The Cast Stone

by Harold Johnson

  “No, Mr. Robe. Nobody’s going to torture you. I have a checklist here in my hand and do you know what? There’s a little box on it that says Imminent Threat. That box is not checked off. No, Mr. Robe, if that box had a little x in it, you wouldn’t be here, you would be somewhere else answering questions for someone else. This is just an interview we’re having here, not an interrogation. You have nothing to worry about, all we are going to do is talk. Now, again, Mr. Robe, do you believe in Christ.”

  “If you remove the hood, I’ll tell you about how he was a medicine man.”

  “A medicine man. Really, Mr. Robe, you don’t follow the heathen way of thinking do you?” The voice waited for an answer. Ben waited for him to remove the hood, knew that it was too soon, that it would take much more before he saw the face of the voice, knew also that the voice would give in, knew that he had won the moment he was asked if he was a Christian. In the silence, Ben could hear the sound of metal against concrete, of people moving, talking. This place was never quiet. It echoed every move, every footstep, every human motion bounced and rebounded as though resisting its confinement.

  Ben began to dig in his memory, those things he studied, the memory of hours under a coal oil lantern in a cabin just back from the shore of Moccasin Lake. He found the image first, felt the warmth of a woodstove, then he began to retrieve the contents of his study. “In the beginning was the word,” it said. Words that are like the sounds that echoed around him, wanting to be free, words, who would be the master of the words? Ben or the voice, or would the words be masters of them?

  “Mr. Robe, you were found in the company of a charlatan, an Arab man who was pretending to be an American Indian — do you have a plausible explanation for this?” The voice spoke first and Ben relaxed. He was in a contest of wills and he was winning.

  “Remove the hood.” Ben’s voice was flat, fixed.

  “You have not earned the right to see. You cannot see until you find the truth. Tell me what you intended to do with an M-37 assault rifle.”

  Ben listened to the sounds that echoed through the concrete and cinder block — waited, found his own inner silent place and waited.

  “You attended a meeting earlier this summer, Mr. Robe, a very important meeting on a farm not far from here. Can we talk about the presentation you gave? I understand that you impressed a lot of people with your little speech.”

  “I spoke without a hood.”

  “Now, Mr. Robe, that is not getting us anywhere. I’ll remove the hood when you earn the right to see, until then you and your soul are in the dark.”

  Ben only heard “I’ll remove the hood.” Time did not matter. Time was on Ben’s side, his friend. His father had given him the gift of time, how to use it, bend it, stretch it, a lifetime of time.

  Monica checked her watch. Cute, she thought when she bought it, a Swatch, nice bright shiny plastic band, something fun to wear, even fashionable. But, that was a long time ago. Now the hard plastic band wore into her wrist and she wished she had worn a different watch, maybe the one with the cloth bracelet, much more practical for what she planned for today. The planning had been easy. Ed was easy. “Want to go stubble skiing tomorrow? Something different for a change.”

  “Yeah.” Ed let the thought sink in. “Yeah, sure. Haven’t done that in a while.”

  “Abe’s farm?”

  “No, I want wheat, Canola is too damn hard on the body.”

  “South quarter was wheat. Heard they took the crop off already.”

  “South quarter of Abe’s farm it is then. That’s the one with the rolling hills by the river, right?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Yeah, let’s do it.” Ed’s face had lit up, stupidly she thought now.

  Even with the traffic it only took twenty minutes to get to the wheat field. She checked the passenger side mirror. He was still on his feet, leaning hard against the ten-metre towrope tied to the truck, his heavy work boots ploughing up the soil as he skidded an arc. He turned his body against the rope, dug his boots into the earth and crossed back behind the truck again out of Monica’s view. She checked the speedometer, forty killometres-per-hour, right where he wanted to be, fast enough to be able to really skim along, slow enough that if he fell it wouldn’t hurt too bad. It would hurt, but not that bad.

  She noted the knuckles of her left hand — they were white. She was gripping the steering wheel too hard; switched hands, drove with the right as she clenched and unclenched the left for the circulation.

  Was she scared?

