The Boy Must Die

by Jon Redfern

  Professor Mucklowe was standing beside a blonde student with shortly cropped hair. The kitchen smelled of freshly brewed coffee. The professor’s cotton T-shirt and clean pressed Levis were part of his new image. Last winter he’d cut his ponytail. Justin thought he looked like a mediaeval warlord in a movie.

  “How you doing, Justin? Get you a coffee?”

  Professor Mucklowe reached out and slapped him on the shoulder.

  “Thanks. Just black.”

  The blonde was wearing a red shirt and tight-fitting white Bermuda shorts. She smiled immediately at Justin when he came in. He smiled back and watched her lean against the kitchen counter, where she continued to sip from her mug. Justin knew Cara Simonds from Randy’s class. Smart. Friendly. Sometimes too friendly, always trying to help Justin with his studying, offering her time, willing to drive him home some nights after a project in the university library. “Can’t we be friends?” she’d say and smile in her shy way. At least she was good in archaeology, especially with details, and she didn’t mind sharing ideas.

  “Hi, Cara,” Justin said.

  “Have we met before?” Cara joked. “This’ll be our first dig together, Justin. I’m looking forward to it, aren’t you?”

  “Sure. Of course.”

  A balding young man Justin’s age sauntered into the kitchen. Justin knew him from history class. David Home was an A student who loved to talk about the Old West. He had asked Justin to go on the dig this summer. “You’ll love it, Justin,” David had said, his eagerness and enthusiasm lighting up his pale thin face.

  “Dave!”

  “Justin! Did you get that down sleeping bag?”

  “Sure did.”

  “You guys will be bunking down in the back bedroom of my cabin,” Randy interrupted. “You can bring along your bags if you want, but you won’t really need them. We won’t be staying up at the Chief Mountain site as we had originally planned. The band council at Browning didn’t think it right to have camping on a sacred prayer site.”

  Randy clapped his hands. “Anyway, how ’bout we go down to the den?” He spread his arms to try to herd them out of the kitchen. “I’ve got the slides set up. We can get through this in no time. Help yourselves to more coffee. Oh, and please get out pens and paper. I need to have all your home addresses and medical health card numbers.”

  “Why?” asked Cara.

  “For insurance. The university needs the data. Just your home addresses, where you currently live’ll be fine.”

  “You mean my mother’s address?” asked Justin.

  “Is that where you are living, Justin? If so, I need just that. If you’re in residence, you can add that address as well.”

  Randy and David left the kitchen. Cara Simonds poured herself another coffee. She turned towards Justin.

  He realized she looked pretty with her new short hair, and he let himself stare at her brown eyes and at her full breasts. Then he stepped back. “You here for extra credits, Cara?” Justin asked, his voice catching a little in his throat.

  Cara smiled. “Can I warm up your coffee?” She took hold of the mug, and her fingers lightly brushed against his. She poured the coffee and handed it back to him. “Careful. Don’t burn yourself.” She smiled again. She then answered Justin’s question. “Not really. I actually wanted to go and work on a sacred site. Randy told me it was one of the hardest field digs he’d ever had to arrange. The Blackfoot band in Montana are very possessive of their history. Who can blame them?”

  As she spoke, Justin looked at her mouth, her eyes, the way her hands moved. She was slimmer than Karen. Forget about Karen, he thought. Justin’s stomach rumbled as he pushed the word abortion from his mind. There was something peaceful about Cara Simonds. I wonder if she might have some money?

  “Come on, Cara. Randy’ll get upset if we don’t get started.”

  “Right.”

  The den was at the end of the hallway. A narrow room with a couch and two bookcases crammed with paperbacks. A sliding glass door led out onto a small balcony. Randy sat on the couch while David Home set up a roll screen to the left of the doorway. Cara and Justin came in with their coffees and sat down on the bare floor near Randy’s feet. On a dented metal TV table, Randy had set up his old carousel slide projector. The carousel was half full of white cardboard slides. As the group got ready, Randy handed each a small booklet he’d prepared on his computer. Justin flipped his open. On page 1 was a table of contents explaining the nature of the site, the goal of the dig, the expectations of what they might find, and then a couple of Randy’s published academic articles on vision quest sites and Blackfoot tribal history.

