Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Table of Contents
Dedication
Introduction of Characters
Chapter 1 This Man Rides the Moose
Chapter 2 “It's a grand dream.”
Chapter 3 The River Flows North
Chapter 4 The River Flows East
Chapter 5 And the River Flows South
Chapter 6 Hunters from Wiishkoonsing
Chapter 7 A Dublin Spring, 1940
Chapter 8 Fog and Smoke
Chapter 9 Time to Hide
Chapter 10 Wild Rice
Chapter 11 The Family Priest
Chapter 12 Cries
Chapter 13 Grassy Narrows
Chapter 14 This Man and the French Trader
Chapter 15 A Time for Peace?
Chapter 16 Dreams of Irish and Indians
Chapter 17 A New Year
Chapter 18 Cutting Ice
Chapter 19 The Quiet Men
Chapter 20 Someone's Coming
Chapter 21 On the River
Chapter 22 Horse Racing
Chapter 23 This Man and the English
Chapter 24 Simon Fobister
Chapter 25 The Commitments
Chapter 26 Secrets Revisited
Chapter 27 Sweat Lodge
Chapter 28 This Man and the Wolves
Chapter 29 The Dissenter
Chapter 30 Come A' Calling
Chapter 31 Back Home
Author's Note
About the Author
Title Page
The
53rd
Parallel
a River of Lakes novel
carl nordgren
Copyright
Copyright © 2014, by Carl Nordgren
The 53rd Parallel
Carl Nordgren
cnordgren.lightmessages.com
[email protected]
Published 2014, by Light Messages
www.lightmessages.com
Durham, NC 27713 USA
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-61153-076-6
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61153-077-3
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 International Copyright Act, without the prior written permission except in brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Dedication
As with all my life's work, this book is dedicated to my wife, Marie
Introduction of Characters
The River
The River flows in all Four Directions, through all the characters' lives, in Ireland and Ontario.
This Man
A great 17th century Annishinabe hunter and warrior who lives on in the lives of the Ojibway who respect the ancient ways.
Brian Burke
This great big man is an Irish ghilley blessed and cursed by his dreams and passions. With his wife Deidre he is the father of Tommy, Katie, and Patrick.
Maureen O'Toole
A girl one moment, a woman the next, her rich black hair and bright blue eyes captivate. She's from Northern Ireland, just outside Derry, and a foot soldier for the IRA. Maureen is the smartest person in the room.
Kevin Coogan
He has a shop in Dublin where he sells musical instruments. Even as a young man the IRA entrusted him with important responsibilities. Maureen is one of his recruits.
Eamon Burke
Brian and Eamon are cousins who grew up brothers. Eamon is a couple of years older and the only man in the West of Ireland bigger than Brian.
Deidre Burke
Married to Brian, the mother of his three children.
Joe Loon
An Ojibway, the elder of his clan of some of the last 'off the Reserve' Ojibway living on the River. He is a dreamer of visions.
Naomi
Joe Loon's wife.
Albert Loon
Joe Loon's nephew, though raised as a son. The father of Mathew Loon.
Mathew Loon
A young boy of the Ojibway village, Albert Loon's son, Joe Loon's grandson, and Simon Fobister's close cousin.
Simon Fobister
A young boy of the Ojibway village. His father left his family when Simon was very young. His mother is Joe Loon's daughter and Joe Loon has helped raise him. He calls Mathew Loon Big Brother, Mathew Loon calls him Little Brother.
Nokomis
A title of honor for the matriarch of the clan, and Albert Loon's mother.
Old George Fobister
An older Ojibway man, long a loyal member of Joe Loon's clan.
Sean Russell
The leader of the Irish Republican Army leading up to World War II
James and Stephen Miller, the pulp mill brothers
Grandsons of the owner of Atibiti Lumber Company
Chapter 1
This Man Rides the Moose
With so much light absorbed in the full rolling clouds of fog floating over the River's lake and shrouding the fir and birch forests it seemed like dusk all day. At the far end of the lake, where the current collected its force to return to the River's channel, some of the clouds were smoke.
A large animal was swimming in the middle of the lake, lost now in a fog cloud, then seen as a shadow before it emerged. It was a big bull moose, his heavy muzzle held just above the water's surface, his dewlap submerged, his large ears folded back, a massive rack of antlers trailing a stalk of broken reed behind.
The drifting silver white clouds just above hid the sky. The big bull's bulk was hidden under the water and his neck cut a modest wake.
Following the moose at some distance, veiled in a great curtain of cloud, then appearing, and only slowly closing the gap, was a gracefully rounded long-nose birch bark canoe paddled by This Man. Before his people were called Ojibway by the French voyageurs and then Chippewa by the English fur traders, they called themselves Annishinabe, for they were the Original People, the First People, and This Man had been a great Annishinabe hunter, and a courageous warrior.
