The 53rd Parallel

by Carl Nordgren

  “Babies in the womb?”

  “Exactly. It took me all mornin' to tease it out, and I'm still not sure it's anythin' once I did, because he goes on to say this is a 'worst-situation speculation with minimal scientific exploration,' but I'm guessing this has somethin' to do with why they are tryin' to keep all this secret.”

  “For shiny paper they'd even consider puttin' the River at risk?”

  “Keep in mind it's just one dissent against three other scientists who declare any risk is minimal, and only local. And the dissenter backtracks as soon as he states his concern. But it is there.”

  “Here's a guess. Not a one of them lives on the River.”

  “The permits have already been granted an' a good deal faster than it took our partnership to get our land lease.”

  “Is the dissenter identified in the report?”

  “That study came from Queens University, in Kingston, near Toronto. Only name given is their lead scientist, Dr. Tobin Williams, and he's on record as sayin' the risks are negligible.”

  “So we need to find this fellow, this dissenter, an' find out what it is that concerns him.”

  Brian asked Simon, “What's your understandin' of what you're hearin'?”

  “We need to quickly learn if we have a good reason to stop this pulp mill.”

  “Our solicitor does a lot of work with lumber companies. I'll get Dutch to fly me an' Simon into Kenora tomorrow an' see what he thinks about all this… seems the government needs to be protectin' her lease holders.”

  The next day Brian was in the co-pilot's chair, flying back to Kenora with Dutch, with Simon in Maureen's usual place, standing between the two seats. The young Ojibway had only flown twice before, and his delight was clear in his broad smile.

  When Brian radioed Dutch to come get them he hadn't told him why, not trusting the security of radio communications. He explained his suspicions as they flew back, and Dutch told all he knew about the two men.

  “When I flew them out they said some Indian boys had vandalized their camp, that they had burned all their maps and records.”

  “So they have no idea we've got their report.”

  “That's what it sounds like to me.”

  “Did they say anythin' about comin' back?”

  “In fact, they said their job was done, that the site wasn't any good for a field study after all.”

  As soon as the Norseman disappeared over the horizon, Maureen began outfitting a boat. When she was finished, she entered the Ojibway camp and found Albert in front of his wigwam on all fours on the ground playing with a toddler.

  This Man sat under the nearest tree, adding to the designs he'd been carving in his pipe.

  “Who is this young fella?”

  “This is John Baptiste. His father is Adam Baptiste. He's Métis.”

  “Well he's a darlin' child… Albert, I'm here askin' you to take care of things while I go to the Hudson Bay Post. I need to check out the rifles we need to purchase for the Irish hunters and was wonderin' if there were any shortcuts or tips to make sure I'd find it.”

  She offered her map and Albert located the mouth of a narrow Riverside channel for her.

  “This can be hard to see. You look for three tree stumps at the back of this bay. And there are rocks in this channel. When the water is low, these rocks could break a prop.”

  “How long a boat ride is it?”

  “Oh, it takes between two and three hours, I reckon. You will need two tanks of gas to get there and back. You don't want to buy gas from the Post, oh gee they charge a lot for gas.”

  “I'll plan on bein' back in time for the guests' supper. But in case I'm a bit late, can the ladies cook up some steaks an' potatoes for them?”

  “We will take care of the guests.”

  After a brief stop at the NOA office at the Lake of the Woods docks, Brian led Simon from the docks up the street into downtown Kenora. As they turned onto Main Street, Brian walked right past but Simon stopped frozen at the sight of an Ojibway man, a drunk in an unrecognizable shambles, sitting on the corner, leaning against a lamp post, head bowed, a low grumble rumbling from him. It was a chant.

  Since Brian continued walking Simon was finally pulled away, looking back while he caught up. He realized it was Adam Angeconbeb when he heard the chanting was about the man's dead sons.

  Maureen navigated the narrow River channel while standing in the back of the boat, one boot on the back bench, the other on the engine's throttle. She set the throttle at quarter speed as she stood tall for the best view to slalom between rocks and logs. Tall ridges on both sides of the River gave it a canyon effect.

  Lily pads and rushes grew in the shallows.

  She flushed a pair of blue-winged teals around one turn, a pair of mallards around another. A flock of coots exploded off the water, and then a great blue heron slowly rose with deep and strong wing strokes from its fishing in shallows chocked with grassy reeds.

  Brian sat across the desk from his solicitor. Simon had never been in a white man's house or office. He wandered the room, listening to the conversation as he touched all the books and the pictures and the odds and ends on shelves and windowsills that fill up a lived-in office.

  Brian placed the report in the center of the desk, explained where it came from, and the nature of their suspicions. As he spoke his solicitor grew increasingly anxious, and after the quickest glance at the cover, he didn't look at it again. When Brian finished his story, the solicitor pushed the document back to Brian's side of the desk.

  “I do hope you'll understand when I say working for you and Maureen is extremely interesting, you're both quite delightful as clients, in fact. But I need to be careful here, Brian, I'm sorry. Your business is important and I've told many I expect you and Maureen to become business leaders here in Kenora before too long, but last year over 70 percent of my billings came from the lumber industry, and there's years it's been even higher.”

