Mrs. Mike

by Benedict Freedman

  "But if he was so weak, how could he?"

  "I had a look around Cardinal's cabin on my way to pick up Jonathan. The cabin's on the hill, and I noticed a wide strip of underbrush had been crushed and tufts of weed and bush pulled up by the roots. At the time I couldn't understand what could make a track like that, but after I saw Jonathan, I knew. He's crawled up that hill every night for three nights. Where the vegetation's pulled up by the roots, that's where he rested or maybe fainted. How he could hold on like that I don't know, but he must have."

  I thought of Raoul Forquet and his war with Canada and Great Britain, and I understood how Jonathan held on. "You think that Cardinal beat him up?" I asked.

  "Yes," Mike said, "that's what I think. I visited Jonathan's trap lines, and there were signs of a scuffle. There have been heavy snows since then, but once a man sets foot, or in this case, snow-shoes, on a snow-covered rock or a fallen tree, he leaves an impression no snowfall will obliterate. And that's what happened. There were the close-footed prints of the Indian Jonathan. And the impression of white or 'breed steps, wide apart, straddling on the web of the shoe."

  "But Jonathan's a 'breed. That is, his father was a 'breed."

  "He's Indian for all that," Mike said. "More Indian than many a full-blood. When he found his traps had been meddled with, he lay in wait. Cardinal came by to take a look at the traps, and Jonathan caught him at it, confronted him, and probably demanded the stolen skins. Cardinal must have knocked him down. I think one blow did it. Jonathan must have struck his head on something, or maybe the blow knocked him out. But if there'd been any real tussle, his face would look like his body. It's a pretty ugly picture, Cardinal standing over an unconscious boy and kicking him. If Jonathan had been white, he would have died in the forest. But, being Indian, he ate the sap of the jack pine and lived. Not only lived, but crawled to the house of his enemy every night to shoot at him."

  "He just meant to scare Cardinal, didn't he?"

  Mike shook his head. "He meant to scare him, all right. But a cat scares a mouse, worries it, before she pounces. Jonathan may be intending to pounce."

  "Well, that brute deserves to die, and I wouldn't blame Jonathan a bit for killing him."

  Mike looked at me with that teasing smile of his, and then his face grew grave. "If I could prove Cardinal was a trap-robber, the whole Northwest wouldn't be big enough to hold him."

  "But it's proved," I said excitedly. "Jonathan's your witness. He actually saw him."

  "That's what I think," Mike said. "But that's not what Jonathan says."

  "What does Jonathan say?"

  "Nothing."

  "You mean when he came to, he wouldn't tell you how he'd gotten hurt?"

  "He wouldn't," Mike said.

  "But why?"

  "Because of that devilish pride of his. He got the worst of things, didn't he? First Cardinal robs him, and then he beats him up. Jonathan wants revenge, and he doesn't want me spoiling it by sending Cardinal to jail. My job is plainly to keep the boy from becoming a killer."

  "And mine," I said, "is to feed him before he faints in my living room."

  I carried the dishes to the table. Jonathan stood leaning against the door. He spoke a low word to Oh-Be-Joyful and she jumped up to help me. In the kitchen, Oh-Be-Joyful caught my hand in hers. "Jonathan, he is sick, yes?"

  "He'll be all right," I said, "once he gets a good dinner in him."

  "You are sure, Mrs. Mike? You are sure?"

  "Of course I'm sure." But I wasn't. I didn't like to see Jonathan leaning against the door that way. He wasn't the kind to lean if he could stand. I set down the platter of meat.

  "Well," I said, "I guess we eat."

  Mike turned to Jonathan. "Pull up a chair."

  Jonathan smiled slightly and shook his head.

  "Come on," I said. "Things will be getting cold."

  Jonathan did not move. He said, "Already I eat much today."

  "Of course you have," I said, "but you've been out on the trail with Mike for hours. I know Mike's always starving when he's been out all day like this." I cursed the evil little luck that made me use the word "starving," for Jonathan said, with that half-smile on his face, "Me, I do not starve."

  Oh-Be-Joyful spoke softly to him in Cree, but he would not look at her.

  "I'll feel very sorry if you do not accept my hospitality, Jonathan," Mike said.

  "And my cooking," I put in. "A cook likes a little appreciation, and the best appreciation is eating."

