“You two okay?” he asked.
“He did great,” Jenny replied.
Aaron peered inside the chest and said with surprise, “My God, he’s smiling.”
“Took to it like a duck to water,” Cork said. “Where are you parked?”
“In front of the cabin,” Aaron replied. “It was a little hairy getting here. Trees still down over the roads everywhere. Looks like a nuclear blast in some places. I understand why the sheriff couldn’t spare any help up on the Angle. Major highways are clear, though.”
“Good. Let’s get you guys gone.”
They left the dock and skirted the cabin, a small and unremarkable affair that had lost shingles in the storm and sustained a couple of broken windows. Aaron’s truck, a new-looking black Dodge Dakota with a crew cab, was parked on the dirt road in front, which dead-ended at the cove. They put the baby in the rear seat, and before she climbed in beside him, Jenny turned to her father. “You’re going back in the dark?”
“Tom says he can navigate by the stars.”
Kretsch shook his head and grinned. “GPS, actually. It’s much more reliable.”
Jenny took the deputy’s hand. “Thank you. For everything.”
Kretsch looked down, as if embarrassed, and Cork thought he was going to say, “Ah, shucks.” Instead, he said, “I’m just glad I could help.”
“You get yourself and my father back to Oak Island in one piece,” she said seriously.
“We’ll be fine, sweetheart,” Cork told her. “You just get safely to Henry. I’ll feel a lot better when I know you’re there. And give a call to Bascombe’s place, let everyone know you’re safe.”
Cork gave her a long hug, then turned to Stephen. “Tell Henry boozhoo for me, and thank him. And take care of your sister and the boyo, okay?”
“I’m on it, Dad.”
Stephen tolerated Cork’s hug, even gave him a quick squeeze of his own in return.
He turned to Aaron and shook his hand earnestly. “When this is all over, we’ll sit down with a couple of beers and really get to know each other.”
“I’d like that.”
Cork nodded toward the truck that held his daughter and the baby. “Thank you.”
“I’ll make sure we get to your friend’s place safely,” Aaron promised.
Cork stood back and watched them climb into the cab. Aaron kicked the engine over and turned the truck around. As they headed into the waning light of evening, they gave him a last wave of good-bye.
“They’ll be fine,” Kretsch said.
“From your mouth to God’s ear.” Cork turned back toward the cove. “Let’s get ourselves on that lake before I lose my nerve.”
“We’ll be home before midnight,” Kretsch said.
“I don’t think so,” Cork replied.
“No? Why not?”
“Because we’re going to make a stop before we get there.”
“Where?”
“I’ll tell you on the way,” Cork said.
THIRTY-SEVEN
For a good long while, they drove in silence. The baby slept. Aaron had the radio turned low, listening to Minnesota Public Radio broadcast out of Roseau. Stephen stared out the window at the passing landscape, a mosaic of dark evening colors. Jenny was thinking. She thought about all that had happened in only two days, a kind of frenzy that was difficult to put together in a way that felt believable, though she’d been there through it all. She thought about the people she loved whom she’d left behind on the Angle, still in danger, perhaps, and she worried. She thought about the roads ahead: the one that led to Henry Meloux, which she knew well, and the more difficult road she would have to navigate at some point that led through a bureaucratic minefield to a place where the fate of the baby would be decided. Of all the unknowns ahead, that was the one that made her feel most helpless.
They had dinner in International Falls. Jenny left the ice chest in the truck and carried the baby in her arms. She changed his diaper in the restroom and prepared a bottle, which she handed to the waitress and asked her to heat. When the woman saw the baby’s cleft lip, she didn’t look horrified at all. She was thin, maybe fifty, with hair that was drugstore blond, and too much eye shadow, and ruby-colored nails, and an empty ring finger. She smiled with a genuineness that made Jenny love her instantly.
“I’ll have them put a pan of water on the stove and heat it up for you, hon. What’s his name?”
Jenny hesitated, awkwardly.
It was Stephen who replied. “Waaboozoons.”
