macCLOUD FALLS, page 25
Hero suddenly stiffened, sniffing. He seemed freaked by something, something that had been there and left its scent. Out there in the dark was the wild. These little nameplates were meaningless to it. The enemy.
They walked until Hero had found a spot to relieve himself, then strolled through the moonlight back to the inn. The night was cold and she didn’t want to catch a chill.
She wished she could find the key to her room, which was lost somewhere in Gil’s bed, so she went upstairs to his room again, thinking she’d find it if she felt her way over the bedclothes. She heard sounds of residents stirring, the tree-planters no doubt, rising for another day on the clear-cut mountainside.
Gil was still asleep, wrapped in his sheet. She began feeling around the bed, in the hope of finding the lost key. Daylight was just starting to seep into the canyon gloom. She could see a rim of light edging the very top of the rocky crag opposite. Gil grunted, tried to turn, but was restrained by his wrapping. Then his eyes opened, as if sensing her gaze, and his expression seemed pain-free.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.
The little pink mouth opened. ‘Like the singing detective,’ it said.
‘Who’s he?’
‘Famous tv drama in Britain.’
‘Ok. Maybe didn’t air over here.’
‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m alright, considering.’
She indicated the laptop with a flick of her thumb. ‘So I’ve read your writing. The story about the Scotsman in Cloud Falls.’
‘Oh yes? What did you think?’
‘It’s quite good.’
‘Quite good?’
‘Yes. There were parts I didn’t understand, Scottish things, like what’s an Aberdonian, all that detail…’ She sat on end of the bed.
‘Well, it’s only a journal. I may never make anything of it.’
‘I appreciate that. But you’ve fictionalised yourself, written it in the third person?’
He unwrapped himself from his cocoon slightly, examined the skin on his arms. ‘It was as if I had to. It’s strange being the alien, the outsider. I don’t think I’ve ever felt that, at least not like this. It seemed easier to get some distance that way. And ‘The Scotsman’ is what everyone seemed to be calling me here.’
‘Is it true? I mean, all those people, are they fictional too? Hester the healer? That Deanna?’
‘Deeanna. I suppose so. In part. A lot of it is what happened. Or a version of it. Some of it, at any rate.’
‘You seem to be making everything so difficult for yourself. And the reader too,’ she observed.
‘Hah,’ he sighed, ‘Writing is difficult. At least for me. Why else do you think it’s taken me this long?’
She stood up and stepped to the window where the video camera pointed towards the houses on the far bank, just beginning emerge from night. ‘Has it occurred to you that everything you’ve written since you got here has really been about yourself, not Lyle?’ She could see the osprey nest quite clearly now, on top of the electricity pole, the giant chick crouched there, wings folded.
‘Meaning?’
‘Well, it seems to me that it’s not Lyle you’re searching for, but yourself. Or some part of yourself you’ve lost?’
‘Very perceptive. But it’s not just about me, there’s the people I met. And you’re in there too.’
‘No, I’m not. Some idealised female character based on me, maybe. But it’s certainly not me.’
He laughed, then breathed in through his clenched teeth, as if it was painful to do so. ‘You’re my muse. And my only reader.’
‘I don’t want to be your muse. I don’t want to be anybody’s muse,’ she said irritably, as if this idea was somehow irksome to her. ‘And I don’t want to be put on a pedestal. You really know nothing about me.’
The slow creaking of a distant CPR train began again. It grew gradually to its deafening peak. Hero started barking and, for a few minutes, conversation was impossible. As it finally began to wane, she turned from the window. Through the opening, they could hear the tree-planters downstairs on the terrace.
‘Ouch,’ he said suddenly, and fished underneath him, pulling out the room key.
‘Ah, at last - that’s what I was looking for.’ She took it from his outreached hand and stood up. ‘So I think I’m going to go for a sleep now. If I can.’ She crossed to the door. ‘You really feeling okay?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m tired though. I think I’ll sleep late too.’
