I need to tell her that I wish to stay with her, but can’t find the English words. I think I can hear the clink of needles in the envelope as I am pushed away from her.
The ship is as big as the one I sailed on years ago. But instead of being led down below the deck with the horses, I am kept up high above the water, put in a room of my own with a window from which I can stare out at the water. Officers come to visit me, lieutenants and colonels and even a general. They want to meet me, this Indian sniper of supreme talent whose reputation matches that of the one they call Peggy. They have learned that my hearing is mostly gone, speak to me in great loud baritones, bring bottles of rum and cigars. The winter ocean is rough, and they try to keep steady as they stand and talk down to me. I stare at them, try to smile, wait for the one who will discover my secret, this lie.
On the nights, the nights that stretch on forever before dawn comes, on those nights when the rain pounds at my little window and the waves rock and beat the ship like Elijah coming to haunt me, I reach shakily into my duffle and feel for the envelope, feel the warmth of the sunlit river coming to lift me up.
NTASHIIHKEWIN
Home
THE NIGHT IS UPON US NOW and the stones have heated. I pick them up from the fire with two sticks and carry them into the matatosowin one by one. They pulse in the darkness. I wake up Nephew then and let him gain his senses a little. He holds his stomach and leans on me as we go to the river. I help him remove the wemistikoshiw clothes that he has worn so long, and wash his body in the cool water. I remove my clothing too, and then take him inside.
In the matatosowin the heat is good. When we are ready I close the flap tightly. The darkness is complete.
“I am glad you are here with me,” I say loudly enough that he might hear, as I pour water on the stones. They hiss alive and glow and a wave of steam washes over us. “Tell me if it is too hot or if you do not feel well.”
I acknowledge the four directions and then the earth, the sun, the sky and the moon, sprinkling a little sage onto the rocks as I do. I thank Gitchi Manitou for Nephew’s return. I sit and breathe the steam, open myself to the manitous.
I know that Nephew will have trouble hearing me and so I feel no need to talk out loud. The heat is pleasant, relaxing, a good first round. The rocks dull a little and so I sprinkle more water on them. As I stare at them the image comes to me of Nephew leaving that morning with Elijah so long ago. I tie a medicine bundle around each of their necks, kiss each of them on the forehead. I stand on the riverbank and hold my hand up to them. Xavier and Elijah turn and smile at me as they paddle away. I smile now in the darkness, remembering.
When the time comes, I crawl to the flap and open it, and we lie outside on the cool ground and breathe the air deeply. After a time, I open the flap and crawl back in. He follows me.
Once more I welcome the manitous and then pour a little more water on the rocks, make it hotter inside. I sprinkle more sage onto the stones and it sparks and dances. I know that Nephew stares at the glow as well. I chant my prayers, and as I do I see flashes in the darkness, the shouts of fury and of killing. I see the confusion, feel the anger, but mostly the fear. My body shakes with the vibration of their bombs exploding. I watch as men fall dead with bullet holes in their foreheads or are blown to pieces by great blasts. I watch as green gas crawls across the ground, seeking out all the breathing things so that it might choke them to death. Pain. So much pain. But it is their fear that leaves me weak. The fear of crawling over the sandbags and running headlong into the enemy. I talk out loud then, ask that men be forgiven for their mistakes. I sprinkle more water onto the stones so that the steam may carry it away. When it is time, we leave once more and drink in the cooler air outside.
The third round I am consumed by Nephew’s pain. I can feel it settle on my chest as surely as if someone is sitting on me. I pour water on the rocks and the steam rushes into my lungs like poison. It is difficult to breathe. I begin to feel panic, something I’ve not felt in this place since childhood. I want to rush out of the matatosowin and breathe fresh air. The heat sears my lungs, and so I bend to the ground and try to breathe the cooler air there, whispering words over and over to Gitchi Manitou. Nephew is chased by something horrible, even in here. And it threatens to take me too. I am a child again and this is my first time in the matatosowin, the darkness and heat and hot moisture making me desperate to get out.
