by Dave Belisle
"Uh-oh, which way now?" Derek asked.
"That native at the marina said that on our fifth portage to Lake Luggacannu we'd have a straight path for a mile, a left at the fork and a half-hour paddle to Portage Beaucoup," said Artie.
"No, no, no. That was the fourth portage. On this one -- the fifth -- we make a right after half a mile. Have we gone half a mile yet? All we have to do is check your pedometer."
Artie frowned. Derek twirled around, looking skyward in despair.
"I don't believe it. You wear that damn thing in Toronto on your lunch break, for chrissakes ... and you forget to bring it."
"We - we left in such a hurry," Artie blurted. They'd zipped out of the office as fast as they could ... only to wait at the airport for six hours to fly standby. They then had to plead with a young couple on their way to the Yukon -- he, being a Carleton grad of Environmental Studies; she, a poet of Celtic chants -- that the trees would still be there for them to hug the next day.
"Well then, we'll flip to decide our ... hereafter," Derek said. He reached into his pocket for a coin. Producing a quarter, he balanced it on his thumb.
"Wait a minute," Derek said. "Did Radisson and Grosellier have coins to flip when they came across an obstacle like this?"
"Maybe they decided by playing paper-scissors-rock," said Artie.
"Certainly not," Derek said. "They used fur pelts for currency in those days. Of course the toss wouldn't leave much to the imagination. But I read in one of those 'your-history-teacher-was-full-of-crap' books that the early fur traders didn't lose their year's supply of furs when their boats capsized in the Lachine Rapids. No siree. They'd already lost their furs ...
"Gambling?" asked Artie.
"That's right. With the likes of the notorious Fur Flipper. The guy could put an incredible six-and-one-half spin on a beaver pelt and it would always land hide-down. Every time. They say that's how our buck-toothed friend wound up on the nickel.
"Wow."
"That's right. So they didn't have coins then ... and neither will we." Derek stuffed the quarter back in his pocket.
"Now if Radisson or Grosellier went the wrong way down a path," Derek continued, " ... and the map hadn't been drawn yet ... technically speaking, they didn't make a wrong turn."
"But they drew all those maps themselves," Artie said. "Which means they never got, uh ... totally lost."
"Unlike Foie and Oignons."
"Who?" Artie asked.
"Foie and Oignons," Derek said. "They were just two of several map making merry men who ... let's just say ... met their maker before they finished their first map."
"Gee. Thanks for the words of encouragement."
An hour later they were paddling on Lake Luggacannu. They'd finally taken a right because Radisson began with the letter "R". So giddy were they at their good fortune, more hard-to-believe-but-true stories about Pierre Esprit Radisson and Medart Chouart de Grosellier followed.
"They were the first white men to see Minnesota," Artie said. "I wonder how they did it. Did they look at the horizon, pick a point, and jot down twenty miles in their mileage book?"
"Well," said Derek. "They were on Lake Superior. Maybe they had it down to paddle strokes. What do you think ... maybe 500 strokes per mile?"
"Would that be Radisson's strokes or Grosellier's?"
"Don't forget their wingspan. No wonder those early maps were way out of whack," said Derek.
Artie checked the map and shoreline for distinguishing marks.
"It should be coming up soon," he said. "Keep your eyes peeled. If you blink between strokes, you might miss it."
In the distance, close to shore, a solitary figure in hip waders cast his fishing line. At first Derek thought the fisherman was a mirage, a shoreline tree whose reflection off the water was playing tricks with his eyes. Tuckapuk had told Marcotte that bush fever -- like the payload of a water bomber -- could strike without warning.
"Look, Stanley. It's Livingston," said Derek, tapping Artie on the shoulder with his paddle and pointing at the fisherman.
A few minutes later, Derek and Artie were beside the angler. He was native, about five-feet-six, with shoulder-length hair. He wore a black sweat shirt under his red and blue checkered bush jacket. He expertly waved the tip of his rod through the air like a fencer trying to hypnotize his opponent. This maneuver was equally effective at keeping the black flies and mosquitoes at bay. After fifteen seconds of this, he released the fly fishing lure onto the surface of the water twenty feet away. The housing of the reel clicked shut and the low, steady whir of the reel began ... winding the twelve-pound test line back inside. This simple action had Derek's hands itching to do the same.
