by Thomas King
Dorian relaxed in his chair. He couldn’t get over how marvellous he felt. “Anything else?”
“Two items,” said Winter. “I did a search for the word “Kousoulas.”
“And?”
“It appears to be a proper name.”
“But?”
“I found a D.G. Kousoulas who wrote a number of books on geopolitics, but he’s dead.” Winter consulted her tablet. “I was also able to locate a photographer, a veterinarian, a media consultant, an account executive, a lawyer, and a basketball player.”
“Quinn circled that name in stars. It must mean something.”
“That would seem to be a valid assumption.”
“Keep looking.” Dorian checked the Jaeger against the clock on the wall. The clock was two minutes fast. “What’s the second item?”
“The Anguis.”
“Again?”
“Another possible sighting,” said Winter. “Three weeks ago. Off the coast of Northern California.”
Dorian sat back and folded his hands across his stomach. “It’s at the bottom of the ocean.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I can feel it in my bones.”
Dorian swivelled about so he could see through all the glass partitions at once.
“We need to do something about the tank in the lobby.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s fill it with fish. Lots of colour. Something to perk the place up.”
“Salt water?”
“And maybe a turtle.”
Winter straightened her glasses. “I’ll talk to Maintenance today.”
Dorian touched his pocket. “Tell me,” he asked Winter, as she got to the doorway. “Have you ever wanted to own a Rolex?”
97
CRISP LOWERED THE TRAILER HITCH ONTO THE BALL OF HIS truck. “And where will I be mooring Master Gabriel?”
“Near me, I guess,” said Mara.
“Near enough for the eye,” said Crisp, “or for the conversation?”
“Conversation,” said Mara. “But no closer.”
Soldier sat down outside the door to the trailer and began whining.
“Master Dog appears to have a concern,” said Crisp.
Gabriel squatted down and rubbed Soldier’s neck. “He’s nothing but concerns.”
“Someone must do the job.” Crisp set the chains. “Carry the valuables what might break, and I’ll drag the rest ashore.”
Soldier whined louder and scratched at the door.
“He wants in,” said Mara.
Gabriel looked at the dog. “He can’t ride in the trailer.”
“Why not?” Mara opened the door, and Soldier quickly pushed past her. “He seems to know how to take care of himself.”
“All he does is sleep and fart.”
“Dangerous thing,” Crisp shouted back, “to argue with a woman what’s smarter than oneself.”
Gabriel was about to say something to Crisp about sexism and clichés, when Soldier popped out of the trailer, a stuffed dog in his mouth.
Mara arched her eyebrows. “Didn’t take you for the cuddly-toy type.”
Soldier dropped the dog at Mara’s feet and stood poised at the ready.
“Long time back.”
“Girlfriend?”
Gabriel nudged the stuffed dog with his foot. “I bought it for Lilly.”
Mara picked up the dog and shook it gently, so that its ears flopped up and down. “Now that’s a story I want to hear.”
Soldier began whining again, more loudly this time, his body trembling as though he were going to shake himself apart.
Mara smiled. “I think he wants the puppy.”
Gabriel shrugged.
“So, we’re set, are we,” said Crisp, popping up from behind the truck and climbing into the driver’s seat. “It’s the trail for the two of ye and the road for me.”
The trailer groaned and snapped as Crisp dragged it off the pad. Soldier carefully took the puppy in his mouth and followed the truck as it headed to the reserve.
“It’s a nice day,” said Mara. “Why don’t we take our time.”
“Sure.”
“And you can tell me the story of the stuffed puppy.”
Gabriel checked the horizon. No fog. No ship. No enormous waves.
“Where do you want me to begin?”
“Start where all stories start.”
“All right,” said Gabriel. “There was a woman who lived in a sky world. And she was curious.”
98
THE ATHABASCA WAS MONTHS IN THE PUBLIC’S REAR-VIEW mirror now, and, while there was the occasional outcry over new studies that documented the continuing damage to the Mackenzie and the Arctic, the newspapers had consigned such revelations to the back pages of the “Life and Arts” section.
The networks ignored them altogether.
The prime minister continued to be front-page news, the attack, the stitches in his arm, his return to the House. A month after the incident, he played in a celebrity golf tournament, where he had swung his driver with vigour for the television cameras and the supermarket tabloids.
It had taken most of that time for Domidion’s share prices to recover. But recover they did. Olivia had finally returned from Orlando. With a tennis pro. A younger man. It had been such a cliché that Dorian would have put it on his Facebook page.
If he had had such a thing.
The tennis pro lasted exactly two months. Olivia put the Bridle Path house up for sale and moved to Vancouver. It was strange, but Dorian didn’t miss her, didn’t miss being married, whatever that meant.
What had they seen in each other? Thank goodness they had never had children.
He wasn’t sure he liked being alone, but he was enjoying his new life at the Hermes. He especially appreciated having a private elevator. Each time he stepped inside and slid his security key into the card reader, he felt valuable, as though he were being put away in a vault for safekeeping.
