The 53rd Parallel Page 3

  “I've got another child growin' in me.”

  Brian pushed the table away and pivoted in his chair to face his wife.

  “I've been told. Eamon knew, his missus knew, what's next, the whole feckin' village knows an' then you tell the father.”

  “You haven't been home now, have you?”

  “I sleep next to you every night, how the hell else would you be carryin' again?”

  “That's the only time you're home, to crawl on top of me.”

  “I'm just sayin' you ought not be tellin' others before you tell the father… or are you tellin' me somethin' else now?”

  Deirdre entered the full lamp light and took one more step to slap Brian. He caught her wrist and held her arm but as Deirdre began to swing with her other arm he pushed her away, hard. She stumbled back, slipped and fell, and hit her head on the wall, but that was just a glancing blow for her back took the full force flat on the hard floor. Her cry at the shock was lost as her breath was knocked out of her. Her body twisted as the pain demanded.

  Brian saw he'd hurt her and rushed to her side.

  “Oh, here now, I'm sorry, Deirdre.”

  He tried to lift her to her feet but she couldn't rise, for a second wave of pain twisted her back.

  “No, hooo, no… jest… hoo… let me lie here for a moment.”

  Brian cupped her head, and she lay there, then a smaller wave of pain jerked her up and Brian caught her head when the spasm released her. He had felt how cold the floor was so he wrapped his arms around her the next time she flinched in pain and he carried her momentum forward.

  “Lemme get you into bed. Can you get up?”

  He picked her up as she winced and whined and twisted to relieve more pain. He carried her back into the darkness of the bedroom.

  “I've a… baby growin' in me Bri… ya can't hit me when you feel like it.”

  “I didn't hit you. It was that Red Bull Demon in me who pushed you; he's been dancin' round all day. You're not bad hurt, are you?”

  “Of course I'm bad hurt.”

  He placed her gently on the bed, then knelt at her side.

  “Do I need to get someone?”

  “Let me lie here… hoo… let me see.”

  The worst pain didn't return and slowly she was able to relax her body on the bed.

  “That wasn't me, you know that. I'm the man who is goin' to get us outta here, Deirdre, that's who I am. I'm the man who will make this dream come true an' some folks today was laughin' at it an' since then the Demon has been testin' an' tauntin' me.”

  “Just let me rest here.” She folded her arm over her face. “Without havin' to listen to your nonsense.”

  “You want me to leave you?”

  “I want you to leave me alone and let me rest.”

  Brian patted her shoulder, stood, and left the room. He returned to his paper, picked up the pencil, and underlined everything he had written.

  A week later Maureen was in a Customs line waiting to claim her luggage—the two large trunks she had checked into stowage on the Dublin-to-Holyhead ferry. Three young British soldiers stood by and she had casually allowed them to admire her when she passed to get in line. She cocked her hip when she turned back to catch their gaze. Then she smiled and offered a wave that beckoned them to her.

  “I wasn't sure if you soldier boys are lookin' serious or lookin' bored.”

  “See 'ere now, birdie, it's what a 'ighly trained British soldier has been 'ighly trained to do, to look 'ighly trained.”

  “You have to be trained to be serious, do you?”

  “That's 'cause otherwise, deep down inside, we're just like you Irish. We're all of us just lookin' for a little bit a' fun.”

  “A little bit a' fun? Just so happens I'm on my way to London to join my girlfriends for a little bit a' fun.”

  “Lookin' for a bit a' fun in London are you?”

  “An' did I say there's three of 'em?”

  “Four Irish lasses enjoying Londontowne, without an escort?”

  “An' those other three, they're the pretty ones.”

  “Listen to this birdie sing.”

  “We got a leave comin' Tuesday.”

  “So I've got an offer for you highly-trained British soldiers. If you'll fetch those two trunks for me right over there, those two big ones an' mind 'em careful, they're heavy with everythin' dear to me. It took one Irish lad to carry 'em, may take all three of you.”

