Read Face the Winter Naked Online
Authors: Bonnie Turner
Face the Winter Naked (37 page)
Best
of all was a black velvet pouch containing a gold pocket watch with a train on
the cover. The watch had stopped running long ago, like Grandpa, and Uncle
Barkley.
Grandpa’s
Will said I would inherit the watch, but Grandpa had to die first, and I was
afraid.
......
My
Saturday chores done, I was searching for my catcher’s mitt when I noticed
Grandpa staring at me.
“What
do you want?” I asked him.
“Where
am I?”
I
was sick of the boring questions.
“You’re
in China.”
“Where
am I?”
“China,
Grandpa.”
“Where
am I?”
“On
the moon. Grandpa, you’re on the moon.”
“How
did I get here?”
“You
flew.”
He
let it soak in, then asked, “What am I doing here?”
I
looked up suddenly to see Sara in the doorway with a towel wrapped around her
wet red hair.
“You
know you’re not supposed to tease him, Buzz.”
Before
I could answer, my dumb sister ran upstairs to dress for a piano lesson.
It
was bad enough I had to listen to Grandpa snoring and grunting everyday without
Sara getting on my case.
......
Sitting
next to me at supper, Grandpa stared suspiciously at his plateful of food.
“Ain’t
hungry,” he said.
“Try
some fried chicken and gravy,” Dad said.
“I
ain’t gonna!”
But
Grandpa’s appetite won. He ate a back, a thigh, and two wings, plus two
biscuits with gravy on top. All this he washed down with buttermilk and a
chaser of prune juice, leaving a stack of greasy napkins on a pile of bones. At
least he didn’t try to eat those.
Then
he belched and said to Mom, “Wasn’t fit for hogs.”
I
choked back a giggle when Mom dropped her fork. Seeing Dad was about to speak,
she gave him a warning glance. I could almost hear her thoughts:
He didn’t
mean it, John.
Mom
was on the losing end today. When he finished eating, Grandpa stood up and
shoved his plate so hard it sailed across the table and crashed into her glass
of iced tea.
“Oh!”
She
jumped up and ran to the sink for a towel as Dad yelled at Grandpa.
“Darn
it, Pop! Eat like a normal human being!”
Mom
swabbed up tea and ice cubes before setting the glass upright again.
“It’s
okay,” she said. “There’s no harm done.”
Grandpa
swayed, holding the edge of the table, his watery eyes focused on his son.
“All
done!”
But
Dad wouldn’t stop. “We can see you’re finished, but you’re not going to break
the dishes!”
“Oh,
John,” Mom whispered, “he really can’t help it.”
“Not
again!” Sara said. “Why do we do this every day?”
I
gave her a dirty look. How would she know how bad it was? She didn’t live in
the same room with him. The truth was, my sister usually avoided being around
Grandpa.
But
all eyes were on Dad when he yelled at Grandpa. Once Dad started ranting,
nothing in the world would stop him. His face turned red as he continued
hitting the ceiling.
“If
you’re going to live here, you’ll have to behave!”
He
removed his wire-framed glasses and wiped a corner of his eye with an index
finger. Adjusting the glasses again on the bumpy bridge of his thin nose, he
lowered his head and peered at Grandpa over the top of them.
“I’ll
sell this house and send you to a nursing home.”
Mom
stared at Dad. Sara groaned. We all knew Dad was letting off steam, and
tomorrow he’d apologize.
But
I couldn’t take it anymore. I jumped up, banging my chair against the floor.
There was no sense in trying to eat, because I already lost my appetite when
Grandpa sucked on the chicken bones.
Everyone
stared at me, except Grandpa. His headlights flickered out, like his battery
had just died.
“Look
at him,” I said. “He never knows what he’s doing. I gotta put up with him all
the time.”
Sara
threw down her fork. “Shut up, Buzz!”
“Someone
should take him back to his room,” Mom said, but made no move to get up.
I
jabbed my finger at Sara. “It’s her turn. And it’s not his room, it’s mine. I’m
getting out of here.”
