The Back of the Turtle (5 page)

SONNY WALKS ALONG THE BEACH, SWINGING THE HAMMER BY
his side.

One, two, one, two, one, two, one, two.

Sonny loves the wide open spaces of the beach. He loves the soft sand, the wind, the water. He misses the seals that used to flop about in the surf, and sun themselves on the rocks. He misses the fish that played at the mouth of the river. He misses the crabs that clattered along the waterline.

That One Bad Day.

Each day on the beach, the world begins anew. Fresh. Clean. Full of salvage. Sonny bends down and rakes the hammer through the sand. He likes the designs that the claw makes, and sometimes he finds things people have lost.

Eyeglasses.

Rings.

Baby soothers.

Car keys.

So far today, Sonny has found several metal spoons, a plate, and a cup. Right at the water’s edge, he’s found a trunk buried in the sand.

Wham-wham!

There are labels on the trunk with writing that looks like the writing you see in martial arts movies. Both Sonny and Dad like this kind of movie. Sonny remembers the evenings when the two of them would sit together in the dark with a bowl of popcorn and watch people smite each other.

The trunk is very exciting, and Sonny tries to dig it out with his hammer and his hands.

Dig, dig, dig.

Hammer, hammer, hammer.

But the trunk is stuck fast, and Sonny will have to wait for the next high tide to float it free.

In addition to the trunk, Sonny finds a number of turtle skeletons and shells—big turtles, medium turtles, baby turtles. Sonny leaves these where he finds them. Finding dead turtle pieces on the beach is easy. Turtle pieces are not proper salvage.

Sonny walks the shoreline until he gets to the wide channel where the Smoke cuts through the sand on its way to the ocean.

The river is looking better now.

It’s the colour of water again.

Sonny shakes his sack. Not a good salvage day. Maybe he should check the trail. Maybe today is a good day to check the trail to the hot springs.

Beatrice Hot Springs.

Nine descending pools of varying temperatures. There’s one just right for you. That’s what the brochure at the motel says. There’s one just right for you.

Other than the beach, the best place to find salvage is along the sides of this trail. The trail to the hot springs is steep, and Sonny has seen people stumble and fall, and when they stumble
and fall, they can lose things. Wallets, cameras, towels, water bottles, cellphones. The list of things that people can lose on the trail is long and exciting.

While Sonny likes the prospect of finding salvage on the trail, he doesn’t care for the knotted shadows of the deep woods, and he doesn’t like the disturbing sounds that follow him up the path. Wailing sounds. Scratching sounds. Hissing sounds. Rocks running wild. Ferns whispering to each other.

Roots spreading lies about Dad.

Sonny follows the river back up the beach, and, when he gets to the large spruce tree that guards the trailhead, he stops dead in his tracks.

Leaning against the tree is a drum.

Sonny rocks back and forth on his feet. It’s a drum for sure. An old drum that has seen better days. An Indian drum. Sonny has never found an Indian drum before.

Sonny picks up the drum and wipes off the sand. It feels damp, as though it’s been under water, and when Sonny taps on the hide, it makes a soft
dub-dub-dub
sound that reminds him of his heart when he tries to go to sleep at night.

Dub-dub-dub.

Sonny holds the drum to his nose and discovers that it smells like bacon. Not exactly like bacon, but something tasty that has smoke and fat in it. He can’t wait to show Dad the drum. When Sonny shows Dad the drum, Dad will surely take him in his arms and say, Behold my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased.

Wham-wham, hammer-hammer.

But while Sonny is savouring the certainty of Dad’s love, he discovers he has fallen into curiosity. Where did the drum come
from? Who left it here? What might the drum signify? Sonny knows that Dad isn’t terribly fond of curiosity. Sure, Dad is a proponent of free will, and Sonny is reasonably sure that curiosity is one aspect of free will, but Sonny also knows that curiosity can lead to questions, and Dad has been firm about questions.

Questions, Dad has told Sonny on numerous occasions, are the consequence of uncertainty and can lead to doubt. Doubt can turn into confusion, confusion can foster disbelief, disbelief can provoke anger, anger can find its way to revolt, riot, and revolution, and from there the world will quickly fall into calamity and chaos.

Sonny is sad when he realizes that he has fallen into curiosity, and he has to sit down and wait for the sorrow to pass.

