“Imminent danger is established.” Teacher flipped a page.
“The subject is a healthy male, approximately fifty years of age, cardiovascular and respiratory systems are better than would be expected of a person of this age.”
Virginia thinks I’m old, Abe thought.
“He appears to be in better than average physical condition. It is obvious that the subject has received military fitness training. The calluses on his hands appear similar to those observed on subjects who have recently attended terrorist training.”
“Hoe and rake. I should have used herbicide in my gardens.”
Whatever hit the soles of Abe’s feet, bound tightly together at the ankles, was thin and very strong. The sting was a lot sharper than he expected.
“You will only speak when asked a direct question.” The reader continued to sound like he was reading.
“Abraham Isaac Friesen; tell him he has the name of a good Christian.”
“You have the name of a good Christian.”
“Read him his charges.”
“You are charged with conspiracy against peace, order, and good government.”
“Read him his first option.”
“You may give a voluntary statement admitting the charge. Cooperation and truthfulness will be taken into consideration when final determination of your sentence is pronounced.”
“Ask him if he desires to give a voluntary statement at this time.”
Abe took a deep breath through the heavy black hood, considered what he might say.
“The subject declines to make a voluntary statement.” Reader sounded closer.
“Continue,” Teacher answered.
Abe breathed out slowly, measured.
The first jolt of pain began somewhere near the bottom of his abdomen, shot upwards through his body and ricocheted around inside his rib cage, sudden, sharp. It left Abe gasping inside the hood. The second jolt followed the same path, lasted several gasps longer. The third jolt did not stop. The pain tore through Abe’s core, filled him, as though he was suddenly flooded with sulphuric acid, burned intensely forever, beyond gasps, beyond memory, beyond thought. It erased his brain, became the moment, the only moment in history, then tapered off, gradually allowing thought to return. Storms never last, do they baby. The chorus of an old country song crooned in Abe’s head as the pain diminished. He searched for the other words to the song, could not find them and repeated. Storms never last, do they baby. Put it to voice, a whisper “Storms never last, do they baby.”
“We have a singer.” Reader’s voice sounded somewhere out in the audience.
“Terrorist training is confirmed.” Teacher sounded relieved.
“I don’t understand.” A fourth voice, from further away.
“Terrorists are trained to sing, usually a battle song or one of the songs of their false religion. It is not too much different than the North American Indian singing their death chant,” Teacher explained. “It makes interrogation much more difficult because the subject removes himself consciously.” Teacher must have turned away. Abe could not make out the rest of his conversation. The pain ended, tapered off to nothing, empty. He smelled fresh vomit in the hood.
Wagner. Abe recognized the opening to “The Ride of the Valkries”. There must be speakers on both sides of my head. Good choice. The volume increased until the music was all that there was. Abe put himself into the music, rode the crescendos, kept himself conscious through the surges of pain that arched his body, knew his body writhed and thumped against the metal table, but it was far away. Abe rode a winged horse out of heaven, brandished a flaming sword in the war at the end of the world, rode Wagner’s music, one of Abe’s favourite works.
“Everyone talks.” Monica looked closer at Betsy. She seemed distant, further than the few feet across the back table of the Olympia Restaurant. Monica recalled when this back area was the smoking section, when she and Betsy Chance were in university together, when the discussion was about a different kind of revolution, about First Nations and the shelved Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples report.
“Abe will talk.” Monica tried to give her voice the extra distance needed to reach Betsy.
“So what. He doesn’t know anything.” Betsy did not move any closer.
“He knows the names of everyone that was there.”
“So.”
“Don’t be a bitch, Betsy.”
“I’m not, as you so delicately put it, being a bitch.” Betsy leaned her elbows on the table, arms folded, looked directly at Monica. “You have to learn to grow a thicker skin, sister. Who is it that you are worried about? The important people who were there are safe. Richard? They’ll never find him. Abe never met That Jack, didn’t know who he was. The only people at risk are that Mennonite woman and the environmentalist, what’s her name?”
