Beck

by Mal Peet

  Grace did not share this view. She decided to leave Winnipeg, having come to the conclusion that her mother’s tuberculosis had been a form of homesickness. Grace felt something like it herself. On trips with her father to far-off Regina or Saskatoon, she had experienced a sort of yearning in her blood, a westward pull. She did not feel at home in Winnipeg, despite never having lived elsewhere. She cared little for the opinion of society, but understood that the affliction of mixed blood meant she was barely tolerated by those possessed of racial purity. And that only on account of her fortune.

  She spent a week going through her father’s papers and effects, and afterward went to George Chapman’s office with her instructions. The house was to be rented, with the proviso that Mary, the housekeeper, and Beth, the cook, retain their positions. Half her father’s assets were to be converted to cash. Chapman was to buy back from the government two hundred and fifty acres of her mother’s tribal land. She had precisely indicated the area on Don McAllister’s map. She would build a house there and live in it.

  Chapman was astounded and appalled. He tried in vain to dissuade her. When informed of Grace’s intentions, his son went immediately to Grace to protest, only to be told by Mary that Miss McAllister was not at home. James received similar information on several further occasions and, in early July, when Grace boarded the westbound train, made a frightful exhibition of himself by falling to his knees on the platform and begging her to stay. Grace watched him slide slowly away till he was swallowed by a huff of steam.

  Grace brought the hired trap to a halt. The mare stood peaceably, lazily swishing her tail at flies. She took her father’s field glasses from her satchel and used them to track the line of red-striped survey poles that defined her property. It was the narrower, northern section of a low valley formed, Grace imagined, by some great geological shrug or slump a million years ago. The floor of the valley was not uniformly flat; long grassy silvery green hummocks were folded into it, separated by clumps of aspen, chokecherry, and prickly rose. A line of cottonwoods and willows indicated the course of the creek that flowed at the foot of the valley. There was a small lake, too, according to the map, invisible from the road.

  Grace lowered the glasses. In choosing her new property she had not been guided by mere sentiment. Her father had taught her that railways not only connect places; they also create them. The place they called Cooper’s Creek Halt, three miles farther down the road, was at present just a refueling stop: a siding, a bunker of coal, a water tower, a pump house, and a couple of sheds. But it wouldn’t stay that way. Like other once remote and nondescript way stations back east, it would grow. Grace hadn’t come here to hide. She’d come to prosper. All the same, she’d hoped, believed, the valley would be beautiful. And it was. She surrendered to an immense feeling of joy.

  She tethered her mare in the shade of a small bluff of birches, then set off in search of the creek, cursing her foolish city shoes. Bronze grasshoppers sparked from the grass at her approach. When she finally reached it, she was satisfied to note that it was full and steadily flowing, furling clear as glass over smooth flat stones. She threaded her way through the trees, following its course. In the shade the flies were a pestilence.

  The lake immobilized her with its loveliness. It was perhaps half a mile long and not wide; a man with a good arm could throw a baseball across it. It was still as a mirror. On its far side, the wall of the valley stood in its own reflection; at its center, a single white cloud floated. Grace stepped onto the narrow silty foreshore, startling a pair of small waterfowl. They spread their wings and ran across the surface of the water, croaking outrage, then disappeared into a bed of reeds. The reflections trembled, came unspliced, regathered themselves.

  It was all good, Grace thought. Very, very good. She took off her shoes and stockings and hoisted up her skirt and petticoat. The cold water on her feet and ankles thrilled her and she stripped off the rest of her clothes and waded back in. When the water reached her hips she closed her eyes. Her nakedness felt like a submission, a solitary baptism. She knelt. Coolness reached her throat. She let herself fall backward and float into the cloud.

