William Krueger - Boundary waters

She wiped her eyes and saw among the trees, glowing with the reflection of her fire, the eyes of a gray wolf. They’d frightened her the first time they’d appeared in this way, but she felt differently now. She’d faced her death and her fear of it and had come to the other side of an understanding. All things were connected. Trees, water, air, earth, gray wolf, Shiloh. Life and death. Happiness and sorrow. All elements of the Great Spirit, Kitchimanidoo. If the man called Charon found her and if he killed her, she would still be a part of a great whole. As was Wendell. As was her mother.

All her life she’d felt utterly alone. But she would never feel that way again.

She began to sing softly, “The water is wide, I cannot cross o’er

…”

The wolf drew itself back into the night and was gone.

“Is that you, Jo?” Rose paused in the dark doorway of the kitchen, a ghost in her white chenille robe.

“Yes. Don’t turn on the light.”

“Can’t sleep?”

“No,” Jo answered. “My brain’s working overtime.”

“Worried about Cork?”

“About all of them.”

“How about some tea? Herbal.”

“Thanks.”

Jo stood at the kitchen window that overlooked the driveway and the lilac hedge beyond. The moon had risen, what little there was of it, only a scrap of light amid all the debris of heaven.

“It’s cold out there tonight,” she said.

“There are lots of good people looking for them.” Rose filled the teakettle with tap water and set it over a flame on a burner of the stove.

The Burnetts’ dog, a big German shepherd called Bogart, began to bark two houses down. The sound was dim through the glass of the closed window. It was often the only sound at night, a dull constant yapping that caused the neighbors to complain but made the Burnetts, an elderly couple, feel protected.

Whatever it takes, Jo thought.

She crossed her arms and leaned against the kitchen counter. “I’ve been thinking about Dad.”

“What about him?”

“Trying to remember things.”

“Like what?”

“I remember he was always up early. I’d wake sometimes. The house would be dark except for the bathroom. He’d be in there shaving, humming to himself, tapping his razor against the sink. I’d fall back asleep. When I woke later and went into the bathroom after he was gone, I’d still smell the Old Spice aftershave he put on. I’ve always loved that smell.”

“You never told me before.” Rose stood next to Jo so their arms touched. “Cork uses Old Spice.”

“I know,” Jo said.

The teakettle began to whistle. Jo took it from the stove and poured steaming water in the cups Rose had set out. From the cinnamon smell that drifted up on the vapors, Jo could tell Rose had chosen Good Earth.

“I don’t remember him much,” Rose said. “Every once in a while, I dream about a man. He doesn’t look like the pictures of Dad, so maybe it’s not him. But he makes me feel safe.” Rose stirred her tea. The spoon rang against the side of the cup. “The men I remember are mostly shadowy guys in the middle of the night. You know, you’d hear their voices, maybe see a big dark figure pass by your door, and they’d be gone in the morning.”

“They were spooky,” Jo said.

Rose lifted the tea bag out and took a sip from her cup. “For Mom, they passed as companionship, I guess. But I think she never loved another man.”

“Rose.”

“Yes?”

“I’m glad I’m not alone in this. Thanks.”

“That’s what family is for.”

Dwight Douglas Sloane died quietly in the night. The last thing he said was, “Across the river,” spoken to no one.

Cork was feeding birch Limbs to the fire. Stormy and Louis sat together against the tall rocks warmed by the flames. Louis slept, his head laid against his father’s arm.

Sloane gave a small groan and spoke his final piece. His chest rose high in one last struggle for breath, then fell and rose no more. His eyes were half open. The reflection of the fire danced in them and made them seem alive. But Cork knew, and so did Stormy.

“What did he mean?” Stormy asked.

Before Cork could answer, from the far side of the Deertail came the mournful howling of wolves. The crying woke Louis. He straightened up and looked at Sloane.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“Yes, Louis,” Stormy said.

The boy listened to the wolves, their sound like a sad song in the dark beyond the river. “He was wrong.”

“What do you mean?” Stormy asked.

“Remember, he said the wolves weren’t his brothers. But listen to them. Uncle Wendell told me that the wolves only cry for their own.”

“Ma’iingan,” Stormy said. “I’d be proud to call him my brother.”

When the ghost of sunrise first began to haunt the sky, Cork ate a light meal. He and Stormy talked quietly at the fire while Louis slept. Stormy agreed it would be best to stay where they were until Cork sent someone back for them. If no one came by the following morning, Stormy and Louis would walk out, following the same route Cork proposed to take along the Noodamigwe Trail to the old logging road. Cork left Stormy both weapons.

“I don’t need extra weight on this run,” he said. “I don’t think you and Louis will need all that firepower either. Raye probably doesn’t suspect that we’re on to him. I’ll bet he has a story already concocted about being washed downriver and getting lost in the woods. But I’d feel better if you kept the guns.”

Cork stretched his muscles in preparation for the run. He discarded his jacket, so that he was dressed in a thermal top, sweater, jeans, socks, and his boots. “I know you’ll keep him safe,” he said, looking down at Louis as the boy slept.

“Cork, I’ve been hard in my thinking about you for a long time. It was easier for me to blame you, you know. I’m sorry.”

“Forget it.”

“Get to the woman before that majimanidoo does.”

“I’m on it.”

“When you get to Wendell’s, if you need a firearm, he keeps a rifle in the tall cabinet in his shed. And you’ll find cartridges in a Quaker Oat container on the shelf.”

“Quaker?”

“My uncle’s sense of humor. Good luck.” He offered his hand.

Cork took the strong hand. “To you, too.” He turned away and began to run.

The morning air was crisp, and Cork, as he breathed, left a trail of vapor that vanished within moments of his passing. The light was still gray, but the sky was a clean blue, and within an hour, the tips of the tallest pines burned like candles set to fire by the light of the rising sun. Cork followed the Deertail south to its junction with Raspberry Creek, and there he turned east. The creek ran between low, rugged hills covered with jack pines. The bed was nearly dry, but, here and there, Cork splashed through small pockets of water trapped behind a fallen log or rock dam. He ran through ragged patches of sunlight clean of bugs in the autumn cold, and he startled big ravens that flew up in a drumming of wings, cawing their complaints as he passed under them. He ran more slowly than he wanted, but the creek bed was an obstacle course littered with rocks and limbs and sudden mud that threatened to snap an ankle if he placed a foot unmindfully. Normally when he ran, his thoughts moved in a different world. Now he kept his concentration riveted to the dozen feet of ground directly in front of him.

He almost missed the Noodamigwe Trail. He broke into a sudden wide bar of sunlight, and by the time he looked up, he was already beyond the four-foot swath of cleared forest. He backtracked and picked up the Noodamigwe heading south.

The Noodamigwe Trail was one of the oldest through the Boundary Waters. Voyagers loaded with beaver and mink pelts had traveled the route two hundred years before, and the Anishinaabe long before that. The trail was little used anymore-most visitors to the Boundary Waters came by canoe-and was covered with porcupine grass. Where the edges of the trail touched the forest, clusters of yellow buttercups and bluebells grew. The grass was wet with melted frost and glistened ahead of Cork like a carpet covered with jewels.