  Jonathan held that little mocking smile on his face and said nothing.

  I sat down abruptly with my back to him. It was a terrible meal. Who could eat anything with that hungry boy watching us silently? Oh-Be-Joyful didn't touch a thing. Mike ate steadily without once looking up from his plate. I stood it until the meal was nearly through, but when Oh-Be-Joyful pushed away the stewed plums which were her favorite dessert, I pushed back my chair and said, "Jonathan Forquet, you've spoiled everybody's dinner by your stubbornness, and I hope you're satisfied!"

  His eyes met mine. They were young and troubled. "I—I did not know," he said.

  "Well, you know now. Next time I cook a meal, and you're around, you're going to eat it whether you like it or not."

  "Kathy," Mike said.

  "I don't care, it's perfectly ridiculous. Jonathan is pretending he isn't sick or hungry, and we're pretending with him." Somewhere in the middle of this I heard Mike groan, but I went right on, "I'm going to feed you, Jonathan, and then I'm going to put you to bed. And in the morning when you wake up, I'll ask you if it was all right that I did it."

  Jonathan moved from the door and stood straight and tall in front of me.

  "I don't care," I said again. "It's your own fault. It's the only way you let a person treat you."

  He smiled at me, and his eyes were friendly. "Mrs. Mike, I ask you, please you give me to eat, yes?"

  "Nothing's hot now," I said, "but the meat's just as good cold."

  He sat at the table and ate my dinner. He ate with his left hand. It was stiff, and he had difficulty raising it, but the other hand hung at his side, unusable. He ate slowly and very little. When he had finished he looked to Mike and me and said gravely, "I have eaten in the house of my friends."

  "Yes," Mike said, "you have."

  Oh-Be-Joyful was filled with delight by what had happened. She smiled secret smiles to herself and moved busily around the room. Jonathan watched her with pleasure.

  "She is too young," I whispered. "You will let her stay a while with me." I waited.

  The words came so low from him I scarcely heard them. "It is well."

  There came a rapping at the door that somehow shattered the peace and the friendliness. Mike opened it, and Cardinal stepped inside. He wore the same dirty yellow handkerchief, this time under his cap. He looked quickly around, and when he saw Jonathan he grinned in a very unpleasant way and clapped Mike on the shoulder.

  "Ha!" he said. "You got him. Good!"

  Jonathan jumped to his feet. He looked from Cardinal to Mike. There was a curious expression in his eyes.

  Cardinal crossed the room and planted himself before Jonathan. He stuck his neck out, bringing his face very close to Jonathan's. The boy did not move.

  "So!" Cardinal said. "Sergeant Mike, we did good to arrest this fellow, no?"

  "Arrest!" Jonathan looked at Mike.

  "Jonathan is not under arrest," Mike said.

  "Him murderer!" Cardinal cried. "Him try kill me all the time."

  Jonathan watched, apparently indifferent, but Mike was mad.

  "I thought I told you to stay away, Cardinal. You're not doing any good here."

  "I know what you want, Sergeant. You want by nice talk get out of him how he try kill me. I know better way." Again he brought his face close to Jonathan's. "You tell Sergeant Mike you shoot arrows at me."

  Jonathan looked past Cardinal at Mike. He spoke slowly for the thoughts
forming in him were painful. "Sergeant Mike light fire on trail to warm me. In his house him give me food. Is it that he want I speak of shooting arrows so he arrest me? Tell me now, this thing is true?"

  Mike returned Jonathan's steady gaze. "The thing is not true. If I had wanted to know about the arrows, I would have asked you. There was no need to ask. I knew you had shot at Cardinal. But I had a different reason for bringing you here, Jonathan. I wanted your side of what happened between you and Cardinal. Of course, I must also warn you: there must be no more shooting."

  "No!" bellowed Cardinal. "This is all wrong. Him try kill me. How I know tomorrow night he won't shoot straighter? Do I got to be dead before you put him in jail?"

  Mike spoke to Jonathan. "There's to be no more shooting. I want your word on that."

  "His word! What you think he is? Some damn good schoolboy? Him murderer, murderer!"

  It was difficult to ignore Cardinal, who was practically frothing at the mouth, but Mike did ignore him.

  "Well?" he asked Jonathan.