  Maybe she was being set up.

  Would Betsy give her away, offer her?

  Possibly.

  Would council?

  She wasn’t sure. Council was not pleased with her.

  Maybe.

  Maybe her fate was tied to Ed’s. One at either end of a long rope.

  She pushed down on the accelerator, moved the needle up gradually, forty-five, forty-eight. Now Ed was skimming nicely, almost elegantly, as he slashed back and forth behind the truck. She put the truck into a long slow turn. Ed leaned away, dug in the edges of his boots and arced out across the wheat stubble, skidded and gouged the dry earth

  She began a turn in the other direction and lost sight of him as he crossed back behind the truck. She checked her watch again before she began to accelerate toward the poplar bluff along the west edge of the field. “Stay on your feet, bastard.” She spoke to the mirror as the truck rounded the north end of the poplar. She turned sharply, way too sharp for Ed to make the corner and sent him tumbling across the stubble. He held on to the towrope and rolled through the wheat straw and chaff. He stopped tumbling, found his knees first, then his feet. “Crazy fuckin’ woman!” he yelled, wiping the grit from his eyes and mouth. Those were his last words. Two black uniformed Homeland Security officers began firing in unison at the man promised and delivered at exactly 2:00 pm on Thursday, September 18th. Two other men dressed in civilian clothing stood behind the officers, witnesses of the delivery and execution.

  Monica drove away without looking back, without looking into the mirrors to see what happened. Her assigned task was complete. She had only to phone Betsy and make the report and that would be two words — “It’s done.” When she reached the approach to the grid road that would take her first to the highway, then back to the city, she got out, unhooked the rope from the trailer hitch behind the truck and dropped it there, left it lying stretched out in the stubble.

  Late that evening, That Jack sent out a revised Spam to a select list of recipients. Included in the garble were the words: “that Edward Riley Tremblay did not survive this day, he will be missed by those who loved him.”

  A hush of wind rose and fell in the big white spruce. It deepened the silence of the boreal where Benji stood and listened to the nothing, the absolute nothing now that his boots no longer clomped the trail. He listened for something, anything, and only heard the sound of his own breathing, his own heartbeat. That’s the problem he thought. That’s what’s wrong. Nobody is making any noise. Ben’s beloved forest didn’t care that he was arrested, a political prisoner. “Where was the outrage? Where was the indignity of humanity?” Humanity sat comfortable in its own silence, speaking of its own discomfort, not caring about the plight of one man. This quiet, empty land needed someone to scream, to shout and stomp and rage. He would have raised his own rant at the trees, shouted the needed words into the wood and branches, but the forest was stronger than Benji, smothered him in green stillness, siphoned away his hurt and anger and left him muted, with only thought swirling, coming back to the need for someone, anyone to speak out.

  He turned on his heel, gouged a hollow in the earth trail, left a mark at his turning point and could not help but listen to the sound of his own feet, heavy on the trail as he plodded back toward the community beside the big lake.

  “Thomas, Thomas Larson.” Benji spoke resolutely into the phone. “This is Ben Ferguson. James and Joyce’s son, James Ferguson remember, from th
e Foreign Service. You worked with him . . . I’m glad you remember.

  “How am I doing?

  “Not too bad, not bad at all, “No I’m not in Toronto anymore.

  “Listen, Thomas, I need a favour from you. Are you still with Amnesty International?

  “Good, that’s good.

  “Yeah, I know Tom. I should have stayed in touch. My parents put a lot of faith in you.

  “Year-and-a-half ago. Yeah?

  “Yeah, she was quite the lady.

  “But, Thomas, there’s this thing happening here I think Amnesty might want to get on.”

  It’s better that he is home, even if . . .

