The Muskegon here arranged a meeting with their elders. A tripod took many captives in the early days. But they added that they took only those who had encountered us. When “the white sickness” had laid many of their fellows low. They say Three Legs get stronger with each battle. They say that each sickness is a battle. Just as we saw our illnesses sweep the ranks of the noble savages, so too I think these creatures observed and learned.
Diary of Alexander Ross: Lower Fort Garry: December 1, 1847.
We have it. There is the weakness. They fear our coughs and ills more than our cannonades. That is why they waited so long and took so many native lives first. We had infected these poor people with our ills and these horrid creatures used that to build immunity.
I have sent our man back to you with more devices. My people have not been idle in the interim. They have gathered tales of the Martian. Two accounts I am certain have the ring of truth. The Martian flesh, marred just as your Doctor saw. Bearing the scars of inoculation.
From the ledger of Alexander Ross: Lower Fort Garry: Summer 1848.
A portion of the Sixth Regiment, along with artillery and engineering detachments consisting of 17 officers and 364 non-commissioned officers and men accompanied by 17 women and 19 children left Ireland for Fort Garry via Hudson Bay. The tripods caught them in shallow water. Fourteen people made it to us. Three soldiers, seven women, four children. Less than 100 members of the Royal Canadian Rifles are with us, plus the Muskegon and the Métis men who say they will fight.
Diary of Alexander Ross: Lower Fort Garry: Summer 1848.
The majority of men and women are set to work under the Colonial whips. Turncoat lackeys of the Invaders. I would shoot them but I need the shot. These men have traded our freedom for their salvation. The red weed has taken to the forests and begun to choke them as they do our rivers and farms. But the prairie grass resists. The Muskegon tell me it is because there are too many types. Too many seeds. They say the red weed needs time to study its prey. That the weed is like those who brought it, like the tick that hangs on deer and dog and people if we are not vigilant. The shaman says the weed and the Martians will drain our strength slowly.
Netley Creek still gives us rice aplenty; the red weed does not seem to spread there. None can say why. Cuthbert Grant tells me from his sickbed that it is because we need it. He says the earth itself is trying to aide us as best she may.
Diary of Alexander Ross: Lower Fort Garry: Fall 1848.
I have received a letter from Seaver in Montreal.
The small area of Lachine has become their whole Canada. The alien conveyances run the length of the city proper. From there to Mount Royal is reduced to a charcoal cimitière. Even as I write this they could be gone. Ashes. Or worse.
Last entry of the diary of Alexander Ross: Lower Fort Garry: Fall 1848
The fort is preparing for what may prove our final act. For months now we have been digging beneath the walls under the leadership of a madman. Every gun taken, every bullet scrounged, will be hurled at the Invaders to draw them here. We will fight them to the last.
But a final stand is not our plan but our means. First we will lay our trap. And then they will come.
Jesuits have helped us prepare a final offering. Every sick man and woman in Rupert’s Land we have brought here. Every malady and illness we can move has been brought here. The physicians and thinkers in Montreal will put their theories to the test. A reversal of the infernal technologies and theories that have made these creatures at home here. By right the earth is ours. Men do not die in vain, I am certain now. We have won our right to this world by a thousand poxes, by a hundred thousand bloody fluxes. The Invaders think they can adapt a population at a time. They think they can bleed up and inoculate a few at a time. No. We have 100 volunteers. I myself have been administered 19 injections.
The children are leaving with the Muskegon that have promised to take them into the great wide lands where the tripods do not yet stride. Where, if we are lucky or right or favoured by God, they shall outlive these horrid things by simple virtue of being born human and of the earth.
Our last group is moving off now. I can see them going from my place at the wall. When they are gone our engineer will knock loose the final strut and down our three-legged watchdog will fall. We will be open for conquest again. Our din shall give cover to those who leave.
They are already calling this place by its new name. They say it is the narrow place were the Great Spirit stood. They call this place Manitou-Wapow in Muskegon and M nanidoobaa in Anishinabe, both meaning the straits of Manitou, the Great Spirit.
