Thunder Bay (21 page)

Henry dropped low, caught Lima in the gut with his shoulder, and used the man’s momentum to lift him off his feet. Lima tumbled over Henry and landed flat on his back. He tried to rise, but clearly the wind had been knocked out of him.

Wellington started toward Henry, but not with commitment.

At the government school in Flandreau, Henry had learned to box. Now he braced himself, brought his fists to the ready, and dropped into an easy fighter’s crouch. It was enough to make Wellington pause.

“Henry?” The canvas flap rustled at his back. Maria touched his shoulder. “Oh, no.” She rushed past him and knelt at her father’s side. “Papa?” She looked at Henry. “Did you hit him?”

Before Henry could reply, Wellington said, “Your father was just trying to defend your honor. Henry nearly killed him.”

“Maria?” Lima’s breath had returned. He reached out and took his daughter’s hand. “Tell me it’s not the way it looks.”

“Papa, I love Henry.”

“Love?” He snatched back his hand. He rolled to his side and pushed onto his knees. “Love?” he bellowed. He brought himself up fully and leaned threateningly toward his daughter. “This is not love. This is rutting. This is what wild animals do. I did not raise you to rut like an animal.”

“I’m not an animal. And Henry’s not an animal.”

“He’s not a man.” Lima turned to Henry. “A man would not take advantage of a girl this way.”

Maria grasped her father’s arm. “I’m not a girl.”

He pulled away. “Clearly not anymore.”

“I’m a woman, Papa.”

“Maybe.” He glared at her. “But you will never be a lady. Not after
him.
What man would want you now? I gave you the best of everything, and this is how you thank me? You are no better than a street whore.”

He slapped her hard and she spun away. He raised his hand to hit her again. Henry lunged and grabbed Lima’s arm. The man turned angrily. Henry hit him full in the face and felt the shatter of bone. The man went down. His head hit one of the rocks that ringed the fire, and he lay still, blood leaking from the left side of his head.

“Jesus,” Wellington said. “You’ve killed him.”

“Papa!” Maria sprang up and ran to her father’s side. She knelt and put her hand to his cheek. “Papa?” She bent near his lips. “He’s breathing. Henry, get me some water.”

Henry grabbed a tin cup and sprinted to the lake. He dipped the cup full and brought it to Maria. She tore a strip from the bottom of the undershirt she wore, soaked it in the water, and dabbed at her father’s blood.

“Papa?” she tried again.

Lima didn’t respond.

Wellington threw a menacing look at Henry. “Let’s get him into his tent.”

They carried him in and laid him on his sleeping bag. Maria sat beside him.

“I’m sorry,” Henry told her.

“He’ll be all right.” She gave him a brief smile, but Henry heard the lie in her voice.

Outside the tent, Wellington stormed about the campsite. “Damn you, Meloux. If he dies, I’ll see you rot in prison. God as my witness, I’ll see you hang.”

Henry made a fire and coffee and biscuits because it was something to do while they waited. He poured a cup of coffee for Maria and put two biscuits on a plate with a puddle of honey. Wellington
barred his way into the tent. Henry handed the food to the white man, who took it inside. Wellington and Maria spoke in voices too soft for Henry to hear the words. Wellington emerged, drilled Henry with a killing glare, and headed toward the lake. He waded to the floatplane anchored just offshore, disappeared inside, and came out with a small satchel that he took into the tent.

Henry, in his life, had seen a good deal of death. Usually it came at the end of a long, hopeless vigil. This was different. In truth, he cared little about Carlos Lima, and he thought if the man recovered and ever struck Maria again, he would kill him for sure the next time. But if Lima died, could Maria ever forgive the murder? Or would her love for Henry die as surely as her father had? That was a possibility Henry couldn’t bear. He stood at the edge of the lake and he prayed— to Kitchimanidoo, to God, to all the spirits of the woods—to keep Lima alive.

Near noon, Wellington threw aside the flap on Lima’s tent and stepped into the sunlight. He walked to where Henry stood on the lakeshore.

