Tune Thy Rills

Gavin cast his line in the same direction he had cast it the last eight times. He lined up the tip of the rod with the finger-shaped rock jutting out of the cliff along the far shore, and threw the line in a smooth arch which brought the lure more than a hundred feet from the boat. As the shrimp-baited jigger sank to the depths of the bay, he pulled the bib of his cap down so that the shade it provided his face could be maximized. The reflection of the four-o’clock sun
pranced off the gentle ripple of the Atlantic’s waves and burned his otherwise unprotected face and arms.
The cod food fishery opened a few days earlier, and Gavin had decided that morning to try to get his day’s limit of five fish. A quick call to his buddy secured the small wooden dory, but he would have to go out in it alone. Dave had to drive Deborah to the airport in St. John’s. Deb’s mother, his mother-in-law, was arriving from Ontario for her annual summer visit. Dave, because he’d grown up in the small outport village where his retired father still lived, was much more familiar than Gavin with the nooks and coves around the bay; however, Gavin had made a few trips with Dave in his father’s boat over the past few years, and felt secure in going out alone. He considered himself a fairly good seaman, considering his childhood was spent outside the limits of a Labrador mining town.
“”I expect I’ll make it up to ya in the next few days,” Dave suggested. “I’ll be lookin’ for any excuse to leave the house after today.”
The line at the end of Gavin’s rod stopped its decent; the bait had reached the ocean floor. Gavin tightened his grip on the rod and began to reel, occasionally giving a quick jerk on the line as it travelled through the bay’s clear, cold waters. The line suddenly went taut. Gavin could feel the weight of the life at the end of his line. It wasn’t the strong pull of a codfish. The tension on the line reminded him of something that had simply been caught on the rising jigger, had simply found itself in this awkward situation and was being pulled along; it did not struggle against its fate.
The fish he saw break the water was one of the ugliest creatures he had ever seen. The orange-green creature had spikes and web-like fins sticking out from all angles, and its eyes, which were iridescent copies of its skin, seemed to stare blankly into the air ahead of it. Gavin grabbed the sculpin with a gloved hand, to protect him from the spikes and any toxins excreted from its skin, and immediately noticed a cold breeze rising from the surface of the water. Across the growing waves he saw a dark curtain of fog and low-lying cloud moving toward him. He awkwardly ripped the hook from the mouth of the sculpin and the fish suddenly twitched its muscular flanks, causing it to fall from Gavin’s grip and flounder on the floor of the small boat. As Gavin grabbed at the flapping fish, he suddenly remembered David mentioning that the word “sculpin” was probably a bastardized pronunciation by residents of Conception Bay who spoke a distinct Newfoundland dialect, of “scorpion,” or was it “skeleton.” It was probably “scorpion.” He remembered reading somewhere, or did he see in on television, about a “scorpion fish.”
Gavin grabbed the fish by its tail and flicked it far from the boat. The splash of the released fish could barely be seen through the fog that had begun to encroach toward the boat. Gavin quickly pulled on his jacket to fight the suddenly dropping temperature, and started the outboard motor. He quickly moved the boat in the direction from which he had come. If he could keep ahead of the fog, he would be able to make it back to Dave’s father’s wharf in the next bay.

***

The gentle breezes above the Atlantic gave the bird buoyancy. It floated, letting the cool gusts rising from the silky blue waters support its stationary wings. The gull has an ability to move at tremendous heights and speeds without exerting more energy than is needed to breathe and digest. Two shades of blue encircled the gull’s view. Below, the water moved in troughs of regal blue tipped with crests of white, slowly fading into the distance, appearing smaller and smaller, until they merged with the horizon of a cerulean sky. In this sky of blue, the grey and white bird floated, and far below in the mirrored sea so did a tiny brown spot.
It was isolated; alone and ragged. The ship was as still as a ship could be on the ocean. There was only the perceivable rise and fall that came with the monotonous movement of the small but persistent waves. Its sagging sails flopped, waiting for a strong gust to move it toward its destination. The sound of the sails’ gentle flapping and the occasional creak from the slightly tensing boards were the only sounds exuding from the ship. A few men sauntered about the deck. They were sailors, and sailors tend to saunter rather than stroll. This is because of the motion of the sea. Even on solid land sailors walk like they are constantly reaching for a firm footed fix to counteract the rolling waves. This makes them appear to have a little extra something in the trap door of their trousers, but it is much more polite to say that they saunter.
The gull had followed the ship for weeks and it had formed a relationship with the crew. It was grateful for the scraps of fish guts thrown over the side and the attention it had gained when the sailors would wave at it, shouting words of acknowledgement from the deck. Now a gull is not an intelligent bird. It is a scavenger, and a scavenger does not need brains to stay alive. It just needs someone who wastes things, and people were its favourite wasters. In the gull’s mind however there is a natural urge to show its gratitude. This particular gull had just filled its belly in a feeding frenzy of cod heads and innards that were tossed in the water. It had screamed its approval to the crew, over, and over, and over, and over again. Still it felt that it should give more to the men who unselfishly prolonged its life. Now a gull doesn’t have much to give. There were eggs, but this particular gull, being male, could not possibly produce such a present. Then it had an epiphany.
It dove toward the brown dot bobbing below until the deck became clear, and the individual men became large enough to see. It hovered above one of the sailors, a young apprentice who had been given the job of gutting the fish. The gull could see that this particular boy was important because he stood out from the rest of the crew. Other crew members would only go near him to give him loud words of praise (much like the screeches it gave as thanks for food) and a congratulatory slap on the back of the head. The seagull circled over the young man
and noticed him waving his hands. It felt a connection with his companion of the waves. It would give him a gift. The gracious bird screamed its gratitude (three or four times), floated in a stationary position above the boy . . . and grunted.
The other members of the crew buckled in laughter and began once again to belittle the lad.
“Maybe it’s the way you smell that makes ‘em think you’re a toilet!”
“Bloody gulls even know who to crap on!”
Laugh at me all you want, thought the young man, Some day I’ll be SOMEONE. And when he thought, “SOMEONE,” he thought it in capital letters because he meant SOMEONE who could have each of these men chained, whipped, keelhauled, hung, beheaded,* (* He had thought this out for several days now and changed his initial order of “beheaded and then hung” for obvious reasons.) and then tortured in some other ways he hadn’t thought up yet. “You’ll see!” he thought. And he “thought” it because if he said it out loud he knew that he would be at the receiving end of at least some of his afore-mentioned list.
“Get down ‘ere young Gaffer! You ‘aven’t even started to peel de turnips for supper!” screamed a high-pitched, French tainted voice from the galley. “The Captain’ll ‘ave you strung from de main mast if you don’t ‘urry up!”
Gaffer ran his hand through his hair, flicked as much of the white substance toward the retreating gull, and wiped what was left of the gull’s gift in his already filthy apron. He entered the galley and received another smack on the back of the head from the cook. A knife was thrust into his hands (handle first this time, not that its edge was in any way threatening, for there were times while peeling turnips that he,d imagined a cleverly wielded wooden spoon would be as efficient) and he was pushed toward one of several barrels that had at one time been full of yellow and purple, fist-sized turnips. The crew had consumed more than half of the turnips so far, and they had no idea how long more until they’d reach the new land.
“And don’t t’ink you can get away wit making great big peels so’s you can ‘ave a big feed for yourself! (As a growing boy, and the lowest member of the crew, the lad was allowed the privilege of eating the peels, because of their nutritional value: more iron, vitamins and other elements in the skins and the dirt that clings to them.) Dere’s gonna be ‘ardly anyting left for de trip back, so you better slice de peels thin and use less turnips for de crew. Only the Captain’ll get
de same amount as ‘e’s used to. Even dough ‘e said dat ‘e wants to be treated like de rest of de crew.”
The stringy man, known as “Cookie,”* (*Originality in nicknames was not a strong suit for the sailors of this particular ship–one could say that, not a lot of time was spent in picking out the crew’s nicknames, but that would be an outright lie. It took a week of steady thinking for the crew to decide that the nickname of the sailor who lost one of his eyes in a terrible “hook” accident, was to be “One-eye.” Someone thought of “Patch” a week later, but half of the crew didn’t get the connection, so “One-eye” stuck.) wore an apron that was immaculately clean. This
was because, although he may have had the title of cook, he effectively managed to avoid any actual duties involved in the preparation of food. He spent most of his time looking busy, as young Gaffer and Bert, another young man in the employ of King and Captain, did all of his work. At times this takes a little intelligence, for being able to avoid work has made many half- intelligent people wealthy; but it’s the intelligent ones who know that there’s a price to pay for getting others to do all of your work. The cook, if he was more than half intelligent, would at the very least prepare his own meals, or closely oversee their preparation. Although Gaffer and his
working companion Bert had to eat the turnip and carrot peels, the boney scraps of salt beef that didn’t contain a string of meat, and the heads and tails of the fish, they knew that their meals didn’t include some unorthodox basting material or garnish, added so that there would be just a little justice in the hard-worker’s world.
Gaffer reached down into the barrel and grabbed three of the small turnips.
“Gaffer?”
“Yes Bert.” Bert was a bigger boy who moved at his own pace, and currently he was busy slowly mixing dough for the dumplings that would adorn the soup for the crew’s supper.
“Now that Cookie’s gone up top to . . . umm, . . . get more supplies, I want to ask you somfing.”
“Just a second Bert.” Gaffer scanned the galley to make sure no one else was within listening range, winked and nodded at Bert, and they simultaneously spit in the doughy mixture. Sometimes Gaffer was uneasy about sharing many of his little secrets and defiant ideas with Bert because Bert had a very low understanding of such things. Bert was older than Gaffer but not nearly as bright; however if there was one thing Bert was, it was trustworthy. All Gaffer had to do was say “don’t tell anyone about this,” and he could be sure that Bert would not repeat it. Gaffer just had to make sure to remind Bert often, because his memory was shorter than the plank they’d have to walk if the Captain found out the source of that special flavour in his bouillabaisse. Of course that short memory also gave Gaffer a little more reason to trust Bert; by the time the Captain, or any other detested member of the crew, got his meal, Bert had forgotten what they had done to it. Gaffer had to continuously remind Bert not to taste anything on the plates of certain crew members while he delivered it to their tables.
“Go ahead Bert.”
“Where?”
“I mean you can ask me.”
“Oh. Um, I wuz wonderin’, we been at sea now fer a long time. When are we going to get there?”
“I don’t really know Bert. But I figure we should get there soon.”
“Oh. And Gaff. . .”
“Yes Bert.”
“Where is dere?”
“I don’t know for sure Bert. But do you remember, when we were dragged on board . . . I mean , when we were recruited, we heard the crew arguing about . . . we were briefed, about a new land that this guy Chris found, and our distinguished Italian Captain managed to convince the King that he could claim a lot of it for our great country?”
“No.”
“Well that’s were there is.”
“Oh.”
“Do you think it’ll be nice enough to stay?” said Bert after a few seconds.
“Why Bert? You aren’t gettin’ any ideas about leaving all of this behind are you? What would we do if there wasn’t someone around to beat and kick us regularly?”
“I ain’t never thought about that part Gaff,” replied the older boy as he took his finger from his nostril and continued to form the round balls of dough. His face showed a look of concern.“I guess I just always thought that somebody’d be dere to do it.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right Bert. The world always manages to find someone new to keep us in our place.”

