The Back of the Turtle

by Thomas King

  “Needed the exercise.”

  “No one walks the canyon for exercise.”

  Inside, Mei-ling was telling a story about an uncle who had gone to California and got a job driving ambulances up and down the hills of San Francisco.

  “Tell me a story.”

  “What?”

  “A story,” said Mara. “Tell me why you came home.”

  “This isn’t home.”

  “Then why come? Why come to this place?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Sure I will. You don’t want to tell me, because you’re afraid that I will understand.” Mara drove her hands deeper into her sleeves. “Besides, if you’re going to kill yourself, my knowing isn’t going to matter.”

  “I’m the reason for all of this.” Gabriel spread his arms, as though he were trying to embrace the world.

  Mara leaned against the porch post. “Rather ambitious, don’t you think?”

  “What?”

  “Responsible for all of creation? Yes, I can see how such a burden would drive a body to Samaritan Bay.”

  Gabriel lowered his arms and let them hang dead at his sides.

  “I’m going home.” Mara stepped off the porch. “You want to walk with me?”

  “Sure.”

  “Try to make it interesting.”

  “What?”

  “The truth.” Mara fashioned a smile. “If you’re not going to tell me the truth, at least try to make the story interesting.”

  83

  IT WAS WELL AFTER TWO IN THE MORNING BEFORE DORIAN took the elevator to the garage and eased himself into the back seat of the limo. He wasn’t particularly tired, was wide awake in fact. And hungry.

  Tension would do that. So would excitement. The leak of the Kali Creek file should have enraged him, but strangely enough he felt calm and in control. The warrior was back. Turn a setback into an advantage. That was the way of the warrior. The media liked blood. Fine. He’d give them blood enough to choke on.

  Athabasca. Kali Creek. The other large and small misfortunes that Domidion had been a party to over the years. Taken as a whole, they could be seen as the environmental wreckage left behind by a callous corporation that valued expediency over morality, profits over ethics.

  Or they could be understood as a concerted assault by shadow extremists on one of the world’s most successful and innovative conglomerates.

  Corporate malfeasance or international conspiracy. The trick was to control how the matter was read.

  Dorian made a mental note to caution PR against using the term “terrorist.” Now that he thought about it, television and politicians had already sucked all of the power out of the word.

  An environmental collective.

  Now there was a good catchphrase. Attacked by an environmental collective. No need to mention Marx, Lenin, or Mao. Some eager journalist would do that job for him.

  “Am I taking you home, sir?”

  Dorian hadn’t been paying attention. “Kip, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ve driven me before.”

  “I have.”

  “I don’t suppose there are any decent restaurants open.”

  “Just fast food.”

  Dorian tried to picture himself at the drive-through of a McDonald’s or a Tim Hortons or some other fat-on-a-bun establishment. He was hungry, but he wasn’t that hungry.

  “There is a place you might wish to consider.”

  Dorian leaned forward.

  “A hotel. Five stars. On Cumberland near Avenue Road.”

  “The Hermes?”

  “Yes,” said Kip. “That is the one. I am told the room service is excellent and available twenty-four hours for hotel guests. But you must take a room for the evening.”

  “I had considered buying a condo in that building.”

  “Very expensive,” said Kip. “Very exclusive.”

  Dorian sat back and straightened his tie. “You’re an exceptional driver, Kip.”

  “Are we to go to this hotel?”

  Dorian put his face against the window and watched the city lights flash by. “Drive by Toronto General.”

  “The hospital?”

  “Yes.”

  Kip shook his head and glanced in the rear-view mirror. “That is not where you wish to go. My auntie went there, and she did not come out.”

  “I have a friend there.”

  “Ah,” said Kip. “I sincerely hope your friend is in good health.”

  “No,” said Dorian. “It appears that he might be dying.”

  “This friend,” said Kip, “is he wealthy?”

  Dorian sat up straight. “What difference does that make?”