"Hi," Derek said, finally. "Are they biting?"
"Not even a nibble. Your paddles make sure of that."
"Sorry," Derek said.
Artie looked at the native, then to his paddle and yanked it out of the water.
"S'okay," the native said. "I don't get many visitors."
"We're looking for a Danny Short Hand."
"Why?" asked the native. The low buzz of the winding reel stopped.
"We understand he's a heckuva hockey player," Artie said.
"Surely you've heard of him ..." Derek said. "As most everyone else ... around ... here ..." Marcotte paused to look around, realizing that the closest thing to a grapevine here was the bark of the poplars.
The native resumed his black-fly brow-beating casting. As the lure lightly landed on the water, the native used his free hand to indicate the small dock behind him in a broad sweeping gesture.
"This is the home of Danny Short Hand," he said.
A small boat with an outboard motor was tied to the dock. A narrow trail from the dock meandered back into the bush, past spruce trees and rock outcroppings laced with lichen. The trail ended thirty yards distant at the screened porch of a modest split-level cabin.
"And that makes you Danny Short Hand?" Derek asked.
"I should have your luck with the rainbow."
Rainbow? Was he making reference to some native coming-of-age ritual? Derek looked skyward, mulling this over with a puzzled expression. It hadn't rained in three days.
"I'm Danny Short Hand," the native said proudly, letting fly with another cast.
Derek was still searching the horizon. Artie caught his attention and nodded toward the lake.
"He's talking about the trout," said Artie.
Marcotte and Short Hand sat in a beat-up, beige sofa on the porch of Short Hand's cabin, looking out over Lake Luggacannu. The sofa must have been airlifted ... and dropped ... judging by its condition. It was slob room contemporary ... a sofa that any man would welcome slumping into. Women on the other hand, would get no further than perching on the arm rest.
It was a narrow veranda, just wide enough for a person to pass in front of the sofa ... which was strategically placed so as to allow its occupants to prop their feet up on the waist-high railing. The mosquito screen thankfully extended from the railing to the ceiling. Artie stood nearby with his hands in his pockets, leaning back against a corner post. Derek took a sip of beer and placed his bottle on the railing. The sinking sun made for a picture postcard -- yet another item not in their budget. Derek sighed. Vocations and vacations made strange bedfellows. One demanded the other, but for best results they were experienced miles apart.
"Look, Danny. We need a defensive specialist and you're our man. My guy in Winnipeg says you score more goals when you're a man down than when your team's on the power play.
"A native takes his tribal name seriously," Short Hand said. "But I'm sorry I won't be able to play in your game."
A person in marketing is used to hearing the word "no" in opening negotiations. Derek knew a marketing specialist in New York who began every sentence with "no" -- even when he was agreeing with someone -- the word was so ingrained in his thought. But this was muskeg alley, not Madison Avenue, and the word smacked Derek in the face like an errant paddle stroke. He
shook his head and turned to Artie.
"Is it me, or do I look like an encyclopedia salesman?
"Funky Wagnalls, maybe," Artie said. "You're just not cold and removed enough for Encyclopedia Icelandia." Hammond wasn't helping the situation. Marcotte turned back to Short Hand.
"And why is that?" Derek asked Short Hand. Derek took another slug from his beer to help soften the blow of any more stinging rebuttals.
Short Hand reached over his shoulder to a ledge behind the sofa and picked up what appeared to be a calendar. Derek wondered what native ceremony or ritual he was staring down the face of now. He didn't have any pups in the canoe and they would need both oars. He wondered how many months it would take for him to make a fishing fly. It would probably end up looking like a Christmas tree ornament. Would the fish mind?
Short Hand pointed to a nearby calendar, displaying a picture of a bull moose with enough antler-space to accommodate caps from all 26 NHL teams. There was a circled date below the wooly hat rack. April 4 ... two days away. Written within the date's box was the message: "Bass Fishing Season Opens".