“Joan Lightning.”
“Yes her, and who else? They already knew about Roland. Who else might our friend Abe know about?”
“There’s Ben Robe.”
“Oh yes, forgot about you and him. Monica you’ll have to learn to let him go. He might have been something when you were a student. Now he’s nobody. Even if they catch him, so what.”
“You’ve changed.” Monica leaned back. Now she wanted distance between herself and Betsy. “You used to be a good friend.”
“Don’t pout. It makes your face all funny looking. Listen, Monica.” Betsy’s voice softened slightly. “They have Abe, and I agree with you, everybody talks. Abe is probably not having a really nice time right now. So, he tells them everything that he knows. Still, so what. We still have the advantage. They can’t build enough prisons, enough torture chambers. They can’t get enough guards, or interviewers. They can’t lock us all up. There are too many of us. Their focus is on finding the leaders. Those are the people to worry about.
“Even if Abe tells them about Ben — let’s assume that for a minute — what’s going to happen? They might go up there and arrest him, they might even interview him. But he doesn’t know anything. Six months, a year maybe, and they’ll release him. He’ll go back up north and you can slip away and go see him in his wonderful cabin on the shore of his lake, your little romance will pick up again and you can lick his wounds for him.”
“Oh, you are a bitch, Betsy. You know damn well that we were only together once and nothing has happened for twenty years.”
“And I know that you still dream about him.” Betsy smiled mischievously.
“He’s a good man.”
“I know.” Betsy’s voice was soft now. “I know, but reality says he might get caught.”
“What about those two black shirts Ed has?”
“What about them?”
“A trade.”
“For who? For Abe?”
“Why not?”
“No.” Betsy shook her head while she thought about it. “No, we’ll trade them, but for somebody important, like Edwin or Noland.”
“We don’t even know if they’re alive. Come on, Betsy, we know that Abe is strong. He’ll hold out for a long time, there’s still a chance. Edwin and Noland, don’t get me wrong, I love those brothers, they were both good commanders. But do you think, even if we get them back after all this time, that they will be of any help? Think about it. Trade for a couple guys who will be so badly broken by now that all we can do is keep them safe, wipe the sweat from their brows as they convulse in terror. Even if we get them back now they’ll be insane. Or do we trade for Abe, someone who has given everything for the resistance and we get back a full human being? And remember, Abe knows about you and me.”
“I’ll think about it. You know it’s not entirely my choice. Okay, I’ll put Abe’s name forward, but the council might not agree. In the meantime, I’m going to give you an order that you might enjoy. Go and tell Ben that he might be at risk and arrange some sort of protection.”
Moccasin Lake stretched north, flat and black until the lake met the black sky and northern lights danced
on both. Elsie tugged at Benji’s sleeve and they stepped back from the sand beach to where willow grew down to the high-water line. A boat split the ebony lake and headed straight for them. The driver cut the engine as it drew into the shallows, lifted the leg of the motor and let momentum wash the boat onto shore where Elsie and Benji had just stood. The man in the bow jumped out and pulled the boat higher onto the sand, reached into the boat, grabbed a rope and strung it out to the willows intent on tying to something secure.
“What the . . . ” he exclaimed when he caught sight of two human shapes behind the willow clump.
“Red.” Elsie recognized the voice. It matched the shape of her tall thin cousin.
“Who’s that?” Red didn’t recognise her voice.
“It’s me, Elsie.”
“What the . . . ”
“What you doing here?” Elsie stepped out of the darker shadows into the mere dark, hugged her bewildered cousin.
Red nervously looked back at his partner getting out of the boat. “It’s okay Mike, it’s just Elsie lost or something.” He turned back to Elsie, held her at arm’s length. “What am I doing here? What the hell are you doing here? Come back for the wake or what?”
Mike began unloading plastic twenty-five-litre gas cans from the boat, plopping them into the sand. “Never mind your cousin. Let’s get this boat empty.”