I
turned and slammed out the back door. I was going to find Mitch, and I was mad
enough to try one of his smokes.
(Continued)
Footprints in Time: A Walk
in Sacajawea’s Moccasins
In
1805, a young Shoshone woman named Sacajawea joined the Lewis and Clark
expedition as an interpreter, and with a papoose on her back helped explore
America's northwest while searching for a route to the Pacific Ocean. This
time-honored true story of the hardships of the expedition, in particular that
of Sacajawea and her baby, Jean-Baptist (Pomp), is retold for young readers
ages 8-12.
This
book is dedicated to the brave men and women who faced the unknown to forge
trails across this wide and wild continent. When America was young, many pioneers
left their footprints in the sands of time as they explored the land from east
to west. In 1805, a young native woman joined the Lewis and Clark expedition,
and with a papoose on her back, helped explore America’s northwest.
Chapter 1
Sacajawea,
the daughter of a Shoshone Indian chief, was captured by Hidatsa warriors near
her home in the Rocky Mountains. The warriors then carried the frightened young
girl eastward to their village near the Missouri River. There, she became their
slave.
Sacajawea
missed her own family very much. But life with another tribe was easier in many
ways. She was glad to sleep in a warm lodge at night. And there was always
plenty to eat. She worked in the Hidatsas’ vegetable gardens, planting corn,
squash, and other foods. Her Shoshone family had never stayed in one place long
enough to plant crops.
When
Sacajawea was still very young, a French trapper, Toussaint Charbonneau, wanted
her for his wife. Charbonneau took her to live with the Mandan Indian tribe,
whose village was near the Hidatsas.
Chapter 2
One
day, a group of white men came up the Missouri River to the Mandan village.
Their leaders were Captains Meriwether Lewis and William Clark.
Sacajawea
was curious about the strangers. Captain Clark had red hair, which she had
never seen. And he had brought his butler, a black man named York. She could
not understand their strange tongue, but her husband could.
Captain
Lewis told Charbonneau, “We were sent by the Great White Father in Washington,
whose name is Thomas Jefferson. He wants us to find a land and water route to
the Pacific Ocean. We’ll build a fort near the Mandan village. It will be our
camp this winter. When spring comes, we will again sail the rivers. But we’ll
need horses to cross the mountains.”
Charbonneau
said the Shoshone Indians in the Rocky Mountains had many horses.
“The
Shoshones are my wife’s tribe. Sacajawea and I will go with you when you leave
next spring. She will help you talk with the Shoshones. She will help you buy
horses from them.”
Sacajawea
had heard of the big water far to the west. How exciting it would be to go
there! The thought of seeing her own people again filled her with joy. And
before winter was over, she would have a papoose to show them.
(Continued)
Drum Dance (YA)
A
young-adult historical novel filled with adventure, paranormal intrigue, and
danger in Canada's Central Arctic, where Sir John Franklin and his crew froze
to death searching for the Northwest Passage. In the late 1930s, 17-year-old
David Jansson agrees to spend two years at an isolated fur-trading post with
his estranged father, Per, manager for the Hudson's Bay Company, and almost
lives to regret it.
Prologue
When
Aagyuuk
appeared in the northern sky in early January, the people of
Gjoa Haven held a mid-winter drum dance. There was still no sun that far north,
but the dawn appearance of those two minor stars in the Eagle constellation
proclaimed the sun’s return: Within a week, the long Arctic night would begin
to recede.
The
celebration continued far into the evening as feasting and games ended and babies
fell asleep at their mothers’ breasts. Tension ran high in the large igloo as
an elderly man with skin like a walrus got up to begin his story—his
pisiq
.
Holding a large flat drum close to his body, he began tapping a rhythm on the
tight skin while bouncing up and down, turning from side to side so all could
see. His voice was strong for one so old.
“I
am Naigo, shaman of the
Netsilik
people! I sing of
gavlunaaq
—white
men—come to
Uqsuqtuuq!