“He’s not getting better. He needs a doctor. Maria and I are going to fly him out of here. Give me a hand getting the plane ready.”

They laid bedding in the small cargo area, then returned for Lima. Inside the tent, Maria sat beside her father. She looked so tired and worn that Henry wanted to hold her and weep. He took his place on one side of Lima, with Wellington on the other. They lifted the unconscious man, carried him to the lake, waded to the airplane, and eased him inside. Maria had gathered a few of her things in a knapsack, and after her father was inside, she got into the plane. Henry saw the edge of her journal jutting out from under the flap of the knapsack. Even in desperate circumstances, she couldn’t bear to leave it behind.

Wellington said to Henry, “Help me get some things from camp.”

“Maria—” Henry tried to step up to the door, but Wellington grabbed his arm.

“Now!” Wellington ordered.

“Hurry, Henry,” Maria called to him.

When they neared the tents, Wellington stopped and turned on Henry. “You’re staying here, you redskin son of a bitch. You make
sure this equipment is safe until I come back. And you better hope to God that Carlos doesn’t die. Because if he does, I’m coming back with police, and you can kiss your red ass good-bye.”

Henry glanced toward the plane. “Maria.”

“I hear her name from your lips one more time and I’ll kill you where you stand.”

Henry wasn’t afraid of the threat. He’d been threatened by white men all his life. Mostly, they were nothing but words. But he’d made enough trouble already.

He said, “I’ll wait here.”

“Damn right you will. Give me a hand with the propeller.”

Wellington spun on his heel and hurried back to the plane. He pulled up the anchor, scrambled inside, and shut the door. Henry stood on the pontoon, and when Wellington gave him the signal, he threw the propeller. The engine coughed; the propeller made a couple of lethargic turns on its own, then caught. Henry stepped back onto the shoreline, and the plane maneuvered slowly toward the middle of the lake. Henry saw Maria’s face at the window. Her lips moved, but he couldn’t hear the words. He watched the wings square for a run across the water.

“Maria!” The word flew desperately from his lips.

He ran toward the plane and splashed into the water. The lake ate his body, swallowed him to the waist.

The floatplane began its run, leaving a silver crack in the water behind it.

“Maria!” Henry threw himself forward, swimming wildly toward the floatplane as it picked up speed and lifted into the air. “Maria!” he screamed.

He watched the plane grow small as a dragonfly and disappear beyond the ridges to the south. Then he let himself sink into the ice blue grip of the lake, which squeezed him until he was numb all the way down to his heart.

H
enry sat all afternoon feeding the fire, watching the southern sky, though he knew it was useless to hope. He beat himself with the unknowns. Would Maria ever come back? Would he spend the rest of his life in prison? Should he run now instead of waiting for Wellington to bring the police? If he did that, how would he ever find her?

No matter how he looked at the situation, Maria was gone. Gone forever.

He’d lost much in his life, but losing Maria left him wanting nothing but to die.

A familiar voice at his back startled him out of his reverie. “I thought you had left.” Maurice came from the trees and sat by the fire near Henry. “I heard the airplane,” he said. “You look terrible, my friend. What happened?”

Henry explained the events. “They know about you, Maurice. They will be back. I don’t know what to do,” he confessed.

Maurice thought awhile. “Come with me.”

“But if they come back—”

“They won’t be back today. Come with me. There’s something I want to show you, something that might help.”

Henry followed in dismal silence. Never had the woods felt so empty. Never had he seemed so far from home.

They reached Maurice’s cabin on the swift little stream. Maurice led him inside and blew into the embers of the fire and stoked the flame. He put water on to boil.

“Some tea will help. Hummingbird’s recipe. Burdock root, sheep sorrel, slippery elm, and red clover.”

Henry sat in the cabin, but his mind was still on the airplane he’d
watched lift off the lake that morning, spray streaming from the floats, Maria vanishing.

The hot cup was suddenly in his hands.

“Drink,” Maurice said gently. “And listen to me.” He settled into a chair facing Henry and leaned close. A shaft of afternoon light came through the open window and struck his face. The sharp cheekbones above his beard were like dark, polished cherry wood. “In all my time among white people, the one thing I understood best was that for them, money forgives everything. In their courts, money can undo any wrong, even murder.”