  “We’ve got a week of hard digging and hot days together. But you’ll find the place we’re going to very nice. You won’t have much free time, except back in Waterton Lakes, where my cabin is. On the way home from Chief, we can stop and swim in the Waterton river. And we can get pizzas and good burgers at Frank’s Café on Main Street. Count on being tired, though. Digging is slow, fussy work. There’s a lot of sifting. Don’t expect a big find. Don’t look forward to discovering a skull or any gold. Mainly think about how to use the dig skills and labelling techniques I taught you last winter. That’s the point of the field trip. You get to work hard for me for little money, and I get to publish and receive the credit. And, yes, if we do find anything, all of you will be credited, and all of your names will appear on the article.

  “Think of this as purely a search mission. We may get nothing. But the scenery will take your breath away.”

  Randy clicked on the slide projector. David Home adjusted the height of the screen. He pulled the curtain over the window and then bent over double and walked under the beam of light to sit down next to Cara and Justin. The screen lit up with a front view of Chief Mountain. A square-shaped shale peak, the mountain straddled the boundary of the Canadian plains and the rise of the Rockies. Its immensity belied its distance from Canada; however, as Randy explained. “Chief lies in the state of Montana. Though we like to claim it as one of our mountains.”

  Randy went on, “The Blackfoot of both countries do not recognize our political borders. Chief has been sacred to them and a part of their land and rituals for over two thousand years. The screefall base of the mountain remains a place of prayer and supplication. There a man of faith can traverse the invisible line between the human and spirit worlds and communicate with his spirit guide.”

  The next slide showed a vast sloping field of stone with open patches of earth and small wildflowers and the sharp edge of a pine forest. “Here’s the screefall. Wear good boots for this. We walk over it; we dig under it; we haul stuff on it.”

  Randy clicked again, and the southwest side of Chief was shown — a commercial photo taken of the mountain at sunset to highlight its unique tower-like shape. To Justin, who’d seen Chief only from a distance, the mountain resembled a giant triangle of purple-grey stone. It almost looked as if it had been carved or built on a gravel foundation.

  “The Blackfoot, or Blackfeet if you live in Montana, call this peak Nin Nase Tok Que. The King. We whites dubbed it Chief Mountain because it reminded us of a tribal leader in full eagle headdress. Our base camp, Site 125, is at the foot of the peak on the screefall.”

  Randy clicked. The vast field of stone was now shown photographed from another angle. “Looks like a giant football field someone broke up from a pit of boulders,” said David.

  “Pretty close,” said Randy. “It’s partially scree — rockfall from the mountain — and partly glacier rock and moraine earth left over from the ice age retreat. Our site is just above the tree line, the line of pines edging the scree. Chief is cracking apart. Last year a large stonefall occurred on the southeast face.”

  “Will we be safe up there?” Cara asked.

  “Pretty well,” answered Randy. “We’ll be working farther west. We are calling the dig a vision quest for lack of a better word. A young Native would go to the mountain, alone, to fast and pray for a vision —
a spirit animal, a sign in the clouds — which would bring him guidance and courage. The band council in Montana has given us a five-day time frame to do some exploratory digging in places where prayer and quests once took place. We’re not sure if this was a burial ground, too. In the past, questors often left behind gifts for their spirit guides. I hope we can locate some amulets, some old beadwork belts — and I mean old. Maybe early nineteenth, late eighteenth century. The cold air and altitude and dry winters can preserve a lot. Luckily, the site was never plundered by ranchers or train track builders. It was too far out, and it’s hard to get to by vehicle.”

  “But how are we going to get up there?” David Home’s voice sounded anxious.

  “Look.”

  The next slide showed a forest of pine and a narrow road. Through the trees, the huge base of the mountain could be seen glowing in the sun.

  “A logging road?” asked Justin.

