No Safe Anchorage

by Liz Macrae Shaw

  “My brother says you’ll do if you practice some more. He’ll take you on the trip.”

  Tom could only stand open-mouthed. He had thought that he was the one doing the choosing.

  Chapter 34

  Journey Across Cape Breton Island, Summer 1863

  Tom and Silent Owl set out, carrying as few provisions as possible to save space for the heavy camera equipment. Tom felt naked traveling without a chart. Silent Owl packed a rifle, knife, and axe each, as well as beaver skins to sleep in and a stack of iron tools that they could trade with if they met any Mi’kmaq.

  “The white men did bring some useful things over with them,” he said.

  Tom added oatmeal and smoked fish. Silent Owl smiled but made no comment. Spring Thaw was insistent that they take no spirits with them. “It’s poison.” Tom though was tired of being told what to do and hid a flask of whisky inside an oatmeal sack.

  They set off in the early morning, paddling across Bras d’Or, past the basking islands where rocks lay on the shores, sleek and mottled like sealskin. The wind frisked and creased the deep blue waters. The meadows were a lush green with darker swathes of forest behind. Both water and land reminded Tom of the Hebrides but these colors were more vivid, like a child’s painting. A blue heron flew over them. It too was bigger and brighter than its sober-suited British cousin. Silent Owl pointed to it and grinned. He must see it as a good omen for our journey, thought Tom. How he wished that his camera could reproduce those colors. His life had for too long been shaded in drab tones. It was time for some bright pigments.

  Tom had no more time for thinking. Both the paddling and the portage were exhausting. His body had never been so tested before. As his muscles hardened he felt a kind of peace in contemplating his own insignificance. He was only one speck of life among the teeming forms of nature. Silent Owl was well named. His footfall was like an owl’s muffled flight. His hunting skills kept them supplied with hare, squirrel, and waterfowl. They feasted on salmon and oysters. He spoke little but his body was eloquent as he slipped through the woods, as much part of the natural world as the raccoon or the deer. Like them he stopped often to cock his head or sniff the air. One time, he waited near a clearing and showed Tom how some of the leaves on the bushes were glistening. He bent closer and grinned at Tom. “A buck has just gone through.”

  Tom could understand that his companion could recognize the animal through the scent of its urine but surely not its sex too?

  “How do you know it’s not a doe?”

  “Surely you know that the buck makes water in a high spray and the doe only on the ground.”

  Using spear or bow and arrow for hunting he kept the rifles for defence against strangers. His patience was endless. Another time, crouching for hours behind a large birch he mimicked the mating cry of a female turkey and eventually lured three males into his snares. He untied them and examined the birds before letting the largest two fly away.

  “Why did you only keep the smallest?” Tom asked.

  Silent Owl looked at him with pity. “The strongest ones will father more chicks and keep his kind alive for later hunters.”

  When they approached farms near Cheticamp at the western point of Lake Ainslee village, Tom was cautious. He knew that this was an area where the farms belonged to French-speaking Arcadians, a people he wasn’t familiar with. The first time he told Silent Owl to wait at the edge of the settlement in case the local people set their dogs on him. Tom soon found though that he was welcomed. It would be much the same whether the settlers spoke English, Gaelic, or French. A child would spot them first and follow at a distance before skittering closer to peer at the equipment on the back of the horse.

  “What’ve you got there, mister?”

  “Never seen a magic box before? One that takes pictures?” Tom would reply.

  Then the boy would rush ahead, shouting to everyone he could see and banging on doors. The adults appeared, excited too but more restrained. The men strolled over, nodding in a knowledgeable way as if it was a new plough they were examining. The women rounded up their wriggling offspring to wipe their faces and smooth down their hair. Meanwhile, Silent Owl was largely ignored as he unpacked the equipment, except for a few sidelong glances. This is how a pedlar would have been greeted in the old days, Tom thought, as someone exotic, a little suspect but welcomed for his trinkets and ribbons.