  “Ah now, birdie, you give me a chance and I'll be 'appy to show you what one good British soldier can do.”

  “If you'll help me get 'em loaded on me bus, I'll write our address out for you an' as soon as you get into London, we'll find out what the British Army means by a little bit a' fun.”

  “An' 'ow do we know you'll give us the proper address?”

  “I don't see anyone queuin' up to offer a better deal, so… It's those two trunks, right there. Careful with 'em. Me friends back home warned me to watch out for British soldiers. Whatta you think they meant by that?”

  Chapter 3

  The River Flows North

  That same day four Ojibway fished the River that drained the great sweep of northwestern Ontario wilderness, collecting and carrying the waters north to Hudson Bay. They were two men and two boys, and they fished the River where it opened up to a massive lake that the Ojibway call Kaputowaganickcok, “The Lake where the Funereal Fires Burned on Shore.” They worked from a large wooden freight canoe, hauling in their gill net.

  Joe Loon was the elder to his family clan. The younger man was Albert Loon, Joe Loon's nephew, though adopted and raised as his son after Albert's father never returned from a hunting trip when Albert was a young boy.

  They hauled and folded the net between them while Mathew Loon, Albert's nine-year-old son, and Simon Fobister, Joe Loon's seven-year-old grandson, pulled walleyes from the net and slipped them into the wet burlap bags at their feet. It was proving to be a good haul.

  They reset the net above the shoal below Top Rock Hole then headed back to their village a couple of miles north where the River had carved out a quiet bay. Joe Loon paddled from the stern, Albert from the bow, and the boys made plans for the last hours of daylight as they paddled from opposite sides in the middle. Together they found a steady pace and cut through the waters briskly, easily.

  They paddled across the waters their ancestors had fished for over 200 years, driven there from the East not by European settlers but by Iroquois and then driving the Dakota they found here further West out onto the Great Plains after a hundred years of forest battles and ambushes.

  They turned wide of a large island when no one recognized the two boats pulled up on the shore of the island's southern point. Without seeing the boats' owners, they knew they belonged to the white man.

  The village wasn't far from the island and Joe Loon guided the freight canoe in line with two others and next to the smaller birch bark canoe the children had named Nigig, Otter, for the elders described Otter's grace as the model for the children as they learned to handle the light craft. Back from shore at the edge of the forest were two large canvas miner's tents, a smaller tent, three full-sized birch-bark wigwams, and one small wigwam. Joe Loon's clan, the Ojibway of these Keewatin forests, had kept camp here since late in the spring and had for generations.

  Joe Loon was greeted by his wife, Naomi. Albert's widowed mother stood with her and as the oldest woman of the clan she was the Nokomis. Albert shared his wigwam with his wife Sarah and their three children and his mother. Simon Fobister and his mother, Joe Loon's only surviving daughter, lived in the wigwam closest to Joe Loon's wigwam. Simon's father abandoned his family when Simon was very young.

  Old George Fobister, no older than Joe Loon but called Old George since he was a young man, lived alone in the smallest wigwam. Louis Assiniboine and his wife and two children slept in one of the tents, Sam Turtle and his family in the other. Simon Fobister and Mathew Loon were the oldest boys of the clan's eight children.


  All of the children appeared from the bush to greet the returning fishermen and were followed by the rest of the clan.

  “Ahneen.”

  “Ahneen.”

  After they unloaded the canoe Joe Loon put his hand on Mathew's shoulder and waited for everyone's attention.

  “I have an adventure for a boy who will soon become a man.”

  “Yes, Grandfather.”

  “The white man camps at Many Tall Women Island. You will go there now. You will sell them fish for their meal.”

  “They will speak the white man's words to me, Grandfather. I do not understand many of their words.”

  “The elders tell stories of the days our people traded with the white man before we knew their language. Take them four fish and bring me their largest silver coin that will trade for many good things at the Hudson Bay Post. Then you will have your own story to tell your grandchildren.”

  Simon stood tall next to Mathew.

