Sukkwan Island Free Novella with Bonus Material Page 7

  Later in the day, they stood on the point and caught salmon every few casts. The schools were coming in finally, not just a few isolated salmon anymore. They could see them in thick beneath the clear water, dark shapes in rows undulating slowly and in time, another thing Roy remembered. They had pulled into small coves like this one in the cabin cruiser and Roy had stood on the bow with his father and looked at all of them gathered below him and he had come to believe that all waters were like this, that all waters were so populated. The Pixies bright in among them now, just as before, Roy dragging his across their noses until one rushed forward and took it, then flashed silver as Roy yanked to set the hook. He whooped like his father did whenever he caught one, and it seemed then not so bad that they would stay out here. Roy gutted his fish when he had caught five, then ran rope through the gills.

  When we really get going, his father said, we’ll be dragging twenty or thirty salmon a day back to the cabin. We’ll be so busy we’ll wish we had a second smoker.

  The plane returned the next week with their supplies: more baggies, plywood, seeds, canned goods and staples, huge bags of brown sugar and salt, a new radio and batteries, Louis L’Amour Westerns for his father, a new sleeping bag and surprise tub of chocolate ice cream for Roy. The arrival of the plane made it seem they weren’t really that far away, as if a town and other people like Tom were maybe just around the point. Roy felt relaxed and happy and safe and didn’t realize until the plane started up again and was taxiing out that that feeling wasn’t going to stay. As he watched it go, he realized he was starting over, that now it would again be a month or two, or maybe longer, and he remembered, too, that they had planned to get away for at least a week at the end of summer, which was now. That had been the plan, and somehow it had not happened.

  But he didn’t have much time to dwell on this. He and his father grew busier and busier in their preparations. They were up early and still working often past dusk. The mountains changing quickly then, turning purple and yellow and red, seeming to soften more in the late light, the air colder and cleaner and thinning each day, Roy and his father bundled now in their jackets and hats as they pulled in the salmon, as they cut more wood and stacked it behind the plywood walls. The time easy between them, busy and unthinking, working together to store up. Roy slept. If his father cried, he didn’t know, and for a while, at least, he didn’t care as much, perhaps because he knew now that he couldn’t get away, that he had committed himself and would stay here with his father whether his father were sick or well.

  They began the home schooling in the evenings, just two or three evenings that first week. Roy read Moby Dick and his father read Louis L’Amour. Roy wrote down answers to detailed and picky and seemingly insignificant questions about plot and theme and his father said, Now that was a real Western. After a week of this, they realized they just didn’t have time for it with all the other preparations, so they put it off and went back to cutting wood and smoking fish and hunting full time.

  They hunted anything now, anything they came across that they could smoke. They killed a cow moose several miles away in a marshy flat where a stream gathered before spilling into the ocean. She was alone and looking at them, chewing, her shaggy hide dark and dripping and they both fired and she went down immediately, as if she had been crushed by a great stone. His father carried the carcass back one haunch at a time while Roy guarded the rest, a shell in the chamber, looking all around him as it grew dark, watching for the red eyes of bears and whatever else his imagination could think of to fear.

  They harvested salmon as his father had promised, in long strings that they dragged back to the cabin, the open mouths still gasping, the bodies reddish late in the season and trembling on land. They caught as many as they had time to clean and cut up and smoke, the pink and red and white meat of chinook, sockeye, humpies, and chum.

  They shot a mountain goat that had come down to the shoreline, Roy wondering at how red the blood looked at first against the white hair, and then how black. By this time it was cold enough that the animal steamed as they gutted it. The mountains the next morning had snow all along their tops, as if the spirit of the white animal had somehow fled into them, and within the week, the snow had lowered halfway down toward the cabin and sat still and windless and bright throughout the afternoon.

  They set to work again on the cache. It had become rounded in all its corners and the earth around it had slumped. They dug it out shovelful by shovelful and sharpened its edges and deepened it again to the base rock and then Roy handed down the posts to his father, the posts lashed this time with twine and the corners nailed. Then they set the poles across the top and lashed them as well and nailed them along their edges with ten-inch nails deep into the posts and then they lashed together a small second roof and placed it over the uneven hole in the top and stood back and admired their work.

  It looks right, Roy said.

  It’s ready for the goods.

  The spare room in the cabin by this time was full with dried and smoked fish and meat carefully packaged in freezer bags then larger garbage bags. They began early one morning so that they’d be finished burying by dark and not have to keep watch over it during the night. His father placed all of the bags inside along with a large pile of canned goods that had been flown in, in case all the smoked fish and meat spoiled for some reason, and then he nailed down the second roof.

  Hope it stays good, he said.

  It better, Roy said, and his father grinned.

  Let’s bury it and forget about it.

  So they threw in a deep layer of cold ash they had saved from the stove to mask the smell, and then a layer of rocks, then the dirt and they heaped it up high so that when it settled it would be level, and then they put more rocks on top of that and another layer of ash.

  I don’t know if any of this is right, his father said, but it seems like it should work.