“Hey, Elsie, kind of busy now. Tell you what, here.” He picked up one of the cans and offered it to her. “Here take this, it’s pure alcohol. Don’t drink it. It’s for your car. And I’ll come up to the wake later and we can visit, okay.”
“Sure, Red.” She struggled with the weight of the can. “Where’d you get this?”
“We made it. But it’s not for drinking. That shit will blind you if you try. It’s just for your car.” Red carried a can in each hand. “Go back up to the gym, I’ll see you later, okay Elsie? Hey, cuz, it’s good to see you again.” And he disappeared up the trail toward the shape of a truck parked on the side of a little-used dirt track of a road.
“They sure misunderstood Quebec.” Leroy the Montreal Canadiens fan re-entered the conversation. “They seemed to think that the French would be on their side for some reason, didn’t realize that Quebec wanted independence.”
“Yeah, independence from them too. They’re sure putting up a fight down there.” Roderick looked around to see if the young lady with the big tea pot was in sight. She wasn’t.
“It’s like the Americans thought that all Quebecers hated Canada.” Ben followed Roderick’s searching gaze, another cup of muskeg tea would be nice now. His throat was getting dry. “They must have thought Quebec would side with them against the rest of us. They sure got fooled on that one. Did you hear the news today? Sounds like Montreal is a fire storm. Strongest resistance anywhere comes from the French. Who would have thought?”
“Not that hard to predict.” Leroy looked for the big tea pot too. “It’s like brothers or even sisters. Oh, they might argue between them, even act like they hate each other sometimes, but just try to get in between and you have both of them against you.”
The young woman with the big enamel pot did come around again, poured the last of the wild forest-scented tea into Styrofoam cups; it was cooler now and stronger. Ben only wished that he was drinking it out of a tin cup, the way his grandmother used to pass it to him; evenings with Grandpa, stories, and Ben trying not to burn his hands on the hot metal cup. Styrofoam gave the tea a chemical taste. Oh well, it was still good, soothing on his dry throat.
Elsie and Benji came back into the gymnasium. A quiet stillness had begun to settle over the people there and despite Benji’s wanting to get to know her more and more, the quiet in the gym prevented him from speaking.
The night deepened. Young mothers took their children home first, then others drifted out. Groups of visitors became quiet as people gradually left. Standing first for a moment by the open casket, touching Elroy’s cold, folded hands one last time, they said their final goodbyes, then walking around shaking people’s hands, and promising to “See you tomorrow,” they found the door and the dark. Roderick followed protocol early, “I’m about done in here, boys,” and only Leroy and Ben remained.
Benji came over to the Elder’s table not long after Elsie, and Rosie, still carrying Rachel, left. “I guess I’ll take you up on the offer of that cot after all.”
“Anytime.”
“Well, thanks.” He wasn’t sure of himself, standing half behind Ben, so that Ben had to twist around on the plastic chair to see his face. “Are you staying?”
“I think so, for awhile anyway.”
“The door isn’t locked. Just help yourself to whatever you need.”
And Benji, too, found the door and the dark, but without shaking hands with anyone or going to the casket.
“That’s a good looking son you’ve got.” Leroy still wanted to talk, didn’t want to be alone just yet. “It’s just too bad you missed out on his growing up years.” Leroy’s voice softened at Ben’s pained expression. “It’s okay. You have time now. Up to you if you want it.”
“I suppose.”
The silence of the night drained conversation, took away the energy for talk and both men fell back into the quiet. This was the part of the wake that Ben remembered most, this still, quiet time in the middle of the night when only a few remained to keep the dead company until daylight, his mother only agreeing to go home and get some rest when a much younger Ben had promised, “I’ll stay, Mom, you go home before you fall down.”
“Don’t be falling asleep now. You keep watch.”
“I will, Mom. Promise.”
“This is the last time you’ll have to look after your dad.”
“I know, Mom. I know.”
