The Diviners (43 page)

“Okay, I will, then. I guess.”

But the word does not come easily to her. After a while she finds she can actually speak it, and then it is easy. So easy and needed that she peppers her talk with it.

“We've got a film in our camera, Dad. Hey, Dad, can you take a picture of me, Dad?”

So he does. A picture of Morag and Pique. He will not let Morag take his picture, not even with Pique.

“Skinner–why not?”

Jules hands the camera back to her, and hitches his belt up around his hips. He tosses back the mane of hair from his forehead and eyes, and laughs a little, warning her.

“Search me. Maybe I'm superstitious. Or maybe it's the same as I can't make up songs about myself. Maybe I don't want to see what I look like. I'm going on okay this way. Let's not get fancy about it.”

That evening, Jules gets out his guitar.

“Are you still working with Billy Joe?” Morag asks.

“Yeh. We had a country and western group going for a while, there, but then we split up. So it's just me and Billy again, now. We travel some. More coffee-houses than used to be, but a lotta kids coming up now, singing, too, which is great for them but a bit more difficult for guys like me and Billy Joe. Anyhow, this is the one I did for Old Jules, my grandad. You remember, I told you once?”

“I remember.”

Pique sits quietly beside Morag, not asking any questions, waiting. And Skinner sings.

 

The Métis they met from the whole prairie

To keep their lands, to keep them free,

They gathered there in the valley Qu'Appelle

Alongside their leader, Louis Riel.

 

They took their rifles into their hands

They fought to keep their fathers' lands,

And one of them who gathered there

Was a Métis boy called Jules Tonnerre.

 

He is not more than eighteen years;

He will not listen to his fears.

His heart is true, his heart is strong;

He knows the land where his people belong.

 

Macdonald, he sits in Ottawa,

Drinking down his whiskey raw,

Sends out west ten thousand men,

Swears the Métis will not rise again.

 

The young
Anglais
from Ontario,

Out to the west they swiftly go;

They don't know what they're fighting for,

But they've got the cannon, so it must be war.

 

It was near Batoche, in Saskatchewan,

The Métis bullets were nearly gone;

“If I was a wolf, I'd seek my lair,

But a man must try,” said Jules Tonnerre.

 

Riel, he walks with the Cross held high,

To bless his men so they may not die;

“God bless Riel,” says Jules Tonnerre,

“But the cannon
Anglais
won't listen to prayer.”

 

Dumont, he rides out to ambush the foe,

To hunt as he's hunted the buffalo;

He's the bravest heart on the whole prairie,

But he cannot save his hunted Métis.

 

Jules Tonnerre and his brothers, then,

They fought like animals, fought like men.

“Before the earth will take our bones,

We'll load our muskets with nails and stones.”

 

They loaded their muskets with nails and stones,

They fought together and they fought alone;

And Jules, he fell with steel in his thigh,

And he prayed his God that he might not die.

 

He woke and found no soul around,

The deadmen hanging onto the ground;

The birds sang in the prairie air.

“Now, it's over, then,” said Jules Tonnerre.

 

Riel, he was hanged in Regina one day;

Dumont, he crossed the U.S.A.

“Of sorrow's bread I've eaten my share,

But I won't choke yet,” said Jules Tonnerre.

 

He took his Cross and he took his gun,

Went back to the place where he'd begun.

He lived on drink and he lived on prayer,

But the heart was gone from Jules Tonnerre.

 

Still, he lived his years and he raised his son,

Shouldered his life till it was done;

His voice is one the wind will tell

In the prairie valley that's called Qu'Appelle.

 

They say the dead don't always die;

They say the truth outlives the lie–

The night wind calls their voices there,

 

The Métis men, like Jules Tonnerre.

They are silent for a while. Morag wonders whether he has not, after all, sung it for her as much as for Pique. Pique likes the tune, and the strong simple rhythm, but otherwise it is lost on her. It is not lost on Morag. The echoes, and all the things he could never bring himself to say in ordinary speech, have found their way into the song.