“Waaboozoons? Never heard that one before. Is it foreign?”
“It’s Ojibwe,” Stephen said. “It means ‘little rabbit.’ We call him Waaboo for short.”
“Don’t that beat all,” she said. “Well, I’ll have the little rabbit’s bottle for you in two shakes.”
“Where’d that come from?” Jenny asked her brother when the waitress had gone.
Stephen stared at his menu and shrugged. “I don’t know. It just came to me, and it sounded right.”
Jenny could have told him that the term “harelip” came from the resemblance a cleft lip bore to that of a rabbit’s divided upper lip, but she didn’t. The truth was she liked the name.
It was hard dark when they headed south on U.S. 53 toward Tamarack County. Jenny was exhausted and sat quietly in back, listening to Aaron and Stephen talk up front. They seemed to have warmed to each other as the miles went past.
“How come you’re not in school this week?” Aaron asked.
“Most schools in Minnesota don’t start until after Labor Day. It’s like a law or something. And Labor Day’s late this year.”
“Do you play any sports? Football or run cross-country?”
“Football in the fall.”
“What position?”
“End.”
“Offense or defense?”
“Both. What about you? Did you play football in high school?”
Jenny could see Aaron’s face, his profile hazy from the glow of the dash lights. It was a handsome face. His voice, when he spoke, had a deep timbre that made her think of some rich, dark wood, like teak or mahogany. He could be extremely gentle, and his poetry was stunning in its sensitivity to relationships in life, especially those between nature and humans. There was so much to like about him. And yet, in the last few weeks, she’d found herself holding back more and more, and the why of it was something she hadn’t been able to put her finger on.
“Lacrosse,” Aaron said.
“Lacrosse?” Stephen seemed surprised and pleased. “I’ve never played, but it looks pretty cool. An Indian game, right?”
“Right. Those Indians were pretty creative and competitive.”
“We still are,” Stephen said.
Aaron glanced at him and gave a serious nod. “Of course.”
“Were you any good?”
“We took state my senior year.”
Stephen gave a low whistle to show that he was impressed. They drove through Ray and Ash Lake and Orr, dark little towns surrounded by deep woods and with a few lights in the windows.
“I read a book of your poems.” Stephen sounded as though he were making a kind of confession.
“No kidding? Which one?”
“The Heart’s Divide.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“Bought it off Amazon.”
They crossed a bridge that spanned a channel between two lakes. The moon was up, and the channel was a brilliant, iridescent spill between two vats of silver.
“Okay,” Aaron said, “the suspense is killing me. Did you like my poems?”
Stephen stared out at the lake, then glanced at Aaron. “I liked the ones where you talked about the land. I could see what you were getting at. Some of the others, well, I didn’t understand them.”
Aaron nodded. “Fair enough.”
At last they turned east and entered Tamarack County. A sense of gratitude overwhelmed Jenny. She’d thought, years ago, when she left for the Uni
versity of Iowa, that she was leaving Aurora and the house on Gooseberry Lane behind for good, but now it felt wonderful to be coming home. It felt safe.
“Tell me about this Henry Meloux,” Aaron said.
“I’m not sure I can,” Stephen replied. “I think you have to meet him. He’s . . .” Stephen seemed to be searching for the right word. “Unique.” A few moments later, he added, “And important.”
“Dad says he’s not well,” Jenny said from the backseat.
Stephen half-turned. “He told me that, too, when I came home from Texas. He said there’s someone staying with Henry. She’s like a nurse or something.”
“His great-niece. Dad says her name is Rainy Bisonette. She wants to become a Mide, like Henry.”
“I’m going to be a Mide someday,” Stephen said with certainty.
“What’s a Mide?” Aaron asked.
“A member of the Grand Medicine Society,” Stephen explained. “A healer. Somebody who understands the harmony of life and how to use nature to restore harmony when it’s been lost.”
“You seem to know Henry Meloux well.”
