“I called a friend,” he said.
***
December 2, 1918 (Kuujjuaq)
Claude rubbed his chin, his fingers exploring the ridges of pockmarks his dark beard did not cover. Marie sat beside him in a matching wing-backed chair with the baby girl asleep in her arms. Chairs of such elegance and comfort belonged in the homes of wealthy people. It amazed Claude that even in an isolated, barren place like this, the Church could acquire such luxuries and he struggled to conceal his disapproval.
Father James Babineaux sat across from them, his smooth white hands clasped atop a massive wooden desk. Babineaux was the rector for the Catholic mission in Kuujjuaq.
His eyes moved from Claude to Marie and back to Claude. He cleared his throat and asked, “Are you sure?”
Marie placed her left hand on top of Claude’s right and gave it a gentle squeeze. Claude swallowed and said, “Yes.” He shifted in his seat, and gestured with his left hand. “We have given this decision much thought.”
Babineaux pursed his lips and turned his face towards a tall arched window. A dust-mottled beam of sunlight cast a radiant glow on the rector’s narrow face. He leaned forward with his elbows on the desk and locked eyes with Claude. “It’s barely been three days since you found the child. Are you sure this is really what you both want?” He stared at Claude, his tiny blue eyes piercing Claude’s conscience.
Claude’s mouth went dry. He was about to speak when Marie leaned forward in her chair and said, “Father.”
Babineaux moved his gaze to Marie.
“You know Claude and I have been married for nearly ten years and we have had no children of our own. I know this child is a gift from God.” She squeezed Claude’s hand. “And Claude agrees. This is a miracle.”
Claude did agree. The baby’s survival was indeed a miracle and in this short time, Claude already found himself overcome by a powerful urge to protect and provide for the helpless infant. But every instinct to love was followed by a hammer blow of shame. Marie should not have lied—they should not have lied—to the people back in Suk-Luk.
Babineaux looked at Claude again. Claude forced a weak smile and said, “It’s true. The child is a gift. A beautiful little miracle.”
“Well, then,” Babineaux said, throwing his hands up and letting them fall lightly on the desk. “I commend you both for making such a resolution. Raising any child is a sacrifice, but this”—he drew in a deep breath—“this will change your lives forever.”
Claude thought he saw a flicker of sadness in Babineaux’s eyes.
“Undoubtedly, you will face, among other things, challenges of a… social nature.”
Claude cleared his throat and reached for the cup of tea Father Babineaux had set before him earlier. Social challenges were the least of his worries, for as he sipped the tea he was reminded that all liars shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone. The tea was cold by now, but it did not cool the painful burn of those words blazing a white-hot trail through his mind. It did, however, keep his tongue from sticking to the roof of his mouth.
Babineaux leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs.
“But,” he said, resting his hands in his lap and smiling warmly, “I have no doubt the two of you will do a fine job of raising the child. You have a strong faith in God and in each other.”
To Claude, who was sure the priest must possess a measure of the Holy Spirit adequate to see the truth in men’s faces, that last part seemed more of an admonishment than a compliment. Did the rector somehow know that Marie had not respected a dying woman’s final wish to hold her child? Could he see in Claude’s eyes a dark shadow of guilt for taking the child to Kuujjuaq under false pretenses? If Babineaux had suddenly cried out, “Liars! Hell awaits thee!” Claude would not have been surprised.
Marie smiled and squeezed Claude’s hand triumphantly. “Yes, Father. Faith is the key to salvation and to a lasting marriage. We are very”—but Claude gripped her hand so hard that she stopped talking.
Remorse for hurting her pecked at him like a sharp finger, and he struggled to keep his composure. He had longed for a child, too, but he saw little faith and certainly no dignity in this affair. He had failed as miserably as Adam in the Garden of Eden. He was without excuse. Husbands were expected to lead their wives. Had it been too much for God to ask? No. God would surely hold him accountable.
“I must admit,” Babineaux said, looking at the bundle in Marie’s lap and shaking his head, “I do believe it was only by the grace of God that you found this little one.”
