Jack was starting to walk on. Walking was like watching the eagles. It helped him think. He wondered if he should have told Cyril any of this. It had always been his secret. His and his dad’s.
“Dad can’t have an accident. Not this winter,” Cyril exclaimed, like he’d just solved a puzzle. “He wants to build a scow. And we can’t do that until the spring, when it’s warm and his trapping’s done.”
Jack was almost pleased that Cyril had said that. It meant he was thinking about things, too. “You’re right. He wants to build a scow for the river, and for us to go to Edmonton,” Jack answered. “But I don’t think he wants to come with us. I don’t think he really likes people. I think he watched too many of them die in the war. I think . . . ”
And here Jack stopped again and looked back at Cyril. “I think he wishes he had died in the war, too.”
“But he never talks about being in the war.” Cyril looked baffled.
“Maybe not. But that doesn’t keep him from remembering, and then thinking about it. I think he has dreams about it.”
“I dreamed about wolves chasing me and trying to eat me,” Cyril said. “But that was when I was little.”
“This is different. I think his dreams really hurt him.”
Jack didn’t say any more. They were almost back at the house. Even just smelling the wood smoke and seeing it in the distance made him afraid they might be overheard.
“Does Mom know any of this?” Cyril asked.
Jack stopped and looked down at his little brother. “No. And we can’t tell her. She seems to be happy with what’s happening. You know, with Christmas and all? And then building the scow in the spring? She and Amelia have been working on dresses.”
Jack left it at that. He wondered if he’d maybe said too much. Wondered if he might have made things worse. Sometimes sharing a secret can do that.
“This is between the two of us,” Jack hissed at his brother. He’d stopped at the edge of the clearing to make sure Cyril understood. “I need to think some more about all of this. But if you talk, things could all fall apart.”
Cyril nodded obediently. Under his breath he said, “Shit,” again as he fell into step behind Jack.
21
Jack and Cyril were working on the “big, big” logs, as they called them, when the longer, brighter days of winter started to arrive. Those were the days when, if you worked hard enough, and it wasn’t too windy, you could soon be down to your shirt sleeves.
Malcolm had told the boys to wait until he was home from his trapping, and he would show them how to set up the block and tackle so they could slide and hoist the big spruce logs into place for sawing. Rose and Amelia were also outside for that event. Rose assumed that some extra help might be needed after Malcolm had gone back up to his trap lines again.
Those big logs needed to be sawn into thicker, wider boards for the bottom of the scow. Malcolm had stayed back an extra day, just to help with squaring off one side of the first log. The boys knew he also needed to make some calculations.
“We need to figure out how wide those boards will be.” Malcolm said, scribing a square outline on the end of a big log. “If they’re all about the same size, we’ll need ten or twelve of them for the bottom of the thing.”
Cyril whistled at that order for lumber. Jack just nodded his head. He’d already done some checking for himself.
“Do we have enough time to saw all those boards and then build the thing?” Jack asked.
Malcolm half-snorted, half-laughed. “I remember them building a few scows at Whitecourt,” he said. “Always in the spring when there was little else to do. A crew of four or five men could build one in a week.”
“Once all the boards were cut, right?” Cyril asked.
Malcolm nodded. “Their boards came from the mill,” he said. “But not much better than these.” He almost laughed again, but instead, it turned into a long spell of coughing.
Rose had overheard their conversation. She smiled at seeing them working so well together. And she smiled at what the project was leading up to. She pulled Amelia back into the house with her. It all seemed like a good reason to cook something special. There were still some raisins left from Christmas.
That evening, Malcolm became the boys’ teacher, unlike the other evenings when their schooling fell to Rose. He asked for one of their scribblers and turned to the last page. “This is what you’re cutting those boards for,” he said, as he began to sketch a plan for their family scow.
“It’s just a box,” Amelia said, squeezing in and looking over her brothers’ shoulders.
Jack and Cyril shushed her, as they asked questions of their own, and wondered how things would hold together.
“Those boards are like ribs,” Malcolm said, drawing an arrow and adding another label. “They hold everything together, once the nails are clinched. And the front needs to be sloped to help it get over rocks and sand bars and things.” He cleared his throat and continued to add details and drawings of special sections.
“But what keeps the water out?” Cyril wondered. “We can’t stretch canvas over it like a canoe or use birch-bark patches.”
“Remember that big bag of light stuff?” Malcolm asked. “It’s full of coils of oakum. It gets forced into the cracks between the boards and then covered with tar.”
“Like the stuff you’ve got for the roof?” Jack asked.
Malcolm laughed and coughed again. “Except,” he said conspiratorially, “we won’t need it for this roof anymore after this spring. It can leak all it wants.”
It was a long evening and a short night. Malcolm wanted to be gone before any of the others were up. He was stoking the fire before he left, trying to be quiet, when Rose appeared beside him.
“It sounded like you were getting a cold last night,” she said, handing him a small package. “There are a few figs from the dried fruit from Christmas. My mother used to say that figs were a cure for a cough or cold.”