  “Deer path. Used by Blackfoot who park down below — like we will — and walk up to the site.”

  “So,” added Cara, “if we find artifacts, as you said, the museum in Browning, Montana, gets to keep them.”

  “Yes. There will be a Native guide with us at all times. A man named Sam Heavy Hand, from the Browning reserve.”

  “To make sure we don’t pilfer?” Cara countered.

  “Hey, Cara,” Randy said. “Don’t make us sound like a bunch of grave robbers. This is all above board.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You’ll be billeted at my cabin in Waterton Lakes for the time we’re on the dig. You won’t need to worry about food or paying for gas since the university has given us a stipend. We can cook at home and take food up to the site, but we can’t camp there. Bring your passports each time we cross into Montana. Bring spending money and take a look at the booklet I handed out. It lists all the stuff you’ll need — boots, first aid, and the rest. Your honorariums of five hundred dollars will be paid out at the end of the dig, as I told you before. Cara, I know you asked if you could take your own car. And, yes, I got it cleared. You can drive over the border if you wish or come in the van.”

  “I’ll only need the car in Waterton in case I have to come home fast. My mom is not well, and she may need me to come into town to help her. I told her I could do it after a day’s dig, and she thought that would be all right. If it’s cool with you.”

  “By all means.”

  “Will the border guards be checking the van every time we cross? For artifacts? Or looking in our pockets?” Justin was asking the question seriously.

  “Most likely.” Randy cleared his throat. “It’ll be official only. Once they know us, they’ll wave us through. But we do have to submit a site report every day. Sam will be helping us with that. Any more questions? Please do not forget to give me your addresses.”

  Randy gazed around the room. The sun now illuminated the balcony, and Randy stood up and pulled open the curtain.

  “Come here, everyone.”

  David and Cara and Justin got up and walked over to Randy, who’d gone out on the balcony. Randy was pointing into the hazy light where far off, over the fields and the blue line of the Oldman River, the Rockies appeared. The dark square near the horizon was Chief Mountain.

  “There it is. The King.”

  Randy went back inside and clicked the projector one more time. The screen filled with a picture of clouds and the cragged peak of Chief.

  “The wind can cut you in half up there if you’re not careful,” Randy said, his voice suddenly becoming soft. “Spirits are everywhere. Some of them do not like to be disturbed.”

  Justin stared at Cara’s face. She had stepped into the den and was lit by the glare from the projector. The hard light seemed to reveal the very bones under her skin. She fixed her eyes on the slide of the clouds and the mountain. Justin wondered what she was thinking. Every part of her body appeared taut, ready for action.

  The crew of three were set to leave and go home to prepare for the trip. Randy reminded everyone about packing light but right. “On a mountain, the weather is unpredictable, so it’s always wise to dress in layers to keep dry and warm.” He also told Justin and the other two that departure time was 3:30. “We need an early start to get into the park and settle at the cabin.” David Home left first. Cara Simonds dawdled in the kitchen and took extra time to wash the coffee cups while Justin dried. He then walked her to the front door and asked her if she was excited.

  “I’ll put it this way. It’ll be good to get away from my mom for a while,” Cara said, her expression darkening as she spoke. Justin wondered if she felt as lonely and isolated as he did.

  After she left, Randy asked, “Justin, could you wait around?” Justin said yes. Randy grinned. “I’ll just put away the slides. Have a seat. There’s something I want to share with you.” Randy left for the den.

  Justin sat on the chair in the nearly empty living room. Restless, he felt the presence of Yianni in the panic growing in his chest. He wanted to call Karen, but he couldn’t think of what he’d say. He got up and at the glass cabinet fingered one of the amulets Randy had collected. The blue flashes in the stone reminded him of sapphire. Justin looked over his shoulder. He held the amulet tight in his fist for a second.

  “You got time for a beer?”

  Justin jumped as Randy came back into the living room. “I could use one.” Justin placed the amulet back on the glass shelf.

  In the kitchen, Randy pulled open the fridge door. He took out two dark ales and twisted off their caps. Justin was about to take a drink when Sheree Lynn Bird appeared in the doorway.