“Hey, you're crying, kind of,” Pique says, looking at Morag in curiosity and perhaps embarrassment. “Didn't you like that song? I did.”

“I liked it fine,” Morag says.

She glances at Jules, who is re-tuning his guitar.

“Yeh. Well. It's good you like it,” he says. “It's too long for a lotta people, and they can't listen right through. The older ones, that is. Older, hell–about my age. Or they don't wanna know about it, and start yellin' why don't I sing ‘Yellow Rose of Texas' or like that. Jesus.”

He turns to Pique.

“Hey, that song's about your great-grandad. How about that?”

But the concept of great-grandfather is too distant for her, even when he explains. She looks bewildered. But wants to please him.

“Sing it again,” she says.

“No, I'll sing you some others now. I'll sing you that one again someday.”

Someday. He doesn't mean tomorrow or next week. When will someday be? Maybe never. For now, he sings some of the songs he made up for Billy Joe's kids, songs with some quality of laughter in them, some of them based on Ojibway tales and some of them speaking of the kids for whom he wrote them, naming names. Joking. Pique is excited by these songs.

“I want a song for me, Dad. Hey, would you?”

“Maybe someday,” Jules says. “Or maybe you'll make up a song for me. How about that, eh?”

“I don't know how,” Pique says defensively, sulkily.

“Hell, neither do I,” Jules says, “but I do it all the same.”

After this, he sings for them often. He says he is working on a song about Lazarus, but he does not sing that one.

“Well, I gotta move,” Jules says, one evening. “It's time.”

He says this to Morag, not to Pique. He does not say goodbye to Pique. The last night he is there, he and Morag lie together, their arms lightly around one another, their hands sometimes stroking the other's skin, but not speaking and not making love. Morag does not think she will sleep, but she does. In the morning, when she wakens, he is not there. He has stayed two months.

Pique says nothing when Morag tells her that Jules has gone. She does not question why he came here nor why he went away. What may come of this, later on, Morag cannot know.

 

“I have lost my job,” Fan says. “I have been given the axe.”

“Oh God, Fan. What're you going to do?”

“I will go back to the Okanagan,” Fan says, steadily, her face broken. “My sister's still got the place there, sweetheart.
I will go back and I will cook the jesus meals or feed the chickens or whatever else they ask me to do. And I'll live there until I die, which may not be that long, but probably will be. Fan Brady at age seventy-five or eighty–how does that grab you? Well, I can do it if I put my mind to it. I grew up there.”

“Fan–”

“Oh hell, Morag–”

They hold onto one another for a second.

“What'll you do, Morag?”

“I'll go to England. And Scotland, sometime.”

“
England? Scotland?
Why?”

“I've known for a long time I had to go there, Fan. I can't explain it, exactly. I guess I've been waiting for the right moment.”

“Hey, did you want to go
before
, Morag? I mean, you haven't stayed here on account of me?”

“Hell, no, Fan. I just needed something like this to get me up off my ass.”

“You sure?”

“Sure.”

Is this true? It's true in the only way that matters, probably. Fan accepts it.

“We'll keep in touch, eh? We will keep in touch, Morag?”

“Of course.”

They both know they won't. But will never forget, either.

 

NINE

T
he screen door slammed, and Pique stood there, wearing the usual old shirt and her jeans with Jules' brass-buckled belt. Looking great. How could any woman's belly be that flat and breasts upstanding and un-sagging? Morag's once were.

“Hi, Ma. You working?”

Morag was sitting at the oak table, momentarily staring out at the river, the willows and maples on the opposite bank stirring faintly in the merciful breeze, the August heat parching the grass but turning human flesh sweat-dank.

“I'm not sure,” Morag said, untruthfully, because she had been.