As Malcolm reached out to take them, Rose reached in and hugged him. It was an unusual gesture at that time of day, or for any other time of day, for that matter. She wanted to say something. To maybe thank him for working with the boys, and also for helping them to find their way. She hoped that her one-sided embrace would say more than words.
A few minutes later, Malcolm had put on his snowshoes, hoisted his pack, and disappeared into what was left of the shadows of the night, and what was still left of winter.
22
This was the first time Rose had worried about Malcolm leaving for his trap lines. For the seven winters they had already been there, the trap lines had been his job and his family’s means of support. And, even during the Depression, each year had been better than the last.
But now, this year had been one of transition. It wasn’t simply the reality of Jack asserting his independence and proving that he was no longer a boy. It was how he had done it or, rather, how he had come back. Jack wasn’t defeated or beaten into boyhood obedience. If anything, he had become more like his father.
Rose looked out at her boys doing men’s work with that big saw, day after day. They were working together. Encouraging each other under Jack’s leadership. They had left Brûlé as little boys and floated down the Athabasca to this place, where time and chance had transformed them.
“Mom?” Cyril yelled from on top of the saw pit, as he took a turn in directing the blade. “Do you want us to cut you some boards for anything?”
He was grinning with a look of accomplishment. Jack had counted and re-counted their stacks of boards. They were on the last one they would need for the scow, and there were two more spruce logs that could be sawn up for something.
Rose and Amelia had both turned to look from where they were propping up the clothesline. Today, things were actually flapping in the breeze. In the sunshine promise of spring, laundry no longer f
roze into boards.
“No!” Rose yelled back. “But you could always cut up some extra boards as spares, or possibly for boxes to store things in on the scow. You know, to keep things from rolling around?”
She left it as a question so they could think about it and make a decision. She knew they were anxious to get on with something else. The warmer weather had already made them bring in their traps and snares. Jack had muttered something about the coats of the animals already starting to change.
Those changes also meant that Malcolm would soon be coming in for the last time. It wasn’t a routine but, in the evenings, they had each begun to look toward the hole in the bush and the trail coming down from his trapping cabin. Malcolm’s final return would mark the beginning of the end of their life along the Athabasca.
23
The final two logs, a small one and a large one, both with flaws or noticeable bends in them, had been sawn into boards and set aside as extras. Jack and Cyril had worked into the evenings to do this. Probably, as Rose surmised, so they could get a better look up into the bush for their dad.
It was already days since they had anticipated Malcolm’s return. A mild Chinook had passed, and the snow had already settled around their little house—a possible reason why Malcolm might not have ventured out on a soft and slushy trail with heavy packs. But now it was cold again. The trail was hard.
“Maybe Cyril and I should go up there to help him,” Jack said one evening. Although it wasn’t really said as a possibility, but rather as a decision already made.
“Yeah,” Cyril added. “He’s brought in one or two bales every time he’s come back, but there’s also a lot of other stuff to carry.”
Rose nodded. Without saying it, the boys had expressed all of their worries. She made some biscuits for them to take on the trail. The three children played dominoes. There were no shouts of victory or complaints about cheating.
Jack and Cyril tied on their snowshoes the next morning. The trail close to the house was hard enough to walk on without them, but they knew there could still be a lot of deep snow left in the bush. The sun was just coming up and beginning to shine on their backs as they left.
“He’s probably wondering why we took so long.” Cyril tried to sound cheerful, when he and Jack stopped for their first break later that morning. Jack had called it because he figured they were about halfway. They were both chewing on a biscuit and some dried meat.
Cyril then asked the obvious question they had all been thinking about, but which nobody had put into words. “You don’t think something’s happened for Dad to take this long, do you?”
“Nothing’s ever happened before. Why should anything happen now?” Jack sounded angry. Probably because, deep down, he was. Changing, going back, was not something that Malcolm Whyte had wanted to do. Jack had been able to figure that much out. It was something that he wanted for his family, but not for himself. He could imagine his dad deliberately taking his time because he wanted to avoid change. Maybe he was even afraid of it.
“Come on,” Jack ordered Cyril. “He said there were more wolves and coyotes this year. He probably needs help with the heavier work. He also set some bigger traps farther away to try to keep any wolves from raiding his other traps.”
“You mean, more distance, more time, and more work. Right?” Cyril chewed on some salty dried meat as he ran to catch up.
Jack was relieved when they finally saw smoke rising from the stovepipe on the trapping cabin—although he didn’t tell Cyril that. He’d never seen the cabin before. It looked hardly bigger than a small shed, like the one at the house, and a lot lower.
“Hello! Dad!” Jack yelled from a distance, not wanting their arrival to be too much of a surprise.
It wasn’t. “What kept you?” were Malcolm’s words of greeting. “There’s more here than I can manage by myself. Too many coyotes this winter.” He coughed to clear his throat.
