“Anin, Henry,” Cork said, using the traditional Ojibwe greeting.
“Anin, Corcoran O’Connor,” the old man said. He lifted the piece of whittled wood and squinted along its length. “I have been thinking this morning about your grandmother.” With the tip of his knife, Meloux pointed to a place near him on the ground, and Cork sat down. The old Mide returned to his woodworking. “She was a beautiful woman. When I was a young man, I thought that someday she would be my wife.”
This was news to Cork. Grandmother Dilsey had never spoken of it nor, until this moment, had Meloux.
“But one day a man with hair the color of fox fur came and opened a school on the reservation. His hair was not the only thing about him like a fox. He stole your grandmother’s heart. If I had not already chosen to become a member of the Grand Medicine Society and to understand the way Kitchimanidoo means for his children to live together well upon the earth, I might have been filled with hatred for this man. I might have killed him in anger.” The old man glanced at Cork, and a smile touched his lips. “Your grandfather was a lucky man.”
“You’re talking about anger, Henry. You know about Fletcher Kane?”
“I know.”
“Is Solemn here?”
“Not here.”
“But you know where.”
Meloux cut a shaving from the stick.
“I’d like to talk to him,” Cork said.
The old Mide lowered his hands and set the knife and the piece of wood in the dirt. “I will have to think about this.” He uncrossed his legs and pushed to his feet. He began down the path toward the lake, and Cork followed.
They threaded their way between two high boulders and on the other side came to the end of Crow Point, where Meloux often set an open fire and burned sage and cedar. Iron Lake spread away from the rocky shoreline in a glitter of reflected sunlight. Meloux sat on a maple stump next to the blackened stone circle. Cork sat on the ground. The old man drew a tobacco pouch from the pocket of his worn flannel shirt. He offered a bit toward the four directions of the earth, then he took papers from the same pocket and rolled himself a cigarette. He handed the pouch and the papers to Cork. They smoked a long time in silence. Cork had never known Henry Meloux to hurry a thing.
“What do you think?” the old Mide said at long last.
About what, Cork had no idea. He gave the question due consideration, however, and finally replied, “The more I think, the more confused I become.”
Meloux nodded once and smoked some more. “What do you feel?” he asked.
“That I’ve been tricked.”
“Who is the trickster?”
“I guess, Henry, that would have to be me. I let my feelings about Fletcher Kane get in the way of understanding things. Maybe I’ve misjudged everything because of it.”
Henry Meloux regarded the last of his hand-rolled cigarette. “The head confuses,” he said. “The heart misleads.”
“So what’s the answer?”
“There is a place between the two, a place of knowing.”
“How do I get there, Henry?”
Meloux threw the butt of his cigarette into the ash inside the stone circle. “Follow the blood,” he said. He stood up and began to walk away.
Cork had no idea what the old man’s final words meant, but it was obvious that was all Meloux was going to say. About Solemn’s whereabouts, he had evidently decided to remain silent.
Cork bid Meloux farewell at the cabin, scratched Walleye’s head in parting, and started back. He was a little disappointed that he hadn’t exactly accomplished what he’d come there for. He hadn’t been able to talk with Solemn.
He followed the path through the woods and came again to the stream. He started to cross but in the middle stopped so abruptly that he slipped off the stone onto which he’d just stepped. He splashed into the calf-deep, red-hued, iron-rich water. Although the whites called it Wine Creek, Cork remembered that long ago, Henry Meloux had told him the Anishinaabeg had another name for the stream. They called it miskwi. The translation in English would be blood.
40
FOLLOW THE BLOOD, Meloux had said. A clever instruction? A test perhaps?
The stream flowed into Iron Lake a few hundred yards to the west. Cork quickly checked that stretch, found nothing, and turned back. For an hour, he followed the stream east, deep into the woods. The water coursed among low hills, through stands of spruce, pine, and poplar, raising a ruddy foam as it funneled between close rock walls and spilled into deep, sanguine pools.
