The Stranger on the Ice

by Bernadette Calonego

  Lazarusie shook his head. He was anything but talkative today, unusually so. Clem had to admit that he didn’t feel like chatting either. His thoughts were on Valerie. She was sure to have heard the official statement from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police last evening. He’d expected to find out more from the police but was disappointed. He hoped for Valerie’s sake that customers wouldn’t jump ship at the last minute because of this unfortunate business. Or even worse: that she’d have to cancel the tour altogether. That was the last thing he wanted.

  When he talked to her, he was always listening carefully for something in her voice that would tell him if she knew about his one-night stand with Sedna. He’d slept with her the previous summer, but he couldn’t tell Valerie that.

  A big-city woman from Vancouver wouldn’t understand a man’s situation in a small community in the Arctic north. In an isolated settlement, with dozens of other single, sexually starved men and only a limited choice of potential bed partners. Not many urban women would want to live in a place like Inuvik where, for example, they couldn’t sit on a sunny patio in front of a restaurant or trendy café and people-watch. His most recent girlfriend, a hospital speech therapist and a great animal lover, had said farewell to Inuvik because she could no longer stand the sight of sled dogs tied up on very short leashes day and night in thirty-below weather. Other women who found a job in Inuvik yearned for the fresh fruits and vegetables they were used to finding in other places—bananas that didn’t arrive all brown off the delivery truck, for example—or summers without the terror of swarms of mosquitoes. They missed bookstores, fitness centers, the prospect of professional advancement. Joan, a woman from Toronto who’d shacked up for a while with the newly divorced Poppy Dixon, couldn’t stand looking like a fat sausage in her down-filled winter jacket and pants. It certainly was easier for women to look sexy by shedding their outdoor clothing, the way Sedna did when she undressed in order to seduce Clem. Of course, she was furious with him the next day, when he went for a spin in a helicopter to see the musk ox on Banks Island—with Valerie, not her.

  Not that he had great hopes for Valerie. When she was in town with her tours, she was all business. He’d watched her again and again, in the Crazy Hunter or the Great Polar bar, how she deflected in no uncertain terms any men attempting to hit on her. So no hunting ground there for him; rejection was the last thing he needed. All the same, he liked her.

  A snowplow drew near. Clem waved to the driver, an employee of Suntuk Logistics. There wasn’t much snow on the Ice Road; it looked like a hockey rink. Considering the possible dangers, the road’s reputation was excellent, and he was proud of it.

  Patches of blue opened up in the sky, and the sun broke through, making the ice sparkle. Clem put on sunglasses. Lazarusie trained the binoculars he always carried with him on the low white hills beyond the delta, where windswept, bony fir trees stuck out like the stubble of a beard.

  “Lynx,” he reported.

  Clem had never been under the illusion that he’d ever fully understand the Inuvialuit and their culture. Even after seven years among them, he was puzzled by many of their ways. Lazarusie sometimes spent a couple of nights at Clem’s place, often with his wife, to get away from the escapades of their untamed, adopted daughter, Tanya. Inuvialuit parents didn’t punish or discipline their kids; they simply led by example instead. That was how they’d raised their families since time immemorial.

  But at some point the modern world had descended upon the Inuvialuit, and everything had changed. Young people were caught between their ancestors’ traditions and way of life, and the lifestyles of the tanngit, white people. They started paying little attention to their parents. Lazarusie told him that he’d named his eldest son after his dear grandfather. Inuvialuit believed that this was how a forefather would become a human being again, that his soul would live on in the child. It made perfect sense to Clem that you really couldn’t punish or reprimand a beloved grandfather. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help thinking that Tanya deserved a tough lesson in how to behave. Lazarusie had adopted her from relatives who had too many children. It came to light later that she had come into the world with brain damage resulting from her parents’ alcohol addiction. Fetal alcohol syndrome. One of the many human tragedies in the Arctic, Clem thought.

