Fools' Gold (21 page)

At their camp on Topcock Creek Finn and Kaneda are still sleeping, another sack of salt salmon opened between them. The dog sits awake, seeing the light through the tent flap and wishing to go outside. He cannot whine or growl. When the owlcarried ice hits the ground near them the two men open their eyes and the dog stands. Morning.

The block of ice lands flat, its talon marks facing up like some Stone Age calling card. The two men put on heavy coats and go out and stand around it. The dog sniffs and then raises its leg and fills the talon holes with steaming urine. Blank-faced Finn and the old man kick at the dog. The urine melts the talon marks deeper into the ice, making Kaneda think, for a moment, that it is a message written in Japanese.

The two men look skyward but do not see the owls. Nor do they ask themselves questions. It is winter and they have only a few moments outside.

The owls follow the river south now, ravenous for warmer weather, nearly starved. Phil, ice skating into the mountains, sees them, so unusual, snowy owls flying in the daylight. They glide past like shadows, their images touching the ice on either side of him. Skating. This could easily catch on in the village; he would have to watch it for there was not nearly enough metal for everyone. Rumor. Truth. It is very important to keep proper rhythm. Makes the whole thing much easier and faster. Invention. Discovery. Phil thinks of the reverend skating backward around his childhood pond, and he abstractedly wonders which of the two women the reverend will marry. He is no longer worried about Finn. Finn is alive, at least, the owls have eased his mind about that. Phil turns around and begins to skate backward. He brings his hands around to his front and says his words, trying not to break his rhythm. He can still see the owls dotting the distance, heading south as fast as they can, surprised at themselves for staying around so long. He would make it a point to tell his children about the owls. He would make it a point to tell the reverend.

No speed in skating backward, Phil turns around again and begins to bear down. He will get there today, the trick is in the rhythm, not in the muscles. Long strides, get as much out of each as you can. Phil locks his hands behind him again. He has gotten a very late start. Left. Right. Keep your mind on the skating. Rumor. Truth. Invention. Discovery. Think speed.

Slow, cumbersome, the days after Christmas trailed into the new year. It was a new century, and Ellen stood in the reverend's house pulling a leaf from the calendar. She enjoyed seeing the date appear …
nineteen hundred. Nineteen hundred years!
She paced the house like a curator, watching the pendulum of the reverend's attention swing from her, but her mind was on the river. She wanted news of Finn. Was he all right? Had Phil found him? The reverend came up beside her now, looking as she did, out through the window, over the expanse of bay. He said, “The second breath of winter,” and drew his finger across the freezing glass.

The reverend, for the first time since they'd known him, seemed generally angry. When Henriette spoke she sounded weak and silly to him, making him want to shout. He played hymns on the piano throughout the short days, or walked the room red-faced, or stood still in the kitchen. Henriette sought his eyes constantly. Her fingers sprang to his hand in passing but he ignored her. Nevertheless, she told herself, he needs me. I am needed.

On the final night, the last before their return to Nome, the reverend, grim-lipped, entered Henriette's bed once again. It was incredible. God, how he hated himself. He could think of nothing to say, so he bit his lip and pushed into her, seeing himself as one dealing out punishment. Henriette, for her part, quickly unfolded for him, wrapping herself around him like gift paper, her fingers a bow in the center of his back. The wife of a minister, she said to herself, who could have imagined it?

When the reverend finished he lay heavy on her, head turned toward the winter window, eyes tightly shut, waiting for the weight of it all to rush in on him. What have I done? Henriette held him gently. Their breathing was synchronized, fooled into a common rhythm, so Henriette was fooled too, thinking that their heaving and sighing together meant they were both of the same impulse. The reverend waited for the guilt like a child waiting to be struck. He pictured the veil lifting again and Henriette saying,
“Thirty pieces of silver,”
the whore, and he, Joseph, understood that what he was doing was getting even. He saw himself bursting into the manger, all wine-headed and shouting, “What do I care what it is that makes a good father? That's not my baby! Whose is it? Whose?”

Henriette peered through the dark, trying to look at the reverend. Was he sleeping?

