macCLOUD FALLS, page 38
‘Are you sure?’ he asked her. ‘If I start I may not finish. And this wonderful pudding will go cold.’
‘Gil knows so much about that place,’ Veronika put in. ‘I was amazed.’
‘Well, as Gordon knows, I’ve been researching for a while now. There’s quite a lot of material – Lyle’s diaries, though they tend to be just a list of where he went and what he did, so no great revelations as to what he thought or felt. There’s letters between him and Franz Boas, but they’re none too revealing on a personal level either. Mostly it’s just business, very often requests for certain artefacts by Boas, for the museum. Lyle would sometimes send newly made copies of the things Boas wanted, because he’d come to understand that taking the originals from people wasn’t right, that they were family heirlooms. A bit like your book. Boas of course has been written about many times, and he had an unsavoury side to him, I think. And there’s the historical context, John MacLeod and the falls, and the canyon. So quite a lot.’
He took another spoon from his bowl. ‘Mmm, this is so good.’
Sara smiled. ‘I’m glad you like it. So this will be a biography, then?’
‘That’s what I firstly thought. But since I came over here I’ve started to wonder if I can do that, or even if it’s the kind of book I want to write. It seems to me that all the things on record are just a small part of the whole story.’
‘And the rest is… where?’ Gordon asked.
‘Lost forever. Or at best, somewhere in the oral traditions of the people there, in fragmentary form.’
‘You mean the First Nations?’
‘The N’laka’pamux, yes. One of the things I learned while I was there is that to them the key person in recording their stories wasn’t Lyle but his wife. It’s her they revere, more than him. He was just the scribe to them. Important in a way, but not the source. That was Antko. And she left no archive.’
‘Huh,’ Gordon said. ‘She died young, didn’t she?’
‘She did. In 1899. I found her grave there.’
‘So couldn’t you just put together your research, into book form, anyway?’
‘Well, maybe I could. I’ve written a few pieces. Or tried to. But it seems a bit forced, false even, too historical. What I wanted was to bring the man and the time alive. But I realised something when I was in Cloud Falls. This isn’t simply a historical situation, so-called Indian Rights of a hundred years ago, it’s still going on right now. And I don’t think I can write that kind of book, no matter how much research I do. It isn’t my story to tell. It’s matter of perspective. What’s valid.’
‘You mean, it’s a question of appropriation?’ Veronika said.
‘Well, I suppose so. To what extent can anybody tell another person’s story, if they’re far distant from the source, in terms of time, or culture. Even gender.’
For a minute, they ate quietly, enjoying the flavours, as if chewing over the idea. Then Gordon said, ‘But what about Burns? He wrote from different perspectives, didn’t he? Women included.’
‘He did, that’s true. It’s possible, maybe for a short lyric, like ‘The Slave’s Lament’, to get inside the head of the other person. But I think to sustain it for a whole book would be hard.’
‘What about ‘Sunset Song’?’ Gordon asked.
‘What’s that?’ Veronika queried, as she finished her helping and placed her spoon inside the bowl. Sara gestured, offering a little more, and Veronika nodded, please.
‘It’s the great Scottish novel of the last century. Written by a man, but the main character is a woman,’ Gordon explained.
‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘I haven’t heard of that. And it’s good?’
‘Great,’ Gil said. ‘And from the women I know who’ve read it, he gets it right. The female perspective, that is.’
‘Well gender isn’t clear cut, is it? Not really, despite all the stereotypes we live with, and boy do we have them round here,’ Sara said. ‘One of the Native American tribes, I can’t recall offhand which, reckoned there were five genders. And with writing, surely it’s about empathy? Maybe it’s impossible to really understand the other person, their view of what you’ve shared. And impossible to tell anybody’s else’s story truthfully. Maybe. But it’s worth trying. Of course men and woman are different. You may as well say Mennonites are different. But we’re all human, first and foremost, aren’t we? If we don’t try to see the other person’s perspective, what hope is there?’
‘And people would only be able to write about themselves,’ Gordon added.