Marie smiled faintly and lowered her head.
Babineaux’s voice sobered. “I do need to ask you both something before we move ahead.”
The muscles in Claude’s neck and shoulders stiffened.
“Yes, of course, Father,” Marie said, stroking the infant. “Ask us anything. Anything at all.”
“To the best of your knowledge, does the child have any surviving relatives?”
Claude pictured the two sick boys from Wolf Point and his pulse quickened.
“No,” Marie said, before Claude could answer. “A search was conducted and no relatives were found. Father Ammon was at a loss and… well… that’s where we came in.”
Claude’s jaw tightened and he stared at his hands. There had been no search. When Claude and Marie had returned to Suk-Luk with the child, Father Ammon was too sick to receive them. The elderly relatives that were now caring for the child’s brothers were in no shape to assume responsibility for a baby. Claude had promised to take the girl to Kuujjuaq, a more established community, less ravaged by the flu, where the Church would be able to take care of her and see that she was reunited with loved ones when the situation in Suk-Luk had improved. But Marie had something else in mind. Perhaps if Claude had not wanted a child so badly himself or had been a stronger better man, he would not have broken so easily. He still couldn’t understand how he had let this happen.
“Claude?” Babineaux’s voice sounded like it was coming from far away. “Is everything alright? Forgive my many questions, but I do take my role in such matters quite seriously.” He waved his hand in the air and said, “But not to worry. You are fine, fine people and under these extenuating circumstances I am happy to endorse your adoption of this special little girl.”
At this, Marie began to laugh and cry and cuddle the tiny infant. With equal enthusiasm, Babineaux rifled through his desk drawers for paper and ink to register the birth.
“Look at you, Marie,” Babineaux said, gesturing towards the child, who was beginning to squirm inside her swaddling. “I can see already how well motherhood suits you.”
Claude looked out the window, but all he saw was the face of a dying Inuit woman.
***
March 7, 1991
A frigid wind nearly tore the clothing from Suzette’s frail body, turning her marrow into hard butter. Road salt crunched under her boots as she made her way across the tarmac.
While Suzette had been in the restroom contemplating the easiest way to undo the mess she had gotten herself into, Pierre had arrived at a most unexpected solution to her flight problem.
“I have a friend in the cargo office,” he had said. “He told me there is a flight coming in tonight around 10:00 p.m. It just so happens that this plane will be heading back out around midnight, making mail drops to all the major towns en route to Kangiqsujuaq.”
Suzette didn’t make a sound.
Pierre said, “Including Kuujjuaq. And the pilot has agreed to take you.”
She had nearly fainted.
“You’ll have a bit of a wait, though. The crew will need a couple of hours to unload some cargo, refuel, and load up the mailbags. It’ll be close to two in the morning when you get to Kuujjuaq, but at least you’ll make it in time for the funeral.”
He had blushed when she took both his hands in hers and kissed them. They said little to each other after that and moved about in quiet joy—a reverent silence in honor of
whatever power had worked to bring about this superb outcome.
Pierre had escorted her up to the VIP lounge where she was able to eat a little something and rest until it was time to board. Adrenalin made her sleep fitful. One minute she was marveling at her luck and the next she was worried it was all a dream—that she wasn’t really going anywhere—or that she would have a deadly crisis before she reached Evan.
Out on the tarmac, darkness pressed in like a vise. Suzette was so tired she could barely put one foot in front of the other. Snowflakes drifted like dust motes in the air around the floodlights and Suzette strained to make out dark shapes concealed in the night, beyond the reach of the lights: a few planes parked in an L-shape, a large object suspended from a winch, and huge pumps.
She leaned against the tall slender woman who had come to collect her from the lounge. The woman, who had introduced herself as Mary, wore a bright pink parka and acid wash jeans. She didn’t resemble any of the Inuit women Suzette had ever seen in pictures or on television. With her impeccable make-up and elegant up-do, she looked more like an exotic supermodel. Suzette almost cried when she considered her own ignorance and all the lost and lonely years, when she could have been seeking out women like Mary. Women like herself.
