Through Black Spruce (38 page)

The wind blows in my ears, and the motor drones just below it. Today will be a warm day. Not a cloud in the sky. The water looks black in the sunlight. Dorothy slows down a little when another freighter zips by us. The white crest of his wake rocks our boat as he passes. Dorothy cuts over the wake and into his trail.

It’s not long before the sun makes me sleepy. I look over to the bank. The trees on shore blur and double. I’ve learned to understand that sleep isn’t far away when this happens to my sight. A fear in me always rises that this time it will be the sleep returning that I won’t escape from again.

Today, I will fight it. Today, I want to experience every moment. The warm light on my face, the wind in my short hair, it caresses me, tries to drag me away. I shift so that I face the cooler wind coming off the big salt water ahead.

The bay is calm, slow rollers coming in and fighting the river where the two come together. Long ago, when I was a young man, I liked nothing better than to come to where these waters meet, just to get away for a while. I’d stop here in that other life and smoke a cigarette, stare out over this huge expanse of sea. I’d look north and think of Henry Hudson and his son and where their bones might lay.

Sometimes I’d look south toward Hannah Bay, and it always made me think of Annie and Suzanne’s father. And that, in turn, made me think of his relations. His people from long ago. The consensus around here is that his ancestors were crazy. Me, I believe they were simply tired of the Hudson’s Bay Company men stealing from the
Anishnabe
. So Lisette’s husband’s people killed a few of them to make a statement, and stuffed their bodies down a hole cut in the ice to try and get rid of the evidence. But ice becomes water, and water likes to carry its anger to the surface.

I remember how I could keep watch over that sea for hours, looking at nothing but marsh grass giving way to waves that met with the horizon and on to the other world. Today as we cross into the bay, I turn my head away from that other world. It’s superstition, but me, I don’t want to look. I stare at Dorothy driving my freighter instead.

Dorothy goes slower along the shore of the bay. Joe and Gregor are somewhere close behind. Dorothy glances to her left at the marsh and the bush. I do, too. She lifts her nose to the wind, then looks to me, smiling. We’re close to camp. She can smell the smoke of the fire. Dorothy’s a beautiful woman. I’m a lucky one.

When I turn my head again, I see our family’s teepee glowing white in the sunshine, and near it, a smaller blue tarp teepee Lisette must be using to smoke geese. A thin line of white trails out from its top. I don’t have much of a sense of smell since I awoke. Dr. Lam says this is common with head injuries. He says that maybe the smelling will return one day.

Those on the shore turn their heads to the sound of our motors. My stomach fills with butterflies. I feel like a young boy on his first summer day away from the school. These will be a good few days of celebration. Someone, Annie, maybe, has tied colourful ribbons in the trees behind camp. Red and yellow and white and black bits of cloth flutter in the breeze. Our directions. I think she’s learned some things this last year. Maybe she’s becoming what my father believed she would.

The bow of my freighter gently cuts into the sand and rock of shore. Dorothy struggles with the turning around and propping up of the motor. I watch her jump out, her jeans looking good on her skinny butt. Dorothy and me, we’ll erect our own teepee tonight, maybe. She walks to me and offers her hand.

“I think I’ll sit here for a bit first,” I tell her.

Joe’s canoe comes gliding in close to mine. Its waves rock my boat. He and Gregor stand, lifting their coolers and packs out.

“Oh yes,” Gregor says, his eyes on Dorothy’s ass, too, “we will tie on the good one. Let us just hope she doesn’t call out my name accidentally in the middle of the night.”

He and Joe crack open a couple of beers. I lift my imaginary bottle to them, drinking deeply.

“Let me give you a hand up,” Joe says.

“I think I’ll sit here a bit,” I say. I’ve got my cane beside me. I’m getting used to using that, too. I watch my friends haul up their gear to the camp.

Maybe fifty yards away, I see Gordon helping Lisette with making sandwiches for lunch. He listens intently as she explains something to him. This Gordon, I think I like him. He’s a bit skinny, but he’s one I wouldn’t want to mess with. I think this Gordon has lived a life already. Yeah, I like him around. He’s not able to interrupt me when I’m talking to him. That’s a good trait in any man.

Gordon senses my eyes. He looks up and raises his chin to me. There’s something, I think, in old Antoine about this one. That’s good. Annie, you did good. I look away.

If only Antoine was here, the day would feel complete. I’ve told Dorothy we need to make sure he gets out.

“Justice is slow” is all Dorothy said. “Especially for an Indian.”

The sun and the rocking of my boat make me feel sleepy. I need to fight it. I don’t want to go there right now. So hard to fight, though. So hard. When I think no one is looking, I slap my face to try and snap out of it. I like it, this sitting here and watching the others do what they do. I want to close my eyes and nap awhile. Fight it.