They laugh at how I say it: Mani-toba. No longer an invader but a liberator. Today I live and die in Manitoba.
SAYING GOODBYE
Michael S. Pack
November 3
I think I’m the last person on the islands.
I took the boat across the channel yesterday, hoping to see Lloyd. I had some carrots for trade, but I found his house in Sandspit empty. When I took a look around town, I found Lloyd at the base of some steps. It didn’t seem right that an old piece of shoe leather like Lloyd would die from a fall, but we don’t choose how we go. By the state of his body, I’d guess that happened a week ago, maybe two. He won’t need my carrots.
He was the last man living on Moresby. A family used to migrate around the west coast of the island, but I haven’t heard from them in years. The storms took them, one of the winter storms when Arctic winds scream over the strait howling like the big bad wolf doing his best to blow out the moon. Not a time to be on the water.
I buried Lloyd on the hill behind his house so the grave overlooks the Pacific. He came from the Prairies, but he lived for wind and waves. He told me once that the first time he’d seen the ocean he’d fallen more in love than he had with any of his three wives. Back before, he’d sailed in the merchant marine. Even after he retired, he worked the halibut boats. After the world fell apart, he never stopped sailing his boat across the strait to the mainland. Weeks would pass, then he’d show up at my cabin with his discovered treasures. He taught me what I know about boats. I’ll never make a proper seaman, but I know my way around.
I think he’d like where I buried him. I hope so.
I scavenged a bit. Lloyd had a collection of comic books. I’d read them over the years, but I don’t mind reading them again. In his cellar I found some jarred food. I took those where the seals looked good; left the rest. Pickles. Salmonberry jam. Peaches. Hell if I know where Lloyd found peaches. He used to have a pair of binoculars, but I couldn’t find them. Maybe he traded them to a survivor on the mainland for the peaches.
I took Lloyd’s boat, the Hannah Marie, from the dock and trailed mine behind on a line. With the Hannah Marie I could sail clear around the island. Or follow Lloyd’s path and head to the mainland. It would be hard sailing, going alone like that, but I’ve thought about it.
December 4
I managed to get the old generator running for a bit. I listened to the ham radio, the one I traded for from the brothers. I don’t have a set-up to transmit much but I can pick voices out of the air. I used to chat with this guy down near Port Hardy. He promised that he’d bring his wife up to visit. He never made the trip. That was years back. I’ve talked to a few others over the years. A woman used to sing on the radio sometimes. Never knew where from, but she sounded American. Maybe Alaska or Seattle. She wouldn’t answer, but I liked her singing. I haven’t heard her in a long while.
Lately, I haven’t heard much but static. Tonight, I heard someone talking. I think she spoke Japanese. She sounded alone. Far off and alone. I tried to talk back, but I doubt she got the signal. If she did, she probably didn’t understand anything I said. Maybe she heard me. Maybe she heard my voice speaking on the radio and knew she wasn’t alone in the world. Not completely. Not yet.
December 16
Wish I had a beer. It’s been seven years since my last six-pack.
December 24
&nbs
p; I cut down a little pine and brought it into my house. I cranked up the genny to try the lights, but too many of the bulbs have burnt out on the string. I thought about looking through my neighbours’ homes to see if any of them left a string of tree lights, but it felt wrong to steal Christmas ornaments, even if they won’t ever come back for them.
I found a DVD in town last week. I wrapped it up in some paper and tape. Tomorrow morning I’ll find out what Santa left me.
December 25
Ran the genny long enough to watch the gold medal hockey match from the 2010 Olympics. Canada against the U.S. When Canada scored the winning goal in overtime, I stood up and cheered. I’d done that before, watching from a pub in Prince George, but that was a long time ago. It made for a good day.
Santa knew just what I wanted.
January 2
The Japanese woman was crying on the radio. I tried to transmit a message to her. Don’t think she heard me. Are we the last two people on earth? Here on opposite sides of the Pacific, where we can’t even see each other. Can’t be sure anyone even hears us. She went off the air at about 3 a.m. I stayed up the rest of the night. Listening to the silence.