Even the hospital procedure had not been as bad as he had imagined. But the results had been inconclusive. That was the word Toshi had used. “Inconclusive.”
“We’ll continue to monitor the situation,” Toshi had told him. “What situation is that?”
“We’ll probably want to do another biopsy.”
After he was discharged, Dorian stopped off at Rosen’s, and Robert helped him with three new suits, a casual jacket in dark teal, and a cashmere overcoat.
DORIAN looked up to see Winter on her way to his office. Today, she was wearing a dark charcoal wool skirt and jacket with a silver-on-silver silk blouse. Elegant and efficient. He wasn’t going to ask, but he was curious what she might say if he were to suggest a drink after work.
“Good morning, Winter.”
“Good morning, Mr. Asher.”
“Good news would be appreciated.”
“Six items,” said Winter. “The Zebras have begun releasing the confidential health records of Toronto’s top business leaders.”
“Mine?”
“Not so far.”
“Should I be insulted?”
“Second. Uruguay’s General Assembly has voted to ban all Domidion agricultural products.”
“Again?” Dorian shook his head. “What’s three?”
“The pipeline.”
“More delays?”
“We’re encountering stiff opposition from local communities and First Nations.”
Dorian wondered if the knife attack was going to serve the prime minister in the next election. People tended to be partial to wounded heroes.
“Have a word with Legal,” said Dorian. “Let them know we’re displeased.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Next?”
“Dr. Quinn and Dr. Thicke,” said Winter. “We’ve still not been able to locate Dr. Quinn. Nor have we found the mother or sister.”
“Does the Board feel we need to find Q at this point?”
“No.”
“Then let’s not bother.” Do
rian rubbed his eyes. “And Thicke?”
“Dr. Thicke has submitted his resignation and is taking a position with Syngenta.”
“The Swiss conglomerate? They’re a competitor.”
“Yes,” said Winter, “they are.”
“Doesn’t Thicke’s contract contain a non-competition clause?”
“It does,” said Winter. “Should we enforce it?”
“God, no,” said Dorian. “With any luck, Thicke might set Syngenta’s research back a few years. What’s the last item?”
Winter tapped her tablet and handed it to Dorian. “This was taken by a passenger on a cruise ship.”
The image was a low-resolution photograph of a dark ship with rust stains running down its sides, sitting low in the water.
“We’ve had the photograph enhanced. It’s the Anguis.”
“What’s that?” Dorian squinted at the screen. “The white smear near the bow.”
“According to the reports, the Anguis scraped the side of the cruise ship.”
He and Olivia had taken a cruise once. Seventeen days across the Atlantic, from Barcelona to Miami, with stops in Málaga, Cádiz, Gibraltar, Agadir, Lanzarote, Tenerife, and La Palma. There had been an outbreak of an intestinal virus, and the ship had been put under a sanitation regime that consisted of staff members spraying copious amounts of bleach on handrails, tables, and the insides of all the elevators.
He and Olivia had gone to two floor shows and left in the middle of the second one when a large man in a tuxedo began singing “Send in the Clowns.” There had been a daily art auction where you could buy art no one wanted, a casino that was designed to depress the most ardent gambler, and several wine-tasting events where the vintages had arrived in plastic sacks.
And the food.
Everywhere you turned there had been food.
By the time they had reached the Azores, Dorian was prepared to kill someone to get off the ship. On that trip, he would have given anything to have been hit by a garbage scow.
“Damage?”
“Minimal,” said Winter. “According to the passenger postings on Facebook and Twitter, it was all quite exciting.”
“And the Anguis?”
Winter took the tablet from Dorian and ran a finger across the screen. “The captain of the cruise ship gave the authorities a projected course for the Anguis.”
“The Gulf of St. Lawrence?”
Winter nodded. “If it stays on course.”
Dorian put his head in his hands and squeezed his temples. “So, it’s coming home.”
“It would appear.”
“I don’t suppose we can just sink it.”
And for the second time that Dorian could remember, Winter smiled.
99
CRISP AND SOLDIER LOUNGED IN THE SAND AND WATCHED Sonny run up and down the beach. The boy had Gabriel’s jacket on. It was too big for him, and, when he moved, it flapped about his thin body like a great set of wings.
“Easy, lad,” Crisp called out. “Ye mustn’t scare them.”
Each day since Big Red had laid her eggs in the sand, Crisp had brought Sonny to the beach to check on the nest. The boy would sit in the sand for hours, banging the drum, singing his turtle-bone song.
“The boy has scant talent for melodic renderings,” Crisp told Soldier, “but he has a honeyed heart, and on that account we needs put up with the excruciations.”
THE ocean had come back first. On the days when Crisp swam out to the horizon, he found more and more signs of life. Small fish darting about the seaweed, urchins and anemones huddling together, crabs and starfish patrolling the rocks and sandy bottom, larger fish moving in from the depths.
Early one morning, Crisp had spotted movement in a kelp bed just off shore. “Look, lad,” he said, grabbing Sonny and turning him about, “that be an otter!”