He came at last to a long ridge of gray rock that lay before him like a wall. The stream seemed to issue from the slope itself directly out of a blackberry thicket that grew along the base of the ridge for as far as Cork could see. He walked left, then right, looking for a path through the brambles, but he saw no way. Eventually, he lowered himself into the water and began to crawl along the streambed, pushing his way among the thorns. The vines caught his clothing, snagged his hair, scratched his skin. He’d disturbed a horde of mosquitoes that added their own torment on top of the claws of the blackberry vines. The streambed was littered with sharp rocks that cut his hands as he dragged himself forward. At last, he cleared the thicket and stood up, dripping wet.
He faced a gap in the ridge where the stream had cut a narrow corridor. The breach, barely wide enough for a man to slip through, ran at an angle and twisted out of sight. Cork turned himself sideways and squeezed between the rocks, following the water. After a few minutes of slow progress, he came out on the other side of the ridge and found himself in a place he’d never been but recognized immediately.
The meadow was circular, contained within the hollow of a bowl created by a ring of granite ridges like the one through which he’d just passed. The hollow was edged with poplars and aspen and the ground was covered with meadow grass, tall and silky. Along the banks of the stream grew cattails. Not far away stood a makeshift sweat lodge, a frame of bowed willow saplings lashed together and covered with a tarp. Almost dead center in the hollow, a hundred yards from where Cork stood, a single rock rose out of the earth, a gray pinnacle far taller than a man. Seated in the grass at the base of the rock was Solemn Winter Moon.
Solemn watched Cork approach, and a crescent moon grin broke out across his dark face. “What happened to you? Meet up with a cubbing she-bear?”
“A blackberry thicket,” Cork said.
Solemn was shirtless. He wore only khaki shorts. His boots and socks sat on the ground off to one side. His long hair was uncombed, wild. It had become a net that had captured much of what traveled on the current of the breeze. Dandelion fluff, a gossamer thread spun by a spider, a yellow dusting of pollen. Solemn seemed a natural part of the place he’d come to. On the ground beside him lay the small black Bible that Mal had given him in jail.
“Mind if I rob you of your solitude?” Cork asked.
“Nothing here belongs to me. That includes the solitude. Sit down.”
The sun was almost directly overhead, but the air in the meadow felt cool. “This is where you met Him, isn’t it?”
“He walked out of the trees over there.” Solemn pointed toward the east, to a place near where the stream flowed into the hollow.
“Were you hoping He’d come again?”
Solemn smiled. “Yeah.”
“Still hoping?”
“Not anymore.”
“Lost hope?”
Solemn took a good look at Cork. “You ought to wash that blood off. Maybe have a drink while you’re at it. You look thirsty.”
“I am.”
“The creek’s clean,” Solemn said. “It’s what I drink.”
Cork got up and went to the stream. He knelt, cupped his hands, and drank. The water refreshed him.
“I’m glad you dropped out of sight,” Cork said as he cleaned his wounds. “Safer.”
“I didn’t drop out of sight. I ran. I came to Henry because I was scared.”
“Fear is a good thing sometimes. Got an
angry crowd back there in Aurora.”
“I wasn’t afraid of the people who think I fooled them. I was afraid I’d fooled myself.”
“Did Henry help?”
“He led me back here. We built that sweat lodge, and Henry did what he could to bring me back to harmony. After he’d finished, he told me I wasn’t done, that I needed to stay awhile, alone. I asked him if he thought Jesus would come again. You know what he said? He said, ‘Expect nothing, because nothing is what’s going to come.’ ” Solemn laughed quietly. “That Henry. He always means exactly what he says, but it’s hard to figure sometimes.”
Cork finished at the creek and sat down beside Solemn at the rock. “Jesus didn’t come, did he?”
“Nothing came. Exactly what Henry said. But I know what he meant now. Nothing was going to come because it was already here. I had it all along. You know what it is, Cork?”
“No.”
