I have to tell Willy about this, he thought. That seemed so obvious, and yet the thought had never occurred to him until now. Of course Willy was the only one who could help him bring the dream to life again. It was dead because he’d never bothered to make use of it, had never acknowledged it, and so it had solidified, freezing into something as hard as a rock and blocking the path for all other dreams. That’s what he would tell Willy. He would just have to risk having the old man laugh at him, but something told him that wouldn’t happen.
“I dreamed that I found a wooden figure of two people holding hands,” Willy had said. What was that supposed to mean? Maybe he’d just made it all up so he could tell the story about Swamper Caribou’s knife. But if that was true, it was a poor excuse. Willy couldn’t even remember what it was about the dream that had made him think of the old story. No doubt the dream and the story had nothing to do with each other—yet upon further thought, they might. Both were about finding something. And about two people who were linked to each other. The two holding hands, in the shape of a tree root; and the two brothers who had been so alike that it was hard to tell them apart. Joe and Swamper Caribou.
Lance had an old photograph of Joe in the archives that belonged to the local historical society. But as far as he knew, there was no picture of Swamper. Regardless, how was he, Lance Hansen, supposed to know what a dream like that meant? Or whether it meant anything at all? He felt stupid for even having such a thought. He was a police officer, and interpreting dreams was not part of his job description. I don’t even believe dreams are important, he thought, but he knew that was a lie. The truth was that he knew better than most people how important dreams were. He missed waking up from a dream. He missed it more than being physically touched.
Hardly anybody touched Lance anymore; only his son. He wondered what the boy wanted when he phoned. Because it had to have been Jimmy, and not Mary. The boy had tried to call his father, but Lance hadn’t answered. And he knew why: because he was in the process of disappearing. He might as well get his son used to the idea sooner rather than later. Maybe he wouldn’t come back at all. He hoped he would, but there was no guarantee. He didn’t even know where he was going, just that he was in the process of disappearing from the world he knew. Jimmy’s world. Mary’s. His mother’s.
Lance raised his rifle and used the scope to survey the shoreline, but he saw only the gray lake, gray sky, naked trees, and the expanse of rock, dark with rain. If he tried to look out at the open waters, the clouds and lake merged, making it impossible to tell which was which. But as long as he let his gaze slide along the land, he was able to see quite far. Through the light drizzle he caught a glimpse of the ten-foot-tall cross at the very tip, near the mouth of the Cross River. But he couldn’t see much farther than that.
The cross had stood there since 1846, when Father Frederic Baraga came ashore there after a boat trip that had nearly cost him his life. Grateful to be alive, he had raised a cross consisting of two birch branches that he had lashed together. Eight years later a new wooden cross was erected, replaced in the 1930s by the present granite cross.
Lance’s father had taught him to remain vigilant when nothing was happening, to listen when there was silence. He now did what he had learned. He got up and slowly began walking. Stopped often. Stood still and listened, but he heard nothing except the rain striking his clothing and the sound of an occasional car passing by up on the road. He knew he mustn’t lose focus, not for a second. If I do, he thought, I don’t stand a chance.
It began with a light touch, which he barely noticed. He grabbed hold of a birch branch to bend it aside and felt ice under his fingertips. A thin layer that melted from the touch of his hand. He took a closer look at the branch. Frost covered the extremity. When he checked the other branches nearby, he saw the same thing. The sections where rain had struck were now covered with ice. It was thin and difficult to see, but once he noticed it, he saw ice everywhere. The trees all around him had acquired a sheen that they hadn’t had only a few minutes ago.
More raindrops kept pelting the already ice-covered branches. They froze instantly. The ice grew thicker as he stood there. He was all too familiar with the phenomenon of freezing rain and how it happened: precipitation that falls through a subfreezing layer of air and is supercooled to below freezing, yet continues in liquid form as long at it doesn’t hit anything solid. It’s the same thing that makes the water in a lake start freezing along the edges instead of in the middle. Freezing rain was a common weather phenomenon along Lake Superior. In its most extreme version, it’s called an ice storm.