***

The motor puttered slowly as Gavin tried calmly to find land. The light filtering through the blanket of fog surrounding him could give him some idea where to direct the boat. He tried his best to go in the direction of the sun. West. That would be where land lay. But finding a concrete fix on the sun was not a task easily conquered in the thick white mist reflecting and refracting its light source in mystical luminescence. All horizontal direction was skewed. Gavin only knew for sure where the boat and water lay: underneath him.
Soon even the arcane light filtering its way through the fog began to wane. Gavin began to worry about the amount of gas in the outboard’s tank and decided to turn it off. When he could see the way to go he’d need enough gas to get there. In the silent dusky mist he began to worry. His wife, Jen, would be starting to worry about now. She would be putting their two sons to bed;
saying their prayers with them. She would decide to phone David as soon as the boys were asleep . . . if Gavin hadn’t arrived home by then. When David got the call he would reassure her and take the long drive to the outport community where his father still lived and maintained his wharf and fishing stage. He’d see that the boat hadn’t returned and wonder how he was going to tell Jen. And he’d hope and pray that Gavin was alright. He knew that Gavin wouldn’t be the first fisherman to spend a cold night on the water, or on some beach. Gavin continued to fish in order
to pass the time.
Gavin lay in the bottom of the boat. He had to curl tightly into the fetal position in order to fit. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but he had the extra life jacket under his head as a pillow, and his sweater and jacket to keep out most of the cold. The taste of the shrimp he had eaten earlier still lingered in his mouth. He hadn’t even thought twice about eating what many would only consider bait. He was like that. Gavin made decisions quickly and he was rarely what his mother referred to as “qualmish.” The rocking motion of the boat made falling asleep a little easier.
He awoke to knocking. He could see stars in the night sky and then realized the sound was the result of waves pushing the boat against the rocks on a beach. After pulling the boat up on the beach he turned it over and slept there until daylight. He dreamed that he was at a concert where there was a bearded man playing a fiddle and a fife. The music made him tap his feet and he looked everywhere for Jen so that she would dance with him, but he couldn’t find her anywhere.

***

Ounermish woke suddenly from her fitful sleep. She had been dreaming about her upcoming marriage. The dream had shaken her, for in the dream she held the hand of her mother and as she reached for the hand of her future husband a shadow fell across her. She looked back to find that her mother had disappeared. As the young bride turned to look at her groom, a crow swooped from above and began to peck out her eyes. Feelings of shock and pain awoke her. She lay there, wiping the tears from her eyes, confused by the dream. She shouldn’t fear the marriage. Her father and mother had promised her to a young man in a nearby tribe. They considered the union to be a definite step-up socially for the family. They were by no means the most respected members of their band (this may have had something to do with her father’s fondness for incorporating things like earthworms and small animals into the family’s hairstyles) yet he had managed to promise his only daughter to the son of a Shaman. This could only mean good luck for his family, not to mention free yearly checkups.
Ounermish became aware of her surroundings and looked around the tent from her position on her sleeping mat. She didn’t want to disturb the sleep of her parents. She followed one of the birch poles that framed the tent, up to the opening at the top of the structure. Stars twinkled in the spring sky. A small wisp of smoke brought her eyes back down to the dying embers in the pit. She should stoke the flames and put some more wood on the fire. Ounermish tried to get up, but found that any movement other than the wandering of her eyes, was impossible. Her heart began to beat faster as she realized that she was the only member of her
family in the tent; yet she knew she was not alone.
Ounermish looked down at her reddish-brown arms lying atop her seal-skin blanket and wished desperately that they would move. She felt the presence of evil near her. As she ineffectively ordered her body to arouse, the malevolence within the tent moved closer. She could hear its slow monotonous breath. Ounermish urged her mind with all her willpower, to move any part of her body: her arms, her legs, her neck, her feet, but it was as if she were lashed together with invisible ropes. Panic filled her paralysed body as the shrivelled face of an old woman appeared in front of her. The face looked impossibly old. The hairs on the menacing woman’s chin appeared from between wrinkles that had their own wrinkles. The woman sneered, showing bits and pieces of brown teeth, as she crawled over Ounermish’s prostrate body. Ounermish couldn’t breathe; the weight of the Old Hag constrained her chest. She had never been so terrified. The Hag’s face leaned toward the young girl and Ounermish could feel the strands of the old woman’s straggly grey hair brush against her lips. She could smell the witch’s rancid breath as it moved in a slow rhythm across her frozen face. A cracked voice whispered in her ear, “You will become that for which you are named, little bird,” and then the old woman was gone.
Sitting straight up in the tent, Ounermish could still feel her heart trying to break free from the confines of her chest. Sweat covered her entire body. She was relieved to see her father and mother lying together on the opposite side of the tent. Through the darkness she even saw the wriggling of some earthworms trying to escape from her mother’s newest hairdo. Reality started to enter her mind and her heartbeat began to slow. “I need to cool off,” she thought. Ounermish knelt up and reached for the flap to let in the cool night air from outside. Her hand passed straight through the tent. As a matter of fact her hand couldn’t grasp anything in the tent. It was as if she were a ghost. “I’m still dreaming,” she thought. She continued to try touching different items around her, and felt her body rising toward the top of the tent. As she moved toward the opening that led to the night sky, she felt her mind getting cloudy. Thinking clear thoughts was getting difficult for her. Memories faded. As she rose above the tent and headed over the nearby tree tops, her mind focussed on two things: “Flap my wings.” and “I’m hungry; where did I see those
worms?”

