After he’d heard the story, seen the rifle, and looked at Cyril a second time, Malcolm told Jack to come out and help him stretch some pelts. He picked up the Ross rifle and brought it out with him. Rose didn’t say anything, except for Amelia to stay in and help her with something for supper.
Jack knew the pelts were an excuse. But he didn’t argue. He knew his dad would want to hear about the rifle incident from him alone.
“I didn’t know that guns could do that,” Jack began lamely, looking at the Ross rifle out by the shed.
“Anything a person can make can also break,” Malcolm replied, sounding almost philosophical. “It just depends on how they’re used, or who uses them.”
Malcolm tried the bolt in the rifle and could feel the dark heat rising in the back of his head. It was the anger of having seen guns look like that during the war. It was also the memory of the damage those guns could do when not used properly, or as intended. But most of all, it was the anger from its having struck again so close to home.
“I showed Cyril how the rifle worked before we went out,” Jack said.
“I showed you how to use it!” Malcolm roared. “You think you can teach someone with just one lesson? Soldiers couldn’t learn after months of drills and training!” He held out the rifle so Jack could see the gaping breech, and the place where some cogs on the bolt had broken off.
“Dad?” Jack was trying to find the right words. “Dad, what can I do to fix it?”
“Fix it!?” Malcolm was shaking, trying to control his anger. “Fix what? This rifle? Your brother?”
Jack looked away. He wondered how far he would have to go to get away from the explosion that was happening. He wondered about thunder and how far it echoed from up in the mountains.
“You can’t fix this rifle!” Malcolm yelled. “It’s busted! The mechanism needs to be replaced!” He held the rifle at arm’s length to show Jack. “And you can’t fix Cyril! His face is busted! He’ll have a scar to remind him for the rest of his life!”
Malcolm wanted to take the rifle and swing it hard against the side of the shed. He wanted to swing and hurl it into the Athabasca River. And, from the way he was feeling, he would probably have gotten it almost as far as that in that instant of rage.
But then he saw Jack’s face. A boy, a young man, bewildered and tearful. Afraid of what was happening and what his life had become. It was a look and memory from decades before. The war had followed him home. He had brought it home with him.
At that moment, the door of the house opened. Another image of war appeared.
“Dad, it was my fault,” Cyril pleaded.
There was only silence.
“Dad, I asked Jack to let me shoot. It’s my fault.”
Malcolm looked from one son to the other. From one memory to another. Memories old and new from which he could not escape.
“No,” Jack said, “I let him. I thought it was all right. We even cleaned the rifle the night before, out here in the shed.”
Malcolm looked down. Memories kept coming back. Long, cold nights at the front. The thunder of guns. The flash of explosions. The fear of those sleepless nights and of soldiers awaiting the punishment of the coming day. Of them fearfully, nervously doing what they could in the darkness of their imprisonment of war. And he had been one of them, praying, and promising that everything would be different if he made it through that night, and the next, and the next, and all the days and nights that might follow.
Malcolm looked away to the horizon and saw the sun of the late winter afternoon settling slowly down to the level of the trees. He was standing with his sons, the elusive future he once thought would never be his.
He looked at Cyril, now almost to his shoulders. Slowly Malcolm stretched out his right hand and, with the knuckle of his forefinger, stroked away the stream of tears flowing from his boy’s left eye. Cyril didn’t move. Perhaps it was defiance; perhaps it was him sensing that something far greater was happening.
Malcolm said, “You’d best wipe the other eye yourself. It looks mighty sore. And then you get into the house. Jack and I have some pelts to stretch before it gets too dark.”
There were about twenty pelts, mostly small. All of them the kind that could be pulled easily over the drying boards, their feet tacked so they would stay in place. They worked together. Malcolm used his knife to clean off some of the fat still adhering to the pelts. Jack found the right size board for each and tacked the pelt in place.
They worked together in silence until Jack said, “I’ve set some more of your old traps and our usual snares close to the house.” He was testing to see what he could say, or maybe to find out what his dad was thinking.
After a while Malcolm said, “I noticed some of the old traps weren’t in the shed. Whatever you can do here, aside from sawing boards, will be a help in the spring, or next summer.”
The meal afterward was quiet. Everyone pretended to be hungry for the stew that Rose and Amelia had prepared.
Malcolm finally broke the silence. “I see from the calendar that the next time I come back from the trap lines, it will probably be Christmas.”
Amelia and Cyril looked at each other on hearing that peculiar announcement, but decided not to ask any further. They’d heard about Christmas in one of the stories in a reader, but had never thought that such a thing could apply to them out in the bush, away from towns and people.
That night, Jack heard the other strange thing—quiet whispering coming from behind the curtain in the direction of his parents’ bed.
“Where are we on this thing, anyway?” Jack asked his mom the next morning. He was looking intently at the calendar, all curled up at the corners from being re-cycled for the last three years.
Cyril was near the stove, teasing one of the kittens. Amelia was outside with the rest of the cats, as she had already started to call them.