  Vicky looked over at her son flailing slowly in the hospital bed. Fighting it, she thought, fighting to stay home. Rickie eased a bit, sighed around the hoses, rested. She fell back to her first thought that it was better that he was home even if it was just to die, to slowly die. She didn’t have to worry anymore. Since Ricky came home she had not once turned on the news. Not like when he was gone, every morning, first, before she even brushed her teeth or combed her hair, she tuned in, listened for news from Canada, and hoped she never heard it. She lived by the news, trapped by it, unable to break away, in case she missed it, in case they announced something from Saskatchewan and she was away, rushing through the shopping in town, worrying that she would be late home for the six o’clock, staying up, forcing herself to stay awake for the eleven o’clock, and hating it, hating the horrors broadcast, sanitized horror, bombs and guns and Montreal cocktails, torn bodies and black smouldering twisted metal. She wouldn’t have to watch that ever again. She could go back to the farm when this was done.

  The machine beside the bed beeped loud, steady. Vicky put her knitting aside, and was almost to the bed when the nurse arrived. She must have been standing outside the door. Vicky noticed that she checked the machine first, before Rickie. He was shuddering, his teeth clenched on the plastic tube, his eyes open, staring hard at the dream catcher hung above him, its web to catch the bad dreams, something from the gift shop, the little folded card said the Indians used this, maybe it would help Rickie to rest. Maybe this was just a bad dream caught and struggling. Rickie’s shuddering subsided, eased to twitches, his jaw relaxed its clench, he drew in a long rattled breath, and let it go — let go.

  The beep became a steady howl, a wail. The nurse slapped a switch and it quit, left Vicky in sudden silence standing beside the bed holding Rickie’s hand. What did he see in the dream catcher web? What final image struggled in the strings?

  She heard Clarice’s sobs behind her, her daughter-in-law-to-be, or never be; felt the grip of her hand clenched to the back of her shirt. Clarice was using Vicky to stand up, pulled at her, would pull her down as her knees weakened. Vicky found the strength to stand against the added weight, gently closed her son’s eyes, brushed with the palm of her hand, shut the sight, hoped that it was a good dream that came and carried him away.

  It wasn’t a full military funeral. There was an honour guard, regal dressed, spit shine shoes, brass buttons, a dozen men to march their son across the close-mowed grass, green still despite the lateness of the season, greener than the surrounding fields. They must have watered it often, Vicky thought, as she followed the honour guard toward the open hole. She looked up, Dean’s attention was on the fields, she held tighter to his hand. He’d escaped already. That was not a bad thing. She wished she could join him there. It was lonely here when Dean went away into his mind She put her other arm around Clarice’s thin waist, more for the company than to give comfort. The girl was cold, shivering, wobbly on her high heels. She pulled her close, to hold her up and to lean on.

  Vicky stood like this through the ceremony of going to the earth, holding her husband’s hand to keep him from wandering too far away, holding on to Clarice to hold her, to hold herself up.

  Then it was over. The flag and the box and the earth, the march, the drill and they were coming one by one in the closing ceremony of shaking hands with the family members.

  “My condolences.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Fisher. Your son was a good man.”

  And they took the hand she needed to hold Clarice with, pumped it twice.

  “He served his country.”

  Just a nod, “Ma’am.” Pump the hand and shift over to pump Dean’s hand and then wander over to where they grouped, uniformed, taking off their brimmed hats, wiping their brows, shuffling. Vicky watched, wondering what they might be talking about. Not her son she knew, maybe there was still time to gather at a pub later, she suspected.

  “Ma’am.” The officer in front of her did not let go of her hand after the two pumps. Held it as gently as he could. “Ma’am, I’m sorry that for security reasons the media was not allowed to be here for this.”

  “That’s quite all right.” She didn’t have the energy left to explain. “We’re private people.” That was all she had for words. It would take too much effort to tell him her fear that Ricky would become part of the daily diet of horror, an episode, a string of words across the bottom of a screen and somewhere someone would rejoice that it was not their son.

  “But I do have some good news, Ma’am. Something to take comfort in.”

  Vicky looked up at this man who stood in a military stance, feet apart, head high, chest out, so much a part of him that it was his relaxed pose. “The man who poisoned your son was taken care of. He was executed three days ago. I’ll have to ask you not to speak to the media about this. The information is very classified. I’m only sharing it with you for your own comfort. Please understand.”

