Mattie Mitchell (4 page)

Between the shouts and all the commotion around the
schooner, Mattie learned that “poor Walt” had been missing for
four days. It was also pointed out to the reluctant captain that he
had last been seen walking along the shoreline long after dark
and had not been seen since.
Stumbling along is more like it,
thought Mattie, who knew the missing man very well, but not by
association. They were naming him right, he reasoned. Walt was
a poor everything: a poor hunter and poor trapper as well as poor
fisherman. The only time Walt was good at any of these things
was when the bragging accounts coming from his drunken mouth
drew a few unknowing listeners. Mattie also knew that Walt had
been on a drinking binge this time for as many days as he had
now been missing.

Apparently a woman had looked out into the night from
behind her kitchen curtain before heading upstairs to her bed,
and she had seen him staggering along the landwash. From her
account and because he had not been seen for days, and after a
brief search around the surrounding forest had shown not a trace
of him, it was determined that Walt had fallen into the cold waters
of the bay.

Mattie figured if he was in the water he could just as easily
have been pushed in. Walt was known for his rowdiness when
in his cups and would start fights that would seldom finish in his
favour.

An order of “Stand clear!” was suddenly shouted from the
schooner captain, who was standing over the whale gun with what
appeared to be a burning stick in his hand. He held the burning
end against a thin, dark fuse sticking up out of the back of the
cannon. Just when it seemed it would not ignite, it sizzled into a
smoky yellow flame that travelled down the twisted length of fuse
and disappeared into the bore of the cannon. By now everyone,
including the skipper, had jumped out over the gunnels of the
schooner to stand on the creaking wharf. From the mouth of the
cannon came a single perfect ring of smoke. From the small hole
where the burning fuse had disappeared came a long
pfttt!
sound
like that of a fat squid on a jigger, and nothing more.

Everyone started yelling at the captain at once, blaming him
for the “dud” shot. The captain yelled back, “It wasn't my fault!
Maybe the bloody powder was damp!” He started to climb back
aboard his schooner to check on the failed firing of the gun, when
a blue, black, and white plume of smoke erupted from each end
of the cannon. From the business end erupted a long, thin, yellow
tongue of flame followed by an ear-splitting explosion that
silenced the second church bell, which had just begun. The noise
burst out over the still waters of the harbour, boomed way out
the bay, and roared back from the hills. When the echo died, the
next sounds came from every dog in the place. The barking that
followed created almost as much disquiet as had the cannon. And,
still, “poor Walt” did not appear.

High in the hills, wet and tired, Mattie Mitchell smiled at the
memory. The sound he had heard just a few minutes before came
again. This wasn't someone hoping to raise a dead body from the
depths. Of that he was pretty sure. The sound did not come again.
Striding once more into the dark forest, the tall Indian vanished
from the mountain meadow.

DOWN OVER THE WHITE MOUNTAINS
, through the wooded
gorges, across the sloped, spring-flowing valleys and out into the
ice-packed Gulf of St. Lawrence, a small schooner lay jammed
solid. Dark figures scrambling down her shaky rope ladders and
wooden side sticks jumped drunkenly onto the hummocky ice
that held them prisoner. The first few steps the black-clad men
took left dirty, grease-stained prints on the virgin ice: the filth
from the schooner's deck trailing the hunters.

The schooner's white mainsail appeared to be new and was
billowed full with a following wind. Her foresail was brown and
showed many sewn patches, the stitching showing like the healed
scabs from numerous wounds. This sail too was pulling with all
of its strain. But still the schooner was not moving.

The vessel was leaning to starboard at an alarming angle
and was in danger of being broached by the terrible pressure
exerted on her port side by the squeezing ice. On board, the
men flung heavy hemp lines from her bow and, on the ice,
the others hurriedly gathered them up. Placing the ropes over
their shoulders, and bent over like straining, hauling dogs, and
bellowing some obscure seaman's shanty, the sealers pulled with
all their might. Now the sails luffed a bit as the men shouted, the
mast rigging creaked and clinked, the schooner yawed more to
starboard and groaned her misery, but still she remained held in
the frozen grip.

At a command from the schooner's skipper the ropes were
discarded. The men hurried back along both sides of the hapless
boat, where they stood and awaited further instructions. Two
greasy poles about ten feet long were handed down over the sides
of the schooner by the few men still on deck, along with several
quart-sized cans of black powder. The two men who took the
wooden poles quickly lashed one tin of the canned explosives
to one end of each pile. Thin, black fuses no more than a foot
long were attached to one end of the cans. Now the two men
separated from the crowd. Running like proud warriors, their
raised standards swaying as they went, they soon reached the
bow of the stricken vessel.

