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Authors: Eden Robinson

Traplines

BOOK: Traplines
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“Canada seems to have an inexhaustible supply of excellent women Writers.… Now, there is another young and striking voice.… Robinson takes us into the underside of family life, from the point of view of the teenagers involved. Her writing is fresh and often harrowing.”

Observer

“Simply extraordinary.… Compelling.”

Blood & Aphorisms

“These [stories] are human dramas which she narrates in a style that is disarming in its simplicity and brutal in its honesty. Combining pathos with biting humour, each of these beautifully crafted narratives has a sting.… Menacing but brilliantly conceived narrative[s].”

Independent on Sunday

“A subtle, brutal, and compelling read.”

Esther Freud

“This is a fine book — unflinching, moving and shockingly, bloodily funny. Eden Robinson offers a raw, muscular, urgent new voice: she writes from the heart and the more of that, the better. I look forward to seeing what she’ll do next.”

A.L. Kennedy

“Robinson is good, frighteningly good. She is a leader in the pack of young writers willing to take on the nasty underside of human experience, and she does it with unwavering nerve and startling humour. She’ll make you laugh when you know you shouldn’t. She’ll shock you, anger you, tease you. There’s no assuming anything with Robinson; she’ll tickle and slap you with the same hand. You’ll feel the sting of
Traplines’
revelations long after you put the book down.”

Gail Anderson-Dargatz

“… the Vancouver-based author may well be the first native writer to earn an international reputation …”

Maclean’s
100 CANADIANS TO WATCH

“Robinson’s skill as a writer is evident in her ability to craft haunting and, at times, humorous images that resonate throughout the story.… What makes these stories remarkable is the skill with which Robinson draws readers into the grim lives of her characters, snaring us momentarily in their traplines.”

Canadian Literature 156/ Spring 1998

“Robinson probes the gritty unpleasant aspects of her culture in an unflinching and honest manner.”

The Edmonton Journal

“Remember the name Eden Robinson … a writer of startling promise … [Robinson’s] talent is indisputable … Memorable.…
Traplines
portrays a world totally bereft of both childhood innocence and adult protection. It is an enclosed yet compelling place, and Robinson gives no quarter in telling of it.”

Quill & Quire

“I was not prepared for the forceful way in which Eden Robinson’s four stories … captured my attention and permeated my subconscious … Even weeks later … my mind continued to dwell on … the four stories.”

The Globe and Mail

“Expertly rendered”

The New York Times

“Traplines
is a book whose precision and dramatic force slowly induce in the reader a dry-eyed sense of tragedy. It’s a revelatory work, and a remarkable debut.”

The Vancouver Sun

“Prose that grip … right to the final page. Robinson’s writing is remarkably fierce … Her distinctive voice is not plaintive— it howls. Her ear for dialogue … reveals a remarkable talent … She is someone you’d do well not to turn your back on.”

Georgia Straight

“A chilling… impressive debut.… Powerful … touching [with] a vein of quirkiness and humour.”

Macleans

“Utterly compelling … The four stories comprising
Traplines
are sketched with a sure hand.… A powerful debut.”

Word Magazine

“Remarkable.… The stories she tells are undeniably powerful, and … eerie in their raw portrayal of extremely disturbed human beings.… A Riveting spectacle.”

The Toronto Star

“Robinson easily captures the feel of demented small town life.… Robinson’s characters are very strong.… [She] manages to convey a living, breathing character whose journey we share.… She skilfully grounds her tales with obvious Canadian flavour.… ”

Id Magazine

“I enjoyed the bold and vivid writing, the directness and the verve.… The stories have life. Hope too. In the midst of danger there are touching scenes.… Add the bit of humour Robinson uses … and these stories about danger in families, about young people trying to save themselves, become irresistible. I can hardly wait for Robinson’s first novel.”

Kitchener-Waterloo Record

“Robinson’s skill attracts and holds our attention [with] … prose that is commendable and riveting. And while the landscapes she has established
Traplines
on are bleak and spare, the same cannot be said of the fertile ground of her talent. Hers is a powerful Canadian voice and we need to hear more of it.”

Star Phoenix

Copyright © 1996 by Eden Robinson

All rights reserved under international and Pan American Copyright Conventions. Published in Canada by Vintage Canada, a division of Random House Canada Limited, in 1998. Originally published in hardcover by Alfred A. Knopf Canada, Toronto and simultaneously in the United States by Metropolitan Books, an imprint of Henry Holt and Company Inc., New York, in 1996. Distributed by Random House of Canada Limited.

