The Sea Runners - Ivan Doig [82]
With thought of the days of sloshing canoe travel it would take to reach the coastal spot and return, the customs collector prodded hopefully: And ...?
And the Indian had done the disposition, rapidly buried the corpse in hope that the spirit had not yet got out of it. But had thought first to clip proof for his report. He handed the customs collector a forelock of straw-colored hair.
That the weather since Christmas had been violent against vessels trying to cross the bar into the Columbia River was all too well known to the customs collector. Merrithew, Mindoro, Vandalia, Bordeaux—two barks and two brigs, they all had gone to grief along this rageful coast in these weeks.
Taking up his pen, the collector wrote the native his paper of reward: The bearer of this, Wha-laltl Asabuy, hat assisted the duties of the Astoria District of Customs Collection by his report of...
He then turned to his daybook and began the official epitaph of Braaf: body, supposed from one or another of the vessels wrecked north of Cape Disappointment during this fearful winter, has come ashore near the Makah village of Hosett.—It is that of an unknown young seaman, light hair, roited-faced ...
By the end of the day, rain still blinded the coast.
Karlsson took out the Aleut calendar from the map case where he was keeping it now. Moved the peg rightward one hole. A moment, contemplated the little hoard.
... Might as well know as not. Pass time by counting time, that's one way, ...
It came out a few weeks worse even than Karlsson had thought. Since they had left New Archangel sixty-four days.
Russian Christmas more than two months into the past. In the woods edging Sitka Sound, now buds of blueberry would be beginning to swell.
Karlsson looked across to Wennberg; decided the arithmetic of their situation would not be welcome news in that quarter; and put the calendar back into the map case.
"Småland," said Wennberg, startling him.
Karlsson waited to see what venture this was.
"Småland. What sort of place's that? What I mean, what'd you do there?"
Karlsson eyed the burly man. There had been a palisade of silence between them, the only loopholes Wennberg's curses against the weather and Karlsson's setting of chores. All other conversation the storm's—low grumble of surf, ‹'bickers of wind, drone of rain on the shelter cloth. Into the night now, Wennberg evidently was at desperation's edge for something other to hear than weather.
... Come off your tall horse, have you?...
"Farmed. My family did." Melander's description of farming arrived to mind. "Tickled rocks with a plow, more like."
"'If stone were hardbread Sweden'd be heaven's bakery,'" Wennberg quoted.
"Yes. And the family of us, living at each other's elbows. Left the farmstead when I was thirteen, me."
Karlsson reached a stick, tidied coals in from the edge of the fire. These days and weeks of his mind always leaning ahead, aimed where the canoe was aimed, it had been a time since lie thought back. But memory, always there in its bone bouse. What can it be for, remembering? To keep us from falling into the same ditch every day, certainly. But more, too. Memory we hold up and gaze into as proof of ourselves. Like thumbprint on a window, remembering is mindprint: this I made, no one else has quite the pattern, whorl here and sliver of scar there, they are me. Karlssoil was in Småland now, hills of pine forest, cottages roofed with sod and bark—and yes, stone in the fields and rye short as your ankles and a Karlsson tipped from the land to find what livelihood he could....
"On a forge by thirteen, I was," Wennberg was saying. "Apprenticed, so I had to hammer out plowshares. Thought my arms'd break off. Bad as this bedamned paddling."
Wennberg when young—he was the fifth son, the last and stubborn and brawlsome and least schoolable one,