Worlds Between Read online

  “That’s nice logic, but they won’t respect it if they find it’s to their advantage.”

  “Our attorney thinks it’s got standin’.”

  “What do you figure as your reckoning?”

  “Reckonin’?”

  “When you take a principled position and claim a truth that no one wants to hear, there’s always a reckoning. I’ve experienced it every time I’ve made the mistake of being principled.”

  His friends laughed; Patrick knew of the sadness behind that comment and barely smiled.

  Brian offered the bottle again.

  “We’ve lost friends. We hadn’t many, in Kenora anyway, once our first fight was made known, against the pulp mill. Our produce supplier refused our business when Maureen made it clear we weren’t goin’ away easy, but that just led us to the Mennonites who keep us pretty well-stocked, an’ of course NOA lost all our business from the mills, an’ that was a good bit. Slowin’ the dam a few months cost them a better part of the construction season an’ that delayed a pulp mill bein’ built a year an’ that cost us maybe ten thousand in lost revenue, so.”

  “So there’s plenty of folks who don’t like what you did.”

  “As much as it cost us, it cost them more, much more. Their story is we did it for selfish reasons an’ they’re right, God bless ‘em, they’re right. It’s not good for my business to have civilization creepin’ in too close. I sell wilderness adventures, an’ if guests fly in over roads an’ dams an’ power lines an’ paper mills, well, that’ll change their view of what this place is about for them. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t do it for some very good reasons as well.”

  Papa had taken over the bottle and was refilling each glass and then he raised his.

  “A toast to some very good reasons.”

  The next morning the NOA Grumman Goose that would carry Hemingway and his friends out of camp and back to Kenora crested the far southeastern ridge on its way to The Great Lodge at Innish Cove. The plane’s shadow skipped over the River’s lakes. Brian and Maureen had recently added the Goose to the NOA fleet. The plane offered a touch of luxury, which in the wilderness simply meant more clean comfort. This plane sat six passengers very comfortably in cushioned chairs, not canvas benches, with a window for each row of seats.

  Only two new guests, James Conaty and James Brislanne, were flying in to camp in the Goose that morning. Since they had taken off from Lake of the Woods and left Kenora behind, they were sitting across from each other, staring out fuselage windows, the view to the east looking like the view to the west; both of the Jameses were transfixed by the grand sweep of lakes, some of them part of the massive River system, many landlocked, often dotted with islands large and small, rocky and wooded, and by the fir forests and birch groves, and clusters of maple, and the marshes and streams and ponds, and low lying grey-blue granite ridges and rocky outcroppings, as far as the eye could see, nearly as much water as land, and only a couple of logging roads the last half of the trip.

  The two Jameses were Chicagoans, South Side Irish, James Brislanne, a homebuilder, and James Conaty, a lawyer, both from Bridgeport.

  And the two Jameses were of the small group of community leaders who spearheaded the revival, over the past ten years or so, of the Chicago unit of Clan na Gael, organized to support the IRA in their fight against British occupation of Northern Ireland.

  The fuselage windows offered no view ahead of the plane, so when the bush pilot called back that the Great Lodge just came into view, dead ahead, for the two Jameses it was all water and woods.

  The homebuilder called out to the lawyer.

  “She did one hell of a job picking her hiding place.”

  “Kevin calls her a master.”

  “But he found her.”

  They were quiet, though the homebuilder seemed anxious when he spoke up again.

  “I hope I don’t embarrass myself when I’m out in the boat, when we’re fishing. The only fishing I’ve ever done was for perch, with my old man, on Lake Michigan, from the shore. I was just a boy. I don’t remember I liked it much.”

  “You never liked doing anything with your old man.”

  “He was a mean son of a bitch… I’ve never even been in a boat.”

  “You’ve never been in a boat?”

  “Not counting walking a ship that was tied up at Navy Pier.”