Canadian in Publication Data

Robinson, Eden
Traplines
eISBN: 978-0-307-36394-7
I. Title
PS
8585.035
T
73 1997
C
813′.54
C
96-931042-0
PR
9199.3.
R
63
T
73 1997

v3.1

T
O
J
OHN AND
W
INNIE
R
OBINSON

Some people believe that unborn souls
choose their parents.

I’m glad I chose such gentle, loving people.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I take full responsibility for these stories but happily admit that a good part of their polish comes from tireless editing by people such as Bill Valgardson, Mark Jarman, Dave Godfrey, Keith Maillard and his advanced novel class, Barb Nickel, Zsuzsie Gardner, Sara Bershtel, Louise Dennys, and especially Riva Hocherman and Denise Bukowski.

CONTENTS

Dad takes the white marten from the trap.

“Look at that, Will,” he says.

It is limp in his hands. It hasn’t been dead that long.

We tramp through the snow to the end of our trapline. Dad whistles. The goner marten is over his shoulder. From here, it looks like Dad is wearing it. There is nothing else in the other traps. We head back to the truck. The snow crunches. This is the best time for trapping, Dad told me a while ago. This is when the animals are hungry.

Our truck rests by the roadside at an angle. Dad rolls the white marten in a gray canvas cover separate from the others. The marten is flawless, which is rare in these parts. I put my animals beside his and cover them. We get in the truck. Dad turns the radio on and country twang fills the cab. We smell like sweat and oil and pine. Dad hums. I stare out the window. Mrs. Smythe would say the trees here are like the
ones on Christmas postcards, tall and heavy with snow. They crowd close to the road. When the wind blows strong enough, the older trees snap and fall on the power lines.

“Well, there’s our Christmas money,” Dad says, snatching a peek at the rearview mirror.

I look back. The wind ruffles the canvases that cover the martens. Dad is smiling. He sits back, steering with one hand. He doesn’t even mind when we are passed by three cars. The lines in his face are loose now. He sings along with a woman who left her husband—even that doesn’t make him mad. We have our Christmas money. At least for now, there’ll be no shouting in the house. It will take Mom and Dad a few days to find something else to fight about.

The drive home is a long one. Dad changes the radio station twice. I search my brain for something to say but my headache is spreading and I don’t feel like talking. He watches the road, though he keeps stealing looks at the back of the truck. I watch the trees and the cars passing us.

One of the cars has two women in it. The woman that isn’t driving waves her hands around as she talks. She reminds me of Mrs. Smythe. They are beside us, then ahead of us, then gone.

Tucca is still as we drive into it. The snow drugs it, makes it lazy. Houses puff cedar smoke and the sweet, sharp smell gets in everyone’s clothes. At school in town, I can close my eyes and tell who’s from the village and who isn’t just by smelling them.

When we get home, we go straight to the basement. Dad gives me the ratty martens and keeps the good ones. He made me start on squirrels when I was in grade five. He put
the knife in my hand, saying, “For Christ’s sake, it’s just a squirrel. It’s dead, you stupid knucklehead. It can’t feel anything.”

He made the first cut for me. I swallowed, closed my eyes, and lifted the knife.

“Jesus,” Dad muttered. “Are you a sissy? I got a sissy for a son. Look. It’s just like cutting up a chicken. See? Pretend you’re skinning a chicken.”

Dad showed me, then put another squirrel in front of me, and we didn’t leave the basement until I got it right.

Now Dad is skinning the flawless white marten, using his best knife. His tongue is sticking out the corner of his mouth. He straightens up and shakes his skinning hand. I quickly start on the next marten. It’s perfect except for a scar across its back. It was probably in a fight. We won’t get much for the skin. Dad goes back to work. I stop, clench, unclench my hands. They are stiff.

“Goddamn,” Dad says quietly. I look up, tensing, but Dad starts to smile. He’s finished the marten. It’s ready to be dried and sold. I’ve finished mine too. I look at my hands. They know what to do now without my having to tell them. Dad sings as we go up the creaking stairs. When we get into the hallway I breathe in, smelling fresh baked bread.

Mom is sprawled in front of the TV. Her apron is smudged with flour and she is licking her fingers. When she sees us, she stops and puts her hands in her apron pockets.

“Well?” she says.

Dad grabs her at the waist and whirls her around the living room.

“Greg! Stop it!” she says, laughing.

Flour gets on Dad and cedar chips get on Mom. They talk and I leave, sneaking into the kitchen. I swallow three aspirins for my headache, snatch two buns, and go to my room. I stop in the doorway. Eric is there, plugged into his electric guitar. He looks at the buns and pulls out an earphone.

BOOK: Traplines
5.38Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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