This had been the pattern of life for how long? Morag at this table, working, and people arriving and saying, in effect,
Please don't let me interrupt you.
But they
did
interrupt her, damn it. The only thing that could be said for it was that if no one ever entered that door, the situation would be infinitely worse.

Pique drew up a chair and peered at Morag's notebook.

“Well, you seem to be putting down words, anyway.”

“Yes.”

“You sound discouraged,” Pique said.

This was a question between Morag and the work. She didn't want to talk about it.

“Oh, kind of, I guess. I don't know if I'll want it published when it's finished. You look different, Pique. It's your hair. Why braids?”

Pique drew one of the long black elastic-held braids over her shoulder and stroked it lightly.

“Cooler. Keeps it away from my face in this weather. Also, I'm part-Indian–it's suitable, isn't it?”

“I don't think I'm hearing you very accurately. What're you trying to say?”

“I don't know,” Pique said. “I don't want to be split. I want to be together. But I'm not. I don't know where I belong.”

“Does it have to be either/or?”

Pique's eyes became angry.

“I don't guess you would know how it feels. Yes, maybe it does have to be either/or. But I was brought up by you. I never got much of the other side.”

Once again, the reproach. Not to Jules; to Morag. When Pique wielded that particular knife, it always found its mark, as she very well knew.

“I told you what I could.”

“Sure,” Pique said. “But it wasn't much, was it? I never knew what really happened. There was only that one time, when my dad was here–when I was fifteen, eh? And he said a lot of things. And the songs–I've got those. And he said some more, when I saw him in Toronto, this time. But some of those stories you used to tell me when I was a kid–I never knew if they happened like that or not.”

“Some did and some didn't, I guess. It doesn't matter a damn. Don't you see?”

“No,” Pique said, “I don't see. I want to know what really happened.”

Morag laughed. Unkindly, perhaps.

“You do, eh? Well, so do I. But there's no one version. There just isn't.”

“Maybe not,” Pique said, dispiritedly. “I'm sorry, Ma, going on like this. It's part of things which are worrying me.”

“Such as?”

“Dan and A-Okay are going to raise horses. Dan knows about horses–he was raised on a ranch in Alberta. They bred palominos–worth a lot. A-Okay knows nothing about it. But you know him. He's so serious. He'll learn. They're gonna put the land to feed crops. A-Okay will pay for the first coupla nags from the bread he makes out of those articles. Dan's got a few hundred bucks put by, as well. Dan says he can give riding lessons. He learned to ride western as a young kid, but then his dad got these classy ideas and had him taught English style–wanted Dan to be a gent, what a laugh. When they've got all this beautiful bloodstock or whatever you call it, they'll sell selected ones.”

“You don't sound exactly ecstatic,” Morag said.

“I'm not,” Pique said. “Where am I in this whole deal? Listen, Dan and I–we've got on pretty well at A-Okay's and Maudie's place. But Maudie and I, you know, we're kind of different people, and sometimes her–well, I feel awful saying it–her real
goodness
and gentleness, sometimes they bug me. That
is
awful, isn't it?”

“Not so very,” Morag said. “It bugs me sometimes, too. She's too good to be true. Like Catharine Parr Traill. But she
isn't
, really, Pique. I mean, it's partly whistling in the dark.”

“Oh sure. I know. Well, we do get on, generally, despite her earth-mother bit. But when she says she feels her
vegetables out in the garden calling to her so she has to go out and chat them up a little–well, sure it's funny, Ma, but sometimes I feel like saying
Oh come on, Maudie, don't give me that bullshit
. Anyway, this whole deal. Dan's quitting his job in McConnell's Landing, right? A-Okay is bringing in some bread but not enough. Maudie obviously can't. She's got Tom, and she's doing all the cooking and looking after her vegetables and chickens and that. But we need a little something coming in, obviously. So guess who's appointed? And working as a cashier in a supermarket doesn't really grab me that much.”

“Have you told Dan?”