Cold invaded every gap in her clothing and even the snow landing lightly on her face was painful. She coughed so hard, her eyes watered, and Mary reached out an arm to steady her.
An image of Pierre’s grinning face flashed in her mind. She had been too tired and weak to say all the things she wanted to say to him, but hoped he would know how much she appreciated all he had done for her.
Suzette’s limbs wobbled and jerked as she walked up the metal steps to the plane. By the time she crossed the plane’s threshold, she felt as if sandbags were strapped to her body and gravel stuck under her eyelids.
A crewmember appeared and said, “Welcome aboard.”
He secured her bag in an overhead compartment at the rear of the plane and helped her get strapped into her seat. “I’m Johnson. I see you’ve already met Mary. You’re lucky she was with us tonight. She’s off duty now, but she’ll be able to help you with anything you need back here. She’s a pro. And,” he said, winking at Mary, “she’s a real sweetheart.”
Mary gave him a playful bump as she squeezed past them and dropped down into a seat across the aisle from Suzette’s. A purple skirt suit and white blouse hung on a hanger from a hook above the seat in front of Mary’s. Draped over the uniform was a scarf in colours matching those Suzette had seen on the tail of the plane.
Johnson crouched down and fiddled with something under Suzette’s seat. His brown face was round and cratered like the moon. He had the most pleasing smile Suzette had ever seen.
She had never been in a plane like this before. It was small and had no more than a dozen passenger seats separated from the front of the plane by a wall. Mary reclined back in her seat, put on headphones from some kind of music player device, and closed her eyes.
Johnson gestured towards the wall and said, “That’s a movable bulkhead. All the Hawker Sidley 748s have them.” He might as well have been talking about a part of his own house. His pride in the plane’s condition was overflowing. “We can make room for up to 44 passengers in here.”
The walkie-talkie in his belt crackled intermittently.
“Six passengers flew in with us,” he said, nodding towards Mary. “That’s why we needed a flight attendant. She’s deadheading back to Kangiqsujuaq now.”
Suzette wrinkled her nose and Johnson grinned.
“We also carried animal feed on our last trip. It’s pretty smelly, but you’ll get used to it.”
He straightened up to his full height, which wasn’t much, and said, “You’ll probably get a lot of noise and vibration back here, but it’s nothing to be concerned about. It’s par for the course with these turboprops.” He went through some safety instructions, which Suzette barely registered, and told her they would be in Kuujjuaq by half past two.
She reached for his hand and said, “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. I’d like to give something to you and the other pilot,” but Johnson held up his hand and shook his head.
“No need for that. We’re happy to help a member of the community.”
Suzette smiled. She didn’t know what to say to that. A member of the community? This was not how Suzette ever imagined her first encounter with other Inuit people would be. She expected to be treated as a curiosity or an outsider, which was certainly how she had always regarded herself.
Johnson gave her shoulder a reassuring touch and said, “You remind me of an old Inuit proverb my father used to tell me. ‘If you are going to walk on thin ice, you might as well dance.’” He winked and disappeared through the door of the plane.
Exhausted, Suzette squeezed her eyes shut and imagined the woman from her dreams chasing children over a snow-covered knoll. All thoughts of insulin, antibiotics, cross nurses and failure faded away. Suzette’s muscles relaxed and for the first time since her journey began she was at peace.
***
December 11, 1991 (Pingualuit National Park)
Irniq pulled up the fishing line, unhooked the Brook trout and lay it down in the snow covering the frozen surface of the tiny lake. He muttered a small prayer of thanks for the fish and stuck a knife into its brain. The lake was one of dozens dotting the plateau surrounding the Pingualuit Crater. He whistled and Anyu stopped his sniffing in the ice hole and capered over, his long white tale curling over his back. A small patch of brown behind his left ear was the only part of the husky that wasn’t white. Anyu barked a few times, but Irniq’s mind was made up. It was time to head back. He packed up his tackle and gear, hoisted his catch and walked back towards the igloo he had built earlier that morning. As was his custom, Anyu trotted a little ahead of his master, head high, alert for any danger. Oki always said Anyu took pride in his job.