As the seal hunters watched, the “powder men”—these young
men had to be quick on their feet—knelt on the ice and tried to
find a hole suitable to push the ends of the poles beneath the
surface. It was a difficult task, and at first it seemed they would
have to resort to axes to chop a hole in the pressing ice. They
finally found a suitable opening between the tumbled ice pans
and rammed the powder cans, their smoking lucifers already lit,
below the ice until they disappeared with only the black tips of
the blasting tips showing above the ice.

To the shouts of “Run, ya young buggers, run!” from the
captain and excited yells from the watching men, the powder men
raced back toward the ship, weaving around and jumping over
the hummocks of ice. The shouting men fell suddenly silent when
the two blasters reached them. For several seconds there was no
sound at all. Then a deep, muffled rumble came from below the
ice and, with a tumultuous
whump
, the exploding powder burst
itself free of the ice. Pulverized snow and blue ice shot into the air
and fell back like white chowder. Several thick, sheared ice pans
rolled over, exposing their blue undersides.

A narrow black lead of water appeared. The sails bent. The
schooner lurched ahead a few feet and tried to right itself, but
then stopped again. A frantic yell from the schooner's deck sent
the powder men racing back toward the vessel's straining bow
again.

The process was repeated as before. A second blast bellowed
upward, spending its energy among the tumbling ice pans.
Another, wider lead of roiling water appeared. The schooner
eagerly plunged its way into it, surging forward, seizing its chance
for freedom. The men shouted in triumph and went running after
the slow-moving schooner with its ropes trailing.

The explosion of sound roared away over the ice toward the
nearby land, the second sound wave following the first up through
a mountain gorge, to die at the very edge of a silent valley.

PRESENTLY
,
MATTIE CAME UPON A SMALL
, snow-covered
clearing in the middle of the thick forest. At the north side of
the clearing and nestled into the edge of the trees stood a rough
wigwam with a south-facing skin door. The trees in the place
had not been cut and the clearing seemed to be natural. There
are many such in every forest. The white surface of a small pond
showed beyond the trees, and behind the wigwam Mattie could
hear more than see a small stream running toward the small body
of water. Listening to the burble of the stream, he noted another
sign of the fading winter. When he had left this place a week ago
the brook was frozen and silent.

He stopped at the edge of the heavy trees to examine the
wigwam. The structure blended in so completely with its
surroundings that a furtive glance could very well have passed
over it. It stood no more than ten feet wide at its circular base and
its height ended in a narrow, conical shape about as high as the
base was wide. Dozens of smooth, unpeeled, green aspen poles
had long since been driven into the earth at an oblique angle.
Their raised, axe-sharpened, crossed ends were blackened from
countless campfires. This wooden skeleton was covered with
overlapping layers of pale white birch bark that stopped short
of the raised pole ends. Lodged over this bark layer and resting
between each underlying pole were more poles of slender aspen
holding the thin natural covering secure. The door was made
from the hides of two or more stitched caribou quarters, the thick
fur intact and laced at the top.

Nothing seemed disturbed and after a while Mattie stepped
boldly across the clearing and approached the wigwam. When he
released the heavy load from his tired shoulders and straightened
his back, he staggered just a bit with the sudden relief from the
day-long weight. The thump line left a reddish mark across
his forehead. Wisps of steam that had been clinging to his wet
woollen jacket beneath the loaded pack drifted away from the
man as he stretched erect.

The door opened without a sound when he threw back the
animal skin to reveal a black, oblong hole. He fastened the
bottom end of the skin door above the opening. His frame filling
the entrance, Mattie had to double over to step inside. Walking to
the cold, grey ash firepit, he knelt down. Over time, the constant
use of this fireplace had worn and burned a shallow hole in the
earth, so that now it was below the level of the floor.

Taking some thinly crushed birch bark and dried yellow
mosses, he laid them on a larger piece of birch placed on the
dead ashes. He placed small twigs and then larger ones on top.
Rising, he returned outside, picked up his pack with one hand,
and walked back to the fireplace. From deep inside the pack he
found a well-tied pouch, from which he removed a small wooden
box. From inside it he drew a rectangular piece of steel and a dull
grey, crescent-shaped piece of chert.

