William Krueger: Boundary waters

“He’s okay,” George called out to her as she came.

“Thank God.” She put her arms around Cork.

“Gently,” he cautioned, although her arms felt good.

In a moment, two cars from the Tamarack County Sheriff’s Department skidded onto Wendell’s drive and kicked up dirt and gravel as they sped toward the trailer. Behind them came the blue Lumina and the Lincoln Town Car.

Wally Schanno bounded out. “You okay?”

“Alive anyway.” Cork gestured toward the trailer. “Some folks in there need help. Get an ambulance.”

Schanno hollered instructions to a deputy in the other car. He took inventory of Cork. “You look like you could use some medical help, too.”

“At this point, Wally, I’m just happy to be alive. There’s a body down at the lake. George can show you where. Not one of the good guys.”

The big man Joey approached them, carrying Vincent Benedetti in his arms. “My son?” Benedetti asked.

“Inside,” Cork said. “He’ll be fine.”

“And Shiloh?” Nathan Jackson came up beside Joey, Harris right behind him.

“She’s in there, too. Unharmed.”

Cork and Jo followed them inside. Schanno went to check on Arkansas Willie, who sat hunkered in a corner, holding his knee and looking like a trapped varmint. The others went directly to where Shiloh sat on the floor next to Angelo Benedetti.

“Shiloh,” Angelo said, gesturing toward the man in Joey’s arms, “meet your father.” She looked up, confused. Then Benedetti waved toward Nathan Jackson. “And… meet your father.”

Nearly a dozen bodies were packed into the small living room of the trailer home. Cork backed out, and Jo with him. “Let them sort it out,” he said.

Schanno accompanied them. “We’re going to need a full statement, Cork.”

“First we’re getting him to a doctor,” Jo said. “He may have a broken collarbone.”

“Want to wait for the ambulance?”

She shook her head emphatically. “I’ll take him.”

They walked away from the trailer. Across Iron Lake, through the cedars near the shore, over grass still greening under the October light, came a breeze that smelled of the North Woods. Of evergreen and deep, clean lakes. Of sun-warmed earth. Of desiccated autumn leaves. Of the cycle of dust to dust. Of things seen and half seen, things unseen but sensed. Fragrances that had gifted Cork all his life, that had become as common to him as the scent of his own body. Pay attention to what blows across the water, Henry Meloux had advised Cork early on. In his wisdom, the old man had offered more than just a warning about the coming of the majimanidoo, and Cork found himself taking in the air with a renewed sense of wonder.

“You’re grinning like this was Christmas morning,” Jo said.

“Am I?”

“I’d have thought you’d be in a lot of pain.”

“You hurt long enough, you almost forget it’s there.”

“I know.” She stopped walking.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I was just thinking. You’ll need some tending while that shoulder heals. Why don’t you come and stay with us.”

The smile on her lips seemed as delicate as a snowflake and as easily melted.

“You mean… at the house?”

“Yes.” The breeze pushed a wisp of yellow hair onto her forehead. She swept it back with her small hand. “You can stay in the guest room to begin with. We could see how things go while you heal. While we all heal.”

It was a day of miracles. Of two suns. One crowning a cloudless sky and the other rising new in Cork’s heart.

“Hey, Cork!” Schanno called to him. “If I want to reach you, where will you be?”

For a moment, Cork was lost in the blue of Jo’s eyes. Then he answered, “Home, Wally. I’ll be home.”

In his forecast based on the coats of muskrats, Charlie Aalto had been correct. Two days before Halloween, a heavy snow fell over the North Woods. The weather came gently, moving in just before nightfall, and hour after hour, snow drifted silently down until it covered the ground deep as a man’s calf.

The weather did not deter the Anishinaabe. Quiet as the snowfall, they filed past the white trailer home, past the harvested garden, through the line of cedars, and gathered around a fire on the shore of Iron Lake to honor Wendell Two Knives.

The midewiwin Henry Meloux beat the mitigwakik, the Mide drum, and spoke to the spirit of Wendell Two Knives, guiding him on the Path of Souls, cautioning him against the dangers and distractions on his way west to the Land of Souls. Wendell Two Knives was guardian of tradition, respectful of the old ways. Tradition dictated that a man be buried with the implements that had defined his life. There was no burial for Wendell Two Knives; his body was never found. Instead, Meloux placed on the fire a strip of birch bark, Wendell’s deer-bone awl, a wooden bowl of pitch, and a cijokiwsagaagun, the small spatula Wendell had used to seal the seams of his canoes.

“Our brother, you leave us,” Meloux said in the language of the Anishinaabeg. “Our brother, to the Land of Souls you are bound.”

George LeDuc stepped forward. He was not ashamed to let his emotion show in tears.

“I knew Wendell Two Knives all my life. As boys, we wrestled. Wendell was stronger and smarter and usually beat me. I was a better shot. When we hunted, Wendell was never envious and was always glad for me when I brought home the deer. He was a good man who never turned away when someone needed his help. All of us on the rez, we’re better people because of him. I will miss my friend.”

Others spoke, each in their turn honoring Wendell Two Knives. Then Henry Meloux said, “Our brother was aadizookewinini, a storyteller. In our stories do we remember who we are. In our stories do we tell our children’s grandchildren about the ways of our people. Wendell Two Knives gave the gift of his stories to the Anishinaabeg. He gave his stories as a trust to his nephew’s son, Louis. The snow has fallen. It is winter. The time for telling stories.”

For one so young to be asked was an honor. Louis came fully into the firelight, a small boy with a great heart. The snow had whitened his hair, making him seem an old man already. Cork, who was watching, knew there was indeed something wise in the boy, far beyond bis years.

Louis told this story.

“There was a man who knew Noopiming-Up North in the Woods, the Boundary Waters-better than any other man. He knew not only the lakes and rivers, but also the rocks and trees and animals. He loved all life there, held sacred the belief in the manidoog, the spirits who dwelled in that place. And he was blessed in return with a skill in building canoes that glided across water smoothly and swiftly as birds in air. The man was called Ma’iingan, for he was brother to the wolf.

“A woman came and asked Ma’iingan for help. She asked for a place to hide in Noopiming, for she was being pursued by a terrible majimanidoo. The good man Ma’iingan led her to a special place and hid her there. He brought her food and he kept her safe.

“One day the majimanidoo, in the shape of the woman’s father, appeared before Ma’iingan and begged to be taken to her, claiming he was worried and wanted to see with his own eyes that she was well. At first, because his heart was so good that he did not recognize evil in another, Ma’iingan was fooled. But the true spirit of the majimanidoo could not be hidden for long, and before they reached the woman’s hiding place, Ma’iingan saw the majimanidoo for the evil it was. He refused to go any farther. Using all his terrible magic, the majimanidoo tried to force Ma’iingan to tell him where the hiding place was, but to no avail. In anger, he killed good Ma’iingan.