by Thomas King
“I guess we’ll do what we can.”
“Don’t know if it’s a good thing,” said his father, “being that smart.”
“He’ll find his place,” said his mother. “I just hope he’ll be happy.”
THE entrance to the Smoke River Reserve was blocked by a derelict school bus. Next to the bus was a large wooden sign bolted to posts set in the ground.
“Restricted Access Area,” the sign said. “Authorized Personnel Only. By Order of the Minister of Indian Affairs.”
There was a series of official-looking documents, from a variety of government agencies, affixed to the bus itself—warnings and prohibitions—and its long, yellow flank had been spray-painted with graffiti.
Gabriel stopped at the bus to catch his breath. And to read the messages. They were the usual assortment of Bible verses, declarations of love, profanities, protest slogans, and phone numbers. Across the bus’s windows, someone had scrawled “Indians Go Home” in white paint.
He wasn’t sure what the bus was supposed to do. It wasn’t much of a barricade. The only thing it blocked was the view.
One of Gabriel’s shoes was untied, and as he bent down to tie it, he saw Soldier. Under the bus. Lying on his pants.
“There you are.”
Soldier didn’t move.
“Come here, boy. Come on.”
Gabriel lay down on his side and scooted forward. He could see Soldier’s eyes now. They were open, full of sin and sedition.
Perfect.
“What are you doing?” Gabriel reached out for Soldier’s collar. The dog backed farther under the bus, dragging the pants with him. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
“Not sure someone lying under a bus in his underwear should be asking that question.”
The voice startled him. Gabriel jerked his head up and cracked it on the undercarriage. “Damn!”
“Sorry.”
Gabriel tried to hold his shirt down as he wiggled out.
“Hi.”
Mara was standing by the front wheel well. “You were on your back the last time I saw you.”
Gabriel stood and brushed himself off.
“Do you always go sightseeing in your underwear?”
“Sightseeing?”
“Smoke River. Beyond the fence is the reserve.”
Gabriel picked a twig out of his hair.
“But as you can see,” said Mara, “it’s closed for the season.”
Soldier pushed his way from under the bus and trotted to the fence, dragging the pants behind him. Mara watched the dog for a moment.
“I take it those are your pants?”
“They are.”
“I don’t suppose you gave them to him.”
“No.”
Soldier rolled over on his back. Mara walked to the fence and knelt down. She rubbed the dog’s belly and gently pried the pants from his jaws.
“Good boy.”
“Matter of opinion.”
Mara stood up and shook the jeans. “So who are you?”
Gabriel pulled his shirt down as far as he could. “Gabriel.”
“Which Gabriel is that?” said Mara. “Depressed Gabriel? Hopeless Gabriel? Miserable Gabriel? Mysterious Gabriel? Stop me when I’m close.”
“Just Gabriel.”
Mara’s eyes darkened.
“Okay, let’s try something simple. Why here? Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, why here?”
“Vacation,” said Gabriel. “It started out as a vacation.”
“Then you need to fire your travel agent.” Mara was smiling, but her voice was hard. “Course, we do have an authentic Aboriginal Ghost Town.” Mara extended an arm, as though she were leading a tour. “Indians. See where they died. Tour their homes. Relive their last moments. That could be fun.”
“I just want my pants.”
Mara gave the pants a second shake and tossed them to Gabriel. “And here they are.”
Gabriel stepped into the pants and pulled them up. The crotch was sopping with slobber.
“I should get back.”
“To what?” Mara pushed off the fence. “No, you stay. This is your vacation. You don’t want to miss anything.”
“Why are you angry?”
“And the turtles. Everybody comes to see the turtles.” Mara brushed past Gabriel and started down the trail. “When you get to the beach, make sure you check out the turtles.”
GABRIEL waited until Mara disappeared into the trees. Then he walked past the bus and stood by the sign. There were houses in the distance and some trailers. Off to one side was a small water tank that had been painted a robin’s egg blue. The colour was faded and chipped, but you could still read the words.