Leroy butted his last cigarette into the dregs at the bottom of the Styrofoam cup, adding it to the others. Elroy always hated his smoking. Probably didn’t smoke because Leroy did. Well, maybe Leroy could quit now. He stretched his shoulders back, forced old muscles to move, stood, scraped his chair loud in the echo chamber of the school gymnasium and went to stand before the open casket. His brother, his little brother. Now he could say goodbye, now when there were only a handful of people left, Leroy and Elroy one last time and the world would change forever. Leroy would be alone for the first time in ninety-two years.
“Well little brother . . . ” He stood straight, looked down into the box at the old face and the long grey white hair fanned out on the pillow, rubbed his hand over his own short-cropped hair. “It looks like it’s just me now. You’re not missing much. This is a different world than we had. Maybe it’s better. Maybe it’s as it should be. You and me, we weren’t made for this world; this world’s gone crazy. Maybe it’s better that you’re not here to see this.” His hands held the edge of the coffin, supported his weight, his heaviness. “Gotcha with this Canadiens thing, didn’t I? Got you last.” Leroy tried to laugh. It wasn’t there. “Your kids were here, your grandkids, and even some great-grandkids, but I guess you know that, eh?” He looked away, around the nearly empty gymnasium, collected thoughts for a second. “Gonna miss you.” He looked back. “You know that too. It won’t be long, not long little brother. You just wait. Me and you in the happy hunting grounds, and I’ll show you how to hunt. Nothing left to hunt around here anymore. You must have shot the last of the big moose to get that set of antlers in your living room. But don’t you worry, when I get there I’ll show you a really big set of antlers.” He touched his brother’s scarred, cold, hand, the one with the gold Western Canada championship ring. “When I get there, we’ll be on the same team. Promise. I promise.” Leroy choked on the lump in his throat, felt the sting of tears threatening to burst. “Promise.” He leaned down and kissed his brother’s forehead.
Elsie wanted to go because Benji was going. Rosie wanted to go because Elsie wanted to take Rachel with her. Give the boy a sense of his ancestry, Ben figured as he manoeuvred the boat a short distance up Witiko Creek from its mouth on M
occasin Lake. The creek ran deep and dark, its water stained with tannins. The sand bar along the south shore was longer than Ben remembered. He let the boat swing in the light current and nosed it in where the trail began, right there where the pines ran down to the water’s edge.
The trail ran straight back, up a slight rise and onto the flat, three- or four-acre clearing. Its indentation from years of use ran through the red brown pine needle-covered ground. Some of them lay in clumps, blown from the boss trees of the forest that stood guard around the grey weathered cabin, shaded it from a relentless sun, broke the wind in winter, sometimes gave their life to that wind. Ben was saddened by the sight of a large pine that lay tilted, its roots torn from the earth, brown and grey across the trail that ran under it straight to the door of the cabin. He remembered that tree, remembered his father leaning his big bow saw against it, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. “That’s enough for today, Nikosis, go for a swim or something. Can’t work all the time.” And the dutiful son had gladly obeyed in the cool of the creek.
Ben wanted to share his memories with Benji, memories of two old people living quiet and close to the land. He hadn’t intended to sound like a professor, but he did. “They lived here all their married lives.” Without the feeling, without attachment. “They moved here after their wedding. The story is that someone was killed at the celebration, stabbed. Mom and Dad came here to get away from the drinking. All the time they were here, alcohol was never allowed; might be why they never received many visitors.”
Rosie interrupted: “Adolphus and Eleanor Robe. People on the reserve didn’t mention them much, kind of forgotten people,” as she walked around the windblown pine towards the cabin. She spread out a blanket before unsaddling Rachel from her hip, put the little girl down and lowered herself onto the hand-sewn quilt. The exact place where Mom used to sit on a blanket to do her bead work or birch bark baskets, Ben realised.
“This cabin is in pretty good shape.” Benji pushed against the solid log wall.
The Cast Stone Page 10