  One day though they had a different reception. They met a farmer and his small son well before they reached the village.

  “What do you want?” the man asked, in a voice with a hint of an Irish accent as he stared at Silent Owl. Tom pointed out the camera while the boy tugged at his father’s sleeve. “Look at the Indian. Will he dress up in war paint?”

  Silent Owl scowled, making the child hide behind his father’s legs. Afterward he disappeared, leaving Tom to prepare the camera on his own. It took some time to shepherd the large family into position in front of their cabin. Tom hoped that Silent Owl hadn’t gone for good.

  Then a startling figure strode toward them out of the woods. His long hair was oiled and smoothed over his shoulders. Red, ochre and black stripes splashed his cheeks, forehead and body. Everyone turned to gape just as Tom was taking his photograph. He tossed back the curtain from his shoulders, furious that he would have to start all over again. Now the children were clamouring to appear with Silent Owl. Once those pictures were finished their mother straightened their collars for the family group photograph. Afterward Tom moved into the darkness of a barn to develop his pictures while Silent Owl stood outside, leaning on the door frame with his bronzed arms folded. His muscles squeezed the dark tattoo of his namesake bird so that it flapped its outstretched wings across his glistening bare chest. The small boy who had first greeted them now sidled up. Groping in his trouser pocket he brought out a tarnished mirror and held it up to Silent Owl’s face. He recoiled in horror, covering his eyes and then peeping between his fingers before jumping back again. The child screamed with laughter. One of the men heard and came over, holding out a pocket watch. Silent Owl listened to it ticking with his mouth agape, turned it over and bit it. Scratching his head he held it out at arm’s length, head cocked, before returning it. A crowd was gathered now to watch him. He started to dance in a circle, leaping and spinning in the air while he roared out a song. By the time Tom had developed the pictures, Silent Owl had collected a fistful of coins thrown at him by his audience.

  When they returned to the woods that evening Tom said, “Well, we both earned good money there.”

  He watched his companion closely to see how he would react. Did he feel humiliated by his treatment? Silent Owl stared at Tom before roaring with laughter.

  “The white faces are easier to trick than the turkey cocks,” he said.

  “You would do that again? It would be even better with a headdress.”

  Silent Owl’s face stiffened. “Only a chief can wear one and I would never be chosen.”

  He turned his attention to the trout they were grilling. After eating they were ready to curl up in the beaver skins for the night. Tom rolled up his jacket to make a pillow and felt the hard edge of the forgotten flask. They should celebrate. He gulped some whisky down and handed the flask to Silent Owl. He coughed after the first swallow, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and then drank steadily, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Tom settled down, feeling his head swaying. It was so long since he had taken any spirits. Silent Owl started crooning in a falsetto voice. The singing soon turned to snoring. Tom smiled and fell asleep.

  Chapter 35

  Journey Across Cape Breton Island, Summer 1863

  Tom’s eyes snapped open in the darkness. He could feel his heart fluttering against his ribs. Some noise must have awoken him, something different from the usual creeping and rustling night sounds. It was close by, a murmuring in his ear, followed by a grip on his shoulder. He jerked his body into a sitting position and saw the gleam of Silent Owl’s teeth in front of him.

 
“What’s the matter?” His tongue stumbled in his parched mouth.

  Silent Owl grinned and pressed Tom’s chest to make him lie down again. There was a shuffling as he lay down too, grasping him with sinewy hands. Tom stiffened and struggled to get up. The hands loosened and started to gentle him by stroking up and down his back. Tom’s head, still befuddled from whisky, was unable to command his heavy limbs to move. He stretched and sighed as the agile hands ranged the length of his body, over his rump and down his legs. He couldn’t stop himself from rocking on waves of pleasure. Then he clenched, anticipating pain as he felt pressure from behind him. Silent Owl held back, waiting as he sensed the resistance.