‘Which is kind of where you’re at, Gil, aren’t you?’ Veronika smiled across the table. Gordon looked at him, awaiting further enlightenment.
‘Oh well, I’ve been keeping a journal since I got here. At least I was. Haven’t kept up with it these last few days.’
‘I think it’s a little more than that, Gil,’ she said. ‘You are writing a book. Maybe not the one you thought you’d write, but another kind. The one you have to. About what’s happening to you.’
Gil looked a little perplexed at her comment, but didn’t deny it. In fact, it sounded true, coming from her. Maybe he needed to hear someone say it, to make it real? ‘The muse has spoken,’ he said finally.
‘Well, I think today has been worthy of being in a book,’ Gordon said. ‘The things that have happened. Just remember to tell the reader how handsome I am.’ He refused the offer of a second helping from the Mennonite cobbler dish, saying ‘That was, as ever, delicious, honey,’ and stood up from the table. ‘It’s been a long day, indeed it has, but I think a small nightcap to round it off, by the fireside. What say you?’
‘That was fabulous,’ Veronika said to Sara. ‘But I think I’ll pass on the nightcap, Gordon, if I’m going to drive in the morning.’
‘Gil?’
‘Well, actually, we’ve decided I’m going to go with her. It’s a long drive and we can share the duties.’ He’d been reluctant to tell them he was leaving, anticipating some protest, but to his surprise Sara gave Gordon a look, and none emerged.
Gordon smiled. ‘That’s a very good idea, my friend, though I’m truly sorry you’re not staying longer. I would have liked to show you the interior plateau tomorrow.’
Sara, who was placing the dishes on a tray, said ‘Maybe they could drive back that way? It’s not that much farther, and such a beautiful time of year to see it. It’s what they call alpine meadow.’
‘Yeah, that could work. Come on, I’ll show you the map,’ he said.
‘You go,’ Veronika nodded to Gil. ‘I’m going to help Sara.’
They carried the dishes to the kitchen, while the men went into the sitting room, and Gordon unfolded a map of BC. Sara and Veronika worked together, doing the washing up, Veronika drying. They spoke about the day, the friendship they’d discovered, how deep it seemed in so short a time. It was a day like no other they’d known, so full of things to wonder at, so significant the moments they’d lived through. And of course it was a shame it was over so soon, but it was good that Gil would go with her to share the drive.
As Sara poured the water from the basin down the sink, and washed it under the faucet, she suddenly stopped, turned to Veronika and said, ‘I don’t know anything about this situation you have to go back to, but I do know one thing. I’ve seen you and Gil together and you are very good for each other. What you’ve been through, both of you, with the cancer, it’s a very deep bond. That I can see.’
And she took Veronika in her bosom, and hugged her for what seemed a very long time indeed. Her body pressed against the scar and it hurt a little but she didn’t wince. Tears formed in Veronika’s eyes and when Sara finally released her, she too was crying gently.
With Hero on the leash, she walked out into the northern summer night. The sky was still vaguely bright, an odd luminosity hanging over the forest ridge. They could hear the creek below, but she didn’t go there. At this time of night, who knew what creatures were roaming in the dark? She listened, expecting perhaps a howl or the hooting of an owl. But there was nothing to hear but water. The water that kept on flowing, whatever. It went wherever it was pulled, falling down, always down, wearing away at the rock till something gave way beneath it, and its route subtly changed, forever.
Gil was in bed, asleep, when she went upstairs. He had switched out the main light and turned her lamp on, had placed the cushion wall as she had done the night before, in the middle of the mattress. She switched the lamp out, undressed and put on her new nightdress, and went in between the sheets, under the heavy quilt, then sat up and took the cushions away. Her hand slipped towards him, found his and her fingers closed around it. Her foot sought his too. He didn’t stir. Probably the whisky had caught up with him, as it must surely do finally. Even if he was a Scotchman.