  THE VALLEY, as usual, had protected them from the worst of the storm but the whip in its tail had torn off, buckled, and thrown away half the tin roof of the hay barn. Grace knew that wet hay exposed to the sun had a habit of nurturing fire deep within itself, so she started up the stubborn Ford flatbed truck and set off to Jim Calf Robe’s place to see if he had a couple of spare tarps she could borrow. Up on the high road, the dips were full of water and the wheat fields on either side lay flattened by wind and hail. She’d been driving for less than fifteen minutes when she saw, at the edge of the copse off to her left, the blackened remains of a tree with a steady stream of smoke drifting off it. Given the amount of rain that had fallen, there was little risk of a prairie fire; nonetheless, she stopped and climbed up onto the bed of the truck and aimed her binoculars. She was surprised to see what appeared to be the ragged remnants of a tent close to the base of the tree. She turned the ignition off and went to investigate.

  Some distance from the tree, a naked youth arose from the ground. He had his back to her. She watched him link his hands behind his head and stretch. She watched the shoulder blades shift beneath his skin, the long raised scars. She watched his buttocks harden and relax. She did not know what to do. She did not want to call out or frighten him. She just wanted to go on watching, unseen. The naked boy and the burning tree were an impossible conjunction in this familiar landscape, like something dreamed, with a dream’s meaning. She could hardly breathe. The little copse had a spirit name but it had gone out of her head.

  The boy stooped to pick up his clothes.

  Please don’t, she thought.

  As if in response, he straightened and stood motionless.

  Now he will turn. She held her breath.

  And he did. His hair was a mass of wet twists; his eyes, wide with shock, were much paler than Grace might have expected. He was thin, his rib cage sharply defined. From just below his navel, which was prominent, a band of hair, fine as a dotted line of ink, descended to the sparse flat curls from which his genitals hung. His knees looked dusty.

  Grace observed all this in less than two seconds, but two seconds was enough. The young man was a vision, with a vision’s power — so unexpected in this landscape (her landscape) that she later wondered whether he had cast a spell upon her. The words came into her head unbidden: coup de foudre, a bolt of lightning. How appropriate to this moment, as the tree burned and her soul burned too. All at once the boy exploded in motion, grabbing up an armful of clothes with which to cover his loins. He stared at her, frightened.

  Grace found her voice. “I’m sorry,” she said, holding out her hands toward him, as to a creature of the wild. “I mean you no harm.”

  The boy stepped back, shook his head, and said something she couldn’t catch.

  “I wasn’t spying,” Grace said. “I saw the fire and —”

  “It wasn’t me,” he stuttered. “I didn’t burn it. The lightning . . .”

  “Yes. I can see. Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  He nodded, shook his head. “Is this your land? I’ll leave now, only —”

  “It’s not my land. I don’t own it.”

  “— my clothes. Are wet.”

  “Of course,” Grace said. “After the rain.”

  He didn’t move. They had reached an impasse.

  “Look,” Grace said at last. “What if I turn away while you get dressed? Then I can give you a ride somewhere. That’s my truck over there.”

  She turned slowly, with a sense of tearing in her heart. Please don’t run off, she prayed silently. “What are you doing here?” She needed to hear his voice.

  “I was on the road.”

  “Yes?”

  “And this storm come along. I took shelter in the trees.”

  “Where are you headed, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  �
�Vancouver.”

  Grace half turned. “Vancouver?”

  She felt him hesitate. “Is it far?”

  “A fair step,” she said with a small smile. “And uphill.”

  “Oh.” The resignation in the single syllable was palpable.

  “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

  “Some. Ma’am.”

  “I’m not ma’am. My name is Grace. And you’re . . . ?”

  “Beck.”

  “Are you decent, Beck? May I turn around?”

  “I guess.”

  The exquisite boy had become a tramp, jamming his bare feet into wrecked boots while hoisting an old army rucksack onto his back. Sensing her disappointment, he apologized. “I had a hat,” he said. “It got blown away.”

  She suppressed a smile. “Come with me, Beck. My place is close by. I’ll fix you something to eat.”

  During the short ride Beck could think of nothing to say. He was sitting next to a woman who had seen him — studied him! — naked. The thought made him squirm.

  She glanced at him. “I’m sorry I embarrassed you.”

  He turned his head away, to the cab’s window.