Derek and Artie prepared the canoe for the return trip. In the distance, Short Hand made his way down the path. Derek shoved his jacket into the bow of the canoe.
"You're killin' us, Artie. You're killin' us."
"Do you want the guy or not?"
"Of course we do," Derek said. But, I mean ... the baseball cap ... official parka ... compass ... pearl-handled fillet knife ... and a guest appearance as tour guide on the Bad-Ass Bass fishing show?"
"Sssh. Here he comes."
Short Hand came up behind Derek. Derek busied himself loading the boat, kneeling on the dock on his hands and knees. Artie looked up to greet Short Hand, but the native put a finger to his lips, signalling Artie to be quiet. Short Hand pulled a large, grotesque-looking, fly-fishing lure out of his breast pocket and carefully placed it on Derek's shoulder.
The fly looked like it had crawled out of a Stephen King novel. It's lime green head was huge. Two dark crimson eyeballs glared their menacing, metallic stare. The fleshy body below was puffy with warts and a pair of open wounds. The fat wings were speckled with yellow puss.
Artie shook his head in wonder. Short Hand pointed at the dragon fly, then to Artie. Artie nodded back. Derek was still busy packing away gear in the canoe.
"Derek, what's that on your left shoulder?" Artie asked.
Derek checked his shoulder and his eyes opened as wide as SkyDome's roof.
"Aaaaagggh!"
He stabbed at it with his right hand, catching the hook in his index finger.
"Yeeeeowwwwww!"
Spinning crazily on the dock, Derek fell backwards into the water with a splash. When his head broke the surface of the water, his wounded right hand was in the "up periscope" position. He paddled furiously with his good left hand.
"Bastard!"
They all laughed.
Marcotte's bandaged finger dialed Sylvie's telephone number. He looked forward to hearing her voice -- even if she'd been pushing him to decide between her and Helen. No woman liked being a number in a little black book ... especially if that number wasn't "1". Once the woman attained the pole position, the black book was the first thing out the window ... after the bucket seat was restored to its upright position.
Sylvie's subliminal nudges weren't too hard -- yet. They'd spent one night together and had seen each other at least every other day until he'd left. He liked being with her. The White Angel of Guilt however, had set up shop on his shoulder the last few days before the trip. He had to tell Helen. He'd been living too many lies. Blaming a blown hockey career and his business' weak performance on Erskine was one thing. But Sylvie turning back the clock on his libido meant someone was in for a rude awakening. How long could he keep pressing Helen's snooze button?
Any women's self-help book, a.k.a. "Why Your Guy's A Goof", brought up the question of men needing their "space" by the second or third chapter. Women loved to carve this space up, much like designing the living room floor plan. Anything was negotiable and up for discussion, from selecting an afghan rug ... to determining where, when, why and how the angst turned to aggression. Distance made the heart grow fonder. Unfortunately, it did little to tone down any of the harsh questions he'd been chewing on lately.
He stared out the phone booth at Artie and Short Hand on the dock. Their canoe was grounded on the shore. Short Hand was catching fish at will. As he pulled each one out of the water, Artie whooped it up with a little fish dance. Short Hand showed Hammond how to take the hook out of the fish's mouth with a quick flick of the wrist. Short Hand tossed the brown trout atop an ever growing pile of fish.
The click at the other end of the line snapped Derek awake.
"Hello ... Sylvie?"
"Derek? Where are you?"
"Flin Flon."
"Come again?"
"I'm in Manitoba," said Derek. "I've signed two more players so far."
"What?!? You've been running all over the north for two weeks and all you have to show for it is two players?"
"Yes, but they're two good players."
"Like who?" she asked.
"If I tell you, I'd have to kill you," he said in his best gangster voice.
"Very funny," she said.
There followed a pregnant pause. That pregnant pause. The fluttering heartfelt silence that grows in emotion with each passing second. All too quickly it becomes uncomfortable. Both callers want the extra few seconds to absorb the other's sweet syllables ... but feel pressured to speak, to justify Ma Bell's pennies ticking by. It was a hefty price for silence. Derek wished all telephones had sensors that simply made the line go dead when emotions got this high. It did the hanging up for you. No pangs of guilt. Totally conscious-free. If it wasn't your fault, you even got your money back.
