dragonfly and disapp
ear beyond the ridges to the south. Then he let himself sink into the ice blue grip of the lake, which squeezed him until he was numb all the way down to his heart.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Henry sat all afternoon feeding the fire, watching the southern sky, though he knew it was useless to hope. He beat himself with the unknowns. Would Maria ever come back? Would he spend the rest of his life in prison? Should he run now instead of waiting for Wellington to bring the police? If he did that, how would he ever find her?

  No matter how he looked at the situation, Maria was gone. Gone forever.

  He’d lost much in his life, but losing Maria left him wanting nothing but to die.

  A familiar voice at his back startled him out of his reverie. “I thought you had left.” Maurice came from the trees and sat by the fire near Henry. “I heard the airplane,” he said. “You look terrible, my friend. What happened?”

  Henry explained the events. “They know about you, Maurice. They will be back. I don’t know what to do,” he confessed.

  Maurice thought awhile. “Come with me.”

  “But if they come back—”

  “They won’t be back today. Come with me. There’s something I want to show you, something that might help.”

  Henry followed in dismal silence. Never had the woods felt so empty. Never had he seemed so far from home.

  They reached Maurice’s cabin on the swift little stream. Maurice led him inside and blew into the embers of the fire and stoked the flame. He put water on to boil.

  “Some tea will help. Hummingbird’s recipe. Burdock root, sheep sorrel, slippery elm, and red clover.”

  Henry sat in the cabin, but his mind was still on the airplane he’d watched lift off the lake that morning, spray streaming from the floats, Maria vanishing.

  The hot cup was suddenly in his hands.

  “Drink,” Maurice said gently. “And listen to me.” He settled into a chair facing Henry and leaned close. A shaft of afternoon light came through the open window and struck his face. The sharp cheekbones above his beard were like dark, polished cherry wood. “In all my time among white people, the one thing I understood best was that for them, money forgives everything. In their courts, money can undo any wrong, even murder.”