“Sure. He says it won't last all that long, and when the horses are bringing in some cash, I can help on the farm. Well, that's okay, if it was outside work. I mean, with Maudie, who could really help with the meals? And would I want to, anyway? I'm not much on cooking. But I'm not sure I want to stay here. Only, Dan doesn't want to move.”

“Where do you want to go, Pique?”

“West, I guess. Maybe not this minute. But soon. I guess, like, I have to.”

“Wouldn't Dan go as well, for a while?”

“I can't ask him to, unless he really wants to. And he doesn't. He doesn't ever want to go west again, he says. He says he's had it up to here. Trouble is, I really care about him.”

“I know.”

Silence.

“I gotta get back,” Pique said, finally. “Sunday, day of rest, what a laugh, eh?”

“It'll be all right, Pique. It'll work out.”

“Yeh. Probably.”

 

Dan came over late that afternoon, by himself, docking the boat a little clumsily, still not totally accustomed to boats, banging it broadside against Morag's dock instead of nosing it in gently as Pique did.

“Can I come in, Morag?”

“Certainly. Of course.”

How to write a novel without hardly trying. Morag folded up her notebook, cursing silently:

Lord, I am concerned about them all. But my God, when am I going to get any work done? And yet if they didn't want to talk, I'd be sorry.

Dan Scranton stood awkwardly in the doorway, and finally sat down and accepted a cup of coffee. The ritual–come in, have a cup of coffee. He did not speak for several minutes, but when he did, he came right to the point.

“I get this feeling you don't like me that much, Morag.”

Oh jesus. They were so easily offended, so analytical despite their proclaimed lack of faith in words. What was it this time?

“Sure, I like you,” Morag said, genuinely surprised. “What would give you the idea I didn't?”

“You hardly ever call me by my name,” Dan said contemplatively.

“That hasn't anything to do with you,” Morag said reluctantly. “I once knew a man whose name was Dan–I still know him, for that matter, but he lives in another country, and anyway–”

The reaction was instantaneous.

“It's okay,” Dan Scranton said quickly, as though picking up the needed message right away but not wanting to know more than the basic relevance to himself. “You don't have to say any more. I'm sorry, Morag.”

“I'll try to call you by your name.”

“It doesn't matter,” Dan said, “now that I know. I'm probably too anxious to have people like me, so then I imagine they don't.”

“Pique told me about the horse idea.”

“Yeh,” Dan said. “And there is a good chance it may work. Only thing, why would Pique want to take off again, just now? I mean, at this point. Or at all.”

“Don't ask me. To look for her family, I suppose.”

“Has she got any? Back there?”

“Only one uncle, as far as I know,” Morag said. “But of course a lot of cousins by now, I expect. Anyway, I'm not sure it's that–I mean, those specific individuals.”

“I sort of know,” Dan said, “and yet I don't. I won't try to persuade her not to go. If she has to, well, that's that. But I can't go. Not yet, anyway. Maybe never. Maybe I'm afraid to go back, even if it's not to the exact same place. I really hated the prairies when I lit out.”

“I know. So did I. I felt that way about the town where I grew up. Then I found the whole town was inside my head, for as long as I live.”

“That's terrible,” Dan said.

“No. No, it isn't terrible at all.”

“For me, it would be. I can't stand the thought. The land, yes–my God, who could help caring about land like that? It's the people I can't stand, some of them, anyway. One in particular, I guess. When I was a kid, you know, I thought my dad was a real hero–I guess it would've been better if I'd never got along with him. But I did. I thought he was great. And maybe in some ways he even
is
great. He comes on very strong. Most people admire him. He still runs the place. He's a very wealthy guy now, although once he wasn't. He belongs to all the right clubs. He even took up golf. He's got this movie
image of himself–gentleman-cowboy. Jesus. That's what he wanted me to be, only more so. Just before I lit out, I used to get so I thought either I'd start to yell, really berserk, you know, or else hit him. I guess it might've been better if I had. Hit him, that is.”