***

“We’re going where?”
“Ooog danuit tonga dokker,” <To visit the healer.>
“What? I didn’t even know that those guys knew about cheese!”
“Tonga DOKKER.” <The HEALER.>
“Oh, a medicine man, for this little thing?!” The large blonde man slid his large circular shield to his back and held out his arm. Just below his elbow was a gash about 8cm. long which the nordic man had lashed together with a leather thong.* (* This is not to be confused with a leather strap or lace, and was in truth his spare underwear.) “It’s just a scratch. The bear didn’t really try to hurt me. He just wanted to play.”
“Ga dunnit da cart ledgeuit.” <I can see your bone.>
“No. I don’t think the bear thinks about me in that way! He’s got a wife you know.”
“Da CART ledgeuit im dann LYMM.” <The BONE in your ARM.>
“Oh . . .” The large man seemed lost in thought, “Are you sure there won’t be any cheese? I remember pillaging a town in France where there were some marvellous cheeses.”
“Tont grunga beenh ere alli ly fe!” <You stupid Viking left-over. You’ve never been off this island. You were born here. You are my aunt’s only child. Your ancestors may have pillaged a place called France, but you have never tasted cheese!>
“Maybe so, but grandad told me about cheese. It’s an important part of my culture, and I wish you would refrain from swearing.”
The taller, darker man rolled his eyes and continued to lead his nordic looking companion through the trees and brush along a narrow path. The conifer trees were covered with fresh buds announcing the coming summer season. A cool breeze blew through the ravine of the nearby river, which constantly sounded as a background for the singing birds. Fresh smells of new blooms were carried through the air. Spring had infused Root the Yellow, illegitimate great, great, great grandson of Lief Erikson, and Tontodituit, his trusty Beothuk sidekick, with an urge
to seek their fortunes.
“After we’ve seen this healer do you think they’d mind too much if we ransacked and plundered the village?”
“Gaton ne blastee bow nuit nea.” <No.>
“Why not?!! We’ve been hunting for a couple of days . . . and we tried carousing, which really was a lot of fun considering there’s only the two of us, but we really need to get down to the business of being Vikings! I’m sure they wouldn’t mind a little pillage.”
“Gaton ne blastee bow nuit nea.” <No.>
“What about ravaging? Have they got any pretty girls in this band? I wouldn’t mind a little . . .”
“Gaton ne blastee bow nuit nea. . . Dim Abee.” <No. . . Maybe. >

Through the trees came the smells of civilization. Smoke carried on the summer breezes the scents of freshly cooked meats and fish. The sounds of human interaction also filled the air as the two travellers broke through the end of the trail into the opening that contained the village. There were a dozen or so tent-like dwellings, called mamateeks, and some other utility structures, such as a store house and a smoke house, around which children ran and the workings of the
village occurred. Root the Yellow and Tontodituit approached the villagers without fear even though they hadn’t met any of them before this. Tontodituit’s dark hair and red skin tone, which resulted from spreading red ochre mud over his body, should cause him to integrate easily with the villagers. Only the lighter, blonde Root stood out. He was used to this, for throughout most of his life he had known he was different than everyone else he knew. As a child he would run into the forest to escape the taunts of the children who called him names such as “yellow head” and
“pink hide.” As a boy he too would smear his body with the red mud of his tribe, but once he learned of his great grandfather’s identity he embraced what he knew of his nordic heritage.
As he approached the village the stares of the children and the sideways glances of other members of the tribe brought his thoughts back to the time he was told the truth.

Young Root burst through the trees outlining his band’s village, ran past his mother, who was busy plucking a game bird for the evening meal, and his father, who was repairing the canoe with strips of birch bark, and threw himself into the family tent. He had been playing with the other children in the woods. From within the tent Root’s sobs and occasional utterances of “stupid idiots,” “it’s not fair,’ and “nobody likes me,” could be clearly heard. His parents knew that he was upset about something and with a knowing glance signalled to each other that the
time had come. His father stood up from his work and touched his wife lightly on the shoulder as he walked toward the tent. Upon reaching the entrance of the tent he reached inside, grabbed his hat, turned to his wife, and said, “You handle it–it’s your screwed up family! I’m going to the lodge with the boys,” and he was off.
His parents looked like all the rest of the members of his tribe. They were tall, dark skinned, and had black hair which shone with a blue tint in the right light. They spread red ochre over their bodies and through their hair as did the other members of their band and as did Root. He would try to make his application of ochre thicker than most to cover his lighter pigmentation and blonde locks. There had been stories of animals which were totally white. Ghostly creatures with pink eyes thought to have magical powers in the mystic world. But Root wasn’t looked upon as mystical–his eyes were blue and as his mother entered the tent she could see that those eyes were streaming tears which were the result of a broken heart.
“Why am I so different?” he asked his mother.
“We knew that this time would come,” she replied. “By some fluke of nature you have somehow managed to get all of your genetic traits determining your physical appearance from your great, great, great, grandfather.”
“You mean there was another who looked as I do?”
“Well actually there were dozens,” she stated. “Your great, great, great grandfather was a traveller from far across the great pond. He came to our land with his companions in a large boat long, long ago. Apparently it had been a long voyage, the men were lonely, and your great, great, great grandmother had a reputation; she was known to have an attraction to any of several men who visited the village: members of Elk conventions, drummers in music bands, encyclopaedia salesmen, and Vikings. She later insisted that he promised he would take her with
him back across the great pond to a world where people lived different lives. He affectionately called her his soft skraeling and they would spent nights together in the long house his people built, where he told her stories of great halls, where men ate and drank all they wanted, and of the gods, Odin, Thor, Loki, and Freya* (Freya was his favourite because not only was she the goddess of sex but she was also the goddess of war, his two favourite hobbies) who provided for their people. He described his adventures which brought him to many different lands where there
were exotic foods and drinks and people who had a vast variety of looks. Somehow I believe that in all of these places there are some who have the same appearance as you my son.”
“What happened to him?”
“After spending a year or so in our land he and his companions simply left without telling your great, great, great grandmother. Some say it was soon after her belly began to grow. Vikings are known to fear nothing in this world but commitment.”
“What was his name?”
“Leaf.” (Apparently Root’s great, great, great grandmother never did find out that because of his way with the ladies he was known as Lief the Lucky.)

From that time on Root embraced his new-found heritage. He asked as many questions as he could about his nordic patronage* (*The answers to these questions were not always accurate for time and translation has a tendency to distort facts. For example, his expletives included terms such as “Thor’s butterknife!” and “Great blocks of Loki!” ) and held his head proudly when others called him names like “pink belly” or “yellow head.” He abandoned the tradition of
wearing red ochre and endured a few more mosquito bites and sun burns to show his Viking lineage.

By the time the two strangers had passed the first mamateek, the villagers had fully responded to their presence and Tontodituit and Root found themselves admiring the craftsmanship of the spears and cocked bows of half-a-dozen very agitated warriors.

