Wake The Stone Man

by Carol McDougall

  Crack! The surface of the snow gave way and I fell through. He lunged back, baring his teeth — a deep growl vibrating in his throat. My arms and legs were stuck under me; I couldn’t move. He stood over me, legs astride, shoulders raised. A fringe of hair rose around his face, two bared fangs inches above my forehead. The growl deepened.

  I lowered my head. Submission.

  He stepped back, turned his head. The pack turned and they were gone.

  I watched them move into the shadows and I wanted to follow. Pain ripped through my hip and snapped me out of my daydream and I thought, “Christ, what the hell am I doing here? What am I doing outside?”

  I turned and saw the faint glow of light from the woodstove through the kitchen window. Wasn’t I just in there? Wasn’t I just in the kitchen?

  I tried to pull my arms out but my leg got wedged deeper in the snow. I was lying half in and half on the snow. I decided to rest, so I let my head fall back on the snow. I looked up at the sky. Beautiful. The stars were hanging there, so goddamned bright. And I was thinking, look at the stars just hanging there. Just hanging there. I thought I could hear the snow. I could feel the earth underneath the snow. I was lying on ground that had been there for billions of years — the Precambrian shield. I was lying there thinking all of this, and thinking nothing, just being in the universe under the stars.

  Maybe I slept, I don’t know. But when I opened my eyes the sky had changed. A line of blue dipped and swung up, then went yellow and red, then spread with jagged edges in waves across the North Mountain. Like a silk scarf snapping up and over, purple, red, then back to blue. I closed my eyes and heard the music. Aurora, Aurora Borealis. So beautiful. Warm, sleepy. I just wanted to go to sleep. Nice warm sleep.

  And I’m lying on the back seat of the car coming back from Loon Lake. Curled up, warm, listening to my parent’s voices. After awhile I hear Mom calling, “Wake up Molly we’re home. Molly … Molly.”

  I don’t want to wake up. I love sleeping in the back seat of the car feeling the road rock me like a cradle and hearing their voices droning away like a lullaby. I curl up more tightly and keep my eyes closed. I’m safe. Dad is driving; he’s at the wheel. Everything is OK.

  “Wake up, honey.” It’s Dad’s voice this time. “Don’t go to sleep now. Not now.”

  I opened my eyes, confused, and looked back at the house. I saw the light from the kitchen and remembered. I shouldn’t have been outside. Don’t go to sleep. Get back inside. Fast.

  I couldn’t feel my legs but crawled forward on my belly to the hard packed surface of the path. With my feet under me I tried to walk and oh god the pain. Tears fell and froze on my cheek. I got to the door and hit the handle with my arm because my fingers were numb. I got inside. The fire was almost out. Had to get more wood. I stumbled to the wood box and saw it was empty and I remembered why I was outside. To get wood. I went outside to get more wood.

  I used my shoulder to knock open the door and went straight to the woodpile. I couldn’t move my fingers, but rolled the logs up onto my arms and headed back inside. I dumped a large piece onto the fire and blew into the stove to bring the embers back to life. The log caught and I added three more. I went into the bedroom and using my closed fists pulled the blankets from my bed into the kitchen. I wrapped myself tight and lay on the floor beside the fire. As my body warmed, my fingers began to burn. I pulled back the blankets and looked at them. They were swollen and white. Madame Tussaud wax fingers.

  Not good. Not good at all. I crossed my arms and tucked my white wax fingers into my armpits. The fire was going strong and I could feel the heat on my face. The armpit heat worked, but thawing the wax fingers brought more pain. I moaned and rocked and wept myself to sleep.

  I dreamt about waking the Stone Man. I dreamt I was standing on the wharf and I shouted out to him and he sat up and smiled and waved at me, and as he waved, his stubby white stone fingers cracked and fell off.

  When I looked at my hands next morning I saw how much I’d messed up. My fingers had turned purple and were swollen up like little sausages. Black blisters had formed on the fingertips and were oozing yellow pus.

