Mattie Mitchell (13 page)

All five of the rodents stopped less than fifteen yards from
the hidden canoe, and two of them started swimming in wide,
slow circles. The wobbling sound of air escaping the wings of
an airborne snipe hunting for summer moths came to them from
high above. Worcester looked skyward, hoping to see it. He had
always loved the sound. He spotted the snipe hundreds of feet
in the air. Suddenly it dived earthward for something Worcester
couldn't see, and the same high-pitched wilderness sound burst
forth.

Worcester turned back to the muskrats. There were only two
to be seen. He looked all around but could not see the others. A
few minutes passed and they appeared again, bobbing up from
the water like black corks. They swam toward the opposite shore,
hauled themselves onto a low, sloped rock, and began eating.
They were eating clams.

Still no sound or movement came from Mattie. The muskrats
on the rock finished the clams and, slid into the water one by
one. They swam out into the stream and dived below the surface
again. The two larger muskrats, which had kept swimming around
during this activity, suddenly dived in unison. One of the other
heads appeared. There came at the same instant a sound like a
suddenly released branch on a quiet trail. Worcester saw a long,
slim arrow pass through the muskrat's throat where its soaked fur
met the waterline.

The startled animal tried to dive, but it only managed to get half
of its body below the water. Then, with the arrow sticking straight
up out of its neck, it swam in slow circles until it slowed and
finally stopped. Another head appeared and for a moment faced
the canoe. Worcester heard the same gentle rush of air behind him,
this time accompanied by the twang of Mattie's bow. Fascinated,
he saw the arrow enter the muskrat's throat, heard a sudden squeal
of pain from the creature's open mouth, then watched as its head
fell forward in a frothy bubble of blood and water.

The other rodents surfaced and appeared to be alarmed.
Worcester was waiting for at least the closest one to receive the
same fate as the other two, when the Indian spoke loud and clear.

“We 'ave plen'y. We eat good dis night. Young muskrat taste
ver' good. Tomorrow we find much clams. Maybe much pearls,
too.”

And then, just as Mattie had predicted, the rain began.

FOR AS LONG AS HE LIVED
,
ELWOOD WORCESTER
would
never forget that first night he spent with Mattie Mitchell in
the true wilderness. Both of them were soaked by the time they
had set up the tent and stowed their gear inside. Just around the
bend from where Mattie had killed the two muskrats, a droke of
fir, some spruce, and white birch jutting out from the wetlands
provided a suitable campsite. Around the trees the ground was
firm and level. The falling rain made the fir trees come alive with
a sweet scent that hung in the air. Their fire, once Mattie got it
really going just outside the tent's triangular door, gave off wisps
of grey smoke that rose with the sparkling yellow flankers.

Worcester was no stranger to the ways of the wild, but this day
and night would forever stand out as the time when he had really
lived with nature. He had fished the salt sea and jigged codfish. He
had taken salmon from the clear river waters. He had seen a man
kill for food in the most primitive of ways. He was also pretty sure
he was about to eat the flesh of muskrat. Above them, the ageless,
dark mountains with all of their splendours kept a silent watch.

The rain stopped as suddenly as it had started. The air
warmed in the windless night. The trees all around them divested
themselves of the fallen water, dripping and plunking and plinking
into the stream from overhanging branches, tapping on leaves
and drumming on the ground. Away from the rim of firelight, the
night was as black as pitch. Snipes hunted and cried above the
two men. Somewhere a loon voiced its need, and from farther
away its haunting cry was answered.

Mattie carefully skinned the two muskrats by the fire. He
saved both of the dark brown pelts, though he told Worcester the
hides were not at their best this time of year.

“Dis one yours,” he told Worcester, indicating one of the
naked pink carcasses. “You cook on stick or in iron pan?”

Worcester had some qualms about eating the scrawny meat
cooked in any fashion and told Mattie so.

“Caribou meat. Bear meat. Water rat meat. All meat. Only
taste is differen',” Mattie said quietly.

Worcester couldn't argue with that logic. Given the choice
of frying his “rat” or roasting it over the campfire, and seeing
Mattie's supper skewered and dangling over the fire, he suddenly
realized he was famished. He picked up the meat and, as if having
read his mind, Mattie handed him a stick for roasting.

“Good. We use fry pan fer bannock,” Mattie said.

From his pack, which mysteriously seemed to contain many
small and useful items, Mattie pulled a tin of bear fat. Worcester
handed him the flour bag and Mattie stirred a measure of flour
and brook water together. Greasing the pan with the heavy bear
fat, he poured the pan more than half full with the moist dough.

While their evening meal cooked, both men prepared a
drying rack near the fire. Worcester helped cut young saplings
for their purpose. Mattie was impressed with the American,
who always helped with every chore—except with the skinning.
Over the years he had taken many sportsmen into the wilds of
Newfoundland. Many of them would not carry their own guns or
their fancy fishing rods, but expected their guide to “do what he
was paid to do.”