  Kip turned onto University and came to a stop behind a panel van. Even at this time of the morning in the city, there was traffic.

  “Dying wealthy is harder than dying poor.”

  “Really.”

  “Oh, yes. Assuredly,” said Kip. “The wealthy may buy anything they wish. Anything at all. But they may not buy their way out of dying. This is most frustrating, is it not? To have all that money and power, and no control over one’s mortality.”

  “Everyone dies.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Kip, “but having lived in such luxury and security for so long, the wealthy must feel cheated by the equality of death.”

  The traffic lightened as the car crossed Richmond.

  “Is this friend a good friend?”

  “Yes,” said Dorian, “a very good friend.”

  “Then you should not tell him he’s dying. If at all possible, keep this truth from him. He will be happier if he doesn’t know.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “It is an excellent idea,” said Kip. “For if your friend does not know that he is dying, then he will continue to enjoy what he can purchase with his money and not waste his time cursing what he cannot.”

  TORONTO General looked like any number of generic office towers in the downtown core. Dorian had remembered something a bit more grand, something more architecturally distinct, but it was a hospital after all, not a world-class hotel.

  “You should bring your friend some chocolate.”

  “Chocolate?”

  “Yes,” said Kip. “My mother says that people who are dying enjoy chocolate.”

  Dorian stepped out of the car. The building looked deserted. The lights were on, but he couldn’t see anyone inside. He wondered if people got sick this early in the morning or if heart attacks and strokes waited until the sun was up.

  The woman at the reception desk was reading a book.

  Dorian closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated on the idea of authority. “Good evening.”

  The woman closed the book reluctantly.

  “Admissions?”

  The woman kept a finger stuck between the pages. “They’re closed.”

  “Oh dear.” Dorian flexed his jaw muscles. “That’s awkward.”

  “Can I help you?”

  “Toshi,” said Dorian, filling his voice with generosity and privilege. “Dr. Benjamin Toshi. I need to check on one of my patients.”

  “Toshi.” The woman checked her computer screen. “Internal medicine?”

  “That’s right,” said Dorian. “The patient’s name is Dorian Asher. He’s booked for a procedure tomorrow morning. I wanted to know if he has been admitted.”

  The woman hit several keys. “No,” she said. “He hasn’t been admitted.”

  Dorian ran a hand through his hair for effect. “How do patients expect us to help them?”

  The woman shrugged. “You’ll have to reschedule.”

  “I think Mr. Asher is concerned about the procedure.”

  “Don’t blame him.” The woman glanced at her monitor. “Angiograms aren’t exactly a giggle.”

  DORIAN startled Kip when he opened the back door.

  “That was a very quick visit,” said Kip. “Were you not able to see your friend?”
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  “He died,” said Dorian. “Quite suddenly.”

  “Sometimes this is a blessing,” said Kip. “Though most distressing for the living.”

  “Yes.” Dorian fastened his seat belt and sank back into the assurance of leather. “Most distressing.”

  “Am I to take you home?”

  “No,” said Dorian. “Take me to the Hermes.”

  84

  THE NIGHT WAS A PLEASANT SURPRISE. THE SKIES WERE clear. The stars sparkled overhead. A full moon lighted the tops of the trees and brightened the trail.

  An evening to savour.

  But as Gabriel trudged down the hill, he couldn’t find much to enjoy.

  “I’m a scientist. I developed a defoliant called GreenSweep. GreenSweep caused The Ruin. I’m the reason your mother died, the reason your grandmother died, the reason my sister and her son died, the reason the reserve is a graveyard.

  “I am Death, the destroyer of worlds.”

  Well, he hadn’t said that. There had been no need to say that. By the time they got to her grandmother’s house, Mara was in no mood for confessions or forgiveness.

  “GreenSweep? Is that your idea of a joke?”

  “I didn’t name it.”

  “No, you just invented it.”

  “You don’t really invent bacteria. You sort of … rearrange the DNA.”

