Moral Disorder - Margaret Atwood [82]
George tells the others of his dream. It is discounted. The men abandon their canoe and strike out overland, hoping to reach their old trail. After far too long they do reach it, and stumble along it down the valley of the river they first ascended, rummaging through their former campsites for any food they might have thrown away. They aren’t counting in miles, but in days; how many days they have left, and how many it will take. But that will depend on the weather, and on their own strength: how fast they can go. They find a lump of mouldering flour, a bit of lard, a few bones, some caribou hooves, which they boil. A little tin of dry mustard; they mix it into the soup, and find it encouraging.
In the third week of October, this is how things stand:
Hubbard has become too weak to go any farther. He’s been left behind, wrapped in his blankets, in the tent, with a fire going. The other two have gone on; they hope to walk out, then send help back for him. He’s given them the last of the peameal.
The snow is falling. For dinner he has some strong tea and bone broth, and some boiled rawhide, made from the last of his moccasins; he writes in his journal that it is truly delicious. Now he is without footgear. He has every hope that the others will succeed, and will return and save him, or so he records. Nevertheless he begins a farewell message for his wife. He writes that he has a pair of cowhide mittens he’s looking forward to cooking and eating the next day.
After that he goes to sleep, and after that he dies.
Some days farther down the trail, Wallace too has to give up. He and George part company: Wallace intends to go back with the latest leavings they’ve managed to locate – a few handfuls of mouldy flour. He will find Hubbard, and together they will await rescue. But he’s been caught in a blizzard and has lost his bearings; at the moment he’s in a shelter made of branches, waiting for the snow to let up. He is amazingly weak, and no longer hungry, which he knows is a bad sign. Every movement he makes is slow and deliberate, and at the same time unreal, as if his body is apart from him and he is only watching it. In the white light of day or the red flicker of the fire – for he still has fire – the whorls on the ends of his own fingers appear miraculous to him. Such clarity and detail; he follows the pattern of the woven blanket as if tracing a map.
His dead wife has appeared to him, and has given him several pieces of practical advice concerning his sleeping arrangements: a thicker layer of spruce boughs underneath, she’s said, would be more comfortable. Sometimes he only hears her, sometimes he sees her as well; she’s wearing a blue summer dress, her long hair pinned up in a shining coil. She appears perfectly at home; the poles of the shelter are visible through her back. Wallace has ceased to be surprised by this.
Even farther along, George continues to walk; to walk out. He knows more or less where he’s going; he will find help and return with it. But he isn’t out yet, he’s still in. Snow surrounds him, the blank grey sky enfolds him; at one point he comes across his own tracks and realizes he’s been walking in a circle. He too is thin and weak, but he’s managed to shoot a porcupine. He pauses to think it through: he could turn around, retrace his steps, take the porcupine back to share with the others; or he could eat all of it himself, and go forward. He knows that if he goes back it’s likely that none of them will get out alive; but if he goes on, there’s at least a possibility, at least for him. He goes on, hoarding the bones.
“That George did the right thing,” says my father.
A week later, while sitting at the dinner table, my father has another stroke. This