One of them had taken Mattie's uncomplaining manner too
far. The short, skinny man, who was always out of breath and who
complained and whined at just about everything, had demanded
Mattie carry him on his back across a knee-high brook. Without
hesitating, Mattie sat on a low rock near the swift brook, the grumpy
man climbed on his bent back, and off they went. Approaching
midstream, where the brook was deepest, and without uttering
a sound of warning, Mattie tripped and fell into the cold water,
unceremoniously depositing his screaming passenger as he did
so. The cries and terrible curse words from the sputtering man
only increased as he waded and stumbled ashore—on the wrong
side—and did not see the grin on the face of his proud guide.

The blue smoke rose from the campfire. Steam drifted upward
from the drying clothing. The fat from the roasting meat dripped
and sputtered down upon the glowing coals. The browning
bannock bread smelled almost as good as Millie's loaves. The two
loons called again to announce they had found each other. The
high, rolling laughter of the triumphant male resounded through
the hills. And then, as if on cue, a new sickle moon appeared
above the southern hills. On its silvery back it carried the faint
outline of the old one.

When the muskrats were cooked and just before the bannock
started to burn, both men sat back and ate. When Worcester
finished the last bite of his meat, he wiped the last of the bear
fat drippings from the pan with a piece of bread. He sighed with
pleasure and told Mattie the meat had a taste similar to chicken—
only better. He even copied Mattie, who, after roasting the small
leg bones on the hot coals, had cracked them open and ate the
thin, yellow marrow inside. Walking to the brook, Worcester
washed his hands and face, looked thoughtfully at the opening
skies for a while, and stepped inside the tent to join his guide for
a well-deserved rest.

“
DIS DAY UQANTIE
'
UMG
—
SUNDAY
,
PREACHER
,” Mattie
said after they had breakfasted the next morning. He looked at
Worcester expectantly. Worcester saw in Mattie's hand a well-used prayer book that he had removed from a tooled leather bag.
Mattie made the sign of the Cross over the book.

“And so it is, Mattie. I must apologize, for I had completely
forgotten the day.”

Seeing in Mattie's small, dark eyes the need for something
more from him on this day, Worcester stood, bowed his head,
and voiced aloud a prayer. He suddenly felt as though he were
standing in the grandest of churches, with an audience of one
giving him his rapt attention. When Worcester asked to see the
Catholic prayer book, Mattie passed it to him. He admired the
leather bag made to fit over it. Mattie explained to him the case
was made from
babiche
, rawhide made from the well-tanned
hide of a caribou.

The book had a red ochre colour and fit easily into the palm
of Worcester's hand. He opened the book and was astonished to
learn he could not read one word inside. The book was written
in Mattie's own Mi'kmaq language! He asked Mattie if he could
read and was totally surprised at the answer.

“Some. Not much. Ver' few words. No one show me my own
tongue. No paper. Not even 'lowed to speak my own tongue. Dey
call it savage talk. Dey laugh when I speak my talk. Dey laugh
when I speak English talk.”

Mattie told Worcester one white man had showed an
interest in his language one time, but he only wanted him to say
a few Mi'kmaq swear words. The man had waited with great
expectation, a smirk on his bearded face. He couldn't wait to
hear Mattie reveal the curse words so he could share them with
his friends. But Mattie said, “My language 'ave no swear words.
Only white man curse great spirit wit' swear words.” The man
had walked away, cursing angrily.

With his usual matter-of-fact attitude, Mattie explained to
Worcester that he had attended school only briefly, where he
was forbidden to speak the language of his people, where he was
looked down upon and treated little better than a dog, and from
which he left at a very early age and never returned. Worcester,
ever the humanitarian, secretly equated Mattie's plight to that of
the black people of his own country and felt ashamed.

Mattie shrugged off the things that had been, as was his
way, and told Worcester how he came to read. He had guided
two geologists, Alexander Murray and James Howley, for years.
They were good men. Around dozens of campfires, especially in
autumn when the nights were long, they had shown Mattie the
basics of reading. Howley, especially, showed an interest in this
endeavour and was very pleased to see Mattie read a few words.
They had been friends for years. Mattie told Worcester that he
had called Howley “Sage,” his Mi'kmaq word for James, and
Howley would call Mattie nothing else but Matthieu.

Still handling the well-worn prayer book, Worcester asked
Mattie if he was a churchgoer and if he had ever been baptized.
Mattie replied that he went to Mass sometimes, where he always
sat in the back of the church. He only went when he felt like it,
understood some of it, loved the mystery of it, and that he knew
nothing about baptism. However, like all of his people, he had
always been spiritual.

“My people have big M'n't'u spirit all 'round.” Here Mattie
spread his arms to indicate his surroundings. “Ver' many people
not find M'n't'u outside church.”

Worcester, who had been trained in a sectarian world and
knew that Manitou was considered a Supreme Being with all of
the native peoples, said nothing. Mattie put the book—which
he would open every Sunday morning for as long as Worcester
knew him—back inside its rawhide covering and got to his feet.

“Mass time over. We fin' pearls now, maybe.”

Worcester, rising to his feet, said, “Amen.”