Roth sat across the table from John and watched him leaf through the correspondence materials. “You completed grade 11 by working through modules like those?”
“It was a lot of work and took a lot of time,” replied John.
“It’s a lot of reading,” Roth admitted. “Did the Correspondence School provide any cassettes or visuals to make it more interesting?”
John shook his head. “Sometimes I wish there was another way.” He looked at Ken. “Department won’t build science lab this year?”
“If they do bring in a portable, it will be later in the year. Truck it in on the winter road.”
“There is no other way.”
“There are other ways,” replied Ken, “but they require your going to another school. And you and your grandfather don’t want that.”
John thumbed through the materials in the top binder. “Grandfather doesn’t want that for me.”
“He was angry when last year’s teachers suggested you go to Hope Bay.”
John’s hands stopped at an open page. “Grandfather was more scared than angry.”
“Scared of what would happen to you?”
John nodded. “And scared of what would happen to him.” John closed the binder and sat back in his chair. “When grandfather’s children, my father, uncles and aunts, left Reflection Lake, their lives became worse, not better. Painful things happened to them and to their children.”
“Your grandfather doesn’t want those bad things to happen to you,” replied Roth, his deep voice gentle, understanding. “Where did your grandfather’s children go?”
“They went to Hope Bay or somewhere else.”
“Many young people have become involved in destructive things in Hope Bay,” said Roth. “Many young people have made wise choices there, too.”
“You think my uncles and aunts were weak?” asked John, defensively.
Roth shook his head. “It took strength for them to leave Reflection Lake. They may have been fooled, tricked by false friends once they were far from home.”
“That’s what grandfather says.” John removed his hand from the open correspondence package before him and closed the binder. He sighed. “How is Hope Bay High School better than what we have here?”
“You would take courses in classrooms, not by correspondence,” replied Roth, trying to appear detached. “You would take science courses in labs where you would do hands-on experiments, and probably work with a partner.”
“You think Hope Bay is better than Reflection Lake?” asked John, irritated.
“I think classes and labs provide a better way of learning than correspondence materials. You learn from teachers, other students, and experience knowledge with your senses. But it takes you away from home and community. If you were to consider Hope Bay you might want to think about going to an even larger center, a larger school.”
John’s eyes widened. “Why?” he demanded.
“Some of the things your grandfather fears about Hope Bay were real in the past and continue now. Some people discriminate against outsiders coming from smaller, isolated communities, and take advantage of them, stealing from them, getting them into trouble with the police. Some of their children and young people do the same to young people new to the community.”
“A young person moving to Hope Bay from a smaller community would have no friends there,” added John.
Roth nodded. “When people, young people especially, have no friends, they become lonely, might make foolish decisions and do stupid things, and make their lives worse, as your grandfather has seen. Do you have any family or friends in Hope Bay?”
John shook his head. “Only here.” He looked at Roth. “How would a place bigger than Hope Bay be better? Doesn’t make sense.”
“Hope Bay High School has racial problems that take time and commitment by many people to fix. When I was in Hope Bay, I didn’t see enough time or commitment given to solving problems that everyone agreed existed but disagreed on how to solve them. There might be other schools bigger and further away that would welcome you rather than discriminate against you. Some schools and the people in them put a lot of time and money into helping strangers feel at home. Mr. Birch experienced a place like that down south and it helped him get what he wanted – a teacher’s certificate.”
“I don’t know anyone there,” replied John, disappointment in his voice. “It’s a lot further away than Hope Bay.”
“I know,” Roth said. “It requires hard work, personal strength, and a commitment to make it work.”
“I work hard here,” countered John.
“I know. Your success in doing correspondence courses tells me you have personal strength and commitment to do what you have to do.”
“So I don’t have to leave Reflection Lake to complete my high school.”
“I’m not saying you have to leave Reflection Lake. I’m not saying you have to go to Hope Bay or a larger community. I’m saying that you need to know what you want and decide what to do and where to do it.”
“I need to respect what grandfather needs and wants.”
“You have your own path to follow.”
John shook his head. “Maybe where you come from. Here people walk path with family and friend. A trapper walks alone on trap line, and a hunter hunts alone when hunting, but when he returns to the community he walks the paths with his family, friends, and neighbors. Here the paths are shared.”
“How will shared paths affect your decision?” asked Roth, surprised by John’s response.
“I will think about how what I choose to do affects grandfather and me. I owe him a lot. I owe him my life.”
Roth didn’t know what to say, so said nothing.
* * *
The Reverend Jonathon Hall eased his rugged, broad, but lean frame into the easy chair and looked out the window. The town, with the rolling sweep of the lake’s rough water and dark green hills of the distant shore behind it, was still. “You have a good view,” he said.
Dave Sadler placed a cassette in the cassette player and lowered the volume of a gentle folksinger. “It’s very relaxing,” he replied. “Especially at dusk.”
Hall nodded. “Relaxing music, too.”
Dave sat in the chair across from his guest. “I like to take it easy on Sundays.”
“Your wife is a good cook.”
“I have no complaints there, except that I have to exercise or I gain weight.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Four years. We met in the bush, married in the bush, and we’re still in the bush.”
“It’s a good place to be.”
Dave glanced out the window than looked at the slightly wrinkled, tanned face. “It’s like living in another world.”
“A changing world.”
Dave nodded. “You’ve seen a lot of changes since you first came here.”
Hall nodded. “Some are good, many create problems.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Forty-three years ago this January I came here.”
Dave whistled softly.
“The people camped on the other side of the lake, then.”
“When did they move to this side?”
“Twenty-one years ago.”
“You know all the old timers, then.”
“Most of them have died.”
“What about Elder Bear?”
Hall leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees. “He interests you?”
Dave nodded. “We’re trying to develop a program for his grandson, John.”
“Extol is a good man,” Hall said softly. “He was the first one to befriend me when I came with my wife to this area as a young man.”
“He puts up quite a fuss about John, from what I’ve heard.”
Hall clasped his hands. “John means everything to Extol. Extol’s family is.”
Hall looked out the window. “It’s a sad story.”
“I’d like to hear it. Might help me understand John.”
Hall eyed Dave solemnly, and then spoke softly. “My wife and I came to this area at a bad time. It was a hard year. There was deep snow with many cold days. Game died and people ran out of food. Extol was the first man we met. He was a young, skillful hunter, trapper and fisherman. But when we met him, his wife and young children and their dogs were skeletons. But they invited us into their tent to share their fire. I didn’t know many words in their language then, nor they in mine, so we didn’t talk much. When I awoke in the morning I took my rifle and stepped into the cold. Extol followed me and I gestured to him that I was going to hunt. He shook his head but went with me. I walked around the bush to find God’s miracle but there were no tracks, no signs of wildlife. We returned to the tent, I discouraged and Extol not surprised. I stood by the tent and stared into space, and then at the bush, and then at my dogs. We had done well traveling, considering the winter, and the dogs were in good shape. I looked at my dogs and at Extol’s team; mine were fat, his were sticks. I raised my rifle and shot one of my dogs. We ate that dog, then another, and another until we finally ate my lead dog. We ate dog meat for one whole month and gave the bones to Extol’s dogs and mine while they lived. Just as we ran out of dog meat, Extol and I went hunting again, and Extol shot a weak cow moose, which stood guard over its dead calf. The cow’s meat fed us until spring. When summer came I traveled with Extol and his family to the summer camp. Extol talked with the people, and one of the men, an uncle of the present chief, gave me a dog. Other men did the same until I had a team of five skinny dogs. The dogs slowly fattened up and they survived. During that summer I fished with Extol, and one day he pulled a pipe and tobacco from a pouch and we smoked. Since then, these people have been my parish. Extol spent time with me. I taught him my language and he taught me his. We have shared good times and many sad times… I buried many of his children. Out of a Extol’s family of fifteen children, I buried thirteen of them. Some died right after birth, most in bad sickness. The oldest and youngest lived – both boys. The oldest left Reflection.” Hall stared out the window.
“Where did he go?” Dave asked.
Hall continued staring out the window. “When police press charges on someone, people here defend and lie for one another. But there are rules they enforce on their own. When a person causes continual problems for a community that person may be told or forced to leave. That is what happened to Extol’s oldest living son. He married young and got drunk too much. He hit his wife many times and that was overlooked. But one night Extol walked into his son’s shack and saw his son beating his little grandson. Extol didn’t yell at his son. He didn’t fight him. He came to me and said, ‘Thomas not my son.’ To every man in the community he said, ‘Thomas not my son.’ The son left, and his wife and son followed. They died in a house fire in Hope Bay not long after that. As for John, he is Extol’s pride. The only son of Extol’s youngest child. Extol named him, and gave him a name like mine. John lived with his parents until he turned three. His mother lost her second child and died moments after giving birth to her third, a stillborn child.” Hall’s voice quivered. “John’s father’s mind snapped and he was not able to look after the boy. He died shortly after that, drowned in the rapids. Extol and his wife looked after John Extol was in the hospital for three months after injuring his foot chopping wood. During that time I chopped wood for his wife and shot game for her. I spent much time with John. I taught him to read because he was interested in books, in learning. When Extol returned, the boy’s interest in learning continued. Every day we spent an hour together. John told me a story, I printed it, and we read it. John printed it and we read it again. Then I read a story from the Bible. He’s liked reading and writing ever since. We continued the hourly meeting whenever John wasn’t on the trap line. When John was ready to go trapping I would give him a book, a paper and pencil. When he and Extol returned, John would show me the well worn book and the stories he had written. It continued like that until he was eleven. Then he took books from the school and read them. Teachers were surprised that he kept up with his work in such a short time…but he has a sharp, probing mind.”
“He is like a grandson to you,” said Dave, moved by Hall’s account.
Hall nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. Like Paul and Timothy.”
“What happened to your wife?”
“She died our first summer here. I lost her and our unborn child.” Hall nodded as though listening to an encouraging voice deep within him. “But that is how Extol and I became good friends. We have shared life and death. Five years ago Extol’s wife died. John is the only one left of Extol’s family now. He doesn’t want to lose him. John’s leaving would be like him dying as far as Extol is concerned.
“John’s leaving wouldn’t have to be forever.”
Hall faced Dave squarely. “Fear can make it seem so. And Extol has great fear.”

Chapter 4
Kids, standing near Reflection Lake’s only store and munching on chocolate bars and chips and sipping pop, stepped aside as Jim Birch entered the building. He stopped at the first clothing counter and looked at the display of socks.
“You know the rules!” a voice bellowed through the store. Phil barreled from his back office to the front of the store. “Food and drinks outside.” He waited until the last kid was out the door. When he turned he noticed Jim. “I’d never make a teacher, would I?”
Jim’s moustache spread in a grin. “I could have used you in my room today to help with classroom control.”
“Kids go crazy on weekends. Come in and out, trying to steal pop, chocolate bars, and chips. At least you’re done with them.”
“Monday comes fast.” Jim inspected a pair of wool work socks. “How much are these? There’s no price.”
Phil checked the socks. “Three dollars.”
“You’re sure?”
Phil took a black marking pen from his shirt pocket and scribbled the amount on the label. “Always.”
“My first check hasn’t come through yet. Can I set up a charge account?”
“Sure!” Phil tossed the socks to Jim. “Talk to Eileen at the till. She’ll set it up.”
Jim stuffed the socks in his pocket and walked to the grocery section. He picked up a small empty box and quickly filled it with a loaf of bread, a dozen eggs, two packages of frozen vegetables, some canned meat, canned fruit, coffee and tea. He grabbed a small bag of potatoes and held it under his arm.
“You must be hungry,” a voice observed.
Jim turned and looked up slightly.
John, holding a large flour bag, stood leisurely beside the counter.
“Do you have a bakery?” Jim asked.
John grinned. “It’s for the cabin.”
“Your grandfather’s?”
“He’s there until Christmas.”
“By himself?”
John nodded and set the two flour bags on the counter. “He’s going to rest, work on cabin, then get ready to trap and set some nets.”
“When do you leave?”
“This evening.”
“Be back Sunday?”
John nodded.
Eileen, the counter girl, scribbled quickly on a bill pad and slid it towards John. “Want a box?” she asked.
John shook his head as he signed the bill.
Eileen shoved the flour aside then examined Jim’s groceries. “Cash or charge?”
“Charge,” Jim replied.
Eileen scribbled information on a bill and handed it to Jim. He signed it and Eileen gave the top copy to Jim.
“Would you like to come with me to cabin?” John asked.
Jim nodded as he lifted the box of groceries.
John tucked a flour sack under each arm. “Meet me at the dock.”
* * *
The compact triangle of grandfather, grandson, and guest huddled against the wind’s cool blast as the boat’s bow cut the waves. Extol peered between the two young men seated before him and eased the throttle. He edged the boat towards the rocks and pine bordering the yawning river mouth. Protective trees thinned the cool darts of wind.
Jim studied the banks. Scarred rock crowned with drying autumn’s scraggly sprouts of evergreen seemed to stare back, reminding him of the shoreline near his own community one hour by plane to the south. He felt torn by two opposing emotions – feeling at home in a setting reminiscent of his childhood and youth, and sensing the challenge he would face in telling John and Extol about his relocating to a city to pursue his education and hoping that his story would influence John in a similar direction.
“We’re there,” John said.
Extol eased up on the throttle and guided the boat towards a slice of rock jutting into the river. He aimed the boat at a wedge of rock and quickly raised the prop. A placid natural berth opened up as Extol steered the boat between two large logs with his homemade paddle.
John stepped nimbly from the craft onto a large flat rock and quickly tied the bowline to a protruding rock. He lifted three packs from the boat and started up the bank.
Extol and Jim followed John up an awkward but natural stairway to the soft moss carpet of the forest floor. They stopped before a secluded cabin. Pine and poplar shaded the humble structure in the green, autumn-gold silence. A squirrel jumped the threshold of the opened front door and escaped up a tree.
Jim followed John and Extol to the cabin.
“Kids get in cabin again,” muttered Extol, fingering the broken string that hung from two nails – one on the door and one on the doorframe.
“Don’t you lock it?” asked Jim, surprised.
“That’s my lock,” Extol replied. “Not good.”
Once inside, Jim set his pack on the floor and looked about. A rough hewn table, four small benches, two beds of rough hewn board, plank shelves, and an oil drum stove made up the furnishings.
Extol set his pack on the floor near the table and slowly rummaged through it. He pulled out a package of tea. He looked at John, then at Jim. “One make fire, one get water,” he directed.
John stepped to the shelves and withdrew a pail from the darkness. “There’s wood in the corner,” he said, looking at Jim.
Jim nodded.

The light from the solitary candle protruding from an empty soup can drew three moving shadows on the cabin walls. John watched as Jim and Extol played checkers. Extol’s roughened fingers raised a red player over two black ones in a single zigzag motion.
“You’re good at this,” Jim said.
Extol eyed his checker at the far end of the board. “You crown that one,” he said.
Jim kinged Extol’s checker then studied the board. “I have four left and you have seven.”
Extol nodded and waited for Jim to move.
“I feel cornered.”
Extol nodded again. “Good.”
Jim moved his black player into a sacrifice position. “I don’t have many choices.”
The old man swept the checker aside. “You don’t stop thinking now. You can still tie.”
“Do we have time?”
“All night.”
Jim moved again and Extol captured another player.
“Two to seven,” Jim said. “You’ve got me.”
Extol stood and walked to the oil drum stove and returned with a pot of tea. “More tea?”
Jim nodded.
Extol filled the three cups on the table. He placed the pot back on the stove. Returning to the table, he carefully set the checkerboard back in its box and the checkers in their can. He placed them at the side of the table near the window.
The three men sipped their tea in silence and watched as the wax dripped slowly into the metal can.
“Did your parents go to school in their home community or did they go to residential school far away?” Extol asked.
Jim looked over the table at Extol. “The church established and operated a residential school on the edge of my community. My father and mother went to it.”
“So they could attend the school during the day, then be with their family in the evening.”
“My father and mother, especially, would have liked that arrangement,” replied Jim. “It didn’t happen that way.”
“How did it happen?” asked Extol, curious.
“The priest and the school administration demanded that all children in the community live in residence during the school year.”
“What about holidays – Christmas, Easter?” asked John.
“They went home for those times. But it wasn’t enough. My parents felt cheated.”
“They were cheated, cheated of their childhood, being with their family,” interjected Extol. “For all the church’s talk about salvation, it hasn’t saved our people from very much.” He looked out the window, and his eyes found some rest in the sight of the trees beyond the glass.
“What about you?” asked Jim. “What’s your story?”
“It takes a long time to tell. I will tell you small, important part of it now, similar to your parents’ story, but different in path and turns,” replied Extol, continuing to look out the window. “The idea of taking children away from their parents, family, community by boat, truck or plane to a residential school where they were herded together like cattle, punished for speaking their own language, punished for incorrectly speaking English, punished for crossing themselves incorrectly, did not come to Reflection Lake until the idea was almost thrown away. Only one generation of our people went to residential school.” Extol turned his face away from the window and trees beyond, and looked towards Jim. “And that was one generation too many.”
Jim nodded and waited for Extol to speak further.
Extol glanced at John seated opposite the window, but his grandson looked toward the window and the nearby forest beyond.
“My children including John’s father went there and it was not good. They learned to read, write, and do numbers, and my children excelled in those things. But…” Extol looked into Jim’s eyes. “Life is more important than reading and writing words, pages and pages of words, and doing pages and pages of numbers. They were punished for each mistake they made; their successes were ignored, except in sports in which my sons excelled. My sons were good singers and dancers, too, but there was no singing and dancing there.” Extol bowed his head. “Priest say that God looks after the fatherless and the motherless. But God looks after children through their mother and father. When children are taken from their mother and father, or their mother or father taken from them, God may go with them but he’s not as close as a mother or father. Children can’t pull God’s ears or stick their fingers in his nostrils.” Extol crossed himself.
“It’s not a sin to say what you have said,” Jim said. “If there is such a thing as sin.”
“There is sin. Doing what is wrong, not doing what is right. What the priest and the church took away from that generation cannot be replaced. What they did was wrong, very wrong.”
Jim nodded.
“How does a boy learn to be a father without having a father to walk with, hunt with, fish with, work with, talk with, share stories father to child, child to father, and then man to man? How does a girl learn to be a mother without having a mother to walk with, work with, talk with, share stories mother to child, child to mother, and then woman to woman? How do children learn to walk and talk through disagreements man and woman have, always have had, without seeing or hearing it done before their eyes and ears?
“They didn’t learn how to parent,” Jim concluded.
“How could they?” Extol asked.
“What happened to your children when they left residential school?” Jim asked.
“An honest and wise question,” Extol replied. “But I’ve said enough.”
Jim nodded.
* * *

John and Jim waited: John on his bed; Jim in his sleeping bag on the floor. They heard Extol’s urine spray a tree trunk and trickle to a rustle in leaves and moss. Footprints sounded on the cabin step, the door opened and closed gently.
Extol walked slowly to the table. His lips nearly kissed the candle.
Footsteps approached the rough plank bed.
The cabin was quiet and dark.
“You a teacher, Jim,” Extol said suddenly. “You hunt and fish?”
“Whenever I get time,” Jim replied softly.
Silence answered, then a whisper. “What do you like best? Teach or hunt?”
“I like the hunt best.”
“I hunt and teach to hunt,” replied Extol.
“Hunting gives food, teaching gives money,” observed Jim.
“Teaching pays more?” John asked.
“Much more,” replied Jim. “But takes a lot of time.”
“How much time do you work before and after school?” asked John.
“I work evenings preparing for the next day,” replied Jim. “I work as many hours outside of school as in school. New teachers have to work long hours to prepare.”
“What about old teachers?” asked Extol. “Do they work long time after school?”
“Some do, some don’t,” replied Jim.
“How long did it take you to become a teacher?” asked John.
“Four years after high school.”
“Where did you learn to be a teacher?” asked Extol, a tremor in his voice.
“At university.”
“You left your home to go to university?” John asked.
“Yes,” replied Jim. “To enter a profession like teacher or nurse, a person must go to a university in a city.”
“Who made that rule?” asked Extol, irritated.
“Has been that way a long time,” replied Jim.
“Young people shouldn’t have to go far from home to get training,” Extol replied. “Should be able to get training here.”
“It would make life a lot easier,” Jim responded. “But getting an education is like hunting and trapping. You sometimes have to go far from your community to get what you want or need.”
“Hunter returns to community in a few days, trapper returns in a few months,” countered Extol. “I hunt. I teach to hunt. Don’t have much money.”
“Not much money in trapping now,” added John. “Make more as a guide.”
“What John says is true,” Extol said. “He makes more money as a guide during summer than I make trapping and fishing all year.”
“You could guide fishermen,” Jim commented.
“I catch fish for me, John, mothers without husbands, not for tourists. They treat men like little boys.”
“You let John guide,” Jim observed.
“He more patient than me about men who think they are creator and know everything about creation,” replied Extol. “He puts up with rude behavior.”
“Harve pays okay, and some of the fishermen pay good tips,” replied John. “And every fall Harve sells two of his older boats and motors to guides willing to buy. My turn to buy this fall.”
“Harve is fair to John,” Extol admitted. “He treats him good. John always on time. Doesn’t get drunk like some of the other guides.”
“You have a good life here,” Jim said.
“In this place, yes,” replied Extol, his voice shaky. “By river, near lake, in forest. Peaceful here. Here I can listen to the loon, the owl, the squirrel. I can hear the wind in the trees, the ripples of water touch the rocks. In town I hear the dogs bark when boys tease them, hear men and women argue and fight over money, men fighting over women, women yelling over man. And in winter, town becomes a race track, snowmobiles racing at night from one house to another, under quiet moonlight and stars above which I see from here but not there. Better here. More happy.”
“What makes you sad?”
“Principal can say good things about John going to high school in south and so can you. But that does not mean good things will happen. Years ago the priest told me that it would be better for my children to go to the residential school. What he said would happen and what did happen there were long ways apart, like sunrise and sunset. As a boy, here in the forest, in skiff on water, and in the tent we called home, John’s father was happy. He shot small game on first shot, he knew where the fish were and how to catch them, where a bird would land and where it would fly into the sky. Smart as a wolf, observant as an eagle.
“At residential school he learned to read and write easily, and learned math and science even more quickly. In summer he helped me fish, he continued to know were the fish were, but he didn’t talk much, not like John – he tells me what’s in his heart, on his mind. John’s father’s mind and maybe his heart, too, was in two different places, here in the forest, and in residential school down south. In residential school, strangers strapped him on his hand when he spoke our language and not in English; sometimes they refused to let him eat a meal as punishment for not doing his school work when he didn’t understand what to do. How can you do something you don’t know how to do, when you are strapped on the hand or refused a meal for making a small mistake?
“The principal here encourages students to take chances, to make mistakes, talk about their mistakes, even laugh about them. His way is different, opposite those who came before him. The children and young people already talk about the differences they see, and their parents and grandparents are pleased to hear what they say and the excitement in their voice when they say it, because it’s so different.
“The teachers, helpers, priests at the residential school never laughed when children made a mistake. It was like mistakes were of the devil, to be punished, erased, cast out. They treated mistakes that way in school, in their living and eating areas, and on the playground and sports field. They were surrounded by that way of thinking and doing everywhere, like a heavy fog that doesn’t burn off under the sun. It was so wrong and harmful to our people, to my children. And I…I agreed to it in the beginning. I made a terrible mistake.”
“Even priests and the church say mistakes are forgivable,” said Jim.
“What they say and what they do are opposites, especially when it comes to forgiveness. They demand forgiveness for themselves, and the mistakes they make, if they admit them, but don’t offer it. And if they do offer it, severe conditions are attached, like doing what they say without thinking, without questioning. Not long ago our priest asked me to for him for telling me that sending my children to residential school was a wise choice, part of God’s plan for my children. When he asked me to forgive him he told me he didn’t think the residential schools were God’s idea. He didn’t think God had anything to do with them. But God let it happen, just like I let my children go.”
Jim listened.
No more words came.
The old man was silent, his blanket motionless.
And Jim had nothing to say.
* * *
Saturday’s morning sunlight paraded through the cabin’s east window. John, Extol and Jim sat at the table and drank the tea the old man had made upon awakening. Extol lit his pipe and sucked on the worn stem – smoke escaped his lips and climbed slowly to the rafters.
“We check nets then hunt chickens,” Extol stated softly. He poured himself another cup of tea. “Dogs hungry.”
“Do you keep them here in the summer?” Jim asked.
Extol grunted and sipped some tea. “Dogs not happy in town. Kids tease them there.”
“Do you let them loose?”
Extol shook his head. “I tie dogs to stake. John comes every day when he guides in summer. He feeds scraps and suckers to dogs.”
“How many dogs?”
“Five,” John answered.
“Do you use snowmobile?”
A cloud of smoke spewed from Extol’s lips and he set down his cup of tea. “Machine no good. Go through ice.”
Jim waited for the old man to continue.
Extol cupped the pipe bowl in his hands and his eyelids quivered. “My son,” he began, and then looked at John. But the young man’s gaze remained steady on the ground. “John’s father, go through ice by rapids.” He sucked on his pipe then forced a wisp of smoke between his lips. “Found machine in summer, but not my son.”
Jim leaned against the wall and stared out the window. The pain on the old man’s face reminded him of the turmoil he had experienced and witnessed in his own family and community. No question or comment could soothe or heal such emotion or calm the accompanying fear.
Extol stopped speaking and the cabin was quiet. The two young men waited quietly as Extol finished his smoke; he studied the pipe bowl, tapped it in the palm of his left hand, and then stuck the pipe in his shirt pocket. “We go work,” Extol said finally.