  The plane crossed the lake and flew a low circle over the cove so everyone in camp and especially any late-departing guides knew the pilot’s intention, which was to claim priority for his landing on the broad expanse of the River’s open lake, Rainbow Lake, just outside Innish Cove.

  When the Goose passed overhead Simon Fobister and a second young Ojibway boy were carrying the Hemingway party’s luggage to the dock, and Brian emerged from his office at the foot of the dock as the boys passed. They piled the suitcases and valises and tackle boxes and rod cases at the end of the dock, where Joe Loon and Albert were tending to their boats dockside, then left to get the guests’ boxes of fish fillets from the ice house.

  Joe Loon and Albert had been the Hemingways’ guides. Now Albert was preparing his boat to take the two Jameses out after they settled in a bit from their travels; Joe Loon was preparing his boat for a full day trip with Simon and Brian, leaving as soon as the Goose departed.

  Joe Loon often spoke to Albert about the big spirits of the white men who came to this place, and as he loaded the extra gas can from the dock to his boat he continued.

  “When they leave for their journey home I can see the spirits of Big Brian’s guests know they have been living at a sacred place. These white men who come here, they all have big spirits. Sometimes their big spirits have a sickness. Some have a very big sickness and haven’t seen it yet. But they all listen to the spirits of this place. Even those whose sickness makes them deaf. There are many reasons Big Brian’s Dream sent him here to build this camp at this sacred place. To help us protect the River. And to heal the white man’s spirits.”

  “Joe Loon’s Dream has shown its great powers. Everyone sees that.”

  When Brian walked up to stand with them, Albert translated what Joe Loon said next.

  “Joe Loon asks about the white man called Him Way. Joe Loon wonders what it was that caused this great spirit to become broken.”

  “Africa. That’s the name of a wilderness land far away from here. Hemingway was in a bush plane flyin’ over that country on a huntin’ trip, ‘cept in Africa they don’t have the River an’ all the lakes you have here, it’s just the land, yeah, just forests an’ plains, they call it the bush like we do here, so their bush plane was rigged with wheels to land on the ground. Hemingway was a great hunter in Africa an’ he flew over the bush country many times to get to the best huntin’ grounds, but this day his plane had engine problems, an’ when his pilot tried an emergency landin’, well, they crashed into some trees. Hemingway was nearly killed. In fact the first stories told about the crash said he was killed.”

  Brian paused throughout for Albert to translate for Joe Loon, who replied at the end, “Some face death and leave it behind. Some face death and carry it with them.”

  “Well, the poor sod had to face it all again. Just when he was recoverin’, another plane he was flyin’ in crashed on take-off an’ again he was nearly killed. The poor man; he was once so vigorous, but now his body is filled with pain.”

  “His great spirit is wearing away from this pain he carries. This is what Joe Loon sees.”

  When the Goose passed over the camp, Maureen was in the kitchen with the cook and staff—one male chef, a recent Hungarian immigrant Maureen recruited from a fine restaurant in Toronto, and Ojibway women and girls, with Mary in charge of all but the cooking, and Maureen helping out during busy times, which was often these days. They cleaned up from breakfast, planned for supper, and checked on supplies. Maureen excused herself a moment, bent down under the work table set up in the least busy corner of the kitchen, and there she found Grace O’Malley playing with
six-year-old Little Stevie, Mary’s son and Joe Loon’s grandson. Grace crawled out at her mother’s call, took her mother’s hand, and followed Maureen through the swinging double doors from the kitchen to the dining hall.

  Most guests ate breakfast quickly to get out on the water for early walleye success, so the only table occupied was the Hemingway party, and they were getting up to go. Maureen’s study of the old man’s aches and pains told her he’d wince as he stood and limp as he turned, and he did, though he hid the evidence of his damage well.

  “Grace O’Malley wanted to say good bye to Papa an’ Uncle Patrick an’ all her new friends.”

  “She isn’t going to come down to the dock to see us off?”