January 15
The chill of the storm cuts through the walls. The winds have died down, but freezing rain keeps falling. I’ll have to check for damage tomorrow, and hope the roof isn’t too slick from ice.
Nights like this put me in mind of that night. The night when the last evacuation teams went door to door, all over the islands. Last call, last ferry to the mainland. Get out now or forever hold your peace. They had nothing to offer me. They promised an all-expense-paid vacation to some cramped refugee camp down south, but I’d come to Haida Gwaii to get away from people. Besides, Gloria stayed. They wouldn’t let her take her dogs, and she wouldn’t leave them.
The ferry sailed with the wind howling and the chop on the ocean dangerous and angry. Desperation led people to make bad decisions. Later, Lloyd found wreckage floating in the strait. The currents spared our beach most of the debris. I’ve always been thankful for that. I had good friends on that ferry.
The boats had come before, but they wouldn’t come again. The last stubborn holdouts clung to the island like we clung to life. We couldn’t let go, not until life let go of us. Over the years it did, and we slipped away, one by one.
After the storms, Lloyd would’ve taken us over to the mainland if we’d wanted, I suppose. Never asked; he never offered. I don’t know if that was a good decision or a bad one. You stop second-guessing, but you keep living with the consequences.
January 22
Cold rain has kept me indoors for days. I ended up flipping through Grandpa’s old photo album. He had a lot of pictures of his only child, my mother.
Time moves slower here on the island. In my Grandpa’s days, back in the time before, the worries of the mainland would melt away from my mother’s face when we’d visit. All that stress would rush back into her as soon as we stepped on the ferry to cross the strait to Prince Rupert, but for those precious days on the islands, the clock would stand still. A child wants to always speed it up, and it took until I grew up to understand why the islands drew my mother back. It was the only place she could rest. She liked the Interior well enough, and I know she loved my father. Still, the islands called her home.
She never said why she ran away in the first place.
February 3
Snow dusts the ground. Growing up in the Interior, I wouldn’t have even called it a proper snow. Winter doesn’t come as hard to Haida Gwaii as it does to some places. If I pull my toque down over my ears and fasten my coat across my chest, I can’t even feel the cold.
Not that I’d turn down a nice hot cup of cocoa right about now.
With marshmallows. Yeah, that would be nice.
February 17
I looked for silence until I found it.
March 11
I took a hike up to Spirit Lake and had a picnic. It was a nice spring morning with just a hint of winter still on the breeze. I come up here every spring. I think about Gloria. I picked wildflowers as I hiked the trail. I left them for her. She’s buried not far from the lake.
I’ve dug too many graves.
March 20
My Grandpa taught me to carve argillite. He shaped the soft, black stone to honour the traditions of the Haida of Skidegate. The masters carved beautiful pieces, and Grandpa wanted me to remember the way of his people. My people too, but I didn’t think of it that way, not then. I grew up on the mainland, far into the Interior. I considered trips to Haida Gwaii an imposition on my time. When my mother insisted I go, I resented the ferry ride. I complained loud and long about the lack of fast food, the limited connection to the precious Internet, the lousy television reception.
Now, I’m happy to hear a Japanese woman’s voice on the radio. Now, I’m glad to be on the island. Away from the mainland where it all went to hell.
I found a nice piece of argillite and began carving it. I think I’ll make it a dog. Not a very traditional design, but I’ve had dogs on my mind.
March 23
I met her at the university. We ended up paired up for some project. She studied chemistry with a minor in not going to class. I wanted to be a socials teacher, which made more sense at the time than it does now. A professor once joked to me that history is the art of never saying goodbye. That sounds like a bad joke, but I laughed.
Gloria and I hit it off. At spring break, I brought her to the islands. She fell in love with the place. I fell in love with her. I have a picture of her from that trip. She’s posing with the carved totem bear just north of town. She has this smile on her face that I will never forget.