Stephen hesitated before replying. He glanced back at Jenny, who nodded that it was okay. “Some pretty horrible things happened to me a long time ago, and he helped me heal. He’s helped us all at one time or another.”
Aaron considered this for a moment, then said quietly, “Maybe if there’d been a Henry Meloux around when I was a kid, my family wouldn’t be so screwed up.”
It was past midnight when they came into Aurora. The houses were dark, and the streets, too, except where the streetlamps threw down circles of light. Jenny didn’t need light to know this town. She could have guided Aaron around every corner with her eyes closed.
“Let’s go past the house,” she said.
“Why?” Stephen asked.
“I want Aaron to see it.”
Stephen shrugged. “Turn right on Walnut,” he said to Aaron. “Two more blocks.”
In a couple of minutes, they were parked in front of the two-story on Gooseberry Lane. It was white wood with green shutters and a roofed porch that ran along the front. The big elm that had been there even when her father was a boy cast moon shadows across the yard and the house. There was a porch swing, and Jenny remembered how her parents used to sit and talk after she and Anne and Stephen had gone to bed. Her room was just above, and she could often hear them conversing below in the quiet, intimate voices of people who’ve loved each other for a long time. It had made her feel safe. And now, for some reason, it made her feel lonely.
“Where’s Trixie?” she asked Stephen, speaking of the family dog.
“Staying with the O’Loughlins across the street.” Stephen turned back to her. “We shouldn’t be here. Dad wanted us to go straight to Henry’s. Somebody might, I don’t know, be watching or something.” He peered carefully up and down Gooseberry Lane, which was quite lifeless.
“All right,” she said reluctantly. “Let’s go.”
They drove north out of Aurora, along a county road that paralleled Iron Lake. Occasionally, among the thick growth of evergreens, they could see a light from a cabin or one of the small resorts that sat on the shoreline, but mostly there was just the dark of night and the splash of moonlight between black shadows. They turned onto an unpaved road, and after a couple of miles, Stephen directed Aaron to pull off and stop near a double-trunk birch tree.
“This is where the path to Henry Meloux’s cabin begins,” he explained.
They got out of the truck and took with them the items they’d need: the ice chest with the baby inside, no longer sleeping but making no sound; two packs, one with all the baby supplies inside and one with a change of clothing for each of them; a flashlight; and three sleeping bags. Aaron and Stephen each shouldered a pack. Jenny took one handle of the ice chest and Aaron took the other. Each of them gripped a sleeping bag. Stephen walked ahead with the flashlight.
“How far is it?” Aaron asked.
“About a mile and a half,” Stephen said.
“We’re in the Superior National Forest right now. In a little while, we cross onto Iron Lake Reservation land. Just beyond that is the cabin. It’s an easy hike, you’ll see.”
Jenny hadn’t been to Meloux’s cabin in a very long time. Stephen had been a more frequent visitor, a special visitor in many ways. What her father had said about him was true: He had a unique relationship with the old Mide. She was glad he’d agreed to come along.
The way led through deep forest lit by moonlight. Although it was the middle of night, the woods were alive with the chirr of crickets and tree frogs. Occasionally, Jenny heard the crackle of something in the underbrush to the right or left, some small animal startled by their presence and scurrying away in the dark. The path was soft with fallen pine needles, and all around her was the good, fresh scent of evergreen. On the small farm in Iowa where she lived with Aaron, the land had a different smell, heavy and earthy, and she realized how much she missed the cleansing scent of pine pitch.
They crossed a small stream—Stephen said that white people called it Wine Creek; the Ojibwe called it Miskwi, which meant “blood”—and, not far beyond, they broke from the trees and stepped into a meadow that lay white under the moon.
“This is Crow Point,” Stephen told Aaron. “Henry’s cabin is over there.”
He gestured across the meadow to a low structure that was partly illuminated by the moon and lay partly in shadow. Beyond it was the silver shimmer of Iron Lake. As they stood there, Jenny heard a lazy barking come from the direction of the cabin.
“That’ll be Walleye,” Stephen said.