The evening shadows thickened and darkness subdued the sky as tongues of fire escaped the small pile of firewood and explored the darkness.
Jim sat comfortably on a stump, mulling over the day.
John cooked the gutted whitefish on a pointed, green poplar branch over the fire. Drops of fat fell into the fire and hissed, and the water in the black teapot bubbled.
Extol knelt by the teapot, dropped in a teaspoon of tea then placed the lid on the pot. “Teachers last year told John to go to Hope Bay, but they were no good,” said Extol. “New teachers work hard, old teachers work nothing. Old teachers say John no fish, no hunt, no trap and no guide until school finished. New teachers are better. They say John can hunt, fish, and guide and learn school things, too.” Extol touched the pipe in his shirt pocket as though checking to see if it was still there. “Old teachers told John he must go to Hope Bay, that there was nothing here for him. They told John this before talking to me. They told the chief this before talking to me. When John told me, I talked to chief and told him teachers were no good, that they were telling lies. This is John’s home, his place, his community. He is the best guide, and good hunter and trapper. He is good with his hands.”
“He is also good with his mind,” replied Jim. “If he continues to guide he will be putting up with fishermen’s bullshit for a long time.”
“I don’t like what you say,” replied Errol, irritated.
“I don’t like saying it,” replied Jim. “It is true. John is a leader. Obtaining a high school diploma and going to university will make him a stronger leader.”
“He strong leader, already,” replied Extol, firmly.
“A strong leader here,” Jim said. “With more education he could lead many others, too.”
“I don’t want to move somewhere else and lead others,” John said.
Extol nodded, relieved. “He can stay here and lead.”
“World is surrounding Reflection Lake,” Jim argued. “Nurses, teachers, store managers, and priests come from other communities and cities far away to make decisions the people here should be making, and could make if they had the education. Young people here need to graduate from high school and then go south to obtain more training, to get credentials.”
“What credential do you have?” Extol demanded.
“I have a teaching certificate,” replied Jim.
“It says you can teach?”
“Yes. It has a number and the signature of the Minister of Education.” Jim saw the curiosity in Extol’s eyes and pulled out his wallet. “Do you want to see it?”
Extol stood slowly, walked quietly up to Jim and knelt beside him. He looked at the credit card shaped certificate, touched the plastic covered paper with his fingers. “They give you that number?”
Jim nodded. “I received it this spring.”
“Everything has number. How long does it take to get paper?”
“Four years of university.”
“You like university.”
“Sometimes.”
“You miss bush?”
“All the time.”
“Why did you stay in university, then?”
Jim placed his teaching certificate back in his wallet. He looked at Extol, then at the fire. “To prove to people I could do it.”
“What people?”
Jim watched the old man rise to his feet and walk back to the short sawn log he used for a stool. “My people, my teachers, and myself.”
Extol stared at John. “You want that, too?”
“I want to finish high school,” John replied. He flexed his shoulder muscles, and looked at Jim. “Where did you go to high school?”
“I took grade 11 and 12 across the street from the university,” Jim answered. “It took me three years.”
“Not two?” asked John.
“I was behind in subjects and the city teachers wouldn’t let me take grade 11 and 12 until I improved my English and math marks.”
“But you finished?” asked John.
Jim nodded then looked at Extol. “Would you be angry if John went to a bigger school that had science labs?”
“If he be there for small time, I not be angry. If he finish school and come back I not be angry. But if he stays I be angry at teacher and principal, not at John. He’s my son’s only son.”
“Have you ever been in a town larger than Reflection Lake, John?” Jim asked.
“I’ve been in store in Hope Bay. It’s better than store here. Prices better, too.”
“Have you ever been to a larger city?” asked Jim, as an idea formed.
John shook his head. “Have to fly there. Don’t have money.” He breathed deeply. “It’s far away.”
“The teachers go out for a convention in a few weeks,” Jim said. “Would you like to go if you had the chance? It’s just for three or four days.”
“If it was free, maybe,” replied John.”
“Why send John to a teacher’s convention?” demanded Extol. “He’s not a teacher, he is still a student.”
“I would show him the places where I lived, learned and worked. I would show him the university.”
“He needs to be here,” Extol stated firmly.
“With you?” Jim asked.
Extol’s eyes flashed. “He needs to be here in his community.”
“He needs an education.”
“He can wait a while for that,” countered Extol.
Jim shook his head. “A hunter who waits to long misses his opportunity to shoot and the animal gets away. John needs to complete his high school, which he can do here. He needs to go to university so he can work with the people in the outside as equals.”
“Like being a guide but in a different way,” said John, intrigued by Jim’s observation.
“Like being a guide, hunter, trapper and fisherman but in different ways,” added Jim.
“When people leave our community they don’t come back,” said Extol. “Hope Bay destroys its young people. They get drunk, do drugs, get in fights and sometimes kill each other. Big city will be worse. Gangs pick on weak, like pack of wolves stalking wounded deer.”
“There are many good people there, too,” countered Jim.
“Good people here, too,” replied Extol. He looked at John. “You want to go to teachers’ convention?”
“If it doesn’t cost me or you anything,” replied John. “I want to see city.” He looked at Jim. “Grandfather and I have no money for hotel, food, anything.”
“Things that promise not to cost you, cost too much,” said Extol, a frown on his face.
“I will talk to Mr. Sadler and to the chief,” replied Jim.
“Why talk to chief?” demanded Extol.
“Chief and council need to invest in young people, in their future,” replied Jim.” John’s read about big cities, seen pictures of them, but he’s never been in one. It would be a good experience.”
Extol grunted. “Good experience here.”
“I know,” Jim replied quickly. “But it’s good to see both sides.”
“Sometimes bad side tricks eyes and makes man do stupid things.”
“John’s smart. He doesn’t fool easy.”
Extol nodded.
John withdrew the fish from the fire and held it up to Jim. “It’s ready.”
Jim broke off a piece of fish and tasted the tender flesh. He looked at Extol and then at John. “Just the way it’s supposed to taste.”
“I get bannock,” Extol said. He turned and walked to the cabin. Soft footsteps touched the cabin steps. The steps creaked, and then were quiet. The door opened, and then closed.
Chapter 5

John watched Dave Sadler and Ken Roth open their tackle boxes, and then looked at Brenda Sadler and Judy Roth. “Are you going to fish?”
Brenda shook her head. “I cook them. The less fish, the less I cook.”
“There isn’t room for us to cast,” Judy added. She looked at Dave and Ken who were discussing which hook to use, then leaned towards Brenda. “Think they’ll catch anything?”
“Dave better, or he’ll be unbearable the next few days,” Brenda replied.
Dave and Ken finally chose their lures and cast. Their lines sliced the water as John guided the boat slowly towards a point of rock. Waves lapped against the boat, the idling motor purred.
Dave’s line jerked.
“I’ve got a hit!” Dave hollered. He knelt near the side of the boat and babied his reel. “Hang in there,” he cooed. “Hang in there.”
Brenda grasped a net and scrambled towards Dave. She knelt near him and gripped the net’s handle with both hands.
Ken reeled in his line.
“It’s a big one,” Dave yelled as his fishing rod bent in a tight arc. “Look at that!”
“It’s a fighter,” Ken admired. He grasped his fish net and knelt on the other side of Dave.
“I can’t lose this one,” Dave blurted. He gripped the rod and played the line.
John cut the motor and watched as Dave, Brenda and Ken concentrated on the line close to the boat. The rod arced again.
“Look at it!” Brenda shouted.
A large lake trout arced its back a metre below the water’s surface.
“Steady baby, steady,” Dave coaxed.
Brenda gripped her net and leaned over the gunwale. “Just a bit more. More yet. A bit more. Got it.”
As the net enclosed the head of the fish, the fish’s energy erupted and sprayed water at its captors.
“Hang on!” Dave yelled as he wrestled with the fish.
John leaned against the opposite gunwale to balance the tilting craft.
Ken capped Dave’s net with his own. “We’ve got it.”
“I can’t hold it!” Brenda blurted.
Dave dropped his rod and lunged; his hands clasped Brenda’s wet and slippery ones and pulled. Together they pulled the net into the boat and fell backwards, banging their heads on a metal tackle box.
Dave looked up at John. “Have you been standing there all this time?”
John shook his head and grinned. “You almost went in the net.”
Brenda leaned forward and stared at the fish’s gaping mouth. “Where’s the hook?”
Dave sat up and picked up a metal expander from his tackle box. After stretching the trout’s mouth and exploring the yawning cavity with a set of pliers, he found the hook, embedded deep in the throat’s throat. “Look at that. It meant business.”
“You played it well,” Ken complimented. “Except for your last move. Not much style.”
Dave grinned, and then looked at the knotted net. He glanced at Brenda. “You’re better at this than I am.”
Brenda looked at Judy. “Should I help the poor fishermen or let him do it himself?” she teased.
“Forget it,” Dave muttered. He picked up the net and began unraveling the knots.
Thirty-nine fish later, the fishermen put their tackle aside, and enjoyed the ride as John continued the tour. Ken nudged Dave and pointed to an old log cabin nestled among birch and pine, as the skiff skimmed along the gentle waves near the shoreline.
“That’s what I like,” Dave said. He glanced up at John. “Who built that cabin?”
“Priest built it many years ago,” John answered. “It was his holiday place when the people lived on this side of the lake. Anyone can use it now. He built another one close to town.”
“Do many people use it?”
John nodded. “It’s a good place to stay when hunting. Lots of animals on this side. Good for moose.”
“Is that thunder?” Brenda interrupted. She listened again to a distant rumbling which drifted over the water.
“It’s the rapids,” John replied. “We’re going there.” He pointed to a long height of land in the distance that jutted into the lake. “They’re on the other side of that ridge.”
As the distance between the ridge of rock and boat decreased the height of the ridge of rock increased and an altar shaped rock towered above the ridge. Spindly pine protruded from rock ground near the shore and green moss clung to rocks and lower tree trunks.
John cut the motor and the boat coasted to a stop on a clump of sparse grass between two rocks. Brenda and Judy jumped from the boat and held the bow firmly against the shore as the men stepped from the boat and onto the gravel and rock shoreline.
John stepped gingerly from the boat onto a rock and tied the boat to a tree near the water’s edge. He led his guests on a narrow path where sunlight, streaming through the canopy of yellow and red leaves, formed shadows from moss covered rocks, ravaged tree trunks, bony fragmented tree limbs, uprooted tree trunks and huge boulders. The path escaped the rock and stunted trees, passed a clump of birch and entered the open area of a graveyard. John led the way to a cluster of small graves which were enclosed by a weather-beaten pole fence. “The first big sickness,” John said softly.
“What sickness was it?” Brenda asked.
“A bad fever. Kids got sick for two or three days and then died.” John turned and walked slowly towards some other graves. He knelt near a grave and pointed to the small carvings of animals and plants on a small wood marker below a wooden cross. “Before priest came, graves had big carvings of animals and plants on them. But priest told people about Jesus and now people put white crosses on graves. But some of the older ones remembered what they believed before. When they got old and were about to die they got scared that maybe white cross wasn’t enough, so they asked friends to put small carvings or pieces of bones or animal feathers on their graves to make sure they die right.”
“What does the priest think of that?” Ken asked.
“He doesn’t like it. But he doesn’t take them off. He told grandfather it means that he has failed to show people what God is like.”
“What about young people like you?” asked Dave. “What do you think?”
John shook his head. “Priest is scared for young people. Says they don’t believe old ways but don’t believe Jesus way either. Says they believe nothing.”
“What way do you believe?” Dave asked.
John withdrew a wooded carving of an eagle from his pocket and placed it at the head of the grave. He looked up at Dave, then at the grave. “I don’t know, yet.” He stood. “I’ll show you rapids.”

The path twisted and turned through more bush until it disappeared on a ledge of rock overlooking a wide channel of swift moving water.
“This is the start of the rapids,” John said. He pointed to a rock ledge which jutted into the river about three hundred metres downstream. “A wide ledge juts out into the river from that point. There are lots of ledges for about three kilometres, and then there’s a big rock in the middle of the river. It’s higher than this ridge. People call it God’s Thumb because its first name meant close to the same in the old language.”
“What was it?” Ken asked.
“It meant, ‘where the Great One waits,’” John answered. “Deadman’s Drop is just past the big rock and then the rapids get worse all the way down.”
“Has anyone tried shooting them?” Dave asked.
John shook his head as he thought of others – tourists and fishermen who had asked him the same question. Strangers didn’t know the dangers of this stretch of river with its turbulent water, deceptive current and undertows. It had killed his father and many others over the years. Those who entered the rapids did not leave it alive. Some bodies, caught between rocks, ledges, and splinters of logs under the water, had never been found by the police, guides, and conservation officer. Spring through fall the current at the top of the rapids sucked fishing boats, canoes and kayaks downstream. In the winter the ice at the top of the rapids could look firm and safe, yet be thin, shifting treacherously, quickly absorbing machine and rider into the icy water. He shivered, as he felt a chill spread through his body.
“You’d have to be crazy to shoot those,” Judy said. “Deadman’s Drop sounds like a waterfall.”
“It is,” John added.
“I’d like to check it from the other bank sometime,” Dave said.
“Far side is easier,” replied John. “Not much bush.”
Dave glanced at Ken. “We should try it sometime before freeze-up.”
“I’m game,” Ken replied. “But I don’t want to shoot them. One of the kids from Hope Bay was killed in them three years ago.”
John stepped back from the ledge. “I’ll take you back, now.”
Chapter 6
John watched.
A conveyor belt dumped luggage onto a large, rotating aluminum disk. Parcels, suitcases and small trunks scraped the metal chute in their slide to the disk and impatient, tired travelers grabbed their belongings.
John stepped aside as a woman in front of him picked up two suitcases and turned to go. When he stepped towards the vacated spot, a stranger beat him to it.
A worn packsack toppled from the conveyor belt and joined the other luggage on the rotating disk. After watching the packsack circle twice, John squeezed up to the disk, clutched the pack’s metal frame, hoisted the pack to his shoulders with a quick fluid motion, and escaped the crowd to wait near a pillar for the teachers.
“What do you think of the place?” asked Ken, holding a large suitcase.
“I don’t feel so good,” replied John.
“Motion sickness, probably. You’ll get over it.”
As John and the teachers left the terminal, John searched his mind for the name of the mechanical device that made the door open and close; he drew a blank.
Later, seated with Reflection Lake’s teachers in the blue and white van the Department had left for them at the terminal John watched as traffic crawled bumper to bumper in front of them and around them. He stared up at the buildings towering above the street. The glass-paneled exterior of one building reflected the setting sun and looked like a gold plated wall.
The van escaped the shadows of the larger buildings into the tunnel of trees bordering the right side of the road. Beyond the trees John saw a river; dried leaves clung to poplar trees between the road and the river.
“There’s The Royal,” Jim said.
John eyed the breast shaped bushes that lined the drive. Colored lights surrounded a fountain. Twin statues of a pioneer man and pioneer woman overlooked a flat grass area and an open air entertainment stage. He grinned as a small black dog raised its hind leg and pissed on the trunk of a manicured tree.
* * *
Jim collapsed onto the bed nearest the door. “Now we can relax’” he said.
John leaned his packsack against a wall. He sat on the bed nearest the curtain which was drawn in front of the window and surveyed the room. Two beds, an easy chair, a table with four matching chairs, color TV, coffee table, closed curtain and open washroom door seemed part of a dream. “I need some fresh air.”
“Want to go for a walk?”
“Is there a good place?”
“There’s a long walking trail along the river.”
“Good. My head is dizzy.”
Jim sat up. “Let’s go then. Supper won’t be for an hour.”
* * *
John picked a wrinkled leaf from a poplar tree near the paved walking trail and twirled the leaf’s stem between his right thumb and forefinger. “Not as soft as leaves in the bush,” he observed.
Jim nodded. “City air.”
John inhaled. The air smelled of chemicals, gasoline, deodorant-mixed-with-sweat, and river touching earth. He eyed the riverbank opposite him. A sewage pipe protruding from the bank spewed brown sludge and foam into the murky water. The setting sun hid behind a cluster of tall, old and new buildings beyond and to the left of the bridge. “What are those buildings?”
“Part of the university.”
“It’s a city within a city.”
The two men left the paved trail and stepped onto the sidewalk that led to the bridge. “Want to see the campus?” Jim asked.
John broke into a sprint.
“Hey!” shouted Jim who took off at the same time.
As they ran John listened and watched. Whining tires, blaring horns, purring and knocking motors, and rattling frames of traffic echoed from the pavement and cement bridge which crossed the water below. Above the hum of traffic he heard the deep drone of a small plane. A gurgle of water below assaulted the bridge’s cement and steel pillars severing the river below into four sections.
The two lanes of traffic nearest the runners slowed and finally stopped before the red light at the end of the bridge. John and Jim passed the idling vehicles that had passed them moments before. As the light turned green, the traffic moved and passed the runners.
Both men stopped at the end of the bridge and waited for the walk light. “That was a work out,” said Jim, out of breath.
“I’m ready to walk,” replied John, breathing deeply. He felt the polluted air in his nostrils and tasted its bitterness on his lips.
“I’m for that. Don’t want to get all sweated up.”
“How far is the university now?” asked John, watching nearby university students carrying back packs and brief cases.
“About three blocks. A five minute running walk.”
Above them, on a yellow pole, a white outline of a figure replaced the red hand. Jim and John crossed the intersection and walked quickly towards the campus.
“How many people go there?” John asked.
“Eighteen thousand.”
John whistled. “That’s too many. Four times bigger than Hope Bay.”
They crossed the avenue and walked onto the campus. An octagonal, eight story structure which housed the university’s College of Arts and Sciences appeared before them. “I spent four years of my life pounding my head in there,” Jim murmured. He looked up at the dark panes of glass brooding above the campus, then pointed to a square, concrete and glass structure that loomed opposite the College of Arts and Sciences. “And six to ten every evening and all day Saturday and Sunday in the library.”
“Did you get good marks?” asked John, watching two young men, their shoulders stooped under the weight of their backpacks, walk past.
“B’s.”
“What did you take?”
“History, English, science, psychology, sociology.”
“How did you become a teacher?”
“After I received my Bachelor of Arts degree, I got my Bachelor of Education degree.”
John eyed the buildings above him then looked back across an open space at a slice of city skyline. “It’s too big. Makes me feel like a skiff in a storm.”
“It’s big, but it’s worth it. I can choose what I want to do now. Some of my teachers in school told me to study and learn so I could do other things besides hunting, trapping and fishing, activities I enjoyed. I came to this university and met professors who spoke and wrote big words. If someone dropped them in the bush they’d die in a day. They’d starve. I learned many things from them, watching, listening, and practicing what they taught me. Now I can choose. If I choose to work with books in a school or office I can. If I choose to trap in the bush, I can. I can choose and that makes me feel good. Damned good. Get your grade 12 and maybe university; then you can choose, too.”
As John studied the panorama of buildings and silhouettes surrounding him, he compared his observations to Reflection Lake and area. In this city within a city, the academic towers blocked the light of the sun and moon, and the city’s haze veiled the stars. Reflection Lake’s ridges, hills, and other heights of land accepted the light from the sun, moon and stars as a gift. On this campus the buildings blocked the wind in some places, and funneled it through other areas and sucked up papers in a whirlwind. In Reflection Lake the wind roamed freely. In the city the buildings blocked horizon and prairie from view. Near Reflection Lake the heights of land provided a sanctuary and observation posts from which a hunter could watch for game, and where the trapper could find his bearings when establishing a new trap line. In this city he felt alone, although surrounded by people. In Reflection Lake he knew where he had been, where he was, and where he was going; he knew who was with him and who was against him. In the city he was a stranger. In Reflection Lake he was John, guide, trapper, hunter, fisherman, and at home. “It’s a big place,” John said softly. “Too big.” He eyed the top of the Arts and Sciences building. A jet passed high overhead.
“Let’s go,” said Jim, curious as to what John was thinking. “We’ll be late for supper.”
* * *
Seated with the teachers at a round table, John studied his menu. Everything was expensive. “What does lobster taste like?” he asked.
“Like a tender piece of chicken soaked in butter,” replied Jim.
“You could try the combination,” Judy suggested. “That includes lobster tail and a small steak. If you don’t like the lobster you can fill up on the steak.”
“Give it a try, John,” Dave said. “It’s on the Department.”
John grinned. “Okay.”
“Care for some wine?” Ted asked.
John shook his head.
A half hour later John shook his head again as he toyed with the red specimen before him. Everything else on the plate looked edible, but not the lobster. “What do I do with it?” he asked, glancing at Brenda.
“I’ll show you,” Brenda said. She leaned towards John and pulled a few pieces of lobster flesh from the tail. “Dip these in the butter and see what you think of them.”
John stabbed one of the lobster pieces with a fork, dipped it in the melted butter, eased it into his mouth, chewed it and swallowed it.
“How is it?” Dave asked.
“Not bad,” replied John. He glanced at Jim who was seated opposite him. “Not even as good as suckers,” he whispered.
Jim grinned.

Hours later, lying in his bed, John rubbed his stomach and licked the inside of his mouth. A sick taste coated his teeth it and tongue. He threw back the covers and bolted to the bathroom. He barely had time to raise the toilet lid. Supper, strange city air and the after effects of airplane motion erupted from his stomach. For a moment, for minutes, he thought he would lose himself in the toilet.
Jim, after hearing the toilet flush again…and again, walked to the bathroom door and pushed it open; John knelt over the toilet and gripped the bowl’s sides. “Are you going to make it?” Jim asked.
John heaved again and groped for the flushing handle.
Jim pushed the handle. “Do you want to rinse your mouth?”
John nodded and raised his left hand.
Jim filled a glass with cold water and placed it in John’s upraised hand.
John gargled, spit the water into the bowl, and gargled again and again until the glass was empty. “I can still taste that ugly fish,” he muttered.
Jim flicked a switch and an overhead fan hummed. “I can still smell it.”
John struggled to his feet, stepped before the sink and looked in the mirror. He washed the yellow paste from around his mouth, and with Jim following him, shuffled from the washroom to his bed where he lay down and stared at the ceiling. “Why do people eat it?”
“They develop a taste for it,” replied Jim.
John placed his hand on his stomach. “Still coming.” He rushed to the bathroom and shut the door.

Jim eased himself from bed and walked sleepily to the bathroom. He turned the doorknob and pushed on the door; his forehead hit the door. He stood back, studied the door, then leaned forward and pushed his body hard against the door. He squeezed into the bathroom. John lay curled up like a tired sled dog on the tile floor between the toilet and the door. Jim squatted and touched John. “Are you alright?”
John groaned.
“I’ll get you out of here.”
“I’m okay.” Slowly, John placed both hands flat on the floor and pushed until his upper body was upright. He leaned against the toilet bowl and looked at Jim. “What time is it?”
“Twenty to eight.”
“Morning?”
Jim nodded.
“I’ll bath.”
“You don’t have to go anywhere. Were you sick all night?”
John nodded and rubbed the back of his neck. “I was sick twice after you went to sleep. The last time was the worst. Too tired to walk after that.” John stood shakily. “I’ll bath then go to bed.”
“You’ve got all morning and afternoon to rest. We just have meetings. We won’t be shopping until late this afternoon.”
“Good.”

Later, just before suppertime, John walked between Dave and Jim through a mall corridor. All around them scurrying feet trampled discarded chocolate bar and gum wrappers, spilt popcorn, ice cream, pop, tea and coffee on tile. Behind them a baby screamed, ahead of them a child, riding the front end of a shopping cart, nearly collided with another child; to the right, a janitor emptied garbage into a cart.
“I prefer shopping by catalogue,” Jim said. He nudged John. “Going to buy something?”
“Maybe shells and spark plugs, if they’re cheap.”
“You’ll be able to get everything right here,” Dave said. He glanced up at the banner hanging between the mall’s ceiling and the store’s front windows: bright red letters spelled SALE DAYS NOW. “We’re in luck.” Dave walked up to the nearest salesgirl. “Where are your heating and plumbing supplies?” he asked.
“Between pillars 39 and 43,” the girl replied quickly. “Straight ahead and to your right.”
The three men passed shelf after shelf of household supplies, auto supplies, and finally a row of kitchen cupboards and sinks.
Dave pulled a sheet of paper from his back pocket and handed it to Jim. “That’s what we have to buy.”
Jim whistled softly. “That’s thousands of dollars worth.”
“The Department okayed everything.”
Jim handed the list back to Dave. “Where do we start?”
“With a salesperson.” Dave glanced around but didn’t spot any official looking person. “And that will take awhile.”
Two hours later John manhandled a loaded shopping cart, its left wheel locked, towards Ken, Stacey and Ted who were standing to the side of the mall corridor near the exit.
“What did you buy?” asked Ken, looking at John’s cart.
“Parts for snowmobile spark plugs and shells. Things are cheaper here.”
Dave and Jim parked their carts near John. Dave leaned on his cart and eyed Ken. “Did you get everything on your list?”
“We’re done!”
Dave tossed his keys to Jim. “Ken and I will bring the rest of the supplies to the door. You men can load what we have here in the van.”

Through the van window John observed the thousands of vehicles sitting cold beneath the light haze hovering over the city. Vehicles parked beneath the mall parking lot lights looked polished under the evening’s slow drizzle. The gentle rain made a rhythmic dance on the van roof. John leaned back in his seat and listened. A light rain was the same everywhere, quiet and peaceful. He watched the line of traffic leaving the mall parking lot. The red taillights made blood like patches on the wet pavement. A horn’s blast swept away the patter of the drizzle on the van roof but only for a moment. John felt a sense of accomplishment. His purchases were half the price he would have paid in Phil’s store. Grandfather would be pleased.
* * *
Early Friday afternoon Dave parked the rented van in Casting Comprehensive High School’s parking lot. He and John looked through the windshield at the sprawling structure of cement, brick and glass. “It was completed four years ago,” Dave said. “It has every piece of educational equipment you or I or anyone else could think of.”
“How many students go here?” John asked.
“About three thousand.” Dave opened his door. “We better get moving or we’ll be late.”
They locked the van and walked to the school’s main entrance. Dave opened one of the glass doors, led John into the small, modern looking lobby and stopped before a copper plated map set in a rock cairn in the middle of the lobby. “This is the map of the place.”
“It looks like a chief’s grave marker,” John observed.
Dave studied the map. “We’re here,” he said, pointing to an X. He traced his finger along the line representing the corridor leading to the office area. “We go to the far end of the corridor and turn left.” He glanced at John. “Got it?”
“Easy.”
John walked with Dave down the corridor to its end; they turned left and entered a corridor, which widened to form a large open area where round cement pillars tapered to the high ceiling. They entered the General Office.
The receptionist checked their names off a list. “Come with me,” she directed.
Dave and John followed the woman down a carpeted hallway to an office door marked “Mr. T. Whistler, Counselor.” She tapped lightly on the door, opened it, stepped back as Dave and John entered the office, and then closed the door.
A distinguished looking man greeted them.
After Dave and John were seated, Mr. Whistler sat behind his desk. “Have you had a chance to tour the school complex?” he asked.
A grin teased John’s lips then faded. The school was complex and alien to him.
“No, we haven’t,” replied Dave.
“I’ll show you around and then we can talk more about classes and programs once we meet with some of the teachers.”
Mr. Whistler handed a booklet to Dave and to John. “This is an outline of programs we offer. Procedures and programs for native students are at the back. We try to be flexible.”
“Sounds good.”
Mr. Whistler stood and Dave and John followed him out of the office, through the general office area and to the end of an empty corridor where the counselor opened a door and led his guests into a large gymnasium.
John eyed the gym area. Glass backboards, metal bleachers folded into the wall, mirror like polished floor, protected lights, and art work decorated walls shouted bigness, newness. A senior boys team dressed in uniforms practiced before him.
“Our men’s senior basketball team won the city championship last year,” Mr. Whistler proudly stated. “They’ve got a good chance of taking it again this year.”
“I’ve heard they play hard and as a team,” said Dave.
“That they do,” replied Whistler.
After leaving the gym the counselor led Dave and John down the science corridor.
“What’s the smell?” John whispered to Dave.
“We’re in the science area,” Mr. Whistler stated matter of fact. “Biology, physics and chemistry are in this section.”
“I’ll never forget the smell of formaldehyde when I dissected a frog,” Dave added quietly, to John. “They use all kinds of chemicals.”
The tour continued past student lockers, numbered classroom doors, paper patched bulletin boards, conference rooms, a chlorine smelling swimming pool, carpeted study areas, darkened audiovisual rooms and a theatre.
Dave and John followed Mr. Whistler into a large lounge. Soft rock music throbbed through the sound system; vending machines for milk, sandwiches, chocolate bars, chips, and pop lined the far wall. A long glass wall-to-wall window provided a wide-angle view of baseball diamonds, football field, tennis courts and a track. “This wraps it,” the counselor stated. “Brought you here in case you wanted something to eat or drink.”
Dave glanced at John. “I’m getting a drink. Want anything?”
John looked out the large window. A quarterback prepared to throw the ball but another player sacked him. “Something cold.”