  The truck descended a hill and shuddered over a single-track wooden bridge. To the left, a valley opened onto rolling distances. To the right, light flickered through a line of trees. A sign fixed to two tall poles appeared and the truck slowed. The sign had two words on it. The larger, in fancy lettering, was Ogygia, although Beck couldn’t imagine what it meant or how to say it. Below it, in plain letters: MCALLISTER.

  “Here we are,” Grace said, and swung the wheel. A track of tamped gravel curved between low hillocks. From the crest of one of them, a herd of horses lifted their heads to watch the truck pass.

  The house, when it appeared, was a long, single-story structure of fieldstone and glass beneath a shingle roof. Close to it was a tipi, its skin banded with a red, black, and white design, its ridge poles splayed at the sky. From the far end of the house and at a right angle to it, a long tall fence wore a wet cloak of jasmine and honeysuckle; even before he climbed out of the Ford, Beck caught the heavy sweetness in the air. He followed Grace up the four steps to the veranda, one end of which was shaded by an awning. From within the dimness beneath, someone spoke. The voice was old and cracked but strong. The words were not English. Grace replied in the same language. Beck heard his name mentioned. The old voice spoke again, a short speech. At the end of it Grace gave a little laugh and turned to Beck.

  “This is my nah-ah. My grandmother. Her given name means Walking Pony Woman, but most people call her Straight Speaking. Come and say hello.”

  The old woman was sitting in a cane chair with a walking stick resting against its arm. Beck awkwardly offered his hand. She did not take it and he snatched it back, blushing, before realizing that she was blind. Her eyes were almost shut, just two milky arcs below their lids. Her skin was as dark as his own, but grooved and crinkled like the bark of an ancient tree. Her white hair, thin on her scalp, hung in a thick braid over her shoulder. She wore a blue print dress under a shawl embroidered with a pattern similar to the one he had seen on the tipi.

  Grace said, “She needs to meet you with her hands. It’d be easier if you knelt down. It’s okay. She doesn’t bite.”

  The old woman grunted humorously. “Not got the teeth for it anymore,” she said in English.

  So Beck knelt, and Straight Speaking leaned forward. Her fingers found the sides of his neck first, then traveled lightly down and over his shoulders to his upper arms, where her thin grip tightened. “Hmm,” she murmured, lifting her hands to his face. Her fingers explored it like a paper spider. Beck fought the desire to brush them away. When she reached his hair she hesitated before carefully exploring it. Then she sank back and rearranged her shawl.

  “You’re a Negro.”

  “Yes’m.”

  “First time I saw a Negro was not long before my sight left me. Ten years ago. Soldiers, on a train heading east. They sang beautiful songs. My granddaughter tells me you’re a fool.”

  “Huh?” Beck twitched a glance at Grace, who grimaced and rolled her eyes.

  “Storm comes at you like a thousand horses and you take it into your head to run to the trees. Which is the last damn thing you should do. Specially when those trees have bad luck hanging in their branches like the ones you ran to.”

  “I know that now. I ain’t never been in a storm like that.”

  Straight Speaking cocked her head. “Where you from, Beck? That your name? Beck?”

  “Yeah. Ontario mostly. Afore that, England. Place called Liverpool.”

  “Not Africa or the United States?”

  “No.”

  “Hmm. The world is very mixed up these days. How old are you?”

  “Nineteen or therebouts, ma’am.”

  “Thereabouts? You don’t know when you were born?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Ha!” This seemed to please the old woman. “Nor I. I’m somewhere between eighty-nine and ninety-two. Can’t say it makes a spit of difference. Anyone who might know is long dead, anyways. Grace, you still standing there? I thought you said the boy was hungry.”

  The food was some kind of cold meat pie with refried potatoes and greens. Beck couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything as good. The water was very cold and had a sharp yellow tang to it. The floor was of golden polished pine. A recess in the end wall harbored a big potbellied stove and a pile of split logs. Framed maps and photographs hung along the longer walls. From one of the windows, Beck could see a distant glint of water behind a line of trees. Grace served the food, said something to her grandmother in the other language, and left the room. After a minute Beck heard the Ford start up.

