Fools' Gold

by Wiley, Richard

  Phil circled down toward the sound once, testing the strength of the leather straps that bound the skates to him. He could feel the soreness returning. The bay stretched vast in front of him, white-gray ice touching light-gray sky, nothing protruding. He had the gift sack tied around his neck and his hands clasped behind his back. He made a wide arc, watching his skate line in the ice, then started up the river toward Topcock Creek. Gray narrow path, trees frozen in tangled positions at the sides, logs rotting but hard as granite, sticking like cannons out of the bank. Thank the gods there was no wind.

  A small part of Phil’s face touched the weather, the hinge of his jaw was locked tight by the cold, cheeks were like leather. Left, right, he thought, keep your ankles stiff. Words to skate by. Rumor, truth, invention, discovery. Was his life better now or better before the gold was found? Nome has scarred the land like a wound the body. Who would want such a city? Left, right. The muscles in Phil’s thighs were very tight, but he was making good time, moving quickly. The sound that the skates made on the ice was like that of a knife on the bone of a seal, the tusk of a walrus. He imagined his whole person as etching some picture on the face of the river, a message for the gods to see. Or for God, for these were the reverend’s skates and would carry his message.

  Rumor, truth, invention, discovery. Phil slid up the river to the beat of his heart. Left. Right. If he looked back now the bay would be gone. The path behind him would look like the path in front. On both sides of the river trees were scarce. Just grass and tundra moss and dead trunks all frozen and silent. Only the sound of the skates. Knife on bone. He passed a pile of shallow gold pans and a miner’s shack. Deserted. The gold pans were stacked like coins on the river bank, like pie plates, and soon other claims began appearing along the sides of the river. All were deserted and all had their shallow pans stacked at the water’s edge, the river their poker table. Left, right. Was this what would happen to his people? The Eskimos, forever scurrying around the edges of the game …

  A man with a rifle stood near a larger claim, watching. No surprise on his face, only staring, gloved finger moving from stock to trigger just in case. Rumor. Truth. What does he think he is seeing? Why is he outside? Who does he expect? Larger claim placers projected into the river. Company man perhaps, hired for a share to do the guarding. Phil kept his hands behind his back to show he meant no harm. Just skating by. Invention. Discovery. Phil quickens his pace a little until he is around a corner where the man’s eyes can’t follow. There are a few more poker-chip sites, and then nothing again. From here on into the foothills the river coils, easing back to its source. Topcock Creek is at its tail, but its mouth bites gently down on the edge of the bay. The Snake, aptly named, slithers down from the hills.

  The Christmas dinner was no longer heavy in Phil’s stomach, and the sun was down, and everything was dark. He stopped the pumping motion of his legs and glided to the side of the river. He looked around to see if anyone was watching. Silence. With his knife Phil cut blocks of ice from the river and formed a small igloo at the side of the bank. He made no doorway, but stepped over the low walls of the igloo, carrying a block of ice with him, and sat down before lowering the block until it covered the hole he’d entered through. It was dark and warmer than on the outside. Phil took off his long sealskin coat and put it between himself and the ground. His legs still seemed to be pumping and he believed it would be difficult to sleep well. All night long he would dream of skating. Phil lay down on the clothing, wrapping himself in it. From the gift bag he took slices of seal. Tomorrow he would start early and arrive at Topcock Creek before resting again. Ah seal, he said, chewing slowly.

  Birds, nocturnal snowy owls, swoop the silent highways, follow the river fifty feet above it, game eyes cocked darkly, white bodies invisible because it is night. Topcock Creek is their territory. All of their brethren have gone south, yet these two fly from Finn to Phil. They sometimes move like birds of the sea, coasting inches above the land, raising and lowering with the terrain. The swivel-headed owls fly, wing tips touching, wide human eyes looking down, heads sometimes turned to look at each other, faces blank, eyes inches apart, registering nothing. Finn and Kaneda saw them lift themselves into the air at dusk. Phil sleeps under them and they view his igloo suspiciously, something new, smooth-topped lodging for lemmings.