“He is just a dog,” Irniq would say in retort.
“Stubborn. One day, you’ll see.”
I do see now, brother.
Irniq did not know how many more expeditions he had left in him, but his body had not yet told him to quit. Tomorrow, he would trek a mile or so north, to the banks of the Vachon River, where he would receive a party of extreme anglers, eager to ice-fish the river’s world-famous Arctic char. Irniq clucked his tongue. July, now that was the sensible time to fish the Vachon. Stay at a beautiful lodge like that one up on the Payne River. But now? Now the river was treacherous—frozen in some places, roiling like a rabid animal in others—and the char elusive. There were only six hours of daylight in which to fish, strike camp and take shelter before darkness and harsh Arctic winds made it dangerous to be outside.
In the summer, he would fly southeast, across Ungava Bay, and lead tourists on hunting expeditions. They would track the George River caribou herds, migrating downriver, and a variety of small game thriving in the boreal forests lining the Koksoak River. He and Oki had lost their entire family somewhere along that river and sometimes, while stalking a caribou or searching for tracks, he thought he caught a glimpse of one of them in the rustling of a leaf, the flash of a wing, the sun glinting off the water or reflected in a patch of ice-covered rock.
Within minutes, Irniq had scaled and gutted the fish.
He threw a clump of sphagnum moss into a stone kudlik, and retrieved flint and pyrite from his pack. He held the pyrite over the moss and struck it two times with the flint. Sparks flew like fireflies and ignited the tinder. He snatched a burning tuft of moss from the kudlik and dropped it into the small fire pit he would use to roast his lunch and warm his bones.
The fire grew and cast a cozy glow that flickered off the curved walls and vaulted ceiling of Irniq's igloo. He inhaled the earthy aromas of moss and larch and thought the only thing missing was Oki. He ran his tongue over his teeth and remembered fondly his big brother's gap-toothed grin. It would soon be four years since Oki’s death and Irniq missed him no less with th
e passage of time.
Irniq was sinewy and strong, but when he stretched out his legs, his knees complained, accusing him of forgetting that at seventy-six, he was as far from the spry youth he had once been as the moon is from the earth.
He shifted his weight on the fur blanket and felt a jab from the corner of a folded paper in the breast pocket of his undershirt. It was the telegram he received at the Kangiqsujuaq post office nearly two weeks ago. He reached under his sweater and pulled out the yellow sheet of paper. Unfolding it with care, he read it again. You don't know me, but we may be related. Long story. More details to come. Will visit you soon. Keep well. S. Beaujould.
He put the paper down on the blanket, giving it a protective pat as if he feared the same dark spirit that had devoured his past might swallow this also. As he turned the fish over the fire, memories of his early childhood flashed and flickered, melting away like tiny shards of ice in the palm of his hand. He knew he’d had another brother, younger than him, and a baby sister, but he couldn’t remember their names or what happened to them. As far as he knew, they had died like all the others at Wolf Point.
He wished he could talk to Oki. Oki’s body had been weak in the end, but his mind was strong. He had always been the smarter of the two, a star student for the Oblate missionaries who had taught them to read and write in French after they fled further upriver to Kotsiktok with some distant relatives. Oki would have remembered more than him.
On a chain around Irniq’s neck hung a tiny gold crucifix and a white gold angel. He pulled them out now from beneath his sweater and closing his eyes, kissed them both, first the cross and then the angel, which he pressed to his lips for the longest time. “Anernerk”, he whispered. He could not explain it, but that Inuktitut word, meaning “angel”, blazed in his mind like the fire in his kudlik.
He turned the fish again and repeated the word until it ignited a recollection from his distant past. He slapped his thigh and laughed at the long-forgotten memory that now warmed him more than any fire ever could.
Walking Through and Other Stories Page 27