Totem (4 page)

The Cave

“Here,” Jonny said, tossing Ernie a pullover with the school crest on the pocket. “Wear this over your vest.” They usually wore the scratchy maroon sweaters in the winter. If Father Gregory questioned them, Jonny planned to tell him they wanted to look respectable.

Ernie pulled on the oversized sweater. “Good thing to throw overboard,” he said with a grin. “They'll think I drowned for sure.” He left the dormitory with a pillow case stuffed down the front of his pants, planning to steal some food.

Father Paul looked at the boys wearing sweaters in the hot summer weather and shook his head. “They don't even feel the heat,” he commented to Father John.

The cook placed a loaf of bread on the counter. When he turned to slice it, Ernie snatched a handful of carrots from the sink. Jonny passed him a few potatoes from the bin.

By the time Father Gregory came out, both boys waited in front of the launch with the pillow case well hidden on board. The priest carried a small hatchet in a leather pouch. “I thought we'd chop down a branch for a roost while we're out.”

The motor boat shot through the cold water that met the rugged mountains. An eagle took to the air, warming its wings as it circled the sky. The sun, even though filtered through trees, felt warm. Jonny reached up to remove his sweater.

Ernie shook his head.

Father Gregory manoeuvered the boat alongside a wooden dock littered with hand-painted signs. “Do you see one for Cove Bay Chicken Farm?” he asked.

Jonny nodded.

Ernie pointed to the number of canoes upturned along the shore. “Look at all those canoes,” he said. “Did I tell you I can really paddle?” He winked at Jonny, using his entire jaw.

Father Gregory's dark skirts brushed the dusty road as they followed the signs. Cove Bay Farm lay around a bend in the road, nestled in the gentle slope of the foothills. A rooster stood in the middle of the road with the confidence of an armed guard.

A burley man in a short-sleeved shirt and shorts raked the grass. He wore knee-high black rubber boots. A dozen long, low, netted pens scattered the fields behind him. In the distance was a small two-storey wood house with a large screened porch.

“Quite a spread you have here,” said Father Gregory, extending his hand.

“We've been raising chickens for three generations,” the man said shaking the priest's hand. He nodded toward a small wooden hut, the colour of a wasp nest, beneath a huge golden spruce. “My great-grandfather, Tom McCutcheon, started out in that shack.”

Jonny looked at the golden spruce that towered over it. “Did he plant that tree?”

“I don't know,” the man said, “but he always said it brought him good luck.”

“He would have needed it, farming in those days,” Father Gregory said.

“He wasn't really a farmer,” the man commented. “He only built the barn in order to claim the land. In those days you could register sixty-four hectares for ten bucks.”

“So which chickens are ours?” Ernie asked with impatience.

“Just about to crate them up,” the man said. He looked over to the road. “Looks like you don't have a vehicle. You must have come by water.”

“We came in a motor boat,” Ernie said. “I wanted to canoe, but there wouldn't be room for the chickens. You like canoeing?”

The man threw back his head and laughed. “You bet,” he said. “In fact I've still got the one my grandfather bought off the Indians. You want to see it?”

“We won't have time for that,” Father Gregory said in a clipped voice. “If you could crate the fowls, the boys will carry them to the launch.”

Once the first crate of chickens was ready, Ernie and Jonny attempted to lift it.

“Wait a minute, boys,” the man said. “I'll lend you a wagon.”

As the boys placed the chicken crate into the wagon, Father Gregory turned to the farmer and smiled. “Jonny is our only English orphan. But, in a few years, all of our boys will have lost their native tongue and be just as civilized as him.”

They watched the boys set off down the road. “Make sure you come straight back,” Father Gregory called out.

When they reached the launch, both boys removed their sweaters. Ernie upturned the canoe farthest from the dock and threw his sweater inside along with his vest. They removed the emergency paddles from the launch along with the pillowcase and placed them against the canoe's inner wall. They sat down to rest.