”
Others
joined the singer as he danced in circles, turning the one-sided drum around,
swinging it, and beating on the bone frame. His long silvery hair swung wildly
as he whirled the instrument over his head, then laid it on the ground and
leaped over it, agile as a young man.
“
Nivliqtiriarit!
Cry out with joy!”
The
spectators clapped their hands and shouted as Naigo’s story unfolded:
“Two
men—father and son—came to our village, the son with hair like
okpik!
Snowy owl. Eyes of glacier ice; heart of sorrow!”
Chapter 1
The Central Arctic
Late Winter, 1938
Strong
gusts of polar wind whipped the twin-engine plane as it flew over the last few
stunted trees after leaving Yellowknife and entered the air space above the
Barren Grounds, a lake-pocked flatland that appeared devoid of life—the
panorama below looked raw and unfinished, as if the creator had despaired of
the vast undertaking and moved on, leaving his canvas behind.
Farther
north, the weather changed abruptly as rain pelted the small plane’s
windshield, followed by a brief ice shower, then snow, reducing visibility to
near zero.
Absolutely
unbelievable! I
’m in the middle of
nowhere in a plane that’s about to get its wings ripped off!
Seventeen-year-old
David Jansson wiped sweat from the window and tried to see outside, but his
view was blocked by blowing snow—everything he’d been watching a moment before
had vanished. How the pilot could tell where he was flying through this
whiteout was beyond him. He braced himself when another blast of wind rocked
the plane, grabbed his seat belt, and turned to his companion.
“I
hope you know what you’re doing!”
There
was no reply. Intent on keeping the craft on course, the pilot hadn’t heard the
question over the noisy engines.
Suddenly
the plane dropped out from under David and he stifled an urge to empty his
stomach into his lap. After a moment, the plane leveled off and steadied
somewhat, but he still felt queasy.
The
aircraft was not built for comfort, and the cockpit had been cold since leaving
Peace River, Alberta, several hours before. But now a stream of warm air from the
engine flowed into the compartment near his feet and he stretched out his long
legs and leaned back.
“Ah,
that feels good! My feet were getting numb.”
The
pilot, Mac Brady, turned and grinned at the lanky teen, then picked up the
mike. He spoke briefly, then signed off again.
“Cambridge
Bay!” he yelled to his passenger. “. . . reporting snow and wind!”
David
rolled his eyes. “Snow in the Arctic? How exciting.”
“Well,
yeah.” Mac laughed and unfastened his parka. “But look on the bright side, my
young friend. Sure, the weather’s fickle this far north. But who knows? There
could even be a heat wave by the time we get there!”
“You
wish!” David rolled his shoulder to relieve a cramp. “I’ll sure be glad when we
land. We’re flopping around up here like a goose with a broken wing!” He
pointed to the frosty window next to his seat. “Just look at that! How the heck
do you know where you’re going?”
“Who
says I know where I’m going?”
“Not
funny, Mac!”
“Just
kidding!”
“How
much longer?”
“A
couple of hours.” Mac leaned forward and squinted at the windshield. “We’re
still south of the Arctic Circle, but we’ll be down soon. I’m picking up mail
and refueling at Cambridge Bay.” He glanced at the boy. “You’re not worried,
are you?”
“Nah,
just airsick.”
“Don’t
look out the window, you’ll get dizzy.”
“Now
you tell me.” David wiped the glass again. “I couldn’t see anything if I wanted
to.”
“And
don’t puke in here with two-hundred miles to go!”
Their
destination: a fur-trading post at Gjoa Haven, in Canada’s central Arctic.
David had consulted the map a dozen times and knew the location by heart—not
that it mattered, for the Arctic was hostile no matter where you were.
He
was returning to the Arctic because his dad had sent for him, and his relatives
agreed he should get to know his father again. He hadn’t seen nor heard much
from Per in five years, not even on his birthdays. Why the sudden fatherly
interest?
But
his curiosity had gotten the better of him. He wanted to hear what his dad had
to say for himself, and with the worst of the Depression behind them, he saw
the chance for adventure—how many boys his age could spend two years loafing
around a fur-trading post? His friends were envious.