***

Gavin looked at the surrounding landscape and seascape. He could not make any positive identifications from his immediate surroundings. He walked along the beach a little and climbed up a small spruce-clad hill to see a little further along the horizon. Something about the foliage appeared different. The leaves appeared fresher, cleaner. From the top of the hill he saw farther along the scope of the land and sea and could clearly see in the far distance the finger-shaped rock jutting out of the cliff, which he had used to line up the cast of his fishing line. Looking farther out into the bay, Gavin focussed on the peninsula, dusky in the foreground of the sunrise, and noticed that the buildings, the homes and the small church, were nowhere to be seen. Gavin’s mind raced as he squinted against the power of the sun. Where were the homes? Why couldn’t he find the distinct church steeple rising above the foliage? Was this a similar geography in some distant cove? The landscape wasn’t exactly as he remembered. Had he drifted far from the area where he had been fishing? But there couldn’t be two rocks shaped like the “finger.” Could there?
From the brush behind him Gavin heard a whistle, like someone was trying to get his attention. His heart pounded but he quickly realized that a person nearby meant a way out.
“Who’s there?” Gavin questioned.
“Me.”
The voice seemed masculine.
“Could you help me?”
“Chances are I can, but I want to know can ye help me?”
The voice was masculine and sounded Celtic, as if the speaker came from the Southern Shore.
“Could you come down to the beach?” Gavin asked.
“Why? What’s on de beach dat’s not here?”
“My boat . . . and a couple of fish I caught. I was planning on cooking up one or two if I could get a fire going. Do you like fish?”
Gavin strained to see the origin of the voice that spoke to him through the forest brush. Memories of the stories his parents had told him about the fairies flashed back to him. His father swore that when he was a boy he saw the little people. He and his sister had been picking berries when they heard music and looked up to see a little man and woman dancing a jig on a rock while the man played a fiddle. His mother told stories of picnics on the barrens where a piece of
bread was always placed in her pocket and at least one piece of clothing was worn inside-out to ward off the fairies. There were also stories of people getting lost while walking familiar paths and ending up miles away from where they had thought they had been.
The music from his dream filled his mind.
“What is it ye want from me?” asked the voice from the woods.
“I’m lost. I was wondering if you could tell me which way it is to Little Cove?”
“Is it a riddle you’re askin’ me?”
“No. I’m lost.”
“Well then, so am I. Maybe you can help me.”
“So both of us are lost. Come on out and we’ll try to find our way home over a meal of fresh fish.” Gavin tried to get the entity in the woods to come out, and took a step toward the hidden voice.
“Don’t come any closer,” warned the man in the brush. “First I want ye to solve me riddle.”
“What riddle?”
“In a place where you stand without touching the ground, you’ll find a friend who floats without getting wet. You’ll be lost in a familiar place, and once your new friend becomes again what your friend was, you’ll fly back home without leaving. Explain this to me and I’ll help you find your way.”
“What the heck are you saying?” Now Gavin was thinking that this man was either a drunk or the town looney. “What you said doesn’t make any sense!”
“Oh, it makes all the sense in the world me b’y. You’ll see. Until you answer this riddle you’ll be as far from your home as I am from mine. Just remember the riddle. It’ll help ye on yer journey.”
“What journey?”
There was a slight rustle in the bush about twenty five feet in front of Gavin.
“What journey? Hello?” Gavin stepped ahead. There was no reply.
Gavin spent the best part of an hour, searching the woods for any sign of the man, before he headed back to the boat. The outboard motor, his rod, and the fish he had caught were gone.
“Son of a gun! Thanks for the help!” he screamed to the missing man in the woods. “ Man am I stupid!”


* * *
“Land ho!”
“What?”
“Land ho?”
“Where?”
“Over there.” The deckhand known as One-eye leaned over the gunwale and pointed in dramatic fashion at some vague spot on the horizon.
“Are you thure?” questioned Lispy. “I don’t thee anything!”
“Well it’s there,” reaffirmed One-eye.
“I can’t thee it. All I thee ith waveth and thky. Crathy Tham!?!”
“Yar? What do ye want Lispy?”
“Come over here. One-eye thays he thees land.”
“Whar be the land?” asked Crazy Sam as he sauntered toward the railing where his crew- mates were squinting at the horizon.
From below deck Gaffer overheard the conversation and, knowing the crew as he did, decided to cut to the chase. He lay down his peeling knife, grabbed a spyglass, and headed up-top to climb to the crow’s-nest.
“Over there,” repeated One-eye.
“Whar?”
“I thee thome theagullth flying around; ith it wher the gulth are?”
“No. It’s farther to the right.”
“Are you thure your looking through your good eye?”
“If I wasn’t then I wouldn’t see anything, would I, because my patch’d be coverin’ my good eye, wouldn’t it!”
“Whar? I don’t know what ye be lookin’ at.”
“Wait a minute; ith that it over there?”
“No! I said it’s there. Are you blind?”
“Well, thomtimes I find it hard to read in dim light.”
“That’s because ye can’t read!”
“Maybe that’th why I can’t read! Did you ever think of that?! You can’t read what you can’t thee! Maybe Captain Caboto’ll be able to thee thomething. Captain!”
Gaffer held the brass spyglass under his arm and climbed the rope ladder to the crow’s-nest. He shook his head as he heard the conversation at the bow of the ship continue.
“What-a do you guys-a want-a?” called the Captain from his cabin window.
“One-eye thinkth he thees land, Captain Caboto thir.”
“I’m-a coming, and-a call-a me John-a!” yelled Captain Caboto. Then under his breath, “When are-a these-a men going to treat-a me like-a one of-a them-a?” The Italian Captain had been trying to get his English crew to accept him as a peer. It was a method he had learned in the unconventional, cutting-edge leadership course, “Lead by Being a Buddy,” he’d taken at Bristol Community College shortly after getting approval from the King of England about financing this voyage. It hadn’t caught on with the crew. They had lived long lives cowering under the British hierarchy of Lords and Dukes, who would have any underling who’d even thought about making eye-contact, beaten and interred in some dungeon or tower. They all had worked on ships with Captains who demanded total obedience and kowtowing to their every whim. They had been threatened with keel-hauling, walking the plank, and belly-shaving with a rusty razor for so long that they couldn’t treat any authority figure with anything but total respect and allegiance. (This is true at least within the presence of that authority figure: what was said about him or done to him behind his back was another thing altogether.)
“Maybe the ship’s turned since ye sar the land. Maybe she’s on the starboard side,” queried Crazy Sam.
“You don’t understand . . . I can still see it! It’s right there!” yelled One-eye.
“Are you thure? I think Crathy Tham ith on to thomething. I’m going to thee if there’th land on the other thide of the th . . .the thi . . .the boat.
“Yar, I’m goin’ with ye. Over here Captain Sir, we think it’s on the starboard side, yar.”
“No Captain Sir it’s right there Sir.” said One-eye as he pointed yet again toward the horizon.
The Captain weighed his options and made a decision of which any good democratic leader would be proud. “Sorry-a One-eye old pal-a, but there are-a two members on-a the starboard side-a and you are-a standing alone-a. To quote-a Dale Carney* (* Author of the current best selling self-help scrolls, Leadership Means Hangin’ with the Boys, and Be Your Best Buddies’ Boss. It was his philosophy that inspired the course taught at the Bristol Community College.) ‘Majority-a rules: follow-a the wishes-a of-a the bulk of your underlings/pals and-a you will-a not lead astray-a. ‘ I-a must go with -a Crazy-a Sam and-a Lispy.” He walked to the starboard side of the ship. “Where-a is-a the land-a?”
“Tham thays it mutht be thumwhere out there Thir, jutht patht the mitht.”
“What-a did he say-a Sam-a old sod-a?” The Captain had been struggling to decipher “plainly-spoken” English, and found Lispy’s unique accent a little too much of a challenge.
“Thar Sir. Just past the mist.”
“I-a don’t see-a anything-a.”
“One-eye’s right Captain,” came a voice of reason from above. The four startled menturned to look above and behind them. Gaffer leaned over the crow’s-nest pointing to where One-eye had been indicating . “It’s true Captain Sir,” called Gaffer, “There’s land out there.”
By this point most of the rest of the members of the expedition had come out to the main deck to see what the commotion was about. There were twenty people in all. The captain and the ship’s barber/doctor/dentist/optician/veterinarian/pedicurist were Italians from Genoa; Cookie was from Burgundy; there were two English merchants, Mr. Stalk and Mr. Trayde, who had dual interest in the voyage because their businesses were vested in finding a route to the riches of the East, but they were also looking for real adventure stories they could share with the boys at the hunting and fishing club (which wasn’t actually a group of men who enjoyed the outdoors, but a group of men who enjoyed drinking sherry, smoking cigars, and boasting about manly adventures they’d experienced, or paid someone else to experience while they watched); the rest of the crew was made up of fifteen English sailors with a variety of skills and experience. Two of them had actually sailed on Captain Caboto’s last voyage; they were allowed to return because they had an unusually keen ability to follow orders and not notice anything else occurring around them. One of these was Bert, who signed up for this second journey without realizing that he had been a part
of Caboto’s first failed attempt.
The first trip had failed for several reasons. One of the main reasons, which resulted in Captain Caboto enrolling in community college leadership courses and listening to self- improvement ballads, was that the Captain and the crew could not agree. This disagreement was rooted in the other two reasons that the voyage failed; they encountered storms that caused the Atlantic to enter the boat more efficiently than not enter the boat, and more than half the food stockpiled for the voyage had been consumed in the first four days of the trip.
As the entire contingent (minus Bert, and another crewman who signed up, came aboard, and hasn’t been seen since) stood on the deck and looked toward the emerging piece of land, there was an unusual period of silence. All that could be heard were the waves beating against the
hull as it sliced through the water toward the rocky land, and the gulls screaming from above.
After a few minutes One-eye spoke up and put this though-provoking question to the crew that
had spent a week thinking up his nickname:
“So . . . What are we going to call this new found land?”