Answering machines already had this feature. If you shut up for three seconds they clicked off. But they were just an assembly line of quick cries for help. You were assigned a number. Say your piece and get off the line ... others were waiting.
Derek took a deep breath and turned to watch the fishing clinic that Short Hand was putting on down at the dock.
A quick learner, Artie expertly removed the hook from the fish's mouth. Short Hand nodded with a smile and continued reeling them in.
"I'm sorry," said Sylvie. "I miss you." After another 12-cent pause, "Have you talked ... with Helen?"
"I was just going to call her ..."
"I'll let you go then."
"You're too kind," he said.
"Good luck. Bye."
Derek quickly dialed home, not wanting to stop and think, not wanting to plan it out. Better these things go unrehearsed. If he was going to scam Helen, he'd force the White Angel of Guilt's arch-rival, the Black Devil of Sin -- aboard his other shoulder -- to think on its feet ... in the heat of the moment. Derek forgot that devils think in the heat all the time. The Black Devil of Sin. A fishing lure for the wayward walleye. Derek had been splashing around in the water too long.
The phone rang. Helen answered it on the first ring.
"Hello? Derek?" Her voice was shaky. "My god, it is you! It's so good to hear your voice. You left in such a hurry. Are you alright? You sound so far away."
"Hey, take it easy. I'm in Flin Flon."
"We must have a bad connection. What did you say?"
"I'm 500 miles north of Winnipeg. I wanted to talk to you about something."
"Oh, my. Are you wearing your toque?"
Short Hand's rod bent like a rainbow as he reeled in another fish. The rod snapped. Short Hand quickly reached into the boat and pulled out a rifle. He took a bead on the reel and followed it as it skittered along the surface. The trout broke the surface and arched into the air with a how-do-you-do flick of the fin. A gunshot rang out and the fish fell unceremoniously back into the water with a fat splat. Short Hand expelled the shell onto the dock.
Artie stood transfixed, his childhood years flashing before his
eyes. He remembered all the games of Cowboys'n Indians when he'd been relegated to playing the latter. Now it made perfect sense. Bows and arrows kept it sporting. If the Indians had had guns, Custer's Last Stand would have been a weekly re-enactment.
"Not at the moment," Derek said. "But ... there's something you should know. I don't know how to say this ..."
"Oh, no. Wait. Wait right there," she said.
"Helen, no. Don't go, Helen. No, Helen ... Helen!"
But she was gone. Derek dropped the phone from his ear and sighed.
He knew what she was doing. At this very moment she was ransacking the place as if the Red Cross, Salvation Army, Unicef and the girl guides had all simultaneously arrived on her doorstep. She was grabbing fruit cake and oranges from the fridge and wool socks and long underwear from dresser drawers. Everything that wasn't nailed down ... would soon be winging its way to him in a care package more worthy of a middle-sized Somaliland village.
Helen picked up the phone.
"Hello, Derek? I'll be sending three boxes by courier."
"But you don't even know where I am."
"I'm paying extra for the Bloodhound Tracking Service."
Derek groaned.
"Yes, dear."
Who's on Left,
What's on Right ...
... 1 ...
Cars and pedestrians jostled for position in their respective rush-hour lanes outside the Herculean building. In the reception area on the sixteenth floor, executive types sat in the six available chairs, briefcases at the ready. Erskine's receptionist controlled the on-ramp to his door. She was a chic traffic cop who could type 80 words per minute and stop a yammering solicitor on a dime.
Inside his office, Erskine backed away from the window overlooking Yonge Street and turned to his desk. The player agent wore a corporate blue suit and sat across the desk from Erskine. The agent stared at the mounted head of a shocked gazelle on the wall. Erskine had gunned it down on an African safari three years before. The final blow had actually come from the guide's gun, as Erskine only managed to clip it once out of four shots. His one scoring shot had creased the nose -- not an ideal kill location for those hoping for trophy-mounted material. Dr. Buck Schott, the famous taxidermist from White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia, had managed to repair Erskine's slipshod shooting.