  Suddenly Tom remembered the cave, the cave that he and Richard had found. They were hugging the coastline and taking soundings, somewhere on the western side of the island of Harris. Tom knew that they had to take the boat inside the cave to check its dimensions, but he was terrified of the darkness within.

  “Let the oars go. The tide’ll carry us in,” Richard whispered. Tom agreed, trembling.

  Once inside, he gasped in surprise as the cave opened out into a chamber with a vaulted ceiling, like the nave of a church. So now he let his body open and accept, letting it be filled. He felt whole, complete, no longer alone.

  They lay entwined and Silent Owl soon fell asleep. Tom looked at the darkness surrounding them, vast and starspeckled. A half-forgotten phrase brushed past his thoughts. “Under a wide and starry sky.” Where did that come from? Wordsworth? For so long he had kept that book of poetry, but he must have left it behind on the Porcupine. As he floated into sleep he suddenly remembered a lisping voice saying those words. Louis, the solemn boy, looking out through the window. Louis who wanted to be a writer, not an engineer.

  In the morning he wondered for an instant if he had dreamed about what had happened, but there was Silent Owl gazing at him. They both grinned. Tom’s heart unfurled and billowed, breasting the waves. There was no undertow of guilt or regret. He knew now that he could be at one with another person, without harming him.

  They were the only people in the world, the first inhabitants of the wilderness as they sped along in the seal-sleek canoe, stalked game, or lay down wrapped together in beaver skins. When they approached a village Tom would act the master, displaying his captive warrior as a photographer’s prop, charging extra for Silent Owl’s inclusion in the picture. Then in the evenings, Tom would take out his paints and try to capture the flight of the spirit behind the hooded eyes.

  “You had a good hunting trip,” Spring Thaw said, when they returned. “I knew you would.”

  Her eyes gleamed and Tom could only nod. Silent Owl slipped away the next day without warning. Tom kept his joy and his loss to himself as if his feelings were a monstrous being, a Minotaur hidden out of sight in a labyrinth. He tried to resume his life. He had delayed writing to Emma because he didn’t know what he could tell her. But the thought of her generous present shamed him into taking up his pen.

  Dearest Sister,

  I won’t begin with my usual apology although I have been tardy in replying. I know you are very busy tending to your family’s needs. I can understand better now what that is like as my own family is growing. Iain has married and although he is young, I believe that he will make a success of matrimony. My daughter-in-law is a wise young woman. No doubt you will be surprised to hear that she is called Spring Thaw and is an Indian, a Mi’kmaq. She was sent to an orphanage and given Effie as a name. She refused to answer to it despite being punished. Eventually she ran away, met Iain and a fondness grew between them.

  In the early days here, some of the settlers married Indian women. Now we are more civilized, the practice is frowned on. I used to share that view but Spring Thaw has opened my eyes. She exemplifies the best in both native and British mores. In some ways they are not so different. Certainly she and Iain have a similar attachment to the land. Both are frugal and industrious but like to sing, dance, and make merry once work is finished. I have wondered about how it is that they are so in tune with each other. Maybe it is because they both come from races who have been maligned by we English.

  Our family will soon welcome a new member as Spring Thaw expects an arrival early next year. She has gone to live with her own family until after the birth. “I can’t stay in this house of men,” is what she said. Although Iain misses her he understood her decision. “Women at home always go back to their mothers for the first baby,” he said.

  I have recently returned from a journey across the island as an itinerant photographer. I was accompanied by Silent Owl, my daughter-in-law’s brother who is a fine guide. For the first time since Richard’s death, I have a friend whom I would trust with my life.

  For a moment Tom stopped writing. If only I could tell her what he means to me, he thought. I cannot believe there is anything wrong in our affection for each other. He makes me a happier and a better man than I would be without him. Indian society, as far as I can tell, would not condemn us but Christian society would brand us sinners. He picked up his pen again with a sigh.