Creating a small hole inside the crushed starter pile and with
the steel in his right hand, Mattie made a sudden, rapid scrape
against the sharp edge of the chert. He was rewarded with an
instant spray of yellow sparks, which fell among the waiting fire
starter. Bending over the smouldering tinder, he blew a long,
soft breath. The glow became a flaring burst of fire. He carefully
placed the nest of the prepared kindling over it and watched as it
smoked, then blazed into life. And as simple as that, Mattie had a
warm campfire going.

The smoke milled around the fire just above floor level at
first, but as the heat increased, the smoke spiralled upward, until
it slowed and sought an exit around the blackened poles. The fire
snopped and burned steadily. Now the new light flickered along
the inward-slanting walls of the wigwam. Shadows appeared
where there had been none before.

As Mattie rose away from the fire, his silhouette preceded him,
reaching like a stealthy apparition to the height of the dwelling.
Just above his head and turning slowly on their tethers with the
rising heat were several large, smoke-cured trout, as well as the
remains of two half-eaten smoked salmon.

Reaching up with his knife, Mattie cut a large piece from
one of the trout and chewed the reddish-brown flesh. He was
starved. Opposite the trout and hanging without turning were the
remains of a hindquarter of caribou meat. It too had been cured
over time by campfire smoke, its outer skin crusted to a deep,
leathery brown.

While relishing the taste of the smoked trout, Mattie cut a
piece from the caribou haunch. The inner meat was a succulent
pink and he cut away a generous portion. Sitting beside the fire
with his knees raised, the tall Indian's silent form on the wall
made only slight motions as his hand brought pieces of meat and
fish to his mouth.

Stacked neatly near the doorway was a high cache of cured
animal skins. Placed on the very top and with its eyeless head
and tufted black ear tips facing the fire was the rich, silver-brown
hide of a lynx. Its skin was spread-eagled over the pile of hides,
its stumpy, black-tipped tail dangling over the edge of the stack.
Above the hides and hanging from several of the rafter poles all
around were an array of steel traps with fierce-looking teeth.

Opposite the furs and nearer the fire was a narrow raised
sleeping mat. It was made entirely from the soft ends of green
fir boughs that had faded a bit. The natural mattress was stitched
and interlaced skilfully with the rich-smelling boughs. A heavy
blanket sewed entirely from the hides of several caribou and with
the outer hair still intact was folded on one end of the sleeping
mat.

The simple, raw dwelling place smelled of leather hides and
an unmistakably animal scent, earthy odours from the warm dirt
floor, the rich, cured meat and fish, and fire smells of wood and
heat. The place had a smell of warmth. The smell was a natural
human-animal blend.

His hasty snack finished, his belly satiated but not full, Mattie
stepped outside again and brought the beaver carcass back inside
with him. With some difficulty he passed a string through the
beaver's rictus teeth and tied the animal with its broad tail hanging
down from the sloping rafters. Now began a skinning style that
was unique to Mattie alone.

It was the same careful method of cutting he would use to
paunch a fat caribou. Two fingers of his left hand kept the stomach
entrails away from the opened stomach liner. He made an incision
just above the animal's tail and pushed two of the inverted fingers
of his left hand inside the cut. Holding the knife in his right hand,
he inserted it, cutting edge up, between the two long fingers.

With his fingers keeping the point of the sharp knife away
from the animal's stinking gut, he pushed the knife with one
long, even stroke to the tip of its lower gaping jaw. With amazing
speed and dexterity and without once cutting the valuable skin,
Mattie soon had the big rodent free of its tawny pelt and slowly
twisting on its noose. With efficient movements he gingerly cut
at the base of the animal's wide tail to remove the tiny, yellowish
green castor sack, making sure not to puncture the fetid voile. He
placed the scent gland inside a small, thick leather bag he used
for this purpose alone, secured the opening carefully, and set it
aside.

With the naked beaver in hand he bent through the narrow
opening and stepped out into the drizzly dusk, where no shadow
followed him. He walked to the icy edge of the murmuring
stream, placed the beaver, tail first, into the swift, black water,
and laid open its distended belly with one swift cut. He pushed
his fingers inside and with one fluid motion pulled the creature's
bowels, stomach, and intestines free.

He threw all of it into the shallow brook and watched the pale
viscera, floating down-tide, looking like several eels swimming
in the dark water. The unwanted contents discarded, he tore the
membrane that hung below the rib cage and ripped out the plump
heart and viscous liver. After cleaning and rinsing the carcass in
the cold water, Mattie stood erect in the dark night.