Smoke River.
On a trailer next to the tower, someone had painted an upside-down Canadian flag. Gabriel leaned against the cyclone fencing and cupped his hands in an effort to bring the townsite into focus.
But he didn’t see anything that felt familiar.
16
ALL DONE. THE DRUM PROBLEM SOLVED.
Sonny walks along, enjoying the morning sunshine and the sense of accomplishment that comes with having avoided an error in judgment. Now he won’t have to tell Dad about the drum or his moment of temptation.
Although he could.
He could tell Dad how he had been tempted and how he had fought and fought and how he had finally been able to overcome his desire. That would make Dad happy. Another vindication of free will.
The town square is empty, and there is no one in the park. Sonny walks around the square and counts the deserted stores. He gets to eight before he is distracted by a naked mannequin standing in the window of Fee’s Surf Wear. The last time he had come to town, the shop had been open. Now it is closed. There is a sign on the door that says, “Out of Business.”
When did Margery leave? Did she forget her mannequin?
The mannequin in the window has breasts, so it is not really a mannequin. Sonny stands next to the window and tries to think what a mannequin would be called that is not really a mannequin. “Womanequin” has too many syllables and “ladyquin” sounds like “late-again” and could be confusing. The mannequin in the window is too old to be a girl, so “girliquin” won’t work either.
“Heriquin.”
Wham-wham.
“Heriquin” sounds like “hurricane,” and this reminds Sonny of Hulda Krause, who drove the school bus when the school was open. Ms. Krause was a large, powerful woman, who spent much of her time yelling at unruly children who would not sit in their seats. Sometimes Ms. Krause would stop the bus and huff and puff up and down the aisle, spraying everyone with gales of saliva.
Jimmy Turner and Bobby Thornton called her Hulda the Hurricane. Sonny liked Ms. Krause, and he was sorry when she died on That One Bad Day.
“Heriquin.”
Sonny wonders if he has come up with a new word. If the library were still open, he could go there and look up “heriquin” in the dictionary. And if he couldn’t find it there, then it could be a new word, and Sonny might get his photograph in the newspaper.
“Heriquin.”
New word discovered by Sonny.
But then “mannequin” should be “himiquin”?
Wham-wham, hammer-hammer.
Two new words discovered by Sonny.
SONNY misses the stores that have closed. He misses the art shows and the music festivals and the fish fries that filled the square. He misses the tourists who used to rent rooms at the Ocean Star Motel. He misses the families who would flock to the beach to see the turtles, and he misses the salvage that fell out of their pockets when they shook the sand from their clothes and beach towels.
Then again, there were times when the noise in Samaritan Bay was quite loud and bothersome. There were times when the sounds of glee and merriment were so loud that Sonny couldn’t think. There were times when he wanted to march into the park, ascend the gazebo, and speak to the town.
Quiet, he
would cry out. Sonny is trying to think.
Now, the town is very quiet, and Sonny has no trouble thinking.
Sonny cups his hands and peers in through the window of the Samaritan Bay Tourist Information Centre. The centre used to be open seven days a week, but now it is only open on weekends. Inside, he can see the racks of colour brochures and the big turtle meter on the wall. Sonny feels sad for the information worker who has to stand behind the desk on Saturdays and Sundays waiting for the Laytners of Bracebridge, the Warltiers of Penticton, and the Hodges of Toronto to come in to get their plastic bags filled with free brochures.
Sonny wonders if he should go to the centre in disguise. He could pretend to be a tourist and take every brochure the information person offers. Good job, he could say in an encouraging voice. Good job.
Sonny looks around the square once more and pretends that the town isn’t dying, that it is just resting.
And then, there it is. The power jacket. The jacket with the tipis. Sonny sees it for only a second at the entrance to the alley that runs behind the Co-op market. Strange, Sonny thinks to himself. Strange. It isn’t the old guy from the beach who is wearing it. It’s someone else. Someone moving quickly. Someone moving quickly with long black hair.