  After a few days my hands began to heal and the blisters closed over with a white crust. I had screwed up. I could see that. I fell asleep in the snow.

  Here’s the thing. When you’re a northern girl there’s one thing you know from the time you’re born — you don’t friggin fall asleep in the snow. If you do, you don’t wake up.

  chapter fourteen

  Over the next few days I thought about what I had done. I imagined Anna coming out in the spring looking for me and finding my sorry old bones out in the field. Not nice. Not nice for Anna. But I started to think it wouldn’t be nice for me either.

  That’s when it hit me that for a long time, ever since the accident, I hadn’t cared much about living. Not that I’d actually thought about snuffing it — I was too chicken for that. I couldn’t stop thinking though that there’d been a mistake the night of the accident. I was supposed to be in the car with my mom and dad. I was supposed to be dead.

  I remembered a Dorothy Parker poem, “guns aren’t lawful; nooses give; gas smells awful; you might as well live.” Well, after the night I almost died in the snow I decided, what the hell, I might as well live.

  I got my shit together. I kept the stove stoked and ate three times a day. And I started to paint again. I put the painting of Nakina in the Lorna Doone on the easel. It was like bringing Nakina into the cabin with me. I had thought I was happy with this painting, but looking at it again it looked so flat and naïve. I could see where I had gone wrong. It felt good to be able to see what wasn’t working and try to find a way to take the image where I wanted it. So much I had to learn.

  I was going through my stuff to find more paints when I came across the box with the papers from the residential school. I put it beside the kitchen table. I took an armful of papers out of the box and set them down on the table, and after getting a mug of tea from the pot on the woodstove I started to read.

  April 3, 1921

  To the Secretary of the Department of Indian Affairs from J.M. Bennett, School Inspector Lake Superior School district.

  I respectfully ask the Department to do what they can to increase Indian attendance at the Fort McKay School. Built to accommodate a minimum of 50, yet they have never been sent more than 25. There is a large territory for the school to draw from, Heron Bay, Long Lake, Pic River, Pays Plat, the whole north shore of Lake Superior. The school is well adapted as a boarding school. Many Indian children coming to the school come knowing virtually no English and have no Christian belief. Care should be taken to see that they are of school age and in good health. It is required that an application be signed by one or both parents, along with a certificate of health. Catholic missionaries can assist you in obtaining new pupils.

  The next letter came from Ottawa on May 4, 1923, from the Department of Indian Affairs:

  We hope to substantially increase the numbers of Indian children. In the meantime you can collect the Indians needed from communities along the railway lines.

  I read the last line again: You can collect the Indians needed from communities along the railway lines. I remembered what Nakina had told me about the train that took her away from her family and brought her to the residential school in Fort McKay. Children collected like cargo from along the railway lines to fill their quota.

  The next letter was from Mary Wabashon of Pays Plat to J.M. Bennett, School Inspector. Her son had been taken from her and sent to the residential school. The next year the body of her son was returned to her in Pays Plat. In her letter she said a witness told her that her son had been made to “scrub floors while ill with the measles and he wasn’t given any medical treatment.” Bennett wrote back, “Your son was made to wash floors as part of his regular school duties. You can be pleased that the school is kept clean and san
itary.”

  I put the letter down. How did that mother feel getting this letter? Knowing that her child died in a place far away, from a disease he had no resistance to, and that he died scrubbing floors to keep the Christian school clean and sanitary.

  I looked at the painting of Nakina. So much I never asked. Did you get measles? Do you remember your family? Did they make you scrub the floors clean for Jesus?

  ***

  I decided to have a bath, which is a big flippin deal in the bush. Took all day. I started first thing in the morning. Snowshoed to the sauna with load after load of wood. I stoked the fire and kept filling the tank with snow. By afternoon the sauna was getting warm and the tank was almost full of water.