Rose understood Jack’s question, but Malcolm hadn’t said anything else by way of explanation. And he had left in the cold darkness of early morning. Probably to avoid any questions.
“We’re at the beginning of December, I think,” Rose answered, pulling in behind Jack and tracing her fingers over the numbers.
The days hadn’t mattered all that much before. And where they lived, there were no train whistles, no church bells, or any social schedule by which to gauge the progress of the year. Only nature’s seasons.
Then Rose said, almost brightly, “Your dad said he’d be home in three weeks. So, let’s just imagine that this is December second. It’s a Monday.” She found a pencil to circle that date. “We can keep track from today onward,” Rose said, standing back and admiring what she had done.
They had a schedule. They had joined the world of clocks and calendars.
“Is Christmas the red number?” Cyril asked, sensing the magnitude of the situation. Then he continued, “That means there should be at least twenty boards added to our lumber pile by then.”
“Your other eye will have to be really open before you can work on that,” Jack told him. “Although Amelia seems to be able to do about as much as you.”
Cyril appealed to his mom for medical advice. “Do you think my eye is healing fast enough?” he asked.
“You’ll see for yourself,” Rose answered, and then almost laughed at the realization that she had made a joke.
Things did seem different after that. It wasn’t just that Christmas was coming, either. There were a lot of things that suddenly became important. They had a future. They had things to do aside from the routine of just living from day to day and season to season.
18
Jack took control of the lumber yard when the weather permitted—although being boss wasn’t easy. Cyril was anxious to get back to work, but Amelia insisted that she had earned a spot on the workforce with the rip saw. She’d also stopped asking about shelves and a new bed.
“And besides,” Jack added, “you could get sawdust in your eye.”
It was mid-morning. They were having a tea break. They were in the thick of a December that had not let up with either snow or cold. All the new snow on the roof of their house at times made it look like a giant mushroom.
“I could try working on the top end of the saw,” Cyril persisted. “You could show me how, Jack. And that way, all three of us could be working.” He looked over to Amelia for support.
“And what would I do?” Rose almost laughed.
“Well, the lumber and the logs do keep getting covered with snow,” Jack hinted.
That seemed to work. Rose used the words “co-operation” and “rotation” as the four of them spelled each other off in the various positions and jobs around the saw pit, once Cyril had mastered guiding the saw from above. The only times there were only three of them working at sawing was when Jack went to check his traps, or when Rose decided that something needed to be done about meals.
A few days before the big red-numbered day on the calendar called Christmas, they were down to a few small spruce logs and all of the bigger, longer ones. Jack had told them they would be left until last, once they had developed enough skill.
“Dad should be home tomorrow, or the day after, shouldn’t he?” Jack asked at supper.
“And then it’s Christmas!” Amelia shouted, startling Harley and Samantha, as she’d named the orange kitten.
“Yes,” Rose stated slowly, looking over at Jack. He looked like he might have more to say.
“I was thinking that maybe I should go out and meet him,” Jack said. Then, gaining courage, “The snow’s deep. He’ll be carrying some bales of fur. I would be breaking trail for him and helping.”
“You don’t know the trail,” Rose said flatly. “And you shouldn’t be out there on your own. It’s not safe.”
As soon as she had said those things, however, Cyril joined in on the argument. “I could go, too,” he smiled. “I’ve been snowshoeing for years, Mom.”
“The trail’s along the river,” Jack stated. “I went hunting that way with Dad. He said that we were more than halfway to his trap lines. Besides, we probably won’t even get a mile or so before we meet up with him.”
“And if you don’t?” Rose shot back. “How far is it to his cabin?”
“Just over ten miles, I think.”
“Dad usually walks it in half a day,” Cyril added. “Even with a full pack.”
Rose played her final card as a protective mother. “But you don’t have a gun. And your dad did say there were more wolves and coyotes this year.”
“Mom,” Jack said, with a certain degree of authority, “there’ll be two of us. We’ll be making lots of noise. Besides, they like to hunt at night. We’ll leave first thing in the morning.” He realized that the last part sounded like he was in command, so he added, “Okay?”
Cyril nodded in the background.
Amelia added, “Maybe we could do something special while they’re gone,” and joined in on the nodding.
The next day promised to be clear and cold. The morning rush to the outhouse was their weather report. There were still stars in the sky when they looked up.
The sun was starting to shine on their backs a short while later, when Jack and Cyril began their slow trek through the snow that had covered the trail in the last few weeks. Jack knew they would not travel as fast as their dad, but they would try. They also knew that it would be at least noon before there would be any chance of meeting up with him. The snow was deep and heavy.
“It’s this way,” Jack told Cyril, when they got down to near the small river.
They weren’t the only ones to follow the path of least resistance, though. The hollow depressions of a moose from a few days before showed the way for the next half-mile or so.
“How do you know it’s a moose?” Cyril asked.