Hundreds of geese descended on the marshy shore. The huge mass of black heads bobbed up and down as they fed. Several old ganders kept theirs in the air, as lookouts. Ernie moved into the marsh. The entire bay became a storm of deafening honking. The birds rose around the intruder. Ernie fired his slingshot. A goose crumpled and fell from the sky. He shot again. A second goose tumbled before the first even hit the ground. Jonny picked up a rock and paused, not sure which way to throw. The incessant honking distracted him.

Ernie grabbed his arm. “Don't bother trying to hunt like an Indian,” he said with a mocking laugh. He picked up the dead geese and threw them into the canoe.

They went back to the farm for the second crate. Father Gregory and the farmer sat in the screened porch drinking lemonade.

“Why don't we stack two crates this time?” Jonny asked.

“We gotta keep Father Gregory off guard,” Ernie whispered. “Every time I come back, he trusts me a little more about not to run away.”

By the time they'd put the last of the chickens onto the launch, soot grey clouds were moving toward the sun. Ernie removed his shoes and stuffed them into the pillowcase.

“I'll tell them I was down the road before I noticed you were gone,” Jonny said as Ernie undid his jeans.

“I think you better come with me,” Ernie said.

“I don't mind living at the school,” Jonny said.

“You will if Father Gregory keeps taking you down the basement,” Ernie muttered.

Fear blossomed in Jonny's stomach. With Ernie gone, he'd be alone in the dorm.

“Make up your mind,” Ernie said. “It's going to rain. I gotta get going.”

Jonny reached for the smooth stone in the pocket of his pants. He liked the feel of it between his thumb and forefinger. For some reason whenever he touched it, he felt stronger. “Wait,” he said. He ran to the launch and grabbed the hatchet. “I know how to chop firewood.”

They pushed the canoe into the water and climbed inside. The sound of the paddles through the waves was their only noise as they moved away from the dock. Jonny watched the shore anxiously, hoping that no one would spot them.

Up river they pulled on to a stretch of pebbly sand.

“You get out,” Ernie said. He undid the belt that held up his oversized jeans. Handing Jonny the geese, pillowcase, and his clothes, he said, “I'll take the canoe out and swim back.”

The clouds grew darker as Jonny watched Ernie manoeuvre the canoe into the middle of the bay.
Ernie is right about one thing
, Jonny thought.
He really does know how to paddle.
He watched him toss the paddles and sweaters overboard, then dive into the waves.

Jonny closed his eyes. All kinds of things swam in that water. He could almost feel them moving in and about his own legs. It seemed like ages before Ernie finally reached shore.

The boys climbed across the rocky beach to a narrow trail that led up the ridge. As the trees grew denser and the trail steeper, Jonny's legs ached and a piercing pain grew in his side. Part way up he had to stop to rest to catch his breath.

The trail wound along the side of the ridge where a small waterfall tumbled down the mountainside. Jonny dropped to his knees, cupped his hands, and took a deep drink. The icy water tasted so different from what they drank at school.

“It's not far now,” Ernie called back. “We'll make it before dark.”

The rise grew steeper. Jonny had to search for hand and foot holds among the sharp rocks, while Ernie scrambled ahead. Jonny snagged his shirt and tore his pants. As far as he could tell, Ernie had completely disappeared into the dense thicket of shrubs.

“It's here,” Ernie shouted suddenly. The bushes rustled and Ernie popped his head out of them and waved Jonny toward him. “I told you I could find it,” he said. “Come on.”

Jonny hesitated outside the thicket. “What if there's a bear?” he called out. “Maybe we should throw one of the geese in first.”

Ernie popped his head out again. “It would only be here in the winter when the bears are hibernating,” he said with a scoff. “Don't you know anything about animals?”

Jonny crawled through the narrow, bushy entrance. Inside he was able to stand up. It really was the perfect place to hide.

“Do you think he will come soon?” Jonny asked as he brushed the dirt from his pants.

“Who?”

“Your father,” Jonny said, examining the tear in his cuff.

“My dad punched out that Indian Agent,” Ernie said. “He's in jail.”

Jonny's mouth dropped open.

“He only got six months. You'll see, when he's out he'll come and take us far into the bush. And if they try to stop him, he'll just beat up those old priests. He's real tough.”

