Authors: Karl Iagnemma
The town was smaller than the minister had expected, just a belt of dirt bordered by a saloon and mercantile and bowling parlor, a leather goods shop, a row of cabins and shanties, two whitewashed hotels. Sharp black shadows lay across the empty road. A mud wagon rattled along the straits. A true frontier town, Reverend Stone marveled, a place to make Newell seem cosmopolitan by comparison.
Three half-breed stevedores and a hotel drummer holding a smudged placard had gathered to meet the ship. Reverend Stone secured a room at the Johnston Hotel from the drummer then paid a stevedore a nickel to deposit his new canvas bag. Then he started through town toward the fort.
Fort Brady was a small, neat encampment surrounded by pickets, its flagpole bearing a weathered Old Glory, its blockhouses monitoring the Canadian settlement across the straits. Chippewa lodges were scattered along the fort’s perimeter, their cookfire smoke tinting the air. At the picket gate Reverend Stone asked for directions to the Indian Agency; the soldier nodded toward a gable-front house bordered by a pair of elms. The minister climbed the porch steps and rapped on the door frame. The shutters were latched as if against a thunderstorm. Two rain-grayed rockers bobbed in the breeze.
A tall, spindly man with a bald dome and sideburns opened the door. He was dressed in Sunday clothes, a pink silk waistcoat and black trousers, a boiled shirt yellow with age. He squinted at Reverend Stone through iron-rimmed spectacles.
“Edwin Colcroft?”
The man seemed confused by the minister’s presence. He said, “You have called during the tutoring hour.”
“My apologies. I have just arrived on the
Queen Sofia
and come straight from the pier. My name is Reverend William Edward Stone of Newell, Massachusetts. I’d have left this call for tomorrow, but my business is fairly urgent.”
Edwin Colcroft hesitated; then he opened the door wide. “Come in at once, Reverend. Please.”
Reverend Stone thanked the man and removed his hat. Inside, he followed Colcroft to the rear of the dim house, waited as the man ducked through a closed door. A moment later two half-breed girls wearing identical blue dresses burst from the room, giggling. They froze when they saw Reverend Stone; then they curtsied and scurried into the kitchen. Colcroft opened the door and motioned the minister inside.
Bookcases lined the walls, leather and cloth and pasteboard volumes crammed floor to ceiling, stacks of books on the side table and windowsill and along the baseboard. The room smelled of pipe smoke. Beside the window stood a small oak secretary, the desk strewn with papers, the shelves above filled with mineral specimens and glass jars. The jars were filled with gray liquid and the vague, shadowy forms of animals.
“My girls,” Colcroft said. “I am teaching them Hebrew, to aid my own study of the Chippewa tongue. Did you know that the two languages are curiously similar? For example, the name of God is
Yohewah
in the Native tongue and
Jehovah
in Hebrew. The word of praise is
halleluwah
in the Native tongue and
hallelujah
in Hebrew. The word for heaven is
chemin
in the Native tongue and
shamayim
in Hebrew. And et cetera.”
Reverend Stone smiled absently. Colcroft followed his stare to the secretary, said, “Ah!” He took up a jar and raised it to the window. Sunlight glared through the liquid, illuminating a ghostly pink orb.
“A jellyfish from the South Pacific island of Mohotani, faultlessly preserved. It is invertebrate, entirely lacking in skeletal structure! That next jar contains a specimen of oyster from Tokyo Bay. If you look closely you can see a germinated pearl. The last jar contains a fish that is half embryonic gar pike, half frog. Note the small leglike appendages in the ventral region.
Quite
remarkable. The only such specimen in the world, I’m fairly certain.”
“Fascinating. Your cabinet of curiosities would be the envy of Detroit.”
Edwin Colcroft emitted a pleased murmur. Reverend Stone was struck by a vision of the man as a young boy, his hair a black shock, his trousers rolled to the knees as he waded in a molasses-colored stream. His hands slowly closed around a water strider. And then later, alone in his candlelit bedroom, mumbling softly to the insect as it stumbled inside a killing jar. The boy soothed it to a lifeless sleep.
“I am primarily interested in diluvian geology,” Colcroft said. “In my view the fundamental question of the age is, Do the natural sciences offer external evidence of the truth of God’s word?”