“That’s interesting because the last time you visited me at Sam’s cabin you told me exactly what it is. Certainty. I knew God. Or Kitchimanidoo, or whatever name we give to the spirit that binds all things together. I knew. And after that nothing else mattered. Not the old anger, the old hurts. Not yesterday or tomorrow. I didn’t have to think about it, try to understand it. I just knew. It doesn’t matter whether Jesus walked out of those trees or if I dreamed Him. What I received was a true thing. I know that God is.”
He smiled up at the sky, and his face glowed as if he’d swallowed the sun. He looked at Cork and saw the doubt there.
“You’re thinking, why him? Why Solemn Winter Moon? I wondered the same thing. I traveled a hard, dark road, but what I was given didn’t come because of that journey. It wasn’t something I earned from suffering. It was a gift, a blessing like the rain. I wish everyone could know that.” He reached out and put his hand over Cork’s heart. “I wish you could.”
A breeze came up and stirred the grass in the meadow. Solemn removed his hand, and for a moment, Cork felt as if he were going to fall apart, as if all that had held him together was Solemn’s touch.
“You came a long way to find me,” Solemn said.
“To warn you.” Cork told him about Fletcher Kane. Everything he now knew.
Solemn nodded. “There’s a man’s been walking a hard, dark road, himself.”
“For a while, you need to stay here or with Meloux, until we’ve figured a way to deal with Kane.”
“Why are you so afraid for me?”
“I just told you.”
“I guess I mean why are you so afraid of me dying?” He opened his arms toward the hollow. “Don’t you feel it here? The source? We come from a great heart, Cork. The heart of Kitchimanidoo, the heart of God. And we just go back into that heart. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“When you’re looking down the barrel of a shotgun, Solemn, it’s hard to hold to that philosophy. Believe me, I know.”
“Maybe you should stay here awhile.”
“I’ve done what I came for. I just hope it’s done some good.”
“I hadn’t thought about leaving.”
“Good.”
“Thank you, Cork. Thanks for everything.”
Cork stood to leave. He looked down at Solemn. “I wish Sam could see you now.”
“Who says he can’t?” Solemn pointed toward a thick stand of poplar at the base of the western ridge. “A couple of hundred yards south of the creek. See that break in the trees? There’s a path over the ridge. Unless you have a hankering for another go at the blackberry thicket.”
“Once is enough,” Cork said.
Cork found the trail through the trees. As he topped the ridge, he looked back. Solemn hadn’t moved. Nor would he. The place he’d come to was as good as any man could hope for, and far better than most would ever know.
41
CORK KNEW HE’D LEFT a remarkable young man in the hollow where the Blood ran. Solemn had taken hold of something—or something had taken hold of him—that had changed him pro-foundly. Cork, who struggled at every step trying to understand himself and the world, envied Solemn. Yet, as he left the woods and drove toward Aurora, there was a dark voice deep inside him that whispered, It won’t last. Back among men, in a little while, he’ll be like us again.
His children were happy to see him home, but no happier than he was to be there and to be with them again. He held them each in his arms. Lithe Jenny. Annie solid as a stone. Stevie, who could not keep his little body still. Cork closed his eyes and knew that to lose a child would be the cruelest blow. Although his head told him prayer was pointless, his heart couldn’t help whispering, “Please, God, keep them safe, my children.”
The house smelled of Rose’s cooking. Pork roast with a citrus marinade, new potatoes, butter squash, and homemade apple-sauce. A welcome-home meal, she told him when he stepped into the kitchen. She kissed his cheek and smiled, but she was unable to hide from him that she stood in the shadow of some private sadness.
“It’s good to be home again,” he said.
“Wash up,” she replied, turning away and wiping her hands on her apron. “Dinner’s almost ready. Oh, and you got a call. A man named Boomer. He said to call him back.”