Dave and John followed the counselor into the conference room. A large, solid and square mahogany table and plush, dark brown leather upholstered chairs sat squarely on plush, dark brown, wall-to-wall carpet.
John eyed the three men sitting at the table. One was a thin, short, balding man; the second looked like a rough tourist fisherman; and the third looked older than Extol.
Mr. Whistler, Dave and John sat opposite the three men. On the wall facing John hang a painting with images of people, spheres, squares, and rectangles. The crowd of people seemed to push each other and the shapes to form an abstract geometric design.
“These are the science instructors who work with the alternative classes,” the counselor said.
John looked at the three men opposite him.
“Mr. Grayson teaches physics.”
The slim, short gentleman, sporting a receding hairline, nodded coolly.
“Mr. Herron teaches biology and works with outdoor education.”
The bearded, heavy set instructor nodded. “I hear you’re a capable guide and hunter,” he said gently.
John was surprised by the man’s subdued tone of voice. He nodded.
“Mr. Latus teaches chemistry.”
The older gentleman smiled; his gray hair dropped over his forehead, and he smoothed it back nervously with a rapid brush of his hand.
As the counselor, Dave and three instructors conversed about programs, schedules, prerequisites, lab work, instructional materials and professional opinions; John stared at the picture opposite him.
“What do you think, John?” Dave finally asked.
John looked at the picture. What he thought was somewhere in it. “I don’t know yet,” he replied.
* * *
John walked slowly past the two statues of the first pioneer couple in the area then followed the narrow paved trail near the riverbank below the hotel. Streetlights along the path formed eerie shadows from shrubs and trees. Intertwining limbs scraped each other and the night as John exhaled warm air and inhaled the cool evening air. When he breathed deeply through his nose, John felt the city’s air funnel from his nostrils to his tongue. The air tasted like gas siphoned through a rubber tube from a snowmobile’s gas tank into a tin can. He spit.
He left the path and stepped into the shadows of shrubs bordering the river. A branch grazed his face. He raised his hand and walked through the brush. At the edge of the willows he stopped. Threads of smoke escaped a small fire along the river.
“What do you want?” a voice growled. “Are you a policeman?”
John studied the darkness. He saw the silhouettes of eight people clustered around the fire.
“Don’t you talk?” a coarse, male voice asked.
“What are you?” a young woman demanded.
A match ignited and John saw a woman light a cigarette.
“Are you black? Yellow?”
“He must be yellow!” a high pitched voice accused. “He’s afraid of us.”
John turned to walk away.
“I want to see you!” the first voice growled, louder.
John swept branches aside and ran back through the bush.
“Damn you! I’ll get you.”
John broke through the willows and ran hard, stretching his legs until they hurt.
“You don’t squeal on us,” a voice cracked. “We get you before you get police.”
John felt the firm pavement beneath his moccasin covered feet. As he raced, he glanced up at the lighted rooms of the hotel ahead, beckoning him to safety.
“We get you good!” a voice blared, breathing heavily, close behind him.
John dashed past the three tier fountain – blue lights colored its spray – and ran towards the iron mesh fence surrounding The Royal’s glass enclosed pool. With footsteps right on his heels, John raced to the front door of the hotel and reached the revolving door. The revolving glass panels spewed John into the lobby. He ignored the surprised clerk as he ran past the desk to the elevators.
“What the hell?” the desk clerk demanded, his body tense.
Elevator doors parted and John leaped inside. He stabbed the “close” button, leaned against the elevator wall then pushed number four.

John stumbled from the elevator and walked nervously to his room. He stopped at the door. His right hand shook as he tried to insert the key in the lock. Using both hands to steady the key he unlocked the door. He stepped into the room, slammed the door shut behind him and leaned against it.
Jim looked up from the book he had been reading. “What the hell happened?” he asked, seeing John’s disheveled hair and anxious face.
“That riverbank…it’s like bush…but the people are like bull moose in heat…can’t trust it.”
“What did they want?”
“They wanted to know my name.”
“Did you tell them?”
John walked to his bed and lay down. “I told them nothing.”
“I suppose you think even less of this place now.”
“It’s crazy, this place. I’d be crazy to come here. Grandfather was right.”
Jim set his book on the bed. “You’ve been thinking.”
John nodded. “Thoughts come quick when you run. Better than sitting sometimes.”
* * *
Seated near the window John watched through the glass as the clouds passed beneath the plane. Blue sky greeted his eyes. He hoped his head would clear. Right now it was full of clouds. He felt sick inside and all over.
Chapter 7
John glanced back at Jim, and then looked ahead. He throttled the engine and guided his machine onto the ice to one of the many snowmobile trails that stretched across the lake. He followed it.
After reaching the far shore of Reflection Lake, John led Jim across frozen muskeg and two small lakes. They passed through pine forest and the occasional stand of birch and then stopped before an old cabin. The cabin’s patch on patch door, crackling plastic window, weather beaten moss and clay chinked walls, and multiple layer tarpapered roof whispered ‘solitude’.
John jumped from his machine, kicked the snow from the step and opened the door. A home made oil drum stove, and a neatly piled supply of wood welcomed him. After he and Jim had carried in a pack of supplies, John withdrew a match from the metal container in his inside parka pocket and held it firmly in his teeth as he set a piece of old paper, a handful of kindling and firewood in the stove. John struck the match against the stove and caressed the paper and kindling until the flame bit the firewood. John closed the stove then glanced at Jim who was looking at the empty shelves. John opened his food filled pack. “I’ll cook,” he said.

Darkness retreated from the forest as the horizon unraveled daylight. Jim followed John along the base of a ridge, then up a steep slope to the ridge’s narrow, plateau like top.
John leaned against a gnarled pine and pulled two pieces of dried moose meat from his pocket; he handed one strip of meat to Jim and put the other between his cheek and gum.
After resting in the cold silence, the two hunters climbed to the top of a rock, which overlooked muskeg. They squatted and waited in the cold. Finally, in the silence, they watched a bull moose stepped confidently onto the far side of the clearing. It raised its head until its antlers looked like a crown about to fall backwards from a monarch’s head.
John eased his rifle to his right shoulder and aimed. He squeezed the trigger. The moose shook its head and collapsed on its front knees.
Another bullet ripped the morning stillness and knocked the animal onto its side.
Silence.
The two hunters rushed down the slope and squatted near the downed animal – its proud eyes open to its conquerors, its body still in the bloodstained snow.
“He’ll be tough,” Jim said. “An old bull.”
“We need our machines,” John said softly.
After returning with their sleds in tow behind their snowmobiles to the kill, both men set to work. John unsheathed his knife and made an incision in the neck then clasped his saw. Precise strokes severed the moose’s head from the body then gutted the animal. After setting the heart aside in the snow, John and Jim dragged the fur-covered carcass with their machines to a large spruce. With a sturdy rope hung over a limb they hoisted the carcass off the ground.
“That’s good,” John said.
The two men stripped the fur from the animal and set the hide in Jim’s sled. John placed his saw high up on the carcass and, as Jim held the carcass secure, cut it in half from hind to front.
The sound of metal cutting bone echoed in the forest. Quietness followed as each side of moose hung from a leg bound to the tree.
The two men pulled Jim’s sled under the carcass then loosened a rope and eased one of the halves onto Jim’s fur-covered sled and wrapped the meat securely in the hide. They pulled John’s sled under the remaining hide, loosened the rope, and eased the meat onto a canvas tarp. John placed the heart on the half of moose, and secured the meat in the canvas.
“That’s the biggest moose I’ve seen,” observed Jim excitedly.
John grinned. “He’ll be the toughest one, too.”
Engines strained as the machine’s tracks clawed for footing and spewed snow and exhaust in their wake, then idled near the cabin where John and Jim stopped to pack equipment and rest.
The rest was brief. The hunters secured the packs to their backs, mounted their machines and guided them onto the firm surface of the ice-covered lake.

Chapter 8

John huddled behind the plastic windshield to escape the bitter wind. He accelerated his machine. Jim, Dave, and Ken followed. The sparse layer of snow on the ice provided a smooth ride beneath the wisps of northern lights. The colors flashed like an eddy of autumn leaves under bright sun. When the jagged outline of riverbank joined jagged shoreline John turned his machine sharply. He gunned the powerful machine up the steep bank and around trees, stumps and rocks, then slowed to a crawl as he passed under a tall pine and into a small clearing where the light of a candle shone through a small glass window cut in a log wall.
John parked his machine near the cabin and stepped up to the door.
It opened.
Extol, a silhouette framed by the doorway, stepped aside as John and the three men behind him, walked into the cabin. He closed the door, clenched his pipe in his teeth and walked to the stove. “I get you tea.” He lifted an aluminum teapot from the stove, and took four metal cups from a shelf. “You sit and rest,” he directed, barely looking at the cold, tired men.
The men took their seats on the rough slab benches.
“Warmth,” said Dave, as the old man handed him a cup of steaming tea.
“It’s a good place,” replied Extol. He handed cups to the others then seated himself next to John. “Are you hunting?”
“No. John took us hunting last weekend. We came to visit.”
Extol nodded. “You can visit many times. Good place to stay here.”
“Where is your trap line from here?” Dave asked.
Extol spread his arms. “Everywhere.” He sucked on the pipe stem and the flame glowed. “Along river.”
“And you fish,” Ken said.
“Feed dogs.”
“You don’t use snowmobile?”
John smiled as Extol looked across the table at Ken.
“Machine no good,” Extol replied.
“They go faster than dogs.”
“Dogs fast enough.”
“They’re good animals.”
The men sipped their tea until thoughts of sleep edged out conversation.
“You sleep on bed,” Extol said, sweeping his hand toward Dave and then the bed.
“What about you?” Dave asked, looking about the small room as if trying to find another bed hidden somewhere.
“I sleep on floor.”
“It’s your bed.” Dave looked perplexed.
“I say it’s yours. Sleep there.” Extol’s eyes flashed, but he spoke quietly. “I’m older, so you listen to my words. I sleep on floor.”
After the men unrolled their bags, Extol led the exodus from the cabin and soon the men returned relieved and ready for sleep. John waited at the table until his guests and his grandfather were secure in their places. Two fingers touched his tongue: two fingers touched the wick; and the flame hissed at the darkness.

Dave awakened to the sound of flames crackling in the stove. He watched Extol: the old man bent over the water pail near the stove and filled a kettle with water and placed it on the stove. Droplets of water hissed then calmed. Extol walked slowly to the door, opened it, and stepped outside.
As the sound of an axe splitting wood crackled in the air, Dave unzipped his sleeping bag and sat for a moment on the edge of Extol’s bed. He grabbed his clothing which he had used for a pillow, dressed quickly in the cold cabin air and stepped outside.
Extol raised his axe. The unprotected wood block, alone on the chopping block, split in half into the snow. Extol placed another block of wood on the block.
“I can do that for you,” Dave interrupted.
Extol swung the axe and the split block toppled into the snow. He swung the axe again; the metal head sunk into the chopping block. He picked up the chopped firewood, placed it in the crook of his left arm, and stood. “You chop wood, I build fire.”
Dave stepped up to the chopping block. “It’s a deal.”

Extol set the freshly baked bannock and a hot pot of tea on the table.
Carrying armful of wood, Dave entered the cabin, followed by John who held a pail of water dotted with chucks of ice. Dave set the wood beside the stove.
“You are good with axe,” Extol said appreciatively, eyeing the stack. “Cut lots.”
“Felt good. Springs the eyes open.” Dave felt his muscles.
The old man grinned. “You are hungry.”
“Ravenous.”
Puzzled lines wrinkled Extol’s face. “What does word mean?”
“I’m very hungry.”
Extol grinned again and shook his head. “Strange word.”
At the table, Dave slashed another chunk of bannock and spread a spoonful of jam on it. He looked at Extol. “It’s delicious.”
“Have some tea,” Jim urged. He poured the liquid into Dave’s cup. “They’re made for each other.”
Dave raised the cup and sipped the hot beverage. “It’s strong.”
Extol grinned. “You need water?” He took a hearty gulp from his mug.
“I’ll wait until it cools.”
Extol nodded. “There is no hurry.”
* * *
Extol sat on the worn snowmobile seat; his rifle rested on his lap. From his parka and he pulled out his pipe and tobacco pouch. He searched an inside pocket and pulled out a metal container from which he retrieved a match. He struck the match on the rifle barrel and sheltered the flame in the bowl – puffs of smoke veiled his face. He grunted and flipped the match – it fizzled in the snow.
The cabin door squeaked shut and John stepped towards the machine. He leaned over its motor, put a new spark plug in place and tightened it with a small wrench. He set the wrench on the seat near Extol and pulled the starter; the machine responded with an efficient purr.
Extol eased his pipe from his mouth and spit at the machine; the tobacco spittle hit the fan belt then the snow. He glanced at Jim, Dave and Ken who were readying themselves on their machines.
John closed the hood, clamped it shut and stood back. “It’s fixed,” he said.
Extol grasped the throttle and turned it slightly; the motor seemed to respond cautiously. A curious gleam danced in the man’s wrinkle-framed eyes. He twisted the throttle: the machine leaped forward and threw the old man, his rifle and the small wrench onto the ground.
Concerned, Jim, Dave and Ken dismounted their machines as John helped Extol to his feet.
The old man brushed the snow from his clothes, and then glanced at his guests. “I’m okay.” A puff of smoke escaped the old man’s mouth. He looked at John. “You fix too good.”

Late that evening, after a meal of steaming bannock, moose stew and tea, Extol eased his pipe from his pocket. He tapped it lightly against a table leg and gently packed some tobacco in the bowl. He lit a match in the candle’s flame and nursed his pipe until puffs of smoke mushroomed above the table and dissipated.
“Want more tea, grandfather?” John asked.
Extol nodded.
John filled Extol’s cup then glanced about the table. “Anyone else?”
Hands, holding empty or near empty cups, reached and waited as John poured the steaming beverage.
“Let’s play checkers,” Jim suggested.
Extol glanced at Jim, and then at Dave and Ken. “You play?”
“Sure,” Dave replied.
Extol grinned. “Good. We play. Tournament.” He said the word carefully.
* * *
“What’s it like outside?” Dave asked, as Extol, his shoulders freckled with snow, stepped into the cabin.
The old man tapped his head. “Fresh snow. Start this morning.” He walked to the stove, opened the square metal door and inserted three blocks of wood. “Wind will start soon.”
“A storm?”
The old man looked over his shoulders and nodded. “You leave soon.”
Dave looked around the cabin. “Where’s John?”
“He get water.”
No sooner had Extol spoken the words, than footsteps sounded outside the door.
John entered the cabin and glanced at Dave. “Storm is coming.”

As John led the teachers around trees and rocks, his prediction of a storm seemed exaggerated; the lightly falling snow lessened visibility but added an eerie sense of distilled beauty and quietness to the surroundings. But when the protective limbs of the forest were behind the machines, the whirling snow thickened and obscured vision as the riders crossed the lake.

John led the three teachers close to the dock, past the frail outline of the church, store and local houses to the fourplex. They passed through the powdery drift blocking the compound and stopped in a smaller drift. There John did a quick count to ensure everyone was safe. He turned his machine in a tight circle and waved.
Chapter 9
John and eight other students sat with Jim Bear and Judy Roth in Jim’s living room. Papers – with rough crayoned pictures and captions, and printed and written stories on them – cluttered the floor and coffee table.
John placed a crayoned drawing before Jim. He covered the lower portion of the paper with another paper. “Who is it?” John asked.
Jim studied the drawing. Thick green lines formed a large out-of-proportion body; thick red lines formed a head. Purple eyes squinted from the red scrawls. “The Great Cruel One?” Jim guessed.
John grinned and uncovered the caption. “Right.”
“Great Hunter fought him, didn’t he,” said Judy, as she looked at a drawing in her hand.
“The little kids taught you a lot,” Jim said.
Judy nodded. “They’re fascinating stories.”
“Which ones will we tell in the play?” a girl of thirteen or fourteen asked.
“That’s why we’re here,” Jim answered. “It’s close to Christmas and the year is almost half gone. We need to put a script together by the end of January so we can present a decent drama to the town in the spring.”
“It will be hard to decide what to choose for the story we tell,” Judy added.
“Will we act everything out?” another student asked.
“As much as we can,” Jim replied.
“Where will we start?” a student inquired.
“That’s for you to decide. It’s your play. We’ve got many stories and ideas.”
“How can we act out the Great Cruel One?” John asked.
“Someone could be on your shoulders,” a girl answered. “That would make you real big. Put a big blanket over you.”
“I’ll be Great Hunter,” a young boy volunteered.
“You’re not big enough,” the girl replied.
“I am, too,” the boy countered.
“Let’s write the names of people and happenings we think should be in the play,” Jim suggested.
“Great Hunter and the Cruel One go first,” the girl said. “Start with them.”
Jim wrote the information on a piece of foolscap. “Okay. What’s next?”

Chapter 10
The students’ handmade ornaments which decorated the Christmas tree reflected the lights the senior students had fastened to the boughs days before the Christmas program. An angel leaned from its precarious tree top perch and looked over the drawn curtain, eight red dyed sheets pinned together and suspended from a wire. Students sat in order of rank from youngest to oldest before the drawn curtain; their parents, grandparents and relatives sat behind them. They waited.
Behind the curtain, John took center stage. He coiled a microphone cord around his wrist like a snake as he reviewed his brief welcome in his mind.
“Are you ready?” Stacey asked from backstage.
John nodded nervously and clasped the microphone with both hands.
The curtains parted.
The bright light from the spotlight above hit John full force, causing him to wince. The darkness beyond him masked the audience. “Welcome to our celebration of Christmas,” John began. “We have prepared songs, skits and readings. Some to make us think, some to make us laugh. The kindergarten class will go first.”
Eighteen bewildered but excited children slowly formed a line. They filed onto the stage. Once the students were standing quietly, Brenda began to play “Silent Night” on her guitar. The boys, dressed in black pants and white shirts, and the girls, dressed in black skirts and white blouses, looked like a miniature choir. One of the boys standing near the edge of the stage and engrossed with the rhythm, moved his pant zipper in time to the music – down, up, down, up. It stuck.
Below the stage, a boy dressed as Joseph walked beside a donkey made of costume material flung over two students. A young girl, representing Mary, sat on the donkey as it walked between the audience and the stage towards the Christmas tree.
On stage the boy pulled and tugged on his zipper but nothing happened. A girl standing near the boy and seeing the problem helped. She held the boy’s crotch and hung on tightly as the boy gripped the zipper with both hands and pulled. The combined effort worked. The boy zipped up his pants just as his classmates completed the last stanza of the Christmas carol.
The curtain closed, the audience applauded, and Brenda escorted her charges from the stage to the darkness of the audience.
“To close our program, Father Hall will read the Christmas story,” John announced.
Hall, clasping an old Bible, stepped onto the stage. His white hair, reflecting the light of the spotlight, looked like fresh snow covering a clump of thick grass. Hall opened the Bible. “What I’m about to read is the story of Christmas,” he said. “It’s a story of love and giving; it’s a story of life. We’ve heard it before; may we always be willing to hear it again.”
The people sat quietly. Even the children sat still and listened as the old man who had lived among them from before their birth, read the Jesus story.
When Hall had finished, John walked to the microphone. “Mr. Sadler has some things to say about the school and the New Year.”
Dave stepped briskly from the darkness before the stage and bounded up to the microphone. “Thank you, John,” he said loudly. “Don’t you think he deserves a hand?”
The audience applauded as John left the stage and walked to the side of the gym.
“Thanks for attending our Christmas program,” Dave said. “It’s made the students’ hard work worthwhile, and it makes us, as teachers, feel good about the evening, too. The bingo will start tomorrow night at eight o’clock. We’ll have ten games with good prizes – two thousand dollars all together, with the last game worth one thousand dollars. Be sure to get here early because there may be people coming from out of town. The first card will cost five dollars and other cards will be two dollars.”
The gym door swung open and a loud voice bellowed “Ho! Ho!” Bells jingled.
Little kids in the front row stared wide eyed at the visitor, seated in a wagon pulled by a team of dogs.
Dave walked to the end of the stage, and with microphone in hand, jumped to the gym floor. He walked up to the visitor and asked, “Where are your reindeer, Santa?”
The plump, white haired figure dressed in a store bought Santa Claus suit looked at Dave. “They fell through a crack in the ice on their way to Reflection Lake. But they’re going to be okay. A trapper helped get them out, and the nurse is taking care of them.”
“Didn’t you bring any gifts?”
“While I was warming up with a cup of hot tea, the nurse took the gifts and put them somewhere no one would think of looking.” Santa Claus examined the tree. “I see she didn’t put them under the tree.”
The little kids looked at the tree and seemed to emit a collective grasp of surprise – the visitor was right.
“Did you bring very many?” asked Dave.
“The sled was full,” replied Santa. “Too full.”
“I wonder where she put them?” asked Dave.
“She said they’d be very close to the kids. She said everyone in the program would almost stand on the presents.”
“Look under the stage,” a child’s voice advised.
Dave lifted the dark green material that draped the front of the stage, and saw the presents. “Who will help Santa?” he asked.
The dogs growled as little kids rushed towards the stage.
“Four of you come quietly,” Santa suggested. “And don’t scare the dogs. The belong to an old trapper who doesn’t like kids.”
Four boys walked carefully towards the stage and eyed the dogs suspiciously. One of the boys picked a parcel and handed it to Santa.
Santa Claus glanced at the name tag. “Elizabeth Running Deer,” he called out.
A little girl, her hair tied with a green ribbon in a pony tail and wearing a green dress with white trim, walked shyly up to Santa Claus. Her dark, serious eyes gazed into the old man’s face. When he bent down to give her a hug, she backed away.
Santa handed the gift to Elizabeth. “Merry Christmas, Elizabeth. I hope you enjoy your gift.”
The girl smiled softly, and ran back to her seat.
Some one hundred and sixty names later the last present was gone. The crowd left, and Ken, exhausted from his role, went home to strip, shower and put on something less cumbersome than the bright red wool costume he’d been wearing. Teachers roamed the floor and picked up the festive wrapping; Dave rolled up the microphone cord and set the microphone stand in a spot amidst the debris.

“We’ll start the first bingo at twenty-five dollars,” announced Jim. He sat behind the wire mesh bingo drum and checked the bingo board on the table before him.
Ken tried to keep up with the line at the door where outstretched hands, after tossing bills, some worn and cigarette charred, others crisp, into the cash box, and inspected the scattered assortment of bingo cards.
“Don’t panic,” Jim cautioned the crowd. “We haven’t started the first game yet, and we won’t be going for the big money for quite a while.” He looked over the players: eager and expectant faces eyed cards; little kids poised for action; some elderly people leaned on canes and tables, and many balanced four or five cars on their laps.
John sat with his grandfather and Chief Sky at a table crowded with young and middle-aged adults. He set his nine cards in a three by three square for easy surveillance.
“For the first game, you’re going for a straight line, any way, for twenty-five dollars,” Jim directed. He drew a line in the air with his finger. He cleared his throat and sipped some water from a glass. “Are you ready?”
The room quieted to a gentle stir and Jim cranked the mesh basket; a ball popped from the opening, rolled down the chute and into the tray before him. He checked the number and put it in the correct place. “The first number of the night is under the B – number seven. B – Seven.”
Eyes darted from number to number, card to card; John checked his cards and spotted three B –seven’s.
Ten minutes after the first game had started, an old womam seated near the back wall of the gym, cried out “Bingo.” Someone in the crowd groaned.
Ken squeezed through the maze of tables, chairs and people. He picked up the woman’s card, lifted the chips from the B column and read the numbers aloud.
Jim checked the bingo board. “It’s a bingo,” he confirmed. “Twenty-five dollars for the lady.”
Ken handed the woman a twenty and a five. “Merry Christmas,” he said. “Have a good time.”
The old woman grinned, her toothless gums glistening.
“For those of you who want extra cards,” announced Jim, “the price is two dollars. If you want to change cards, wave them in the air.”
Hands pawed the air, and Ken squeezed around chairs and people to co-ordinate the switching and selling of extra cards.
“Second game same as the first,” Jim announced. “Straight line any way, twenty-five dollars.”
Players settled down to their cards as Jim cranked the handle. Heads bowed and scanned cards. Within minutes, a child’s voice, surprised and excited, cried “Bingo.”
Ken squeezed through the crowd to the girl. “May I check your card?” he asked.
The girl’s eyelids quivered. “It’s right.”
Ken read the numbers aloud.
“It’s a bingo,” Jim announced. “Twenty-five dollars to the winner.”
Ken pulled a twenty and a five from his pocket. “Here’s your money. Do you want to change cards or buy more?”
The girl glanced at her cards and handed the winning card to Stacey. “This one. It’s no good, now.”
“Those who want to switch may,” Jim announced. “If you want to buy more cards, you better buy now. They’re going fast.” Jim waited until the shuffling of chairs and exchange of money and cards was completed. He cranked the basket: four balls escaped the cage. “We’re going for an L,” Jim directed. He made an L in the air. “L for the bingo.”

