Worlds Between Read online

  Table of Contents

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Other Books by Carl Nordgren

  Title Page

  WORLDS

  BETWEEN

  a River of Lakes novel

  carl nordgren

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2015, by Carl Nordgren

  Worlds Between

  Carl Nordgren

  cnordgren.lightmessages.com

  [email protected]

  Published 2015, by Light Messages

  www.lightmessages.com

  Durham, NC 27713

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-61153-134-3

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61153-133-6

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 International Copyright Act, without the prior written permission except in brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Dedication

  To Marie, my wife, always.

  To Steve Fobister and Robin Metz,

  two great men who have been my guides whether near or far.

  Chapter 1

  A Child is Born

  This Man stood on the alert outside the door of the large wigwam, his flintlock primed and at the ready; he had tied a sprig of cedar together with a hawk feather near the muzzle of the barrel of his gun. The people of the village and their visitors were gathering around the wigwam and two of the men carried rifles; Brian Burke had his recently purchased Marlin 336 and Albert Loon carried the old Winchester that had been in his clan for as long as he could remember; both rifles were lever-action, both 30-30s.

  From inside the wigwam a woman’s hard moans and deep groans suddenly became sharp cries. The cries grew and grew into calls of the purest pain that lasted, the men thought, much too long, until a sharp bark of agony was followed by a moment of silence, inside the wigwam and outside, and then by the baby’s first wail, greeted by the joyous relief of many voices, from inside the wigwam and then outside.

  Brian watched for Albert’s indication to fire their rifles as he listened for news from inside and hoped to hear his invitation to enter.

  Inside the wigwam Maureen received her new born baby from the Nokomis who had received it from the Ojibway midwife who had attended Maureen throughout the later stages of her pregnancy and presided over the delivery, observed by the nurse from the hospital in Kenora that Brian insisted at least be present.

  Mary Fobister, Maureen’s closest friend, was the other woman attending; she had supported Maureen, propping and balancing her, holding her up, stroking her and comforting her, during what became a furiously fast delivery.

  From inside Maureen called out to her husband, “Brian, it’s —” just as This Man raised his gun to his shoulder and aimed high above the trees out over the River, the talisman at the tip of his gun twirling its magic in the breeze, and Brian and Albert raised their rifles together, so that in the same moment Maureen’s voice called she was greeted by the thunder of the rifles proclaiming a child is born.

  Brian exchanged handshakes with his closest friends and everyone stepped forward to touch him and offer blessings, and Maureen was calling him in as the nurse from Kenora emerged from the wigwam door with a sweet smile of wonder on her face and assurance in her voice; Brian handed his rifle to Albert and knelt to enter.

  Maureen looked up at him, exhausted, her hair sweated to her face, and gave her husband a smile; Mary moved back to make way for Brian who crouched in next to his wife and baby. Maureen whispered, “Grace O’Malley Burke has come to live with us.”

  He patted his wife’s shoulder, studying her status, then touched the little one’s shoulder with his finger. “You knew. You were right.”

  “I never doubted.”

  “That sound she made. It was grand, yeah.”

  “You should have felt her fightin’ her way out into the world.”

  Brian looked around at the interior of the wigwam and shook his head.

  “An’ you were right about all of this as well.”

  “I was glad you brought the nurse in. It was comfortin’ to see her there.”

  “But you didn’t need her.”

  “We didn’t need her.”

  “All because you wanted our daughter to be born in a wigwam.”

  “No, because I wanted our daughter to be born with her people gathered ‘round.”

  Chapter 2

  Guests and Visitors

  The Great Lodge Hall at Innish Cove—the grand building Brian had dreamed of and Maureen had planned for from the beginning—took most of two years to build and was completed the same year their daughter Grace O’Malley Burke was born, in 1953. Maureen supervised the construction well into her pregnancy, and only in the final days did she leave it to Brian to oversee the work on the massive log structure that captured under one vaulted roof a full dining hall, a great rock fireplace and its sitting area, a pub corner with bar and a billiards table and lounge, and a spacious kitchen with two stoves and two ovens, three sinks deep and wide, and a walk-in pantry big enough for flour barrels and plenty more.

  Three weeks after Grace O’Malley was born, Brian and Albert Loon and the younger men and boys of Joe Loon’s clan took the tables and chairs and the two-way radio and kitchen supplies out of the cabin that from the first days of operation had served the camp as the guests’ dining hall and moved them into the Great Lodge—the first few tables that had crowded the cabin seemed lost in the dining room’s full expanse—and the guests were served supper there for the first time the middle of that summer. Brian and Maureen held their baby daughter between them as they entertained their guests with stories of the founding of Innish Cove.

  The fifth summer following that first meal in the Great Lodge’s dining hall, as the evening brought a delightful cool to the blazing hot mid-August day, Brian and Maureen stood together in the pub visiting with guests after supper. During his trip back to Ireland to visit his children—Tommy and Katie were present to him; Patrick continued to keep what he thought of as a safe distance—Brian collected Guinness signs and posters, including the poster of a Toucan balancing a pint on his beak under the headline “Lovely Day for a Guinness.”