  By the time the sun went down it was time to strip. In the narrow dressing room at the front of the sauna I took off my fur coat. I kicked off my boots and socks and felt the cold rough wood under my feet. I took off my overalls and flannel shirt, then undid my long johns and slid out of them. Naked. I ran my hand across my warm skin. My flesh. Old friend. Hadn’t seen my body in months.

  I opened the door of the sauna and the heat almost knocked me back. I tried to sit on the top bench but it was too hot — I couldn’t breathe. The iron stove glowed red with the heat. I sat on the bottom bench and splashed a ladle of water from the tank across the rocks. A hiss of steam filled the room. I hung my head and felt water trickle down my neck. I poured more water on the rocks and moved up to the top bench. I took the birch switch hanging on the wall and slapped my shoulders and back. I could smell the sweet birch oil from the leaves. I slapped my feet and legs and ran the switch along my arms. The branches tickled.

  It was too hot to breathe so I stepped out of the sauna and walked barefoot along the snowy path. I stood naked under the stars, looking up at the Milky Way. I raised my arms to the sky and could see steam rising like smoke off my hot flesh. I stood on the snow with feet bare but felt no cold. I stood there five, maybe ten minutes, naked in a field of snow under the stars, in a perfect state of grace.

  After a time the snow grew cold under my feet so I went back into the sauna. I lathered with birch soap and rinsed, then bundled up my clothes, slipped my bare feet into my boots and pulled the plucked beaver coat over my naked shoulders. When I got into the house I put on clean long johns and socks and wrapped my hair in a towel. I crawled into bed and fell into the long perfect sleep of the gods.

  I started to ski every day. I went along the logging road back into the bush. It was still probably forty or fifty below but I could feel some heat in the sun when it reflected off the snow. The bush was silent. There was just the swish, swish, swish of my skis and little pings as I placed my poles.

  Sometimes I stopped and stood under the trees. I saw deer. They got spooked if I was moving, but when I was still they’d walk up to me and around me. Sometimes I went so far into the bush that it was dark by the time I turned back. I kept supplies in my backpack — food, flashlights and duct tape. I taped the flashlights onto the top of my forearms and when my arms swung up and down, two long beams of light marked the path.

  I came across a deer carcass one day. Wolves had taken it down and were circled around the kill. When they saw me they scattered, but before the last one bolted back into the bush he turned his face and I could see bright red blood dripping over his muzzle like a grin. Then they were gone and all that was left was a carcass ripped open — steam rising from the blood-red guts. I thought about the day Nakina and I watched Bernie Olfson slice open the belly of a moose on his front lawn. I turned and skied home.

  chapter fifteen

  One day I was tired of exploring the bush behind the house and decided to head down the road to see if I could find any signs of life. It was a sunny day and the snow was perfect for skiing, not sticky or slow. About five miles along the road I saw a house. Big two-storey house with a truck and a VW van in the driveway. I stopped in front of the house and thought maybe I’d just turn around and go back. I didn’t really want to talk to anyone. Hadn’t in months, but hell, I’d come all that way so I skied down the driveway and knocked at the door.

  A woman, who looked to be in her twenties, opened the door and waved me in like she’d been expecting me. She was shorter than me and heavy-set and was wearing a long tie-dyed skirt with a plaid shirt over it. She looked down at the cross-country boots on my feet. “You skied here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Come on in. I just made tea.”

  I followed her into the house, through a narrow hallway filled with coats and boots, into a large living room. There wasn’t any furniture in the room except for a few mattresses on the floor that were covered with bright tie-dyed cotton blankets. As I followed her to the kitchen I saw a poster on the wall — a tree with roots deep in the ground and farther up, the tree morphed into the shape of a woman and this naked guy was fucking her — fucking a knot in the trunk of the tree woman.

  I had two thoughts. First, this sure as hell wasn’t a Finlander’s house. And second, you really shouldn’t fuck with Mother Nature.