Okay. All better.

Sonny hits the beach with his hammer.

Wham!

He likes the way the sand leaps up as though it’s been startled out of a nap.

Suddenly, Sonny has a thought, though it could actually be a revelation, now that he thinks about it.

The Indians have returned.

That’s what has happened. That’s the answer to the question of the drum. The Indians have come home. That which was lost is found. This is good news. Sonny has missed the Indians.

Of course, there’s that Indian in the yellow house. She’s still here. Maybe the drum is her drum. Maybe she lost it. Maybe she left it behind by mistake.

Sonny could take the drum to her house. Here’s your drum. Found by Sonny.

Then again, it might not be her drum at all. Sonny can feel uncertainty and doubt creeping into his thoughts, again, and he begins to experience the first stirrings of confusion. This is not good.

Not Good!

What is he thinking? What has Dad told him? In the face of uncertainty, have faith. That’s what Dad always says. Have faith. That which is to be, shall be. Life is a mystery. The only way to understand existence is through faith, not curiosity.

Have Faith.

Dad has said this over and over again, but Sonny cannot remember Dad ever saying have curiosity.

The wind blusters in off the ocean. Sonny likes the damp salt air on his face and the sensation of his hair fluttering out in flags and streamers. Sonny starts back along the beach to the motel. Asking questions is not only dangerous, it is also strenuous, and Sonny realizes that he is hungry.

Out on the water, Sonny sees a dark shape slouching along the horizon. A solitary ship, perhaps, moving at the edge of the world. Ships come and go all the time. Some come close to shore. Maybe one day a ship will wind up on Sonny’s beach. Now that would be exciting, Sonny tells himself.

A ship on the beach.

On that day, there would be no end to salvage.

THE ABSENCE OF WINDOWS IN THE DOMIDION COMPLEX HAD
always made it difficult for Dorian to gauge the time, and when he looked at the icon in the lower right-hand corner of his computer, he was surprised to see that it was after five.

Dorian took off his glasses and closed his eyes. Tonight would be a quiet night. Dinner with Olivia. He might even watch the football game. He couldn’t remember who was playing. Not that it mattered.

So long as it wasn’t Buffalo.

Most of Toronto followed the Bills, but Dorian had no time for that team. No matter how they started off, they always came up short. Dorian wondered if Buffalo itself had something to do with the team’s failures. The city had a palpable stink of depression and need. Perhaps failure was in the air. In the water.

He checked the Internet. The Arizona Cardinals were playing the Houston Texans.

Terrific.

All right. Dinner with Olivia and then a movie.

Dorian looked up to find Winter at his door. He had already seen enough of his assistant today. Then again, Winter never came to his office unless it was necessary.

“The car will pick you up at six,” she said. “Lobby level. They’re updating security protocols in the garage.”

Dorian tried to keep his face passive and open.

“The Walper Lecture at the university.”

“That’s tonight?” Dorian slumped slightly in his chair. “Wonderful.”

“You’re giving the keynote on public-private partnerships.” Winter handed Dorian a tablet. “You can review the talk on the drive to the university. There’ll be a teleprompter.”

“Fine.”

“You should spend some time with the president and the board of governors.”

“Am I bearing gifts?”

“A major partnership with the Humanities,” said Winter. “The Domidion School of Business and Media Communications. Physical plant, start-up costs, endowed chairs. The plan is to fold English, Sociology, and Psychology in to the new school.”

“What about Philosophy, History, and Fine Arts?”

Winter waited as though she had not understood the question.

“Are we concerned about those disciplines?”

“No,” said Winter. “Remember to emphasize the benefits of university-corporate co-operation in an increasingly competitive world.”

Dorian looked at the phone. Winter would have already called Olivia to tell her that her husband would not be home until late.

Winter touched the side of her glasses. “There’ll be a delay in compiling all of Dr. Quinn’s background information.”

“A delay?”

“Many of those records are in archives,” said Winter.

“And there’s no one in archives.”

“That’s correct.”

Dorian was sure that somewhere in his talk this evening would be a mention of the efficiencies of contemporary business and the capacity of multinational corporations to outperform their public sector counterparts.

“You’re familiar with archives.”

“Yes, sir. I am.”

“Supervise the search yourself,” said Dorian. “I want those records by morning.”