When Gil awoke, the first thing he saw was her face right next to his on the pillow. She was still fast asleep, her hands tucked under her cheek, like a child’s. He didn’t move, but lay there looking at her face, studying it. With her eyes closed, she seemed so different. When they were open and he looked at her, they dazzled him so he hardly noticed her other features. But now he could study at her nose, her lips, her ears, her beautiful hair where it cascaded over the pillow. He felt like reaching out to trace the lines, to memorise them, but didn’t dare in case he woke her. And then she stirred, turned and the quilt slipped from her shoulders, so he could see how her neck curved perfectly, to meet the skin across her clavicle, the curve of her shoulder to her upper arm and the lines that led to her waist beneath her white cotton nightdress. He wanted her, wanted to kiss that beautiful neck, but instead he got up from the bed as gently as possible and went to take a shower, the image of her impressed on his mind’s eye. And then it struck him that the wall of cushions he’d placed between them had been missing.
As he was dressing, quiet though he was, she woke. ‘Hmmph,’ she said. ‘Morning already?’
‘It’s still early. Just after seven.’
‘Okay,’ she said sleepily, and rolled over onto her side.
He finished drying his hair with a towel and went downstairs, leaving her to her rest. Sara was already at work, preparing breakfast in the kitchen, and there was the smell of something baking. She smiled up at him when he appeared in the doorway.
‘Good morning!’ she said. ‘Sleep okay?’ He said yes, and she poured him a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove.
‘I thought you might be feeling the effects of that whisky. Gordon sure is,’ she said. He laughed and said no, he was fine. Surprisingly.
‘Well, I’m glad you and I have a moment to ourselves. We’ve hardly had a chance to speak, just the two of us. Sit down, won’t you?’ So he sat, and so did she, at the table in the kitchen. ‘I’m so glad you’re going to go with Veronika,’ she said. ‘Not that we wouldn’t love to have you stay, but it’s a long road south and I’d worry if she was setting off on her own.’
He said he’d do his best to take care of her – and you too, Hero, he added to the dog under the table. ‘It’s been an amazing trip,’ he added. ‘And you, you’ve been so kind.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘It’s certainly meant a lot to us, the fact that you came. Gordon… well, he’s not lonely, he has plenty of friends round about, but no one who shares his deeper passions, really – apart from me. He’s a very creative man, a very learned man though he never went to college or anything.’
He said he could see that, from all the things he’d made, the paintings on the walls, and all the books he’d read.
‘Yes, so you see your friendship over the last year or two has meant a lot to him. Especially with you being Scottish. He’s forever reading out bits from your emails to me. And every parcel that arrives, whatever the new book is, he’s like a kid at Christmas. It’s been a kind of lifeline for him, all that.’
‘Maybe you’ll come over to visit soon,’ Gil said. ‘Don’t spend all the money on the new house, keep some for that.’
‘I’d like that,’ she said. ‘But getting away isn’t so easy, what with all the livestock. Maybe when our youngest comes back from his travels, though.’
At that moment, Gordon appeared in the doorway, stretching his arms out and yawning.
‘Honey, you look like a bear in spring,’ Sara said. ‘Come over here and I’ll fix you some breakfast.’ He staggered to the table, and winked at Gil as he sat down heavily.
‘Some night,’ he said. ‘And some day.’
Veronika joined them, and they ate breakfast while Gordon and Sara explained the alternative route to Vancouver they had in mind. He fetched his map again. Two hours to reach the Cariboo Highway, he reckoned, another two or three to Hope when they’d see the full extent of the canyon they’d been in at Cloud Falls, which they would pass through, and then the road down to Vancouver through the Fraser Valley – another two maybe. It was a full day’s drive, but they’d easily be back by nightfall if they started early.
Sara said they should really go by Green Lake, it was one of her favourite places, and Veronika asked, wasn’t that near Whistler, but no, it was another Green Lake she meant, and very beautiful, especially at this time of year. That would mean making for 70 Mile House then, Gordon said. He asked how they were fixed for gas, because that would be their first station.
Veronika said she was sure they’d have enough, they’d filled up in Kamloops. So pretty soon their bags were in the VW, and they were setting off. Gordon, Sara and Benji came out to say goodbye, and various hugs and entreaties to take care and come visit followed. Then Sara handed Veronika something wrapped in a dish cloth, something warm.