  “I’m Rita and this is Celeste.” A small kid about five years old with short black hair sat at the table drawing.

  “Hi, Celeste.” The kid didn’t answer or look up.

  I sat down beside her and Rita brought over a mug of tea. I was a bit freaked out being around people, but Rita seemed OK and Celeste just kept drawing. Rita had soft blue eyes and blond hair pulled back into a long braid. The kid didn’t look like her.

  “You live close?” she asked.

  “Down the Silver Falls Road about five miles.”

  “Near the highway?”

  “No, the other way, down where the road turns. My place is a mile or so down the logging road.”

  “I didn’t know anyone lived back there.”

  “No one does. Just me.”

  “Does the township plough that road?”

  “They do, right up to my mailbox.”

  Rita put a bowl of vegetable stew in front of Celeste and me. It was good and I was thinking it had been a long time since I’d eaten any vegetables.

  I looked at the picture the girl was drawing. “Is that your house?”

  “My house in Africa.”

  “Did you live in Africa?”

  “No, not yet. Want to draw?”

  “Sure.”

  Celeste pushed some paper in front of me and moved her box of crayons between us. As we drew, two more people came into the kitchen: Tom, with beard and pipe and serious eyes, and Mary, with babe in arms. Mary sat down beside me, slipped the shoulder of her cotton blouse down and put the baby to her breast.

  “There’s stew in the pot. Help yourself,” Rita said.

  I continued drawing but looked up when one more guy walked in. His name was Frank and he dropped heavily into a chair across from me. He had wide shoulders, a broad barrel chest and a moustache that made him look like Charles Bronson. He stretched out one of his legs, rolled up the pant leg and snapped off a shiny pink plastic prosthesis. He laid the plastic leg against the table. People around the table kept talking, and no one seemed to think it was weird that some guy just sat down and snapped his leg off. I was glad Celeste had given me the paper. I put my head down and kept drawing.

  Another guy came down the stairs and sat across from me. When I looked up I thought, “Jesus Christ.” I mean really — Jesus Christ. He had long blond hair and a long beard and looked like those pictures of Jesus in my Sunday school book.

  Actually, with his round wire-rim glasses he looked kind of like John Lennon too. Rita called him Lars and put a bowl of stew in front of him.

  “I’ve got the plans for the house.” Tom took the pipe out of his mouth to speak, but his voice was so low I could hardly hear him.

  “When do you start building?” Rita asked.

  “Spring. Not this spring, next.”

  “L
og?” Rita asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “So where do you get the logs?” Frank asked.

  “Cut them.”

  “Yourself?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How many?” Frank asked.

  Tom took a deep draw on his pipe and looked up at the ceiling as if the answer were written there. “About forty-eight, maybe more.”

  “You’re nuts. Where are you going to get all those logs?”

  “I’ll cut them from the edge of the clearing. Have to cut them, strip them and let them dry out for a year so they don’t shrink.”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Frank said. “Just get them hauled in. Do you even have enough on the property?”

  “We’ll see. I’m leaving next week to go up north.”

  “What for?”

  “Got a job in Kirkland Lake. Noranda mine.”

  Mary looked up from the baby with a worried look. “When did you decide to take that job?”

  “Last night. We need the money. Even if we cut the logs ourselves there’s still the roof and windows. We need cash.”

  “Yeah, maybe but jee-zuz Tom, Kirkland Lake?” said Mary.

  “Good money.”

  I looked down at my drawing and pretended I wasn’t listening, but I was trying to put it all together. Looked like Tom and Mary were together so the baby must be his. I wondered who Celeste’s dad was — if he was one of the men here. Frank seemed to fit in, but Lars was different. He was quiet and seemed to be watching everyone. Like I was.

  Frank leaned across Tom’s drawings and scratched his chin. “Bay window?”

  “Mary’s idea.” Tom said.

  “I want to be able to look down at the creek,” Mary explained.