“Six months? What about food?” Jonny kicked the filthy pillow case that smelled of dead birds and rotting vegetables. “This won't last.”

Ernie patted the slingshot in his back pocket. “There's all kind of stuff to eat in the forest,” he said. “We just got to do a little work to get it.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a mass of mashed berries. “I bet you don't know what these are,” he said with a smirk.

Jonny easily recognized the blueberries. “We grow them in the garden and freeze them for the winter.”

“Indians don't have to garden,” Ernie said. “We just pick it and pop it in our mouths. I picked these on my way up here.”

“Six months will take us into the winter. Nothing grows in the winter, not on the mountain or in a garden.”

Ernie ignored him as he explored the cave. He pointed to the stone ledge filled with firewood that ran along the wall. “Look,” he said. “I told you the Indians used this place. Look at all the wood.” He moved to the back of the cave. “Hey!” Ernie said, removing a torch from a holder in the wall. “Now we will really be able to see.”

A boom of thunder bounced off the mountain. Jonny pushed aside the bushes that covered the mouth of the cave and stood watching the rain slash down in torrents. Tree branches snapped in the wind.

“This is perfect,” Ernie crowed as he performed a few small dance steps. “They'll think we drowned for sure.” He handed Jonny the torch and went for an armload of wood.

“Have you got matches?” Jonny asked.

“I do, but we don't need them,” Ernie said. He balanced the tip of a smooth stick on top of a plank of wood. Rubbing the palms of his hands, the stick twirled but nothing happened.

“What are you trying to do?” Jonny asked.

“Make a spark,” Ernie said. “I saw my grandmother do it.”

Jonny sat on the cold rock floor watching Ernie. Over the bay the thunder continued to rumble. A howl that wasn't the wind filled the canyon. Jonny stiffened. “What was that?”

“Just a wolf,” Ernie answered. “They live all over these mountains.”

A vicious flash of lightning lit the entire cave. In utter disbelief, Jonny's eyes travelled up the tall fur boots, past rough, woolen trousers to the familiar flowing white hair. The old man from the woods stood in the entrance.

“Darn,” Ernie said, as he threw down the stick. “She made it look so easy.” He fished for a pack of matches in his vest pocket. “What?” he asked looking up at Jonny's ashen face. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

Jonny scrambled to the mouth of the cave, but no one was there. Once again his mind was playing tricks on him. He stood for a moment watching and waiting. With a sigh, he returned to the stone floor, picked up some sticks, and added them to the pile.

Ernie struck a match, lit the twigs, and blew on them. The small fire crackled, giving out a warm, friendly glow. Ernie went to the back of the cave for more wood but returned empty handed. He picked up the torch and put it to the fire. “You gotta see this,” he said. “Follow me.”

He led Jonny to the very back of the cave where a narrow passageway opened into a large cavern. Unlike the outer cave, the ash-grey walls were smooth with few cracks and holes.

As soon as his eyes became adjusted to the torch-light, Jonny saw the paintings of animals and fish that covered the walls of this huge chamber.

“How old are these?” he asked.

“Who cares,” Ernie said with a shrug. “The important thing is we can sleep here. Even if those priests find the mouth of the cave, they won't find this place.”

Jonny studied the pictures. “This place must have been used for something special.” With the tip of his finger he touched the long snout of the fierce dog-like drawing. He traced around its pointed ears, across the animal's back, along its tail and back, finishing with the rows of sharp teeth. The tip of his finger felt odd when he finished, as if he had accidently touched the flame of a candle.

“This one is the best,” Ernie said. “See this guy. He's pulling salmon out of the ocean.”

Jonny crossed the floor to where Ernie stood.

“Look how the artist made it look like there were thousands of fish,” Ernie said. “He drew one and then made a whole bunch of heads behind it.”

“Is he fishing?” Jonny asked.

The boys stood with their heads together looking at the pleading eyes of the salmon. Jonny could almost hear their desperate splashing against the pounding of the surf.

“I think he is using some kind of rake.” Ernie said.

They reached up and touched the image of the human. The whole cave echoed with an ear-shattering thunderclap. In an explosion of brilliant light, the boys fell to the floor and then the world went black.