The narrow brook that came out of the thick forest hastened
gaily toward the pond, its flow an oily black as it sped along the
snow-white banks. A long, deep rumble came from the direction
of the pond. Mattie, beaver in hand, turned toward the sound and
listened. The noise came again and again. It was the deep groan
of the ice slowly releasing its wintry grip on the pond. It was
another sure sign of mild weather close by.

Somewhere behind him and coming from high up in the
heavy woods, an owl sounded at regular intervals. Its cry was a
sound not usually heard on a cold winter night. The great horned
bird hooted again, sounding as if it were far away, though Mattie
could tell it was near. The day, and now the night, showed all the
signs of approaching warmth. His instinct told him this wasn't
going to be like one of the midwinter mild spells. This was the
beginning of spring. Maybe it was time to leave the mountains,
he thought.

Back inside the wigwam, he hung the beaver up again. He
placed a heavy, black iron skillet on top of the fire. From the beaver
carcass he cut several strips of yellow fat. When he lodged the
fatty strips inside the pan, they sizzled and slid around, greasing
the surface. When the fat started to curl and smoke, its juices
rendered, Mattie added the cut sections of tender heart muscle.
He waited until the meat simmered before turning it over with his
knife, then placed the soft liver in the pan. Savouring the rising
steamy smell, he sat back and waited for his meal to cook. He
wished he had a little salt left to flavour the meat.

His rich-smelling supper cooked, he carefully removed the
hot pan from the fire. Spearing the meat with his knife, he ate the
contents of the pan. His appetite appeased, Mattie returned the
pan to its hook just above the floor and sat back again. Watching
the pan, he waited.

From the upended pan, dark drops of grease fell onto a flat
piece of wood. The drops slowed as the pan cooled and the heavy
fat congealed on the wood. Before long a small, furry form
appeared from the shadows. The tiny creature was below the
light from the fire and created no shadow.

But when it stood on its hind legs and reached up to catch the
grease dropping from the edge of the pan, the shadow of its head
appeared on the birch wall. The Indian smiled, his even teeth
showing white against his dark face. The grey field mouse looked
plump and short on the ground, its bosom full and proud. It thinned
and lengthened as it stretched upward for the tasty treat. The fat
dripped, slowed, and then stopped. The tiny, patient mouse licked
them all, while the quiet man watched. The fire crackled. A flaw
of wind rustled a loose flap of bark on the outside wall. The owl
hooted in the distance. The sounds of the running brook rose
and fell with the wet night wind. Mattie Mitchell dozed in pure
comfort, his head nodding.

The mouse started gnawing at the pungent fat that had
collected on the piece of wood. The sound of its chewing brought
Mattie fully awake. The sudden motion from the still human
startled the mouse from its meal, but it didn't run away. It just
hunched itself into a ball and, satisfied that it had made itself look
impressively big and threatening, squeaked once. Soon the night
visitor finished its treat and simply disappeared into the shadows
at the base of the wigwam.

Rising now that his entertainment was over, Mattie stepped
outside, yawning as he went. The misty rain had stopped and the
woods dripped. He could hear the rustle of wet snow settling.
The pond ice boomed and cracked as before. A wisp of grey-blue
smoke with a few trailing yellow flankers rose soundlessly from
the wigwam.

The wind from the southwest felt warm and soft on his skin.
He walked behind his shelter, breaking through the snow in
several places as he went. He stopped, looked up at the dark sky,
and urinated. All the signs told him it was nearly time to leave.
Mattie made up his mind quickly. After the next night frost,
which was sure to come, he would leave the hills and make his
way homeward, pulling his winter-caught furs behind him.

Returning to the wigwam, Mattie loosed the thong that held
the door in place. The leather door fell and covered the hole
completely behind him as he entered. He added a few more
pieces of seasoned birch wood to his fire, then removed his damp
coat and hung it to one of the rafters. Without removing any other
article of clothing, not even his long leather boots, he lay down
on his bunk.

The thick caribou blanket crackled as he pulled it up over his
body. Mattie turned his back to the smouldering fire and settled
his head into the fragrant pillow of fir boughs. Almost as soon
as he had lain down, the long, blanket-covered figure was still.
The fire flickered, casting unmoving shadows, and for a second a
small flare from the fire glinted across the shiny black hair of the
sleeping Indian.

Outside, the night aged; the wind died away; the clouds
opened, revealing a profusion of twinkling stars; the sound of
a single, lonely howl from a faraway prowling wolf came on
the fading night wind. But aside from the sleeping meadow, its
solitary plea was heard by no one.