  This sign was centered behind the bar and over a shelf of bottles, one each of every sort of Irish whiskey, and not just Bushmills and Jameson, but Inishowen and Black Bush, Redbreast and Greenore, and Tullamore Dew, and nearly a dozen others Brian also collected on the trip. He found that whether the guests drank the Irish or simply toasted them, they all enjoyed the look of the labels.

  The pub opened out onto the Great Hall’s dining room now close to crowded with tables where some guests who had stayed out on the River’s lakes until late were just mid-meal, while others were finishing their steaks and baked potatoes and some sat back to sip an after-supper coffee, freshly brewed. Guests at two separate tables began the first rounds of four-handed gin games there in the Great Hall before they would retire to their cabins with their cards and their drinks and stories of the day’s adventures fishing the River, and its lakes with the best of friends, guided by real life Indians.

  The supper tables were cleared and cleaned by two teenage Ojibway girls, dressed
in white blouses and black skirts that Mary Fobister selected and Maureen approved, each using red ribbons to tie back their shiny black hair. It only took one guest to engage the girls enough to get past the reserved quiet and natural shyness the girls maintained around guests, and then finally work out that the girls weren’t sisters as most guessed but cousins, the tall one Ruthie Strong, the younger girl Sweet Marie, and the collected information was then passed on over the summer from guest to guest as the arcs of trips overlapped.

  The Great Lodge was covered by a vaulted ceiling, and its log walls were nearly fourteen feet high. Even so the walls were covered with the visual evidence of successful trips and delighted guests. Moose heads were the largest and hung highest; black bear heads were most dramatic, with their toothy snarls. Trophy mounts of northern pike, walleye, smallmouth bass, lake trout, Canadian geese, and the antlered heads of white tail deer were most plentiful. Small bits of brass tacked to the trophies’ wooden frames noted the hunters or fishermen and the dates of their glorious adventures.

  Placed among them were photographs, mostly black and white, of guests with this trophy or that one, some photos a series that captured seasoned regulars, some with guides included, a couple of guests quite renowned, others near famous.

  Maureen was the first to retire from the work of entertaining guests in the evening, though she would stay as long as any female guests were in the Great Lodge. That wasn’t often. The guests were men, successful men, men traveling with their fishing and hunting clubs, men and their young sons, men and their old sons, men with their business associates, and so it was this evening as Maureen attended to last details in the kitchen before she left for the night. When she determined all was ready for breakfast in the morning she returned to the Great Hall’s lounge to locate young Grace O’Malley, expecting her to be sitting with guests while they told her their stories and she told them hers. She remembered the last place she’d seen her daughter playing and she spied her there still.

  Grace O’Malley was asleep, in the arms of one of their guests. The little girl’s raven black hair spilled across the guest’s grey and white beard. Earlier in the evening Maureen had checked with the guest to make sure her daughter’s play wasn’t tiring him out; he had winked back at Maureen over his toothy grin and told her to go away. They had been playing some sort of hidden ball game then, but now she was held safe in Ernest Hemingway’s arms, lying on his chest, as he sat back in a big overstuffed chair by the fire. Hemingway’s son, Patrick, and their two friends spoke softly so they wouldn’t disturb the scene. The quiet corner setting had been Hemingway’s all four nights he had been in camp. Maureen directed Brian’s attention to the scene then said good night to the guests she passed at the billiards table on her way to Hemingway’s corner.

  He saw her coming, grinned again, and spoke softly now over the child’s head.

  “I love sleep. My life has a tendency to fall apart when I am awake, ya know.”

  Maureen smiled down at her daughter and Hemingway stroked the girl’s curls as he looked up at Maureen.

  “You’ve got a gift for naming things.”

  “Namin’ things?”

  “This place is surely the Great Lodge at Innish Cove. And I’ve heard the stories of Ireland’s pirate queen who went nose to nose with Queen Elizabeth the First, the legendary Grace O’Malley.”

  “Outside our own, not many know of her. Brian’s ancestors married O’Malleys.”

  “I can see this child of yours is a warrior one moment, a princess the next, and always of the most extraordinary sort.”

  “Well, she is a little thing, yeah, small for her age you see. She’s five, an’ I think folks are comparin’ her to three year an’ four year olds.”

  “I’m not comparing her to anyone or anything. I am just appreciating the powerful beauty radiating from all she does.”

  Maureen smiled. “Well, thanks. All of you, you’ve been so kind an’ so patient with her, with your playin’ an’ all your attention.”

  “Child’s play is its own reward. I was long ago a convert to it, child’s play and the joy of joy. Seems I’ve forgotten it lately.”

  “You bring her joy. She’ll miss you.”