“Darling?” she said, in a whisper. The reverend's face was prune tight.

“Are you sleeping?”

That such a thing could happen twice. Oh, dear God, let it be a dream.

Henriette, very slowly, slipped out from under her sleeping man. She faced the window now, he the edge of the loft. I am needed, she told herself. Henriette Raymond. The Reverend and Mrs. Raymond. Henriette realized that she did not know the reverend's first name and thought of that as somehow appropriate. She would call him “reverend” like she'd heard the wives of other reverends do.
“Good morning, reverend. The reverend will see you now. Supper's ready, reverend, when you are.”
Such a strange turn of events. She had so much to think about.

The reverend stood and was two steps down the ladder before Henriette noticed he was gone. She sat up facing him as she'd done on that first night, and momentarily he got the feeling that it was not too late, that as yet nothing had happened, that if he stayed his hand nothing would take place.

“Reverend…”

“It is very late. We must sleep.”

“Ellen and I are supposed to go back tomorrow.”

“Yes, you must rest for your trip.”

“It wouldn't look right if I remained. People would get the wrong idea.”

“Yes, you must go back. It is late. We will talk in the morning.”

The reverend backed down the ladder, the look on his face hidden by the darkness. He's right, of course, thought Henriette. For me to stay here is out of the question. Marriage comes before housekeeping. The reverend stood in the dark at the bottom of the ladder. Again he had the feeling that he was about to go up. To go to his bed would be so easy now, why had it not been before?

The reverend walked away from his bed and toward the sleeping figure of Ellen. This was what he'd wanted in the first place. Only to cast a glance, to look upon the sleeping face of Ellen. The light in the lower part of the house was better than in the loft so he could see her clearly, slack flesh hanging low. She is not a beautiful woman but she is a woman of strength. To Ellen, Henriette was “the girl,” younger, more delicate. Look at her; even in sleep she has bearing. He remembered the sense of tension he and Ellen had shared the first time she'd come to the village. Anything was possible then. And even this trip had she not waited for his attentions? Had he not pulled himself up the ladder expecting to find Ellen there? A mistake, switched sleeping positions deciding his destiny. The reverend went quickly to bed and pulled the blankets up over his head. He could feel the presence of the women on either side of him and it was morning before his thoughts were awash with sleep.

Invention, discovery. As quickly as that Phil slid off the Snake and up the little spur that was Topcock Creek. He spotted the snow-bound hut and the frozen water wheel and he heard the low incantations of the foreign language. It was dark but for once the sky was clear. He knew they expected no one. He stood on his skates at the edge of the creek and cupped his hands to his mouth.

“Finn.”

Inside the hut Finn and the dog sat listening again. Would the old man never stop praying? Finn had thought he'd not be able to forgive himself for the death of Fujino, but he was all right now and if he ever got back to Ireland he'd tell them what the word “prayer” really meant. Guilt. Maybe this time he'd be rid of it.

“Finn.”

This time Finn heard his name and it was like ice on the back of his neck. “Fujino?” Kaneda stopped in midsentence and listened with him. They peered into the corners of the room. The dog perked his ears. It had been Finn's name, and it had been a whisper.

“Finn. Hello.”

Finn and Kaneda were both on their feet and pulling on their warm jackets.

“Hello.”

When they came out through the hide flap they saw the man standing tall on the river and they stopped. Kaneda had his hands around his sharp knife again.

“It's Phil,” said Phil. “I've come with Christmas gifts. I've come to see how you've been.”

Finn ran down to the creek and put his arms around Phil. To Kaneda they looked like two bears dancing in the moonlight.

“Phil. Phil.” Finn was absolutely overjoyed.

“I'm glad to see you too,” said Phil. “Are you all right?”

“Me and this fellow here can't speak to each other.”

Phil looked past Finn at the old man and raised his arm in greeting.

Kaneda walked up to the two men and extended his gloved hand.
“Hajimemashite,”
he said.

Though Phil spoke no Japanese, he immediately understood the sense of the greeting and answered Kaneda formally, in Eskimo. He could see the old man's face now and he was surprised.