  As well as taking all those photographs on my journey, I painted a portrait of my companion. Much as I enjoy using a camera I don’t believe it can match a picture. It isn’t only the absence of color in the photograph but because it can only capture the subject’s expression for that one instant and then freeze it in time. The artist, however, has more leisure to convey the subtle play of changing emotions in his subject’s face. So he reaches further into his soul. Maybe you would consider that opinion fanciful and argue that the camera is a more dispassionate observer whereas the artist imposes his own impressions on his subject.

  I was amazed when I painted Silent Owl in his native war dress. He changed from a well-proportioned but unremarkable young man into a figure of such dignity and authority.

  Do you remember many years ago when our parents took us to a circus in the Abbey Fields in Kenilworth and we saw the lion tamer with his beasts? How mangy and thin those lions looked. Not at all the king of the beasts. We diminish both animals and men when we force them out of their natural setting.

  And I remember how angry Father was when I wept at the sight of the poor lions. “Don’t be a ninny. Dry your eyes.”

  All this traveling in the wilderness seems to have turned me into a philosopher. Or is it age and family responsibilities that have made me serious? Tell me about your family. What of your photographic experiments?

  Your affectionate brother,

  Tom

  “What are you doing?” The voice at his shoulder jolted him.

  “Daydreaming. I’ve just written to Emma.”

  “The farm’s so empty, isn’t it?” Iain said. “We’re like two old bodachs rattling around the house. When I was back home on Skye, there used to be lots of old bachelors, men who lived alone. Some couldn’t afford to marry. Others just preferred it.”

  He patted Tom’s shoulder and walked away. Tom blinked the moisture from his eyes, thinking how strange it was that his grown son had spoken to him in the words of a kind father.

  Chapter 36

  Newfoundland, 1864

  The cabin fever seemed worse that winter. Tom pined like a prisoner with a life sentence whether he stayed on the farm or worked in his studio. Sometimes he would shudder, thinking of how he would be locked up for desertion if he were ever captured. Finally, the tumbled ice that had piled up in the bay began to shift and slink away out to sea while on Bras d’Or Lake it shrank, thinned, and broke into floating islands. The thaw meant warmer days, muddy roads, and the return of Spring Thaw. She was accompanied by her brother and cradled in her arms was the new tiny stranger, a boy named Owlet. Like his namesake he had round, startled eyes. Both parents doted on him, his mother carrying him everywhere strapped to her body while Iain darted to and fro like a bird feeding his chick. The baby never cried because he was consoled the instant his face started to crease with distress. Tom tutted at such spoiling until Iain drew him aside. “Bo
th Indians and Highlanders know that you can’t give a baby too much love.”

  Tom was in no mood to argue. He and Silent Owl were planning their next expedition.

  “Your hunting trip, only you catch pictures instead of game,” Spring Thaw said.

  “We’ll go to the summer hunting grounds on Cold Island,” said Silent Owl. “And you will trust me to find my way there even though I’ve no pieces of paper.”

  ‘Newfoundland, the oldest settlement of all,’ Tom replied.

  ‘Not new to us. Our people went there every year, long before any of your white tribe arrived. You didn’t need nets or spears to catch fish. You scooped your hand over the side of the canoe and picked up handfuls of them.”

  “I trust you, but why don’t you draw a map for me?”

  Tom explained to him about scale, distance, and geographical features by drawing a map of the farm and its surroundings. “Your turn now.”

  Tom gave him a sheet of paper and some charcoal. After frowning at the empty paper, Silent Owl drew a ridge of soaring peaks cut through by a deep fjord. Then he sketched a herd of caribou and above them an eagle on the wing. There was no sense of scale but the spare, expressive lines made Tom gasp with envy. Silent Owl finished with a group of wigwams.

  “That’s our destination? You’ve an artist’s eye but it’s not a map. It doesn’t show me how to get there.”

  “All that’s in here.” Silent Owl tapped his head. He hurled the charcoal away and crumpled up the paper. “That’s good for war paint. Nothing else.” Tom was left smoothing out the creases and wondering at the skill of a man who had never had a drawing lesson in his life.