The birds were not far behind, the gulls leading the way. Noisy and combative creatures they were, ready to take all sides in an argument. And later the oyster catchers, the petrels, the sandpipers, the grebes, and the scoters.
Last week, the ravens had returned in force, forever unsympathetic.
And now the turtles were hatching. It had started in the night, and, when Crisp and Sonny had reached the nest early that morning, the baby turtles were already making their run to the sea. Sonny had been unable to contain himself. He ran back and forth between the nest and the surf, banging the drum and yelling encouragements.
Crisp sat in the sand and watched Sonny dance in the air and walk on the water. “Easy, lad,” he yelled to no avail.
Back and forth Sonny went, his arms flying, the jacket flapping, the drum floating over his head like a balloon.
Go turtles!
CRISP had dragged the trailer onto the reserve, set it behind Mara’s house so as to keep the two of them close without blocking the view. And he had watched her coax the story out of Gabriel piece by piece, and so far, he had heard little in the telling to recommend the man.
Crisp and the dog had spent many a night debating the prospects for that relationship, with nothing to show for their time but the argument itself. It was Lilly that had brought them together, the sister and friend that Gabriel and Mara shared, and there was no particular promise in that bond.
Kindness perhaps. Even affection.
Crisp had seen a spark or two, but nothing bright enough to kindle combustion.
Soldier had been more optimistic.
But then dogs were known to favour happy endings.
SONNY stood in the surf, the jacket rattling in the wind, as he drummed the last of the turtles into the water.
Crisp stroked the dog’s neck. “Look after the lad,” he said, “for our Gabriel don’t need ye anymore.”
Soldier rolled up against Crisp’s leg and began licking at his paw.
“Aye, Master Dog,” said Crisp, and he leaned back, enjoying the sound of the waves on the beach, and the warmth of the sun on his face. “I am well.”
About the Author
Thomas King is an award-winning novelist, short story writer, scriptwriter, and photographer of Cherokee and Greek descent. His critically acclaimed, bestselling fiction includes Medicine River; Green Grass, Running Water; Truth and Bright Water; One Good Story, That One; and A Short History of Indians in Canada. The Inconvenient Indian, a work of non-fiction, won several national prizes and was described by Joseph Boyden as “destined to become a classic of historical narrative.” In addition to its many award distinctions, Green Grass, Running Water was named to Quill & Quire’s Best Canadian Fiction of the Century list. A member of the Order of Canada and the recipient of an award from the National Aboriginal Achievement Foundation, Thomas King taught at the University of Lethbridge and was Chair of American Indian Studies at the University of Minnesota before moving to the University of Guelph.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
praise for
GREEN GRASS, RUNNING WATER
“Impressively ambitious and funny.” —The New York Times Book Review
“With this brilliant, enduring novel, King has demonstrated an apparently effortless mastery over narrative.” —The Globe and Mail
“King is equally at home with his vivid, often comic characters and with the vibrant natural world in which their dramas are played out.” —People
“With this clever, vastly entertaining novel, King establishes himself firmly as one of the first rank of contemporary Native American writers—and as a gifted storyteller of universal relevance.” —Publishers Weekly
praise for
TRUTH AND BRIGHT WATER
“A storyteller of the first order…. [Truth and Bright Water] is a world only Thomas King could create, whimsical and contemporary and smart, rooted and knowing and sad.” —The Globe and Mail
“A sparkling triumph.” —Toronto Star
“The dialogue crackles with intensity and wit, and the story is littered with radiant objec
ts that reflect the lives of the characters…. [King] has mixed the banal and profound to create something like life—only more startling and truthful.” —The Gazette (Montreal)
praise for
THE INCONVENIENT INDIAN
“Fascinating, often hilarious, always devastatingly truthful, The Inconvenient Indian is destined to become a classic of historical narrative. For those who wish to better understand Native peoples, it is a must read. For those who don’t wish to understand, it is even more so.” —Joseph Boyden
“Sharply intellectual and informative, yet humorous and delightfully human…. Outstanding.” —National Post
“Essential reading for everyone who cares about Canada and who seeks to understand Native people, their issues and their dreams…. Thomas King is beyond being a great writer and storyteller, a lauded academic and educator. He is a towering intellectual. For Native people in Canada, he is our Twain; wise, hilarious, incorrigible, with a keen eye for the inconsistencies that make us and our society flawed, enigmatic, but ultimately powerful symbols of freedom.” —The Globe and Mail
“Brilliantly insightful…. Humour aside, this is an unflinching, occasionally fierce work. Natives are often chided for dwelling too much on the past, yet if this book proves anything, it’s that it behooves all of us to do a lot more of exactly that.” —Quill & Quire
“Subversive, entertaining, well-researched, hilarious [and] enraging…. In this thoughtful, irascible account, and in characteristically tricksterish mode, King presents a provocative alternative version of Canada’s heritage narrative.” —RBC Taylor Prize jury citation
Credits
COVER ART: HELEN HOY
Copyright
The Back of the Turtle
Copyright © 2014 by Dead Dog Café Productions Inc.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.