‘It’s what we call a friendship bread,’ Sara said. ‘For the road.’
‘Hey, I’ve got something for you too,’ Gordon said, to Gil, and he pulled out a baseball cap from his pocket. ‘Little Forks B.C.’, the stitching read, around a picture of a moose, standing proud as the monarch of the glen. Inside it was a small book.
‘Now I’m thinking that since you’ve been researching BC, you won’t maybe have seen this, as it’s about the life on the other side of the Rockies over in Alberta where I came from. It was one of my favourites, growing up. You’ve sent me so many books, I feel I ought to give you at least one. You haven’t seen it before, have you?’
‘Ballad of a Stonepicker,’ the cover read. George Ryga. ‘No,’ Gil said, I haven’t.’
With the book safe in Gil’s bag, the time had come to go. Before long, Veronika was turning the car, and they were heading down the dirt-road past all the sheds and polytunnels, down towards the gate.
‘Amazing place,’ Gil said, looking around back up the track.
‘Amazing people,’ Veronika added. ‘I’m so glad I came with you and got to meet them. And you, Hero,’ she said to the dog, who was standing with his head in between the two front seats, panting, ‘You’ve had quite an adventure too.’
He turned the book Gordon had given him over, and read the blurb aloud. ‘‘Ballad of a Stonepicker’ is George Ryga’s novel about the Prairie Dirt farmers in the 1940’s and early 1950’s – about two brothers, one who forsakes the farm for the world of the educated elite, the other who stays behind to work the soil, bound to a land that takes more than it gives in return.’
‘Sounds good,’ she said. ‘A bit of a message there too.’
‘I wonder if that is how he sees me? As some kind of great scholar? Because he’s pretty far off the mark, if he does.’
‘I don’t know, Gil, but I think you need to give yourself a little credit. Seems to me you’ve read a lot and learned a lot, even if you’re not a big professor. Cut yourself a little slack. If not now, when?’
He smiled. ‘Is that another movie quote?’
‘Probably.’
She drove on, climbing up through the canyon, away from the Thompson valley, wilderness on every side. Then into view came a vista where there was nothing green at all, and only the black bristles of burned out tree trunks, stretching away into the distance. It went on for miles and miles.
‘I wonder if that was the fire they told us about, the one they were ready to run away from?’
‘Could be,’ he said. ‘Must have been terrifying.’
‘I know. Hard to imagine.’
Whether it was imagination or not, they thought they could smell the charcoal remains, somewhere off in the distance, still smouldering. Then the road began to flatten out, and forest returned to green, while the landscape transformed into a sequence of lakes and hills that looked to Gil like Perthshire. For a long time, neither spoke, just gazed around them at the beauty as it unfolded, a new vista around each bend.
‘This really is more like Scotland than any part of Canada I’ve seen so far,’ Gil said at last. ‘The scale’s the same.’ She pulled over at a rest area, so they could appreciate it properly. Lac Du Roches, the sign said. South Cariboo. They took pictures of each other with the blue lake behind, with Hero, of course, in all of them. A large map on an information board had all the lakes and trails marked.
‘See here,’ Gil said, pointing. ‘Scot Lake, and here, Little Scot Lake. We could hike there.’ But she was looking at another part of the board.
‘And here’s Loch Lomond,’ she grinned. ‘You Scots get everywhere.’
‘I’d really like to see that,’ he said, but there was no time for meandering, a long road lay ahead of them. So she drove on, as the bonnie bonnie banks sounded in his head and he sang a few lines, but she didn’t know it, only laughed at his exaggerated accent.
A small corner of his mind was waiting for her phone to go off again, as and when they reached some place where a signal existed, but up here among the hills and lakes that seemed unlikely.
‘I suppose you’ll be glad to get back to Vancouver again,’ he wondered out loud, inviting her to elaborate on her feelings. She took a while to answer, but not for the reasons he suspected. She had switched her cell phone off that morning, a decision that instantly made her feel better. The last thing she wanted was another shock, especially whilst driving these twisting mountain roads.