“Not murder,” Henry said hopelessly.

Maurice shook his head. “Money will buy a good lawyer, and a good lawyer with enough money behind him can sell a lie to anyone.”

“What lie? I didn’t mean to kill him.”

“You kill a white man, it doesn’t matter why. They won’t listen. Money will make them listen.”

“I don’t have money,” Henry said miserably.

“What I want to show you.”

Maurice rose from his chair, went to the bunk, and pulled it away from the wall. Henry saw the outline of a trapdoor beneath, cut into the floorboards. A knotted rope served as a handle. Maurice grasped the rope and lifted. He beckoned Henry to look. Beneath the floor lay a dozen deer-hide pouches, each larger than a man’s fist.

“Take one,” Maurice said. “Open it.”

Henry lifted one of the pouches, surprised by its weight. He undid the leather cord and looked at the heaping of yellow grains inside.

“Do you know what that is?” Maurice asked.

Henry said, “Gold.”

“It’s yours. As much as you want.”

“Why?”

Maurice smiled kindly. “I came looking for this. Once I had it, I realized I’d found something better here with Hummingbird. Happiness. We had each other. We had food and shelter. We had this land whose spirit is generous and beautiful. Children would have been good, but...” He shrugged that thought away. “So we stayed. When Hummingbird died, I thought about leaving. Except all my memories
are here. Her spirit is here, too. I feel her with me all the time.” He put a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “What need do I have for gold?”

Henry closed up the pouch and carefully tied the cord. “If I take the gold, they will know where it came from. They will he hack.”

“They will be back anyway. It is only a matter of time.”

“I will think about it,” Henry said.

He stayed awhile with Maurice, but his mind was drawn to the campsite and the empty sky above the lake.

“I should go back and wait,” he finally said.

“I’ll wait with you,” Maurice offered.

Henry didn’t want to risk the white men seeing Maurice. “I will wait alone.”

Maurice nodded. “If that’s what you want. Remember, the gold is here for you. It will always be here.”

They left the cabin. Maurice looked at the sky and sniffed the air.

“Your people don’t come back soon, it won’t matter much,” he said to Henry. “Snow is on the way. I can smell it. I’ve got food if you need to spend the winter.”

Henry thanked him and left. He made his way to camp and sat down to wait.

That night, Henry slept in Maria’s tent. The smell of her on the sleeping bag was next to heaven. In the night, he heard music, the little chime of the gold watch. He found it among the things she’d left behind. He went outside and stirred the embers and stoked the fire until he had a flame bright enough to see by. He spent the rest of the night dividing his time between staring at the stars and staring at Maria’s tiny image. Near dawn, he put the watch in his pocket, where it would stay. He didn’t care if it was stealing.

They didn’t come the next day or the next. That night Henry dreamed: The lake had turned to ice. The ridges were white with snow. He stood at the shoreline staring at Wellington’s plane, which sat on frozen water. Flakes began to drift from the cloudy sky, and soon a curtain of falling snow descended, so that all Henry could see was the dim outline of the floatplane. He wanted to rush to it, to find out if it had brought Maria back to him, but his feet wouldn’t move.

The door opened. A figure clambered out. Henry thought it was Wellington, but he couldn’t be sure. The figure walked toward him.

As it came, it grew, taking on huge dimensions. The head became a ragged growth of shaggy hair. The fingers grew into long claws. Through the white gauze of snow, the eyes glowed red as hot coals. Henry realized that what was coming for him was not a man but a windigo, the mythic beast out of the horror stories of his childhood, a cannibal giant with a heart of ice. He turned and tried to run, but he could not move his legs. He looked back. The beast was almost upon him. Henry tried to cry out. His jaw locked in place, and only a terrified moan escaped. The foul smell of the windigo—the stench of rotted meat—was all around him. He saw the great mouth open, revealing teeth like a row of bloody knives. The beast reached for him. Henry tensed and cringed, prepared to be torn apart.