  “No, no. When there’s planes about an’ guests leavin’ an’ comin’ an’ supplies loadin’ an’ unloadin’ that’s too much commotion, so we keep her off dock.”

  Hemingway favored his side but still winced as he knelt down to the child.

  “Well then, before I go, I have one last secret to tell my lovely Grace O’Malley. Can I whisper it in your ear?”

  She nodded.

  “Which ear for our secrets?”

  She pulled back a sweep of her black curls—the raven black she shared with her mother that caused some new guests to wonder if Brian’s wife and daughter weren’t indigenous, or partly so—and she held them out of the way.

  “This one.”

  “Okay, but first you must promise Papa you won’t tell anyone.”

  “Yes Papa, I promise.”

  “Okay.” The big bearded man leaned forward to tickle the little girl’s ear with the whiskers on his chin and she giggled and danced away.

  “It appears that ear’s become too ticklish. I’ll bet we’ve got too many secrets already dancing around in that one. What if we tried your other ear?”

  Grace O’Malley spun on her toes to offer her other ear. Hemingway placed his lips just close enough and softly said, “I was reading a book one day and it said that Grace O’Malley was a beautifully brave girl. And a brave beautiful girl.”

  He turned back to her full face and said, “In truth, madam—”

  Grace O’Malley folded her arms across her chest and stamped her foot and insisted “Mademoiselle!”

  “Pardon me. Yes, of course, mademoiselle, but I do have one more secret.”

  She smiled, and she nodded her head yes as he returned to her ear.

  “That book I was reading, it also said Grace O’Malley grew up to be a great woman.”

  Looking far away Grace O’Malley said, “That’s me. Mum tells me lots of stories about Grace O’Malley and they end with me.” She looked up at her mum. “I want another story about us tonight.”

  “We’ll worry about tonight tonight. Now give Papa a big hug for he must be leavin’ us to go back to his home.”

  They hugged and Grace held on as Hemingway tried to stand with her, but Maureen peeled her daughter away and held her in her arms.

  “If you gentlemen’ll head on down to the dock I’ll meet up with you there.”

  She carried her daughter back into the kitchen where she found Mary. Mary returned Grace to the world she and Little Stevie had been building under the table—since early in the season the two children had been collecting pine cones and favorite River stones and a worn bit of deer antler, and a couple of wood carvings of graceful animals and small pieces of driftwood that came to the same graceful form naturally; they had arranged and rearranged these pieces to create fantasy worlds while their mothers worked together with the others above them.

  Before she left, Maureen checked her schedule for the day against Mary’s then headed down to the dock to join Brian to greet the new guests and say farewell to the departing.

  Hemingway and his party walked slowly down the path in deference to the pain in Hemingway’s step, and Maureen caught them as they left the trees and walked along the top of the beach. She took the writer’s arm and waved to Brian waiting for them on the dock.

  Outside the cove, on the lake identified as Rainbow Lake on maps but known to the Ojibway as Kaputowaganickok, the Lake where the Funereal Fires Burned, the last fishing boats had passed and guests enjoyed watching the spray from the Goose’s belly landing splitting the surface of the lake.

  The plane taxied towards the cove as Hemingway summoned strength for this performance and led his friends onto the dock, holding hands with Maureen now, and calling out to Brian.

  “If Brian Burke isn’t the goddamn luckiest fellow on the face of the earth I can’t imagine the greater fortune. You wake each day in God’s country with the most beautiful woman by your side…”

  Hemingway released Maureen with a bit of a bow that caused a hurt and then stood respectfully in front of Joe Loon, who upon his guests’ approach had climbed out of his boat so he could offer mutual respect and stand with this man. Hemingway took Joe Loon by the shoulder.

  “…And you have the honor of being in partnership with one of the last true humans our modern world will allow.”

  Joe Loon took the writer by the shoulder and said, “This man tells two stories. He is the only one who understands both of them.”

  “I love the sound of that too much to have anyone translate it for me.”