Behind Lisette, I see movement out by the trees. It makes me want to reach for the rifle I no longer have. I am suddenly filled with the dread again, just like that day out at my own camp in winter. I am scared all of this will be destroyed.

I watch close as I can, squinting at the black spruce. My eyesight twists so that I see double again. I blink and stare, blink and stare. My vision corrects itself, like looking through binoculars, but loses focus again. I see forms emerge from the trees. They’re bathed in sunlight as they glide out from the shadows. Long black hair gleams. This must be a vision, I think. So beautiful. So perfect. I watch as they walk toward the camp.

These women stop. They look at me, I think. I see a hand rise in a wave. No one else has noticed them yet. I rub my eyes. I want to see properly.

These young women walk down toward the others. I sit in my boat and watch. Now my nieces come to me. Annie, I watch her slow down, watch Annie’s mouth move as if she talks to the one beside her. I see the smile, Suzanne’s smile brighter than the sunshine.

A cool wind blows off the bay, and waves splash against my canoe. The sun shines on the salt water all around me. My lost one, my two lost ones, walk closer.

I pick up my cane from the floor of my boat. I push myself up to rise, don’t have the strength, but I’ll be fine. The hands of my family reach out to help me.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Always, for the people of Mushkegowuk.

Nicole Winstanley, your genius is in no small part your passion.
Chi meegwetch
. David Davidar and Paul Slovak: brilliant
hookimaws
. Arzu Tahsin, wow, I’m glad we work together. Francis Geffard, you are my
ntontem
.

Thanks as well to Tracy Bordian, Stephen Myers, and the rest of the gang at Penguin Canada. I’m blessed to have you all in my corner.

Johna Hupfield of Wasauksing First Nation,
meegwetch
for your careful eye and opposition to curse words. Debby Diabo Delisle of the Kahnawake Mohawk Nation,
nia:wenkowa
. Greg Spence, Ed Metatawabin and family, the Tozer clan—basically all of you from Moosonee northward—you’re my inspiration.

Thank you to Daniel Sanger for sharing your vast knowledge of biker culture. And thank you to Julian Zabalbeascoa and Katie Sticca for a fantastic last-minute read.

Gord Downie, Tony Penikett, Brian Kelly, Mark and Harald Mattson, Hughes Leroy: each of you is my
ntontem
, too.

To all of my New Orleans people: the gang at the compound and Kris Lackey. Jen Kuchta, John Lawrence, and the Bagert clan. To all of you others whose names are too many to list here. A little rain won’t ruin our parade. And thanks especially to Rick Barton and Joanna Leake, as well as the rest of the MFA Program faculty and students at University of New Orleans, low residence included. I love working with you all.

Jim Steel, you are brilliant in war and in peace.

My very large and little bit crazy family: we are nothing without each other.

And always to you, Amanda, my love. I can’t imagine the journey without you.

A Penguin Readers Guide

Through Black Spruce

About the Book

An Interview with Joseph Boyden

Discussion Questions

ABOUT THE BOOK

How far do you have to go to escape your past? How far do you have to go to protect your family? How far do you have to go to find yourself?

As Will Bird lies deep in a coma, his heart and mind reach out to his niece Annie—to explain to her his troubled past, and the path of escalating violence that put him there. Sitting by her uncle’s bedside, Annie also has a story to tell, of her harrowing search to find her missing sister in the big city, and how she found a protector in the most unexpected place. These two unique characters in Joseph Boyden’s powerful new book,
Through Black Spruce,
draw the reader back to the world of his multiple award–winning first novel,
Three Day Road.

Will is an aging bush pilot who seems content to live out his days as a bird who no longer flies. As long as he has his friends, his family, and his rye whisky, life is good for him in Moosonee. When Marius Netmaker, a local drug runner, suspects Will of being an informant for the police, he taunts Will with a series of increasingly violent episodes that culminate in a fateful confrontation. Taking to the skies one more time, Will flees to the contemplative solitude of the far wilderness, where he immerses himself in the old ways, struggling with nature and his own demons for survival.

Annie’s sister Suzanne has fled to Toronto with Marius’s brother Gus, a move that provokes concern in the Bird family and anger in the Netmakers. She becomes a successful model, but Gus’s ties to the seedy world of illegal drugs and biker gangs lead to her mysterious disappearance. Fearing for her sister, Annie follows her trail, first to the disorienting streets of Toronto and Montreal and then to the intoxicating but heartless club scene of New York City. There she finds herself drawn into a world of image and exploitation, of fast times and shallow friends, and discovers that the only person she can trust is a street-smart Anishnabe mute named Gordon.

Some journeys are hard but must be taken, and true knowledge must be earned. Even though their paths lead them far from home and family, both Will and Annie return to Moosonee physically transformed and richer in spirit, having learned what lies through black spruce.

AN INTERVIEW WITH JOSEPH BOYDEN

    Q:
  How did the incredible success of
Three Day Road
affect the writing process for
Through Black Spruce
?