  Pingos loomed on the horizon of the flat tundra—huge, fantastic hills with a core of ice and a skin of earth. Tourists loved them. The government in Ottawa had given eight of them national landmark protection. Still three miles to Tuktoyaktuk. Two snowmobiles came toward them.

  “I must talk to these men,” Lazarusie said.

  Clem stopped the truck and Laz got out.

  The men appeared to be Inuvialuit from Tuktoyaktuk. Clem saw Lazarusie gesticulating. The racket from the snowmobiles prevented him from listening in, but the discussion looked like a lively one. The two men laughed, but that didn’t mean much. Inuvialuit often softened bad news with humor.

  “What’s up?” Clem asked Lazarusie when he’d settled back in beside him.

  “They saw a gigantic explosion out on the ice.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Nuyaviaq Marten and Henry.”

  “Henry Itagiaq?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  Clem waited. They could already make out the houses of Tuktoyaktuk, modest dwellings epitomizing human steadfastness surrounded by the infinite polar ocean.

  “They were polar-bear hunting. The explosion came right out of the ice.”

  Clem frowned.

  “What do you mean, it ‘came right out of the ice’?”

  “It broke through the ice, and a lot of smoke went up into the sky.”

  “Where was this?”

  “About two, three hours northeast of Tuk.”

  Clem thought for a moment.

  “There’s no gas drilling up there.”

  “No.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “Day before yesterday. And Ilaryuaq and Brad went out by snowmobile and found a huge hole in the ice, like a small lake.”

  Yet another incident that was slow to reach his ears, Clem thought.

  “That’s impossible! Are you sure this isn’t one of Henry’s crazy stories, Laz?”

  No answer. Clem threw Lazarusie a sideways glance and noticed the worry in his face.

  “It was a huge explosion, they said. Like a super bomb.”

  Clem knew what he had to do. He drove to the ranger station at the entrance to Tuktoyaktuk. Roy Stevens was just coming out the door in a heavy red parka. Clem skipped the formalities and wasted no time.

  “Roy, what the hell’s going on? I just heard about an explosion out on the ice.”

  The ranger seemed to be in a hurry.

  “Can’t tell you anything, pal. My boss is on it. You know how it is with rumors like that.”

  Stevens climbed onto his snowmobile. Clem stood in front of it, blocking the ranger’s path.

  “When something like that happens, we’ve got to know about it.”

  “We” meant Helvin West, of course; Helvin counted on Clem to report to him everything he ought to know. Stevens understood very well what Clem meant. He revved up the motor.

  “Helvin shouldn’t give it another thought. He’s bound to have other problems.”

  Stevens’s machine slid back a bit and turned a corner. Clem swore silently. He wouldn’t let himself be blown off so easily. He knew exactly what he had to do when he got back to Inuvik.

  Lazarusie helped Clem unload the snowmobile. Before Clem drove away, Laz handed him something.

  “I picked this up. It was lying beside the dead woman. You can do what you want with it.”

  Clem stared at the object. A shaman’s rattle.

  It dawned on him now why Lazarusie hadn’t wanted to get out of the truck at the spot where the body was found.

  Because of Danny, his son, the future shaman.

  CHAPTER 10

  The ferry from Langdale to Horseshoe Bay was a third o
f the way through the forty-minute trip when Faye brought Valerie a cup of hot coffee to haul her out of her brooding funk.

  “I think this will do you some good,” she said, sitting down beside her.

  Valerie thanked her apathetically. She couldn’t get the images she’d seen on TV out of her head. They showed Gisèle Chaume, the young woman from Quebec, laughing heartily with her girlfriends, posing with her parents, visiting Mexico, and riding horseback. The last shot showed her dancing the cancan onstage in Diamond Tooth Gertie’s gambling hall in Dawson City. The performance, as the reporter commented, was a favorite with the tourists. Another young woman from Quebec recounted how adventurous Gisèle was, how much she loved the North, which is why she stayed in Dawson City over the winter instead of leaving in the fall as so many people did.

  Gisèle’s friend cried on camera as she said, “She dreamed of opening a café and a bed-and-breakfast and covering the walls with artwork.”