Aunt
Gerda and Uncle Lars would miss him around the farm, of course, but he thought
they could manage without him. And he’d broken off with his girlfriend, Emily,
after she dated his best friend. There was absolutely nothing stopping him from
leaving. But now he was actually on the way, he couldn’t help wondering if he’d
walked into a trap. He had no way of knowing what the situation was with his
father, even after reading Per’s letter several times. It was only a sheet of
paper full of scribbles, and he could not sense the man who had written it.
Part of him wanted to renew the relationship. But another part cautioned him
against expecting too much from a man who had forgotten he had a son.
Feeling
like a moth trapped in a jar of cotton, he closed his eyes and listened to the
propellers hacking a path through the raging sky. After a few minutes—and
lulled into a meditative state—he focused on soft patterns of colored light
moving behind his eyelids. He allowed his mind to drift aimlessly as they
entered his field of vision from the sides and flowed into a center point.
Fascinated by these pulsing, shifting lights, he soon felt the stress releasing
his taut nerves.
Then
the lights faded, and from the darkness emerged a speck of iridescent blue,
like a star in deep space. It moved toward him rapidly and expanded to a round
window the size of a teacup. Then an image appeared in the circle, the edges
dissolved and he became part of the scene.
“
Aidez-moi, s’il vous plaît! Je suis perdu!
”
A
sharp jab to his solar plexus snapped him alert. His eyes popped open, his
heart raced, and his brain sought a translation: “Please help me! I am lost!”
“What
th—?”
Mac
turned. “Say something?”
David
ran his fingers through his fine blond hair, then rubbed the back of his neck.
“A
man in a blizzard . . . never mind, I was dreaming.”
He
closed his eyes again, wishing he could undo the whole trip. If he were flying
the plane, they’d be hightailing it back to Peace River this very minute,
instead of a frozen wasteland where life had no right to exist.
He
considered the vision. It was not a dream, of that he was absolutely certain.
In fact, nothing could have been more real. The voice had been sharp, the scene
clear, as though he had looked through an open window. It wasn’t the first time
he’d had such an experience.
The
bizarre mental states began without warning after his mother died. Terrified
and confused at first, but finding he was still alive and unharmed, he
gradually accepted the mysterious events as another side of his personality.
Still, he couldn’t discuss them with anyone else. If David Jansson didn’t
understand his own mind, how could he expect anyone else to?
......
A
short time later, the plane landed at Cambridge Bay in near-whiteout
conditions. Mac Brady—an expert bush pilot with an uncanny sense of how much
punishment his plane could take—anticipated worse weather to come, and not
wishing to get stranded on the island, refueled and took off again.
Typical
of the howlers from the north, the storm spread to King William Land, and by
the time they reached Gjoa Haven, on the southeastern shore of the island, the
weather was as bad, if not worse, than what they’d left behind.
“Check
your seat belt,” Mac said, “we’re going down!”
The
engines groaned as the plane began a bumpy descent through the whiteout, and
David prayed the pilot somehow knew where he was and how to get down safely. He
could not see the horizon, so there was no reference point to judge their
position relative to land and sky. Stealing a nervous glance at the pilot, he
wondered how the man could be so unperturbed and confident, when his own hair
was standing on end. Deciding to trust God more than Mr. Brady, he braced for a
rough landing.
Then
the plane touched down, and he couldn’t believe the ground had not jumped up to
meet them. The cushion of air beneath the wings had allowed the plane to settle
on its skis with barely a jolt and glide to a stop. Mac shut the engines down
and turned with a smile to his passenger.
“Here
we are, safe and sound! Didn’t think I could do it, did you?”
Relief
flooded through the youth as he unbuckled his lap belt—he hadn’t realized he’d
been holding his breath until it exploded out all at once.
“Thanks!
You had me worried for a little bit!”
“Thank
your angel a wing didn’t drop off! You okay?”
“Yeah,
I think so. A little shaky.”
“You’ll
be all right.” Mac tapped David’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s go find your dad.