  Maureen found her way to Brian’s side as she told Papa, “He calls you a great storyteller.”

  Brian added “My luck an’ privilege is to share it all with folks who love it for it’s true worth.”

  “We’ll be back next year. We may try to get here earlier in the season and go after lake trout this time, maybe stay a full week.”

  Patrick was shaking Brian’s hand. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it; I don’t come back over too often.”

  “Tanzania, that’s a haul. I have a son named Patrick in Ireland an’ he and I don’t get to see each other often.” Then Brian included all in his comments. “We know how busy a life you lead an’ if you can find time for a return trip, we’d be delighted to have you.”

  Maureen offered, “Just send us the dates you’d like to come an’ we’ll hold them for you while you work it out, yeah.”

  “An’ with your say so, Papa, that big pike you caught your first day out, I’ll get it mounted an’ put it over your photo in your corner.”

  “Marvelous. Give people something worthwhile to remember me by.”

  James the homebuilder called James the lawyer to his window when he discovered that the plane’s turn exposed the camp to his view.

  “I see her. Black hair, the red shirt… the only woman on the dock. That’s gotta be her.”

  The lawyer arrived at the window in time to see her turn to hug a big bearded man.

  “The photo of her made her out to be pretty…”

  As the Goose drew nearer, the woman in the red shirt tossed her black hair and laughed at something the man told her.

  “…but she’s, I mean she’s…”

  “Stunning.”

  The homebuilder hesitated.

  “Yeah, stunning… And a little intimidating?”

  “I was going to say exciting.”

  “Don’t you get a little intimidated by exciting women? I do.”

  “Really? I get excited when women try to be intimidating.”

  “That fellow she’s talking to, the old man with the beard. He look familiar to you?”

  “I’m watching her.”

  The Goose’s glide carried it to the dock. Brian and Albert were well practiced at catching the wing to guide its float up and over the dock so the plane could be tied dockside.

  As Brian stepped forward to unlatch the Goose’s fuselage door to let the guests out, he turned to Hemingway.

  “My famous guests honor us when they tell others about us, but now you’re meetin’ the sort who fills up our cabins, Chicago businessmen an’ factory owners. They’re the bread an’ the butter.”

  Brian opened the door and the homebuilder stepped out just as he realized who the bearded man was. “Jesus, you’re tha
t Old Man and the Sea.”

  “That’s the best exit line anyone’s got a right to expect.”

  They laughed and shook hands all around. Ojibway boys removed luggage from the plane then loaded luggage, and Maureen gave both Hemingways final hugs. Before Albert and Brian pushed the Goose away from the dock Brian told the pilot to swing by the new dam so Papa and his friends could see it.

  The Ojibway boys carried the two Jameses’ luggage to their cabin. Watching the Goose taxi out of the cove, Brian and Albert began to plan the rest of the day for the guests, and Maureen wandered over to Joe Loon’s boat.

  Maureen had worked with Mary Fobister and two or three other Ojibway women nearly all day every day during the fishing season for a half a dozen years, and she had learned quite a bit of their language. Mary enjoyed teaching her, and Maureen loved speaking with Joe Loon.

  “The River and its banks behind the dam will be flooded.”

  “My Grandfather trapped there with his father.”

  “That is the Place where the People Trap the Biggest Beaver?”

  “Yes. North on the River where the white man dug their mines to take the gold, that is the Place where Moose Grows the Largest Antlers. I am taking Big Brian to find what has happened to the Biggest Beaver. It is a hard trap line to cover, and one best for the young men, but it is there the beaver have pelts as big as two big males. It was good for mink along the shore when I was a boy but they are gone. The Biggest Beaver have always been there.”

  “Will they just move up the side of the valley as the water rises?”

  “I will look for signs. They might have moved up the side of the valley. But they might have gone up the River.”

  “You are not angry about the dam.”

  “The young men on the reserve can be angry because they are not searching for the truth of what is happening.”