An Indian.
A young Indian girl in the alley.
First the drum and now this. Sonny can feel his whole body tremble with excitement as he realizes what it means.
The beginning of days.
The Indians have arrived. Soon the birds of the air and the fish of the sea and the animals, big and small, will come home, two by two. And then the people. All the people who had left will return with glad tidings of comfort and joy.
And in his mind, Sonny can see everyone together, gathering on the beach to await the second coming of the turtles.
And he is pleased.
17
MARA WAS IN SIGHT OF THE HOUSE BEFORE HER ANGER BEGAN to subside. There was no reason for it. This Gabriel hadn’t done anything. He had simply chased down his pants. He hadn’t even crossed the barrier. Not like the tourists and transients who had tramped through the reserve, invaded homes, scavenged for souvenirs, and marked the buildings.
Not at first, of course. Not when the people were dying. No one came then.
Mara tried to remember how long it had taken before curiosity had overcome fear. She had chased more than one gawker off the reserve. At the height of the invasion, she had hidden herself in her grandmother’s house and waited for the trespassers to focus their cameras. Then she would shake her hair into seaweed and snakes, fling open the front door, and leap onto the porch, screaming and shrieking.
She was not particularly proud of those moments, and she had only done it three or four times. Okay, maybe more.
MARA saw him as she came out of the trees. Nicholas Crisp. Sitting in the wicker chair on the veranda. The man appeared to be snoozing in the afternoon sun. On his lap was a small hand drum.
“Hello,” she called out, so as not to startle him.
Nicholas’s eyes slid open, and a smile flooded his face. “Mistress Mara. It’s a fine figure ye carry around. And with fashion.”
“Mr. Crisp, but aren’t you the silver-tongued devil.”
Nicholas clapped his hands together and rubbed his thighs. “I’ll hope ye will forgive the audacity of my having commandeered this fine chair.”
“The chair’s there for that very reason.” Mara mounted the steps and sat down on the matching sofa. “Have you taken up the drum?”
“This?” Crisp held the drum out. “No, no. I’ve no such thing, though I fancy I might have a voice for such scales. No. It be here when I arrived. Sitting on this chair, as I am now.”
Mara took the drum and turned it over. It was well made, with time and skill. “It was here?”
“Aboriginal, I would guess,” said Crisp.
“Yes,” said Mara. “So it would appear.”
“Then I take it, it’s not one of yours.”
“I’ve not seen it before.”
“And ye hadn’t anticipated its arrival.” Nicholas stroked his beard. “Perhaps it’s from a secret admirer, for who else would leave such a fine piece of craftsmanship behind with no explanation but the gift itself.”
Mara struck the drum with a fingertip. The skin was tight and full of sound.
“Of course, the suggestion of an admirer is mere speculation on my part, and, to be prudent, ye might wait to see what floats up in its wake before ye puts the wind in your sails.”
“Would you like some coffee, Mr. Crisp?”
“It’s such generosities as what sparkles a day,” said Crisp. “I put a pot on every morning for courtesy’s sake and in hopes of luring passing souls into critique and conversation. But I didn’t stop by for a cup, blessed though it would be. I’m here on an errand.”
“An errand?”
“Two, to be precise.” Nicholas leaned forward in the chair. “The first is to invite ye to a festivity.”
“A festivity?”
“Aye, at the hot springs. Tomorrow evening at the full moon.”
“Ah,” said Mara. “It’s your birthday.”
“It’s a nimble memory ye has.” Crisp ran a fingernail along the wicker. “I celebrate it then, I do, for it’s a fine excuse for delight and revelry.”
“And just how old are you, Mr. Crisp?”
“Old.” Crisp laughed and rubbed the side of his nose. “Old and worn to an edge, if it’s the truth ye wish.”
“What can I bring?”