  Phil awakes when the two owls land on his igloo but he doesn’t make a sound. He can feel their weight and a sense of tension holds him just as their talons hold the ice. The owls listen. They stand facing each other at opposite sides of the top block, the one Phil had lowered in over himself. They are identical, white-feathered chests puffed, like the two sides of Nanoon’s hut. They are three feet tall but not nearly as heavy as they were before winter. Phil feels their presence and knows they are hunters. What could it be this late in winter? Is it a bear or a wolf? He is afraid and he is afraid that they can smell his fear. Not a bear or a wolf, what is he thinking? Bears and wolves don’t need silence. They would rummage, push against the ice. Phil has never seen an owl so late in winter and for a moment he can’t consider them. What could it be? He imagines his fingers and lists on them all those he can think of who hunt creatures under the ice.

  The igloo is filled with the smell of Christmas dinner and suddenly Phil knows that it is a man. Strips of seal. The odor is so strong that he feels he must move closer to his air hole to breathe. The air hole! Phil knows that if he reaches for the ice a harpoon will come into him and he will die, red-feathered. He thinks, If this hunter has exactly my skills I will die, for I know nothing about being a seal. His body aches. He has not moved since waking. Phil, swaying on his heels at the breathing hole of a seal, can wait for hours, harpoon cocked. How long can he wait as the hunted?

  The two owls feel their talons melt deeply into the ice. They cannot grasp ice without waiting, for it is too hard for them to push into. The eyes of one watch the eyes of the other. No thoughts.

  Phil, after hours, begins to feel for the first time that he will not die. Not hunters, perhaps. Sentries. He imagines that if he pushes the top block away he will see the reverend’s three wise men looking in and saying, “This can’t be the place.” His discomfort eases though he has not moved a muscle. He had forgotten the smell of the seal strips; indeed, it is as though he can breathe without using his lungs, as if he is floating in the swollen belly of the earth like a baby, birth bound. After hours of no sleep he feels rested. The reverend’s skates still dig into his back but he has forgotten them. The reverend’s wooden gift for Finn lies dead in its box, in the sack next to him.

  As the darkness begins to fade the word comes to him out of nowhere. Owls. He sees them stiff as statues, standing above him. Owls. Phil, fearless now, moves about his small room. He kicks lightly at the top block and then pulls the skates out from behind him. His space is filled with shadows. Phil eats the last of the Christmas seal. He gets ready to continue his journey.

  In the cold daylight the owls shake themselves. Their talons are secure enough to lift the heaviest of game. They feel betrayed by nature, hungry and tired of searching the ice-bleak land. Their broad wings beat the air slowly and the top block cracks loose from the igloo. Phil watches it go up and thinks of himself as a seal again. View of the outside world as the ice melts. When the owls have cleared the ground one of them releases the block and the weight of it lowers the other in the sky. They move off toward Topcock Creek, tired and slender as salmon.

  Phil stands up, the skates already tied to his feet. The sides of the igloo come to his knees and he can see the owls in the distance, like scars on the belly of the sky, one above the other. When he steps back on the river Phil feels the soreness in his muscles as he did the day before. The sound of the skates seems wrong to him and he regains his rhythm by saying his words. Owls, he thinks. He would have been embarrassed had his family known that he’d first thought of wolves or bears.

  At their camp on Topcock Creek Finn and Kaneda are still sleeping, another sack of salt sa
lmon opened between them. The dog sits awake, seeing the light through the tent flap and wishing to go outside. He cannot whine or growl. When the owlcarried ice hits the ground near them the two men open their eyes and the dog stands. Morning.

  The block of ice lands flat, its talon marks facing up like some Stone Age calling card. The two men put on heavy coats and go out and stand around it. The dog sniffs and then raises its leg and fills the talon holes with steaming urine. Blank-faced Finn and the old man kick at the dog. The urine melts the talon marks deeper into the ice, making Kaneda think, for a moment, that it is a message written in Japanese.

  The two men look skyward but do not see the owls. Nor do they ask themselves questions. It is winter and they have only a few moments outside.