He was dressed in light buckskin leggings and jacket. A heavily beaded pouch draped over his shoulders and crossed at his chest, bandolier-like, repeating the floral pattern painted on the bow of the canoe. He wore a bright red wrap around his head and his hair fell with the extra cloth over his shoulders. The tip of a foxtail was woven into his hair above his right ear.
This Man paddled once hard to glide, paddled twice hard to glide. The first glide revealed the image of a fox carved into one side of the paddle blade, and with the next stroke and glide the image carved on the opposite side of the blade was revealed—a rabbit dashing away.
This Man paddled to a rhythm that he began to hum deep in his chest as he followed the moose across the lake. He drew close enough to hear the moose snorting a heavy breath, then kept that distance and followed the moose across the lake.
The moose approached the thickest cloud as somewhere a loon cried and the fog clouds captured the trilling wail of high tremolo calls and kept reviving them as they echoed everywhere. When he saw the moose approaching the thick cloud This Man paddled faster to close the distance. He paddled right up behind the moose as the broken bit of reed washed free from the antlers and swirled first in the moose's wake and then twirled in the paddle's whirlpool.
This Man pulled hard with his paddle one last time, then dropped it as the canoe darted alongside the moose. This Man looked up to a break in the fog where he could see blue sky. He heard a song floating muffled from the shore; it seemed to be from another world, and he stood and sang a welcome from his
world. When the clouds broke and he could hear the song more fully he raised his voice to join the others.
It was The Path of Souls song.
Just as they disappeared into the cloud, This Man leapt from the canoe onto the moose's back and he sang louder still.
Chapter 2
“It's a grand dream.”
It was the summer of 1939 in the West of Ireland on the shores of Lough Mask, where the River drained the lough. Sportsmen from England and Europe escaped there from the threat of war for the world-class salmon and brown trout fisheries of the River and Lough Mask and Lough Corrib, though the recent depths of despair had diminished the flow of visitors.
Brian Burke was the ghillie Lord Clarendon had hired to guide his fishing of these waters, and Clarendon was attended by his manservant as well. It was their first day out; they had been fishing the River all morning. Clarendon listened to Brian's suggestions carefully, respectfully, and quickly understood the River's clues as Brian framed them for him. He cast his flies with accuracy and handled his line effectively; the fishing had been superb.
They were taking a leisurely break before they fished Lough Mask. Lord Clarendon, full of his morning pleasure, sighed, and, enjoying his contentment, sighed again as he sat on a camp chair set in place for him by his manservant who brought him his favorites from the wicker hamper. Brian stood apart, near shore, studying the storm clouds passing to the north of them, then admiring the two largest trout his Lordship had caught that morning.
Brian was still a young man, tall and big. Clarendon was no bigger than the average English Lord firmly planted in his middle age. He showed such genuine delight in the morning's events that Brian decided it was the moment he had been waiting for, to tell him of his dream.
Brian's Irish voice boomed over all.
“So you'll find me tellin' this dream every day, keepin' it polished, yeah. Yourself, now I wonder this, have you ever had a dream deserved a daily exercise?”
“To be honest with you, I've always found it annoying to listen to others talk about their dreams. My wife is incessant, telling me such nonsense as delivering meat pies on horseback to the villagers then realizing she's hopelessly lost.” With a flip of his hand he continued, “And once she starts it's too late to stop her. I find it's to be avoided from the start.”
“Women befuddle easy, you're right there. But the grandest dream ever, you'd want to hear that now, knowin' it will be as glorious a story as this mornin' has been, an' take but a moment to tell you, an' then we'll be findin' you more monsters like these.”
Clarendon got up from his chair and joined Brian's up-close admiration of his catch.
“The fishing's been marvelous. It appears your reputation as the best in the West is well earned, young man.”
“Makes sense they'd give the best fisherman the best ghillie, yeah.” Brian stooped down to pick up the largest brown, to pose it, to appreciate the heft of it.
“As I was watchin' yourself bringin' in such a beauty as this one here, an' she's ten pounds, I'd wager the day's wages on that, an' that's none too common these days. As I was watchin' you, I was thinkin' a fisherman of such quality needs to hear a dream made of the same stuff.”
“Very well then, proceed with your night-time fantasies.”
Brian laid the fish down with the others.
“Oh no, no fantasy this, not at all. It's one of them dreams offerin', nay beggin' to come true since the—”
“You've my permission. Proceed.”
“It captures everythin' you were feelin' this mornin'.” Brian picked up the second of the biggest trout, slightly smaller than the first, but it had fought with a heroic determination. “Like when this beauty first rose to your fly, and your heart felt that low down tug, a taut line connectin' you to what it is we need connectin' to so we don't ever lose track of what it is we're made for.”
Clarendon smiled as he clapped Brian's arm.
“You Irish play with our language in such an original manner. I find it highly entertaining, if you don't mind my saying so. And you really are remarkably accurate with your description, yes.”
“An' am I right thinkin' yer feelin' it again, yeah, that it's so strong in you now, just the discussin' of it carries its own delight?”
“I was told you were a most amusing ghillie as well. It appears you are all of that.”