Boomer Grabowski had promised to call as soon as he returned to Chicago, in case Cork still wanted Mal Thorne investigated. Cork considered whether that was necessary now. He’d identified Charlotte’s lover, and it wasn’t the priest. Not that he’d ever really believed it was, but he’d wanted to be thorough. And still did. So he figured he’d call Boomer after dinner.
As it turned out, he never got the chance. But it would have been far better if he had.
In the stillness just before sunset, he sat with Jo, rocking in the porch swing. Jenny had gone on a date with her boyfriend, Sean. Annie was at the park with Ilsa Hardesty, practicing their pitches. She promised to be home before dark. Stevie rode his bike up and down Gooseberry Lane making a sound like a race car. Rose was taking a walk by herself, something she did regularly now.
“She’s quiet,” Cork said.
“She’s in love. She believes she’s hiding it, but even the girls can see.”
“Has she talked to you?”
“No.”
“What will she do?”
“What can she do? He’s a priest. He’s already taken.”
“Sometimes priests leave the church. Sometimes because of a woman. Do you think Mal feels the same way about her?”
“I don’t know.” She watched Stevie zip past on the street, his little legs pedaling as if he were being chased by a devil. “I keep thinking back to Memorial Day. I knew then and didn’t do anything.”
“What could you have done?” He squeezed her hand. “It’s not your fault, Jo. When two hearts connect, there’s not a lot anybody can do about it. We both know that.”
“She’s always wanted to be in love, to find someone to care about and who would care about her. Why did it have to be like this? Why is love always so painful?”
“It’s not. Not always, anyway.”
“Oh, Cork, my heart’s breaking for her.”
As the sun set, the street dropped into the shadow of approaching night. Cork stood up to call Stevie in, but before he did, he glanced down at Jo and said, “Aren’t you supposed to put all this in God’s hands?”
Jo shook her head. “I don’t know. Sometimes He seems clueless.”
Cork guided Stevie through bedtime preparations and read to him awhile. He heard the doorbell ring. A few minutes later, Jo came upstairs and parked herself in the doorway to Stevie’s room. She looked concerned.
“What’s up?” Cork asked quietly. Stevie’s eyes had just drifted closed.
Jo motioned him into the hallway.
“Dot Winter Moon is downstairs. She’s worried about Solemn.”
Dorothy Winter Moon sat on the couch in the living room. Her face was shiny with perspiration. Errant strands of her hair were pasted to her forehead like black cracks.
“What’s g
oing on?” Cork said.
“Solemn’s gone,” Dot said.
“I know. He’s up in the woods near Meloux’s place.”
“He came back,” Dot said.
Cork sat down in the easy chair. “Tell me what happened.”
“He came home late this afternoon, showered, changed his clothes. Then he talked to me, like we used to talk.”
“What about?” Cork asked.
“About Sam, about a lot of things in the past. I told him I was fixing pork chops for dinner. He said he had an errand to run, then he’d be back to eat. He kissed me on the cheek. I can’t remember the last time he kissed me.” She was a tough woman, but she was near tears. “He never came back.”
“Did he say where he was going?” Cork asked.
“To the place where two hard roads come together. I don’t know where that is.”
Cork said, “Did you check Sam’s cabin?”
“Yes. He wasn’t there. And I called everyone on the rez. Nobody’s seen him. I checked the bars he used to go to. Then I came into town hoping he might have come by here.”
“I’ll bet he went back to Henry Meloux’s place,” Cork said. “I’m sure he’s fine, Dot.”
“You think so?”
“I’d call Henry, but he’s got no phone.”
Jo said, “Cork, would you be willing to drive out and check?”
Dot looked at Cork, and her almond eyes were full of hope.
“All right.”
“Thanks,” Dot said. “Thanks a million, Cork.”
Rose walked in the front door. She took in the scene, and she said, “Are you all right, Dot?”
Dot shrugged. “My boy’s missing.”
“Cork thinks he’s with Henry Meloux,” Jo said. “He’s going out to check.”
Rose put her hand gently on Dot’s shoulder. “It could be a long wait. Why don’t I fix some coffee?”