  Jonathan looked fiercely ahead of him at nothing.

  "I can't let you go around shooting at people," Mike said.

  Jonathan stood there without answering.

  "Jonathan," Mike said, "if you shoot at Cardinal again, I'll be forced to arrest you."

  Jonathan's gaze rested almost gently on Cardinal. "Then my next shot, she be my last."

  Cardinal turned pale. "It's a lie about the trap lines! It's a lie!"

  Jonathan did not answer him. Instead, he said, "One moon ago, I follow Mother May-Heegar, gray wolf, to den. She lie down and die of wounds. From inside come little May-Heegar. Them cry like puppies. I take skin from Mother May-Heegar and eat her. I give pieces little May-Heegar. They eat her too. When skin of Mother dry, I put in den. Little May-Heegar like sleep there. Then I tie my shirt over opening. They scared of shirt, no go out while it still there. Next day I come, feed little May-Heegar. Them so little, I must chew food for them. After we eat, I paint little May-Heegar faces with bright paint, like I paint canoe. That show they mine. Every day now I go play with them. But one day I take rag from opening, they no run out. They dead. They mostly eaten. I feel bad. I look around, see mark of Pee-Shoo. Follow track into forest, see Pee-Shoo spring into tree." Jonathan touched the chain of bear talons that hung around his neck. "Mish-e-muk-wa die with one arrow through heart. But Pee-Shoo, big cat, killer of cubs, did not die, but went with beating heart through forest. My arrows, they follow him, they let him not to rest. In terror must he live now until the day my pity, she guide arrow into the wicked, frightened heart of Pee-Shoo."

  Jonathan looked at us. He did not look longer at Cardinal than at the rest of us, but when he had gone, Cardinal fell heavily into a chair.

  The next morning we heard that Cardinal had left Lesser Slave Lake. He had gone in the night to do his winter's trapping farther north.

  Seventeen

  Winter was long and quiet. The men were away from the village, trapping. The women stayed in their houses. In my own I had made a new friend—my daughter, Mary Aroon.

  Now that she was over five months old, Mary Aroon had decided to take charge of the household. She had an uncanny eye for spotting things I needed, and yelling till I gave them to her. That was the end of my red pot-holder, and my green taffeta ribbon, and my spool of coarse thread, and nearly the end of Mike's shaving brush. Mike himself had to interfere to save this and argue it out with Mary Aroon.

  This love of bright colors she got from me, along with her red hair. But her appetite came from Mike. Better than a clock, she was. Did I wait two minutes past her feeding time, she'd bang on the walls of the crib; that was warning. Next minute the house would be filled with screeches that should have come from a mountain lion. There was no answer to that. Mary Aroon was fed.

  I expected another baby sometime in July. I was determined that this one would be just as strong and healthy as Mary Aroon. The bitter pessimism the women of Grouard had adopted didn't touch me. I wasn't resigned to losing six children to raise three. Every one of mine was going to grow up!

  This was good country, I felt. I had come here weak and pale,

  coughing, hunched over, with shooting pains in my chest. Now I was well, I ran my own house, I had a child and would have more. Surely in this cold clean air of the North my children would thrive. I tucked the blanket up over the back of my baby's neck, kissed the top of her head, and gave her a nice bright green piece of cloth to play with.

  Sarah had given me a small bottle full of brown powder. I secretly gave Mary Aroon a pinch in a little water, once a week. I was afraid Mike would disapprove. After all, I didn't know what the brown powder was. Probably a doctor from the outside or a pharmacist would have laughed and said it wasn't anything, meaning anything in their books.

  But Sarah told me, and I believed: "Better, Mrs. Mike, to give medicine for sickness before than after. This way, when sickness come into baby, medicine is already there waiting."

  So I took the scratched little bottle, which from its shape was probably once an iodine bottle in a prospector's first-aid kit, and I put it on the back of the shelf behind the salt and pepper and sugar.

  "Sarah," I had asked her, "how do you know all these things?"

  "Mrs. Mike, I know from my mother and from many old men and women who knew from before; I know from trying and mixing, myself; I know from the look of the plants; I know from things I am told when I sleep. You give your baby this now, she will have good stomach, good liver, she will never be sick. And you come yourself," looking at me critically, "come in January, and I start giving you squaw root. By the time your new baby comes, it will be quick and easy, like that!" And she brushed one hand swiftly against the other.