  “And they paid you for this.”

  “Yes.”

  “To kill people?”

  “It wasn’t supposed to kill anyone.”

  “Look around.”

  “It wasn’t used properly.”

  But by then, Mara had lost any sense of generosity, and he couldn’t think of any good way to explain his role in the destruction. Not that there was anything to explain. He was responsible.

  He would always be responsible.

  So the story had ended, almost before it had begun. Mara had mounted the steps and disappeared into the house. Then she had reappeared, and Gabriel had, for a moment, hoped that she wanted to continue the conversation, hoped that she might have found a reason to forgive him.

  Okay. Not forgive him. That would have been too much to expect. To understand. Maybe if he could take her through the intricacies of the story, she might understand. Maybe the telling would allow him to understand.

  Instead, she had handed him the drum and his jacket.

  “These are yours,” she said.

  “Actually,” said Gabriel, hoping to slow the moment, “they were my father’s.”

  “Low tide is at five,” she said. “Don’t be late.”

  And she walked back into the house and shut the door.

  GABRIEL stood outside the house for a moment and considered his options. He could go back to the trailer and put his things in order. Bag the garbage, pack his clothes, tidy the place up, so Crisp wouldn’t be stuck with a mess. But he had done most of that already.

  “You might as well stay,” he told the dog, as he headed down the trail. “She’s not angry with you.”

  But Soldier dashed off, bugling as he went. At least the dog seemed happy, though Gabriel had no idea what gave dogs pleasure. Maybe they just liked being alive. If they did, they could teach humans a thing or two.

  And then Soldier was back, weaving himself around Gabriel’s legs.

  “At least someone is having a good time.”

  Gabriel didn’t see it until the trail broke out of the trees. A light. On the beach. A light where there should be no light. He stroked the dog’s head and drew him close.

  “Curious.”

  Soldier rubbed his face on Gabriel’s leg.

  “What do you think it is?”

  Soldier took several steps forward and waited.

  “All right,” said Gabriel. “Let’s find out.”

  The trail wound its way back into the forest, and Gabriel was only able to locate the glow in fits and starts. But as he cleared the trees for the last time and stepped onto the beach, he could see the light clearly.

  “Look at that.”

  It was a tower. Someone had built a tower on the beach. Shell and bones and stones. All held together with copper wire and rebar.

  So this is what Crisp had been talking about.

  Sonny.

  All in all, the boy had done a good job. As Gabriel walked around the tower, he was impressed with the artistry and the workmanship. He wouldn’t have thought that Sonny had such a thing in him.

  Soldier flopped down in the sand and waited.

  “You know what’s going on?”

  Soldier closed his eyes.

  “Did you help him?”

  In the distance, the motel sign on the bluff blinked on and off, and Gabriel found himself wishing that the stupid star would stop working altogether.

  Soldier’s head snapped up. He scrambled to his feet, circled around the tower, and began a low whimper.

  “What is it?”

  As Gabriel reached out to stroke the dog, to calm him, Soldier exploded out of the sand.

  “Soldier!”

  But the dog kept running, his body flat to the ground, his ears laid against his head, as he raced along the shore and vanished into the night.

  “Soldier!”

  The wind picked up, and the flames crackled angrily. It would be dawn soon. Gabriel sat in the sand next to the tower and waited for the tide to complete its retreat. The fire didn’t offer much warmth, but the light it gave off was unexpectedly comforting.

  85

  CRISP EASED HIMSELF INTO THE POOL AND HELD HIS BREATH. Nothing like heat for tired muscles, he reminded himself, but, blistering bunnies, the hot did rip your breath away.

  He had enjoyed himself. The food. The company. He and the two families swapping stories and neither side crying hold.

  Glorious.

  He had noticed Gabriel slip out and then Mara after him. Neither had been in sight when he climbed into his truck, and he imagined that they had gone off to sort the misdemeanours from the felonies.