April 3
For three days, I’ve listened to the radio all night. She’s gone, I’m convinced of it. I wonder what happened to her. Did time just catch up? Did she lose power? Did she take a bad fall, like Lloyd? Or did she make up her mind to end it, like Gloria had? I suppose I’ll never know. I’ll keep the radio on again tonight. I have enough fuel for a few more nights.
I don’t think I’ll hear anything. It makes me feel alone. Somewhere, out there in the dark, there must be places with people still. Places where the lights come on at night. How long since I saw the last airplane overhead? Five years? Six.
Longer since the last boat went by the islands.
April 7
I woke this morning and for the briefest instant I forgot. Almost, I could smell the whiff of coffee brewing in the kitchen. Almost, I could hear Gloria’s bare feet in the hall. Almost, I could imagine the door opening; she would slip into bed beside me. Almost, I could feel the touch of her hand on my arm. How sweet it would have been.
I closed my eyes, and when I opened them I saw nothing but an empty room. I lay still for a very long time, wishing I could go back to sleep. Wishing that I could find that dream again.
April 9
I have no more reason to keep this diary than I have to keep trying to broadcast my voice out to an empty world. I continue to write, and to speak, for the same reason that some people talk to graves.
I don’t expect an answer. I don’t expect an audience. I don’t know if I’m talking to myself or to God or to the world that was. Or the world that might one day be. To no one. I have words. I have to say them.
After a time, my own voice sounds odd when I speak. I’m a stranger to myself.
April 10
I listened to the radio for a bit this morning. I gave up after an hour or so.
Down near the old ferry terminal, I watched seals playing on the rocks. They didn’t seem to mind me. Once, the terminal had been the island’s lifeline. Everything came through there. Food, mail, even friends. I remember happy days when the ferry would come in to dock, and the late evenings for the overnight trip to the mainland.
We thought someone would come back to the terminal. A rescue mission. UN peacekeepers. Somebody. Anybody. A ferry would arrive with news that all of it had been a mistake. No dang
er. All okay. No panic. The world will keep turning, the cars will keep running, and the planes will keep flying.
I left the terminal to the seals. It’s their place now more than it is mine.
April 12
I’ve run out of fuel for the generator. I sat for a while, staring at the dead radio. For over a week I’ve listened to static while straining to hear a human voice in the crackles. Willing someone to speak to me. No one did. Now, I hear nothing but silence. I think I will never hear a human voice again.
We all have regrets.
April 15
Once I do some repairs on the Hannah Marie to get her in proper shape, I plan to sail up the east coast of the island to see if there’s any fuel still left near Masset.
April 17
I finished the carving of the dog. This morning I hiked back up to Spirit Lake to say my goodbyes. The last goodbyes. I’ve said them before, but I always thought I’d go back. Now, I suspect I’ll never hike up to the lake again.
In the most important way, I’ve been alone since she left. More than the evacuations, her decision drove it home. The end. Humanity had a good run. Some folks said it was the end of the world. Nonsense. The world didn’t end when a comet took out the dinosaurs. It didn’t end with the Ice Age. It won’t end now. The world keeps going. People on the other hand… not so much.
When she realized that, Gloria took her dogs and went up the trail. We still got news then from the radio. People still passed messages along. We’d hear stories about how someone had begun rebuilding in Vancouver. No, over on the Island, near Victoria. Or no, down in the States, near Seattle. The Americans had found a cure. Or the Chinese. Someone. None of it was true, but we liked to believe. I think the desire to believe pushed Gloria over the edge. She could have faced the end. She just couldn’t cope with the constant rollercoaster of hope.
She took her dogs with her. That part haunts me. She took her dogs, but she left me. I promised myself that I wouldn’t hold it against her.
April 18
I’ve begun sailing north up the east coast of the island. I remember making the trip on a fishing boat with my grandpa when I was eight or nine. I complained halfway there and halfway back, but I remember listening to Grandpa. He’d let me complain, “air it all out,” he’d say, and then he’d go back to telling me about halibut fishing or hunting for deer.
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