  “That's why I figured you could help, you know the industry so well.”

  “I do know the industry quite well. And I best represent your business interests by helping you understand something, Brian. Every town around here is a lumber town, built by the lumber companies. We like to see businesses like yours flourish, but for this corner of the world, timber rules. And we need them to grow.”

  “Does that mean you won't help me on this?”

  “I'm saying I need to think about it very carefully and you should, too… The Bureau of Indian Affairs is where you want to go first, I can tell you that. You won't get any other Ministry taking your concerns seriously on something of this nature unless you can get Indian Affairs on your side. But if this report is the smokescreen you think it is, and if they are hiding something, I'm not sure you do any good to be known as the man that brought this to light.”

  “If it's nothin', then it's nothin', an' nothing will come of it. But if it's bad for the River, I'd be proud to be the one who stopped it here.”

  “Stopped it? If they've got their permits, you won't be able to stop it. Once the government has made a ruling, I can tell you getting them to say they made a mistake, especially when it means opposing something the timber interests want, well that will be a long and expensive fool's errand.”

  “If you feel that way, I doubt you can help. But I'm not givin' up on your say so an' you've taught me enough to know this is a privileged conversation we're havin', an' so you can't be tellin' anyone I've shown this to you, yeah.”

  “That's right.”

  “Was a day I was ready to lay down a threat without a second thought about it, an' if it sounds like one now I don't mean it to necessarily, but I better not find out comin' to you first ever works against me later.”

  “It will suit me just fine if no one ever knows I've talked with you about this.”

  Kevin deplaned in New York. He entered a phone booth at the airport, made a call to a Clan na Gael contact, and wrote down an address given him. He handed it to a cabbie who took
him to a corner bar at the Queens address. One of the men waiting inside came out to pay the driver.

  A half-dozen men were already gathered and a couple of more were due. Two of the men wore firemen's uniforms, two wore suits and ties, the others were blue collar in their appearance.

  The bartender joined them.

  The new arrivals handed tens and twenties to the bartender who stuffed them in an envelope already loaded as Kevin brought them all up to date on important IRA activities.

  The envelope was handed to him and he folded it into his pocket.

  “I can't say where I'm headed or to what specific purpose, there's a secrecy about it we need to protect. But if you've ever hoped of finding a hidden treasure, well, I tell you I'm on a journey to see if I've found us one.”

  Kevin took a deep drink of the beer someone had put in front of him. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “And I ask you to pray I retrieve it peacefully.”

  The firemen and others crossed themselves, one of the men in a suit reached across the table to shake Kevin's hand. Then they all did, as they got up to leave, and Kevin accepted the invitation to sleep for a couple of hours on a cot in the back room before he returned to the airport for his flight to Toronto.

  Maureen stood at the Hudson Bay Post counter nearest the wall where their inventory of firearms was displayed. The clerk assisting her held the bolt-action Winchester Model 70, a 30/06 caliber rifle she'd just examined, while next she studied the Colt .45 pistol.

  “I'd have been happy just servin' fishermen at our camp.”

  The clerk nodded. “Ah but the hunters, they're the high rollers, eh?”

  “It's what I've been told. I just don't know if I need to see a dead moose lyin' on the dock, or a lovely black bear shot dead. But they've asked us to outfit them with proper rifles, so I'll take that one there if you can get me five more just like it in two weeks.”

  “Three weeks to be safe.”

  “It's a month before they arrive, but I need to be sure.”

  “I'll radio you when they come in.”

  “Let's do that. Where do you get your rifles from?” She held the pistol and looked to aim it, moving off her first target, a moose head mounted above the door, to site on the British sailor in the center of the Player's Navy Cut cigarette sign on the wall.

  “We get all our goods from the Company warehouses. And the Company, they buy enough they get them direct from the manufactures.”

  “With all Brian's talk about offerin' some evenin' entertainment for our guests, I think a little target practice might be fun. I want five of these Colt revolvers as well. The guests will have fun target shootin'.”

  “I only have one more in stock, so I can sell you two now and add three more Colt's to your order of rifles.”

  “I guess, yes, let's do that. Now let's look at ammunition.”

  When Maureen returned to camp, she found Albert and gave him the rifle.

  “I've ordered five more. If you'd sight them for us, make them ready, that would be grand.”

  She carried the two pistols in a small duffel bag to her cabin, pulled the trunk out from under her bed, removed her winter coat and wrapped it around the duffle bag, buried the coat under her clothes in the bottom of the trunk, and pushed it back under the bed.

  In Cong Tommy led his sister and brother to the Monk's Fish House. The abandoned small stone hut was built in the 12th century and sat over the River just below the monastery ruins. A slit in the flagstone floor allowed the monks to let out their lines and fish the River for trout in dry warmth when it was raining and cold. The roof had been gone for ages, but the walls were solid, and the three of them sat on benches along the walls, the lantern light shimmering gold on their faces and stone walls.

  Tommy had come home for Patrick's eleventh birthday.