She found her way to the room and unlocked it. It was quite pokey, not nearly as nice as the one Gil had. But the sheets smelled fresh and so she slipped off her clothes and got in. Hero leapt up on the bed beside her. Her eyes closed and she saw the story of the wandering Scotsman play out in a blurry series of fragmented images as she drifted into unconsciousness.
It was after eleven when she woke. The room was hot, unbearably so, and Hero had gone to lie by the door where there was a small gap at the base. She got up, dressed in the same clothes as yesterday – she’d brought so little with her – and went out into the hallway, which was only slightly cooler. Gil was awake when she tapped on his door. She peered into room where she’d sat for most of the night, reading his story.
‘I’m taking Hero for a walk, maybe seek out this restaurant you wrote about and have some brunch. What was it called, ‘The Apple Store’? Or did you make that up too?’
He grinned, ‘Maybe… but you’ll find it.’
‘Want to come?’
‘God no.’
‘Well I’ll see if Rick or Vince or whatever his name is will bring you some soup or something?’
‘I really couldn’t eat.’
‘You’ll have to, sooner or later.’ His pink face surrounded by the white linen looked ridiculous, like she was having to feed a giant-sized baby.
The baby-mouth opened. ‘Not right now, though. I just need to rest. Another porridge bath would be good though.’
‘You really are a damn fool,’ she said, and smiled. ‘I should drown you in porridge and be done with you. Come on, Hero. Time you had breakfast.’
After she’d fed him, she drove along the road from the inn, her dog on the passenger seat panting, slowed down at the community hall where she saw the silhouettes painted on the boarded up windows and the little name plaques on the wall she’d run her fingers over in the night. She passed the reservation, the graveyard and the Indian church, all described in his journal, and turned onto the new highway, towards the bridge across the river. In the distance she caught sight of the waterfall, Cloud Falls itself. Or MacLeod Falls, as it had been. She passed the garage, the truckstop Rumors which was still closed, and turned into the town, pulling up outside the restaurant he had called ‘The Apple Store’.
She took Hero on leash to do his business. Walking along the side of the road by the river, she felt the hot sun burn her neck, and thought that the whole tour had taken just a few minutes. It was the kind of little town in the interior she’d have driven past without giving thought to, why it was there, who had founded it and when, or who lived there now. It was just another bypassed community clinging to life as a stop-off for drivers. Yet once upon a time, she now knew, it was a key river crossing, a place where settlers had built up businesses, where fruit had grown in abundance. A place where the wandering First Nations had been fenced-in and Christianised. Whatever strange instinct had driven her here, she had no reason to rush back to the city now. She might just stay another day or two, make sure he was alright. The Scotsman may even want a lift back. She felt an odd duty of care towards him.
As she walked back along Acacia Avenue to the restaurant, she was aware of being watched. First curtains twitched, then a man appeared on the deck in front of his house and said ‘good morning’ brightly. Cloud Falls seemed to be waking up. Then, she spotted a dog running towards her on the old bridge crossing the river, followed by what seemed to be a young guy. Hero bristled and growled, but the other dog paid no heed, just darted past them in the direction of the restaurant, pursued by the youth, who gave her an awkward smile as he chased after it.
When she reached the restaurant, they were seated out in front at one of the tables under a parasol, the dog panting, the boy sweating. He gave her another goofy smile, as she sat down in the shade of a neighbouring parasol. Hero flopped under the table gratefully, carefully eyeing the running dog, while the boy, who was maybe around sixteen, eyed her.
A blonde woman came hurrying from inside the restaurant, wiping hands on her apron. She glanced briefly, disapproving, at the boy and his dog, then smiled warmly at the stranger.
‘Well hello,’ she said, ‘Welcome to Cloud Falls. We’re so pleased you’re here.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Everyone’s talking about you. And is this your dog? What a darling! What’s his name?’
‘Hero. But I think maybe there’s been some mistake.’
‘Why? We’re honoured to have a movie star visit.’
She laughed out loud. So it was that again. ‘I’m not really who you think I am,’ she said.