“An important investigation. I have recently discussed the very issue with a fellow minister in Newell. His position was that science and religion are two translations of the same text—however he feared that a scientist’s innate skepticism might open him to doubt.”
“But surely the opposite occurs! Surely scientific explanations of nature’s truths cause us to farther admire their divine Author! For example, here.” Colcroft took up a whitish mineral specimen and offered it to the minister. “You recognize this, of course?”
Reverend Stone turned the stone over in his hands. “It is sugar quartz.”
“Actually, limpid hexagonal quartz—extracted in Springfield, Massachusetts, in fact. But note: precisely identical specimens have been found on every continent of the earth—as though scattered from a single source by an immense flood!” He took up a second specimen.
“Ah. Puddingstone.”
Colcroft chuckled politely. “Septaria. The patterning is far too regular to be puddingstone.”
“My apologies. I am not a naturalist.”
“Yes. Then.” Colcroft hesitated, then returned the specimen to the secretary. He sat opposite the minister on a faded blue wing chair. “Now, Reverend. How might I be of service?”
“I am searching for my son, Elisha Stone. He has joined a scientifical expedition that departed Sault Ste. Marie some weeks ago, under the guidance of Mr. Silas Brush and Professor George Tiffin. I believe they aim to study the region’s mineral and timber evidence.”
Edwin Colcroft snorted. “Tiffin.”
“You know the man?”
“I have read his recent monograph—
Language and History of the American Indians,
or somesuch. His conjectures are
quite
speculative. You see, though there are many curious similarities between the Indian and Hebrew languages, there is no direct proof that the races are anyhow related. Phrenologically, physiognomically, scripturally—not a scrap of proof. I suspect Tiffin is something of an…enthusiast.”
“I’m afraid I am unacquainted with Professor Tiffin, or his theories.” Reverend Stone drew Charles Noble’s map from his breast pocket. “I have obtained a coarse map of the expedition’s route. I had hoped that you might assist me in improving upon its accuracy.”
“Of course, direct proof of the unity of the red and white races would be an
immense
discovery. Imagine, proclaiming to the world that Natives are not soulless savages, but are instead wayward sons and daughters of Abraham! However, direct proof…” Colcroft leaned forward, grinning. “You see, Reverend Stone, as a general rule, the more profound the conjecture, the fainter the possibility of obtaining direct proof of its veracity. In such instances, reason and deduction are the thinking man’s weapons. In fact, even—”
“The map,” Reverend Stone said. “If you please.”
Colcroft froze; then he accepted the map and adjusted his spectacles. His lips moved wordlessly as he scanned the annotations. After some time he said, “Well. That is interesting.”
Reverend Stone said nothing.
“I believe I know the destination of Tiffin’s expedition. The image stones—it is a bedrock outcrop containing significant flint deposits, a geological curiosity. It is also rumored to be a sacred location for the Chippewa Midewiwin medicine society.”
A description from the Catlin book rose in the minister’s mind: men pierced through the flesh with sharpened splints, then strung up from leather thongs in an orgy of pain. Braves painted vermilion and white, like demons, or covered in bearskins and daubed with mud. Catlin portrayed medicine rituals as a savage form of mummery, a grotesque revue. Surely it was an exaggeration. Reverend Stone said, “That destination seems appropriate, considering Professor Tiffin’s interests.”
“Indeed, indeed. There is rumored to be a profusion of pictographic rock paintings in the area.” Colcroft appeared momentarily abashed. “I’ve not visited the region personally, however I have heard detailed descriptions from a voyageur who has.”
“I pray you can assist me. I would like to engage a guide to escort me to the image stones—perhaps one of the Canadian-French paddlers who is familiar with the region.”
Colcroft squinted, fingering his sideburns. “Mightn’t you rather await the expedition’s return to Sault Ste. Marie? Certainly that would be more…comfortable for you.”
He sees an old man, Reverend Stone thought. An old, ill man stumbling through the forest. He said, “I bear urgent news for my son. I’ve not seen him in three years.”
Edwin Colcroft rose and paced to the secretary, speaking as if to himself. “I suppose it is likely that Tiffin will spend several weeks investigating the image stone site. If you travel rapidly you might intercept them.”
“Then.”
A shriek emanated from the hallway; then a drumming of footsteps on the creaking stairs. Colcroft bent toward the closed door, his expression one of restrained glee. He took up a silver-framed print from the desk. “We had a traveling daguerreotype artist pass here en route to Chicago last month. The girls could not remain stationary, of course. A shame. Though in a way it makes the image more beautiful. More truthful, somehow.”