* * *
I can fly! Fly, fly, fly! I have wings. Ounernish’s mind had transformed with her body. She had
been a demure but individualistic young lady. One could call her strongly introspective. She was
intelligent, but kept her intelligence to herself. Right now her thoughts were simple and focussed
on the immediate, (Caw, caw, caw. I can make sounds) however, in the past she often
contemplated philosophical questions about the events and objects that surrounded her. She
noticed the world around her and asked herself questions such as: “The farther away that you
throw a stone the less sound it makes, so can a person throw a stone far enough away that it
doesn’t make a sound?” “Do we really live our lives, or are our lives just a dream? If it is a
dream, who is dreaming it?” “ If a bear dumps a load in the woods and nobody is there, does it
still smell?” and one of her favourites, “If I see the colour red all my life and I am taught to call it
red, does that necessarily mean that what others see and are taught to call ‘red’ is also the red I
see, or could it be some other colour, such as what I refer to as green or lavender?” Ironically
enough, two of the questions she pondered at one time were, “What do the birds see when they
fly?” and “Can a bird fly high enough to see the edge of the world?”
The body of this black bird held the mind of Ouernish but it was scaled down, and a little
more primitive. Now, she thought about what it would be like to build a nest, what centipedes
taste like, and she had an urge, when she would eventually build a nest, to fill it with shiny things.
She dreamed about treasures wrapped in green plastic and placed on the side of wide, flat, black
paths. She could almost taste the smorgasbord of delectable treats that lie just below the thin
green layer. There was no actual basis for these thoughts and urges; they seemed to be the product
of primal instinct, and her ability to have original thoughts had diminished. She had no
recollection of her family, or her engagement. Occasionally she would see in her mind the face of
the Old Hag that had been responsible for her transformation. When this would occur she would
instinctively caw loudly, as if she were yelling at the witch who had taken her life away.
At this moment she flapped her long black wings to rise into the air. She felt the need to
climb into the sky, to reach ever higher, to try to attain the ultimate summit that her feathered
body could sustain. And as she rose, the vista below her opened and shrunk at the same time. The
light of the full moon was quickly being displaced by the brightness splaying over the land from
the rising sun. In the thin, cold air she clung to the strong gusts that tried to push her back and
down. She floated above the world she had only previously seen from human level and
internalized the view. Green was the dominant colour being revealed directly below her, but
farther inland it was challenged by the greys and browns of the hills and marshes. Occasional dots
and strips of blue periodically reflected the growing sunlight. She could see sporadic movements
through the green and knew there was a game of life and death occurring down there as some
animal foraged for nourishment or stalked its prey. She could see the village lying just past the
winding ribbon of grey-blue; the mamateeks appearing as tiny dots of brown, some of which
emitted plumes of grey smoke that eventually dissipated into the atmosphere. This part of the
view gave her twinges of emotion, but she could not decipher the meaning of these flecks of
sentiment, and felt confused. She turned away from the disturbing sight, and ahead of her the
greens suddenly stopped and were outlined by beaches of grey and black that outlined an
engulfing amount of blue, out of which the radiant, yellow sun was revealing itself. At the edge of
the monstrous spread of blue, at the end of the world she towered over, was a white dot. It
sparkled like some rare gem on the waves and she decided that it would be a treasure worth
seeking. As she dove back down below the wisps of clouds toward the object that gleamed on the
horizon, she felt strangely satisfied, like she had found the answer to some vague question asked
long ago.

* * *

“They look very sharp,” noted Root.
“Danuit ma blat kee suit.” <Their moccasins in particular look very fashionable.>
“I was talking about their arrows, but by Odin’s Ears, now that you mention it, I wouldn’t
mind a pair of those . . . very stylish.”
“What do you want?” asked a particularly small-but-fierce looking man jabbing his spear
up toward Root’s throat. The vicious scowl on his face more than made up for his small stature in
its effectiveness to instill fear.
“Medun bud isuit ettar tong dokker.” <My friend has an injury and would like to see your
shaman.> said Tontodituit.
The expressions of the six warriors suddenly changed. Their eyes squinted a little, some
eyebrows raised, and they looked at each other with confused looks on their faces.
“What the heck did he say?” the small leader directed to Root.
“Oh,” Root raised his hand to his face, shielding his mouth’s movements from
Tontodituit, and whispered to the man, “He’s always talked that way. I think it’s some kind of
birth defect.” He glanced back at Tontodituit and continued in a very low tone, “Anyway, he
asked you if you have any cheese.”
The little man leaned in and whispered back, “What’s cheese?”
“A food made from the milk of cows or goats.”
“What are cows and goats?”
“Root! Din ta dem reelit!” <Root! Tell them the truth!> Yelled Tontodituit.
“Okay. He wants me to see a doctor. A bear and I were wrestling and the bear got a little
rambunctious.”
Root unwrapped the thong and showed them his lacerated arm.
The eyes of one of the warriors immediately rolled back in his head and he fell forward
dropping his bow and arrow as he hit the ground.
After reviving their weaker brother, the six warriors escorted the two visitors to a
particularly colourful mamateek, where a particularly colourful man wearing a hat made of a
beaver pelt stepped out to greet them. The hat was instantly recognizable as being made from
beaver because the shaman wore it so that the tail hung down in the front, covering most of his
face.
“Wait a minute . . . don’t tell me, “the shaman held the fingers of his left hand to his head.
The parts of his eyes that could be seen behind the beaver tail were closed. “You are not from
here. You have travelled from far away.”
“He’s good isn’t he?” commented the lead warrior to Root.
***

Gavin continued to pull the oars toward him. He’d decided to row his little boat until he
found the next community. There were small towns and villages everywhere, and someone would
let him phone home and give him a meal and a place to stay until Dave or Jen came to pick him
up.
He rowed slowly against the swell, trying to make his way out far enough to see the
nearest community, whether it lay north or south of his landing site. As the shoreline opened up
to his scrutiny, he found that there was no sign of civilization to be found anywhere. The only
sign of life that Gavin saw was the occasional gull, or other form of seabird, flying in the blue
sky. He wasn’t very familiar with the coastline but he knew enough to know that something was
wrong. Newfoundland had a lot of empty coast, but there was no way he could have drifted so far
from civilization.
Hunger and thirst began to take its toll on Gavin. He wished that his encounter with the
strange man on shore hadn’t resulted in the loss of his gear. His hands were beginning to form
calluses and blisters from the oars and the only things left by the Celtic man were a few scattered
shrimp on the floor of the boat. These had been eaten, and Gavin began to truly worry for the first
time about his ability to survive. He decided to row north.
Gavin’s hands were now starting to bleed. He pulled in the oars and let the small boat
drift. He leaned over the gunnels and cupped his hands over his eyes so that he could look into the
water below him. At first he thought that there was a school of shark or other large fish . . . tuna
maybe, floating through the water below the boat. He then realized that he was looking at codfish.
They were larger than any he’d seen before. Even if he’d had his rod, it wouldn’t have held
together to land one of these fish!
“Caw! Caw!”
Gavin swivelled up and around to see a large black bird hovering above him. It simply
flapped its wings as it descended to the bow of the boat. There it sat, looking directly at him and
occasionally cocking its head in a questioning way.
“Hello,” he said to the large crow.
“Caw!”
“You’re friendly, aren’t ya?” Gavin slowly sat down, trying his best not to rock the boat
too much, and strategically leaned toward the bird. “I can’t help but wonder,” he said in a low,
non-threatening tone, “if crow tastes anything like chicken.”