  Therefore in January I dutifully walked down to the Carpen-tier's cabin on the lake and called for Sarah. She appeared at the entrance of a shed which ran along the south side of the cabin. She looked very tall and commanding. "Come up here," she said.

  I had been down to her cabin only three or four times, and I had never been in the shed. I had never wanted to go into the shed.

  Things grew and hung in that damp musty place that belonged at the bottom of swamps, under rocks, or in nightmares. From the door I could see thick, fleshy stems, slightly hairy, spread over a rack to dry. On the ground in front of me was a long-dead stump with strange warts on its dried-up roots and unhealthy-colored toadstools attached to the sides. One of the toadstools, thin and crumbling in its rottenness, was carefully supported by a network of string. Along the side of the shed was a long table, completely bare except for a dead muskrat pinned to the wood. The air was full of the smell of decay. Even the sunlight was transformed into a weird silvery light by the curtain of cobwebs which hung over the lattice. I shivered a little as I stepped into Sarah's workroom.

  "Sit down, Mrs. Mike." She pulled a chair out of the shadow for me. I sat down, looking around me nervously. I wondered if I was imagining things moving in the dark corners.

  "My plants," Sarah said. "Beaver oil for put beaver smell on trap, I sell to trappers. Rub on trap, lay trail on ground, fool wolf. Wolf not get man smell, get beaver smell, come fall in trap. White trapper use musk, fish oil, other things, but beaver oil best."

  I turned my head, and something curved and sharp swung against my cheek. It was a clawing foot with nails protruding. It hung from a buckskin thong.

  "Nothing," Sarah said. "A lion's claw. When bad things grow in the body and swell it, it is good to hang this claw by the bed and pray to the maker-of-claws to tear out the evil."

  She reached under the table and picked up a large tin can. She tilted it to show me the pale brown chunks it held.

  "Touch it," she said. I touched. It was rubbery, yet soft. "I take plant, squeeze out milk, dry in sun, becomes like this—good for heart, good for liver, makes to cough." She pinched off a piece, swallowed it, and coughed, a dry sharp cough. She smiled broadly and offered the can to m
e. I shook my head.

  "No, I don't feel like coughing," I said, trying to laugh. The next moment I jumped. Something had moved in the gray corner across from me. I couldn't see well. It was in the shadows, but it seemed about the size of a puppy, it hopped like a toad, and a hoarse cry came from it. Sarah picked up a large packing case and put it over the thing.

  "Nothing, an animal," she smiled.

  "Yes," I said.

  "Mrs. Mike," she said, taking my hand, "never be frightened of things because of their looks. Ugly mud flower"—she tilted the can again—"make well the heart. Pretty root"—and this time she picked up a long curling tuber—"kill a man."

  "You don't like this room," Sarah continued, "because she smell a lot, because she is dark, because these things in it not your friends. But I like smell, I like dark, and all things here my friends—even him." She reached out her heavy foot and gently touched the box. There was an answering thump from within, and again that cry. The animal under the box began moving around restlessly. Was it a beaver being prepared for an operation to remove the precious castoreum? Was it a monstrous toad whose withered skin was a prime ingredient in magic? I was afraid to think about it. I forced myself to look away.

  "You told me to come, Sarah," I began.

  "Yes, you think of your next baby. I have ready for you." She reached over the table and fumbled in an open cupboard. "Many hundred babies I am the first to see. And only one die. Every one I save with squaw root." She chuckled. "You take every day, and I tell you, when baby come you not even know it, no! Once I play good joke on Louis, my husband, I am near my time, big like vinegar barrel. I am cooking dinner. I say, 'Louis, we need wood!' He say, 'We have plenty.' I say, 'Louis, chop wood!' He look at me and shrug his shoulders. I turn my back, take big chew of squaw root. He pick up ax, walk out. Let me tell you, when he come back with split wood, there is twins in the bed, and I am back cooking dinner. But he is a man, he is blind, he sit down and eat. 'Coffee strong enough?' I say. He say, 'Yes.' Then both babies cry. He look around! 'Sucre bleu!' he say French. He run to bed. Where they come from? He hit his head with both hands. It was good joke, Mrs. Mike, best joke I ever make."