“For one thousand dollars,” Jim announced. “Our last bingo of the night. A blackout.” He wheeled the crank and six balls jumped from the basket and into the trough. He looked at the first ball and set it on the bingo board. “Under the I – 21.” He waited as roving eyes studied cards and fingers followed numbers. “Under the I – 21.” He announced the numbers quickly, matter of fact, and repeated each number then placed each ball on the bingo board. About forty-five numbers were on the bingo board when a voice rasped “bingo.”
John wiped his forehead with an open palm. “One number left,” he muttered.
“Lucky card,” Extol said. He looked at his own dismal display and shook his head.
“Leave your chips on your cards,” directed Jim, suspicion edging his voice.
Dave walked to the side of the gym and stopped by an upraised hand. An old man looked excitedly at his bingo card – it vibrated on his trembling knee. Dave looked at the square on the old man’s card and shook his head. “No good,” he said.
The old man pointed at the square.
Dave shook his head. “Not like last game,” he said. He put his hand over the card. “All the numbers.”
The old man stared at the card on his lap. “No good!”
Dave nodded. “No bingo, Jim,” he shouted.
“I’ll repeat the numbers that have been called,” Jim announced. “Everyone check their numbers closely. I’ll call the numbers once.”
Eyes studied cards and numbers as Jim called number after number. He finally heaved a sigh of relief then drank some water. He leaned towards the microphone and continued. “Keep your eyes and ears open. I don’t want to go through that again.” He glanced at the players, wound the handle, and picked up the first ball that popped from the opening and into the tray.
Eyes searched cautiously but quickly.
“Keep a close eye on your cards. Don’t let your excitement make you see things that aren’t there.”
Fingers drummed table tops, perspiring palms rubbed together and tobacco smoke thickened.
John struggled to contain his excitement – only one number left. Number 12, under the B.”
“Under the G – 57,” Jim called.
Participants concentrated on their cards.
“Under the B, 12.”
“Bingo,” John shouted. He placed a chip over the number.
“Bingo,” another voice called.
“Keep your cards and don’t move anything,” Jim said. “Mr. Sadler and Mr. Roth will check the cards.”
Dave walked towards John’s upraised hand and Ken squeezed to the back corner of the gym where a cane waved in the air.
“Everyone stay in their seats and be quiet,” Jim ordered. “We’ll start with John’s.”
Dave read the numbers.
“It’s a bingo,” Jim thundered.
John slapped the table with both hands.
“Take it easy, John. We have one more to check.”
Ken read out a list of numbers.
“Two bingos,” Jim stated. “Five hundred dollars to each winner.”
The gym erupted in confusion.
“Leave cards and chips on the table, not on the floor,” directed Jim.
The gym door swung open and the crowd herded through the narrow opening until John, Extol and the old man waving a cane at the back of the gym were the only remaining players.
Dave walked to the cash table and counted out twenty-five twenty dollar bills.. He walked around the tables and handed the crumpled bills to John. “Merry Christmas,” he said with a grin.
John glanced at the money, clasped the bills, then reached into his back pocket and took out his wallet. “My Christmas present,” he said.
The old man seated at the back corner hit the wall with his cane.
“Don’t forget him,” Jim said.
Ken walked to the cash box, counted out five hundred dollars and took the money to the old man. “Here you are, sir. Merry Christmas.”
The old man stuffed the money in his pant pocket. “Good to spend,” he muttered.
“Don’t spend it all,” Ken countered.
The old man laughed. “I spend.” He struggled from his chair and Ken reached out to help him. The old man shoed Ken away with his cane. “I walk,” he said. He shuffled through the chocolate bar and chip bag wrappings and around the empty pop cans, tables and chairs to the front door of the gym.
“Do you want help, sir?” Jim asked over the microphone.
The old man continued without a second’s hesitation and walked out the open door into the hallway.
Dave looked at John. “Who is he?”
“Rockypoint,” Extol answered softly. “He came to town last week.”
“He came in from trap line,” John added. “He will be here for Christmas, and then go back to bush.”
“We go,” Extol interjected. He and his grandson stood and walked to the doorway.
John turned and looked back. “Make sure you don’t clean the place this time. The janitor will do that tomorrow. The chief talked with him this morning. He has to clean this mess, not you.”
“How did you hear about that?” Dave asked.
John shrugged. “I have ears.”
Chapter 11
Diane trudged in her snowmobile boots toward the store. Once inside the building, she removed her mitts and pulled a crumpled shopping list from her parka pocket, scanned it quickly, then clomped up the aisle to Phil’s office and stood beside Extol.
The old man stood quietly, waiting.
Phil looked up from his books. “One of you sounds like an elephant.” He grinned at Diane. “And it isn’t Extol.”
“When do we get some service?” Diane retorted.
“I didn’t know anyone was standing there until you tromped in.”
“Well, now you know. Do something.”
Phil tossed his pencil onto the desk and approached the counter. “You want to charge up some groceries, Extol?”
Extol clenched his pipe in his mouth and shook his head. “I want to buy knife.”
“Knives are by the cash register” Phil replied.
“I buy good knife. Ones you lock in cupboard.”
“They cost money.”
“He knows that,” Diane interjected.
“I’ll show you,” Phil said. He unlocked a cabinet and brought the tray to the counter.”
Extol touched a knife with a curved blade. “How much money?”
“Twenty-five dollars.”
Extol pulled two bills from his pockets. He placed a worn ten dollar bill and a worn five dollar bill on the counter. “I have this.”
Phil shook his head. “It’s not enough, Extol.”
The old man lifted the knife from the case. “I like it lots.”
“You’re still making something on it,” Diane stated.
“If I sell one to Extol for that price, everyone will want one for the same price. I’ll go broke.”
Diane leaned on the counter and gripped its inner edge. “If I throw in a five will you sell it to him?”
“I’d still be out five dollars.”
“It’s Christmas, damn it. If you don’t, I’ll bloody well let you die the next time you have an ulcer attack. You deserve it.”
Phil eyed Diane, then Extol. “What the hell. You can have it for fifteen. But don’t tell anyone.” Phil placed the knife in a cheap vinyl sheath and handed it to Extol.
Extol grinned. His brown, wrinkled hand clasped the knife’s handle. “You still make money?”
Phil glared at Diane, and then looked at Extol. “That’s for me to know.”
“Don’t cry about it,” Diane retorted.
“And I have to eat Christmas dinner with you of all people,” Phil countered.
Diane smiled. “Peace and goodwill to all,” she teased.
“I’ve got work to do.”
“I need to charge up about a hundred dollars for groceries.”
“Go ahead.”
Diane stepped away from the counter and joined Extol. His face quivered as if it were struggling for control. “What are you thinking, Extol?” she asked.
Wrinkles danced along the old man’s face. “You fight like my woman,” he said. “She fights like mad bear.”
Diane smiled. “I wasn’t mad.”
Extol patted his parka pocket. “You visit me tonight. I make you tea.”
“A Christmas tea?”
Extol nodded. “I thank you for this.”

Diane looked through the assortment of odds-and-ends in the kitchen cupboard until she found what she wanted. She set the dainty, unopened package of imported tea on the counter, then walked quickly to her bedroom, returned with a small piece of green Christmas wrapping paper and wrapped the small gift in the festive paper. “I need ribbon,” she said aloud, and looked inside another drawer. “There you are.” She pulled the thin, red ribbon from the drawer, tied it around the package.
After checking the elements on the stove and turning out the clinic’s lights, Diane stepped out into the darkness of the cold December night and trudged in her heavy boots towards the lake. She tapped her parka pocket to make sure the gift was there, and then looked up at the sky. Cheesecloth light of the northern lights swayed while changing colors as if at whim.
A snowmobile screamed past then stopped abruptly at a nearby house.
Diane followed the narrow trail behind the church and walked towards the weak lights escaping the shacks along the lake. She passed a team of dogs tied to stakes near a shack. Walking quietly past another team of dogs tied to posts near a shack she was startled by a tarp covered snowmobile which looked like a bear curled up in the shadows. She skirted an old model snowmobile nearly drifted over with snow, and nearly tripped over a dog sled. Finally, she stopped at the last shack door and tapped lightly on wood. She waited in the cold.
The door opened and John’s tall, lean frame stood in the doorway. “Come in,” John invited.
Diane stepped into the dry warmth of the cabin.
“Have a chair near the stove,” John invited. “Stay warm.”
Diane sat on an old stool near a brand new yellow chainsaw and unzipped her parka. “Is this what you bought with your bingo money?”
John gave a proud nod. “Works good.”
Extol handed Diane a cup. “Tea is ready,” he said.
Diane smiled. “So am I.”
Extol grinned and lifted a pot off the stove. He poured the hot dark drink into Diane’s cup, and then set the pot on the stove.
Diane dug into her parka pocket and pulled out the small gift. “I brought you something for Christmas.”
Extol looked at the bright green package. “For me?”
Diane nodded.
Extol gently touched the gift, and then accepted it. He sat on a wood block near Diane. He pulled the ribbon – the bow untied and the ribbon dangled in his fingers – and ripped the paper from the package. “Tea,” he said softly, pointing to the fancy lettering on the package.
“A special kind.”
“Strong tea?”
“Can be.”
Extol pulled a small envelope of tea from the package. “More paper,” he grunted. He unfolded the square envelope and held up a teabag by a little string. He studied the teabag then looked at Diane. “John and me, we have gift for you.” He stood, walked to the door and stepped outside. A wooded cover scraped metal, objects rustled then wood scraped metal again. The door opened and Extol stepped inside the cabin. He held a large package in his hands. “We give you moose meat. Four steaks. One for you and three for friends.”
Diane smiled. “I like moose meat very much.”
Extol grinned. “I like tea.”

The little girl tapped the floor as she watched Diane wipe her arm clean for the injection. Diane lifted the needle from the small tray, and then looked at the open door. Extol stepped inside, gently shut the door and walked silently to an empty chair.
Diane eased the needle from the patient’s skin, and then held a cotton ball to the area. She put a band aid on the needle prick and rolled down her patient’s sleeve. “You can go, Mary.”
Mary stood and walked towards the chair next to Extol. She looked sheepishly at the old man, struggled into her parka then walked to the door.

Diane looked at Extol. “You want a needle?” she teased.
Extol frowned and sucked his pipe. “I come for paper.”
Diane’s blank expression urged Extol on. He put his hand in his pocket and showed Diane the knife. “This is for John. I need Christmas paper to wrap.”
“What color?” asked Diane, curious.
“Green,” Extol replied quickly.
“Do you want a box?”
Extol’s eyes sparkled. “You have box for knife?”
“Just a minute.” Diane left the clinic area but quickly returned with green wrapping paper, red ribbon, and a small box.
They worked together. Extol held the wrapping paper tight and Diane taped the edges. Diane tied the ribbon and Extol held the ribbon taut.
“It looks good,” Diane declared, handing the gift to Extol.
Extol nodded. He put the gift in his pocket. “I want pipe for John but priest get mad if I do. Think I sin and make John sin, too.”
“It’s not very good for you.”
“You call it sin, too?”
“It’s not healthy.”
“To be old is not healthy.”
Diane rolled up the left over wrapping paper. “Can’t argue with that.”
Extol grinned. “Smart woman.”

Hall, Phil, Diane, Extol and John sat down to the Christmas meal at Hall’s table. Heads bowed as Hall asked God’s blessing on guests, food, families represented around the Christmas table, and parishioners. “Amen,” he concluded.
Eyes opened and admired the meal before them – Phil’s turkey and ham, Extol’s and John’s moose and rabbit meat, Diane’s salad, cranberry sauce and punch, and Hall’s potatoes and vegetables harvested from his garden.
“The turkey may be a bit dry,” Diane said. “I think I cooked it too much.”
“Was probably dried out in the store,” Phil added. “I don’t know how long it’s been there.”
Diane cleared her throat as though she were about to say something, but said nothing. She handed the platter of meat to Extol; he grinned, accepted it, helped himself, and passed the platter to John.
After clearing the table and washing the dishes, the diners gathered in Hall’s cramped living room where Christmas chimes, escaping the old speaker of Hall’s record player, bounced off the close walls and surrounded Hall and his guests.
Hall set a checkerboard and a plastic bag of checkers on the table between Extol and himself.
Extol looked closely at Phil. “You play?”
Phil shook his head. “Not now. I need some exercise to wear off some of this food.”
Diane glanced at John. “Let’s go riding, to the rapids, maybe.”
John nodded.
As Extol and Hall set up their players, John, Phil and Diane walked to the doorway and pulled on snowmobile outfits and parkas.
Phil opened the door. “Don’t be too hard on the priest, Extol,” he said.
Extol didn’t answer.

Diane and Phil slowed their machines to a crawl on the trail bordering the rapids. John led them carefully around the boulders, stumps, jagged rocks and edges and finally stopped on the wide ledge above the roar of Deadman’s Drop.
Diane watched the water race past the ice-capped boulders, which dotted the river. God’s Thumb, its frosted face staring upstream, towered above the ice. She turned off her machine. The sound of water gurgling near rocks and boulders, and the current sucking water and chunks of ice between rocks and under the river ice echoed between the wall of rock on which Diane stood and the steep rocky embankment opposite her. She eased her helmet from her head. Combing her hair with her fingers, she breathed in the fresh cold air, then stood and walked to the ledge’s edge.
John joined her.
Phil walked along the ledge and stopped. He removed his mitts, explored the front zipper of his snowmobile suit and then relaxed.
The urine cut a line through the crusted snow and then trickled to a stop.
Phil fumbled with his zipper then shoved his hands into his mitts. He turned and walked up to John and Diane. “Where do we go from here?”
“To the camp,” replied Diane. “I’m getting cold. Did one of you bring matches?”
“I did,” Phil said. “And a key. We can check the place while we’re there.”
Diane looked at the large rock jutting from the river before her. She glanced at John. “Where did they get the name, God’s Thumb?” she asked.
“It means the same in English what it meant before in our language.”
“Was the Great Spirit here?”
John nodded. “Some people think so.”
“If we’re going, let’s go,” Phil said. “Now I’m getting cold.”
“That’s what happens when you unzip your pants,” Diane said. “At least you didn’t piss in the river.”.
“It’ll get there, in the spring.”
The three walked back to their machines.

As John placed fresh wood in the stove, Extol decided that it was time. He walked to the shelf where the gift had been hidden several days. He explored its ledge and grasped the small package then walked to the table and sat down.
John closed the stove’s door, lifted the steaming pot from the stove and carried the tea to the table. He sat down.
Extol placed the brightly wrapped gift before John. “It’s yours,” he said.
John opened the package and lifted the knife from the box. He pulled the knife from the vinyl sheath and touched the knife’s edge with his thumb. “It’s sharp.”
“I wanted pipe for you but priest says it’s sin, and nurse says it’s no good. Now we have tea. Extol filled two cups with steaming tea and sniffed his cup. “Smells like trees in rain.”
“Smells good.”
Extol nodded. “Nurse is good woman. Good tea.” Extol set the pot of tea on the table and sat down opposite John. Grandfather and grandson sat down to the first meal of the new year.
It was a meal for old and young to share. It was a simple meal of bannock, strong tea and moose heart.
A moose was strong, smart too, and its heart, when eaten by a man, made that man strong, smart, too. Moose heart gave an old man strength to delay the long sleep journey that tempted tired bones and weak hearts; moose heart gave a young man strength to live life in bush and walk unafraid like a bull moose; like it should be.
Extol poured tea into John’s cup, then poured some tea into his own. He looked into John’s eyes and saw young dreams there, dreams that seemed far away, not part of bush; but he saw other dreams there, too, dreams of trees, earth and water – good dreams. The old man thought of questions he wanted to ask, but he pushed them aside; now was not the time. Today was a day to eat moose heart and bannock, and drink tea. And anyway, how could he, an old man understand John, a young man by asking questions: they were of same blood, of same flesh, of same water and earth, but of different season – young man, like spring, looked to summer, but old man, like autumn, looked to winter.
The old man smiled as he watched John cut the moose heart with the sharp blade of the new hunting knife. It was like it should be – maybe even better than pipe. It was time. “I thought to wait until Easter to talk to you about something, but Christmas is a good time, too, maybe even better.”
John looked at his grandfather and simply waited for him to continue.
“Jim and I talked a while ago about the residential school and the generation of children from Reflection that went there. You listened to our talking and you didn’t say much, which was wise of you.”
“It wasn’t my place or time,” replied John.
Extol nodded. “Now is your place and time, not for you to speak to me, but to hear me, to hear me ask you, my grandson, for forgiveness.”
“You have never harmed me in anything you’ve said or done,” said John. “What is there to forgive?”
“Many people in the community say that about me, including the priest and now you. And I hope and pray that what they say and what you say is true. I ask you to forgive me for sending your father to residential school.”
“You did what you thought was right,” said John.
“I know. But in looking back, I was very wrong. Many others were wrong, too, but I’m not responsible for their actions. I am responsible for my own.” Extol sucked gently on his pipe, blew smoke to the side. “Your father’s life would have been very different if I had not sent him to residential school. Yours, too. The priest says God can forgive any wrong, any sin; but if you can’t forgive yourself of it, and your mother and father can’t forgive it either, God’s forgiveness doesn’t count very much in family, in community on this earth. I don’t want you to forgive me now. Think about it at least seven days. Think about how your life may have been different if you father had not gone to residential school, how your life may have been different, think of what I may have taken from you, what it cost you. Then tell me your decision. And if seven days is not enough, take seven times seven days.”
“Why do you do this now?” asked John. “You have been very good to me.”
“But not to your father. Not when he was a child, not when he was a man. It has taken years for me to see what I have done. When you don’t know what is right to do, and don’t do it, that is understandable, maybe easy to forgive. But if you know what to do and don’t do it, many people are harmed including yourself.”
“You asked God for forgiveness, too?”
Extol nodded. “Creator told me to talk to you first.”
“When did he tell you?”
“When I was checking traps. Quiet in bush, easy to hear one’s thoughts and thoughts of Creator spoken softly in wind and rustling of trees if you will listen. He didn’t say much. But it was enough.”

Chapter 12
The three men sat in the quietness of Extol’s shack: Extol and Hall, seated opposite each other at the table, studied the checkerboard before them; John, seated on the edge of the bed, cleaned a spark plug.
Hall moved a player then looked out the window. “Town is noisy tonight.”
Extol grunted. “People party before big race.” He glanced at his friend’s cup – it was empty. “More tea?”
Hall nodded.
Extol walked slowly to the stove and returned with a pot. He filled Hall’s cup and his own. He looked at John.
John shook his head.
“You go in both races tomorrow, John?” Hall inquired.
John nodded. “Dogs first. Machines second.”
“Big prizes,” Extol said. “Two thousand dollars for machines. One thousand dollars for dogs. Dogs should get more.”
“John will probably win both,” Hall said quietly. “He will be sober.”
Extol nodded. “He smart boy.” His face wrinkled as a thought crossed his mind. “Hope he stay smart.”
* * *
John remembered what his grandfather had said about imagining how his life would have been different if his father had not gone to residential school. He imagined his father, as a boy, fishing, hunting and trapping with grandfather; identifying a strategic place to set the trap and bait, releasing the frozen corpse from the trap and skillfully skinning the animal to remove the hide or fur. Grandfather had taught John how do all these things and he would have taught his own son to do those things, too, if he would have lived in Reflection, not gone to residential school.
He imagined his father playing, fishing and hunting with other boys. Hunting first with sling shot, then with bow and arrow, and then with rifle. He saw the smile on his father’s face, similar to his grandfather’s, similar to his own. But when he thought of his father’s childhood and youth ending, his imagination tired. There were too many ifs: What if all the children of Reflection didn’t go to residential school? What if some went to residential school and some didn’t? What if his had father had never learned to read and write? What if his father had not married his mother? What if? What if?
Although John had been carried inside his mother’s womb, he had never known her. He couldn’t remember his father’s face, even though he had been told it was like his own and like his grandfather’s.
How could he let go of something he didn’t hold, of something he couldn’t imagine fully? It was beyond his imagination. It was beyond his grasp.

* * *
Sunday morning, the clanging of the church bells awakened Reflection from sleep. People flooded the paths to the church; at eleven-thirty the bells chimed a brief benediction as parishioners returned home to prepare for the afternoon’s races.
Spectators waited in a cold huddle near the starting line for the final dog team race to begin. The teachers and Diane stood with Extol and watched as John made a final adjustment to the dogs’ harness.
Extol, his pipe looking like a wedge in the corner of his mouth, grinned. “Good boy, good dogs,” he said quietly.
“Do they wear those bells on the trap line?” Judy asked.
Extol blew smoke in the air. “Bells for race, not for trapping. Bells scare animals.”
Drivers urged their teams to the starting line then watched as a young man, a starting pistol in his upraised hand, waited.
“Ready,” the starter shouted.
Dogs and drivers tensed.
When the gunshot sounded sled dogs lurched forward. Dave took picture after picture of Extol’s dogs.
“You take picture of my dogs, principal,” Extol said.
Dave nodded. “I’ll give you one when I get them developed.”
Extol grinned. “Good.”
“I have a picture of John on his machine yesterday, too.”
Extol’s grin faded. “Machine stays long time. Dogs die.”
“How long until the dogs get back?”
“An hour,” Jim replied. “It’s a long run.”
“You come for tea,” Extol say. “All of you.” He looked at Diane. “We drink your tea.”
“You still have some left?” Diane asked.
“Keep tea for company, special occasions. Smells like spring.”

Straddling his snowmobile in the line up of twenty racers, John glanced to his left and to his right. His position, determined by a random draw before the race, placed him fifth from the outside of the track. He tensed his jaw. William, his racing rival for the past four years, stood beside his machine, third from the inside.
In their first major race four years ago, William had beaten him easily. John practiced hard and often and beat William the next year. The following three years, John had won winter festival snowmobile races, but barely, each win coming near the end of a race with a daring calculated move.
This time the first prize was two thousand dollars. Winning it would provide John enough money to buy a motor for the aluminum fishing boat Harve had given him at the end of the fishing season, just before freeze up. A new boat and motor would help with fishing, hunting, and transporting supplies from the community to Extol’s cabin.
The signalman clasped a pistol in his upraised hand – he squeezed the trigger. Machines kicked up a barrage of white dust which sprayed the observers.
Dave captured the streaks of motion on film, then manhandled the chief’s machine across the track behind the racers and cut across the network of difficult turns the racers had to negotiate before heading onto the open lake. He stopped and waited.
Helmeted riders huddled low behind plastic windshield and accelerated their machines along the raceway winding around the spindly pine trees rooted in mounds of snow; body and machine leaned into tight turns, some clipped corners almost too close. Then they were gone. The raced to the bright red flag protruding from the pine pole tripod marking the halfway point. Hunchback projectiles whined high pitched as they approached the obstacle.
Four machines crowded the first turn. The fourth rider accelerated his machine; he passed the third and second place riders. His machine strained forward and cut quickly in front of the lead rider.
John saw it coming and hoped it wouldn’t happen. He cut his machine to the left but his right ski tip nudged the back end of William’s machine; it snagged boogie wheels and rubber track. John’s weight, thrown hard to the left, raised the right ski tip and back end of the machine before him. Ski and back-end peaked. The ski broke. John swung his machine in a tight U-turn and stopped; the lead machine, out of control, clipped a mound marker and collided into the second marker. The abrupt stop tossed the rider in a somersault onto a ridge of snow. John ran to William and knelt beside him.
William groaned. “Back. It’s hell.”
“Is he okay?” Dave yelled, as he ran up to John.
“He’s hurt bad.”
“I’ll get Diane.”
* * *
Racers and spectators stood quietly at the scene of the accident where the hospital plane waited.
Diane knelt beside William. She looked into the worried eyes. “You’re lucky the pilot was in the air when I called, William.”
“No luck…hurt…like hell.”
Diane glanced at the pilot. “Are you ready?”
The pilot nodded.
Diane eyed Jim, John and Dave. “I’ll need your help.” She unrolled a thick sleeping bag, laid it on the stretcher, and with the men’s help eased William onto the stretcher, and then onto the plane.
The door shut.
People backed away from the plane as the pilot revved the plane’s engine. Hard ice dust, whipped by the wind, sprayed the observers’ bare faces as the plane scraped the snow, and then lunged down the lake.
After the plane was gone, Chief Sky looked about him. “Who was after William?” he asked.
“I was,” John replied.
“I was behind John,” said Jim.
The chief eyed John and Jim. “What do you say if William gets first?”
“I won with dogs,” replied John. “He has kids. Needs more money than me.”
“Fair enough,” Jim replied. “He can have my money, too.”
The chief nodded. “I give money to his wife.”
Chapter 13
“’Government sources say the proposed development will ensure a solid economic base for the residents of the Hope Bay region a solid economic base,’” Jim read aloud from the newspaper clipping Diane had posted on the clinic’s bulletin board. “’Details of the three-stage development project will be presented in written reports and distributed through government agencies to the public. Information meetings will be held shortly to determine public response.’”
“It’s all for Hope Bay,” observed Chief Sky emphatically. “The road, the dam, the two mines. The people there always want road, more power, more everything; but we get nothing.” The chief looked at Jim. “You will come with us to meeting?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Good. You talk in English what I say. I don’t talk good when pissed off.”
“Going to give them hell?” Diane asked.
“They give us hell. I just tell them what I think.”