  Katie had the stack of photos Brian sent her, and Tommy had just examined the picture of the two Ojibway girls who had written Katie a letter inviting her to come visit them the next summer. She looked him in the eye and she said, “I'm not saying I want to go. And I'm not speaking for Patrick, just myself. I'm only asking you to not get angry with me if I ask why we can't even talk about it.”

  Patrick couldn't look at his brother but did speak for himself.

  “It could be an experiment. Do the spells go away, or do they get worse, if I start thinkin' of Katie goin' over to visit the Indians and see the wilderness?”

  “What's the result so far?”

  “Too soon to tell. I was all right when she first told me, but then I did get a spell right before you arrived.”

  Katie studied Tommy in the lamplight as Patrick spoke. She decided it was time to tell him the truth.

  “Uncle Eamon always told us we had to be true to each other.”

  Tommy nodded. “We will always be true to each other.”

  “I see a pattern to them.”

  “What's that?”

  “Patrick's spells. There's a pattern to them. They usually get worse, he has more of them, and they seem more severe, when he knows you're comin' home.”

  “What?”

  “He loves you too much to say it to you, Tommy, and I told Uncle Eamon I love you both too much not to.”

  They were quiet. The River rushed under them, gurgling around the stone pilings. Tommy stared at the fishing hole in the middle of the floor.

  Patrick wiped at his eyes. Katie let her tears roll down her cheeks. She got up and sat right at Tommy's side, hugging him. Patrick slid over to lean into Tommy's other side.

  “How long have you known you get worse when I'm coming home?”

  “A couple of years ago is when I first noticed.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “I'm afraid I'm not as angry as you want me to be, with him. When you aren't around I have learned to not think about any of it at all, and that helps me feel better. But when you come home you expect us all to still be so upset with what he did… to me… so I pretend to be angry, like you, an' I think that sets 'em off.”

  “You pretend to be angry so I won't be mad?” Tommy was quiet. His brother and sister waited for him to speak. “I've been failing you as a brother and my Lord as His servant.”

  They all listened to the River's music. Katie leaned back so she could look Tommy in the eye.

  “So you won't be angry if I just talk about makin' a visit?”

  Tommy was quiet much longer this time. He put his arms around his brother and his sister, and they waited patiently for his response.

  “I think I should go first. Father John's been urging me to an' has offered for the Church to pay for my flight if it was a trip attempting reconciliation. I'll go, and when I come back I'll tell you what I've found, and you can decide for yourself. If you go, your trip will have my blessing.”

  “I'll start measurin' my spells, so.”

  The next morning Tommy waited for the bus back to seminary. Eamon, Patrick, and Katie waited with him. Tommy turned to Eamon.

  “I'll ring you as soon as I work out arrangements.”

  “Brian'll pay for the tickets when you let him know you're comin'.”

  “I'd rather not take his money. Father John has said many times the Church will cover it if ever I was ready for a trip of reconciliation.”

  “That's what you're callin' this?”

  “I'm praying without ceasing that it will be.”

  The bus chugged down the road into the center of the village. Tommy asked Patrick and Katie to walk with him for a moment, leaving his bag with his uncle.

  “All this anger I've got, I need to confess why it burns so hot. It's because, the way I've always figured it… Well, it should have been me was beat that night. It shouldn't have been me baby brother, it should have been me.”

  “Oh no, Tommy. You tried to stop him. We both did, but we couldn't. He was too strong for us. So you did the only thing we could do to save him. You ran to get Uncle Eamon.”

  “I should 'a sent you to get Uncle Eamon, K
atie. I should have stayed and put myself between… Instead I ran out into the night, scared of what was happening and left you both with a madman.”

  Katie was crying.

  “Ah, Tommy, I never thought that way, not one time, and if you are askin' me to now, I say you're wrong as you can be.”

  They were quiet. The bus unloaded one passenger. Eamon stood at the door chatting with the driver but then he waved Tommy back.

  Patrick took his brother's hand.

  “I never thought I ever had to forgive you.”

  They hugged and then Tommy looped Katie in with one arm for each.

  “Blessings on you both.”

  “And on you and your safe travels.”

  Brian and Simon stayed the night at the Hotel Kenora. The next day they waited for nearly two hours in the Indian Affairs Regional office until the first agent was made available. Brian was barely into his story when the agent interrupted him, excused himself, and hurried from the room.

  Brian joined Simon's examination of a wall of photographs of Ojibway and Cree taken from the late 1800's and early 1900's. There were portraits of posed warriors and chiefs, of their people tapping maple trees, of a man and woman building a wigwam, of two men paddling a birch bark canoe.

  Brian examined the chiefs.

  “Look here, lad. Doesn't this fella look so like Joe Loon? What was his father's name?”

  “They called him Waubishgaugauge.”

  “Does that by any chance mean White Crow?”

  “I hear the name as Wise White Crow.”

  “Then this must be Joe Loon's father.”

  When the agent returned, Simon composed his look like a warrior from one of the photos, the shoulder bag strap across his chest like a warrior's sash. Brian and Simon were ushered down the hall to a meeting room where four men and a woman waited. The men were introduced as the senior staff of this regional office of the Bureau of Indian Affairs, the woman as their secretary.