  They continued to catch the last of the salmon and also a few Dolly Varden and some small bottom fish. The original plan had been to go out in the inflatable for halibut, too, but his father had decided to save the boat and all of its gasoline for any kind of emergency that might come up. They shot another mountain goat. The smoker was going around the clock still, even as the first snows came down to the cabin, and the inside of the cabin seemed a smokehouse also with strips of salmon and Dolly Varden and sculpin and lingcod and deer and goat everywhere cooling and waiting to be bagged, the baggies and garbage bags that had already been filled piling up in the spare room.

  They went to bed each night exhausted, and there was no time left awake to listen for his father, and so Roy managed on some nights even to forget that his father was not well. He began, even, to assume that his father was fine, in that he didn’t think about his father one way or the other. He was simply living each day filled with activity and then sleeping and then rising again, and since he was working alongside his father, he assumed his father was feeling all the same things. If he had been asked how his father was feeling, he would have been annoyed at the question and considered the matter too far away to pay attention to.

  Most of the snows were light and did not stick for long down close to the water or even for a ways up behind the cabin. They did not cover the cache consistently. Roy asked his father if the weather would stay like this, because it seemed like it might be the case. His father had to tip his head back to remember.

  They didn’t stick long, most of the snows in Ketchikan. But then I remember skiing around, and snowbanks, and shoveling snow and all the slush I had to drive through, so I guess the snow did stick and build up sometimes. Isn’t that funny, though, that I can’t really remember?

  They went up to the cache several times a day and looked for bear tracks or any other tracks, but nothing ever came. The constant checking began to seem odd to both of them, as if they had developed some inexplicable fear of this one small piece of ground, so they decided to check less often and just trust that it would be all right, especiall
y since it was growing colder and the days shorter. They came in earlier each evening from their work at the woodpile and the smoker and began reading again and sometimes played cards. They played two-handed pinochle, which technically could not be played, and his father rambled.

  Remember what I told you about the world originally being a great field, and the earth flat?

  Yeah, Roy said. How everything went to hell after you met Mom.

  Whoa, his father said. That’s not exactly what I said. But anyway, I’ve been thinking about that again, and it’s got me thinking about what I’m missing and why I don’t have religion but need it anyway.

  What? Roy asked.

  I’m screwed, basically. I need the world animated, and I need it to refer to me. I need to know that when a glacier shifts or a bear farts, it has something to do with me. But I also can’t believe any of that crap, even though I need to.

  What does that have to do with Mom?

  I don’t know. You’re getting me sidetracked.

  So they finished the hand and went to bed. But Roy kept thinking of his father’s ramblings, and it seemed to him a strange father out here. It was his tone of voice more than anything, as if the creation of the world had amounted to the Big Screw. But Roy didn’t think too much about it. He really wanted only to sleep.

  The snow stuck lower and they quit fishing and smoking and chopping wood.

  We have enough anyway, his father said. It’s time now to settle in and relax. That should last about two weeks before I go insane.

  What?

  I’m just kidding, his father said. That was a joke.

  They read by the light of the paraffin lamps and kept the stove stoked. Roy had as much trouble concentrating on his homework here as he had anywhere else, so he spent most of his long hours studying the wavering shadows on the plank walls and waiting for the next meal. It was the most delicious and anticipated food he had ever eaten, all the smoked fish and meat with rice and canned vegetables. His father read and sighed and sacked out for long naps.

  They took hikes still, and brought their rifles, but as the snow built up thicker this became too difficult, so as Roy studied, his father began making snowshoes. He used fresh branches and strips of the moose hide they had salted and let dry. As it snowed and blew outside and occasionally rained, he bent over the shoes like the dentist he was, sewing them up carefully and inspecting them with prodding fingers. Red-eye, he finally said, his way of saying ready. They’re finished. We’re going into the snow, my son.

  But it just rained, Roy reminded him.

  Yeah, that’s right. Okay, we’ll wait until there’s snow again, and then we go. But in the meantime, I have to go for a hike before I decay into some kind of marshmallow in here.

  Me, too, Roy said, so they went for a hike along the water. It was overcast and drizzling, the waves indistinct, the waters shifting, surging. They walked along the steeper coast that they rarely hiked along, around the opposite point and on farther to the next in silence until his father said, I don’t think I can live without women. I’m not saying it isn’t great being out here with you, but I just miss women all the time. I can’t stop thinking about them. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know how it is that something is so thoroughly missing when they’re not around. It’s like we have the ocean here and a mountain and trees, but actually the trees aren’t here unless I’m fucking some woman.

  Huh, Roy said.

  Sorry, his father said. I’m just thinking out loud. I’m also thinking we can’t leave our food for this long. If another bear comes, we’re screwed.

  So his father went back but Roy decided to hike on for a while, and though he thought he would try to think about what his father had said, he only looked at the water and at the smooth rocks beneath his boots and he didn’t think anything.

  When he returned, his father was listening to the new ham radio. There was a clicking sound over and over and then a voice gave the standard universal time and a storm report for the South Pacific, gale-force winds everywhere it seemed. Then another channel and warping sounds with a guy far in the background talking about his great ham equipment, which was all anyone ever talked about on ham radio, pretty much, and his father turned it off and began cooking some rice.

