Though Gloria didn’t have the best track record when it came to obeying authority, Sally, whom I’d hired to defend her, convinced the judge that the young mother was truly repentant, ready to turn her life around and abide by the conditions of her release. The woman Eric and I picked up at the courthouse was a considerably subdued version of the hip-swaggering, gum-smacking hooker who’d lurched drunkenly into my life. Gone was the heavy makeup, the too-tight skirts, the chip-on-her-shoulder stance. In their place was a chastened young woman who was more than sorry for the trouble she had caused. During our month-long paddle to Dzièwàdi I came to like the caring yet steely person Eric and Teht’aa had perceived under the hardened veneer.
Florence wanted to make one last visit to her grandmother’s island before it was changed beyond recognition. Drilling would soon begin to determine the extent of the kimberlite and the mine-worthiness of its diamond content. If the only diamonds were the surface ones delivered millions of years ago by a glacier from a distant kimberlite source, the land would remain undisturbed. But if the deposit proved financially viable, the long process of mine development would begin, transforming this magical island and its crystal-clear lake into a no-man’s land. Florence regretted the destruction but knew her people needed the money.
It was a journey of discovery. Not only were we paddling through a harsh, barren land of tundra and tree-fringed eskers that most of us had never seen before, but Eric, Jid, and I were discovering that we were very much a part of the Bluegoose family. Without hesitation, they welcomed us into their lives.
It was also a time for Eric and me to rediscover our love for each other. Too traumatized by the rape, I’d been afraid to let him come close. Not only did I fear other men touching me, but I wouldn’t let my own husband either, apart from a cursory kiss or hug, which I had to brace myself to do. To compound our difficulties, I’d been unable to tell him about the rape, so his response to my withdrawal had been anger and a slow drifting away.
The long hours spent watching an unconscious Teht’aa had given me time to reflect. The distance from where the assault had happened helped too. When she finally awoke and treated her rape in such a matter-of-fact manner, I knew I had to confront my own. Teht’aa was the first person I told. It was like uncorking a fizzy bottle close to bursting. All my pent-up fears and confused emotions came tumbling out. We talked and talked as the tension slowly drained out of me.
When I saw the only man I’d ever loved standing on the tarmac wanting my love, but not knowing whether he was going to get it, the last dam broke. We spent long hours alone at Teht’aa’s apartment sharing our fears and concerns and finally our love. This trip had become our second honeymoon. Eric had bought us a two-man tent, along with a double sleeping bag, so we wouldn’t have to sleep with the others in the McPherson tents. Every morning when I woke up in Eric’s arms, I pinched myself twice: one pinch to ensure I wasn’t dreaming, and a second, more painful pinch for being such a stupid fool, not telling him about the rape sooner.
Not wanting to overtax Teht’aa, we took frequent breaks, once to watch wolf cubs cavorting outside their den, another time to explore an ancient stone fence that had been used to funnel caribou to waiting hunters. Eagle-eyed Jid managed to spy one of their tiny stone spearheads amongst the thousands of stones littering the ground.
We stopped to do our own caribou hunting. Eric was the first to see a few of the rangy animals with the tree-like antlers along a ridge. It was Uncle Joe’s first caribou sighting in almost twenty years. He became so excited he almost fell out of the canoe. The men bounded over the ridge with their rifles while we women set up camp.
Afterward, we snuck up onto the ridge and looked down upon a sight only a privileged few ever see: a sea of undulating antlers spreading from horizon to horizon across the tundra. Florence couldn’t stop smiling as we listened to the rhythmic clicking of their hooves on the ground and watched the newborns wobble on spindly legs as they strove to keep up with their mothers. Previously convinced that the great herds of her childhood had disappeared forever, she thanked God for being given this one last chance to marvel at one of nature’s wonders.
Each man shot a caribou, including a beaming Jid, using Uncle Joe’s rifle under his expert guidance. It required all of us taking turns to drag them back to the camp, where I learned that skinning and butchering the carcasses was woman’s work. Though squeamish about such things, I felt I had to hold up the Odjik end, so I found myself skinning my first animal ever under Florence’s skilled direction. We spent the next two days at the camp preparing the meat, readying the skins for drying later, and eating caribou stew. Of course, we had our share of fish too. Jid and Uncle Joe bonded over the fishing rod and tried to out-fish each other.
At the outset of our journey, Florence insisted that Teht’aa be our guide. Dredging up Mamàcho Teht’aa’s story from the depths of her memory, she only made a couple of mistakes that sent us in the wrong direction before her grandmother turned us back on the right course. She would excitedly point out the markers as we approached them: the point with a rock that looked like a waiting ptarmigan, the yellow splash of ripe cloudberries carpeting a tiny island, a sandy beach with a long spit running far out into the lake, and so on.
Each time she recognized a marker, she would exclaim, “I don’t believe it. This oral map really works.”