Lance had experienced several ice storms, but it had been a few years since the last one. He especially recalled the time in the mid-1970s when all of Duluth stood still for a couple of days. The power went out, and they had to cook their food in the fireplace. Schools were closed. And there was a strict ban on going outdoors because of all the power lines that had been downed by the weight of the ice. Some of them sent sparks into the nighttime darkness. He could see it from his room, since from there he had a good view of a large part of the city. It seemed even more dangerous because the lights and the furnace were no longer working in his house. Or in any of the other houses, either. Yet sparks flew out from the ice-laden wires that sagged to the ground. The power hadn’t actually gone; it was just no longer under control. It had changed from being a basic necessity, which people simply took for granted, to a lethal and unpredictable force.
Lance ran his hand over the barrel of his rifle several times in order to prevent it from icing over. His own body was too warm to allow ice to form on him, but he noticed that something that looked like slush had started to settle in the creases of his jacket sleeves. That was nothing to worry about; he just needed to keep going. He started walking again. He hadn’t yet heard the sound of ice striking ice, but he had a feeling he soon would. He had no problem moving forward since the forest floor wasn’t slippery. But it was probably already extremely dangerous to be traversing the rocks along the shore of the lake. He slung the strap of his rifle over his shoulder and rubbed his hands as he walked, trying to warm them up, but it didn’t help much.
The sound of the rain had changed. He didn’t know why, but he could hear the difference quite clearly. Was that the sound of water freezing to ice as it struck the branches and rocks around him? It had a higher pitch than ordinary rain. The grass and leaves underfoot were starting to crackle with a more brittle sound than before. Aside from that crackling and the pelting of the rain, there were no other sounds as he walked. Andy was right when he’d said they’d have the forest to themselves down here. Maybe Andy wasn’t even here anymore. It was possible Lance was the only one in this part of the woods at the moment.
Even though he couldn’t see it, he was aware that the ice was getting thicker with every raindrop that fell. After a while he took the rifle from his shoulder to inspect it. A thin layer of ice had formed along the underside of the barrel, which was the part that had been turned upward as he walked with the gun over his shoulder. He ran his hand back and forth over the barrel until all of the ice had melted away. There was also ice underneath the trigger guard. He used his thumb to clear it off. As long as he kept to the dense forest, not much rain would strike his rifle. Most of it was settling high up in the birch trees. The thick interlacing of branches overhead was getting more and more shiny. If he happened to run into a tree trunk, a shower of water no longer dripped from the branches. The water had turned to ice.
He again slung the strap of his rifle over his shoulder and continued on. The sounds had changed once more; now he noticed that a faint clinking undertone, barely audible, had crept in. It must be coming from the impact of the rain on the most slender twigs, causing them to move slightly. Ice striking ice. He remembered how back in the seventies the weather had finally broken after an ice storm lasting a couple of days. The temperature rose and a wind started to blow. The ice hanging from the trees clinked and clanked in the gusts like some strange, avant-
garde music. Yet that time it had a whole different dimension. Yard-long icicles swung in the wind. Lots of trees had broken in half in the city parks. The shattered trunks were visible from far off, standing there with their fresh, light-colored wood exposed.
Now Lance noticed that he could no longer hear any cars passing by on Highway 61. In fact, he hadn’t heard any for quite a while. The few people who were out driving on this gray, rainy Sunday afternoon must have pulled over to take a break somewhere along the highway. The surface of the road must already be slippery as hell, and he probably wouldn’t be able to drive back home afterward. Not that it mattered, because he still didn’t have a sense that there was going to be any “afterward.” The only thing that felt real was continuing to walk through the woods as the ice grew thicker all around him. It was becoming more visible too. Little lumps of ice were forming on the branches.