*****
The Old Hag
Smoke twisted its way along the rocky ceiling of the cave and eventually seeped out into the open air, where it rose and dissipated into the early morning sky. The crackles from the dying
fire were accompanied by snores rising from a bundle of fur and bones slumped against the back wall of the cave. At the cave’s mouth there was a slight movement. The movement immediately resulted in ceasing the snores and tensing the muscles that lay beneath the fur at the back of the cave. The movement then revealed itself as a scurrying; a small chipmunk moved from the sunlight to the shade of the cave, scrounging through the leaves in search for seeds. The creature
at the back of the cave rose slightly, almost imperceptibly, tightened itself into a feline spring, and waited. The chipmunk moved slowly, further into the cave. Searching. Storing the occasional pine nut into its bulging cheeks. Moving deeper until something made it turn to face the opening of the cave. The lynx saw its moment of opportunity and leapt. . . only to find itself flung back violently to the floor by the leather leash that kept it restrained to the back of the cave. The chipmunk, startled by the thwarted lynx, twisted again toward the cave’s interior. Then its small
body suddenly rose from the ground, held by a boney hand that quickly twisted its neck, releasing the cache of nuts and seeds from its tiny mouth to spill once again to the floor.
“Were you looking for this, my pet?”
The voice was a voice that had its own personality. It slithered. It oozed green mucus and dripped clots of blood. It scratched and scraped the eardrums of the listener. The sound of that voice made the lynx at the back of the cave arch its back and growl long and low.
“You’d like this wouldn’t you, but I can’t give it all to you. I need you hungry my pet.” The witch ripped the head off the small rodent and threw it to the starving feline. “I need you to have enough strength also.” She skewered the body of the chipmunk on a sharpened stick and placed it on the fire. The smell of burning fur and flesh filled the cave. She breathed it in deeply.
“The girl is ready for you my sweet carnivore. You must devour her soon, so that I may gain her strength, her youth.”
Her withered frame hunched over the fire as she twirled the slender stake over the flame, evenly searing the chipmunk’s corpse. She felt the familiar aches and pains. The all too frequent creaks and shudders of an aged body had once again taken away the control she cherished so much. Her joints were like corroded hinges that resisted movement, and even her mind, sharp in its malevolence during her periods of youth, had begun to dull and dim. But she would soon rediscover the plunder of youth as she had so many times in the past. She had taken the first step of the ancient ritual; she had turned a pure girl with unblemished skin, hair like a cascading waterfall, and a voice so rich it would entice the stones to dance, into a creature symbolic of all that the young girl was not. Soon she would take the second step and transfer her spirit into the body of the lynx she had kept captive in the cave. She had spent the last twenty days preparing the cat for her specific purposes, because once she transformed the girl into a crow she would not have complete control over the feline’s mind. She had familiarized herself with the lynx and made it dependant upon her for food and water. She heightened its hunger yet maintained the strength of its sleek muscular feline body so that its natural instincts would kick in at the right time.
The crunch of bones echoed throughout the cave as the witch’s yellow decayed teeth tore at the charred chipmunk carcass. The hungry lynx growled through a saliva-soaked snarl.
“I know you’re hungry my pet but we have to wait for the right place and time. It’ll be soon . . . very soon.”

*****

Inside his mamateek, with only the company of his two visitors, the shaman shed his formality, and with it, his beaver-tail headdress. He leaned over his nordic-looking patient speaking to him in a slow monotonous tone to try to keep the injured man’s mind off the bone needle threading the gash on his arm.
“So, let me see if I have this clear . . . you two are ‘Viking warriors’?”
Root paid no attention to the shaman’s surgical actions and took in his surroundings. The decor of a person’s home can reveal a lot about the person who lives there. He could tell that the shaman was very well to do. His mamateek was large and elegantly decorated. The Beothuk building wasn’t oval or conical like the smaller homes in the village. It had wall-to-wall fur flooring, and there were many walls, so it was more like wall-to-wall-to-wall-to-wall-to-wall-to- wall flooring. It had a minimum of eleven walls, and most were insulated with furs of caribou and bear and decorated with original artwork“Yes! BRAVE Viking warriors!” he stated proudly.
“Wow, capitalized BRAVE! You must fear very little . . . and you are travelling the world to ‘seek your fortune.’ Is that right?”
Root noticed that the artwork was signed by such masters as Picassotuit, VanGauthoo, and DaDuitVincuis. He felt the need to clarify his statement to the shaman. “That’s not all. When we find the fortune we seek, we plan on taking it.”
“Are you sure that’s what you mean?”
“Sorry, you’re right. When we find the fortune we seek, we plan on taking it.”
“Really!? That is bold . . . and italicized. Impressive. But you know there are ways of getting your fortune without ‘taking it’.”

“Really? How did you get your treasure?”
“I worked for it.”
“ Ka Dokker a dunnit benuit da killun?” <How many of these furs are you responsible for killing?> stated Tontodituit with an air of sarcasm.
“What did he say?” asked the shaman.
“I think he wants to know why you have so many sleeping pits.”
Around the central hearth, which was excavated and adorned with stones of multiple colours and fine pots of red clay and many wooden bowls of different sizes, there were many sleeping pits.
“I have a large family. There’s my wife and I, and my six children, and this new pit is to be for my eldest son’s new wife. They are to be wed today.”
“Makesen frum un gret nukideuit nit.” <It’ll be a crowded honeymoon here tonight.>
“What did he say?”
“I’m not sure . . . I think he wants to know how many people will be watching the sacred event,” said Root absently as he pulled his arm from the grasp of the medicine man, trailing the needle and thread, and walked toward a number of rolled furs piled against one of the walls.
“There’ll be quite a crowd, but if you’d like to attend I’ll arrange two extra meals to be served at the banquet.”
“By Freya’s fair braids, what are these?” said Root, referring to the mound of luxurious furs.
“That is the dowery that was given to me by my new daughter-in law’s parents.”
“Could this be a ‘treasure’?” asked Root.
“I guess you could call it that. Would you like to come to the wedding?”
“Yeah. I think we can make some time if we shift a couple of things in our calendar. Is there any chance you’ll be serving cheese?”