“Hope and charity.” Nicholas eased himself to his feet. “The rest will be provided.”
“You’re welcome to stay.”
“Pools to be tended,” said Crisp. “The boatman paid. Guests to be greeted, should any appear.”
“What was the second thing?”
“The second thing?”
“You said there were two errands.”
“Of course, of course.” Crisp scratched at his head, as if he hoped to start a fire. “I’d almost forgotten. The smoke! I was to mention the smoke.”
“Smoke?”
“On my way here,” said Crisp. “Floating above the reserve. As though someone were raising up a meal.”
“I was just there,” said Mara. “I didn’t see any smoke.”
“Well, then it was the fog and the mist playing mischievous tricks on these old eyes.” Crisp stepped off the porch and filled his lungs with the afternoon air. “And wishful thinking, for I was hoping that perhaps your relations had come home.”
Mara wrapped her arms around herself. “No one’s coming home.”
“Everyone comes home,” said Crisp. “Trust an old traveller on that. In the end, we all comes home.”
18
DORIAN HAD TO WASH HIS HAND SEVERAL TIMES TO GET THE muffin slick off his fingers. When he came out of the bathroom, Winter was waiting for him with a box.
“You just missed Thicke.”
Winter glanced at the chair and the floor.
“It was disgusting,” said Dorian.
“Your replacement AmEx Black is here. I took the liberty of sending Mrs. Asher’s card directly to her in Orlando.”
“Zebras?”
“We believe so,” said Winter.
“How the hell did they get our credit card numbers?”
Winter set the box on Dorian’s desk. “These are all of our files on Dr. Quinn.”
Mr. Muffin Mouth?
Where had that come from?
Thicke was a fool, to be sure, but there was no need for that sort of assassination. Mr. Muffin Mouth. God, but that was funny. Dorian didn’t catch the giggle in time.
“Sir?”
“Nothing. I just thought of something amusing.”
Dorian could feel his emotions settle down. Mr. Muffin Mouth. Yes, now he could think it without going silly.
“So, what do we know?”
Winter took a file out of the box and placed it on Dorian’s desk. “This is the back
ground check that was done when Dr. Quinn came to work for Domidion.”
Dorian opened the folder and began reading. “Born in Lethbridge, Alberta, 1970. University of Minnesota. Stanford Ph.D. Never married?”
“So far as we know,” said Winter.
Dorian paused on a page. “His father was in law enforcement. What did his mother do?”
“Teacher.”
“A sister?” Dorian looked up from the file. “Gabriel has a sister?”
“Younger.”
“Q never mentioned his family. What do you make of that?” Dorian turned a page. “Father and son moved to Minnesota? Mother and sister stayed in Lethbridge? A divorce?
“No record of a divorce,” said Winter. “The father was originally from Minnesota. A place called Leech Lake.”
“Sounds charming.”
“It’s a reservation.”
“Indian?”
“Anishinabe.”
“Q’s Indian?”
“Yes, sir,” said Winter. “It appears that he is.”
“He doesn’t look Indian.”
“I understand that such things are not uncommon,” said Winter.
“I suppose that might explain a great deal.”
Actually, it explained little. Dorian was embarrassed to have said it out loud, and he hoped that Winter hadn’t noticed.
“Let’s talk to the father.”
“Deceased,” said Winter.
“The mother?”
“We haven’t been able to locate her yet.”
“And the sister?”
“We’re looking into both the mother and the sister.”
“Look harder.” Dorian closed the file and settled into the chair. “So we have a mystery on our hands.”
“Sir?”
“A palpable mystery, my good Laertes.”
Dorian could feel his whole body begin to tingle. It was a pleasant enough sensation, and he hoped that it was the result of enthusiasm and not drug toxicity.
“A man disappears for no reason. The walls of his house are covered with strange writing. Secret files have been accessed. It’s almost Shakespearean, don’t you think?”
“Shakespearean.”