  Crisp was curious just how Gabriel was going to explain himself, curious as to how Mara would react. She was a smart girl. She’d see the complications, resist the easy reactions and the simple answers.

  Or she wouldn’t.

  Still, the man had a great deal to justify, for recklessness and pride were difficult treasons to defend.

  Crisp waded to the edge of the pool and hoisted himself out of the water with just his arms. He stood naked, glistening in the starlight, his head turned to the side to catch any sounds that were blown his way. He could hear the ocean, could hear the tidal cycle organizing itself for the morning ahead, and, beneath that, the faint crackling sound, as though eggshells were being crushed underfoot.

  Strange.

  The night was clear. Crisp climbed to the top of the rock. From here, he could see all the way to the beach, and, in that moment, he found the fire flickering in the dark, a guttering candle set at land’s end.

  “So, the boy’s done it. The beacon lit.” Crisp slowly stretched out his arms, arched his back, and cried out to the stars. “Is not my word like fire?”

  And now on the freshening wind, he could taste the smoke. It had been a long time since he had savoured such a smell or taken pleasure in such a sight.

  A blazing tower. At last. A blazing tower.

  But the evening was not his to enjoy. Crisp got dressed quickly. There was much to do. Cheese, meat, fish, fruits, vegetables, bread. Beverages for everyone. And something sweet for the coming celebration.

  He was almost to his trailer when he heard it. A distant screech that ran across the waves like a knife on steel. At first, he thought it might be the scrape of a raven come back to the bay after all this time, but the sound was too hard, too sharp for a bird.

  Crisp waited for it to come a second time, but all he found in the darkness was the sound of his own breathing.

  86

  THERE ARE THREE REASONS WHY SONNY DOES NOT SLEEP through the night.

  One. On account of the sharp
scraping noise that sounds like the time a long-haul trucker rubbed his trailer against the concrete abutment in the motel parking lot.

  Two. On account of the chilly night air that forces Sonny to huddle against the door to Dad’s room for warmth.

  Three. On account of the snoring.

  Sonny is not really sure about the scraping noise. When he wakes up the first time, the sound is only a memory. Still he did hear something. The cold is more of a problem, but then he is warm and cozy as though someone has covered him with a quilt.

  It is the snoring that is the problem.

  Be quiet, Sonny tells the quilt. Sonny is trying to sleep.

  But the quilt continues to wheeze and snuffle and snort, and finally Sonny rolls over to discover that he is sleeping next to the dog.

  The dog from the beach.

  Sonny isn’t sure if sleeping with a dog is a good idea, but Sonny likes the warmth, so he tries putting his hands over his ears. He tries humming the turtle-bone song in his head. He tries patting the dog gently to calm him down, in case the snoring is the result of bad dreams.

  Nice doggy. Good doggy. Quiet doggy.

  Sonny has almost fallen asleep again, when the dog wakes with a great snort and scrambles to his feet.

  Good morning, doggy.

  And then Sonny feels the dog’s soft, warm tongue on his face. He has watched television shows about animal babies and animal mothers, where there is a great deal of licking, and Sonny wonders if the dog thinks he is a puppy.

  That would be okay. Sonny, the puppy. Someone’s baby.

  Nice doggy.

  And then the dog stops licking and starts growling. At first Sonny thinks that the dog is angry. Maybe he wanted to sleep longer, but now that Sonny is sitting up, he can see that the dog is not growling at him. The dog is growling at the door.

  The door to Dad’s room.

  Not so loud, doggy, Sonny tells the dog. You’ll wake Dad.

  But the dog doesn’t listen. He growls louder and then begins to bark and scratch at the door.

  Quiet, doggy, says Sonny. Quiet.

  Suddenly, the dog charges the door and hits it with his shoulder, and Sonny wonders if the dog knows something he doesn’t. Perhaps Dad is sick in bed and can’t get to the door. Perhaps Dad has fallen in the bath, because he doesn’t have the special tub that Sonny has seen on television.