Quinn would be found. Dorian was sure of that. They’d have a chat about his interest in classified files, about his sudden disappearance. Everything would get straightened out, and that would be that.

“The school colours are red, gold, and black.”

Dorian frowned.

“You might want to wear an appropriate tie.”

What was particularly curious was the writing. When they found Q, that’s how Dorian would start the conversation. “The writing on the walls,” he’d say, “tell me about the writing on the walls.”

Winter stopped at the door. “You might encounter a rally.”

“A protest?”

“A small demonstration is what we’ve been told,” said Winter.

“Zebras?”

“Possible,” said Winter. “I can arrange a security team if you like.”

Dorian waved a hand. “Bad PR.”

“Yes, sir,” said Winter. “Enjoy the evening.”

DORIAN
walked through his office to the executive suite. He opened the closet and ran a hand along the rack of ties. Red and gold and black. Not exactly subtle colours. He chose a silk Brioni, a soft crimson with gold flecks.

As he stood in front of the mirror, working the tie into a compact knot, he noticed a dark spot on his temple. He touched the mark. It felt strange and somewhat numb. This was new. Or perhaps he just hadn’t noticed it before. He had been able to avoid the signs of age, but now, here was a blemish, a distinct and unmistakable sign of decay.

No doubt there would be others.

The lobby was empty. As he walked by the aquarium, Dorian remembered the turtle. The reptile had vanished. Just like Quinn. It had gone somewhere, and it had never been found. Maybe Quinn had taken it.

Maybe the two of them had run away together.

The limo was waiting. Dorian settled in the back, took
Luxury Home Magazine
from the seat pocket, and opened it to the dog-eared page. The idea of Quinn and the turtle lighting out for the territories amused him beyond expectations, and he found himself inexplicably laughing out loud.

Tomorrow he’d have his medications checked.

GABRIEL LAY ON THE DECK AND WATCHED THE SUN BRIGHTEN
the tops of the waves. For no reason in particular, the light reminded him of the year that an American bomber had developed engine trouble over the St. Lawrence River and jettisoned a Mark 4 nuclear bomb a few kilometres downstream from Quebec City.

1949? 1950?

The pilot exploded the bomb at an altitude of 2,500 feet. The plutonium core wasn’t in place at the time, so there was no nuclear detonation. But the blast rattled windows and scattered uranium-238 over the area.

Now he remembered: November 10, 1950.

No one knew what to do with the radioactive dust that settled on the water and along the shoreline, or what the long-term effects might be. And since not asking was deemed to be better than knowing, no one asked.

GABRIEL
pressed the pillow against his face. It felt as though it were made out of laundry parts—socks, underpants, T-shirts, small towels—all stuffed into a bag. The thing was lumpy and
had a stale odour to it that was not so much unpleasant as it was old.

He wondered if you could actually smother someone in this manner. The pillow would have to be foam, he reasoned. Feathers would be too leaky. He pressed harder, wrapped his arms around the pillow and squeezed. Yes, a pillow would probably do the job, but it would take a fair amount of effort and will. Still, Gabriel could feel his heart picking up speed, could feel his lungs running out of air.

“Be ye aboard?”

Soldier barked once and dove off the deck. Gabriel peeled the pillow from his face and got to his feet.

Nicholas Crisp was kneeling at the corner of the trailer, rolling Soldier’s head back and forth in his hands.

“Master Dog here tells me ye be slack in the doldrums.”

Gabriel looked at Soldier.

“Exhaustion can be a perilous companion on the open seas.” Nicholas laughed and shook his head. “But I’m a meddlesome creature, always sticking an oar in between strokes.”

“Would you like something to eat?”

“I’ve commerce in town,” said Crisp, “but it’s a sorry soul what turns down groceries.”

“Chicken’s not ready yet,” said Gabriel. “But there’s coffee and some bread and jam.”

“Not much for the sinew and bone,” said Crisp. “Still, it’ll wake the garrison and rally the troops for the manoeuvres ahead.”

Soldier began a long, low rumble in his throat as he rubbed himself against Nicholas’s leg.

“Aye, Master Dog,” said Crisp, “they’re back.”

“Back?”

“The Jabberwoks,” Crisp cried out, his beard trembling. “No doubt bearing idle gifts and sweet-water words.”