  Tom should be here again soon, his father said.

  Yeah?

  Yeah. And I was thinking. I want us to stay here longer, but I know it’s not fun to hear me talk about things like I talked about today, so if you want to go back to your mom and Tracy, you can. That would be okay.

  We have to quit talking about that, Roy said. I already said I’m staying.

  His father didn’t turn and look at Roy during any of this, and Roy knew his allegiance was being tested, that it was being gauged, so he added, I don’t want to go. I’m staying here until next summer.

  Okay, his father said, and still he didn’t turn around.

  Tom came again and told them it was going to start snowing more. He was standing on one pontoon and they were standing on shore, about fifteen feet away, as if in a different world, unapproachable from the water. I won’t always be able to fly in, Tom said, when the weather’s bad, and I won’t just be checking in on my way to other places anymore, so if you need anything, you need to call me on the radio.

  Okay, Roy’s father said. That’s fine.

  Is the radio working okay?

  Yeah.

  You have a VHF too, and you should be able to hail anyone passing through on that, and they can pass a message on to me. In case you have any more bears over for dinner. Tom grinned then. He was freshly shaven and showered and his clothes clean and he was starting to get cold out on the pontoon. Roy realized he had some kind of heater in the plane.

  All right, Tom said. Enjoy.

  He climbed up into the plane and started the engine and taxied around. They waved and then he roared away and was gone.

  We’re here now, his father said. That we are. And the two gone into the wilderness knew not the excesses of mankind and lived in purity.

  You sound like the Bible, Dad.

  We shall trot through snow like horses and know more winter than Jack Frost. The lichen and the high reaches shall cleanse our souls.

  I don’t even know what that sounds like.

  It’s poetry. Your father is one of the undiscovered minor geniuses.

  Roy laughed, and then he realized it had been a while. Then he followed his father inside.

  It did begin snowing a few days later, as Tom had predicted, and they tried out the snowshoes. Though the shoes felt unwieldy tied onto their boots, they actually worked well. Roy and his father rose high on the mountain with what seemed to Roy more ease than before, since the earth was no longer pitted and they didn’t have to tear through the undergrowth or look carefully to see what would support them and what wouldn’t. With the shoes, they sank no more than a few inches with each step, and everywhere the path was clear. It was cold, but they had many layers on and, as they climbed, they began shedding layers. It was clear and sunny. They could see past the near islands to other horizons beyond, farther than they had seen before.

  This is what most people never see, his father said. Most never see this place in winter, and certainly not from their own mountain on a sunny day. What we are is lucky.

  They climbed to the very top and stood on the rocks and it was still clear. They saw their entire island behind and no other sign of humanity on it, only white mountains and the darker trees spreading below.

  His father spread his arms and yelped.

  Roy wondered and heard the echoing.

  I am so happy to be alive, his father said.

  Since it was still early in the day, they continued partway down the other side and hiked on to the next ridge and up to the next peak. Another glorious view, and a different one.

  Down there in that valley is where I killed the bear, his father said.

  Wow. That’s a long ways.

  It was.

  They wa
lked around the top, taking in all the different views.

  If you could have anything you wanted, his father said, what would it be?

  I don’t know, Roy said.

  You’re not giving the question any time to seep into your bones, me boy. What would it be? What’s your dream?

  Roy thought and couldn’t come up with anything. It seemed to him he was just trying to get through this one dream of his father’s. But finally he said, A big boat, that I could sail to Hawaii on, and then maybe around the world.

  Ah, his father said. That is a good one.

  What about you?

  What about me. What about me. So many things. I think a good marriage and not to have broken up the two I had, and not to have been a dentist, and not to have the IRS after me, and after that, maybe a son like you and maybe a big boat.

  He gave Roy a hug then, which took Roy completely by surprise. He felt embarrassed when his father finally let go of him. His father was going to cry, he knew.

  But then luckily his father turned and headed back down the slope. They continued on without talking, and by the time they were descending to the cabin, the awful locked-in feeling had gone away and Roy said, Who’s been eating my porridge? Who’s been sleeping in my bed?

  His father laughed. It would be time for the cache, all right.

  When they had their shoes off and were inside with the stove going, his father said, You know, I’ve been thinking about what you said about already having said that you’re staying, and you’re right. I don’t have to feel bad and apologetic after everything I say. I can just trust that you can handle a few things. After all, I’m never going to be perfect or without troubles, and I want to be able to talk with you and want you to know me, so I’m not going to keep apologizing like that.

  I think that’s good, Roy said.

  I appreciate it, his father said.

  Roy read from his history book then, thinking he never had weird talks like this with his mother and then missing her. She and his sister would be having dinner now, listening to the same classical music, whatever it was, that they always listened to, and his mom asking Tracy all about everything and Tracy getting to talk to her. But then his father seemed to be doing better, too, and this wasn’t so bad, so he read on about the guillotine and tried to forget about home.