“You look like I did twenty years ago,” said Kaneda. “I was taller then, too.”

It was cold so Finn turned and took a step in the direction of the hut, expecting the others to follow, but they stayed where they were, standing in the dim moonlight, staring at each other. It was embarrassing. They glanced as lovers might. Phil bent to unbuckle the frozen skates and then stood down, level with the old man.

“Who are you?” Kaneda asked slowly. “Have you come to take the place of Fujino?”

“I am Phil,” said Phil, “but I don't know what you're saying.”

Finn stood looking from one man to the other. Where before he'd only been confused by one, now he could understand neither. Why was Phil speaking Eskimo? “Can you understand him then?” he asked, looking at Phil. “Do you speak the same language?”

The two men kept staring at each other and speaking in their languages and Finn kept waiting. “Bloody hell,” he said finally. Then, taking each man's arm, he pulled them toward the warmth of the shelter.

Once inside, Phil let his heavy coat and pack drop to the floor and hurried to the fire. He sat next to the sleeping dog.

“This man has come to take the place of Fujino,” Kaneda told Finn. “Look at him. He looks like me and is young enough to be my son. I don't know how, but he has come to take Fujino's place.”

Finn reached into a box and pulled out an unopened bottle of whiskey.

“Phil,” he said, setting the bottle in front of the fire, “drink up and speak English. That's what I have such a thirst for.”

“Ellen and Henriette are in the village. They came to spend Christmas with us. Yesterday was Christmas and the reverend sent me with a gift for you.”

“Christmas,” said Finn. “I'd no idea it was so near.”

“Ku-ri-su-ma-su?”
said Kaneda, looking at both of them. “In Japan that is the name of a day of celebration.”

Phil pulled the small box from his bag and held it out to Finn.

“This is the gift he sent you.”

Finn was watching Kaneda, who sat brightly, the look and the word “Christmas” still with him. He took the box from Phil and swung it over into the lap of the old man.

“Merry Christmas,” he said. “This is for you.”

“Ah ha!” said Kaneda. “He is here to take the place of Fujino and he brings me a gift to prove it.” He took the package in both hands and stretching it out bowed toward Phil, touching his forehead to the ribbon. “I am receiving this gift,” he said. “Thank you very much.” He sat up straight again and put the package behind him, out of sight.

Phil took the bottle and let some of the whiskey roll into his mouth. He said, “The women and the reverend are worried that you are hurt. They were not even sure that you were able to find this camp.”

“I found it all right,” said Finn, “though it wasn't so easy. I told the old man here about the death of the other and he has been praying for him ever since. Every night after we eat he prays. That's all he ever does.”

“I am surprised to find that he looks like my father,” said Phil. “The resemblance is shocking.”

Finn and Phil sat for a long while talking in detail of Henriette and Ellen, and Kaneda sat bright-eyed watching them, his fingers touching the package behind him. If I had had a son he would look less like me than this man does, he thought. Fujino could have been my son but I lost him. Kaneda quietly decided to try to take Phil back to Japan with him. Perhaps his daughter would like him as well as she had Fujino. He would give Phil land in the center of Tokyo and he would have a beautiful wife to bear his children and a father-in-law who would willingly retire from the active running of the household. Money, power within the family. What man could refuse it?

Kaneda took his package and moved silently away from the talking men. It would not be rude to open the gift in Phil's presence, he decided, since there was no other room for him to retreat into. He faced the wall of the hut and pulled at the ribbon, wondering what it might be. He held the ribbon away from the package and unfolded the heavy paper. What he found was a good sturdy box containing a shiny piece of old wood. He held them, one in each hand. Two good gifts, a box and a piece of wood. Kaneda was a carpenter and marveled at the exceedingly good workmanship of the box. Its joints were perfect, put together to stay together. He himself could not have made a box to equal it. If the box were to break it would do so somewhere along the flat of it, not at the corner or the joint. An exceedingly good box. And so that the box may complete its function, this piece of wood. It is old and shiny. It shows what the box came from and how a carpenter must never forget that the beauty and perfection of his work must always equal the beauty and perfection of the material from which it came.