The hostess took a second to process, then said, ‘Oh! Of course. Sorry,’ she said. ‘I forgot.’ She put her forefinger to her pursed lips and winked. ‘Anyway, I’m Paulette and this is my little place here. Anything you need, just let me know. Special diet, whatever. It can be arranged. I know you film stars have your special likes.’
The woman who was not Sigourney Weaver stared at her host briefly, as if on the point of insisting. Then she sighed and said, ‘Oh no, there’s no need, Colette.’
‘It’s Paulette.’
So that was one thing Gil had changed, her name. Not-Sigourney wondered what else might have passed through the prism of fiction. ‘Oh sorry, yes. Anyway, I just want some good coffee and a croissant maybe, with butter and jam, if that’s alright.’
‘Sure, that I can do. What kind of jam? We have a whole range of home-made preserves.’
‘Hmmm. How about apricot?’
‘Sure... um,’ she hesitated. ‘So what do I call you?’ She winked again.
‘Me? Ah, you can call me Martina,’ the visitor answered. She may as well be Martina. Better than Ms Weaver, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to give her real name now things were getting crazy. Why not just live the fiction for a few hours till she left, it may be easier all round?
‘Okay, sure, Martina,’ she said, and winked. ‘I’ll bring some nice cold water for Hero too,’ she added, then turned back towards the restaurant. She caught sight of the boy, who was lounging on his chair, feet up on another, listening carefully. ‘Feet down, please,’ she ordered. He took his legs down from the chair and sighed. After not-Colette had disappeared inside, he said, ‘She’s my mom.’
‘Ah, okay,’ Martina nodded. ‘I see.’
The boy sat watching her as she checked her phone. It was bar-less.
‘No reception,’ the boy smiled. She shook her head, but continued to scroll through the old messages.
‘You makin a film here?’ he said, after a while.
She looked up at him, his youthful face shaded partially from sight. ‘No,’ she said, exasperated. ‘There’s no film.’
Again he watched her. She felt a little uncomfortable under his gaze.
‘I rap,’ he said, after another silence.
She smiled. ‘You what?’
‘Rap,’ he said again, ‘You know. Like Eminem.’
She nodded, tried not to laugh. ‘Okay...’
‘Name’s Declan Zee.’
‘Hi Declan.’
‘Nice dog,’ he said.
Not-Colette reappeared with the coffee and croissant. ‘Hope you’re not annoying the lady,’ she said to him. ‘If you’re gonna hang around down here, go in and do some dishes or something.’
The rapper snarled, whined ‘Mo-om!’ and slunk off inside. The other dog followed him to the door, but when it was shut out, it lay down in the shade and whimpered.
‘You’ll be eating here while you’re stayin?’ Not-Colette asked, ‘Only I know Rick don’t do meals any more, and I’m happy to cook whatever you like, if you let me know.’
Not-Sigourney smiled. Not-Colette was so sweet and keen to please. ‘Well thanks, but I won’t be here much longer. A couple more days, maximum, we’ll see. My friend may be longer.’
‘Ah, yes, your friend. You know what they’re calling him round here?’
‘What?’
‘The Walkin Scotsman,’ Not-Colette laughed, a weird high-pitched snicker. ‘CPR Ken came up with it, he’s the linesman on the railroad. Like the Flying Scotsman, famous old train in England, he said.’
‘I see. Yes. That’s quite good. Witty.’
‘He’s been wandering around interviewing people for the script, hasn’t he?’
‘He’s not a scriptwriter, he’s…’
The hostess interrupted.‘No, of course not, sorry. I forgot,’ she said, and snickered again, then smiled a little smile of conspiracy. ‘Anyways, if he wanted to see where Jimmy Lyle lived, back in the day, the old house up at High Ridge, well my brother-in-law has it now, the fruit farm and all, and he’d be happy to show you round. It’s a bit of a mess right now cause his son’s been living in it, plus he’s put some of the pickers in it these last few years and they make a fine mess, but it’s all still there, just as it was, you know, back in the day. Could be cleaned up easy. Nice location.’