He’ll be worried. And bundle up, that wind will be cold.”
Rushing
to shelter through the storm, David didn’t notice that people had come out to
meet the plane, and a few minutes later, he stood before his father inside the
trading post.
Years
of harsh weather lined the face a scared young boy last saw from the window of
a bush plane. That fateful day, David had turned to his sick mother for
comfort, but in her delirium she no longer recognized him. Feeling isolated
from the world, he had carried away the image of a man in an Eskimo parka
standing on the snowy ground waving good-bye.
Clean-shaven
except for a thin mustache, Per Jansson looked much older than his forty-one
years. He was dressed like an Eskimo in a caribou-skin parka, but instead of
the attached hood, he wore a wool stocking cap Ingrid had knitted one year.
David had forgotten all about the cap and was shocked to see it now, for it
reminded him, if not for his dad’s work in the Arctic, his mother might still
be alive.
Father
and son stared at one another without speaking, then Per choked up and his dark
eyes brimmed with tears. David hadn’t expected an emotional scene, and the
tears embarrassed him. He wasn’t sure what to do, but knowing one of them had to
make the first move, he stuck out his hand.
“Dad?”
Per
pulled off his mitt and gripped his son’s hand, then threw his arms around him
and hugged him hard.
“Davy
. . . Davy . . .” Per released him and stepped back, smiling. “Look at you,
you’re taller than I am! And your eyes, they’re your mother’s.”
David
unfastened his heavy coat as Per looked him over.
“Yes,
people say I look just like her.”
“Ingrid’s
eyes were like big, shiny opals that changed color with her moods,” Per said.
“Fire to ice in a matter of seconds! So, you’re seventeen now? Almost a man!”
No
thanks to you
.
“I
didn’t really want to come here,” David said.
“I
know you didn’t, but—”
“So
why did you make me?”
“Hey,
I didn’t twist your arm! Why’d you agree to come if you didn’t want to?”
“I don’t
know.”
That
wasn’t quite true, because he did know, and he was waiting for Per to say
something, anything, to validate his feelings. A few tears couldn’t make up for
the five lonely years Per’s son had waited to be acknowledged. David felt his
own eyes beginning to water.
How can he not know how I feel?
Unknown
to his aunt and uncle, he had contacted the HBC headquarters after receiving
Per’s strange rambling letter, enquiring if his father might be sick. A company
official had replied that, to his knowledge, Per wasn’t ill, but maybe he was
just lonely and wanted to see his son. When the man offered him a free flight
to Gjoa Haven on the mail plane, it was the chance of a lifetime for many
reasons: He had recently completed school and hadn’t made a decision about
university; he no longer had a girlfriend to tie him down, and after the way
Emily had cheated on him, he was in no hurry to find another; he was almost of
legal age anyway and would soon be on his own. Finally—though some part of him
argued against the idea because of Per’s apparent lack of interest all these
years—he knew deep down that he missed the dad who used to play catch with him
and take him fishing. How could he refuse an offer to find out if Per still
cared for his only son?
“Well,
now,” Per said, “it seems you had a choice and you agreed to give me two
years.”
Per
sounded irritated, or perhaps he was simply let down after expecting a happy
reunion with his son. The last thing David wanted was an argument on his first
day here.
“Uncle
Lars and Aunt Gerda thought I should see you again. And they’re getting old. I
didn’t want to be a burden.”
“Your
mother’s family didn’t consider you a burden, Davy. Lars thought—and I
thought—you might need me.”
“You
thought?
”
“What’s
wrong, David?”
“I
don’t even know you anymore!”
David
took stock of his surroundings. A typical Hudson’s Bay fur-trading post, the
long wooden shelves on three walls of the large square room held a variety of
trade goods: clothing, rifles, ammunition, bolts of fabric, tins of tobacco,
and food staples. On the plank floor next to the counter sat a few bundles of
animal hides. A fishy odor permeated the room, as though the walls and floors
had been built from old newspapers in which a char or trout had been wrapped.
Even Per’s body carried the scent.