  “I will be in this story with Big Brother.”

  “Yes, you will be in the story with Big Brother.”

  The boys put their arms over each other's shoulders and followed Joe Loon as he retrieved three walleyes and a northern pike from the day's catch.

  “You will take Nigig,” their grandfather told them. The boys loaded the fish in the birch-bark canoe and before they climbed in and shoved off Joe Loon called to the spirits to watch over them.

  Simon paddled Nigig from the bow, Mathew from the stern. As they found the rhythm to their strokes that created the greatest speed, Mathew allowed himself a sharp bark of joy. Simon smiled to hear it.

  Just behind the boys This Man paddled his canoe. He had heard Joe Loon's call, waited for them when they left the bay, and followed the boys into the open water. Soon the island was in sight and This Man kept pace with the boys as they approached the island and found a place to beach their canoe, out of sight of the white man's camp. This Man paddled in to shore and beached his canoe next to Nigig.

  “What do we do next, Big Brother?”

  “We will arrive at their camp quietly. We will watch them before we let them know we are here.”

  “Why?”

  “We will watch them so we will know what we must do to bring them into our story.”

  “Grandfather taught you this.”

  “Yes.”

  “This is what we will do.”

  The boys ran through the forest at a fast trot, cutting between fir trees, leaping over logs, and ducking under branches, the bag of fish bouncing over Mathew's shoulder, Simon behind but staying close.

  This Man ran just ahead.

  They slowed in the same step when they saw the trees opening at the far shore line and a few steps later they heard a voice ring loudly. The boys had visited this island before; they had explored it in play many times, and they knew a small, rocky bluff just ahead would let them look down on the campsite. This Man and the boys followed a barely-worn path to the top of the bluff. They crouched around a boulder and then crawled closer to the edge, Mathew behind a stump, Simon behind Mathew, This Man standing behind a tree, watching the boys as they studied the camp just below them.

  Two men near the cook's fire were speaking loudly.

  “I didn't mean to start an argument with you. I'm just trying to get you to acknowledge that they won't build the next mill anywhere near here, that's all. I'll bet you a week's wages they'll build it closer to Dryden.”

  “I don't want to bet with you.”

  “Because you know I'm right.”

  “Because I know they sent us here to do a job for 'em. So let's do it right, eh?”

  “If you thought I intended to do otherwise, you don't know me.”

  A white woman stepped out of the tent and walked to the fire. She was holding a big bowl of batter and was beating it with the spoon she had just retrieved from the tent. There was a frying pan over the fire. The boys had seen one or two white men every time they went to the Post, but very few white women, so they were curious and watched her closely. She poured the batter into the pan, but not nearly as much as their grandmother poured when she was making fry bread. This white woman poured just a thin layer and the boys were curious so they studied her.

  After a few moments she wrapped the frying pan handle with a towel, grabbed it with both hands, and stood. When she flipped the pan and sent the disc of batter up into the air, Simon's hold on Mathew's arm tightened, and when the flying disc turned once and she caught it in the pan Simon cried softly, “Yaway.”

  “Quiet.”

  She returned the pan to the fire then turned, looked up at the bluff, and waved to the boys to come on down. They scooted back, looked at each other, then smiled.

  “We will meet a white woman. We will find out what she is cooking. This will be a good story to tell the others.”

  “You are the oldest.”

  This Man stayed on the bluff to watch over the boys as they stepped into the opening of the camp filled with three white men—another had been resting in the tent but he came out when the others called to him to see the Indian boys. The white woman stood in front of the men. She smiled at the boys when they stepped out of the forest. They looked only at her. Simon took Mathew's arm again and whispered to his cousin.

  “I must taste that flying bread.”

  “It was like the moon flipping to show its other side.”

  “I thought this would be a story about selling fish to the white man. It is now a story about the white man's woman and the moon bread.”

  The woman's smile broadened as she listened.