Aaron asked, “Walleye?”
“Henry’s mutt. He’s a great old dog, with an emphasis on ‘old.’ ”
A light appeared at the cabin door. Jenny knew that Meloux had no electricity, and she supposed that the light must be from one of his lanterns.
“He’s awake,” Stephen said.
“Let’s go.”
They followed the path across the meadow, and as they approached the cabin, Jenny saw that it wasn’t the old man who was awaiting them. It was a woman in a loose T-shirt and sweatpants. In the lantern light, her face was the color of faded brick. Her long hair was black, except for a streak of gray that ran down it like a vein of graphite. She was pretty, and she was smiling as if their presence was no surprise.
Stephen said, “Anin,” offering her the traditional Ojibwe greeting. “Are you Rainy?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Uncle Henry told me to expect someone, but he didn’t say who or that it would be in the dead of night. Unless I’m mistaken, you’re all O’Connors, right?”
From the ice chest came the whimper of the baby.
“Oh, my goodness,” Rainy said, peering inside. “What have you got packed in there?”
Without hesitation, Jenny said, “His name is Waaboozoons. We call him Waaboo for short.”
A heavy cough issued from the dark in the cabin. They all turned, and Henry Meloux shuffled into the lantern light. He looked surprisingly old and frail to Jenny, gaunt and immeasurably tired. His dark eyes stared at them from a face so deeply lined that there wasn’t an inch of smooth left on it. Then he smiled, and despite the pall of illness that clearly hung over him, a gentle and lively spirit seemed to dance in all his aspect.
“You are late,” he said. “I have been expecting you forever.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Rainy Bisonette made tea and brought out cold biscuits left over from the dinner she’d made that evening, which had been fish and wild rice stew and which she offered to reheat. They accepted the tea and biscuits but declined the stew, though it was clear to Jenny that Stephen would gladly have eaten a bowl or two. The only room in the cabin was clean and simple. The walls were hung with items that recalled Henry Meloux’s long history among the Iron Lake Anishinaabeg: a bearskin, a bow ornamented with feathers, a deer-prong pipe, snowshoes crafted from spruce-wood frames and strips of moose hide, a lacquer
ed rack that cradled an old Winchester rifle. The only furnishing that looked new was the iron cookstove in the center of the room. There were four handmade chairs around the rough-hewn birch table. Aaron insisted on standing, and he leaned against the wall near the door, looking uncomfortable, as if prepared any moment to bolt. Jenny held the baby in her arms. Walleye lay in the corner with his old head cradled on his paws, blinking at the gathering and probably blinking back sleep as well. Henry Meloux sat with a blanket around his bony shoulders and listened as Stephen told their story.
“Waaboozoons,” the old Mide said when Stephen had finished. “A little animal who knows how to hide from the wolf.” His dark eyes rested on the child, and he seemed pleased with the name.
“Mishomis,” Stephen said, respectfully using the Ojibwe word for “grandfather,” “my father sent us here. He hopes that you’ll help us keep the baby safe until he can catch the wolf who hunts Waaboozoons.”
“It is a long way to come,” the old man said. “Why here?”
“Because on the Angle we don’t know for sure who to trust.”
“I have an old friend who lives on that great lake,” Meloux said. “His name is Amos Powassin.”
“We met him,” Stephen said.
“And you would not trust him?”
“He pretty much sent us here,” Stephen replied. “He was afraid, I think.”
A troubled look came over the old man’s face, a darkness in every line. Jenny saw that his hands shook with a slight but uncontrollable tremor. “An animal that has made Amos Powassin afraid? Tell me about this wolf who hunts a child.”
Stephen said, “I haven’t seen him, but Jenny has.”
Everyone looked to her. She shook her head. “I’ve only seen him from a distance, maybe a couple of hundred yards away, when he raised his rifle to shoot at us.”
The old man seemed interested in this information, which hadn’t been a part of the shortened story Stephen had told. “Two hundred yards? Did he have a scope on his rifle?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Did he shoot at you?”
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