Brian frowned, confused at that description, as Clarendon smiled and returned to his camp chair where his man was refreshing his tea and adding a bit of cheese and biscuit to his plate. He sighed again as he settled to show all was right with his world. When he looked up Brian was holding both of the two biggest brown trout, one in each hand, the solid bodies swaying a bit as they hung in front of him.
“And you say all of that is there in your dream? In what fashion?”
“I'm dreamin' I'm servin' it up, all that brilliance you feel, I'm servin' it up to hundreds an' hundreds of rich American businessmen.”
Clarendon looked to his man to see if he had followed it, but he shook his head no, so Clarendon turned back with confusion.
“I'd say that sounds as bizarre as delivering meat pies.”
Brian took that as an insult but hid the feeling by studying the fish, and waited just a moment so the scowl dancing on his lips wouldn't be heard in his voice. When he was collected again, he looked up.
“Nothin' bizarre about it.” Brian laid the fish back, wiped his hands on his trousers, and reached into his back pocket, unfolding the tattered magazine article he retrieved.
“This is from the February edition of Wilderness of the World.”
Without direction the manservant retrieved the pages. Brian showed how the torn parts fit together and pointed out the pictures he wanted Clarendon to see before he handed it over.
“It's a bit worn, yeah, I carry it with me always, but there's pictures, you see, of the most beautiful forests an' rivers and lakes in Canada, in County Ontario an—”
“Ontario isn't a county, it's a province.”
“An' still so wild there's red men who hunt them an' trap an' the Hudson Bay Company is still there to trade with 'em, for beaver an' mink pelts, just like in the pioneer days we see in the American Western filims.”
Clarendon examined the photographs quickly then handed the pages back to his man for their return to Brian.
“Yes, lovely Canadian forests. I dare say it looked just like that here a few centuries ago before your people cut down all the trees, but what does this have to do with your dream?”
Brian could sense he'd lost the best moment but decided he could still recover.
“The land in those pictures is so cheap they're practically givin' it away so someone like meself, an' maybe someone like yourself, so we can come an' build a fishin' lodge to create jobs for the red men who live in these woods. Ojibway Indians is what they call 'em.”
Clarendon motioned he needed more tea, and his man came for his cup.
“What are you suggesting?”
“An' when I see just how cheap this land is, it's wilderness forests with moose an' wolves an' waters filled with huge pike and trout. Well now, it appears to me in a dream just beggin' to come true that I—”
Clarendon stood and walked to where his waders were laid out, distancing himself from Brian's enthusiasm.
“As I say, this entertaining quality you Irish possess, it never ceases to bring a smile to anyone who appreciates good story telling.”
Again Brian bristled.
“I'm askin' you to respect a man's dream here now, and let me tell you about this loveliest little cove with a bit o' beach where we'll build a spectacular fishin' lodge.”
Lord Clarendon turned with his waders in hand, and his man brought the tea to him there.
“Yes, yes, I'm sure it would all be quite charming, but if you're suggesting I should consider being your banker, I can tell you quite firmly I'm really not interested.”
Brian followed him.
“Picture a l
odge where a sportin' man such as yourself would be proud to sip a tea in the mornin' an' a whiskey at the evenin' as you tell your stories about the great places you've fished an' the adventures you—”
“I don't like being directed and I must request you be decent enough to make it easy for me to say no.” Lord Clarendon traded with his man, waders for tea cup. “Any further and you'll only be embarrassing yourself.”
“Only one thing more an' I'll leave off, for ya see we'd only need to start with five or six cabins, an' the Indians can build 'em, so we'll have cheap labor. It's log cabins we'd be buildin', so most of the materials will be free, yeah, an' when we see what a fine job I'm doin' keepin' the first cabins filled with the Chicago factory owners, many of them sons of Irishmen who would love a bit a' ol' sod at the end of a day, we can add more cabins.”
After sipping his tea, Lord Clarendon handed the cup back to his man and began putting on his waders.
“Perhaps you aren't feeling it here in your little corner of the world, but there's a Depression going on and a war that's getting closer to enveloping the whole world every day. There are few rich American businessmen taking holiday these days and I expect fewer soon.”
“It won't please me to point it out to ya, but if we hain't feelin' your Depression, it's only that we've grown numb from livin' our own since the day yer people stole our island from us, an' cut down our beautiful forests, an' so here's the bet I'd be makin' with you. Your Depression will be over well before ours will be.”
Lord Clarendon was struggling with his waders and it took a moment for his man to realize it and put the cup down, so his help was too late to keep his Lordship from tripping a bit when he turned suddenly at Brian's last comment. When he collected himself, he was a British Lord.
“I was feeling good, no, I was feeling grand, much to your credit, but now you've got me… I don't know, what have you got me?”
His man offered, “Peeved?”
“Peeved, thank you, yes. I've come over here to relax and get away from business grabbers, to fish the waters my ancestors—”
The 53rd Parallel Page 1