“Big prints, but in a straight line, like a deer,” Jack told him. “He’s looking for a swampy area for something to forage on.”
“Has Dad seen them up at the cabin?”
“I don’t know. He hasn’t said, has he?”
“He never says very much,” Cyril replied. “Did he ever talk to you about the rifle we busted?”
“No. Not really. Like you said, he doesn’t say very much.” The snow was almost knee deep, even with their snowshoes. “It’s your turn to lead and break trail,” Jack ordered.
Cyril reluctantly forged ahead. His shorter legs made things a lot harder for him. It certainly made it harder for him to talk.
The sun had gotten as high as it was going to get. It hardly made it to the height of the trees before starting to settle back down to earth. Jack tried to remember if there had been a full moon the night before. He wasn’t worried. He just wanted to know, and he was angry with himself for not having checked.
“Mom gave us some biscuits. We might as well take a break and eat them now.”
“I thought you were never going to stop,” Cyril whistled. “This is hard work.”
“You get used to it on the trap lines,” Jack told him. Then he added, “Maybe you should start coming with me. I could teach you a few things.”
“Yeah, like you did with the rifle. Shit, my cheek’s throbbing worse with all this walking.”
They were almost five miles from home. Jack figured this was not the time nor the place for an argument. They were hot and sweaty from lifting their snowshoes through the weight of all the new snow. They munched on their biscuits in silence.
“Are we going all the way to Dad’s cabin?” Cyril asked, when they started out again. “It’s ten miles. What if he didn’t start out for the house today?”
“We’ll go for a while longer,” Jack said. “We’ll have a packed trail for the way back. It’ll be easier for us. And Dad will appreciate the easier walking on it, too.”
About an hour later, they stopped again. It had been a day of hard work. And the trail wasn’t straight or flat. It simply followed the path of least resistance, as it vaguely meandered along beside the little river that gurgled beside them from time to time.
“How much farther?” Cyril asked again.
“How should I know? I’ve never been to Dad’s trapping cabin.”
“Then how do you know how long it will take for us to get there?”
It was a simple question, highlighting a simple fact. It would soon be getting dark, and the signs of the trail, such as they were, would be harder to follow.
“I don’t know! We don’t know!” Jack sounded frustrated at the dilemma. They could flounder on and hope to get to the cabin, maybe. Or they could turn tail and head back to the house. At least the trail back would be packed and easy to follow, even at night.
Jack was tired. Without saying anything else, he turned around, pushed past Cyril, and forged ahead on the way back. He knew it was the right decision, even though he was not happy making it. “Come on!”
The moon came up almost as soon as the sun went down. Not full, but it would give some light. It would be a cold, clear night. Jack knew they’d have to maintain a steady pace just to stay warm. What he didn’t know, or couldn’t figure out, was why they had not reached the cabin or their dad. Less than a mile farther, they found out.
“Shit! There’s someone else on the trail,” Cyril wheezed. He was in the lead at this point, and confused. They were both staring at an intersection to their trail.
“It’s Dad,” Jack said, knowing he’d be in trouble again. “Look at the arrow in the snow. He knows we’ve been here.”
“But he didn’t wait for us. He’s heading to the house.” Then Cyril asked a more obvious question. “How did
we miss him?”
Jack didn’t answer. But what he did say led them to making another very serious decision. “He’s not alone. Look.” He pointed to several pairs of big tracks.
“Shit . . . ” Cyril whispered it slowly this time. “Wolves? And they’re following Dad, aren’t they? What will we do?”
Jack knew he couldn’t be wrong this time. “We could try to go to Dad’s cabin and hole up. But we don’t know how long that might take us. And there could be more wolves. Or we could try to head for home and hope to catch up with Dad.”
“And the wolves,” Cyril said ominously, his teeth chattering.
“When we find one, we’ll find the other.” Jack had made his decision. “Those animals are probably following the scent of his pelts. That’s what they’re interested in.”
Without waiting for any comment or argument, Jack set off at a rapid pace. He knew Cyril had no choice but to follow and keep up. They could move a lot faster over a trail that had now been packed by three people. And at least as many big animals.
Jack stopped at the top of every rise. Not to rest but to listen.
“With the load of his pack, and with the coldness of the trail, we might be able to hear his snowshoes somewhere up ahead,” Jack whispered back to Cyril, as the two of them stopped for the third time.
Cyril was doubled over, his hands resting on his knees, forcing the cold air in and out of his burning lungs. “And that means,” he wheezed, “that those wolves will also hear us.”
“No,” Jack assured him. “Once they’re on the trail of some-thing, they stay on it.”
“Listen!” But Cyril hardly needed to say it. It was the un-mistakable “Paff!” sound of their Cooey .22 off in the distance.
They heard it pierce the moonlit winter air six times. About ten seconds between each shot.
“Shit!” Cyril exclaimed. He couldn’t help using that word again because of the implications. “Six wolves? A whole pack?”
Athabasca Page 16