The next time he took off his rifle to look at it, he saw that a new layer of ice had settled on the underside of the barrel and the trigger guard. Now it was noticeably thicker, and he had to spend more time rubbing it off. His hands got so cold he had to pause and stuff them in his pockets. He took a short break but then had to go back to running his hand along the barrel. Finally he’d managed to de-ice the gun and could sling it back on his shoulder.
The rain was still coming down steadily, and every single one of the endless drops froze the instant it hit the ground or the trees. He could actually see the ice growing right before his eyes. The tree branches were encapsulated in icy holsters that were getting thicker and thicker. Now it seemed like there was no one else in the whole world in this forest. No outside sounds were audible. The only thing he heard was a muted clinking, as if an infinite number of tiny glass beads were just barely glancing off one another.
Then his phone started vibrating again. Lance took it out and looked at the number on the display. It was Andy. The idea of hearing his voice seemed so unreal. As if he were receiving a call from the other side. He had to pull himself together before he could answer.
“Hello?”
Silence on the other end.
“Hello?” he repeated.
He thought he could hear something, maybe the wind.
“Andy?”
No, it had to be the sound of his brother’s stifled breathing.
“Can we talk, Andy?”
Then the connection was cut.
Lance stood there a moment longer with the phone pressed to his ear, as if waiting for something to happen. Then he called Andy back. He counted the ring tones. After the phone had rung ten times, he gave up and put the cell back in his pocket.
The sound of ice touching ice had grown louder. Maybe only because the rain was coming down harder. On the phone he hadn’t heard any sounds other than his brother breathing, if that was actually what he’d heard. In any case, no voices or any traffic noise in the background. There was no traffic now anyway, and Andy would never think of driving in these conditions. If he tried, he wouldn’t even be able to make it out of the parking lot and up to the main road. He’s still here in the woods, thought Lance. Though it was impossible to say where. Maybe he was on post, as they’d agreed, but he could just as well be very close by. The only thing Lance was sure of was that his brother was out there somewhere.
No matter what, he couldn’t just stay in one spot, so he started walking, with a noticeable reluctance in his body, as if he had to persuade part of himself to keep going. Every time he touched a branch, it rattled with ice. Small icicles had started to form. The biggest were no longer than his little finger, but they kept on growing. It was impossible not to make a sound as he moved because the forest was so dense, but if he chose to walk along the lake, where the terrain was more open, he’d be more visible, and that would be worse. He remembered the feeling he’d had that someone was aiming at him as he stood at the top of the big boulder, completely exposed. He didn’t want to subject himself to anything like that again, so he continued making his way through the birch forest.
He was no longer deer hunting; this was something different. Moving among the trees that were becoming increasingly covered with ice, heading toward his brother, who was somewhere up ahead. Occasionally he caught sight of the lake through openings in the woods. He thought about the expanse of rocks, where the glittering ice must have settled in an even layer that was barely visible. Anyone who set so much as one foot on that treacherous surface would immediately fall into the water. The difference between the vegetation and the slippery ground could quickly become the difference between life and death. Because how could anyone manage to climb back out? There was practically nothing but rocks along the lake between the Temperance and the Cross Rivers.
Yet there was something enticing about the sporadic glimpses of the huge gray surface of water. Lance had an urge to see those treacherous rocks. Finally he gave in and headed back down. Only when he emerged from the woods did he realize how hard it was actually raining. The drops pelted his hood. He involuntarily ducked, as if that might help. In front of him was a six-foot-wide belt of grass and heath, before the naked expanse of rocks began. With a couple more steps the tips of his boots touched the ice. The fact that it was almost invisible made it even more treacherous. If someone didn’t know the ground was covered with ice, it would be easy to miss, since it was so transparent. A strange-looking sheen was the only sign that everything was not normal.
Lance lifted his right foot, letting it hover an inch or two above the ground. Then he slowly lowered it until his boot was just barely touching the ice, while keeping all of his weight on the other foot. He stood there like that for a few seconds before he cautiously shifted a little weight onto the foot on the ice. It instantly slid forward. Since he was prepared for this, he remained in full control, but it made him nervous to think what might have happened if he had unsuspectingly stepped out onto the rocks.