He was still sitting on his small bunk. He hadn’t come out as his boys had untied their snowshoes, banged them together to knock the snow off, and stuck them into the snow near the door. It took Jack and Cyril some time to adjust to the dim light after they came in. The only light came through some translucent animal gut stretched over a small hole in the door. The door itself closed a small opening and hung on rawhide hinges. The door wall could be covered on the inside by a big hide that rolled down to keep out some of the winds and drafts.
“We’ve come to give you a hand, if you need it,” Jack said haltingly, not knowing what to say or what to ask. He and Cyril were still both in the doorway, waiting for their father to give them some indication of what was needed or expected.
“We finished sawing all the logs,” Cyril said. And, not receiving any response, he added, “When do we start building the scow?”
After a while Malcolm said, “That’s a good job for the spring, once the ground has dried. It’s not nice to work in the mud.”
“We could spread some sawdust,” Cyril began.
But Jack cut him off. “It’s too late to start back now, isn’t it? What can we do?”
Malcolm looked up at his boys. “I’ve gotten behind,” he confessed, waving a beaver pelt he’d been working on, stretching it over its circular frame. “I’ve cleared out most of the traps but didn’t reset them. You boys could check the lines again and bring in the traps. At least, as many as you can handle. It’s time to pack it in. And take the .22.” He pointed to the corner by the door. “The .22 long rifle shells are on that little shelf up above. Just put a few in your pocket, in case you need to use it.”
Jack knew what he meant as far as the rifle was concerned. A large animal still in a trap couldn’t be finished off with a blow from the hatchet. And it had been a good winter for wolves and coyotes.
“I’ll carry the rifle,” Cyril volunteered. “You carry the shells.” When they got outside, he was confused about which way to go. “Where are the trap lines?” he asked, looking at Jack.
“They must be out back.” Jack pointed the way after tying on his snowshoes. “We didn’t cross any trails on the way, did we?”
The trap line trails were there, leading out along the little river and its winding valley. Every forty or fifty yards, there was a smaller branch of the trail where a trap would be, off to one side or the other. They had collected almost three dozen small traps, none of them set, when they came to a loop in the trail that looked like it hadn’t been traveled for some time. It led upward, and looked like it might be for one of the bigger traps.
“There aren’t any more beaver traps out, are there?” Cyril asked, nodding toward a flat area and a swamp.
“No. He only had six of those. They were in the cabin already. I think it’s too late for beaver now, anyway.”
“That must have been the last beaver Dad was working on,” Cyril said.
They’d come to the first of the large traps. They found a coyote that was still alive. The animal looked beautiful, worn out, and defeated, all at the same time. It made little effort even to snarl, as Cyril handed the Cooey rifle to Jack and then stood aside as Jack finished it off. It was a beautiful animal that was on the verge of starvation.
“It looks like it’s been here for days,” Jack said, as he began the task of skinning it out, while Cyril got busy with the chain and wire that had held the trap and its victim to a big cedar tree. He knew they wouldn’t be back that way again, assuming the trap line made a loop back to the cabin or other trails.
“Were you crying back there?” Cyril asked a little farther on. “It’s only a coyote, and a good-looking pelt. It would have raided other traps.”
“Maybe,” Jack admitted as they trudged on. “Killing might be necessary, but it’s not fun.”
That was all he said as he picked up their pace. He didn’t know how long this loop might be, or how many traps they might find. What he didn’t say was that he’d
seen the look of that coyote before. He’d seen it in his father’s eyes.
It was after nightfall when they got back to the cabin. There had been one other coyote and five more traps to bring in. The coyote had been dead for some time. Jack wondered how long it had been since his dad had checked on that long trap line. He wondered about a lot of things.
Even with the evening cooling down so quickly in the dry air sliding down from the mountains, the heat in the cabin seemed almost stifling to Jack and Cyril. But their father still looked cold.
Malcolm had put on some tea for them all, and Jack opened the small sack with biscuits and dried meat that he and Cyril still had. He shared it all around, saving one biscuit each for the next day. He hoped it would be cold enough for easy traveling, and that the wind from the west wasn’t the beginning of a Chinook.
“What do we still have to do?” Cyril asked.
“Well,” Malcolm coughed and cleared his throat, “you boys can probably pack up and head out with most of the things first thing in the morning. I just want to check the beaver traps one more time. They would have been hard for you to spot.”
“How many coyotes and wolves did you get this winter?” Jack asked, almost immediately. “We brought in two more this afternoon.”
“It’ll be more than twenty,” Malcolm answered. “There were also two that we shot earlier on, remember?”
A little bit later, Jack and Cyril walked out along the trail, probably a lot farther than they really needed to, to pee before turning in for the night.
“Didn’t you say he only had six beaver traps?” Cyril whispered hoarsely. “Then why does he need to check on the beavers in the morning? Those traps are already hanging in the cabin.”
“Because he’s sick,” Jack said. “And I don’t think he wants to leave.”
“You mean, here? Not yet?”
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