  The owls follow the river south now, ravenous for warmer weather, nearly starved. Phil, ice skating into the mountains, sees them, so unusual, snowy owls flying in the daylight. They glide past like shadows, their images touching the ice on either side of him. Skating. This could easily catch on in the village; he would have to watch it for there was not nearly enough metal for everyone. Rumor. Truth. It is very important to keep proper rhythm. Makes the whole thing much easier and faster. Invention. Discovery. Phil thinks of the reverend skating backward around his childhood pond, and he abstractedly wonders which of the two women the reverend will marry. He is no longer worried about Finn. Finn is alive, at least, the owls have eased his mind about that. Phil turns around and begins to skate backward. He brings his hands around to his front and says his words, trying not to break his rhythm. He can still see the owls dotting the distance, heading south as fast as they can, surprised at themselves for staying around so long. He would make it a point to tell his children about the owls. He would make it a point to tell the reverend.

  No speed in skating backward, Phil turns around again and begins to bear down. He will get there today, the trick is in the rhythm, not in the muscles. Long strides, get as much out of each as you can. Phil locks his hands behind him again. He has gotten a very late start. Left. Right. Keep your mind on the skating. Rumor. Truth. Invention. Discovery. Think speed.

  5

  Slow, cumbersome, the days after Christmas trailed into the new year. It was a new century, and Ellen stood in the reverend’s house pulling a leaf from the calendar. She enjoyed seeing the date appear … nineteen hundred. Nineteen hundred years! She paced the house like a curator, watching the pendulum of the reverend’s attention swing from her, but her mind was on the river. She wanted news of Finn. Was he all right? Had Phil found him? The reverend came up beside her now, looking as she did, out through the window, over the expanse of bay. He said, “The second breath of winter,” and drew his finger across the freezing glass.

  The reverend, for the first time since they’d known him, seemed generally angry. When Henriette spoke she sounded weak and silly to him, making him want to shout. He played hymns on the piano throughout the short days, or walked the room red-faced, or stood still in the kitchen. Henriette sought his eyes constantly. Her fingers sprang to his hand in passing but he ignored her. Nevertheless, she told herself, he needs me. I am needed.

  On the final night, the last before their return to Nome, the reverend, grim-lipped, entered Henriette’s bed once again. It was incredible. God, how he hated himself. He could think of nothing to say, so he bit his lip and pushed into her, seeing himself as one dealing out punishment. Henriette, for her part, quickly unfolded for him, wrapping herself around him like gift paper, her fingers a bow in the center of his back. The wife of a minister, she said to herself, who could have imagined it?

  When the reverend finished he lay heavy on her, head turned toward the winter window, eyes tightly shut, waiting for the weight of it all to rush in on him. What have I done? Henriette held him gently. Their breathing was synchronized, fooled into a common rhythm, so Henriette was fooled too, thinking that their heaving and sighing together meant they were both of the same impulse. The reverend waited for the guilt like a child waiting to be struck. He pictured the veil lifting again and Henriette saying, “Thirty pieces of silver,” the whore, and he, Joseph, understood that what he was doing was getting even. He saw himself bursting into the manger, all wine-headed and shouting, “What do I care what it is that makes a good father? That’s not my baby! Whose is it? Whose?”

  Henriette peered through the dark, trying to look at the reverend. Was he sleeping?

  “Darling?” she said, in a whisper. The reverend’s face was prune tight.

  “Are you sleeping?”

  That such a thing could happen twice. Oh, dear God, let it be a dream.

  Henriette, very slowly, slipped out from under her sleeping man. She faced the window now, he the edge of the loft. I am needed, she told herself. Henriette Raymond. The Reverend and Mrs. Raymond. Henriette realized that she did not know the reverend’s first name and thought of that as somehow appropriate. She would call him “reverend” like she’d heard the wives of other reverends do. “Good morning, reverend. The reverend will see you now. Supper’s ready, reverend, when you are.” Such a strange turn of events. She had so much to think about.