  Straight Speaking sat at the far end of the table, softly slurping tea from a mug. She said, “How’s the food?”

  “Good, ma’am. Real good.”

  “When Grace came home,” Straight Speaking said, “she didn’t know the difference between a mushroom and a deer’s ass.” She sighed. “I had to teach her how to cook when I couldn’t hardly see a thing. It’s a wonder I still have all my fingers.”

  When she heard Beck lay his fork down she said, “Want some more of that pie?”

  “No. I guess that’ll do me. Thank you.”

  “Hmm. You been traveling a long time?”

  “A while.”

  “It shrinks your belly. I know that.”

  She heaved herself upright, using her stick. “If you’re done, come and sit outside with me. That storm of yours cleaned the air. I’d like to breathe some more of it.”

  STRAIGHT SPEAKING SETTLED herself into the same chair as before and tapped her stick on another beside it. Beck sat and waited while she rummaged in the pocket of her dress and produced a small leather bag. It contained a short pipe, tobacco, and matches. With deft fingers, she filled the pipe and lit it. Her weathered cheeks hollowed into her gums when she sucked in smoke and swelled when she blew it out.

  “You don’t talk much,” she said. “That’s a shame. I enjoy conversation.”

  Beck said, “I guess I don’t have a lot to say.”

  Straight Speaking grunted smoke. “You don’t have a lot to say. Well, I’d say that an English Negro who’s walked three parts the way across Canada and nearly got struck by lightning might have a tale or two to entertain a blind old woman.”

  Beck shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “I ain’t used to talking,” he said.

  Straight Speaking lifted a hand. “I’m familiar with your problem. You don’t know what kind of people you’re talking to. That right?”

  “I’ve heard stories,” Beck said, cautiously.

  “Ha! I bet you have.”

  She puffed an angry little cloud of sweet-smelling smoke. “Well, then. Me and Grace belong to what white folks call the Blackfoot people. Not that our feet are blacker’n anyone else’s. We used to dye our moccasins black, is the reason.” She waved her pipe at the horizon. “All
this land, for days in all directions, was Blackfoot from when time was born. Except it didn’t belong to us. We belonged to it. We lived the way it told us to. Then the whites came along and drew straight lines on their damn maps and said, ‘This is Saskatchewan. This is Alberta. This is Montana. This is Canada. This is the United States of America. It all belongs to us now. You Injuns behave yourselves, you can have some little bits of it to live on.’”

  She sucked on her pipe but it had gone out. Spittle crackled faintly in its stem.

  “We tried to get along with them but they killed us anyway. They didn’t need to murder us. That’s what smallpox, cholera, and consumption were for. Starvation did the rest. The white hunters killed all the buffalo. There was nothing for us to overwinter on. A full two-thirds of my husband’s clan died during the winter of eighty-three when the government didn’t give us any food. Six hundred people.”

  She fell silent. Her eyes closed all the way down. Beck wondered if she might have fallen asleep. It had been a long time since anyone had spent so many words on him. It hurt his head to hear them.

  She spoke again. “I was born a day’s ride southeast of here. My father was killed in a fight with the Cree when I was just a little girl. I went to live with my uncle’s people. They were called Many Medicines because they were wise. My uncle’s name was Old Sun. A chief. He taught me. When I started to speak out for my people the whites called me a witch. I liked that.”

  The word conjured up Beck’s few memories of childhood stories. He looked sideways at the beak-nosed and withered old woman. Witch.

  “I haven’t seen my granddaughter with my eyes for a good while. She still beautiful?”

  “I guess she is.”

  “Huh! You guess. She was kind of fat when she came home but she’s worked that off, seems to me. Still got nice tits, though, wouldn’t you say?”

  Beck coughed and the old woman laughed. “You didn’t notice. ’Course you didn’t. You can lie to me out of manners, if it’s a help.”

  “She came up on me by surprise.”