*****

Crazy Sam, Lispy, One-eye, Bert, Gaffer and Giovanni Caboto take long boat to the shore.
“Did you remember the flag?” asked One-eye from the back of the long boat.
“Why do we need a flag?” whispered Lispy, who was sitting next to him.
Caboto turned around to face the landing party, momentarily breaking his stance–one foot strategically placed on the prow, his elbow on his knee, and his other arm pointing toward the oncoming land. “One-eye, did-a you take-a the flag?”
“Gaffer, where’s the flag?” One-eye yelled at the boy. He was sitting directly behind the boy and didn’t need to yell, but that was the way the crew spoke to Gaffer.
“Nobody told me to take the flag, sir,” responded Gaffer between strokes. One-eye slapped the boy’s head.
“So-a we don”t-a have a flag. It’s-a no big deal. We’ll-a use something else.”
“I b’ought a extra pair of underwear,” Bert offered as he pulled his oar toward him, “jus’ in case. We can put ‘em on a pole.”
One-eye gave Bert a crack on the head to match the one he had given Gaffer. “Just shut-up and row you stupid moron!”
“You can erect a cross,” suggested Gaffer.
“Shut up b’y! Ye should talk only when yer spoken to! Row!” said Crazy Sam. “Ar Captain, ya know, we could put a cross in the ground to claim the new land for the king.”
“That’s a good-a idea Sam!”
The boat struck the beach and the two rowers leapt overboard to pull the vessel up far enough so that the official landing party could make their historic first steps on the new land. Gaffer took solace in knowing that it was he who first stepped on the beach just below the waves crashing ashore. He would be able to tell his children and grandchildren that it was he who actually discovered this gallant new world.
“I wonder what thtrange animalth live in thethe land?” said Lispy as he looked up and down the beach passed the rocky boarder separating the evergreen forest from the pebbled terrace upon which he and the rest of the landing party now stood.
“Shhh!” said One-eye. Captain Caboto had produced a large scroll, and having removed his plumed cap he was trying to put it somewhere on his being so that he could free both hands to unroll the document and read it.
“Here Sir, let me hold that for you.” One-eye took the scroll, unrolled it, and held it out so that the words faced Caboto. Now that he could read it ‘hands free,’ the captain held his cap to his heart and with his other hand made a flourish that symbolically took in all of the land he now faced.
“To-a all inhabitants of-a this New-a found-a land, it is-a with great pride-a that I, Giovanni Caboto, claim-a this land for-a the King of England.”
Caboto paused and it took a moment for the rest of the crew to catch on and respond with applause and cheers. “Thank-a you! You-a may read-a the rest of the message Mister . . . um-a, Mister Eye.”
“Thank you sir!” responded One-eye, “but I can’t read sir.”
Caboto looked at the two remaining official members of the landing party. Lispy smiled and began to wave his hand in hopes that he would be picked next. The captain’s eyed met with those of Crazy Sam.
“If’n One-eye can’t read, do ya really tink dat I can?”
“Ooh, ooh,” cried Lispy as his hand waved faster, “Pleath pick me. I can read! Yeth I can!”
“You may-a read the remainder of-a the document Mister Lispy,” said Caboto with less enthusiasm. “You-a two boys make a cross.”
“I guess this means he doesn’t want my underwear,” said Bert.
With an ax in hand Gaffer and Bert headed toward the trees beyond the beach. As they searched through spruce and pine for a tree, big and straight enough from which to fashion a cross, they could hear Lispy’s voice carrying its proclamation from across the ocean to the inhabitants of the new world–wherever they were.
“Rethidenth of this new found land, we do hereby notify you that we, as reprethentitiveth of England, do claim all landth and rethortheth of any value that exitht in this land and the waterth that thurround it. We ethpethially are interethted in the cod fish which we notithed are in great abundanthe in the thea. You may thtay on thith land ath long ath you do not interfere with our way of life, culture, religiouth beliefth, etthetera, but be altho hereby notified that we fully intend to interfere with your way of life, culture, religiouth beliefth, etthetera . Ath a part of our
claimth on thith land we will eventually mobilithe you inland and/or further north. If you do not athimilate to our afore-mentioned wayth, we will eventaully make you exthinct. Furthermore . . .”
“I don’t see any cross-shaped trees around here Gaff,” Bert admitted to his woods companion. “And how do we know that type of tree grows here anyway? Just ‘cause dere’s cross trees home don’t mean they’re here.” Gaffer thought about explaining it to his slow-witted friend but decided against it. “Keep looking Bert,” he encouraged, “maybe they grow further inland.” Gaffer welcomed the chance to explore this new land a little more. Maybe they would find a new kind of animal or plant and have it named after them.(There’s a little irony here because Gaffer’s
last name is Beaver and Bert’s is Maple.) Or maybe they would find rocks of pure silver or gold, or rare jewels as big as Bert’s head. Maybe they would find a stream of water so pure it would cure all ailments and maintain youth to all who drank from it.
The two explorers continued to move deeper into the forest. Gaffer would occasionally cut a small chunk out of a tree trunk so that he could find his way back. Suddenly Bert stopped and cocked his head sideways like a curious puppy. “Do you hear that?” he said.
Gaffer listened intently. From a distance he could hear what sounded like music, but he couldn’t be sure. He wondered if the sounds were coming from the ship. One of the crew had a fiddle and another a penny whistle; with the captain and first mate off ship they might be celebrating the fact that the captain and first mate were off the ship. Gaffer decided to follow the sounds. Once they had travelled a little further, he confirmed the source of the musical sounds he and Bert were hearing; It was definitely the product of a fiddle and pipe, but the music was different. It was an Irish jig, but not one that was familiar. The music rolled through the trees and moved in quick steps on the branches. It taunted him to follow, but continuously changed direction. It was at once quick, lively, and sorrowful, making the listener want to dance till dawn, as it brought to the surface of the listener’s mind melancholy thoughts of loves lost. Then the music stopped.
Gaffer and Bert waited for the music to resume. After a sufficient amount of time the two adventurers realized that the music was probably not going to start again.
“I guess we’d better follow our trail back,” Gaffer informed Bert.
“But we didn’t find any cross-shaped trees.” Bert replied
“We’ll have to cut two regular trees and lash them together.”
Bert scratched his head and stared off in heavy thought.
Gaffer had to explain in ‘Bert-language’ that they wouldn’t join the cut logs parallel to each other, but perpendicular.
“Oh,” Bert responded in a tone that told the listener that he clearly didn’t understand.
“By the way Bert, you don’t happen to see any of the trees we marked to show us the way back do you?”
“No.”
“Neither do I.”

*****
Crow befriends Gaffer
Gavin slowly leaned toward the crow, which had perched on the starboard gunnel of the boat. He tensed his bent legs and sprung forward. Ounernish wasn’t used to being a crow, and her instincts weren’t as sharp as an animal that had spent its life avoiding predators. Gavin reached for the bird with both hands. The boat rocked with his sudden movement, which threw both he and the bird off balance. He fell forward over the wooden plank that served as a seat, and had to compensate by using both hands to prevent from hitting his face off the side of the boat. The crow was subsequently knocked into the water and floundered there (which is ironic because a flounder would actually be quite coordinated in the water) flapping its spread wings in a sloppy attempt to stay afloat.
Gavin lay awkwardly in the bottom of the boat, staring up at the clouds drifting across the early morning sky. His body was at odd angles, and his shins and hands throbbed with the sharp but temporary pain that resulted from a sudden impact with an object that doesn’t bend, buckle, or break. He could hear the frantic sounds of the bird splashing, thrashing, and deliriously cawing in the water near the boat. As Gavin raised his head over the gunnel, trying to regain his composure, his eyes made contact with the crow’s eyes.
Ounernish knew her life was in danger. She knew that water was an element that was contrary to her form; she was a creature of the air. She could see the boat, and rising from inside it, the creature that had knocked her into the water. The form of this creature was familiar to her. Something in her past was very much like this creature. Temporarily putting aside her feelings of panic, she tried to focus on the memories of her father, her mother, her fiancé, but couldn’t see through the fog that the hag’s curse had placed around her brain. She made contact with the man’s eyes. Looking deeply into those eyes, she hoped he’d see that she was worth saving. (Hopefully for more than a meal of crow’s legs.)
Gavin did see something in those eyes. It was more than a creature fighting to stay alive; there was something sentient and human in those eyes. He couldn’t explain it or really understand it but it was there, so he had to save this bird. The boat was drifting away from the flailing avian and the waves were beginning to take their toll on the poor creature. Gavin grabbed the oars and turned the boat around so that he could row toward the crow. He had to pull alongside the bird without hitting it and making the situation worse. He managed to move next to the crow and attempted to grab it with his left hand. The bird’s erratic movements made it hard to grasp, and when Gavin made his first unsuccessful attempt to grab it, the oar simultaneously slipped neatly into the water and was carried by the waves in the opposite direction of the bird.
With his one remaining oar, Gavin made two more attempts to reach for the bird. It was clearly losing the battle with the Atlantic and would soon sink below the surface. On his fourth attempt he managed to steer the crow to the side of the boat. At that time it surrendered, or ran out of energy, and stopped moving. Gavin grabbed it with both hands and lifted it into the safety of the boat. It lay there dripping and shivering. Gavin had heard stories of many people dying from hypothermia after spending a short time in the cold Atlantic waters. He wrapped the bird in his coat, rubbing its feathers dry in an attempt to warm its lithe, delicate body. He hadn’t handled a live bird of this size before, and was quite surprised at the living paradox of slight delicateness and muscular mass held in his hands. Something about having saved the bird’s life, and that look in its eye as it searched for salvation, made Gavin forget his thoughts of making a gourmet crow feast.