He went back to the woods and continued in the same direction as before, heading for the Cross River and Baraga’s Cross. The ice got thicker, the icicles longer, clattering louder as he walked. In one spot he found a row of extra big icicles hanging at eye level. They were as long as his index finger, but thinner. In the closest icicle he could see a hazy reflection of his surroundings. When he leaned forward, he saw his face. It was so distorted as to be unrecognizable, but there was no doubt he was looking at his own reflection in the ice. He pulled his head back for a moment and then leaned close again. The movement made his face change shape, alternately compressed and expanded. It looked like it was shouting from inside, but without a voice.
As he turned away to keep going, his shoulder brushed against a branch. For a moment it sounded like a set of little chimes. In his mind he pictured the skeleton at the bottom of Lake Superior. The sound of ice bones. When Lance looked up again, he caught sight of him. The man was standing between the ice-covered birch trees, barely twenty yards away, with his head bent forward slightly so that his big, round hat covered most of his face. Lance had known this would happen sooner or later. The man had on the same miserable old clothes that he’d worn when Lance saw him a few months ago. His jacket and pants were both shiny with age and looked like they were several sizes too big. His jacket had probably been a suit jacket once upon a time. The brim of his hat drooped, as if the hat had been in the water for a long time and was now about to dissolve. The man looked like a figure that had accidentally stepped out of an old black-and-white photograph. No, not accidentally. It was more like he possessed a force of will that could overwhelm any resistance, even the impenetrable barrier of time itself.
Lance didn’t want to move. He just stood there, looking at the man, who also remained motionless. How long they stood like that, he couldn’t tell. He was no longer aware of the passage of time. At last the man slowly raised his head so that his face gradually came into view under the brim of his hat. The face of a full-blooded Ojibwe. It was soot-covered, as if he’d spent a long time bending forward as he sat next to a fire. Lance felt his gaze
like a weight on his chest that got heavier and colder. Swamper Caribou looked as if he hadn’t slept properly for a very long time. His face was swollen and drawn. Lance could hear the sound of ice getting thicker and thicker all around them, while he himself got heavier and colder. It occurred to him that he was dying. That was the reason for this sense of heaviness and cold.
The Indian started coming toward him. Lance tried desperately to lift his feet in an attempt to turn around, but it was no use. His body no longer obeyed him. Swamper Caribou kept coming closer. Nothing in his face changed. It was without expression. Finally he was standing only a couple of yards away. Water dripped from his hat brim and ran from the sleeves of his jacket. The strands of hair that stuck out from under his hat looked soaked. He raised his right arm and held it out to Lance. His hand was open, his fingers spread. Now his face changed too. He looked desperate, as if he were pleading for something.
Lance felt the weight leave his body. He could move again. When he realized this, all of the suppressed fear raced to every crevice of his body, and he spun on his heel and ran as fast as he could. He heard the unrelenting sound of raindrops, ice, and branches striking his hood. Then, all of a sudden, he heard only rain. He’d emerged from the forest. Ahead of him lay the lake and the treacherous rocks. He turned around and pulled his rifle off his shoulder. A cold shock passed from his hands to the rest of his body. The gun was completely coated with ice. He tried to chamber a round, but the mechanism wouldn’t budge. The same thing happened with the safety; he couldn’t release it. The rifle was unusable.
Nothing moved at the edge of the woods. The Indian hadn’t followed him. And Lance hadn’t really thought he would. He turned back toward the lake and took a couple of steps forward. In front of his boots was the borderline between solid ground and death. There was no doubt in his mind that he would die if he took another step. He would slide right down into the lake. Even if the fall didn’t knock him unconscious, he would never be able to climb back out of the water. Then Lake Superior would finally engulf him, for the first and last time. And that actually seemed right. In what other depths did he belong but here?
Only the Dead Page 11