Dan bent forward, his face hidden, the palms of his hands outstretched onto the table, suddenly clenched into himself.

“You know, Morag,” he said, “the trouble isn't that I don't care about them. The trouble is that I
do
. They don't know. They think I don't give a shit about anything. They think I'm some kind of traitor–to them, to everything. But I'm not going back to take over the place from him, not even when he's dead. I don't want his kind of place. Not in any way.”

“Yet you're planning to raise horses,” Morag ventured.

Morag Gunn, fleeing Manawaka, finally settling near McConnell's Landing, an equally small town with many of the same characteristics.

“That's different,” Dan said defensively. “I have to make my own kind of place. I'm not talking about the difference in outside scenery, either.”

“I know. Your own place will be different, but it'll be the same, too, in some ways.”

“Not if I can help it,” Dan said angrily.

“I'm not sure you
can
help it. You can change a whole lot. But you can't throw him away entirely. He and a lot of others are there. Here.”

Morag reached out and touched the vein on Dan's wrist.

“Oh jesus,” Dan said, anguished, “maybe it's true. I can't take this.”

Tactful Morag. What a thing to say. Maybe even untrue. No, not untrue. The remark wouldn't matter in the long run, though, because he wouldn't believe her. Not yet.

“Forget it, Dan. It was a stupid thing for me to say.”

“When I met Pique, I thought
This is it. I'm home.
And now–well, I know she's got to go away, Morag. But I've got to stay. I wanted you to know.”

“Thanks, Dan. It'll be all right. At least, I hope so.”

“Yeh. Well. Maybe.”

Across the river, in A-Okay and Maudie's house, was Pique Tonnerre Gunn, or Pique Gunn Tonnerre, who must walk her own roads, wherever those might be. And nothing seemed to be getting much simpler as time went by.

That evening, Morag went out with Royland in his boat, taking the outboard so that he could fish. The river was a thousand percent cooler than the land. The sweat which had been running down Morag's forehead all day, steaming up her glasses, began to evaporate. She might just possibly survive the heat of summer after all. Then, after the marvels and cool warmth of autumn, the battle to survive the godawful winter would begin. What a country, and how strange she cared about it so much.

The willows bowed down on either side of the river, low and globe-shaped trees, their flickering silvergreen leaves now beginning to turn yellow. Behind them, the gigantic maples, an occasional massive oak and the dying elms. They passed areas of cleared land, where the fields came down nearly to the river. The massed clumps of goldenrod proclaimed the fields' extent and ending, the wildflowers as always encroaching, taking over wherever the fields gave an inch. The hay had long since been taken in, and the winter wheat was harvested. The spring crops were ripening now.

“I meant to swim today,” Morag said, above the idling motor, “but of course I didn't. I hardly ever do.”

“Lotta weed this year,” Royland said, having just disentangled his line from a clump of it.

“Yeh. I go out every morning and think–swimming is the best exercise there is, and what is the point in living on a river if you don't swim? Then I see all that benighted weed and I change my mind. If I do go swimming and run into a patch of it, I flail around in a panic, thinking it must be a river-monster, probably prehistoric, which has been hibernating down there in the mud for ten million years and has just wakened. Or Grendel, as in Beowulf, and me without courage or a sword.”

Royland laughed.

“Well, you shouldn't swim alone, anyhow.”

“I used to be a fair swimmer, believe it or not. A miracle, considering I learned to swim in the Wachakwa River. There were bloodsuckers. You had to make them let go by applying lighted cigarettes.”

Morag, terrified of cities, coming out here, making this her place, her island, and still not going swimming because of the monsterweed. But at least she could somehow cope. City friends often asked her if she was not afraid to stay in the house alone, away out here. No, she wasn't. She was not lonely and not afraid, when alone here. She did not think that the loghouse was about to be descended upon by deranged marauders. In New York, Morag's agent and his wife had three locks upon their door.