My father’s words come back to me. I concentrate on my racing heart and ask it to slow down. I breathe shallowly from the ground and let the heat burn my back. I whisper over and over. The pain that Nephew has carried inside of himself for so long is leaving his body and swirling around in this place. It swooshes and screams and scratches at me until I think I am bleeding. It tries to enter me, first through my mouth, but I purse my lips and spit out a prayer at it. It slips down my breasts, my stomach, my thighs, a tongue of fire, searching. It tries to slip up inside me between my legs but I cover myself with my hands. It bites my fingers with sharp teeth. I want it to be burned up by the heat.
I pour more water on the rocks, and then more. Nephew bends to the ground too, moaning and crying and whispering. I am worried for him, that his body is not strong enough, but if the illness stays inside him it will kill him.
With the squeal of stone splitting in half from the heat, the presence is gone. A rush of cool air comes as if the flap has opened and closed quickly, and I suddenly feel something else inside, sitting down beside us.
Nephew begins talking into the ground and it is hard to hear what he says. The other presence in the matatosowin isn’t threatening. It neither challenges nor calms. The other is pure, and it fills this space. It is a young man I once knew who loved to talk. Nephew speaks, then stops as if listening. “Ponenimin,” Nephew says. “Forgive me. I had no choice.” He speaks more, says ponenimin again for killing his friend over there in that place.
I am sad to hear this, but it is no surprise. Nephew was never one to keep secrets. A long silence, and then I listen in the wet heat as Nephew accepts forgiveness too.
“But I cannot forgive everything you did there,” he says. “It is not my place to do so.”
He speaks again softly. I can’t make out the words, nor do I want to. He cries, and in it I hear the fear of his loneliness. I lean down into the ground and hug this presence that has joined us, hug Elijah like a baby in my arms, holding on as long as I can before I must let go. The matatosowin goes still. Over the murmur of hot stones Nephew whispers goodbye to his friend, and then it is just the two of us here once again.
I crawl to the flap, open it and carry Nephew out. We collapse on the ground. Above us, the sky has settled into the long black of night. It will be a clear morning. My body tingles. My skin is reddened from the steam. I look over to Nephew and see that his is too. He is so thin now. I can see his ribs. I see where his leg was severed. The cut is clean, but the skin all around it is purple and angry. The scars are thick and ropy and run up his thigh like lightning bolts.
I lean close to him and whisper directly in his ear. “Just one more round, Nephew. It will not feel as painful or as hot.”
I crawl back in first, then help him inside. I pour more water onto the rocks and once again I’m embraced by the heat. The feeling is good after the coolness of the evening air. Almost immediately the heat brings visions. Children. I see children. They are happy and play games by the bank. The bank of the Great Salt Bay. They are two boys, naked, their brown backs to me as they throw little stones into the water. Their hair is long in the old way and is braided with strips of red cloth. But this isn’t the past. It is what’s still to come. They look to be brothers. Someone else besides me watches them. I sense that he watches to keep them from danger. I am no longer on the ground with them at all but above, looking down at this whole scene. I am not able to see the one who keeps his eye on them, and do not want to see. I know who he is, and who these boys are too.
The matatosowin is filled with this good visi
on and I let myself drift in it, in the smell of sweetgrass and the sigh of the old stones. Soon a lightness I’ve not felt since I was young tells me that we’re finished. We crawl out.
It is the dark before dawn. I am surprised at how time passed so quickly. We lie beside one another, our skin as tender as newborns’, steam rising from us like we are on fire inside.
On the edge of the evening sky I watch a white mist of washed-out Wawahtew begin to pulse. It is too early in the year for their colours to shimmer. For the first time in a long time I think of my father. Something of him is in those lights, the way they pulse slow and even, like a strong heartbeat. He has been all around me all my life, never really left me. It has taken most of my years to realize this. He is in the sky at night. He walks silently beside me when I stalk moose. He follows me even when I go into that wemistikoshiw town that he hated so much, the same place that he was taken to and where he died.
After a time, I get up and dress. I help Nephew into his clothes and start a fire. We sit by it and gaze up at the stars that dot the sky. The Wawahtew pulse a little more brightly tonight than last. The eastern sky is lightening. It’s been a long night.