“Softwhistle and Bushman talk a lot about the old ways, but they don’t believe our ways,” said the chief. He sat opposite Dave and leaned on Dave’s desk. “They have big cars and houses in city.”
Dave glanced at his watch. He had heard the chief denounce the southern native representatives and the government and business leaders behind the proposed development for the Hope Bay – Reflection Lake area, and now distantly remembered hearing the chief make the same comment near the beginning of their discussion of the public meeting planned for Hope Bay. “But they fight for your rights.”
“Maybe. But we still lose. Many times. And with Onearm we lose more. Crazy head on the woman. She tries to be chief.”
“She makes government representatives uncomfortable,” observed Dave.
“Everyone uncomfortable when she speaks. When she fights government representatives, that’s okay, but she fights us, too.”
“Do Softwhistle and Bushman disagree with you?”
“They from prairie and live in city. They don’t know bush. How he got that name, I don’t know.”
“You have to work together to get anywhere.”
“Have to understand first. They talk language I don’t understand. Interpreter says what is good to say, doesn’t say other things. We think we have what we want then find out we get nothing. Happens many times that way. That’s why I come to talk to you.”
“What can I do?”
“You can let Jim go with us to Hope Bay. He knows our language. He knows government’s words and what they mean. Maybe he can listen and speak for us.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“Yes. He said he would ask you. But I wanted to see you first, to tell you we need him.”
Dave scanned the school calendar that was tacked to his office wall. “The meeting is two weeks from today?”
“Yes.”
Dave frowned. “Menson will be here Thursday and Friday of that week.”
“He won’t like Jim gone?”
“It throws a monkey wrench into things.”
“He can’t go?”
“I didn’t say that. I’ll talk with Jim. I might have to okay it with Menson, but I’ll give it a good try.”
* * *
“How was your day?” asked Dave as he entered Jim’s classroom.
Jim looked up from the scribbler he was correcting. “I’m glad tomorrow’s Friday. I’m running out of energy.”
“Makes two of us.” Dave walked to a student’s desk and sat on it. “Phillip talked with me this afternoon.”
Jim leaned back in his chair until his shoulders touched the blackboard. “I thought he might get to you before I did.”
“Was this your idea or his?”
“Both. He asked me to go, and I was hoping to go with him and the council. Can’t afford to pay my own way there.”
“Menson’s coming that week.”
“I know. Presents a problem, doesn’t it?”
“Doesn’t make it easier.”
“What if I took a student and called it a field trip?”
“John?”
“It would be a learning experience. See the democratic process in motion.”
“Are you going to talk or listen?”
“What difference does it make?”
“Menson doesn’t like his people getting political.”
“Living here is political.” Jim looked out the window. Spring’s reserved warmth had peeled small patches of snow from the ground. He eyed Dave. “Could I get fired over it?”
“You wouldn’t get fired, but you might not get rehired next year.”
Jim leaned forward and the front legs of his chair slammed the floor. “I still want to go, and I want to take John.”
“You sound like a missionary trying for a first convert.”
Jim shrugged. “Maybe. Hall’s the missionary here, and people trust him. I want that trust, too.”
“I’ll need a report on your trip and the meeting.”
“Does that mean I go?”
“It’s fine with me.” Dave rose and stood for a moment in the doorway. “You should go into politics someday.”
“I’m in it already.”
* * *
The chief, six members of his council, Jim, John and Hall sat in a back row of Hope Bay’s auditorium. Tobacco smoke clung to individuals and pressure groups crowding the auditorium and hung between the audience and the government officials seated behind a long table on the platform.
After a brief introduction by Hope Bay’s mayor, the first speaker clasped a microphone. Dr. Smittson pushed his glasses hard against his eyes with his index finger, and then sipped from a glass of water before him. He glanced at the audience, and then began speaking to the back wall. “Two years ago the government allotted funds for the Research Department to implement and coordinate a feasibility study of economic alternatives available to this region. This winter, the department submitted a recommendation that public meetings be held to hear public opinion. That is why we and our contact and resource people are here this evening. The official reports were distributed the last two weeks; we are here to summarize those findings and field questions.”
Dr. Wondez, Director of Economic Development, spoke next. He crouched behind the table, adjusted his tie and spoke. “In order for the people of this region to become self-sufficient, it is necessary to make effective changes. Development requires an efficient source of power. Therefore, government and business interests will collaborate to build a hydroelectric dam in this region. Although a hydroelectric dam requires considerable initial capital, it provides short term benefits such as jobs and long term benefits such as cheap electricity.” Dr. Wondez raised a glass of water to his lips.
Mr. Garrdol, Director of Resources and the only dignitary not wearing a tie, stood. He raised a microphone to his bearded chin. As he spoke, his voice slipped into a quiet state of resigned displeasure. “All three developmental stages will negatively effect the current lifestyle of people who depend on hunting, trapping and fishing as a source of livelihood. Details of those negative effects are in the report so I will only summarize them this evening.
“A highway will bring people from the south, people not familiar with nature’s ways. Tourists who wish to see this area now must fly in to fishing or hunting camps where guides are paid to entertain with good catches or successful hunts, and to ensure safety. All of us have heard stories, some exaggerated, about gun happy tourists, but we must admit there are some crazy people around who would go even crazier in the bush. Although a road will be useful in transporting fire equipment to a fire, expanded tourism would probably result in more forest fires.
“The hydro-electric project is the most serious for those in the Reflection Lake area. The building of a dam a fifty kilometres upstream from Reflection Lake on the Great Spirit River will eliminate some major rapids, flood marshes, and historical and archaeological sites. We don’t yet know the full impact of the flooding on the duck, geese, moose and other wildlife populations.”
“It’s time for questions,” a voice interrupted from the floor. A man, looking to be in his early thirties, stood. His braided hair rested on his shoulders.
“We haven’t heard from our other speakers,” Hope Bay’s mayor replied.
“By the time we hear from everyone seated behind that table we won’t have time to ask questions or say what we think.” The man waved a booklet. “All the information is in here, anyway.”
The mayor glanced at Smittson, Wondez and Garrdol – the speakers nodded. “Go ahead,” the mayor said.
“I’m Peter Softwhistle.”
John straightened and spotted the controversial spokesman of the chief’s association. He nudged Jim. “Who invited him?”
“Himself,” Jim replied quickly. “He’ll say what he thinks.”
“Dr. Wondez, why do you assume the people here must give up their way of life for another way of life that disrupts natural patterns and expects those who live in a natural setting to offer their lifestyle for display in a museum?”
Dr. Wondez replied with a tone similar to a parent dealing with an insolent child. “These people are already changing their way of life. Hunters and trappers use snowmobiles, not dog teams; fishermen use motors, not paddles; nearly everyone lives in a house, not a shack or a tent. Life is a process of change and we’re all part of that change. Everyone is affected by a changing lifestyle; rural to urban, an agricultural to an industrial to an information based economy. Rural people move to cities, office workers live in suburbs.”
“And it’s the middle and upper class with their high paying jobs that move to the suburbs and build their miniature roof-enclosed lakes, and have soft grass for lawns and shrubs and trees to give them relief from the concrete and glass skyscrapers you build,” Softwhistle retorted.
Wondez shook his head and the mayor acknowledged another inquirer. “Mr. Bushman, go ahead.”
Mr. Bushman, the editor of an independent, political newsletter circulated among native groups, fixed his eyes on the Director of Resources. “Mr. Garrdol, you have provided information on the negative effects the proposed development will have on the natural surroundings. How can you as a Director of Natural Resources justify this proposed development project?”
Mr. Garrdol clasped a microphone. “It is foolish to expect the building of a highway, the flooding of thousands of forest acres, and the development of mine sites to have a positive effect on an intricate natural pattern. I doubt if any government or private project can make improvements on nature’s looks in this region. My comments relate to the effects on the natural environment. To my way of thinking the question is this: how do we reduce or minimize the negative effects of an economic initiative that must take place for people to live a good life?”
The chief stood and Jim stood beside him.
“Question,” the mayor stated, relieved to hear someone else.
“Chief Phillip Sky of Reflection Lake will speak,” said Jim. “I will interpret what he says.”
“Reflection Lake’s chief will speak,” Jim said. “I will interpret what he says.”
Phillip said a few words, and then Jim translated. “Mr. Garrdol, how do you measure the value of a tree, a rock, or a graveyard of our ancestors?”
“There are tangible and intangible values,” Garrdol replied. “If a tree is marketable it is worth something monetarily, if a rock contains a certain quantity and quality of mineral it is worth something money wise. If the tree and the rock are not marketable but part of a sacred place like a burial ground, then their value can no longer be ascertained on an economic level. Our study included the gathering of cultural and historical information, and our department has asked that these intangible values be considered by those responsible for making the final decision.”
“Dr. Wondez?” Softwhistle added. “How much value does the Economic Department place on these intangible things?”
“Forests have been replaced by fields, but there are still trees standing in many rural areas,” answered Wondez. “Cities of concrete and glass have been built, but they have parks and other scenic places included in their design. Life is a process of change, but we can always design our life so it provides us with some knowledge of our roots.”
“What damn good is knowledge of our roots?” Softwhistle retorted. “You propose to rip them out of the earth, dry them out in your bureaucratic dryer, and when they have lost all their strength, say ‘here, study these, your roots, see what they’re like.’
You gulp down a steak, wash it down with beer and a few hours later shit on a plate and say ‘that’s steak, that’s what it looks like.’ It’s the same damn thing. Smart people leave your developed cities and move to the river and lakes, or they move to an acreage or small farm for simple life. They know what steak is and what isn’t. You package shit in words, you paint over it with words, and you unwrap it and cook it with words, and say ‘eat this, it’s good.’ We’re tired of eating shit.”
The audience clapped as one.
A woman stood. “I’m Christine Onearm,” she said.
Everyone looked at the short, husky woman near the front of the auditorium.
“Meeting never stops now,” the chief said quietly.
Jim and John grinned. John leaned forward to catch every word.
“Go ahead,” the mayor said.
“Dr. Wondez, I’m concerned about the single women of this area who need a job to earn a decent wage to escape the stigma of welfare. Will personnel consider hiring women for labor jobs you’re mentioned? Another question, Dr. Wondez: if the project goes through, and if employers hire local people, will they assign a proportion of the positions to locals, or will they hire outsiders for the best jobs and hire our own people for the muckier, low paying jobs?”
Dr. Wondez winced. “Personnel would consider any qualified person.”
“She asked smart question,” the chief murmured.
“What’s a qualified person?” Softwhistle demanded.
“I’m addressing Miss Onearm’s question.”
“Consider Mr. Softwhistle’s question as part of my own,” Onearm added coldly.
“It will be recommended to the government bodies and employer personnel that qualified local people be hired. The initial stage of the dam project will involve the salvaging and clearing of timber from the flooded area, and the work will not require highly trained personnel. Previous to the construction of the main dam structure, training programs would be initiated for the purpose of training those local people wanting training in the respective trades.”
“You’ll have trouble training a man to be a tradesman if he’s cutting trees in the bush,” Softwhistle blurted.
“Supervisory and highly skilled professionals will be hired for the advanced stages, and they will be selected as to their qualifications. Policies will be established to ensure that fair employment strategies were implemented.”
“We’ve heard that too long,” retorted Softwhistle.
The chief stood and Jim stood with him.
“Go ahead,” Hope Bay’s mayor said.
The chief spoke softly sentence by sentence and Jim interpreted his words. “I’m not from this town where people think of mines and money. I’m from Reflection Lake where families still hunt and fish and trap and live with water and the earth and all things in it. I come here to listen and to speak, not start a war. I don’t want my lake and my people surrounded by large buildings that blow smoke into the air and piss poison into lake – the water I drink. But what I want won’t be what I get. I’ve learned that over many years. Our land, our life will be changed not because we want it so, but because others more powerful than us want it so.” The chief and Jim sat down.
A middle aged man sitting near the front of the auditorium stood. “I’m Mr. Cooper, principal of Hope Bay High School. Dr. Wondez, what demands will be placed upon our educational system to meet the needs of the proposed development?”
Wondez soothed the crackling mike in his hands. “Schools will be given increased funds to provide more industrial oriented programs.”
Softwhistle jumped to his feet. “You want schools to train students to do and not to think, to work with their hands and not with their minds. You want machines to run bigger machines. You want robots. But we are people with creative minds.”

Alliances budded as wilderness aligned itself against city, nature against industry, and people against people. Hope Bay’s mayor threatened to end the meeting again and again, but speakers, critics and audience calmed sufficiently each time to allow the meeting to proceed to an en by 1:00 a.m.
Men and women left the auditorium. Outside, tobacco smoke still clung to their clothes in the cool spring air.
John stood with Hall, Jim, the chief and members of the chief’s council in the darkness. He breathed in deeply.
“What do you think of it, chief?” Jim asked.
“We lose again,” Phillip answered, quietly.
“But you spoke up.”
“Like animal in trap.” The chief looked at the open doorway of the auditorium, and then at the lights along the bay on which the mining town was built. “We need a young chief, someone strong to fight and smart to speak. We need that one soon.”
Chapter 14
The gym lights faded as the canvas curtains parted. John spoke. “Welcome to our drama club’s first presentation of ‘Reflection.’ Join with us in the silence of night enveloping forest, where you, an important part of that forest’s life cycle, meditate on the solitude and the silence of nature.”
A twig brushed against a twig, a small rapid gurgled in the background, and an arm stretched and knocked down a wooden bowl from a pillow-sized rock and clattered against a stone. A body turned, and then sat up, barely distinguishable from the darkness. The figure moved slowly, stopped, knelt and exhaled an explosive burst of air. An ember blushed with light and subsided. Again the human form leaned towards the ember and now blew gently on the warm remnant of yesterday’s fire. The fire flared. A dot of morning sun in a cluster of dried grass and twigs erupted in a single flame. The fire licked the air, swallowed the dry grass silently, and then bit into the fragile fibers of twigs, which crackled in response. A hand fed more twigs to the fire; flames snapped at the fingers of wood, devoured them quickly, and the man huddled over the escaping warmth.
“And so ends the night,” John’s voice whispered through the sound system. “A remnant of fire from yesterday caressed with care and brought to life. And so will nature and her children, asleep in the arms of the forest, awake to the warmth of the sunrise, its colors and shadows revealing living things. Life.”
A faint haze of light enveloped the stage. A small crowd of characters dressed in skins, stretched out their hands to the audience.
“We are the forest’s children-
brought to life in the shadow of pines
nourished with her fruits
healed by her herbs
growing near the graves of our ancestors
buried in scented earth –
giving birth to living creatures
towering trees and fragile flowers
nestled in cushioned beds of moss.

“We are the forest’s children –
we drink from the streams
feeding the river and the lake
with fresh fish, quenching
the thirst and hunger
of her children who walk
the forested banks and shores.

“We are the forest’s children.
Observe with us, share with us
the forest’s past.
Let it unfold before you.”

The curtain closed and John read a short history as the beating of drums entertained the audience. “Great Hunter, the greatest of our ancestors, led our people from the land of giants across the great salt water to the flat, rocky and treeless land beyond our forest. There, the women set up camp and the men explored, searching for a place of flowing water, tall trees, and furbearing animals like the one their ancestors knew before their imprisonment in the land of the giants.
“Our ancestors traveled many circles of seasons; the women set up camp and the men searched for better hunting grounds and forests to protect them from the cold wind. Some tired of the searching and refused to travel further. In time, the people Great Hunter had led across the Great Gain were a divided people: the tired ones camped on the barrens, but the brave ones pressed inland in search of trees and fresh water, and reached this place, our home. Here, their children grew and explored the river and streams in canoes made from the bark of strong trees.”
The drumming ceased: the curtain parted and a blue spotlight illuminated the stage. Two children dressed as men, armed with bows and arrows, waited in their canoe. The hunter seated in the front of the craft raised his bow and pulled back the string as a large set of antlers atop a grotesque, hairy head with cup-sized nostrils, neared. The stone tipped shaft pierced the target, as did another.
The spotlight subsided then brightened – a crowd of men, grunting with pleasure a rivulets of bloodied fat collected in patches on their chins, sat around a fire.
“We go for more,” an older man wearing leather pants and coat declared. “There will be food for all the families.”
The curtain closed.
The curtain parted and a man, carrying a large open book in his hand, stepped into the spotlight.

“I bring message from the Great One,
He who makes the towering trees
sway in the wind with his breath.
I bring a message from the Great One,
He, whose tears of laughter and sadness,
form the bubbling streams, roaring rivers
and many lakes.

“I bring a message from the Great One.
The Great One knows your fear.
He who touched the earth with life
hears the cries of your dying children,
feels the pain of your wounded son,
and smells the smoke of your death fires.
He who made you loves you,
He sent his son…”

The curtain closed.
The curtain parted. A lone trapper stood at a lakeshore. He looked up as a humming sound caught his attention, and saw a plane drop onto the lake and spray snow in all directions. It approached the shore. The trapper ran to his shack, grabbed his rifle and raced to a tree and stood behind it.
The strange craft stopped, and the trapper’s eyes widened as a man jumped from the bird’s bell and landed on the snow. He stepped cautiously from the shelter of the tree.
The stranger walked up to the trapper and held out a hand. “How is trapping?” he asked.
The trapper grinned. “Good. Many furs.”
“Different kinds?”
“All kinds.”
“I will buy your furs,” the stranger offered. “I will give you good money.”
“I pay bill at store.”
“I’ll give you a better price. Let me show you.” The pilot escorted the trapper to the plane. He took a bottle and a little book from the plane. “Care for a drink?”
The trapper nodded.
The lights dimmed and voices were muffled.
“It’s a deal,” the pilot shouted. “Have another.”
The lights faded, the plane’s motor revved, and a small light focused on the trapper. He clasped an empty bottle. The curtain closed.
Ancient rasping voices from the other world whispered in unison from the darkness.
“Even the wise – ignorant
of the trader’s ways –
can be fools.

“Beware the stranger stalking the forest,
he secretly searches for treasure;
beware the lips that speak loudly,
they speak little of wisdom found in the forest;
beware the pictures on pieces of paper
made from the trees of the forest;
beware the stranger’s outstretched hand
offering gifts for a price.”

The haunting whispers faded, the curtain closed, and spotlights flooded the audience. John spoke. “Many lights blind the eyes, many words confuse the ears and strain the mind, make it break and answer questions with foolish words. At times, the mind confused waits too long and a treasure is lost to a quick thinking hand.”
War drums, war cries, and rattles filled the air.
Quiet.
The curtain parted and spotlights blanked the stage with light. Two men assaulted the antique boards of an old shack with an axe and a burring chain saw. Two others piled the freshly cut lumber to center stage and carried away the old planks.
A tall, fat government official stood with a chief dressed in ceremonial clothes and observed the work. The official rolled a fat cigar between his lips. “It will be a good school,” he said. “The children will learn many things.”
The chief looked at a piece of lumber on the ground. He picked it up. “Board is crooked.” He looked at the ground. “And that one.”
“That can be easily fixed. A nail or two will straighten it out in no time.”
The chief dropped the board to the ground. “Will teachers be straight as board?”
“Another year and children will be learning to read and write. It will be good for everyone.”
The program continued with scenes portraying the abuse of river and forest, then concluded with a scene of an old man, sitting on a rock along a shore and talking to his small grandson who stood ankle deep in water while analyzing the small stones cushioned in his handful of dripping sand.

“The hills whisper to the wind
whispering to the waves
whispering to the shore
writing words on sand,
etching with teasing pebbles
the whispered words on rocks.

“And all these speak to me –
nature writes her story
binds her words in earth,
her book, and calls it Wisdom.
Listen to her words,
let her teach you while you’re young
let her waters soothe your soreness
let her guide you through her land
let her spread her thoughts before you
let her lead you into Truth.

The curtain closed.
Chapter 15
Extol and John stood near a tall stand of poplars. John set a full can of gas near a large tree, and then huddled over his yellow chain saw. He adjusted the choke and pulled hard on the starter cord. The machine jumped to life, stalled and died.
Extol walked up to a poplar tree and cut a notch in its trunk. He stopped as bursting grunts, followed by the steady purr of the chainsaw, interrupted the ring of the axe’s blows on wood; John walked gingerly towards Extol and tapped the old man on the shoulder. Extol stepped aside.
John stood before the tree and touched the chain to the bark. The engine choked up dust and exhaust as the metal teeth ripped through fibers, then purred softly. Grandfather and grandson watched – the tree swayed and fell back, spraying leaves and moss into the air. John cut off the thick bottom branches. Extol’s axe clipped off the upper branches as though they were twigs. The two men met. Again, the old man stepped aside and John dispatched the remaining branches.
“Machine is fast,” Extol grunted.
“It works good.”
They walked to another tree. Extol notched it, and John felled it with his chain saw. They walked to another tree, and another.
“We drink tea,” Extol said finally. He swung his axe lightly; its sharp edge stuck in a tree trunk.
They walked to their borrowed truck. John opened a small pack sack and pulled out a large thermos and a paper bag. Extol poured steaming tea into two cups. John opened the paper bag and withdrew four long strips of dried meat.
“Be better on fire,” Extol said.
“Forest too dry,” John replied.
Extol nodded. “Need big rain.” He eyed the dry trees before him, smelled the tree sap, and listened as grass and moss scratched the earth underfoot. “Bad for fire.” He looked at John. “You wish to go to city school?” he asked.
John shook his head. “I’m getting good marks on my correspondence lessons. Mr. Roth thinks I will get my grade 12.”
“You want to go to university like Jim?”
John stared at the steam escaping his cup.”
“You are man. Be man.”
“What does a man do?”
“A man lives, helps others live, helps all life live. A man listens, learns, and speaks.”
“I’ve listened; I’ve learned we may lose our life; when we speak, others speak louder.”
Extol gazed at the trees surrounding him as though looking for a prompter. “We must speak as wind speaks to forest. From north, south, east, west. From every direction. It speaks soft sometimes, speaks hard other times. Sometimes it gets mad and fights, sometimes it teases like little kids.”
“But if no one listens?”
Extol studied his tea. “If no one listens to wind?” His eyes blinked and his voice trembled. “You don’t listen, you don’t live long.” Extol raised his cup and sipped his tea. “All things die. The trees die to warm us so we may live. Animals die so we may live. Old die so young may live.”
“I want life, not death.”
“New ways grow old and die, die on machine.”
“I need to look back and ahead,” said John. “I need to act now for it affects the past, yours and mine, and it affects the future.”
Extol waited for John to continue.
“I have tried to imagine what it would have been like if my father, your youngest son, had not gone to residential school.”
Extol looked toward John, but over his shoulder at the dry, dusty trees behind him.
“When I think of my father staying in Reflection rather than going to residential school, I see him enjoying his life more, hunting and fishing and maybe even trapping with you. He may not have learned to read and write and do math, for you yourself have told me that you didn’t learn to read and write and do math until your children were gone from home. You may not forgive yourself, but I do. You thought it was best because the priest, the church and the government thought it was best. – people who were supposed to be for you and your children, not against you. You made one mistake – you trusted the wrong people. And everyone does that sometime in their life. Even the Creator.”
“How does the Creator make that mistake?” asked Extol, curious and looking at John.
“He trusts people to look after creation and each other. That trust is broken every day.”
Extol nodded.
“I don’t hold your sending my father to residential school against you. As a child he might have been happier in Reflection Lake, but when he was older, and didn’t know how to read and write, his life would have been hard, too. And if he had stayed in the community while other children went to residential school he may have felt cheated, jealous. Hard to know what he would have felt. Like you said, he kept his thoughts and feelings to himself.”
“You have thought and felt deeply about what I said to you,” said Extol, admiration and relief in his voice.
John nodded. He put his hand on his grandfather’s shoulder. “If what you did was wrong, I forgive you. I have a hard time forgiving God for taking my mother, and then my father.”
Extol looked at John, then stared into the forest. He stared at his empty cup and then stared again into the forest. He blinked and set down his cup. “If I can understand the hard time you have letting go of what he let happen, Creator understands. We work.”
Chapter 16
A survey plane flying high over the dark waters of Reflection Lake stalled. It drifted over the lake’s forested southwest shoreline and collided with a gentle rise of dry evergreen. Metal fragments sliced forest limbs. Gas fumes and parched forest ignited. Fire licked metal and flesh, crawled slowly on the ground and then gathered speed.
As Reflection slept, flames impaled proud forest giants, and light night breezes, as blissful as a sleepwalker, now terrorized the trees. Fingers of daylight stretched from east to west, and ribbons of smoke etched forebodings in a harsh blue sky.

John, chainsaw in hand, stood before the evergreen. He set the metal teeth against the bark, and then stepped aside – the towering spindly tree shook, toppled, and crashed against four smaller evergreens and pinned them to the forest floor. He wiped his forehead, dried his hand on his char-dusted pants and looked at Extol.
Extol wiped the dirt from his face then wiped his hand on his shirt. “Water,” he rasped.
John set his saw on a stump. He looked at the bush before him, eased his canteen from his shoulders and handed it to Extol. “Not much left,” he cautioned.
The fight continued. But the axes, shovels, chainsaws, backpack water packs, and water bombers only teased the fire.

The rumbling Beaver approached the dock and stopped. The plane’s passenger door opened and Hall, dressed in work clothes and a tattered cowboy hat, stepped onto a pontoon and onto the dock.
Dave grabbed Hall’s hand. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Hall nodded, breathed in deeply, and glanced sadly at the town where mothers were setting their belongings outside their doors, getting ready to leave.
The Beaver edged away from the dock. Hall gripped Dave’s shoulder. His bloodshot, troubled eyes studied Dave. “We evacuate.”
Dave nodded. “As soon as people are ready.”

Dave and Hall stood on the dock directing the evacuation. “We want you to leave by families,” Dave announced over the school’s megaphone. “Don’t go until we’ve checked your name from our list. We don’t want anyone left behind.” He looked at the mothers, kids, and older people who waited to get into their boats, and then glanced at Hall. “Are you ready?”
Hall nodded. He looked at his list. “Rita Axeman and her four children are first.”
Dave called out the woman’s name and a woman in her mid twenties limped towards Dave and Hall. She carried a baby: three children followed her.
“Who will drive your boat?” Dave asked.
“Me,” the woman stated quietly. She stepped into the old skiff and sat with her youngest child near the motor; her three older children sat on the middle seat.
When every name was checked off the first section of the evacuation list, Dave allowed the people to leave. Motors revved, propellers churned as the knot of boats left the store dock for the safety of the far shore.
“It looks like a small armada,” Dave observed.
“They’ll be safe there,” Hall said. He looked down the lake towards the fire. His chapped lips parted. “The fire is coming fast.”
Dave followed Hall’s gaze. The ridge to the south glowed as the fire surged forward.

Jim and Ken took turns bulldozing the trees between Reflection and the fireguard. They pushed toppled trunks into long unkempt rows, scraped clean the leveled areas between the piles. Dave and the other teachers helped in watering the piled rows of the fireguard, and worked with Diane, Phil and Hall in the clinic, school, church and store, packing documents, files and records in boxes and metal suitcases, and took turns monitoring the clinic radio.

The handful of remaining evacuees – Phil, Hall, the chief, Diane and the teachers – watched as three planes banked over the lake.
“Firefighters,” Chief Sky said softly. He pointed to the three planes that were banking over the lake.
“What do you figure?” Dave asked.
“They will fight fire from this side, now. Protect town.”
The planes circled the town, dropped to the water and taxied to the dock. Weary men, carrying packs on stooped shoulders, stumbled from the plane and waited. They squatted, and then looked up as a slim, flushed-faced man climbed from the plane and stood on the dock. He walked up to Dave’s boat. “Which one of you is Dave Sadler?”
“I am,” Dave replied
“I’m Blacksmith, the Fire Marshall.”
The two men shook hands.
“I told you to leave,” Blacksmith stated matter of fact.
“We were set to go when the chief saw your planes,” replied Dave.
“Just as well. You can take your things across the lake but I want your men to come back here and fight the fire. Except Hall and the chief.”
“I stay,” Hall said.
“And me,” Chief Sky added.
“Have it your way,” Blacksmith replied. He looked at Phillip. “I’ll work the younger men, and giver the older ones a rest.
Phillip nodded.
John and Extol stepped from the third plane. John slipped his pack from his shoulders and knelt on the dock. He dipped his hands into the water, washed his face and drank deeply.
Blacksmith adjusted his gray hard hat. “I want all the water pumps and hoses off the fireguard and placed in town. We’ll water down everything. Those under fifty come with me; those over fifty rest a while.” He looked at the men, and then walked up to John. “Let’s go.”
“What about my chainsaw?”
“Leave it and your pack here.”
“I put in cabin,” Extol said.
“Stay there and rest,” Blacksmith added. “You’re too old to be fighting fires. You should be at the camp across the lake.”
“Kids, women and sick go there. Not me.”
Blacksmith glanced around him. “Let’s go.”

Standing on the dock Blacksmith watched the three planes approach the trees bordering the fireguard. A cloud of orange-red retardant dropped from the planes and clung to the trees. The planes gained altitude, banked in a horseshoe and climbed above the lake until they were out of sight.
Three more planes. They circled the town then banked into their final run and strafed the forest edge.
“If the fire breaks through that we work like hell,” Blacksmith said.
“Think it will?” Dave asked.
Blacksmith shook his head. “We’ll soon find out.”