  The cause of her death was still unknown. Evidently, the investigators hadn’t made much progress.

  The segment had ended with the mayor of Inuvik, Marjorie Tama, reading a statement:

  “Our sympathy goes out to Gisèle Chaume’s family. The death of this young, vivacious woman, who came to our community to make her way in life, fills us all with great sorrow. We will continue to do all we can to keep Inuvik a place where children and adults can feel safe.”

  Valerie knew Marjorie Tama. They’d become friends over the four years she’d been traveling to Inuvik. Marjorie was an Inuvialuk who championed aboriginal traditions and her people’s status. She was a driving force in seeing that the Inuvialuit were awarded rights to their land and more self-government. On top of that, Marjorie helped create a modern economic basis for the inhabitants of the Mackenzie Delta. Valerie admired Marjorie, her energy and competence. She told her as much once and received a surprising response: “Yes, you and me are absolutely alike in that regard.”

  Marjorie hadn’t sounded quite like herself on TV. Valerie was used to seeing her act so much more spontaneous, authentic, and riveting. She’d have liked to talk to Marjorie about Gisèle but felt the time wasn’t right. The mayor surely had enough on her plate right now.

  Valerie felt the warm coffee hit her stomach. Faye commented on the houses dotting the small islands they were passing. Then she asked Valerie, a propos of nothing, “Why did you give up journalism?”

  Valerie almost spilled her drink.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Sedna.”

  Sedna. Not again.

  “When did she tell you that?”

  “Last year. Just before a meeting of our Toastmasters group.”

  How did Sedna know so much about her former life?

  Valerie had published her articles under her married name, Shearer. Did Sedna weasel this fact out of her ex at lunch at Cardero’s? She couldn’t really imagine that. Matt was discreet and not so easily tricked.

  Valerie had reverted to her maiden name after the divorce—at least to one half of it. Because the name Hurdy-Blaine was still too recognizable.

  “So is it true?” Faye pressed her.

  “Yes, but not everyone has to know.”

  Valerie realized her voice was edgy. Faye smoothed out the wrinkles in the multicolored wool skirt she was wearing over black leggings and looked at her quizzically. Valerie found herself wondering if Faye had packed all the warm clothes she’d recommended for their Arctic tour—especially the snow boots she’d loaned her.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to hit a sore spot,” Faye said.

  Valerie flapped a hand around in the air as if shooing away an invisible fly.

  “No problem. It’s just . . . it turned out to be unpleasant in the end.”

  “I can believe it. A friend of mine works for the West Coast Herald, and she expects to be laid off at any moment. Newspapers are a tough business. It’s hard to make a profit.”

  “I wasn’t fired, I quit. And it wasn’t here but in Ontario.”

  “A major newspaper?”

  “Yep.”

  Even after all these years, it was difficult to talk about it. Valerie had been a respected journalist with a very promising career ahead of her. Any number of doors seemed open to her back then. At least that was what she supposed. She dreamed of being assigned a post as a foreign correspondent in Africa. After journalism school, she’d worked for a nonprofit in Senegal. Then she and Matt had toured half the continent on motorcycle. So when the paper’s correspondent in Marrakesh was nearing retirement, she applied for the position. Her editor-in-chief led her to believe that her odds were good. When he suggested that she organize a tour to Rwanda as a service for their readers, Valerie eagerly got on board. Most of her working hours became devoted to preparing for the tour. The tour was a hit, and her editor soon offered her the chance to arrange additional tours to South Africa and Namibia. Before she knew it, she’d become less of a journalist and more of a tour guide.

  Valerie took four groups to the continent during her final year with the paper, all while still waiting for the Marrakesh appointment. Then one day her editor called her up and broke the news: their publisher had decided to cover Africa from their office in Spain. Cost cutting.

  “Are you kidding me?” Valerie shouted.

  Fifty-four countries and one measly foreign correspondent who didn’t even live on the continent.