Tonight I do not worry about making camp. I just pull our blankets from the canoe and we curl up in them and watch the fire. In a little while I will have to add more wood to keep the chill away. Nephew breathes calmly. I listen to the sounds of the night animals not so far away. I hear the fox and the marten chasing mice. I hear the whoosh of great wings as an Arctic owl sweeps close by, and after that the almost silent step of a bigger animal, a lynx perhaps, keeping watch with her yellow eyes. I lie here and look at the sky, then at the river, the black line of it heading north. By tomorrow we’ll be home.
Acknowledgments
I WISH TO HONOUR the Native soldiers who fought in the Great War, and in all wars in which they so overwhelmingly volunteered. Your bravery and skill do not go unnoticed. I especially want to honour Francis Pegahmagabow, sniper, scout, and later chief of Wasauksing First Nation (Parry Island). He is one of Canada’s most important heroes.
ALTHOUGH HE’S FAR TOO HUMBLE to admit it, R. James Steel ranks among our country’s best World War I historians and authors. His patience, wisdom, and especially his astounding knowledge of the war made this a journey I will never forget. Any inaccuracies that might exist in this book can only be blamed on me. Thank you for reading so many drafts of this novel, Jim.
Thanks must also go to the Canada Council for the Arts for their support; it is a vital Canadian institution.
I also wish to thank Greg Spence of Moose Factory, Ontario, for his guidance in translation to the Cree language. Mikwec ntontem.
A debt of gratitude to my dear friends for reading early drafts: Jarret Lofstead, Joe Longo, James Grainger, Michael Winter, Carmen and Chris Tozer, Matt Suazo, and David Gifford.
I especially want to thank my brother, Bruce Boyden, for his wisdom and close military eye to detail. I also wish to thank Marc Cote for his willingness to share his editor’s knowledge. Janie Yoon, your attention to the page is something I will not forget.
I experienced the rare and wonderful opportunity to work with a number of great editors in shaping this novel: Barbara Berson at Penguin Canada, your skill, faith, and confidence is deeply appreciated. David Davidar, what can I say? You’re the man. Tracy Bordian, you are the finest managing editor a writer could wish to have.
Many thanks also to Paul Slovak at Penguin U.S.A., and Helen Garnons-Williams at Weidenfeld and Nicolson U.K. for your guidance and belief in me.
Francis Geffard at Albin-Michel: You were the first one to take a chance and the first to let me know when it worked and when it didn’t. Meegwetch, mon ami.
Nicole Winstanley: You are more than just a brilliant agent. You are a dear friend.
On my northern travels I’ve never experienced anything other than warmth, laughs, and incredible stories. William and Pam Tozer of Moose Cree First Nation, mikwec for always making your home my home. Mikwec as well to the Metatawabins of Fort Albany First Nation. To Bertha Sandy and her family of Beausoleil First Nation: You’ve been good to my relatives and me.
Finally, I want to thank my own very large family: David, Raymond, Francis, Suzanne, Julia, Veronica, Mary, Bruce, Claire, Theresa, Angela, and, of course, you, Mom. You are everything. Lieutenant Colonel Raymond Wilfrid Boyden, D.S.O., C.D., M.D., our deceased father and World War II hero, you continue to live in all of us.
As always, Amanda, you’ve been the best reader a person could ask for. Your support and encouragement made a writer out of me.
A Penguin Readers Guide
Three Day Road
About the Book
About Joseph Boyden
An Interview with Joseph Boyden
Discussion Questions
ABOUT THE BOOK
Set in the wilderness of northern Ontario and the battlefields of Europe, Three Day Road takes readers deep into the horrors—physical, emotional, and spiritual—of the Great War.
The story is told through the voices of two Native Canadians: Xavier, who has returned from the war badly wounded and ravaged by his addiction to morphine, and his aunt Niska, who cares for him and tries to restore him.
Xavier had joined up at the urging of his friend Elijah; like many who fought in the Great War, they were certain it would be over quickly. But the war they experienced was far from the thrilling adventure they had imagined. Once they arrived at the Western Front, their Native hunting skills impressed their superiors and both men became snipers. They killed many men, but while Xavier from the beginning felt a kind of spiritual revulsion, Elijah revelled in it and tried to notch more kills than any other sniper in the war. His bloodlust completely mastered him, and he soon learned to kill with both detached coolness and frenzied violence. Disobeying orders at every turn, he committed atrocities against the enemy, against civilians, and even against his fellow soldiers. His addiction to morphine only hastened his moral dissipation.