In the evening after supper, on the far shore opposite Reflection, young children, their mothers and grandmothers and the too-old-to fight men eyed the eastern horizon. A heavy, dark cloud rushed towards them.
Brenda, Judy and Diane sat outside Diane’s tent and watched.
“An east wind,” Diane observed. “I hope it brings rain.”
“Usually brings a three day rain,” Judy added.
“The fire’s screwed up everything,” Diane added. “Even the weather.”
Later that evening a gust of wind pushed and pulled a small empty plastic bag along the sand. Raindrops sprayed tiny dust particles into the air. Diane, Brenda, and Judy quickly set up a tarp, and then set a log beneath it.
“Looks like a soaker,” Brenda observed.
“Just what we need,” Judy added.
Diane looked at the whitecaps forming on the lake. “The storm will put out the fire or make it worse.” She watched the children who were playing on the beach in the rain and smiled. “The kids think it’s great.”
The wind carried the sound of giggling, teasing, laughing, and splashing from the beach towards the lake. Mothers, grandmothers and grandfathers sat under tarps or in opened tents watching the children play in the sand and rain.
“No one worries about lightning,” said Brenda, concerned, eyeing the dark clouds above.
“Haven’t seen any yet,” Diane observed. “Just looks like a heavy rain.”

The flames paused, puzzled by the aftertaste of the wet, tainted wood spread before them. They attacked again, devoured their spoiled pleasure, and then slowly withered.
Shrinking in size under the bombardment of fire retardant upon them, the flames shrunk in height and diminished in intensity. Escaping the forest’s upright cinders, the flames limped over bare ground towards the piled row of uprooted trees embedded in moist, cool earth. There, like a flame in an enclosed jar, they died.

The people of Reflection sat quietly in their boats. They stared at the blackened landscape surround their community. The church’s metal spire reflected clouded sunlight and gray crosses dotted the cemetery. The piled logs of the fireguard overshadowed the clinic, school, houses, store and church.
“It looks like a bomb hit the place,” said Brenda. She looked up at Dave and the other men standing on the dock. “Is the fire out?”
Dave, his body limp and exhausted, nodded.
Diane stepped from the boat and onto the dock. She stared at the piles of trees on the fireguard. The uprooted trunks seemed to eye her coldly.
“I’ll get the clinic keys for you,” Phil said to Diane.
Diane nodded.

Extol and John sat at the wooden table. The old man sucked on his smokeless pipe and stared at the cemetery. Its gray crosses, scuffed by windblown ashes and heavy rain, appeared to stare back.
John eyed the school, clinic, houses and piled rows of uprooted trees he could see from the cabin window. He breathed deeply and set his hands on the table. “I must do something,” he said.
Extol nodded and sat quietly as though alone. He looked past the bald knoll of the cemetery. “We fish,” he said finally. “Fishing good after rain.”
Chapter 17
“Where’s that noise coming from?” demanded one of the heavyset tourists seated in the boat with John. Miniature bamboo fishing rods jutted from a display of feathers on the tourist’s bright red sports cap.
John guided the aluminum fishing boat around the rocky outcrop which jutted into the evening’s shadows on Reflection Lake. It felt good to be guiding tourist fishermen again. There were probably better things to do in the world, but there were a lot of worse things, too, like firefighting. The government poured men, machines and money into an area to fight a fire, but it was always the rain that stopped the fire. “The rapids,” John answered, over the steady purr of the twenty horse motor.
“They must be big,” interjected the other tourist. He was younger and slimmer than his brother.
“It’s a bad set. There are waterfalls.”
“Are there fish?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s go there.”
“It’s late. I have no lights.”
“We’re almost there. We pay you to guide; we expect action.”
“We still haven’t caught our limit,” the younger brother added.
John turned the boat abruptly. “Half an hour. Then we go back to camp.”
“That’s more like it,” the older brother replied.

After John edged the light metal craft into the water near the shore above the Thundercloud Rapids, the two fishermen each picked a beer from their gearbox and settled down to some serious fishing. The younger brother cast his hook which was quickly sucked under by the current.
The older brother stood and cast his hook; it shot straight up in the air and plummeted into the water not far from the boat. “Damn!” He wheezed the word and slammed his bottle onto his chair. He gripped the spinning reel and wound in the line.
“I’ve got something,” shouted the younger brother, clasping his bending rod.
“Hang on to it Clarence,” the other brother bellowed. “My reel’s gone all to hell.” He sat on his chair and nearly enveloped the bottle. “Shit!” He placed the bottle in the open tackle box. “Where’s your fish?”
John watched, amused.
“Right there!” Clarence watched the line cut the water near the boat. “It’s a fighter, Clayton.”
The bent rod ripped the air as line sliced water. Clarence held the rod securely and adjusted the reel.
“I’ll get your net.”
The boat rocked but John steadied it.
“Don’t let it get away!” exhorted Clayton.
Clarence knelt at the side of the boat and struggled with the fish. Clayton clutched the fishnet in one hand and his beer in the other and leaned over the gunwale. “Get your ass in here,” he bellowed into the fighting eyes of the fish.
John steadied the boat.
The fish dived deep; the reel whined.
Clarence fought the fish and brought it near the boat.
John glanced at the shore – the boat was drifting towards the piles of stones that marked the hidden rocks, the beginning of Thundercloud Rapids.
The two fishermen eyed the frothing water surrounding the net. “We got it!” Clayton bellowed. He swung the net from the water and into the boat, stumbled backwards over his chair, collapsed into the side of the boat and knocked over the tackle box.
Clarence stumbled over a rolling bottle and fell heavily against the opposite gunwale.
John balanced the rocking craft and glanced anxiously at the bank; the boat’s metal hull and prop scraped rock and stopped abruptly.
“What the hell was that?” Clayton demanded.
“Rocks,” John answered.
“Where the hell are they?”
“Under the boat.”
“What do we do?” asked Clarence, his voice anxious.
“I’ll check the prop. If it’s broken or I’m not sure about it, you’ll have to wade to the bank.”
“I can’t swim,” Clayton whined.
“It’s not deep.” John raised the prop and studied the bent metal.
“Is it all right?” Clarence asked.
John glared at him. “It’s cracked. But it will work.” His fingers caressed the bent metal then traced the crack. “You will have to walk to the bank. Take off your boots and roll up your pants. I’ll push the boat from the rock, start the motor and meet you upstream. One of you can take this pack.” He lifted a pack from the supply box and set it in front of the fishermen.”
The two brothers obeyed, took off their boots, and rolled up their pant legs to the knees.
“Wear your jackets. Bugs are bad in bush.”
After the men had put on their fishing coats, the younger brother set his right foot in the water. He jerked it out. “It’s like ice.”
John looked at Clarence like an aggravated teacher would eye a spoiled child. One foot entered the water, and then the other. “Not bad once you’re in, Clayton,” Clarence said.
“Don’t forget the pack and your boots,” John advised.
“You talk like we’re going to need it,” replied Clarence, tying his boots to the pack and slipping the pack over his shoulders.
“Just a precaution.” John watched as the younger brother walked cautiously to the shore. He turned, and watched as Clayton grabbed the gunwale with one hand and stepped into the water and waded to the safety of the far shore.
“It’s all yours,” Clayton blurted loudly.
John pointed to the clumps of rock not far upstream. “I’ll meet you over there.”
“Should we start walking?” Clarence asked.
“Yes.”
The two fishermen put on their socks and boots and watched as John, using a paddle, shoved the boat from the rocks. The rasping noise of rock scraping aluminum gave way to the soft lapping of water against metal.
John pulled the starter cord and the motor coughed to life. He steered the boat into deeper water and against the current.
The two brothers fought their way through the branches overhanging the swift moving water. They glanced at John in the crippled boat then concentrated their efforts on making their way along the water’s edge.

John angled the boat towards the pile of rocks and stretches of gravel at the water’s edge upstream, and eyed the loose prop uneasily. The motor wheezed slightly, then shuddered. He adjusted the throttle; the motor stopped. He grabbed the spare paddle and paddled hard. His swift, deep strokes pulled the boat towards the bank as the current sucked the boat downstream. John glanced at the bank. He dropped the paddle, quickly donned a life jacket, and clasped the paddle again.
Clarence grabbed Clayton’s arm. “He’s not going to make it.”
“What?”
“Look.”
Clayton looked towards the water, and his puffing, sweating face paled. He and his brother watched as their guide, wrapped in the life preserver, and with paddle in hand, struggled to steer the craft towards the bank. They watched as the boat approached a clump of trees downstream then disappear around it. “What the hell do we do” demanded Clayton.

Standing in the boat’s stern at the top of the rapids, John gripped his paddle securely between his legs and with his fingers loosened the mount screws. He unfastened the fuel line then lifted the motor from its mount and dropped it and the two five-gallon fuel tanks overboard. He glanced at the river. The water somersaulting over the first main ledge on the river’s far right contrasted with the gentle smoldering of the water along the river’s left bank. He looked for a stretch of grass or gravel to cushion a rough landing but the jagged rock stretched continuously downstream.
Large protruding rocks, their hardened faces moist with a light spray, jutted from the bank into the river. The current sucked the boat around rocks and boulders. The boat edged towards an eddy that drew bubbles towards the jagged, sharp edge of the bank. John dug his paddle into the current and urged the craft away from the bank; the current grasped the boat and drew it into mainstream.
The current led the unwilling passenger towards the river’s first major bend. The river narrowed, compressed the stretching surge, and hurdled a second ledge which straddled the river’s width except for a narrow passage where the river’s force mercifully led its youthful rider through the slot and whisked him safely around another bend.
John stared ahead. Legends of giants toppling slabs of rock into the river and giants’ children tossing boulders like marbles loomed true to life. Water tumbled over the ledge, and somersaulted in the air, then poured through the jagged funnels, slipped and slid with the current. The entire breadth of the river swayed, twisted, reeled then leaped towards the obstruction in its path.
The boat hurdled another wave and another rock ledge, and then crashed into froth.
John clung to the gunwale – the boat swayed, twisted then capsized. Clasping his paddle, John jumped; the cold water and biting spray swallowed him completely then released him. He barely had time to breathe before he was sucked away from the ledge.
Protruding and hidden boulders battered water and flesh, broke waves and strained muscle as the river carried its burden down the descent. Ledges scraped their assailant; cutting spray stung the eyes; undercurrents pulled angrily, awakening fears learned in early childhood. The current’s powerful thrust increased, swallowed boulders, licked loose pebbles from the bank and sucked them from their resting places.
The ice-cold water numbed John’s body. Memories brimming with questions about his father’s death between the upper and lower rapids randomly sparked his mind, sometimes engaging, sometimes ignoring, consistently shuddering from their elusive inquiries and the numbing water embracing him.
But passion for life and the living of it governed senses. Although fingers and toes numb to cold felt nothing and no one, lips spit icy water from mouth. Eyes fought to focus and eyelashes blinked away foam. Ears strained for sounds of voices in the air, on the water, from the far banks. Feet kicked slippery rock after another. Legs braced body against boulders. Arms pushed water down and aside. Hands groped for an immoveable rock or log.
As competing currents and countercurrents grasped John’s feet and legs, he fought back, and raised his lower body towards the surface. Fear intensified as an eddy sucked him towards a fallen tree, its trunk and branches stretching over the water and forming a spider like trap catching smaller branches and debris floating near it. John stretched his right arm forward and his left, and with powerful strokes pulled himself away, barely escaping the entrapment. He focused his eyes downstream where whitewater filled the rocky channel bank to bank, then disappeared from view as the river tumbled over another ledge.
On reaching the ledge a triangular shaped rock wedged between two boulders provided some relief. Holding the slippery point with both hands and bracing his body against the current John gasped for air. The droplets of water dripping from his hair and running in rivulets down his face dried, enabling him to see clearly.
Below the ledge the water dropped two body lengths, and continued to another ledge which stretched across the river bank to bank. In the distance, a silhouette of towering rock stared steely upstream. The roar of the waterfalls further downstream reverberated through the channel.
Knowing he could not hold onto the slippery rock for long, John surveyed the river again, and God’s Thumb in the distance. He let go of the rock, determined to work with the current and the paddle he still carried, to find a place of greater safety.
The evening shadows unveiled a towering giant standing in the midst of the river. The moist muscled rock awaited the scent of man. The pounding waters hurdling towards the towering giant parted humbly before it. Curious moist lips approached the solid monument, kissed the gravel at its feel, and then nimbly stole a loose pebble from between its toes, swiveled, then slipped into mainstream.
The scent of man rode a crest, crawled around a protruding thumb of rock. A gentle wave chased by probing hands clasping a lone paddle, touched the gravel base. The inquisitive wave whirled away in escape, but clutching fingers released man shaped wood, probed, touched wet log lying on bed of gravel and stone. Desperate arms wrapped around solid wood. Hands locked.
* * *
Guides, tourist fishermen, Extol, Diane, Hall the teachers and two police officers crowded the lodge.
“We will divide into three groups,” one officer stated. “Three search parties – one on each side of the rapids down to the lake, and the third checking form the air. We start at six – it’s light enough by then.”
“What do we do in the meantime?” Harve asked.
“We wait. The chopper will be here by six. Everyone should get some rest.”
“How many people do you want in the search parties?” the chief asked.
“Two people, one of them being Diane, with the pilot in the chopper. Ground crews need at least six in each.”
“I will lead one group along this side of the river,” the chief said. “Extol should lead the other group.”
Extol nodded. “I lead search.”
“Choose the men you want in your groups and be here by five-thirty,” the officer said.
After dividing into three groups the searchers walked slowly to the door. The lodge’s metal latch lifted. The varnished plank door eased open as the anxious searchers filed out into the dusk of Saturday’s evening coolness where fog, drifting in from the lake, veiled the ripples lapping the dock.

The water played over John’s legs. The spray dotted his flesh. The evening’s cool breeze ruffled his hair as pain throbbed through his body. The darkness covering his eyes diffused in the face of ancient, faded pigments which stretched, and increased in brightness until splashes of color moved across his brain and formed images passed down from legends nestled there.
A Great One walked alone before a large group of hunters, women and children. His eyes brightened. “Trees!” The Great One shouted. “Trees!” He ran, and the men, women and children following him, ran.
The Great One and people and animals stopped before a large forest. They admired the narrow, green limbs, the lean trunks reaching upward. They knelt near the stream which probed the green curtain, and drank.
“Set up camp!” the Great One ordered.
Lean trees fell to the ground. Nimble fingers stretched animal hides tightly over arced poles. The people kindled fires, prepared food, made tea from herbs, leaves and grasses boiled in water. Drums beat. Eager bodies danced to the sound of the drums.
Then evening came. The dancers tired, the drums stopped, the feasting ended, and the fires faded.
The Great One stood before the people. “We must send someone to explore this stream and forest. We must send someone to learn its ways. Who will go?”
Children huddled behind their mothers; each man stood with his woman.
“Who will go?”
Silence.
“Who will search this unknown?”
Silence.
“Who will find a way?”
Silence.
The Great One knelt by the water, drank deeply, then stood and walked along the stream to the forest. He stopped, turned and faced the people. He pulled an arrow from his quiver. “If I do not return in two moons, place this arrow on my grave.” The Great One thrust the arrow into the earth at the edge of the stream’s bank, where its shadow touched the water. The Great One turned and walked into the green curtain; it darkened and John could see no more.
* * *
The chopper pilot tipped his frayed sports cap back and eased the machine from the roughly cleared area near the lodge. “One hell of a way to start the morning,” he yelled over the roar of the motor.
The police officer nodded, and then watched as the pilot guided the helicopter across the thick fist of forest between the camp and the entrance to the Thundercloud Rapids. He focused his binoculars on the fast moving water below him. “Can you get closer?”
“The air currents are tricky here. This is as low as I go.”
“The search parties are getting out of their boat,” Diane observed. She sat behind the pilot and studied the riverbanks below her. The river’s natural foam thickened in the narrow channel below the chopper. Jagged ledges of rock dissected and remolded the river in an abstract of suspended mist. Spitting and rolling waves toppled then reformed into haystacks veiled in foam.
“See anything?” the pilot asked.
“Nothing,” the officer replied.
The chopper pilot guided the machine around the river’s third bend where the water seemed to be all foam.
Diane pressed her binoculars hard to her eyes. “There’s something there, but I don’t know what it is.”
“It may be the bow of a boat,” the officer added.
Diane studied the river as the pilot guided the chopper downstream, and then gasped. “There’s something red by God’s Thumb,” she cried out. “It looks like a lifejacket.”
The chopper hovered above the water and rock: the pilot eased the machine towards the granite sentinel.
“It’s him,” Diane whispered. “Thank God.”
* * *
John looked up. Sunlight, filtered by the prism of spray above him, formed rainbows in his eyes; someone, standing on what looked to be a log, dropped through the spray and rainbows. He closed his eyes. The rainbows lingered, but not the log or its rider.
Diane knelt near John – ripped denim clung to his legs and an intact life preserver hugged his upper body. She touched his shoulder.
John quivered. “Pain,” he whispered.
“Where?”
“Left arm. Right leg.”
Diane eased John onto the stretcher and wrapped a blanket around him. She tightened the straps and attached the stretcher harness to the cable which hung from the chopper. “I’ll be right with you.” The rescue line raised the stretcher from the rock up to the safety of the chopper where the police officer waited. A life ring dropped through the air and swung in the breeze. Diane clasped the cable. She put her left leg through the ring and waved.
* * *
Once in the chopper Diane knelt beside John.
John opened his eyes slightly. “Are fishermen okay?”
“Harve found them.” Dane pulled the medical supply pack from her shoulders and opened it.
John closed his eyes. “Fishermen almost killed me. Can’t trust them.”
The pilot eased the chopper high above the water, turned and retraced his flight path over the churning water. Spotting the search parties on opposite sides of the river, he reached for his radio mike. “Rescue 3 to Rescue 1 and 2. We’ve got John. He’s hurt but okay. We’re flying him to Hope Bay.”
“Harve sent those two jerks home,” Diane said. “Gave them their money back.”
“He should keep money,” muttered John, wincing.
Diane opened a small plastic container and held a pill and cup of water to John’s lips.
John swallowed the pill and looked at Diane. “How long will I have to be in hospital?”
“I don’t know for sure. One to two weeks, maybe.”
“Will I guide?”
“Probably not this summer. I’ll tell your grandfather what the doctors says when I get back.”
John nodded. “He must be worried.”
Chapter 18
With a trembling hand, Extol pushed aside his soup bowl and poured black tea into his cup. He shook his head and glanced across the table at Hall. “Fire makes hand shake like dead leaf. Fire and John. Fire burned your place in bush. It burned everything.” He set his cup on the table before him. The steam from the cup rose and touched the naked bulb. “You see your cabin?”
Hall shook his head.
“Nothing there. Nothing here. Fire worse than big fire long ago on far side of lake. Houses not hurt, but people’s hearts peel like birch bark. My hand shakes like thin branch in wind; my legs no good – I use stick to walk.” Extol shook his head. “And John in hospital. Arm broke. Leg broke. Ribs broke.” Extol stared at his teacup. “I saw dream. It was like long ago when I was young. I paddled alone in my canoe away from the camp as all boys – almost men – did then. It was a good canoe and I was strong. I dug deep in the water with my paddle – the one my father made for me, and I traveled with the sun on my face. I paddled until night sat cold on my shoulders. That night I slept under canoe and saw strange dream – I see same dream I saw when I was young before the fire came, the mine, and you.”
While Extol sipped his tea, Hall thought of the dream his old friend had shared with him years ago. The dream had at first impressed him, and then unsettled him over the years by its accuracy. The waves of fire, the stranger with fat dogs, the tower with lots of smoke, the many canoes on the water, the new tents, and the little boy with the little stick between his legs as Extol had called it. Only one detail had not come true – an old man walking into sunset, and a young man walking into sunrise. That had not happened.
“Don’t like it much,” said Extol. “Old man go first one way, young man go second the other way. John should know. You tell him.”
“You won’t die yet.”
“John almost die. He still young but the nurse says he will be in hospital for a while. It will happen like dream said.” Extol, his face pale, looked at Hall. “We play checkers,” he said softly. “We can still do that.”
* * *
The parting of the beige curtain isolating John from the other patients in the hospital room sounded like rocks crashing through grass. He wanted to muffle the noise with his hands but the pain in his body overruled.
A tall, slim nursed leaned over the bed and eyed the casts which wrapped John’s leg and arm. “Are you comfortable?” she asked.
The question seemed ridiculous, but John nodded.
“You’re looking much better today.”
“Good,” John replied, softly and politely.
“We made a special effort to give you a bed near the window. The nurse who brought you in requested it for you.”
John nodded.
“She left a note for you. Want me to read it.”
John nodded.
The nurse picked up an envelope from the table, opened it, and read. “John, you broke a leg, an arm, and some ribs. They will mend. I’ll apologize in advance for the hospital food. Get well soon, and take care. Diane.”
The nurse placed the note back on the table. “Is she a friend?”
John nodded. “Good nurse, too.”
When alone John looked out the window. The sky was a light blue, without a cloud in it. Spruce and poplar trees swayed gently in a light breeze. A day to be outside, not indoors.
The hospital curtain and the pale white of the thick plastic shades hanging between him and the window’s glass seemed to fit his dream and into the overall scheme of things. It reminded him of something his grandfather had told him.
“My son,” Extol had said. “You make decisions, even the hard ones. If decision to hard for you to make, someone else make it for you. Maybe good, maybe bad. Maybe even God or devil makes it for you. If you’re not strong enough to make decision, God he make it for you; but if you strong enough, but afraid to make decision, then devil, he make it for you.”
John didn’t know what he was. He wasn’t strong. He was too tired to be afraid. He felt like a wave in the rapids.
* * *
Dave and Extol watched as the reflection of burned forest passed by in the boat’s wake. Extol, his roughened hands grasping the gunwales on either side of him, studied the shoreline intently and then pointed to the hills in the distance. “Fire did not jump river. Cabin okay.”
Dave looked where Extol pointed. The shoreline from Reflection south to the river opening was a charred expanse, but east of the river the trees were green.
As the boat approached the mouth of the river, Dave noticed how the old man’s eyes were painfully drawn towards the burnt forest on the west side of the river. Upon entering the mouth of the river, his eyes gladdened slightly until he glanced at the confiscated green.
“Forest dead,” the old man stated as Dave eased the boat towards the bank.
Dave steered the craft into the natural rock berth at the base of the path that led up to Extol’s cabin.
Extol stepped from the boat and tied the bowline to a protruding stone imbedded in loosely fitting rocks. “Are you ready to fish?” asked Extol, adjusting his pipe.
Dave touched his pole. “Whenever you are.”
Extol led Dave down the narrow, worn path along the bank and proceeded to unload the contents of his pack.
“I’ve never seen a net like this, observed Dave as he examined the thick, heavy netting.
“It’s my river net,” Extol said proudly. “Make it myself.” He fastened his end of the net to a young sapling and set the other end on a flat rock. He secured it with a smaller rock on top of it. He walked alongside the net, setting down the floats and weights at regular intervals. “You fasten weights and I fasten floats,” Extol directed.
Dave kneeled, picked up a weight the size of his thumb and clumsily tried to attach it to the bottom of the net.
“Like this,” Extol said softly. He held the weight in his bent fingers, set the line in the small groove, twisted the line and pulled. The weight held.
Dave picked up the second weight and Extol watched as he fastened it to the net. When the net held fast, Dave jerked up his thumb. “Got it.”
Extol nodded and went to work on the floats. When the net was ready, Extol picked up the slender pole he had used for a walking stick, walked to the sapling holding the net end, untied the net, and then carried it to the river.
Dave watched in admiration as the old man picked a path over the wet rocks, poling the polished bald heads jutting out of the river. The old man knelt on the last rock, attached the net to his walking stick then thrust the pole, with net attached, into the stream; his hands, cupped over the butt end of the stick, protected his chest pressing down on his knuckles. He looked back at Dave and shook his head. “John better at this. I’m too old.” Extol raised his chest, then his hands from the pole, walked gingerly over the rock pathway to his pack, untied the small hatchet from the frame and stepped quickly to the younger sapling to which he had previously attached the net. The sharp blade severed the sapling with four deep incisions. Slicing off a branch with each step, Extol walked over to Dave.
“All set?” Dave asked.
Extol nodded. He set the hatchet down on a rock. “I’ll take the net.”
Dave placed the end of the net in Extol’s hand.
“Almost finished now.” Extol walked out on the point of gravel and rock that jutted into the current. He tied the net securely to the middle of the sapling, thrust the pointed end into the water at a sharp angle, leaned heavily on the butt end, and then drove it in further with a flat rock. He looked up at Dave. “Are you going to fish?”
Dave dug into his pack and pulled out his small fishing case. He opened it, picked out the four parts of his fishing rod. In minutes the attached the reel, threaded the line, tied the leader and snapped the hook into place. His right hand raised the rod over his shoulder and the rod cut the air. The line unwound silently from the reel and the small speckled lure arced in the air and dropped into the current which jerked on the line.
Extol sat on a rock and watched. “How long have you fished, principal?”
“Ever since I was a kid. My dad’s farm bordered a lake. Started fishing when I was four years old. Almost drowned my first day out.” Dave cast again and reeled the line in. “It was s stick for the first couple of years. Got my first store bought reel for my sixth birthday. Broke it on my first cast.”
A wisp of smoke escaped Extol’s lips. “Most store bought things break quick.”
“Have you ever fished with a rod and reel?”
Extol grunted. “No good to buy.”
“Try mine.” Dave brought in his lure. It dangled dizzily from the end of his line.
Extol waved him off.
“I tried your net.”
Extol stood. “What if it breaks?”
“It’s cheap. Doesn’t matter.”
“Show me?”
Dave quickly explained the basics and held out the rod.
Extol took the rod in hand, raised it over his right shoulder, whipped it through the air, and lifted his thumb from the lever just as Dave had directed. The line whined as it arced over the river, and snapped. Only a fragment dangled from the reel. A wisp of smoke slipped from Extol’s lips. He glanced quickly at the line disappearing in the current, stared momentarily at the rod in his hand, then looked at Dave. He shook his head and handed Dave the rod. “I fish with net…I pay for string.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got another one.” Dave walked over to his fishing kit and looked for his other line. It wasn’t there. He unfastened the reel and set it in the tackle box, then disassembled the rod into its four components.
“You quit?” Extol asked.
“No more line.”
“You want to go back?”
“Not yet. I wouldn’t mind just resting here for a while.”
Extol nodded. “It’s a good place to rest. It’s quiet.”