I’d be lying if I said that the success of
Three Day Road
didn’t give me reservations when beginning
Through Black Spruce
. For a while, I worried about reader expectations and sometimes, deep in the night, a little voice whispered, “Your first novel was a fluke. You won’t be able to do that again.” But then, when much of the travel for my first novel was finished, much kinder voices began to whisper to me. These eventually became Will and Annie Bird, and as soon as I began writing in earnest again, all my worries burned away like morning mist in the sun. I think sitting down to write a novel is daunting for any writer, but the day-today, page-at-a-time process takes over and grows into something I can only describe as a little miraculous.

    Q:
  After writing a novel so rich in historical research, was it refreshing to write a novel set in the here and now?

There are certain parameters, certain facts that can’t be ignored when writing a historical novel. Those parameters don’t exist nearly so rigidly when writing about the contemporary world. That world is your oyster, but it’s a big oyster, indeed. And so I was forced to make careful decisions about where my characters would go that were both realistic and often surprising, especially when my characters began to develop. Will flees to the desolate north while Annie tracks her missing sister in the big cities down south. The research for this novel was clearly much different from the research for
Three Day Road
. Yes, it was refreshing not to have to pore over historical texts but rather to look at the contemporary world with as keen an eye as I could.

    Q:
  
Through Black Spruce
shares with its predecessor a dualnarrator structure. What does this format provide that a more traditional single narrator does not?

Utilizing two points of view rather than one is a bit of a balancing act. And there has to be a clear reason for a dual narrative that is organic to the story, or else it will feel false. The decision to once again use this structure wasn’t even all that conscious. Apparently, the Bird Clan need one another to talk to when it feels as if the rest of the world is against them. Ultimately, the use of two perspectives offers a much wider scope, and just as importantly, a sort of call and response that I hope grows and echoes as the novel progresses.

    Q:
  Both of your novels explore the long-reaching effects that violence has on the soul. Why do you think this is such a common theme in Canadian literature?

I think that the exploration of violence and its effect on all of us isn’t just a common Canadian theme but a universal one. Violence is an uncomfortable reality, I imagine, for most writers to explore, and it’s in this dark place that much tension exists. And I believe tension is a very important ingredient in good fiction. On a more personal note, I’ve unfortunately witnessed my fair share of inexplicable violence, and exploring the most depraved of human actions in my writing acts as a small exorcism.

    Q:
  Why do you think that the theme of exile leading to self-discovery is such an important part of Canadian literature?

I didn’t set out on a mission to explore the theme of exile and how it can lead to self-discovery, but certainly this novel and these characters comfortably fit into that realm. I originally set out to tell what I hoped would be a good story, an exciting read. Once again, I think this theme is quite universal. It occurs in so much of our world literature because it includes all three of the conflicts at a writer’s disposal: man versus man, man versus nature, and man versus self. It’s a natural place for the writer to be drawn to in order to utilize tension, which once again, I believe, equals good fiction.

    Q:
  What has been the reaction from the Native community to your books?

Native communities across Canada continue to be wonderfully supportive of my work. That many First Nations accept my writing as their own is an honour of huge importance for me.

    Q:
  Some people see Canadian literature through the “Two Solitudes” perspective, whereby a book’s place in either French or English culture is the key to exploring its themes and meanings. Where do you think the Native perspective fits in? Do you feel that Native culture is its own “solitude”?

Native culture is what I’d call the first pillar of Canadian culture. My own theory is that four pillars exist in our country’s foundation: the English, the French, the Contemporary Immigrant, and the First Nation. Each plays a vital role in supporting and explaining who and what we are. I could go on forever, but I’ll keep it as is. Maybe I’ll write a book about this one day!

    Q:
  What challenges did you face writing in Annie’s young female voice?

Annie’s voice came really naturally to me. I’ve mentioned in the past that I’m very comfortable writing in a woman’s voice, in part because I have seven older sisters. And I’m incredibly lucky to have a wife who is an amazing novelist and my best editor. When in doubt about how Annie might act or respond, all I had to do was ask Amanda’s advice. She’s never shy to point out any inconsistencies or places where a female voice doesn’t ring true.

    Q:
  Was it a challenge for you to capture the life of a model in New York City?

Admittedly, I don’t believe that the world of high fashion is necessarily rocket science. But it certainly has its own complexities and hierarchies. On the surface, we mere mortals glimpse this world of fun and beauty and parties and glamour that all seems so spontaneous and natural. But the preparation, the focused energy, and the planning that happen behind the scenes when creating this imaginary world is rigid and corporate and geared toward making profit. Annie comes to recognize this as she delves deeper into that world, that place where one day she is a shining up-and-comer only to find out that the next day she is an undesirable. I believe the world of fashion is as cutthroat a business as any.