  Vicky nodded. She understood, but there was no comfort in it. There was no comfort at all in it. She looked over at Dean, but he was gone, maybe he was already back at the farm. “Thank you, officer.” She wanted to go home, just go back to the prairie house and look after Dean.

  Too many years of not doing, of swinging a mop, not with any effort to it, just sloshing the painted concrete floor, too many years of waiting, maintaining, left Lester without the stamina for a full day of physical work. He rested, found reasons to stop, to straighten out the logs piled in the back of the truck rather than join Red and the others hauling them on their shoulders out of the bush. Red was in a good mood, joking, teasing all day, lifted peoples’ spirits with his banter. Late autumn, now that the leaves were off the undergrowth, now that the mosquitoes and flies were not so thick, was the best time to cut firewood. Red said it was almost tradition for him. Put up a big pile of wood and then go shoot a moose. Then you could spend the winter with your feet up in front of the fire and eat ribs and brisket.

  Lester wasn’t so sure it would work out that way, wondered if he would make the winter, wondered if he could find the money for the meds. This work was not bad. Paid a bit, but they sure wanted a lot for a little bottle of green pills. Red could turn this into a real money-maker if he wanted, but Red didn’t have any ambition. He only wanted enough for the moment, and enough for Red wasn’t enough for Lester.

  Short time on the inside, when the sentence is running down, stand away from trouble, stand aside, watch the fights; but keep your record pure, be patient and pure, abide the rules. But short time on the outside felt the opposite. Lester wanted these last months, these possible last months to be worth something, anything. If it wasn’t for Rosie he could have had a moment of glory, walked into the face of authority with a nine millimetre and carved a path of fame for himself. Damn Rosie. Then Lester laughed at the memory of it. How he was walking past her, not thinking of her, she was just old ,fat Rosie. But old fat Rosie snatched the gun right out of his hand and he took two more steps before he realized his hand was empty. Then she put it in her pants and how was he going to take it back.

  “What’s so funny?” Red flipped the log from his shoulder onto the already large pile in the back of the truck.

  “Oh, nothing”

  “You were sure grinning about something.” Red gave the end of the log a flip to roll it over, fill
a gap.

  “Looks like we might get some snow.” Lester looked toward the grey sky.

  “Maybe. It’s cold enough.” Red thought about the possibility, considered the weight of the clouds. They were heavy enough for snow. “We’ll get what we have cut off the ground just in case it does snow and bury them, then we can call it a day. I’m feeling a little crappy anyway. Damn cold, just can’t seem to shake this one.” He sniffled. It wasn’t enough and he wiped his nose with the sleeve of his canvas jacket, coarse against the tenderness of his nostrils. “What have we got today? Is this the third or fourth load?” Red was the type of guy who in his enjoyment of working, especially working outside, could lose track of such things.

  “Fourth load.” Lester wasn’t.

  “That’s not bad.” He struck a flame to the end of a cigarette. Lester swung his legs over the side of the truck box and sat on the rail. Looked like they were taking a break. Red wasn’t quite ready to stop yet. He took a few drags from the cigarette, handed it to Lester. “Here, finish it.” And went back to hauling the last of the logs out of the bush.

  “It’s snowing.” Elsie watched the first flakes; small, drifting, lazy white specks. “Wonder if it will last.” She followed a flake to the ground to see if it melted right away. It didn’t. The ground was frozen enough to hold. First of winter. Something new. She was about to turn away from the window when the truck stopped next door at her mother’s house, a load of wood sagging its springs. She waited until it came to a spot where she could see through the trees. It was her cousin Red bringing Lester home. A good thing to know that Red still cut wood. She’d wondered where they might get their winter supply. Ben had a chainsaw and a truck. Benji could do the work. She could help. She would be happy to help, to be outside, physical work, fresh air. But, there was just the thing about Benji and a chainsaw. Grew up in the city. Would he cut his leg off? Or worse.

  She turned away from the window, instinctively looked around for Rachel. The little girl had been quiet for too long. It meant she was up to something, and she was. Standing on a chair, trying to reach Elsie’s now cold cup of tea.