The old man seemed captivated by the desolate bleakness, the wasteland of the other bank and the scarred hills behind it. His eyes studied the far bank without tiring, without blinking, as though in a trance or vision. His hands cupped his old pipe securely, as though it was a treasure.
“How long has the cabin been here?” Dave asked.
The old man didn’t seem to notice. He stared at the opposite bank. “All my life,” he whispered.
Dave looked at the opposite bank then turned his attention to the flowing water. A twig caught in a small whirlpool continued twisting in its moving prison.
“Old men die so young may live,” murmured Extol.
Dave watched as a wisp of smoke crawled from Extol’s pipe and up his face.
“If I stay, John stays,” Extol murmured. “If I leave, John decides what to do.”
“Where would you go?” Dave asked.
“I go where old men go to rest.”
“And John?”
“John walks his path.”

In the evening, Extol and Dave left the cabin and walked towards the river.
Extol caressed the rifle barrel and stock in his hands. “I don’t need rifle anymore,” he stated softly. He handed it to Dave. “You give to John.”
“I don’t understand,” said Dave. “You can give it to John when he returns from the hospital.”
Extol shook his head. “My hunt is finished.” He looked at the rifle in Dave’s hand, then in Dave’s eyes. “We go.”
Both men stepped into the boat.
Dave shoved the boat from its berth and started the motor. The twenty horse engine powered the boat down the river and onto the lake.
Extol gazed at the scarred shoreline and the hills beyond.

Chapter 19
Sunday’s evening stillness made a mirror of the lake. Ducks, resting on the water, watched a canoe, made of birch bark sewn with natural thread and glued with nature’s gums and tars, leave the shore.
A lone paddle cut the water.
Extol, paddling his old canoe, blended into shoreline and shadow.
The canoe skimmed away from the shore as a lone paddle cut the water.
A duck dived for food.
And another.
Chapter 20

Dave stepped back on the dock until his camera lens framed the church, store, school, teacherages, clinic, and the row of uprooted trees behind them. He snapped the picture. Putting the camera in its case, Dave walked towards the store. There, Hall, a loaded paper bag under each arm, returned home from the store.
“You take pictures of everything,” observed Hall. “You must have a big collection, now.”
“It’s a hobby. Keeps track of what I’ve done, where I’ve been.”
“I’d like to see them before you leave.”
“I’ll be back in the fall. They will be developed by then.”
“The forest has lost its beauty,” Hall said softly. “When I look at the town, what’s left of the trees, I wonder about the people. They will recover, like they’ve done before, but the older ones find it especially hard.”
“Extol talked with me a few days ago. He sounded depressed about things. Gave me his rifle, wanted me to give it to John. I don’t know why. He can give it to John when he comes back from the hospital.”
“He went to his cabin to rest,” said Hall, limply.
“He seemed tired and worn out.”
“I’ll go and see how he is.”
“I’d like to go with you. Take his rifle back to him.”
“Give the rifle to John like Extol asked.” Hall looked at the large waves rolling towards the shore. “You come with me if you wish.” He looked at Dave. “We should go soon,” he said softly.
* * *
Dave guided the boat close to Extol’s canoe which was turned over on the bank, paddle tucked neatly under the craft.
“He’s here,” said Hall, relieved.
Dave and Hall stepped from the boat and started walking up the bank.
“He likes paddling up the river,” said Hall. “Good fishing there.”
On the path to Extol’s cabin, Hall noticed the axe in the chopping block in front of the cabin, and the string hanging limp from the nail on the doorframe. He tapped on the door and stepped into the shack.
Dave followed.
“Not here,” Hall said softly.
“Maybe he’s outside,” Dave guessed. “Could be anywhere.”
“Too early for berries.” Hall noticed the stack of wood near the stove. “He has some firewood, but no sticks or bark. Might have gone to get some.”
“Back of the cabin?”
Hall turned to face the doorway. “He won’t be far away.”
Hall and Dave walked together on the path alongside the cabin and followed it into the trees. Dave was the first to see Extol, laying beside a rock near a spruce tree, a bundle of twigs clasped tightly in his hand. “Are you okay, Extol?” he cried out. Hearing no reply, Dave ran to the spot where Extol lay. He knelt beside Extol’s body, which was cold to the touch. Dave looked up at Hall. “He’s dead.”
Hall knelt beside the body of his friend, touched his forehead, the closed eyes. “He looks at peace, like he fell asleep and didn’t wake up.”
“A heart attack?”
“He wanted his life to end here, not in town, not in hospital in Hope Bay. God gave him what he desired. To die in the fresh air, among the trees, with the sound of the wind and the birds overhead.” Hall stroked Extol’s hair. “We have to take you to town, my friend.”

Evening’s dusk enveloped the mirror like water and Extol’s body, laying between Dave and Hall, as Hall guided the boat back to Reflection. As they approached the village, the lights dotting the community grew brighter and more distinct.
Dave sensed his body relax as Hall steered the boat up to the dock.
Hall stepped stiffly onto the dock and secured the boat to the mooring ring. “We should go tell nurse what happened,” he said softly. “She will need to write a report?”
“Can we leave Extol’s body here?”
Hall nodded. “We won’t be long.”
Diane opened the clinic door. “What happened?” she asked. At the sight of the unlikely pair standing on the steps she grew worried.
“Extol is dead,” Hall replied. “Died near his cabin. Mr. Sadler and I found him there.”
Diane placed her hand gently on Hall’s arm. “I’m sorry for you,” she said. “You were such close friends.”
Hall nodded and placed his hand on Diane’s shoulder. “He looked at peace. We will take his body to my place.”
“You will need help,” said Diane.
“The chief’s light is on. I will tell him. He will help.”
“I’ll tell Jim,” Dave added. “That makes four of us.”
Diane removed her hand from Hall’s arm. “I’ll phone the doctor in Hope Bay and tell him what happened. He should be here first think in the morning.”
“John needs to know,” Hall said.
“I’ll talk to the doctor and see if John can come home.”
“You will do that for John?” asked Hall, surprised. “You’re a persuasive woman.”
“I’ll come over to your place when I know what the plans are.”
“You were good to Extol,” said Hall.
“He was a gentle man,” replied Diane, tears at the edge of each eye.
“We have to go,” said Hall, admiration in his voice.
Diane nodded. As she turned, she wiped her tears away.
Hall and Dave walked down the steps.
Diane closed the clinic door and walked straight to the phone
* * *
Hall, the chief, Dave and Jim carried the stretcher into Hall’s guest room, where they lay Extol’s body on the bed. Hall opened a cupboard door, took out a blanket and covered the body. Then he led the others out of the room into the kitchen area. “I’ll make some tea,” he said automatically, and walked towards the kitchen sink.
“Phillip, Dave and Jim walked to the table and sat down.
Hall put the kettle of water on the wood stove, and then brought a plate of store bought cookies to the table. “The tea will be ready, soon.”
“Extol’s drink,” the chief stated sadly. “Wish he was here to drink it.”
The others nodded.
“You weren’t surprised when we found him there,” said Dave, looking at Hall.
“He had always wanted to die at his place. When you told me about Extol giving you his rifle to give to John, in my heart I knew that Extol believed that his time had come.”
“He didn’t wait until John came back from the hospital,” Jim said.
“It was the part of his dream that neither he nor I understood. The ending puzzled him and puzzled me.”
“About his death?” Jim asked.
“And John’s life.”
“What was it?” Dave asked.
“John knows Extol’s dream. Extol told him, as a grandfather should. The dream was about him and John. John may tell you sometime if he chooses.” Hall looked at the men around the table, and then at the chief. “It is a good dream, a strong dream that goes back many years and looks into the future, too.”
“There is hope for our people in it?” Phillip asked.
Hall nodded. “Much hope. With a young, strong leader who will listen to the wise, to the earth.”
“John needs to go to university,” Phillip said. “His grandfather knows that.” He paused. “Knew that. Would have been hard for him to say to John, ‘go, it is a good thing to do.’ He decided to leave so John could decide for himself. Even now it will be hard for John to decide what to do when he gets back from hospital. His grandfather’s shack will be empty. The cabin at the mouth of the river will be empty. John has no woman. Has not shown interest in woman, no interest in family. He good to people, but not close, like his grandfather.”
“Extol had a family?” Dave asked.
“Much pain there,” Hall added. “Except for John. John made life make sense for Extol. And Extol gave all of himself to John. Hard for him to let go.”
“You will plan the funeral?” Phillip asked.
“I will talk with John when he comes,” Hall said. “Talk to you and council, too. There is no other family.”
“We can meet in hall before day of funeral,” Phillip added. “People gather around the casket, with each other to say goodbye, to pray. Many will want to come.”
“That would be good for everyone,” said Hall. “An hour in church is not enough to say goodbye, see you in heaven.”
“You will know tomorrow after talking with doctor?” asked Phillip.
“And after talking with John.”
A light knock on Hall’s door interrupted their conversation.
Hall walked to the door and opened it. “Come in,” he said.
Diane closed the door behind her.
“We put Extol’s body on the guest bed.” Hall escorted Diane to the table. “Tea is ready.”
“Thank you.” Diane picked up the chair near the window and carried it to the table where she sat down. “I phoned the hospital.” Diane reached for a cup and a cookie.
“The plane will be here at six in the morning. John’s coming, too.”
“You twisted doctor’s arm?” Phillip asked.
“They have a shortage of beds.”
“What happens when the doctor gets?” Dave asked.
“ He examines Extol’s body and does the paperwork,” replied Diane automatically.
“No preparing the body?” asked Dave.
“Extol wouldn’t want that,” Phillip said. “Let his body rest, like he wanted.”
Hall poured a cup of tea for the chief. “I will talk to Thomas about making a simple casket out of boards.”
“He might have one already.” Phillip reached for his cup. “If not, doesn’t take him long. He could make it tomorrow.”
“I will talk to him in the morning after I talk with doctor.”
* * *
John, a crutch under his good arm, stepped from the plane, onto the pontoon and dock.
Diane reached out to help. “I’m sorry I don’t have a wheelchair for you.”
John looked at the clinic truck parked at the end of the dock. “It’s not far.” Escorted by Diane and the doctor, John cautiously limped to the end of the dock. “I’ll ride in the back on that old mattress.”
Diane smiled. “I put it there fore you. Beats walking back to Extol’s place.”
John nodded. “My place now.”
The doctor helped John into the back of the truck then sat in the cab with Diane.
Diane started the motor, put the truck in gear then slowly accelerated the vehicle. She glanced at the doctor. “Bringing John back early won’t create complications I hope.”
“He is recovering quickly,” replied the doctor. “He was getting around the hospital okay. A tough young man. He’ll have to take it easy for the summer, but other than that he should be fine. The old man that died is his grandfather?”
Diane stopped the trunk in front of Extol’s shack. “We put the body in Hall’s guest bedroom.” She wiped a tear from her eye. “The old man just up and left and died.”
“It happens sometimes, especially with the older ones,” the doctor observed. “It’s as if they tell their hearts to stop, and their hearts stop.” He looked at Diane. “You knew him well?”
Diane nodded. “He was a friend to everyone.”

John pushed the door open and stepped inside the shack. It smelled of tea and smoke. The scant furnishings – woodstove, table, chairs, beds, stools, wood box, cupboard and sink – blended together. An off white chemical toilet between the two beds at the back of the shack caught his attention. “Where did that come from?”
“Phil had one in the store, and the school and clinic bought it,” Diane replied.
“For grandfather?” asked John, feeling alone.
“For you. It’s better than using the outhouse when you’re like this. I don’t want you hurting yourself any more than you are.”
“I’ll use it at night, but not in daytime.”
“There’s canned food in the cupboard, some bread and buns, too. Phillip is arranging for someone to check on you every day to make sure you have everything you need.”
“I’m not a cripple,” replied John, irritated.
“You will be for a few weeks whether you like it or not.” Diane placed her hand on John’s shoulder. “Sorry,” she said apologetically.
“Where did you put grandfather’s body?” asked John, his voice anxious.
“At Hall’s place. In his guest room.”
“I can see him when the doctor’s finished?”
“Yes,” the doctor interjected. “I won’t be long. I asked the pilot to wait, and he agreed.”
Diane put her hand on John’s shoulder. “You take it easy. I’ll come back to get you when the doctor has done what he needs to do.”
John nodded. “You’re the nurse.” He limped over to the bed. He lay down carefully, placing his injured leg up on the pillow. In the quietness, as he looked around the room, he sensed a difference in how he saw things. When Extol had been there with him, the cabin had seemed quiet at times, small at times, boring at times – but it had always been home, a secure, safe place. Now, the room felt empty. For the first time John could remember he felt lonely. He had no one. A tear trickled down his cheek. He wiped it away with his sleeve.

Diane, the doctor and Hall stepped into the shack. “Sorry to bother you,” Diane apologized. “Looks like you fell asleep.”
“All those needles make me tired and sleepy,” replied John. “When I lay down I fall asleep.”
“Sleep’s good for you,” the doctor said matter of fact. “We have some paperwork that needs your signature. Your grandfather died very quietly.”
“You won’t need to fly his body to Hope Bay for examination?” John asked.
“I’m satisfied your grandfather died of natural causes,” the doctor said.
“Grandfather wouldn’t want knives stuck in his body,” John added. “I don’t want that for him either.”
“You make a good decision, John,” Hall said.
“You can make plans for funeral, now?” asked John.
“With your help.”
“You know more than me.”
“We will need to talk.”
“I just need your signatures on these forms,” the doctors said. He walked over the John and handed him a clipboard and pen. “Right here.” He turned the page. “Right here.”
John signed the papers, and then handed the clipboard and pen to the doctor. “When can I see grandfather’s body?”
“Right now, if you wish.”
John looked at Hall. “You will be with me?”
“Yes. And you will be with me. It will be hard for both of us.”
John winced as he got out of bed and reached for his crutch. “I know.”

As Hall pulled back the blanket covering Extol’s body, the sound of the plane taking off from the lake echoed over the community. “He was gathering twigs for his fire when he died,” Hall said. “We found him laying on ground near a tree.”
John touched Extol’s hair. “Hair feels dead, like twigs.”
“His spirit is gone. What’s left is…”
“Empty,” John whispered. “When life leaves, person looks old and empty.” He glanced at Hall. “He was too tired to wait for me?”
Hall placed his hand on John’s shoulder. “I believe he tried.”
John stiffened. “I don’t want to look anymore. He doesn’t look like he was.”
“Death is hard to see, when it takes away a special friend.”
“He was teacher, healer, and guide to me.”
“And when you were small he was like God to you, one that could be trusted with everything, with anything you brought to him.”
“He was sad and angry when grandmother died. That was the only time I heard him swear at God and at you for telling him about Jesus.”
“It was alright for him to be sad and angry. You will have those feelings, too, if you don’t have them now.”
“I don’t feel anything.”
Hall squeezed John’s shoulder. “That’s a feeling, too, and it’s alright.”
John turned to face Hall. “You have seen many people die.”
Hall nodded. “Too many.”
“They go to heaven?”
“They go to be with God, but they leave earth first. Saying goodbye to someone you love, someone special, close to your heart, and in our thoughts often, causes pain. Like taking off a jacket in a cold wind. Body shivers. And another jacket might not fit so good.”
“You will plan funeral for him. He was your friend.”
“You can help. Others can help, too.”
“I don’t know how.”
“I teach you.” Hall looked into John’s eyes. “You’re a good learner. Always have been.”
* * *
Mourners stood before Extol’s pine board casket. Wild flowers, pine and spruce boughs decorated the altar rail, altar, communion table and old organ.
Hall raised his arms above his parishioners crowded row on row into the church. Language learned in forest and near water, filled the sanctuary, and then quieted. He spoke in English: “Almighty God, Creator of Life, we come before you in this time of mourning. Before us lies the body of a man we loved and respected; a man who had dreams and fulfilled many of them; a man who had visions, and saw many of them come to pass; a man who had gifts and used them for his family, his friends, his community. We come here to worship you, to thank you for your great gift of eternal life: no more will Elder Bear walk an old man’s walk; he will walk like a young man in your presence and breathe in the freshness of your eternal breath. We, therefore, do not so much pray for him as we pray for ourselves.
“We hurt Father. We have lost someone precious and irreplaceable; someone who knew your creation, loved it, cared for it, and enjoyed it. And because we hurt, we question life and its meaning, death and its meaning, you and your ways. But Father, we would not be your children if we did not question; we would not be your people if we did not hurt.
“Comfort us. Free our eyes to weep as we walk this path of sorrow; free our ears to hear the comforting whispers of your Holy Spirit; free our nostrils so we may once again smell spring’s fresh flowers, their scents drifting on the spring breeze; free our fingers that we may touch the hand next to us and share our mourning, and in sharing, experience the comfort of a friend’s touch; free our senses to experience the power of your healing, that we may live in truth, which gives freedom, and in your love which gives life. Amen.”
Hall nodded and the mourners settled into the pine pews. The service continued through simple ritual, a short eulogy given by the chief, and climaxed with Hall’s short sermon and benediction. Gripping the pulpit, Hall pleaded: “May the Spirit of the Resurrection work through our sorrow and build in our life faith, hope and love. Amen.” He lowered his arms and raised his head. “We will go now and lay our friend’s body to rest, so it may return to the dust from which we all came.”
Young and middle-aged pallbearers dressed in black suits walked respectfully to the coffin, lifted it form its wooden support and slowly carried Extol’s body from the church. Hall helped John to his feet and led the procession. They walked quietly from the church and stood patiently as the pallbearers set the casket carefully in the back of the clinic truck. The chief sat behind the steering wheel and started the vehicle. Hall escorted John to the passenger door, opened it, and then helped him into the cab.
Hall, followed by his pallbearers, led the people down the rutted road that squeezed through the wicket fence enclosing the churchyard, and snaked its way around rocks, tree stumps, then straightened as it approached the treeless bluff, with its hundreds of weather beaten crosses accumulated over the years. The truck stopped before the freshly painted wooden gate barricading the land of the dad from the land of the living and waited as Hall walked stiffly towards it. Rusty hinges squealed as Hall swung the barrier aside and secured it to a wooden post.
The procession continued past large family grave plots dotted with large and small crosses at the head of long and short graves. It passed by a huge plot isolated by a picket fence and filled with little graves overshadowed by a rock framing a copper plaque.
The procession continued. The cab doors opened. The chief stepped from the cab, helped John to the sandy ground, then walked to help his fellow pallbearers remove the casket from the truck box and carry it to the gravesite.
After saying a few words, Hall closed with a prayer. He took a handful of sandy clay and dropped it on the casket, then stepped back.
John knelt, picked up a handful of sandy clay from the pile of earth near the grave. He watched as the stream of particles dusted the coffin, then stepped back and stood near Hall.
The chief, pallbearers, followed by each member of the community – children, youth and adults – stepped up to the grave, took a handful of earth and released it over the coffin. After the last parishioner, an old woman holding a cane, stepped back from the grave, Hall raised his hands above the mourners looking sadly towards the hole in the ground and the mound of sand beside it. “Our elder, brother, friend, grandfather rests in peace. Let us go in peace.”
Chapter 21
Dave, Ken and Jim stepped into John’s shack and closed the door.
Dave walked to the table and set Extol’s rifle down. “Your grandfather told me to give you this, just before he went to his cabin.”
John stroked the rifle stock with his fingers. “He knew he was going to die.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t give it to the priest. They were close friends.”
“The priest would have told Diane and she would have sent for a plane.”
“I should have known something was wrong,” said Dave.
“Nothing was wrong. Grandfather’s plan was safe with you, and he could die in peace. He’s happy where he is.” John looked at Dave. “I was wondering where his rifle was.”
“Will you use it?”
“Yes. It is heavy, but it shoots straight and far. The only thing missing now is grandfather’s net. I will get it from river.”
“His homemade fish net?”
John nodded.
“But he brought that back when we came back from fishing. We took the net out of the river just before we left the cabin.”
“The net is not here.”
“He must have taken it with him when he went back.”
“He would fish. He liked fishing.”
“We’ve got something for you,” said Ken, holding up two large envelopes. He walked to the table. “This one has your certificate and marks in it.” He handed the large, thin envelope to John. “And this one is a university information and application package.” Ken handed a bulky envelope to John.
While the three men sat next to him at the table, John opened the thin envelope and withdrew the certificate. His name, written in bold script, looked impressive. A gold seal in the bottom left hand corner made the paper look even more official. “How did I get this? I didn’t write any exams.”
“Your marks were good during the year,” replied Dave. “We sent a letter of explanation.”
“I didn’t finish biology,” John stated.
“We each wrote a letter describing your special circumstances,” replied Dave.
“What special circumstances?” John asked.
“Fighting the fire,” replied Jim. “Not being able to finish the course work because of commitments to the community, your accident, and your grandfather’s death.”
“Your grades are good enough to get you into university if you want to go,” Ken added.
John pulled out the statement of marks and glanced down the page. “What’s the mark at the bottom?”
“Your average,” Ken said.
“Seventy-one.”
“Better than my grade 12 average,” Dave observed.
“It’s good enough to get into university?”
“And there are a number of ways of taking first year classes,” Dave said. “Go on campus; take classes by correspondence, or by satellite.”
“Correspondence is hard. Even when Ken and Jim helped me. But I don’t know if I want to go on campus. It’s a big place. What are satellite classes like?”
“A professor at the university teaches a class in a TV studio and it is broadcast to a number of communities,” Dave answered. “If there are a number of students at a satellite site, you can ask questions by telephone.”
“That won’t work here. We don’t have a satellite dish.”
“If you decided to take first year university by satellite, I think we could get a dish.”
John emptied the envelope. The application form was inside the calendar. “You can help me fill it out now so I get it right, and then I’ll decide if I’m going to mail it.”
“There’s an application fee that needs to be sent with it,” Dave advised. “If you decide to send it before we leave for the summer, we will send a cheque from the school. There’s still some money left from the Bingo.”
“If I apply, does it mean I have to take the courses?”
“First you apply to be a student,” replied Ken. “Once you’re accepted you fill out a separate form for classes you want to take. You can always change your mind.”
John looked at Dave. “Then I’ll do the application form now, and give it to you. You can send it and cheque to the university.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Dave asked.
“It might be the next step,” John said simply.
Dave pulled a pen from his shirt pocket. “Let’s do it.”
* * *
Hall poured a cup of tea for John and for himself then sat down across the table from the young man. “You’re getting your strength back.”
John moved his cast on the chair. “It’s slow. Can’t do much yet. My school work is all done.”
“You passed everything?”
“I’ve got my certificate.”
“The principal is pleased. He is like the chief, your grandfather and me. He sees great things for you.”
“What great things?”
“You are a leader. God gave you that gift and you have used it well as a trapper, hunter, a guide, and a student. When you were a little boy you were a leader, a teacher. Other boys looked up to you. Did what you did. The principal thinks your going to university will make you a better leader.”
“Will it?”
“I do not know. But God knows.”
“He doesn’t say much.”
“He talks, but softly. You must want to hear him to hear his words. He has talked to you before and you have listened.”
“I just did what I knew to be right.”
“How did you know if it was right?”
“Many times it was not knowing. Sometimes I asked grandfather, sometimes I asked you, and sometimes I asked others. Many times I guessed.”
And?”
“Some times I was wrong; and many times I was right.”
“Just like a child. You learn. If you don’t learn, you die inside, hurt yourself and many others.”
“Making mistakes makes a leader?”
“Leader learns faster, thinks faster. Good leader feels faster; like David. Soft heart, sharp mind.”
“You’re a leader. A good one.”
“Sometimes. But now, I am afraid.”
“Because of fire?”
“The fire. Your grandfather’s death. Not knowing what will happen. And you almost got killed in accident.”
“I’m getting better.”
A faint smiled trembled on Hall’s lips. “I know. And God will guide you.”
“Did he guide those fishermen brothers here?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t stop them from coming. I do know your heart is soft and you mind is sharp. Your eyes sparkle. You ask questions, and you look for answers to your questions. And God, he is here, and he is good. And you’re a leader.”
“I don’t want to be a leader.”
“Something in what you say helps take my fear away. Only a leader can do that. You have many gifts. And the gift of leadership is an important one also. Leaders lead their people toward life or death.”
“Like Great Hunter and Moses?”
“Yes.”
“They didn’t know where they were going.”
“That is true. But they both knew that their people had to leave their home, a place they knew, to go to a place they didn’t know, but where they would be free. Great Hunter believed that the Great Spirit was with him; Moses believed God was with him and his people. Other leaders lead their people from one way of seeing to another; from one way of thinking to another; from one way of doing to another. They lead their people to see life differently, live life differently.”
“Like you?”
“And you.”
“How will people see life differently because of me?”
“You are the first to complete grade 12. Other leaders – the chief, the principal – see you as a leader. A leader recognizes another leader.”
“If a leader makes mistakes, many people get hurt. Even die.”
“A leader can ask for wisdom.”
“From God, like you do?”
“Ask God for help. Ask people for help. Accept the help when it comes.”
“What is wisdom?”
“It is hard to explain wisdom. Part of wisdom is not having an arrogant heart that makes you think you know what wisdom is. Wise ones pursue wisdom even though it is like the wind, sometimes gentle, accompanying a light spring rain, sometimes harsh, driving a fire through forest. When you were younger you read the psalms and proverbs. You memorized some. Some proverbs you thought were funny, which they were, funny but true. Read them again. Psalms talk about God, creation; Proverbs talks about people, and what the elders saw in people, what they learned from watching them, living with them. Remember what your grandfather told you, what your teachers told you, what friends told you – in their words and in what they did. You know how to listen; continue listening. And I’ll pray for you.”
Later that evening sleep didn’t come easy to John. The darkness intensified the loss of the grandfather and thoughts of him. Grandfather had died happy, content, surrounded by trees, forest, life. The old man’s life had been hard, but simple, a life where decisions were made on the basis of what was seen, heard and understood. But sometimes grandfather said he had not seen, not heard, not understood, but still had to act, make decisions. Maybe life was complicated for everyone but in a different way. It seemed as though his dream at the bottom of the rapids was unfolding before him, and out of his control; and that the initiator of the dream, knowing how difficult the fulfillment of the dream would be for the dreamer, was arranging events and players to ease his uncertainty along an unknown path.
Sleep finally came. Eyelids closed like a curtain drawn slowly after a moving performance. And with sleep, release from knowing and not knowing.