*****
The Wedding

Dandidatsuit sat in his father’s mamateek and accepted all visitors individually. Each visitor entered the birchbark-clad home and presented the groom-to-be with a gift. Most presented him with hunting tools such as hand-crafted arrows, (the more affluent band members had their arrows fitted with stone arrowheads) cutting stones, and bows made of the finest birch, strung with bear sinew. Others gave him small, roughly carved images of a lewd nature. (These were to assist the goddess of fertility in her work, ensuring the new couple would be endowed with a large, healthy family.} Those who weren’t visiting the shaman’s son were milling around the main building in the centre of the village. They were preparing for the wedding celebration. The leg bones of several caribou had been saved for the occasion. Two men were grinding the bones with a large stone. Three women were tending a large birch-bark pot, filled with boiling water, placed over the fire pit. One woman was plopping the ground bones into the liquid, while another stirred the mixture and occasionally skimmed off the substance that floated to the top. The third woman would take the marrow substance that had been collected from the surface of the boiling water and form it into small cakes. Other members of the band were cooking and preparing caribou meat and smoked salmon. They had to be prepared for the arrival of the bride-to-be and her fellow band members, which would be soon. They could not appear to their neighbours to be unprepared and ungracious hosts.
The shaman led Root and Tontodituit out of a mamateek on the outer edge of the small village. He had once again donned his official headgear and would occasionally lift the beaver tail so that he could see his destination and stay on course.
“I trust you had sufficient food and rest?”
“Well I didn’t eat too much, because I wanted to save room for the feast tonight,” said Root, “and Tontodituit here snores like Thor’s hammer, so I haven’t had a good sleep in days, but I am well rested thank-you. Wow! Looks like your son is a popular guy.” Root had noticed the line-up of people in front of the shaman’s home, and specifically had noticed the items in their hands. “Do you see what I see Tonto?” Tontodituit gave Root a hard look, and shook his head. Root had spent much of the afternoon convincing Tontodituit that they should take advantage of their situation, and leave the village in the wee hours of the next morning, just before sunrise, when the band members would be sleeping away a long night of celebrating. They of course would not leave empty-handed. Root was determined to experience his first loot and pillage session. He hadn’t completely convinced Tontodituit, but the addition of the groom’s wedding gifts would surely sway his friend to agree with his plan. “They’re some great gifts your boy is getting there,” he said as he nudged the shaman with his elbow and winked knowingly at Tontodituit. “Would you mind if we gave him a gift?”
“Kenna at da duin?” <What are you doing?>
“Don’t worry. I know exactly what to give him,” said Root smiling, “it’s something I value greatly, but I feel that if I give it to a great man, as your son must be, I’ll hardly miss it.” Once again he winked at Tontodituit. Root reached inside his shirt and lifted out a leather lace which hung around his neck. The leather was strung through the center hole of a soapstone circle about 4 cm in diameter. “This is a tool that was used by my ancestors. I found it in the ruins of their settlement. I don’t know what they used it for, but I wear it for luck. May it bring the luck of the Viking gods to your son’s marriage.”
“You are a kind man, Root. You are willing to give such a valued gift to a man you have not even met. I will bring you to him personally. I believe that he will need your gift.” As the Shaman led the pair to his home he confided in them. “Do not mention this to my son, but I had an ominous dream last night. I saw him standing at the side of a flowing river, when suddenly the water stopped flowing and lay calm, without a ripple. My son looked into the abruptly still river and saw the reflection of his new bride. She was crying. I heard the laugh of an old woman, and the river abruptly started to flow again erasing the image of the girl. Its bank began to rise and was quickly surrounding my son. He did not move. He was about to be devoured by the wild waters when I awoke. I hope this dream is nothing more than indigestion, caused by my late-night snack of smoked otter and dried partridge berries, but if it is not, your gift will be needed.”
As the shaman told of his dream Root began to feel a little guilty for offering a gift that he planned to take back later that night, but the feeling of guilt did not last very long because Root was easily distracted, “You have smoked otter? Will there be smoked otter at the wedding banquet?”


*****
Dandidatsuit stood alone. Around his neck a soapstone ring hung from a leather lace. He stood separate from the entire village, symbolizing his current status, unattached and alone. He had also fasted for the previous two days to intensify his hunger, his craving, his desire. He waited, alone and hungry, for the arrival of his bride. With her arrival there would be fulfilment. He would eat, and cease being alone. The entire village, as well, would feast for a day or two, celebrating Dandidatsuit’s rite of passage, the addition of a new member to their band, and hope that the union of the married couple will result in many children. He waited for the arrival of Ounernish.
The bride, accompanied by her father and mother, was to arrive at dusk. They would deliver their daughter, and the sun would set on two unmarried individuals; it would rise upon a united couple. The entire village waited in anticipation as the sun began to touch the hills, casting long shadows across the ground. Torches were lit so that with Ouernish’s arrival the large bonfire pit would be set ablaze. Root and Tontodituit stood alongside the shaman as honoured guests. Through the trees at the periphery of the marsh, which bordered one side of the village, there was movement. A slight hush blanketed the crowd. A single person broke through the trees. As the person moved nearer, they could see that it was a solitary man; noone followed him. Whispers broke the silence.
From across the marsh a man moved slowly toward the village. His movements revealed a sadness. Despondency spoke with each step trudged through the spongy mud and moss. It was Ouernish’s father, and the crowd could clearly see that the bride-to-be would not be joining the tribe on this evening. Dandidatsuit ran from his solitary position, streaked past the mumbling crowd, and accosted the man.
“Where is my bride?”
“I do not know. She disappeared in the night,” the man sobbed. “Her mother sits at home crying for her daughter.”
“Where did she go? Did another man take her away?”
“No other from our tribe has disappeared. She alone has vanished. I feel shame for our family because a pact has been broken. I have no other daughters to offer you.”
By this time the others had reached the two men. Upon hearing the words of the sorrowful father, the shaman flipped the tail of his beaver hat back upon his head and spoke, “Do not feel shame. The spirits have already warned me of this occurrence. I will seek her in the spirit world. We will find the truth of her wandering.”

*****
Inside the sweat lodge the shaman waited for a message from the spirit world. The large fire had been lit and a dozen or more large stones had been heated in the heart of the flames. While the stones gathered the heat from flames that were to celebrate the union of two people and two tribes, a sweat lodge was erected. Supple branches from mature spruce were arranged in a dome shape and covered with seal and caribou skins. When the rocks were ready, they were carefully moved on crude stretchers to the inside of the oval lodge. Buckets of water, already drawn for the massive feast, were also placed inside the lodge, and soon after the shaman poured the water over the glowing stones, creating a sweltering steam, cleansing the shaman of any impurities and preparing his body and mind to accept any messages from the spirits. The shaman, like his son, had fasted in preparation for the now postponed celebration; this would help him embrace the words of the animus.
From outside the lodge Root, Tontodituit, Dandidatsuit, and Ouernish’s father listened to the shaman’s meditative chants, which seemed to flow from inside the sweat lodge, circle the group, and lift into the night sky, imploring answers from beings on another plane. Other band members were busy collecting and packing away celebratory items for another time. Root was planning a way to escape with his treasure before the first light of dawn. Since there obviously wasn’t going to be a wedding ceremony, the gifts would not be missed quite as much. His challenge at the moment was devising a way to get the trinket from around Dandidatsuit’s neck.
When the time was right he would tell the boy that he should remove the stone, for its luck would turn bad until the union was once again assured. He would suggest placing it with the other wedding gifts where its power would be intensified in anticipation for the wedding.