  “What a lovely sound your language makes. It's the song of the forest. Where did you boys come from? I saw you sneaking up when I was in the tent. You got anybody hiding back there with you?”

  The Ojibway boys stepped forward. When the woman turned to check on her frying pan and waved the boys to follow they stayed with the men, to tend to business, but stole glances at the woman. Mathew placed the sack of fish at his feet and opened it enough for the men to see inside.

  He spoke one of the first English words taught in Joe Loon's village.

  “Fish.”

  “You brought us fish, eh? I thought you come to swipe some of my wife's pancakes. You think they're here all alone?”

  Mathew repeated the word fish then spoke to the men in the forest language.

  “You get these fish. You give us a big silver coin for Grandfather.”

  “I have no idea what you're saying, boy.”

  “That ol' Swede at the dock was telling me there's still a couple of villages of half-wild Indians back in the bush that have never lived on a reserve. These boys must be from some camp of that sort around here somewhere or other.”

  “Been sent here to sell us these fish, eh? Show him some money. Let's see what he does.”

  The white man reached into his pocket and pulled out three coins; one was a big silver dollar, the one minted in 1935, the coin's reverse design sculpted to show two Ojibway men paddling a birch-bark canoe, and that was the side displayed when he opened his hand to offer the coins to Mathew. Simon looked from it to Big Brother.

  “That is the silver coin Grandfather wants.”

  “It makes him happy each time he sees it.”

  “Yes, but we could take the smaller coins and bring back some of the batter for the moon breads. What would Grandfather say if we did that?”

  “We must taste the moon breads first.”

  Mathew stepped forward and selected the two smallest coins, then continued on past the men to the cook fire where he hunkered down to study the pancakes stacked on a plate and the biggest one that nearly filled the frying pan.

  “Yaway, Little Brother, these moon breads smell good.”

  Simon pointed to the cook fire by puckering his lips out ahead of him and thrusting his chin so the white men would know he was following Mathew, then stood next to him, his hand resting on Mathew's shoulder.

  The woman clapped her hands in delight.

/>   “Look at them. They're adorable. I wish I had a camera.”

  “They're sure interested in your pancakes.”

  “Fix 'em up all they want. Give 'em a big pat of butter and plenty of syrup.”

  Mathew smiled when he realized that the bottle was pouring what looked like the sweet goodness of the sugar bush on the moon breads. His grandmother would often pour a bit of it on his manoomin for him. The boys accepted their plates and took their first bites.

  “Yaway, Big Brother. This is the best taste I have ever had in my mouth.”

  “We must bring some back to our people. That would be the best end to this story.”

  Simon pulled Nigig up on shore while Mathew retrieved their packages: a big jar of batter, a block of butter, a cup of maple syrup. They were first surrounded by the children, but then all the people of the village gathered to hear of their adventure. Before they were through telling them, Nokomis had uncovered the bowl of batter to dip, then lick, her finger.

  She smiled. The children loved that smile and followed her when she turned to set a frying pan on the fire.

  “I must grease the pan while the moon bread is floating above me?”

  “No, Nokomis, you grease the pan first like you always do.” And the boys practiced their stories of their great adventure selling fish to the white men as the children gathered for the moon bread feast.

  Chapter 4

  The River Flows East

  Maureen held a bag of groceries as she waited at a bus stop in a neighborhood in the Richmond district of London. A grandmother said good morning and smiled as she passed by. A bus pulled up, but Maureen explained she was waiting for a friend so the bus driver smiled at the lovely lass and drove away without her.

  Maureen followed the grandmother to the corner and stopped to study the post office down the street. The grandmother was crossing the street and Maureen nearly called out to stop her, then caught herself and stayed silent. The grandmother raised her arm to wave to her husband who was waving back as he skipped down the post office steps. A sudden blast behind him shattered the doors to splinters and shards in an explosion that whip-ripped the grandfather's waving arm off at the shoulder and threw him out over the stairs and he bounced down to the sidewalk. There was enough force to the explosion that the grandmother was knocked back and fell to the street.