Chapter 22
John sat on the chair outside the shack door and whittled a block of wood with his knife. He looked up as the chief and his niece, Eileen, walked towards him.
“You are carving,” Phillip observed. He held a bulky bag of groceries.
“Been a long time since I did this.”
“Your grandfather taught you when you were a boy.”
John nodded.
“We brought food for you. Eileen will help you with cooking, cleaning and washing your clothes.”
John looked at Eileen. The young store clerk was one of four girls who worked at the store. Her thick long hair touched her belt. She wore black jeans, a white shirt, and hiking boots. Black sunglasses covered her eyes, and reminded John that whenever he had seen Eileen in the store, her eyes always seemed hard – which his grandfather had thought could be strong and tough, which was good, or mean, which was not good.
“Where do you want them?” Eileen asked gently.
“I’ll show you.” John reached for his crutch, stood and opened the door, then gestured with his hand for the chief and Eileen to enter the shack. Once inside, John pointed to the cupboard shelf that was almost empty. “There,” he said.
“You don’t have much food left,” Phillip said. “Do you cook?”
“Not much. Don’t get very hungry.”
“You look thin.” Eileen removed her sunglasses and put them into her shirt pocket. “We brought canned meat, canned vegetables, and canned fruit. And some flour, sugar, juice crystals.”
“Your water barrel is empty,” Phillip said. “Who hauls your water?”
“I get it myself.”
“You should get kids to do that.”
“You wash your own clothes,” said Eileen, noticing the scrub board by the stove. “Like your grandfather.”
“Not much work,” John replied.
“I can take them to the Laundromat,” Eileen said. “Gets them cleaner.”
“Do that in winter, but not in summer. Sometimes I wash clothes at camp, but not this summer.”
“You need a woman,” Phillip said.
“Not much room here. It’s a cabin, not a house.”
“Your grandfather and your grandmother lived here, and you with them,” Eileen said. “You could fix it up.”
“They were used to it. So am I.”
“You find it lonely?” asked Eileen, curious.
“Sometimes now. Not before.”
“You’ve never had a girlfriend?”
“Eileen, you don’t talk to John like that,” the chief said.
“No,” replied John. “Doing other things.”
“I can help you,” said Eileen. “Just be friends, see what happens. I’ll stay at my place, you stay here.”
“What do I pay for your work?”
“Harve, your boss, said he would pay if there was any money to be paid,” Phillip said. “He will look after it.”
Eileen folded the two empty grocery bags. “Do you want to keep these, John?”
John looked at her, surprised that she had said his name, surprised by the gentle tone of voice. “No.”
Eileen smiled. “When do you want supper?”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re busier than I am, with your work at the store.”
“I’ll come when I’m done.”
“You’ll eat with me?”
Eileen smiled. “Yes, I’ll bring a dessert, too.”
“I’ll go now,” Phillip interjected.
“I have to go, too,” Eileen added. She touched John’s arm. “I like your carving.” She walked out the door with the chief and stopped beside the block of wood John had been carving. “What is it?” she asked, inquisitive.
“Not sure, yet,” replied John.
Eileen smiled. “Some things are like that. Takes time to find out.”
* * *
The graduation supper of moose meat, fish and wild chicken, accompanied by baked potatoes, steaming vegetables, and cupcakes, ended with presentations. Dave and the chief presented the forty kindergarten children with a certificate and a Reflection Lake t-shirt; a certificate and a fifty dollar bill to each of the seven candidates who had successfully completed grade six; and a certificate and a one hundred dollar bill to each of the twenty-eight students who had completed grade nine, ten or eleven.
Phillip continued. “Our last presentation is a first for our community. John, come up to the front. We have something for you.”
Everyone in the gym clapped as John, crutch under his arm, made his way from the front row seat to the microphone.
The chief placed his hand on John’s shoulder. “The elders of our community are proud of John. We have approved five thousand dollars for his future education and a thousand dollars for his use during the summer, since he’s not able to guide or help with the clean-up of the fireguard.” The chief held up a large dictionary. “Two cheques are in an envelope in the dictionary. It’s under E, for excellence and education.”
Dave took the mike. “The teachers have raised a thousand dollars to be used towards John’s tuition or towards his living expenses during the summer.”
The audience clapped loudly.
When the applause subsided, Harve walked to the microphone. “John has worked as a guide for five years. He’s my youngest guide and one of the best. I miss him already. I sent a letter to the fishermen who know John and invited them to make a donation which I would present to John this evening.” Harve handed an envelope to John. “This is a cheque for seven thousand dollars. Best wishes from about fifty tourist fishermen.” Harve shook John’s hand. “You deserve it.”
As John sat down on a chair on the stage, the audience before him appeared like a blur. He felt light headed, dizzy. The money from the fishermen surprised him the most.
“That wraps up our graduation evening,” Dave said. “Before we dismiss, I’ll ask Father Hall to close this evening, this year with prayer.”
Hall walked quietly towards the microphone. He shook John’s hand and smiled. “You have done well, John.”
John nodded.
“Let us pray,” Hall said.
John watched as the members of the community bowed their heads, and then bowed his own and listened.
“Thank you for these children and young people,” began Hall. “Thank you for their hearts, their minds. They are gifts to this community to nurture, to teach, to guide. Many times they, in their desire to live, to learn, to love, nurture and teach and guide us. Help us, as their elders to encourage them and not to discourage them; to show them life, not death; peace, not violence; hope, not despair. Be with the teachers as they go on vacation, and return them safe to us in the fall. Be with John in the loss of his grandfather, continue to heal his body, and go with him on the path he will walk. Be with each of us; strengthen each of us by your Spirit and through one another. Amen.”
As people stood to leave, John clasped the envelopes tightly and wondered when would be a good time to open them.
Chapter 23

Hall stood alone on the church steps and listened as the church bells sounded their Sabbath benediction. The fresh breeze drifting over the rippled waters of the lake massaged his face, lifted the perspiration from his skin, and urged him to go to his wilderness retreat.
A tinge of ashes still hung in the air, but the breeze felt fresh and strong. “The breath of God,” Hall mused aloud as he walked down the steps and towards the shore. He stepped into his boat, started the ten horse motor and followed the shoreline to his rock which marked the outlet of Bitter Creek into Reflection Lake. He stepped from the boat, pulled it up on the shore and followed a footpath alongside the narrow creek. The breeze touched the ash, swirled it against charred trees, and the frocked walker soon inhaled bitter air tainted with fermented smoke. A burnt rabbit hung from a snare wire near the trail. Blackened skeletons of proud pines marred the skyline and gray ash replaced lush beds of green moss. Hall viewed the remains of his log retreat: charred poles jutted from the ashes. His foot struck an enamel cup blackened by the heat. Hall knelt, clasped the deformed remnant, then stood holding the past in his hands; his body shook as he gazed upon the remains of his retreat. “Father God, give us strength,” he whispered.
After returning to the lakeshore, Hall pushed his boat into the water. He started the motor, then eased the craft from the shore and guided it parallel the charred forest, then turned towards the horizon where forest and water met.
Later, kneeling in the shade of Extol’s cabin, Hall lifted the small spruce and earth clinging to its roots, and put it in his canvas pack. Then, struggling to his feet, he placed the shovel inside the cabin, closed the door, and secured it with a string. Turning to face the riverbank, Hall was struck by the contrast between Extol’s side of the river and the opposite bank. Even the shadows of the green side of the river were full of life – shadows of full, green branches and leaves. He clasped his canvas bag with both hands and walked slowly to his boat.
That evening, on the knoll outside the town, Hall placed the spruce in a hole before the white cross and wooden marker on Extol’s grave. He tamped the loose dirt with his hands, then stood to his feet and packed the dirt around the transplanted tree with his feet. “Trees make man think of God,” Hall mused. “Better than words on a stone. Trees grow.” Hall looked about the cemetery and at the town below him. “Should plant trees on all the graves,” he whispered into the wind. “Everywhere.”
* * *
John set a wooden box covered with a folded canvas, and a shovel in the bow of the skiff. He untied the bowline from the pole driven into the beach, tossed the looped rope into the boat, and then leaned against the bow to shove the craft out into the water. As he pushed, a shadow covered his face. He looked up and saw Hall standing near the boat and watching him.
“Do you want help?” Hall asked, taking a step closer.
John nodded.
Hall set his shoulder against the bow. Wood scraped sand then eased gently onto water. “You get in the boat. I’ll push you out.”
John leaned over the gunwale then rolled carefully into the boat. His hands gripped the sides of the craft as he moved towards the stern.
Hall eyed the crutch lying in the bottom of the boat. “How will you carry things?”
“I will find a way.”
“Let me help.”
Jon studied Hall’s face, the wrinkled skin, and the tired, thoughtful eyes. He nodded slightly. Hall leaned hard against the bow and the boat drifted into deeper water. He climbed into the boat and sat on the passenger seat. John started the motor and turned the bow away from the shore.

They knelt beside the narrow, shallow grave. John opened the canvas pack and carefully pulled out the net, weights and floats.
“You took net out of the river by yourself?” Hall asked, surprised.
“It wasn’t too hard. Just took more time.”
Hall brushed his fingers against the net weights and floats. “He used this many years. Fed many people and many dogs.”
John unfolded the canvas and opened the wooden box. Inside were a dog harness, pipe and tobacco, knife and snowshoes, and a blanket.
Hall watched as John wrapped the articles in a heavy duty canvas then set the mummy-like bundle in the shallow grave.
“For you, grandfather,” John whispered.
The two men stood to their feet.
John tossed a shovelful of sand into the hole. He glanced at Hall, but the priest, his shoulder stooped and his body quivering, stared at the hole in the ground.
When John finished filling the hole, Hall knelt and placed rocks on the grave. He fashioned a rough cross from a peeled birch branch and pounded it into the earth with a rock.
John knelt and tied three dog harness bells to the intersecting wood. “Now you are ready for heaven.”
The men stood to their feet, turned their backs to the grave and their faces to the back of Extol’s cabin. As they walked past the cabin and towards the skiff, a gentle gust of wind tinkled the bells.

You, the poorest of the poor, have no weapons, no rights, no access to legal decisions. Your knives are too dull to cut dry bread for your children, let alone an aggressor’s wrist or throat.

You have a voice, but it is ignored, drowned out by louder voices demanding more for less.

You, the poorest of the poor, take up space.

If you, the poorest of the poor, leave your space you may be viewed as trouble makers, aggressors, terrorists, even though their rightful space was stolen from you years ago and sold to the highest bidder, or lowest bidder with the biggest gun, sharpest sword, biggest stone.

What would happen to you the poorest of the poor, if in the same moment you…

Stood to your feet, walked head held high, stepped out of the slums onto the highway and walked towards the international airport; walked shoulder to shoulder the breadth and length of the runway, wave after wave at night into the path of an incoming flight full of business and tourist travelers pursuing exponential profits, unlimited pleasures?

You may not want to know.
You may or may not want to take that risk.

You, the poorest of the poor, are not alone. You have each other.
Millions of you, according to newspapers, magazines, government reports, and websites, indicate your numbers are many, you may become the majority (which means that there may be more of you then them – the others – those who think you are nothing, powerless, valueless, not worthy of investment, donations, transfer of funds, profit sharing, sharing, intervention or initiative of any kind, until you show that you are a living being capable of doing something at lowest cost for another’s highest profit.
What, if anything, would happen if you, the poorest of the poor, if in the same moment, you…
Stood to your feet and stamped the ground once?
Stood to your feet, stamped the ground and clapped your hands?
Stood to your feet, stamped the ground, clapped your hands, and shouted, “My turn!” and repeated it 59 times.
Stood to your feet, marched on the spot for an hour, a day, a day and a night?

Would anyone hear?
Would the ground move or the earth shake?
Would anyone care?

You, the poorest of the poorest not only have each other. You take up space.
What would happen if a billion of you stood in bare feet, stomped the ground, clapped your hands and shouted at the same time? Your silence becoming noise, a growl spreading fear, an earthquake shredding slum tents, and flattening the walled estate homes on the horizon across the polluted canal flowing into a cesspool called a lake at the edge of your neighborhood slum.
What would happen if a billion of you placed two empty pop cans on the sun baked ground, stomped your right foot on one, and your left foot on the other? Then did it again, and again.
It may or may not start or end a war. It might speak to you if not anyone else. You would hear the sound of your stamping feet, your hands clapping, your shouts; the crackling sound of your feet crushing recycled metal. You would know you are alive. With life comes risks, opportunities, hope.

What message would you send?
What message would be heard by you and others?
What might happen next?

You may not want to know.
You mayor not be willing to take a risk,
and see what happens next.

But then again, you might.

Asha’s inspiration was her mother Pushpa. She determined early that her only daughter would not work as a domestic help and, therefore, stressed upon Asha the importance of education. Asha said, ”Only a good education can give people like us a place in society. My brother discontinued his studies, but I want to study even after graduation.”
Rajeshwari Mahadeva’s is an interesting case. She’s 19 years of age and hails from a tiny village called Chittakayanakoppalu in Mysore district. Rajeshwari currently works as a domestic help while pursuing an informal education in Bangalore. In the summer, she will join a beauty school, for a six-month course, after which she’ll gain employment at a beauty parlour, where starting salaries range from Rs4,000 to 5,000. Rajeshwari has resisted enormous parental pressure to get married. Her father, a farm labourer, with a driking problem, is hugely in debt. Sometimes, when a young firl is fair and good looking, grooms pay a hefty sum for their hand. Often young girls are married to older men, divorcees or widowers, in exchange for money that sets their parents free of loans. Rajeshwari, however, has other plans. She has three younger sisters, whom she’s educating. “I want all my sisters to be independent and have good jobs, so that we can look after our parents and educate our children,” she said.
Families and societies that once looked at the girl child as a burden are viewing them with respect. Hiremath said, “Generally, girls have a greater sense of responsibility, particularly at that age (past their mid teens) and in that economic group. Also, they have a greater sense of commitment and attachment to their families, while boys are pleasure seeking, and self centric in their conduct. Girls are meticulous and especially good with jobs that require lower skill levels. When one girl stands up and breaks away, she creates a road for the others.”
These girls have boundless energy. They’re on their feet at the crack of dawn and turn in only past midnight. They understand they’re at a disadvantage compared to most others in their age in the professional world, but you don’t hear them complain. The easy confidence perhaps comes from the fact that they’ve already fought and won more battles than most of us do in a lifetime.
Asha, who can make a scalding latte in 3 minutes, says her happiness comes from the fact that she has made her mother proud. “She’s never told me that she’s proud of me,” Asha said. “But I’ve overheard her many a time, talking to relatives or the neighbours, saying how happy she is with me.” In Sanskrit, Asha means hope. “That’s what this bunch of young girls has come to represent.

Looking at the majestic Himalayan mountains in the distance reawakened a sense of wanderlust that often hits me when I see a towering mountain range or a broad and far reaching body of water stretching far towards the horizon. And walking slowly through streets so different than the ones I’ve walked elsewhere, surrounded by vegetation, towering trees, shelters-shacks-one storey houses, 2-3 storey homes, hotels with parking lots on their roofs, powerlines, Tibetan looking people, tourists (not many), bicycle powered rickshaws, autorickshaws, cars, trucks, buses, seeing temples, a mosque sandwiched between buildings during the call to prayer, watertanks atop buildings, a public toilet with three rupees feet and clean, massaged the eyes rather than irritating them. The mountains, majestic in form, magnificent in voice, speak volumes even in silence. Those that are snowcapped speak of stretching to the heavens, their peaks often hidden in cloud from the human eye. But on this day, with sunlight streaming down to earth through scattered cloud in restful blue skies we saw the white peaks in the distance and marveled at their lofty heights.
Treed mountains of lesser height spoke in their voice – offering trees to provide oxygen to the air, timber to be used for doorways, windows, furniture and branches to be used to fuel the bonfires in the streets, and on the rocky hills, wherever a human hand and body require warmth to ease the night’s cold. The mountains speak of life, extremes, hard, cold, yet alive, drawing the attention of the human eye to the heights where mountains embrace and ignore the elements, and dare the explorer to explore at his or her own risk, demanding pain for every perceived gain, demanding respect or death, demanding focus, self-control and self-discipline, knowledge, perfected skills and wisdom – as a basic entry fee to their strongholds. Enter if you dare, climb if you dare, die if you dare. Or watch from a distance, and marvel as the mountains murmur – “you can climb us, play on us, work on us, take what you need or want from us, worship us, curse us; but you cannot remove us for we’re unmovable, unskakeable: and should we be moved or shaken, life around us will be squashed and die.”

I prefer seeing the working people in a country – taxidrivers, fishermen, traders, salesclerks, waiters/waitresses, farmers – to seeing the tourists from other countries touring the country. Workers work hard desperately/gratefully/eagerly/fatalistically/
religiously, and from what I’ve seen, work smart and creatively given the scant resources they have to work with – whether those resources are provided by nature, weather, random leftovers of the system (if there is one). Tourists appear to be torn by expectations and counter-expectations, generosity and touring on-the-cheap, niceties to the servers if the service meets expectations, giving them a piece of their tourist’s mind when expectations are not met.

If the beggars were to leave the streets and withdraw to an area out of my sight, I would have less guilt; and they would have less money. Since paid work doesn’t seem like a fruitful activity in terms of money received, people in India (for whatever reasons), begging appears to be the only realistic alternative – acknowledge as necessary for survival by Hindus and Muslims in this country. Christians, including me, see donations better spent when funneled through a charity/organization which works directly with the poor and know who the “genuine” poor are. So the boy who sounded so genuinely needing the money may have been begging for himself (his clothes appeared clean and colorful) or for another; and the woman holding the may baby, may have been holding her own baby or another’s baby and simply using the baby as a prop, or she and her baby may really have needed the few rupees. I could have easily have given her some rupees in change (I don’t like or need the change – it makes my wallet heavy and awkward, is awkward to count out in a shop, and would just as soon get rid of it), but I didn’t give it to her. If I had, she may have thanked the gods, whoever her gods are, that I had transferred a few rupees from my hands to hers, or she may have laughed inside thinking she had successfully fooled a foreigner, or… But I, not wanting to waste a few rupees on her, for it might have led to greater waste, attracting more beggars on the street – seeing me as an easy target (don’t want to be a target – sounds like something to be aimed at, hit in the bull’s eye, or a store full of people looking for a bargain). I don’t want to be perceived as easy when it comes to money – might lead to financial slavery rather than financial freedom. Random jump here – maybe those sold into the sex trade have a better future at least moneywise – maybe, just maybe, a pleased customer slips five, ten, fifty, even a hundred rupees into the hands of a girl or boy who has provided extreme pleasure, and maybe, just maybe, the girl or boy finds a way to keep it for her/himself, and they become winners – a momentary rush of “I am worth something,” the gods do provide, even through the damndest people and the damndest situations.

And
“What does Jesus think about what I did or didn’t do: “Wise call, Hugh (which means “man of reason”), the young boy wouldn’t have the money for long – it would be wasted, poorly spent. And the woman with the baby, she’s strong, she also has a paid job, she’s doing this for extras to see if it will work, and if it does, how much receive and use it for her daughter’s education, which won’t be a good education because she can’t get enough to buy it, even if she sells herself to the highest bidder. Or will Jesus tell me about the widow who gave her last penny to the temple, lorded over by corrupt priests who would have used her penny to further rob the people while they gathered to worship God. When Jesus told the story he seemed impressed with the widow’s generosity and sacrifice; she did it to God’s glory which Jesus acknowledged and admired, but corrupt priests, officials, people got in the way during the transfer of funds from poor widow to perfect, powerful, all loving God. But God viewed what she had done as righteous, generous, a holy act and sacrifice, which may place her in the category of “well done, thou good and faithful servant”.

Young writer’s face, curious, asks, “did you read my novel?”
“Yes,” I reply. “This weekend.”
“What do you think?”
“ I mixed up some of the characters at first, “ I said. “But then I was okay.”
“Was it a book you couldn’t put down?”
I’m not sure how to answer the question: I can’t think of a book I haven’t been able to put down. “I read it during three separate sessions. Had a busy weekend. It flows nicely.”
Young writer’s face lights up. Her broad smile lights room. Eyes flash, delighted. She turns to go. Clutching her photocopied fantasy-romance or romance-fantasy novel in hand she turns to go. “I’ll bring you another one.”

Young autorickshaw driver at corner one block west of me,
glances my way, turns 360 in intersection,
and drives towards me and stops.
I look at young driver and nods.
He smiles.
As I sit on bench behind young driver,
we pass two older drivers waiting at corner one block north
of my pick-up point, waiting for customers to approach.

I make comparisons –
young driver, alert to surroundings, possible customers
walking down street, used his time
to drive out of his way to see
if I wanted a ride, with no guarantee of “yes.”
He did more, not knowing if he would hear “yes”,
or “no,” receive payment or not.
Older drivers waited for no one that showed up
while young driver and I passed by.

Young driver’s action counters prevailing rhetoric
dominating message of leaders demanding more with less,
providing less with more strings attached.
Young driver alert, quick to act, seek out business transaction
to pay the 150 rupees fee for renting autorickshaw for one day,
according to an article in newspaper, plus other expenses on top of that,
keeping whatever is left for himself, if he is able to keep anything at all.

Thoughts on prevailing rhetoric of leaders take a tangent:
their dominating message demands more with less,
more with less, more with less,
their following decreasing as the marginalized
(by choice or coercion or left behind)
withdraw or shift to the margins
where the media is quiet if not silent,
where the weight of demands decreases,
where scripts are invisible, if existing at all,
yet heard in a whispers, whispers spreading,
quietly, discreetly, stretching,
their numbers possibly growing, or
moving towards obsolete, irrelevant, extinct –
a paradigm shift or quake in the evolving
a circle of theories and counter theories,
swirling within and around the masses,
their number growing, their representatives unknown.

We went with a friend to her favorite temple – the temple of Lord Durga, a powerful goddess within the pantheon of Hindu gods and goddesses. Our friend first purchased some flowers, a coconut, two lemons and two bananas from a fruit stand outside the temple – enough for her to present on behalf of herself, her mother and family, my wife and I, as visitors. Before entering the temple we first washed the front and back of our feet at three taps protruding from a small wall near the temple, so our feet would be clean upon entering the temple, then walked twenty meters on a dirty concrete pathway to the temple entrance.
As we entered the gate we followed the example of those ahead of us and stepped over the two raised gold plates at the gates. We walked into a gated area where we walked between two handrails towards a shrine. Entering the first shrine I noticed three designs above the door – the middle one being Lord Durga. Worshippers raised their right hand and touched the representation of Lord Durga before entering the shrine.
Inside the shrine, our friend presented her gift of fruit to the priest, who in turn, prayed over it, then held it in front of him as he turned to face the idol of Lord Durga; he chanted some prayers, mentioning our friend’s name, her mother, and our names. His prayers said, the priest turned, faced us and said a few words to our friend. She smiled.
Leaving that particular shrine or worship cove, we stopped before a table which held a bowl of water. A young priest took a spoonful of water and placed it in my hands. I was to drink some water, and sprinkle some over my head. I drew the water to my face, dripped some over my head, and rinsed my hands with the water that remained.
As we passed by other idols we noticed areas where worshippers had placed a candle, flower, or food as an act of worship. We also passed by, and I later entered, a worshipping area where gods representing the planets were set on altar like block. People, who were concerned about mistakes they had made or sins they had committed, walked nine times in a tight circle around the gods praying for forgiveness for their mistakes or errors. Our friend told us that these gods were related to astrological signs and were very powerful.
We passed by another idol of Lord Durga, this one covered with string or thread like material which held tightly rolled notes, which initially worshippers would have placed in the idol’s hand. Lord Durga has great power to intervene on a person’s behalf, should she choose to do so; she can create a god to destroy a demon, if necessary or requested. The person making the request, however, needs to be worthy of intervention, or to have lived a good life for such an intervention to occur.
Another shrine area contained a number of supply barrels full of provisions provided by the donations from devotees who came to the temple – meals were made for worshippers. If a poor person came, s/he would be fed, as that was only right. The food that was offered to the gods was used to feed the priests, with the rest given to the poor.
The gods recreate themselves – gods and goddesses can create a demon(s) to exist for a specific timeframe and allow it to wreak havoc and destruction, before being destroyed by a goddess created for that purpose. For a life to be created, a life must be destroyed, thus creating or maintaining a balance. In the end, the forces of good are more powerful than evil, in that evil is kept in check by the pantheon of gods.
As gods recreate themselves, so do humans, possibly with or without the assistance of the gods, continuing on earth at a higher level if their previous life was worthy, or continuing on earth at a lower level, if their previous life was not worthy.
Considering the pantheon of gods within the Hindu framework, each with its own story passed down from generation to generation, I can easily imagine parents passing on these stories to their children asking “why” or “how” and the dutiful parents telling a story(ies) of the gods in response. The gods are visible, and can be touched (if touching is permitted). In combination with a well told fascinating story – and some of the stories are fascinating, full of passion, treachery, violence, conflict, and revenge – a child couldn’t help but believe it, and sharing stories heard with their friends.
After our tour of the temple and on our way home, our friend told us that she had gone to a Christian Church on at least one occasion and there she participated in communion – eating cracker dipped in wine. She felt bad about what she had done, and hoped that she hadn’t offended Jesus, whom she considered one of many gods, and a good one, a good teacher, but one she couldn’t relate to as well as Lord Durga.
As my friend shared her story, I admired her honesty and transparency, her desire to live a good life, to be good to people, her story not so different from mine. Her parents told her stories about the gods, she listened to them, and clung to the story she liked, the story of Lord Durga. When I, as a child asked questions, my parents told me stories about the God of Abraham, Issac and Jacob; the Protector of Hagar the mother of Ishmael; and the beloved Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, Moses, King David, the prophets, and the people. The stories were alive, far reaching.
When I think of the Children of Israel falling away from the True God, the God of Abraham, Issac, and Jacob, I see them pursuing gods that were visible from a distance and up close. And though these gods may have been hideous and grotesque in appearance, at least they could be seen – they didn’t require much imagination nor faith. The stories of the idols may have connected with the children of Israel pursuing lesser gods – stories of passion, creation, destruction, life, death, treachery, friendship, intervention, silence, forgiveness for a price or a ritual, blessing for a price or ritual.
Some Christians may have a similar view – professing to believe, follow, and be disciplined by God and his Word, but deep in their hearts demanding to work out their own way to heaven because salvation really can’t be free, it obviously must cost something – a sacrifice of flowers, vegetables, fruit, a sparrow or lamb or ox or camel.
A living sacrifice is too personal, painful, and costly. There must be an alternative – if not many.
We, in the west, influenced by the prophets of old, the life of teachings of Christ, the saints over the centuries, church upon church, church division upon church division, and the current pursuit of maximum profits gained from the maximum burdens on the backs of the poor, cling to and argue about the tradition of “the truth shall set you free” with truth ranging from relativity to absolute, free ranging from free from sin to free from consequences, often presenting numerous mixed messages.
The gospel is sold to the highest bidder, but those in a position to buy don’t – they object to the fine print; and the poor, as has been the case through the centuries, may hear by random word spoken, and random testimony shared, a trickle here, a trickle there. When a poor man or woman does hear through whatever medium, s/he shares the gospel without price, and the gospel quickly spreads by word of mouth and action, family to family, community to community, and at times, tribe to tribe, language group to language group.
It’s no wonder Jesus spent so much time with the poor – they listened to him, and were glad, and told their neighbors what they had seen and heard.