As Xavier remembers the nightmare of war, he struggles with his own addiction, the loss of his leg, and the certainty that he will die after his supply of morphine runs out. But Niska watches over him and “feeds” him healing stories of her past, his own past, and of the larger past of their people, the Cree of northern Ontario. Whether she will be able to save him—to bring him back from the brink of death—creates the suspense that drives the narrative to its surprising conclusion.
Inspired in part by real-life World War I Ojibwe hero Francis Pegahmagabow, Three Day Road is a compelling and viscerally powerful exploration of what poet Wilfred Owen described as “the pity of war.”
ABOUT JOSEPH BOYDEN
In the summer of 1945, my father was invited to Buckingham Palace by the king. The war in Europe had ground to an end in the streets of Berlin. As George VI pinned the Distinguished Service Order upon my father’s uniform, he proclaimed him the most highly decorated medical officer in the British Empire.
In the summer of 1945, Erl, my dad’s older brother, was living a traditional lifestyle in a teepee near Algonquin Park, selling crafts to tourists. Uncle Erl had experienced World War I and was too old for this second great war, but I doubt he would have wanted to participate anyway. He enjoyed life in the woods of northern Ontario in summer and the life of a world wanderer in winter.
I’m forty years old, the third youngest of eleven children born into a strict Irish Catholic family. My age betrays the fact that my father sired a number of my siblings, including me, when he was quite a bit older than most fathers. I grew up with history and myth swirling around me, stories of my father’s war exploits and my uncle Erl’s Ojibwe ways inseparable. I was born into a family from a very different era and listened to stories of how my father and Erl and their younger brother Robert had to form their own gang when they were young because they were Mick Catholic bastards in a world of Orangemen. My father was older than most of my friends’ grandfathers, and had actually delivered a number of my schoolmat
es’ fathers into the world.
My father was blond and blue-eyed. Erl was brown and high-cheekboned and had a hooked nose. Robert looked something in the middle. My father chose one route. He became a doctor and a war hero and brought his family to the city. Erl took the other route. He lived in the bush and made his own clothing out of hide and travelled the world with only a few coins in his pocket, somewhere along the way picking up what now sounds like the horribly racist moniker “Injun Joe.” There are still postcards of him in full Indian regalia floating around Algonquin Park trading posts. Robert chose a quiet life somewhere between the two.
My dad died when I was eight. Erl took the three day road years earlier. Robert died not long after my father. My raven-haired mother, strong and still beautiful, was left to raise my sisters and brothers and me. She was no stranger to war veteran relatives, either. Her father, Guy, had been a motorcycle dispatch rider in World War I, had had the dubious distinction of being wounded on November 11, 1918, the last day of the war. He spent the rest of his life blinded in one eye from shrapnel.
With so many children to keep track of and a full-time job as a teacher at the local elementary school, my mother was forced to grant a certain amount of lenience to my wandering ways. Just like my Indian uncle, I had a taste for the road and for adventure. The punk rock scene of the early 1980s was a nice fit for my rebellious sensibilities. In deference to my uncle I wore my hair in a mohawk, and lived on the streets of Toronto in the summers, returning home to pursue my schooling in the autumn. At the time, I didn’t recognize the parallels between my uncle and me.
At sixteen I began travelling to the United States on my own. More and more I felt the inexplicable pull of the Deep South, making close friendships with a group of misfits in South Carolina and Louisiana. I became a roadie for their band and criss-crossed the U.S. and Canada with them. Responsibility, the ghostly apparition of my father, always pulled me back to continue with my schooling. I kept all kinds of jobs in order to feed my growing passion for the road: gravedigger and groundskeeper at a cemetery, tutor, dishwasher, waiter, and bartender. But always, as soon as my last exam was finished, I’d climb on a Greyhound or stick my thumb out or jump on my motorcycle and hit the road once more.