He offered Reverend Stone the daguerreotype. Colcroft’s daughters stood hand in hand before the fort’s flagpole, dressed in identical white pinafores and hair bows. Their eyes and mouths were smudges of motion, and their entire bodies were blurred, as though viewed through tears. Only their shoes were clear, tiny gray moccasins patterned with flowers.
“I believe I can assist you,” Colcroft said. “Your son’s expedition has engaged as a guide the wife of one of my interpreters, Ignace Morel. Monsieur Morel was not pleased. He accused me of brokering the arrangement, when in fact I had no involvement in the matter. He became quite incensed—Monsieur Morel can be somewhat petulant.”
“He can escort me to the legend stones?”
“Image stones. Yes. I can arrange his services, if you’d like. I have some experience in negotiating a fair price with the man.”
“I would be indebted. I might also ask your advice on obtaining provisions and equipment. I’m afraid I am not an experienced woodsman.”
Edwin Colcroft smiled, his eyes hidden by the glinting lenses. “I envy you, Reverend Stone. A jaunt into nature, breathing fresh forest air and drinking the coldest, purest water. It will be a tonic! And you need not harbor any fears—the Chippewa propensity for violence against whites has been exaggerated by newspaper editors desperate for lurid copy.”
“I had prayed as much.”
Colcroft burst into whinnying laughter. “Then! I suppose the only thing to do is wish you a bon voyage!”
The straits at midnight were an oily black slash, moonlight spilling across the rippling waves, the water’s rush like a congregation’s restless whispers. A northerly breeze brought thunder and the crisp scent of Lake Superior. Woodcocks whirred in the nearby cedar thicket. From town, an angry shout was followed by a door’s slam, then a dog’s frenzied bark that melted to a whine. Then silence.
Reverend Stone reclined on a mat of beach grass near the water’s edge, the Catlin book splayed beside him. As he watched, a wash of greenish light shimmered from the polestar down past Ursa Major. Without shifting his gaze the minister slipped a tablet under his tongue. The book’s pages riffled in the breeze. The light darkened and pulsed, a delirious vision, a mirage of color. He gazed up into the night sky.
Earlier that evening the straits had been crowded with tourist canoes: ladies with white parasols beside gentlemen in silk hats, a Native steersman sitting high in the stern. They streaked past the rocks, the parasols’ jouncing accompanied by shrieks of amazed laughter. By dress and inflection Reverend Stone figured them to be moneyed Easterners, seeking a whiff of the exotic on their summer excursion. The sight had surprised him; then on reflection he figured there must be tourists on every scrap of the wide world. Air and water and earth and tourists, everywhere.
Later, after darkness had fallen, the minister had returned to the Johnston Hotel and taken a late supper of tea and broiled whitefish. A note was tacked to his room door: a message from Edwin Colcroft, written in a crabbed hand. He had arranged the services of Monsieur Ignace Morel, for a fee of ten dollars payable upon return, to guide Reverend Stone to the previously discussed site. He had taken the liberty of provisioning and equipping the voyage, courtesy of the United States Agency for Indian Affairs. Monsieur Morel would meet him on the beach the next morning at dawn. He hoped this arrangement was acceptable. He wished Reverend Stone Godspeed.
Despite himself the minister laughed aloud. He kissed the note, then from the hotel porter ordered a celebratory glass of cider. He felt humbled by his good fortune. The drink finished, he walked the town’s length, searching for errands to complete before his departure; then he realized there was nothing to do but wait.
Now it was dark and the straits were deserted. Reverend Stone rose and shook sand from the Catlin book, paced impatiently along the riverbank. Pebbles glistened like gemstones in the glossy moonlight. He felt wonderfully vigorous, as though the lake air had remedied his illness. He had not coughed in several days.
What would he say when he saw his son? He would explain his presence, of course: his receipt of the boy’s letter, then his journey to Buffalo and Detroit and the Sault, his encounters and struggles and sights. He would pass on news of the congregation, of Newell, of Corletta and his childhood friends—everything and nothing, the fascinating mundanity of life. And then? Reverend Stone was tempted by the thought that words would not be required, that the truth about Ellen would be palpable; but that was foolish, an idea distilled from cowardice.