Florence would patiently reply, “Ancestors very wise.“
It was a vast, empty land we paddled through. With only low hills to obstruct the view, the horizon seemed limitless, apart from a few days of rain, when clouds cloaked us in misty drizzle. After paddling through the still smouldering lands of the forest fire, we travelled northward. The smattering of short, scrubby trees grew sparse until disappearing altogether. We had travelled beyond the treeline.
We were utterly alone. The only sign of human presence we came across was a line of gasoline barrels a plane had stored on a beach for its return trip. But we were reminded that civilization was only a satellite call away by the daily overhead flights. Mere specks in the sky, they were flying over the pole on their way to the bustling cities of the modern world.
A day’s paddle from our destination, we saw our first claim stake. Knowing it wasn’t one of the stakes Malcolm had hammered into the ground, Eric climbed up the slope to check it out but couldn’t identify its ownership from the tag other than to note that he didn’t think it had seen a winter. We assumed it belonged to Nord Diamond. If it didn’t, it could cause problems if the kimberlite source for the purple diamonds spread beyond the boundaries of Mamàcho Teht’aa Inc.’s claim.
We saw a couple more along the river that Florence said fed into the lake before she pointed out the first stake Malcolm had placed to designate the boundary of the claim. Another bend in the river and a vigorous paddle through a rock garden before our three canoes spilled out into what we came to call Mamàcho Teht’aa Lake.
Expecting something momentous, I felt let down to see it appeared much like all the other lakes: the same crystal-clear waters with a shoreline that barely rose above the height of the water. I searched for the island and saw several shimmering in the distance. We paddled toward them.
“There’s the pretty island,” Anita suddenly called out.
I’d forgotten she had been here before.
Once again I felt let down. It looked the same as all the other lichen-covered mounds of rock I’d seen rising from the water. And then I saw a sparkle in the bright sun.
We beached the canoes on a narrow, stony beach, barely large enough to hold the three of them. Together we climbed the steep rocky slope to the top. Angus helped his great-aunt, Eric helped his daughter, and I, Uncle Joe. Jid and Anita cavorted behind us with Gloria.
Huffing and puffing, with a few scrapes on my palms from slipping, we reached the top together.
Not one word, one sigh, one exclamation was spoken.
In awe, we
stood transfixed by the sparkling purple flowers.
Acknowledgements
Once again, Meg and I were off travelling together, this time to Yellowknife in the Northwest Territories. It was my second trip to that fair North-of-60 town, and I enjoyed it as much as my first trip with my husband, Jim, before we set out on our canoe trip on the Thelon River through The Barrens. I also travelled to Behchoko to join the Tlicho in their celebration of the tenth anniversary of self-government.
I love the North. It is no cliché to say everyone is so friendly. They are. Many went out of their way to give me a better insight into living in the North, including Cara Bryant. Two incredibly helpful and informative RCMP officers opened the window for me on policing in NWT. I’d like to thank Corporal Kirk Patrick Hughes and Corporal Elenore Sturko. Sue Glowach and John Nahanni with the Department of Justice helped me better understand various aspects of the justice system in NWT. Lydia Bardak, with the John Howard Society, also provided valuable information. I mustn’t forget the many Tlicho who took the time to chat with me during their grand celebration.
I’d also like to thank Hayden Trenholm, who proved invaluable in increasing my understanding of life in the north, Terry McEwan, who helped simplify the Canadian legal system for me, and Dr. Carly Pulkkinen, who helped sort out medical procedure for me.
A book never comes to fruition without the help of many. I’d like to thank Allister Thompson and Carrie Gleason, my editors, and all the other people at Dundurn who turned my manuscript into a living, breathing book.
I relied on several books to increase my knowledge of the Dene. They include: Yamoria, The Lawmaker and Trail of the Spirit: The Mysteries of Medicine Power Revealed, both by George Blondin; Walking the Land, Feeding the Fire by Allice Legat; Living Stories: Godi Weghàà Ets’eèda by Therese Zoe, Philip Zoe, and Mindy Willet; and Way Down North: Dene Life–Dene Land by René Fumoleau.
I always save the most important person for last: my husband, Jim, without whom this writing journey could not be possible. Many, many thanks for your patient and enduring support.
Copyright © R.J. Harlick, 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purpose of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.
All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover image: © istock.com/shaunl
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Harlick, R. J., 1946-, author
Purple palette for murder / R.J. Harlick.
(A Meg Harris mystery)
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-4597-3865-2 (softcover).--ISBN 978-1-4597-3866-9 (PDF).--
ISBN 978-1-4597-3867-6 (EPUB)
I. Title. II. Series: Harlick, R. J., 1946- . Meg Harris mystery.
PS8615.A74P87 2017 C813’.6 C2017-901259-2
C2017-901260-6
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