“Jabberwoks?”

“The destroyers of worlds.”

Gabriel considered Crisp for a moment. “Now I am become Death,” he said, letting the words roll out like a wave, “the destroyer of worlds.”

Crisp’s eyes twinkled. “So it’s a learned man ye be. A personage of the spoken word. Ye know the Bhagavad-Gita then. Perhaps even in the original Sanskrit?”

“Oppenheimer,” said Gabriel. “I know the phrase because of Robert Oppenheimer.”

“Los Alamos,” said Crisp. “The Holy Trinity.”

“July 16, 1945, August 6, 1945, and August 9, 1945.” Gabriel set a jar of jam on the table. “Years later, Oppenheimer was asked how he felt about the tests, and he quoted that passage from the Bhagavad-Gita.”

The fur on Soldier’s neck rose up like the edge of a knife, and he began stalking the borders of the deck, shaping a slow circle around the two men.

“But he was wrong,” said Crisp, “for it ain’t the vanities of physics what’ll do us in, but the vulgarities of our own greed.”

“Cream?” asked Gabriel. “Sugar?”

“Neither,” said Crisp, “for it’s the dark of a thing what sets its worth.”

GABRIEL
stepped into the trailer and came out with the Bodum and two heavy ceramic cups.

“Bread’s from the bakery in town.”

“Webb’s,” said Crisp, tearing off a piece and putting it to his lips. “I recognizes the tug and pull. Family what makes the tack. They was to catch the tide a while back and sail off with the rest of the privateers, but decided that staying at anchor was wiser than running before the wind.”

“Jam’s apricot.”

Crisp painted a ragged edge of bread. “A treasure unto itself.”

Gabriel cradled his cup between his hands. “So, tell me about …”

“Not much to tell,” said Crisp between chews, “for they’ve the same names and faces. Burbling foes, with eyes aflame. They appear and disappear as they’re needed. Some years back they came and tried to sell us heaven and all the stars.”

Gabriel couldn’t help the smile. “So you’re going to … snicker-snack them with your … vorpal blade?”

“Indeed, indeed.” Crisp threw his head back and roared. “There’s no telling what the slithy toves be flogging this time! The Girdle of Hippolyta, perhaps, or the Seal of Solomon. But betwixt the threes of us, I’m supposing that they want to pick up where they left off. Negotiating the right of way once again.”

“Right of way?” said Gabriel. “For a road?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Crisp. “It were a bad idea then, and it were a bad idea now. So it must be stopped.”

“Can I help?”

Crisp put a hand over his heart and turned to Soldier. “Did ye hear that? An offer so full of grace it would make money weep.”

“I’ve nothing better to do.”

“No, no,” said Crisp. “Ye be both genial and generous, but such a crusade on your part is not required. I only disturbed your meditations to drop off complimentary passes to the hot springs. Ye and a friend, if one can be found. If not, then come twice and bring the dog, if that be your pleasure.”

“Soldier,” said Gabriel. “Evidently his name is Soldier.”

“Soldier, is it?” said Crisp. “Raising an army, are we?”

“It’s just a name.”

“Yet there be much in a name.” Crisp stepped off the deck and gave his pants a quick brush. “No, no, stay here. Enjoy your day. Come by the pools at the full moon, for the waters will be in riot with insomnia and lycanthropy.”

“I don’t have a swimming suit.”

“Then ye be in luck,” said Crisp, “for we don’t require that the loins be clad.”

GABRIEL
took the dishes and the cups back into the trailer. Soldier found his bowl and pushed it around the kitchen, banging it about between the stove and the refrigerator.

“So, what do you want to do?”

Soldier continued pushing and banging.

“We could jog to the beach.” Gabriel let the water drain from the sink. “Did you know that exercise is supposed to release hormones that make you feel happy?”

Soldier stayed with the bowl.

“I could throw a stick, and you could chase it. I could try to destroy the world. You could try to stop me.”

Soldier licked his chops, sat back on his haunches, and waited.

Gabriel ran a hand across his face. Maybe he’d grow a beard. He didn’t have much in the way of facial hair. Not like Crisp. But it might be fun to try. He could let his hair grow long, stop taking baths, start talking to himself. He could run in the woods with the dog and howl at the moon.

Or he could just lie on the deck by himself and give the pillow another try.