  The reverend stood and was two steps down the ladder before Henriette noticed he was gone. She sat up facing him as she’d done on that first night, and momentarily he got the feeling that it was not too late, that as yet nothing had happened, that if he stayed his hand nothing would take place.

  “Reverend…”

  “It is very late. We must sleep.”

  “Ellen and I are supposed to go back tomorrow.”

  “Yes, you must rest for your trip.”

  “It wouldn’t look right if I remained. People would get the wrong idea.”

  “Yes, you must go back. It is late. We will talk in the morning.”

  The reverend backed down the ladder, the look on his face hidden by the darkness. He’s right, of course, thought Henriette. For me to stay here is out of the question. Marriage comes before housekeeping. The reverend stood in the dark at the bottom of the ladder. Again he had the feeling that he was about to go up. To go to his bed would be so easy now, why had it not been before?

  The reverend walked away from his bed and toward the sleeping figure of Ellen. This was what he’d wanted in the first place. Only to cast a glance, to look upon the sleeping face of Ellen. The light in the lower part of the house was better than in the loft so he could see her clearly, slack flesh hanging low. She is not a beautiful woman but she is a woman of strength. To Ellen, Henriette was “the girl,” younger, more delicate. Look at her; even in sleep she has bearing. He remembered the sense of tension he and Ellen had shared the first time she’d come to the village. Anything was possible then. And even this trip had she not waited for his attentions? Had he not pulled himself up the ladder expecting to find Ellen there? A mistake, switched sleeping positions deciding his destiny. The reverend went quickly to bed and pulled the blankets up over his head. He could feel the presence of the women on either side of him and it was morning before his thoughts were awash with sleep.

  Invention, discovery. As quickly as that Phil slid off the Snake and up the little spur that was Topcock Creek. He spotted the snow-bound hut and the frozen water wheel and he heard the low incantations of the foreign language. It was dark but for once the sky was clear. He knew they expected no one. He stood on his skates at the edge of the creek and cupped his hands to his mouth.

  “Finn.”

  Inside the hut Finn and the dog sat listening again. Would the old man never stop praying? Finn had thought he’d not be able to forgive himself for the death of Fujino, but he was all right now and if he ever got back to Ireland he’d tell them what the word “prayer” really meant. Guilt. Maybe this time he’d be rid of it.

  “Finn.”

  This time Finn heard his name and it was like ice on the back of his neck. “Fujino?” Kaneda stopped in midsentence and listened with him. They peered into the corners of the room. The dog perked his ears. It had bee
n Finn’s name, and it had been a whisper.

  “Finn. Hello.”

  Finn and Kaneda were both on their feet and pulling on their warm jackets.

  “Hello.”

  When they came out through the hide flap they saw the man standing tall on the river and they stopped. Kaneda had his hands around his sharp knife again.

  “It’s Phil,” said Phil. “I’ve come with Christmas gifts. I’ve come to see how you’ve been.”

  Finn ran down to the creek and put his arms around Phil. To Kaneda they looked like two bears dancing in the moonlight.

  “Phil. Phil.” Finn was absolutely overjoyed.

  “I’m glad to see you too,” said Phil. “Are you all right?”

  “Me and this fellow here can’t speak to each other.”

  Phil looked past Finn at the old man and raised his arm in greeting.

  Kaneda walked up to the two men and extended his gloved hand. “Hajimemashite,” he said.

  Though Phil spoke no Japanese, he immediately understood the sense of the greeting and answered Kaneda formally, in Eskimo. He could see the old man’s face now and he was surprised.

  “You look like I did twenty years ago,” said Kaneda. “I was taller then, too.”

  It was cold so Finn turned and took a step in the direction of the hut, expecting the others to follow, but they stayed where they were, standing in the dim moonlight, staring at each other. It was embarrassing. They glanced as lovers might. Phil bent to unbuckle the frozen skates and then stood down, level with the old man.

  “Who are you?” Kaneda asked slowly. “Have you come to take the place of Fujino?”

  “I am Phil,” said Phil, “but I don’t know what you’re saying.”