  “Randy?”

  Her bare toes curled up from touching the cool tiles.

  “Hi, Justin,” she said, her voice barely audible.

  “Hi,” he answered. Justin found himself staring at Sheree Lynn’s body. She was wearing a T-shirt, her nipples pressing against the cotton, and a filmy muslin skirt slit up the side. The familiar tension surfaced. Justin had always wanted to have sex with her, and she had never shown any interest in returning his glances or his tacit invitations. In the past, he had gone over to her back door and offered to mow her lawn, do any favours around the yard. He’d once asked her out for a beer, but Sheree Lynn had never gone beyond coy refusals. She’s a cock tease, Justin reminded himself. You’re better off.

  Randy turned just then. Justin saw that he had been watching him and Sheree Lynn. “Come on, Sheree,” Randy said, his voice irritable and impatient. “Justin and I have to talk business.”

  “Oh, do you?”

  She sauntered farther into the kitchen and stood between Justin and Randy.

  “You heard about Darren Riegert?” she said, addressing Justin directly.

  “Let’s not bring that up again,” Randy complained.

  Sheree Lynn turned and locked eyes with Randy. “What are you afraid of?”

  Justin quickly looked away from them, towards the light in the dining room.

  “You met Darren, didn’t you, Justin?” Sheree began again, lowering her voice and ignoring Randy.

  “Yeah. I saw him once or twice.”

  “Did you ever talk to him or Cody?”

  How much does she know? Is she hinting . . . what if she goes to the police?

  Justin shook his head. There was an uneasy silence in the kitchen.

  “I see,” sighed Sheree Lynn. “It’s terrible what’s happened. Really awful.”

  Randy reached out to her. He lifted her arms to his neck, surrounding her with his body as if she were a child. Whispering, he led her from the kitchen and down the hallway. Randy’s voice disappeared when a door clicked shut.

  Justin felt more confused than ever. He fixed his thoughts on Karen, but the memory of her weeping face stabbed at him. Fuck it, he thought, his mind now conjuring up the image of Aunt Marion’s crumbling mansion. Satan House was always a place of sadness and bad luck. Justin had pitied his auntie, her bottle in her hand, her thin wraith-like body on the sofa in the living room, where sh
e spent her drunken afternoons watching television.

  “How did you hear about Darren?”

  Justin was startled by Randy’s sudden re-appearance in the kitchen.

  “My mom told me,” Justin said quickly. “She said the police were asking some questions.”

  “Can I show you something, Justin?”

  “Sure.”

  Randy took a set of keys and walked out the main entrance of the apartment and down a set of stairs leading to the building’s parking lot. The front part of the building was cantilevered over the slope of the coulee hill. Randy and Justin moved past the parked cars and onto the slope that faced the Oldman River valley.

  “Watch your footing here. There’s supposed to be some steps, but the landlord says the contractor has yet to show up to finish the job.”

  Randy slid down the grass and steadied his stance. He pointed to a long line of garage doors built under the arches of the ground floor.

  “Those are our storage lockers. One day we may be able to park our cars in them. Come on.”

  In front of the locker where Randy stopped and searched for a key, Justin noticed tire tracks leading out from the locker’s entrance. Randy inserted the key and slid up the wobbly metal door. Inside the narrow concrete space sat a huge black gleaming Harley Davidson. Spoked wheels. Double leather seat. Chrome tailpipes.

  “My folly,” beamed Randy.

  Justin came up beside Randy and watched him run his hand along the polished handlebar. The air in the locker smelled of leather and motor oil.

  “Impressive, eh?”

  “Sure. You ride her much?”

  Randy broke into a laugh.

  “You want her, Justin?”

  Justin blinked. It took him a moment to process Randy’s question.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Your family has money. You must like to show off. I am in bad straits these days, to be honest. My ex-wife, Connie, is squeezing my balls dry, and I need cash. I can sell you this baby for nine grand. A great deal.”

  “But, Randy. . . .”