The woman who wasn’t Ms Weaver laughed, despite herself. So they were planning locations for the film already? What did she have to say to stop the rumour, or was it already too late? And would it really matter if she let it run? She sighed and smiled. ‘Well, thanks. I’m sure my friend would like that. How do we get in touch?’
‘Oh, he’ll get in touch with you once I let him know. Maybe tomorrow?’
‘Maybe. Mr Johnson isn’t all that well. He got a bit too much sun when he was out yesterday.’
‘Yeah, I heard that. Big George had to go pick him up, didn’t he? But he’s okay, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, he’ll be good to go in a day or so.’
‘He oughta know better than to be out walkin in the heat of the day.’
‘He’s from Scotland. They don’t get much sun there.’
‘Ah, okay.’ The hostess thought for a moment, then said, ‘Listen, if you’re free, it’s my Country and Western night tonight – that is, Dolette’s, my alter ego.’ She spoke the latter phrase with great importance, and pointed to a poster of a figure in a bouffant blonde wig with a pink Stetson on top, and a mother-of-pearl inlaid guitar round her neck. The apparition beamed out across the café deck. Dolette’s C&W Nights, the banner text announced.
‘And my brother in law’ll be here, so you could talk with him then. Look in if you can, we’d be honoured.’
‘Well maybe I will. What time do you serve food ‘til?’
‘Oh, there’ll be pizza and wings and things all night, but if you want a regular supper then try to be here before the show, say around 7? Just let me know what you’d like, I’m happy to make it special.’
‘Can I call you later, when I’ve spoken with Gil?’
‘Gil?’
‘My Scottish friend.’
‘I thought his name’s Bert?’
‘Well it’s Gilbert, really.’ She popped the last mouthful of croissant in her mouth. ‘Mmm, very nice,’ she told her hostess. ‘So this Jimmy Lyle, what do you know about him?’
‘Me? Not much. Heard the name plenty, of course. Now, if it was George Jones or Willie Nelson...’
‘But isn’t he kind of famous round here?’
‘Not that I know of. But there’s one person who does know. She moved up from Vancouver, bought Lyle’s old house down on the riverbank.’
‘Sorry, now I’m confused. I thought your brother-in-law owned that?’
‘No, that’s another one.’ Then she hesitated, frowned as if she was confusing herself. ‘Guess he must have lived in more than one. Anyhoo, she’s an expert, I heard. She’s a bit...’
‘A bit..? What?’
‘She has a tipi in her yard. She calls herself a healer.’
‘Ah!’ Not-Sigourney said. So the healer was real. ‘Yes, Gil told me about her. Tell me, is she First Nations?’
‘No... at least I don’t think so, though maybe she is come to think of it. I reckon she’s more of a hippy. Goes out collecting plants, you know, all the traditional herbs and things. And she holds these séances or whatever they are. People come from all over. Anyway, she’s the one who knows most about Jimmy Lyle. So I heard from old Sally in the Post Office. She’s been here all her life. Knows all about the history. Your Scotch friend should go see her too.’ She nodded confirmation, glad to be able to offer assistance to the great lady from Hollywood.
Not-Sigourney thanked not-Collette, and walked to the car with Hero, feeling the eyes of the restaurant owner watch her all the way. ‘Remember tonight. Dollette will be so glad to see you!’ she called. Not-Sigourney smiled back and waved goodbye. She stood a while by the car, as Hero nosed around. He was hating the heat. From inside the not-Apple Store, she heard the matron shouting something, and the moan of the rapper.
Back at the inn, she went up to Room 14. The door was unlocked but she was surprised to find Gil awake, dressed in a robe and at his desk with the laptop open. ‘You look better,’ she said. ‘What happened?’
‘I had an idea,’ he said, from behind his glasses. ‘Wanted to get writing.’
‘Okay…’ she said. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
‘Did you want something?’
‘It’s just I was down at Colette’s place across the river and, you know what, she says you’ve got a nickname now.’
He didn’t look up from the screen. ‘What do you mean?’
‘They’ve given you a nickname.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know. The townsfolk, I guess. They call you ‘The Walking Scotsman’.’