  Maureen reached for Grace but Hemingway held her there. “Ah, but the weight of her feels good on my chest.”

  “See now I’m bein’ selfish here for I can’t settle into my own bed until I know this character’s safely tucked into hers. Unless you want me sleepin’ on your other shoulder, so…”

  Hemingway lifted the child but Maureen knew she needed to do most of the work. She’d noticed time and again as he made his way around the camp and in and out of boats that the pain he lived with had weakened him. She bent quickly to collect Grace O’Malley into her arms, held her close with the girl’s head resting on her shoulder, and addressed the guests with her smile.

  “Your plane’s here half-eight. Just leave luggage at the cabin door when you come up for breakfast an’ we’ll be by to collect it.”

  Patrick Hemingway’s appearance was a near perfect replica of his father’s at the same age. He asked Maureen. “A favor our last night?”

  “Of course.”

  “Ask your husband for a moment of his time, if he has a moment—I see the guests’ demands on it. But we’ve just heard mention of your fight against the hydroelectric dam, and we’d like to hear the full story.”

  “His stories are always full, yeah.”

  The men laughed and Papa took over again.

  “Let him know he has an interested audience. That’s all a storyteller needs to hear.”

  Maureen turned and wove her way through the guests, nodding good night, then stopped to trade kisses with Brian and to let him plant one on his daughter’s head as she shared the Hemingway request. She left through the kitchen, empty now, and headed out into the nighttime forest with its dark paths.

  She took the path across the small sandy clearing that led to the grove of birch and the Chapel. There the path narrowed to one marked Private that climbed a gentle and heavily wooded slope to a house, their home, built on a broad flat step, a small plateau just high enough to look out over the fishing camp she and Brian and Joe Loon’s clan were still creating, still building.

  Maureen began each day in the Chapel, usually with Brian, in quiet contemplation and prayer. Whenever she passed the Chapel during the day she would whisper the same brief prayer. And at the end of her day, as she headed home for the night, she always went in.

  It was dark but she was practiced at balancing Grace, so she could strike a match and light two candles on the table at the head of the small room. There was a bench near the corner where the recent addition to the Chapel stood, a tall statue carved from a tree trunk.

  The statue itself was four feet tall and sat on a foot-high section of tree trunk for a pedestal. Maureen pushed the bench with her foot so she could sit just where she liked, right in front of the statue and just below, the carved image of Joseph the father struggling to contain and support his laughing, scrambling baby boy, young Jesus, the toddler who had climbed out of his father’s arms and up onto his shoulders in a joyous adventure to look down upon Maureen and her daughter.

  The statue’s painted surfaces were fresh and bright in the candlelight; the flame’s flicker across the two carved faces turned their smiles to laughter; the statue’s recesses were shadowed pure black and seemed unending. Brian had commissioned the statue from a Grassy Narrows wood carver three years after the Chapel was built and the work represented countless hours of careful craft.

  She held her daughter close as she admired the skill, rough but complete. Maureen was still for quite a few minutes and then she prayed, ending with the same words every night, those words she prayed each time she passed, words she had to say aloud.

  “An’ may God bless the Innocents.”

  She crossed herself, left the candles burning—for others were more likely to stop in if a light beckoned—and she carried Grace O’Mall
ey up the dark path to the house with its own inviting light in the window, one set by an Ojibway employed as a camp laborer sent by Brian.

  Brian brought a bottle of Black Bush and glasses for his guests and told the Hemingways and their friends the story of their string of failed legal battles against the construction of the Ontario Hydro dam on the eastern branch of the River, one that meandered along for some distance before merging back into its sister channel fifteen miles north for the River’s long run and circuitous route on toward Hudson Bay. Brian explained the strategy behind the series of legal filings they made with a number of ministries, after Joe Loon and Albert told them that there was a small Ojibway burial site along with traditional trapping lines and wild rice flats that would be flooded by the dam, and he was interested in hearing what the writer might say about it; at the time Brian was opposed to fighting the dam, considered it wasted money, and tried to convince Maureen it was pointless.

  “How far along were they in the construction?”

  “Over two years, close to three, after years of plannin’. There was no way we would stop ‘em.”

  “You had no intention of stopping them. You were sending a message.”

  “That was Maureen’s goal. What she said was that this fight was to set us in a better place to win the next one, yeah, whatever the next one might be, to make sure everyone understood that we’re all in to protect the River, always. She likes to think three or four steps ahead like that, while I sweep up behind.”

  “And smile.”

  “Mostly I smile.”

  The others settled back in their chairs looking forward to the writer and the camp owner’s conversation.

  “Since they argued that this burial site should be dismissed because it was so small an’ because it was abandoned, just four graves before the village was wiped out by smallpox a hundred years ago, then Maureen says we have them on record sayin’ that size is a relevant legal distinction, an’ if a site is still bein’ used, that’s a legal distinction, which leads to arguin’ that larger active burial sites along the River should be respected an’ protected.”