  Valerie thought about staying in Africa as a freelancer. But in view of the shaky economics of the newspaper business, she couldn’t make up her mind. Some weeks afterward she discovered that a correspondent would be working out of Africa after all. Somebody else, not Valerie. The paper planned to share the guy with several other media outlets. The editor wanted to keep Valerie on as a tour guide, so he made her an offer: 50 percent tours, 50 percent journalism. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

  Along with her shattered African dream, Valerie felt her marriage beginning to crumble.

  She started mulling over her career and her life. The newspaper world increasingly seemed to be a dead end. Firings, crushing pressures in the office, less and less research funding, one budget cut after another. What hope was there for the future? At the age of thirty, she was going through a severe midlife crisis. Then it occurred to her: instead of guiding tours for the paper, why not work for herself?

  In the end she decided to leave the newspaper industry and her husband. Soon after that she separated from Matt and moved to Gibsons.

  “How bizarre,” she confessed to Faye. “I wanted to be an African correspondent, and now I’m going to the Arctic.”

  Faye stretched her long, strong legs.

  “Maybe that reporter’s nose of yours could sniff out more about Sedna.”

  Valerie didn’t reply.

  Maybe you could employ your journalistic skills to find out more about your mother’s life and death.

  “Just a thought,” Faye muttered in response to her silence.

  “You mean I could sniff out your money?” Valerie’s tone of voice was deliberately cheerful.

  Faye laughed.

  “Yes, you’ll be my treasure hunter, and I’ll be your driver.”

  Valerie’s cell phone played its usual tune. A text message from Glenn Bliss, a tour member. It was the first reaction to her e-mail informing people on the upcoming Ice Road tour about Gisèle Chaume’s death.

  She read the message: “Saw it on TV. Murder in the northern wilds. Can’t wait to go there!”

  CHAPTER 11

  Kosta was waiting at the Horseshoe Bay ferry terminal.

  “Your brother’s really good-looking,” Faye whispered as they followed him to the parking lot. Kosta walked at a quick pace; he wanted to beat the Vancouver rush hour traffic.

  Valerie smiled.

  “He’s got a clone, an identical twin. But they’re both married.”

  Faye smiled back.

  “They all are at that age.”

  Except divorcés like Matt,
Valerie thought. Maybe he’d never want to remarry, thanks to his first, unfaithful wife.

  In the car Kosta immediately inquired about the dead woman in Inuvik. They then talked about Valerie’s upcoming tour until they let Faye off at the subway station; she wanted to see friends in the East End.

  Valerie was glad to have some time alone with Kosta. She was closer to him than to James, for the simple reason that she saw him more often. James was a multimedia artist in Montreal. She hadn’t been very close to either as a child, because she was born six years after them and always felt like a fifth wheel.

  Kosta was a lawyer and took care of their parents’ estate—or, to be more precise, their father’s estate. That was fine by Valerie because it was hard enough to live with her father’s memory.

  She told Kosta at once about meeting their mother’s girlhood friend, Christine Preston. She brought up the article Christine had given her and the surprising information in it about an Inuvialuit boy. She could see this aroused Kosta’s interest.

  “Did you bring the article with you?”

  “Yes, it’s in my luggage.”

  He navigated his SUV through downtown Vancouver, where people rushing along the streets ducked their heads and turned up their collars because of the drizzle. Valerie was happy to be escaping the rain for the next ten days.

  She studied Kosta’s profile. Faye was right. Kosta was good-looking, in a classical, clean-cut way. Not physically robust and at times intentionally disheveled like their father, who had loved to style himself as a fearless adventurer. When she was a teenager, she’d asked him why Kosta had a Greek name.

  “That was your mother’s idea,” he answered. “She sometimes liked exotic things like that. And because they were twins, I let her do as she pleased.”

  Let her do as she pleased. Valerie wondered at times whether there were other reasons besides the Arctic tragedy for her father almost never mentioning a word about his first wife.

  Kosta was still going on about the boy in the article.

  “You’ve got to wonder sometimes why so much misinformation makes it into the newspaper.”